A life half lived

TW: Rape

He sat across the lobby in the police station,  with a piercing stare fixated at me. As uncomfortable as it was for me,  I couldn't help but notice that he had a story to tell. One,  in which he claimed to be the proverbial hero fighting what he thought was an unforgivable evil-  her.  The sequel to which could have starred me or any unassuming girl across the street had he not been jailed.

I don't know whether he too tried to justify his act under the mask of a blatantly fake innocence. The clothes, mobile phones, "chow-mein", male friends, not pleading enough to stop, I couldn't draw what mistake was being attributed to her in his statement. I want to believe that he was not smirking under his black mask as he whipped out crazy justifications, and that though he can never give back to her what he had unlawfully, unethically claimed from her that night, he felt at least a little bit of remorse for his actions.

I had been angry with her for the longest time for refusing to file a complaint. All of us had stood up for her as soon as we learnt her story, we spoke for her, and fought her case.

All, except herself.

She had lost herself in the darkness of that night,  and retreated into a world where none of us could protect her no matter how hard we tried. THAT was his undoing.  His gift to her that drunken,  rebellious night that would stay with her long enough to repeatedly inflict pain upon her as long as she would live. A constant reminder of the same unprecedented,  unsurpassed pain  that any little detail would now remind her much after her physical wounds would heal.

As for me,  it took me four full days to  get over the disgust of his stare. But I will never get over the fact that a face like his could easily blend into our crowds staying unnoticed.  He looked like just any other guy on the streets and more innocent that most of them. He could have been just another bypasser, an impending disaster lurking in our very neighbourhood, whose arrival none of us could ever anticipate.

I learnt on that day,  that the biggest hurdle in our fight against rape is the fact that no one can possibly guess the heinous intentions of a rapist judging from the looks on their faces. These are men we meet on our streets everyday.  Men that have cleverly,  tactfully blended into our already  misogynistic societies because  we let them. Because,  our silence, tolerance, incompetence and complacency paved easier paths for them.

Often,  women are blamed for jaundiced sights.  "For doubting the well intentioned" too much and believing he is capable of being an enemy. But when the well intentioned bypasser turns into a disastrous monster without notice, we are also blamed for "trusting a stranger too much".  We are constantly put in light for our choices of clothing, friends, places etc. Every single choice of ours is constantly "asking for it."

But her can was different. Or maybe too similar to most rapes. She was in a salwar kameez, was coming back from the college library which she could not have entered without adhering to a strict dress code,  was not with a boy friend,  - all arguments fail.

She was a woman in India - the downtrodden class - and that was reason enough to rape her.

No matter what we wear,  whether we tie our hair up or leave it down, whether we are dolled-up or are right out of our beds, whether you are a model or a nun,  there are always a few certain men that WILL stare. The only common element in all cases is that we are women. And it almost seems like that is a reason good enough to be stared at, groped, stalked, eve-teased or even raped, that it is a justification enough for rape .  Whether he is across the street trying to remain unnoticed or walking behind us whistling tones of the otherwise flattering 90s song,  he is there, has always been and will always be. 

There's a major issue that we need to address as a society.  And it's not so much related to respecting a woman because she is an incarnation of Lakshmi or Saraswati, or we had a Fathima or Mary, or that she's a mother or a sister, as it is to the fact that she is an individual, just like any other, that deserves basic respect for being a human. That she can think for herself as any man can, judge rightness, make choices every day and choose to live by them, is she so wishes. That she can feel, and oftentimes, much stronger than men. That she has chosen over centuries to respect men and its time enough to pay her back by simply respecting her. That she is not the clothes she wears, that the amount of clothes on her is always going to either too much or too little for some people; that she is simply more than that! Our problems are far more deep rooted. It's heart-wrenching that those of us who take the side of the rape victim/survive are easily outnumbered by people that rant the victims "ask for it".

We hail from a country that was born as a result of ensuring cultural hegemony and equality to people.  Though women are at par with men today in all spheres,  there still is a lurking  discontent toward women in general and women leaderships in specific.

For a long time to come, probably nothing much is going to change. If being preyed on by conniving monsters has been justified, probably we should not hope for a drastic change at all. Possibly, all we can do is stand up to injustice when we can, raise generations that are more compassionate and accepting, that have open hearts, minds and respect for people- their choices, opinions, ways of life included. 

Though over centuries women have been revered as Goddesses, they have also been locked up in dark rooms on the days they were biologically and culturally impure.  Though some of them 

made it to schools and colleges,  some were not lucky enough to see the light of the day.  Though some of them fought vehemently against injustice against them,  some of them still remind under locked doors with buried dreams and hopes, waiting to be found.  

Women empowerment is the only way forward in our country.  On the occasional days that I feel beautiful I don't want fear to accompany it.  I don't want be sorry when I feel good about the way I look.  I don't want to walk faster than my feet can afford to, glancing a million times behind my shoulder to see if he's still following me.