The first time I called a man 'bastard' in public was at a bus stand. I am small in physical stature. That man seemed to me to be a giant. It could have been my perception. It could have been my fear projecting its gigantic shadow on him. But I vividly remember the enormous bulk of a man clad in a blue checked lungi and a dishevelled white shirt. He thrust his hands between my legs as he walked past. I was paralysed by fear and my mind went into damage control mode by telling me it was probably a misconception - maybe it had been a genuine accident. Then he walked by again. And did it again. This time, before I could even formulate my thoughts, I heard myself shouting 'BASTARD' and felt myself breaking into a run after his receding figure. That hulk of a man started running as well. I could not believe it - 46 kgs of my tiny frame racing after at least 90 kgs of bearded, putrid humanity. Around me the bus stand stood still as though in freeze frame. I know there was a mild afternoon breeze rustling the scattered bits of paper and leaves in the unclean bus stand. Buses were revving. Dozens of people waiting for their buses seemed to be either in a stupor or wearing blinkers to the sight of a chit of a college girl running after a heavy middle-aged man. My tormentor disappeared into one of the narrow alleys leading out of the bus stand. My better senses told me it would be foolhardy to follow him. My sense of self, wounded, my faith in humanity punctured, I boarded a bus for home. The minute I got there and saw my mother, I burst into tears.
Fear is not a quintessentially feminine quality. It is ugly and vicious; it mutilates your sense of physical and mental well-being, takes control of your emotions and pummels them all into one single entity - the feeling that your existence is threatened, either in its physical aspect or in its state of feeling at ease with the world around it. The feeling of fear experienced by an infant exposed to a sudden loud sound, by the inexperienced swimmer thrown into the deep end, by prey being stalked by a large, hungry wild animal - they vary only in degrees, their nature is all the same. The zenith of that fear is what Soumya experienced. And the girl in Delhi we christened 'Nirbhaya' - the one without fear - for she had scaled the ultimate fear and survived long enough to say 'I want them hanged' before she left all fear and all pain behind forever. Much as Soumya did. These two names have become immortalised in our collective consciousness as representing that fear that every woman experiences, every single day of her existence. The fear that she may not make it through the day with her identity, her physical integrity and her self-perceptions intact.
Is there a woman out there who does not have such a story to share? I am yet to meet one who does not! That time in the bus stand was not the first time I was subjected to what we have learnt to simplify as 'eve-teasing'. Nor was it the last. But it was the first time I had been propelled to react. The first time I realised the perpetrators of such acts were mere cowards who would run away if confronted. The first time I learnt that my fear could be overcome. I never allowed myself to forget that or those people in the freeze frame of that day who allowed a grown man to get away with harassing a barely-out-of-school girl. Fear of that man and fear of turning into those people was an invisible black badge I wore on my sleeve to remind myself not to be scared.
I was mother to a baby girl when I was confronted by fear of that magnitude again. I was travelling in a three-tier AC compartment on official duty by a night train to Kannur. I could never relax in trains - to me they seemed to blur the boundaries of personal space far more any other mode of public transport. Also, I was to arrive at my destination at 4am - another reason for me to stay fitfully awake. On the upper berth opposite mine was a young girl - maybe late teens or early twenties and in the middle berth was her mother. As the train lurched at some point in the night I saw a person climb the steel ladder to the upper berth. I wanted to tell him the berth was occupied but did not want to risk waking anyone. The person climbed all the way into the berth and I found that strange - if he just wanted to check if it was available wouldn't it suffice to just stand at the edge? Suddenly the figure scampered back down the ladder and slunk into the side berth in the next section of seats and in the upper berth the young girl sat bolt upright. I could see her wide open eyes and the fear in them; I could see her panting from the rude, violent awakening from deep sleep; I could see disgust, anger, loathing, revulsion in that face. I looked at the side berth in the next section and my eyes directly met those of the perpetrator. He had sensed I had been awake and was staring coldly back at me. I turned my gaze back to the girl. I could not get her haunted eyes out of my mind. I realised I could not live with myself if I became one of those people in the bus stand all those years ago.
In a few minutes, the train pulled into Kozhikode station. I hurriedly got off my berth and started walking to the next compartment in the hope of finding someone in authority - a security guard, a TTE, maybe even a policeman. I knew the man was following me at a slight distance and images of women flung off trains flashed through my mind. I could not risk getting off the train at any cost. I kept walking till finally, I came across a guard in uniform. In a voice much louder than necessary I told him, 'I need to lodge a complaint. A man in my compartment harassed a young girl in the berth next to mine.' A few of the passengers quickly gathered around as I had hoped they would. From the corner of my eye, I could see the man beat a hasty retreat. The guard and the other passengers escorted me back to my compartment where I walked up to the girl who was still sitting up, hugging her knees and said, 'I saw what happened. Would you like to lodge a complaint?' She stared at me uncomprehending. Her mother, who was in the middle berth only now got the gist of what had happened and she quickly took control of the situation. She almost pleadingly said, 'We don't want to lodge any complaint. We just want to get on with the journey.' She did not ask her daughter for her opinion. The guard and the other passengers dispersed with the assurance that they would keep an eye on the man for the rest of the journey. Till I got off the train at Kannur, I could sense cold, furious eyes on me. I was scared. But far more than the fear was the gratification that I had managed to shame a pervert enough to ensure he would think twice before indulging in such acts again.
There is fear that paralyses you. And then there is the fear that forces you to face it head on because there is nowhere to run. Each time you are faced with a fear that threatens your self-respect or integrity, perhaps the reminder that there is something greater at stake than fear itself will give us the wings to soar above it. For me, it was the face of my daughter, then two years old. And the hope that some day when she is on a night train, someone will be awake and will get over their own fears to offer her solidarity and a sense of security.
Fear is not a quintessentially feminine quality. It is ugly and vicious; it mutilates your sense of physical and mental well-being, takes control of your emotions and pummels them all into one single entity - the feeling that your existence is threatened, either in its physical aspect or in its state of feeling at ease with the world around it. The feeling of fear experienced by an infant exposed to a sudden loud sound, by the inexperienced swimmer thrown into the deep end, by prey being stalked by a large, hungry wild animal - they vary only in degrees, their nature is all the same. The zenith of that fear is what Soumya experienced. And the girl in Delhi we christened 'Nirbhaya' - the one without fear - for she had scaled the ultimate fear and survived long enough to say 'I want them hanged' before she left all fear and all pain behind forever. Much as Soumya did. These two names have become immortalised in our collective consciousness as representing that fear that every woman experiences, every single day of her existence. The fear that she may not make it through the day with her identity, her physical integrity and her self-perceptions intact.
Is there a woman out there who does not have such a story to share? I am yet to meet one who does not! That time in the bus stand was not the first time I was subjected to what we have learnt to simplify as 'eve-teasing'. Nor was it the last. But it was the first time I had been propelled to react. The first time I realised the perpetrators of such acts were mere cowards who would run away if confronted. The first time I learnt that my fear could be overcome. I never allowed myself to forget that or those people in the freeze frame of that day who allowed a grown man to get away with harassing a barely-out-of-school girl. Fear of that man and fear of turning into those people was an invisible black badge I wore on my sleeve to remind myself not to be scared.
I was mother to a baby girl when I was confronted by fear of that magnitude again. I was travelling in a three-tier AC compartment on official duty by a night train to Kannur. I could never relax in trains - to me they seemed to blur the boundaries of personal space far more any other mode of public transport. Also, I was to arrive at my destination at 4am - another reason for me to stay fitfully awake. On the upper berth opposite mine was a young girl - maybe late teens or early twenties and in the middle berth was her mother. As the train lurched at some point in the night I saw a person climb the steel ladder to the upper berth. I wanted to tell him the berth was occupied but did not want to risk waking anyone. The person climbed all the way into the berth and I found that strange - if he just wanted to check if it was available wouldn't it suffice to just stand at the edge? Suddenly the figure scampered back down the ladder and slunk into the side berth in the next section of seats and in the upper berth the young girl sat bolt upright. I could see her wide open eyes and the fear in them; I could see her panting from the rude, violent awakening from deep sleep; I could see disgust, anger, loathing, revulsion in that face. I looked at the side berth in the next section and my eyes directly met those of the perpetrator. He had sensed I had been awake and was staring coldly back at me. I turned my gaze back to the girl. I could not get her haunted eyes out of my mind. I realised I could not live with myself if I became one of those people in the bus stand all those years ago.
In a few minutes, the train pulled into Kozhikode station. I hurriedly got off my berth and started walking to the next compartment in the hope of finding someone in authority - a security guard, a TTE, maybe even a policeman. I knew the man was following me at a slight distance and images of women flung off trains flashed through my mind. I could not risk getting off the train at any cost. I kept walking till finally, I came across a guard in uniform. In a voice much louder than necessary I told him, 'I need to lodge a complaint. A man in my compartment harassed a young girl in the berth next to mine.' A few of the passengers quickly gathered around as I had hoped they would. From the corner of my eye, I could see the man beat a hasty retreat. The guard and the other passengers escorted me back to my compartment where I walked up to the girl who was still sitting up, hugging her knees and said, 'I saw what happened. Would you like to lodge a complaint?' She stared at me uncomprehending. Her mother, who was in the middle berth only now got the gist of what had happened and she quickly took control of the situation. She almost pleadingly said, 'We don't want to lodge any complaint. We just want to get on with the journey.' She did not ask her daughter for her opinion. The guard and the other passengers dispersed with the assurance that they would keep an eye on the man for the rest of the journey. Till I got off the train at Kannur, I could sense cold, furious eyes on me. I was scared. But far more than the fear was the gratification that I had managed to shame a pervert enough to ensure he would think twice before indulging in such acts again.
There is fear that paralyses you. And then there is the fear that forces you to face it head on because there is nowhere to run. Each time you are faced with a fear that threatens your self-respect or integrity, perhaps the reminder that there is something greater at stake than fear itself will give us the wings to soar above it. For me, it was the face of my daughter, then two years old. And the hope that some day when she is on a night train, someone will be awake and will get over their own fears to offer her solidarity and a sense of security.
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