Slut Walk – Delhi


“She asked for it”

Four words that are intended to shut every woman up. She was a victim of sexual assault because she asked for it.

She slept with her boyfriend and that proves she’s loose, she’s my wife and I own her, she’s my brother’s wife and he said I could, she’s my maid and I pay her well, she’s lower caste and needs to be taught a lesson, she said no but we all know that means yes. She was dressed provocatively, she was talking too loudly, she was walking down the street, she was wearing lipstick, she was alone in the general compartment after dark. She was a college student in salwar kameez, she was twelve years old wearing her school uniform and walking home from school, she was a seventy year old grandmother, she was wearing a burqa…

How do women provoke the assailant? Is it the fault of the woman in the burqa for exposing her toes by mistake? Is it the fault of the little girl for going to school at all? Is it the fault of the old woman who is a widow for not living in her son’s care? Is it the fault of the woman who wore lipstick because it indicates that she cares about how she looks? Is it the fault of the woman who was running late and only just managed to get into the general compartment?

It seems to me that a woman asks for it just because she’s a woman.

When will Indian men understand that no means no? When will men understand that they no longer live in the neolithic age? When will men understand that women are people too? When will they understand that irrespective of how a woman dresses or behaves, harassment is still their fault? When will men on Indian streets understand that white women are not “loose”? Sexual assault is one of the most violent crimes that can be committed. When will Indian media understand that the victim needs to do nothing to provoke an assailant? When will they acknowledge that women have a right to live in peace and dignity?

Women are finally waking up to the fact that sexual assault does not rob them of their honour, it robs the assailant of his. It’s not a woman’s job to kill herself in order to protect her honour. It’s not a woman’s job to not wear jeans just because it sends out the wrong message. It’s not a woman’s job to keep silent and protect family honour. It’s the job of society to ensure the safety of every member.

It’s the job of the police to maintain law and order as defined by the constitution, not as defined by social mores. It’s the job of the media to report a crime and not judge the victim. It’s the job of the courts to deliver justice without judging actions of the victims of a crime. Who judges the victims of murder? Who judges the victims of kidnapping? If a man walking down the street was held up, robbed and killed, would anyone judge him for walking down the street in the first place? Does Indian media even realize how they sound when they prescribe conservative clothing and behaviour for women as a remedy for sexual assault?

People wonder what a bunch of privileged women in the cities have to complain about. They wonder if we ever think about women in the villages. And I say that we do know we are privileged. And as a privileged woman who is aware of her rights if I still have to worry about being judged or being silenced if I’m a victim of sexual harassment, then what hope does the poor woman have? If I have to worry about being labeled a slut or worse, what hope does the woman in the village have? If the women of Delhi fight for safer streets, does it not benefit all the women irrespective of class? If I set an example by refusing to be oppressed, doesn’t it give others hope? If I refuse to let myself be labeled because the men are insecure, does it not set an example for others?

The slut walk is not about “getting away” with wearing what I want. It’s not about being modern or scandalous or even looking for attention. The slut walk is about getting across a very simple message:

No. I did not ask for it.

Why I love living in India full time

I get to dress up and go to weddings (notice the gift and camera stashed in the back?). The ET did repair the blouse and I was able to wear the the sari. Yay!

The sari

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I get to attend mehendi ceremonies at weddings and get “henna tatoos” (also notice super pretty bangles from the Laad Bazaar) :)

And finally, I get to pose for very filmi pictures :D

The Evil Tailor

I’ve gushed about my fondness for for saris before but I’ve always avoided any mention of my biggest nightmare – Evil Tailors who ruin blouses and render otherwise beautiful saris entirely unwearable (or at least suck the joy out of wearing them). I think that in the last five or six years that I’ve been wearing saris, I’ve had blouses ruined in every possibly way they can be. I can, therefore, confidently summarize my findings over the years in one statement for future generations of sari wearers.

The Law of Evil Tailors:

The more you love a sari or any other piece of fabric, and the more it means to you, the more likely it is that the Evil Tailor will ruin it.

I bought two very beautiful and very expensive saris when I was in Chennai a few days ago: a traditional Kanjeevaram and a light jute-silk. The Kanjeevaram was the very first that I’ve ever selected for myself without “adult supervision”. It’s also the first that I ever really wanted to wear. All good South Indian girls acquire a few pattu saris by the time they get married but as they’re all bought for the the wedding they’re heavy, golden, and entirely unwearable at someone else’s wedding without looking as though you’re competing for attention. They’re also quite unwearable at non-wedding occasions without looking like a runaway bride minus the jewellery.

The second sari that I bought was of light weight jute-silk blend. It’s muted, elegant, modern, and I’d be happy wearing it anywhere. I love the colours in the sari and it’s probably going to be one of my favourites for a while. And oh, it’s first sari that The Hero’s bought for me since we were married.

At this point you, clever reader, must have grasped where this story is headed. Of course, the Evil Tailor ruined both the blouses. They came back just a little while ago and I went through the standard stages of grief. At first I was just in denial. It wasn’t possible that they were both ruined, was it? Then there was anger: a pox on all Tailors in Vijayawada! Then of course, I tried to bargain – surely the man can fix it. Surely he can snip a little here, tuck a little there and make the blouse the way it was meant to be? I tried them on and realized that there isn’t much hope. I cried like a little baby. I really did. And finally, I just accepted my fate and sat down to blog about it.

Why did I cry? I really don’t know. It’s not the end of the world. It’s just a couple of (very expensive) saris. It’s not as though I can’t wear them or replace the blouses, I just need to find some way to accept it. But the sadness ran deep. I wasn’t just crying for two pieces of fabric. I wasn’t crying about the saris. I was crying for something else. It’s just frustration at how little people respect their work anymore. It’s anger at how the tailor could just stuff the two saris tight into a cheap polythene bag (disregarding the boxes I left with him to prevent exactly this from happening) and send them back as though they were worth nothing. It hurt because something that means so much to you means nothing to everyone around you.

It wasn’t about the tailor anymore. It was about everything else. It was about how little some people around me seem to respect things that matter to me – my career, my hopes, my dreams… It’s about just wanting things to be, for once, just the way I want them. It’s about just wanting a little more respect. And a little more acknowledgement. For a little while, it was about everything that seems to go wrong.

It’s childish. I know it’s childish. I am well aware that it’s childish. And yet, in an odd way, it’s also therapeutic. It was about making peace with the fact that at some point, I’m going to have to grow up. It’s never going to be all about me and what I want. I’m never going to to get every little thing that I want. Even if things hit a low, there’s never going to be a compensating time where everything goes my way. Life doesn’t work that way. Life’s full of minor annoyances and there’s not much I can do about it. It’s just time to grow up… If I want to stay sane, I need to grow up.

Did all that wisdom come from a pair of ruined blouses? I leave it to you to judge. But one thing’s for sure – may the Evil Tailor’s pants rip as he bends down to pick up his tape measure.


Update: The ET’s offered to set the blouses right. I’m not sure if I should risk this but I will be handing him one later today (a lesson in caution learned too late). Wish me luck!

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