It’s 9 am on a Thursday on Old Airport road. If you’re a runner or cyclist or walker in Bangalore, you know the stretch I’m talking about. It passes through Defence Colony, the Command Hospital, the oldest and tallest and richest trees in the city. This stretch is cool on a hot day. During the monsoons, it’s sinful.
Since the beginning of the pandemic, this has been my happy place. A walk where I can touch old bark, smell new blossoms, feel wind between my fingers. Be out. Be safe.
So here I am – 80% done with my walk, en route home, the soundtrack of Killing Eve in my ears. I remember being happy. And out of nowhere, my breasts are – I don’t want to say groped, it was much more violent than that – abused, another hand grabs my head, and next thing I know I’m on the ground and a man is trying to get on top of me.
Photo: Sneha Vakharia
This is 9 am, at the heart of Bangalore, at a traffic signal.
I’ve been here before. I was younger then, and didn’t have the instincts I have now. The first time, I froze – completely incapacitated by not understanding. Another time, I appealed to others to help.
But this time, something strange and new happened. I fought him. I kicked him in the nuts twice, on his chest once. He couldn’t get near me. Me – pacifist me, can’t watch violent scenes in movies me, on the ground me – I was fighting a man in broad daylight. And I was winning.
And then something even more incredible happened. He turned around and ran. He was running away.
We were now in a chase. First, two men on scooters decided to help by going after him. It took me a moment to get back on my feet but pretty soon, I was running too. Arthritic, can’t do high impact exercise, wasn’t wearing a bra, and yet I was running like I hadn’t run in years. I was chasing him.
Oh, I can’t begin to describe how incredible that felt.
Eventually, the man was cornered. Some enthusiastic bros got off their motorcycles and started slapping him up. I told them to stop (I’m petrified of lynchings).
I took photographs of the man. Then a conversation began in the gathering crowd about what had happened. Had I actually been attacked? Was I unloading on an unfortunate, and very poor looking man because I could?
And then a woman in a bright yellow sari, no more than four-and-a-half feet tall and with a big red round bindi started shouting something in Kannada, then took off her chappal and started hitting the man with it.
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This is something I want to think about: When systems of justice fail us, when we’re powerless, weak and old, the chappal in the hand is the power South Asian women give themselves.
Is it a good power? Is it inevitable? If we were powerful in other ways, would we need to take our chappals in our hand and beat men with them? I don’t know.
Once again, I appealed to her to stop. The man’s shirt was now torn. I had someone check him for ID, but he didn’t have any. I asked the enthusiastic boys to let him go. I left. I imagine the crowd parted after me.
One of the scooter boys walked back to his scooter some of the way with me. Don’t feel bad about this, he said.
It was sweet, but I was heaving and still in shock. I didn’t as much as thank him.
An FIR has been filed. The man has been found, identified and is now in lockup. I’m back on this stretch on my own, enjoying the birds and the trees and wind between my fingers.
Still shaken and wary, but now I know I can fight. Hurting me is going to come with a price tag.
Featured image credit: Wikimedia commons