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.  

Where am I right now?

Taking after my father, I grew up as a reclusive kid. Grandpa would often say, "Give Shershada a book and you wouldn't even know you're sharing the room with her." Tracing back, I think seeking solace in solitude started after a rockstar was born into my house. Just another version of my mother- a child whose charisma I could never match up to. She was everywhere, and all over the place- Her exhilaration for conversations with even strangers was ubiquitous. As if the onus was on me to balance this out, I was dangerously shy. I hid myself in empty rooms and read like the worlds I was being transported into were my own. I had found a hobby, that would change the way I saw the world in my teenage and early twenties.

At age 7, I started writing. Just the way I stopped having milk in my tea at 6 because I wanted to be as cool as my father, at 7 I wanted to know why he loved taking to pens and diaries. Having been raised a "dubai kid" I still do not comprehend why any of my poems had to do with butterflies and sunsets and why I painted mountains, all very amateaurly, all before I could really appreciate such beauty. A constant in my writing back then was a longing for places. Its surprising how the dots connect so smoothly even having involved into a completely different person at 25.

This love affair saw timultous times. At college, I took to writing only when I was unhappy, which I most often was. In year three, I spoke to my close friends about quitting everything, giving up on everyone and taking to the mountains to just write. 

As time passed, I lost the discipline and will to write. Is it my chaotic, untamable mind? I have sat with books innumerable times, having to end the downpour of words, because the words don't make sense anymore. My thoughts are truly too tumultuous even for an expansive vocabulary.  It fears me to think that if I could be stripped off of the very core of my being, the only one thing I have ever lived for, how inhibiting the demons in my mind should be.

My first encounter with her was a rather short one- one she had written off as a customary, compulsory small talk with all of her clients. Although I had met her only once earlier, she seemed strikingly different on that day. She looked weary and tired and it felt to me as if a part of her happiness had been stripped off from her.

Quick to judge, I passed her off as one from the clan of angry aunties. I secretly disliked them and kept away from interactions with them wherever possible. But there was a lingering melancholy in the air, one I had familiarized myself with over the past six months of my life, ever since granny's demise. Such melancholy has always been lacerating.  Today, her silence intrigued me and left me wanting for answers.

Before I could start a full-fledged conversation, I tried to earn her trust. Unlike earlier, she seemed reticent. She had perhaps forgotten me and my story, but I remembered every detail of my conversation with her on our very first meeting.

It had been a rather uninteresting day, and in spite of being a complete stranger she had asked me to sit down next to her for a while on the sofa near the entrance, and talk. Simply converse. Her workplace was tiny, a studio flat converted into a beauty salon. The salon had been passed over to the new owner when the previous one decided to leave for India. The kitchen, located at the outer wall of the building, had already been replaced by two small partitioned areas. The central hall, which a client would enter into was the only breathable area in the room. It is beyond me how anyone could spend eleven, sometimes twelve hours of their day in such a claustrophobic setting. This was enough reason for my almost non-extant compassion to be brought alive.

I was being rather reclusive those days, but had no interesting things to do, and I gave in to her request and sat intently listening to her. As she spoke, her delicate voice diverted my attention from the rather irritating noise of the ticking clock. It was the first time that I heard a sound in the room that was not from inanimate objects.

It was mostly her who had spoken and she had done it hurriedly, as if she had too much to say in absolutely no time. She spoke of her child who she had left back at home, of her hope to create a better future for them in this new city, about her husband who lived in the same city but stayed separately, about her small rented apartment in the outskirts and a room-mate who she occasionally mentioned. She didn't seem particularly happy or sad regarding her situation, but four months back, during her first month in the city she seemed more hopeful.

Today, it was my turn to break the ice.

"Aapne apna naam Kavya bataya tha na?" I asked her warmly.

She was taken aback. I was then convinced that she remembered nothing about me, nothing substantial at least. Why did I remember her name then? Frankly, I don't know why I did, but I always held even the shortest conversations very close to my heart.

After a while she responded with an intimacy I had never known with a stranger. She was looking for someone to share her distress with, and on that eventful day I was fortunate to be finally trusted with a story that both mended and broke my heart at the same time. 

She began her narration in Hindi infused with non-deliberate Gujarati. I found it difficult to use any known language to coax her. Her story wasn't tragic. But her hopelessness was. 

The mother of a two year old had decided to travel here looking for a job as a beautician. As fate had it, her encounter with  a fellow passenger in the airport resulted in a rendezvous with a lady who owned a salon here. A two-year work contract was signed between them immediately, and her life changed for the worse. Her employer treated her very harshly, providing her only a single bed-space for accommodation. Her pay was meager and she could hardly make ends meet. Adding to this, her desolation and loneliness made the situation insufferable for her.

Though her narration evoked pity, I was equally enraged. In a foreign land, each of us have our own struggles- some more materialistic than others. But these trials and tribulations in their varying degrees have often been more binding than divisive. Here, more often than not, the territorial boundaries that bind us back home are blurred. Blurred into a brotherliness born out of empathy, and its distant cousin optimism. 

I have often described myself as someone incapable of overly affectionate behavior. I have always hated small talk, probably owing to the fact that I was always terrible at it. But I thought I'd give her my number, so she could let me know if she needed a listener. She did not have a cell number, or wifi at her workplace, which made any communication difficult.

During another visit a few months later, I was informed that she had quit work or probably made to do so, and nothing much else was said. As natural as guilt is to me, I felt instant remorse about how I was a listener, but only a passive one. I was regretful that not a single conversation ensued the one in which she had shared her troubles to me. I want to believe I was just trying to keep her safe in my own way. I could probably have escalated her matter to people that could have done something about it, I was unsure whether things would align in her favor or against if I did so.

But to this day, a few years from then, I think everyday of the many ways in which people amidst us are silently suffering. I think of the conversations that we are constantly failing to have. The conversations that aren't deep enough, and sadly not warm enough. The many ways in which we fail to comprehend their aching hearts and minds, and the innumerous times our kindness has failed.

I hope all of this changes one day, and I hope you and I become great conversationalists, sometimes with the the mere purpose of holding a trembling hand back to light and life.

My best friend had just come back from her workshop in Pune. It was a long week (or two) without her and as soon as she stepped back in town, we met at a local franchise of KFC. It was their homecoming of sorts. She was as overtly amicable and as obvious as it'd seen, had made good friends during that one week, and inevitably over time they would be my friends as well. 

Rupa was one of them.

I was standing in a longer than usual queue at the restaurant with our mutual friend, Sid, trying to get a good round-up of all the events that ensued in the past one week.  The group had too many stories to tell- the way it would paint the next three of years of my life with the best of memories. There were stories about late night music, about sneaking out into the terraces after perm time, about alcohol or lack of it, about a teacher that just loved Palla- none of it seeming too new to me.

What I noticed distinctly through our conversations though was that Rupa stood there, silently behind me in the line. His interactions were different, he took time to open up but after he was comfortable, he was unstoppable. This would remind me a little about myself. It was the first time that I had met him. And as weird as it seems to mention it, he had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen in a guy and I had to let him know.  Around Rupa, there was an air of friendliness which made any conversation easy. He made his presence felt, even in the silence.

To this day, years after our friendship and a year after his passing, I have a very vivid memory of how Rupa's presence filled our lives with more and better of everything- more sunshine, more adventure, more joy, and eventually, unbearable amounts of sadness that would take too many tears and considerable time to heal.

After our first meeting, we would meet, quite often at dinners and lunches when the group was around. When the regularity of these reduced, we met at sleepovers which will always be one of my fondest memories of Manipal.

Rupa had a lot of love to give and receive, specially when slightly drunk. A drunk Rupa would open the door, welcome us in with the warmest of hugs with verbal affirmation of how much he loved us. His hugs were to die for, warmer with the most innocent of loves. To add to it, Rupa owned a smile that emitted intense goodness and warmth. Not once in my thoughts about him can I picture him without that achingly beautiful curve imprinted on his face.  

His face beamed when he spoke of his interests. His sports, specially cricket, his friends, and his love-interest who would later become the love of his life. 

...

(I am unsure whether I can ever finish this. Every time I come back to this, it gets awfully difficult. After all, there are some losses you can never get over.)