Hey AIB, the C-word is not funny. Period

Last evening, I was at a high-end south Delhi eatery. On the next table were a bunch of 20-somethings, fiddling with their latest smartphones, giggling amongst themselves and downloading a video. Spiked hair, jeans hanging off their butt-cracks, branded sweatshirts, iPhone 6s, fluorescent sneakers. The usual suspects… They spoke in a language littered with the filthiest of Hindi swear words one has ever heard, while talking about a single mom who was sitting there with her child - describing her in terms that we often hear and wish had not. Words beginning with M, B, C, G... Most suffixed by "chod", like AIB's Bakchod is. They had the whole show on the phone, which they got around to watching.

Honestly, till that time, I had no idea what the AIB Roast really was. Or why so many posts on social media were spiralling in its defence. Why armchair liberals were criticising the Maharashtra government's inquiry into the three-part video, citing our constitutional right to Freedom of Speech. Claiming we lacked a sense of humour as a nation. The AIB Knockout being a sterling example of our funny bone and resistance to moral policing. Some criticising the government, conveniently.

I thought of the woman at the coffeeshop. The way she pulled her dress over her slender shoulders, every few seconds. Glancing down, embarrassed, the minute her attention carelessly drifted to the noisy bunch of boys, eying her lecherously. Their lips parted. Their laughter, lustful. I thought about her sleeping baby. The way she seemed desperate to finish off her coffee. Practically leaving it untouched, finally.

I thought of the way she crossed her knees defensively. Her thighs that peeked out every now and then. Unwillingly. The darkness inside. The womb that had pushed the little one out. The way she placed her hands over her womb. Protecting it, as if.

I thought of the origin of the word "c**t" or "c**tiya". Meaning vagina/c**t. A sacred space invaded now by insult comedy - a genre so new in India it has nothing except hurling abuses in the vernacular, making fun of people in the name of comedy, not even sparing its own contestants, picking on them, one by one.

Fat. Dark (referred to as black). Catholic. Gay. Virgin. Unsmart. Dumb. Girl. Supported by Bollywood A-listers. Deepika. Alia. Her mother Soni Razdan. Sonakshi. Karan Johar's mother. Hiroo, I think her name is.

Priced at 4k per ticket.

I wonder what the point of such a show is. Sarcasm? Sexism? Sadism? I shudder to think of those youngsters, moving on to another café, passing lewd remarks at another woman, calling her a "c**tiya", so irresponsibly, so crudely. Mistaking it for cool, maybe. Justified by Bollywood. Accepted by a generation that relies largely on celluloid and Facebook for its life choices. Making fun of her womanhood, the way popular culture in this great nation of the mighty mother Goddess justifies it as normal and saleable on a daily basis. Highly rated TV shows like Comedy Nights With Kapil, rib-tickler blockbusters like Humshakkals and Heyy Baby. Item songs that vulgarly stereotype women, reducing her to just a body. Available. Adult. A tool for male titillation and arousal.

Her body no longer her own, as if. The genitalia. Her navel. Her nipples. Her buttocks. A source of mockery and male chauvinism. A cheapness at 100 crores. A rape that goes unreported. That we pretend to have not seen. Downloading the same scene. The same song. The same moral perversion.

These days I am told, it's kinda cool to be a feminist. I think of that aspect, too. Wondering if this very blog will be analysed as another feminist rant. C**tiya! Big deal. I mean half the nation uses that word.

Movies. Music videos. Mainstream. I mean haven't you heard our drivers or manservants, especially, the ones from Bihar and UP. Or, the Bengalis who use the word "bokachoda", teasingly. Ever heard the phrase, "khankir chhele…"? Son of a whore. So!

Bet you didn't know what the slang "bhosadi ke" really meant. Just Wikipedia, silly!

Last week, a young woman I know was touched inappropriately on a crowded bus on her way back home to Kalkaji, in New Delhi. He was in his 60s. Every few minutes, his fingers thrust in her direction. She grimaced. Ashamed. Wondering how a man his age can stoop to this level. She wrote later, in a Facebook post. Using a virtual, faceless medium to vent her innermost humiliation and harshest fears.

"C**tiya, ghar mein ma-behen nahin hai kya?" read the last line.

I remember the woman molested on an Indigo flight to Bhubaneswar by a prominent businessman. Or a friend, who, just last month, in Kolkata, was followed by two unknown men on a bike as she walked back from New Market, one of the oldest markets in the city, her hands weighed down with her weekly shopping. The men whistling. Winking, as they called her "maal... item…" repeatedly. Winking suggestively.

I wonder if there are two kinds of women then?

The woman at home. The mother. The sister. The wife. The one who is told to come back early. To cover her cleavage. To study engineering and not fine arts. To lose weight. To top her MBA. To apply Fair and Lovely. To learn singing, and cooking. To become a doctor. To start earning. To not enter the kitchen when she has her period. To fast for her husband on Karwa Chauth and procreate. Boys, preferably. Please.

The woman outside. The whore on the Kalighat bridge in Kolkata. Or Kamathipura, Mumbai. The single woman who rents an apartment and smokes. The woman you live in with. The one with a tattoo. The non-virgin. Who wears tight tops and short skirts. Is a yoga instructor or a PR chick. Late nights. Drinks every Friday evening. Sexually experimental. Dark-skinned. Below average in studies. Fat. Short. Not Convented. Single; above 30. Goes to a sperm bank. Has one night stands. Comes back alone from a market. Sits alone in a restaurant sipping on cappuccino. Drives back home.

I wonder how long we must pretend we are okay with the word c**tiya. That it's a standard gaali. A slang used by a particular section of society - mostly illiterate. An easy tool of male-bashing. How long will we live separately - as if inhabiting two diverse bodies? Telling ourselves the bad words we hope our children don't pick up at a good school are actually various parts of our own body. That every time the word "c**tiya" is used deliberately, sold either as a joke or an abuse, parts of our self are being snatched away by the same perpetrators we are fighting daily.

Buses. Malls. Auto-rickshaws. Flights. Freeways. Stations. Subways. Schools.

That we are giving up. Losing a tiny bit of a really large and complex battle. Telling the opposite sex that it's okay to use these terms. In passing.

Let's get one thing clear.

The c**t. Mine. Yours. Hers.

Is not funny. Period.

No pun intended…