The silence that makes room for rape

“I keep returning to an image: a woman walking towards a park gate; behind her, a man holds out a covered platter. The headline calls him a hungry animal and her his food. I understand the anger, but not the metaphor. A rapist is a man making a choice, and he must answer for it.

I was born, raised, and educated in Delhi. Both my parents were born here too. My mother’s parents came from Punjab, and my father’s from Uttar Pradesh. I left for New York at 20 and returned when I was 46. I turn 54 in November. Delhi is not somewhere I observe from a distance. It is home.

I have spoken against rape in America, in classrooms and at public gatherings. I remember the Cornell case in which a woman accused several men of raping her. It shook that community and stayed with me. A former student has since sued over allegations tied to a 2024 assault; they have not been established in court. I kept asking: what do people do when they see someone being harmed?

Rape is not an Indian crime alone. People compare national statistics, but laws, definitions, and willingness to report differ; numbers cannot settle the moral question. What unsettles me is how often we hear of violence in a place where others are close by— and how few came forward.

I remember the 2012 Delhi bus rape. A young woman and her friend were attacked by six men on their way home. We came to know her as Nirbhaya. Delhi was filled with candles and anger; strangers stood in the winter air and demanded change. Laws changed, but rape did not end. Nirbhaya is not Abhaya, the name used in the 2024 Kolkata case. A woman is a life, not a label in a file.

The woman in the image is going somewhere ordinary: into a park, into the evening. That catches me. A woman should be able to walk without becoming a warning or a debate about her clothes. The platter is not appetite. It is entitlement dressed up as metaphor. The man holding it is accountable.

What troubles me is the publicness of some assaults: a street, a bus, a park, with witnesses nearby. Some watch, film or look away. In the worst cases, some join in. Confronting an assailant can be dangerous, but we can call for help, make noise, draw others in, stay with the survivor if safe. A camera is not a conscience. A crowd is not protection if everyone waits for someone else to move.

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The rapist is someone’s son, brother, husband, father, uncle, neighbour, classmate, colleague or friend. Violence does not arrive from another species. I have asked in anger what kind of women raise these men. I no longer think that is the right question. A woman is not responsible for the crime of a son, brother or husband. That question shifts the burden back onto women.

Women are not the only ones who shape a boy. Fathers, schools, friends, teachers, public figures and courts teach what a man may get away with. A boy who hears that “no” means try harder, that a girl’s freedom is an insult, or that male desire is a joke learns a dangerous script. A daughter may be told to return before dark while her brother gets the keys. We are responsible for what we teach and excuse.

A sari is not consent

No woman’s clothes cause rape. Neither do her confidence, work, language, independence, or the hour at which she walks. A sari is not consent; a short skirt is not consent; marriage is not permanent consent. She may drink, dance, change her mind, leave or refuse. If she freezes, goes quiet, fights, or tells someone later, none of that makes the crime hers. “Why didn’t she fight?” is for the person asking, not the survivor.

The other day, students at Lovely Professional University protested reports that a woman student had been sexually assaulted on campus. The police registered a First Information Report (FIR) based on student statements and promised an investigation. But the university called the reports rumours. By evening, the police said they had found no evidence to substantiate the allegation. Facts must be established fairly. Students’ fear deserves to be heard. Trust is hard to rebuild when young people feel they must block a highway before anyone listens.

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In Delhi, women students marched after the alleged gang rape of a teenager at Aastha Kunj Park, calling for safer streets and the right to move freely. Reports say Friday’s march was moved from Siri Fort Road to Arun Jaitley Park to avoid traffic, where students continued their protest and drafted demands. The march was also a refusal to let women’s lives shrink to the distance between a hostel gate and home. They were asking to occupy public space without fear.

What does it cost a country when a man convicted of rape can still command followers? Former MP Prajwal Revanna was sentenced to life in one rape case. Asaram’s life sentence was upheld by the Rajasthan High Court; he was later granted parole. Parole is not acquittal, and a sentence is not the same as having served it. Survivors see how long a powerful man’s influence can last. The law must be exact. Public memory must be honest.

When a politician, teacher, healer, massage therapist, yoga instructor, or godman abuses the trust attached to his role, the harm spreads beyond one woman. It tells others a title or following may count for more than their safety, that rules can bend for a man with influence. This is one cost rape leaves behind: a life wounded and trust worn thin.

Men and women have been each other’s companions for generations, standing together through grief, danger and ordinary days. In my classes and public appearances, I return to this subject because we can speak plainly about it. A man who stops a cruel joke, calls for help when a woman is harassed, or refuses to laugh along is doing what friendship asks of him.

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What should a woman do when she is being raped, harassed, molested, or taken advantage of? In the moment, she does what she can to survive. Afterwards, she deserves belief, protection and care. Ask what the perpetrator must answer for, who will stand beside her, and what must change so she is not left alone with the consequences.

I want boys to learn consent

I have lived in Delhi and New York. Both places have seen outrage fill a street and fade into routine. I do not want another night of candles followed by the old daylight. I want boys to learn consent before entitlement, witnesses to act, police stations to receive survivors with care, and courts to reach the truth without making a woman relive the crime endlessly. This is the minimum a society owes.

I began with the woman walking towards a park. She should not look over her shoulder because a man mistakes freedom for invitation. The man in the image is not hungry. He is accountable. So is the witness who can safely help and chooses silence, and every institution that sends a survivor from one closed door to another. Rape is committed by the rapist. The silence that leaves him room belongs to all of us, and it is ours to break.