Morning Tea

I am sipping my morning tea

In the streets of Dhaka

Where the thoughts 

Of the young and old come blending

Like two rivers crashing into each other

Before one wins and flows with the strength of two

The people around me are sipping their tea and reading the paper.

The headline reads 

The boy who cried rape

The man next to me,

Probably in his early twenties

Probably aware of everything wrong with this world

But probably too ignorant to care,

Remarks 

Why is he complaining?

He probably liked it

In saying so 

The others around him agreed. 

I sit there in silence 

Sipping my tea. 

I have no opinion to share.

See,

These people were quick to say

That the boy probably liked it 

When his maid clutched his arms,

They believe

The boy had no problem getting on top of the maid,

They focus on the fact that

The boy got to see a naked girl.

And that they’d love to be the one who isn’t doing all the forceful work

For a change. 

But they disregard the fact that,

I was only four years old.

The disregard the fact that 

I did not know what was going on,

They do not pay heed to the fact that I was too young to know what consent was.

They do not care that I did not know

That this was not normal. 

I am 18 years old now,

I now know what consent is,

But I did not consent to these nightmares,

I did not consent to the guilt I feel every time I have an erection.

I am 18 years old

And I still remember my rapist’s face,

I remember her forceful grip 

And her angry face.

I remember that she did it more than once.

I do not get to complain

4 year old me probably liked it.

I do not get to complain,

I do not get therapy sessions 

Or counseling 

Neither do  I get to forget,

I only get to know

That I probably liked it.