Growing up, we were looked at slowly. Up, then down. Every cling of T-shirt examined, every inch of skin alight from scrutiny, every detail savored. Growing up, we were touched daily. Big brown hands brushed against scarfed breasts on crowded streets; palms accidentally landed on thighs, on public trains and buses. We were whistled at, we were followed, we were teased, and we were threatened. Casually. Growing up, we were strangers to personal space. Strangers to the idea that staring is rude, and strangers to notions of privacy. Everything that was mine was also everyone elses to devour, so growing up, we were devoured daily. Swallowed whole by the men of our every day, swallowed whole by shopkeepers, by rickshaw drivers, by watchmen, and by passersby. Swallowed whole by the older boys at school, by our fathers colleagues when they came over for a drink, by our uncles, and by our cousins. We were claimed, each of us, every day. This is life, we thought, quiet and uncomplaining, and we carried about it meekly, seen and not heard, as little girls ought to be.
Posted on: Tue, 20 Jan 2015 10:20:27 +0000
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