The Silent Tear

A woman steps out of the house and slips her feet into her sandals. Distant prayers can be heard vaguely from places of worship. It is still early dawn with a bluish glow all around. Drops of dew fall over the railing on the gate when she pushes it open with a creaking sound. 

She wears a white cotton saree and has long, untied hair covering her slender, graceful figure. She walks briskly while carrying a cotton bag over her shoulder as if on a mission. A flock of pigeons fly away at the sound of her firm steps. Sweepers clean the roads of the previous night’s trash. Her silhouette contrasts sharply with a grey-bluish dawn as she walks ahead.

Cover Photo by Manohar Koviri

She crosses the main road, which is almost empty now. Suddenly, out of nowhere, three men on bikes cross her at high speed. They see her, take a turn and start circling around her, drinking and mouthing foul words and passing dangerously close to her. She stands defiantly on her ground. One of them tries to touch her and, in turn, slashes a cut on her hand. She wriggles out of her way and walks away steadily from them.

She is ruffled up by the incident, but composes herself. She turns and continues walking steadfastly. Newspaper boys pass by, ringing their cycle bells. The red sun dawns on the orange sky, throwing a yellowish hue on her face, which is now steady and focused. The sound of the radio’s adjusting frequency from a nearby vendor stall disturbs the tranquillity of the morning.

She walks through a narrow market street lined with old dingy shops on either side. The distant sound of shutters opening and men chatting sleepily fills the air. She walks in the middle of a narrow street when someone tugs at her bag from behind. She turns and stares at a sneering man, lowers her head, and turns forward when another confronts her and blocks her way. He approaches her face and sniffs as she stands her ground determinedly. He takes a long puff of his half-burnt cigarette, blows it on her face, and smiles. She tries to avoid it, but in vain. Her eyes turned into a mild reddish hue, and her lips pursed tightly.

The two rogues come disturbingly close to her and grope her indecently. She tries to fight them, but they keep touching her uncomfortably. One of them pulls her saree, and she turns, staring angrily at him. Just then, an auto rickshaw turns onto the street, and the two men leave her and recede into a dark alley. The woman walks briskly and crosses the dreaded street.

The sun is fully out now, with daylight filtering through leaves and casting shadows on the road. Despite the awful incident, her face is devoid of any expression. She stifles the anger and pain bubbling inside her. Her saree is slightly soiled and wrinkled from that encounter. She maintains a determined pace in her footsteps. She walks along the main road, with children running to catch their school buses and office workers scurrying across to reach their destinations.

She keeps walking on the footpath when an SUV appears on the road behind her, tailing her slowly. She walks, unaware of its presence. Suddenly, the vehicle speeds up and stops alongside her; two men come out and forcibly drag her into the car. No cries or yells can be heard outside except for the dull revving of the engine. The SUV moves away from that spot, leaving her bag on the footpath. Nobody notices her absence as they walk past casually.

The exact car stops on another road, and she is thrown out forcefully. She lies in extreme pain on the road without uttering a sound. Her face is filled with shock and pain. Her body bears the wounds inflicted by those men who abducted her, and her saree is now blood-stained. Her trembling hand tries to take support of the road beneath her to lift herself up, but she falls down. A passerby on a scooter comes across and sees her. He stops for a second, looks at her pain, and drives away indifferently. She tries again to lift herself up, and she succeeds this time.

Her silhouette appears against the sun with a halo emerging around her head and shoulders. She takes strong, deep breaths, gulps down her pain and starts walking again. She limps slowly this time, but stays determined in her footsteps.

She finally reaches her destination, out of breath. There is a lot of noise and buzz in this place. Some people are scampering across in colourful costumes. Makeup artists give finishing touches to the actors while scriptwriters hurriedly shout instructions at them. She stares blankly at them when a woman comes up behind her and takes her inside. She is seated in front of the mirror. She stares weakly at her reflection, bearing the scars and bruises of her encounters this morning.

The makeup artist comes and cleans her hands and face. He washes the oozing blood from her wounds, conceals them with makeup and applies red shades on her lips and cheeks. He drapes her in a new white cotton saree with an orange-and-green border. He combs her hair straight and puts a crown on her head. The makeup makes her look wholly garish and artificial.

She is now standing in bright sunlight at the top of a makeshift stage. The microphone is adjusted, and the people passing by are unfocused on her. She stares in silence as if in a trance. The pain and suffering she had to go through is revealed in her eyes. Multiple shrieks and cries of pain echo faintly inside her, and her eyes start watering. A tear starts forming in her eyes at the horror when a loud electronic voice says, “Silence, please,” breaking her thoughts. A tricolour flag waves in her background, and she stands, catching a trident with a crown on her head. Men from various religious backgrounds are kneeling before her. Men from all walks of life are paying their respects to her. Banners hang in the background, quoting slogans such as “Incredible India” and “India Shining”. A symphony of instruments pierces the silence. A group of female choir singers start singing “Vande Mataram” on cue from the director. 

A street play begins in honour of the beloved motherland on the occasion of Independence Day. There is a lot of pomp and revelry all around. Everyone sings the National song in chorus, swelling with pride. All except for one person. The tear that formed in her eye never got out. It drowned in an internal sea of despair, just like the muffled voice and the stifled cries.

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Credits

This story was written by Santhosh Annabattula, reviewed by R. S. Chintalapati, edited by Sreekar Ayyagari, & photographed by Manohar Koviri.

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