The Wrath of the Spurned: How Acid Attacks Life Beyond The Moment

(Now that the Supreme Court of India has made the laws regarding acid attacks more stringent — imposing a rather difficult-to-implement ban on sale of acid, and a more respectable amount of financial aid — it is worth looking at how this might change things for the better. You can also read this here)

Pragya was sleeping on the upper berth in a sleeper compartment of a train to Varanasi when she felt a burning sensation on her face. She woke up with a start — she literally felt her skin on her cheek come away when she touched it. “I jumped down and began screaming with pain. It was 2 am, my clothes had melted and people around me thought I was going mad. If it weren’t for the foreigner who recognised what had happened to me and called a doctor, I would’ve perhaps not survived,” she says, recalling with vivid clarity, the moment she was acid attacked in 2006.

The attack came merely 10 days after her marriage and, as she and her family were to find out in the following weeks, was the repercussion of a rejected marriage proposal. “The man was at least a decade older than me and apparently already married. They caught him and put him in jail in the next few months, but he’s out on bail now. None of it changes the fact that it took me over two years simply to recover physically,” she says.

Recently, two men on a motorbike threw acid on four sisters in Shamli. The case has made national headlines, as did another incident in Patna where two teenage girls were also victimised in their sleep. It is heartening to see an increased focus on reporting sexual crimes against women, following the December 2012 protests that were triggered by the gangrape of a girl in a moving bus in the capital.

It is important to recognise the special nature of acid attacks, seeing as they are generally perpetrated by somebody in the know. In the Shamli case, one of the accused is the brother-in-law of the victim. The girls wanted to go to town about their illicit relationship, and this was his way of containing the situation. In the Patna case, the attackers were spurned lovers.

“A general perception is that the male ego cannot take rejection lightly and seeks to overcome his rage through such an attack. This is complicated with the impulsive spirit of today’s youth, which cannot handle what we call ‘delay of need gratification’ – they don’t seem to find any sense of illegitimacy to their actions. Another explanation would be the lack of accessibility – the feeling of “if your attractiveness can’t be available to me, I will make sure nobody else can have it either”,” observes Dr. Arvind Mishra, professor of social psychology at Jawaharlal Nehru University.

The notion of revenge is critical to acid attacks, since its intent is to ruin the victim’s life without actually ending it. Such attacks cause disfiguration that lasts for a lifetime, because the social stigma attached to deformation ensures that the victim would no longer have access to a social life, nor will she be considered a viable candidate for marriage. The fact that acid is easily available at kirana shops and supermarkets across the country, doesn’t help the situation.

The consequences of acid attacks can be very dire – considering the fact that this form is particularly popular in the low to lower-middle classes of society, the victims’ access to medical help might be limited. Basic operations to keep the victim alive could result in bills as big as Rs 50 lakh, or more, at times. Also, the facilities to treat first degree burns are few and far between. It was due to the lack of proper medical treatment that 23-year old J Vinodini died in Pondicherry after being attacked by her neighbour, and battling for life for over three months.

It is also within the momentum created by the December 2012 protests that the Criminal Law Amendment Bill was passed recently, recognising the various forms of such violence and raising the punishment bar for rape, voyeurism, stalking and acid attacks. Up till now, all these offences were clubbed under the ambivalent label of ‘grievous hurts’ in sections 320, 322, 325 and 326 of the Indian Penal Code, punishable by imprisonment upto seven years – legislation, or lack thereof, that itself showed just how seriously violence against women was being taken by the state.

Under the amendment ordinance, acid attacks, along with the others, are recognised as specific crimes and are punishable by imprisonment of upto 12 years, along with a fine of upto Rs 10 lakh. While this is a definite improvement, it still seems to fall short of the correction required in cases of acid attack, from the point of view of the victim. “The government has made provisions for a parallel amendment in the Criminal Procedure Code to provide compensatory medical and private aid for victims. But whether this will be followed through remains to be seen,” notes Madhu Mehra, director of Partners for Law in Development.

Image

She is sceptical because of two factors – the speed of convictions in India is nothing to boast about, and it isn’t possible to adjudge the capacity of the accused to pay the stipulated fine. “The government needs to recognise that this is among the most physically debilitating crimes. It must also acknowledge the fact that violence can create polities of its own kind. For the victim, it would be more important to get back on her feet. You can either make sure that you take up social transformation, but when you can’t even tell the Khap panchayats to shut up, you could at least ensure that the schemes or provisions you draft are water-tight,” she states.

In such a situation, does regulating the availability of acid make sense? “Not really,” says Mehra, “because it isn’t the ‘weapon’, but the intent that needs to be inspected. Ten years ago in Mongolpuri, we heard of a case where men on motorbikes were slashing women’s faces with razor blades. The government could slap restrictions, but there’s always a way to get around the law, especially for a product so cheaply available. We just can’t deal with disfigurement and that is what needs to be addressed.”

Today, living in near-complete anonymity in an undisclosed location, Pragya believes that she’s been luckier than most, thanks to a supportive husband and family back home at Varanasi. “I have no friends though – when I walk on the road, people ask me what happened to my face. There’s plenty of sympathy, but they don’t really want to associate with me beyond that,” she says.

She has now started working with Stop Acid Attacks, an NGO working to help victims with medical and financial aid. Her aim is to help girls come out of the trauma through counselling and group support sessions. “I don’t think I am abnormal – it is feeling that a lot of girls develop when their faces and bodies are maimed in this manner. I want to help them get back to their lives as before,” she says.

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Wear-about

It is a caress gone unnoticed everyday.
Softly, flowers graze my breasts,
seeds flying wild, transported
on chiffon, floating far away
on your anguished, breathless sighs.

A bare mid-riff — silken to touch
with the dampness of down
trussed up in roses billowing 
on a petticoat the colour of summer —
is the middle, the end, the beginning

Of a new chapter, a new idea,
born in your soul, a desire that burns,
much like dry, flaky wood,
incensed by a fluttering pallu,
winging up your lustiness.

but much like that brittle bark,
your burning will be all smoke too.
six yards to seduce — is that all
it takes? I may not be as compliant,
flexible, open or ready to bend.

It’s a caress I may not feel anymore,
But my delicate chiffon will defend.
Your mind may sing, even go hoarse
thinking of my virtue, so loose. 
This chiffon, I warn you, will strangle.

Reel Rumination: Who is the Indian Woman?

(So, there are some advantages of not emptying your inbox regularly, even though Google keeps threatening to brim over and drop dead. I found this old piece I’d written as a measly assignment in ACJ back in 2008, and I find myself quite surprised! Mostly because I don’t even remember the plotlines of Meghe Dhake Tara and Charulata, but even otherwise, this seems like I’ve put in some decent effort. A bit long, but do read and comment!)

Benedict Anderson, in his book, Imagined Communities talks of a nation that largely exists in the collective psyche of the members of that nation state. Indian nationalism, in the absence of pervading literacy, depended on the more popular forms of art and cinema to grow. And since visualization is essential to the imagined community, India began to be identified with the icon of the mother. So, as India strove to become independent and, later, was endorsed as the land of opportunities, India became Bharat Mata for the masses. In such a scenario, Indian cinema produced its own interpretations of the Indian woman, an identity highly contested.

Indian cinema emerged as a popular art form, as well as one of mass entertainment, at the same time that the idea of the independent Indian nation was being given serious thought and substance. As the democracy’s roots grew deeper, newer identities emerged. The colonial, and his sidekick, the Zamindar, were being pushed backstage by the new-found educated sophisticate and the Indian woman, who again was probably the most conflicted identity of all- existing or arising. While on the one hand she had to live up to the strength and valor she had been endowed with in the process of attaining an iconic status, on the other, she was also the site on which Nehruvian idealists were cultivating India’s image as a fast developing one.

Questions about who the Indian woman was in the emerging context had many answers. There came up a number of interpretations and representations in the cinema of the time. The greatest Indian auteurs of all time had something to contribute to this debate. This paper intends to look at three films in particular- Mother India (1957) by Mehboob Khan, Satyajit Ray’s Charulata (1960) and Meghe Dhake Tara (1960) by Ritwik Ghatak, all of which were stories about women of the time, but in different frames.

MeImagehboob Khan’s magnum opus, Mother India, was a colored rendition of his earlier movie, Aurat, which came out in 1941. Possibly in a bid to promote the story in front of a larger, more diversified audience, he retold the story, produced it in Eastman-colour format, and made it revolve around the Radha, the protagonist, played by Nargis. The movie tells the tale about this woman, who marries Raj Kapoor, and comes into a household which is completely under the financial grip of the landlord, Sukhilala. As she deals with more failure and abandonment by her husband, the viewer is witness to the transformation of this good homely bejeweled wife into a hard, driven survivor covering herself in the mitti of her land, because she loves and identifies deeply with it. Her two sons, Ram and Birju, are the two diametrically opposite strands of moderation and extremism that characterised  the Indian national movement. When, finally, she shoots her younger son in a bid to save society from imminent danger, she acquires the iconisation of Mother India, in both a religious and a nationalist sense.

The toil and sweat that goes into cultivation and growing a crop is in itself a character in the film, painted in the red and brown hues of earthiness. Mehboob uses the form of melodrama to acquaint the viewer with the exaggerated extent of suffering of this woman. He uses the archetypes of the evil landlord, the unrelenting mother-in-law, the sly uncle in addition to the lead characters in a bid to characterize the typical setting of rural India. “At its deepest level, Mother India is a study of culture in conflict with itself. Birju and mother represent headlong, near-suicidal rush to change an impossible situation, and the inner force of the system fighting back, trying to alter the system ‘peacefully’,” says Iqbal Masud. Finally, Mehboob endorses Nehruism in his reference to the Community Block Development Movement, which brings to the film a sense of resolution and opportunism.

In another tale of suffering, Ritwik Ghatak shows us the flip side of the coin- Meghe DhakeImage Tara is the story of Sita, a young working woman who is the sole bread earner in her family, her father having retired, one brother aspiring to become a musician and the other still in the process of completing his studies. But instead of being independent, which is the logical consequence for most of us in such a situation, Sita is oppressed nevertheless. Her mother does not want her to get married, lest their only source of survival be taken away, her younger brother intends to run away from the household as soon as possible, her older brother lives for dreams at the cost of pragmatism and her sister is disinterested in everything except finding a suitable boy to marry.

Sita ends up making the biggest sacrifices for the happiness of her family- first of love, then of her own mental health. Towards the end, when she has realized that her lover is now no longer hers, but is in love with her sister, and is walking away, the close up of her face as she feels trapped in her situation, and the crack of whiplash in the background, makes an effective visual depiction of her hopelessness. In the exaggerated portrayal of the lower classes, Ghatak is determined to alienate his audience, ensure that there is no sense of identification or empathy towards his pitiful protagonist, which was thought to be very important for the spectator to be able to criticize and participate.

ImageFinally, Satyajit Ray’s Charulata, based on Tagore’s novel, Nashta Neer, and set in 1859, tells a different tale of womanly woe- Charulata is a housewife in a rich Bengali household. Her husband is too involved in his newspaper and the politics of the time to pay her much attention. She is left to her own devices and is too intelligent to be content with playing cards and enjoying ice cream, like her sister-in-law. A fan of Bankim Chandra Chatterjee’s work, she also represented Nabina or the ‘new woman’, in contrast to her sister-in-law, who was Prabina or the ‘old woman’. Charulata comes close to emotional betrayal when she grows an attachment for Amal, the cousin, and this the husband realizes only towards the end.

Satyajit Ray was a Realist artist- he believed in the deep focus technique and subtle initiation, and abhorred close ups or low angle shots, which meant iconisation. The movie is a pleasant concoction of music, scenery, emotions and characterization which is far from typical. Charulata’s situation is not a common one, especially in an India that was under British rule, or even after independence, when the largely rural landscape did not allow such financial and temporal liberty to women. But she did represent a small class of them, who were the unfortunate fortunates. As she attempts to while away time by looking out the windows through an opera glass, since she was restricted within the four walls of her house, the orchestrated on-screen and off-screen sounds allow the viewer to feel her loneliness, and when her husband walks away, absorbed in a book without paying her any attention, the authoritarian sound of his boots on the floor impress upon the audience her utter and complete desolation.

In all three films, we see the dilemmas that the Indian woman faced at the time, and we also see the problematisation that Indian society had in defining this Indian woman, and her boundaries of existence. While Ray explored the psyche of the Indian woman moving towards self- realization, Ghatak sought to unearth the loopholes in the grand Nehruvian plan. Mehboob manages to identify and place the Indian woman in the context of the nation, which in itself was visualized as a newly acquired bride, who had the powers of sustenance. Through both melodrama and realism, Indian cinema of the 50s and 60s, also known as humanist cinema, persevered in depicting the sorry state of the Indian woman.

You [already] Stink and Burn

Perhaps it should have been heartening to see so many people finally coming out on the streets, crying for ‘justice’, whatever it is that they mean by the word; demanding that our roads be made safer, that rape cannot be tolerated.

Perhaps it is the ever-growing cynic in me who just cannot find a hint of satisfaction or relief in the drama that is unfolding every moment in pristine Lutyen’s Delhi, in these beautiful winter days.

Perhaps they will pass a new law, there will be a new CM, there will be more police on the roads, the papers and TV channels will follow rape cases more doggedly.

BUT!

This is not the first time a woman has been raped to the brink of her death. This is not the first time the CM has shrugged off responsibility. This is not the first time the common man and his kin have come out in the streets. This is not the first time they’ve increased security. This is not the first time there’s so much excitement. This is not the first time – and it won’t be the last. Not the way we seem to be going about it!

Because rape isn’t an under-the-table act, where both parties can leave with some sense of satisfaction, gratification. It isn’t an assembly line product that has come to dominate psyches, turned into a status symbol, something that one MUST have, a sign of one’s affluence at the cost of another’s impoverishment. It isn’t a man, a regime that has his/its own way all the time. It isn’t an ideology, a religion, a policy, a piece of property. STOP calling your picnic a fucking REVOLUTION, for heaven’s sake!

Because if you think what you’re doing out on the roads – shouting slogans, burning effigies, calling authorities names, getting a shower-down by policemen, demanding death by hanging and/or castration – is a revolution, you don’t know shit about what it is like walking on the road, alone, everyday, with a mix of fear and stubbornness swirling inside you, making you nauseous and pumping adrenaline into your bloodstream all at the same time. Knowing that any moment now, you will face an ugliness that you never dreamed possible, even in your worst nightmares.

You don’t know shit about how everyday, you see it in their eyes, everywhere. That you’re being undressed slowly or hastily, depending on just how his highness likes it, your breasts are being weighed, your buttocks are getting spanked, and this may not just be foreplay. You know it because you can see the bulge in their pants that they will continue to thrust into your behind, your shoulder and everywhere else as you jostle for even the littlest space to stand in an overcrowded bus.

You don’t know shit about that lecherous uncle / cousin / male relative (even fathers!) who will leave no stone unturned to be with you in a closed, isolated space, touch you whenever possible, wherever possible, however possible. And just how the sight or sound of them fills you with an inexplicable dread, a sense of terror that can paralyse you down to your very puny soul.

You don’t know shit about how your dreams, your identity, your entire being is subservient to your safety, which is just politespeak for your family’s honour, that nondescript sense of selfhood that rests almost completely on the girl’s sorry shoulders. You have a job that keeps you out late? Imagine the possibilities! How can you not be panicking yet? After all, worrying is our prerogative, beta.

(By the way, if you do know all this and are still screaming your head off in the streets, for your and fellow sufferers’ rights, then aww, you poor little naive thing. Even my rant here on this webspace that nobody reads isn’t half as bad as yours.)

Why do you talk about it, and those who do the deed, as if it were exclusive to you and your environment? Rape isn’t an isolated act, much as it may require isolation as a condition to facilitate its happening.

Rape doesn’t happen because the girl (or boy) was looking soo unbearably sexy that no power in that dot on the time-space axis could’ve stopped her (his) molestation.

Rape doesn’t happen because the rapist harbours exceptional degrees of lustiness. Nor does it happen because the night brings out their romantic side.

Rape happens because society, and you, let it happen. Because you don’t stand up against offences of any nature in public places such as, say, the Metro. Heck, you don’t even get up to give your seat to the old/ pregnant lady standing in front of you, that’s how blind you are! Rape happens because we live in a repressed society where girls and boys are segregated, having boyfriends is seen as criminal, sitting and talking with a boy in a public place warrants a lock-up, being beaten-up, where prostitution remains illegal and sex is seen as a depraved, corrupt activity. Rape also happens because Hindi cinema glorifies masculinity, which in turn has its source in violence and sex. Rape happens because power equations across class, caste, gender lines are changing – lines that were drawn by the very people who are climbing lampposts and posing for pictures at India Gate today, not-waiting to put them up on FB to show they’re so with it. Rape is not one man’s crime, it is even yours when you tell your daughter/sister/mother to stay indoors at night, even though all you want to do is protect them.

At this rate, rape will continue to happen. Even as you lot are ‘protesting’ – which, come on face it, is just asking for revenge – there were at least three more cases reported in today’s newspapers. Do you think your shouting is loud enough to drown out their urges inside their heads? Doesn’t look like it.

Rape will also keep happening as long as you think that women need to be protected. The presumption here is the male is and always will be an animal, naturally. That’s like, WTF? And all you women, you buy into this crap because it makes you feel better in your cramped existence too.

Rape happens because in the friction caused by shifting plates in the continent of patriarchy, there’s a little squeak that the woman manages to edge in sideways now. Because when boys with bloated heads from small towns arrive in the National Chutiyaap Region, otherwise known as the land of promise, they see all these…the girls!…calling the shots! How could this be? Meri ma toh mere baap ki jooti ki dhool chaat-ti hai, ye kya anarth ho raha hai yahan?!

Rape will keep happening because you mothers don’t slap your sons enough and continue to let them turn into such egoistic, horny bastards.

Rape will keep happening as long as educationists and the moral police (who should be sent back to the 17th century) believe there’s much glory in segregation and separation, not realising that in the process, they turn this ‘other’ into this fantastic, exotic creature that must be had at all costs.

There are other reasons for rape to happen too, but the overarching reason it actually goes DOWN (ALL puns intended) is because the girl’s body is thought of as a site of control. Even as you yell from the ramparts of the Parliament for equality, what you should be fighting for is to gain control of your body. Free it from this omnipresent gaze, free yourself from being conscious of this gaze.

The only way you can really stand up for the poor girl struggling to get off ventilators now is by swearing to change how you think and how you let others around you think.

By some twist of fate, she’s a hero today instead of being a victim for life or even dead, and that is the only good thing to come out of this charade. She will live respectably where countless others have perished.

But her life will be in vain if you don’t realise that this is not one incident, this is not the 9/11 of India, but something that, sadly, happens everyday, several times a day.

The answer, my friend, doesn’t lie in retribution, in castration, in revenge, because that is only enabling a vicious cycle. It lies in education. Unless we learn lessons from history, as modern as last year’s fascinating summer, things will never change.

That is, of course, unless all you’re looking for is cheap thrills over the weekend, in which case, ignore all that you’ve read so far. Obviously, you are the MAN of the moment.

Last Call: What the FUCK do you mean by a rape CULTURE?! Can you please think before you let these words come out of your mouth?!

The illogic of small big-big things.

Beware of the night, they whisper.

In the black, there are always, and only, shades of grey.

A vortex, it will slurp up the white, like a Hoover,
Burp and beam, from Jaapan to Jalandhar.

Replete with satisfaction, it will leave red.
In your face, on the road, on your sheets.

And then Society will come a-knocking.
And all they’ll be able to see anymore is the mud.
Horrors. No blairwitch, this. “She wouldn’t listen”
Is all they’ll have to say, passing it on.

*Facepalm*. Life’s sucha bitch.

Bewitch

Of course, by now, heartbreak was
a foregone conclusion. She knew, even in
those intense moments when she could almost
touch a wave of love welling up inside her,
that this too, like all else, wasn’t going to last.
Nor was the universe, only our perception
of time didn’t allow us to comprehend reality,
she thought, melancholy. She knew, the comfort
of that blissful blindness, when all her flaws are eclipsed
(because she knew how to charm them a silly pink),
was temporary. They would see her, inside out, baring
thorns on flesh and bones, they would see the big hole
where her heart should have been. She knew that they would
know, in a single moment of blinding clarity, that she was
merely mortal. Not Princess Leah, not Sasha Grey –
Not transcendent. She knew, they would be appalled,
When they saw her plain, reflected whole in an honest mirror.
They would puzzle at her fears and her dreams,
they would blink, stare, wonder – is she for real?
She sighed. She knew, she’d have to end this too.
Self-preservation, her mirror told her, meant
she must hold on to the pedestal. That, at least,
they won’t see her addiction to adulation. Only
her tears, salt and sugar, swords to etch
unforgivable wounds into unsuspecting souls.

She’s Got A Wayyyy…..

“FIRST J&K WOMAN TO TOP STATE CIVIL SERVICES EYES UPSC” scream headlines across newspapers and all of them too-many news channels and the internet today.

Clap Clap Clap.

Can you imagine the politics that might be playing out behind Sehrish Asghar’s many identities on this momentous day of her life? A woman. Topping. the Kashmir Administrative Services. AND eyeing the Indian Administrative Services.

Or do we always end up imagining too much?

———xxxx———

Anderson, sire, thy words rankle,
like them birthmarks on my ankle! 

This story is not about undermining a woman’s choice to wear or be what she wants.

…It is about perceptions and generation gaps.

So, a couple of evenings ago, ma and i were gluttonously popping pani pooris at that famous stall in GK1’s M-Block market. We were also silently indulging in our second favourite pastime in markets (no prizes for guessing what is at number 1) : Voyeurism of the Venus-ites. It is by now common knowledge that while men check out women everywhere, women, too, check out other women more often than they size-up the mans on the prowl. And what is it that we’re checking for? A quick 5-second once-over can take in clothes, make up, hair, shoes, accessories, nail color, waistline, other lines and sizes and come to conclusions as to the nature and character of the studied specimen (speciman? speciwoman?). If you add another 2 seconds, judgements can be doled out if you have the ‘right’ company: all you need to do is raise eyebrows and make eye contact at the right moment. The smile is passed, the shoulders are shrugged in a it-takes-all-kinds-to-make-a-world way, and some bitchy part of the soul is satisfied at the one-uppance. There is nothing monumental about this process – it happens everywhere, all the time. But, I theorise, and thereby digress from my story.

So, ma n i have moved on to aloo chaat and somehow look up from the plate to take in this sight: three young women whose figures suggest they practice anorexia regularly, doddering up the street in painful high heels. The shortest of them wearing what seemed to be only a corset ( of the undergarment-of-yore variety, and therefore decidedly not classy ) and tight, terribly low-slung jeans, poker straight hair, heavy eyeliner, thick mascara, a peachy pout. Extremely conscious of herself, she has the air of one whose feet are barely making contact with the ground, she’s so high on how good she thinks she’s looking. Frantically gazes down at herself to check that just the right amount of skin is visible. Comes off looking like a brainless tart.

The mother and i quickly look at each other, smile. Grimace is more the word actually. We’re both tch-tching in our heads till the tittering trio are out of earshot.

And then, ma says, she’s clearly a small-town girl grown too big for her boots. Iske toh par nikal rahe hain, aur dekho kaise!

I say, yeah, well, what can one do? more tch-tching happens.

And then it occurs to me, hah! look at us, how arrogantly we talk, like we were born into the big-moneyed, big-city ranks. 11 years here and just look at us!

We laugh at ourselves. But then comes the punchline from the learned one: True, we’re middle class people, belonging to small towns. We’re bourgeois to the best of our abilities, but we never EVER behave like that. Never have, never will.

Point noted, O mother. There’s a lesson in decency to be had somewhere in there.

On a related note, I urge you to walk the talk, get down and dirty at Slutwalk Delhi on June 25. Talk about inverting roles, taking to the streets and taking back the power!

Polaroid

Her glossy eyes belie the tumult of a churning ocean within that rises up and ebbs low, deeper and deeper it goes; within lies dormant, a sea monster, a green monster that feels a nudge, opens one eye and glares at her soul, her quivering aching soul, which stands before a forked road – one way she thinks she knows, one uncharted, and thereby, so tempting.

Her glossy smile hides the pain of a thousand heartaches inside, covering up muddy mossy pools – which is quicksand and which is vacuum, one can never know, but there’s a heart that aches for some freefall, a free run, a free pass, to be free. The cage is claustrophobia, it will close in, she will run away.

The guard is always up, the mask is always on. She keeps it up, this charade for cameras, even when there are no cameras around. Cameras can’t paint characters, they’re the unthinking, un-vocal, non-judgemental objects that only see her green eyes and apricot skin and red lips.

There’s no way they’ll manage to catch the grey within her. Not as long as she can smile her perfect smile that makes her eyes glow like fireflies on cold nights, like hope that they would all like to put into a jar and take home. They could shoot at her all day, under umbrellas, under the sun, stars, with fur, in the nude, on beaches, on rocks, in a kitchen, on a bed, in a cave, in a mood….but they’ll never get her.