She takes a walk
along her favourite road. It rises and falls with the dying swells of hill now
replaced with asphalt and half-built shopping malls. She likes that even from
kilometres away and despite the fog, she can still see her destination; growing
taller in encouragement as she gains ground.
Today is
different in a sense. For the first time in a long while, she’s aware of how
quickly this road can turn. Four years ago, a young journalist was murdered here;
on account of being female, some conjectured. Then two weeks ago, it was this road that carried a
busload of criminals and two hapless victims to their dastardly fate – an
outcome most attributed to one of them being female.
The volume is
turned up on her music player but she can still spy the de rigueur obscenities
hurled from rolled-down windows as cars speed away - so quickly that only she
will benefit from the enraged middle finger she launches into the fog. In spite
of the refreshing cold, she’s just not in the mood today.
A few yards
ahead, a white taxi stops. Windows tinted (always illegal, even more so today),
exhaust pipe vomiting black fumes. Two men stumble out. Not being pedestrian
friendly, this road is often the next best thing to a urinal. Men Only, of
course.
One of them
doesn’t even bother walking into the bushes. He simply steps out of the vehicle
and begins to unbutton, right in her path. Oh for fuck’s sake, she mutters, not
today. He fumbles with his zip, whipping out his penis as she approaches him.
He hasn’t even noticed there’s a person standing next to him.
“Kya kare rahe ho?” she yells, hoping to
shame him into complying with the rules of decency.
He doesn’t move
an inch. His eyes are fixed on his crotch. He still can’t seem to find his grip.
“Besharam! This is a public road!” she
tries again. For someone doing the shaming, she’s beginning to feel awfully
sheepish. And now scared, as he lifts his listless gaze to look at her. The man
is clearly high on something.
He sneers, “Chal hat, saali.”
She takes a step
back, speechless. Her facial muscles sag as she finds herself bringing her
hands together, her palms joined in offering. It’s a platter serving up all of her: 30 odd years of living, loving, doing and being. 30 odd years of hugs
collected from friends & family, souvenirs collected on travels, pats on
the back, letters of appreciation, tears when a loved one – or a love – died.
Money earned, savings made, taxes paid. Secrets kept and books read. Theories
learned, experience gained. Exemplary traits, stubborn flaws, absurd quirks and
every promise still to make good. Every time she felt strong. And every single time her body was up for grabs
in a crowd, in an office, in a home, on a road. All up on a platter for this
man wielding his penis.
To which he
draws back his full concentration. She sidles past him. Looking back she spits
out a filthy word. An insult born from the belly of misogyny, which, until the
world changes, will continue to feel oh-so-good as it leaves her lips. She
doesn’t wait for his reaction. She’s on foot and he’s got a white taxi with
tinted windows. But she doesn’t speed up either. She’s just not in the mood
today.
She takes refuge
in the quiet aisles of a big & bright retail shop. Behind closed eyes, she
makes her movie. In it, an enormous medieval cauldron filled with water is
boiling over an insensed fire, flames slapping against searing hot metal. The
bubbling of water is punctuated with theatrical splashes as rows upon rows of
men are flung into it, naked as they came. Their wails of anguish & torture
echo through her cranium and she takes in a long drag of air. “There will be a
revolution,” she mutters, “and then they will kn- - - “
“Excuse, madam.
Excuse, excuse.”
A tiny shopgirl
gently nudges her to the side, impatient yet restrained.
She’ll have to
move; it seems she’s been blocking the dandruff shampoo.
