The Chatteled Woman

India is making me a feminist. I have never considered myself a feminist. I mean, I know that technically every woman is a feminist…but I just never really associated myself with women that forgo wearing bras or refuse to shave their legs. I also never really thought about my American foremothers that fought for women’s’ equality among men. However, Delhi is making me realize how equal I am to men compared to other parts of the world. In America, I have never felt objectified or unequal to any guy. I am not really talking about that feeling every women gets when she walks to her car late at night—the fear that something could happen. I’m talking about the actual realization that you can’t make a statement or request help from a certain person, or even pay your own bill at a restaurant because of your sex.

 I am a very independent person—I do not like to have to rely on other people for assistance, though I will ask for help when I need it. One afternoon, I had decided to go to a yoga class in a part of Delhi I was not familiar with. When I finished my class, it was dark outside and rush hour so it was very hard to find an auto to take me home. In fact, I couldn’t find one. I did begin to get scared, especially since there were men around but no women on the street. Ahead, on a street corner, I saw several police officers/traffic cops. One of them was a woman. “She will help me,” I thought, but when I asked her for help, for where I might find an auto, she just acted like she didn’t understand English. The male cops didn’t do anything. 30 minutes later, after I had gone to an outdoor restaurant and asked for assistance, a man finally said he would help me. Of course this is the moment that starts off every Lifetime movie, Young girl meets a seemingly sweet guy… but I didn’t really have any other options. So I decided I would stay alert and see where he led me (hopefully to autos) and run like hell if necessary. Guess where he led me to? Yes, right back to those traffic cops. He talked to one of male cops and to the women, both in perfect English, and told them they needed to help me flag down an auto. The woman cop responded to me in English. Without the man’s presence, they were unwilling to help me. It is this patriarchy that is beginning to drive me insane.

One day, my guy friend and I went to lunch. Mid way through the meal he tells me, “Notice that the waiter won’t even look at you.” And sure enough, when I had tried to order my food, the waiter had looked to my guy friend and taken my order from him.

It’s not only these moments that irk me. I consider myself a sweet person that will stand her ground if necessary. Here, I feel eyes constantly looking at me. I understand the eyes of wonder, the eyes of children and people not use to “white skin” or whatever you want to call it. I understand when grown sons come up to me at touristy sights and ask “My mother would like to take a picture with you?”  This is not the starring I am talking about. I am talking about that stare of the predator on the prey. When I take the bus to and from the metro I notice that guys never take their eyes off me—if I look at them it is considered inappropriate, as if I’m sexually promiscuous so I just sit there and look out the window. Then there are the moments when I feel my hand being grabbed in heavy crowd—not an accidental bump, but a lingering grasp that I have to shove off. Men in India aren’t supposed to touch women, not to shake hands, not a hug, not an arm around the shoulder. Men try and do all these things with foreign women. It’s weird when I feel violated because some guy touched my hand. Now I understand how Jane Austen’s libertines felt about them ankle bones showing.

If I were in the states, I would probably rip anyone who did this to me into tiny little bits of chewed up flesh. In Delhi, they call this Eve-teasing, where a guy or group of guys stares or violates a woman in any way. Yet, I’m not sure that anything is ever done about it. On days where I feel I love Delhi and never want to leave, I remember that my life here as a woman would never be an independent one. Women trying to buy cars or houses must have their husbands sign off on the contract, even if the women are financially sound. When I fill out forms, I am always required to put down my father’s name. I love my father, but why must I be dependent to his title? These things make me cringe and shudder when I think about domestic violence in India. I would have to say that I finally understand Annie Oakley and why she wanted to do everything better than a man. Until women can over-prove themselves, how will the chained woman ever break free?