In the dead of night...

I am done with channel discussions. I don’t think there is a single nerve in me that can stand the yap and clack anymore. But my father-in-law is so obsessed with the 8.30 pm rattle that he has his dinner right at the drawing room staring into the screen. He puts the volume so high that however hard I pledge to ban channel discussions from my life forever, it falls flat. 

So the last three days, amidst rolling out my perfectly round chapattis, I have been listening to both the media and film industry getting aroused over the incident where another woman was molested out in the street at night. But this one happens to be an actress. So the world has to sit up and take notice and pass judgments.

While my chapattis puffed up, I remembered  one especially dark night in my life a decade back. It was my second year as a telecast journalist with a channel. Returning from a night shift , my car was stopped and attacked by a group of criminals. They beat up three male colleagues in the car and verbally abused me, the lone woman in the group. All because our driver had gestured when they came opposite in neck breaking speed on a supposedly one way road. They threatened to finish us off, luckily which they didn’t. And I ended up taking the men folk to the hospital casualty at 2 am.

When something untoward happens, we are only focused on surviving the moment. But later on, as the gravity of the incident dawns upon us, it becomes real and often a nightmare. What made the episode worse for me was the way my channel reported it. They played it up saying it was a counter attack against one of the investigative programmes aired by the channel the previous week. A penniless publicity to the newly launched programme. I received no calls from the channel heads the whole of next day and by evening I was asked to report on duty to give a live stand-up on how the goondas had `planned and attacked’ us. It was disgusting, the way the channel wanted to cash in on the incident and the days that followed- the police station, the statement giving and to top it all my mother’s terrified face- made it grueling. 

All the while, I believed it was a complete showdown by a group of criminals who were not afraid of the media or police nor the government. A grave invasion into a citizen’s life. Leaving her benumbed.

And then came the turn of filthy questions. Are you sure they did no physical harm? Isn’t it surprising that the goondas beat the rest of them and did not touch you? But why were you returning with a group of men? And the best one- why did you take up journalism??   

I did not answer many questions and dismissed all glances and stares that came my way. But it was enough to set me thinking if this was the organisation I wished to be part of. Who did not for once ring me up and asked for details. Nor raised concern why our streets were dangerous at nights. Being a news media, they had all the means. I quit after one week not because of the episode that happened but because it showed me I was working for the wrong people.

Months into my next job at Indian Express, I visited the corridors of the now infamous Law Academy to interview the daughter of a Malayalam actor , a legend for his comedy roles. She was molested while on her visit to one of the hill stations in the state and had filed a complaint and the media instantly took it up.

 The college authorities were not convinced though. Narayanan Nair, the Manager, seemingly full after a heavy lunch, wanted to know why media played up everything. Finally, I caught up with the girl who wanted a permission from her father to talk to the media. And so I was put to the film star himself on line. I remember his exact words. ``I do not know you. But I consider you like my daughter and request you not to bend the matter. Please publish only what she says. It’s a father’s plea.’’ The comedian was damn serious. You might be known as a playboy, when it comes to one’s daughter, uprightness prevails.

The girl however acted like a heroine. But I was relieved to see, though feather-brained she appeared, she had the fortitude to stand against someone who saw her only as a pretty face with nice ass. She not only complained but spoke about it and how!

And then there were the hundreds of women local body heads that I interviewed for a series during the state’s local body elections in 2010. Who told me hundreds of stories about how easy it was to forget being a woman when you are in politics but how the men folk will always remind you. Even Mayors told me they wished they were treated differently at home and at work.

As I hear the channel discussions end every day throwing up the question `who is behind this?’, I want to scream ``we all are.’’ Because for some men, there are no actresses, no journalists, no politicians and no students. They only see a weaker sex, frail lithe beings, who can be  dictated and discarded. Out of love or force, since both works wonderfully well.  And since half the women are ready to swallow the bitter pill, it falls upon the other half to huff and puff against it.

Every small change should begin at home if  any hope remains for a doomed society. Maybe the day when I will finally sit and watch my baking show at 8.30pm while my husband tries hard to come up with round chapattis, things will start to look up. 

ends...