Papa called her bahadur beta. Mummy called her sher.

Papa called her bahadur beta. Mummy called her sher.

But when she stepped out, where did her Mummy's sher beta run off to? For she no longer felt like she was brave.

How could she? They never let her- no, not since she had started to grow up.

Intelligent,sensitive,shy,- read her report cards. But when she walked past them she felt like the figures in her Biology textbook.

She felt she was the girl in those pictures. Naked. Exposed. Her privates labelled out with large arrows so no one would miss them.

Nothing else was brought into focus. No one labelled her smile as sweet. Or her eyes as twinkles in the amavas night. Or how her broad forehead certainly betrayed her quiet intelligence. They didn't want to know what she liked. Who she was. They didn't even want to know her name.

She was nameless, just a pair of breasts and ass and that was enough for them.Clearly labelled for all to see. By Them.

Like the girl in those pictures. Ch-13- Reproductive System.

She showered each day, twice, like good Brahmin children. She still felt filthy.

Their roving eyes cast black over body. No not like soot, which came off with a slight wipe off a wet finger. Like artificial colours of Holi, unnatural, impure- clinging to the skin , that a few hard scrubs couldn't take off.

Neither could Lux nor Dove. Nor Nirma nor Surf.

Industrial detergents only burnt that offensive skin. But it would grow back, fresh for countless coats of humiliation brushed on with fervour by those who unclothed her daily.

Their glances suffocated her in a sea of black ink- like the voter's dot on the index finger, hard to see and hard to clean.

Surely Eve must have lived even if Mummy had said no. She thought she must have, for she was Eve every day. Impure, unclean.Damned until her flesh withered away.

So she removed herself from that body. The body that brings in so much pain, humiliation and shame. The body that was brushed by 'accidently'. That was felt on crowded buses. That was smacked in throngs of people in the bazaar.

"No this body can't be mine", she thought, "Which is unclothed by their eyes everytime I pass by. Unclothed against my will. Unclothed when I thought these layers, metres of cloth, without form or attraction, could hide this body of mine. This body that becomes part of public, to be seen, felt, used to suit whosoever wishes to. Will this body ever be only mine?"

She was Papa's bahadur beta and Mumma's sher.

But if she was brave, then why did she die everytime they saw her?

But if she was a sher, why did she feel hunted,why was she the prey?

Men are individuals with free will. Excercise it- control your actions.

A woman's body is hers and only hers alone- not one to be treated as part of public property.

Street harassment is a crime.

Stop street harassment of girls and women.

Update: While I avoided writing a personal account /testimony of street harassment, for those memories come with their share of pain, humiliation and helplessness, Annie didn't and I think those who questioned the 'purpose' of this blog-a-thon might want to read it.

If nothing else you'd see how women are made to depend on men, why we cannot be alone, why we need separate lines and compartments. And if nothing else, you can remind yourself to not brush away our pain, our humiliation. To not brush us off as weak.

Lastly, I'd like to add, this isn't restricted to India. I experienced it first-hand in the Middle East.

Afterall, geography doesn't limit a man's ability to be an asshole.

- Action Hero Dee

THROUGH THE EYES OF THE VICTIM

Is there any girl who lives who has not been harassed on the roads? I think not.Probably the first time ( which I am not ashamed to recount) I was harassed was when I was eleven years old. I can still recollect that day when an old man in a motorbike stopped me in the middle of the road, when I was walking back from school in the pretext of asking me for directions. No sooner had I given him directions ( not a word of which he heard), he told me," Don't you think you are too young to have breasts?" gesticulating towards mine. I was horrified.Before I could even scream out "Bastard" he had sped away. I remember going home that day, falling on my bed and crying all evening.I didn't have the courage to talk to anyone about it. For an entire week all I could think about was that horrid old man.You know what the worst part of being harassed when you are too young is ?

- Action Hero Deepti Ravi

His friend made the headlines

 What do you say when your best friend becomes a newspaper headline on a morning?

...

Now, that he looked back, he saw her standing outside the house with slit wrists. “I screwed up again”, she said. His first reaction was shock. He couldn't open the latch. A further spurt of blood from her wrists shook him out though.

His mind was racing around slasher movies and Discovery channel medical programs. The cuts were more wide than deep and blood was gasping out of her right one. He held her hand close to the wrist, trying desperately to stop the flow. Somehow, they managed to reach the fridge. Ice. After ten minutes of ice and pressure, the blood stopped.

Questions would come later. He had to cry first. They cried together.

.......

Today, he would rather that she would come to him with slashed wrists. He was 2000 miles away. And she had turned into a newspaper headline.

'____ girl raped in a moving car'.

In the morning, he had read through the pages on the website without a break. As always, once he had finished with the sports and the comics, he had but 2 minutes to look at news about his city. Crimes against women was, but, a regular feature. On an average, five every day. On good days, maybe two. Not that he didn't care. He would do something, if only he could have. But what could he?

Then at 4, the call came. "____ has been raped again." "Again?". "Yes. In the middle of the day".

His mind wasn't racing through anything at the moment. In fact, it had managed to cocoon itself completely within the narrow confines of the phone booth. He had to something. He wished he could hold her hand close to her wrist. Or something.

Once back in his room, he checked indiatimes. Which had NSUI and ABVP protesting at the 'failure of the system'. Police had made an assurance that the culprits will be found. There was an entire opinion piece on tinted glasses on car windows. He also found that she was in the hospital and cooperating with the investigation.

This wasn't the first time. She was undergoing counselling for the previous time. He had met the counsellor once. She had asked him to.

"Think of a dustbin. We keep on filling it with garbage through the day. Whenever it stinks, we close it with a lid. Then we open it and fill in some more. We keep the lid on. However, the garbage will keep on stinking. We are trying to get the garbage out now. We have to throw it out. It will stink, and it will be uncomfortable. But unless we throw it out, the dustbin will remain clogged. Ultimately, the lid will not be able to keep the stink in"

Whatever was the problem with these counsellors, he had thought. Now all he could do was stare at the dustbin at his feet. "How many times will she have to clean it?"

Then, he cried.

- Action Hero Dhoomketu

Sexual Harassment on the Street

"To recognize Women's Day, and as part of an effort to build a core constituency that is aware of the Blank Noise Project, we're organizing a blogathon for Tuesday, the 7th of March. Blank Noise is asking other bloggers to post about their experiences of sexual harassment - as a victim, perpetrator or bystander - at work, at home or in the public sphere. Or deal with the subject anyway you like. On International Women's Day, which is March 8th, it would be exciting to see the theme of harassment become audible on the Indian and diasporic blogosphere."

I remember many instances, as a teenager, way back in the 80's being 'harrassed' on the street and in public buses. At the time, I didn't know quite what to do about it ... it was almost embarrassing to mention it to friends or family, it seemed like such a personal 'attack', and in my growing awareness of my body at that age, it wasn't something I could share easily. Neither was it something I could 'prove' in any way, it was sometimes just that brush of a hand against your body, sometimes more blatant than that. I remember many times in a really crowded BEST bus where you're squashed among bodies, smelling armpits as you cling to the handle, when a hand would snake around my breasts and try and squeeze them. Or I'd feel a hard groin against my back. Though I hated it, I thought then, it was just part and parcel of travelling by bus. I didn't even realise then it was 'harrassment' of a kind.

Just the once, did I actually retaliate ...I will share that story on March 7th !

I'm happy to see a space that encourages people to talk about this, one that tells you that it is wrong, and inspires you that you CAN do something about it.

(And heh .. just came across this blog that's called Holla Back NYC - which asks people to send in pictures of street harrassers ... it even has a Holla Back Hall of Fame. Cam phones make it so easy to do! Its also a little scary ... )

Do spread the word for the Blog-a-thon ... and share your experiences ... and tag it with this code :

Blank Noise Project Blogathon 2006

Updates :

Annie Zaidi has a really powerful post on her experiences and lessons learnt in navigating the streets of Delhi and the local trains in Bombay.  She also brings up another aspect worth thinking about ....

There is another aspect to this that I can't help thinking about: it creates a never-ending trap of dependence that many men resent equally.  We women depend - are taught to depend, are left with no option but to depend - on men for our safety and survival.

We can go out, but with 'ghar ke ladke' to take care of us. The brother, husband, father, cousin or boys known to the family will escort us - to a movie, to a mall, to a party. At best, you might be able to manage if you're a big group of girls. But how many times can you walk around as girl-gangs?

We learn, consciously and sub-consciously, that we cannot do anything alone. And if we do, we're going to have wage war every inch of the way.  That lesson is etched in so deep that conceiving of 'life' alone is... No wonder you need men. No wonder you need marriage. No wonder you cling to the man, because how will you manage alone?

And Stephanie at HumLab joins in with a twist : "We will attempt to capture 'being a women' through audio, text, picture, collaborative sidewalk art, as well as giving women a change to blog in their own words. There is a twist, however! You get the chance to participate by sending in your digital pictures to our flickr account. The theme is, of course, 'on being a woman'. The email address to send in photos is strong92easy@photos.flickr.com"

- Action Hero Dina Mehta

Respect HER and HER Rights

Its Powelessness, lack of ombudsaman, lack of representation, lack of voices, lack of genuine supporters, lack of intent and ill-will to respect sexual egalitarianism.

There have been innumerable times when ive had the strongest of intent to murder the guy that turns back from his vehicle to 'check' me out when im all at is to have a pleasent evening walk. Or drill the eyes (with a drilling machine) of a smut letcher that makes impropreity passes, or to hammer the head of an autodriver that adjusts his mirror just to have a better glimpse of his hiree.

But almost always i dont vent the frustration and i let it go by, partly because im not empowered adequately to have the 'Perpetrators' punished and partly because somewhere within me i have grown to accept and expect this 'decorum-less' treatment meted out to a women. In a country where rapists can be spared capital punishment, surely eve-teasing is considered in the eyes of the law-practioners as not abnormal.

I know as i write this, im writing what millions of young indian women like me go through almost with a religious regularity after every dawn and dusk.

Yes i know i should think about being a part of the solution and not a problem, but just here really i wish somehow a gentle swing of a magic wand brings about the correctitude paradigm shift in the great indian male minds. Forever. Really. No wait why should this be a wishful thought because all we're expecting the men to do is behave themselves.

- Action Hero Divya Kumar

Telling Tales

I could tell you a thousand tales. And round it up with an account of how the autowalla nudged his elbow into my breasts and stared at my chest as he took the money from my outstretched palm. Or that someone rammed into me last week on a crowded bus where there was a mishmash of sweaty legs, arms, thighs, breasts and backs. Aunties and children with drooping bags and office going men. It might have been a mistake, an involuntary slamming of the brakes maybe causing someone to grab me instead of the handle for support… but a hand snaking around my chest to feel me up, and not just one a tangle of hands – all going for the kill? How can someone – respectable, my father’s age… Maybe I should recount how we saw a man leering as he masturbated away on the metro.Or perhaps the most traumatic – middle bunk on the train to Rourkela and the man above flailing long arms to squeeze my breasts. That was no accident ..just my introduction to the big bad world . I was twelve.

I have had my moments of triumph though. Stamping on feet. Thank god for high heels. Nudging a safety pin against someone’s prying palms till they yelped. The people were nice; the conductor hauled the man off the bus. I was lucky. It helped that my sister was with me, that I knew I could get down from the bus and walk away. But far and few in between.

I often wonder about the song “Hungry eyes” from “Dancing” and how true it is in a different context. Have you ever been mentally undressed by someone, had them appraise your body? Have you had someone follow you home? And all the while on a deserted street you agonized over what if? Cant run , cant let them catch up. Rapid steps, bag clutched to chest as armour. And the smell of fear in the air. Everytime I go out.
Because you see I was inviting trouble by wearing something sleeveless, I asked for it. I am just an assimilation of breasts and a vagina and a butt. I am not thinking of the lewd comments and the silly songs – that’s just routine and I manage to laugh it off. I wish though I didn’t live in this constant state of watching my back every time I go out. As a friend once said – it’s enough to be a female to evoke such reactions.A male friend once got propositioned on a Mumbai local train . And developed a profound sympathy. And really how humiliating it is for men to be told that they have no control over themselves. Just because a girl is showing her bare arms.. There are exceptions of course - men who have supported me on buses, friends who have got into fist fights because I was harrassed,policemen who were kind.

I could tell you about clothes I haven’t worn because I was so ashamed that they had provoked the nudges and shoves. The guilt, the shame, the anger. The conspiracy of silence and the acceptance that this will happen, what can we do about it..chod do.
There are so many tales to tell. She (1 dec post)could tell you what it is like in Bangalore, so does she.My friend Sangeeta would have tales to tell I am sure if she visited.I don’t know any woman exempt from this forced sisterhood.

I hope something constructive comes out of this. Thank you for trying. Maybe something will come out of these myriad tales.

- Action Hero Dreamcatcher

Nenju porukudhilaye indha nilaiketta manidharai ninaithuvittal

Chennai is my city, my place, the only one I call home.

But isn’t home where you don’t dress up, where you prefer to lounge in your pyjamas? Isn’t home where you don’t have to be eternally conscious of the way you sit, how you walk, what you wear? Isn’t home the protected territory, a place where you can let your hair down and sing, or dance or jump or just be yourself?

After nearly twenty one years of deluding myself that I was living at home, I moved to US and suffered the worst culture shock of my life. A shock at finding out that being harassed on the streets is not a part of normal life. A shock on realizing that I can walk with my fists unclenched, that I don’t have to be paranoid about any guy who walks near me. A shock at the culture back home which accepts harassment as being normal and had brainwashed me into accepting it, to be silent, to be frightened, to be confused, to feel guilty, to feel ashamed and helpless and to cringe everyday in fear of what is in store.

Nenju porukudhilaye indha nilaiketta manidharai ninaithuvittal.

Anji anji savar, ivar anjadha porulilai avaniyilae!

My heart cannot bear to think of this fallen crowd

Who are scared to death of everything in this world.

I was part of the frightened crowd. I wonder why I never reacted, I wonder why I never complained. Why did I take it with nothing more than brimming eyes and a nasty taste in the mouth?

I don’t know.

For that rainy night when I ran towards a lighted shop seeking refuge instead of poking my umbrella at the motorcycle wheel and bringing the idiots to a bloody crash,

For that travel in the bus when I clenched my teeth and unsuccessfully tried to stamp his feet instead of turning around and screaming or slapping,

For that time when I looked away instead of staring down the cowards,

For the countless times that I tried to armor myself with my backpack instead of punching their face with it,

For all those times I cowed down and walked to my house instead of taking the bus,

I write this post.

I refuse to be scared anymore. I refuse to be harassed anymore. Street harassment is not normal. It is sickening. Don’t take it.

- Action Hero Dreamweaver

Why Words?

i have to say it in words

while all he does is look-touch-feel;

making him un-ignorable

is my task

words are my refuge

from the battles of the street

battles fought on my body

with eyes, with fingers, with minds

words are my weapon

a weapon he cannot use

till someone hands them to him

in what he dares call a song

words are the vents

of anger, loathing, even pity;

they are the only tools i have

to gather us against him

- Action Hero Erimentha

Harassment can kill

Harassment can kill. Hasn't it killed some part of you?

As a woman, it's killed a part of me that loved to dance in the first shower of summer - since the 'concerned' cousin offered to help my mum by rubbing me down so I didn't catch cold. It's killed a part of me that enjoyed singing loudly- when I first realised the sounds were words, had meanings, meanings aimed at me. It's killed a part of me that loved to make friends - when I realised that looking into people's eyes was an invitation. It's killed a part of me that loved a wind that could sweep me off the floor - when I was told that the shape of me was a provocation.

I'm sure it's killed a part of every man too. The boy who needs to die if the man is to come alive. The connection which needs to be stifled if authority is to be gained. The sensitivity that needs to be choked off before it makes you effeminate. The conscience that needs to be excised if you are to sleep at night.

Harassment kills.

- Action Hero Erimentha