Shivi
When I was all but five,
my mother told me that I had to be a good girl.
That I had to listen and follow and bend and bow and see and bear.
That I had to hush and mime and blush and smile.
So I did everything. Everything and beyond to prove that I was, I was a good girl.
At six,
I played quietly with my dolls in a corner so that my parents could sleep,
I obediently returned the 20-rupee change after buying bread and meat,
I dressed in pinks and whites and nothing but cottons that extended at least till my knees,
I placed a glass filled with water on the left side of my grandfather’s chair because that’s how he liked it,
I let my grandmother oil my hair with her coarse fingers and tie it in unbreathably tight braids,
because I thought that's what would make me a good girl.
At seven and a half,
When the next-door aunt came, I recited a well-memorised song without stuttering,
I let the kathak teacher eye my growing breasts,
When that uncle asked me to sit on his lap, I did.
I let him stroke my butt while smiling at me,
I let him rape me for almost four years.
I let him. I let him
because isn’t that what good girls do? They let other people do things to them.
At twelve,
I skillfully muted the moans of a woman experiencing pleasure on screen,
I unfolded the skirt of my school uniform so that the lad at the grocery store near my bus stop could go on with his errands,
I efficiently hid my pads from my father, who twitched his nose at the sight,
I scrubbed my blood-stained pants at 4 AM so that no one would know that I bled,
I bought only white or skin coloured bras,
because I thought that’s what it takes to be a good girl.
At sixteen,
I opted for subjects that would feed my vaginal requirements
of not being able to go out at night or stand for longer in the sun,
I learnt how to do the dishes without leaving a stain,
I folded my clothes before they would get creases,
I dried my underwear within my room instead of the sun even as I got multiple yeast infections
Because I thought at least that would make me a good girl.
At twenty,
I returned at 6:15 from the classes that ended at 6:30.
I chose teaching on my own because it is half a day’s job.
I voluntarily cancelled trips because 7 girls cannot travel alone.
I agreed softly when the tailor told me that the neck of my blouse was too deep,
I went on multiple dates with a man who said that I was asking for too much.
Because isn’t that what is needed to be a good girl?
At twenty-five,
I swore to my virginity in my drawing room,
and stayed mum during the hunt for my alliance,
I settled for a shade red enough to please the crowd of 250 at my wedding.
I smiled as I saw my in-laws negotiating the presents that my parents would like to give me,
I lay like a log when the better half eased himself inside me.
Because trust me, that’s what it takes to be a good girl.
So I did and did some more.
I cooked
and cleaned
and washed
and dusted
and remembered
and arranged
and rearranged.
And finally, after twenty-seven years of my existence,
When I asked my mother, if I had been a good girl,
She told me the tale of a twenty three year old
girl cousin who is so loved by her husband that he comes to take her back home,
everytime she visits her mother,
citing the innocent reason that there is no one to make rotis for him.