The Insecurity of Being a Woman

Over 50% single women feel unsafe in the city they live in.
71% single women feel they can’t wear what they’d like to.
85% married women do not feel safe about going out unescorted after 10 pm

That was from the latest India Today, reflecting the insecurities of the urban female population. It brought back many unpleasant memories of incidents that are best forgotten. Though now I live in my own little cocoon, believing perhaps unwisely that these things will not probably happen any more to me, deep down, the little core of fear still survives.

It was during the initial euphoria of my job. The heady feeling that I was at last spreading out my wings in a brave new world, all of my own, had still not worn off. Every assignment was accepted with great gusto and zeal, eager to perform, hungry to achieve. So, when I was told that I needed to fly to Vadodara to get an important sign-off from the customer, I was ecstatic. The industry was still in its dledgling stages, and such assignments were a bit unusual. Here was proof that I was deemed responsible enough to handle such an important interaction.

I packed my bags amidst several reminders and cautions from my parents, and set off. The flight to Bombay was without incident and there, I managed to spend a few hours with my sister also. At the Bombay office however, there appeared to be some mix-up, and they gave me vouchers for a different hotel than the one I was supposed to stay at, with the marketing manager. Glad just to have a place to stay, I accepted their explanations and proceeded to Vadodara.

I took a taxi from the airport to the hotel, and checked in without much ado. I called my parents and my sister to let them know I’d reached safely. After dinner, I took out my documents, and began rehearsing my presentation. It was important that everything went off smoothly. I’d been told that this customer was very sharp, and so I tried to be as prepared as possible.

Around 10.30pm, I stowed away everything neatly in my bag, watched TV for a bit, and then settled down to a good night’s rest.

That’s when the nightmare started.

I got a call on the phone. Since I had left a message at the other hotel for the marketing manager, I assumed it would be him. When I picked it up, and said hello, there was just heavy breathing on the other side. I banged the phone down. After a few minutes, it rang again. I picked it up this time and remained quiet. The voice at the other end began mouthing all sorts of obscenities. I promptly put the phone down. A few minutes later, it rang again. The same thing.

My initial reaction was to scream back into the phone, but I controlled myself. Be calm, I told myself, just think of the worst case scenario, and see what you can do. I decided the best thing to do was to ignore the calls, just lock my room up, and go to sleep. I switched on the light, and went to the door to check the lock. Horror of horrors! I realized that the door had no other inner bolt – the only lock was the one which could be opened with the key. This was not a safe room! I looked around, and none of the furniture items were heavy enough to be dragged and placed against the door for safety. Panic levels began to rise steadily.

I went back and sat on my bed. The jangling of the phone made me jump out of my skin. It rang and rang, till I nearly screamed. Be calm, I told myself. There’s nothing that can’t be resolved with a bit of thinking. Obviously, it was someone from within the hotel who was calling me. How would anyone else know that I was a lone female? Perhaps I could call the hotel manager? But what if the manager himself turned out to be a slimeball?

It is hard to describe the kind of thoughts that burst into your head at these moments. It’s sickening to realize that to some people you’re just a piece of female flesh – to use and abuse. It doesn’t matter what else you are. The thing is, you’ve always believed that you are much more than that. When the other viewpoint is thrust rudely in your face, you balk for a second. You cannot believe it, but there it is, staring you in the face. The worst thing is that you cannot argue with it, you cannot persuade it to believe otherwise. Instead, you have to “defend” yourself against it, for just being yourself!

I finally made up my mind that I would call up my marketing manager at the other hotel. I did, and he came across, picked me up, gave the hotel reception staff a piece of his mind, and arranged for a room at the hotel where he was staying.

I stayed awake for a long time that night. My bubble had been burst. I had come to this place feeling so confident, feeling like an achiever, but now I felt somehow diminished. The overwhelming feeling was one of violation.

If such a small incident could result in such a sense of violation, I can’t even begin to imagine what deep scars other sorts of abuses on women leave. Women have always felt unsafe in India, as far back as I can remember. The stories get more and more unpleasant. Policemen abuse their rights in broad daylight. Even girls as young as 8 or 9 years old are not left untouched. The capital of India is the also the capital of crime against women.

Will this ever change for the better? I guess that’s purely a rhetorical question. :(

Broken

Read my new poem here.

Inexplicable

A poem and a story, which somehow wrote themselves - there's something inexplicable about them.

Great Expectations

I was wearily wandering the aisles of our local supermarket. Not that you can really wander around – it’s rather small, with everything piled up and spilling over into the little spaces, and buyers simply push their way around, or use the red and blue baskets with broken handles to the same effect. It caters to just our apartment complex, so there’s no need for fancy stuff. Moreover, most people generally prefer to order home delivery, so that they are saved the exercise of walking home weighed down. Most people prefer community exercises instead, such as yoga at the clubhouse, or yoga at one of the resident’s apartments, or the top-notch gym nearby, or even the minimal gym within the complex. Or the final recourse when the community has failed in giving generously enough: the exercycles and treadmills in their homes.

Anyway, the thing is, this “supermarket” makes random purchases extremely easy. My parents always used to, and still persist in using the monthly grocery list to buy all that fall under the name of “sundries”. I have a sneaking suspicion that my sisters do the same thing, but have never dared to ask, for fear it will expose my own weakness of not having a monthly list at all. I did try: for three brave months, I sat dutifully and filled monthly lists online, and sacks and boxes were all miraculously delivered. Then I got cold feet. I sat amongst the piled-up remnants, and decided that, in order to preserve my sanity, I would deplete my inventory completely, and switch to Kanban instead.

So here I was, wearily wandering the aisles, looking up shelves to see if anything rang a bell, since I’ve now given up on To-Buy lists also. That’s when I saw it. It sat there, in a gleaming purplish box, and the words emblazoned on it beckoned me like a moth to the flame.

“Star Wars”, it said, in the typical lettering. There’s no point in explaining my weakness or fascination for Star Wars. You either understand it, or you don’t. It was a Kellogs Chocos box, with a huge light-saber streaking across. Now, I’ve completely stopped buying Kellogs for lil D, because of articles I read somewhere, long ago, about the nutritional value, which put me off.

Not to be beaten, Kellogs came back with an infallible carrot. “Star Wars”, it said on the package, and promised light-sabers within each pack. Collect all 6, it exhorted. Well, I’m not exactly that stupid – I didn’t buy 6 packs. What if they were all the same color? I bought one instead. The excitement was building up within me – I could hardly wait to get home, tear open the pack and swish the light-saber around dramatically, breathing audibly like Darth Vader.

Lil D was of course, simply excited to see me back at home, laden with what she most probably imagined were chips and chocolates. While I arduously prevented her from rummaging through the bags, I shouted out to DH.

“Open the chocos pack – there’s something free, which we can give lil D”. As if.

I waited impatiently, listening to the sounds of the rip of cardboard, the scissors biting through the packet, and the rustle of the chocos.

“Well?”

“There’s nothing in here”.

“What do you mean? How can that be?” I was hysterical. I abandoned lil D and rushed to the box. I peered in – zilch. I raked through the chocos in the packet – nada.

“What the hell! I’m calling up that guy right now!”

I marched over to the phone, and began hurling accusations at the supermarket guy at the other end.

“Madam, I think the free gift comes with the Rs. 225 pack…”

“No! It says here on the pack that you will find a free light-saber maze (maze? hmmm) INSIDE this pack!”

“Madam, then I will have to check with the manufacturers…”

Right on cue, a little plasticky thing surfaced. What was this? I picked it up, and read the fine print on the plastic cover: Light Saber Maze.

“Ummm…I think I found it – it was right inside…it’s ok”. I mumbled sheepishly, and kept the phone down.

I stared at the thing which could hardly have been more than 3 inches long. I could feel the disappointment beginning to drip inside. I ripped open the cover – there was some switch-like thing on the side that wouldn’t yield to pressing up or down – bah! a dummy switch! Then there was a little greenish plastic tube peeping out. After much twiddling, it finally shot out.

Wow! My very own 4.5 inch green light saber. With no glow. With a little ball and maze within. No swishing possible. The only thing possible was the Darth Vader breathing.

I gave it away disgustedly to lil D. She held it at the very edge, as if it were a delicate calligraphy instrument, and pronounced delightedly, “Dishoom!”

“Dishoom!” I replied gloomily.

Signs that lil D is growing up

Since I’ve been asked many times why I use lil D, I thought I’d clarify: it’s because she’s my Little Daughter, just like DH is Dear Husband.

And nowwwwwww (sound of drum rolls), the top ten signs that lil D is growing up:

1. She touches nearly 3 feet in height

2. She has attained mastery of the word “Don’t”. It’s what the little lion trainer uses to keep us at whip’s end: Don’t read (snatching the newspaper), Don’t see (switching off the TV), Don’t sleep (catching us by our hair and slapping our cheeks), Don’t talk (covering our mouths with a little hand).

3. She has attained mastery of the word “My” also. She combines Don’t and My very effectively – “This is My Book, Don’t touch, ok?”

4. Every speck of dirt, visible or invisible, is dutifully brought to my attention. “Mamma, full dirty! Chee!”

5. She identifies Shah Rukh Khan anywhere with a gleeful “Oye Bubbly!”. By the same token, any cricket match or the Tata Indicom is greeted with a huge laugh (perhaps deservingly?) and “Ganguly Uncle!”

6. She’s already become an ardent Harry Potter fan. Her favourite scenes are the train at Platform 9 and ¾, and the sorting hat.

7. She’s developed the knack of asking for exactly what I’ve not cooked. The day I’ve made carrots, she asks for tomato soup; if tomato soup, then radish; if radish, then beetroot…Sigh! You get the point.

8. She makes sure we practice what we preach. She follows me around: “Mamma, wash your hands, wash your mouth, ok?” after my meal.

9. She’s now competition for the remote. Any change of channel results in a wail, with “Papa/Mamma, I want to see…!”

And the top sign is….

10. She’s become a true junkie. Her dream menu is probably have chips for breakfast, chocolate for lunch and Maggi for dinner!

Traffic

There's a long queue of vehicles at one of the city’s busiest intersections, impatiently waiting for the green. A little girl peeks out of a white car, and excitedly points out a poster to her mother. The father is tapping the steering wheel distractedly, lost in his own thoughts. A ripple of engines revving up passes through the line, and honks fill the air. “Onward! Onward!” seems to be the battle-cry.

Just as the white car begins to move, a copper-hued Toyota Qualis beast swerves dangerously into its path from the right, and forces its way onto the road. The father is furious, pressing his horn loud and long, shaking his fist at the errant driver. The mother is shaken, clutching onto her precious little one, and yelling at the driver ahead. The Qualis driver zooms ahead, still driving rashly; the father suddenly decides to give chase, and begins tailing the Qualis. The Qualis is a taxi, and the father tries to note down the number so that he can complain.

The Qualis suddenly turns left into an MNC building and disappears. The father, not to be deterred, swings right behind, and is stopped by security. He explains angrily that he wants to speak to the authorities regarding the dangerous driver. The security guard, sensing the futility of stopping the enraged father, waves him along. Further down the parking lot, there are rows of Toyota Qualis parked, with their drivers idling within, fanning themselves cool in the heat.

The father parks the car, and walks towards a uniformed security guard in the vicinity. They speak for a few moments, and then the mother watches them disappear behind a row of cars. The little girl, perhaps sensing the mother’s anxiety, quietly sucks her thumb. The mother sees the other drivers begin to get out of their cars and make their way to the same spot. Though her instinct tells her that everything will be alright, her hyperactive imagination decides to turn the scenario into a Bollywood dishum-dishum scene. She waits for her husband to return, trying meanwhile to admire the hibiscus jiving in the hint of a breeze.

After what seems like an eternity, she sees her husband emerge, still engaged in furious discussion. He gets into the car and slams the door shut.

“What happened?” she asks.

“What else? The guy refuses to admit he made a mistake. Says he overtook from the right since there was a gap!”

“Did you tell him that you had a child in your car?”

“Yes, I told him, but as if he cares!”

“Did he apologize at all?”

“Yes, finally he said, sorry sir. Anyway nothing happened, why are you so worked up, sir, they ask! What fellows!”

The father starts the engine, and then says with an unexpected smile, “But you know what? I’m glad I chased the guy down. Normally, I would have let it go, but I’m glad I went and confronted him. It might not make a difference finally, but at least I got it out of my system!”

I look at DH and smile, lil D smiles at both of us, and we happily (and safely) make our way home.

Sting Like a Bee

If you have the time and inclination, check this out and let me know what you think.