Bitter Chocolate

Two days ago I stared reading, Bitter Chocolate by Pinki Virani. A book on Child Sexual Abuse in India. Prior to this I have never read Ms. Virani before. On a Good friend’s suggestion , I did. And I am glad that I did. Never again will I see the world the way I used to see before this Book. Each and every numeric data, every story, every statistic, every child, every abuser leaves a mark on you.

I am halfway through it and there is one story that shattered my image of a Father. A Daddy.

A Daddy sexually, mentally and physically abusing his own little Baby Girl. All of 7 years Old. A little Girl who may have just learnt to make make her own hair, tie the belt of her little dress, feed her little doll in imaginary cups or write her entire name in a straight single line.

The story started in a dirty horrific way with her own father advancing towards her during their lonely spells. It should have ended with her complaining to her mother and others, people taking action, father being punished, girl taken into counselling, gathering her own life and going forward . But it DID NOT. She didn’t complain because her Father was in the Police! The mother and her two little brothers depended on the Father! Losing his job and shame in the society would lead to the end for all according to her. RESULT?  She is today a prostitute; pleasing to the many likes of her so-called-monster-of-a -Father.

I have no words on what to make of this story. Here is Poem on what she may have felt.

Please pardon if you find the language to be strong. There was no better way to put it down.


I heard my friend say in my childhood, ‘My Daddy is my King,

In the mornings, we go strolls hand in hand, Come Evening, beautiful lullaby my daddy sings.’

I find it hard to believe or imagine, How could she say this all?

My So-called-Father is the reason, Why in Misery now I Fall.

He has never told me any stories, but made my life into one,

It isn’t a fairy tale like others have, A struggling battle for me , and him, Fun!

Fathers hug their daughters close, to calm all her fears,

Mine did hug me too, but the touch would end in tears.

Those horrific nights I now remember and shudder, When mum and little siblings were away,

This Horrible man, I called Father, Would then come my way.

My blood and tears were all the same, a tender childhood gone in vain,

How do I trust a Man ever? Hope I never had a Father, Never.

When a little girl dreams of a man, She wants a image of her dad,

My mind has now the image of shame and pain, an unforgettable monster, my barren life had.

Now in the dark corners of this stink-clinging room, I powder, brush and fake a blush.

I await superficially and fake much more, till a callous man satisfies his lust.

I could have raised my voice then, this fate would not have been mine,

I fail to understand the concern for my mum and little brothers, to sacrifice my entire sanity in line.

I may be called a coward for being quiet, and letting a dirty animal on the loose,

The gnashes on my body remind me everyday, I wasn’t his child but a whore to use.

I too, wanted to wear pink and lace and be called a princess,

How can I suffice in few lines what that little girl’s body bore,

My Soul and The Lord; My only Witness!











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