Of Broken Bangles

I would have never written about this. Never.

It was during my school days. I had to take two buses to come back home. Our school was opposite a boys college known for their rowdiness. It was a mainroad from the school to the busstop. But still, we used to take care not to go alone. In two's and threes, we used to juggle ourselves to the busstop. The comments passed were always ignored. As reacting to it might encourage them. My school bag can accomodate long books. But somehow, I never used to place them inside. I used to always hold it close to my chest. Just gripping it as a sanctuary. The every-day bus rides were nightmares. Getting down/into a bus was a sordid affair. I could only see the eager hands, when trying to squeeze out. The college used to have their afternoon batch come at the same time. So the buses were always crowded. I cannot relate to a particular day, when men never used to come close and 'accidentaly' fall on you because of the breaks. I am tall. So I was always requested to hold on to the rails, such that the shorter women could catch the ailes.There were so many days, when you could feel them pressing on to you. Even while sitting, you could just feel them shoving themselves against your shoulders. I remember keeping my bag, trying to hold on to it, while standing, such that it could create a distance. But the other passengers would tell me to give it to somebody who is sitting. Everybody was a stranger. You would not know where to look. Everytime somebody passes, there would be 'accidental' touches falling on your breasts, butts .. it did not matter.

One day, I took my bus. As usual, it was crowded. I realised that one guy was going on staring at me. And slowly, approaching me. Trying to avoid as much as possible, I tried to move closer to ailes with the other women. Before, I realised, he was there right behind me. Trying to stay calm, I murmured whatever came to my mind, at that point. Suddenly, there he was against me. When I looked back, he looked elsewhere. (For information : I was wearing salwar kameez + dupatta) With two more stops gone, and more crowd coming in, he was over me, too close rubbing himself against me. I cringed inwards at the touch. I moved. I looked around. I did not know what to do. He looked like a college guy. He might have been of the same college. It wont take him more days to find out my stop. For the first time, I wished I were a guy. I started towards the other entrance, he followed and thankfully got down at the next stop. Relieved I looked else where out of the window. He made a point to come to where I was looking to show me a thumbs-up sign. I felt cheap. I felt used. And dirty. I looked away only to get down in the next stop to take an auto back home. I had a broken home, then. I used to live with my father. I could not tell my mother over the phone. It stayed with me.

This happened a few months later. I got down from my first bus. I was pretty tired that day. And wanted to take an empty one, such that I could leisurely sit down. The second bus, I was to take, started from that bus stop. To my luck, I found an empty one. Went in and sat. After five minutes, a guy with a beard and lungi, came and sat right behind me. He kept his hands over my aile railing. I did not bother. After a minute, he brought his hand more further. I moved slightly to the front. After a second, I saw that he got his hand as far as my seat back. I turned back to tell him to sit else where. Only to find that he had his lungi up the waist, pointing to his penis and making gestures to me to come to him. I froze. But for a moment. Then clutched my bag and fled. That day I walked back home, tears streaming down my cheeks. The distance did not matter.

How to go? In a crowded bus or an empty one. It did not make a difference anyway.

This happened a year later. My animation classes used to get over at 7pm. But we used to stay back and do more work. One such day, I was returning back at home at around 9.00. The institution was 10 minutes away by walk. I had no two-wheeler then. I was coming back, and I turned towards my street. There was a cyclist coming from the opposite direction. Though it had concerned me little that time. As i was approaching my house, the cyclist grew quite close. He groped for my breast and pinched it hard. I cried. I was petrified. Before I came out of it, he was a good distance away, I ran after him, but..

I told my mom. I did not look at her eyes though. I felt guilty. But is it not supposed to be the other way? Why was I feeling cheap, when the only the action was so? She said,'Maybe beacuse of the shirt you were wearing.' I felt let down. How do I prove to her, a salwar would not have made a difference? I wanted to wash myself. Of his hands. Of his touch. But the impression remained. I felt like Lady Macbeth, trying to wash off . I failed, like her. There was only one streetlight, and I did not even see his face. He could have been there the next day, I would not know. He could have seen me everyday, I would not know. That day, I did not have any folder/long books to protect me. To this day, I still look everywhere when anybody walks towards me. I stop in one place, when there is a crowd trying to avoid groping hands. I still shudder when I think of that day. Deep anguish bringing anger to just..

I have been offered hotel rooms(by some very distinguished personalities), comments passed asking 'how much'(while walking on the road), offered lifts by 40 year olds (why, there was an old man walking right in from of me.. Offer him BASTARD) - Just the old man. Not even old women would be spared just for passing one qualification as a woman.

These were taught in a spirutal class. The three W's. Wine, women and wealth. Considered the most dangerous to Men. Are we objects on par with money and alcohols.

Easy come, easy go, is it?

Why do we get blamed for what we wear?

Even if there were eye-wtinesses, its very hard to come to the conclusion that the guy was at wrong. And sans anyone - We know what happened to Eve.

When I see so many numerous incidents posted, one worser than the next, I think of these government school girls who cling on to crowded buses with ready strings of boys who get in and out. Whom do they confess to? Living everyday as victims to the everyday whims of the opposite sex/

Is this how they celebrate man-hood? Are they so excited in destroying one's innocence. Letchers.

Worst is, when this topic crops up inbetween friends, not even one of them side-steps. Everyone has an incident to offer, that was etched in their minds. None was spared.

And when I see what the others (like what dhoomkethu wrote)are going through, should I feel thankful for having been left till this?

I do not want to get married for protection. I do not want to be somebody's sister, somebody's daughter or somebody's wife to be looked after. Just want to be me. Me. Somebody who could be independant and still be respected as a human. Without a man's shadow lingering.

Thanks to Praveen, for providing the link.

For Blank Noise blogathon, I broke my silence.