Trading In Our Fantasies: The Cost of a Woman’s Existence

The fantasy of existing alone in this world is immensely gratifying for me. The imagination of walking down a road, lost in thought, without having to ensure my safety with a tiring hypervigilance. To board the Delhi Metro wearing a dress I picked out enthusiastically in the morning, without making sure no one is staring at my thighs. To use the gym without being followed by a ruthless gaze, where I can sense others wondering how I would look with lesser clothes on. Where my yoga asanas can continue to be about rejuvenation, instead of the Other’s imagination of how they can abuse a flexible body

As I engage with this fantasy I realize I have reached my personal threshold of tolerating unsafety. As a woman, the cost of my being-in-the-world is threats of violation. The landscape of my imagination is reduced from flowering fields, romantic novels, the mundane twists and turns of life to parched lips, increasing thirst, and a dessert that does not support life. ‘Why has my imagination become impoverished and nightmarish?’ Is a question I often ask myself.

The answer to this has been voiced by many women before me, who are unique in their articulation but united in their experience. Imagination and creativity require a nurturing relationship with reality; as long as the world we live in continues to be dreaded, how can its beauty enrich our personal creativity?

As a woman, I see men gathered on streets, and my immediate impulse is to change my direction, to reach my destination another way, even if it is longer and less pleasant. Often the ordinary beauty of the world- a flowering tree, a sunlit patch on a cold road, a street food stall of my favorite cuisine, or late night plays (which will mean late night metro rides) have to be avoided, or perhaps denied, to first ensure we are safe. To ensure that our steps, our bodies, and our movements are not traced by seemingly hungry eyes; to search for private spaces in public (like the woman’s metro compartment) where another’s gaze does not feel paralyzing and debilitating.

It further saddens me as I realize it isn’t only the small pockets of happiness that this penetrating gaze punctures, but moments of everyday sadness. Days where personal intimacy breaks down and ends with draining arguments, days of academic difficulty and confusion, days when self doubt and hate take over, as a woman I find myself unable to let my hair down in public (and sometimes private) spaces. To let myself give in and feel these disruptions is only possible if I give up scanning my environment for anticipated violations of my body. Perhaps my gendered occupation of the world denies me the rest and safety required to feel the roller coaster of emotions human beings house within them.

Feeling unsafe everyday has been an experience intense enough to change my fantasy, to move from imagining warmth to imagining a lonely isolation as the only safe haven. I wonder if my fantasy will ever change again, whether I can (re)imagine togetherness as comforting. With a pang of pain I wonder, ‘when will my bare existence stop costing me the fatigue of not trusting the world around me? When will dinner table conversations and family whatsapp groups buzz with messages about anything other than unfortunate incidents that happen with women who lose parts of themselves everyday? When will I look at the world and feel a rush of hope, instead of the usual chill of dread?’ Despite all evidence to the contrary, I hang on to the answer my friends and I whisper to each other reassuringly, ‘someday soon.’

-Reva Puri