While in college, I had once attended a cultural fest held at one of my friend’s college. My same age cousin, who was our common friend, had accompanied me too. Before leaving for the fest, my father had reminded us to get back home on time that should not exceed beyond eight in the evening. Although Calcutta evenings at eight were hardly a cause for concern, my father maintained that women and girls need to be always mindful and careful of potential dangers that might be lurking at nooks, crannies, and basically everywhere. Back then, what irritated me the most (and unfortunately that irritation has turned into exacerbation after my recent visit) was the state of public transportation – overflowing buses crammed with people some of whom could be seen straddling the thin line between life and death by barely occupying one foot on the bus-pedal while the other foot dangles in mid-air, pedestrians overflowing onto the main street, halted traffic stretching in an endless line, and the stench of uncollected waste lying in heaps and fermenting under the unforgiving sun. Traveling in the metro wasn’t comfortable either even though it was relatively a better choice if not necessarily safer. It goes without saying that in public transportations as these where physical boundaries between men and women gravely overlap, chances for inappropriate touching and sexual misconduct were largely unavoidable. So, my father’s caveat was not baseless entirely. We went, had immense fun with friends, and were so lost in that madness of having fun that we grossly neglected the time we were supposed to start for home. As soon as we realized that, we hurried, took a taxi, and reached home at approximately quarter to ten. My cousin didn’t have the courage to face my father’s wrath, and so he bade goodbye and simply ran away. Upon pressing the doorbell, my mother opened the door, and I saw her face clouded with an anticipation of an awaiting storm. But when I looked into my father’s eyes, I didn’t feel scared. Behind his unblinking gaze, I sensed a concern ensuing from his deep affection for his daughter. He was calm and his gaze was even calmer; he neither shouted at me nor used angry words, and looking back, I think his calmness had a kind of shaming effect on me that made me question my own sense of responsibility as a growing adult. My father’s gaze did not make me small in dignity, but made me aware that I cared less about him, which in his eyes was hurtful.
Marriage entailed migration to the United States of America and, consequently, navigation into a different world of unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar ways of behaving. One thing that I noticed early on and which strikes as unusual even now is the curiosity of the other man in what someone else’s wife does in terms of occupation and cultural interests. In the culture of my upbringing, this curiosity in someone else’s wife is considered an act of shamelessness. But among some of the educated bangali bhodrolok here, this seems commonplace. Besides this curiosity aspect, the other thing that I have consistently seen is this tendency to draw a comparison between my wife and yours and who has a better catch. I was a young wife of 24 / 25 years old when I came to North America with my husband and our almost 2 months old daughter. Back then, settling our young family into American soil and ensuring its sustenance and stability was our priority. I was a happy homemaker, who had no professional ambitions at that point in her life. I recall one Sunday in the summer of 2006 when we visited my husband’s friend’s dorm room apartment somewhere in the suburbs of Baltimore. He was completing his MBA, and his wife was on the verge of defending her dissertation in electrical engineering. Needles to say, they were both academically focused and professionally ambitious. Seeing me, I thought they were in a bit of shock, particularly the man. He was and still remains a vocally proud man, and his pride has rested for all these years largely on his wife. As far as I remember, he never looked directly into my eyes, and spoke mostly with my husband. At one point, I heard him say that he had chosen his life partner by the merit of his convictions. It wasn’t just that one comment that has stayed with me over the years, but his repeated insinuations, every time we met, that I don’t match up in qualifications and higher intellectual standard with his wife has been a thoughtless violation. His gaze, along with his overall body language, could best be described as condescending.
And it’s not just him though. There is this another man we know through acquaintances who remains an obsessive misogynist, but his misogyny is not directed toward every women, rather at those who refuse to be his wife’s sycophants. Violation doesn’t have to be physical; disrespecting a woman by a penetrating gaze is violation too. I wonder where these types of men get their power from and what makes them so audacious. If anyone dared to disrespect their wives, they would, I’m sure, butcher the attacker, but they fail to extend this empathy and respect they demand for their own wives to others.