“Main Likhti Hoon, Kyunki Main Chup Nahin Baith Sakti: Ek Aurat ki Awaaz, Ek Atyachar ke Khilaaf”

This is the story of why I write. I write for women like me, who have only their voices and nothing to lose. Our existences are at times painful and lonely. But they are also freeing. My abuser was furious when he realized I’d told his family about his misdeeds. “You didn’t need to tell my mom all those things!” he spat over the phone. “A mother shouldn’t have to know that about her son. It just shows what kind of person you are.” I felt momentarily ashamed — I’d received similar admonitions even from supporters: “Don’t talk about it too much. It makes you look vindictive.” A moronic administrator from my institution would later send me a written warning about “defaming” him for speaking negatively but accurately about him. But shame rapidly ceded to rage. How dare you? I didn’t assault or demean you. I didn’t solicit sex workers during a global pandemic while treating sick patients. I didn’t start affairs with my coworkers. I didn’t deceive and mistreat my loved ones. I didn’t make you live under the shadow of constant terror.

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