Ignorance is bliss?

The furore over a woman journalist who was sexually molested in an elevator of a high-end hotel in Goa is still doing the rounds. Though I empathise with the journalist as a woman and as a fellow journalist, I cannot help but think such a situation could have been eminently avoided. I know I am going to receive much flak for saying such a thing. Anyway, if this experience helps a few women then I don't mind the criticisms that are bound to come my way.  
We deal with such incidents because as younger and less-experienced women, we do tend to believe in men who have 'made it in the world' and discover much to our shock that they have feet of clay. I suspect that in this case proximity to the boss had a lot to do with the way it played out in the end.
Unfortunately for us, we rarely pay attention to our vulnerability as we move very closely in the company of what we recognise as 'power centres'. If only the girl had had the maturity and foresight not to take her boss for granted, this may not have happened.
I believe this sincerely because the girl has, in her letter to her mentor, stated that the man's daughter was not surprised by her friend's revelation of his behaviour. She had seen him behave thus with a woman when she was 13 years old, the girl told her assaulted friend.  
Somewhere along the line I, as a working woman with considerable experience in various organisations, am unable to appreciate the ignorance of the injured woman.
She is in her late 20s, with a boyfriend in the background. Also, she is covering sexual abuse of women. It is sad that she is now the centre of attention despite being a victim. The media themselves are covering it with shocking zeal. Though her name has not appeared in print, readers have a fair idea of who she is, as her boyfriend has been identified.
I only wish that women are not considered easy lay simply because they are working in a male world.
Even journalism, given its low position in the society of elitist professions such as law and medicine, has evolved to produce women of calibre - women who have achieved laurels and prominence because of their talent and hard work. I hope the girl resigns her job and walks with her head held high.
I hope she continues to remain a journalist and sets an example to the rest of us that it was one bad incident that should never be repeated. If she were to continue to work in the same news organisation, I would be disappointed. If she does that, I would wonder what prompted her to give up a fight after being through so much. I wouldn't be able to respect her.   

A chance meeting

A 20-year-old who came to pick me up from home for a function in which I was to distribute prizes to children with ADHD was like any other I thought. Until I struck a conversation with him. As we travelled by the car the college had arranged for me, I became curious about him. "Why did you choose to study occupational therapy?" I asked.
I should probably have known, with so many years' of life experience. But what he said took my breath away. He had scored 86% in class XII and is from Padma Seshadri School. "Even the name is enough to get me a job in a media house," he told me later. I couldn't agree more.
He had applied for engineering colleges and had even got a seat. His father was a small-time employee in a small private company in T. Nagar. "I had to pay Rs. 60,000 to join the course and my father couldn't make arrangement for it," he told me.
Worse was to come. His mother is a home maker and his younger brother, eight years younger to him, has ADD for which he was being treated for several years at the occupational therapy centre. Fifteen days before he joined college, his father died of heart attack and the family had nothing to fall back on. I could see he loved his brother a lot. "He is now a topper in maths in school," he said of his 12-year-old brother.
It was at this juncture that the teacher who was training his brother suggested that he take up occupational therapy. The boy agreed and at Rs. 20,000 a year it was more affordable. His father's friend is sponsoring his education.
He has another year of undergraduate course to go. He has planned his career already. A master's degree in OT and then become a therapist. "All of us classmates together have planned to set up a therapy centre," he told me, hope in his voice.
I have three nephews, all his age and they are all in engineering colleges. Yet, this boy's courage in the face of adversity warmed me up to him. I would like to know what he makes of himself in future.  He is looking forward to a promising future. I wish him well. 

My cousin and others

This morning when I heard from neighbours about a young man who had died of brain tumour my mind travelled to the day when my mother called to tell me that my cousin had died. I remember the flutter in my stomach.
That little boy that I had held in my arms, seen grow, enjoyed playing with, and fought with, was no more. I am ten years older than him but I fought with him over firecrackers when I was 19 and he, 10.

As I walked to see mother, I recalled the toddler, his charming smile, the little boy who created a ruckus, threw a ball into the aluminum pot of boiling water. The boy who always fought with his brother, five years younger than he. The boy had a striking resemblance to my aunt,his mother, who is my mother's younger sister. The boy who had an opinion about everything and infuriated older people in the family. The boy who thought I had a boyfriend and if I didn't then I am no girl! The boy who was shocked that the deities in the temple on our street were standing naked.
Every morning, at the Agasthyar temple, the idols would be washed and then decorated with new garments. He did not understand the rituals though I tried explaining them.
The boy who was always jealous because his younger brother was a delicate child and hence was pampered... was no more.
I remember my aunt telling me over phone, "He is my baby..." as she sobbed. Six years later it is still fresh in my memory. He died of aneurysm in the brain, we were told.
I met my cousin in my aunt's house in 2001 for Christmas at Wshington DC, after a gap of nearly 10 years. He had grown up, now an adult, and he remembered little of his childhood fights with me. I met him briefly for dinner on Christmas day. After that I never ever spoke to him.
Today, my neighbour's son, all of 35, in his prime, had died of tumour. His mother sat beside the freezer box, tears flowing down her cheeks. "He is gone," she said. "I educated him, he went abroad, got himself a green card. He is not there anymore." Her sorrow and pain will heal only with time.
How does one convince her that life goes on and that there will be pleasant memories that she can continue to live with? My mind has been with her all day, commiserating with the grieving family. But I go about my work as if I am an automaton.
Knowing me, I know I will now go to the internet and read up about it. But what help is that? I need something to assuage her pain. My memories and the shock I experience every time I recall the day I got that phone call which turned my life upside down.
I cried a bit but was not given to crying as others did that day. But the memory of that cousin is so fresh after all these years. 

Ode to an unknown girl child

There is enough to worry when someone gets groped or mishandled in public. As children our parents do not teach us how and why it is wrong to be touched anywhere without consent. We grow up suddenly unaware of our rights and then as adults we are told we are women and our duty is to bear children. How little we know of ourselves when we enter marriage. And then the next cycle begins when we barely recognise our rights as women.
We impose some restrictions based on what we have undergone as children, hoping to protect them but failing miserably. As parents we think we have done a great job but little do we know what we have failed to do. Is there a right way except be honest with ourselves about our fears and hope that they do not carry over to our children?
My experiences on the street or in a bus or in a public place is not going to prevent my daughter from suffering such ignominy from men on the prowl. I wish I could find a way around to celebrate my daughter, enjoy her and be sure that she has not been mishandled until she is ready to settle for a full-fledged adult life on her terms.
In the past fortnight much has been said about rape, molestation and sexual assault. Yet, very few are even talking of self-defence. I remember the first time my husband, Raghunath, taught me some strokes. I asked him why I should learn them. He said, "in case somebody steals your handbag, you should be able to thwart him."
I did not pay much attention then but it did put the germ of an idea in my brain. I have been bold, walking deserted streets alone and driving home by myself late in the night. There was one occasion I had the unpleasant experience of two men on a motorbike slapping my back as I was riding home by scooter from work, one night.
Luck was on my side and I saw a police constable riding pillion on a moped and I stopped him. I complained to him. I told him which direction the two men drove and left, suddenly aware that I was very vulnerable. But I saw him immediately call someone on the phone.
When I casually mentioned to a police reporter-friend the next day, he told me that the police have a roster of such fellows. In effect, he brushed aside the incident as something he comes across everyday. But I was not convinced that such an incident would not occur again though I realise that I do not have much choice even today.
I feel as vulnerable as I did when I was a child. At that age fear was alien as I did not know words like rape and assault. Today I know the meaning of these words and I fear not just for my safety but for all those young girls who walk to school or play in the playground unaware of the lurking dangers. 
The reason for this blog: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2254819/Indian-gang-rape-spoke-ordeal-lay-dying-I-thrashed-kicked--boiling-anger-murmuring-kill.html