jeans
Especially the tight - fitting mild tapered ones . They make rape
difficult.
She never feared the 500-
metre stretch from the bus
stop to her home. She had
walked it for as long as she
remembered. She got on her
school bus from there, and
walked back every
afternoon after the school
bus dropped her. Mom
waited for her then. Or the
help, when her mom was
busy or had gone shopping.
At times, she would walk
alone. Especially on days
when the bus would reach
her colony earlier than
usual. Then college
happened, followed by a
new job. She would come
back at 9-10pm, and
sometimes around midnight.
In her small, sleepy town,
people would be off to bed
by 9pm. Middle class
mohalla timings. End of the
nightly news on DD meant
lights out. Often, the
streetlights would be off for
load shedding or some fault
in the lines. These things
hardly mattered. She could
walk blindfolded to her
home. She knew every inch
of that road. Every inch.
Last night was like any other
night. She finished work by
9pm, and was at the colony
bus stop at 9.30pm. She had
hardly walked a 100 metre
when a motorbike screeched
to a stop on her right. The
pillion rider grabbed her
with one hand and put the
other on her mouth. The
other man parked the bike
and joined him to drag her
across the bushes to the
colony park wall. She had
her back against the wall;
with the two men, the burly
one now clasping her face
and the other holding her by
her waist. She was 5-foot-2
and fit to boot. But the sheer
helplessness of that moment
told her that this was it. The
headline had come visiting.
Rape!
Her tormentors left her top
alone; and unbuttoned her
jeans. She had given up. She
had hit her head against the
wall. She could feel the
bump without touching it.
She couldn't. Her hands
were in chained by
unknown, more powerful,
monsters of hands. A cramp
rose from her left tendon
and started creeping up. The
struggle wasn't helping. She
stopped.
Her tormentors didn't. They
were struggling with a
lifeless piece of clothing. The
pair of tight-fit mild-tapered
jeans wouldn't come off. A
hand made its way through
the back as the burly one
tried to tear it off. The
fabric stood relentless like a
wall. It felt like forever.
Then the rattle of a diesel
engine in the distance
forced the men to put all the
pressure on her mouth and
legs. She couldn't make a
sound. A jeep just passed
by.
One of the men asked the
other to get the bike off the
road. Afraid the bike parked
in a secluded area was just
conspicuous. They couldn't
leave the girl. The two of
them doubled their efforts in
a fierce battle against the
denim, and managed to
draw the low-waist jeans
just below the waist. This
violation meant nothing to
her. She had spent all her
energy by now. The men
were getting bolder, yet
whispering to each other in
coarse Punjabi that she
didn't understand. And then
the big guy lifted his hand
off her mouth. And slapped
her. Her lips got smashed
between his rough, cold
hand and her teeth. They
walked away.
She sat down; rather let her
back slide down the wall.
The bike's engine came to
life; the lanky pillion rider
took his seat and then got
off again. All of a sudden. In
three hops, he reached her
and kicked her in the leg
and spat, "behnchod" before
jumping back on the bike.
She heard the word once
more, faint under the
distinct growl of the Yamaha
R15: "Behnchod jeans". As
the motorcycle's sound
faded into the night, she
wanted to run home to her
mom. She kept sitting there.
For what felt like forever.
A motorbike with a familiar
sound came from nowhere
and sped away, when she
got out of her fear-induced
slumber. Her heart was
pounding out of her chest.
She stood up with a jerk and
found her bag. She grabbed
it close to her chest as if the
bag was lost and found. She
began walking, taking her
first few steps gingerly. By
the time she reached the
gate of her home, she had
her usual end-of-a-long-day
yet confident gait.
Dad and mom both were
sitting on the veranda. Like
every other day, they just
said, "Aa gaye beta." She
walked in without
acknowledging them. Into
her room, she threw her
purse on the bed, tossed her
flats before heading to the
bathroom. A twist of the tap
and she was in a fit. She
kept splashing her face with
the cold October water. She
wasn't sure if she was
crying. She felt like it but
one couldn't make out
whether she was. She didn't
remember when she began
crying or if it was just the
water that she continued
splashing, when she heard a
knock on the bathroom
door.
"Are you okay, beta?"
"Yes, ma."
She realised she had taken a
bath with her clothes on.
She took off her top, her
bra. Threw them on the
floor. Like everyday. The
first thing after coming
home. She hadn't discovered
the bruises, the cuts, the
swollen back of her head
yet. She was half-aware of
the pain, but not at all
worried about it. She
discovered that her jeans
was already unbuttoned,
unzipped. She sat on the
bathroom floor and started
working on the jeans from
the bottom. The wet jeans
just wouldn't come off. As if
it was glued to her skin.
Tight-fitting, mild-tapered.
"Fuck! Damn! Grrrrr..." she
mumbled as she put all her
energy together to draw the
damn thing away. She
would stop. Then start
again. God knows for how
long this went on. The
grimace morphed into a
smile and she said:
"Behnchod jeans!"
#Women's safety ,
written by KAMLESH SINGH
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