He Only Touched Her Na

Let's say we're making a movie, you and I. We need a story. A screenplay. A character.

A girl, almost a woman. Age: 20; the number suits the tag. In keeping with the law that Facebook confirms for us each day – even a boring female lead is more likely to hold the audience's attention than the average male lead could ever hope to.

So what have we here? A young woman, urban, easy on the eyes. A clean heart. Nowhere near perfect. Not exactly an outlandish creature. Too simple, we need to spice it up. Let's say she gets molested.

How shall we shoot it? A desolate alley, a flickering streetlight? She walks by a dark corner, shivering slightly, wearing her slinky off shoulder dress and her best perfume. A hand creeps out of the midnight shadow. A gagged mouth, flailing arms. She falls to the ground.. No no no, that's too cliched. Let's change it all.

6 pm, an open road. A bright summer evening, a pleasant breeze. The school is shut today, it's a bank holiday. Another festival when no one knows what they're supposed to be doing, but okay. It's a holiday. She's about to leave from home, she has an errand to run. She walks to the front door then returns to her room. Swaps her shorts for a pair of jeans. Why give the grandfather something to agonise over? An oversized shirt and modest jeans. Modesty modesty. She's good to go.

15 minutes. She's on her way back. Another 30 steps on that footpath and she'll be home. She approaches the corner, walking between wall and vehicle.

He moves in right at the blind turn. Rough hands on her front. Legs locked. A disgusting sense of violation. In hindsight, a peculiar lack of smell. She instinctively twists her elbow, jabs him in the chest. It's over before a count of three. A quick, violent fondle and he's running. She follows on his heels, faster than she's run in some time now.

The chase lasts longer than the action he got. It always does. Around three long blocks, twice as many turns and loops. Two pairs of shoes slap against the road. A constant stream of abuses. Men standing ahead stare at her; what makes her chase this guy? "Pakdo usko!" From behind her, "Arre but what happen medam?" He races ahead, clear about where he's going. She follows, clear only about why she's running.

Random thoughts flood her mind. Wrong day to have put on these worn out slippers. A big middle finger to anyone who later dares to say women ask for it. Abuses that rarely get considered are being yelled, men on the street continue to stare at her funny. The guy's athletic, fast, maybe 18. A striped blue and white shirt, smart dark jeans. He could well have been her junior in school. She wonders how she can think of anything just then. She wishes she'd managed to loop her arm around his neck. Kneed him hard. The skin above her left breast stings. Crazy montage. That bastard. Speed up.

She loses him at a sharp turn. It's a maze of bylanes, each as empty as another. She was a fool for asking people around there if they'd spotted someone like him. "Arre madam problem kya hai?" "Chutiye ko chamaat marna hai." Silence. Failure.

She's home now. Sweaty. Furious. Loathsome. Breathing hard. Itching to lash out. To do some damage, maybe rip off his balls. How could she? It hardly matters. She's mad at herself for not matching his long strides. For wanting company but not knowing what to say. Still so furious her eyes sting. She’s bruised and bleeding and it wasn’t her fault. She was violated, just because he could. Not because of how she was dressed. How dare people say this is part and parcel of being a woman?

It's still bright outside.