The One With The Last Bench

It all began in the first year. I was late for the first class of the first day of college, but the professor was cool enough to let me attend. The only place I could find to park myself upon was so dusty that you’d think you were in the Sahara Desert. The last bench. I had to make my way through rows and rows of people I didn’t know, not a friendly face. And I tried my best to avoid the professor’s deadly glare. So I made my way back there with utmost anticipation. I’d never been so far away from the board. The moment I sat down, I knew it. I knew that I had set something in motion. I knew that I had become the part of a very big motion picture when I soiled my jeans with the last bench dirt. Parking myself in the last row with all the dust and faint doodles on the desk was going to change my life forever. And it did. School was out. College had begun. I had become a part of a conspiracy. I was the conspiracy. The Last Benchers’ Conspiracy.

The tables had turned for everyone and by the time I was in the second semester if you came late, you had to sit in the first row. And that was your punishment for oversleeping. By the third semester, no other place felt like home and it was officially third-degree torture to have to sit in the first row. I remember how exposed I felt when I had to sit there. The last row. The last bench. My bench. That was home.

The back bench has seen people come and go. It has seen generations of students become generations of stories. The students keep changing. But the one thing that keeps connecting them together, is that ragged bench with all the doodles all over it. The timeless bench. The bench who has been a refuge to every student who wanted to take a quick nap. The bench where hungry people secretly open up their packets of chips and biscuits. The bench who never fails to make you feel like you’re the smartest person in the class. The bench with all the memories. The home to the strongest of bonds of friendships and mutual hatred for all the professors. The Back Bench.

A Directionless Rebellion

India’s Daughter. India’s Abandoned Daughter. Nirbhaya. Damini. Amanat. Jyoti.

Do any of these names ring a bell? Let me give you a hint. The Delhi Gang Rape Victim. Oh wait, are you confused about which victim? Aww. Let me make it easier for you. Remember the 2012 victim? Yeah. That one is the one who moved us all. A 23 years old woman who moved the nation. She was a wakeup call.

2012 to 2015.

It has been three agonizing years for the soul of every feminist who lives in this country. In this world. For every man and every woman who knows the difference between right and wrong. But what has changed in the past three years? Are women not getting raped anymore? Are people still not objectifying women? Are women not being told what to do anymore? Or how to dress? Or how to conduct themselves publicly? Or who to hang out with? Or what time to be back home by?

NO. We’re still the same. Even after all the self defense classes and all the pepper sprays and maces in our handbags, women still get a chill on a lonely street at night. Women still don’t feel safe out there alone. Not just women, but men who are protective of their daughters or wives or sisters or mothers or friends or girlfriends make it a point to make sure they’re safe or that they have safe company when they’re out.

No matter how many help-lines the government sets up. No matter how many CCTV cameras they put up. No matter how many Android applications they develop. No matter how many “Real Men Don’t Rape” T-shirts you put on. The 2012 Delhi Gang Rape is always going to be a matter of disgrace for us. And we’re always going to have to look down to the ground in shame that such an incident took place in our country. And they continue to take place.

In a recent documentary titled “India’s Daughter”, a British filmmaker showed the convicted rapist Mukesh Singh citing horrifying statements on air internationally. The documentary was dismissed by those close to the victim saying that it was a facade. A huge discussion was kindled about “How could they even want to publicize what a convicted rapist had to say? Their opinions don’t even matter! The media is so irresponsible.”

I agree. Their opinions don’t matter. But what matters, is how we, as a society, respond to such opinions. Because they’re going to have their opinions no matter what. The media despite of being irresponsible and exaggerative is STILL the mirror of the sorry state of our ‘modern’ society.

Interestingly enough, “India’s Daughter” was replied in head-on collision by another documentary titled “Britain’s Daughter” made by an Indian who got offended by it. Britain’s Daughter showed how the United Kingdom has a higher count of rape cases than India. The center of all attention was once again, RAPE. And not the solution to it.

Britain’s Daughter was applauded by some as the work of a true patriot. “Dikha diya angrezo ko!” How THICK could we get? I demote any attempts at trying to belittle another country where we point our fingers out and say “Bhai tere udhar zyada rape hote hai. India wins. UK loses. L-O-L.”

It is not a competition between countries, my dear ‘patriots’. It is a matter of shame that rapes take place in our majestic motherland. Rapes happen because some men still feel that women are answerable to them, that they’re in every way, inferior. They have had the dominant ideology of patriarchy drilled into their minds. Everyone was outraging when these documentaries were aired. Some were outraging about the fact that India’s Daughter was fake. Some were cheering the person who made Britain’s Daughter. Meanwhile, the soul of the 2012 Delhi Gang Rape victim kept turning in its grave.

Someday, I hope that the youth of this country will awaken and outrage about the right things. That it will end this directionless rebellion. That it will protest not just out of sympathy or empathy or anger about the rape. That it will not just light candles and take police beatings and forget all about it the next Friday when a new movie releases. But that it will protest every single day against any misdemeanor to any woman. Some fine day, I hope, that “Don’t wear short clothes.”, “Don’t go out at night.”, “Be back before it is dark.” Will all be urban legends and every single woman in every single street will feel safe. And on that day, she will refer to herself as “India’s Proud Daughter”.

Women Versus "Modern India"

We've all seen people who promise a way to bring about a change in the sick way that women have been objectified in 'Modern India' and more chocolates for everyone at subsidized rates. But when it comes to fulfilling their promises, they always say that it is all fattening and bad for your health. All that their promises do, is bring about an adrenaline rush for a while and that's that.

Why do I write this you ask? I write this because I was denied. I'm not writing this because someone made a false promise about 'Modern India'. Or because someone promised me chocolate that never will be. No. I write this, simply because I was denied. I couldn't care less. However, on second thoughts, a denied chocolate wouldn't hurt that much. Anyway, coming back to the point. I was denied one of my favorite things in the entire world. I was denied of,

*drumrolls*

*more drumrolls*

*now I'm just screwing with you*

*anyway*

I was denied of sleeping comfortably.

Nobody tied me to the bedpost or made me sleep on a bed of nails or made me sleep in the same room as KRK. No offense to the homeless, but I love sleeping comfortably. Who doesn't? Would you like sleeping in a sauna? I mean, yeah sure, you might fall asleep while you're in there, but that's not the point. The point is, that everyone has a right to sleep comfortably.

Sleeping comfortably might have a lot of factors to it. Some people can't sleep when its dark, some people can't sleep alone and some people can't sleep without their heads up their asses. Well, sleep however you want to sleep homie! Your call! However, one of the factors that make me sleep comfortably, are SHORTS. And shorts are the reason I am taking a dig at 'Modern India'.

Hey! Modern India! I wear shorts to bed. Sometimes, the blasphemy lover that I am, I even go out in them. And I don't even have a penis! So many lost sanskaars. No?

Why was I denied wearing shorts to bed you ask? 'Because the accommodation for us could be as such where guys and girls might get the same dorm. So, please forward this message to all girls to NOT BRING SHORTS TO WEAR AT NIGHT *because it is a capital offense to wear shorts to bed when guys are in the room next to you*" - Random College Representative.

Now, I'm not taking a dig at the representative, it is just that this is stupid. Maybe they should start taking classes separately for girls and guys. I mean, that guy's leg keeps touching my chair in class. He could rape me for all we know! What in the world is wrong with people? How can we expect the educated to educate the uneducated about the importance of letting women breathe freely in the society when they are the ones who impose all the rules and codes of conduct on them?

This is one of those bhaiiya-2-rs-ka-end-of-the-world-dena posts. All because I was denied from wearing shorts. This isn't just about shorts. I wear tracks to bed when its cold. This is about free will. And how people (read: women) don't have free will in India, nay, Modern India.

Women shouldn't, nay, MUST NOT feel the need to hide under layers of clothing to prove that they're of good character. Or mind how they walk or sit or talk or conduct themselves publicly. Or how they shit or stink or sweat or fart or piss or BREATHE OR DIE. All of this minding ourselves for what? So that the society says:

"Arrey Mrs. Sharma, ladki susheel hai. Hath se nikal jaye usse pehle rishta pakka karke aaiye Mrs. Verma ke ghar jaake."

And not:

"Nahi nahi Mrs. Sharma, forget about her only! Maine kal hi uss ladki ko DO DO ladko ke sath dekha tha movie theatre me jaate hue. Aur woh bhi SHORTS pehenke. How inviting she was looking, I tell you!"

Huh?

You wouldn't have had to waste your time reading this if they hadn't asked me to not bring shorts to wear to bed tomorrow night. If only people didn't suck, this world would be a better place to live in. For women. Yeah, you read that right.

The Window

Standing by the window. The breeze burns her eyes. The ghost of a smile is in its place, never to come to life again. To never resurrect. Like a wounded cougar, beaten and defeated, she blandly stares at the hoax of a city beneath her. Looking, never seeing. Her hollow gape soothes her churning soul. The stillness fills her with a kind of warmth she hasn't felt for a long time. She stares at the outline of a tower and a smirk now climbs her face. An unnecessary display of man's desire to touch the sky, she thinks. The sun is at its lowest. It's time. She sets out in the cool evening sun. Away from her home. Away from the city. Away from the window. Away from the tower. To touch the bonfire of sunset colours, metaphorically. To delve into dark brown around it, really. Another window. Another world. Acceptance, finally.

No Strings Attached

Deep darkness I see,

A small light within,

No saddle, no stand,

No strings attached,

Yet there I see,

A light so small,

It makes me smile,

That the effort is worthwhile,

I can hold on,

I can hold on.