The Cynic

When my TV screen blared the news of the gangrape incident of 16 December, I simply shook my head and changed the channel. When I heard it again on the radio, I tuned into a song instead. My behaviour wasn’t one of apathy towards the girl’s plight but sheer exhaustion. I’d lost count. Rape. Assault. Eve-teasing. A little touching here and there topped with some lewd comments. Over the past few years, as I’ve grown up, I’ve been shocked, angered, frustrated, livid, and then, simply learnt to live with it. I’ve learnt to live with the fact that during the course of every day spent outside home, I will be stared, leered, whistled or commented at, at least once. If its a lucky day, I’ll get away with just a lustful stare. If its not, well, who can tell? I’ve learnt to live with the fact that the ‘City News’ section of my newspaper will, as a rule, bring to me the news of atleast one rape a day, if not more. I’ve learnt, like other girls in Delhi, to live with a sense of un

Meera stared at the back of her drunk husband’s head, as he leaned over the fireplace, turning something over in his hand. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but experience told her it couldn’t be something to look forward to. She took some cautious steps back, and parked herself into a corner of the room, crouched, pulled her sari over her back and waited in silence. *   When she woke up, she was still curled up in the corner farthest away from the fireplace. He was gone. Her worn out red saree lay unravelled to a side. Slowly, gingerly, she made to get up, and her knees buckled. Her head swam and she slumped to the floor, throwing up, gasping. Meera sat there a moment, leaning against the peeling plaster, breathing deeply, eyes shut. She felt lighter. Purged. Was this how it was meant to be? She breathed some more, and this time, her legs lifted her weight. She gathered her saree, and walked to the basin to inspect the damage. The imprint of his thick fingers on her fr