{"id":296,"date":"2011-02-19T11:32:10","date_gmt":"2011-02-19T06:02:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.voiceoftheoppressed.in\/?p=296"},"modified":"2011-02-19T11:32:10","modified_gmt":"2011-02-19T06:02:10","slug":"the-mumbai-local","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/manoranjanpegu.com\/?p=296","title":{"rendered":"THE MUMBAI LOCAL"},"content":{"rendered":"

It’s<\/strong> terrible- how we Indian women aren’t taught to negotiate assaults in public spaces. Oh yes- there’s the mandatory karate class in school, and there are feel-good sessions on women’s library at college- but why aren’t we taught to shake off the paralysis of shame? Why do we turn to self-flagellation after an ‘incident’?<\/p>\n

It has been seven years since. Or eight…???<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t remember his name. Nor his number…!!! He gave me both. He asked me for mine \u2013 name and number. I didn\u2019t give him either. Now it seems quite funny and once it was over, I would laugh my guts out whenever I told this story. Yet, for a while, he had me frightened.<\/p>\n

He looked about 16 or 17, not a sign of hair on his face; thin as a reed. That much I do remember, though I wouldn’t recognize him if I passed him on the street today. He was from a certain class, that much too I could tell. From his clothes, his voice, his accent, his body language.<\/p>\n

The first time he accosted me it was outside the Lower Parel railway station towards which I walked each evening (I worked at Mid-day at the time and the office was a fifteen minute walk from the station). Just outside the station, he stopped me with: \u201cExcuse me, madam\u2026 madam, one minute!\u201d<\/p>\n

How many times have I heard that phrase from a stranger and how many times have I cursed myself for stopping and listening to whatever he had to say? But, like each time, I was thinking that maybe the guy is lost and wants to ask for directions, or maybe he wants to know the time, or maybe I dropped something and he\u2019s come to return it. And so, like each time, I stopped.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n

He was grinning rather stupidly. I noticed there was another guy with him, around the same age, and he was grinning too.<\/p>\n

The young man (not his pal) began talking. \u201cExcuse me, madam\u2026actually, madam\u2026 I saw you madam and you are very nice\u2026 what\u2019s your name?\u201d<\/p>\n

I let out a groan and then a sardonic smile. At least, I had meant it to be sardonic, sarcastic, somewhat insulting. It was the sort of expression that ought to have made him back off without any further fuss. But that was not meant to be.<\/p>\n

He now started laughing \u2013 a half-embarrassed, self-conscious but wholly pleased laugh (and again, his grinny pal kept him company). He fell into step beside me as I walked away, and all the time, he kept talking.<\/p>\n

I have forgotten the exact words now. I don’t think I was even listening very well for I was concentrating on somehow getting into a train and shaking these two guys off. But he was a determined fellow. I vaguely remember the gist of what he said \u2013 (a) he was attracted to me, which amused me a bit because, to me, he was like a child almost (b) he saw me everyday, walking down to the station, which made me very nervous (c) he wanted to ‘do friendship’ with me, which is a phrase that fills me with a mixture of amusement, mortification and irritation.<\/p>\n

When I repeated this story to a friend, she told me I had made a big mistake by laughing. Indian men\u2019s minds still work according to the old adage of \u201cladki hansi, toh phansi\u201d. Maybe he thought I was gurgling with pleasure at his advances, she said.<\/p>\n

I did not think so. Anybody can see when a laugh isn’t pleasant. Even a child senses that. Yet, he kept following me, asking for my name.<\/p>\n

When I reached the ticket window at the station, I decided that enough was enough. So I turned on him with as much fury as my partial amusement would permit, and spat out the words.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook, I don\u2019t know you and don\u2019t want to know you. I am not going to tell you my name, or anything else about me. Go away\u2026 leave me alone.\u201d<\/p>\n

He started arguing (with his pal with the stupid grin still hovering in the background) with me about ‘why not?’<\/p>\n

I have to confess that I toyed with the idea of slapping him but slapping doesn\u2019t come naturally to me. Besides, I took a second look at him and realised he was just a young boy who was attracted to me and decided to take his chances. I decided to try gentleness.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook, you\u2019re very young. I\u2019m much older than you think. I\u2019m not right for you, that\u2019s why.\u201d<\/p>\n

He cocked his head and demanded to know: \u201cWhy, how old are you?\u201d<\/p>\n

I considered this carefully. He couldn\u2019t be more than eighteen years old. A ten-year gap should suffice as a dampener, I thought, so I lied.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m more than twenty-eight years old, okay? You\u2019re way too young.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut it doesn\u2019t matter, madam. My mother is also older than my father,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

Mother? Father? What? What was going on inside the boy’s mind? Matters, I thought, were very quickly getting out of hand. So I decided to turn around and run. And that is what I did, except that he began to follow.<\/p>\n

\u201cArre!!!, just listen to me, madam. Just one minute. At least tell me your name.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I won\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy not? Please.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLook, I am NOT going to tell you my name.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut, madam, please \u2026 just your name.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stopped once more and looked at that boy, still with his stupid grin pasted in place, and his pleading, stupid-grin-face companion still at his shoulder. I sighed.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is the point? If you harass me too much, I\u2019ll just give you a false name. How would that help?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay then, just give me a false name.\u201d<\/p>\n

I was incredulous but since he had asked for it, I decided to give him a name, all the while descending the stairs rapidly with him in hot pursuit.
\nThe name of an old schoolmate popped into my head. \u201cRashmi,\u201d I muttered.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, Rashmi\u2026 Rashmi ji, your phone number?\u201d<\/p>\n

At this point, I was so amused and so incredulous that I burst out laughing. Here I was, telling him I\u2019d give him a false name and there he was, asking for a false number?<\/p>\n

He stood there while I continued laughing loudly, shaking my head, hoping the train would arrive quickly so I could escape.<\/p>\n

But he wouldn\u2019t give up. \u201cWhy are you laughing, Rashmi ji? Okay, at least tell me where you live.\u201d<\/p>\n

I laughed some more.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on, just tell me where you live,” he persisted. “At least tell me the area, Rashmi, please.\u201d<\/p>\n

The train\u2019s headlamp was curving into view. I rushed forward; both boys followed.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo that\u2019s where you live\u2026 Borivali?\u201d<\/p>\n

I was amused again at their na\u00efve logic. It was a Borivali local that I was rushing to board and so the boy conveniently assumed that I lived in Borivali. I would be getting off at Andheri, and could have gotten off at any of the half-dozen stations in-between. Boarding a local headed in a certain direction means nothing in this city, but I wasn\u2019t about to correct him. So I just nodded and hopped into the compartment.<\/p>\n

He began calling out a series of numbers. It took a few seconds to for it to register that he was calling out his phone number. That made me laugh once again. Did he seriously think I was going to remember his number and call him up?<\/p>\n

He repeated the number twice. As the train bega nto move, he called out: \u201cCall me\u2026 remember the number, okay? Give me a phone ring\u2026 Rashmi!\u201d<\/p>\n

The train pulled out of the station.<\/p>\n

And you\u2019d have thought that was the end of the matter. I certainly did. But I was wrong.<\/p>\n

A few weeks later, I was walking down again to the station when I heard a voice calling out.<\/p>\n

\u201cRashmi\u2026 Rashmi!\u201d<\/p>\n

I hardly paid any attention. As the voice called out again and again, I walked along briskly, wondering who this Rashmi was and why she didn\u2019t listen to whoever was calling out to her.<\/p>\n

Then the voice got closer and caller sounded very loud, just behind me. I stopped and turned out of sheer curiosity. And that’s when I saw them: those boys again! Their reedy, teenaged bodies with those stupid, permanent grins. I groaned with annoyance and disbelief.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi, Rashmi.\u201d<\/p>\n

I took a deep breath and without answering him, swung back and briskly marched to the railway station. I wasn\u2019t going to talk to him this time.<\/p>\n

\u201cRashmi! Please, one minute, listen. What\u2019s your problem? I really like you\u2026 one minute!\u201d<\/p>\n

This wasn\u2019t helping. They kept following. And then, suddenly, it occurred to me that this could turn into an unpleasant scenario if I were to walk down every single day and have them at my heels all the way. Once again, I thought it might be better to try and get some sense into him.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook, I told you; I\u2019m much older… You\u2019re in college, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, second year\u2026 I\u2019m twenty.\u201d<\/p>\n

Liar, I thought. He didn\u2019t look it. But by now, my annoyance was replaced by pity and amusement. I felt the corners of my mouth threatening to curve upwards.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo why don\u2019t you find a nice girl from college and try to pataofy her. There will be many girls of your own age whom you like.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut, Rashmiji, I like you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, you don\u2019t. You don\u2019t even know me. Besides, I told you, I am not suitable for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s okay. I will tell my sister to talk to you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Gasp. Splutter. Sister?<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. I told my sister about you. I want to marry you. I\u2019m going to make my parents meet you.\u201d<\/p>\n

And his pal’s stupid grin got wider, if that was at all possible. I really wanted to slap this other boy.<\/p>\n

Yipes, I thought. Marry me? This boy’s imagination was moving ahead in leaps and bounds. This was no time for gentle remonstrance. It was time, once more, to run.<\/p>\n

Of course, he followed.<\/p>\n

\u201cRashmi, I will marry you, I promise. What\u2019s the problem?\u201d<\/p>\n

I wanted to scream at him by this time. It wouldn’t have helped, I knew, to just point out that that was not what I wanted. I had already done that the first time he followed me and he was clearly not listening. So I just kept walking towards the platform.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re going home? Don\u2019t go home right now. Rashmi, stay for a while\u2026 Let\u2019s talk.\u201d<\/p>\n

I ran towards the train. They followed, still calling out to me. The phone number was called out again. With pleas to call him up.<\/p>\n

The train chugged out.<\/p>\n

Believe it or not, this still wasn\u2019t the end of the matter. There\u2019s more.<\/p>\n

The third time he caught up with me en route to the station, it was almost two months later. Without any calling out of false names, he said \u2018Hi\u2019 softly into my ear.<\/p>\n

I almost screamed with panic. I saw who it was and began to walk more briskly. He (with his grinning pal in tow) kept pace. As they walked beside me, my anger mounted. Also, there was a new shred of fear. I don\u2019t like being followed, especially by people who seem determined to marry me even before they\u2019ve touched the legal marriageable age.<\/p>\n

He said, \u201cRashmi, listen. You had said I would find another girl in college, someone of my own age.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, so what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut I have not found anyone yet.\u201d<\/p>\n

The expression on his face and his choice was words was such that I was tempted to double up laughing, but I bit my lips hard.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, what should I do?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRashmi.\u201d<\/p>\n

I snapped, \u201cMy name\u2019s not Rashmi.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen what is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not telling you. I told you that before. I don\u2019t want to have anything to do with you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n

I sighed. He just would not get it until I packaged my ‘no’ in layers of a context he could understand. So I decided to tell him one more little lie.<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause my heart is elsewhere.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy heart is with someone else. That\u2019s why. Understood?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut Rashmi…\u201d<\/p>\n

“Oh Jesus Christ! I told you. No.”<\/p>\n

I started descending the stairs. He tried to move faster than me and block my path but he slipped and took a tumble down the stairs. For a few seconds, I stopped, then started on my way again.<\/p>\n

He was already up on his feet, biting his tongue, half-smiling, muttering, \u201cOh shit! What an insult\u2026 and that too in front of a girl!\u201d<\/p>\n

I can\u2019t quite describe the way this statement made me feel. At that time, it made me laugh. Now, when I think back, I see it for what it was \u2013 an open admission of embarrassment from a relatively uncorrupted boy who hasn\u2019t yet learnt to cheat on feelings and isn\u2019t afraid of plunging headlong into a pursuit, confident with the brashness of youth and unaware of class or other social barriers.<\/p>\n

Even so, I turned around and was going to ask if he was alright, if he was hurt, because I did not really want him to get hurt.<\/p>\n

But just then, he caught my wrist to make me stop. And that was it. I was at the end of my tether. I jerked my hand away and turned on him with all the fury I could summon.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you dare!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,” he said. “Okay, but you weren\u2019t listening to me, Rashmi.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t want to listen to you. Next time you come after me, I am going to yell, collect a crowd and have you beaten up.\u201d<\/p>\n

I walked away, not looking back over my shoulder. I don\u2019t know whether he followed or stayed or went back.<\/p>\n

Once, much later, I saw him and his friend, grin-faced as ever, walking down to the station. I was walking towards the Mid-day office in the late afternoon. Both boys saw me and saw that I recognized them.<\/p>\n

But this time, the boy did not make an attempt to stop me. He just grinned. I looked at the road straight ahead and tried not to laugh. He and his pal kept grinning as I hurried past them. My reaction was: “Phew! Thank god.”<\/p>\n

And that’s the end of the story.<\/p>\n

Was I feeling harassed by that young college kid? I don’t know. I actually wanted to be kind to him. And all these years later, I think of the entire episode with amusement and a little pity and remorse because of how he must have felt. But at the time, I was only a couple of years out of college myself and being followed everyday by two grown-up boys was a frightening thought.<\/p>\n

No, let me be honest. It is still a scary thought. A nineteen year old is no more or less dangerous than a fifty year old. Two nineteen year olds stalking me would still make me nervous, especially if they knew where I lived, what route I took, what train I waited for on what platform.
\nI ask myself questions now. I ask if that boy had really done anything wrong in following me and proposing marriage outright. I ask if I had done right in allowing myself to get sucked into a conversation. I ask what could have been done differently?<\/p>\n

I have learnt to harden myself to strangers over the years – to slide on an impenetrable mask of indifference and cold contempt on my face when accosted by strangers whom I don’t want to speak to. I like myself lesser for it. It is a terrible thing to do to a human being – to reduce him to an object not worthy of acknowledgment even, to make him feel like that. On the inside, I cringe each time I do it.<\/p>\n

But what are my options? When accosted by a random stranger who refuses to take ‘no’ for an answer, whose sense about where and how conversations about romance or marriage should be conducted, whose sense of propriety is so vastly different from my own that he seems scary, what should be done? I still don’t know.<\/p>\n

(N.B: The author here tries to describe her experiences in the Mumbai local where she was a few years ago. The name of the author has not been published as she had requested us to do so)<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It’s terrible- how we Indian women aren’t taught to negotiate assaults in public spaces. Oh yes- there’s the mandatory karate class in school, and there are feel-good sessions on women’s library at college- but why aren’t we taught to shake off the paralysis of shame? Why do we turn to self-flagellation after an ‘incident’? It…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[363],"class_list":["post-296","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-personal","tag-women-in-public-spaces"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/manoranjanpegu.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/296","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/manoranjanpegu.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/manoranjanpegu.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/manoranjanpegu.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/manoranjanpegu.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=296"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/manoranjanpegu.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/296\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/manoranjanpegu.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=296"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/manoranjanpegu.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=296"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/manoranjanpegu.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=296"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}