Sexual Harrassment in its Various Forms (and why we need to talk about it)

Disclaimer : This is going to be a long article. Read when you can give it ample time. If you are still asking “Why do you need feminism?” or “Why are you talking about sex, rape and such negative things?”, please read till the end, this is for you. If you think you might find comfort in relating to my experiences, read ahead. There is nothing too big in here, just everyday things women have to face, but if you think it might trigger something, please don’t read ahead. If not, read it in one go, or read it in parts, but let it sink in. Bear with me. Have conversations about this and any other experiences any of you may have had, with someone you find comfortable. (But first make sure that they have the mental energy at that time to be a good listener, especially if you are not that close. The rest, you’re the best judge of your life.)

This is not a lecture or a speech. The stories that follow are events from my past. Some of these may seem inconsequential to you. But nothing that made someone feel uncomfortable is unimportant. If you think these should not be called harassment, look up the definition of the word. This is not an exclusive list of all the harassment I have faced. This does not include the disgusting stares and lewd comments I’ve received in public. I have perhaps forgotten some events because I was too young, or because they dim in comparison. I may have pushed some events to the back of my mind because they are too disturbing to remember. There may be stories I am not ready to share yet. All the characters have names, but I shall not mention them, because this is not about them. This is about me and how unsafe I felt. This is about every woman and her right to feel safe.  My friends have told me similar and worse stories of their own experiences. But those stories are not mine to tell.

I would like to start with something that was not sexual harassment, but was still a violation of my personal space (a concept non-existent in India, especially in the case of children). When I was 4, some days I took the school van home. Some of the older girls found me cute and pulled my cheeks all the time. My skin has always been tough because of allergies. It hurt a lot when they pulled my cheeks. They took my irritation for cuteness overload. I hated taking the van with those girls who were (otherwise) actually really nice. They went to my dance class too, and I tried my best to stay away. I may be guilty of invading children’s privacy and cheek-pulling too, but I make sure that they don’t have tough skin. I try not to invade their privacy. This is a small thing. I have seen worse, to be honest. Years later, as an adult, in a crowded Government office, waiting to pay some bills, I saw an old man showering “love” on a clearly uncomfortable 4-5 year old child as her mother watched nonchalantly.  I felt disgusted, but somehow powerless.

When I was 15, I went on a much-awaited class trip to a water-theme park. As we were happily running down the stairs after one of the rides, I saw some boys of our age happily running up the stairs, joking and laughing among themselves. Such a positive image, isn’t it? Not for me. When I see a similar scene now, my heart stops, for, that day, as we passed each other, one of the boys reached to his side and cupped my left breast, and without skipping a beat, climbed ahead. As I stood in shock, frozen, I heard his friends congratulate him. I am crazy about the water. But, that was the first and only time I have been to a water-theme park. Now, when I am going up or downstairs, I stay close to the handrails, I move away from people, and I step aside to let others pass. I use my arms or my bag to shield (not hide) my body every time I am in public spaces. That day, I was not wearing revealing or body-hugging clothes. I did not have a well-developed body underneath my loose flowing dark-coloured patterned hydrophobic clothes I had specially bought for going into the water. None of that helped. I am sure every woman can understand the amount of thought we have to put into our outfit to make it “appropriate” and safe. My need for planning and my aversion to surprises probably arise from this.

When I was 17, on a long train journey with my mother, we met and connected with a family, as we often do. The boy, a few years younger than me, later narrated to me how he spent the whole time trying to get a peek at my cleavage. He asked me why I don’t have full breasts like my mother (in much less tasteful words). This has happened many other times too, sometimes coming from old “friends”, telling me that I’ve “become hot after moving to Goa”.

Later that year, in college, a “friend” spread rumours in his hostel about how “easy” I was and that he regularly had sex with me. This hostel was next to our college, and the inmates constantly catcalled and flashed every girl walking past the building. I can only imagine how much more nuanced this story was, but only this short summary ever reached my ears. What hurt the most was the kindness and effort I had put into this “friendship”. If not for those friends who stood up for me when I did not even know this was happening, and then told me about this at a later time, I might have lost all faith in humanity. I let it go for the sake of my own mental health, but I shouldn’t have. I feel like I have no right to ask women to speak up, when I haven’t, even from my very privileged position.

The same year, our college canteen started selling ice lollies. Two of my male classmates were fascinated by the way I ate ice cream, and invited the whole class to watch. They told me I was very talented, and that I should teach other girls how to eat ice cream from a stick. Fortunately, I did not care about what people thought of me, even back then, and I knew better than to hold myself back to seem like a “good girl”.

When I was 18, my class was taken for a 3-day field trip to design and build treehouses with waste materials in a forest resort. We were a group of about 35 students, a male lecturer and a female lecturer. My parents always ask me about the lecturers accompanying us on trips to ensure that we will be safe under their care. Our lecturers were friendly people and we believed that we had the freedom to be open with them. The female lecturer was a strong bold woman, supposedly a feminist. At the resort, we were to live in cottages or tree-houses with adjoining primitive bathrooms. The workshop was an amazing experience and will always hold a special place in my heart. It will also always hold a special place in my memories, but for all the wrong reasons. I learned many lessons in those 3 days. It was a truly life-changing experience. The first day’s work was extremely demanding and we were all tired. The owner of the resort, who was also our ‘tour guide’, offered to take us to the beach, but most of us were too tired. Some of us wanted to go, being beach-heads. It was already dark when the guide and our lecturers accompanied us to the beach. We had a fun walk followed by some peaceful beach time. When it was time to return, we walked almost in a line, with our lecturers in front and the guide at the rear end. I am generally protective in nature and always let my friends walk ahead of me so that I can keep an eye on them. My friends were walking mostly in pairs, and I was at the end of the line with only the Guide (I notice the irony in calling him that) behind me. It was pitch dark except for the torches with the lecturers and guide. I was a little scared that I was left behind with a stranger. I can be very clumsy on my feet at times and kept tripping on pebbles in the dark unnoticed by those in front. The Guide instantly came to my “rescue” and grabbed my hand. I was uncomfortable and became even more scared. I began tripping more but tried to hide it in fear of what he would do next. But, he noticed and kept his other hand on my waist. I freed myself, pushed him away and ran to the front, hoping not to trip again. I did trip and fall but, managed to get up and run before he could reach me. As I reached the front of the group and walked alongside my unassuming friends, he caught up to me and said, “Why did you run? I would have picked you up and carried you!”. I have no words to describe how scared and disgusted I felt; how alone.

The next day, we spent the evening around a bonfire, and as per tradition, shared horror stories. Afterwards, we put on some music and danced. By the end, it was just a bunch of girls. We saw a figure on the slope above us on the hill, and assumed it to be one of our male classmates talking on the phone. But soon, we realised that it was the Guide watching us dance. We felt uncomfortable and scared, and began sharing our experiences during the trip. I recounted the events of the previous night. We decided to speak to our lecturers about our concerns. As you may have already guessed, they did not take us seriously. We decided to band together for the night and protect each other. We stayed together in a small cottage that night. We took turns using the weak bathroom separated from the cottage by 2 feet of open darkness, made of a covering of straw mat, and had a gaping hole on the side which the girls had been covering with a towel. The back door of the cottage that led to the bathroom was not secure either, and had to be tied in place. The Guide came to the door, and shone a torch at his face and peeked through the crevice to scare us. Can you imagine about 20 “adult” women in a room, scared of one middle-aged man? We could not sleep. Several times throughout the night, he cut off power to our cottage. Every time, someone would panic and we would call our male friends who would come from another cottage and stand outside our door till the lights come back on. As soon as they left, the Guide would cut the power off again. Most of my friends cried themselves to sleep that night. People say I am a control freak. To them, I say, this is what lack of control feels like, to a woman living in this world. So yes, I would like things to be done my way.

I was scared to share this experience with my parents, with whom I usually share things, because I knew that they would be scared for me. I was afraid that they would be too scared to allow me to go on the next field trip. I couldn’t risk missing important trips. I cannot remember if I ever expressed my gratitude to my classmates for that night. I may have been too traumatised. But because of people like them, I know that #notallmen are bad. But the events of that trip makes it more than clear that the bad behaviour of just one man is enough to make the lives of all women around him hell. It also made clear that just one woman’s ignorance is enough to make us feel unsafe and unheard. So I know that #notallwomen are supportive either, even though I also know that #allwomen are scared at some point in their lives. I will never understand this dichotomy. We just wanted to be heard; we just wanted to feel safe.

When I was 20, I realised that I should have confronted my “friend” about the rumours. I had gone to a birthday party, and on the way back, some of us stood outside my house for some time to talk and click pictures. While we stood there, right beneath the window of my living room (where my parents sat waiting for me to come up), discussing our career and future, my “friend” kept touching my butt, even after I repeatedly rebuked him. When I physically stopped him, he forced his fingers into my armpit. I stopped all conversation and sent everyone home. After some time, he sent me a dick-pic and told me that he was masturbating to the smell of my sweat on his fingers. The next day, he said, “I’m sorry, I was drunk”. He, like most people, thought that being drunk gives you the freedom to violate the privacy of others.

When I was 21, I went to Kanyakumari for the first time.  It is this beautiful place with sea all around, where you can see the sun both rise and set into the sea. I had wanted to go there ever since Amma told me that she went there while she was carrying me. I had about half a dozen friends with me. The trip was amazing. We had so much fun and it was night by the time we started back. The 3 girls sat on one long seat of the bus, while the boys sat a few feet behind on the back seat. We were all drowsing off. I sat in the middle with my 2 girl-friends on either side. Sometime in the middle of the night, some men came and stood near our seat, even though the bus was mostly empty. My friend on the aisle seat got uncomfortable. But, she was bold, and had the presence of mind to speak very loudly, directed to a half-sleeping me, remarking how this man was hovering with his ass in our faces. We both woke up, but everyone else was asleep. The three of us were scared, but we made some more loud remarks about taking our pocket knives out, till the bus conductor heard the conversation and drove the men away. Little things like speaking up could make a big difference.

When I was 22, I went to a local village ritual in Goa where men danced around a fire until they were “possessed”, after which they ran off to the nearest graveyard, dug up parts of decayed carcasses and came back to dance around the fire in a trance. The watching crowd consisted of the families and neighbours of the dancing men, and some visitors like us. The stench was horrible. We were sitting horrifyingly close to the entranced men running around in circles. We were supposed to sit quietly in the dark as even a small distraction to the trance could be dangerous to those watching. But it was comforting to see women and children of all ages sitting around us. Some local boys, no older than 15, were sitting next to me. At first, I thought that one boy’s hand accidentally brushed against my leg. Then he began touching and stroking my feet lying beside me. I was shocked! He was just a child. Perhaps I did not remember the similar experience I had when I was 15 myself. I was so much older now. I could easily stop him. I knew I was strong enough. But the men were in a trance and I could not make any sound, nor could I shine any light. I tried to hide my feet underneath my knees, but the boy still reached towards them. This time, I took his fingers and bent them backwards. I felt so bad about hurting a child, but I was desperate to escape the situation. But my reaction only seemed to edge him on.  I had to do something. I moved my foot and ground his fingers underneath my shoe. He finally backed off. It is not a great situation for an adult to be made to feel powerless by a child. How do you fight back? I had a hard time bringing myself to hurt that boy. But what choice did I have?

The day I turned 25, my friend asked me, “Are you that easy?” (Translated). This does not need any context, because under no circumstance is it okay to ask a woman that.

When I was 26, and living in one of the safest cities in the UK with zero crime rate, I had to stand outside a closed bus station for about 2 hours between midnight and dawn, to wait for a bus. The streets were lit and mostly empty. A few groups of drunken college kids came and went. One man, looking homeless and high, was walking to and fro. As soon as he saw me, he walked up to me and asked for the time. Harmless? There was a bus going the same route as the one I had booked for, but leaving an hour before mine. There were empty seats on the bus, but the driver refused to let me in as my ticket was for a different bus. The drunken guy then seemed to follow me around as I kept moving to make sure that there were people near me. I cannot think of anything that would scare me more than a strange man following me and speaking to me for no reason. I tried to stay in the light until my bus arrived.

I recently heard an Instagram-influencer-couple talk about their experience with regard to this. She said, “As a girl, I’m sure many girls will agree, we almost force ourselves to forget it because it’s just…”. She’s right. It’s disgusting. We don’t want to remember these things. But even when our conscious minds are not thinking of this, decades of training has conditioned our body to be aware of this 24x365. When I’m travelling, I never fully sleep. I’m always alert towards my surroundings, to prevent any inappropriate advances. Those around us know all these too. They all say what the male partner from the influencer-couple said he’s used to saying; “Text me when you’re home.” I say it too, to everyone in my life, regardless of gender. All of you reading this, text someone when you get home, let someone know where you are. Be safe.

All of these and much more happen to women (and children and sometimes people of other genders) all around the world. The recent Hathras rape case was especially disgusting and scary. This piece of art was inspired by that sorrow, and seems like an appropriate ending note to this.

- A concerned woman