A Newspaper Article

"Who's your father? Did he want you from your mother?" This was just a beginning in the series of lewd comments that followed me last night, from a line of about half a dozen rowdy street stalkers. The air was stinking of bidis and the first crackers that were being burst by enthusiastic children on terraces. It was not yet Diwali, the festival of lights. For me though, it will remain one where I heard my body being the object of their gaze, my taste was taunted. "Look at the waist, how it swings!" said one. "No, no, look at those legs, how slender!" said another. These were of course accompanied by shrill hoots and distorted versions of cheap item songs off the latest Bollywood charts.

I was harassed even as I wasn't physically touched. But what pained me, burnt my soul, was their attack on my clothes. I was out for a night stroll and I deserved to dress comfortably. It was Diwali the next day, I wore clothes to suit the mood. My beige, agreed, very short half pant, hugged my thighs urgently. The lapel detailing was outstanding and I fell in love with it the moment Lee launched it. And over it, I wore a red checks full shirt, tucked in, the Tommy Hilfiger insignia popping out of the pocket corner. I have always liked this combination of semi-formal clothes. And for shoes, I had worn a royal blue loafer, Woodlands. Yes, I felt nice. My left ankle was decked by the black and silver piping anklet, Radhika had got for me from her tour to Jaipur during the pujas. And my earrings were tiny american-diamond studs, very tiny. Calling them dot-sized would be perfect.

They had hooted at my hot pants, and my slim-fit shirt, my dainty dots and the colours on my shoes and watch. I love my watch, I am possessive, one could say. My blue Sekonda was a gift from Mamu, Mamu who visits us once a year from London. I was in tears when one of them particularly screamed out, "Blue watch, blue shoe; no blue eyes to hypnotize." I would rather have them try to rape me on the roadside! Alas, when I mentioned this bit to Radhika on phone last night, I was taken aback my her response. As I stroked my side parting, I clenched my hair hearing it."Oh cmon S, grow out of your clothes! And how could they rape you! You are a boy!"

They will never understand. I should just die. Or, become a fashion designer and settle in London.

Would the rape only make headlines if it was met out to a Shilika, instead of me, Saurav? What about my taste that was hurled an acid attack on? I love my body and take care to costume it with well. Grow up, people! Is it enough only to light up your house, and not your minds?

Saurav Sen,

Bhowanipore, Kolkata.

Diwali, 2015.