The early morning fog was still clearing. A few of us were commuting to a Computer class. I was 19 in my final year of college. Off-campus workshops in an all-girls college were still a rarity in my town. Spread around the crowded city bus, we were thrilled about our journey compared to the daily commuters. It wasn't every day we got the opportunity to get away from regular classes.
I don't remember the person next to me: a classmate; I forget what we were talking about. Possibly a movie or maybe a song we were listening to on repeat. It definitely wouldn't have been our college coursework; physics had stopped being interesting to me. Despite being insignificant, I recollect the conversation was making me smile.
I remember, suddenly, I was trying to make myself small on the aisle. What was it? I felt something, someone, creeping into my space. I shifted and squirmed in my seat, moved forward and then sideways. The strange feeling didn't go away; it kept taking up more space. A man standing next to me, taking advantage of a crowded bus, was thrusting his penis on me. I was trying to get away; I moved closer to my friend, who I still don't remember. A knowing look and a tight squeeze of my hand confirmed I wasn't imagining.
I must have turned around to look up at him; I remember giving him the sternest look I possibly could muster. What I saw was his smug emboldened face, a face I can no longer picture, but the smirk is imprinted. It still sends a shiver down my spine. Though it felt like an eternity, it must have been only a few minutes. Minutes where I didn't think I could go through such a range of emotions.
Shock at being violated,
confusion about how something like this could be happening so publicly,
fear imagining the reaction from my parents and college officials,
shame, the visceral shame when you feel victimised.
Another male traveller noticed; he grabbed the man to pull him away from me. All the while, he was cursing him and explaining to startled people around him what was happening. The commotion prompted the driver to decelerate. My assaulter saw this as an opportunity and ran out of the bus. No one attempted to stop him; someone advised the driver to keep going; for a split second, I felt relief.
There was an uproar; it felt like everyone was speaking at the same time. Women seemed angrier than men. Given the man was no longer there, I wondered who were they screaming at. Imagine my surprise when I realised most of the anger was directed at me and more generally at young girls. Some accused me of being careless; men managed to accuse us of being too chatty and lost in our world to pay attention. Many observed we were not seated in the designated ladies-only section. It was soul-crushing; I wanted to die and disappear. The final nail in my coffin was the woman who went on about how I wore my dress (Salwar kameez and dupatta).
That day they were all my assaulters. He targeted my body and my so-called saviours; the people who stood around him targeted my dignity. I never spoke about it or told anyone of authority. Eventually, I mentioned it to a few friends. It was on one of those few occasions where women tell each other about their battle scars.
17 years of uncountable hours and minutes, this is the first time I am reporting it