The Delhi version of a spreading global campaign has divided opinion. But should we simply diss it?
I have a large wardrobe. I spend several minutes every day fretting about what to wear. Don’t let that fool you into thinking I’m a sharp dresser. I’m not. But I have to choose. There are work clothes (shirts, pants, jeans, long skirts); out-of-town work clothes (kurtas with sleeves, shalwaars); party clothes (sarees, sleeveless or low-cut tops); work clothes that can be worn to evenings out (jackets, shrugs); winter clothes; wedding/festival clothes (satin, brocade).
It’s not as easy as choosing between a pink lehenga and blue jeans with climate control factored in. What-to-wear is a finely calibrated decision. I think of whether to take an auto or a cab, train or bus. I think of where I’m headed, at what station to get off, at what time.
And despite all this, even if my legs and arms are fully-covered, even if no cleavage or belly is on display, I’m afraid. Even this great bustling insomniac city will not let me be.
Nobody has accused me of dressing ‘slutty’. But every day of my adult life, I have had to protect myself from the aftermath of random strangers on the street attacking, abusing or threatening me. Note: I am not saying I protect myself from attacks. What I’m protecting myself from is the aftermath. From people who will say that my clothes were provocative, that the time of the night and my being alone was an invitation to assault.
So yes, I get the sentiment that makes a bunch of women in Canada declare: Yeah, we’re slutty, so what? So what if we sleep around? So what if we wear tiny skirts and high heels? So what if men look at us and want us? Is the police force trying to tell us that rape is alright? Are you saying we deserve to be hurt?
And yet, when I heard that someone was organising a Slutwalk in Delhi, a part of me went sort of quiet. A young journalist from Delhi wanted my views on whether it would have an impact. I found that I didn’t want to talk to her. Not right now.