Uneasy Lies the Head

Your browser lacks required capabilities. Please upgrade it or switch to another to continue.

Loading…

<<audio "hare-krishna" play volume 0 fadein>><<audio "train" play volume 0 fadein>>Bleary with sleep, you open your eyes. The open window admits dusty sunlight, the early noise of trains and Hare Krishna chanting, hawkers banging their ladles against their tins, the barking of street dogs. You’ve lived here long enough to hear the undertones, how Delhi in the morning churns between the medieval and the modern, urban newness and rustic tradition, civil unrest around middle-class and lower caste, the rights of women and gender equality. Your name is <span style="color: red;"><strong>Radhika Mitra</strong></span>, an Indian woman who lives and works in Delhi as [[the editor-in-chief|work]] of //The World Daily//, a newspaper that is one of the few forms of local news media that espouses women’s rights. You turn off your phone alarm before it rings. Your husband, sound sleeper that he is, is dead to the world. You know you won’t disturb him, but for [[your mother]]'s sake you get up quietly anyway. It’s time to face the day. In light of the recent string of local rapes--and the pertinent reportage and testimony lying on your desk, awaiting your review and final approval--you doubt it will be a good one.

<<stopallaudio>>While the coffee brews you check on your mother, who is a strong-willed 94 but cannot fight the slow creep of age-borne weakness and disease. Two mini-strokes and osteoporosis have left her brittle. In your memory she is fat and strong and could half-carry you, giggling, pressed to her hip or stomach while she cooked or cleaned. You were that small when she told you that [[you were conceived through marital rape.|fate]] <abbr title="and she never told you what you feared, that she never wanted to bear you.">She called it a story that should never be told.</abbr> You’ve never told that story, but as a journalist and editor you’ve told the stories of many others. Child brides. Victims of domestic abuse. Memorials for the immolated. You married for love. Your husband, Indian like you, like you studied abroad and returned to his homeland only to be bewildered by the pervasive cultural ideology that women are less than nothing. Your mother is still asleep. You bend to kiss her papery forehead and [[slip out|work]] without waking her.

<<audio "bike-bell" play>>You travel by bicycle. You wear a blouse and pants and //practical// heels, and you pin your long braid in a practical bun. With the dry wind in your face, you try to feel less like a woman so you can feel free. It flies in the face of your mother’s worried instructions when she phoned you in England, telling you, //Don’t be seen in the company of strange men, you’ll be unmarriageable, and think of what people will say!// Actually you met your husband at the scene of a riot you were reporting on. You were the only female reporter. You found yourself scrunched between men. One casually grasped your breast. You switched your hand camera to his face and casually named him the poster child for the sexual harassment faced by women in India every day. Your husband shielded you and your camera when the man tried to hit you. //In riot conditions//, he said incredulously, after you’d submitted your report and an op-ed on sexual harassment, //The audacity of it. Unbelievable.// He was cute. His disbelief was cute, and a little sad, but his ideals aligned with yours. Turned out you attended the same university in England. You didn’t learn his name—-Subramanyam—-until after you woke up the next morning with him in your bed. Oh how your mother @@.shudder;screamed@@. When you enter the office, the buzz of talking dies down to hushed whispers. You’re not stupid. You know everyone has something to say about [[your pending decision|review]], about whether or not to publish the stories on your desk, given the cultural and political climate, given the [[letters]] you’ve received. Your staff includes men and women, many of them hand-picked by you as soon as you heard they were seeking employment. Among them, Rajiv with the studied face of the perpetually curious, and Isha with the soft, open gaze of the perpetually discovering. Both—you believe—possess the kind of raw talent that only the truly great possess: for finding the stories that need to be told, for gaining the trust of victims and listeners. Both helped you with the story you plan to run today. If you hope to effectively tell the stories of recent events, these are skills you desperately need in your staff.

<<cacheaudio "train" "music/train.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "hare-krishna" "music/hare-krishna.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "bell" "music/bell.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "peacock" "music/peacock.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "bike-bell" "music/bike-bell.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "sirens" "music/ambulance.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "scream" "music/scream.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "gunshots" "music/gunshots.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "heartbeat" "music/heartbeat.mp3">>

<<audio "heartbeat" play>><<continuelink "Teenage girls, raped and murdered, because their rural village had no toilets, and in the field designated outhouse, they dared lift their saris to pee.">><<continuelink "This is what your mother escaped.">><<continuelink "When you deploy investigative journalism against it, this becomes your nightmare.">><span style="color: #ff3300;"><s>Make it stop, make it stop.</s></span> [[Go to work.|work]]

<<audio "heartbeat" loop play>><abbr title="A story that sensitively treats the issue of rape culture in India, in rural villages as well as the more publicized Delhi gang-rape"> <strong>Where Rape Lives Without Impunity</strong></abbr> <span id="output"> <<textarea "$response" "Type your lead paragraph here...">> <<button "Submit">> <<replace "#output">><<print "You wrote: " + $response>><</replace>> <</button>> </span> And that's that. You turn to the stack of [[letters]] on your desk.

<<stopallaudio>>Among the usual memos and submissions and revisions is a folded sheet of //The World Daily// letterhead that reads, typed: //Running the story is a betrayal of our culture You and your assistants will be punished// The room tilts. You feel as though you are going to faint. Your life is one thing; you know the decisions you've made; but [[Isha]] and [[Rajiv]], your star assistants, could be in real danger, and not know it. You know you have to do something, and fast. But if you tell them, if you tell anyone, you risk retracting this all-important story, ending the //Daily//'s investigation altogether, contributing to the climate of impunity that facilitates such rampant rape in India. [[Maybe it's better to tell no one.|silence]]

<<stopallaudio>>You grasp the edge of the desk and swallow your fear, blink your eyes rapidly until your face feels composed. You tuck the letter into a drawer, stack the vetted stories, and place the article about the Delhi victim and her rapists on top. You owe it to your country to run this story, you think. To your fellow Indian women, all of whom know this occurs on a daily basis and only to be met with silence. To the Indian men who try to defend their female friends, only to fall victim to violence themselves. To all the other local papers still hesitating to run the story. You don’t think of yourself as foolhardy, but if you don’t run this as a local story, you truly believe: no one else will. The atmosphere of fear, the culture of silence, it’s just too oppressive for anyone to want to break first. You call Isha into the room. She glances at the story on top, meets your eyes. You think you see admiration there, if mixed with anxiety. “Thank you,” Isha says, and you’re not sure if she is being polite, or if she is also saying, Thank you for showing me that a woman in this profession can also be brave. You haven’t practiced religion in years, not since the last time your mother was well enough to force you to go to temple, where you bent your head and received garland and ash with barely repressed distaste. You’re an agnostic now. But after Isha leaves the room, you take a moment to breathe, you pray. You hope you’re proving a good example. [[You hope this moment doesn’t come back to haunt you.|Ending 1]]

<<audio "scream" volume 0 fadein>>Two days after the story runs, you come home from an uneventful day at work to find your door ajar. Inside, glass and furniture broken everywhere. Spritzes of blood. You find Subramanyam face-down on the ground, his face a bloody pulp but breath whistling through his lips and broken teeth. You find your mother naked and dead, her body disgraced. Dimly, you hear yourself screaming, even as you phone the police, knowing they will not show up to help you, author of that story, with your new tragedy. You take your husband to the hospital and sit with your head in your hands and your mouth is closed but you still hear the screaming, like that poor girl must have screamed when they held her down, and her family keeps phoning to tell you how grateful they are and you only hear the sound of your mother’s voice, asking you, //How could you let me die without dignity. I told you this job would lead you to no good.// Subramanyam recovers and takes a post back in London. You talk on the phone but rarely. He’s busy, he says. You continue working in Delhi, fighting the good fight, and your coworkers respect you like never before, but your life has ended, and from that there is <<continuelink "no">><<continuelink "going">>[[back|begin]].

<<stopallaudio>>You grasp the edge of the desk and swallow your fear, blink your eyes rapidly until your face feels composed. You don’t think of yourself as foolhardy. You’re no hero, and even if you were, it’s not a role you can foist onto your assistants, dedicated as they are. But as a woman, you can’t help but feel you owe it to your fellow Indian women, all of whom know this occurs on a daily basis only to be met with silence. If you don’t run this as a local story, you truly believe: no one else will. The atmosphere of fear, the culture of silence, it’s just too oppressive for anyone to want to break first. You stack the vetted stories and place the article about the Delhi rape on top. You take the letter in your hands, open the door. “Isha?” you call. She seems harried when she comes in. “I wanted to speak to you,” you start to say, but she interrupts you. “Two men followed me to work today. One asked me if I worked for you. He said I should quit before we run that story, Radhika. I phoned the police but they just laughed at me and said I was panicking because of ‘this Delhi rape propaganda.'” She nearly spits the quoted phrase, she’s so angry, but her frustration does not disguise her fear. You crease the letter in your hands. She’s looking at you with anxiety but also admiration. She will follow your instructions, you can see that, she’s too naive to know different, even through her fear. And she is afraid. Her hands knitted together so tightly they look drained of blood. You take her hands in yours and press them like your mother used to press yours, offer her your most consoling smile. “Listen to me,” you say. “It will be all right. Here’s what we’ll do.” [[Share the letter and don't run the story.|Ending 2]] [[Fire Isha and Rajiv and run the story.|Ending 3]] [[Phone the police.]]

You grasp the edge of the desk and swallow your fear, blink your eyes rapidly until your face feels composed. You don’t think of yourself as foolhardy. You’re no hero, and even if you were, it’s not a role you can foist onto your assistants, dedicated as they are. But as a woman, you can’t help but feel you owe it to your fellow Indian women, all of whom know this occurs on a daily basis only to be met with silence. If you don’t run this as a local story, you truly believe: no one else will. The atmosphere of fear, the culture of silence, it’s just too oppressive for anyone to want to break first. But you don’t want to scare Isha with this. You stack the vetted stories and place the article about the Delhi rape on top. You take the letter in your hands, open the door. “Rajiv?” you call. He comes in after a moment, scribbling notes on a stenographer’s pad. “You wanted to speak to me?” You unfold the letter and hand it to Rajiv. His eyes narrow as he reads it, just once, before raising his eyes to yours. “You don’t really believe this?” he asks. “It’s paper tigers. Empty threats.” You’re thinking of your husband, your mother, wondering what your mother would say if she knew. Probably that women are raped every day and this is no different, and it’s nothing to stick your neck out for now, is it? You say, “You never know.” “So what do we do? Call the police?” he says. His face clearly saying, Information should stop for no one. “Listen to me,” you say. “It will be all right. Here’s what we’ll do.” [[Phone the police.]] [[Don't run the story.|Ending 4]] [[Fire Isha and Rajiv and run the story.|Ending 3]]

You dismiss Rajiv and call the police. You’re on hold for a long time before you’re transferred to an officer. You state your name, profession, and institution, describe the article you’re planning to run today, and read the letter to him. Hearing it out loud, in your own voice, scares you more than seeing the written words. “It’s probably nothing,” the officer says. “Just a hoax, or a prank. Lot of good people are angry about the way those boys are being vilified.” You hang up the phone, not at all consoled. You take the morning to think over your options. It’s too important a story to cancel. You pass the article on to the presses. It prints the next day. People read it. They look horrified, disgusted, infuriated, but they are reading it, a local newspaper, breaking the culture of silence that has prevailed for so long. [[Three days later.|Ending 5]]

You unfold the letter and hand it to Isha. Her eyes widen as she reads it, just two lines, again and again before she looks at you with renewed terror. She’s thinking of her husband and children. You’re thinking of your husband, your mother, wondering what your mother would say if she knew. Probably that women are raped every day and this is no different, and it’s nothing to stick your neck out for now, is it? “What do we do?” she asks. Her voice is shaking. But you think she’s expecting you to say, Take it to the presses. Information stops for no one. “We can the story,” you say. “It isn’t worth our lives.” She looks at you a long time before she hands the letter back. <abbr title="and you think what she’s really saying is Thank you for looking out for me and mine, but what about our paper? Our gender? Our country?"> “Thank you,”</abbr> she says. You feel <<continuelink "relieved">><<continuelink "disgusted">><<continuelink "defeated">><<continuelink "sick">>. You go home to Subramanyam and reluctantly share the story of your day. Your mother raises her hands to the heavens and thanks all the deities for knocking sense into you. Subramanyam looks at you thoughtfully and squeezes your hand, but the fact that he asks to make love to you later makes you wonder if he really understands the toll this has taken on you, or how it will weigh on you for the rest of your life. In subsequent days the victim’s family members phone to slander you, or to sob, "Why are you doing this to us? You promised to fight for our daughter’s sake." Isha is grateful but, you think, respects you just a little less. Rajiv, who knows no better, resents that the story he helped with didn’t run, becomes vocal in his criticism of you, and eventually he resigns for a post at //The Times of India//, which has said nothing about the matter, either. You wish him well. You aren’t resentful. You are merely sad, for your homeland, that you work to promote the free flow of information in a culture of silence that has now silenced you. Though your faith is shaken, you continue to do your part and do it well, but you look the other way now when difficult stories cross your desk, because [[you cannot again be faced with such a decision|begin]] and trust you will make the right one, or one that will hurt less than the one you made that day. But at least you are all alive. And for that you are grateful.

You dismiss your assistant and take the rest of the morning to think over your options. After tea break, you call in Rajiv and Isha and show them both the letter. After they read it, Isha with wide eyes, Rajiv with skepticism, you say firmly, “I’m sorry, but this story isn’t worth your lives.” “You can’t be serious,” Rajiv says incredulously. “These letters, they're empty threats. They’re just trying to scare you.” “It worked,” Isha says. Rajiv frowns at her, and you think, startled, that this soft-eyed young man is willing to doubt gender violence if it means protecting his career. “It did work,” you say. “But it’s too important a story, and you’ve done such important work on it, for me to can it now.” Rajiv smiles. Isha looks alarmed. You hold up a hand before either starts speaking and continue, “So I’m taking precautions and firing you both.” Isha gasps. Rajiv, angry for the first time you’ve ever seen, snaps, “You can’t do that!” “I can and I am. Go home. I’ll write you both recommendations to The Times of India. They’ll want you when they hear what fearless work you did on this piece.” That silences him. Isha looks on the verge of tears. He thanks you formally with a handshake for taking him under your wing. She hugs you and whispers, “Be safe, Radhika.” “Of course,” you say, though you have your doubts. At home, your mother scoffs when you say you have your integrity; she says, “You say that, but wouldn’t you rather have your life?” You notice you are followed by strange men before and after work. Subramanyam starts taking you to work and you feel even more imprisoned in your all-too-female body. Three days later, you arrive at your offices to find the building on fire. Policemen and fire fighters are standing idly around. Your livelihood, your passion, burning to the ground. Subramanyam has to hold you back from running into the flames. The police tell you no one was inside, no one was hurt. His tone says, You should have been, for tarnishing those boys’ names. Later, your mother asks, “Was it worth it?” You think no, because you lost the newspaper you loved. You think yes, because you can work elsewhere, you never compromised, no one was hurt, information stayed free. But you were lucky. You know that. No one is lucky forever. Maybe it’s time to [[try your luck|begin]] back in London.

“We can the story,” you say. “It isn’t worth our lives.” Rajiv looks at you in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.” “I can’t risk your life,” you say. “And Isha and I...we could be facing [[much worse|fate]].” “It’s a prank,” he protests. “A hoax.” You take the letter back. What he’s really saying is //What about our paper? Our gender? Our country?// “I’m sorry. It’s too much of a risk.” You hear yourself, and you feel <<continuelink "relieved">><<continuelink "disgusted">><<continuelink "defeated">><<continuelink "sick">>. You go home to Subramanyam and reluctantly share the story of your day. Your mother raises her hands to the heavens and thanks all the deities for knocking sense into you. Subramanyam looks at you thoughtfully and squeezes your hand, but the fact that he asks to make love to you later makes you wonder if he really understands the toll this has taken on you, or how it will weigh on you for the rest of your life. In subsequent days the victim’s family members phone to slander you, or to sob, //Why are you doing this to us? You promised to fight for our daughter’s sake.// Isha is grateful but, you think, respects you just a little less. Rajiv resents that the story he helped with didn’t run, and eventually he resigns for a post at //The Times of India//, which has said nothing about the matter, either. You wish him well. You aren’t resentful. You are merely sad, for your homeland, that you work to promote the free flow of information in a culture of silence that has now silenced you. Though your faith is shaken, you continue to do your part and do it well, but you look [[the other way|begin]] now when difficult stories cross your desk, because you cannot again be faced with such a decision and trust you will make the right one, or one that will hurt less than the one you made that day. But at least you are all alive. And for that you are grateful.

Life goes on as expected. You cast glances over your shoulder, expecting shadowy figures matching your every step; you have nightmares about masked men with iron poles leering at you, or worse, unmasked men whose faces you know. Subramanyam tells you that you are overreacting, it’s just a story and the threats were empty but your offices are graffitied every morning with insults and your name. Your mother tells you to be ready when you have to lie in the bed you’ve made. <<audio "gunshots" play>><<audio "sirens" play>>Three days after the story runs, you arrive at work as usual, only for two masked men to enter the offices and open fire. Bullets spray everywhere. Many of your colleagues are injured. You take two in the shoulder, one in the arm. Isha takes three in the chest. Rajiv, one in the head, dead instantly. The authorities take a long time to come. Isha dies in transit to the hospital. Only a day after you’re discharged, you come home to find your door ajar. Inside, glass and furniture broken everywhere. Spritzes of blood. You find Subramanyam face-down on the ground, his face a bloody pulp but breath whistling through his lips and broken teeth. You find your mother, stripped and dead. Dimly, you hear yourself screaming, even as you phone the police, knowing they will not show up to help you, author of that story, with your new tragedy. You take your husband to the hospital and sit with your head in your hands and your mouth is closed but you still hear the screaming, like that poor girl must have screamed when they held her down, and her family keeps phoning to tell you how grateful they are and you only hear the sound of your mother’s voice, asking you, How could you let me die without dignity. I told you this job would lead you to no good. Subramanyam recovers. He takes a post back in London. You talk on the phone but rarely. He’s busy, he says. You continue working in Delhi, fighting the good fight, and your coworkers respect you like never before, but your life has ended, and from that there is no [[going back|begin]].