by Karishma Desai 

This post is a response to the Wall Street Journal’s story: Modi Government’s Reasons Why Marital Rape Is Not a Crime.

Dear Indian Parliament,

The Research Institute for Compassionate Economics reports that in India, “the number of women sexually assaulted by their husbands is 40 times the number of women who suffer such violence from others.”

Rape is a crime. Marital rape is rape. Therefore, marital rape is a crime.

Unfortunately, according to you politicians, Indian culture seems to be above logical reasoning. Apparently, India is an exception to the almost universal idea that sex between married partners requires mutual consent, just like sex between unmarried partners. Aligning India as an exception means that the country is no different than China, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia and Pakistan regarding the legal protection of married women. I do not think that is a comparison of which to be proud of. When a typically conservative country like Malaysia seems to agree with most of the world that marital rape is a crime, I do not understand what is holding back India from the same realization.

As a first-generation Indian-American, I have been raised with traditional Indian values and have visited India more times than I can count on both hands. At no point in time was I taught by my elders that a man was entitled to sex from his wife, whenever he desires, regardless of her wishes.

Sex, to those who participate in the act, should be an act of mutual pleasure. If a man forces himself on his wife when she clearly does not consent to it, how is that pleasurable? If a marriage is so sacrilegious, then shouldn’t a husband respect his wife’s wishes and choose to have sex with her when consent is mutual? How can someone who claims to love and respect his wife, rape her?

I may be overthinking here, but I thought marital rape disgraces the sanctity of marriage. The claim that criminalizing marital rape would “put stress on the family structure,” is an utter insult. I thought a woman putting up with her sexually abusive husband would put stress on the family structure, but I guess logic does not factor into nonsensical rhetoric.

It also seems lazy to me to list various factors that enable marital rape, but not pass any legislation to improve such social conditions. Instead of blaming societal mindset, poverty, and illiteracy, what legislation have you passed to really curtail these factors? While these may be legitimate factors, I also think it is insulting to blame Indian culture solely on the perpetuity of marital rape. Rapists can be blue-collar workers or CEOs; they can come from strict Hindu backgrounds or be modern-thinking atheists.

The point is, there needs to be a law that criminalizes marital rape. The Indian parliament needs to stand up and state that a married woman has sexual rights over her own body, not her husband. Not only has the UN strongly recommended criminalizing marital rape under India’s penal code, but so has the Verma Committee, which was appointed to review sexual assault laws after the 2012 Delhi gang rape.

When the then Congress-led parliament rejected the criminalization of marital rape, I thought changes would come under the new majority party, Bharatiya Janata, led by Prime Minister Narendra Modi. But where is the change that Indian citizens were promised? Or does that not include married women?

India outlawed dowry and sati, but did not criminalize marital rape. I thought India realized that a marriage was supposed to be an equal partnership. I gave India the benefit of the doubt that it would soon realize women are not shiny objects meant only for Bollywood item numbers or unwanted sex.

At the very least, I thought Modi, who is progressive and politically savvy, would jump on an opportunity to progress further than the past governments. After all, there is already a growing prejudice tying India with rape culture. I would think the government wants to clarify India’s long history of female empowerment and protect today’s women with stronger legislation.

But I guess India will still be known as the society with a national language where husbands are called pati-dev (rough translation: husband-God), yet wives are just patni – but not devi.

The wheel on the flag is stuck in a rut and it’s not moving anytime soon, thanks to the stagnant parliament’s “protection of marital sanctity…” I mean, the lack of legislation against marital rape.

Sincerely,
Karishma, a smart, hip, beautiful brown girl who will only marry on equal terms

Tl;dr: Rape is rape; so criminalize marital rape.

Recently accepted into Boston University’s MS Journalism program, Karishma B. Desai freelances for the award-winning IndyWeek and was a former intern for UNC-TV (North Carolina’s PBS Affiliate). When she’s not writing articles at Starbucks, you can find her videotaping a new adventure for YouTube or interviewing inspirational people for a documentary. She is a city girl who is working towards her dreams of becoming a TV reporter focusing on health policy.

By Brown Girl Magazine

Brown Girl Magazine was created by and for South Asian womxn who believe in the power of storytelling as a … Read more ›

Photo by kittirat roekburi via Shutterstock.com

Social media has stretched a number of news headlines:

“Social media rots kids’ brains.”

“Social media is polarizing.”

Yet those most affected by social media ideals are the teenage users. Apps like Instagram and TikTok perpetuate an image of perfection that is captured in pictures and 30-second videos. As a result, many young women chase this expectation endlessly. “Her” personifies this perfection in an unattainable figure the narrator has always wished to be. These ideals deteriorate mental health, create body dysmorphia, promote a lack of self-esteem, and much more. Even so, social media is plagued by filters and editing—much of what we hope to achieve isn’t even real. Therefore, young women, much like the narrator of “Her,” strive for a reality that doesn’t even exist.

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Her

When she walked into my life
Her smile took up two pages of description
In a YA novel.
My arms could wrap around her waist twice
If she ever let anyone get that close
Her hair whipped winds with effortless beach waves
And a hint of natural coconut
Clothing brands were created around her
“One Size Fits All” one size to fit the girl who has it all
With comments swarning in hourglasses
But when sharp teeth nip at her collar,
She could bite back biting back
And simply smirked with juicy apple lips
Red hearts and sympathy masking condescension
“My body doesn’t take away from the beauty of yours”
“We are all equal, we are all beautiful”
Beauty
A sword she wields expertly
Snipping, changing,
Aphrodite in consistent perfection
Cutting remarks with sickly sweet syrup
And an innocent, lethal wink
When she walked into my life
She led my life.
My wardrobe winter trees
Barren, chopped in half
Unsuited for the holidays
Mirrors were refracted under in my gaze
Misaligned glass was the only explanation
For unsymmetrical features
And broken hands
Still I taped them fixed
Over and over
Poking, prodding
Hoping to mold stomach fat like wet clay
Defy gravity,
Move it upward
To chest
Instead of sagging beneath a belt on the last hole
In the spring
She would stir me awake at 2 AM
“You need to be me”
Lies spilled from her tongue but
Solidified, crystallized
Fabrication spelled dichotomy
And I drifted farther out to sea
When she walked out of my life,
I was drowning.
Reliance had me capsized
Others witnessed
Furrowed brows and glances away
Like spectators of a shark attack
They can watch but the damage is done
They clung to my mangled pieces
Gravestones spelled
“Stressed”
“Depressed”
But I was mourning too
Today I looked back at my mirror
But glass turned into prism
Broken pieces rainbow
Colors coating clothes
She didn’t pick
Aphrodite
Perception changing
She wasn’t perfect
Just lost at sea

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The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.

By Kashvi Ramani

Kashvi Ramani is a writer, actress, songwriter, and singer from Northern Virginia. She has been writing songs, poetry, scripts, and … Read more ›

Photo Courtesy of Varsha Panikar

“After so Long” is a poetry film created for Simha’s EP, which is streaming on Spotify, Apple Music and Amazon Music. The poem was collaboratively written by Simha, a U.S. native, and Jae, who is based in India, during the 2020 lockdown. “After so Long” was recited by Simha and their parents. In 2022, I directed and produced the film through my studio, Star Hopper. “After so Long” premiered on Nowness Asia in March 2022.

By Varsha Panikar

Varsha Panikar (they/he) is a filmmaker, writer and multi-disciplinary artist from India. They are the co-founder of Star Hopper, a … Read more ›

Photo by VAKS-Stock Agency via Shutterstock.com

“Take what you want//Take everything” reflects on a time with my partner and our cat, Layla. It’s a retelling of the chaotic night I adopted her. I didn’t know why Layla hid from me. When I chased her around, it scared her more. “Take what you want//Take everything” juxtaposes our first night, filled with misunderstanding, with the rest of the time we spent together. My fond memories call back to the loving moments Layla and I shared.

Such memories defined us; they reverberated in my partnership. I wonder if my partner, like Layla, only remembers her fear of me, over our shared moments of love. The title, a Kanye West lyric, is an acknowledgment that their happiness together–without me–destroyed my sense of self. When I see their photos, I wonder if I can see myself reflected in their eyes. I wonder if they still keep kind moments of our time together.

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Take what you want//Take everything

I remember when she would look at me from behind a laundry basket.

A small simple cat with green owl eyes. She was afraid of her new home and its owner. Shit, I remember the night I got her, she hid under my bed, in the middle just out of my reach for maybe 6 hours, watching me. She didn’t eat anything the entire day. When the night fell I was afraid she’d starve or come out and attack me. I was just scared. I didn’t have a childhood pet, I’m not white, I didn’t know what to do. I picked up the whole bed and yelled that she needed to move. I chased her into the closet with a vacuum cleaner. When she ran in, I called my lover and yelled to her that she wasn’t helping enough, she needed to be there to help me. That was our first day together, me and that cat. No one will ever have that memory but me and maybe her.

It was during Ramadan, my first year fasting.

Our problems had already begun by then. Enough so that I decided to fast and show retribution. I’d try to change into a more patient and understanding self. Like the Prophet (SAW) I guess. To become someone that my lover could feel safe around. Somehow, getting a cat felt like it fit into that picture. I’d be a cat dad, you know, gentle. We’d raise her. I’d fast and become New Again. Maybe I’d wrap an inked tasbih around myself and show I’m a man of God.

I don’t know how a cat remembers fear any more than I know how a lover does.

I know her body stored it. My cat’s must have stored it too. That first night, I wish I could tell her that I was afraid too. It doesn’t make sense that I was afraid really — I’m bigger, more threatening. We don’t speak the same language anyway, so how could I ever tell her? She learned to trust me though, in her own way. Her small bean paws would press on my chest in the mornings. She’d meow to berate me for locking her out some nights, or when I was away from home too long.

She lives with my lover now. They share photos with me, they’re happy together.

I saw my lover once, it was on 55th and 7th, Broadway shined blue performance lights over us. She wore a red sacral dress. She said her mental health has never been better. I think she was trying to tell me that she’s doing well, because she knows I care for her. I don’t think she was trying to say she’s happier without me. We don’t speak the same language. I actually think they are happier with just each other. And I loved them both, so it hurts. Sometimes, not all the time. And it doesn’t always hurt that bad. Other times it does get pretty bad, though. I probably owe it to myself to say that.

I look back at the photos, the ones of our life together, and the ones of their new life.

Two green owl eyes, and two brown moonlit eyes. I look for myself in them.

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By Umrao Shaan

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