An image lingers in my mind: a woman approaching a park entrance, while a man behind her extends a covered dish. The headline describes him as a ravenous beast and her as his prey. I comprehend the outrage, yet the metaphor eludes me. A rapist makes a conscious decision, and he must be held accountable for his actions.
My roots run deep in Delhi, where I was born, raised, and educated. My parents share this heritage; my mother’s family hails from Punjab, while my father’s originates from Uttar Pradesh. At the age of 20, I relocated to New York, only to return to Delhi at 46. Now, as I approach 54 this November, I realize that Delhi is not merely a place I observe from afar; it is my home.
I have voiced my concerns about sexual violence in the United States, addressing audiences in classrooms and public forums. The case at Cornell University, where a woman accused multiple men of assault, profoundly impacted the community and resonated with me. Recently, a former student has filed a lawsuit regarding allegations stemming from a 2024 incident, which have yet to be substantiated in court. I find myself pondering: how do we respond when we witness someone in distress?
Rape is not an issue confined to India alone. While national statistics are often compared, variations in laws, definitions, and reporting practices complicate matters; mere numbers do not resolve the ethical dilemma at hand. What disturbs me is the frequency of violence occurring in public spaces, where bystanders are present, yet few intervene.
I recall the 2012 bus gang rape in Delhi, where a young woman and her companion were assaulted by six men on their way home. The victim came to be known as Nirbhaya. In response, Delhi was filled with candlelight vigils and expressions of outrage, as people demanded change. Although some laws were amended, the prevalence of rape persists. Nirbhaya’s story should not be reduced to a label; she was a person, not merely a statistic.
The woman depicted in that image is engaged in a mundane act: walking into a park during the evening. This resonates with me. No woman should have to fear for her safety or become a subject of debate regarding her attire. The platter held by the man symbolizes not hunger, but a disturbing sense of entitlement. He is the one who must be held responsible.
What troubles me further is the visibility of certain assaults—on streets, buses, and in parks—with witnesses nearby. Some bystanders choose to film or look away, and in the most troubling instances, some even participate. While confronting an assailant may be perilous, we can still call for help, make noise, and support the survivor if it is safe to do so. A camera cannot replace moral responsibility, and a crowd offers no protection if everyone waits for someone else to act.
The perpetrator is often someone’s son, brother, husband, or friend. Violence does not emerge from a different realm. I have expressed my frustration over the question of what kind of women raise such men. However, I have come to realize this inquiry shifts blame onto women, which is unjust. A woman cannot be held accountable for the actions of a male relative.
Men are not the only figures who influence boys. Fathers, educators, peers, and public figures help shape perceptions of what is acceptable behavior. A boy who learns that “no” means “try harder,” or that a girl’s freedom is a provocation, internalizes a harmful narrative. Meanwhile, a daughter may be cautioned to return home before dark, while her brother is handed the keys. We must be mindful of the lessons we impart and the behaviors we excuse.
Clothing does not equal consent.
No woman’s attire, confidence, profession, language, independence, or the time of day she is out walking can be blamed for rape. Whether she wears a sari, a short dress, or is married, none of these signify consent. She has the right to drink, dance, change her mind, or refuse. If she freezes, becomes silent, fights back, or reports the incident later, her response does not make her responsible for the crime. The question “Why didn’t she fight?” reflects poorly on the one asking, not the survivor.
Recently, students at Lovely Professional University protested after reports surfaced of a female student being sexually assaulted on campus. The police filed a First Information Report (FIR) based on student testimonies and committed to an investigation. However, the university dismissed the reports as mere rumors. By the end of the day, the police claimed to have found insufficient evidence to support the allegations. It is crucial to thoroughly establish facts, and the fears of students deserve to be acknowledged. Trust is difficult to restore when young people feel they must resort to extreme measures to be heard.
In Delhi, women students marched following the alleged gang rape of a teenager at Aastha Kunj Park, demanding safer streets and the freedom to move without fear. Reports indicated that the march was relocated from Siri Fort Road to Arun Jaitley Park to minimize traffic disruption, yet students continued their protest and articulated their demands. This march was a stand against allowing women’s lives to be confined to the distance between a hostel gate and home; they sought the right to occupy public spaces safely.
What implications does it have for a society when a convicted rapist can still maintain a following? Former MP Prajwal Revanna received a life sentence in one rape case, and Asaram’s life sentence was upheld by the Rajasthan High Court, yet he was later granted parole. It is essential to understand that parole is not the same as acquittal, and serving a sentence does not equate to having faced full accountability. Survivors witness how the influence of a powerful man can endure long after legal repercussions. The law must be precise, and public memory must acknowledge the truth.
When individuals in positions of authority—be they politicians, educators, healers, or spiritual leaders—abuse the trust associated with their roles, the repercussions extend far beyond a single victim. Such actions send a message that a title or a following may take precedence over personal safety, and that rules can be bent for influential men. This is one of the many costs of rape: a life irreparably harmed and trust severely eroded.
For generations, men and women have shared their lives, supporting each other through adversity, sorrow, and the mundane. In my lectures and public discussions, I consistently return to this topic because it is vital that we address it openly. A man who intervenes during a cruel joke, calls for assistance when a woman is in distress, or refuses to partake in inappropriate laughter is fulfilling the obligations of friendship.
When confronted with harassment, assault, or exploitation, a woman will do what she must to survive in that moment. However, she deserves to receive belief, protection, and care afterward. We should be asking what consequences the perpetrator must face, who will stand by the survivor, and how we can collectively foster a safer society.
