The (Un)Tamed

Gauri stood in silence, adjusting her veil as the village panchayat came to order. She wished the fabric would become a black hole, swallowing her whole, sparing her this public performance of obedience. She called herself “The Tamed One”. 

Beneath the peepal tree, the villagers gathered, faces turned toward her, ready to witness what felt less like justice and more like a spectacle.

She scanned the crowd, searching for the five so-called victims, the men who claimed they had been attacked by an unknown woman, or women. Women, they insisted, as if the plural would protect their pride, soften the humiliation of being overpowered by a single female. How could their male egos allow this?

They were nowhere to be seen, not because of what they had done, but because of the humiliation of being beaten by a woman. 

“Let the proceedings begin.” announced the Sarpanch. 

“Sarpanch Ji. We can’t let this happen to our village. We can’t let a witch go around beating men. I demand that we find her and bring her to justice.” started Charanjit. He was the biggest landlord of the village. The village nodded, both men and women. 

“Sarpanch ji, look at Gauri,” Jagan said, his voice steady, rehearsed. “She brought great honour to our village. She topped her school, was felicitated by the state education minister, and was a remarkable hockey player.”

He paused, as if building to a moral. “But after marriage, she chose to devote herself to her home, to make it her entire world. She dresses appropriately, carries herself properly, never giving men a reason to behave inappropriately.”

Jagan continued, assured of his authority, a teacher, and the owner of the only private school and college not just in the village, but across the region, his words carrying the weight of both education and quiet control.

Misogyny wasn’t born of illiteracy or poverty, Gauri thought. She remembered Jagan’s hands lingering where they shouldn’t have during her school days, memories she had learned to lock away. She had been spared, not because she was “appropriately” behaved and dressed, but because she belonged to a powerful Brahmin priest family. Protection, she knew now, was never the same as justice.

One of the elder men, Raghuvar Kaka, cut in sharply. “Let’s not forget what those men did.”

Before the words could settle, another woman, one with a daughter and two daughters-in-laws, interjected, “And for that, they should be beaten so badly? What were those girls even doing there?”

Gauri felt a scream rise in her throat. That they were only walking home from school, nothing more. But she swallowed it. Silence was expected of her. After all, she was the tamed one.

The disgust on Raghuvar Kaka’s face was unmistakable. He hadn’t expected this, not from a woman. The men, after all, were known for their lewd remarks, their words trailing women and girls like shadows no one bothered to chase away. That day, they went further. Hands crossed lines they never should have. God knows what might have followed, had a few passersby not stepped in and driven them off. 

“What exactly happened to those men?” asked someone from the crowd, gathered not for justice but for entertainment. 

They claimed it was a woman, or many, dark-skinned like a witch, attacking them at night with stones, leaving them half-dead. Each retelling changed the story: one or many attackers, even a witch who flew down from trees to strike. Fear fed fantasy, until rumor swallowed the truth.

Raghuveer Kaka raised his hand quietening the crowd. Many resented him for his progressive views, yet his voice still carried authority. “How do we keep our girls safe from such vultures?” he asked calmly. “Had we acted in time, no woman would have been forced to take the law into her own hands.”

“We have protected our girls,” someone declared with pride. “No girl is allowed to walk alone anymore, not without a male family member.”

The crowd nodded. Some in agreement. Some out of fear.

Raghuveer gasped at the words. Gauri felt a wave of nausea rise within her.

“Our boys are scared to step out these days,” said the mother of another known troublemaker, her voice edged with grievance.

“Your boy should be afraid,” Durga Kaki finally spoke up, sharp and steady. She had confronted him more than once for teasing girls who passed by. “Everyone here knows what he’s capable of.”

The remark nearly sparked a confrontation. Voices rose, tempers flared, until the villagers hurried in to calm both sides, not to address the harm done, but to steer the discussion back to what now seemed most urgent to them: keeping the men safe.

“What do you think, Gauri?” the Sarpanch asked.

Her brother, seated on a separate cot, careful to keep distance from the commoners, frowned at the deference shown to a woman. He didn’t see what the panchayat did: Gauri was useful to them, a symbol held up to quiet other women. They were certain they knew what she would say.

For a moment, she remained still. Then, from behind her veil, her voice emerged, measured, proper, acceptable to the stature they had assigned her. “For a few days,” she said, “men should stay indoors. And women should patrol, searching for that dark-skinned woman.”

The courtyard erupted. Murmurs swelled, audacity, shamelessness. The panchayat sat stunned. They could not openly oppose her; she was their carefully crafted example of obedience. To contradict her now would crack their own story of control.

They exchanged glances. This would be dealt with later. For now, they conceded, because, unsettling as it was, the plan made sense.

Gauri’s husband allowed himself a small smile, pride flickering in his eyes. She had turned their own logic against them, guiding the men straight into the trap they had set for others. Through it all, he had stood by her—quietly, firmly.

As the voices around them swelled and clashed, Gauri walked behind him, her fingers rubbing away the last traces of mascara from her hands, leaving no sign of the woman they were hunting.