I was told I could hold
the world in my hands,
but not how I had to
walk through it,
my body
bearing the memories
of these many maulings,
these many
other hands.
A blinding flash of light,
Luminous, frightening.
You look away,
You have mastered the art of looking away.
It is only a second, few seconds.
Nothing to see there,
It was only a “flash”.
A flash that becomes a dream,
A dream that becomes a nightmare.
You learn to unlearn,
You try to un-see.
But it is an imprint on your retina,
A photograph frozen in time,
The one Ed Sheeran didn’t sing about.
This one’s a negative,
A bluish white glow.
You keep it in your shawl,
That you wear around your neck like a milestone,
An armour concealing your shame,
The shame your mother gave you.
You keep this for long,
A cherished memory with a stranger,
A faceless stranger with hands, only hands,
Hands out of his eyes, his legs, in between his legs,
Hands.
A memory that involuntarily creeps up in broad daylight,
A lightning on a hot summer day.
Lights. Camera. Action.
Lights Camera. Look away,
Lights. Camera. Look away.
Lights. Camera. Look away.
Learn this drill!
Drill it into your memory,
Remember that photograph.
Looking away is an act of protest.
Master the art of never meeting the eye,
The eye is the catch.
Learn to look away at inanimate objects,
Stones,
Or the ground.
The ground is the safest place.
Teach yourself to look down, head bowed,
Eyes lowered – the spit, the grime, the shards of glass,
Your feet.
The counting of steps… 101…102...103.
212 steps to reach home, to reach office,
To find a seat next to a woman.
Road sign flashes in huge block letters, in red.
Better safe than sorry,
Never ignore warnings, you teach yourself, you teach your daughter.
And yet, the photograph comes alive at times,
Like the summoning of a spirit
With eyes more real than a touch,
Touch more real than a strike,
A bona fide touch.
The power play of the fingers,
Skin to skin, only for a moment.
But the moment is for ever,
A place in time without tenses,
Three divorces and yet,
this moment stays new.
There,
You die a little.
Breath hanging on a cloth line, washed out.
A scream caught on a fish hook,
You stand,
Like a shadow,
With your throat swelling up like a river in rain.
But all your body is ready for war,
You hair in attention,
Ready to take flight, run, wreak havoc.
You struggle to break free,
But there is nothing holding you back,
Just crippling, horrifying fear.
A diabolic force that needs some sort of exorcism.
The touch, the touch, the touch,
Latching on at the pit of your belly,
Ice sprouting from your bones,
Spreading in defying gravity,
Paralysing.
Now you are posing for a ‘mannequin challenge’,
A camera coming your way,
Click.
A photograph from memory.
Unshakeable. Stationary. Dead.
A ghost.
A ghost that can see and touch and feel,
A ghost that can be seen and touched and felt,
Praying in silence for redemption,
Skin stretching to heal an open wound.
Now you walk,
Cold sweat dripping between your thighs,
Your ears melting in sulphur,
The death-like acidic trickle in your mouth.
The earth is shaking with fever,
And
You prepare yourself for the comeback,
The posing, dramatic, dreadful normalcy
Of a photograph.
A walk down memory lane,
To that hot day in the cruelest month,
You- mischievous, innocent –
playing with your Raggedy Ann doll,
your uncle, his lap, his hands, your terror –
you know the story.
The first time you learn to keep a secret,
The first time you internalise fear,
The first time you cry without a tear,
The first time you take a picture in monochrome,
The first time of you try to forget,
That picture of the
Raggedy Ann doll on your rocking pony chair,
The first time you set something on fire,
Waiting for it to annihilate you.
You recall all those school lessons,
Right touch, wrong touch – girls exclusive.
You sit there wondering why you failed in class,
Shame engulfing you like your first fire.
Fast forward.
After 44 years of the cold war,
You are in front of a jury,
Narrating your story
That they already know –
The protagonist of someone’s erotic adventures,
The “same, identical woman”,
The same tedious story.
All the cupping and the grabbing and the pushing and the squeezing –
Very graphic words,
Very uncomfortable verbs ending in ‘ING’.
The jury cringes.
Words that you have perfected with practise and an unknown rage,
Words that took years of acknowledging,
Words that you have written over and over again,
On the foreskin of your heart.
Now, you cry, with tears,
You have reached catharsis,
And somehow,
Your mouth pleads guilty,
“Mea culpa”, you shout.
The jury charges you – guilty,
For the low-cut, skin tight provocation,
Your God-given endowment.
Your volition to say no,
Your Consent,
Guilty of all that is you.
The price one pays to be in view,
Alive, crying, skin tags and all
with a milestone around your neck,
Is a photograph with a blurred face and
A fake two-syllable name.
You convince yourself –
There is justice in a name,
At least you weren’t anonymous.
You convince yourself –
There is justice in a photograph,
At least, it was in colour.
நான் மனிதப் பிறப்பு அன்றோ? என் உடம்பு சதையும் ரத்தமும் சேர்ந்தது தானே? அதில் விருப்பும் வெறுப்பும் ஊறுமன்றோ?
அப்படியென்றால் என்னைக் காமப்பொருளாய் சித்தரித்து பார்ப்பது ஏனோ? அதே காமக் கண்கள் சீண்டத் துடிக்கும் கைகள் சீண்டிய பின் வெற்றிக் கொண்ட துப்பு கெட்ட மனப்பான்மை
ஒரு தடவை கிடையாது பல நூறு தடவை பலப்பல வெளிப்பாடுகளில் உருவங்கள் மட்டுமே வேறாயின
குழந்தைப பிராயத்தில் கண்டிப்பாய் சீண்டியவருண்டு எனக்கு நினைவுதான்யில்லை சின்னஞ்சிறு வயதில் விளையாடிக் கொண்டுயிருக்கும் போது தோழன் எனக் கருதியவன் தோரணையாய் தொடையைச் கில்லினான் பள்ளிப் பிராயத்தில் போதிக்கும் ஆசிரியரே கண்ணத்தை சிண்டினார் வீட்டில் யாருமில்லா சமயத்தில் மாமா மார்பகத்தை இறுக்கி சில்மிஷம் செய்தார் பேருந்தில் பயணித்த போது அப்பா பிராயமுடைய நடுவயதுக்காரர் ஓரச்சிக் கொண்டே கையை பிசைந்து அற்ப சந்தோஷத்தை தேடினார் காதல் எனக் கூறியவன் படத்திற்கு அழைத்துச் சென்றது
வலுக்கட்டாயமாக உதட்டோடு உதட்டை உரசிக் கொள்ளவே மணமுடித்த கணவரோ ஒட்டுமொத்த கமப்பொருளாகவே என்னைக் கருதி ஒவ்வொரு முறையும் அணுகினான்
அரிசி வாங்க கடைக்கு சென்றால் அங்கே சில்லரை கொடுக்கும் சாக்கில் என் விரலை தொட்டு அணைக்கிறான் அவன் அடே சண்டாளர்களா!
என் கண் இமைகளைக் கூட விட்டு வைக்கவில்லையே நீங்கள்!
ஒவ்வொரு முறை நடுநடுங்கி தைரியத்தோடு வீட்டில் உள்ளவர்களிடம் சொன்னால்
அவர்களோ 'பெண் என்றால் இது எல்லாம் சகஜம், சகித்துக் கொள்ளக் கற்றுக்கொள்' என என் தலையை வருடி கொடுக்கிறார்கள்.
என் கூச்சல் ஒலிக்கின்றதா? யாராவது கேட்கின்றீர்களா?
நீ சீண்டி லயிக்கும் இடம் கிடையாதடா நான் நீ மையலிட்டு விளையாடும் மைதானம் நான் கிடையாது
இது என் உடம்பு என் உடம்பு என்றால் என்ன என்று புரிகிறதா? உங்கள் மரைமண்டையில் உரைக்கின்றதா என்ன?
On December 10th, we brought the four mannequins together. A small group of Prajnya volunteers listened to the four poets read their work, standing before the mannequins.
The mannequins standing together already made for a powerful image.
When the poets brought their words to this dramatic visual, it was a very moving experience. Each poem is posted separately, along with a photo of the poet reading. We are inexpressibly grateful to the poets for writing for us at such short notice. We know this is because of how passionately they feel about this subject.
The original plan was to gather up all the mannequins, heavily laden with their hand-stickers, and bring them to the venue of the Public Forum on Street Sexual Harassment. It was to be a visually dramatic end to the 2016 Prajnya 16 Days Campaign against Gender Violence.
The plans had to change. Life's like that.
But to see off the mannequins which had spoken so eloquently to us and all who saw them about the everyday trauma of being touched, groped, pinched, stroked without one's consent, without some ritual to acknowledge their message, seemed wrong. We could not possibly just bundle, strip and return them to their generous owners.
So we returned to something we love at Prajnya--poetry. We invited four poets (Sharanya Manivannan, Alamu Rathinasabapathy, Michelle Ann James and N. Santha) who are a part of our community to contemplate the mannequins and tell us what they heard and felt.
We sent them these photos. They were to write a poem they could read/perform for us in the presence of the mannequins.
