My mother held up the bright yellow, hard binder she had bought me to file my college notes. I had just finished school and I was moving back to India to live with my grandmother and go to college. My father was worrying about convincing Delhi University that my class 12 grades from an American school were acceptable so that I could go to Stephen's, my dream college. My mother worried about that too. She wanted for me what I wanted. But more than that, she wanted me to use that yellow binder.
"Here, hold it this way," she said, positioning it across her chest, clutching it like a shield. "And keep it this way while you are on the bus, especially if it's crowded."
It had been over 2 decades since she travelled on DTC buses, but she was afraid nothing had changed. She was right. She told me about her weapons - her hair pin, stabbed into a groping hand; her high-heel, slammed into the instep of a foot standing too close; her elbow, thrust into a flabby stomach.
But she never told me to use my voice as a weapon. Never imagined, that I could raise a hue and cry to get justice. It just wasn't done, unless you wanted to see the men snigger at you, along with the horrible man who was using your body, your presence, for an illicit thrill.
So I did as she had done. I refused to wear sleeveless shirts those 3 years of college because I didn't want men to stare unabashedly at my armpit as I hung on for balance on a crowded bus. I refused to wear fitting clothes because I didn't want them to undress me with their eyes. I refused to make myself attractive, so that I would not attract attention.
Did it work? Let's see. There was the man who offered me his seat on a packed bus and then rubbed himself against me as I shrank into myself, and finally, when I could take it no more, smirked as he saw me get off the bus (two stops early). There was the man I caught looking down the neck of my shirt as he stood next to my seat. There were the many many men who whistled, touched, sang, winked, blew kisses. And each time, I asked myself, how could I have prevented it. I berated myself for whirling around in surprise at an unexpected whistle only to see a lewd gesture. I hated myself for missing the top button on my t-shirt when I realised someone could look down my shirt and see more than I wanted to reveal. I scolded myself for looking up, for making eye contact, for not burying my nose in a book, for not feigning sleep, for not stepping away sooner, for everything. I blamed myself.
I now know that what gets a sick mind excited is not my problem. I will wear what I want. You can mock my sense of style, but you cannot question my judgement. I will choose where I draw the line on my body - what I reveal and what I protect. I will laugh loudly. I will talk to be heard. The older, wiser, sleeveless-wearing me knows that I hadn't asked for it. I never did. I never do. I never will. I ask for respect. I ask for courtesy. I ask for equality. Hell, I demand it.
"Here, hold it this way," she said, positioning it across her chest, clutching it like a shield. "And keep it this way while you are on the bus, especially if it's crowded."
It had been over 2 decades since she travelled on DTC buses, but she was afraid nothing had changed. She was right. She told me about her weapons - her hair pin, stabbed into a groping hand; her high-heel, slammed into the instep of a foot standing too close; her elbow, thrust into a flabby stomach.
But she never told me to use my voice as a weapon. Never imagined, that I could raise a hue and cry to get justice. It just wasn't done, unless you wanted to see the men snigger at you, along with the horrible man who was using your body, your presence, for an illicit thrill.
So I did as she had done. I refused to wear sleeveless shirts those 3 years of college because I didn't want men to stare unabashedly at my armpit as I hung on for balance on a crowded bus. I refused to wear fitting clothes because I didn't want them to undress me with their eyes. I refused to make myself attractive, so that I would not attract attention.
Did it work? Let's see. There was the man who offered me his seat on a packed bus and then rubbed himself against me as I shrank into myself, and finally, when I could take it no more, smirked as he saw me get off the bus (two stops early). There was the man I caught looking down the neck of my shirt as he stood next to my seat. There were the many many men who whistled, touched, sang, winked, blew kisses. And each time, I asked myself, how could I have prevented it. I berated myself for whirling around in surprise at an unexpected whistle only to see a lewd gesture. I hated myself for missing the top button on my t-shirt when I realised someone could look down my shirt and see more than I wanted to reveal. I scolded myself for looking up, for making eye contact, for not burying my nose in a book, for not feigning sleep, for not stepping away sooner, for everything. I blamed myself.
I now know that what gets a sick mind excited is not my problem. I will wear what I want. You can mock my sense of style, but you cannot question my judgement. I will choose where I draw the line on my body - what I reveal and what I protect. I will laugh loudly. I will talk to be heard. The older, wiser, sleeveless-wearing me knows that I hadn't asked for it. I never did. I never do. I never will. I ask for respect. I ask for courtesy. I ask for equality. Hell, I demand it.
