Of Nirbhaya and thousands others before and after her,
It was a coming of age realization to me that over the years, my words, sketches or the general events in my life were only the result of decisions I made to satisfy myself or the parents, of course. It was a stage when I realized that my words shouldn’t be solely about my personal trifles with nature or love, but about how the actions of a few and then many have shaped a generation of people who cannot think of women being beyond a sexual fantasy or a class of human being that is supposed to have an automatic yearning to cater to everyone else’s wishes, first her parents, then her husband’s, her husband’s family and then her kids.
When everyone from the media to innocent kids who didn’t understand the situation were baying for blood of the rapists, to this date, I have not read one piece that addressed the psychological process that justified rape to the individual. I tried to do that in a short story, but I tore it away as soon as I had finished it. I felt like another rapist who was dissecting the event, I felt like one who was cashing in on it. That led to another piece. One that was based on a realization that the blame is more mine, you the reader’s and everyone else’s who coexist in the macrocosm that form’s the rapist’s society. We, you and I were the actual rapists. Our parents and their fore-bearers were. Our unhealthy attachment to our propaganda culture and tradition; our inability to wean ourselves from a fabricated fantasy of flamboyant yore is the cause of our misogynistic attitude. Although, I didn’t touch the subject of the latter in the story, I wanted to metaphorize (if I may use that word) our tendency to be a good spectator or ‘silent spectator’ as a friend who read the story called the protagonist in it.
I will probably post it here, one of these days.