By Sharadhi Hegde
Have you ever heard of the Butterfly Effect?
To put it simply, scientists believe that a small change in the present can significantly affect future events.
I have a theory: the reverse is true too. The most insignificant traits in a person’s present behavior are direct implications of major events in their past.
But you’re sentient, scientific beings, with minds of your own. A theory isn’t accepted unless it has evidence, unless I convince you.
Socrates said that the three ways of convincing an audience are Ethos, Pathos, and Logos. And my father, a scientist, says that Pathos convinces more people than Ethos and Logos put together. And to implement Pathos, I’ll have to bring out your inward empathy, scrape it out from behind layers of stoicism and cynicism that the world has brought you to.
According to Hodges and Myers in the Encyclopedia of Social Psychology, empathy is defined as understanding another person’s experience by imagining oneself in that person’s situation. So, that’s what we’ll be doing.
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It’s always the smallest things that you don’t really notice until someone points it out. Like salt. You don’t taste it in the food, but you notice it the moment it’s gone. A lot of things are like that.
My best friend from school doesn’t like riding the bus.
My cousin hates wearing heels.
My housemaid’s little daughter avoids her uncle.
Mom doesn’t let me walk out of the house after 6. She knows what happened to the neighbor’s daughter.
Wondering where this is leading to?
I’m going to use these to prove my theory.
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Cut to Scene One.
Dawn streaks through the blinds in the living room. You’re late for school. You grab a hurried breakfast of dried toast. As you’re rushing out, straightening your uniform, your mom insists on a goodbye kiss.
You’re running to catch the bus, and as you do, you drop your lunch. Great.
You’re bending over to pick it up, and trying to block out the hooting and hollering, playing like some everlasting piece of background music. You straighten up and walk to the only empty seat in the back, right beside the guy from biology class. He has his book propped open, but he’s harboring more interest in your thighs than the frog’s brains on page 231.
You look away, trying to ignore the hand creeping up your thigh. Soon, you’ve had enough. You prefer to stand the rest of the way. The guy from history, however, seems to find you an interesting specimen now, as his hands find their way up your butt.
Every touch sends a shiver up your spine, and you freeze inwardly with each new touch. You’re disgusted and ashamed and humiliated and hurt, all at once.
You want to screech at anyone walking within a mile of your body. But you don’t, because Mom said that’s what boys do.
Now, your husband doesn’t get why you flinch every time you have to travel by the bus. He probably never will.
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Let’s try something different.
Twilight bleeds into the impending darkness of dusk. You’ve been looking forward to this Saturday all week. College ended a week ago, and today’s the farewell dinner. You’re so excited and can’t wait to show up in your black cocktail dress and shiny black heels. Ah, those heels, the ones that go together so well with your dress… You look stunning, and you know it. You can’t wait to see the look on the face of that jealous bitch who spilled coffee all over your pretty white dress last week.
Your middle-aged professor makes an offhanded comment on how pretty girls like you shouldn’t be showing off their legs. You’re too flustered by the compliments to notice the way he’s practically smacking his lips every time he looks at you.
By the time you’re out of the party, you’re giddy with happiness and three shots of tequila. And yet, you’re not oblivious enough to not notice the security guard staring at you with an intensity only describes as fiery, and a gaze only described as perverse. You’re locked in place, fight or flight be damned, as he brings up his hands to a shamefully obscene gesture.
You’re crying as you leave, with no one to offer you a shoulder.
Your friends don’t get why you hate heels now. They probably never will.
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Let’s try scenario number three.
Afternoon sunlight spills into the yard, where you’re alone, playing with your Coco. A doll that’s old and ragged and has an eye missing….But you love her with all your little heart.
Your uncle drops by for a visit. You’re too scared to tell Mama, but you hate him. He always takes you away when you’re alone and plays games that you don’t really like.
The last time he played one of his games, you spent the entire day huddled under the covers, clutching Coco tight, crying for the pain in your belly to go away.
Today, he leads you into the bathroom before locking the door. He says he’s gotten a new game this time. You’re hurting all over, and you’re trying to tell him, but his firm hand over your mouth’s strong enough to quiten you.
Once the games over, he tells you not to tell Mama, or he’ll take Coco away. He says snitches are bad girls. You’re scared. You really, really want to be a good girl.
When Mama gets home, you break down and tell her anyways. She’s horrified.
She’s figured out you’re telling the truth by the time you’re a sobbing wreck. She’s telling you that good girls don’t talk, and hushes you up until you stop crying. You don’t understand why Mama tells you to be quiet, but you do it anyways, After all, you’re a good girl.
You still avoid your uncle at family gatherings, and nobody knows why. They probably never will.
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Cue final scenario.
Midnight is giving birth in the darkness of the night.
Exhausted would be an understatement for what you feel right now. You’re walking – or, rather, dragging your feet - through the familiar path home. The overnight shifts have been getting harder, and the workload’s been increasing lately. You’re seriously considering telling your boss to go easy on you, but then again, you’re in the race for that big promotion. You wouldn’t give that up for the world.
You’re turning the crossing, calculating the odds of you getting promoted over your overzealous coworker, when you notice them. The pack of men, staring at you, their eyes lit up like beasts of prey. And you’re terrified.
You’re walking as fast as you can, eyes on the ground, heart thudding so loud you can hear it alternating with your footsteps, when you see the shadow. Right in front of you. Blocking your path.
You force yourself to look up, into the eyes of the predator you’re going to become prey to, at the man who’s got a wild grin across his face. You feel his friends surround you. He asks you what a pretty girl like yourself is up to, alone, so late in the night.
You can’t bring yourself to answer. You’ve been through this situation many, many times in your head; and in your head it plays out perfectly, with you spitting in his face and hitting him on his crotch and running away. But now, the embers of whatever daydream you’ve had are replaced by an ice-cold, crystal-hard reality.
You barely have time to stammer a plea to leave you alone before they’re on you.
It’s hurting now, and the pain is worse than anything you’ve ever felt before. Your limbs are on fire, and your womb - your sacred temple - is screaming as it is torn apart and shred to pieces. You’re cut up, bruised, burned and hurt in any and all ways imaginable.
You’re begging, pleading, crying, screaming for them to stop, for them to let you go. You try every trick in the book, even tell them you won’t tell anyone if they let you go.
Each plea earns you a kick or a punch.
And the pain…. The pain is so, so bad. You want it to stop. It hurts. Everything hurts. And you want your mom. You tell them your mom’s waiting for you at home, and they laugh.
They are still laughing when they set your body on fire and dump it by the highway.
Meanwhile, your mother’s wondering why it’s taking so long for you to get home.
Sometime in the future, my boss won’t understand why I refuse to take on night shifts. He probably never will.
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Feel anything yet?
That’s how empathy works. How Pathos works. That’s what I’ve been using to try and prove my theory.
The conclusion to this little theory of mine, however…. I’d prefer to leave it to you.
By Sharadhi Hegde
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