Publication Date : 30-03-2013
The samosas in the canteen at school were legendary. And rightly so. With potatoes that were perfectly spiced, encased in that deliciously crunchy shell, the aroma would waft into our classrooms, make us weak at the knees. And it was the thought of these shiny, golden triangular miracles that would always propel me forward, braving the crowd clamouring in front of the stall.
That day, like so many times before, I was on the frontlines once again, sliding through the group of students holding out their cash, demanding savouries in return. And it was just as I was trying to squeeze into the throng that I felt the hand on my rear. Heart hammering, I told myself it was inadvertent. But it stayed there too long, much too long. By the time I could gather the nerve to look back, it was gone.
While I attempted to squash the feeling of horror, and nausea, that was bubbling within, I was suddenly pushed forward, almost to the counter. And there it was again, the hand, this time grazing my breast. It was too obvious for me to ignore, and I turned to see who it was. But with a painful squeeze, the owner had retreated once more, leaving me staring, glasses askew. My ears by now were buzzing, dizziness building up in my head, and it was all I could do not to keel over.
I reached the classroom, somehow, although I can’t remember getting there. The next thing I knew, Shakun didi, one of my older classmates, came up and hugged me. She must have seen something on my face, because I hadn’t said a word. Even now, I don’t know what she thought had happened, and I wish I’d told her. And even now, years and years later, I look back on that day as the one that snatched me of my innocence. How I hate the very memory.
Little did I know that was only my first dose of humiliation.
When it next happened, I was barely a teen, still clinging to the last rungs of childhood. It was an awkward period, as it is for most girls at that age; embarrassed of the way my body was developing, I shrouded myself in loose, ill-fitting clothes, hoping I could conceal the fact that I was changing and couldn’t stop it if I tried. One day, clad in a giant t-shirt dotted with tiny horses, I was walking down the street, ungainly as ever. It was broad daylight, mind you, and there were people milling all around, but suddenly, someone walking towards me from the opposite direction simply reached out and groped my chest. This was followed by a comment, something obscene I couldn’t quite make out, as if to underline the indignity of the whole event. And once again, heart thudding, cheeks aflame, I ran all the way home, and into the safety of my room, resolved to push it away, and forget.
The years following that, I learnt to ‘take care’ of myself, if you can call it that. I was more alert when in crowds - if I couldn’t avoid them altogether - and I would evade eye contact with strangers, steer clear as best I could when I saw someone headed my way. But, of course, it wasn’t enough. It never is, is it? There were always distant uncles who sidled in too close for comfort, strangers who had no qualms about ogling or brushing their greasy palms against your thighs, others who found inexplicable joy in pushing themselves on you, even if just for a second. A too-long hug, a heavy hand on the shoulder, one on the waist, fingers on your back - the list goes on and on, until it gets to a point where every time you venture out of the house feels like going into battle and you consider yourself lucky if you haven’t been made an inappropriate pass at for a full day. Imagine that, a whole day!
There is no stopping it. It’s happened to me, like to all women in Nepal and around the world, on public transport, on the streets, anywhere the opportunity presents itself. Like the time I was coming home with my sister and a friend, and all of the buoyant happiness of the day’s adventures melted into fear the minute we realised we were being followed. The young man trailed us into the lane that led to our house, flung his hand out and touched me, before disappearing, his laughter ringing out behind him. I’d simply slid to the ground, unable to hold myself up. As the other two tried to pull me to my feet, I kept asking myself what I’d done to invite his advances--was my top too tight? Was I showing too much skin? Was it me?
Because that is what we’ve been taught to do, the thing that has been drilled into us since we were little toddlers - that any degree of violence or misconduct we encounter in our lives can’t simply have taken place without us playing a part in it. We must have done something to provoke it, even deserve it. And we’ve internalised this guilt, this tendency to blame ourselves, to think of ourselves not as victims, but as some version of aides in the perpetrator’s twisted game. Every time something untoward happens, we’re the ones who are framed, ultimately. Some will tell you you stayed out too late. Fingers will be pointed at that halter you have on. And what is up with your having so many guy friends, what kind of girl are you, really? Others will tell you not to overreact, you’re not the first person this has happened to, see? Nepali society tells you that fear and timidity are virtues, that if you’re outspoken and bold, it’ll make you more of a target--it’ll be your fault.
So, what’s the remedy, then? Should we cover ourselves from head-to-toe, deck up in the most unflattering clothes we can find, lock our doors the minute the sun goes down (or maybe never go out at all), would that get everyone off our backs? Because we all know that only brassy, outgoing women are molested, right? Right?
The entire premise of someone inviting that kind of abuse upon themselves is just ridiculous, and it only serves to justify the crime, encourage it. Haven’t there been enough reports over the years of victimised women, the numbers piling endlessly, to know that your age, your family, your profession, your culture, your educational background - least of all, your taste in clothes - have nothing to do with it? You could be wearing a sack, and it wouldn’t stop these tormentors. And why would it, when they know no one will make them pay for what they’ve done, and they can walk around, groping breasts and caressing thighs to their heart’s content, while women go on blaming themselves for it all.
While violence against women isn’t something that is just going to go away, the least we could do is learn to understand that it is not our fault. Even if we’ll probably be looking over our shoulders until the end of our days, and our hearts will still race at the sound of footsteps on a quiet street, it will be a tiny inkling of progress if we, as a society, are able to agree, once and for all, that these people who subject us to these painful, degrading, soul-wrecking experiences never ever had our permission to do so. And maybe one day, once we shed these medieval attitudes, the finger will be pointed in the right direction.
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