My name is Ritesh Mehra, and this is not just my story—it’s the story of millions of children in India who suffer in silence. This is a sad story about life, but also one of quiet strength.
Because the worst wounds… are the ones nobody sees.
The Monster Lived Inside Our House
I grew up in a small town near Varanasi. Our home had blue-painted walls, a small courtyard, and an old neem tree. But it also had secrets. Dark ones.
My uncle came to live with us when I was seven. He was my father’s younger brother—jobless, loud, and always watching me. At first, I thought he was just strange. But soon, the truth became clear.
He began calling me into his room when no one was around. At first, he said it was to help with homework. But then came the touches. The whispers. The threats.
“If you tell anyone, your parents will die in a car accident,” he’d say with a twisted smile.
I believed him. I was just a child.
I Tried to Hide It in My Drawings
School was my only escape. I was a good student—quiet, disciplined, respectful. No one ever suspected a thing. My teachers praised me. But they didn’t see the shaking hands. The sleepless eyes.
I stopped playing cricket with the neighborhood kids. I stopped laughing. I started drawing. I’d draw monsters with fangs. Always big, always dark, always towering over a tiny boy.
One day, my teacher, Mr. Kaul, saw my sketch and asked, “Who’s the monster?”
I said, “Just something I saw in a dream.”
My Parents Didn’t Want the Truth
When I finally told my mother at age 11, she went silent. Then she slapped me.
“Don’t lie! He’s your uncle! He feeds you!”
I remember crying in the bathroom, thinking maybe I really was bad. Maybe it was my fault.
That night, I heard my parents arguing in whispers. My father said, “It’s better to stay quiet. What will society say?”
The next morning, my uncle was still there. Drinking chai. Watching me.
I stopped talking after that.
I Wanted to Disappear
At 13, I started hurting myself. Just little cuts at first. On my thighs where no one could see.
I didn’t want to die—I just wanted the pain on the inside to feel real. To show on the outside.
One day, a counselor visited our school for a mental health workshop. I didn’t speak, but she gave me a card. I kept it hidden in a notebook.
Months later, I called the number from a PCO booth, hands shaking.
That call changed everything.
Someone Finally Believed Me
Her name was Dr. Neha. She met me in secret for months, counseling me, guiding me, building me back brick by brick. She arranged for my uncle to be reported anonymously. He was arrested, quietly.
I was sent to live in a boys’ shelter in Delhi under a special protection program. It wasn’t perfect—but it was safe.
I cried the first night—not because I was scared, but because I finally felt free.
I’m Still Healing, But I’m Here
Today I’m 24.
I work with a child rights NGO now. I speak in schools. I tell my story—just like I’m telling it now—so other kids know they’re not alone.
It took me years to understand that what happened to me was not my fault.
Yes, this is a sad story about life. But it’s also about survival.
Because even broken wings can learn to fly.
Child abuse doesn’t always leave bruises. Sometimes, it leaves invisible scars that stay for years.
But silence is the abuser’s greatest weapon. If you’ve been through something like this, please remember: You are not alone. And you are not to blame.
Your voice matters. I found mine.
So can you.
