I was just seventeen when I was embroiled in the greatest tragedy known to me. It started a year earlier when my parents, my brother and I went to a popular restaurant in Bangalore. During our meal, we met a man. It turned out that he owned the restaurant. He treated us with much kindness. Along with the kebabs and ghee rice we had ordered, he even gave us free bowls of gravy and dal. Of course, we had a great day. As time passed, he grew closer and closer to the family. It soon became customary for us to visit the restaurant once a week. This visit was a breather from the usual havoc caused by the Sait family drama.

One day, the man casually mentioned to me that he didn’t want me to call him uncle. ‘Call me X,’ he said with a smile. It gave me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, but nothing really changed. 

Every so often, after dinner, all of us would hop into X’s Mercedes and drive out for sweet paan and chit-chat. A new friendship was being built; my brother Danish and I would crack jokes with him or test him with riddles we’d learnt at school. Mumma also felt comfortable enough around him to tell him about our private family matters. Once, while talking to him about her financial woes, she broke down in tears. He held Mumma’s hand and said politely, ‘Mamadi main hain na? Fikar mat karo [Mamadi, I’m here, am I not? Don’t worry.].’

And just like that, he handed her a bundle wrapped in a newspaper that contained enough money for us to find our way out of trouble. She sighed with relief; the burden instantly lifted off her chest. This man was helping Mumma with no vested interest, loaning her money at zero interest. This sounds too good to be true, right? You’re right if you didn’t think so, because life isn’t a fairy tale.

When Mumma sighed at the reprieve that cash provided, I sighed too. Just then, a hand slid to the back seat of the car where I was sitting and slid up my dress. X, who was no longer my uncle, smiled as he rubbed my thigh. I was numb in that moment. The newly crowned Prince Charming of our family had just lifted a financial burden off our shoulders. X continued with his ‘acts of kindness’ towards our family. He started frequenting our home, and Mumma would laugh with and cook for him. In front of her, he would kiss my cheek and say, ‘Oh my Kubrati, you’re my favourite little one’. Although uncomfortable, I kept quiet, because I found some relief that things were calm at home.

Then, one day, shit began to hit the fan. Chequebooks, pens and papers were flung. The screaming and yelling gradually increased. Mumma was crying, and Papa was threatening to leave the house. I stayed awake all night. In the morning, I went to a PCO and called X. I bawled on the phone, telling him what was happening at home. ‘Okay, okay…’ he said, ‘tell me what you want me to do.’

‘Call Mumma and tell her that you will handle the money crisis,’ I said.

‘Okay, I will,’ he said. ‘But I am worried for you, Kubrati. Don’t go to college today. See me at Richmond Hotel. I am there na… we’ll sort everything out.’

He drove down and took me to the hotel. He stroked my face and murmured about how tired I looked. Then, he kissed my lips. I was shocked and confused, but I couldn’t utter a word. This was not supposed to happen, but it was happening. I should have screamed, but I could not. I should have run for help, but I was shell-shocked. The kiss grew. He convinced me it was what I wanted, that it would make me feel better. He kept repeating it until I felt deafened, and then he unbuckled his trousers. I was unsure of what exactly was happening, but I remember thinking, I am losing my virginity. It was a big deal, but it was also my shameful secret. Not the kind you could giggle and tell your girlfriends about.

From that moment on, X grew like a virus in my home. If I resisted him, he would stop taking Mumma’s calls. When she asked him why he wasn’t, he would say, ‘Ask your daughter, Mamadi.’

And Mumma would come and berate me, ‘Phir se lad liye do jane? Nahin karna beta. See how much he does for our family. He is more than family. [Fought again, you both have? You should not, child. . . ]’ I was being sexually abused, and no one in my close perimeter could even tell.

X was married and had a child. In the two and a half years that he sexually abused me, he went on to father another child. All the while telling me how much he loved me and that if I told my family or Mumma about us, it would destroy us. I believed every word he said. Looking back today, if I am to be completely honest, I don’t know if I would’ve done anything differently had I been dealt the same cards. The truth is that you can’t be sure. What I do know is that, in that moment, my mind, my soul, my truth, everything, absolutely everything, felt dead.

When I graduated, I wanted to move to Mumbai, but Mumma suggested Dubai instead. I agreed to Dubai, not for the potential opportunities, but because it would keep both my family and X away from me. When I got my first proper job at a cookie shop in Sharjah, it was, in the truest sense, a metamorphosis. I was shedding the old layers, and it was painful. The anguish, the relentless nagging voice which told me I’m worthless went away only after years and years of working on myself.

It was many years later that I told Mumma what had happened between X and me. In our home, under her nose. We were driving from Mumbai to Pune, and I think I seized the opportunity only because I felt she couldn’t run away from the conversation. I saw the tears stream down her face. An apology came from her recently. But again, I wasn’t waiting for it.

Excerpts from ‘Open Book: Not Quite A Memoir’ by Kubbra Sait with permission from HarperCollins