I wasn't wearing a miniskirt. I was wearing a sarong over jeans that were ripped off me. But the police wouldn't have thought of that. Such surmising requires great powers of observation and deduction: blood, bruises and dirt on my legs and thighs might have suggested a forced entry; a bleeding hand might have suggested foul play; no shoes on my feet might not have been a sign I was a lady of the night (prostitutes don't wear shoes?) but a victim of some nasty crime before being discarded on the roadside. Anyone with a basic education and TV-cop show understanding of crime scene investigation would know all that. But not these police officers.
Inspectors, maybe. But not the first-rung johnnies reserved for the general public. Some of them are no better than the brutes they're meant to be protecting the public from. And even the majority (let's be positive) who aren't breaking the law aren't always above protecting those who do, or having a total disregard for a victim's ordeal.
Sorry, I know I'm cribbing. I've lost a lot of blood and more dignity than I ever knew I had. And if I sound bitter, well, I was just raped by three men - sorry, two men and one "boy" of 17 years of age - who pulled me into their car and drove me around Delhi (heard that one before?) while they took turns violating me, to put it nicely. Then when the cops finally came to my rescue they nudge my disregarded body with their dirty lathi and deduce, wise Sherlocks, that I am a whore and therefore not deserving to be rescued.
Then again, just because I wasn't originally dressed like a whore doesn't mean I wasn't. Maybe I am a whore.