The Coping Mechanism

Laila pushed the door open, stepped inside, and allowed the cool, crisp air from her evening walk to follow her in. She unlaced her shoes and placed them tidily on the shoe rack, as Deep appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, his voice already tinged with that customary sharpness of concern.

"Quit taking walks this late. I know you feel secure here, but it is no longer secure. With all the things that have been occurring to Indians in this area recently, I don't know why you continue to do it."

Laila did not respond. She was sick of hearing this line of argument, sick of this same thing being said so many times. Indians being attacked. Something unimaginable in the past. But there, in her neighbourhood, she was accepted. She volunteered, knew the individuals she saw daily, exchanged friendly greetings on the sidewalk. She felt at home. She felt secure. This is also her home, she will not allow anyone to say anything different.

She straightened up, looked at him in the eye. “Deep, Indians need to be part of society. That’s how we’ll stop this. It’s half the solution right there. Think about what we should do differently”

His jaw was clenched. "Why are you victim shaming? Why do we have to do all that? Not everyone's like you, attempting to volunteer and be involved. It's not our fault if some teens are causing us trouble. Their parents are the issue, not us. And the cops - when we call them, they don't care.".

Laila stiffened, then took a few steps to sit down across from him. "So, why is it that when something goes wrong with you or your people, it's different, but when it's me, I'm the one who's supposed to change?"

Deep furrowed his brow, the confusion writ on his face. He didn't understand.

She moved in close, speaking slowly, making sure that he was hearing her words. "Do you remember when I told you how your mom had acted towards me? How she was rudely condescending? Every time I brought it up, your response was always the same: 'What did you do? My mom's a saint, she would never do so." You always dodged, placing the blame on me saying it was my fault. Sounds like victim-blaming, doesn't it?

There was an unbroken silence. She could sense his mind was spinning, but he was not saying anything.

She exhaled and stood up, walking across into the kitchen to switch on the kettle and make coffee. The kettle turned on, the low hum filling the space between them. She needed its warmth, something to soothe her mind.

"This," she stated, her voice calmer now, "this is how I manage. I stopped letting you know how I felt because you would not hear. But I stopped going to your parents', stopped calling. I just got on with it. And these people - those that are being targeted - they will find their way too. Life will carry on. But it'll be different, and they'll get on."

She turned around, filling her cup with the boiling water. The conversation already appeared to be at its peak, and all she wanted at this moment was some time alone.