I hope and pray it is not happening anymore in Kathmandu, but I was, say, 8-13 years old, everyone in public vehicles would expect me to get squeezed between 2 people in a seat designed for 2 people. Worse, everyone would expect me to NOT have my own seat in the crowded buses (because I was simply just a child!) and people would expect me to sit on the lap in public vehicles! My mother would be shouted at by other passengers or the bus conductors for “getting a child a seat” when all the adults had to stand and jostle among themselves. I do understand why other passengers would want to take away the seats from the children; they wanted to have a comfortable ride of their own. But seriously, what on earth, those conductors were fighting for! They would get the bus fare for both my mom and me. So, what was his issue? He was getting all the bus fare he needed, after all.
I am so disgusted remembering the things that happened to me on those buses. I am literally cringing right now as I write this paper. Sometimes, even my mother would expect me to sit in the lap in public vehicles. Sitting on her lap – that was still okay. When there would be no seats and we had to stand, the “benevolent” uncles who had seats would ask my mom politely, “Bachcha lai ma kakh ma rakhchhu, didi. Nanu, yata aau ta.” (I will hold the child on my lap, sister. Baby you come here) [and sit on my lap]. I can never understand why my mother never saw me being uncomfortable in those situations. Even she would force me, “Jau, gayera uncle sanga basa.” (go and sit with uncle). I would not and everyone on the bus would stare at me. “Aunties” would start calling me “Kasto jiddi keti!” (what an obstinate girl!).
I don’t think I understood well what the intentions of “uncles” were when I was around 7 or 8 years old, but I started understanding gradually. I would demand my own seat. I actually started enjoying the loud chatters and shoutings of conductors too when I would not move from the seat. I loved seeing the expressions of disappointment on the faces of those uncles when I would not “obey” them. I loved seeing my mother getting irritated because of my adamant behavior due to which she had to listen to all kinds of things from other passengers and conductors.
It’s not that getting a seat was the ultimate solution to such assaults and harassment. The passenger sitting beside me would try to brush against me or when I had to stand, I would be molested. Few of the first such encounters, I felt awkward, scared, shy, and embarrassed; so, I would not say anything. But I started getting more aware or maybe more irritated rather. I would literally shout at such uncles who tried to touch me inappropriately. It’s interesting to note that when I did so, it was not those uncles who would feel embarrassed; rather I have been oftentimes scolded by strangers that “Yo timro private car haina.” (This is not your private car).
I mentioned microbuses at the beginning of this post. They were much safer. Society had changed a lot more. I did not find such predatory eyes in microbuses anymore. But that does not at all mean I was comfortable traveling in them. Here, I was uncomfortable for different reasons. I hardly wore Kurta Suruwal / Salwar Kameez. I either wore jeans, T-shirts, shirts, shorts, or skirts. Yes, apparently, really inappropriate clothing for women! It’s not like people stared at me. In fact, no one did. Kathmandu has changed its demeanor toward women much better than in my childhood days.
Anyway, it was not the clothing that was the issue. It was the music that used to be played in micros at full volume that would draw attention to me and other girls in the vehicle. If not for those vulgar songs, we would not have felt so self-conscious. The cringiest song ever was the Nepali song that the microbus driver and conductor played: “Chhunalai hoina, herna chahi painchha; aankhaa lai sekna jati ni paainchha. Udhdhreko choli chha haii, tyahi pani lainchha.” (You are not allowed to touch me, but you can be voyeuristic though; you can bake your eyes as much you desire. My bodice is torn, and yet, I wear it). The popular item numbers were what those microbus people played. Hindi movie songs like “Beedi jalai le jigar se piya” (Light your cigarette from my bosom), “My name is Sheela, Sheela ki jawani; I’m too sexy for you, main tere haath na aani” (My name is Sheela, the prime youth of Sheela; I’m too sexy for you, I will never come in your hands). And the list goes on and on…
I cannot even believe I know the songs by heart because of the fact that I had to listen to these almost every day in almost every microbus. The guys on the bus would laugh when the erotic lines would come up. No matter how radical we believed we were, all of us young girls could do was take out our own cell phones and pretend to be busy reading something, head down, eyes stuck at the mobile screen, and while we knew of every gesture and remarks going on around us; all girls would assume we were deaf or blind to them. Perhaps, that was our collective conscience and tactics to tackle this sort of violence and harassment. I am in a state of shock that I actually suffered from the things that when I try to describe I feel disgusted which I know I should not but still do.
