Searching for light in the darkness of insanity....

A few days ago, I was at Goregaon station, on my way to a meeting. As I was waiting at the entrance for Snehal, I realised that I had suddenly become the focus of everyone's attention. Apparently my outfit was too much for people to handle - I was dressed in a black t-shirt and knee-length denim skirt. I could feel my body being ravaged like an old love-letter by stares and muted condemnations. I could see the women clicking their tongues in disapproval; I could hear the men lasciviously whispering what they wanted to do to me.

I knew what they all were thinking; I saw the venom roll off their tongues. Shameless. Immoral.WHORE. For one desperate moment, I knew why women voluntarily wore the burqa. I perfectly understood how empowerment could come from being swathed in black, relegated to anonymity. I saw that percieved freedom could be oppressive, and that percieved oppression could be liberating.

I chided myself for my unfortunate wardrobe choice. I went against everything I stand for, and made myself believe I had brought this upon myself. I guess when you're mistaken for a piece of meat, skinned and naked,there's little you can do to ward off the vultures.

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I just dropped Bo to the station. I don't want to get into the details of what happened while we were in Baroda, but suffice to say that it was a weekend straight from the foetid depths of hell. I dragged her back to Bombay so that she could get away for a while and recuperate. A week has gone by, and I don't feel any better about this situation. I can't even imagine how she feels. I feel so uneasy as I'm typing this. On the way to the train station, there was so much I wanted to say and do for her. I wanted to pulverise the fucker who made her feel this way, deathly afraid in her own home, unsure of the future. I wanted to tell her everything would be okay and mean it . I wanted to protect her, form a human shield, so no one could ever hurt her again. Instead all I did was hold her hand, silently apologising for my inadequacies. She forgave me just as silently, placing her other hand on mine, while stoically staring into the Bombay traffic.

As I tried to calm her down last Sunday night, I said all the things I've been trained to say - "This is not your fault." "You are not blowing things out of proportion." "Your feelings are totally valid." Even as my legs were quivering, I felt strong as she seemed to take solace in my words. Tonight I feel broken. I feel like a bad sister for allowing her to get back to her life. I feel like a bad feminist for wanting her to move out, to run away. I feel like a bad activist for being unable to change her circumstances.

This is the first solid blow I've felt to my chosen career. What's the point of workshops and training manuals and conferences when I can't even protect my own sister? What good is it to be well-versed in feminist theory if it doesn't help me do something to erase her fear, her pain, her self-blame? Is my work even worth anything, or is it just aiding me while I walk around with blinders? Am I helping the situation even remotely, or is this job just a defense mechanism against the ugly truth?

I don't know the answers. I don't even want to know the answers. I just want to fall into a dreamless sleep, and wake up to a better tomorrow.