The Shape of Obedience

The Shape of Obedience

I don’t remember a time when I believed I could say no.

That isn’t the same as saying I was never angry.

Or never scared.

Or never curious.

It just means that by the time those feelings arrived, they already knew where they were supposed to die.

When I was small, obedience wasn’t taught through fear alone. Fear comes later. Fear is expensive. It bruises, it breaks, it leaves evidence.

In the beginning, it was taught through structure.

Rules that sounded reasonable.

Boundaries that pretended to be care.

Limits that were explained so calmly you almost thanked them for existing.

“Don’t run,” I was told, not because it was forbidden—but because running leads to falling.

“Don’t talk loudly,” not because it was wrong—but because people notice.

“Don’t ask questions,” not because questions were bad—but because answers are confusing.

Confusion, I learned early, was dangerous.

I was five when I understood that silence could earn approval.

Not love—approval came first.

Love was rarer.

Approval was predictable.

That morning, I sat cross-legged on the floor near the wall while he worked at the table. Papers spread out in front of him. Numbers. Lines. Names I couldn’t read yet.

I had a crayon in my hand. One page left in the colouring book. The others were already filled—trees too green, skies too blue, houses too neat.

I coloured carefully. Inside the lines. I had learned that overflow made adults uncomfortable.

“Zoya,” he said without looking up.

“Yes?”

The word came instantly. Reflex, not response.

I waited for permission to continue breathing.

“Why is the sun red?”

I froze.

I hadn’t noticed.

I hadn’t meant to choose red.

My fingers tightened around the crayon.

“I… there was no yellow left.”

A pause.

I counted it instinctively.

One.

Two.

He finally looked up.

Not angry.

Never angry in the beginning.

“Red is a loud colour,” he said mildly. “It draws attention.”

“I’m sorry.”

That was the first apology I remember giving without knowing what I had done wrong.

He stood, walked over, crouched beside me. His hand rested on my head. Gentle. Almost affectionate.

“Sorry isn’t needed,” he said. “Understanding is.”

He took the crayon from my hand and replaced it with brown.

“Next time, choose something quieter.”

I nodded.

That was how lessons were planted.

Softly.

Deeply.

By the time consequences arrived, the soil was already prepared.

The memory slips away as I scrub the floor near the entrance, the cloth rough against my palms. I scrub where no dirt exists. Habit is safer than accuracy.

The house smells like disinfectant and old paper. The same smell it has always had. Clean, but never fresh.

Cleanliness here was about erasing traces, not creating comfort.

My knees ache, but I don’t shift. Pain is manageable. Disobedience isn’t.

From the other room, I hear the television switch on—volume low, just enough to absorb sound. News voices blur into background noise.

I don’t listen.

Listening requires interpretation.

Interpretation leads to thought.

Thought is dangerous.

I wring the cloth, wipe once more, then fold it neatly and place it beside the bucket. Alignment matters. Symmetry matters. Order calms him.

When I stand, I do it slowly, keeping my movements economical. I learned long ago that sudden motion looks like intent.

I carry the bucket toward the back, my footsteps measured.

As I pass the mirror near the corridor, my reflection catches me off guard.

I look older than I feel. Or maybe younger. It’s hard to tell when time has been lived quietly.

My eyes linger on my face for half a second too long.

I look away immediately.

Self-inspection was discouraged. It led to selfhood.

I was seven when the rules changed.

That was the year explanations stopped.

Before that, rules came with reasons. After that, they came with expectations.

One evening, I came home late.

Late meant fifteen minutes.

Late meant the sun had already dipped below the neighbouring buildings.

I remember holding my school bag tightly, heart racing—not because I’d done something wrong, but because I couldn’t calculate the outcome.

Uncertainty frightened me more than punishment.

He was sitting in the living room when I entered. Lights off. Television muted. Waiting.

I stood near the door.

“Why are you late?” he asked calmly.

“My teacher kept me back.”

“Why?”

“She said my handwriting—”

He raised his hand.

I stopped.

That was new.

Silence stretched.

He didn’t hit me.

He didn’t shout.

He simply said, “From today, you answer only what is asked.”

I nodded.

That night, he didn’t eat dinner.

I understood the message.

My presence had disrupted order.

From then on, I learned precision.

If asked where, I didn’t explain why.

If asked when, I didn’t add how.

If asked nothing—I said nothing.

The reward was invisible but powerful: stability.

Stability felt like safety.

The sound of a chair scraping pulls me back.

I straighten instantly.

Footsteps approach. I lower my gaze, hands folded in front of me.

He stops a few feet away.

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning.”

“Why?”

“There was dust.”

Another pause.

He looks around. The floor is spotless.

“You’re anticipating again,” he says.

“I’m sorry.”

He exhales softly. Not annoyed. Almost disappointed.

“I’ve told you,” he says, “anticipation leads to mistakes.”

“Yes.”

“Do only what you’re told.”

“Yes.”

He walks away.

My shoulders relax only after his footsteps fade.

I stay still for a moment longer. Just in case.

I was nine when I learned that obedience could be tested.

That year, a neighbour’s child went missing.

The building buzzed with whispers. Police. Questions. Adults speaking in lowered voices.

I overheard fragments.

Too curious.

Wrong place.

Wrong time.

That night, I asked a question.

“Why don’t they know where she is?”

The silence that followed was absolute.

He turned toward me slowly.

“Why do you want to know?”

I hesitated.

“I was just—”

His hand came down on the table.

Not hard.

Controlled.

“Curiosity,” he said evenly, “is how people get taken.”

I went quiet.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping.

“You don’t want to be taken, do you?”

I shook my head.

“Then remember this,” he said. “People who mind their own lives survive longer.”

That was the first time survival entered the conversation.

Not happiness.

Not safety.

Survival.

The afternoon drags.

Time here doesn’t pass—it stretches.

I finish my tasks early and wait near the window, careful not to touch the bars. Touching suggested longing.

Outside, life moves freely. Someone laughs. A vehicle honks. Somewhere, a radio plays a song I almost recognize.

Almost.

Music used to make me restless. Now it just makes me tired.

Restlessness was trained out of me.

I sit on the floor with my back against the wall, knees pulled in. This position is neutral. Neither defiant nor submissive. Acceptable.

My mind drifts backward again, against my will.

I remember the day I stopped imagining escape.

I must have been eleven.

We were watching a movie on television—one of his rare allowances. A girl ran away from home. Packed a bag. Climbed out a window. Freedom framed as bravery.

For a moment—just one—I wondered what it would feel like to run.

He noticed.

“How would she survive?” he asked suddenly.

I flinched.

“What?”

“No money. No protection. No plan.” He shook his head. “That’s not courage. That’s foolishness.”

I stayed quiet.

He looked at me.

“You’re smarter than that,” he said. “You understand consequences.”

I nodded.

That night, the idea of running felt childish.

By morning, it felt impossible.

A sound interrupts my thoughts.

The front door opens.

My spine straightens automatically.

Voices filter in. Familiar cadence. Someone he knows.

I rise and move to my position near the wall. Present, but unobtrusive.

They talk. Low voices. I focus on breathing.

Then—

“Zoya.”

The way he says my name still makes something tighten in my chest.

“Yes.”

“Come here.”

I step forward, head bowed.

The visitor looks at me with open curiosity. Assessing. Measuring.

“How old is she now?” the man asks.

He answers before I can.

“Old enough to understand her place.”

The man nods, approving.

“Good,” he says. “Girls who understand early don’t cause trouble later.”

I keep my eyes down.

Inside, something twists—not rebellion. Not anger.

Recognition.

This is who I am here.

A proof of control.

A finished product.

The men continue talking. I fade back into the wall.

As they speak, a sentence lodges itself somewhere deep in my mind—not something said today, but something remembered.

A voice from years ago.

Calm. Certain. Possessive.

It hasn’t surfaced fully yet.

But I know it will.

And when it does—

I won’t know how to argue against it.

The visitor leaves after a while.

Doors close. Voices fade. The house exhales—not in relief, but in reset. Like a machine returning to idle after being observed.

I remain where I am until told otherwise.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time is unreliable when you’re waiting to be released from stillness.

Finally—

“Zoya.”

“Yes.”

“Go to your room.”

I walk away without hurry, without relief. Relief would mean expectation, and expectation always ended badly.

My room is small. Always has been. Small spaces are easier to monitor, easier to control, easier to clean of personality.

I sit on the edge of the mattress and fold my hands in my lap.

And that’s when the memory finally breaks through.

The one that always stops me mid-thought.

The one my mind circles but never enters unless it’s tired enough.

I was twelve.

Old enough to notice things.

Young enough to misunderstand danger.

That was the year he stopped explaining anything at all.

It had been raining that evening.

Rain made him irritable. The sound was unpredictable, uneven. Too much like chaos.

I remember standing near the doorway, my school uniform damp at the hem. I’d stayed back longer than allowed. A classmate had cried. I hadn’t known how to leave her alone.

That mistake cost me more than time.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I—”

His hand lifted.

I stopped.

Silence pressed in, thick and heavy.

He stood up slowly, walked toward me. Not angry. Disappointed again. That was always worse.

“Who were you with?” he asked.

“A girl from class.”

“Why?”

“She was upset.”

Another pause.

“Why is that your concern?”

I didn’t answer.

He circled me once, like he was inspecting something he already owned but still wanted to evaluate.

“Do you know what happens to girls who get involved in other people’s emotions?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“They get ideas,” he said calmly. “Ideas make people disobedient.”

I swallowed.

“I didn’t mean to—”

That was when his hand closed around my wrist.

Not tight enough to hurt. Tight enough to remind.

“Meaning doesn’t matter,” he said. “Impact does.”

He pulled me closer—not violently, not roughly. Just close enough that his shadow fell over me completely.

“You belong here,” he said. “Your responsibility is this house. This family. Me.”

The words felt strange. Heavy. Too large to fit inside my chest.

I tried to pull back instinctively.

That was the first time I ever did.

His grip tightened instantly.

Not in anger.

In correction.

He bent down so his face was level with mine. His voice dropped, soft and precise.

“Don’t do that,” he said. “That movement means refusal.”

My heart raced.

“I didn’t—”

“Shh.”

His thumb pressed lightly against my wrist, right where the pulse throbbed.

“You don’t refuse,” he said. “You don’t resist. You don’t choose.”

I felt something fracture quietly inside me. Not pain—realization.

He straightened, still holding my wrist.

And then he said it.

Slow. Certain. Absolute.

“Tum meri ho.”

The sentence didn’t sound threatening.

That’s what made it worse.

It sounded like fact.

Like gravity.

Like law.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t argue.

I nodded.

Because by then, rebellion didn’t feel brave.

It felt ignorant.

He released me and stepped back, satisfied.

“Go change,” he said. “You’re dripping on the floor.”

I went to my room that night and lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling.

The sentence replayed in my head over and over, sinking deeper each time.

Not shouted.

Not forced.

Declared.

That was the night something inside me settled permanently.

The night silence stopped being a habit and became identity.

The memory loosens its grip, leaving me breathless.

I sit in my room, present-day walls closing in, the echo of that voice still vibrating somewhere behind my ribs.

I press my palm against my wrist unconsciously.

The pulse is steady.

Alive.

But ownership doesn’t require chains.

It only requires belief.

And belief, I learned too young, is the hardest thing to escape.

Outside my room, the house returns to its quiet rhythm. Controlled. Ordered. Certain.

Inside me, something stirs—not rebellion, not courage.

Awareness.

And awareness is dangerous.

Because once you recognize the shape of your cage—

Silence is no longer obedience.

It’s preparation.

"Main chup rahi kyunki chup rehna sikha diya gaya,

Mujhe meri hi awaaz se dara diya gaya.

Par jo keh diya gaya bina pooche, bina haq ke—

Us ek jumle ne mujhe zinda hi qaid kar diya."

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Id:- Radha_melody09