FIR ACTION HERO CORETTA CHRISTY

It was a rainy season in August 2005.I was stationed at Siliguri, West Bengal as a Management Trainee in Sales, with a renown Financial Organisation. It was my first job after my post graduation studies.

That evening I had a sales call scheduled with the manager of an Indian retail company.

The meeting was at 8 pm.I left the office at around 7:30 pm, boarded a cycle-rickshaw (in siliguri, this was the mode of transportation) and I was on my way.

I noticed a man in a green scooter driving at snail-pace, along side my rickshaw.

Pretty strange, it was. I was not perturbed by it, until the man started talking to me.

At first, I thought he was addressing the rickshaw driver. But he was looking at me.

He was saying ‘ Tum kidhar se ho?’. I looked away. Ignoring him was the only strategy I thought of, at the time.

But he went on.

‘Kidhar jaa rahi ho?’

‘Mere saath mere bike par chalo’

‘Main tumhe chod doonga jahan tumhe jana hai’

Suddenly he shouted at the rickshaw driver ‘Rickshaw rok!’

Evidently nervous, the rickshaw driver stopped.

The man in the scooter stopped too. He stood up and starting pulling me from the rick.

For a second I froze. I didn’t know what was happening. I guess fear does that to you.

It was a dark lonely road & no soul in sight.

I screamed. Screamed, my lungs out.

That seemed to scare him because he suddenly took his hands off me, darted to his scooter and shot off. Trembling, terrified, in tears, I gathered myself and told the rickshaw to take me back to my apartment.

Alone in a strange city, I send a mobile sms to one of my colleagues informing her of what had happened. Immediately I got a call from my manager, demanding why I didn’t turn the rickshaw around and head back to office. He asked me if I had noted down the scooter’s number-plate; asked me to describe the man.

Fear turned to anger. Doesn’t he know that the first thought that comes to anyone in a vulnerable position is to ESCAPE, come what may? Doesn’t he know that the last thing in my mind was to check the number plate on that scooter?

Alone, I had a restless fearful night.

Next day, my manager asked me to head to the police station to file an FIR.

I did. I filed an FIR with the police station at Siliguri, West Bengal.

Back at office, I was the subject of discussion. Sympathetic stares, inquisitive eyes, pitiful smiles. My manager and his aides called me to the conference room to discuss the incident. Not being able to logically conclude why it happened and who the culprit is, my manager concluded that maybe I was mistaken (by the man in the scooter) to be one of the girls who comes down from the hills of Darjeeling to Siliguri at this time of the year looking for work. In short, he said I was mistaken for a prostitute (with all due respect to anyone of that profession) because of my looks. I am from Meghalaya, and my features are similar to the settlers of Darjeeling.

Stunned and enraged, I stormed out of the room.

I requested the HR head of the company to transfer me back to Pune, my initial place of posting. When he refused to do anything about it, I resigned.

The FIR must be lost or maybe its lying filed up at some police station, in Siliguri.

It’s forgotten. But the incident remains with me.

(By the way, my attire that evening was a kurta over a pair of jeans)