Pink Pages are often not so pink, they are red!

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Sourendra Kumar Das recounts Harish Iyer’s tale of pain and humiliation and his ultimate triumph as he puts his past behind- a childhood scarred by sexual abuse by his own uncle.

Chapter 1

It was one of those usual Monday evenings when the week starts with loads of activities in an ordinary man’s life. I finished covering a fascinating International Dance Recital, gaily submerged in the music and dance which still rang in my ears.

I sit down at a coffee shop to tell you the tale of a boy who was born on April 16. No it is not the famous Charlie Chaplin, but a friend of mine with an extraordinary fate. He was rather born as a cute and chubby child who was very fond of remaining in people’s lap.

My friend’s brother who is two years younger than him is an exact opposite and a small crybaby. My friend was the apple of everyone’s eye and everything was just as fine as it must have been in your life.

Six summers latter, his uncle took him inside the bathroom to get the apple a shower, that’s when the doors closed and his pants dropped. He would not have mind seeing it, but he was too young. The little child had to quaff the phallus of his uncle which he found very repulsive. He moved away and was about to scream like it happens in films, when he heard his aunt’s voice who wanted to go to the market.

He had his first anal sex at the age of six, even though he wanted to scream but he did not know what to do, so he left that to his own fate. He was being told to hide everything from his aunt and thus when she came back from the market, it was the very natural uncle-nephew relationship that sustained. Every part of the sex was hidden and locked for another eleven years.
His uncle sexually abused my friend as often he would get chance to pounce on this little boy. Till the age of eighteen, he never said no, he did not know how to say no either!

He had all female friends in school and he never trusted a man. “I only had one boy friend whose name was Alok (name changed on my friend’s request). He was a guy from my school, a dear friend I was very fond of. Perhaps I really felt very close to him as a friend as I opened all the pages of my life to him,” revealed my friend.

Alok would say, “Aaisa bhi hota hai…”

“I thought perhaps the same incident happened in his life too that he would not share with me. Perchance this was the way one learns about sex,” said Harish. Now that you know him quite a lot, I do not mind sharing his name.

The affectionate uncle would take him to salon for hair-cut and on his way back home, he would abuse the child. “I was been beaten up for not getting an erection when I was six years old and I would see his phallus smeared in the blood mixed with his sperm after he would finish his orgasm,” recalls Harish.

Harish Iyer

Harish Iyer

In his younger days, he could never unburden his heart to anyone but before he would do that everyone in his college knew the big secret about him. “I remember taking a push pencil box in school that was most fashionable those days. More so, I would buy two sets of the pencil box, one for me and another for Alok. I remember waking up extra hours in the night and finishing his homework too. But when my father’s business suffered loss and I could not afford to buy anything for him, Alok revealed my secret to everyone in the college,” bares Harish.

One fine day, while he entered the college Harish just shook hands with a girl friend, when a boy shouted, “Usse haath math milaa. Woh toh apne uncle ke saath sooke aaya hai…” Harish turned his hand and kept his wrist above mine and I could see the deep scar that was visible!

There was a long pause that followed next. It was so unbearable that I broke by saying, “Do you think I should send you the draft before I publish the story?” To that he humbly replies in three small words, “I trust you.”

There was a newspaper that he does not want me to name wrote Harish was sexually abused by his father. “It would have blazed up emotions back home, thanks to one journalist friend who wanted me to check the draft before it went for print” said Harish.

The college friends who behaved hard to him made him tougher from inside. The bathrooms of his college in Mumbai had graffiti like, “FOR GAY SEX, CONTACT HARISH @ 2495582*” That was way back in 1995, when mobile phones were not that popular in India. “In our classroom they would write ‘Gur ka baccha’ with chalk in my seat and the whole impression would be embossed in my pants. My college days were more painful than the childhood days of sexual abuse,” sighs my friend.

(This feature will continue in the next issue…)

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