It wouldn’t be fair to characterize all my travels with rose-colored glasses and images of pink-tika’d people dancing in joyful circles as described in My Single Favorite Moment in India.
The night of Ganesh Chaturthi will always be remembered as the best night I had in India, and the most joyous of all my travels to date.
It also happened to be the worst.
If you’re my mom or you’re my dad or you’re anyone who loves me and worries about me, please don’t read any further. This may upset you.
Many countries throughout Asia are sexually repressed. India is among them, but for some reason I will never understand, there are some awful men in this particular country who act out in a uniquely awful way. (I mention it briefly in Return to Inndia.)
This disgusting act can be described as quick & discreet touching of women’s private body parts in very public spaces, and an even quicker, more discreet disappearance into the crowd. It happens at markets, it happens at tourist attractions. And it happens at festivals. Even holy ones like Ganesh Chaturthi.
After joyously celebrating this religious occasion for several hours at Juhu Chowpatty with Maja and Gaurav, I headed to Girgaon Chowpatty. It’s where the largest Ganesha statue would be placed into the ocean, one of the most anticipated and celebrated moments for Hindus the entire year.
It was a largely organized event, much different than the personal, family-oriented rituals we participated in at Juhu. In hindsight, we wished we would’ve stayed there where it was mostly families immersing their own Ganeshas in true celebratory fashion. Here at Girgaon it was people just standing around, waiting to catch a glimpse of one of the amazing statues going into the water. And really, these massive things were a sight to see.
But as we made our way closer to the water, a crowd had started to form (and the first rule for women travelers in India is to avoid crowds). So my friends and I decided to move out of the crowd and towards a more open space.
Thus began my single worst moment in India. And probably my entire life to date.
Getting through the crowd was challenging, but when I realized it was a crowd of men with deliberately wandering hands, it became scary. Very scary.
I don’t wanna get too graphic, since I know many of you who are reading this are those I just insisted not to. But let’s just say it wasn’t basic ass-grabbing. There was certainly a lot of that. But there would also be touching of the lower front private parts, which could almost (but not) pass as being accidental, considering the size of the crowd. But there would also be undoubtedly deliberate cupping and pinching of that area as well. Executed by these disgusting human beings, ever so quickly but to the point of pain.
When this happened to me my first time in India last spring, I was too shocked to react. I would later be told by Indian women that if it happens again, I should make a scene. I should make a huge fuss, a lot of noise, and people will band together to help me.
So I did just that. At the first inappropriate touch, I screamed at the top of my lungs, “DON’T TOUCH ME!”
Only, no one came to my rescue. Instead, I found myself getting swarmed by even more unwanted attention and victimized by even more inappropriate touching. I was completely helpless as I pushed through the crowd. And imagine being me, at only five feet short – I look up and all I see are sick pervy faces in every direction, and all I can feel are these filthy hands all over me. It was like a scene out of a horror movie, where the hungry zombies are coming at you, only these zombies are sick perverts, and you have nowhere to go and you think you will never escape.
I finally emerged out of the crowd. Completely distraught. Trembling uncontrollably. And then the tears came. I tried to control them, I tried to stop them. I almost wished I could react the way Maja was, which is similar to the way I reacted my very first time – too shocked to cry. Too shocked to believe that what just happened actually happened. But for me, it was all too real. Some concerned police officers tried to console me and asked why I was crying. I didn’t say anything. I just kept on crying and kept on walking. I wanted to get the hell out of there. And besides, I’m pretty sure they already know what happened.
This horrific thing happens to women all the time in India. Even the local women. And it happens swiftly and stealthily. What can possibly be done to stop it? I don’t know.
All I knew at that moment was that I didn’t want to remember the night this way. I refused to let those sick fucks ruin a day I had already decided was the most joyous in all my travels so far.
My friends and I got into a taxi and, aside from my sniffles, sat in silence. Side by side with Maja, my dear friend and fellow victim, I stared straight ahead. She did the same. And we held hands. I tried to fight the tears. And she tried to comprehend what just happened. She broke the ice by saying, “I don’t understand.” Then she told me something that infuriated me even more than I already was.
In all the chaos, she’d been bitten on her bum. BITTEN. Some sick fuck had the forethought to get down low enough yet fast enough to bite her on the behind and disappear into the crowd. This would leave very defined teeth marks on her flesh for quite some time and a purple bruise that would last for weeks to come.
What. The. Fuck.
We got out of the taxi and we went dancing. That’s right. Fuck those fuckers. We found every family, every child, every teenager dancing on the street (which there were plenty of), and we were welcomed into every festivity with smiles and joy. We danced, we laughed, got sprinkled with pink tika. I stopped being a crybaby. And we went home as happy as we possibly could have, given the circumstances.
Our friendship was forever changed that night. Maja and I endured something truly dark and frightening. And although we would never wish that incident on anyone, we’re glad we had each other through it all. In fact, we left for Goa the next day to begin a most fantastic adventure. As you can see here in Good Old Goa, we didn’t let anyone ruin our fun.
I had reservations about posting this experience on my otherwise mostly positive blog. But omitting it would be a disservice to other travelers, particularly females. Every traveling woman has a right to know what the India experience entails, and I’m sad to share this reality. Better to be informed than not, though, right? Knowledge is power.
Anyway. I don’t wanna devote another minute to this awful memory. So fuck this blog entry and go back and read this happy one 🙂