You Can Look, But You Can’t Touch

Guilty?

Last Saturday, I sat at Leopold’s Cafe with a group of Indians I met at an event and discussed women being—for lack of a better word—assaulted by men on the trains and in train stations. (This whole topic had started after I mentioned I had been in New Delhi the previous week.)

I’ve heard of women being harassed in the stations. Men will apparently slap a woman’s butt—as she’s standing on the platform, and he whizzes by on a moving train. I’ve heard stories of men “accidentally” bumping into a woman’s chest as he walks by her.

I’ve been safe so far. Until last Tuesday.

I was waiting at Goregaon station for a train to take me to Andheri to meet Arnab and his father for dinner. I stood near a significant amount of women, which usually means I’m waiting where a women’s compartment will stop. Not this train. A relatively empty general compartment stopped directly in front of us. The women scattered.

I was already running late, so I jumped on. The ride itself was uneventful. Sure, they stared, but when don’t they? It wasn’t until I had to get off the train at the perpetually crowded Andheri station that I had a problem. As I got off, dozens of men pushed their way past me and onto the car. As my feet hit the ground and I started to take my first step, I felt someone squeeze my butt.

This wasn’t an accidental squeeze. It wasn’t a brush of the hand or even a light squeeze. It was a deliberate, forceful squeeze executed with full fingers.

Rather than turn around, however, I had to continue to push through the onslaught of men, or I would have risked being sucked back up into the train. By the time I was in the clear, the perpetrator was no doubt watching me from inside the already moving train.

My first thought was, “I guess that’s what I get for taking the general compartment.” That was immediately followed with, “No. It’s not my fault. It’s his fault.”

Blaming myself is one—very large—step away from blaming rape on victims. “It was her fault for wearing a short dress.” I did nothing wrong. My only fault was riding on a train compartment that allows men in it.

I can deal with the fact that men are more vocal and that men stare, but grabbing my ass is not a cultural difference—the euphemism so casually used for such behavior. I was ashamed that I hadn’t reacted at all.

It was ironic then, that just days earlier over beer and milkshakes two of the women were discussing how they dealt with such situations. One woman said she just ignored them, as making a scene only encourages them. “Like small children,” I said. The other woman took a vastly different approach. She slaps. She screams. She grabs collars. She makes a scene.

Meanwhile, the two men sitting across from us sat in awe. “I had no idea.”

I can’t promise I’ll have a much different reaction next time. Heaven forbid I slap the guy, and he mistakenly thinks I’m coming on to him—which is apparently how men can interpret a foreign woman staring back.