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The Delhi gang-rape verdict is expected on September 13. The family who lost their only daughter speak of their eight-month trauma and the desperate need for capital punishment for all rapists. Swarupa Dutt reports
On Friday, August 23, the Singhs watched the news on TV with growing anger and frustration. A photojournalist, just a year younger than their daughter, had been gang raped in Mumbai.
"How many times do we have to re-live what happened to our daughter? The Mumbai incident is just like our case. When will it end? Humein pata hai yeh kabhi khatam nahin hoga. (We know this [rape incidents] will never come to an end.) These monsters are not scared of the law, so it will happen again," says Asha Singh, 46, the mother of the Delhi braveheart.
Their daughter -- who was given different names by the media, like Aamanat, Damini, Nirbhaya -- was brutally gang raped by six men in a moving bus in December 2012. Beaten, kicked, bitten; a rod inserted into her that destroyed her intestines. Doctors treating her at Delhi's Safdarjung Hospital said they had never seen rape injuries so horrific.
Aware that her name means hope', Asha, smiles. "It was hope of a better future that kept us working hard. Ab bhi humein asha hai (We still have hope). We hope that those men who did this to my daughter will be hanged," she says. "We hope that those men who raped the girl in Mumbai are also hanged."
It's been eight months after the incident. Eight months that they have been learning to cope. This too shall pass, they have been told. Time heals, they have also been told. But, for the Singhs, time stands still.
Sitting on the bed in one of the two rooms in his modest house in Delhi's Mahavir Enclave, Badrinath Singh, 53, says, "This is like a nasur (a weeping wound) which will never heal. Time hasn't changed anything. At work, at least my thoughts are not with my daughter.
"But she (pointing to his wife) spends all her time at home thinking about what happened to our daughter. Ab toh hausla nahin banta hai. Kya karen, majboori hai manna parta hai (We don't have the strength to go on any more, but we have to accept what has happened)."
The four adult accused in the case -- Mukesh Singh, Pawan Gupta, Vinay Sharma and Akshay Thakur -- are being tried by a fast-track court in Saket, New Delhi. The verdict is likely to be delivered in the first week of September. The prime accused, Ram Singh, died in custody in Tihar jail on March 11 and the case against him was abated. On August 22, the Supreme Court allowed the juvenile justice court to give its verdict on the teenager, who was 17 when he allegedly raped the girl.
In hospital, the girl battled bravely, telling her mother in a hand-written note that she wanted to live. She also gave two crucial statements to the police. "She told me how those monsters pinned her down. They sat on her arms and legs, they bit her," says her mother. "People compare them to animals. Animals eat other animals and discard the half-eaten carcass. But this happened with a human being! Un logon ne kaise, jiteji, ek insan ko nochke kha gayen!(How could these men eat her up alive!)
"We request the government, look at what they did to her and then give your verdict. This is not only about rape," weeps Asha, quietly.
The girl's father looks away and says, "Tab bhi hum asha (hope) par hi ji rahe the (We were hopeful even when she was hospitalised). Doctors told us she would not survive and that even if she did, her injuries were so grievous, she would never be able to lead a normal life. Chaha jaise bhi ho woh bach jaye. Kisi bhi tarah bach jaye (We wanted her to live, come what may)," he sighs.
The girl's brother, Gaurav, 20, who has been quiet all this while, tells his father impatiently, "She didn't have any intestines, how could she survive? God knows how she lived for 13 days."
Now composed, Asha says, "Pata tha woh nahin bachegi, par hope the. (We knew she wouldn't survive, but we were hopeful). She drifted in and out of consciousness, she was in great pain, but initially she could speak. So we thought, yes, she will survive. We thought, we are family, we know her better than the doctors, of course, she will live.Par doctor hi sahi the (But the doctors were right)."
She died on December 29, 2012, uniting the family with a nation anguished and outraged over crimes against women. In those 13 days she lived and for weeks thereafter, India responded with people across socio-economic divides taking to the streets, braving lathi-charges, water cannons and police detentions.
"Two days after she died we went to our village (Ballia in Uttar Pradesh). There is no electricity there, no TV, so it was only after we returned on the 18th (January 2013), that we were told about the protests. Haan, logon mein badlav aayi hai, par kanoon mein badlav nahin aayi. Woh juvenile ko phaansi honi chahiye (Yes, there is change in society, but not in the law. The juvenile accused should be hanged)," says Badri Singh.
The Justice Verma Committee, which was formed to look into crimes against women, ruled against recommending the death penalty even in the rarest of the rare rape cases, and did not favour lowering the age of a juvenile from 18 to 16.
What this means is that according to the Juvenile Justice Act, the juvenile accused, who was 17 when the gang rape took place, faces a maximum of three years in a correctional facility or a remand home, including the time he has already spent in custody.
"Everyone thinks we want revenge for what happened to our daughter. Even if all five get the death sentence, our daughter is not going to come back to us. But if they are not given the death sentence, especially the juvenile, it will send out a wrong message to people that you can do something like this, and get away it. Those men have to be given an exemplary sentence and it can only be death," says Badrinath. "We were happy Ram Singh died. It doesn't matter how he died. It matters that he is dead."
Arthvyavastha bane ki aage kisike saath aisa na ho. (Law and order should be strong enough to ensure this doesn't happen with anyone else) No mother, no family, should go through what we are going through. No child should be raped. (In this interview conducted entirely in Hindi, the family uses the word rape never the Hindi, balaatkar.) Only the death sentence can ensure less crime," says Asha.
In what is unprecedented in rape cases in India, all the six accused were arrested days within the incident. A fast-track court was set up with hearings every day. A commission was set up on December 23, 2012, to look into amendments to criminal law for quicker trial and enhanced punishment to criminals committing sexual assault of extreme nature against women. All the five men will be convicted, though the quantum of punishment may or may not be the death sentence. That is the miracle she wrought.
Consider this: According to home ministry data, between January and November 2012, of the 754 rape accused arrested in Delhi, only one was convicted. Some 403 face trials, while investigations are pending against 348 and two others were discharged. Just one person was convicted for rape in this period.
Just as the incident forced the government to change the law, her parents changed perceived notions on women and rape survivors. That it is never the woman's fault. That the perpetrators should be ashamed, not the victim and therefore stigma should not be synonymous with rape, that the girl child is no different from the boy. This, in a country where courts have often pushed for the rapist to marry the survivor so that marriage could be her deliverance from the shame' of rape.
"Had she survived, she would have told the world her name. So how can we keep quiet?" asks her mother. Badrinath's decision to go public with her name did not go down well with the extended family. "Newspapers and TV reports called her a gang rape victim. We gave our daughter a beautiful name and I wanted the world to know her by it. Not as a victim. Humein uspe garv hai, sharm toh woh logon ko hona chahiye jisne uske saath aise kiya (We are proud of her; the people who did this to her should be ashamed)," says her mother
"So many people have told us that she has brought shame to our family. Lekin jo aise sochte hain unhe sharm honi chahiye (People who think like this should be ashamed.) The nation should be ashamed. It never crossed our minds that we should be ashamed. What did she do wrong? That she took a bus?" asks Asha.
The girl's brother, Gaurav, adds, "If we hide anything, it's as if we did something wrong. Didi ki koi galti nahin thi (My sister can't be blamed)." Gaurav is 20, three years younger than the girl. The third sibling Saurav is just 15 and withdrawn.
Their mother smiles, "We were so happy when she was born. He (pointing to her husband) distributed sweets to the staff in the hospital. People from his workplace came to see her with gifts. Not for a moment did we think, arre ladki hui hai (a girl has been born).
"We used to celebrate her birthday, all their birthdays. Not in a grand way, because we couldn't afford it, but those days were special. When she began tutoring children, we even boughtmithai and called their friends in the neighbourhood. We always lacked money, not happiness. Now nothing, absolutely nothing, makes us happy anymore."
In a country where according to government figures, 30 lakh female babies are killed at birth or in the womb, Badrinath says, "Humne toh usse kabhi beti nahin bulaya, I always called her beta. She was a son, not a daughter.
"In fact, the best decision I made was to sell our land in Ballia for her education," says her father. The girl was in Delhi in December on vacation after completing a four-year course in physiotherapy from Dehradun. She was to begin her internship in the city on Monday, December 17, 2012.
"I was told I should invest in my sons, not her, since she would get married and go away. But I thought that if I don't give her the money her dreams would remain unfulfilled. She wouldn't have been happy. And who am I to stand in her way? It was just a piece of land after all. As parents, if we can, we should never stand in the way of our children's dreams."
Hesitantly Asha admits that her daughter was her favourite, but is quick to add that her sons are very dear as well. "As she grew older we became friends. And I always thought she will go away when she gets married, but these boys will always be with me. I didn't realise then that she would go away forever."
Badrinath says he remembers telling her she should think about getting married soon. She sat me and down and said, "Papa, abhi aap do saal chup rahiye. (Dad, don't bother me for two years) After two years I will get married to whoever you want, wherever you want. Just give me two years to prove myself. We also thought it would give the family time to recoup financially when she began working."
Marriage seems to remind her parents of Awnindra Pandey, her friend, who boarded the rogue bus with her on December 16.
"My daughter and Awnindra were friends, nothing more. Pata nahin kya kya likhte hain unke baren mein. (We wonder at all these things that are written about them). Why can't two people just be friends? He used to call her on her phone often and if she couldn't take the call he would speak to us. If she spoke to him on the phone, it was generally in our presence. There was nothing to hide," said Badrinath.
"We knew she was going out with him that day. I go back to that day every day. I stood at the door and waved goodbye and she said she would be back at 8 pm. She was always careful and always called me when she reached her destination and on her way back. That day, she didn't call. After 8.30 pm, I called her and when she didn't answer her phone we called his number, but it was switched off," says her mother. "You do know what happened after that. I keep thinking about it. How can anyone want those men to live?"
Speaking on the phone about the Mumbai gang rape, Gaurav says, "Cities have to be made safer, but unless these men know that they will be put to death if they rape a woman, these incidents will go on."
Revisiting that night at Safdarjung hospital, Asha says, "Her face was swollen, her eyes were closed, her lips were split. The doctor tapped her face and when she saw us she started crying. Even then I thought it was an accident. When I came outside the room, the doctors told us.
"She used to cry because she was in severe pain, but she told me not to worry, she would get better. My daughter was such a fighter."
The family reiterates the need for the death sentence, a locus they refuse to move from throughout this interview.
"Yeh jo mindset ke baarein mein log baat karte hain, how will the mindset change if the law doesn't," asks Asha. "I believe that if girls are told to follow rules -- don't wear this, don't talk to that person, don't do this, don't do that -- boys should be made to follow the same rules. Why should there be a different set of rules for women?"
Her mother says her daughter was never made to conform. She hated going back to their village in UP. She found she had nothing in common with her relatives. She wore western clothes, had her hair streaked in the neighborhood beauty parlour, listened to English music, watched Bigg Boss with her brothers while her parents slept in the next room.
"Itne sangharsh kiye, raat din padhai ki, sirf ek hi khayal aaya man mein -- ki humein aage badhna hai, hamare family ko humare saath aage badhana hai. (She worked so hard, studied night and day just so that she could be successful). The atmosphere in the house was upbeat, we were so happy. Toh phir bhagawn, aisa kyun hua? Hum nahin mante hain ke bhagwan hai, (Why did this happen? We don't believe in God anymore)," cries her mother.
In death, as much in life, their daughter has made good her promise to secure her family's future. Her father says they have money now -- a compensation' of Rs 15 lakh from the Delhi government and Rs 20 lakh from the UP government and a house. One member of the family has also been promised a government job. "People say we benefited from the incident. I want to tell them that if they are mothers or fathers, they will realise what it is to lose their child."
He says the money is not theirs. "It's our daughter's. So if and when we spend it, it will be on educating her brothers. That was her dream and we won't let it die. But so far, we haven't touched it."
Her mother says, "We have to live whatever life there is left for us, but I keep asking myself why am I still alive? We want to ask God, where did we go wrong? Why did this have to happen to us? Why did you not save her? I keep asking questions, but I never find the answers."
A teacher pays tribute to a very special student' - the Delhi Braveheart -- even as the juvenile is convicted for her rape and murder and begins a three-year term in a correctional facility.
Satendra Prasad (30), does not recollect anything unusual about the girl when he met her the first time in 2005. Her mother had asked him to teach her daughter science and math and Satendra, who lived less than a kilometer away, would go over to her house in Delhi's Mahavir Enclave. The girl, now known as the Delhi Braveheart, was then in class 9.
She was very talkative, he smiles, and always had an opinion on everything. "She began tuitions in October, 2005, and after a few weeks, I realized unlike other students, she loved math. It was a pleasure teaching her because she was not scared of the subject," he says.
In her board exams in class 10, she scored 92 in Math and 90 in Science and Satendra teased her saying she had not bettered his score. "She told me, dekh lena, bhaiyya, I will beat you next time."
It was just an aside in a teacher-student relationship for him, but for her, it was a challenge. Two years later in her board exams in class 12, she scored 96 per cent in Math.
"She was grinning from ear to ear and told me, see, I told you, I would beat you'. That was the kind of girl she was -- confident, bright and driven by a single-minded determination to succeed. She was a very special student," he says.
Satendra was at work on August 31, when the juvenile was convicted for her rape and murder. He knew the verdict was expected, but did not know the juvenile had been given a three-year sentence in a correctional facility. According to the police he was the most brutal of all the six accused.
Speaking over the phone, Satendra is silent for a while, before he sighs and says, he did not expect this verdict. "We will approach higher courts. We are not satisfied with this verdict. I don't want to make predictions over the verdicts of the other accused, any more."
It's been nearly nine months since she died of her injuries in the brutal gang rape on December 16, 2012 and Satendra says she's constantly in his thoughts.
"You can imagine what her family is going through. They are such emancipated people; so much of what she was is because of her family. I remember, her brothers were hardly thrilled that her parents were going to sell their land in Ballia (Uttar Pradesh) to fund her physiotherapy course. If her parents hesitated, it was because it was a huge decision to sell the land, not because it was for a daughter's education."
She always knew what she wanted. "I am glad she rarely listened to me," he smiles, "or she would never have been a physiotherapist."
After class 10, Satendra advised her to choose Commerce and Chartered Accountancy instead of Science, since course fees and tuitions were cheaper. "But she told me, bhaiyya, I can't do Commerce. I like the white coat doctors wear; I want to be a doctor too.'
"I told her to be practical, her parents couldn't afford her fees. She told me, I was a worrywart. She said she was committed to doing medicine, and she would do it," says Satendra, who is a CA.
To fund her college fees, she began tuitions at home. Satendra says she was diligent in her studies, rarely, if ever, bunked lectures and despite a gruelling schedule, and crushing poverty, was always cheerful.
Their relationship changed. "She was the first student, who tied a rakhi to me. We would drop in unannounced at each other's homes. On Sundays, she would call me and tell me to come over if I was free and she would do the same. She was family," says Satendra.
Her gift of a T-shirt that said, God is busy, may I help you?' is precious and tucked away in his cupboard.
"She had a loving family. She absolutely loved her father and respected him as well. On Sundays, aunty would ask her to cook, and she hated it," he laughs.
"She would tell me, she would never spend her life cooking and cleaning. We have one life, we should be doing better things than this. I will get a maid when I begin working', she promised herself.
"Her father would tease her and tell her he wouldn't drink tea unless she made it. Of course, she did. All five of them would laugh and joke and fool around. I loved the atmosphere in her house. Now, it's so different," he says.
In Dehradun, she did a four-year course in physiotherapy at the Sai Institute of Paramedical and Allied Sciences.
Arvind Singh, the administrative officer at the institute, says he remembers her from the time she and her father came to the office to enrol and pay the course fees. "She seemed so happy to be here, as did her father. But I think he was also worried," he says.
Her mother, Asha, says, "She told me, Ma aap itna daroge toh kaise chalega?. Kaise hum aage badhenge. (We will never be able to succeed if you are so scared). She was very happy there, so we were happy."
Says Arvind Singh, "The physiotherapy batch had just 30 students and she stood out. She was a cheerful girl, extremely hardworking and very intelligent. She had lots of friends and I know the staff liked her. She participated in extra-curricular activities - sports, dancing. She was a good girl."
But they were a tough four years. The tuition fees of Rs 50,000 per year for four years was impossible for her parents to shoulder, even after the sale of the land. "So, she began working in a BPO in Dehradun. I really don't know how she managed her classes because she was almost always on the night shift.
"When she bunked classes it was because she was exhausted after the night shift, not because she went for a movie," says Satendra.
In December 2012, after appearing for her final examinations, she told him she wished she had worked harder and was apprehensive about her results. Satendra scolded her saying she was too hard on herself, "She barely slept; how could she expect fantastic results? I told her, for once, take it easy."
She died before the results were declared. Arvind Singh says she had ranked second in her college. "I know she would have made a very good physiotherapist. She loved the fact that she could heal and her dedication would have won over her patients. Those men who did this to her should be shot dead," he says.
Satendra says, "I think the incident has changed everyone who knew her. She used to tell me to toughen up. She told me I should learn to say no' sometimes. "Don't let anyone take advantage of you', she said. She was a tough girl, I can't believe she's gone."
They were supposed to meet up on December 15, but couldn't. On December 17, he heard a girl in the neighbourhood had been raped. "Then I heard it was her. I called her aunt and she confirmed it. I'm ashamed to say I didn't have the guts to go and visit her in hospital," says Satendra.
He tries to spend some time with her family on weekends. Her brother, Gaurav, who is pursuing engineering, an ambition she fostered, comes to him for help with math. "She loved her brothers so much, they miss her. It's so quiet in the house now. You know, she used to talk a lot, it was unusual for her to be quiet, unless she was upset or angry. Then she would go to her room and shut the door. We just let her be."
She was an asset in his life and as much as she drove herself towards her goals, she would push him too, he says. "She would see you will become a CA, I will be a physiotherapist, my brothers will be engineers. And we would grin at each other. They were good times, hard times, but we knew we were building a better future."
He looks through her pictures on his phone and shares one she sent him, sitting in a coffee shop in Dehradun, smiling broadly at the camera. He says, that's how he wants to remember her -- happy, not a victim of a crime where no punishment sufficient.
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