Itvara

It is almost time for me to leave Berlin. I was sitting with a few of my friends – two Indians, a Russian, an American, and a Bulgarian. We were sipping our last coffee when my American friend looked uncomfortable.

“Are you okay?” she asked me.

“What do you mean?” I asked her honestly. 

She hesitated, contemplated, calculated, and carefully uttered, “Are you really okay going back.”

Everyone at the table looked at me. My thoughts drifted back to fifteen years ago. I was just out of college and in my first job. I saved for six months to travel and with great pride, would travel to Delhi and Agra. I was going to stay at my relative’s place and I was going to see the capital of India for the first time. It was the month of December and staying in a warm place all my life I was enjoying the grey. It was 6 a.m., and my driver dropped me off about six hundred meters from my destination.

I started walking and I could hear footsteps behind me. Women can have a hair-raising moment, and an eerie feeling just by sound, noise, and smell. We simply have developed this sense and I would never understand why. 

I did not look back, I walked fast and they walked fast. I started running and they started running. They said, “choos choos, lavde ko choos.” 

I ran the longest five hundred metres of my life and I barged inside the bus stop where all the passengers were waiting. I was sweating, crying, and panting. I turned and I saw their faces for the first time. The other passengers got up and they turned and spirited away into the darkness. 

“Are you excited about going back?” asked the American again.

I smiled. Between patriotism, jingoism, hatred, cosmopolitanism, and disloyalty there is a place where some of us reside. A place where we love our home and want it to be everything that we see in the glossy narratives sold by the media. We’re eagerly waiting to return to that home, along with those who still live in the country.

“Yes of course. India is growing in GDP. Some amazing things are happening in technology. I get to be home and be part of something bigger,” I said. They smiled. 

It was eleven in the night and my Indian friend and I sat near the river. The others had gone back home. 

“You meant it?” she asked. I knew what she was talking about.

“We are supposed to love our country and support the good things.”

She nodded. 

“Okay, we are here alone. Look at your left and your right. There is no one.  No one from any other nationality, no one to judge you, no one will question you. Tell me what you will miss about Berlin?”

I looked up at the sky.  The amazing thing is that in a few parts of Berlin, you can see the stars. 

“The ability to be the same person, both mentally and physically, whether I’m at home or out in the city. When I go outside back home, I am a different person- never at ease. I will miss being myself completely.”

She smiled.

“Too much?” I asked. 

“Well… As a gay person, I am used to people telling me I am too much. But maybe too much is what the world needs.”

I sighed and we looked up. It was splendid. A couple of girls were celebrating their birthday. The irony is that western Europe believes they are the cultured race and back home people are always harping about our five thousand-year-old culture. Every day I witness the biggest cultural war online. 

I looked at those tiny specs in the sky and asked, “Where do you think we went wrong?”

My friend thought for some time and said, “I do not know. They say to protect women and children. When did it come to protection? The fact that we need protection says that it is okay to be bad and cruel.”

“I think it has to do with power. It is the need for control and power. To have complete control over someone and not about sex” I retorted.

My friend put her arm around me.  “Don’t overthink it.”

“Are you going to say like a guy who told me two days ago, that all this will die down in three months? Every country has its flaws and that change does not happen so fast. ”

 My friend smirked. “Who said that?”

“An Indian from work. He said – the media sensationalizes everything. Rape happens everywhere. It happens even in New York. Just one thing does not define the country. We are much better off than few African countries and Afghanistan.”

We both looked at each other and laughed. We laughed wistfully knowing it was an echo of bitter truth which is widely believed. 

“As you said you love your home. You can only try to make it cozy. Give it all,” said my friend empathetically 

As I walked by the river, I saw a group of girls and boys laughing loudly. Someone’s hand was on someone’s lap, someone’s head on someone’s shoulder, and someone’s arm around someone’s waist, and tears poured out of my eyes. I will be looking over my shoulder—careful, vigilant, and aware. Those boys will be following me. Always. 

It was almost midnight. I thought of something my Russian friend said about female rage. I somehow do not agree with the chaotic rage depicted by modern media. There are six hundred and fifty million women in the country. There is a silent rage rotting inside us. A searing anger, mingled with vulnerability, tearing us apart. And so, we wait… and wait… and wait.

But you are supposed to love your country, aren’t you? It is my home, Isn’t it?