India is failing its daughters, I am ashamed, hurt
Iam nauseous. My stomach is churning and my eyes are moist. I am unable to shake the queasiness. I am at work. A little voice inside my head is telling me to not create a scene. Hold on to the tears and stop shivering. I am trying but failing. I am reading about eightyear-old Asifa Bano. The daughter of India has made headlines, just like she did yesterday, the day before, and a month before as well. Just then, my colleague, Roob, walks up to me, “Why do you look so distressed?” She asks. We’re both from New Delhi, and we spend the next few minutes talking about how we as adults feel unsafe when we visit home. Almost as though she can sense my pain, she touches my shoulder briefly and goes back to her desk. An eight-year-old was gang-raped three times inside a prayer hall after sick mastermind had “performed rituals”. One of the rapists was called from Meerut to “satisfy his lust”. The girl was confined using sedatives, then strangled and hit on the head twice with a stone — “in order to make sure” she was dead. But not before another accused, a policeman, asked the others to “wait because he wanted to rape” her one last time. I continue feeling helpless. This is not the first time that I have felt nauseous. This feeling is not new, it has refused to leave me ever since the daughters of my land, India, have become headlines for reasons we should be ashamed of. The little voice in my head is getting louder and aggressive, We’ve failed another daughter. I am nodding my head, in shame and disgust. I am an aunt, I have little nieces, 9, 8, 6, and 7, whom I love and adore and whom I want to protect. In my neighbourhood, just like yours, many little girls play hopscotch, ride swings, and run after butterflies.
Just like Asifa must have run in the meadows, until a few days ago. Why aren’t we protesting the way we did for Nirbhaya? Just yesterday someone asked me to answer the question. Because we are gradually accepting it as an everyday matter, like the weather forecast. I observed myself snap back. Flashes of my days spent working night shifts in New Delhi come to me. My parents stayed awake until I reached home. There were times they suggested I return home from a birthday party on time, I cribbed and haggled for 15 minutes more. I would go for a movie at 9 pm with my colleagues. Whilst I’d had popcorns, they’d stay anxious for the three hours. I feel the need to apologize to them. Mum-dad, I get it now.
It is always a challenge to write on a topic that shatters your spirit, shakes your faith, yet it is essential to have the courage to narrate a few tales, to make sure that certain voices are heard.
In my book, The Trees Told Me So, there is a short story titled, Between Us, Daughter and Mother. It is a tale about an 11-year-old, who was gang-raped. It was performed as a stage show in Kolkata in August 2017.
It won the best director and playwright award, today the plaques send a shiver down my spine. When the show was over, there was no applause, but an ear-deafening silence interspersed with sniffles.
Look around, there’s a lot of screaming, talking, panicking, protesting, and wailing. There is chanting of hymns, flooding authorities with questions. There is praying. There are a lot of questions. There are few answers.
These girls are not hashtags, they are not news items or political agendas. They are not subjects of documentaries. They are not sponsored campaigns. They are not headlines. They are more than that. They are India’s daughters and the country is failing them every TWO minutes*.
Will the heart ever stop to hurt? Will the unreported get reported? Will the words be heard and acted upon? Or perhaps, the daily occurrence — like the weather is sunny, cloudy or not — this plague will get lost in the fine print.
I fear I have turned into a cynic. Yet another gang rape. Yet another.
As a per a report by Amnesty International, a woman is reportedly raped every 15 minutes in India. Every 2 minutes a woman in India is a victim of a crime.