#MeToo

At the age of six, probably
I remember my mother saying
that there are these sacred parts
in my body that I should not let anyone touch
And to me it seemed pretty absurd,
how the ugliest and the dirtiest parts
become sacred? And I remember
dreading those awkward talks

At the age of 11 or maybe less
I saw a man by the footpath
on my way back from school
The sarong drawn up, his privates out
in broad daylight, and even then I felt,
that he was not peeing by the bush
Something in his face, in that fraction
of the second I passed him, taught
that this is not right, something is wrong

At home, I was surprised to see
My father’s wrath, when I described
this peeing man by the bush
Though I was not scared
at this sight, first, I came to realize
that it’s something to dread
but I’ve to show this ‘showmen’
That I don’t give a f***
and wear a straight face, and
appear brave, though I may feel not

At age of 12, more or less
My cousin got down from a bus
packed to the brim in sweaty jest
with a splash of dirty milky mess
sprayed on her skirt
without her knowing
what went wrong or what it was
to begin with

At 16, I was told, not by parents,
but by the world
that it is vulgar to wear
sleeveless and skirts short
The catcalling, now it is named such,
was a norm, and I don’t remember
the naive me, minding it that much
as it was the norm, for the boys
to say some filth out loud

At 18, I was told,
To be a bit ladylike, and nubile
as the time is right
and I look like a tomboy
Be more submissive
in my nature and stride
with a tamed manner and soft words
for a woman of pride

At 20, I left home and came to the city
On my own, call me gritty
and on the road while strolling with friends
in broad daylight amidst the crowd
schoolboys, still in uniforms, squeezed
our breasts while passing us by,
Uninvited and unannounced
and we stayed silent and went on
as if nothing was odd..

At dusk, when the day’s dues were done
I was told not to walk alone
that some male should walk with me along
as if I am a volatile bomb, which
a touch might detonate
and destroy my whole self…
In buses and trains I was told
to keep away from men, the dozing
the leaning, the gentlemanly and the bold
with their pricks out of control

At night in my mid-twenties
in our hostel rooms
When we sat to study by the windows
a line of three-wheelers was parked
across the roads for no reason why
The silhouettes of men with their privates out
tried to create the effect
of a spotlight on centre stage
with the light of mobile phones
Shining on their standing poles

At the age of 29 or 30
When I started to work
we were told to be draped in Sari
to be more professional
and appear more respectable t
Though our skin is out,
more than with slacks and shirts
And in the crowded public world
this skin gleamed like red meat
in the eyes of vultures and greedy hawks

At the age of 35, though
I’ve travelled a fraction of the world
I still feel intimidated
by this feminine skin I own
To go out wherever
and whenever I fancy,
wearing whatever I want,
To muster the grit to travel alone
is still a hurdle in my mind and I wonder
Is it just in my thoughts?