Don't sleep

She died. The girl who was gangraped in Delhi earlier this month. It’s a bit of a mouthful, but something in me balks at calling her Amanat or Nirbhaya or whatever name the media has chosen over the last few days. I don’t need to know her name and I don’t need a nickname. If one is too lazy to spell out who she is, one shouldn’t even be talking about her. I also can’t bear the hollow thoughtlessness of calling her India’s Daughter – if at all we must be viewed as someone's daughters or sisters, should that not apply to all of us equally? And Delhi’s Braveheart – isn’t the city full of brave people – men and women – who have faced crime, cruelty, injustice, terror? Frankly, isn’t every citizen of this country brave simply by virtue of living in it and dealing with its sometimes amusing but often cruel insanity? The people of Jammu and Kashmir, Manipur, Chhattisgarh, who see violence every single day; the people who live on the streets, who try so hard to make some kind of a living - are they less brave because they’re not on the news or trending on Twitter? Since this girl's story, we know of five or six more girls across India who were raped, even gangraped, and not one of them has been called a braveheart or been so readily "adopted" by the country – why? 

Yes, something about this girl’s story touched all of us. It could be the sheer brutality of the attack on her, the fact that it was not that late at night and she was not alone, the fact that the bus was going through South Delhi and past several police checkposts. But it could also be the fact that the media chose to highlight this story and so it seemed worse than any of the others. We don’t know what finally pushed us over the edge but we’ve been badly shaken and we all hope that this horrifying incident and its aftermath will lead to social and legal changes that will prevent such monstrous crimes from ever being committed again. Yes, it's a good thing that we were shaken. But again, I hesitate to subscribe to the popular media-sponsored laziness of calling this girl a hero, a martyr, a shaheed. She did not die for a cause; she died because she was so badly injured that she could not be saved. I also don’t think calls for a state funeral, the national flag flying at half-mast, or a bravery award are at all rational. Because by falling for such tokenism, we will be mistaking her trauma for bravery and patriotism, and we will be helping those in power absolve themselves of any further responsibility.

No, we don’t need to know her name or any personal details about her. We don't need to know anecdotes about her as a daughter, sister, granddaughter, niece, or friend. Let’s give her family and friends space and privacy to mourn their loss. For us, her story has been a wake-up call, and the best way to fight – for her, for those who’ve felt violated in any way, for those who feel the fear of being violated – is to not be lazy and not go back to sleep.

I've been lucky...so far

I’m a woman who lives in Delhi, who uses public transport on a daily basis. Who, till 2008, commuted between Delhi and Gurgaon for 5 years – at a time when public transport to and from Gurgaon consisted mainly of Haryana Roadways buses that were usually so crowded that one worried about falling out and the more frequent but very shady call-centre vans driven illegally and rashly. There was no metro and regular DTC buses were few and far between. So it was a choice between standing with people pressing in on all sides (and me approximately at the height of their armpits) and sitting in the world’s most terrifying contraption. In desperate moments, I have stupidly taken these buses and vans as late as 11 pm, when I should have just called my mother and braved her panicked yelling.  I remember being huddled in my tiny amount of space with my arms folded tightly across my chest, bag pulled up to my chin, staring straight ahead, not making eye contact with anyone. I remember being felt up, groped, "innocently" brushed past, stared at almost daily. I remember telling off the men in question, and their argument that it was a crowded bus, not my private car, so I should not expect space. I remember insincere apologies delivered with a leer. I do also remember many nice, helpful people (women and men) who gave me their seat, who held my bag for me, who argued for the women’s seats to actually be used by women. And today, I think I have been lucky.

Once I moved out of Gurgaon, I swore never to take those buses or vans again, and I haven’t. But the fear has not gone away. I still hesitate to argue with an auto-rickshaw driver who asks for more money at the end of my journey – because he has dropped me home and knows where I live. I think twice before telling my office cab driver to drive a bit more carefully – because I am the last person to be dropped back on my route. Even when I do argue, as is my instinct, I later regret it and thank someone up there that nothing happened. I have been lucky. But I am constantly afraid that my luck will run out. And that fear, that gnawing, ever-present fear, is what makes India no country for women.