On the bottom shelf of my cupboard lie a multitude of stoles. There are black ones, white ones, a lot of beige and a few brightly-coloured ones. They haven't been used in two years but before that, these were the staples of my wardrobe.

I carried a stole everywhere. When I was trying to get from one appointment to another, taking crowded buses where men pushed their crotches into me from behind, and I couldn't even shake them off in time, because everyone was milling around me so thickly, that sometimes I wasn't able to tell who that persistent grind was being perpetrated by. When I took autos and I saw that mirror being adjusted, and I knew that my giant bag held tight against my chest was not enough.

When I was walking down the street and I didn't want men to stop their scooters ahead of me and watch me walk up and then leer.

No matter what I was wearing, or where I was going, or who I was with, I carried a stole.

And then one day I forgot to carry mine. It was some months after I learnt of the Blank Noise Project; I had interviewed Jasmeen about it. I tried, in the auto on my way to the government office, to convince myself that it was okay. I wasn't dressed in anything sleeveless. I reminded myself of what she had said to me, about how it happens to all women but how it's not something we ask for. My shapeless cotton kurta wasn't provocative. It would be okay.

An hour later, I stood in front of the man who was supposed to give me some papers. He interrogated me about my story. Caught up in enthusiasm, as I prattled on, I noticed that his gaze was lowered to my chest. I stopped talking. But he still didn't look up.

"What are you looking at," I asked him.

I can still remember how his face crumpled into embarassment.

"Nothing, nothing."

He tried to smile weakly.

"I was talking to you. My mouth was moving. What were you looking at?"

He quickly handed me the envelope - "Nothing, madam. Sorry." And then he walked off from his desk.

When I walked out, I was shaken. For the first time in my life, I had not walked away, I had not stayed silent. I was used to blocking the stares out, blocking the gestures out, blocking out every lewd remark. Sometimes, I didn't even notice, because I had become accustomed to them, because I thought it was always my fault. I never went back to that office. And it was a month before I completely stopped using those stoles. Before I convinced myself that I didn't need them.

Posted 21st March 2007


I grew up in the big and crowded city of Madras. But, relatively speaking, I led a sheltered life with respect to this whole phenomenon of eve teasing due to the following reasons. I went to school by the school bus and stayed on campus in the hostel when I was in college. My home in Madras is near a train station and trains in Madras have a ladies compartment where the worst thing that can happen to you is that you might be yelled at by some lady with a heavy basket for moving too slowly! In spite of these facts, I have had five or six experiences involving “groping” of some form that happened when I rode the city buses in Madras. That should give you a feeling for how frequent an occurrence this must be! I am usually non confrontational (“Dhushtanai kandaal doora vilagu” philosophy) and even perhaps forgiving. I am narrating below the only one of these times when I lost my temper and actually hit back at the guy in question, literally.

This is a little less than a decade ago. But, it disgusted me enough that I still remember. It was summer, the month of May. I was waiting in the fifth main road bus stand in Nanganallur for the bus numbered 18C to go to Thousand Lights on Mount Road in order to go to the British Consulate library. Those who know Madras will realize that this is a 45 minute stint on the bus, made worse at the time as they were constructing the Pazhavanthangal subway and the buses were taking a round about route into the city, enough time for the drama narrated here to unfold. It is 8:45 in the morning on a week day. I am dressed in what I have come to think of as my Madras street clothes as I now wear them only when I am on the streets of Madras, which these days is very rare. Modest cotton Salwar Kameez that covers everything and a big cotton Dupatta on top for extra measure. 18C comes. It is already pretty crowded. I get in. We are on our way. Now, for those who don’t know, nobody gets off the bus on this route until Guindy about 40 minutes away from now. But people keep getting in.

Fifteen uneventful minutes pass by and the bus gets progressively packed. There is hardly enough room to breath, let alone move. The drama starts. I feel something on my butt. I move what little I can to avoid what I think of as accidental contact. Then I feel it again. This time, I recognize definite and deliberate rubbing. I try to turn around to see who it is. I am only able to turn my head and shoulders. Contact withdraws. I only find innocent looking commuters. Five minutes pass. Contact again, definite deliberate rubbing of what I have by now recognized as somebody’s boner. Eee…w! I try to squirm away. No room. I try to turn around and contact withdraws and I can’t recognize the culprit. This goes on for another ten minutes and I am getting madder and more disgusted with every passing second. The bus comes to a halt at the race course bus stop. Some commotion ensues with the conductor yelling at some guy for not getting off fast enough or something. In this distraction, I lean into a girl standing next to me and tell her to watch my back and tell me which guy leans into me when the bus gets going. We wait for the commotion to subside and be on our way again. I am half hoping that this whole thing is finished with and I can ride the rest of the way in peace, but at the same time hoping he does try it again so I can confront him.

We are on our way. Five minutes pass, and nothing. So I am beginning to think it is over when…again, rubbing, slow, deliberate. I stay still for a minute then turn towards the girl, my ally. She nods, yes I saw that. I lean into her. Checked shirt, dhothi, puny guy with a mustache is the description I get. We are at the Chinna Malai bus stop. People begin to get off. I turn around and there he was. Looking innocent and apparently minding his own business. Bus gets on its way. Five minutes. Then it turns into the Saidapet bus stop. I know a lady behind me wants to get off here. Under normal circumstances, I would have leaned into the seat near me and would have let her pass between me and the guy. These being extraordinary circumstances, I do the opposite. I move towards the guy to allow the lady to pass between me and the seat. Just as she gets behind me I pretend to loose balance, lurch towards the guy, use his shoulders for leverage and knee him in his groin precisely the way my Karate master taught me. My master would have been proud of me had he seen the guy go down. I hastily but vaguely apologize to the people around, not meeting anybody’s eyes and hurry behind the lady and get off the bus. Only then do I look in and see two people staring at me. The girl who was my accomplice and another guy who must have seen what actually happened. The girl’s eyes convey approval. I feel vindicated and rush off into the crowd to wait for another bus to complete the rest of my journey.

Posted 21st March 2007


Hi this was ages ago,but I was travelling by the local train in Bombay. I was with my hubby (then boy friend) and entered the gents compartment with him.

We were given a place to sit and I respect the men in that compartment who offered a seat to the standing couple.(thas us)

But as we were nearing the station we decided to stand by the door in order to exit as soon as the train stopped, but guess what out of nowhere came this stupid uncouth charcater and touched me at the back, at first I ignored him thinking he just did it by mistake but then no he tried it the second time, this time that was the limit, without even saying a word to anyone I just turned around and slapped him, same time th train to came to a halt at the station, he just jumped from the train and ran for his life. He knew he had done wrong and that all there were watching him,.

Many of the people there were stunnned to see me that I did it all of a sudden and with no warning whatsoever. My hubby was proud of me and oops I too was very proud. I did manage to tell the cops there but seemed of no avail as they just brushed the situation of as it seems things happens everyday.

Many complimented me to all the people there and said hope more woman could me like me.

Posted 21st March 2007


Extract from the (unpublished) book CHASING SHIVA
New Delhi streets are so bare of traffic that I could skip along the middle lane without even causing a disturbance. It is Independence Day, the day when India awoke to her tryst with destiny and threw off the yoke of colonial oppression. No doubt the shattering masses are gathered to hear the Independence Day speech delivered by the current Prime Minister, Atal Bihari Vajpayee from the ramparts of the famous Red Fort. A dull muted roar can be heard over the rooftop of the city from the direction of Old Delhi but here in the centre all is calm.
At the less famous Ringo Guest house in Cannaught Lane, the tourists are all at a loss. This unforseen holiday has disrupted their travel plans and they are not impressed by the historical import of the anniversary. Something else that Indian and Maori have in common is a history of passive resistance against the British Imperialists. In fact, the Maori prophet Te Whiti-o -Rongomai launched the first campaign of passive resistance against the British invaders in 1879 when the Mahatma was still in short pants. We hold the Mahatma in great esteem since he managed to achieve what Te Whiti had set out to do sixty years previously and got the British off their land.
Among the usual weird collection of tourists lingering around the courtyard is an Australian woman, Sue who is en route to Manali to bail her drug addicted daughter out of jail. She is shows me the bargain jewellery she picked up en route in Sri Lanka; the sale of which she hopes will recompense her daughter’s stay courtesy of the Indian Justice System. Punkej is a foreign returned Indian man and Chris The Brit has arrived with me straight from the airport. Chris has limited time in India and is as keen as I am to get out of the city. Punkej is heading to Rishikesh, Chris is heading to Rishikesh and after listening into their conversation for a moment or two, I decide that I also am going to Rishikesh. Punkej has an air-conditioned car and will share expenses. Even if the road from the Capital city to the veritable Gateway to God is as rough and as crowded and uneven as any country track and marked with the passage of my grief, there is nothing more depressing than being in a city unless it is being alone in an empty city.
Haridwar is lit up like a princess at a party, seducing us to stop and make puja on the ghat with the first greedy pujari we spot. Across the river, a three- story statue of Shiva watches over the city of his lover Ganga, I think of my own mad pilgrimage only a year ago and wonder if I should make a courtesy call to the Akhara. I doubt that Chandon Giri would be there, but perhaps they could direct me to him? I look at my companions and decide against it. We drive on to Rishikesh where I take a room at a guesthouse and settle on the balcony to watch the view. Chris and Punkej go out to drink whiskey leaving me to contemplate the rush and roar of Ganga Ma.
A woman dressed in the robes of the ashram of Pune joins me on the balcony outside our rooms. She is in Rishikesh, she tells me, to sit in the hope of darshan with some Guru whose name I don’t quite catch. Every day she sits at the gates of the ashram where the guru is currently in meditation as an expression of her devotion. So far she has sat for fifteen days.
‘Pune is finished for me now, I am looking for a new Guru,’ she declares. We begin a desultory conversation about the problems of being a woman alone in India and having to deal with all the pent up sexuality of millions of Indian men. When I confess that I am working on converting my own sexual energy into creative energy, she refers me to an Osho lecture and brings me the literature from her room.
‘Shiva gave Parvatti a meditation where she was to use her breasts as her middle eye, you want to try it.’ We agree in the end that celibacy comes from an emotional and spiritual state before it becomes a physical expression then wish each other good night and creep off to bed like nuns. I briefly imagine how it would be to literally walk down an Indian street with eyes painted exactly at nipple level. Just for luck, I meditate from my breasts and fall asleep.
At some point during the night, I wake and think; ‘What is this strange lump in my bed?’ Perhaps a dog had slipped in unheard to seek shelter from the monsoon? Poking the shape with taut fingers, I discern teeth then – in one horror movie moment that set the hair on the back of my neck on end – hair! Leaping for the light switch, the full glare of harsh fluorescence reveals a man in my bed. For some reason my mind is unable to deal with this reality and wants to focus instead on a story I read one cold Delhi winter when the papers reported that mangy street dogs were slipping into unoccupied hospital beds in the TB ward of a public hospital. Slapping this particular mangy mutt to wake with my shoe, I scream at him to get the hell out. The intruder, playing for time, manages to look more stunned and confused than I. I recognise him to be the man assigned to sleep upstairs and guard the guests. Suddenly I see myself peeking out from behind his jungly eyes. A foreign woman travelling alone draws it’s own implications but I had arrived with two whiskey drinking men so obviously I was a woman of very loose morals. Obviously gagging for it. I scream and slap him some more while I think of what to do next. Too late, I remember my trusty pocketknife which could slit a sleeping mans throat but alas! Before I can reach for it, he gathers his trousers and flees into the night. I dress, covering my traitorous breasts.
That’s the last time I ever try a bloody Osho meditation, I mutter to myself as my mind skitters around the room like a rat to find his point of entry - a half-hearted latching of the balcony door. Angry with myself for being so sloppy, I consider my choices - to make a fuss or to not make a fuss. The fact that I could choose not to make a fuss seemed to make the most sense, I could lock the door properly and get some sleep, leave without a fuss in the morning. But there comes a point in the life of a lone woman travelling in India when the behaviour of ignorant junglys reaches saturation level. I decide to fight back for myself and for every woman in India. Slamming down the stairs to alert the family, I begin yelling. ‘Call the police this white woman is gunna kill somebody!’ Indians like a bit of street theatre. I bash on the door of the manager’s family. Lights click on and hurried movement is heard beyond. ‘O bhaisaab!’ I shout. They reluctantly unlock the door. A short interval while the story is related to the ten or so family members, who peer out from behind the door. I see the dilemma reflected in their eyes, after all the only right to moral outrage I can legitimately claim in these circumstances is an economic one, this is bad for business but the woman herself is not stainless. It’s a seesaw of righteousness until I claim the universal privilege of tears. I win. I am sent back to my room while a search is begun. I show my escort the knife. ‘If you don’t find him,’ I declare, ‘I will! Then I will slit his bloody throat!’
The escort flees down the stairs no doubt to warn them that this crazy woman has a knife. Eventually, after much excitement, the unrepentant Romeo is found hiding in the bushes and dragged back for a positive ID.
‘Madam, please tell if this is the man who was in your room.’ ‘It is he.’ ‘Madam, this man is saying that you went to his room.’ I am still walking towards the man when these words register, in a flash of rage I grab his ears and bring his lying nose down to my upraised knee. This is a very handy self-defence asana taught to me by my karate sensei, designed to break the nose of your attacker. My rage empowers me. I attack him like a madwoman. He is every ignorant Indian man who has ever tried to cop a grope or behaved with insulting prejudice towards me. The crowd is alarmed and urges me to stop. They hand me a hefty pole. ‘Madam, beat him with this stick.’ This is summary justice Indian style, and something to do while waiting for the police to attend such outrages. But my original fury has been exhausted so I hand him and the stick over to the sisterhood who proceed to beat him some more, while I walk a little distance away to throw up discreetly into the garden.
A day later, on the bus to Delhi I reason that even though I had missed the opportunity to slit that mans miserable throat and was suffering from bruised and aching hands as a result of the beating, at least justice was seen to have been done and that’s more than most women can hope for anywhere in the world, but most especially in India.

Posted 21st March 2007


My cousin Binny

This is about my cousin Binny. Also known as Gabbar-Behen. But only to those who have seen her in action. At other times, she is, as she appears, 24 years old, 5ft 8in of svelte beauty with waist length straight black hair.

Daughter of Basanti the ultra-feminine beauty queen of a mother who wears her charms in a more traditional way.


One day Basanti and Binny went on their usual bonding ritual also known as shopping. All seemed normal but there was rumbling in the distance. A group of three road romeos sighted their prey and began prowling towards Binny and Basanti, who were blissfully ignorant of being stalked with wolf whistles and cat calls.

Then the antennae of the ever present maternal instinct caught the scent of danger and began shepherding her little one to safety.

Basanti: Beta, lets move aside and ignore those bad boys.

Binny: Why should I move aside and give them way? They should move aside and let me pass!

Basanti: We don’t want trouble. We are two ladies. Lets just avoid.

Binny: Mom, it is women like you who behave in a weak way presenting a vulnerable front to these eve-teasers. If you continue to move aside without confrontation, why would they stop the teasing? We should look straight at them and make sure they understand that we are NOT victims.

Basanti: These are all filmi baatein. This is not practical.

Binny: We’ll find out right now!

Basanti and Binny continued to walk directly towards the lecherous trio who were expecting them to change paths. Binny adopted an aggressive stance in her walk and stared daggers directly at the three. The trio was shocked at this turn of events. The prey no longer considered itself vulnerable. The threesome slinked away without further intimidation. Basanti discovered that what she feared was much like the famed WMDs of Saddam Hussain.

Binny: Kitney aadmi they…


Another day when Basanti and Binny were out and about once again err… bonding. This time they were in a crowded area of CP now called Indira Chawk in New Delhi. Usual haunt of the rub-against-you-romeo.

They bumped into friends there and were chitchatting in front of a store. The crowd was heavy with Diwali shoppers. Tourist police were in abundance thereby deterring harassment of the tourists. Which left local people to fend for themselves. One Romeo, emboldened by the crowd and unable to detect the Gabbarness of Gabber-behen, decided to rub up on pretty Binny.

Binny spun around with a GROWL, morphing from pretty-Binny to Gabbar-behen in one second. She spit out a string of vile abuses starting from MCBC, to all the ones that cannot be spelled out without loosing this blog to censorship. The rub-up Romeo fell back under this unexpected verbal assault which continued unabated. Finally, Romeo almost fell to his knees with folded hands and mumbled apologies before melting into the patli-gali – as colorfully suggested by my cousin Binny.

Posted 21st March 2007



I feel lucky for having grown up in Bombay. Of course I've had the comments and unzipped pants and groping hands in crowded places ... and I've often felt embarrassed .. but I haven't feared them. I learnt early, that the best way to deal with is make a loud noise ... and for a period of time, I thought that one of the most effective ways to make the perpetrator uncomfortable was to open your eyes really wide, make a point that others can see you and stare him straight in his pants .. it worked (don't try it when not in a crowd though)! Once, I even turned around and slapped the guy who's creepy hands were trying to curl around my breasts in a crowded bus ... he got off at the next stop. And its funny, the passengers in the crowded bus turned around to me and said you SHOULD do this ... that enraged me more ... what on earth were they doing, sitting by passively as they see one young girl after another being put through this? This is one of the points I hope this Blog-a-thon achieves ... lets be aware its happening, lets acknowledge it ... let us get involved - male and female - to stop it.

Posted 21st March 2007 by J



I'd finished B-school and was going back home to Madurai by train. The compartment was almost empty when the train started from Pune at 4 p.m. and I'd just settled in, trying to get some sleep. A few minutes later I opened my eyes to see the middle aged man in the opposite berth trying to put his blanket on me. I got up immediately and pushed it off me. His excuse was that I seemed cold. I looked around to see that he'd drawn the drapes of the coupe, had taken his shirt off and was touching his chest.

Words cannot explain the panic that set in (I'm paranoid about rape, after having seen a 16 year old girl lose her sanity after a rape when I was barely 6!). I pulled the drapes apart and ran to find the TTE. I caught coming out of the toilet and didn't even wait for him to close the door behind him. I told him that I wanted my berth changed to some place where there were women around. The compartment, like I said, was mostly empty, but the TTE managed to find me a seat with an aged couple. They were pleasant company and treated me like I was their grandchild, but I didn't sleep a wink that night!

This was undoubtedly the scariest experience of my life! In the streets of Mumbai where people don't need an excuse to brush against a woman, my defense is offense. I elbow away anybody who comes too close, before they can touch me. But does that make me a Blank Noise Action Hero? No, I guess I am just a coward who ran for it! But there are women who have been brave enough to fight back.

Posted 21st March 2007 by J



I am now 21 years old.
A citizen of Beautiful Bombay.
I came across the concept of eve teasing when I was around 11 years old. I saw it happen to a friend when I was maybe around 12. All of us were too scared and shaken by the incident, and none of us spoke about it. It was only later that we “children” decided to call the incident what the world calls, “eve-teasing”.

We hated it. We hated the fact that we grew up so soon.

One of the incidents I clearly remember was when I was 18. I was on my way to college. I had some exam that day and I had a writing pad in my hand to which were clipped sheets of paper, which I was studying from. It was a desperate situation I am sure. Who studies while walking on the road?

The street was crowded with office goers, hawkers, vehicles jostling for space. As a voice in my head was memorizing the notes, I heard another voice. I do not remember what the voice was telling me, but I know I heard a few words that I was not “supposed” to hear. I was enraged and I was terrified. I slowed down and made him over take me. He was looking at me from the corner of his eye as he was over taking me. I knew he was guilty of a crime, which I had not noticed until then. He began speeding up. Literally trying to run. However, I did not give up. I continued walking after him. I wanted to ram his head with my writing pad.
But I didn’t.
I just walked.
I let him go.
I don’t know what happened to the voice memorizing answers, but now there was another voice in my head.
I shouldn’t have let him get away with it. I tried to justify saying that I was too scared to function.
I just could not forgive myself.
If I could not stand up for myself, what more could I expect from myself?
I wanted to see him once again. I knew it was impossible, I knew that life does not really give anyone a second chance.

But there is an exception to every rule.

I saw him on the railway platform. He walked behind me doing to another woman what he did to me. I heard the words. I was enraged.
After he finished his daily dose of harassing I guess, he decided to take the train.
He stood at the edge of the platform waiting for the train to arrive among numerous other men. I walked up to him and I asked him in a loud voice to jump off the platform. He looked at me bewildered.
All the men around looked at the two of us.
This person looked around and just went away.

I felt foolish about having waited for so long. I should have done something on the road itself not waited.
But i still feel glad when i think about what i did.
Not necessarily as oppressive or heroic, I know there was something more that I could do and at the right time. 

However, pride has replaced shame.

Posted 21st March 2007 by J



When I saw the blogathon for “Action Heroes” at the Blank Noise Project , I immediately signed up in a moment of (over) enthusiasm.

I had no clue what to write and spent a whole lot of hours trying to remember even the slightest heroic act I had done. Having exhausted my “thinking” quota, I asked a friend of mine for help.

Before I share my story, let me share a little bit about myself. I’ve led the average Indian girl life - very innocent and sheltered protected from most harsh realities by my parents and then my husband - and most of my experiences with heroism are thru reading books or watching movies

But as I was strolling down memory lane with my friend, a long forgotten incident came up to the surface.

Most evenings, when me and my building friends used to go for a walk, we used to pass a group of guys just hanging out , sitting on the building walls and wasting away their time. As soon as we used to get close, they used to start whistling loudly. It was irritating and annoying but we tried to ignore it. Most days, we used to try to walk as fast as possible with our heads down hoping that if we didn’t acknowledge them, they would get fed up at some point eventually and stop troubling us.

But one day, I was in a bad mood - I don’t remember what set it off…I may have fought with my sister or argued with my parents.

As we were walking down the road, we heard the inevitable whistling. I was just so mad I didn’t even think before I said “Don’t you guys know how to talk? Is that why you whistle everytime?” . This took everyone by surprise. My friends started laughing and a passing neighborhood aunty started pontificating about how boys are ruffians and are always ready to harass any girl. As she was talking some of our other neighbors passed by, and of course they got the entire scene by scene replay with commentary from this aunty with fingers pointing at the now embarrased boys.

After that day, the tables had turned . Whenever those boys saw either me or any of my friends they used to put just put their heads down and ignore us.

Luckily for me, even though we were all a bit worried and scared after this incident wondering if the harrasment would increase , it was just a minor episode in our lives with a classic happy filmi ending and the “villians” didn’t bother us again. But unlike most movies, I didn’t need a knight in shining armor to ride to my rescue. I was my own hero and could take care of myself.

Most eve-teasers are just scared cowards who are taken aback when someone shows a bit of resistance. It doesn’t take much to bring a eve teaser down - just simple words can also do it.

It taught me that a problem cannot be solved by simply ignoring it. Ignoring something is also a form of acknowledgment - it is a implicit acceptance of defeat.

If I can be a hero- anybody can. You don’t need to be physically strong or have any special heroic magic powers. Just your voice - speak up - and be a hero !

Posted 21st March 2007 by J





Read about Blanknoise Project and visited their blog as I’m a keen blogger too, especially about things that really matter. I feel what they have got here is by far one of the most remarkable actions in a long time.
I clearly understand the feelings of all those women who have contributed to the blog as I can relate to them through my incident. Although, I wasn’t victimized as I fought back, and how! I’m all of 23 now, but two years ago, while going to a friend’s place to join him for a morning walk, this is what happened…
Firstly, it is important to mention the clothes I was wearing – an oversized, zipped up sweat-shirt, track pants that reached my ankles, sports shoes with socks rolled up. In other words, not provocative! What’s important to mention next is my built. I’m a small built girl, who seems timid and naïve. Of course, the operative word being SEEMS!
And so I’m heading to my friend’s place for which I must take a lonely alley. And that’s where this man, twice my size, stood waiting for his next victim. This area is one of the lanes near Chapel Road in Bandra, Mumbai. For those of the readers who know this area, will understand the kind of housing system here too. It’s simple to get people to help by sheer yelling. But that morning, it wasn’t the case. I passed by this spineless man, who groped me before I even knew it. And the next thing was my little but powered fist with my cell phone still in it, in his face. He had a cycle which he quickly sat on to scram. But I kicked it and he fell down. I caught him by the collar and screamed for my friend in a voice I didn’t know was ever in me. But before he could come down, all the sleepy neighbours were out looking at this morning show. I asked them to help me, but “let it be…” was all they could say in between their lazy yawns. But this didn’t stop me for yelling out again for my friend, who by then had reached. He is of average built, but all he asked me was, “Sam, what did he do?” and the rage he saw in my eyes was enough for him to slap the man just once. He did that, and the man was on the floor now, screaming for mercy. Mercy was always good to ask for. But he denied, and that only worked against him. I was merciless by then. And the people, now all 150 of them, were watching and asking me to calm down. But no frikkin’ way! He had touched me and made me feel like a thing so disgusting that I just couldn’t forgive or forget. I kicked him in the face; I slapped him till it hurt him. And my friend only held him for me to do whatever I wanted to do to him. And then a lady, who apparently knew him, came around from behind me while I was busy calling the cops, to tell him how he just had to deny everything as I had no proof, by saying he had slipped and fallen on me. By the way, she happened to be a lawyer. I went up to her, and asked her if she had a daughter. She nodded affirmatively. I asked, “If I was your daughter, would you still be giving him legal advice against me?” she walked away. And nobody came forward to ask any more questions. The next thing I did was take him to the cops. I was studying as a media student in a reputed college. I informed the cops that if they didn’t beat him up in front of me, I was calling the Press. And they did. It didn’t undo what he did to me. But I left the police station not feeling like a victim.
His name was Mohammed; so much for sharing the name of the Prophet. And in between all the punches and kicks I threw at him, I asked him his name and when he replied I looked him in the eye and said, “It’s people like you who spoil the reputation of an entire community and add fuel to the fire.” He obviously wasn’t equipped with a brain to understand that. But I did my best to not feel like I victim and I’m sure today that I never was.
I also managed to get a job with a leading newspaper on the editorial team.
I’d like to share my story with the rest of the readers who have been victimized as they need to know that they may not be the strongest but when you are wronged, you get the strength from within. Just never lose faith in yourself. All else will follow.


Posted 21st March 2007 by J



Hero, at least in my own eyes.

At 14, I was walking home from the bus stop and I saw a girl of about nine accompanied by an unsavoury looking type. She kept shrugging him off. So I pulled my self up and said to myself, Izzy, this is your chance to make a difference.

So I took off, school bag bouncing up and down between my shoulder blades and managed to grab the little girl's school bag.

Her eyes went balloon like in fear and her arms windmilled, her feet scrabbling hopelessly in the mud.

And I said, huffing and puffing, "Is this man bothering you?"

She stopped trying to get away from my grip, slapped her forehead and said, "No ya! He's my servant."

This time I got it right.

So at 16 years old I'm walking on the pavement to my club.

I begin to notice a man walking in front of me, constantly looking back at me.

The first time I ignored.

The second time I glared him down.

The third time I gestured. What? WHAT?

Still there was a fourth time.

So I followed him.

I followed him lasciviously.

I followed him to the beedi shop. I lurked at the bus stop while he waited. I followed him to the taxi stand. I all but followed him home.

I don't think he'll ever harass anyone again.

Posted 21st March 2007 by J