If you are passionate about teaching, then Hackberry offers you franchise opportunities to turn this passion into your profession. Fill out the form now!
The same old story that all women using public transport are familiar with; but this one has a difference.
The bus was about to leave, and she ran a few steps and boarded it just in time. It was the peak hour for bus transport, and there was even more hustle and bustle than usual. Grudgingly, she had to take that bus to make it home on time, for her daughter would be home in a while.
She navigated through the seemingly endless number of commuters, and held on to a seat’s railing as the bus moved on.
As she was reaching inside her purse to get the bus fare, she felt some contact from behind. She turned back and saw nothing that she could tell. She paid for her ticket. And as the bus began to move from the next stop, she felt contact again. She turned and saw. Now she knew what was going on.
She turned to look into his sneering face. She just wanted to get home, so she decided to be patient. She moved away from him a little, as much as the packed bus would allow her.
A few minutes later, she felt a touch on her waist. She flinched and looked back with gritted teeth. It was him again. She felt disgust. She shut her eyes and told herself that it would be over soon. Tears peeked up from under her closed eyelids, glistening. She hoped that the journey would end soon.
But a few minutes later, it happened again. And she was ready this time. The moment she felt the touch, she slapped the hand away roughly, turned and pushed him away savagely. He fell on his behind. She was livid. And she looked around, at the gaping commuters. People who couldn’t care less. She knew that she was on her own. And she knew that she had to fight.
As he got up, she could see that he was rattled. That sneer was long gone. His eyes showed fear. That amorous confidence and chauvinistic ego had vanished into a deep chasm. He was panting heavily. He looked scared. That was enough for her. Resolutely, she turned back and awaited her destination, amidst queer silence.
As she got ready to get down at her stop, she cast him one last, stoic, gutsy look. She then walked away, head held high. Shaken, not beaten.
Image of flames via Shutterstock
Lackadaisical engineer. Student journalist. Football is love. Jam is ecstasy. Dogs: heaven. Reading = breathing. Madras is home. read more...
Women's Web is an open platform that publishes a diversity of views, indivisual posts do not necessarily represent the platofrom's views and opinions at all times.
Stay updated with our Weekly Newsletter or Daily Summary - or both!
My house-help asked excitedly, “I am going for wedding. Can you let me wear your red & black saree? To be honest I was stumped for a moment; I didn’t know what to say but I still said yes.
I lent a gorgeous saree to my house-help for a wedding in her family. Soon I stated getting questions if I would wear that saree again or if I was okay to be seen wearing the same saree my house-help was wearing?
We are all so conditioned to give our used clothes to our house-helps but are we okay to wear the clothes they were wearing?
A few days ago she came excitedly to me, “I am going for a family wedding. I want to wear your red & black saree, Ill wash and give it to you after the function. Please can you let me wear it?”
Sivaranjiniyum Innum Sila Pengalum (SISP) is an ode to all of the lost women, who could have been sports stars, singers, bankers, lawyers, doctors, just... happy, if they hadn't been enslaved in matrimony, and then forgotten all about.
One of the cool things about my mother was that she was an ace athlete and a champion sculler as a young woman in the 1950s and 60s. I only found out about this side of her a few years ago. I imagine her in a paavaadai dhaavani, taking on the mighty Kaveri river so many decades ago.
I recently watched a Tamil film anthology on SonyLiv that she would have liked to watch – Sivaranjiniyum Innum Sila Pengalum, (SISP) that has 3 stories of 3 different women – Saraswathi, Devaki, and Shivaranjini.
Like all the heroines in the anthology, my mother’s talents were sacrificed at the altar of matrimony. She pawned her gold medals and silver cups one by one to pay for expensive textbooks for us or a gift for a niece on her wedding, money for which she didn’t dare ask my father, because it was her niece… I remember how she caressed the cups and how her face hardened as she shoved them into her bag to take to the jewellers.
An unruly mob had already caught sight of the bus and were approaching it with fire in their hands. The bus was to be set ablaze. Not a single person should escape.
Rishita had missed the hostel bus to college yet again. This had happened third time in the current month. The distance from the girls’ hostel to JJM College was a good twenty kms. On a normal weekday, it would take forty five mins to an hour to reach her college through public transport. Today was supposed to be the day when the minority groups were taking out a rally as a mark of protest against the atrocities committed on them. She realized that she had a very dim chance of making it to the department before the class tests started. She was literally in tears. If her Doctor father got a whiff of her missing the first of the periodical tests, he was sure to board the next flight to Kolkata and get her back to Delhi. He hated Calcutta as a city and more for the memories associated with her mother.
This is the city where they had met as batch mates, fallen in love, eloped against the wishes of both set of parents and shifted to Delhi where no one knew who the Roy’s were. Rishita had just turned fifteen when she passed away due to a major heart attack. Post plus two, when Rishita had wished to pursue English literature instead of the expected course of medicine, her supportive father was encouraging of her choice. All hell broke loose when she mentioned her dream of studying at JJM College, Kolkata. Her father refused to understand the reason of her choice. For him, it was a foolish path of choosing to struggle in a hostel dormitory two thousand kms away from home.
Misogyny is deep rooted in our society. The protagonist resorts to an ingenious plan to make sure that her husband and son treats women with respect.
Tarika took her place at the dining table and started serving herself breakfast. Her husband Aman and son Sudhir were already seated there and were busy with their meals. While Sudhir was pushing the poha across the plate, Aman was engrossed in the newspaper and his hands seemed to be mechanically moving towards his mouth. Tarika wondered if he even knew, what was on his plate. She would have just let them be and would have quietly finished her breakfast and left for work, had it not been for what Aman uttered.
He was glancing at the paper as he spoke, “Women these days, don’t know how to behave sensibly and then keep shouting about harassment.”