Smriti RDN Neupane, Nepal, SSH Blog Correspondent
She almost runs, in the drizzling rain,
towards the last bus of the evening, or so they said
Up the road
She almost runs under the drizzling rain
Her body putting in all the strength she has onto the ‘almost’ running,
crying out silently, for some rest, for peace,
Her body aching to be not- groped, on her way
Her body has a Saree
Draped around it like a vine creeping up
the only thing that covers her ‘dignity’,
A whisk of strong wind would blow the shield away,
She ought to hold it with her hands,
her hands, she can’t put it free, cannot fling it while she walks,
Her coarse, broad hands trying to grip to the hope that she is safe
Her hands have a bag
and bangles that jingle with her every step,
She gropes to them; the saree and the bag,
as if her life depends on it,
She walks hastily, almost running, her feet trying hard to move fast
but the vines around her not giving them enough space
Her feet trying so hard,
Hoping the path she travelled was as dry and clean as she would like
Her feet have slippers,
They keep slipping on the slippery slope
Sometimes plunges in the puddle
while her feet desperately trying to stay steady
She cannot miss the bus
when it’s already getting dark,
Not when she has probably five eager, hungry adult stomachs to cook for, at a place called home
Other adults around her,
they look, keep looking, at her vines,
and the lines beneath those vines,
The lines that peek through the vines when a gust of wind blows it,
The lines, she is desperately trying to shield
with those vines from the prying eyes,
Her eyes, mapping those eyes
She almost runs to the bus,
The bus isn’t still, keeps rolling away slowly,
slow enough to jump in
The bus has a small door
and it’s open, yet jammed,
Seven of them trying to get in, twelve trying to get out
at the same time
She can’t leave now,
not after the second bus just got missed, not when it’s turning dark
On her attempt to get in
She feels a hand pushing on her behind
Pushing her to go inside and that hand is not trying to be discreet
That hand also has a mouth
Tells her to get in fast if she wants to go
She recognizes the tone,
and the way those hands push her every time
She manages to get inside.
manages to grab the handle- too high for her
Her hands high up towards the handles,
Her lines exposed, the vines would not protect her
No
There are bodies all around her
Bodies have hands
and other parts
There is an occasional pull and push, occasional tug
Her vines and her lines
also her hair,
all exposed
There is frequent touch,
and pokes she doesn’t want to talk about
She dissociates herself from the present
Becomes numb to the happenings around her,
To her.
She thinks about work
She thinks about the struggle to prove herself every day, every time, every where
The bus rides along, oblivious of what is going on its inside and her inside.
She gets down on her stop
And the bus with a small door swirls along the road,
Away
With her
Dignity,
Self-confidence,
Happiness
Few parts of her
She thinks about tomorrow
“Tomorrow is going to be a better day”
She dreams while she walks towards the place she calls home,
The roads, rides and respect she deserves
She will get
because
She has hope!
Smriti coordinated Safe cities campaign in Nepal with a team of feminist activists of various organisations, networks and community groups from 2011 to 2014 and is still voluntarily engaged with it. She is currently engaged in an action research and advocacy on women’s leadership in climate change adaptation focusing on women’s time use.
