By Focusing on Police, ‘Delhi Crime’ Misses Important Aspects of the 2012 Gangrape

The show demonises the media, exceptionalises the case and even tries to trivialise the protests that took place after the incident.

The 2012 Jyoti Singh gangrape and murder case has left a deep impact on India. It’s not surprising, then, that the dramatisation of the events in Richie Mehta’s Netflix show Delhi Crime sends chills down the viewer’s spine.

The show chooses to present the violence from the perspective of the Delhi police. Writer and director Mehta seems to believe that not enough credit was given to them for a job well done.

The Singh case from December 16, 2012 is striking for a number of reasons. One of those is that a police service – otherwise criticised for corruption and inefficiency – booked six men for the crime within a record five days. While they do deserve fair praise, Mehta has gone overboard in the series.

The focus on the police also means that other notable aspects of the case escape the show’s narrative – the media attention it got, the public protests and conversations that were triggered, and so on. In Mehta’s series, though, the police-centric perspective bags at least 60% of the attention.

A crime like never before?

The narrative of Delhi Crime insists on exceptionalising this case, in sync with the larger popular narrative. The show establishes this right away, with DCP Chaturvedi’s repeated pronouncement: “Iss ladki ke saath jo hua hai, maine pehele kabhi nahi dekha (What happened to this girl, I have never seen before). This crime is not only heinous, it is insanity.” Later in the series too, this view is reiterated.

What was it about the Singh case, that made it so exceptional? How gruesome it was? Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time India had witnessed such brutality. The cases of Surekha and Priyanka Bhotmange, Soni Sori, and others may not have got the same kind of popular attention, but the violence these women suffered was no different.

Scholars have also pointed out that calling an event like this an anomaly erases the endless number of cases of sexual violence against women from marginalised communities. What was extraordinary about the 2012 case was the massive national outcry it invoked.

The protests that were

Mehta has been given a lot of credit for his research for the show.

He is said to have put in four years of research to get the small details right. But somehow, the public protests seem to have escaped him. Instead of justified public anger that was triggered by years of violence against women, Delhi Crime portrays the protests as some sort of extracurricular activity for students (“Students ko extracurricular activity mil gayi”) or as an unruly mob attacking police officers at India Gate.

What happened, in fact, was that after the news broke, people flooded the streets of Delhi with candlelight vigils and protests. For more than a week, thousands of citizens – with different beliefs and ideologies – came out to make their voices heard and express their anger.

The protestors’ anger and questions were directed at society, the state and law and order agencies – including the police which are often accused of perpetuating patriarchy. In Delhi Crime, the police is conveniently distanced from these uncomfortable questions.

The composition of the protests was also quite diverse. Groups of Bodos, Dalits, and Kashmiris joined the demonstrations. The issue of custodial rape and rape by the army in conflict zones was also raised.

These together came to be known as the largest horizontal leaderless protest movement in the country in recent times. It brought to light the institutional failure in dealing with rape cases across the country.

Media’s role

The media is largely demonised in Delhi Crime. It is shown to have a personal vendetta against the police, hellbent on depicting them in a bad light and impeding their investigation.

In fact, the media’s constant coverage, which lasted more than a month, helped keep the matter alive and sustain pressure on the government.

Delhi Crime’s media is only shown hounding the other victim for an interview in another desperate bid to shoot up their TRPs. In a phone call to DCP Chaturvedi, a journalist explicitly says that the media is out to get them solely for the purpose of tarnishing their image. This is caricature, not drama.

Admittedly, it is difficult to look beyond the gory details of the incident and the brilliant performances delivered by cast of Shefali Shah, Rajesh Tailang, Rasika Dugal, Adil Hussain and others. However, the show overlooks important aspects that were responsible for making the incident what it is today, rendering the dramatisation incomplete – and perhaps even mischaracterised.

Riya Bhardwaj is doing her postgraduation in women’s studies at TISS Mumbai

Not a Martyr: Dim the Halo Around Rape

Romanticising the rape and murder of Nirbhaya, the eight-year-old in Kathua, and countless others, and making martyrs of them, is no better than victim-blaming or shaming. They were raped and killed. No halo is bright enough to hide that.

On April 24, the Indian Supreme Court said rape victims, whether dead or alive, have dignity and cannot be “named or shamed”. The court was ruling on whether the identity of rape victims should be disclosed, following the brutal rape and murder of an eight-year-old girl in Kathua in Jammu and Kashmir, that has roiled the country in the past few weeks. The victim, right from the beginning, had been identified in the media by her name. According to the Supreme Court, that is problematic.

“The dead also have dignity,” the ruling said.

It said that even in cases where rape victims were alive and were either minors or of unsound mind, their identities should stay hidden as they have the right to privacy and cannot live under such a “stigma” throughout their life.

Words like shame, dignity, stigma abound through the ruling that attempts to view rape and women’s response to it through the problematic lens of a woman’s dignity. Naming is not shaming. Not in abuse cases at least. Which is why we all participated in the #MeToo campaign, right?

Wrong! Because even as we all enthusiastically participated in the #MeToo campaign, we were still calling Jyoti Singh, the 23-year-old paramedic who was raped and killed in 2012, Nirbhaya. Not her name but a decorative epithet imposed on her in the days following her rape, when she lay in hospital fighting for her life.

This despite the fact that both her parents had revealed her name and urged the media to use it.

“My daughter’s name was Jyoti Singh and I am not ashamed to name her. Those who commit heinous crimes like rape, their heads should hang in shame, not the victims or their families. You should take her name too,” Singh’s mother had unequivocally told the media on the third anniversary of her daughter’s rape and murder that had shocked the world and arm twisted the Indian government to strengthen its women safety laws.

This was two years after Singh’s father had asserted the same. In January 2013, not even a month after the incident, Singh’s father had told the British media her name.

“We want the world to know her real name… My daughter didn’t do anything wrong, she died while protecting herself… I am proud of her. Revealing her name will give courage to other women who have survived these attacks. They will find strength from my daughter,” he had said.

Singh’s parents wanted her to be known by her name. For them, she was a flesh and blood human being. They felt her pain and struggle, while the rest of India romanticised her death and turned a heinous crime into a tale of heroism, because of course, it helped us cope better as a society.

So, we called her names like Jagruti, Damini, Amanat, Delhi Braveheart and India’s Daughter. It touched our emotions, it outraged us because we can only feel for a woman when we mould her into a relation – mother, daughter, sister – or into a overtly courageous avatar. More than 90 women are raped in India every day. But we need epithets to feel outraged. We need to characterise them on their levels of gruesomeness, to feel outraged.

Why do we insist on calling Jyoti Singh Nirbhaya? On that December night, I am sure she was feeling far from courageous. Her fear and helplessness can only be imagined. When she screamed and cried for help, courage was far from her mind. When she fought for her life in the hospital for days, it was not a choice.

We romanticised her plight well. And in that we made her a martyr, her predicament a tale of heroism. When we call Singh Nirbhaya, we are hailing her personal courage as if to redeem the horrific crime. But there is no redeeming rape. Whitewashing victims of rape stems from the social conditioning to hide the shame – coalesced with a woman’s honour in this part of the world – and is no better than victim-blaming or shaming.

When we call Singh, Nirbhaya, we are putting a halo around her suffering. We are deifying her and her “lost honour”. If the Indian Supreme Court manages to ban rape victims from being named, they are going to fuse forever the concept of rape and lost honour. It is going to institutionalise the response of women to abuse.

Singh was not a martyr. The eight-year-old was not a martyr either. They were victims of a heinous crime. Their bodies were abused beyond human comprehension. They were raped and killed. No halo is bright enough to hide that.

Nilanjana Bhowmick is a Delhi-based journalist. She tweets at @nilanjanab.