Last year when BNP called out for Bloggers to put down their thoughts on this phenomenon we call “eve-teasing”, but which actually is serious, ongoing, harassment, I did. And the experiences I read that day, via links on BNP, left me horrified , but unsurprised. It happens, oh yes, it does. Thank God we are actually talking about it now.

This year when they called out again to put down your experiences of fighting back, I was unsure of my contribution. I haven’t done anything which you could term “heroic” – I haven’t walked into police stations, I have never fought back physically. I have however tried to protect myself, in crowded buses, by turning around and questioning men grinding into my rear, using umbrellas, and elbows, and keys, and zippered, metal-studded handbags. And I remember once, as a school girl, walking home in my white blouse and navy skirt, of being followed by two men on a motor-cycle, and veering off from the road, climbing onto a large pile of sand, and grabbing fist-fulls of it. The men circled the sand-pile a couple of times, leering and reaching out their hands, trying to grab at me, but then went away, when they spied traffic.

I remember, while living in a sea-side town attempting to take solitary walks along the beach, because it was so beautiful, and I loved the feel of sun-warmed sand on my toes. However, I gave up trying because the couple of times I tried it, some moron on a moped or a cycle would follow me down to the beach, and baleful glares, and choice epithets, even when uttered by me, spoilt the experience.

Refusing men their offers of “friendship” while standing at bus-stops can get pretty tiring after a while. So does refusing lifts from well-dressed young men, who know where you live, and profess a familiarity with your acquaintances. No, You don’t live there, and no, you don’t want to get into their car. However, more tiring than that is acting like eve-teasing doesn’t exist. Pretending that when you step out into public spaces, in streets, you don’t guard your actions, and you don’t use your handbag like armor. Pretending that in polite, middle-class society, women aren’t pawed and groped and humiliated. Pretending that you’re above this abomination happening to you everyday, when you’re not.

We never have conversations about eve-teasing in our living-rooms, in our homes. We never acknowledge the problem – such is life, and women must lump it? It can seem futile to fight this battle because it’s never ending, and you know that once you’ve had chided the molester in this bus, there will be another lecher in the next. But, if we don’t acknowledge this harassment, don’t speak about it, and complain (loudly), no one will ever comprehend it for the crime it is. Women who speak up are not weaklings. They aren’t refusing to take on “life’s problems”. They aren’t refusing to be practical. Eve-teasing should not be a part of “life”. It should not be the norm, because invasion of our private space, our bodies cannot be the norm. Ever.

Bravo, BNP !

She comes in. The smell of expensive perfume wafts in with her silk sari. She looks almost the same as when I last saw her, except she’s thinner. Mummyji’s voice on the phone – so thin, so thin. She hugs everyone, especially me. We both exclaim delightedly, apparently in raptures of joy at seeing each other again. Mummyji looks very happy, calm, collected, in her element now that the room is at it’s full capacity. Come, come, joyous occasion and all. Sit, eat, shout! Loudly ! This is how we celebrate !

Her husband isn’t here. No, no says Mummyji, must be busy with the business. Ver rich, Mummyji has told me, they live right in the centre of things, you know where the price of land in Delhi is the highest. She wears jewellery worth lakhs everytime she steps out of the house. And the kids, those handsome sons of their father ? Two sons, imagine that, says Mummyji, such luck!

I remember her gesticulating with her hands, like she was measuring time, “Like clockwork it was – every nine months these was a bonny baby ! Her saas was thrilled. Treats her like a queen. And then after she had them, she went on a diet ! Uff, what a diet it was, Usha – she would not eat a thing ! Vimla would call me up and say, didi, you speak to her – maybe she’ll listen to you. You know how it is, Usha, how “healthy” she used to be. You know how they worried about her – who would marry a fat girl ? Now, reed-thin she is. As thin as you. Of course when you have your kids . . .” Her voice trails away as she reaches for the top shelf of the wardrobe, where she’s putting the clothes away. Then she turns and looks at me pointedly, shrugs, “And then she was always beautiful ….”

It is late. No one appears to be in a hurry. No schools to attend, no work awaits ? Mummyji is going to bed, but invites everyone to stay the night. We’ll put bedding down in the drawing room, it is hospitality, na ? My home is your home. Yes, Mummyji’s home is indeed everybody’s home. Invite them all in. I head towards my room. Almost everyone, decides to stay, unsuprisingly. The rummy continues.

Mummyji glances at me, “Usha, will you give her a suit of your’s ? She can’t sleep in that beautiful sari. Real gold zari, huhn?” Mummyji fingers the pallu delicately, the way she thinks a “proper” lady would, not like she covets it, but like a connoisseur examining a great piece of art. Mummyji looks impressed,

I assent and she follows me. I pick out a polyester suit, almost new. It fits me like a glove. Mummyji stands by watching, pleased that she’s staying. She heads toward the bathroom to change.

Mummyji has gone to bed, while she’s been changing. She comes to me as I sit on the bed, removing my jewelry, “Thanks, Usha didi, such a lovely suit, and it fits so well.” I smile at her, and she turns to go. And then, averting her head so I cannot see her eyes, as though talking to herself, “It’s loose actually, almost an inch on each side . . .”.