‘If they don’t like it, so be it, and if they’re angered, that’s fine too. But we’ll continue to harass them.’
Two of the boys answered the question in this manner: ‘Women both like and dislike being tormented by us. A woman is an interesting creature, a bearer of ambiguous “yes” and “no”. This is why we like them. In fact, if they didn’t have this trait, we wouldn’t enjoy harassing them. Yes and no are so deeply mingled in their character that often their “No!” is a “Yes”. This is what gets us excited.’
One boy answered differently from the others. ‘The truth is that girls love being hit on. Why should they approach their youth differently from us? They grow up in their shalwar-qameez while we grow up in our trousers and shirts. What other difference is there? I go after girls because they like it. When they’re teased, they immediately share the details with their friends. This produces feelings — perhaps jealousy — in other girls. I know this and you don’t but not being attached to a man produces something in them that makes them yearn. If I hadn’t come to this realization, I would not be harassing them.’
Now let’s turn to the answer they gave for the final question. Each boy narrated an episode where he had picked on a girl. Only a few of them are the sort that I can reproduce here. Many were of this type — “I molested this girl, she screamed, I was caught and humiliated” and so on.
The most interesting story came from the boy who had whistled at the dog. He said: ‘This happened four years ago. In Amritsar, many people were being arrested over a Congress agitation. Jallianwala Bagh was festive and full of students and others. I’d slip out of home on the excuse of studying and head there. One day, when I was going through the bazaar, all of a sudden, my gaze turned up.
‘I saw a head in a white turban in a balcony. For a moment I thought it was a Sikh gent. Then the face came into view and I was amazed to see a dusky, gorgeous girl. I could see her churidar and qameez through the railings. The clothes fitted her closely.
‘When she noticed me, I said to her loudly, in greeting: “Tasleem arz karti hoon,” as if I were a girl. She was startled. She let out an embarrassed cough-smile and, under pressure from my direct and unrelenting gaze, fled into the room.
‘At the students’ union camp in Jallianwala Bagh, I recounted this to a few of my friends. I learnt from them that she was the wife of a Congress worker who had been arrested a few days ago. She was underground, hence the disguise. They had been married for only four or five months. And now she was alone in that house. After I heard all this, I left for my house, which wasn’t too far away.
‘I shut the door to my room and put on a blouse. In it I slipped two halves of a rubber ball as “breasts”. I wore a petticoat and then wrapped a sari around myself. I used to wear my hair very long those days, and now I parted it at the centre, sending a few stray curls down the sides.
‘I looked into the mirror and an effeminate face stared back. The wonders a few clothes can do! I slipped on my sister’s burqa and left. On the street I stumbled a few times as I walked, the burqa catching the soles of my unpracticed feet. I found it difficult to get the feminine gait and stride right. The thought of being discovered also quickened my heartbeat. But I was resolute and crossed three bazaars to reach that house. Its stairs were right next to a halwai’s shop. I lifted the veil from my face and climbed up, my heart racing. As I walked up, the thought of my act aced all other sentiments. I knocked, having decided that if a man answered I would not say anything but turn and leave. If needed I would explain in a thin voice: “Sorry, I came here by mistake.”
‘Then I knocked again. I heard footsteps. I thought of fleeing but it was too late at this point, and the latch was being unfastened. I lowered my veil. The door opened. The girl was before me. She looked distraught. Her hair was in disarray. She was wearing a different kurta, but she had on the same pyjamas I had spotted her in. On seeing that it was a burqa-clad “woman”, her fear left her. I calmed down too.
‘She said: “Please come in.”
‘We crossed a large room and went into a small one. It had two chairs and a small bed, on which was the kurta I had seen her earlier in, with one of its sleeves turned out. Next to it was that white turban.
‘She asked me to sit, lifting some books off one chair and setting them on the bed. I was troubled by the main door, which she had left ajar. As I sat, she said politely: “You can take off the burqa.” When I looked around, she assured me there was nobody else in the house. “I’m alone,” she said. I had decided I wouldn’t speak but couldn’t stop the words, “Please shut that door outside,” from coming out of my mouth. I had used my own voice, but she didn’t react.
‘She got up to shut the door. I lifted my veil and waited. My face was still framed by the burqa’s cowl. My ears were hidden and my hair covered much of my face. So I thought this sight wouldn’t shock her too much.
‘She returned. I turned my face towards her. She was about to sit on the bed but sprang up like she was bitten. She gave off a soft shriek. As the saying in English goes, the cat was out of the bag.
‘I took the burqa off. I could see her legs were trembling. I became bolder. I smiled and said: “Aadaab arz karti hoon.” She recognized me and was paralyzed with fear. I looked into her eyes and said: “You look pretty in men’s clothing. What do you think of me in this outfit?”
‘She couldn’t figure out how to respond. Even if the skies had fallen and the roof caved in, she wouldn’t have been more shocked than she was now.
‘I felt for her. So I picked up the burqa and said: “Don’t be afraid. I’m leaving. The prank’s over.”
‘As I began to walk past her, she said with a trembling voice, “Wait.”
‘I stopped: “Well?”
‘She was looking at my blouse, from which the half-globes had slipped out. “Will you be able to go home like this?”
‘I said: “Why not? It’s how I came here.”
‘But even as I was saying this I knew that now, with the excitement behind me, I couldn’t take a step further in this outfit.
‘She said: “Think it over.”
‘I did. I was sure I couldn’t. I went through my options. I could take the sari off. But in just the blouse and petticoat, I would look like some sort of actor in costume. I could take it all off and wrap the sari around my waist but that was equally stupid. I reconsidered putting the burqa on again but the thought of stumbling around in it soon put paid to the idea.
‘I said: “Is it all right if I sit for a while?”
‘She said, “Sure,” but then all of a sudden she seemed to have remembered something.
“No, you must leave! My father-in-law is on his way. I’d forgotten about him. Please leave now.”
‘I now felt as if I was naked. I stubbornly settled further into the chair. She was in panic. “He’s going to be here any moment. Please, you must go now.’
‘I was furious with myself. I said sharply to her: “What do I care if he’s coming? I can’t walk another step dressed like this.”
‘Despite the tension, she laughed. I remained sullen. She thought for a moment and then pointed to the kurta on the bed which she’d worn earlier and said: “Take this. I’ll find you pyjamas. But for god’s sake, leave now. Don’t think of anything else.”
‘She didn’t wait for me to respond. She bent over and pulled out a trunk from under the bed to look for pyjamas. While she looked, I took the blouse off and put on the kurta.
‘When she couldn’t find a pair, she said: “Wait here. I’ll take mine off and give them to you,” and went out. I spent a strange couple of minutes waiting. Then she came and handed them over to me. “Please hurry,” she said and went out again.