Forgotten Past: A True Story
Forgotten Past: A True Story
Her marriage had already been fixed—with an engineer. She was the youngest and most cherished daughter of her parents, born into a powerful zamindar family of the village. The family owned hundreds of bighas of agricultural land, employed servants and maids, and commanded unquestioned authority. She had two brothers and four sisters, all known for their sharp and intimidating nature. No one in the village dared to mock, provoke, or seduce her. Her father and brothers were enough to deter any such thought.
Her maternal family carried equal weight. Her mother was the only child of her parents. Though dark-complexioned and lacking conventional charm, her authority was unquestioned. Her uncle worked in the Department of Health. The family lived in a large ancestral house in the village and owned two houses in the city, one still under construction. The family was united and respected.
In the city, a narrow lane ran from east to west. After a few houses, at the corner, across the lane, lived a Muslim family. A Muslim boy—barely sixteen to eighteen years old—lived nearby in a rented house while pursuing his studies. He had many Hindu friends. Every evening, gatherings took place at a common adda where the boys met for light discussions. Everyone knew about the affair between this boy and the girl, and conversations often revolved around him—sometimes with admiration, sometimes with jealousy.
The girl in this story will be called Renuka, a name close to her real one.
One evening, he did not come out. Nor the next. Nor the third day. Concerned, four boys reached his house. When he opened the door, his head was wrapped in a gamchha. One of them pulled it off. Everyone froze. His hair had been cut unevenly and brutally—like cloth torn with scissors.
Something was terribly wrong.
That night, on his rooftop, after much persuasion, surrounded by friends, he finally spoke.
Two nights earlier, close to midnight, Renuka had called him. Love letters had already passed between them. Winter silence had settled over the street; doors were shut, quilts pulled tight, the world asleep. Hiding from her uncle, Renuka watched him approach. The door was unlatched. He entered quietly. Her uncle slept in his room.
What followed was youthful recklessness—driven by secrecy, curiosity, and misplaced courage. Both lay together under the quilt.
Then, suddenly, the door burst open.
Her uncle stood there, his face burning with rage. Chaos followed. The boy barely managed to cover himself and jump off the bed. Renuka hid her face beneath the quilt.
Her uncle’s anger exploded. He dragged her by the hair, struck her repeatedly, and hurled threats that froze the boy with fear. A pair of scissors appeared in his hand. The boy begged for mercy. The uncle grabbed his hair and cut it violently, warning him that if a single word escaped his mouth, the consequences would be fatal—not only for him, but for Renuka as well.
The boy fled.
Later, when friends asked why he had vanished, he lied—saying he had gone to a salon. Shame and fear kept him indoors. Finally, his friends themselves took him to a barber to even out the damage.
Life appeared to return to normal. Renuka continued going to school, appeared in the locality, and visited the market. Nothing outwardly had changed.
But the boy knew.
The uncle’s message was clear:
what had been interrupted was not forgiven—only postponed.
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