When Will We Ever Stop?

An honest account of a day in the life of an Indian girl

My mom has a habit of dragging me with her to go out for shopping/lunch/whatever once in a month. Okay, she doesn’t drag me. I love going out with her. But this particular day, I choose to hang out with friends first, and jeez, the things that happened on this particular day! I pretty much didn’t want to step out for a week afterwards.

So, here’s the account of what happened.

I step out of the house. It’s about a kilometre’s walk to the busstop. I know. How the heck do I walk that every day?!

But I walk.

On the way, I meet the guy who has been staring at me since I moved to my new apartment here. He’s stared at my legs in school uniform and he’s stared at every bit of me all other days.

I confronted him once, and his aim has changed to creeping me out more. Every time I happen to be on the same path as he is, he drives past me, curving to almost hit me, swerving right before he does. Today, he’s not driving, but he crosses the road towards me.

I cringe, I imagine all the things he could say, things he could do, recollect all the responses I rehearse in my head before I go out the house, look for all the people around I could use for help.

He doesn’t do anything, but stare. Stares are enough aren’t they? They have the power to intimidate you at times.

I keep walking.

I wait at the busstop for a ride from my friends. Looking at my phone, ignoring eyes. Standing in the view of the main road is an invite to stare too. Didn’t you know?

I smell him before I see him. A man, singing at me, walking past too close for comfort. There’s plenty of space around. But of course, the grin in his face makes it obvious why he doesn’t opt for it. I brace myself to get groped. I strengthen my resolve for the hurl of abuses I have kept prepared for this.

But, nothing happens. Except my fear. He keeps smiling. That creepy, creepy smile. Thankfully he moved away. Maybe it was my glare?

I’m on the bike now, with my friend, we’ve stopped at an area, because traffic jam. I hear whistling, and head whips around. Another lecherous smile. Again, I glare. What else can I do?

The last time I went out, there was a similar guy. We get down to fill up petrol. The petrol pump guy can’t help but look at my breasts. Even after he notices me staring back at him, he can’t seem to lift up his eyes. I sigh, and move on. It’s not worth the hassle.

I… am not worth the hassle.

Moving on, I have a fun time with friends at the mall. My mom had agreed to meet me there with my sister. We have a blast shopping and taking my six year old sister out to play at the “arcades”. Very amazing day. I had forgotten the other incidents. They don’t really matter. I’m used to it. So is my mom, I realise, when she says “Wow. Those guys could tone down the staring”. She wasn’t even angry.

We decide to return home in an auto. It’s night by then. About eight. I look out, not a single woman on the roads. Ok, maybe one or two. But comparatively, very less. We get in, the auto starts. To my dismay, he takes a route back which we aren’t familiar with. I keep my cool for a while, but it seems like he’s going through a lot more of the shady ways. The narrow lanes, the deserted roads with no lights. And mom asks him, quite casually, which way is this? He doesn’t respond.

A moment of silence.

“Maybe he didn’t hear?” I say. She repeats the question, still no answer. We both fly into our panic mode.

Mom’s clutching her phone tight. I’ve already typed in my dad’s number ready to call, and now I look out, not scanning for women, but looking for roads, houses which are safe to run towards. Just in case. When mom looks at me, she sees a stone face. No expression. But I’m dying inside thinking “This can’t be it. How do I protect my sister? What do I do? Am I overthinking?”

I’m sure she was thinking the same too.

Ten seconds later, we’re on the main road again. Moment of relief, and it is plain on our faces. We’ve stopped holding our breath. And, we relax once more.

Were you afraid for me? For my sister, who’s only about as old as Asifa? For my mom, who can’t protect us, but would try her best, putting her own life at risk?

You should be.

It’s only been a few months since I posted my #metoo story, and it’s definitely not the only one. I wish I could tell you all this was fake, and that I feel completely safe going around my day. But I don’t feel safe one bit.

Like with the guns in USA, and the shootings that happen there, rape and the underlying rape culture is something we never talk about because it “just isn’t the right time”.

When exactly is the right time then?

When do we fight the system?

When do we mend it?

As a woman, and as a citizen, I am tired of all the things that get swept under the rug, no matter how big or small.

Eve-teasing, stalking, harassment: what’s the big deal? Men will be men.

Rape, assault: Outrage. Hashtags flying everywhere. For a few weeks. Then it’s all forgotten and again, quietly swept under the rug. Until the next victim comes up.

#justice_for_whoevercomesnext.

We need to start at the bottom, unwind, show our outrage at EVERY single one of those incidents that gets swept under the rug and those incidents that are deemed okay because “it’s not a big deal”. Every little discomfort, feeling of fear, unwanted touches and every little creep who thinks he’s safe because we don’t lash out, they matter and they contribute to the millions of cases we see.

So peeps, it’s NOT okay. It IS a big deal.

And that’s the tea.

Sidenote: If anyone asks me what I was wearing on this particular day, know that I will punch you in the face. (sorry not sorry)