She was tall and slender, her complexion like that of a few
drops of vermilion in milk. Smart and confident she looked to be in absolute
control of life. With a decent education and a well-paying job, she painted a picture of what every
middle-class girl probably dreams of. At
an age when life is a sea of opportunities and dreams are like mounds of wet
clay shaping into something beautiful, she came upon as a subtle inspiration.
Fresh out of high school and into campus life, I was only beginning to explore the
world on my own terms. Cocooned in the comforts of a loving family for years, I
never spared a thought on how cruel reality could be. Always believed what met
my eyes, often bought what people said. So I believed her story too, after all
it met my eyes.
But soon I learned what you see is not what you believe, all
the time, today I feel, probably most of the time. Behind her don’t-mess-with
me-yet-affable demeanor, there was a poignant tale of torture, trauma and trials.
The dark held much terror for her. Yet
again in a phase of life when I saw companionship as a blessing (be it in the
form of a lover or a husband, the so called better-half), I learned about the
bitter half --- the bitter-half of this picture-perfect story, the bitter half
of how my beliefs were losing ground. The woman who comfortably stood tall in
an otherwise predominantly man’s world found herself biting the dust within the
four walls of her home – day in and day out.
Initiated into an arranged marriage after all checks in
place, nothing should have possibly gone wrong. But nothing really went right.
Mouthful of expletives and abhorrent abuse charred her sense of dignity to the
last bit and the beastly hands seemed to have ugly minds of their own. Battered and bruised on the inside,
she tried to put up a brave front, but only till her neighbours decided to
speak up, speak up before the worst happens. They informed her parents of the brutality
their daughter was being subjected to. The same people who had refused to
listen to their daughter when she tried to explain what she was going through,
finally sat up and took notice. Thank heavens, at least someone managed to knock
sense into them.
Today, when I see the fate of a 23-year-old gang rape victim
from Delhi, I ponder even harder and reality stings even stronger. The girl in
this case was devoured by vultures in the guise of men, men who by their
heinous act not only ruined her body, but also jolted the psyche of the entire
womankind. This time it was in a public space and that too in the country’s
capital. Her plight was someone's pleasure, her pain someone's gain. She bore the
brunt of being born a woman. Despite the
stiff fight she put up for 13-odd days, her body wilted. After all it was only
as much as she could take -- mentally, physically and emotionally.
The two incidents don’t relate, except that they are tales of
torture and brutality --- at different levels and of different degrees. The moot point is: It’s not about whether a
woman is safe in her home or in public space. It’s more about whether a woman
is safe in every man’s thought. Many might
ask, is it ever possible? I ask, is it really impossible?
