“You are my doll, come here, play with me”
As a 9-year-old, I’d often sit on his lap and play red hands with him.
‘I love you, you’re my little munchkin” he’d say whenever he placed his hand under my top and moved his fingers on my bare skin.
I thought it’s an expression of love as he said it was a part of the small exploring game he’d planned for us.
Every night he’d put his hand under my blanket and touch every part of my body, right from my toe to my lips. His gentle yet indifferent touch often aroused a mixed sensation in my mind but I was too young to doubt his intention.
Ten years passed by
I understood his motive behind the exploring game. Just last year, he wished me a “Happy Rakhi” and got me a Rakhi gift.
I was numb. When I saw his daughter for the first time and he requested me to play with her, the only game I could think of and teach her was “good touch vs bad touch”.
Rakhi wasn’t and can never be a celebration of siblinghood for me because I tie the sacred thread of protection on the wrist of someone who’s exploited me for years.