It was
physical.
The visuals
— most of them comprising just a man talking to the camera, calm and composed —
jabbed at my ribs.
Unable to
process any more anger, the mind went numb. Tears hazing the vision were the
only sign of the remorse, the despair, the desperation.
India’s Daughter has a
father and mother talking about their daughter. How they brought her up and how
they worked to make her dreams come true. I shudder to think it could be my
parents. They could be talking about me, my sister, my friend, my colleague.
But she WAS me, my sister, my friend, my colleague.
I know why
so many people took to the streets after December 16, 2012.
Because I
have been them.
I have been
her —
The girl.
Who went to the movies.
With a male friend.
For an evening show.
In Delhi
Nothing
feels real anymore. This life. The simple joys it offers. The length most of us
have to scale just to get home safely. When an ace lawyer says he would burn
his daughters and sisters alive if they were found ‘off’ track. When another
says ours is the best culture. Because There Is No Place
But I feel,
as Leslee Udwin says, none of this
is the malady. But only the symptom.
It was not
a Govindachamy who killed Soumya. It
was us, the society.
I wish I
could withhold paying my taxes. And insurance. And loans.
When the
woman that is me, the person that is me, is given no regard and no respect,
when all I am told is to be careful and be on the lookout for danger and be
alert at every single instance I am outside on the streets, irrespective of the
time, and when I am effectively banished from every place I genuinely want to
be, why should I care about a system that has no qualms about receiving money
for its exchequer while it cannot ensure even a part of what I am entitled to
as a citizen?
I care two
hoots about the ban on India
When
Nirbhaya died, I felt as if the country failed me. Now I feel I may
never win, after all.
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