Dammit, 45 minutes late again. That means I’ll get the cramped elevator for sure. If one more old man stares at my boobs I swear — “Namaste, madam.” “Namaste, sirji, how are you?” “Very good, thank you madam. Where shall I drive you today?” “The Secretariat — but I’m running late so we have to go very fast, OK?” (small pause) “Of course, fast. Uh, yes madam.” Oh wait, my aunt told me to always sit in the backseat. I hope he doesn’t get offended. “So, is the city always this humid?” “Yes.” “Have you ever traveled outside of Delhi?” “Never.” “Why aren’t there any girls here? I’m always seeing men everywhere — driving, spitting on roads, peeing on roads, working — where are the women?” “They’re there, madam. We have a lot of, how do you say, fast girls here, don’t think otherwise.” “I doubt it.” “No, we do. Much like in the U.S. — they have modern girls there too, no differ- ent from yourself.” Commentary Where are the women? By Sindhu Ravuri (Orinally published in the Daily Cal, Univ of California, Berkeley.) Picture courtesy RACHAEL GARNER, Daily Cal
“But why? Please? I’m your friend, of course you can trust me. Please? Please?” I was too shocked to even say any- thing. Is this kind of talk normal in India? The intensity of my resentment and disgust peaked. I did not utter another word in response, and he, final- ly comprehending the extent of my rage, didn’t either. For a month, my entire existence was public domain. I was the “fast” one you ogle until there’s nothing left to imagine anymore. I was a living portrait the fantasies, stories and judgments were painted on daily by the eyes of others — old, young, administrators, drivers, guards. Predominantly men. When it comes to heritage, I viciously bite the hands that feed me. Every time I hear of another politician caught institutionalizing prostitution, another scorned lover getting his revenge with an acid attack, a woman found dead with a rod pushed up her vagina, I instinctively react with an aloof insensitivity — of course these things would happen in India. What a great nation — the hub of honor killings, casteism and heightened reli- gious intolerance. The country that thinks it’s OK to disrobe me with their
“Mhm.” “They must be having relationships —
these girls and boys?”
“Yeah, I’m sure that happens every- where, though. I mean, it happens all the time, at young ages, old ages, whenever. It’s normal. I presume you are married?” “Yes, with a son.” “Great.” “So, these boys and girls must have sex? Can you give me advice on sex — I mean, does it hurt for a girl? “Don’t you have a wife?” “Yeah, but she’ll never say no to me.” He was everything I hated in a human being. And I still answered. Misunderstanding his intentions as naïve curiosity, I answered every single question. “You’re getting of age to be married, you’re 19, right? Yeah perfect timing. It would make sense. So, have you had sex? You are from America. Also, here’s my number — call me when you are getting married.” He was 33 with a wife and son. He was a stranger I met that morning. He was my taxi driver, that was all. Is this a psychologial conversation? “I really don’t want to talk about this, I’m sorry.”
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