Jungle

I was gifted an interesting contraption yesterday - a latex-covered foot-long rod. Before you get the wrong idea, let me tell you how it works. You hold the thicker end of the rod and do a swish-and-flick movement. Like in that scene from the first Harry Potter movie where Hermione teaches Ron how to use a wand.

Except, you swish-and-flick with force. The rubber-covered rod magically extends to thrice its size. It transforms from an interesting contraption to a lethal weapon.

It was a gift.

From a father to his daughter.

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It’s a jungle out there.

It’s not easy being a girl.

A woman. Or even a child.

It’s not easy being beautiful.

Pretty. Or even plain.

It’s not easy being a Hindu in a saree.

A Muslim in a burqa. Or even a Catholic nun.

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I remember the first time it happened. I was at the medical store buying Crocin for Appa. Just as I was settling the bill, I felt a pinch on my butt. I was so stunned that I didn’t turn back - afraid that he would do something worse to me.

I was wearing a mid-length skirt and a loose top.

I was in fifth grade.

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He was family. That’s what Amma told me.

He visited us one Sunday afternoon. Amma asked me to serve him lunch.

He chatted me up and asked me to feed him a morsel. I did. He sucked on my fingers in a way that made me feel dirty.

I ran to Amma and complained. She asked me to go complete my homework.

I was in sixth grade.

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One day, I was home alone when a garment salesman knocked on our door. He was selling pant and shirt pieces. I had just started dressing in western wear and was interested in what he had to offer. He said they even took up tailoring orders and offered to take my measurements. I still regret having accepted that offer. Over the next half hour, he went on to strip me off my dignity even while I was fully clothed. I should have cried for help but the embarrassment of making this incident public stopped me.

By the time he left, I was sobbing openly.

It did not stop there. A few days later, he followed me back to the apartment and entered the lift when I was going up. He tried to kiss me. This time I fought back. I pushed him away, stopped the lift in the middle and ran out.

To this day, I get terrified every time a stranger enters home when I am alone. To this day, I take the stairs if there’s a lone man in the lift.

This happened in tenth grade.

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Sometimes violence can be closer than you imagine.

He was my neighbour. He was my friend. I liked him. I looked up to him.

He liked me too. In a different way. I didn’t know it then.

We would sit for long hours on the terrace. He would tell me stories and I would share my dreams with him.

He was like the big brother I never had.

One day, he asked me for a kiss.

Without thinking twice, I planted a kiss on his cheek.

That day, the equation changed.

He made me sit close to him.

He touched me - not in a friendly way.

He held my hand - even when I told him I was uncomfortable with it.

He kissed me by force.

I should have told Amma about it. But I was afraid she wouldn’t believe me.

I was in eleventh grade when it happened. It stopped the next year when we moved to Chennai.

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Chennai.

I had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. After successive bouts of depression, I switched from college to correspondence and stayed all day in my room, staring at the ceiling, thinking of painless ways to end my life.

The only upside to it, I barely went out. Life was peaceful, at least on that front.

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My 21st birthday.

I was in Bangalore, waiting for the bus one winter morning when a boy cycling past me whistled out loud - “Hey sexy”. He looked like he was 12. Thirteen at most.

He didn’t touch me. He didn’t even ogle at me. Then why did I feel violated?

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Back to Chennai.

Men on motorbikes grabbed my breasts while I was riding pillion, a look of triumph in their eyes as I cried out.

Men brushed themselves against me when I travelled by bus.

Men drove dangerously close to me when I walked on the roads.

Men ogled, whistled, hooted.

Men.

Men.

Men.

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I got myself a pepper spray.

I kept my hair short after reading a newspaper report that said women with short hair are less likely to be victims of sexual abuse.

I wrote about it - hoping for catharsis.

I cried myself to sleep when the memories of it came back to haunt me.

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Today.

My heart beats faster when I see a minivan approaching me.

I break into a sweat when I notice the man on a motorbike looking at me.

I pull out my pepper spray when I’m on a deserted road - be it night or day.

I maintain a steely expression when I go walking.

I stare down men who stare at me.

I try to be brave, but I am afraid.

Very afraid.