Women Don't Exist Only
Haven't you heard? We kept saying “no country for women” so many times, the Powers That Be in this blessed country finally said, “You know what? You’re right." And with a whoosh, we vanished.
Let’s first get rid of the elephant in the room, just like we got rid of women’s rights and safety in this blessed country of ours. “If there are no women anymore in India Maanvi, as you say, then who is writing this?”
Dear reader, I am writing to you, from the other side. No, no, I am not dead. Though even if I were, I am sure a Policeman somewhere would set the record straight, and deny the denial of my existence. “No, the forensic report shows us that she was not not-dead. That’s what the report says, and we believe the report.”
I am not dead, no. I have, like so many of my women sisters, just…vanished.
Here’s what happened. In our anger, we kept saying “no country for women” so many times, channeled our rage into protests in so many ways, spoke up against so many injustices which broke our spirits, kept going on with so much foolish hope in the face of horrific violence, held up so much solidarity with fellow women across caste, class, and religious lines — that the Powers That Be finally said, “You know what? You don’t matter anymore, India doesn’t need you. Chaliye ho gaya aap ka.”
And thanks to the advances in technology — a phrase almost always used when describing nefarious motives of tech, as if the word “advances” would blind us to the obvious moral corruption of tech, anyway, where’s my documentary Netflix — we have now vanished.
Not, into thin air though. So if you were typing, “Don’t lie, Maanvi! I can still see my mother/girlfriend/sister/grandmother/token woman in my life who I trot out occasionally when I am called upon to care for women!” save your energy. (Gotta use them for those special tweets where you play “devil’s advocate” bro, aise thodi.)
Yes, we are still here — physically. But mentally and emotionally, every woman I know, at least for the last two days, has checked out. I would add intellectually too, but it’s not like you ever thought women were capable of intellect in the first place. As far as marketplace of ideas goes, this intellect idea toh barely made a sale, haina?
“But what happened, Maanvi?” you must be asking.
“Did you finally discover that intelligence in a woman is of no use, she’s still a physical object in the world?” “Or did the caste-deniers finally overwhelm you with their reservations-suck-where-is-caste-you-don’t-understand-anything logic?” “Or did you finally, finally, understand that even though feminism stands for nothing but equality, not enough people will ever understand the concept and why it’s crucial to the future of humanity?”
“What happened?”
Well, it started with a rape case. Which I know, is not a big deal, this is India, where on an average 87 rape cases take place daily, I should get on with my work, structural inequalities will exist till I die, blah blah.
But something about this case, I couldn’t shake off. A 20-year-old Dalit girl. Youngest in the family. Brutally raped. Left for dead. Passes away in a hospital in Delhi. Her body is taken back to her village. Her family isn’t allowed to see her for one last time. She is burnt, as if she wasn’t a woman with a life and dreams and aspirations. But as if she is that kachre ka bag you give to your kabadiwallah while messaging your friend, “But caste doesn’t exist in India yaar.”
And then, a policeman says, “She was not raped.”
Seeing that tweet, I heard a whoosh. You see, I am used to small attacks on my existence as a woman. Any Indian woman you speak to — your mother/girlfriend/sister/grandmother/token woman in my life — knows the prick of chipping away at one’s existence. A cruel boss, who gropes you. Prick. Being told you can’t study more after college. Prick. A man you loved who insists you move to a different country for him. Prick.
Small pricks we take all the time. We use them as armour.
But a whoosh is harder to withstand. A whoosh, like the one I heard, after I read a tweet from a policeman who is entrusted to protect, in a country that tells me every day how much it hates me, in a country I still foolishly love everyday, about how that 20-year-old Dalit girl was NOT raped — it shook the foundation of…everything.
A whoosh like that either causes rage, or a vanishing.
We’ve tried anger. We’ve been angry for a long, long while.
Today, we’re vanishing.
No links of the week this time. Except, to remind you, if you haven’t been following what’s happening, to do so. A good place to start is this report by Jignasa Sinha in The Indian Express from Hathras, about a mother’s grief, and a country’s cruelty.
There are reports of protestors being detained, so I will refrain from an endorsement to go out and protest. Only that, if you are well and able, do find a protest and support them in whichever way you can.
I am not usually this angry every week. I have been seeking refuge in work, texts to friends, and old Hindi films. I hope you’re taking care of yourself too. In case you need a dose of some joy, here’s Shamshad Begum singing of pehla pyar.
As always, I’m a “Reply” away.
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I will write again, soon. (Resuming normal programming. I think.)