The Voyeur

She reached her mum’s place late at night, carrying her younger one in her arms and tugging her older one’s finger. Both kids fell onto the bed in a deep sleep while she ate her dinner. “How’s the food?” her mother asked while hovering over her, ensuring that her plate was still laden with food, even after a second helping. She rolled her eyes,” Mum, I have grown up eating your cooking. Why do you need to ask me this? “Mum ignored and proceeded to update her on the gossip about the neighbors – Mrs. Taneja , Mrs. Aggrawal , Mrs. So and so.

“Mrs. Dhingra’s son is now in Singapore. Earning big bucks I hear. She went to stay with him when his son was born. She came back very happy. But now she is all alone and her knees hurt while walking. But she doesn't want to move in with her son. Says she won’t leave India but we all know that she doesn't want to relinquish her share in the joint ancestral property of her in-laws.” Mum smirked at Mrs. Dhingra’s evident lies. Then she suddenly became even more animated, “Vishal is here from U.S. along with his wife and son. You have to see his son. He is ten years and so adorable and very fair (degree of fairness being Mom’s benchmark for beauty and adorability), has light brown hair and light eyes. Vishal brought him along when he came to meet us. He speaks with such a charming accent.” Mum rambled on, not noticing that her daughter had stopped chewing and was staring in space with a pained expression on her face.

Vishal’s name had brought memories washing over her like a deluge. Bile rose in her throat and she found she could not even swallow the morsel she was chewing. The person her mother knew and she had suffered at the hands of were like two different protagonists of a sick horror story. So; Vishal was now happy, had a lovely son? Great, except that it felt like a betrayal of sorts - betrayal by Fate or however the highest authority up there was. Karma had not rewarded Vishal with anything unsavory or remotely annoying it seemed. Settled in U.S., working in a MNC, as a senior technologist, earning very well, he seemed to have it all.

 “What happened?  You are not eating? Is the daal not cooked creamy? Is it spicy? I know you guys don’t eat spicy food. “Mum again started with her food tirade till she stopped her. “Mum I am just very tired and not hungry anymore. I just want to go to sleep now.” She remonstrated.

When she lay down on the bed, sleep was miles away. Memories came back, creeping along the floor and climbing on the bed, stealthily lying down with her. Vishal and she; a young girl of 10, he a strapping lad of 18, playing holi together, and on the pretext of rubbing color on her face, his hands slipping down to her pre-adolescent bosom. She remembered her naive self, tying a rakhi on Vishal’s wrist, believing in the relationship of a brother sister with her whole heart.  Vishal coming home; and running his hand on her legs as she slept; and then assuming innocence when she woke up with a start. Vishal coming to her house after that and with seeming affection, draping an arm around her shoulder, only to graze his fingers against her small breasts.

Coming back to the present, she shifted uncomfortably, remembering the moment of her ultimate humiliation. She would have been around fourteen or fifteen, confused, with her own adolescence related issues taking over her life. She had gone in for a bath, in her parents’ modest two bedroom apartment, taking her time to wash her hair and later her undergarments. Unknown to her Vishal had come home to meet her brother. When he had casually enquired about her, her mother had informed him that she was in the bathroom. While her mother went out and was occupied in buying vegetables from the vendor and gossiping with the neighbors, Vishal had somehow pried open one of the slats on the door to gaze at her, while she bathed.

It was only after a while that she felt uneasy and on an intuition as she turned towards the door, she jumped out of her skin, to find two eyes boring hungrily into her naked body. She held the towel before her and shakily asked, “Who is it?” although she knew who the eyes belonged to. The eyes disappeared. She dressed hurriedly and came out, her mind and emotions in turmoil. Should she tell her mother about this? Would her mother believe her story? What would she say? Would she condemn her as being a come-on, a slut or would she support her?

Her mother was an educated lady, but her roots lay in the small town of Uttar Pradesh where she belonged. She would most probably lay the blame on her shoulders and disallow her from going out or maybe quarrel with Vishal’s family and then the neighborhood would know of her shame. Nobody would blame Vishal, he was male, and automatically the blame would fall off him and onto her.

Her teen mind could not comprehend that a voyeur today could turn into a molester tomorrow. Being brought in a patriarchal social environ had had its toll. She did not reveal the incident to anybody, not even to her closest friend. She started feeling insecure about her body, thinking she had in some manner encouraged Vishal. Loose baggy clothes, tight pulled back hair and geeky spectacles became her armor. Whenever she encountered friendly boys, she invariably withdrew into her shell, lest they also feel provoked into touching or looking twice at her.

 Vishal, emboldened by her silence, took to coming to her home frequently. But she excused herself all the time and scooted away, to a friend place. Her vivacity and vibrancy dimmed and made her into a complex person. It was only after marriage that her inhibitions and timidity loosened and she returned to a bit of her former self. By then, it was too late. Years had passed by. Vishal, emigrated to US, soared to top ranks in his company, came back home and married a girl from a wealthy, small town, chosen by his parents. Vishal’s mother had been so proud. Her NRI son, despite having lived in a “corrupt” western country had returned to his roots. She had mentally gagged when she heard the news.

Her daughter cried in her sleep, bringing her back to present. Hugging her baby close, she pondered whether her silence had been her cowardice. She tried to justify her silence to herself with all the reasons she could think of. Now, Vishal’s prosperity seemed to bite her like a dirty vermin. Why should he be happy and prosperous when he deserved to be castigated in public? Was she being too cruel? Surely, there were many voyeurs in the world, more dangerous than Vishal? Tossing and turning, she couldn't get any sleep at all.

Next morning, it was Sunday and as the kids slept in, she decided to freshen up by going to the nearby sports complex for a swim, where her Dad was a member. Though government owned and by no means posh, it was clean and well maintained. The pool was relatively empty except for a few women. No men came to the pool on lazy Sunday mornings, but the ladies, found it a welcome reprieve from early morning school runs and breakfast cooking. While she did her laps, she noticed Vishal walk in with his son. She ducked underwater to swim to the far end of the pool to avoid any contact or greeting. But she couldn’t help but notice his son. He was every bit as attractive as her mother had described. While Vishal swam in the water at the other end, in the company of many ladies, she slipped out after some time and headed to the changing rooms. She saw Vishal’s son also head towards the men’s changing rooms after talking to his father; apparently he was done too and wanted to shower now.

She had a very quick shower and as she made her way out, she heard strange guttural sounds coming from the men’s washroom. Vishal’s son was having problems in opening the shower stall door, it seemed. She looked furtively at the pool. Vishal held court at the pool’s edge, to the ladies of the neighborhood, with his back towards her. More out of curiosity then anything, she peeked in the men’s changing room and froze. The watchman had his eyes peeled to a gap in the shower stall, while he pleased himself outside.

Her tongue cleaved itself to the roof of her mouth. She couldn’t breathe let alone scream or shout for help or drive the dirty man away. Somehow she backed away silently. The watchman had not paid attention, of course and went ahead with his business. She ran to the pool and shook Vishal’s shoulders violently. He jerked around, very annoyed at the action. His expression went from recognition, to greeting, to bafflement as she gestured towards the men’s washroom. “The watchman, the dirty watchman, go and see.” She incoherently tried to convey her distress. The other ladies climbed out of the pool and ran towards the washroom with Vishal.

Soon, they all came out thrashing the half-naked watchman. Vishal clutched his son tightly, a wild look on his face. The kid was numb and couldn’t even look up. Vishal was shouting at the top of his voice; “What kind of sick bastard takes pleasure in watching a kid take a shower? People like you should be flogged in public. You guys should be skinned alive. People like you turn rapists. I’ll hand you over to the police and make sure you are jailed for life.” His rage knew no bounds. One of the ladies had called the police and they were on their way.

She was rooted to her spot. Her timid, cowardly self; had come forth again. She should have barged in and saved the kid herself, but her limbs wouldn’t have moved. She felt bonded to the kid huddled against his father’s frame. Vishal’s words just washed over her, meaning nothing to her. Her only concern was the child, tears streaming down at the ground. But she could not bring herself to approach Vishal or his son. Vishal’s presence seemed to repulse her while his son held invisible arms out to her. She looked at Vishal, willing him to remember his own voyeurism. But this Vishal was an outraged parent, and not the lust filled young man, whose mind was filled with fury, leaving no space for his own guilt. Finally, she forced herself to approach Vishal, who was still punching the watchman and holding his son close.

She tapped him on the shoulder. As he turned, his expression changed from rage to gratitude. Before he could utter a word, she quietly said, “Make sure you punish this bastard. But take your son to therapy when you are back in U.S. I could survive what you did to me, but then I am girl. I am used to much more pain than this. Your son is not so lucky.” The ladies gaped at her and then Vishal who turned beetroot red and started muttering, finally realizing. There was no sense of vindication or appeasement in her as she walked towards the gate. Her steps were leaden and her heart was heavy.