JOIN USFor women, leisure on a leash?
Days leading up to these social experiments were exhausting. We had to convince our management, our families that we were taking ample safety measures, such as looping in the cops. It felt silly but given our lived realities, could they take a chance? Office chats naturally pivoted to unpleasant experiences female coworkers had faced in public spaces, fears they hold, triggers they avoid.
One is scared of cabs parked on desolate roads. One only takes the women’s coach in trains. One finds the two-minute walk from a metro station till her apartment at night unnerving. One can’t shake off the memory of a man pressing down a chit with a number on the table at a cafe she was visiting. Lewd comments on clothes, groping on buses, stories were aplenty, stories that prevent us from fully embracing the cities and towns we call home.
Women’s access to public spaces and the way they dress are both prescribed and controlled by patriarchy, subjugating them to the status of second-class citizens, says Manika Kamthan, a researcher on gender and social development from Pune.
Caste, class, family honour, past experiences and the cities women live in can also inform or dent their decision to move or be seen in public spaces, says Sabiha Bhoomigowda, retired professor of Kannada and former director of Centre for Women’s Studies, Mangalore University.
“If women are going out, they should have a valid reason, like an emergency to rush to or because they don’t have a male company,” Manika comments on how women’s leisure is regulated.
Sabiha agrees as she says, “Women are allowed the liberty to go out for work, even at night, but not for leisure.”
“When women lose out on such freedoms, women lose the true sense of empowerment. Men feel empowered by being born as one while women can’t feel empowered even after achieving as much as the men do and more,” Manika points to the irony.
Now, the experiments...
'We drank at local bars'
Tucked behind MRP liquor shops and paan stalls, what do low-key bars, or yenne angadi as they are locally called, look like from inside? We had never stepped inside, ‘forbidden’ by well-meaning warnings but also a fear of the unknown.
So when we proposed going in there, female colleagues were stoked while male coworkers did not know what to make of our enthusiasm.
One Saturday, theatre practitioner Anuradha Rao, my colleague Barkha Kumari and I met outside one such bar in Bengaluru’s Jakkasandra. We came in early by 7 pm to find a table before the weekend crowd usurped all. Also, what if they didn’t let us in and we needed time to hop bars, we thought?
We entered. Three young staffers, all male, weren’t very shocked to see us but our plan to sit and drink in a room adjacent to the corridor, meant for self-service and quick shots, took them aback. We move to the private ‘service area’ in the next room or upstairs, they insisted on us, the only female customers, politely. “Let us stay in the common area,” we persisted and won.
It was neither like a den of drunken brawls, loud talks, neon lights and blinding smoke that films show nor was it “shady” as the cops had warned us. We did not feel threatened.
There were daily-wage labourers and middle-class workers, most in the late 30s and above. As we settled on our table, one among five, looks of all kinds started coming our way — disapproving, baffled, shy. Men walking in with helmets, tetrapack alcohol and snack packets stopped in their tracks. Customers blinked their eyes as they gulped the diluted drinks from plastic cups. College boys heading upstairs gaped closer. Others loitered at the door, casting furtive glances.
But that was that. They went back to their business and left us to ours. “These men come here for ‘me time’ — to step away from the drama in their lives,” Anuradha decoded the reactions. She has frequented many of these ‘local bars’ because “what else can theatre artistes afford?” she chuckled.
Only one young man sat gawking at us, incidentally on a table co-occupied by cops in mufti. We stared back. He did not bat an eyelid.
The staffers had their eyes fixed on us and they waved the swelling crowd away from our table. They brought alcohol, lime juice, peanut masala and egg bhurji as we wondered what happened to the self-service rule. We were getting special treatment. This “protective male instinct” comes in the way of women’s freedom, we discussed.
On a wooden counter was a can of spicy rasam that the incoming crowd came straight for. It was free. Barkha and I decided to get some. We walked forward and the crowd stepped back at once, their eyes wide open and hands up. They ‘pushed back’ even when I marched in and out of the
corridor to attend a phone call.
We would be a good crowd-diffuser, we laughed and now all eyes were on us. Were we too loud or were they not used to women laughing boisterously, we wondered as we settled our bill?
A few days later, Barkha decided to visit another ‘local bar’, in Rajajinagar. Forget the doormen, she was denied entry by a paanwala in the front. ‘Only men are allowed’, he said.
She came back on the same road, to a different bar, with a male friend. Yet again, waiters were over-attentive, serving her complimentary sprout masala unasked. Customers were busy with phones and earphones. ‘Looks’ made her feel like an animal in the zoo.
One thing was different. Her male friend got ‘dirtier looks’ perhaps for bringing her to that place. Also, a piece of an unsolicited advice from a customer: ‘Take her to the second floor. It’s private’.
These bars were cheaper, quieter, laidback, and fine, except for the toilet facilities. These could be good hangout venues. Then why are these seen as ‘off limits’ for women, we thought?
'I took a nap in a park'
When my colleague suggested I sleep in Bengaluru’s crowd-favourite Cubbon Park — alone and carefree, I laughed at the idea. ‘Have you tried it? In any park at all? If not, why?’ she asked. An India-wide project Blank Noise is doing just this, inviting women to take a nap in parks in a bid to fight fear and reclaim public spaces, she sharpened her pitch.
Lying on the sun-dappled grass, peeking at clouds, rolling side to side with a book in hand, sleeping under magnificent trees... The idea sounded lovely but had never crossed my mind.
I signed up for the experiment and then began the unexpected.
“What is the point of doing this?” male friends reacted to my Saturday plan. “Stay safe from the creeps who lurk in the park,” girl pals insisted. I was surprisingly anxious on my way to Cubbon Park that afternoon, a park I have been going to since I was a child. I am 23.
My anxiety waned as I reached the park. It was a beautiful afternoon buzzing with picnics, water bubbles and chatter. I went deeper into the park to find a spot for ‘me time’ but most corners had men snoozing or couples cosying up.
I found a spot, spread a bedsheet and settled down with a book and juice. Nobody was staring at me. I wasn’t looking over my shoulder either. I felt relaxed. But things went downhill for me when I decided to sleep.
At home, I sleep sideways but here I was resting on my back, straight, stiff and using my book as an armour on my chest. I did not sprawl to avoid undue attention on my body. My eyes were shut but I felt I was constantly being watched. I was startled awake by sounds — the rustling of leaves felt like someone was walking towards me sinisterly. The wind bothered me — Did it move the wrap-around top I was wearing? Was my skin showing around the waist?
I decided to distract myself. What other things would I like to do alone if I didn’t feel this way, I thought? Hiking, travelling on a bus and having drinks at a bar came straight to my mind.
On a wishful note, I opened my eyes only to find a middle-aged man lounging against the tree worryingly close to me and looking in my direction. I decided to camp elsewhere.
This time, I found a young woman reading a book by herself. When I told her I had just taken a 15-minute nap in the open, she said, “I’m not ready for it. Just the thought is giving me anxiety.”
My colleagues and friends kept on messaging and checking on me “if everything was fine” while also assuring “nothing would go wrong”.
As I walked out of the park at 6 pm, I reflected on my inaugural nap outdoors. It felt strangely liberating but also made me conscious of the fears I did not know I had. My favourite park suddenly felt unfamiliar and unsafe. Everybody looked happy while I was scared inside. How can we make public spaces safer for all? I have been wondering since.
'I walked alone at midnight'
I have always found the warm glow of streetlights inviting, and the company of stars and the silence of the night comforting. But five minutes shy of midnight on a Saturday, before I started to walk on Bengaluru’s M G Road alone, the night felt intimidating.
I had an entourage of people following me as I walked in a bid to reclaim the night, the road and the city. Four cops in plainclothes, a photojournalist colleague and a friend to be precise. Feeling alienated on a street I had frequented many times was embarrassing, particularly when I think of myself as a courageous woman. There were men, lots of men but not a single woman by herself.
The behaviour I encountered — whistling, hooting, shouting, honking and singing — was all unacceptable but expected, having experienced it in malls, in my neighbourhood, on public transport.
Every man who passed by me on that street ogled unabashedly. Men walked leisurely in contrast to the quick steps I was taking. This made me think of how even as a young girl, I was acutely aware of how I was perceived while walking back from school.
Most women will tell you they feel an undercurrent of awareness and unease even in the ‘safest’ public settings. You never get used to being the subject of someone else’s gaze. It is always unnerving.
That night, I was painfully aware of my body and how it was moving. I was afraid to lift my gaze and look at passersby, uncertain of what it might invite. Every few minutes, I shared my location with my friends online.
Half an hour in, my feet started hurting because I was walking at a frenetic pace. I slowed down to take in the beauty of the night. The red-yellow streaks of cars caught my interest and so did the dogs curled up by the street side.
A couple of auto drivers stopped by and asked out of concern: ‘Do you want to be dropped somewhere?’
My downtime did not last long as a man pulled up his bike and said, ‘Come, let’s go’. Disturbed, I went back to my former pace, walking just short of running.
I have always walked with a purpose — to get a task done, to meet someone, to get somewhere. But around me were men simply driving, walking, lounging and I wondered when was the last time I loitered in a public space like this?
At 12.55 am, as I turned into Residency Road, I was relieved to see women albeit in groups of four or five. Some smiled at me tentatively. I smiled back, thinking how we travel in packs and draw comfort in numbers.
My guard was up again as I got to Brigade Road, crowded with men. A drunk man hurtled in my direction, his arms outstretched. I dodged him while others held him back.
I pushed this incident to the recesses of my mind as soon as I got back to the office. I didn’t want to think of the night anymore. And so, when half an hour later, my friend inquired, ‘Did anything happen (sic)?”
“Not really,” I said despite having experienced so much anxiety.
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