Rapes in India: We hold our honour in our vaginas

It was just another day in June 2014. I was 34. I parked my car at my office around 8:40 am; it was safe. There were guards all over; it should be safe. I got into the elevator and made my way up to the seventh floor. Editors often carry home books for proofreading. I had two bags of them.

The lobby on the seventh floor had CCTV cameras installed. At the door, I struggled to find my access card. Meanwhile, the security guard got up from his station and used his access card to open the door, which led into a tiny corridor, at the end of which was the main door to our workstations. I nodded to thank the guard and walked into the corridor, he followed. He walked up to the second door, giving me an impression he would hold it open for me. Something made me stop in my tracks. They say always trust a woman’s instinct.

Almost in a flash, the guard was holding me by my shoulders and his face was right in front of mine. He uttered something that I couldn’t understand. All I knew then was that a strange man had cornered me in this tiny corridor. He had crossed the line - a line every woman sets for herself. Crossing that line amounts to violation.

Flashback to a couple of days ago. This man had commented on my lipstick. I ignored him and stepped into the elevator. That morning, I don’t know how long I’d been trapped in that corridor, but it seemed like forever. In those few moments, I remembered his comment, I reminded myself I had a child waiting at home for me and I couldn’t let myself be violated by this man. And almost four years later, when I remember that horrific incident of being cornered and towered over by that man, I get shivers.

I had let out a scream, and two of my colleagues came to my rescue. I was lucky I hadn’t been the first one to reach work that day. The office people were more than supportive. The man was sacked. The legal department acted promptly. Even then, it was embarrassing for the next couple of months. It was embarrassing when I could sense people whispering, “She’s the one!” It may have been completely out of concern or curiosity, but I was shamed.

And no, I wasn’t allowed to forget the incident even days later. A colleague and her ‘supporters’ concluded that I had deliberately framed the poor guard who was only doing his duty. “She must have done something,” she told a few other editors. A couple of them agreed with her. Others were disgusted at what they had just heard, and stood by me. At that moment, even a little support goes a long way. It helped me get through the day, each day. But it wasn’t enough to forget the horror.

Those hands had touched me for a few seconds and the thought of those hands still gives me nightmares. Now, imagine an eight-year-old, who is out looking for her pony, being picked up by unknown men and taken to a place away from home. I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. The little girl was at the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been any one of us. I feel agitated, helpless and angry. As a woman, as a mother, as a human being. In such times, when we talk about equal rights for men and women…in a country where we worship Durga, who epitomises the victory of good over evil…not only our women, but even our children are raped and killed with such brutality. While we were trying fathom how something so cruel could happen to a child, there were reports of an 11 year old’s body being found in Surat, with 86 injury marks.

Every morning, as I see my child off to school, I pray to ‘my’ God to keep her safe. I am sure the Kathua victim’s mother prayed to ‘her God’ for her family’s safety and millions of mothers like myself pray to ‘their Gods’. Maybe the gods were confused when she was being picked up, tortured, raped, violated and finally killed in cold blood. Maybe the Gods were confused whom to save, the girl or her tormentors. Maybe the Gods were confused for which one of them the ‘ritual’ had been performed. Maybe God is just another businessman or politician. Or maybe, there is no God!

The more I think about what I can do now, the more frustrating it gets. What can I do to protect myself, my child, all children, all women, all senior citizens? One of my friends texted me, “I was thinking of telling them come to me if you want to satisfy your lust; I’ll sleep with you willingly, man. Just spare the kids.” Imagine the rage; think of how we have failed as a nation to protect our children and women; think of the apathy that comes through when we stoop to levels politicising a crime as heinous as rape.

A few days ago, a video on the rape culture in Haryana made me sick to my stomach. It showed young boys and girls talking about rape as though it was a way of life. They said rape is never the boy’s fault alone. When girls wear jeans, they provoke boys and that is why they are raped. It is justified. Blame the chowmein. Blame the jeans. Blame the caste. Blame the religion. Blame the gender. Blame the vagina. Perhaps it is the vagina. We contain our honour in our vaginas. “Our honour is like a menstrual blood. Only girls can produce it. Hence boys can do anything. If the blood trickles out, the honour also trickles out,” my friend said, seething. Only authorised people have access to the vagina. So, the family must protect the vagina. This is why honour killing is permitted when a woman marries a man from another clan. But raping your sister, daughter, or anyone else is not loss of honour!

What about the vaginas that haven’t bled yet? What about vaginas that are far from bearing children, because they are vaginas of our little girls? What about our little boys, who don’t have a vagina?

Outbursts on social media give us only a glimpse of the anger and fury. That’s perhaps the least people do to show support. A little support goes a long way—for a family that has lost its child, for a family whose daughter was gang raped and the father died in police custody. Then, there are those who criticise the outbursts saying: “Why vent on social media? Do something.” Do what? Can you suggest? Your apathy is what lets these demons get away with gruesome murders and crimes so dark.

If justice is slow to come by, there will be many more such incidents. If we fail to get justice, her unheard screams will haunt us forever. Every rapist will be victorious. Think about the girl locked up in the dark with strange men, drugged and raped repeatedly. If that doesn’t scare you, look at her face. Her innocent face, which flashes on all news channels with the slogan ‘Justice for...’, is the face of this nation. And we are shame-faced!