#WATCH | After rain-related accidents, Civic workers remove paint from Kolkata's rainbow-coloured Gariahat flyover #kolkata

How the SIR deletions affect the Bengal election results? Were certain categories of voters targeted and if so, what were the consequences? Does the analysis of Bengal elections suggest any lessons for the forthcoming state elections? Prannoy Roy (@PrannoyRoy7749) uses data on SIR deletions and swings in votes to answer these and other questions about the impact of SIR on the Bengal elections. Watch the full analysis and follow DeKoder for more. #ECI #SIR #VoterDeletion #WestBengal #BJP #TMC #WomenVoters #VotingRights #IndianElections #ElectionAnalysis

Every time I read about a woman being molested I remember. I remember the first time I was molested. I must have been 11 or 12 in a crowded marketplace. Or was it the second time because I think I was too little for memories. It is blurry. I remember a bus conductor holding my hand and refusing to let go. I struggled and struggled to pull my hand away and he just laughed. Or the time on the local train when a man was pleasuring himself looking at me. And I remember all the other times. So many that I couldn’t possibly count them now. I remember learning to hit back. Learning to use my elbows in crowded places. Learning to turn around fast enough to catch the person who had touched me or blown their breath on me. I remember carrying a safety pin thinking I was the first woman in the world to have come up with this brilliant idea. I wasn’t of course. Something I found out recently that women had been carrying safety pins for exactly the same reason long before I was born. And I don’t think men understand this. No matter how wonderful a man is, how empathetic he is, how much he loves the women in his life, I don’t think he can ever really understand what it is like to grow up this way. To be 11 or younger and already learning how to protect your body from strange men. To automatically become alert when you enter a crowded bus or a market. To know where someone’s hands are. To learn to push, elbow, shout and hit. They can be horrified. They can be angry for us. They can believe us. But they don’t remember being little boys and learning these things because they had to. We had to. And every single time I read another story I am angry all over again. So angry! For that woman, yes. But also for 11 year old me. And for every little girl who is going to learn the same things we did. When does it end?!