(The following is a fictional account based on a real
life situation narrated to the author by a lady police officer)
It must have been about
eleven-thirty at night. No, now I remember. It was exactly twelve.
I was a young lady
probationary police officer. This was my first posting and I was put on night
duty. My superior officer had gone on his rounds and I had dozed off on my
table. The clock struck twelve and I woke up with a start. Those days it was
common to have rectangular wooden clocks with a steel pendulum which struck by
the hour. As the clock went ding-dong-ding-dong, I heard the screech of a
police jeep outside the station. My boss had returned.
When I was a little child,
my grandmother would tell me stories of ghosts. Apparently, ghosts made their
presence felt exactly at midnight. I broke into cold sweat. I did not know what
made me tremble—the fear of ghosts or the arrival of my boss.
I suspected that the
intentions of my officer were less than honourable because during my time young
probationary women officers were generally excused from night duty. I was the
only lady in the police station and at that moment all my fear of ghosts
disappeared. I was now more afraid of my officer. I had heard several
stories from my colleagues about how women officers were forced to 'submit' to
their seniors and I said a silent prayer to my family deity.
Just then, I heard a
commotion outside the station. The officer was shouting at the top of his voice
unleashing the choicest of obscenities. Having come from a traditional family, these
words were Greek and Latin to me. Soon, I was to learn that such profanities
were an integral part of the police vocabulary.
Before I could gather my
wits, the officer and a constable were mercilessly herding three women and two
men into the station. They were arrested on charges of prostitution. All the
five were bundled into a corner, caned and treated like sub-humans.
My boss went to his chamber
to complete the paper work regarding the arrest and I could hear one of the
three women weeping. Soon, the sobs grew louder and after a while, she mustered
the courage to walk up to me. "Madam, please let me go. I am doing this
for my family. Please madam," she pleaded.
Her name was Sameera*. The
red saree that she wore was dishevelled. Her hair was scattered and her face
had turned white. Though the station was dimly lit, I could see she had a
pretty face. She said she had two grown up daughters. Perhaps, she had married
very young.
Sameera's husband a
mechanic, was the sole breadwinner of the family until he became bedridden due
to a debilitating kidney ailment. The burden of the family now fell on Sameera.
She had not studied beyond fourth standard and with her qualification the only
job she could manage to secure was that of house maid. Her meagre salary was
not even sufficient to keep the kitchen going, let alone providing for the
treatment of her husband. With no option left, Sameera decided to sell her body
so that her husband and daughters could live.
"Madam, you are a
woman. You can understand what I am going through. If my family comes to know
about my arrest, it will destroy my life. My daughters will be on the
streets. Please let me go madam," she begged.
My heart literally melted.
I went to my senior and pleaded with him to let go of her, but he was clearly
unmoved. "You mind your business. I have seen hundreds of such people.
These prostitutes always have the same story. They deserve no sympathy," he
said dismissing me with a contemptuous wave of his hand.
By now the woman was
wailing, but I was helpless. My own position was no better than hers. My boss
had cast an evil eye on me which was why he had posted me on night duty. We
police officers who are charged with protecting the public are often the target
of our lecherous bosses.
A few years into my
profession, at a departmental meeting I was asked to stand up by a top officer.
He inundated me with a barrage of questions that were completely irrelevant to
my role and responsibilities. Finally, the rapid fire ended with a parting shot,
“You can either take the staircase or the elevator to further your career.” The
import of his statement was lost on me until another senior officer later
explained that he was actually propositioning me. I preferred to take the
staircase.
Once, I was suffering from very
high fever and was not even in a position to stand. I went to the Deputy
Commissioner of Police and requested that I be relieved for the day. But the
officer refused to take me by face value and used the back of his hand to feel
my forehead. I did not find anything amiss because he was almost the age of my
father. But when he proceeded to stroke my hair and inappropriately touch
my hand, I objected and my leave request was declined.
When this is the situation
we police officers face, how can we save somebody like Sameera? The next day,
Sameera and her partners were produced before the court. She could not afford a
lawyer and was sent to prison. I soon forgot about her.
Almost three years later, I
was on duty at a traffic junction when I was approached by a woman. She
was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a white top. Her dark red lipstick and heavy
makeup made her look gorgeous, but her pale eyes could not lie. "Madam, do
you recognise me," she asked. "No," I said.
"Do you remember you
had arrested me a few years ago? I begged you to send me home, but you refused.
When you booked me there was only one prostitute in my family. Now, there are
three. And you are responsible," she said.
I was taken aback. As I
wondered how a sincere police officer like me could be responsible for driving
women into into prostitution, Sameera narrated her tale.
When Sameera was sent to
jail, her husband had to be informed as per procedure. Enraged that she had
taken to prostitution, the husband walked out of her life, not realising she
had sacrificed her body to meet his medical bills. Alleging that their daughters
were not fathered by him, he abandoned them. With both the parents away, the
young girls had no source of income and turned to prostitution to earn a livelihood.
By the time the mother came
out of the prison, she had lost her family. Nobody was wiling to give her a job,
not even as a domestic help and the only recourse open to her was to become a
professional prostitute, not to satisfy her flesh but to fill her stomach.
Though she had gone through
hell, there was no hint of emotion on her face. Looking at me straight in the
eye, she asked, "Now, tell me madam who is responsible for destroying my
family and turning my daughters into prostitutes?"
I had no answer. I came
back home and wept the whole night. Our insensitivity had destroyed a family.
*Not her real name
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