My Dad Is My Hero!

My “Dad” is a very special person in my world. He taught me to stand up and fight against all the odds, even if the chance of winning is less than 1%. His words never fail to inspire me. “Do not to give up until you win, because in the end it is all about happy endings. If it is not happy, then it is not the actual end, keep moving towards your dream.” His voice has the power to energize my mind and solace my heart whenever I feel low. His clap boosts my confidence like anything and conveys the message that I should continue the good work. His anger simplifies the confusion – am I right or not? His feedback instils confidence and makes me a better human being. His success mantra inspired by my Mom’s words, “Whatever happens in life, stay strong and give your best. God will do the rest!” is also the secret of my success. His thoughtful stories gave the power to visualize beyond reality, to find the dreamer living inside my heart, and to write creative stories on relationships. The result is my lovable blog “Few Miles” was shortlisted for BlogAdda Blog Awards under “Creative Writing” category. What’s more, do I want?

He was, he is, and he will be, always my Role Model, “My Dad Is My Hero!” I wish I could say this to him. However, for some reason, I am unable to express it to him. I neither bought him gifts nor wrote my heart to him. Fate or fear, I do not know an answer.

Maybe, just maybe, God has given a chance to honour my hero. That’s why, even at this time of the night, I’m writing this post. I am very sure that BlogAdda will honour my Dad with a memento, and for me, it is more than winning a prize!

I am writing about #MyRoleModel as a part of the activity by Gillette India in association with


This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 47; the forty-seventh edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

The sky bled red as the sun rose over the horizon. The first ray of sun light fell on my face. The mango trees swayed to and fro to the tune of the soft, wet wind. Birds were relatively quiet at this time of day and almost all people were still sleeping. The cool night breeze touched our bodies now and then. There was a dead silence around. I was there, flying along with my little sister, but not in peace. Things were so different yesterday evening. We were playing in rice fields happily without knowing the truth that it would be our last sunset. Our dreams were crushed first, and then even us.

Was it our mistake to play in the field at half past five in the evening? Or was it our mistake to be born in the lower class of the society? Or was it our mistake to allow that gang of bastards to abduct and rape us? Or was it God’s mistake? Whom to ask, God? I doubt if God still exists?

Who the hell gave them the right to touch our body? Who the hell gave men the power to overpower women? Who the hell said that we are independent? Are we really? And many more to list…

I do not have an answer for all this; but of this, I am sure: men who rape are not humans, not even animals’, as they would not hunt that way; they’re something which words cannot describe. They shattered our dreams. Had we known this we would not had played their last evening. But God scripted our fate the other way; the way that should not happened to someone even in the wildest of our dreams.

It all seemed like a perfect plan. They abducted us to an unknown place, locked us in a room till they got drunk, then they took turns to rape my sister and myself. Once, twice, thrice, as many times as you could count in your fingers…painful it was; more than what we could convey in words. We ran out of breath, we thought that they were done, and would let us alive out of the hellhole, but again, God scripted our fate the other way; they strangled us to death. First it created pressure inside our windpipe, then the blood cells burst, finally our soul left our body and we’re what we’re not wanted to be. Death did not give us peace. Even after that they raped us for an hour and finally, they took us to the same farmland, from where we were abducted last evening, and hanged us in rope in the same mango tree, where we used to play.

*நிசப்தம்* The silence must be heard; it has uncountable unsaid words that convey the feeling of unheard voices and dreams. My dream of becoming a Politician to work for the welfare of women and her dream of becoming a doctor were shattered into pieces. Our parents hope of living a better life when we grow up came to an end. Not just ours, but many unheard voices, unfulfilled dreams, and broken hearts. There could be many answers for silence, but the best of them provided by the people in our country is that they have a reason to write/speak/like/share/tweet/pin and then forget it in a weeks’ time.

Listen to the silence…
Of the dead souls,
Of the RAPE survivors,
Of your heart,
And teach your sons to respect every individual equally.
Let’s create a better India for future generations!

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 30 – Review

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