Playing the blame game
He leans against a wall and watches her. She ignores him. Sure, he's cute but he seems dangerous. And she doesn't know him. His friends notice him watching her. They tease him and tell him she'll only be his in his dreams. He spits on the ground and says, "she's just another whore." His friends laugh.
He is to blame.
She looks at her daughter's outfit and frowns. "Wear something else," she says. Her daughter protests, "There's nothing wrong with this outfit." "How can you walk on the road wearing such tight pants?" she asks. Her daughter goes back to her room and wears loose fitting clothes. They go to buy vegetables. She pretends she doesn't hear the men who whistle at her daughter.
She is to blame.
He holds his daughter's tiny hand tightly. He makes sure she gets to the other side of the road safely. He waits outside the gates until his daughter walks into her classroom. He gets into a bus, headed to office. A young girl in sari sits next to him. He stretches his legs so his thigh is against hers. She moves away. He crosses his arms, then, and reaches for her breast. She goes to another seat.
He is to blame.
She pretends she's not shocked to hear about the boy. She pretends she already knew he had a girlfriend, even though he is only fifteen. She nods her head as her friend tells her, "I saw them together. Seated under the frangipani tree. You wouldn't believe it, men. They were kissing." And she says, "I thank my stars everyday I don't have a daughter. Boys will be boys, can't stop that na. But girls... You need to be careful with them. You need to teach them right from wrong."
She is to blame.
He finds his son with another man. He beats them both. He swears and spits at them. He tells his wife it's time their son settled down in life. He finds a girl from a good enough family and spends a lot on the whole deal. He doesn't let his son have a say in the matter. As his son leaves with his new wife, not a smile on his face, he says, "Putha, forget all that nonsense from the past. Treat her well."
He is to blame.
She hears the phone ringing and lowers the flame of the gas cooker and walks to the phone. "Hello?" she asks. It was late in the night and she was just making a cup of tea for herself before going to bed. She hears loud breathing from the other side. "Hello," she says again. "Amma..." a broken voice says. "Duwe?" she asks. "Amma... He's hitting me, Amma. I'm coming home now." Her back stiffens. "What's that again?" "He's hitting me. He gets home late and then hits me. I can't live here anymore. I'm coming back home." She thinks for a while and then says, "Think about your future, child. And your daughter. We can give you a room here but after that what? No other man will have you no... Maybe you did something wrong. Or said something..." Her daughters says she didn't do anything. He was tired and angry about work and took it all out on her. "Just keep him happy. We all went through this. It's the curse of being a woman," she says.
She is to blame.
"Thathee, I got 2Bs and a C," she tells him. He smiles and pats her heads. "If I don't get selected to campus, I can always follow an accounting course. If I find a job in a bank..." He interrupts her. "Ah good good, duwe. But a degree and job... Why do you need any of that? No, it's a man's duty to provide for you. You are pretty also, so it won't be a problem. We'll find you a good boy and you can settle down." She opens her mouth to protest, but he says, "Now now, you are a good girl na. Listen to your Thathee. This is what's best for you."
He is to blame.
She laughs at him. She calls him names. She insults him. Makes him feel worthless. Why? Because he didn't want to drink. He doesn't get drunk like her friends' boyfriends. While they all danced and have a great time, her man sits in a corner, sipping lime juice. She feels humiliated. She looks at him and says, "God! Just have a drink. Be a man."
She is to blame.
He looks at her stiff body. She looks so small in the coffin. People around him are loud. But all he hears is a muffled noise that seems to belong to a different world. He looks at her once-beautiful face. He feels a hand in his. It's his little brother's. The little boy starts crying. "Amma is dead," he wails, "Amma is dead." He lets go of his brother's hand and says, "Chih! What's this men. Don't cry now. Boys don't cry."
He is to blame.
He is to blame.
She looks at her daughter's outfit and frowns. "Wear something else," she says. Her daughter protests, "There's nothing wrong with this outfit." "How can you walk on the road wearing such tight pants?" she asks. Her daughter goes back to her room and wears loose fitting clothes. They go to buy vegetables. She pretends she doesn't hear the men who whistle at her daughter.
She is to blame.
He holds his daughter's tiny hand tightly. He makes sure she gets to the other side of the road safely. He waits outside the gates until his daughter walks into her classroom. He gets into a bus, headed to office. A young girl in sari sits next to him. He stretches his legs so his thigh is against hers. She moves away. He crosses his arms, then, and reaches for her breast. She goes to another seat.
He is to blame.
She pretends she's not shocked to hear about the boy. She pretends she already knew he had a girlfriend, even though he is only fifteen. She nods her head as her friend tells her, "I saw them together. Seated under the frangipani tree. You wouldn't believe it, men. They were kissing." And she says, "I thank my stars everyday I don't have a daughter. Boys will be boys, can't stop that na. But girls... You need to be careful with them. You need to teach them right from wrong."
She is to blame.
He finds his son with another man. He beats them both. He swears and spits at them. He tells his wife it's time their son settled down in life. He finds a girl from a good enough family and spends a lot on the whole deal. He doesn't let his son have a say in the matter. As his son leaves with his new wife, not a smile on his face, he says, "Putha, forget all that nonsense from the past. Treat her well."
He is to blame.
She hears the phone ringing and lowers the flame of the gas cooker and walks to the phone. "Hello?" she asks. It was late in the night and she was just making a cup of tea for herself before going to bed. She hears loud breathing from the other side. "Hello," she says again. "Amma..." a broken voice says. "Duwe?" she asks. "Amma... He's hitting me, Amma. I'm coming home now." Her back stiffens. "What's that again?" "He's hitting me. He gets home late and then hits me. I can't live here anymore. I'm coming back home." She thinks for a while and then says, "Think about your future, child. And your daughter. We can give you a room here but after that what? No other man will have you no... Maybe you did something wrong. Or said something..." Her daughters says she didn't do anything. He was tired and angry about work and took it all out on her. "Just keep him happy. We all went through this. It's the curse of being a woman," she says.
She is to blame.
"Thathee, I got 2Bs and a C," she tells him. He smiles and pats her heads. "If I don't get selected to campus, I can always follow an accounting course. If I find a job in a bank..." He interrupts her. "Ah good good, duwe. But a degree and job... Why do you need any of that? No, it's a man's duty to provide for you. You are pretty also, so it won't be a problem. We'll find you a good boy and you can settle down." She opens her mouth to protest, but he says, "Now now, you are a good girl na. Listen to your Thathee. This is what's best for you."
He is to blame.
She laughs at him. She calls him names. She insults him. Makes him feel worthless. Why? Because he didn't want to drink. He doesn't get drunk like her friends' boyfriends. While they all danced and have a great time, her man sits in a corner, sipping lime juice. She feels humiliated. She looks at him and says, "God! Just have a drink. Be a man."
She is to blame.
He looks at her stiff body. She looks so small in the coffin. People around him are loud. But all he hears is a muffled noise that seems to belong to a different world. He looks at her once-beautiful face. He feels a hand in his. It's his little brother's. The little boy starts crying. "Amma is dead," he wails, "Amma is dead." He lets go of his brother's hand and says, "Chih! What's this men. Don't cry now. Boys don't cry."
He is to blame.
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