‘We did the wrong thing writing like that about Ma,’ she complained now, more recognisably the Maya I had grown up with, ‘for this shame to be her lasting legacy to the world!’
I shook my head. The shame did not rest with Ma. Sonia was ready with a riposte, but I spoke up, ‘None of this was Ma’s fault, Maya,’ I said. Tasha-di wrinkled her nose, and I was reminded of her judgement on Ma’s impracticality. ‘None of this was Ma’s fault,’ I repeated, ‘and it is still going on. It’s going on in every corner of the globe, as the reaction to your article is constant proof. It’s going on everywhere there is a power imbalance. And,’ I said, looking at my aunt, ‘it is going on everywhere well-wishers advise the victims simply to accept the status quo.’
Maya spoke again. ‘Ma’s memory…’
‘This is the ultimate tribute to your Ma,’ said Sonia. Maya had uncovered facts we had never known. Ma had won every prize in college, had travelled widely to cover her pieces—accompanying delegations to America, to the Hague, to Berlin and Geneva, and had been the youngest journalist in India to launch her own publication. All these mountains Ma had climbed, and the world knew none of it. ‘And it is you who shone a light on it.’
And still Maya looked worried. ‘Raja Singh is a colossus. There is no one else to match him, nor his reputation for having a wandering eye. It’s no wonder that everyone thinks it was him we were writing about.’
‘But,’ repeated Kunal, ‘there is no direct mention of him!’ His frustration was tangible, and he picked up the letter to read through it again. ‘His lawsuit has no basis,’ he insisted, but news of the action had already spread. Journalists were camped outside the house, the phone didn’t stop ringing, and my own mobile was lit constantly up by social media updates. I checked my apps to see Ma’s hashtag #HerStory trending again. Below it, a new hashtag had sprung up: #IBelieveHerStory.
Every few seconds, my phone pinged with the same message from strangers; ‘How can I help? #IBelieveHerStory’
On Sonia’s mobile screen, an interview with Raja Singh’s wife appeared. For all our proximity, I’d never met her, and was surprised to see she was young, a good decade or two younger than her husband. The white she wore suited Delhi’s heat, but also symbolised the Hindu colour of mourning, and I wondered if the effect was intended. ‘All these allegations,’ she was saying, ‘are rubbish.’ She blinked rapidly. ‘I’ve never even heard of these women, never even read the magazine, but I can vouch for my husband’s honour.’
Kunal left for work but was back within a minute. ‘My plan was to walk back home before going to office, but it’s impossible.’ We looked at the front gates, where the throng had grown. My phone was buzzing constantly now with media requests, with messages of solidarity, with offers of help. ‘Come,’ I told him, ‘I’ll spirit you out through the servants’ quarters.’ We moved quickly through the ruins of the garage to Shanti’s home, and as we entered, I asked him, ‘What are our options?’
‘We’ll fight the lawsuit,’ he said resolutely. ‘This man is just using bullying tactics.’
‘We don’t have the money for a long battle, Kunal.’
I spoke without thinking, but Kunal was quick in response. ‘My firm will work pro bono…’
‘I didn’t mean…’
‘It’s not right,’ he said, and I saw at once what drew Maya to him. He had that same purity of ideals, that same precious, dogged intransigence. ‘For a man of his means to try to intimidate you is not fair. And besides,’ he added, ‘I and your sister go way back…’
‘I remember.’
He coloured. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Well, you see then why I can’t let her go through this alone.’
I was on the point of asking him about whether he was now divorced, but we had reached Shanti’s back door, which stood ajar. Kunal nodded briskly at me and let himself out.
XXIX
There was no let-up in the media circus over the following days. Ma’s hashtag continued to trend, and the journalists outside the house maintained their presence, until I finally learnt that Shanti had taken it upon herself to supply tea and refreshments to the hordes twice a day.
I complained that she was just encouraging the frenzy, but she tutted disapprovingly at me. ‘These boys and girls are bringing attention to your mother’s story,’ she said. ‘Can’t I so much as give them a cup of tea?’
The threats from Raja Singh grew more serious. A second lawsuit was launched, this one against Maya personally. Kunal represented her against this action too, but as news of her ordeal spread, people began to share their own stories of harassment and intimidation. The magazine’s social media feeds were never quiet, and elsewhere in the country, movements were being organised.
In UP, by the Gangetic plains, a politician who had been accused of rape was thronged in the street. Facing him was a hundred strong crowd of women waving banners that read #IBelieveHerStory.
In South India, a venerated actor was accused of demanding sex from aspiring actresses. A crowd assembled in front of his house waving banners that read #IBelieveHerStory.
In front of Raja’s office complex too, crowds of women congregated waving banners that read #IBeliveHerStory.
Others gathered in front of our house, fed and watered by Shanti, and waving banners that read #IBelieveHerStory.
Early one morning, before the media circus started, I walked to the front gate. I’d only been there a minute when I saw Mrs Bhatnagar moving towards me. I smiled quickly, and I was on the point of escaping back indoors when she called out to me. ‘Siya,’ she said, ‘Siya, I have to congratulate you on that wonderful magazine of yours.’
‘Mrs Bhatnagar?’ I replied, stunned.
‘It’s a hard world, you know.’ She wiped her brow, adjusted the bangle on her wrist. ‘My daughter Rashmi,’ she told me, ‘is a feminist too. Everyone is, nowadays.’
Sonia began receiving messages of support from women in the media fraternity. Women began to contact her—acquaintances, strangers, former colleagues—with their own stories. Ma’s report had resonated with hundreds, no, thousands of others, and very soon, other accounts of assault began to emerge. And Raja Singh’s ploy of coming after us backfired; far from silencing us, it emboldened his other victims to name him as a sexual abuser.
There were over a dozen others who now contacted Sonia, several of whom were ex journalists. These women now offered to join us, telling us they would man the magazine for free, and that they would contribute to any legal fund required.
Maya told me we had to launch a website. ‘We finally have traction,’ she told me, ‘and if we can’t afford to print, we’ll publish online.’
This was her thinking with her editor’s hat, but I worried about the cost of hiring a website designer. ‘This may not be the best time,’ I pointed out. ‘We have to marshal our energy and our resources to fight Raja Singh.’
Maya laughed. ‘Who’s the dour one now?’ she asked. ‘Building a proper website can wait, but I’ve purchased our domain name and created a WordPress site. It’s not the most elegant looking, but it’s a landing site for The Satirist, and it’s a source of information for our supporters.’
I nodded slowly. Had she always been there, this prodigy, this positive, proactive superwoman?
Maya was carrying on. ‘Puneeta will link our social media updates to the site too, so we’ll be good to go by the afternoon.’
‘As you say, madam,’ I said as she smiled. ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’
A meeting with the other women who had claimed to be assaulted by Raja Singh was organised for the day after the lawsuit was launched. Twelve women streamed past the media scrum at our front gate, each of them sporting a top with the words #IBelieveHerStory emblazoned on them. ‘He wants to silence The Satirist,’ shouted Abha, one of the women who claimed to have been attacked by Raja Singh. ‘Let’s see him try and silence us all.’
‘He raped me,’ she told us when we were gathered indoors. We had just in
troduced ourselves, shaking hands, muttering first-time pleasantries, accepting or rejecting offers of a cup of tea, when she stood up, looked around the room, taking in the group—consisting of other educated, middle-class women, of Shanti too with her rituals and her superstitions, and of Ajay—and had spoken calmly and without emotion. ‘He raped me, you know,’ she said, and it was those around her who shook with the serenity of her words.
Abha’s testimony was key in that it was a first person account, and its narrator attractive, articulate and unburdened by unseemly feelings of guilt. Just like with Ma, she had been invited to Raja Singh’s office. In her case, the pretext was her career. Abha had been a recent graduate, and had been hired to work as a researcher along with five or six other graduates at India TV. Raja Singh wasn’t at the offices regularly, but any appearance was treated as a state visit.
Abha, then, was an insignificant first year hire. Flattered to have attracted the notice of Raja Singh, she didn’t query his motivation, but went happily to his office. He offered her alcohol, which she was too daunted to refuse. He complained of backache, and suggested they move to a sofa. ‘It was low, the sofa, and worn leather,’ and I knew instantly that Abha was speaking the truth.
She had seated herself at one end of the sofa, near a low table, and he came to sit right next to her. ‘Our knees touched,’ Abha told us, and I nodded. She had edged away, but he had stretched out, his arms snaking around her, his thigh rubbing against her, and had begun to tell her how impressed he was with her work and she hadn’t dared to move away. He spoke of a lead she had followed, and she was so gratified that he had remembered her work that she ignored his hand massaging her shoulder.
‘And then,’ she said, ‘he was on top of me.’ Her forensic level of detail stopped, as did her testimony. I looked away. She didn’t speak for a long while, and then, as if to impart courage to herself, she nodded. ‘It didn’t last long, and afterwards, I tried to tell myself it hadn’t happened. I didn’t tell anyone, not my parents, not my boyfriend, and the next time Raja came in, he acted like nothing had happened. He didn’t behave proprietorially; didn’t behave as if he had any claim on me. He came in as he did in the middle of the day and ignored all the junior reporters. He barked orders at the various producers, took one cursory look around the newsroom and wandered back to the car.
‘When we next spoke, at a company social, he was cordial but distant. The disparity in our positions was clear. It was as if the attack hadn’t happened. Very soon I began to question my memory. I rose in India TV, being promoted above a more senior colleague, and I wondered if maybe I had invited Raja Singh’s attention. I hadn’t refused his invitation.’ She took a deep breath, but continued to look firmly at the floor in front of her. ‘I hadn’t flinched when he put his arm around me, and hadn’t stopped him when he began to massage me.’ There she was, staring at an imaginary spot on the floor, nodding in her deliberate, unsentimental manner. ‘I could have stopped it, and then I told myself I hadn’t wanted to.’
‘Oh, Abha,’ Maya said, going round to where she sat, but the woman was so straight backed, so averse to making eye contact that Maya just hung back in the end.
Abha began to speak again. ‘A few months after my promotion, I was covering an event in Mumbai, and I received a call from Raja. It turned out he was in Mumbai himself, and staying at the same hotel as I was.’ There it was again, that slow, insistent nod, that tucking in of her lips. ‘He suggested meeting for a drink, and I agreed.’ She laughed here, a loud, manic sound. ‘Because let’s face it, how could I refuse? I went down to the bar, but the barman came to me with a message. Raja was running behind schedule; could I go up to his room?’
There was a knowing intake of breath at this, and Abha shrugged. ‘So off I trudged up to his room. I told myself I was forewarned, and that there was no danger of Raja making the same mistake again. But as soon as I walked in, alarm bells began to ring. There the man was, dressed in a bathrobe, his hands around a tumbler of whisky. He took me to his window to show me his view of Mumbai’s glittering skyline, and his hands were carelessly placed over my shoulder. I could see the scene playing out in slow motion, you know,’ and as those around the room nodded in shared memory, she went on, ‘almost as if it were happening to someone else. I knew his next move. He would offer me a drink. He would return to my side, moving closer, his hands on my back, on my waist, his robe falling open…’ Abha’s breathing grew ragged, but when she spoke again, she turned her glittering eyes on all of us. ‘It all happened as I anticipated. I had just drunk my first sip when his overture started. I shook my head, though he didn’t seem deterred. He kept whispering his words of predatory seduction into my ears, his eyes half-closed, his speech slurred, and in the end, I rammed my tumbler against his bare chest. The contact jolted him, the cold glass against his skin, and I bolted. I took off, the tumbler still in my hand, and ran all the way back to my room. I finished my assignment, refusing to accept any calls from Raja, refusing his invitation to have breakfast together the next morning, and returned to Delhi as soon as my work was finished.’
Sonia whistled at the speech. ‘Well done, Abha.’
‘Well done,’ Abha said with a rueful smile. ‘I was side-lined soon after. All the plum assignments went to others, and, I couldn’t help noticing that the others were often young, inexperienced women. Others were promoted over me, and though I was never officially told I was not being put forward for the best assignments, I knew that I would never rise in the company. Raja never looked at me again. I was moved to a small satellite office in Bhopal where I dealt mainly with corruption scandals that never made the cut for the shows, and when I was offered a job back in Delhi by a second-tier channel, I ran to take it.’
Abha’s story was recounted over and over again that afternoon. Fresh pots of tea were produced, and women wearing their #IBelieveHerStory t-shirts spoke unbidden. The stories varied. Some were touched by Raja Singh; others burnt by innuendo and stonewalling. But details were beginning to emerge that tied the various accounts with each other; a power imbalance, a drink offered, a retreat to a weary leather sofa.
I looked at Tasha-di as she heard the testimonies. She didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer advice or criticism, but her attention was fixed on each woman as she spoke. Her mouth grew slacker as the day progressed, her shoulders hunched, and I could conceive of her imagining her criticism of Ma misplaced.
One by one, the women in the room nodded as they heard new accounts. I closed my eyes. The smell rose in me of Raja’s pomade, of his ludicrously glossy mouth and of the stench of his scotch. More tea was poured, more voices were added to the din, and as Tasha-di finally nodded, her mouth slackening, I knew she saw the cost of all that Ma had endured.
XXX
Raja Singh was mobbed outside his office the next day. The crowds had been growing every day, but they maintained a distance, and restricted themselves to waving their banners and chanting their support of Ma. This time they clustered around him, denying him a clear path to his car. Mikes were thrust under his chin, demanding a comment on the article and the lawsuit, and though Raja initially thrust them away, eventually he began to speak. ‘This is all a waste of my time,’ he said angrily. We had been in the garden room, and were called to the upstairs lounge by Tasha-di, who had been watching the news all day. All the channels were full of the allegations and the lawsuit. The photos from the previous night, of the women arriving in their #IBelieveHerStory shirts had been running constantly, and the minute Tasha-di spotted Raja Singh on her screen, she called out to us.
We ran up to hear him say, ‘I’m on my way to the airport. All this noise,’ and looking disdainfully at the assembled rabble, he said, ‘is just a way for a failing magazine to try and get some attention.’ He laughed hoarsely. ‘That’s all it is; a way for a bunch of failures to have their fifteen minutes of fame.’
I clucked at his words, but he turned to stare right at the camera. His eyes bored into me, an
d he said, ‘The founder of that rag came to see me a few days ago. Begged me for funding, and this, I suppose, is her revenge for my turning her down. Complete fabrication, the lot of it!’
Ajay arrived in Civil Lines within moments of the Raja Singh ambush. ‘That’s it,’ he said, clapping his hands, ‘we’re off to the airport.’ He was full of nervous energy that day, fidgeting, snapping his fingers, urging us to move. He took some items of clothing out of his bag, shoving one at each of us, and we saw they were the same #IBelieveHerStory t-shirts that the women had sported the day before. ‘I might have mobilised a hashtag,’ he said sheepishly as I stared. ‘And it took a few simple clicks to organise a print on demand facility.’
There were cloth tote bags to go with the t-shirts, and it was the work of a moment to put them on. I got on the phone to Abha and the other women, asking them to come down to Civil Lines.
‘But how are we to get to the airport?’ asked Maya. ‘Our cars can only carry a few.’
‘We can organise a bus, surely,’ I said, turning to Saloni, who rose.
‘Leave it with me,’ she said, ‘I’ll get Pradeep to organise transport.’
Our social media platforms were abuzz with the day’s developments, and with the soundbites that had been created.
I drafted a short note.
We have not sought to identify or shame any one individual, but to report on Rupa Sharma’s plight. Justice was denied to her during her lifetime, but we will not remain silent on her behalf. We believe her story, and we are not going to be cowed down by big money or by armies of lawyers. We demand justice, and we demand the truth. We will meet at Delhi airport at 2pm today to face Rupa’s aggressor. We believe Rupa’s story. #IBelieveHerStory
Civil Lines Page 25
