Freedom To Open The Door

Back in Bangalore,  I took an airport shuttle to my neighbourhood and tried to lose myself in a book when a family boarded the bus. A husband, a wife and their assorted relatives. The man spoke a UP dialect and that is no reflection on the part of the country he was from. It was his manner that spoke not of his Geography but his upbringing, his righteous belief that as a man he had the right to air his opinions, no matter how offensive and insensitive while everyone including his wife, his relatives and co-passengers had no choice but to accommodate the high-pitched tirade.

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 “Tera baap..us se bada ziddi nahin dekha humne!,” he addressed his tongue-tied wife, telling her just what he thought of her father. The word, ‘ziddi‘ was used atleast three dozen times during the two hour journey while he related the same story again and again and again to people on the phone and then to everyone in general. He and the family were all supposed to go to Narayana Hrudayalaya and they had boarded a bus to get there but the father-in-law who is already in Bangalore, insisted over the phone  that they had boarded the wrong bus and so everyone had to get down and board another bus. How dare he do that? This old man who did not care about his son-in-law’s ego? “Main apne baap ki nahin sunta toh isski kyon suno!” Yup, he did not listen to his OWN father and why the hell would he listen to his wife’s father of all people! No, this could not be tolerated. He grew increasingly ruddy and loud, repeating the same offensive phrases against the old man who was perhaps at the hospital waiting for them.

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The restive conductor and then a passenger told him that he would be fine, that from the Silk Board Junction where the bus was headed, they could board a bus straight to the hospital. He was given bus numbers to note. But he was not interested in resolving the conflict but milking it to the last drop. His manly ego had been hurt by a man who was supposed to listen, not to command. And he did not like it and he made sure, everyone knew about it. Now in a new city, they would be lost and because of a stubborn old man, would sleep on the road with nowhere to go. He was hungry. He had not eaten anything since morning  and it was all the old man’s fault.

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Through his tirade, I wondered about his wife. That ashen faced woman who sat in a bus full of strangers, hearing her father being abused. She sat with her lips shrunk into a thin, grim line of silence, her eyes looking at nothing. This was obviously not new. She was used to being humiliated in public by her husband. I wondered what I would do in a situation like this? And my first primal reaction to the question was the urge to hit the man across his jaw and ask questions later. I had half-a -mind to tell him to shut up but I bit back the anger. Especially when I saw the wife looking at me. She had noticed the disgust on my face. I felt ashamed and looked away.

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Then the old man himself called and the entire bus heard this phone conversation as well. The husband once again complained that he had not eaten since morning and only because of this inconvenience of switching buses in a place that was not HIS ‘ilaka‘, he now had to suffer two more hours of commuting. He put the phone down and told his wife again, “Sunta hi nahin..Ziddi aadmi!” Then something gave away because in the air-conditioned, plush bus, the wife rose and began to gesture desperately to the conductor that she wanted to puke.

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The driver  hurriedly slowed the bus down, the automatic doors were opened and the woman sat down on the step, craned her neck out and began to vomit violently while the traffic buzzed past her. The husband, speechless for a moment by the turn of events, rose and held the wife by the shoulders and then began to talk, “Be careful,  all this traffic, you might get hurt.” There was maybe just a tinge of guilt in his voice. But only just about. Someone offered water to the wife, the conductor offered her a paperbag. “I am fine now, ” she said resolutely and went back, having rid herself of the bile that must have been gathering over the last few toxic hours. “See? Now she has fallen sick and all because of him,”  the man began again and then the conductor said in a measured but firm voice, “We have 20 minutes before we reach your stop. Just stay quiet for these 20 minutes.” And he did, thankfully. But even though he did, my mind could not stop wondering  just how many women put up with men like these? How many of us know of women who have been abused verbally and physically by the men in their lives and who say nothing and accept it as part of their lot because perhaps they know that no one else will take up for them or stand by them?

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But what if women understood that they do not HAVE to put up with men who are abusive and disrespectful? The argument against any kind of rebellion from women is that it breaks up the family unit but when the right to respect, dignity and sensitivity is denied to a woman in a marriage and her sense of self is battered, what kind of a unit is she protecting? And what kind of sons and daughters she will raise in this unit? Will the same tradition of masculine bullying and female submissiveness not be perpetuated? Is there not a way out? I believe there always is , if they look hard enough. Gender does not presuppose domination or passive surrender. This independence day, I hope that the woman on the bus will someday, open the door to not just throw up her pain but to breathe in sunshine and fresh air and find the courage to step out.   And to know that she can walk away  if she really makes up her mind to. And that if she gets off the wrong bus, the world will not end.

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