Nothing happens. Twice.
It happened. It happens. Every day. And you thought only change was constant. Ask any woman. They will all tell you the same story — frisking and scanning under male surveillance.
Read: Bangalore molestation: 22-year-old girl's hard-hitting poem on misogyny goes viral
I am told 80% of Bengaluru is from other states. I never bothered to check the math. Because statistics, like certain tax, is a damned index. I will tell you why. Because I have been to police stations. I have seen the long arm of the law, picking noses while justice languished behind bars craving for light of day.
Back to statistics. I went with a friend to report a molestation. She was attacked by a male pig in public while she was hailing a bus. Let's call her X. Because that's what our society taught us. By calling her X, I am told, we are protecting her identity. I wonder how the women who came out against male atrocities would have felt had you called them X.
Back to the story: I, X, and her friend are sitting in a police station in Bengaluru. The incident happened the day before. She was touched by a guy in public as a crowd stood watching — nobody had an opposable thumb it seems, as no ape moved a finger. However, she passed her day's test. She got into a bus only to realise later that the guy made off with her mobile phone — Oneplus One — no harming in taking names here, for a mobile is no woman.
In the wake of the shock, no I didn't mean losing her mobile, she got down, went to a police station. To report the incident. And voila the cycle was set rolling. First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then you leave.
She is alone. She is frustrated. She is angry. She is sad. She is a bundle of nerves. She goes back to her routine. The daily bread affairs. But while working she breaks down. Tells her colleagues what happened, takes leave for the day.
Her colleague, my roommate, sounds me out. What can be done? I route the call to our crime reporter. She calls him. He gives her directions. Then she goes to the police station again. This time with a lot more resolve. But the cycle repeats, except this time, the police were kind enough to listen. Hail Hitler. She narrates the story to the 'writer'. He takes in the story hook, line and sinker. He files a complaint: 'Mobile phone lost'. Maybe he doesn't know what dignity is. Or modesty, as prescribed by law.
After a night of deliberation, my roommate and I decide to go to police station the next day and put an end to flashback. So the three of us walk in, greet the policemen. Meet the in-charge. Renarrate the incident. Now they are all concerned. What brand was the mobile? One khaki-clad asks. What's the damage? Another felt hat poses. Rs 12,000. He didn't seem impressed.
Meanwhile, I am raising a protest. Guys, you are missing the point. We didn't come to report theft. The issue is harassment. Her dignity and the state of our state. We are greeted with smirks, grins and other variants of vaudeville. Oh I missed the point again, one of the cops asked about the crime scene and gave us a spiel on the reputation of the place. Also advice to the girl. Don't take bus from there. (Thanks. Duly noted).
Now we insist. Please file a fresh FIR. At least, it will make statistics. But the police feed us more excuses. The guy who recorded yesterday's complaint will only reach at 10. We can open the case only after he comes, but your inconvenience is not regretted. OK. I get it. Meanwhile, the girl is more and more weary. And wary.
I told them (the girl and my friend) to go back to office, and thought of waiting for the computer cop — apparently only he knows about the system. Now, I am alone in the police station, cops are milling about. I am sitting in a corner, getting eyeballed time and again. Some came up to me and question my intentions. I had to tell them the story over and again. I didn't mind. I hoped it will show in the results.
Around 10, the know-it-all guy is in attendance. I have a talk with him. He says the case is already registered. What now? I wax eloquent. OK. The story has sunk in, finally. But my sigh of relief didn't last. Now he can't take a case, unless I talk to the sub-Inspector. He is still on outstation duty. Ah, ah.
I linger. Go back to warm my corner and cool my heels. I kept myself busy.
Meanwhile, my cousin called for updates. While I was talking to him, a woman stormed in. She was panting, and tears rolled down her eyes. Cops gather around. She communicates the matter. I didn't understand the local language. I put together the broken Hindi she sputtered in between her account, and I surmised that some neighbour is giving her trouble.
Suddenly, the good cop-bad cop dynamic comes into play. Policemen take sides. Some play the devil's advocate. All the while discouraging her from filing a complaint. But she has more resolve than I do. She persisted. And police finally capitulate. With marked hesitation, one guy writes down her complaint. At the same time, a cop tries to call control room to inform them about the complaint. But another cop, another pretentious bore, shoots him down. He brings up the issue of fair justice. The woman's tears meant nothing to him. He wants to hear the other side too.
Finally, some justice. By the way, this cop had earlier snatched the complaint from my hand without even bothering to ask. Well, it's his den. And I am an outsider who came for help. At your mercy, sir.
Time goes by, another self-important cop gets involved in the woman's business. He notices me, asks why I dared to put my foot in a police station in a very humble way. It's a memory I will carry to my grave.
I give him the same story. Again. But now he wants the victim in front of his Highness. Like now.
I said I will call her. I call her. Give her the picture. She drops the case. You get the picture.
Did I do justice to the story? No. Justice is that old Joni Mitchell song (Just ice) or Godot — it never comes.
