In a parallel universe, somewhere..
The streets weren’t safe after dawn. Purab knew this just like he knew his own existence in the world.
Papa had made two reminder calls to him at 4 a.m. to leave the office on time, so that he could catch his bus that would arrive at 5 a.m.
He had tried his best. Excel sheets, PPT presentations and some more codings. But a workaholic that he was, he got so immersed in completing the project report that he could barely notice.
4:45. His heart plunged into his abdomen. His palms, forehead and soles began to sweat profusely. In an attempt to collect his bike key, wallet and dinnerbox, he dropped a few files and nearly banged the switchboard with his index finger. Not wasting the time to let the lift come up, he decided to run down the stairs, dodging them, catching his breath, holding on to his belongings, dropping them, collecting them back.
It would take him almost 20 minutes to reach the bus stop everyday. He frantically put his bike on the third gear and accelerated enough to whiz past stray animals here and there on the streets.
“Please God, please.. don’t let me miss the bus..” ominous thoughts had begun to cloud his senses already as the streets were bereft of any man.
Only some promiscuous looking women were to be seen.
******
10 a.m.
The female sanitary workers had halted their sweeping duties and gathered near a stinking sewage pit with their nostrils covered, tall brooms in their hands. From their jabbering the passing by people gathered that they had found the dead body of a man in the pit.
Within an hour, the municipal authorities, the police and local news reporters had thronged the scene. Though, the authorities and the policewomen seemed in no hurry, as such. It was, as if , they had grown accustomed to such incidents and how to deal with them.
It was a naked, visibly 30ish man who had been brutally murdered.
Purab’s parents arrived at the scene, in shambles, utterly distraught. They had spent the whole night making frantic calls and messages to Purab, but to no avail.
It was their Purab. They recognised the filth-covered, disheveled, disfigured body by the ‘freedom’ tattoo on his left wrist that he had got inked last week only.
The inconsolable parents could only manage to utter his name while bellowing, and at times, sobbing. And how he would have been alive if his elder sister had accompanied him last night.
“These women are monsters. No man is safe today, from a small boy to an old withering man. They will rob all of us of our dignity..” a group of neighbouring men clicked their tongues while wrapping their scarves a little tighter around their faces. The women of their families had already gathered around the pit, forming a gossiping crowd. Their stares signaling the empathising men and few other peeking curious male eyes back to their respective homes.
A week later, the autopsy report confirmed what was already being doubted. Purab had been raped before being murdered. And that it wasn’t only one woman in the question. They were many. They took turns.
Purab’s parents and sister had to fight a long, tiresome battle now. Answering questions like, “Why was he up so late that night?” “What kind of clothes was he wearing?” “ Why wasn’t he accompanied by any female if he had to venture out during those hours?”
And the men of that country?
They had to be even more vigilant now, more appropriately dressed after this news shook the nation. Some more words of caution their way.
Some more inversion into their shells.
*******
P.S.- Sadly, this is the lived reality of small girls, young and old women today.
