It was an after rain morning in August, the sort which gets misty as the day progresses. And by late afternoon, you’re in a fix if it’s a late august in northern plains of India or early winters.
She was wearing a plain cotton tee.
When she stepped out from her home, it was pretty humid. An old worn out cotton tee is your best bet in Delhi on such a day. Little did she know that she’d be protesting at India gate later in the morning. And by the time she was there, it was already drizzling. Delhi had witnesses another rape in a moving vehicle, and it was barely eight months after what happened on the night of December 16th, 2012.
She was a strong, independent woman. The sort usually found at northern campus of Delhi University. Probably, because she believed in Neitzsche and Camus. And a little bit in Beckett, which made her quite callous, socially.
But she had her friends. And cats. She didn’t need much.
But on that late rainy misty morning, she was wearing a worn out cotton tee, with a white brasserie. Little did she know that that would be a curse.
It rained heavily that day, and the media was more interested in her worn out cotton tee instead of what she was saying. She noticed it, noticed it more than obviously, and yet she was helpless. This wasn’t Gurgaon. It was India gate. The national media was there. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Fucking shit!
It was only her first monsoon in Delhi, but she knew very well why she wouldn’t want to be there in the next.
Leave a comment