How safe are we, the women?

“Women thy name is frailty,” Shakespeare said. This is something to ponder on. Are the women really frail? In what sense are they frail? Are they frail in strength? Frail in their character? Frail in their emotions? Or plainly frail in the sense of their presence in the world?
A girl in Delhi, gang raped in a moving bus and brutally discarded has led to uproar in many cities of India. This is one incident that has been brought to our eyes, all thanks to media. But we know in our hearts that many such incidences happen every day in the lives of women all over the world but remain hidden in the guise of family prestige and fear of becoming an outcast.
Yet, I am sure still many of us in Bhutan hardly cared for this Delhi incident. Then came in the story about our own two Bhutanese girls who were molested by two BMTC employees in Bangalore. Eyebrows of more Bhutanese raised and we could see people in our country too questioning the safety of women in the world.
But come to think of it, how safe are our own Bhutanese women in Bhutan? As an adult I’ve not taken a ride in public buses and I do speak with my fingers crossed hoping against hope that now the scenario would have changed somehow. I remember, back in my childhood days, private cars were luxury affordable for the few affluent only. So as a little girl travelling to my relatives places I remember travelling in buses. The handy boy would pass lewd comments on the female passengers and the other fellow travelers would bellow with laughter, enjoying each moment of the awkward situation in which the woman in question would be put in. Sometimes, one had to witness ghastly scenes of men touching women in awkward places in these buses. Who thought of these actions as more than a simple game men were allowed to play by the default of being born a man?
Today as we witness more such crimes happening in all pockets of the world, we might begin to question ourselves, is this culmination of such casual pranks that has given birth to such horrendous acts? And the most important question to ask is should we allow ourselves to be a victim or even a spectator of such social evils? Can we let these devils in the guise of humans go scot free? Don’t we think that at some point not just the women but even men have a higher price to pay as a father? As a brother? As a husband? Or even for the simple reason of co- existing in the beautiful world created by God for both male and female?
Maybe, today one Damini succumbed to death as a result of the brutish act of six men but how many Daminis should die to wake up the humans in these brutes? How many such horrors should women live to ultimately be blessed with a space to walk free of fear on the Earth in which they were created to live and flourish in?

Examination Time

As a little girl, I still remember, there was a special charm whenever Exams knocked ‘round the corner. My mom always made it a point to buy me a new geometry box filled with long sharp pencils. Totally rid of the heavy bag pack, it felt good to be walking majestically with just a thin clipboard and the brand new geometry box to flaunt.
If you are thinking of the notes to be rote learned, well I was a sucker at that. I mean who studies at that age? If chased around by my parents, I would slip a comic in my textbook and go on reading as if exams were the best things in my life.
But today is different. I am on the other side of the fence. Overlooking a hall packed with grim looking students, I pace back and forth with a stern look that clearly should spell, I am serious about exams and have always been look. But the kid in me is still prancing about in my heart. I learn that little girl wanting to flip though the pages of the comic I always relished. Yet! The Teacher me yells out “ No! Not allowed!”
So, I get back to my walking with measured steps and roving eyes. A boy in the corner is busy scratching his head. I remember my Dzongkha exam times, how I would have scrapped off all dandruff if I had any during those days. One particular incident never goes amiss whenever I combine Dzongkha exam and the head scratching business. My Dzongkha was always bad and today I say this with my head lowered with embarrassment. But not to forget, in those days, people who excelled in English were kind of happening, not people who drooled out with Dzongkha. Whatever, coming back to the incident I was going to talk about. So, it was during the ICSE time. I was stuck with a question that was more Greek to me than all aliens put together. I was scratching my head looking at the picture of my mom and me and my sister. It was during a warm winter spent at my mom’s place. I stared at our chubby faces and grinned. Two months of mom’s special dishes plumped us up. Had we been pigs, all set to go to the slaughter house. But staring at my mom’s dimpled smile didn’t fetch me the response needed by that question which had me perplexed.
“Are you Ata Tandin’s daughter?” I looked up to see my invigilator staring at my mom’s familiar face on my geometry box. “Yes!” I almost jumped with joy. He was the same man who was supposed to be giving answers to help students in distress.
Following the instruction received as a gossip in the hostel sprang fresh in my agonized brain. Immediately I picked my left hand and placed it on my head to start away with the scratching ( that hideous act meant, ‘Help! I am doomed!’) And gently I placed my right index finger on the question sent with vengeance all the way from Pluto. Meekly, I turned up to face the benevolent messiah but to my utter dismay, by the time I had the whole act put in place, he was in the faraway aisle, walking with a distracted look.
“Tee- hee” before I could help it, a giggle evolved. The nearby students came out of their alien world and casted a glace of “what’s so funny?” look. I moved my eyes with an unsaid apology and turned back to my Hitler walk.