Years ago, I was young and foolish. I know, it seems astounding now, but it is true. I wore long hair and jeans with pockets torn off and flames painted on them (by myself).
One evening, around 7, I was walking towards Ansal Plaza, a mall in one of Delhi’s poshest, ‘cleanest’ localities. Two guys passed by on a bike. They said something which took a few moments to register. Something I ‘d rather not repeat here. It was getting dark, and they had seen someone with long hair walking alone. That was enough. They realized their mistake as they saw my face (or my lack of boobs, perhaps; I doubt they look at faces) and one of them squealed with laughter, yelling to the other, ‘Abe banda hai!’
It made me laugh. And then it made me sick in the stomach.
There’s been enough said about this during these past few days. The problem with most of it, as usual, is the same. Most of the people analyzing and pontificating, most of the people in charge of everything, have one common factor that disqualifies them, that invalidates everything they say. They all have penises.
If you’ve never known what it’s like to live like a second-rate human being, how can you be expected to understand what the big deal is?
This is who we are. This is what we are. This is precisely what our glorious culture is.
From religion to mythology, fables to rituals, laws to TV shows, misogyny runs deep. Protest all you want, shout until your voice croaks with pain, it’s not going away. Not until the penises are in charge.
What can you do about it?
Get the fuck out of here, while you can.