I posted the message on all the platforms I could find and forwarded it to several journalists.
‘Hurry, Siya,’ I heard Tasha-di call. ‘The bus is ready.’
‘Just a second!’
Women assaulted by Raja Singh had been coming forward from other parts of India too, from Mumbai and Bangalore and Jaipur and Kolkata. A prominent Mumbai-based journalist reached out to me as I was on the point of shutting my laptop; ‘What can I do to help?’
‘Rally the troops,’ I replied. I copied in all the others who had contacted me offering to mobilise. ‘It’s not just my mother who suffered. And it’s not just Raja Singh who raped women. Let us all speak our rage.’
We took the first convoy; Tasha-di, Maya, Sonia, Saloni and I, squashed into Papa’s old jeep. Ajay and the other women followed in a bus driven by Pradeep. Shanti was part of the rear-guard, proudly sporting her t-shirt, waving her tote bag as if it were a banner.
We arrived just in time to see Raja Singh being ushered into the VIP section of the airport. He turned around to observe us for a moment, and for a moment our eyes met. He surveyed the sea of people by me; dozens in their #IBeliveHerStory t-shirts, countless reporters and camera-people, and took a deep breath. He exhaled, his eyes fixed on me, and then his lips curled. His teeth flashed white, like a feral animal, and he threw his head back in laughter. Then a hand appeared on his back, pulling him forward, and he disappeared into the airport.
I looked around at the faces around me. Family, friends, strangers and allies, all roused in protesting a historic injustice. ‘Look,’ Ajay said, yanking at my sleeve. He pointed towards a bank of screens by the far side of the waiting area. They were set to the news, and the news was full of our movement. Our movement, I thought as I looked at him. ‘Our movement,’ I said, and he shook his head. ‘Your movement,’ he said to me, ‘you’ve created something.’
The cameras panned away from the scenes at the airport, and to a crowded scene in a different city. ‘Is that,’ I asked, ‘is that…’ and he nodded.
‘That’s the Gateway of India,’ he smiled. ‘That’s a protest being held in Mumbai in solidarity with your Ma. And,’ he added, as the scenes on the cameras changed again, ‘that’s Chandigarh, and that…’ he took a moment to identify a new scene, ‘that’s Chennai.’ The news station flitted through images in quick succession, and though Ajay tried to keep up with the new protests, ‘That’s Patna, that’s Ranchi,’ he soon lost count. The filled grounds represented giant metropolises and tiny provincial towns, but in one scene after another, the essentials remained unvarying. Women out in their thousands in the t-shirts that had been created in validation of Ma’s story.
We were at the airport for an age, waving our banners, making way for disembarking passengers. The journalists stayed with us throughout, and local vendors began ferrying free cups of tea to us. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked one, and he folded his hands together.
‘I have a daughter too,’ he said, his eyes bright.
The TV channels continued to report our story as the evening rolled in. Two young girls arrived at the airport in Ajay’s #IBelieveHerStory t-shirts, waving as they walked past us, and I asked Ajay, ‘Who is selling all the t-shirts?’
‘You are,’ he replied. I shot him a bemused look, and he nodded. ‘I opened an account in The Satirist’s name. Hundreds of thousands of the t-shirts have been sold, Siya. Those who’re buying them know they’re investing their money in a good cause.’ He put his hands on my arms, and I was aware of Tasha-di’s eyes on us. ‘You can fight Raja Singh’s action now. You can rebuild the garage. You can carry on with the magazine. And,’ he said, as he saw me well up, ‘You can finally start paying me a decent wage.’
All newspapers the next morning were full of reports about the protest. By some estimates, up to ten million women had taken to the streets of India. Maya came into my room to wake me up for our morning walk. ‘Get up, lazybones,’ she called, and I smiled. I patted the bed, and she came to sit down next to me.
She shook her head at my sloth, but then she nestled under the covers next to me. ‘Read the papers,’ she told me. ‘We’re on every front page,’ and I smiled.
The day could wait. Kunal would be coming in soon for our daily meeting. Raja Singh’s lawsuit would be defended, and robustly. He had greater resources than we did, and chances were he would either drown us under litigation or outspend us. He could and would try all the tricks in his book, but we had won the war of perception. Without mentioning Raja Singh’s name, we had put him on the defensive, and all of India now knew him to be a sexual predator. India had awoken, and India’s women were roused. They were not going to settle for silence any longer.
The Satirist would run, and if the emails promising support and sponsorship were to be believed, would flourish. Our journalists would be paid. Tasha-di had spoken last night about launching a charity for victims of sexual assault, and Shanti had offered the spare rooms in her quarters as office space for the venture. Kunal would ask Maya out, years after their last parting, and though both were measured and vulnerable, they would try their best to make a go of things.
Benjamin would send back my belongings. He wanted to write a profile on the #IBelieveHer movement we had launched, and wanted to come to Delhi. He had emailed the previous evening with the offer, but I hadn’t yet replied. I could just see Ajay’s reaction to Benjamin’s email. ‘Sure,’ he would say, ‘the man just wants to visit his ex-girlfriend’s town to write an article.’
I smiled. All that could wait. There was work to be done. Lawsuits to be fought and the next issue to be brought out. The garage to be rebuilt. The caved-in walls and the closed rooms to be dealt with, but they could all wait.
I had my sister next to me, and for the first time in years, I know what my purpose was. The rest could all wait.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I had been thinking of writing a novel set in a decaying house, but it took a chance conversation in the shadow of the house that provided the inspiration for Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The House of The Seven Gables to convince me that houses carry the imprints of their owners’ trauma. My thanks to the lady for her conversation and her insight, and to the memory of the 2019 New England summer that has helped sustain me through an interminable 2020.
My thanks, as ever, to Claire Roberts, agent, friend and oracle, and to Rosanna Forte, who championed an early version of this book. And to Sayantan Ghosh at Simon and Schuster India, who felt such an instant connection with Civil Lines and the lives and fortunes of its inhabitants. I owe a debt of gratitude also to the S&S India family for their belief in this book, and to Himanjali Sankar for her painstaking proofing of the manuscript.
I owe thanks too to the indomitable women I have known, particularly at my alma mater Newnham. They are too numerous to name here, but have shown through constant example that excellence isn’t incompatible with generosity of spirit.
Finally, I thank my family for their forbearance, and the virtual schooling provision at my children’s schools for allowing me to reclaim my working hours through this pandemic.
First published in India by Simon & Schuster India, 2021
Copyright © Radhika Swarup, 2021
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