As I sat up late, the night before last, a friend asked if I'd be interested in going for a play about Nirbhaya, the Delhi gangrape victim who died 13 days after being attacked on a bus, aged 23. Without thinking twice, I said, "I'm coming!"Through the course of the day, running to and from college, I was almost going to cancel on her thinking that it wouldn't kill me if I missed the play.
But I knew I wanted to watch it. I also knew, however, that I was scared. I didn't know if anyone could reenact an incident like that without trivilaising it or overdoing it. I was scared that the impact of an incident like that wouldn't reach the audience. Although Nirbhaya, the name the press had given the girl, had enraged the nation's women – and even men –, had encouraged them to speak up, the nation was slowly moving on as the incident became less newsworthy, as the country witnessed other rapes. I was scared that the magnitude of not only the single case of Nirbhaya, but the image she stood for and expressed would be lost in an auditorium full of people who would only forget about it the next day. I was scared, but I was also intrigued, to see how people could reproduce that scene, could make us live and witness that moment.
As I got ready to leave, I chose my clothes carefully. I didn't want to wear a dress – I had to go in the auto alone in the late evening. The skirt would do, it was long enough. At my roommate's protests and excitement to decide what I should wear, I ended up going in full pants and a sleeveless top, constantly tugging it to make sure my bra strap wasn't seen.
The auditorium filled, the tension in me built, the lights dimmed. It would begin now. The play started off, dramatic. A singing figure walked across the stage, clad in off white and a chiffon dupatta, almost floating by. Four women and a man, all dressed in black, joined her on stage. I waited for them to start speaking.
With voices full of force and passion, they described the city of Delhi – the "rape capital of India" which had grown too large to protect its citizens. I keep watching, I'd heard most of this before. I winced at the details, disgusted at what we have come to accept and live with, but it all touches me only on the surface. Only until they stop acting and start reliving. It is no longer about Nirbhaya, the girl, but 'Nirbhaya' the concept.
The four women, only two of whom are professional actresses, tell us their own stories of sexual harassment. The first was sexually violated at the age of 8 by a family friend who lived down the lane. She couldn't say "No" then, she didn't know how. The second had been repeatedly violated by numerous men who her parents had employed in their house and although the people she looked up to knew what was going on, nobody said a word. She couldn't speak up then, she didn't know how. The third was a 'dowry-wife' who had been doused with Kerosene by her own husband and set ablaze. Her husband and his family soon ran away, taking their only son, Tej, away from her. She still looks for him in every passing male. She couldn't speak up then, her burnt face didn't know how. The fourth was a girl who had lived on her own terms all her life. To the relatives and neighbourhood uncles and aunties, to the strangers on the bus who had called her "whore" and "rand" for wearing miniskirts and inking her skin, she had said, "Fuck this shit. I live on my own terms."She had even called a group of boys to drop their pants and show her their 'dragon swords' when she was only 13. Until she moved to the USA, she had been strong, she thought. But on one Christmas eve, she was gangraped by four men near a dumpster. She couldn't speak up then, she no longer knew how.
Each woman told the story that every woman in India has learnt by-heart. Learn how to dress when you're travelling by public transport, learn to look away and walk ahead when men stare at you, learn that on buses, your private parts are bound to be touched, learn that you have to find ways to avoid being groped or raped because in the end it will all come down to you. Through my tears and shaking limbs, I watch them tell their stories and relive my decision of what to wear that evening. Relive every time I had to find out how I was going to and from some place and how I'd need to dress accordingly. Relive every time my parents have made sure my clothes were okay and been paranoid about my safety as my brother would roll his eyes and say, "Not everyone out there is a rapist!" Relive all the news I'd read and seen about eve teasing and rape cases. Relive an article I started writing with my friend on eve teasing in which we tried to be objective about the whole issue because we were so goddamn tired of the mindless blame game. Relive every time I'd been eve teased, and had walked on ahead as though I had blinders on and with a fake glare on my face to make it seem like I disliked the world. Through my tears and shaking limbs, I watch them tell the story of Nirbhaya as they relive their own stories.
My friend takes my hand in hers, comforting me as she herself sobs, reliving her own story. I see a couple in front of me hugging each other, bearing the force of these stories, together. I hear someone on the other side of the auditorium sniff. I, as well as every individual in the audience had been struck by the impact of Nirbhaya, the girl who was gangraped in Delhi, as well as the Nirbhaya who was in us, deeply embedded in the everyday life of the average Indian woman.
I was still crying, sobbing actually. My entire body shakes and it is like I have never felt before. Perhaps I hadn't, but I did then and I think I do now. The women baring their souls had made me expose my own. It wept as theirs did, it wept as Nirbhaya's had, it wept as I did. But as it wept, it was also awakened. I was enraged, upset and disgusted all at one go. It was probably because of all these emotions together that it was as though I hadn't known what it was to feel before. Every time I stop my tears, they start again within moments, accompanied by the other emotions.
The play gets over, and I stand along with the crowd who is right in thinking they need a standing ovation. I slowly bring my hands together to clap though I don't know if it's the appropriate response. An announcement is made that the audience could interact with the cast after ten minutes. I watch as half the crowd leaves, and as some of my fears come true. I hear a lady talking about getting a dress from the tailor the next day. I want to get up and hit her on the head and push her out the door, but I can't move.
But as some of my fears come true, others vanish. Nirbhaya is in me too. The actors come back on stage, I am still sobbing. My friends embrace me and try and calm me down as they cry with me. The lady who told her story last sees me and comes up the steps to sit next to me. She hugs me as I cry on her shoulder. I am overcome by the amount of strength in her. I draw some of that strength from her as I meekly nod when she asks if I'm alright. I find it amusing that she needs to ask me that.
As I leave the auditorium, the ability to speak up that they had found, registered in me. I know that it will take time before I stop caring about what I can or should wear to a place depending on how I'm going there, time before I can look in the eyes of someone who is leering at me and say, "What do you want?"It will take time before I unlearn the things society has taught me, but with the spirit of Nirbhaya in all of us who watched them that day, I know that time will come, and I will be fearless.
But I knew I wanted to watch it. I also knew, however, that I was scared. I didn't know if anyone could reenact an incident like that without trivilaising it or overdoing it. I was scared that the impact of an incident like that wouldn't reach the audience. Although Nirbhaya, the name the press had given the girl, had enraged the nation's women – and even men –, had encouraged them to speak up, the nation was slowly moving on as the incident became less newsworthy, as the country witnessed other rapes. I was scared that the magnitude of not only the single case of Nirbhaya, but the image she stood for and expressed would be lost in an auditorium full of people who would only forget about it the next day. I was scared, but I was also intrigued, to see how people could reproduce that scene, could make us live and witness that moment.
As I got ready to leave, I chose my clothes carefully. I didn't want to wear a dress – I had to go in the auto alone in the late evening. The skirt would do, it was long enough. At my roommate's protests and excitement to decide what I should wear, I ended up going in full pants and a sleeveless top, constantly tugging it to make sure my bra strap wasn't seen.
The auditorium filled, the tension in me built, the lights dimmed. It would begin now. The play started off, dramatic. A singing figure walked across the stage, clad in off white and a chiffon dupatta, almost floating by. Four women and a man, all dressed in black, joined her on stage. I waited for them to start speaking.
With voices full of force and passion, they described the city of Delhi – the "rape capital of India" which had grown too large to protect its citizens. I keep watching, I'd heard most of this before. I winced at the details, disgusted at what we have come to accept and live with, but it all touches me only on the surface. Only until they stop acting and start reliving. It is no longer about Nirbhaya, the girl, but 'Nirbhaya' the concept.
The four women, only two of whom are professional actresses, tell us their own stories of sexual harassment. The first was sexually violated at the age of 8 by a family friend who lived down the lane. She couldn't say "No" then, she didn't know how. The second had been repeatedly violated by numerous men who her parents had employed in their house and although the people she looked up to knew what was going on, nobody said a word. She couldn't speak up then, she didn't know how. The third was a 'dowry-wife' who had been doused with Kerosene by her own husband and set ablaze. Her husband and his family soon ran away, taking their only son, Tej, away from her. She still looks for him in every passing male. She couldn't speak up then, her burnt face didn't know how. The fourth was a girl who had lived on her own terms all her life. To the relatives and neighbourhood uncles and aunties, to the strangers on the bus who had called her "whore" and "rand" for wearing miniskirts and inking her skin, she had said, "Fuck this shit. I live on my own terms."She had even called a group of boys to drop their pants and show her their 'dragon swords' when she was only 13. Until she moved to the USA, she had been strong, she thought. But on one Christmas eve, she was gangraped by four men near a dumpster. She couldn't speak up then, she no longer knew how.
Each woman told the story that every woman in India has learnt by-heart. Learn how to dress when you're travelling by public transport, learn to look away and walk ahead when men stare at you, learn that on buses, your private parts are bound to be touched, learn that you have to find ways to avoid being groped or raped because in the end it will all come down to you. Through my tears and shaking limbs, I watch them tell their stories and relive my decision of what to wear that evening. Relive every time I had to find out how I was going to and from some place and how I'd need to dress accordingly. Relive every time my parents have made sure my clothes were okay and been paranoid about my safety as my brother would roll his eyes and say, "Not everyone out there is a rapist!" Relive all the news I'd read and seen about eve teasing and rape cases. Relive an article I started writing with my friend on eve teasing in which we tried to be objective about the whole issue because we were so goddamn tired of the mindless blame game. Relive every time I'd been eve teased, and had walked on ahead as though I had blinders on and with a fake glare on my face to make it seem like I disliked the world. Through my tears and shaking limbs, I watch them tell the story of Nirbhaya as they relive their own stories.
My friend takes my hand in hers, comforting me as she herself sobs, reliving her own story. I see a couple in front of me hugging each other, bearing the force of these stories, together. I hear someone on the other side of the auditorium sniff. I, as well as every individual in the audience had been struck by the impact of Nirbhaya, the girl who was gangraped in Delhi, as well as the Nirbhaya who was in us, deeply embedded in the everyday life of the average Indian woman.
I was still crying, sobbing actually. My entire body shakes and it is like I have never felt before. Perhaps I hadn't, but I did then and I think I do now. The women baring their souls had made me expose my own. It wept as theirs did, it wept as Nirbhaya's had, it wept as I did. But as it wept, it was also awakened. I was enraged, upset and disgusted all at one go. It was probably because of all these emotions together that it was as though I hadn't known what it was to feel before. Every time I stop my tears, they start again within moments, accompanied by the other emotions.
The play gets over, and I stand along with the crowd who is right in thinking they need a standing ovation. I slowly bring my hands together to clap though I don't know if it's the appropriate response. An announcement is made that the audience could interact with the cast after ten minutes. I watch as half the crowd leaves, and as some of my fears come true. I hear a lady talking about getting a dress from the tailor the next day. I want to get up and hit her on the head and push her out the door, but I can't move.
But as some of my fears come true, others vanish. Nirbhaya is in me too. The actors come back on stage, I am still sobbing. My friends embrace me and try and calm me down as they cry with me. The lady who told her story last sees me and comes up the steps to sit next to me. She hugs me as I cry on her shoulder. I am overcome by the amount of strength in her. I draw some of that strength from her as I meekly nod when she asks if I'm alright. I find it amusing that she needs to ask me that.
As I leave the auditorium, the ability to speak up that they had found, registered in me. I know that it will take time before I stop caring about what I can or should wear to a place depending on how I'm going there, time before I can look in the eyes of someone who is leering at me and say, "What do you want?"It will take time before I unlearn the things society has taught me, but with the spirit of Nirbhaya in all of us who watched them that day, I know that time will come, and I will be fearless.
This is to me, what the play was. Endearing while it rips you apart. I'm not going to tell you that this is 'beautiful' or amazingly written. However, this is rawness, it is truth. And nothing else can compare. Thanks for letting me read it.
ReplyDeleteI wouldn't have dared writing about that night. Partly for the same reason you didn't want to watch the play, partly because I was too scared to revisit that night and along with it relive every feeling I felt, every memory that flashed by my eyes because of the play. Heck, I still am! But thank you for bearing your soul and reminding me that it's a lot bigger than that.
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