THE INDIAN PENILE CODE

 
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THE INDIAN PENILE CODE

A step-by-step guide to rape

You start at you mother’s bosom, my son.

And with that very first meal of you life,

you savour the pride and joy in that breast

for suckling one such as you.

You see in her eyes those tears of gratitude

for that little finger-sized piece of flesh between your legs

that saved you from a bloody ejection

instead of your triumphant entry into the world.

With every diaper change she sings

Jaya hai to that finger-sized promise of patriarchy

That will grow into a singular sinew to subdue the world

Like the mighty mace of Bhima,

The bloody sword of Tippu,

Or at least like the fearful fist

of that local goon, maybe;

A rod to beat both contradiction and concupiscence.

Variance and virginity.

Ah! My son. You have successfully taken your first step.

Then, start walking in the footsteps of your father,

Fists clenched, brain seething, loins aflame

At tinkle of bangle, the swish of sari and skirt;

Of wife, sister, sister-in-law and the one next door;

Hurling the vocabulary of gutter and drain;

Wielding the stick, the open palm and yes, why not

That ultimate weapon: that singular sinew for good measure.

As she cowers weak, helpless and later shamed.

The pleasure and the power is all his, you can see,

Legitimized by the world around him

And that rod of might given him at birth.

Father, uncle, cousin, big brother, the goon next door are

Your role models for what you will become, my son.

Next, walk to the nearest silver screen or picture tube

That will wrap your neo-cortex and genitals around a storyline

so hot and spicy, you’ll want more of it

with all the gore and guts and pleasurable massage

to your ego and nerve-endings, my son.

Action and more action that has you on the edge of your seat

The exciting rollercoaster of fisticuff and pelvic thrust;

The titillation of drenched flesh frolicking under falling cataracts

And then, the blood pumping sequences of delectable rape.

You’re getting there, my son. You’re getting there.

And then the picture tube and their anchors talk

About the lethargy of the law and

The enforcement of the enforcement system

Of heavier punishment and the need for the noose.

And you laugh.

Did punishment ever do away with crime?

With murder and mayhem and corruption and thievery?

You laugh too as the big Solicitor and the administration talk

About licences for bus drivers and tinted glasses for anything that moves,

And changed laws and suspended policemen.

You smile at those righteously angered gender warriors

Flinging slogans and argument against the system.

You applaud the media too

For successfully inflaming a just and peaceful protest

Into one that burned mindlessly for days

Knocking off the teeth of a worthy protest

With the pliers of sensationalism and the greed for eyeballs.

And then, hypocritically calling for restraint.

It helped your cause not theirs, didn’t it?

Don’t worry, son.

While government, society and the system

Tie themselves up in tangles

And crouch under shrapnel of mutual blame

You know that you have to thank us, your parents

Your great and glorious society and culture

For making you the rapist prodigy you are.

Not the police. Not the Law. Not the system.

You and I know that they need to be sharpened.

Now. Without their customary delay

That sticks its tongue out at Justice.

But until then, do the high five, my son.

You’re just seventeen-and-a-half, a minor.

They can’t do much to hurt you.

You’re free, my son! You’re free!