View: https://richabhattarai.medium.com/to-the-boy-who-groped-me-twenty-years-ago-90af83e94e01
To the Boy Who Groped Me Twenty Years Ago
The scars of sexual harassment are painful, deep-rooted, and unforgettable
Richa BhattaraiFollow
~7 min read·September 7, 2021 (Updated: January 5, 2022)·Free: No
The samosas in our school canteen were legendary. They had the perfect amount of spiced potatoes stuffed within a triangular delight. They were enough to make me brave the crowd clamoring in front of the stall.
I slid into the group of students holding out their money and asking for the savories. Unconcerned about the throng around me, I made my way forward, and that was when I felt the hand on my rear. Heart hammering, I reasoned that it was only an effect of the rush. But the hand stayed there too long to be unintentional. By the time I steadied myself enough to turn back, the hand was gone, and all I could see were faces, impatiently awaiting their turn.
Trying to squash the horror that threatened to erupt in me, I surged ahead, almost to the counter. And there it was, again, the hand, squirming sickeningly over my breast. Even my usually naïve mind took offense at this violation, and I turned sharply to the right. But again, a painful squeeze, a quick getaway that left my glasses askew, and the hand had vanished. Leaving me with my ears buzzing, dizziness building up in my head, a strand of disbelief preventing me from keeling over.
I must have reached our classroom, though I cannot remember. The only thing I recall is Shakun Didi, my kind older classmate, hugging me. I wonder what betrayed my helplessness to her, how her experienced eyes sought out my pain. She must have known, must have realized, what was going on in my terrified mind. But she had no words to ask me, and I had no words to tell her. Until now. Until I look back, years and years later, and remember the incident as one that snatched away innocence. I hate it mightily.
The second time it happened, I was barely a teen, still trying hard to hold on to the last rungs of childhood. One trick to imprison it was to shroud myself in loose, ill-fitting clothes, so no one would notice the torso which each day grew more like a woman's. I hoped to conceal myself in androgynous clothes.
That was what made me slip into a huge t-shirt dotted with tiny horses. Confident that no one would notice my awkward gait, I waddled down the street. And then, in broad daylight, with perhaps twenty people making their way around us, a person from the opposite direction reached out and groped my breast. He also said something, most likely an obscene expression, but I didn't stop to work it out. Ears ringing, cheeks burning, heart thudding, I ran all the way home, and never talked to anyone, ever, about another attack on my innocence.
The years after that, I should say, I learned to take care of myself better. To pay complete attention to the happenings around me, avoid crowds, never make eye contact, and steer clear of people coming towards me. But of course, it was not enough. Nothing is ever enough, in this society that respects weeping, cowering, frightened women more than happy and outspoken ones. There were always distant uncles who sidled in too close for comfort, strangers who considered it their birthright to use your thighs, vendors and bus helpers brushing past quite unnecessarily. A too-long hug, a hand on the shoulder, a finger on the waist, an elbow sliding down the back. Until it became a routine to mechanically avoid these confrontations as much as possible, and be thankful for any day when people did not press in from all directions.
Photo by Sasha Nadelyaeva on Unsplash
And then, suddenly, a repetition of the past. Me returning home jubilantly after a day out with my sister and her friend. A teen shadowed us to the lane that leads to our home, taunted us when we retaliated, flung out his hand to grope me, and disappeared. His mocking laugh reverberated long after he was gone. My knees refused to hold up my weight, and I slid to the ground. My hot tears mingled with the cool raindrops pattering down, while I whispered, "Why me? Why did he do that to me?" The two girls embraced me, comforted me, told me it was not my fault. But the hollowness inside me refused to go away. I asked myself whether my figure-hugging top had been too provocative (even though it was too dark to make out), whether I should not have worn my favorite trousers that ended below the knee.
Because this is what we have been taught, what has been drilled into us ever since we were toddlers — that any violence, any misconduct against us means that we must have done something to start it, flame it, deserve it. This tendency to blame ourselves, to put ourselves at fault, think of ourselves not as the victim but the victim's aide; his guilt, anxiety, dejection, is what is eating away at me and all my sisters.
All of the above are sentences we have heard many times over. Sometimes the barbs are pointed at us, sometimes at others. But the basic premise is this: girls should be covered from head to toe, preferably in sack-like, unflattering wear; should not be out after dark (or should not be out at all), should be pious and go quietly about work, and no harm will come to them. Everything wrong happens to the bold, the demanding, the characterless. Lies, and bullshit. The biggest propaganda that we have been forced to swallow.
Because, as I said earlier, no amount of decorum and reserve is going to protect us from this vicious world that pretends to love us upfront and strips us naked as soon as we leave the scene.
Ten years ago, I was walking to my office from the parking lot, two minutes at the most. My office was smack in the middle of a busy road, two security personnel guarded it at all times. So, a person stopping his bike in front of the office was no cause for concern. I strode ahead confidently, and my eyes briefly met the bike rider's. Goosebumps erupted along my neck. The man had scrunched his trousers to his thighs, and was calmly, unhurriedly, touching himself as he stared at me.
I ran inside and raced upstairs, mouthing incoherent sentences, until my younger colleague took me aside, linking my hands in hers, and fished the story out of me. And revealed that she had faced something similar on her way to tuition one foggy morning.
What then, you might ask, is the solution? Not pepper sprays, not black belts, not tiny knives buried deep within purses. No amount of grit and confidence and willpower is enough to live a happy life, one where I will not constantly have to look behind my shoulders, when my heartbeat does not quicken at the sound of footsteps behind me, when I will not flinch and shy away from a friendly, caring touch.
The only solution is holding perpetrators accountable. Empathizing with the ones who have been wronged, and coming down strictly and swiftly on those who have wronged. Raising our daughters to be unapologetic, and our sons to be respectful. Not questioning the victims, but the criminals.
Rising against offenders again and again and again in every possible way, in books and movies, in op-eds and interviews, at home and in office, in every public and private space till everyone understands just how vile and unacceptable it is to make any other human being feel uncomfortable.
And to the boy who groped me twenty years ago, I think of you every other day. With feelings of disgust, hatred, and deep sadness. You are likely married now, perhaps you have a sister, or even a little daughter of your own. How protective you must be of your wife and daughter and sister, how ardently you must wish to shield them from all harm, how panicked you must be at the thought of despicable boys and men like you.
But you know what?
It does not matter whether you have a wife, sister, or daughter.
It should not matter.
No matter her relation to anyone, every woman is an individual who deserves to be treated with utmost respect.
It is not too late for you to do begin doing that.
Will you take on this challenge, to make this world safer for every woman?
Will you, finally, turn into a human being?
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(First published in The Kathmandu Post, 2013. Link unavailable)
