Eve-Teasing

16Feb07

Sauntering out of a western-style restaurant in Asi Ghat we were full of good food and night-time cheer. Asi Ghat is the area past the last of a long line of ghats (steps down to the water) that line one side of the river Ganga. The Ganges is considered by many to be the holiest river in the world, and by at least as many as the most putrid body of water in existence. To the people of India the “Mother Ganga” is bath, washing machine, natural sewer, graveyard and shrine all in one. For the leather factories its a moving chemical waste dump, for the cities its the destination of about 1 billion litres of raw sewerage a day and for the people it’s their washing, cooking and drinking water supply. The half-burned remains of the cremated dead are swept into the river, as are the still born infants and miscarriages. Dead human and animal corpses can sometimes be spotted floating next to boats and bathers.

But despite all this, its still not hard to see why millions of people, past and present, continue to arrive at the Ganges and worship it. Even now the the river is beautiful (from a bit back at least) and inspires the same awe that captured the hearts of people centuries ago. As we head towards the ghats we see hundreds of people lining the near side (the side opposite the city of Varanasi is lifeless and uninhabited as the Hindu believe it to be evil, nicknamed the land of the dead). Mainly consisting of young men with their foreheads chalked and painted, the crowds await the beginning of the festival day. Feb 16th is the day of Shiva’s wedding and is celebrated along the the waterside with music and dancing from midnight to midnight. It culminated with the mass drinking of Bhang drinks, a potent drug made from hashish. But even though its only 9 o’clock the dock-sides are packed with excited faces and anticipation.
We had been warned by many people of the dangers of walking alone on the dark riverside steps, especially for women, but we paid little heed to the gentle warnings. We numbered three, two of us young and healthy western men, often a full head taller than the local boys. India has been one of the least threatening places I’ve ever visited, and nights wandering the streets here make Dublin’s rain-soaked footpaths seem frightening and perilous by comparison. So we walked into the throng with grins on our faces and wide eyes soaking up the atmosphere. We made it maybe a dozen paces along the first ghat before they noticed us, those red faced Indian boys. Primed with the invincibility that the groups provide and a lifetime of suppressed sexual tension they lock on to the presence of a young man and woman walking hand in hand. Cat-calling voices from a hundred throats well up and rice is pelted down from the steps above us. Shock quickly turns to embarrassed amusement and I walk on laughing at the attention the couple receive. It seems mostly good-natured teasing of a western “looseness” that my unmarried friends display. Still, glad to be out of the thick crowd we move on the poorly lit paths that run the kilometre to the Ghat that leads to our hostel and night-time safety.
We’re moving against the tide of worshippers and youths moving towards the concerts and quickly our nerves begin to fray. There are no women walking amongst the groups of boys and men except the odd western woman with her friends eager to enjoy the festivities. The men are pumped and filled with a childish excitement and are clearly wearing their hormones on their sleeves. Allow me to paint a picture if you will…

Imagine a 14 year old boy, who has never spoken to a female member of the human race other than hismother. His knowledge of the “ways of the world” are limited to hear-say and crude gestures provided by his fellow 14-year old friends. He is the kind of kid who giggles incessantly at articles in newspapers that mention the word sex, he thinks “cleavage”is a dirty word and his eyes bulge (along with other parts of his adolescent anatomy) at the sight of a woman wearing anything other than a complete plaster body-cast. Now imagine hundreds of these boys. Each one with his skinny chest pushed out and eager to impress his fellow adolescent peers. They are born into a society where it’s the woman’s fault if the men act like animals and where it is socially acceptable to try and cop a feel whenever possible. Western women are whores (on account of living with a man while unmarried, and their tendency to look men in the eye) and an unaccompanied woman is fair game. But these are not only 14 year-old children, many of them were upwards of 25, full grown men with mustaches to prove it.

Walking down the ghats was like trying to pass through a hyena den. Too cowardly to approach under the gaze of another man, they probe the defencive tactics that we quickly were forced to develop. Using our bodies and scowls we attempted to create space around the vulnerable female to protect her from the continual assaults. Boys with wicked grins danced and whooped around us shouting “Helloooooooooo!!” and “I loooove youuu!” trying to pass us with pretences of handshakes or just out-and-out making a dive for female companion. One group swarmed us and while we tried to physically remove the human-monkey halfbreeds several of them pinched and prodded at her chest and stomach. A yelp of anger sounded her rage at being so blatantly violated and the cackling men leaped back and cheered their success.

Group after group of them tried their luck at molesting her, as if we were a carnival amusement and copping a feel the prize. In the darkness the streams of men were even more frightening, and adrenaline and anger drove us to desperately dodge around them and bounce the more daring of them out of reach. One man walked deliberately close to the passing couple grinning cheekily to them. Then, once he had passed out of the man’s line of sight he ducked at attempted to grab at her from behind. She saw him clearly and dodged her hips away but this made him cheer. He turned and walked straight into my hand.

The small man was terrified and couldn’t understand why a white man was threatening him. The whole path of Indian men stopped to see what the big show was about, and perhaps to join in if this gora tried to push his luck too far. There is quite a bit of resentment towards the gora (a mildly insulting word for a white foreigner), after all, they arrive here with their wallets full of money to gawk smugly at the poor, uneducated Indians. The small Indian stares open-mouthed while I shout at him and he doesn’t even realise whyi could possibly have a beef with him until Paul rounds on him aswell. Realising the connection to his eve-teasing (the Anglo-Indian term for everything from cat-calling to sexual molestation) and he relaxes. “Ok, I am sorry.” He extends his hand and wobbles his head in sincerity. We use strong words in asking him to be on his way and he scampers off. The crowd continues on its way, the specticle over.

Back in the hostel we simmer with rage about the entire experience. In the West such matters are treated with contempt and serious legal consiquences. Here, the girl should take more care not to walk down such a place at night, she might as well be asking to be attacked. In the newspapers an article declared that a man recieved an unusually lengthy prison term of 7 years for murdering and chopping his wife up. Her parents didn’t pay the full dowery.

The night before we arrived in Delhi a young Australian girl was raped outside the hostel she was staying in. It was the same hostel we stayed in. Her friends were less than 50 metres away in the busy tourist centre while she was brutalised.

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