I am now that person for whom no one waits. Whose waiting holds no value for anyone. Whose words no one listens to. In whose absence nothing matters to anyone. Who has no one to call their own. Who has nothing to possess, nothing that is theirs. At the sight of whom alone, no one feels even a whisper of sorrow. In whose illness no one goes mad with worry. When whose life stops, no heart is struck. I am such a person that if I cease to exist, no one will even register that small awareness—that person is gone. Whose suffering moves no one, hurts no one, makes no one weep. For this reason, I no longer dream, neither grasp desperately at living nor dying. My entire life feels like a blur to me. And yes, whoever I love, I love all my life. Whether they love me back or not, I love them still. For me, being out of sight does not mean being out of mind—never that. Yes, I am terrified to ask life for anything. It feels like no matter what I want, I will get nothing. I have said it before—among calculating people, I am the most reckless and clumsy. Look, you don’t even ask after me. Do I have to die for you to ask after me? Listen, I want so badly to talk to you and to hold you and sleep. You understand nothing! May a hundred ghosts possess you!
—
Anyway, I don’t understand what there is to congratulate those who pass exams through leaked question papers or who enter jobs through irregular means! How do we know… we don’t stop speaking against corruption, and yet we enable it in other ways! We don’t even have the strength to voice the smallest reproach toward those doing these things, yet we spout grand words from our mouths, and if we could, we would expose the government’s entire ancestry! And if I ever enter a job this way (since I haven’t done it yet or am not doing it now), I am telling you in advance—I will never make a show of it, and I will not beg for blessings either. (Because there is always that fear in my mind, what if the job slips away, what if it slips away!) Asking for others’ blessings for wrongdoing and seeking their support are the same thing. We should have felt ashamed. These things too are called moral degradation. We have reduced character to nothing but the body! And women! How do they… they can comfortably enjoy their son-in-law’s bribe money and walk about smiling, yet if their son-in-law even thinks of another woman and she finds out, she burns with rage! So foolish! So hypocritical! As long as women understand a man’s character to mean only the one-dimensionality of a reproductive organ, this country will never be free of corruption.
—
Kuttu-dear, you are a very good person, you have kept me with so much affection and love, you care for me so very much, but you should make time for me—carve out a little more time. Like this, if you just gave me 2 minutes on the phone with you every day, then I wouldn’t complain about you so much. Actually, I am a very silly and scattered kind of girl, you’ve figured that out, haven’t you, my love? Then try a little and see if you can manage it! All right? Why don’t you write more? Why do you stay so angry? When you write, I feel so happy.
Even when you’re angry, I find it endearing. Ha ha ha. The thing is, you haven’t been told the real story. The real story is this: in the last few tests at coaching, I’m scoring 60 out of 200, which means thirty percent. I take the blame for that—I’m not studying. But seeing those marks, my heart breaks. Now I have to finish the coaching syllabus. Because of all this, I’m in a rather confused state. Though if you gave me proper time, I’d study properly. I’m not really that much of a shirker. Look, I’ll set everything right.
What’s happening to me these days? I can’t remember anything about my studies. I’m not sitting for exams. The fact that I’m not studying—it doesn’t even worry me. What will happen to me, how will I manage ahead—none of it bothers me. Why doesn’t it? Why am I so… indifferent? How am I like this? I can’t remember how I spend my days. Time just seems to slip away somehow. Night comes, then dawn breaks, then night again… and nothing touches me. Sometimes I just want to hold you so tight, so very tight. At those moments it feels like if I don’t have you near me right now, I might actually die. Will I really die without you? Why is this happening to me? Even when I’m not thinking of you, you find your way into my feelings. And when we’re together next time, could you hold me a little longer against your chest? Will you? Run your hand through my hair, kiss my head, show me some tenderness? Sometimes I think a ghost must have possessed me, otherwise where do all these words come from when I’m writing to you!
I’ve kept a diary since long ago. From class seven or eight, I used to write every day—whatever came to mind. None of it was stories or poems. They were my pure feelings, nothing else. Though I didn’t write every single day. Only when I felt like it. But now when I write something for you, I hardly pay attention to what I’m writing. I don’t plan it out beforehand either. The moment I tell myself I’ll write something for you today, the words just pour out from within on their own. I don’t have to arrange anything—they come already arranged, already ordered. But sometimes when I glance back at my old writing, I get terrified. Did I really write all this? Where did all these words come from? How did I write so much? It’s like climbing to the tenth-floor roof and only then realizing I’ve actually climbed all the way—never noticing it while I was on the stairs. I haven’t written anything substantial, yet so many words have come from these fingers… but what does it matter, it’s all out there now, and I’m amazed just looking at it. And sometimes I think I must have gone mad. Surely only the mad can go on and on like this, speaking to themselves in a one-way conversation! Why else would anyone speak so much without reason? You know, I burned all my diaries from before my marriage—I was stubborn about it. And the ones after were only filled with anger and disgust toward the people around me. Nothing good in them. Besides, after the divorce I stopped writing altogether. I gave up everything I used to do. Back then I’d only write in my diary when I was very angry. So there’s nothing worthwhile in those either.
I’ll never give them away. Someone could force me to stand naked under lights for ten straight hours, and maybe—*maybe*—I’d do it. But hand over my diaries? Never. Reading someone’s diary is like stealing their weakness. Mine don’t contain anything earth-shattering, and yet I’ve decided: no one gets to touch them. No one. I don’t want anyone knowing what lives inside me. If it comes to it, I’ll burn them to ash, but I won’t hand them over to a soul. Look, you don’t doubt what I tell you, do you? I mean, when I tell you things about myself, you believe them, right? You don’t question that? Here’s the thing—all this time, you’ve never let me understand you. Not really. I understand you maybe one percent of what you understand me, so why should I let you understand me? You’ve never opened yourself to me, so why should I? I don’t understand you at all. I don’t know you at all. I just love you.
Look, there’s a difference between you seeing something of me and someone else seeing it. I hate exposing my weakness to anyone. I have no expectations from anyone, no anxieties about it either. But when I didn’t even want to send my diaries to *you*—because you’d understand me, maybe not completely but enough—and yet you keep asking for them, keep asking! Why? Are you going to publish my diary or something? Are you out of your mind? And honestly, there’s really nothing in them. Nothing. The entries that might have had something worth finding—I’ve burned those. I’ve burned my best poems. So please, don’t torture yourself with curiosity over this. It’ll hurt you. These things aren’t even fit to wrap peanuts in. Please don’t hope for anything. I don’t know how to explain it to you. Okay, fine, I’ll send them, but I’m telling you truly—there’s nothing in there. Don’t write about me. Forgive me. I’m not angry with you, not angry at anything about you. I just don’t want to be exposed to others. If you ever find out everything about me, will you stop loving me the way you do? Or what if there’s something in there that you don’t like? I don’t know what it is. But what if it happens?
I’m actually afraid of writing or saying things to you carelessly. And lately I’m even more afraid, because you take everything I say seriously—even the smallest, most trivial thing. That’s why I’m afraid to tell you or write to you. And something strange happens: whenever I sit down to write to you, chaos erupts at home. The focus, the mental state I had when I started writing—it vanishes. My mind goes elsewhere. I forget most of what I wanted to say. And you know how it is—you can’t accomplish anything with a scattered mind. Then my mood sours, of course. Attention keeps slipping away. Even when I try to study, the same thing happens. The people in my house must have some kind of allergy to it for a reason—the moment they see me at the table or notice I’m busy with something, they stir up some other trouble.
# A Small Matter of Contention
There’s another small thing that bothers me—whenever they see me listening to music or taking a moment of leisure for myself (and I should say, I rarely have idle time; there’s always housework, or studies, or some errand outside, or tutoring—something or other keeps me occupied all day. I’m the sort of girl who creates work if there’s none to do; I can’t sit idle for long)—or when I’m reading another book, that’s when a demon seems to possess them, urging me to do more. I do far, far more than what’s expected of me, and yet their hunger for more work from my hands never seems to be satisfied. But surely they should understand that I too have something of my own, something that belongs to only me.
But as I was saying—even though you’ve already promised that nothing I say will anger you or upset you—still, I must tell you this. Listen. Yes, perhaps for you I’m your seven-fold forgiveness, and it’s this very notion of yours—this seven-fold forgiveness—that frightens me the most. I can’t accept it, I don’t want to. Why must one accept everything about someone simply because one loves them? Is that love, or is it indifference? There’s a reason for this fear of mine. My best friend had exactly this mindset. Suddenly, for reasons unknown, we’re no longer friends. In my heart of hearts, she’s still my best friend, but neither she nor I can seem to carry the relationship forward as we once did, whether from misunderstanding or from some inexplicable distance. But I’ll tell you about that another day. What I want to say is this: I don’t want you to give me seven-fold forgiveness. I can be wrong too, as a person, and I’d rather you tell me about it. You have the right to let me know. I’d prefer to hear it from you, not from anyone else—except perhaps one or two others. That way, I’m given the chance to correct my mistakes, the ones I perhaps don’t even know I’m making. I don’t listen much to what others say, except for a couple of people. But you—I listen to you.
Let me tell you something about women’s private thoughts today. I’m not sure if you know about these things, or if you do, how much you really understand. First, let me say this: men actually have great patience. I hear it said so often—that women in a household must bear so much more. A household where women don’t bear things doesn’t survive at all. Yet I can’t seem to fully accept this. Yes, it’s true that women should manage a household better, because I believe it’s a big responsibility for them. Men usually go out to earn a living; where do they find the time for anything else? And there’s a logical reason why women should enjoy fulfilling this duty. Men are meant to be hard, women soft and tender-hearted. By their very nature, this is what marks women as women; this is what suits them. Through gentleness and compassion, they’ll win their rights—whatever they may be. The truth is, everything has two sides, good and bad. Every act can be done in good ways or bad. It’s because we speak of our rights and rebel that so many corners of our household feel like battlefields to us. Otherwise, they’d simply remain domestic matters, nothing more.
I must confess, however skilled men may be at work outside the home, they lack the intricate domestic cunning that comes naturally to women—in this regard, men are somewhat simple. And this is precisely the advantage women can exploit. If a woman’s clever ways bring harmony to the household and secure her rights along with it, what is the harm?
We bleed fighting for our rights. Yet see—we barely get those rights in full! Whatever rights we obtain, whether given or wrested, seem only to distance us from our core relationships, from our happiness, from each other by leagues and leagues. Homes of ultra-feminist women rarely endure. Feminism is good, but not when it becomes selfishness or needless strife in its name. I say instead that it is the infinite patience and indulgence of men that allows women to flourish, and allows the household to survive. A man, whatever else he may be, does not easily speak of abandoning things or breaking bonds. True, some young men today do speak thus, but far less than women do. We women—the moment a paan stain appears on our clothes, we cry, Enough! It’s over!—(though exceptions exist, of course.) Perhaps if we examined our own mistakes once in a while, we’d fare better. We women never seem to understand that while we’re always finding fault with men, sometimes the fault lies with us! Personally, if someone treats me badly, I don’t blame them outright. Instead, I pause and reconsider how I first treated them. I believe that the way I treat another, so shall they treat me in return. Or, if someone mistreats me despite my initial kindness, I simply avoid them the second time. Yet even then, I don’t judge them. Avoiding someone is far better than judging them. Perhaps one cannot think this way in a marriage. The truth is, we women hardly know, or refuse to acknowledge, what men endure both at home and in the world—what they suffer because of us. We don’t admit it, don’t accept it. Today I’ll tell you a little of what men must bear. Listen carefully…
I have an aunt—you know what that means, yes? My mother’s brother’s wife. We call her Aunty. She has two children, a daughter and a son. At home, just the four of them—husband, wife, and two children. My grandmother is no longer alive. My other uncles and aunts live separately, each to their own. One morning I went to my grandmother’s house and found my aunt preparing breakfast. I sat down to chat with her while she cooked. She asked me to eat, but I’d already had breakfast at home, so I declined. I watched as she made hot parathas, eggs, and vegetables for her children. My uncle was out on some errand; he’d come home before going to the office to have his breakfast. What I noticed was this: my aunt served her children hot parathas, omelets, and vegetables in plenty. But for my uncle, she had set aside dry bread and just some vegetables—and very little of that at that. I felt a twinge of surprise and finally could not help but ask her: Why did you keep that for him?
# The Things One Sees
My aunt told me: Your uncle doesn’t eat eggs, and parathas waste so much oil. By month’s end it strains my supply terribly. A while later, she astonished me further. She made thick, milk-heavy tea for herself and her two children, then brewed what remained—some stray tea leaves that had settled in the pot—by adding a bit of cold water, boiling it again, sweetening it with sugar, and filling a flask with it for my uncle. After witnessing this, I found no reason to ask anything more.
Before this, I had heard that this dutiful aunt of mine never once fed her revered mother-in-law anything by hand during the old woman’s housebound final years. I heard that she would place everything together on a single plate on the bed—a plate, a spoon, a glass of water—and leave. The mother-in-law was a paralyzed patient who could neither sit up nor straighten a single leg; she lay bent at the knees. She ate with great difficulty in that position, and when she couldn’t manage, she simply went without. When she soiled herself in bed, she had to lie in it until my uncle returned. My uncle would come home in the evening after finishing all his outside work, clean the bed, feed her, and do everything else. He couldn’t come home for lunch, and if he could have, perhaps he might have fed her then too. I don’t know if my grandmother ever told him of such treatment, or if she did, what he could have done about it. Even now, that aunt and uncle of mine carry on their household admirably and remain as ‘well’ as ever.
Let me speak of another distant aunt of mine. This uncle of mine was always away working; his groceries never fell short a single month. He would calculate every detail himself, plan the entire month’s dry goods at once with meticulous care. My uncle had an excellent hand for shopping—he never forgot what a household might need, even when my aunt’s reckoning failed. Since their house was right next to ours, there was once some visiting back and forth. One morning, I saw my aunt give this uncle only colored tea and a dried roti for breakfast, while she and her children never ate breakfast without parathas and eggs. That uncle has three children. The eldest daughter is now in honors, the other two will soon finish school. Every moment I witnessed such things, I was astounded and asked myself: How could she, as a wife, serve her husband such food? Their eldest daughter was nearly grown—how did she never ask about her father’s meal? How did she just eat her share and leave without even checking what her father had or if he had anything at all? And if a child could be like this, how could a life partner be like that? And if a life partner could be like that, how could one’s own child? My mind couldn’t grasp it. In this world there exist certain people whose misfortune touches every corner of their lives.
Of course, I merely observe such things in silence and never offer anyone advice on such matters. I haven’t the right to. All I can do is watch—whether such things happen to my own father. And one day I took a dish of chicken biryani to my brother’s house at lunch, enough for everyone. My brother has three sons.
I knew that no matter how much I sent, they would never keep the food for my brother till evening, because he stayed out all day. I’d heard he even ate his lunch outside, never bringing anything from home. I had a fairly good idea of what he ate outside and what street food was like. Yet, without surprising me in the least, they all sat down together and finished every bit of it, leaving nothing for my brother. I sent my mother again that night with fresh food, just for him after he returned. Mother came back and said they’d started eating that too without waiting for him to come home. On top of that, my dear sister-in-law apparently told my brother that I was making a show of doing my duty—otherwise why would I suddenly send separate food for him now? She’d sent it only to make his wife look small in his eyes! That’s when I understood: as a sister, I had lost even this small right to care for my brother. My sister-in-law also said that the afternoon portion had been too little for them; they hadn’t eaten their fill properly…
I heard all this, but I wasn’t surprised in the least, because that’s what my sister-in-law does. Surely she should have felt ashamed, should have felt remorse. But she felt neither. Worse, she didn’t even hesitate to say all this to my brother. In any household, both people contribute in some way—so how can one push the other aside? I really want to know: how does my sister-in-law eat well while leaving her husband to go without? However little or much there is, how can she finish it all alone? Doesn’t she feel even a shred of tenderness for my brother? He’s out all day—let him eat whatever he finds outside, let him buy a thousand things to eat out there for all I care—but when he comes home, shouldn’t my sister-in-law take care of him? Isn’t that what a wife should do? A woman’s heart is a mother’s heart too. If a mother cannot eat while her child goes hungry, then the wife—she who comes from a mother’s line—how can she? Of course, looking at what mothers do these days, I’d have to hide my own shortcomings too.
Now let me speak of my own virtuous aunt. I never had the chance to truly observe how she cares for my uncle. One night I was at my aunt’s home. Uncle couldn’t finish his rice with the meager vegetables that night. He got up without eating and left without a word of complaint about the food. Aunt saw it all and remained unmoved, as if nothing had happened. Some men have to live in their own homes like dependents, hiding their faces in shame! So at one in the morning, I see Uncle opening the fridge, taking out milk, heating it himself on the gas stove, and drinking it. My question: why didn’t Aunt do this beforehand? Why didn’t she think to ask if Uncle wanted something else to eat?… And there’s more. I visit my middle uncle’s place, and every time it’s the same story. I’m getting sick of it. My aunt there is pleasant, a good woman. She goes to endless lengths to please people she doesn’t even know, or mere acquaintances who are nothing to her—yet she shows her own family no such kindness. My uncle has two children. Both are fairly good at studies. Both study in English medium schools—the elder daughter will take her HSC from Holy Cross College this year, and the younger son is in ninth grade at Summerfield School.
My aunt is quite particular about her children’s studies—so much so that relatives rarely visit her home. I might have faced a similar ban myself had my brother and sister not campaigned for my visits. Their affection and entreaties have kept the door open for me thus far, at least as long as they wish it; though I’ve never stayed more than a single night.
My uncle is a DMD at the bank. Head of Operations in the Credit Section of One Bank. He’s buried under work all day, and has to travel to other districts at least once or twice a week. He comes home at eight in the evening. Though he loves eating outside, he rarely does so, fretting over the waste of money. How am I so certain? Because my sister and I were the apple of his eye before his own children came along—back when my uncle’s house was our kingdom. Even now, I know his habits rather well. So at eight o’clock, my aunt feeds him just a cup of weak tea and a bowl of puffed rice, and keeps my “food-loving” simpleton of an uncle hungry until midnight, all in the name of the children’s studies. (What else can a man be but a food-lover when his own wife won’t let him eat?) During this time, my uncle whimpers for food a few times, but it does him little good. My esteemed aunt, wishing him long life, has imposed restrictions on nearly every dish except vegetable curry and thin fish broth—and this ban has continued on autopilot ever since, like a ghost in perpetual motion. He can’t even have rice more than once a meal, though he isn’t diabetic yet; though the credit for that, of course, belongs to my aunt. With so many restrictions, diabetes itself seems to hover on the threshold, hesitant to enter. Poor old uncle, denied his food like this, has ended up… well, I’m concerned for him!
In this matter, I must praise my mother. My father held a small government position. (He’s retired now.) From the time I became conscious until today, I’ve never seen my mother wake before nine in the morning. My father, of course, would finish his first breakfast right after morning prayers, straight at the hotel, and if my mother deigned to wake him later, he’d fortunately get a second helping. He never complained about this. Though there’s a reason for his lack of complaint. The moment I entered seventh grade, I suddenly rebelled about breakfast. After rushing through school and tutoring all day, I’d be famished. I realized that making a fuss at home was pointless—my mother wouldn’t sacrifice her beloved sleep before nine for anything—so I began making my own breakfast, feeding everyone else, eating myself, packing my lunch, and heading to school with an air of independence. After school and tutoring, I’d return home at five in the evening. Of course, my mother was only like this about morning breakfast; at all other meals my father kept to his old habits of eating at two in the afternoon and eight-thirty at night. This gave me an advantage: I learned to make all kinds of breakfast dishes. While my friends could cook, I could cook quite well. And that’s not the end of it… today I’ll tell you everything I can!
My esteemed young aunt. She gracefully leaves her bed at ten in the morning, rubbing sleep from her eyes. (She must keep pace with her older sister, after all!)
# On Men and Women
As for myself, I’ve kept pace with my elder sister and risen at five in the morning till now—I can say nothing of the future. My revered uncle wakes at five, finishes his prayers, prepares breakfast for the household (and through this he’s learned to cook almost everything), goes to market, gets his younger siblings ready for school. At that very moment, he calls out to my aunt in the most affectionate tone—”Listen, dear, just bolt the door, won’t you? Then you can go back to sleep if you like! Otherwise thieves will become volunteers and empty the house!”…There are more stories. I have never seen this aunt of mine cook more than one dish. If someone were kind enough to send food to her house, she would offer countless thanks to the Almighty Lord and not venture near the kitchen for the rest of that day. And she remains that way still, with great patience.
There is more, but I’ve no desire to speak further—I’m going mad just telling it, and I don’t know how much you boys have to bear! So here are merely a few samples of the natural torments that women inflict upon men. Though I myself belong to the sisterhood of women and shall soon join the married ones—perhaps then I too will become like them. I shall have to, perhaps, since you yourself said that women are one thing before marriage and something entirely different after. Of course, until now my own cooking remains my favorite! (Even though I can do nothing, raw or cooked, my own cooking…food cooked by my own hands, even if it’s half-done, that’s the best!) I don’t yet know what lies ahead. The truth is, if men were to fault-find with women at every turn, no one could manage a household. I find men rather the more helpless. If they didn’t hold women up with love and indulgence, who knows what would become of women by now! Yet we place only men in the dock of the accused. We never stand in their place and think from their side. A man often loses even the affection and care of his mother after marriage. I’ve seen this happen so very often. Men bear it all silently. If men don’t bear it and become rebellious, in most cases the problem has simply gone too far! So men understand everything and yet stay silent. The more gentlemanly a man is, the more he is tormented. There are many kinds of suffering in living decently in this world—at home and beyond.
I’ll end this piece with two final words. Do men truly have any place to go anywhere? Society guards a woman, listens to her, indulges her complaints, is forced to accept all her grievances—does a man receive such shelter from society? Without knowing the actual truth, any complaint from a girl becomes acceptable in courts, police stations, and in the eyes of society; does a boy’s voice ever carry such weight? The way everyone stands by a girl’s side, extends their hand, grants her extra privileges—do boys receive anything like that? Women extract manifold extra privileges and concessions from men, yet speak of equal rights—on what logic? Women compare themselves to the goddess Durga and fancy themselves powerful. Yet all the sources of Durga’s power are male gods! Durga’s strength flows from masculine power!
Of course, you’re right—most girls in our country draw their strength from men, so naturally they compare themselves to Durga! The true source of power lies in standing on one’s own feet through merit alone, without asking for special favours or privileges. If a girl can’t do that, she has no real power to speak of. Physical strength doesn’t make you powerful; at best it buys you silent consent from men—and that consent comes for only one reason: to avoid the trouble of resistance!
Don’t mind me, but let me tell you something that actually happened. I knew this man who had a long, intimate relationship with a woman friend of mine—completely consensual, both sides willing. Then one day they quarrel, things fall apart, and eventually my friend goes to the police and files a complaint saying he raped her by promising marriage! Disgusting! Vile! What a betrayal! The medical examination backs up her complaint. I know for a fact—*I know*—that what happened was nothing like rape. Yet the police arrest him anyway. He’s still in jail. This man isn’t a bad person, mind you. He’s actually quite humane, quite decent. What happened, it happened with consent from both of them. And if that’s a crime, shouldn’t both of them face punishment? But he’s the only one suffering. Even the police—maybe they think, *Why invite trouble by defending some boy?* The easiest path to safety in this society is simple: ignore what actually happened and always side with the woman. When you think about it, who will ever speak of the silent pain men carry? Who will? Yet the truth is the truth—and turning away from it, is that something a decent person should do?
My distant cousin is in jail now. There are several cases against him, one of them about his wife stealing a gold chain! This cousin is a Deputy Director at Bangladesh Bank—though he’s suspended now. He’s such a quiet, harmless sort of man that even after cracking the BCS exam for the police, he chose the Bank instead, hoping for a quieter life. So what was the real story? All this fuss over something absolutely trivial! His wife couldn’t stand her mother-in-law. Why? Because my cousin’s sister’s daughter’s husband—my cousin had a… relationship with him. It went quite far. My cousin is easygoing, doesn’t pay attention to these things. His mother—my aunt—she knew. She tried many times to make the daughter-in-law see reason, but failed. When things went too far, she finally told her son everything. That’s where the trouble started. My cousin tried talking to his wife in every way he could, but she just turned around and made up all sorts of wild accusations against his mother to him—none of it true. Because he wouldn’t take “proper action” against his mother, the wife went back to her father’s house and poisoned everyone’s minds against her mother-in-law and husband with lies. My cousin raised his hand to her. He and his mother beat her. They locked her in a room and wouldn’t feed her. His mother said the most awful things about her father’s family. His wife spun tales about him having affairs with countless women, brought up one bizarre accusation after another. One day during an argument, she slapped her mother-in-law right in front of him—and he slapped her back.
That very day, he left his house and went straight to the police station with his younger brother. He filed case after case against his brother—torture for dowry, attempted murder, theft of a gold chain, everything. His brother-in-law held a government job and had tried hard to settle the matter somehow, to talk her out of it, but nothing worked. When the higher court denied bail, his brother had no choice but to go to jail.
When I think of all this, a question haunts me: does safety even exist for men in this society? We all acknowledge the lack of safety for women. But this society hesitates, even refuses, to admit that men too lack safety!