Slow music, dim lights and two souls touching the realms of ecstasy, were called making love in my dictionary. To him, a hymen and a patch of blood described lovemaking. And I had no blood spots on the bed sheet the day we had sex. Yes! I call it sex because in my dictionary of love and pleasure, that is all it was.
Our relationship began 9 years ago when I was in the 12th standard. Friends, best friends, problem solver and then lovers. The move to the bed was natural. I had no taboos and neither do I believe in platonic love. So, on the eve of Durga Ashtami, our relationship took that final step towards no barriers.
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My secret fear
But deep in my heart, along with pleasure, lay a fear. I’d been abused by my former teacher, Mr Sengupta, in the name of Sister Nivedita’s dedication towards her guru Swami Vivekananda. He said “Sister Nivedita was the earnest disciple of Swami Vivekananda and even they had a physical tie, since Nivedita agreed to the submission of soul and body to her guru.” I still don’t know how true that was. I resisted it, and finally stopped going to tuition. That was the day I gained freedom.
I wasn’t sure of the strength of my relationship with my boyfriend or of his understanding, and therefore, couldn’t tell him the stories of my molestation. I feared confrontation. It was only after the first time we made love that I trusted him and his love for me.
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I told him my secret
I dialled his number. A hello from the other side and I burst into tears. All that was deeply hidden inside came out like a fountain of emotion which knew no bounds. I opened up and told him in great detail about that phase which I kept deeply buried inside the deepest core of my heart.
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And he didn’t disappoint. He comforted me, consoled me, helped me bare my heart. The conversation closed with, “I still respect you, I will definitely take no revenge since that’s a closed chapter but I will try my best to show the world you are mine. No one will dare look at you.”
He held it against me
And then a few days later it all fell apart while fighting over an issue that was petty enough to be forgotten the next day. He exclaimed angrily, “And remember I accepted you even when I did not see blood on the sheets!”
I felt something shatter deep within – my heart, my trust. His apologies and pleas seemed meaningless. I could never respect him, never call him my love after that day. I just said one thing before I hung up the phone for the very last time: “If my hymen decides your love for me, then let that love die today. Forever.”