The #MeToo campaign is back – this time in India, and so are
the innumerable memories, none of them pleasant.
A friend called me today and asked me to share my
experiences on a public platform, some of the experiences that I had shared
with him in many conversations spread over several years. I have very few
friends and fewer are ones that I have trusted enough to share those stories. I
call them stories as it adds a sense of third person experience, for calling
them personal experiences would only bring fresh pain and rage. The rage that
is self-consuming and pain that is incurable while it lasts.
Over the years, I have honed the art of speaking about those
experiences in a detached tone. The detachment is not just in the tone but also
in spirit. I am conflicted in whether to write these recollections in first
person or third. But I have promised my friend to share my experiences and I
can’t do that in third person.
While I sit here, contemplating writing about them, I can
feel my heart racing and I know that I will be done with half a pack of smokes
tonight – at least.
Let me begin from the beginning,
Summer of 1998 - I was not even 14 then. The school swimming
pool that was long under construction, finally opened and we finally got the
long-awaited swimming training for the second consecutive summer. The first
coach that we had was a decent man who left after first summer and another
coach was hired. I have always been told that I am a natural in water, and
maybe rightly so.
Since I was much ahead of the rest of my classmates, the
coach offered to take to the deep-end and back. All of 14, I was none the
happier, I was the first one who got that chance even before the tallest boy in
the class. The agreement was that I will float while the coach will hold my
hands and get me to the deep-end of the pool. While we were almost there, I
felt a hand sneak into my costume and pinch my genitals.
Maybe that was my fault. Why was I wearing a one-piece
swimming costume that showed my legs? I was so flustered and so scared in that
moment that to this day, I don’t know if I was violated by the coach or one of
my classmates. To this day, I sometimes replay that instance in my head,
frame-by-frame and can still not figure out who it was.
I didn’t scream when it happened. I didn’t raise an alarm. I
did not go and talk to a friend or teacher because it was supposed to be my
fault somehow. I didn’t want to make a tamasha
of myself by advertising how I invited trouble.
To this day, I cannot trust my swimming coaches or fellow
pool members. It’s as if my training in swimming froze where it was back in that
summer. To this day, I prefer going to swimming classes at a time when the pool
isn’t too populated for me to identify the culprit, should something happen.
Winter of 1998 - Soon after the incident, we moved to Delhi
and the same winters we went on a vacation to Mumbai and Goa. I was 14 now and
puberty was finally bringing changes in my body. After landing in Mumbai, we
decided to take a local from Ville Parle to Dadar, where my father’s best
friend lives.
It was around 7.30 pm and the local were packed thick with
people – men and women alike – pressed against each other. For those who have
ever travelled by a Mumbai local in that hour would know that expecting
personal space in a Mumbai local is like expecting to see Penguins in the
Sahara Desert.
So, as things were, I was also pressed against, and pressed
by several people around me, and just when we were inching closer to the gate
to get off at Dadar station, a bearded man in skull cap, who was pressed on my
right side, pinched my breast, got off the train and hurriedly walked past.
The first thing that I noticed when we got off that train
was – what was I wearing? It was black jeans and my favourite black top. I was
fully covered barring the 3/4th arms that were visible. This time I
didn’t see my fault, so I told my parents, to which my mother remarked on how
tight my top was while my father surrendered to the fact that even if we went
after that man, he would deny, and we will end up making a tamasha of ourselves.
For the longest time, I had a phobia of bearded men in skull
caps. I did not associate them with a religion but only with my experience. And
it took me a long time of self-counselling to overcome that phobia.
Year 2018 – it is 11.30 at night and my pulse is 98. I have
just finished recounting two instances and there are many to go. I just hope
that find the strength to recollect all the instances as I made a promise to my
friend. I must go on…
Year 1999 – it was the month of November, and I had just
turned 15. Multiples of five are major milestones of one’s age, especially
growing up, when one’s entire life is ahead of them. Turning 15, added a bounce
to my feet, just three years short of adulthood, just five years short of twenty.
My entire family decided to attend the India International
Trade Fair, the most awaited event of Delhi in those days. Once again, for
those who have attended that event even once in their lives, they’d know that
this event is a large-scale Mumbai local experience, especially on a weekend.
So, on a Sunday afternoon in the end of November we entered
Pragati Maidan and started surfing from one state’s exhibition to another.
People were moving swarms and while moving from one swarm to another, someone
pinched my breast. This year, I was wearing the same black jeans and a full
sleeve top – the one I had got for my birthday. This year, I wasn’t wearing
tight clothes to invite trouble. This year, I did not tell my parents. I did
not want to make a tamasha of myself
within my family.
Year 2000 – a Sikh man on a scooter grabbed me while I was
walking back from school.
Year 2001 – an uncle hugged me too close for my comfort to
warm my feet in winters. For those who may feel the urge to ask – Yes, I said
NO.
Year 2002 to 2011 –
Men masturbated in DTC buses, right in front of my eyes.
Men pressed their hardened appendage against me and other
women and showed complete defiance on making eye contact.
Grabbing and pinching of other body parts became so common
place that I can’t even recollect anymore.
A Pandit, a Muslim, a Sikh and more. Some who wore their religious identities, and many who didn't.
Year 2007 to 2012 –
A husband, who thought it was his birth right to ignore the
resistance of his wife because marital rape was first-world bullshit for him. To
him, I was his wife, his possession. For him, it wasn’t forced. According to
him, he was exercising his conjugal rights.
Year 2011
A senior from college days got in touch with me regarding
some product research that he was doing for a lingerie company. While
discussing the said garments, he asked if can share some details about g-spot.
A subject that was absolutely unrelated to his subject of research.
Year 2012
I was groped by a group of four men on two bikes on a cold
December night while I was returning from work. It was 17th December
2012, a day after the Nirbhaya incident, and a night before that incident was
published. While my boss made it a point of kicking me out of office before
sunset, the HR head, a woman, told me that nothing could be done as the
perpetrators weren’t the company employees.
Year 2013
A college friend came to meet me soon after my divorce and
stayed over for the night. While we were chit-chatting about college days and
life in general, he made advances that I clearly refused. But high on, Hindi
films’ and their infamous message
that “there is a yes in a girl’s no” he forced a kiss. He received a tight slap
and then profusely apologized for his actions. To this day, he apologizes for
his actions and I think that it is enough. But I made him a promise to bring
him to justice, should a story of any of his wrongful actions come out even
after 50 years.
Years 2014 to 2017
The unremarkable years in the sense of violation, not because the world became a better place but because:
I stopped going out alone,
I stopped going out at night,
I stopped meeting friends outside my house
I stopped taking public transport
Bloody, I stopped living my life
Year 2018
A former colleague visited my place and we sat drinking and
chatting. While he was supposed to leave in a couple of hours, and I kept
reminding him of that, he kept delaying and then requested to stay the night as
he was too drunk in his own words. While I was making my sleeping arrangements
in the other room, he suggested that that sleep on the same bed as him. I
politely declined. The next morning, I woke up to my apartment door left ajar
in his wake, as he found it too awkward
to wake persistently knock on my door. The same person who did not find the
idea of staying over at my place too awkward the previous night.
When I confronted him, he called me a bad host as I should
have woken up at 6.30 am to see him off. He told me that he’d leave at 6.30 the
previous night. And of course, so what if he was also the same person who had
said he’d leave my place in a couple of hours.
From where I stand, I was labelled as a bad host as I
refused to sleep with him. But I am thankful to him for not forcing himself
upon me. I am thankful because he took no for an answer. Whether he accepted it
gracefully or not is a different story altogether.
It is 1 am on the clock, and my fury, and rage is beyond
comprehension. While writing this recollection of my experiences, I contemplated
going to office as my favourite colleague is on night shift these days. I
contemplated setting the world on fire. And I even contemplated setting myself
on fire. As a matter of fact, my insides are burning as if they are already on
fire.
For ages, women have been conditioned to find the blame in
themselves,
सर झुका के चलो, सब ठीक रहेगा।
नज़रें झुका के चलो, सब ठीक रहेगा।
कपडे छोटे न पहनो, Tight न पहनो,
ज़्यादा bright न पहनो, सब ठीक रहेगा।
ज़्यादा हंसो, खिलखिलाओ मत - सबका ध्यान जायेगा,
अगर कुछ हो भी जाये तो उसे भूल जाओ,
Molestation is better than rape, सब ठीक रहेगा।
अच्छे घर की लड़कियां ऊंची आवाज़ में बात नहीं करती,
अगर गुस्सा आये भी तो गाली नहीं देती।
इस आज्ञा का उल्लंघन किया तो मानो मुसीबत को न्योता दिया,
जैसे सीता ने लक्ष्मण रेखा को पार किया -
अब सब ठीक कैसे रहेगा?
Through my marriage of four years, I could not bring myself
to the thought of procreating. To this day, I can’t even imagine adopting a
child. Many people have asked me why… BECAUSE I REFUSE TO BRING ANOTHER LIFE TO
THIS AWFUL WORLD.
I am filled with rage as my parents failed to protect me.
And I am filled with even worse rage as I failed my sister in protecting her.
Why do we always try to find a reason to blame the victim? Why do we always try
to justify the actions of the perpetrator? Why do I see so many people sharing
their stories saying #metoo? Why can’t we have a world where there’s no story
of #metoo?
Here’s to all the
remarkable people in my life – Shame on you!
To the teachers who
shamed me for wearing a mini skirt on my 13th birthday – Shame on
you!
To the men who ever
grabbed, pinched or groped me or any woman – Shame on you!
To the shameless
people who blame the victim and support the perpetrators of heinous crimes –
Shame on you!
To the ex-husband who
at the age of 33 could not understand the language of consent (I am 33 today
and somehow, I understand), so – Shame on you!
To the parents of that
ex, and other such men – Shame on you! For you created and raised such
remarkable pieces of shit that are over-populating the earth.
To the men and women
who have abused children and robbed them of their innocence – Shame on you!
The world would be a better place without you.
