End the cycle

Written by Zuheyra E. Callisto

A crimson dupatta covered the tears she tried so hard to keep in, cultural music played as people celebrated the childhood she was going to throw away, I wonder if she understood what was going on— perhaps all she saw were lights, festivities and dance. Perhaps she couldn’t quite comprehend that although she was playing with dolls yesterday— She was going to be cradling children tomorrow.

Is it possible to mourn someone that’s still alive? To mourn the innocent spark which used to dazzle in her eyes, lost to societal expectations, to mourn the little doll sitting idle in the corner of the room she abandoned.
The bruises she got from playing cricket were now replaced with bruises from the cruel punches from her spouse when she couldn’t get the chawal to be soft enough, Oh… how she loved cricket.

I saw her mother shamefully standing at the corner of the room, she had tired eyes that knew what was about to happen— tired eyes that were victims of this harrowing cycle, tired eyes that knew that they could’ve ended it, but they didn’t, so all they could do was look at the little girl and hug her with calloused hands.

She stayed in her chair like a lovely, quiet little girl, moving elegantly like an object of beauty, because isn’t that all little girls are supposed to be—  beautiful? Little girls are supposed to get married and spend their entire lives pleasing everyone, little girls are supposed to remain calm and composed even if they have passed their breaking point.

This isn’t just the tale of one little seed, it’s the story of millions who were cut off before they got the chance to bloom. It's not going to be like this anymore— not if we have anything to do about it. We will make noise. We will make changes. We will end the cycle.