A rebellion swallowed

But the gift of inner space should presume easy access to a parallel physical space outside 8212; space in which a girl can just be, can let her hair down. Such parallel running of inner and outer space, one complementing the other, is a feature of growth. But this feature is not written into the new deal we make for girls these days. For boys, on theother hand, it has always been there. The parks, for instance, are out of bounds for girls.

They are either taken over by street cricket elevens, or pocked with shady, leery characters that a girl would instinctively flee from.

Opposite Delhi8217;s Safdarjang Enclave is a deer park. At one time 8212; in the 1980s 8212; there really were deer in this park. But forget the deer. Would a girl in her senses dare walk around in its shrubbed paths without courting trouble? Off Gargi College on Siri Fort Road is a sylvan-looking park, built by the DDA. Woe betide the girl who falls for the green, and walks in on a chase of more green. There are smooth lawns around Humayun8217;s Tomb. There are open spaces lit by the ambience of wild life in Delhi8217;s Zoological Gardens. In none of these spaces can unescorted and unsuspecting girls roam about, being part of the landscape.

Let alone parks, even a leisurely stroll around Connaught Place is not possible without nervous glances over the shoulder to make sure stalkers are notbusy.

There used to be once the institution of the Pardah Baag in the walled city, meant only for women and girls, to cater to their urges to be at ease as they wished 8212; running, frisking or just lolling on the grass. But the idea of a demure, pardanasheen garden, sound though it was, clashed with the half-baked ideas of free mixing we picked up along the way.

The idiot box comes to the rescue of the space-starved teenaged girl. Yoked to the paint and gloss of Virtual Reality, safe in the stagnant security of her home area, she finds an escape hatch for himself. Or she can be given a room to herself, her den, to party in or just be. But the pure thrill of direct, uncensored contact with nature 8212; say, a dive into the waters of India Gate on a sweaty July afternoon, or a drenching in the first monsoon showers 8212; are pleasures not hers for the asking.

In any case TV sets for addictive viewing and rooms of their own are for only the privileged sections. The girls beaming around Nafisa Ali in the pictureare definitely not from the privileged sections. For them the bottlenecks are even narrower, squeezier. In the jhuggis that are all too obviously their abodes, open spaces are not part of the architectural scheme.

This flawed freedom, which is but a semblance of freedom, is what is in store for the girls milling around the beauty queen. Of course they will eventually grow out of their teens and forget their cravings as they get busy with marriage or jobs or grapple with both. But the ten-year stretch from ten to twenty when they will be doing some vital growing up will be years of stern social conditioning, of rebellion swallowed. It is not an empowering life that awaits them. The pretty newspaper picture is a half truth at best. And one cannot help thinking of the half it conceals.