I can still feel him sitting beside me, looking at
me. But something is wrong. I think I remember a time when he looked at me
differently. Or was it someone else? I am going to sleep again; the medicines
they give me make me sleep. I don’t want to sleep. I want to stay awake. To
hold…
“I think we should take an auto back”, I said. “It’s
late and they’ll lock the hostel gates.”
“No they won’t. I’ve been at the university longer
than you. And I don’t think I’ve had enough of you for tonight.” His voice took
the chill away from the night.
“But I’ve to meet my professor at eight tomorrow and
I really need to catch up on some sleep. Between him and you, I barely have
time for a wink.”
“You know one day, I might just commit a murder… out
of pure, unadulterated affection.”
“Are you jealous, that I spend more time with my
books than with you?”
“Nope. I’d rather call it love. Come now, there’s
the train. We’ll reach faster than I want to, now.”
A buzzing woke me again. The television was on – a
heated debate on some inane issue. “Of course they have to pay for it with
their lives”, a woman in a red saree announced in a loud, bossy voice. “Capital
punishment is the only solution. You have to tell these perverts, these
anti-social creatures that they can’t simply walk away unscathed after ruining
someone’s life.”
“They brutally raped the girl. Their lives are forfeit”,
agreed a man in black-rimmed spectacles.
“But is it in our culture?” questioned one man in a
pristine white kurta, emphatically blowing his moustache. “All this gen-x
bravado, that’s landing these young people in trouble. Get into college, hook
up with someone, and roam around till the morning. And when something bad
happens, blame everyone and everything in sight.”
“We’ll continue our panel discussion on the burning issue of increasing incidents of women being molested, after this break”, the journalist announced, turning her face to the camera. “Meanwhile keep sending your responses and messages to our website.” She smiled, and the screen became a picture… of me.
“We’ll continue our panel discussion on the burning issue of increasing incidents of women being molested, after this break”, the journalist announced, turning her face to the camera. “Meanwhile keep sending your responses and messages to our website.” She smiled, and the screen became a picture… of me.
I looked from the screen to the person sitting near
me. I must have made some noise, because he switched off the TV and turned to
me. It was then that I realized what was wrong – the bandages, his red eyes…
We were in the fast train, and at the next station
the three others in the compartment got down. We had just begun congratulating
ourselves on our luck when five guys got in. they swayed to the bench near the
door, obviously drunk and making enough noise to wake the entire city. One of
them saw us, and suddenly an empty compartment didn’t seem so lucky. He held me
tight, as if he wouldn’t let go of me, but it was a desperate, useless attempt.
He had held me a minute ago, I thought as I saw
three of them forcibly holding him down. And then there was pain, wave after
crushing wave of it. The only thing that kept me sane was the memory of his
touch, of the way he held my face and how he liked to breathe into my hair.
I remembered other things now. A flood of cameras
and flashes and noisy people with microphones. Words, worse than the pain –
‘victim’, ‘punishment’, ‘death’ – all meaningless.
“I am not…”, I said and he came a little closer. “I
am not… a victim”, I repeated, looking at him, wanting him to understand. “I am
not the girl who was brutally raped. I am not the girl whose life was
destroyed. I am not a reckless young woman. I am me. I am not; I have not
turned into her, have I? I am not… HER.”
(“No. you are not”, he sighed into my hair, like old
times.)