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Many years ago, I was a single woman living alone in a matchbox-sized apartment in Mumbai. It was on the fourth floor of an old apartment complex, which had strict rules like no non-vegetarian food or boys. (n/1)
To avoid any trouble, I generally kept a low profile, and spent a lot of my time outside the apartment (which was also very warm in the summer, and the fan often broke down). (n/2)
I rarely felt unsafe, but that is also the bravado that Bombay engenders in you. Until one Christmas Eve, when my best friend and I attended midnight mass and came back to my place to chat and drink some wine (n/3)
That night, at around 3 AM, there was a knock on the door. We both panicked, but inexplicably, I was more concerned that it was a neighbour annoyed with us for playing music too loud. My friend sensibly told me to ignore the knocking but I went ahead and opened the door. (n/4)
She insisted I latched the door though. Outside stood two unknown men — one in the khaki uniform of a security guard — who told me I had left my bag downstairs in an auto, and that I should go down and get it. (n/5)
I had returned home several hours earlier with my bag, so I simply shut the door on them. They left, probably because they realised I wasn’t alone. To this day, as I type this, I shudder to think of what could have happened if I was alone. (n/6)
The next morning, I asked the security guard of the complex why he had allowed these men to come upstairs in the dead of the night. Of course, he feigned complete ignorance. And in the absence of any evidence, I let it go. (n/7)
As a single woman, I was acutely aware of the cost of the choice I had made of living alone. I also knew it wouldn’t be easy to file a complaint. So I simply swallowed my fear and watched my back and kept a super low profile. (n/8)
Those years taught me a great deal, and were vital to building my confidence in myself. But as a woman, they also made me aware that you cannot let your guard down, not even momentarily. And that is the sad truth. (ends)
