It’s under the mysterious pallor of the moon that she comes alive,
When she lies in her bed carelessly, her legs suspended on her bedside window sill, as though to feel fragments of calming moonlight through her toes in her semi-charmed body,
When the savagery of words fades and all that she can hear is the voice of her soul, comforting her like a living hymn,
When she shuts her eye to the vivid details of the turmoil without, of her half-consumed grief, of her caged dreams, trapped in another’s world.
It’s under the mysterious pallor of the moon that she is untouched,
In her own neverland where her bare stomach breathes, her arms stretching on for eternity, her blooming body hers — and hers only.
She looks at herself in her wardrobe mirror; all she wants to do is wrap herself in a flimsy cloak,
Of rainbow colours and marshmallow embellishments; a failed attempt perhaps, to seize her slipping childhood in the confines of her nightly solitude.
It’s under the mysterious pallor of the moon that she is lost,
Naked as she came, resting in anonymity, stripped of her gender, color, religion, caste and class.
Oblivious to the unmatched, brutal labels the world gave her on saying ‘No’ — cunt, tease, slut, prude, narcissist, bitch, humorless, crude, brazen.
In the violet-blue veil of night, she need not avert her face to ignore the piercing eyes of the world, telling her that she has no right to her body, that it has already been contaminated no matter how much she tries to hide it.
It’s under the mysterious pallor of the moon that she is found,
Dancing to the tunes of her love ballads, swaying covetously with her hands up in the air,
Sometimes stopping, sitting, staring at her invisible wings, like a fallen angel.
Her will by moonlight wears the fluid fabric to her soul, clinging to her voice; a stark contrast to how it responds to her in daylight — frigid, limp, contorting and bending to the force of others.
And with the moonlight gone and the soft golden rays ushering in the dawn, to her what feels like a black glowering stare,
She rises reluctantly to the slow beatings of her purple heart, as a struggle against being drowned.
The day to her is the sea in tempestuous, tidal forces coming to rob her greedily of her physical manifesto, demanding her silence, illuminating all her fresh and fading scar lines — a one-way street to being a woman... never to be a child again.
Of course all she cares for is moonlight, where she is safe within her monastery of solitude — like a velvety lake, shimmering and still.
I was in Spain two years ago. And I happened to watch the decline of the bullfights in Madrid. I didn't do it because you're in Spain and you just have to watch one. I did it because it has been on my to-do list ever since I first read "The Sun Also Rises." Hemingway has a way of putting experiences in words that makes you want to get a first-hand view. He described a bull fight as, "Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor." Yes, aficionados of the bullfight will call it an art, not a sport.
As we sat in the arena, watching the sun shine on brilliantly and then mellow down to veil the gory bloodshed that was to follow in an ombre tint, we could listen to the dull murmur of anxious people all around us and at some point, we could smell that raw animal scent, which seemed oddly familiar. The high-spirited opening music, which subsequently introduced all the participants, gave us a sense of the vigorous drama that was to unfold. When the first toreador threw his hat and it all began, I found myself climbing out of the jumbled-up mental collage of that intensely psychological and brutal sport of toreo and watched it just as it came.
And I was transfixed.
I watched the matadors engage the bull in a dance of death choreographed so flawlessly that at some point, it seemed like they were one. There was an odd slowness to this dance, which riveted the tension even further. Sometimes, the matador came so close to getting hammered down by the bull but he never flinched, instead he skittered back gracefully, ever so narrowly, as though he had choreographed the entire routine, and spectators cheered wildly. But ironically, every bull and matador couple elicited a peculiar, irreproducible performance that can only be summoned at the spur of the moment. The bulls at times outshone the matadors in their bravery and indomitable spirit, much to the applause and relief of the onlookers.
However, the end of a bullfight, when the bull, exhausted in body and spirit, accepts his dreaded fate and comes crumbling down, only to be met by repeated gores and lashes until his very end, is heart-wrenching, to say the very least.
To have witnessed this, I can only say I'm grateful that it's all over now. Bullfighting aficionados to this day believe that even though bullfighting had been corrupted into a cheap spectacle over decades, in its pure state, it's a passionate struggle between man and beast in all its grace and heroic value. Bullfighters even go on to say that nobody loves the bull more than them but it's their responsibility to kill them....That those bulls are fated to die.
And I think that's what makes the bullfight so repulsive. This line of argument that defeats all normalcy - the reasoning that we, as mere mortals, can not only seal the fate of those deemed as less fortunate, but turn it into a humiliating, sleazy spectacle for any-said purpose, be it even art, entertainment or social awareness. That is really what makes us glorify a bullfight as an art form, the matador a noble and poised artist and that's really what makes us label a bull who, despite its quizzical nature, fought to protect its honour and precious life, a hero (when in truth it really had no other choice).
And strangely, when I watch news coverage of rape cases, which has nothing in common with a bullfight, except the victim in question, I am revolted the same way. The event of a rape, apart from the excruciating trauma that it bears to the victim and her family, is indignant and disturbingly invasive on its own. We're repeatedly given information about how it happened, the girl's exact whereabouts, interviews of people who give us empathetic details of their last encounter with the victim or how a secluded area such as the spot of crime is no place for a girl to be. Why is it that the media leaves no stone unturned to characterize the rape victim? Who is she? What were her aspirations? Did she know the assailant? If yes, how? What are her parents like? And often questions that infer culpability, such as what was she wearing and why was she out so late?
What I can understand is that a ghastly, inhumane crime such as this needs to be brought to public attention and it naturally incites agitation in everyone, especially when there's a threat to the female population's safety and a more pressing concern about the deliverance of justice to rape victims. And of course, we have an appalling apprehension about the frequency with which our memory is refreshed and haunted by such inconceivable monstrosity. There's no doubt that we need a sustainable campaign against crimes against women.
What I cannot understand is why we need to delve into the horrific details of the crime over and over again, speculate whether she knew the assailant or not, ask why she was out so late, and go to the extent of circulating pictures of her violated body. Why can't we instead pose questions to why the frequency of such crimes remains undeterred despite there being so much social awakening in the country? And isn't it also time that we bring to centre stage other crimes against women, such as dowry deaths, acid attacks, eve-teasing, marital rapes, public groping and many other acts of violence that women bear in silence and accept as a part of life, either because they have been intimidated into keeping mum or for fear of losing their social status?
For if we did discuss these issues more frequently, we would shift our focus from the horrific details of an extreme act of violence to a fundamental spectrum of thought.
"Why do men rape?"
Can you really just blame it on a psychological aberration or link it to pornography or blame the justice system for not expediting action against criminals and leave it at that? We lash out the sternest capital punishment ideas for rapists on public forums but have we ever stopped to consider that it could be a part of a more plaguing cultural misogyny, which is why we don't see a decline in rape crimes despite widespread protests and public outrage? Misogyny is evident in the mildness with which the police deal with crimes against women that are reported, let alone the fact that sometimes they are willing accomplices. Misogyny is evident in the way such acts are even hushed up and even when they get to limelight and justice is delivered, we can't know for sure that another potential criminal will have learned his lesson and will not savagely assert his power on a woman or even a minor, for that matter, in a fit of rage.
As I read more and more about it, I realized that sexual crimes against women have multiple folds and until we make conscious, widespread efforts to check symptomatic traces of these crimes, they are not going to decline.
According to an article in the Guardian, poverty, lack of education and the skewed male-female ratio in the lower classes is one. Usually when we look at the criminals involved in gang rape, they come from poor economic backgrounds, are usually unemployed and uneducated. Even when there are stringent rape laws in place now, they are not afraid of attacking a lone woman for they have found an obvious loophole - that they can escape identification by attacking younger girls in a mob and torture them into death.
The other imminent issue is public apathy about crimes against women. We've all seen this video of a social experiment conducted in New Delhi in which a white van with black screens was parked in a public area with belligerent screams coming from inside but attracting a scant reaction from passersby.
Why would that be, I wonder?
Simply because people don't want to have anything to do with the cops, unless it can't be helped. And it's outrageous to see the insensitivity with which they handle a rape case, most often alienating the victim in a state of despair, by attaching blame to her, from questioning her walking the streets at night (obviously, she wants some action) to the length of her skirt. While I do get that the nature of investigation is such that they have to ascertain that the act was not consensual but how is it that an investigation that is supposed to deliver justice to the victim turns into another haunting memory of harassment? Because some of these esteemed guardians of law and propriety subconsciously have the same medieval thinking as the rapists - that you're in a jungle and the same laws apply so don't do anything that asks for it. Don't wear short skirts, don't go out at night, don't have boyfriends, and if you've been drinking, it's consensual.
And it all boils down to the simple fact that we as a society continue to burden the female population with all the sexual responsibility and awareness. We'll pass on the sacred wisdom of our traditions and morals to our girls so that their virgin character always shines through. We'll sternly educate them on all the precautions that they need to take for their safety to avoid going through the trauma of rape. "Who are you going out with?""Why do you have to step out so late?" "Are you really going to wear that shade of lipstick?""Is that boy from your class going to be there?" "Be back before 10 and give me all the phone numbers." "Did I raise you so you can shamelessly go to a pub and smoke cigarettes....?"
What we don't do enough is teach our boys how not to turn into rapists. Maybe because we just assume that they're not capable of such monstrosity, given our values and traditions. And it's a good assumption but can you say for sure that even when their values will never permit them to commit such a ghastly crime, the next time they hear of it, they will not be subconsciously thinking that the victim deserved to be raped? Unless ofcourse the girl was a minor, was out with her husband, dressed appropriately and/or took all the precautions to avoid being assaulted.
So maybe it's not such a bad idea to educate our boys too. About how a girl dressed in a short skirt in a pub or anywhere else is not asking to be lecherously stared at and no, you cannot assume she's a slut. About how a girl rejecting your advances is not secretly expecting you to try harder....and harder. How power, money and social standing doesn't translate into sex on demand. How mothers and sisters are not frail creatures needing to be protected at all times and to be watched over. And that rakhi is a bond of love between a brother and sister and not a contract of guardianship that needs to be exercised when you see your sister asserting her choice of wardrobe or male companionship.
Undoubtedly, we can ask for the cops to show some basic humanity while handling rape cases. We can also ask for unforgiving capital punishment for rapists, a fast-track criminal justice system and a dedicated anti-rape movement that checks aggressive acts and attitudes hazardous to the safety of women. Undoubtedly, we need a safe place for women, from all castes and classes, to come out and share their stories without the fear of indelible shame and we need to extend all the necessary support and compassion to them.
But at an individual level, we need to stop making excuses for people who force a woman into sex, no matter how she was dressed, where she was located and whether or not she knew the assaulter. We should not be afraid to speak up against all propagators of a gender divide that is urging to be filled, more than ever before.
For we are not just spectators this time but also potential victims.
