7 Aug 2024
Last week, a biker collided with my car, and in a flash, I found myself in the middle of a road accident. I was shocked and scared, but I gathered my courage and jumped out of the car to see the biker lying on the road with a leg injury. With the help of bystanders, an ambulance was quickly arranged to take the injured biker to the hospital. This was my first road accident in 20 years of driving, and I had no idea what to do next. After taking advice from my husband, I mustered another wave of courage and went to the nearby police station to report the incident—all by myself. Despite my nerves and the intimidating image I had of the police station, I did it. I submitted my report, including the bike number and all the necessary documents.
The week that followed the accident was unsettling. As I was trying to recover from the trauma and summon the strength to get back behind the wheel, I found myself having to pass the accident site every day. On top of that, calls from the biker's side with various demands only added to my stress. Then, nearly a week later, I received a call at 7:16 p.m. from a personal mobile number, claiming to be from the police station, ordering me to report the next day at 10 a.m. The call left me terrified, and I had a sleepless night, dreading the thought of going to the police station alone.
I hadn’t considered hiring legal aid because I believed I had done everything right. I had followed the necessary procedures after the accident, knew I hadn’t violated any traffic rules, and had all my car documents in order. Despite that, the idea of returning to the police station and facing the patriarchal attitude of the officers was overwhelming. I realized then that, despite all the work I thought I had done to overcome my fear of patriarchal control, it still lingered.
15 Aug 2024
At the police station, after a period of waiting, I was called over by a group of men. I walked up to them, trying to maintain some semblance of confidence. One of them asked me to narrate what happened. As I looked around, I noticed that I had become the center of attention—police staff and other people present for their own cases were all watching me. With so many eyes on me, I struggled to find my voice, my words trembling as I tried to speak. Overwhelmed, I told the police man that I was too nervous to talk, and eventually, I broke down. Turning my back to the crowd, I tried every calming technique I knew, realizing that it wasn’t my adult self crying but the little girl inside me—frightened by patriarchal dominance—who had surfaced.
Somehow, I managed to calm myself, and soon after, I was called into the CI’s office to recount the incident again. For the first time, I was offered a chair and asked if I was okay. This time, I was able to explain my side of the story. I walked out of the police station with a flood of questions in my mind.
Why did I feel so unsafe in a place where I should have felt the safest—the police station, a government institution funded by our tax money to protect and safeguard the public? Why didn’t I have the courage and awareness to tell the police officer who called me after 7 p.m. that, according to the law, such communication should be in writing? Why didn’t I know that, under CrPC 160, 'no woman shall be required to attend at any place other than where she resides'? Why didn’t I feel confident enough to tell the police right from the start that I wasn’t comfortable being questioned in front of everyone?
Why did I instinctively look around for my Dad, wanting him to hold my hand and accompany me to the police station? Why, as a child, was I not taught that it was my responsibility to stand up for myself? Why wasn’t I encouraged to speak up for myself? Why was I made to feel that I needed a man to protect me?
As I navigate through my upbringing, triggers, and traumas, I'm compelled to question how responsible and regulated our society, fellow citizens, police officials, and support systems truly are.
What am I missing here? I longed for more self-regulation from the police man who called me that night, wishing he had followed the proper procedures designed to ensure the safety of women. I hoped for self-regulation and empathy from the officer who, without any formal introduction, began interrogating a law-abiding citizen in public. I also wish the biker had shown responsibility by adhering to traffic rules, which could have prevented the accident, and ensured that his bike was insured, sparing his wife the need to forge documents to press his case. I wish the other car driver involved in the accident had not fled the scene but instead taken responsibility by reporting the incident. Moreover, I wish our police system upheld ethical standards, refraining from advising or supporting illegal arrangements for personal gain.
These small acts of disrespect, when unchecked, can escalate into more severe offences and crimes against women. As I reflect on this, I cannot fully grasp the horror and pain that the victim of the brutal assault in Kolkata endured. In my own way, I want to honor her memory by standing up for myself, acknowledging my emotions and needs, educating myself about my rights as an Indian citizen, and finding the strength to speak up when my basic rights are denied. While I may not have the power to create widespread change, I can change myself by refusing to tolerate any form of disrespectful behavior—whether from family, colleagues, or others—and by not letting the patriarchal norms of our society break me.
When each one of us takes up this resolution, I am sure a progressive change will come through. So let's educate our girls not only to be respectful but also to never tolerate disrespectful behavior, no matter how trivial it may seem.
Let’s up-skill ourselves and our younger ones with emotional and social skills, so that we can be aware of our emotions, triggers and learn strategies to regulate ourselves, draw our boundaries and assert when our boundaries are violated.
The journey of building internal strength and resilience is never too late or futile to start or invest in.
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