Twelve years ago, I was just 12 and all excited about moving to class seven. One evening, around 4.30 pm, I stepped out of my house in Hyderabad, along with my little sister, who was 8. Both of us ran to the park in the next lane to occupy the swing before anyone else could.
At the park, we mounted the swings and slipped into our own happy world, oblivious of two boys staring at us.
When we moved on to the slide, one of them stood at its edge watching me. I could not gauge his intentions then. I presumed he was waiting for his chance to play. Those boys then followed us wherever we went inside the colony on our way home. I stopped and asked one of them, “Bhaiya, aap kyun humare peeche aa rahe ho (Why are you following us)?” He immediately replied, “Hum address doondh rahe hai (We are looking for an address).” I was obviously naïve and bought his story and walked away.
After exploring the alleys of our colony and greeting all our friends, my sister and I went back home to eat some hot and spicy snacks. Soon after, the two of us decided to go to a stationery store barely a kilometre from our house.
We spotted the stalkers again outside our house. I was annoyed and gave them a nasty stare and frowned deliberately. They smiled and told me, “No one is showing us the route to the main road. Can you help us?” I dropped my suspicion and thought they were genuinely in need of help. I told them the route and left.
My dad always warned me not to take the shortcut route to the main road, which is covered with trees and isolated. But I was never an obedient daughter. I took the shortcut, not knowing what was in store.
The boys on the bike had stopped ahead at a shaded spot. As I neared, the pillion rider got off the bike and came shouting towards me saying, “Hey, there is cockroach on your shoulder.” I immediately looked at my right shoulder with fear and before I could realise what was happening, he groped me, felt up my body and ran away, laughing evilly. I stood there in shock, that evil laughter ringing in my ears.
I didn’t know what had happened; I couldn’t process it in my head. I was in my early stage of puberty and was still not educated about the change my body was going through. But I was sure what the boy had done to me was wrong. My sister, who was hardly 8, didn’t understand. She innocently asked me why I looked shock and why he had touched me.
We went back home immediately and narrated the incident to mom. She asked me to change my clothes immediately. For a change, I obeyed. But as soon as I did, she threw the shirt away — it was my favourite red one with beautiful flowers. I was very upset. Not only had I been groped, now I had lost my favourite top because of those evil boys.
I suppose she did it in a bid to keep the incident from haunting me, but it was of no use. The scar is still fresh and unhealed. There is an anger simmering in me, and their faces burned into memory.
That night, my sister was put to sleep early and I was asked to stay up. My mother sat with me and explained the gravity of the incident and educated me about how I am supposed to protect myself.
Since then, I have been alert to the disturbing possibilities when men are around.
Now, after so many years, nobody stalks me or follows my car, even at 3 am. But it’s probably only because there is a ‘Press’ sticker on my car.
(The writer is a reporter with the The New Indian Express)
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