Footsteps

“We’ll see you at home then”, my sister-in-law calls out as she and my brother cycle off into the darkness with wobbly grocery bags. It’s ten-thirty at night, and the moon seems to be continuing his strike, leaving the sky dark for the exception of some grey winter clouds. I re-tie my messy ponytail, and pull the hood of my jacket over my freezing ears for the half an hour walk back home.

Something is terribly wrong with this picture. I’m not wading through anxiety and paranoia. My legs and heart-beat aren’t in a race, and my head doesn’t turn back every five minutes for a reassurance of my safety. Empty lanes don’t have me breaking into cold sweat and quickening my shaky footsteps, rather draw me in to admire their melancholy beauty. Footsteps don’t make me clutch my dupatta and nervously fiddle with the strap of my handbag. The tall shadow of a man falls on me, and I falter for a brief tentative moment before I return his hello with a smile.

Something is terribly wrong with this picture, for it shows a girl out alone at night, and it is bereft of the hue of fear that should mark it.

“Man, I really dread coming back to India…” I feel no shame, guilt or fear of being marked as a snobby rich brat when I say this to a friend back home, as my 2 month visit in Amsterdam draws to an end. The wondrous city, breath-taking sights, delicious food, and limitless opportunities aside, Amsterdam has given me a bigger reason to dread going back from my two month dream vacation- Now I know what it feels to be free. The threshold of darkness doesn’t shut the door anymore, and my “security” isn’t linked to the presence of my brother, tiny father, or practically useless male friends. And as I skip around in my new found independence, I feel strangely light. For the first time in 18 years, I feel what it is to be completely, unapologetically, fearlessly myself, outside the safety of my home. No pounding heart, hurry to get home, obsessive suspicion, or Daddy’s number on speed-dail for safety. I’m free, for the millstones of fear and anxiety and paranoia around my neck have been hacked off and thrown away. I can finally hear myself think,  the footsteps in my head have at last ceased.

So yes, europhelia, oikophobia, imperial admiration or snobbish ‘NRI-ism’, I dread coming back to India. Because it took the streets of this weed-smoking, prostitution-allowing, ever partying city to teach this 18-year old girl from the 100 percent literate, most “female empowered” state of India what liberation feels like.