The Act of Faith and Nightmares

I remember being 7, and really restless in the prayer time on a Saturday. Sister Gayatri had already told me to calm down thrice, but I couldn’t stay still to save my life. I kept looking in multiple directions, making funny faces at my friends, giggling every time they sang “hallelujah” for no good reason – I was enjoying being a second grader.

30 minutes in, Sister Gayatri had lost her patience. She held me by the ear and dragged me out of the chapel while I screeched. She widened her eyes and in a pressed voice said “one move or noise out of you, and I’ll send you to Father Patrick!” while I just tried to press the crying noises under my lips and wiped my tears off my chubby cheeks as I gently wept. Before I process the things I felt, she said “now, in you go!” and pushed me in through the door.

I had an annoying habit of throwing tantrums back then. So, I was angered by the little talk we had there. All that did was give a strong push to gnaw her eyes out for doing that to me.

With a question of “HOW DARE YOU?!” echoing in my head, I charged at her with my hands in the air, screaming at the top of my lungs. I started hitting her in the thigh with all I had. By the time she took a swing to slap me in the face, I figured that I was in major trouble. She slapped me once and then grabbed my resisting right arm tight and angrily dragged me out again with everybody’s eyes on us. She hit me on the back and screamed “IS THIS HOW YOU TREAT ELDERS?!” and continued with slapping me while telling me to stand outside for the rest of the prayer and wait for Father Patrick to come.

Fr. Patrick was our vice-principal and a feared math teacher among all the circles of this school. There were stories about him beating children till they bled from their palms. And so, all I had for the next hour was waiting outside a tiny school chapel in front of a shit tonne of bicycles petrified of the idea of being beaten till my palms bled. I knew there was going to be a call to my parents. I sobbed for the entire hour with just the thought of my palms not being as soft after this.

It was 11 o’ clock in the morning, the other kids were all leaving, and 3 nuns were waiting around with me for him to come. I was now just staring at the kids taking their bicycles out and heading home while they looked at my swollen eyes and sobby cheeks. I remember seeing a few smirking faces too.

After the bicycle stand had been cleared out, he’d arrived. I took unusually long breaths and felt my stomach growl just at the sight of Sister Margret receiving him. He wore a white gown with a cross around his neck and a pair of full frame glasses resting on his nose. Somehow he looked terrifying without his beard.

“What is it?” he asked, in a deep and firm voice. Sister Gayatri pulled him aside, and all I remember hearing is distinct chattering for a few moments. Sister Gayatri then left with Sister Jenny and Sister Margret, and Fr. Patrick stood right in front of me with his hands behind his back.

“Did you misbehave in the prayer, son?” He said, looking me dead in the eye.

“I just looked away for one second and she star...”

“The Answer!” he shouted, and the silence echoed. “Is in a yes or a no.”

“No sir,” I said, with my chin up, still making eye contact.

He took a deep breath and walked to the Gulmohar tree against the chapel wall. He picked the thickest of the lower branches; broke it, and returned.

“I need to teach you to pray.” He said, putting his right hand out, still holding the stick in the left.

“Remove your shoes.” He said, pointing to the door of the chapel. I’d almost pissed my pants when I saw him walk towards me with the stick. I knew how the nodes feel of a freshly made cane. I know I’m exaggerating, but I was so certain that I will NEVER make it out of the door alive.

The chapel seemed bigger and more haunting in the silence. The cross looked scary in the dark and mother Mary’s sculpture terrified me.

“Go ahead, and sit on your knees.” He commanded. I followed trough.

“Join your hands, and close your eyes.”

I’d given in the moment he’d closed the door. The cold floor of the chapel hurt my knees, but I couldn’t say a word. I just held my lips together with the joined hands and held back my tears as the silence tore through my heart.

[Note: Sister Sara’s theme was playing in my head at the time.]

“Your hands below your chin, and your knees at the angle of 90.”

I can’t tell you how much I wanted to open my eyes and see what was going on. I could feel him phase around. That strong urge of opening my eyes died and suffocated me along with it with every step he took. Only his footsteps echoed in the empty chapel, and it consumed me with every ticking second.

“Say the Lord’s prayer”

“I don’t... I don’t - remember it well.” I said, struggling to find my voice in my throat.

A whip cracked and I felt a sharp sting on the curve of my foot. I almost cried, more like stifled a scream. The air kept getting colder in the room.

“Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..” I sang in haste. I felt his hand ruffle my hair. I always pictured a little smile on his long angular face during this time.

I finished reciting the Nicene Creed, and the room felt motionless the whole while. I’m pretty sure I heard him chuckle softly as he said “again”.

After the second time, he said “Now remember the Lord’s name to yourself. Remember he is the one who saved you from punishment.”

I almost smiled, being assured that it was over. I was going to open my eyes and get out of there soon as I could.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” he said.

“Yes,” I replied, hoping this was it.

“Then don’t open your eyes, Lord has a price for you to pay, then you can go.”

Confused, I complied with him.

“Open your mouth.” He said. I thought he was going give me candy, like Sr. Margret usually does when you give a right answer in class, so I did.

Instead of hard, sweet tasting candy; I felt almost a mouthful of warm flesh rub against the inside of my cheeks. I was curious as to what it was, but I knew better than to open my eyes. I felt a warm rush of blood in the flesh as it rubbed against my tongue.

It went on for a while, and then it stopped, I heard Fr. Patrick frantically saying “don’t open your eyes!” in a pressed voice. There was a silence; a long, confusing, unsettling and strange silence. I felt a little bit of water on my lower lip, I just ignored it.

A few minutes later, he told me to open my eyes.

“Now, like a good boy, don’t tell anybody about this secret; we need more people to learn prayer.”

“What did the lord give me? What happened?”

“Life.” he said and opened the door.

“Hope you won’t be naughty again.” He said as he walked me to my father’s car.

Now, I’m guessing most of you took a guess of what was happening back there; but as a 7-year old, I didn’t. For my understanding, Father Patrick was kind enough to repeat the entire exercise again for the next 2 times in the consecutive years for throwing back a duster and plucking a flower off the school garden.

I was 13 when I was first disgusted by the acts he involved me in. I couldn’t tell my parents because I was smart a child to them. I had marks and no complaints home about my conduct all those years. But, what sex ed taught me negated all of that.

In the last year, I counted the number of times he’d used me as his “waifu”. The bruises on my knees hurt more than they used to. Does anyone remember one of those times when you just lock yourself in the bathroom so mum doesn’t find out that you’re bleeding and so you don’t have to take the sting of Dettol? That was me when I was 15; almost all the while my parents were home. I think they meant well when they asked me “what went wrong?” or “are you curious about your body?” but... I couldn’t ever tell them this. I was always tempted to tell them the times they asked “Is everything okay in school?” but.... I couldn’t look them in the eye and admit that I was stupid enough to not understand it; even after I did, I let it happen in his fear and stayed completely quiet about it.

Meanwhile, my dear supplier of nightmares had lost all his discretion. He’d stopped asking me to close my eyes; in fact, he used the beads and sharp edges of his cross to “discipline me.” I remember him increasing the frequency of how hard his flesh hit the back of my throat with every tear rolling down my eye. I gagged and spit out a spot of blood once; he just hit me with his cross for ruining the marble in his office leaving a scar on my right shoulder. All I did, since I found out what was happening back there at 12, was stay on my knees and waited for it to be over so that I could go back to pretending that I’m a dignified human who has reasons to live.

On 23rd December 2007; I finally told my parents. All they said was ¬“Kisi se kuch nai kehna!” ("Don't mention this to anyone!")

I’m assuming because their boy with a stunted growth and no facial hair at 15 couldn’t bring them more shame. My father increased my allowance and promised to shift schools the following year. Some place away and safe, as he promised.

I told him “it’s getting harder to stay in school, dad.”

He said “It's 3 months, bear with it, then life will be SO MUCH BETTER!” with that voice modulation, by the way.

The following month, I was not as sad but was more angered by the thought of how alone I really am in this world. I reached the inescapable conclusion of finally taking the leap of death. I fixed a date; January 26th, 2008. After the march and dispersal of students from the district flag hoisting ground. I knew the stairs to the District Administrator’s roof. I’d jump on the other side, so they find me in the dumping ground after the event.

On The republic day, I had volunteered on the teacher’s insistence for decoration. I’d been living my life in fear for a long time; being before time everywhere is a bad habit I’ve acquired since. I reached there at 6:15; parked my cycle in the cycle stand and sat on the stairs waiting for the teacher and the rest of the students to arrive.

I felt the knot of my tie actually choke me as I saw Father Patrick get out his quarters. It was 16 degree Celsius that day, and I still felt my vest being drenched with sweat in the next minute or so.

He called me close, inquired what I was doing here, and then he ordered me to get in. This was bold for him because he had never done it in his own quarters before. Meanwhile, I was contemplating my final memories. For some very obvious reasons, I didn’t want to die with my breath still smelling like cum.

He opened his robes, and with his cross dangling from his neck, he ordered me to my knees. This was one of those times where he wanted me to look at him. I followed him like a slave.

His thick black beard angered me this time. It was new to me, because, over all these years, I always associated it with fear or disgust; but anger was new.

He grabbed a handful of my hair, and closing his eyes; he shoved it down my throat, and moaned loudly, as I gagged on it. My hand on his thigh tightened, my jaw tightened, and in that instant, I took a strong bite at his organ.

He screamed out loud; pulled my hair with his right hand and managed to stand with his left hand on the table. The warmth I associated with disgust of flesh and fish-like taste of his penis intensified with saline, copper-tasting, thick and coarse blood run down my teeth meeting my tongue. He tried to get away, but I didn’t let him till I KNEW I had done damage. He screeched and gasped and wailed and wheezed in pain all the while. I didn’t care If I swallow his blood, I didn’t care if it hurt the back of my throat, I didn’t care it felt like a limp worm against the roof of my mouth; the control made it all worth it.

I could finally understand him, this command, this pleasure of having someone in pain and being in complete control; it was like being alive.

When I finally let him go, his wound splattered blood all over my face and my white school uniform. I could feel the blood drip down my nose in drops over to the floor, a slog stain of blood that could be felt on my chest, but I couldn’t care less. I had my eyes locked on having him off his feet, screaming and wheezing as he stared at the blood ooze. I sat down there, with my legs in front of me. I heard a very loud, irritating noise stop. My face took a shape of a smile, the power of this moment was so overwhelming - I could taste it in my spit with his blood still in my mouth.

I took 12 minutes of enjoying his pain. Then, I got up, opened the door, and with the blood stains still on my uniform; I ran. I ran past the school bell, I ran past the Chapel, I ran past the classroom, I ran past the District Flag hoisting ground, and reached home. I rushed to the bathroom, slammed the door behind me, dead bolting it; and broke into tears. I fell flat on the ground, and couldn’t help but smile. My scalp hurt and I could barely feel the back of my throat, but I couldn’t give a flying fuck; this blood stained smile was 3000% euphoria.

I did not understand what I was feeling, but it felt substantially better. I remember the most peaceful silence during my hysterical laugh on the bathroom floor.

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