Being Indian: Silence v2.0

Recently I had the most prestigious opportunity of meeting a man, only about a year younger than me. We had a lot in a common, which is rare. He had lost his mother recently as I have and he also suffered from frequent panic attacks. So we got along very well and texted often which progressed to speaking on the phone during his breaks at office. Amidst one such conversation, he told me about how he hated Tamilians. How they were pseudo because they listened to Justin Timberlake. And in this conversation as he went on to demean an entire race, he mentioned how Justin Bieber, Justin Timberlake, Rihanna and Lady Gaga should all be put in one room and bombed. Since I hate music fanaticism, I was left flabbergasted and went on to pose the question,

“What about the men who were responsible for the Delhi gang-rape?”

“Oh I don’t give a shit about that!”

I gasped on this end of the phone line and we went on to discuss many many other things. Rape, homosexuality, racism and sexism.

I’d love to give you a transcript of what that conversation went like and I by no means intend to quote this man out of context. I continued to rationally interpret what it was that this man meant.

“I don’t care about rape. It doesn’t affect me. But listening to Justin Timberlake does, so yes, I want to see that end.”

“Gay people are so unnatural. They don’t need to do that. Why should they do that when women are around?’

“Any man who listens to Justin Bieber is not a man, he is a woman”

“Tamilians are just assholes”

The slurs continued. At his end he continued to laugh every time I revolted against everything he said. The conversation ended when I frustratingly hung up the receiver when he said,

“Gays should stay away from society. They should be banished…”

I met this individual in a pub and I really thought I connected with him. He studied in the best of schools in the city, had knowledge of every rave in Goa and was quite the brand-whore. He had no dirth of access to knowledge. But yet, in our first conversation he thought that I was just kidding about the Shiva lingam being a phallic symbolism. He called it blasphemy. This brings me to the most infuriating thing he said,

“You are a blasphemer, and that’s worse than being a rapist or a murderer”

I couldn’t believe what I was listening to. How can renouncing a religion be worse than forcing one to have sex without their consent, taking a life or being so judgemental of one’s choices that you’d rather have them leave society than change your uninformed opinion.

In our following arguments, he went on to say that

“Gays should be quarantined and if they try to leave, they should be shot on sight”

We argued until my throat went bad, until I was left alone in the dark crying and wondering how I ever encountered such a heartless individual. In all of that chaos, he very plainly asked,

“Why do you care? I think people have problems that they should deal with. I am not gay. I have not been raped and will never be raped. I don’t think anyone will abuse me. Why should I care? You should only worry about yourself. People should worry about themselves. You shouldn’t care about these gays or rape victims, how does it matter to your life?”

It does. I have been silent for long. And I know this silence has bought me much pain and misery. Some of it, I still struggle to digest.

Five years ago, it was a regular night in the university town I studied in. I was out with some friends and was looking forward to the barbecue party at home. There was this one guy, Vinay (name changed), a friend who I bumped into at the pub I was out at. I invited him and his friend to the barbecue.

The barbecue was great. The chicken was tangy and tender and music was live and peaceful. Vinay and I bonded over our love for music and I invited him over to my room to see the posters. And within minutes the tension unfolded and we kissed. Things got heated.

It had only been fifteen minutes since it had begun and I realised I wasn’t ready for where this was headed. I told him that I wasn’t ready and in response he pulled out a condom. I told him I didn’t mean protection, I just wasn’t ready to do anything more. My memory after this seems to be missing a few frames. I remember being slapped and his hand against my mouth. I remember his other hand clasp on to my neck as I tried to bite his hand off my mouth. I felt powerless and angry. But as a skinny tiny person, I couldn’t do anything to let go. I couldn’t stop this monster from overtaking me and putting on the damn protection. The last thing I remember is being slapped really hard across the face.

I woke up some time later naked next to him. I ran to the several corners of the room looking for my clothes. I could still hear the loud jam outside and the laughter. I asked him to get out of my room. I could feel pain in several places. I thought of the short story I wrote when I was seventeen years old about a woman who was raped by her husband on her wedding night. The veins pulled together. Things burned. I was not a virgin but I could feel something was lost that night. I put on my t shirt and sat in the corner of the room in the darkness and saw his silhouette leave with the little source of light from the living room. I cried for hours into the morning.

The next morning, I texted him saying I remembered what happened and that what he did wasn’t right and that I was going to tell.

“Complain if you want. My dad’s a high powered lawyer. Nothing will happen.”

I called a couple of my closest friends and told them what happened. One said, I deserved it for inviting him to the party and one, that I deserved it for kissing him. My roommate asked me the same afternoon, suggestively,

“How was last night?”

“It was kind of rough”

I responded.

I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone what had happened. I blamed myself for a long time. My thighs hurt for weeks. I couldn’t go to the toilet without it burning for almost two months. I had visible cuts around my vagina and bite marks on my stomach. I tried to tell some people but they never believed me. A year later, it came back to hit me when I saw him again. And I had a meltdown and told people. My sister, my friends, everyone. They all wondered why I of all people chose to be silent about this. They were angry with me for being silent and I was too.

I still am. I can’t see the current me walking away from this in silence and taking defeat. I’ve met him on a few occasions after that, some of which ended with me violently punching him. I thought with every punch, I’d let go. I thought when I’d write this, I’d feel better. And I just realised I don’t.

So mister, it does matter to me. I know how it is to choose silence. I know how it is to be blamed for something that I will carry for the rest of my life. I am that woman who has been raped or that homosexual who has been ridiculed – they are not all in the newspapers. They are not in cities far away, they are not in villages in secluded farms. They are you and me. They are next to you on the bus. They are in the table next to you drinking coffee. They are having a drink in the bar with you. They are voting with you. They are talking to you. And all in the silence of the shame you contributed to.

Being Indian: Sexuality

It's a three letter word. It has so much do with life and yet we choose not to talk about it. It's use is abundant in adjective form. In the movies, in the tabloids, on the streets. India is a country with a raging population of over a billion people. The way things are going I wonder how these people got here. Since nobody's ever talking about sex.

My experiences with this word have been many. Right from my teens, there was that aunt who didn't let me watch a Toni Braxton video on MTV. Or that time she told me Friends was a bad tv show. Of course, there is the awkward experience of reading an illustrated book that explained the act of sex when I was 11. I had just hit puberty. And of all the ways to educate me on the subject, I was given a book. A dirty book.

I remember clearly stumbling upon my mother's lingerie when I was a child and she would hurriedly put it away saying I wasn't the right age. I never remember asking my parents where I came from. I guess even as a child I knew that here and now wasn't the time to ask questions. That I think is the biggest problem with the current society.

Today, 26 years old, I understand everything there is to know about sex. And I believe that the road to now could have been a lot smoother. I wish that my mother had sat me down and told me everything about sex. Approaching the subject objectively, warning me that if sex must be practised, it should be practised safely. I wish she had told me that I was going to start growing breasts so when they came I wouldn't be ashamed of them but embrace them. I wish she had told me that one day I was going to start bleeding, so I didn't think I was dying.

Nobody's ever talking about sex here. I visited a gynaecologist early 2011 and in my appointment, I asked her what kind of birth control I should use.

She very confidently said “Once you get married, sex will be safe.”

How does a legal written document or a ceremonial procedure make sex safe? A perfect case of moral policing, this doctor thought it was better to advice me on what is right and wrong morally rather than look out for my physical well-being. Pre-marital sex is often frowned upon in this country. The ironic thing is that it is so rampant that the frequency of abortions is very high. I know many women who have had abortions, some in their early weeks and some very painfully past their trimester.

In fact, I have had an abortion. When I think of pain, I think the most that I have gone through is minutes after inserting that tablet up my vagina. I went through it with my mom on my side who thought it was a mere heat stroke. I never told her because I was ashamed. I thought that despite being so aware of the dangers of having unprotected sex, I had made such a stupid mistake. Months after the dreadful life changing procedure, I started talking. I discovered that many women around me went through the same thing. They were all ashamed for the same reason. I realized I wasn't alone.

At that point I realized this country has got to start talking about sex. Yes, the i-pill advertisements are quite the progress. But any open-minded gynaecologist will tell you that taking an i-pill Is asking for disaster. I myself have had migraines and 14 day long periods just because I took an I pill. Where are the PSAs about birth control? About condoms? Where are the instances of abortions and safe pre-marital sex in our Indian soaps? Why is it that I'm a large part of a majority and still portrayed as a minority?

I am no longer ashamed. I was 24 when I had to get an abortion. I was not financially or emotionally stable enough to raise a child. I made the right choice. And many people would agree with that. Why bring a child into this world if you don't have the responsibility to raise him/her? Think about it.

I recently had the most interesting online conversation with a writer from Mumbai about sexuality. I asked him what he thought of homosexuality and his response was quick. He said that when people are unable to find partners of the opposite sex, they just turn to their own sex. As a bi-curious person, I gasped and wondered how somebody who was a writer, a person with an inspirational role could say something so ignorant. When I told him that I myself might be bisexual, he started questioning me. If I had kissed a woman, if I had licked a cunt. Soon into the conversation I realized that on the other end of this network was a man with his dick in his hand. I stopped discussing my sexual life with him. He said he needed research for his book because he wanted to add a few sexual chapters and hadn't had sex.

I went on to give him links to erotic stories that I had written when I was experimenting with the genre. I had found that writing erotica was challenging. A little too challenging. I didn't know if it was my lack of knowledge in the kinky areas of life or that my metaphors had run out, I had only 2 stories to my credit. I shared it with him and told him that if I found any kind of plagiarism I would sue his sorry ass. He insisted that I tell him in conversation how my love making sessions went. I refused. Minutes later he turned around and said “This is not Indian culture” He compared me to Silk Smitha and said I would deserve a similar death. I went on to ask “What the fuck is Indian Culture?” to which he responded by saying I had abused his country and that I was a bitch.

Now, here's what I find absolutely disgusting about this experience. The minute I told him I could be bisexual he started to hit on me. I have had similar experiences before. Sharing my erotic writings with fellow writers have turned into misinterpreted invitations for sex. When men say they like big boobs, do you see me putting on a padded bra and asking them out? No. What is so wrong with a woman being open about her sexuality? And the worst is that this writer from Mumbai thought that writing erotica was wrong. We all know that a majority of people indulge in visual pornography if not written. Why the sudden hypocrisy?

At the end of this rant, I very plainly ask. What is so wrong about talking about sex? Isn't that how you and me got here? Isn't it a natural urge in life? There are a number of crimes in this country that arise from lack of sex education. When are we going to wake up? We have a serious problem with the lack of family planning and birth control. Our resources are limited. All I can say if there's no better time, it's now that we've got to start talking about sex, baby!