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I was gifted an interesting contraption a few weeks back — a latex-covered foot-long rod. Before you get the wrong idea, let me tell you how it works. You hold the thicker end of the rod and do a swish-and-flick movement. Like in that scene in Harry Potter and the Philospher’s Stone where Hermione teaches Ron how to use a wand.
Except here, you swish-and-flick with force. The rubber-covered rod magically extends to thrice its size. It transforms from an interesting contraption to a lethal weapon.
It was a gift.
From a father to his daughter.
*
It’s a jungle out there.
It’s not easy being a girl.
A woman. Or a child.
It’s not easy being beautiful.
Pretty. Or plain.
It’s not easy being a Hindu in a saree.
A Muslim in a burqa. Or a Catholic nun.
*
I remember the first time it happened. I was at the medical store buying Crocin for Appa. Just as I was settling the bill, I felt a pinch on my butt. I was so stunned that I didn't turn back, afraid that he might do something worse to me.
I was wearing a mid-length skirt and a loose top.
I was in fifth grade.
*
He was family. That’s what Amma told me.
He visited us one Sunday afternoon. Amma asked me to serve him lunch.
He chatted me up and asked me to feed him a morsel. I did. He sucked on my fingers in a way that made me feel dirty.
I ran to Amma and complained. She asked me to go complete my homework.
I was in sixth grade.
*
One day, I was home alone when a garment salesman knocked on our door. He was selling pant and shirt pieces. I had just started dressing in westernwear and was interested in what he had to offer. He said they even took up tailoring orders and offered to take my measurements. I still regret having accepted that offer. Over the next half hour, he went on to strip me of my dignity even while I was fully clothed. I should have cried for help but the embarrassment of making this incident public stopped me.
By the time he left, I was sobbing openly.
It didn't stop there. A few days later, he followed me back to the apartment and entered the lift when I was going up. He tried to kiss me. This time I fought back. I pushed him away, stopped the lift in the middle and ran out.
To this day, I get terrified every time a stranger enters home when I am alone. To this day, I take the stairs if there’s a lone man in the lift.
I was in tenth grade.
*
Sometimes violence can be closer than you imagine.
He was my neighbour. He was my friend. I liked him. I looked up to him.
He liked me too, in a different way. I didn't know it then.
We would sit for long hours on the terrace. He would tell me stories and I would share my dreams with him.
He was like the big brother I never had.
One day, he asked me for a kiss.
Without thinking twice, I planted a kiss on his cheek.
That day, the equation changed.
He made me sit close to him.
He touched me — not in a friendly way.
He held my hand — even when I told him I was uncomfortable with it.
He kissed me by force.
I should have told Amma about it. But I was afraid she wouldn't believe me.
I was in eleventh grade when it happened.
It stopped the next year when we moved to Chennai.
*
Chennai.
I had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. After successive bouts of depression, I switched from college to correspondence and stayed all day in my room, staring at the ceiling, thinking of painless ways to end my life.
The only upside to it, I barely went out. Hence, no men. Life was peaceful, at least on that front.
*
My 21st birthday.
I was in Bangalore, waiting for the bus one winter morning when a boy cycling past me whistled out loud — “Hey sexy”. He looked like he was 12. Thirteen at most.
He didn't touch me. He didn't even ogle me. Then why did I feel violated?
*
Back to Chennai.
Men on motorbikes grabbed my breasts while I was riding pillion, a look of triumph in their eyes as I cried out.
Men brushed themselves against me when I travelled by bus.
Men drove dangerously close to me when I walked on the roads.
Men ogled, whistled, hooted.
Men.
Men.
Men.
*
I got myself a pepper spray.
I kept my hair short after reading a newspaper report that said women with short hair are less likely to be victims of sexual abuse.
I wrote about it — hoping for catharsis.
I cried myself to sleep when the memories of it came back to haunt me.
*
Today.
My heart beats faster when I see a minivan approaching me.
I break into a sweat when I notice the man on a motorbike looking at me.
I pull out my pepper spray when I’m on a deserted road — be it night or day.
I maintain a steely expression when I go walking.
I stare down men who stare at me.
I try to be brave.
But I am afraid.
*
Change and change
Of late, there's been a lot of talk about feminism, gender equality and suchlike. Terms are being defined and redefined. Rules are changing. Voices that were once in the muffled background are now the original soundtracks.
But it appears like there's more talk, less action . Yes, there are problems, and yes, it’s all out in the open. But social change needs more than mere published words — on some level, the fashionability of such talk can dissociate it from real life. The only truly effective way to install change in society is to start from home.
If you are a parent, tell your son everything he needs to know about women just as he hits puberty. Educate him on menstruation. Talk to him about sex. The way things are going, he would probably have learnt about it two years ago. But it's never too late. Make it an open discussion. Encourage them to ask questions. Share your personal stories. You can do it without getting explicit.
There are some great books on stuff every teenager must know. Get him one of those. And while you're at it, get one for your daughter too. Sign her up for karate or kung fu. Even better, enrol yourself as well. Adolescence is a period when a daughter needs a friend more than she needs a mother. Be that friend. Talk about the crushes you had in school, if you want her to open up to you. Tell her it's OK to kiss a boy. She's going to do it anyway. Just set some simple rules for it and most likely, she'll listen to you. Sign her up for sex ed. Ask her favourite aunt to join you in this mission.
If you're a boss, set a strict sexual harassment policy in place. Drill it into your employees' heads every so often. Ask them to fill out anonymous surveys periodically. Get the female managers to do one-on-ones with the ladies on the team. And lead by example, give the women a chance to get her point across. One thing that really annoys us is when guys take over our ideas and claim it as theirs. To count the number of times that happens on an average week would require more than just your fingers and toes.
If you're a teacher, look up gender sensitivity exercises online and conduct those activities with your students. Encourage them to break stereotypes with simple role-play activities and open discussions.
If you're a politician, get your cops to take the issue more seriously. Convince at least a handful of us that demons on the roads are all dead and we'll vote for you the next term.
Men these days talk a lot about how things are "much better than before".
No gentlemen, they aren't.
And you wouldn't know unless you were a woman.
