Two Incidents of Many

By the time we were in college most of my girlfriends had slapped, kicked, or punched a man. Two of these girlfriends, P and A, were girls I idolised for their intelligence and fearlessness, and for their kind, open hearts. I hadn’t yet slapped anyone.

When P slapped a boy we were in a cinema hall. Hero No. 1 was playing on the screen and we needed to visit the restroom. The hall was dark and when we made it to the aisle we had to be careful, take gingerly steps to keep from stumbling. And that’s when a hand came up and grabbed P’s breasts, and I felt fingers upon my back. I had by then taught myself not to react, to shrug off such incidents, so I continued walking but P turned around and slapped the person. We quickened our pace after that, almost running in the dark. My heart started racing immediately.

Out in the bright corridor we saw that that our harasser had followed us. He was a young boy, not yet twenty, and he was livid with anger. I saw too that P was in tears. Around us were other boys, other men. I felt I was in a circus, ready to perform some hilarious buffoonery.

“Kallai thappad hanya?” the boy asked.

“Kallai chho ko?” said P.

“Kina? Tero chhuna hunna?” said the boy, smirking.

P’s hands were trembling. My heart was burning a hole in me. I imagined this boy following us home, hiding behind trees

and shops while P and I walked mindlessly upon the streets. I imagined acid thrown at our faces, a knife slicing my body. I imagined rape and mutilation. I imagined death. I re-read every newspaper article about murdered girls.

But nothing happened, not to us at least. A group of eager-to-impress youngsters sauntered slowly towards us, blowing and snapping gum in their mouths. “Ke bhayo?” they wanted to know. We pointed to the boy, and just like that a mini war began. The youngsters swaggered to towards the boy. “Ke yaar?” they said, grinning. They roughed him a little, slapped him, pushed his shoulders, hit him lightly. P and I slunk off, afraid of remaining on the scene. Out on the road we ran. We looked behind to make sure no one was following. We kept running, waving for tempos to stop. We hopped into the first tempo that stopped, not caring where it was headed.



two

I had promised Papa I would be home before four but I was running late. My only option was to cross over to one of the pharmaceutical shops by Teaching Hospital and call him up.

The phone was on the counter corner and I dialed quickly, not liking the look of

the few men sitting at the other end. I am wary of idle men. I turned away from them, towards the wall, and spoke into the receiver. When I turned back I was startled to find a man standing beside me, a melodramatic smile on his rapturous face, cheeks resting on palms, elbow resting on the counter, gazing at me.

I had faced assaults before, back pinching, brushing against my breasts, name-calling, but this brazen mockery, this unashamed lechery left me cold.

“What?” I asked. The man said nothing. “What?” I asked again. The man said nothing. And I understood the game. The man was going to say nothing. He was just going to stand there, blocking my way, smiling, while the other men tittered on their seats. The salesman pretended to be busy.

I turned away, determined to ignore everyone, afraid too that the man was drunk and dangerous.

“How much?” I asked the salesman and I had to snake around the man’s elbow to pay the required three rupees. He did not remove his elbow.

An anger was beginning to build within me. Anger against my own fears, anger against the men who would probably call me bahini if I spoke with them, anger against the salesman, against the streets, against being forced into a corner, against that elbow.

“Move,” I said. The man did not move. “Move, or I will call the police,” and the teetering at the other end intensified. I could almost hear their thoughts—Police indeed!

So I pushed the man. He was not standing resolutely. He was merely there, propped limply, easy in his stance and his smile, and with that one push he swung easily away from me, as though he were a door on a well lubricated hinges. He continued to smile.

I walked out the shop and behind me the shop burst into a loud laugh. When I turned around, stunned by the hilarity, I saw the limp, smiling man become sharp and peppy, clapping his buddies on their backs, all of them laughing. So I walked back and pulled the man out the shop. But it wasn’t a real pull. The man followed willingly, his body limp once more, the smile back on his face. The others relapsed to hooting and teetering and left their seats. They stumbled out the shop to watch the show.

By now I had started hitting the man, full flat slaps wherever my hands fell. I was trying hard to keep myself from crying. The man’s expressions did not change. He looked at me with big, doting eyes, and I, in my desperation, hit harder, my palms stinging. I kicked him once and my toes, exposed in the summer sandals hurt.

An amused and entertained circle had formed around us. I looked around briefly and saw a girl, standing probably with her husband, looking uneasy and afraid, but everyone else was enjoying the show, including the man I was hitting. I turned around and the crowd, still amused, still entertained, but maybe a little awed too, made way for me. I head towards the tempo stand and a few drivers dislocated from the crowd and moved to their vehicles. There were no police anywhere. There were hardly any women out on the roads. I continued walking, not heeding the chorus of driver protests—come to us, bahini. I did not want to sit behind a male driver. I did not want to turn around and see the man clapping his buddies, I did not want to see his buddies cheer the man up.