society soup – the ideal world – how to protect and serve to abuse

The thought came to me without warning. I felt this urge to make a mockery of how people were living their lives or enjoying their time. At least I had something to say at the moment on the social media. That’s what it was made for after all. It feels good that I have control over people’s lives. So much that I block the lives of those I live with — to use them. So much that I can twist their hands, pull hairs, control their thoughts, wipe off their talent, their knowledge just by making a mockery.

What I can’t do is to help someone in the time of need if it doesn’t buy me some praise. I have loudspeakers around me who are just worried about why God has given them their lives or why they are acting without their permission. So, you will be taken to a rehab centre. Don’t ask me why? It’s your need not mine, my concern.

I am horrible to the hilt. I know I have more of the things to be laughed at than others but that’s how I am.

You have no idea who I am. I know when I holler at someone unleashing the torrent of abuse on the whim I think she will cringe. I know why she needs the pin-drop silence and never trusts anyone around. I know that everyone knows that she is treated like shit and is still alive. That’s how I try my best to make them see her worth. She will fight for her worth because everyone who heard his hollering snd can mistreat her. I make it more convenient than a dollop of ice cream. I think it’s convenient to rob her identity, her honour and rights and make her feel unworthy. No, I am not perfect. I am the worst. My only goodness is fault-finding. That’s how I am good. I know whatever I accuse of my targets, I possess that ten times more. That’s what I embody so I just make use of her reactions.

Sometimes I haul my daughter over coals. Whenever I claw at someone to the point of bleeding, remind them how bad or unworthy they are, a little smaller, a little less, I find this sense of control…that I don’t have over myself. I read fathers rape and abuse. Some fathers just facilitate abuse to happen. During wedding ceremonies, a few aunts and sister/daughters-in-laws squeal, whinge and quarrel but that’s another story, I share my stories – my kind of stories. Impersonate or troll and this is all, my social media. Most fathers indulge in this. I was truly worried who relishes whose comments. Some are just at the end of their wits. Maybe it’s kind of superiority, respect, intellect or self-worth or just a little bum-shake. That’s how I want my surroundings. Are you glad that everyone is not the same?

Many people don’t even know the way I abuse. I set my car AC to the full to see her mother fall sick even when she keeps requesting to turn it down. She is sitting in the car that she hadn’t made the full payment. I am the monster alive. Deceitful, know different ways to abuse. I never thought it might ever change. I put her down during illness.

Have you seen some of those women who apprise you of the poor state of the abuser? She retched several times that day.

But I told her that she can’t object the stink bomb and put her on the phone to make her hear what stink bombs are. There was nothing to respond to the filth born. So whatever I wrote, sitting alone, I meditated and offered this murk to her. Even if I can’t protect, I pick something from hither and thither for my usual dramas.

And I know these women who call women the childbearing sofas, an object to be used. I know the burlesque women that lack common courtesy, her stench. My mom was strange. A bit too humble to tolerate her in the hospital. But you see, that’s who they are — sort of making others feel unworthy.

You have got to know the blood bath road shows. After all she is not my daughter so I live with superiority than respect. Flesh is all I am. Money is all I seek. My claws exude the sense of control.

You know my kinda people who are concerned with childbearing sofas and the kind of relationship we keep in our discotheque. We are awestruck that there is a world different than ours, that exists. The two worlds mingled together, everywhere.

And I never thought it can ever change.

Published by Smita Ray

Smita Ray is the mother of two lovely kids and hails from northeastern India. Her perpetual displeasure arising from the hypocrisy in the society underneath the semblance of religion, culture as well as the conditioning for compliance urged her to put down the impressions in her mind. In her spare time, she likes to have some culinary adventures along with her kids trying new recipes or crafting. She describes herself as -- a soulmate, a life alighted on the earth catching the rhythm passing by her. A tinge of joy colours her world and lays its feet on the land where revellers are awaiting her to get into the groove.

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