Rape is the fourth most common crime in India. According to the National Crime Records Bureau 2013 annual report, 24,923 rape cases were reported across India in 2012. The incidence of reported rapes are among the lowest globally. Compared to other developed and developing countries, reported rapes per 100,000 people are quite low in India.
Barely three weeks ago, a young woman from Chennai inboxed me on Facebook wanting to break her stifling 32-year-old silence on child sexual abuse by her own father and gang-rape while studying at Rai Business School. Her trust in a stranger, her eagerness to reach out to fellow rape survivors and her deep and abiding faith in human connectivity proved more than ever that somewhere, as a society that screams feminism at the slightest provocation, lights candles and posts poignant posts when a woman like Suzette Jordan, Park Street raped victim dies, we have perhaps fallen short.
‘There are so many rehabilitation centers for drug addicts, but why are there not enough for women rape victims? Women are precious. Their bodies. Their soul. Our identity is under threat,’ stated Priya.
‘My father, Stanley Jason Arvind always insisted I stay with him in his room. He always wanted me to sleep besides him, clad only in my undergarments. Every night I’d find his hands on me. When I’d ask what he was doing, he would say, he was simply checking whether I’d fallen asleep or not. And would threaten me by saying that if I didn’t sleep he would send me off to a boarding school. When I attained puberty and my breasts started growing, I used to feel embarrassed sleeping bare-chested by him. Once I went to father’s native place, for a cousin’s wedding, and everyone was shell-shocked to see that at 14, I was still not wearing a brassiere.
As a child, I loved to be on Microsoft Paint. When I was 12, my father shared the computer password with me, but made it a point that I could only use it in his presence. If I would be wearing a skirt or a gown, he would make me sit on his lap, after yanking up my clothing… I hated it, and slowly I began to hate painting too. Actually, I never realised that he was sexually abusing me. I always thought what my father was doing was normal,’ she recalls.
‘I am afraid of travelling alone in lifts with men. Each time I use a taxi, I make fake phone calls so the driver knows I am talking to someone. I am petrified of the dark. It was there in the dark that my father raped me…’ confesses Priya who is currently into event management. Her trust violated yet again by a man who called himself her brother. Raju, whom she met during her MBA days and who promised her work in events, whisking her away on the pretext of being an MC at a bride’s maiden ceremony. Once there, he spiked her welcome drink.
‘When we reached the club, it was already packed. The party was on in full swing. I asked when I had to go on stage, and he replied, “in two hours”. I panicked, sensing I would be late in getting back to the hostel. I also expressed my discomfort about wearing a short dress he was carrying. I could see he was getting angry. He then handed me a drink, said it was a welcome drink. However, the drink was flat, so I put it away. He then handed me another. Reluctantly, I took a sip. That’s when the whole room started to rotate. I told him I was feeling sick and asked to be dropped back at once. I couldn’t even walk straight, so a few of his friends walked back with us. I didn’t mind, I knew Raju was there with me. I sat in the front and must have dozed off. I felt like I was flying. It was hard to keep my eyes open. When I finally came to my senses, I realised I was in the backseat of a car parked near the beach. Raju slapped me hard on my face a couple of times. He was shouting, “Bitch, you let your dad f*ck you, but you refused to wear my dress… I paid your fees.” I begged him saying, “Sorry Anna,” but he began removing my jeans and top, insisting I have to suck “his friends’ d*cks”. Only then would he drop me back. Or else he’d leave me naked on the beach,’ her words trail.
A timely phone call saved Priya from the dastardly act, but years later, as she pieces together her life, she’s determined to spread awareness amongst women. ‘Sexual abuse isn’t the end of a woman’s life. It wakes up a latent monster in her, making her stronger, independent, more confident to face the uncertain tomorrow on her own feet. Believe in yourself, never worry about falling down,’ is her message.
But what is her voice really worth?
In a nation that places its bahus behind guarded ghunghats, asking their betis not to step out after dark, that murders unborn female fetuses and marries off spinsters to trees and dogs. That worships inanimate Goddesses with much gusto and yet rigorously bars a menstruating woman from entering a temple threshold. That wants sons. As heirs. That labels a childless woman a banjh. The same way it calls another a randi. A manhood that is born from the sacred darkness that a woman houses between her thighs. Only to prove its strength by gagging her into submission. Violating her dignity. By raping her.
A child. A wife. A nun.
Image courtesy: BCCL
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