Street Theater Can Open Men’s Eyes to Women’s Harassment

Women across region, class and age have always expressed a serious concern for their physical safety. Take the capital city of Delhi, for instance: It has regularly faced indictment for failing to provide safety to its women residents; a 2012 survey by the UN and the International Center for Research on Women showed that 95% of women felt unsafe in Delhi, and 51% of men interviewed there admitted to having sexually harassed women in public places.

Therefore, in an effort to examine the access – the lack thereof, and the challenges therein — to public spaces by women in the city, The Pocket Company launched Genderventions (directed by Niranjani Iyer), a theater project, of which I was a part. Through a series of street performances in different areas of Delhi, we set out to assess how comfortable and confident Delhi’s women felt outside their homes, and what men viewed as harassment, its causes and the possible solutions.

Here’s how the project rolled out and what we found.

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It started with a workshop, during which women members of the Genderventions team re-enacted scenes of harassment, the ludicrous suggestions — like “do not go anywhere alone” – that they and women at large are routinely given by society as solutions to women’s safety, and possible ways of resistance against these expectations.

For example, thinking about how women deal with the lack of public toilets, a high-stress scene, led to a skit in which one woman acted out peeing, while two covered her, and another stood guard.

As one of the activities in the workshop, women from the Genderventions team went to a park on a winter night. When men huddled around a bonfire saw them, the men asked why the women were out at night. Upon explaining that they were trying to reclaim public spaces at night, the men seemed to realize that the spaces they take for granted are daily battlefields for women.

During the workshop, too, women spent time learning the expected postures of a male body. This led to an exercise in which the Genderventions women occupied public spaces while assuming postures commonly associated with men. I participated in this, visiting a Delhi tea stall – the only woman there. I remember sitting with my feet up, or standing in the middle of the road with arms behind my head, while bystanders stared with a mixture of shock, awe, or, if they were women, of amusement and admiration.

In the same exercise, Gendervention’s male members tried to walk and carry their bodies like women. We took this exercise to the male members of the audience and gave them instructions usually given to girls about how to sit, stand, walk, laugh — be graceful; don’t be too fast; don’t walk so slowly that you seem dull; smile, don’t look morose; don’t laugh loudly; don’t put your chest out. This sought to help the men watching understand the undue pressure upon women’s bodies to simultaneously embody the obligation to be nice, and the fear of coming across as too nice. The men’s awkwardness was clear; they said they did not feel “natural” or at ease, and did not like being constantly instructed.

We found this to be effective experience-sharing, where the audience could empathize through having lived the same experience, albeit temporarily.

The project was taken to different areas, markets and street corners of Delhi and depicted the scenes of harassment developed in the workshop, and asked the audience to describe what they perceived. If they said the woman was being harassed, we asked why they thought so. They described how the woman was squirming and inching close to the corner of her bus seat, or scowling in anger if the man’s hand touched her knees.

We also depicted a scene in which a female actor started alone on stage, then male actors joined her. It allowed the audience to observe a woman’s body in a space free of men, and then observe how discomfort in her body started building up as more and more men’s eyes turned to stare at her. This was to shed light on how staring can constitute harassment for a woman.

Ultimately, men easily outnumbered women in the audience, because as an unwritten rule, women are not supposed to loiter and watch street performances. At one point, we even had to pause the performance and intervene because a young girl was not able to watch our play due to being constantly jostled by men. The only exception was when we performed in a team member’s residential area; there, women formed the larger piece of the audience pie because she had personally invited the women. 

After our shows, women in the audience spoke of how the only place where they felt comfortable in their bodies was the bathroom. 

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When it comes to providing security to women, the focus of the government is still on CCTV cameras, SOS apps and helpline numbers, whose aim is either to help women stay safe or to provide mechanisms to report if they are harassed. It is still far away from proactively creating spaces that are welcoming for women, and encouraging women’s right to risk. It is still a time where irritated cops ask women to avoid trouble and go home when these women come together for their night walks to reclaim the streets.

Sometimes we do not believe in solutions or alternatives until we see them; art can help with the visualization. The performances and interactions we engaged in show that, despite laws, men’s take on harassment came a lot from what they, and not the women, “believed” should be defined as harassment. Victim-blaming is still rampant.

In our “ideal city” exercise, we asked men and women to describe a city that is equally accessible and comfortable for men and women. When our female actor gave an example by sitting on an imagined bus seat, with closed eyes and a relaxed body, taking up enough space for herself, some protested that it was not the correct or proper way to sit.

Once, a member of the audience said a harassed woman on the bus should stand up on her seat and call attention to the harasser. After a team member carried out the suggestion and enacted that scene, I realized I had never considered the possibility — but after I had seen it “in action,” I felt I was ready to literally stand my ground the next time somebody tried to attack me. Ironically, but not unexpectedly, I had to confront a harasser on public transport even as I was on my way to one of these performances.

Delhi is home to women from diverse backgrounds. Some come seeking education and employment. Others have lived there all their lives. Both look to the capital with the hope that it would provide them with opportunities they do not have access to elsewhere. These women deserve better. They deserve more interventions by the state and its citizenry, more gender-ventions that change attitudes and actually prevent crimes against them, so they can equally and fearlessly claim every inch of the mega-city. 

First published in The Swaddle, 7 Jun 2019.

How theatre in Delhi has been finding and creating stages beyond Mandi House

A theatre is not a blank page for editorial, it is not a soapbox or a Tannoy system: it is a conscience that wakes with what is happening in the space, and wakes further still in response to what people are making of it.

-Andrew O'Hagan

When I joined the Hindi dramatic society of my college in Delhi University in 2003, it was the mention of the National School of Drama (NSD) that used to get us all starry eyed. To give us a flavour of the city's theatre, our seniors took us to Mandi House for a show of Premchand's Rangbhoomi. We sat enraptured as we watched professional actors play out the subtleties and complexities of each character, and of a bygone era. It still remains one of the most memorable performances I have witnessed.

Therefore it was only natural that when those interested in theatre walked out of their colleges, NSD was one of their top priorities. Of course with few seats and state-wise allocations, not everyone could join. Some people trained at other places in and outside India and brought to Delhi their experiences of physical theatre, theatre with dance, theatre as therapy, theatre with communities, children, theatre as clowns . . . As these specialisations developed, the theatre circuit in Mandi House expanded to make way for a larger, more organically shaping theatre scene in different parts of the city.

In Shadipur, Studio Safdar has a small rehearsal-performance space and also a book cafe, which hosts readings, talks, music sessions. Groups have been hosting intense performances in small cafes. There are "alternate theatre" groups like Third Space Collective that have been successfully staging their shows on bigger stages like Epicentre, Gurgaon. The group I was associated with, Aatish, and the project I was part of, Genderventions (by The Pocket Company, directed by Niranjani Iyer), transform atypical spaces like parks, gullies and bus stands for interactive theatre on ongoing social issues. And then there is solo theatre by people like Maya Rao and Mallika Taneja deeply invested in issues like gender justice, power packed deliveries that have broken the myth of such performances being navel-gazing exercises involving dull monologues. Mohalla Festivals organised by the Lost & Found Trust hosted performances in residential colonies, supported by the resident welfare associations and the inhabitants of the locality. Trees people jogged beneath in parks were used to prop halogens.

Almost all these groups are travelling troupes, performing outside Delhi and, at times, outside India too. Apart from NSD, there are theatre courses in Sri Ram Centre and in newly emerging institutions like Shiv Nadar University and Ambedkar University. Courses are being designed keeping in mind people in other professions so that they do not have to thwart their love for theatre because of being in full time jobs. At the same time, schools have opened up to teaching theatre and theatre practitioners are being appointed by them. Theatre Professionals, Mumbai, is a group that has been identifying such artists in Delhi and placing them with schools here. Kingdom of Dreams in Gurgaon is seen as many as an elitist, commercialised theatre space while other actors feel the pay they get there allows them to do other, more "soulful" theatre. Slam Out Loud, an arts group I worked with, is pushing the envelope further and taking theatre to children in government schools.

This varied mix of theatre groups, spaces and methods has been a welcome development in Delhi where theatre enthusiasts do not have to settle for a narrow definition of theatre but can choose to get involved in the kind of theatre that relates best to their individual interest and ideology.

First published in DailyO, 10 Nov 2018.

Life as we knew it: How my three years in college shaped me into the person I am

I had around 74.6 per cent marks when I came to Delhi in 2003 to apply for college courses. 75 per cent was the cut-off at most places to even take the test (yes, I sure am glad I finished school as long back as I did and escaped the current day rat race young people get forced into). When in the sixth grade, I had been told there was a course where all you had to do was read novels. I had waited for years before I could get rid of maths and science in class 11 to opt for humanities. After that, I had been waiting to come to college and woo English Literature with single-minded devotion. I had secretly resolved to study literature through correspondence instead of choosing a subject I 'did not mind'.

As it turned out, I didn't have to go for a 'back up' option. Unlike in other colleges, the English department of Miranda House, Delhi University, allowed candidates to take their test if they had 65 per cent. When clearing the test got me both a college and a hostel seat there, I could tell that this was going to be a relationship where we understood each other.

I didn't find popular stereotypes about big city institutions to be true — either in the college or in the hostel — where your clothes or your accent were more important than what you did. And there was so much to do, apart from classes you didn't want to miss: Super(hyper?)active societies, protests, festivals, inter-college presentations, sports . . . everything laced with the camaraderie of brilliant women (peers, seniors, teachers and other staff members) who inspired and supported us. In my first few months in college, when someone asked me if I felt homesick, I realised I never got the time to. It was also my first time in a women’s only institution. But, if anything, I only felt more comfortable and confident here.

One of the most vibrant sites of this solidarity was my own department. There wasn't a better place to be. From the very beginning, we were taken seriously. So, I started taking myself seriously. We were called “ladies”, not girls. If we scored low on a test, there wasn't anger or scorn, there was concern. I remember one of my test papers where I hadn’t answered some questions and my teacher had written, “why”. I imagined her frown in worry over what I had done, and I wasn't wrong because that is what I witnessed when I met her to discuss the test. This one time I had missed a test, and when my teacher rescheduled it she said I was allowed to sit in an empty classroom and finish writing even without supervision because she trusted me enough not to cheat. I started doing more because my teachers believed I was capable of it. I spoke to my teachers about my problems and angst. We watched films together, in the college seminar room, in theatres, and their homes.

Some of us once bunked class for the heck of it, because it was one of those 'cool' things you had to check-off your list before you exited college. Later, we kept bugging other classmates to brief us about what had happened in those classes, hoping we hadn’t missed another discussion around Uppity Women of Medieval Times, or a heated debate on why there is no such thing as true love. But most importantly, we were pushed to think for ourselves, as one of our teachers said when advising us about our assignments, “If I want to know what the critic thinks, I’ll buy his book.”

Those years spoilt us because after we passed out we looked for similar spaces outside but couldn't find them. I cry each time I watch Mona Lisa Smile because the passion with which Julia Roberts keeps coming up with new interests and challenges for her students, going much beyond the syllabus and the classroom, makes me miss my own faculty. Because before college, we women were aware of gender discrimination. But our teachers gave us the tools to articulate that injustice, and the confidence to fight it.

Now when I go to college I walk with my stomach drawn in and my breath held. If I am taking a friend along and I point to a place where we used to rehearse or eat lunch, it leaves me feeling unsettled because I am not able to describe it properly. Because yes, that happened . . . but then, there was that too . . . and it came to mean that . . . and also something else . . . and how can I make someone else see all this or explain to them when they were not even there.

We carry our Miranda within us and if it won't have us back maybe we'll create some of our own. Something's gotta give.

First published in DailyO, 28 Oct 2018.

My humble attempt to “take back the night”

After having lived at the same place in New Delhi in India for over a decade, I was happy when I moved to a part of the city where my college friend was my neighbour. If I drive to her place, it doesn’t take over five minutes. One night, I was leaving her house around 12, grinning from ear to ear after hours of laughing at her slapstick jokes. My car had just about touched the gravel of the road when a bike dashed past me, the driver hatefully spitting out these words: “You are roaming the streets at midnight?!”

I am always over-conscious about following the rules while driving because women drivers are summarily ridiculed while men always beat them when it comes to rash driving statistics and the overconfidence that it takes to leave a car parked in the middle of the road, or the sense of entitlement needed to graze your car and stare at you blankly when you look to them for an apology. This time too my first instinct was to check if I had been in the wrong. But I couldn’t figure out what had inspired him to curse when both of us had enough space to co-exist on a broad two-lane, and my speed wouldn’t have made a cycle rickshaw insecure. There was hardly any traffic.

The sad and simple explanation was this: Years after the rape and murder of the student on 16 December 2012, whom the country had decided to call Nirbhaya, the city felt just as repelled by the idea of a woman on a night street.

In college too cowardly bike riders were a common pestilence, even as early as seven in the evening, uttering inane jibes and scurrying away cockily. It was not acceptable to us to remain helpless so we took to walking with stones clenched in our fists. Hearing an occasional pebble hit the spokes of their wheels made us feel we had been able to answer back.

This time I was in a car, supposed to be safer for women compared to public transport or walking. My hands were empty, and I threw them up in the air to ask the bike driver what he meant by his rudeness. I don’t know if the motorist saw me. Once again, I tried to gulp down the feeling of having been attacked and not having been able to retaliate.

People often enquire, “Don’t you feel scared, going around everywhere alone?” When one has to feel scared without having done anything wrong, the fear eventually bursts giving way to the molten lava of anger. The sense of injustice that jabs at the heart every day becomes sharper than fear. It becomes a question of living with dignity, with your head held high, rather than surviving each day curled indoors and inwards like a foetus.

The one riding the bike that night was merely a face I could not even see clearly. But his arms and shoulders, giving strength to him, were huge sections of society. The rebellion against all of them churning in my stomach made me resolve that now I would actually roam and not rush back home fearful.

I started driving at a leisurely pace. There were other people, rather, other men on the roads . . . strolling, chatting, buying ice-cream without looking over their shoulder, while it is a fantasy for women to enjoy such nightly strolls on the streets. I wanted to be able to pass them peacefully without another fight, another encounter. I wanted to own the streets as rightfully and confidently, as do those who think of mothers while cursing and of fathers when asserting their right over the street. Nobody asks, “Does the road belong to your mother?” It’s always the father when it comes to property ownership. What falls in the mother’s share is the home, and only till they promise to remain the sacred tulsi plant in the courtyard, quiet and uncomplaining.

Having arrived at my place, hardly a kilometre away from my friend’s, I calmed myself down as I unlocked my door and thought of how the bleak situation seems the same even after all the uproar over the assault on Nirbhaya. But what kept coming back to me was the outrage and insecurity in the mototrcyclist’s voice, which showed he was not able to digest a woman a) being out b) at night c) driving a car.

Those who have been raised to believe that being a man is to be everything a woman is not would have difficulty swallowing when they see women in “manly” roles. But this change would not seek the permission of such men. Nor would it quietly wait for the police or the administration to get their act together. It is true that women like Nirbhaya have been going through brutalities in villages and cities. But voices suppressed for ages are also revolting. The torment that had to be quietly borne but could not be named is now being spoken of in debates, discussions, protests, FIRs and courts.

Women have battled oppression for years. We are perhaps too cynical now to dream of a magical revolution overnight. To live a life of self-respect, however, we cannot afford to be resigned either. It’s hard to say about the country but its women are changing. The roots of this change sprouting within us are claiming the streets, and the land beneath.

First published in thREAD, The Hindu, 18 May 2018.

On being wonder-full

“My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky;”

That was about William Wordsworth’s heart, which leapt up in 1807. Remember the last time your heart leapt on seeing a rainbow? Or for that matter, even the rain (or the sun, depending on our geography)?

Earlier, as a child, a rainbow was to me a reincarnated fairy from the glossy storybooks my father got from faraway places, spreading out her eastman colour wings. (According to ancient Japanese beliefs, ancestors use the bridge of rainbows to descend on earth.0 But now, courtesy science, first to come to mind are terms like spectrum and vibgyor.

By giving us an insight into nature, science meant to better cement our relationship with nature, to make us an integral part of it. Sadly, though, we repeatedly fail to achieve this, ignoring the many trinkets nature has on display: a toddler’s hysterical giggle (unless offered to us via some viral videos network), an impudent bird on the window sill, a uniquely arched tree . . . We do not have to be Alices in Wonderland to discover all of this. We do need to peek out of our cubbyholes, spare a few moments each day to take in everything beauteous around us that we take for granted in our pursuit of a happiness that is always receding faster than the pace with which we gambol towards it.

Even if the speed of light is slowing down, and even if that might cast an effect on thermodynamics and quantum physics, isn’t it a relief to know that despite climate change the morning sun still softly filters down the hibiscus petals in the lone pot which we forgot to irrigate yesterday in our morning gallop? That moment of standing and staring will probably give us an added incentive to fight climate change, make the battle personal, and so on. Pausing to take in the various elements of nature around us betters concentration and increases our patience.

When life gets infested with the vagaries of this world, I turn to nature for reassurance. The very feeling that I am a part of something so enchanting and true leads to supersonic pain relief. That is why I added this PS when talking to my broker for a new accommodation: “Please see if there is a tree around.”

I look at a tree and think: It took years to grow this tall and now it just stands there, in quiet dignity as so many birds, humans, plants, insects benefit from its presence. Its years are etched as carvings in its bark, a proof of all it endured and embraced, of how it made its own everything that had come to meet it, whether to offer homage or hostility.

A Stanford study found that people who took walks in nature were less likely to be depressed. Ecotherapists recommend spending quality time with nature to fight maladies. If someone still does not have reason enough to turn more animstic, they can turn to Wordsworth again, who believed nature to be “a teacher whose wisdom we can learn, and without which any human life is vain and incomplete”.

First published in Deccan Herald, 28 May 2018.

Those who did not die

Five years after Nirbhaya's gang-rape and murder in Delhi on 16 December 2012 that made headlines all over the world, what does her village in eastern Uttar Pradesh look like? And how has it been for other women around, those who, not unlike Nirbhaya, dare to dream?

Preliminary encounters

‘Are you looking for bitiya’s [daughter's] house?’ a vegetable vendor asks as I and a writer-lawyer, my contact in Ballia, try to navigate our way into the dark alleys of the Medaura Kalan village, quite far from the highway. In this part of eastern Uttar Pradesh, the evening is scary, unrelieved by lit-up shopping centres and street crossings. People here have no idea of the evening one talks about in a city.

Named Nirbhaya (meaning "fearless") by people, the 23-year-old student whose rape and murder in December 2012 triggered huge protests all across India, was from here. In her familial village people still fondly recall her as ‘bitiya’, their daughter who had gone to the big city to pursue a career in physiotherapy but did not come home.

Instructed by a village elder, a boy of about 10 escorts us through a few narrow lanes till we reach the house, of the village chief, the pradhan. It’s here that we hope to have our initial conversation about life in the village in the shadow of a daughter’s death. The pradhan is expected to tell us where exactly to go to meet Nirbhaya’s extended family.

A boy opens the door. The ground floor is a cowshed from where we are led up the stairs. Walking up, we can hear the television belting out programmes in Bhojpuri. There’s a cot in the living room where we are asked to wait for pradhan-ji. A while later, of the two men in the inner room, one comes out to meet us.

When I start noting down his name, he protests hesitantly: ‘I mean I am not the actual pradhan, it’s my wife.’ Reservations for women in the Panchayati Raj institutions has facilitated their empowerment at the village level. In many cases though, they become mere signing authorities overshadowed by their husbands who act like the village heads. When I insist on meeting her, the husband hedges: ‘But she is not that smart, you know, in speaking and all.’ I persist saying it really doesn’t matter. His reluctance is visible. The wife, he tells me, stays in another house preferring the anonymity of the inner courtyard; this place is meant for receiving visitors and entertaining guests. But before we meet her, we have to meet the members of Nirbhaya’s family.

Bitiya’s home

Nirbhaya’s parents live in Delhi and visit their ancestral village from time to time to be with their clan. The family of her father’s brother here represents what could have been her home. Lalji Singh, her father’s uncle, is here with us. We start talking about the political parties that had come to the village after the 2012 incident. ‘The hospital that Chief Minister Akhilesh Yadav had promised came up,’ the elderly man says recalling how the village landscape changed in the years since. ‘But there are no doctors. We are not sure about the qualifications of the two who come to dole out medicines for cold and cough. Well, now very few medicines are left. The doctor’s quarter is still unfinished and the floor – still kutcha. The water tank is empty and there is no electricity.’

There was also talk of a school. ‘But there wasn’t enough land for that so nothing came of it.’ Lalji looked disappointed and at the same time conscious that the big focus on the back-of-the-beyond village was because of the brutalities perpetrated on Nirbhaya, her death turning into international headlines.

By now Nirbhaya’s aunt, along with the actual village head, and some other villagers, have gathered around us. People of the village remember and keep counting the promises that had been made, like a road connecting the village to the primary school. ‘That’s right,’ Lalji says. ‘But the people who came to build the road messed up. They started laying the road at one place and the building material landed up in another village.’ He recalls that the district magistrate at that time, who had come with an engineer, asked what the village needed. The collector had taken the responsibility of starting an inter-college in the area, but he got transferred before he could set up the institution.

Medaura Kalan had been declared a Lohia village, giving its development issues a new focus under the programme named after the socialist icon and freedom fighter Ram Manohar Lohia. Interestingly, the Samajwadi Party, ruling UP at that time, reveres him as its ideological guru. ‘The contractors who had started work here did not complete it,’ Lalji grumbled. ‘They did not even pay the bills of the local shopkeepers, rather took away 500 bricks and a truckful of sand that we had brought for the family’s use.’

The young men in the family had been promised jobs. ‘Six of our boys should have got jobs. Vacancies are there. But the Chief Minister only asked them to fill up the forms.’ Lalji says he does not care so much about the jobs as for some genuine work for the village community. An efficient primary health centre or a girls’ school. ‘Our daughters must not cycle 12 kilometres to school.’

At the mention of girls, Bhagmani Pandey, Nirbhaya's aunt, raises the issue I have been hesitating to raise. ‘We want justice for our bitiya, and punishment for the culprits. After the incident, girls are even more afraid to step out of home for their courses.’ She speaks of the corruption in the system and deplores that there is no proper road connecting the village to Ballia town. I turn to Savita Devi, the village head, for her opinion. After a lot of reluctance, she says, ‘You people know better.’

A silhouette of Nirbhaya's aunt in their familial house

Lalji shakes his head in disapproval over what he calls a ‘toothless law’ that does not deter criminals. The National Crime Records Bureau shows Uttar Pradesh as the state with the highest number of murders in 2016, and a 12.4 per cent increase in rape cases from 2015. After Yogi Adityanath took over as Chief Minister in 2017, he announced the formation of ‘anti-Romeo squads’ for the safety of women. Singh is dismissive of the step: ‘Those squads end up harming the ones they are supposed to protect. In such conditions how can women work alongside men? Where is the support from the government that would have given confidence to women about their safety? I admire the women who are working outside their homes because they risk everything to go out.’ He sighs. ‘So many media people have been here. I know you are doing your job. But I wish it could change the way things are.’

Returning from the village, we come across a wedding marquee – bustling, all lit up. A few metres away was a field plunged in darkness; little boys are playing there. Girls of the same age have huddled up in the arc of the light near the entrance, slipping out of their parents’ cautious circle under the marquee. But they do not move any farther from the entrance, clinging to each other in the security of the festive lights. Some distance ahead, police barriers display emergency phone numbers in bold – to be called when a girl is facing sexual harassment.

Then and now

It has been five years since Nirbhaya’s tragic death following her brutal gang-rape on a moving bus one winter evening in Delhi. The incident had sparked protests, anger, debate, schemes, funds . . . What has all this meant for the other young women in Ballia? Have they felt strengthened by the voices demanding justice, or has the memory of what Nirbhaya faced made them warier? Has it changed anything about the way men look at women, behave with them?

On 8 August 2017, the accused Prince (Aditya) Tiwari, who had been harassing Ragini Dubey, slit her throat when she was going to school along with her sister in Bajah village in Ballia. The 17-year-old’s savage killing made headlines and has got considerable attention from the local media. Journalists here say this might not have been the case a few years ago, considering violence against women is accepted as the norm and not the exception in this part of the country.

The village of Bajah where Ragini’s family lives is not far from the main road. The men standing by the roadside direct us to the house after making sure we know her father.

In the courtyard, two men sit under a newly pitched tent; one of them is shaving. They get up from their chairs and ask us to sit. We learn that they are policemen posted there for the family’s security.

A makeshift post for the policemen guarding Ragini's house

Ragini’s mother, Vandana Dubey, angrily recalls the pradhan’s threat to the family. Kripashankar Tiwari, co-accused in Ragini’s murder and father of Prince, had bragged to the family after the incident that he would ‘buy’ those who mattered in the local police setup and the administration. Vandana is distraught that Prince has still not been brought under the National Security Act. In the middle of the conversation, her 11-year-old son comes in and gives vent to his sense of outrage. Looking grave, his voice urgent, the boy adds bits of information he fears his mother is forgetting.

Ragini was close to her grandmother, who recounts her many talents and ambitions, and her concern for the family. ‘I no longer stand outside the house where Ragini used to wave at me every morning before going to school. It is too painful.’ Sumitra Devi is a resolute woman. She repeats her daughter-in-law’s statement: ‘The pradhan bragged that he would pay off everyone who is dealing with the case. Please write this and put it under my name. What he said makes me wonder if we would ever get justice.’

She cries, much like Ragini’s mother and sister, throughout the conversation. ‘I have seen my daughters being dominated by their spouses, and I feel terrible that the children I have raised with so much love are no longer free to do what they want in their marital homes.’ That is why she decided to do everything possible to get her granddaughters educated and make them independent. ‘These girls are sometimes upset if I scold them for watching TV. But I tell them they can do all this later, now is the time to study and make something of their lives. All of them are studying for the qualifications to work, not just to get married.’

Ragini wanted to be an airhostess, ‘There was nobody like her,’ Sumitra Devi says wistfully. ‘Each morning before going to school she would take my blessings. My husband, dead now, was in the army, and Ragini would say that after her grandfather, she would be the one to make the family proud. I was hoping these girls would do even better than my sons. Now, Ragini’s life has been cruelly ended, and her dreams shattered.’

Our conversation is suddenly disrupted by the high pitch of an altercation. Shweta, Ragini’s sister, holds my hand and asks me to come inside to carry on with the conversation. The heated argument is between the policemen outside the house and someone who works at the pradhan’s house, who had come to mouth abuses against this grief-stricken, beleaguered family. Ragini’s mother goes outside and tries to dissuade the policemen from the fight. A police vehicle reaches the spot after some time and the cops offer some words of assurance to the housewife.

The incident gets reported in the local papers the next day.

The house of the accused is right next to the Pandeys’. Sumitra Devi says the neighbours keep trying to make trouble in such ways, perhaps emboldened by the pradhan’s release on bail, which has been a huge setback to Ragini’s family and dwindled their hopes for justice. When Ragini’s mother comes back in, she sounds apologetic. ‘I don’t know what all we have been saying to you, a bit emotionally charged as we are. You write what you find fit and proper.’

Shweta says to her mother, ‘Don’t you think she knows? She does this every day.’ The eldest of the four sisters, Neha, works in Banaras as a dietician in a well-known hospital. Shweta has finished her graduation. She was planning to get enrolled in a master’s course when tragedy struck disrupting the rhythm of the aspirational family. Shweta’s despair shows through, ‘We sisters are the kind of people who would always be running around, for classes, or to fill up some forms, or to know about some job opportunities.’ All that has now come to a halt. Shweta’s family is too scared to let her or the other girls out. Her youngest sister has also been pulled out of school because she was being harassed there. The pradhan’s invisible hand has been out to hammer down her daughters’ big dreams, Vandana Dubey remonstrates. The principal said that the school could no longer take the responsibility for her safety. ‘Can you believe it?’ Shweta gasps. ‘For four months we have not stepped out of the house.’

Ragini's home

The pradhan-Dubey family conflict, played out on a larger scale, captures the binary between the entrenched patriarchy and the technology-induced progressive forces in rural India. Nirbhaya, Ragini and her brave sisters stand for the new world that beckons them with its possibilities. The rapists on the moving bus and the obscurantist village heads are out to turn the girls’ aspirations into a hair-raising nightmare.

Quartz India recently carried a report about Girija Borker’s research pointing to a new trend among the young women in Delhi opting for colleges not for the quality of education they offer but their proximity to their homes. If this trend gains further momentum and travels to different parts of the country, it will deal a huge blow to the cause of women’s education. Not just that, the number of women in the premier institutions will significantly come down, resulting in a decrease in their share in higher education. In gender terms, the education scenario will be badly skewed, impacting the professional fields consequently. No wonder in the villages and small towns of Uttar Pradesh, for those like the Dubey sisters it is now a challenge to step out of their homes breaking the barrier of fear to go to class.

Shweta is tired of being scared and hiding at home because the baddies are prowling the street. ‘My interest is in computers. I came to know of an NGO looking for skilled professionals to work with children. But now everything has got held up.’ Sumitra Devi says in a remorseful voice, ‘I tell them not to go out. Even when their mother goes to meet the collector about the case, we hold our breath till she comes back. Sometimes we think of leaving all this behind and moving elsewhere. But we are not so rich.’

How did the 16 December 2012 Delhi gang-rape impact Ballia, where Nirbhaya was from? Has the tragedy that shook the world changed this place? Sumitra Devi is not so sure. ‘What changes can you expect? Nothing. I must have committed many sins in my past life to have been born in Ballia. This is a place for sinners.’ Ragini’s grandmother is talking of the same place hallowed by the memory of legendary freedom fighter Mangal Pandey and writers like Hazari Prasad Dwivedi.

The press and the people

The locals I talk to commend the media for having constantly followed up on Ragini’s case, which, they believe, managed to build some pressure on the police and the administration. However, there is a less salutary view about the media focusing on the girl’s death in its love for sensationalism. Still, the fact remains that ordinary people joined the protests along with the family against the delay in punishing the culprits. A correspondent of the Amar Ujala newspaper who had reported a candle march, says protests were carried out in Ballia both for Ragini and Nirbhaya. Some people, reports say, also tried to raise funds to help the families to meet legal expenses. Sudhir Tiwari, in charge of crime reporting at the Dainik Jagran in Ballia, talks of the changing reporting trend, the shift in focus from victim blaming to the action or the lack thereof by the authorities.

Are things both changing and remaining the same?

Looking at Ballia, it is hard to definitely know if things have changed when it comes to violence against women. After Ragini’s killing, people invested their faith in Superintendent of Police Sujata Singh following the arrest of the main accused the same day. Yet when his father got bail and when NSA was not invoked in dealing with the case as promised, the family started losing hope. Crimes against women do not show a decline but people have started coming forward to report. Terror and intimidation no longer can push them into a shell. In Ragini’s case, people I spoke to, pointed out how Prince, the accused, had been spoilt by his affluent and influential family’s indulgence and flawed upbringing. They did not resort to victim blaming, or at least knew enough about its incorrectness when in conversation with a journalist. Families of Nirbhaya and Ragini have stood up for their daughters while in many cases girls are still scared to tell their parents about harassment for fear of victim blaming. There is pressure from the media and NGOs on the police to act. At the same time, if a woman reports harassment right at the beginning, the police often leave offenders with a warning to avoid recording the complaints and having to be accountable for it. The same offenders who are let off then go on to commit much more violent crimes.

Earlier in December, a team of girls took out a cycle rally all across UP, intending to conclude the journey at Nirbhaya’s village. The aim was to raise awareness about violence against women. Nirbhaya’s parents came to Lucknow to support the initiative. Perhaps it is in such small measures – Ragini’s sisters not willing to give up on their dreams, her mother sitting at the magistrate’s office all day to submit a petition, Nirbhaya’s parents who had wanted that the shame of violence stays only with the perpetrators, the girls pedalling along the roads that do not welcome them – that one can see tendrils of change grow, where women prove that ‘courage is not the absence of fear, it is acting in spite of it’.

First published in The Equator Line, Jan-Mar, 2018.

16 दिसंबर के बाद

दिल्ली में कई साल एक जगह रहने के बाद नए मोहल्ले में मैं खुश थी कि कॉलेज की दोस्त पड़ोसी बन गई। गाड़ी से उसके घर जाने पर मुश्किल से पाँच मिनट लगते थे। पिछले साल एक रात उसके यहाँ खाना और खूब सारी बातों के बाद मुस्कुराती हुई मैं अपनी गाड़ी उसके अपार्टमेंट से निकाल रही थी। सड़क पर आई ही थी कि पास से शोर मचाती एक बाईक निकली और साथ में आई बाईक चालक के चिल्लाने की आवाज़: "12 बजे रात को घूमने निकली है?"

घटना 2016 की है। यानि निर्भया के साथ की गई हिंसा के चार साल बाद। दिल्ली समेत देश के कई इलाके में हुए आंदोलन-प्रदर्शन के बाद भी एक औरत का रात में बाहर होना समाज को उतना ही नागवार था। 

इस किस्म के बुज़दिल बाईकवालों को कॉलेज के ज़माने से देखते आई हूँ। कोई फ़ब्ती कसना और दुम दबा कर उड़ लेना। तिस पर भी सोच ये कि वो लोग बहादुर हैं। कॉलेज में अपने दोस्तों के साथ टहलते हुए इन कायरों की आदत हो गई थी। बेबस रहना मंजूर नहीं था इसलिए मुट्ठियों में रास्ते पर पड़े कंकड़ भर के चलने लगे। कभी मोटरसाइकिल के पहिए के आरों पर कंकड़ कि टनक सुनाई देती तो कुछ तस्सली मिलती कि उनको कुछ तो जवाब दिया। 

इस बार मैं गाड़ी में थी, जिसे कई लोग औरतों के लिए पैदल चलने या बस में सफ़र करने से ज़्यादा सुरक्षित मानते हैं। हाथ खाली थे, उन्हें ही हवा में घुमा कर मैंने प्रश्नचिन्ह बनाया कि क्या मतलब है उनकी बद्तामीज़ी का। बाईकवाले ने देखा या नहीं पता नहीं। एक बार फिर वार सहकर रह जाने के गुस्से में मैं दाँत भींचती रह गई। 

लोग कई बार पूछ्ते हैं, "दुनिया भर में घूमती रहती हो, डर नहीं लगता?" जब बिना किसी गलती के रोज़ डर कर रहना पड़े तो वो डर गुस्सा बनकर फट पड़ता है। डर से पैना बन जाता है नाइंसाफी का काँटा जो दिल को दिन-रात भेदता रहता है। सवाल सर झुका कर साँस लेने का नहीं, सर उठा कर ज़िंदा रहने का बन जाता है। 

जो बाईक पर सवार था वो सिर्फ़ एक चेहरा था, जो अँधेरे में दिखा भी नहीं। उसके कंधे-बाजू बन उसे ताकत देते समाज के कई लोग थे। उन सबके अन्याय के खिलाफ़ जो विद्रोह मन में उबल रहा था उसके चलते मैंने ठाना कि अब तो घूम कर ही जाऊँगी, डर कर तेज़ी से घर नहीं भागूँगी। 

धीरे-धीरे गाड़ी चलाते हुए घर की तरफ़ बढ़ी। सड़क पर और भी लोग, बल्कि यूँ कहना चाहिए कि और भी मर्द, थे। मैं उन सबके बीच से आराम से निकलना चाहती थी। सड़क पर उतने ही अधिकार और आत्मविश्वास से चलना चाहती थी जितना वो लोग जो गाली देते समय माँ को याद करते हैं और सड़क पर अपना हक़ जताने की बात पर बाप को। तभी कोई ये नहीं पूछ्ता, "सड़क तेरी माँ की है?" सड़क कभी माँ या बहन की कहाँ हुई है, उनके हिस्से में तो हैं घर-आँगन, वो भी तब तक जब तक वो वहाँ की तुलसी बने रहें। 

घर पहुँच कर दिमाग़ ठंडा करके सोचा कि निर्भया या उसके पहले और बाद हुई गाँव-शहर में औरतों के खिलाफ़ हिंसा की घटनाओं में  कोई अद्भुत या अपार बदलाव नहीं दिखता। पर बाईकवाले की आवाज़ में जो बौखलाहट थी वो एक ऐसे बदलाव का संकेत थी जिसे वो पचा नहीं पा रहा था। औरत होकर बाहर निकली है, वो भी रात में, और गाड़ी चलाती हुई?! 

जिन्हें ये सिखा कर बड़ा किया गया कि मर्द होना वो सब कुछ है जो औरत होना नहीं है, उन्हें औरतों को तथाकथित "मर्दानी" भूमिकाओं में देखकर निगलने में तकलीफ़ तो होगी। पर ये बदलाव उनकी इजाज़त का मोहताज नहीं है। और न ही ये परिवर्तन मुँह ताकेगा सरकार-प्रशासन का। सच है कि एक तरफ़ निर्भया के जैसे और कई औरतों को बर्बरता से गुज़रना पड़ रहा है। पर बरसों से दबी जुबानें खुल कर द्रोह भी कर रही हैं। जिन यातनाओं को सहते जाना था पर जिनके बारे में बात करना हराम था, उन्हें आज पहले से कहीं ज़्यादा बेझिझक चर्चा, पुलिस प्राथमिकी और अदालत में लाया जा रहा है। 

सालों औरतें इसी दुनिया से जूझती आई हैं । किसी जादुई बदलाव को लेकर हमारे मन में कोई ख़याली पुलाव नहीं पक रहे। पर नाउम्मीदी का रास्ता भी हमारे लिए खुला नहीं अगर हम स्वाभिमान की ज़िंदगी जीने चाहते हैं। देश का तो पता नहीं, पर औरतें बदल रही हैं। और जो बदलाव हमारे अंदर फूट रहा है, उसकी जड़ें जहाँ-जहाँ फैल रही हैं, वो ज़मीन, वो सड़क हमारी होती जा रही है। 

First published in News 18, 15 Dec 2017.