You tell them not to teach you about odds because you know all about them. After all, you are a working woman, and every day is about defeating the odds.
You get on a crowded bus, with people falling all over you. Are they just jostling or feeling you up? There is a seat up ahead, but you don’t claim it. Not after the last time, when an elderly uncle couldn’t keep his hands to himself. You raised your voice then and they slut shamed you instead. You double-check your neckline. You’ve folded your dupatta over it, twice, just to be safe, so that it doesn’t catch the attention of someone’s roving eye. You know the rules.
Be unseen. Be unheard. Your odds of survival will improve.
You reach work. Everyone is discussing about that latest unfortunate ‘incident’. One more fatality added to the statistics. A colleague assures you ‘It’s not all men’. His phone chimes and he covers the screen hastily. You know it’s his group sending explicit jokes, just for fun, because boys will be boys.
But that doesn’t mean they are going to hurt anyone, right?
At lunch, someone is distributing flyers for a vigil. When you return to your desk you chuck the flyer into a drawer filled with them. This sight causes an ache, and you subconsciously clutch at the pepper spray and the safety whistle in your purse.
Each flyer has a name. Each name has a family. Each family has a void.
You warn yourself that however weary and bone-tired you may be, you will never take a shortcut. You will walk the longish route, where there is light and safety in numbers. The shadows are dangerous and teeming with monsters. The shadows will lower your odds drastically.
Your manager stuns you by announcing you’ve been selected to present to the US-based client. Your team claps, but you don’t have time to be thrilled because you are computing the odds of presenting late in the night and still returning to your accommodation in one piece. Your prefer broad daylight with people around, just in case.
The presentation goes well, but you keep looking at your watch. As the watch-hand moves, your heart sinks further. A colleague volunteers to accompany you in the cab ride home. You are overjoyed at his kindness, and then suspicious because your survival instinct tells you not to trust anyone. You check if there is enough charge on your phone, and send your live location to a few friends. Your friends monitor the blip on the screen like a nail-biting sports match.
The cab makes it to your stay. You thank your colleague and alight. You ask him to wait a while, because you have to open the gate, and you don’t know what may lurk in the bushes. He needs to be at hearing distance in case you scream for help. You ignore the voice that says, what if your mouth is covered and you can’t scream? That’s a risk you have to take.
At last, you walk in, and lock the door, sighing with relief.
Congratulations, you survived another day!
The phone rings. It’s your mother calling. She wants to know if her child has made it safe. Her relief is palpable when you answer because like you , she too knows all about odds.
You beat the odds today. But what about tomorrow? Or the day after?
Author’s Note: This piece was written to express solidarity with all the brave women in India that are fighting for safety.
