Infanticide by Reema Rao-Patel

We don’t come out as boys – not the first time, the second time, or the third. But we don’t give up the first gasp of air. We don’t know what we did wrong. We don’t see you, we don’t see you, we don’t see you, until we hear you – a disappointed voice, a booming voice, shame in secret. We don’t hear Amma. We don’t know what Amma did wrong. We don’t carry name. We don’t carry dowry. We don’t carry pride. We don’t carry luck. We don’t carry anything but worry.

You worry we don’t know better. 

We don’t ask questions because we don’t know when to speak. We don’t look past our shoes when we don’t speak. We don’t speak to Amma because Amma, too, doesn’t speak. We don’t look for the light switch when we try to speak – no, whisper – to each other. But even in darkness, we don’t speak our minds. We don’t have our own minds. Is this what it means to not know better?

Is there better? You don’t show us any other way.

We don’t wear helmets because you don’t allow us to ride bikes. We don’t wear swimsuits because you don’t allow us to swim. We don’t wear seat belts because you don’t allow us to drive. The same way we don’t listen to music, we don’t talk on the phone, we don’t sleepover – unless we don’t tell. We don’t tell Amma. We don’t tell you. We don’t tell on each other around you. We don’t tell anyone about you.

About you? You don’t let us know you.

Yet we don’t doubt you when you say you’ll take care of us. Like we don’t doubt the anger that echoes in the house. We don’t test it, we don’t need to. We don’t stomp, we tip-toe, and sometimes we hide. But we don’t want to stay here. Did Amma want to stay here? We don’t cut our hair. We don’t paint our nails. We don’t slink into western dresses. We don’t attract boys. We don’t know the kinds of men out there. How could we? We don’t know anywhere else except here. We don’t leave except for school, but we don’t need school once we’re married. We don’t leave unless we’re married. We don’t want to go. We don’t know if our men will be like you. We don’t know if you are the man our men should be.

Our men that we don’t know take us to places that we don’t know – and you let them.

We don’t have a choice. We don’t have anything. We don’t pack name, we don’t pack dowry, we don’t pack pride, we don’t pack luck. But we don’t lose hope – so we pack two empty suitcases. We don’t look back.

You don’t say anything to bring us back. 

We don’t say goodbye. We don’t know why you’re crying. We don’t know what to do when you cry. But we don’t forget this. Because we don’t know if you know what you did wrong? We don’t know if you knew any better. We don’t know if you knew any other way. We don’t forget this. 

We don’t forgive you, until we do.

Reema Rao-Patel is a Pushcart Prize and two-time Best of the Net nominee. Her short fiction appears in Hayden’s Ferry Review, Witness, So To Speak, and elsewhere. She lives in Chicago, with her husband, son, and pup. Follow her @reema.rp (Instagram) and @finding_reemo (Twitter).

9 February 2024