Member-only story
To the Boy Who Groped Me Twenty Years Ago
The scars of sexual harassment are painful, deep-rooted, and unforgettable
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.
