California doesn’t give a fuck. Aashima Talwar (Badaun)

Oh my Oh my. Me been in California…….two surreal weeks. First thing I learnt is no one gives a fuck, like no one. Even if you’re drop-dead gorgeous like Marilyn or burning-rich like Zuckerberg. This place is filled with rich, good-looking people. Everybody is trying to find the missing pieces of themselves. The Special-One. Most find “Some-One”. Yeah, even if you’re young, fantabulous, got the dream job & live in the heart of breath-taking California. Finding The One is rare.

Marvellous California had made me forget everything about my homeland. All the crap, unsavoury things we girls have to face each moment of our lives. All the ugly penis-showing-peeing-on-the-walls, gutka-spitting, MC-BC-abusing & proud crotch-fondlers. All the fat aunties blocking escalators, snob kids having food fights at Chilis, pot-bellied morons shouting on cellphones in theatres & boys saying ‘I love you’ so they can fuck me. But my beautiful dream was abducted & replaced by the all familiar nightmare that is so natural in the country I hail from. My motherland: Great India.

I know you’re like ‘What the fuck, Aashima. I didn’t sign up for this’. You’re here to hear about my risqué escapades & wacky stories from the L.A. I’m sorry I’m going to wreck your mood & talk about things you have permanently turned your back to. Walk away now. You’ve been warned. You’ll not enjoy this letter. This isn’t about me having sex with hot lads; it’s about blindness. It’s about rape. The dreaded word womankind hate vociferously. Yes, walk away; this is your last chance.

Two teenage girls dressed in nice clothes were found hanging from a magnificent mango tree in a village named: Badaun. They were raped by a bunch of upper caste lads & then gotten rid of like they were chickens & hung up for display. Like showpieces. I know you know. You read. How sweet.

You hate the perpetrators; you have added a comment, a post on FB & ferociously condemned the act. You want these basterds to be flogged, stoned, castrated, beheaded & fed to dogs. Your job is done. You go back to shopping as the fire Sale is on. Vero Moda, Zara & Burberry have such amazing stuff this season.

Real smart ones must have already figured out but like a teacher I must write considering the dumbest student. This letter is not for boys. This is for all you young, private schooled, independent, nobody-tells-me-what-to-do girls. It is for all you, my beautiful girlfriends.

After five solid days of ass slogging at the office you wake at noon to a stunning Saturday. It is 47 degrees out but inside it’s a cosy 21 in the AC your papa gifted last summer. The old maid comes in & starts to clean your room. You don’t greet her, you never have. You don’t know how old she is, just old. You don’t know her kids never went to school, you don’t know her husband died in an accident at a firecracker factory 33 years ago, leaving her with 3 kids & 737 rupees. You don’t know all her dreams “died at birth” coz she was born to an untouchable in Bihar. And you don’t know she picks plastic bottles off the roads at “4am each night”. You never asked. You hit the shower, slip into your favorite off shoulder, stone-washed hot pants and Dolce & Gabbana shades. You head out as your rich-bitch boyfriend is waiting outside in his BMW. Life’s good.

At the red-light a seven-year-old kid knocks your window carrying a pile of counterfeit novels. You roll down the window, throw Lindt chocolate wrapper & Evian water bottle, roll back the window. You don’t know he’s an orphan who gets beaten each night if he doesn’t give 200 rupees to his boss. You didn’t notice he’s missing a leg & an eye. His boss did that to him when he was three-years-old.

As you’re entering the posh mall a man in torn clothes lunges at you, falls at your feet. You shout out in shock ‘Get off me, you creep,’ Security jumps into action, grabs the man & kicks him out, warns him to stay away or dire consequences will follow. You don’t know the man hasn’t eaten in 3 days. You don’t know he sleeps next to the garbage house. You don’t know he can’t get employment coz he’s got this ugly scar across his face & his left arm is paralysed. You didn’t see.

You’re still shaken up from the unpleasant encounter. Boyfriend gives you a nice, tight hug to cheer you up. He croons ‘Honey, don’t spoil your mood over it, cheer up my sexy babe,’ he kisses your forehead & slowly says the magic words. ‘I love you’. You smile & show your cute dimples. Good work, champ. You’re so getting laid tonight. Voila!

You enter this brand new Michelin-starred Italian restaurant. Your young waitress greets you two with a smile & hands out the menus. She’s pretty, pleasant and knowledgeable. You like her. You leave her a generous tip before you head out. You don’t know her father back home in Darjeeling has a malignant cancer. She sends all her money back for his treatment. It won’t be enough he’ll die in two months. Her mother died a decade ago in a communal riot. And the reason she has this job coz she sleeps with the married fat middle-aged owner. She’s 22.

Later you two are joined by another bunch of friends & hit this trendy nightclub at The Hyatt. At about 3:47am, you call it a day. He drives you back to your place. You look out the window as he drives at 170-kilometer per hour to impress you. You pass thousands of people sleeping on the footpath, under the bridge, bus stops & under the shops. Of course you don’t see any of them. They don’t exist for you.

You don’t know most of the girls who sleep without a roof get raped by anyone who can, whenever they want. ‘What! What the hell are you talking about, Ash’ Well, my pretty babe, try sleeping under a bridge one night & you’ll get what I’m talking about.

And you also didn’t notice when your charming boyfriend’s BMW “hit something”.

In 27 minutes flat you’re home. You invite him upstairs & he lives up to your expectations. Multiple orgasms: wow, like seriously wow. You love your boyfriend. What a magnificent day. You love your spectacular life.

Sunday morning you wake at 2pm. He’s already gone. Daddy’s export business to take care of. You understand. You grab your pack of menthols & light up. You see the front page of TOI reads: “Badaun rapists arrested, India demands death penalty.” You raise both hands in pure ecstasy. You feel proud to have contributed to make this happen by creating awareness through FB friends.

You put out the cigarette, walk into the kitchen for orange juice & realise the dishes are still dirty. ‘Fucking maid, bloody old bitch didn’t show up’ you curse out. ‘Whatever’ you say & get on with life. You have the Hidesign bag to buy for your mum’s birthday. Best mom in the world.

Of course you don’t know your bloody old bitch maid will never come again.

She was killed in a road accident early this morning. She died coz someone was driving at 170-kilometer per hour to impress his girlfriend.