Cultural patterns and learned behaviors explain pieces of it; and the foreign and racial stimuli heightens the occurrence of sexual harassment Intellectually, the overwhelmingly disappointing behavior of a collection of male individuals can be analyzed with social and gender theory, with the hope that understanding will lead to empowerment and change. One striking factor is that harassment was often the worst in areas commonly frequented by foreign tourists — the most popular sites or hotel neighborhoods. Lack of cultural awareness on the part of visitors is problematic anywhere, but it is dangerous to suggest that this can dismiss accountability for such negative behavior.
For today, I am simply going to describe the public treatment I received in my last few days in Delhi, so that maybe you can understand what it is like.
I was staying in a small hotel in Paharganj, known as the backpacker’s neighborhood (budget accommodation and close proximity to the railway station). The white population is only a sliver of the crowd, but at a higher concentration than most of the city.
My life is simple: saying goodbyes, writing, collecting gifts for the package going home. Every day, I walk through the neighborhood.
Walking down Main Bazaar, the widest of the narrow roads shattering order in Paharganj, means hearing “hey, baby”‘s every ten feet or so. I used to count. Every minute at least on the main road. Sometimes every ten seconds for patches at a time. Those were not always the literal words, but that’s how I’ve dubbed the casual inquiry since the first time I heard that Americanism from an Indian guy’s mouth. Other not so pleasant comments, as well.
This should not need to be said, but for those who need to hear it: I dress in primarily Western clothes but conform to Indian modesty, always wear my hair up, do not smile or make eye contact with men. A friend commented that I almost looked angry when he first saw me on Main Bazaar.
December 9th begins just like any in Paharganj — with a lot of sexual harassment — but it is the day that I am (truly, this time) leaving Delhi.
I had visited major locations and ashrams related to Mahatma Gandhi across the subcontinent, but the thread was incomplete: the last, and natural, step was a visit to Raj Ghat, the site of his cremation, in honor of his work and what I had learned.
The park was not far from the railway station, so I made my way through the general harassment of Paharganj, dropped my backpack off in left luggage, and sought an auto rickshaw from those lining the station exit.
Auto drivers tend to be older than the typical guy vocalizing his desire and/or masculinity. They do not verbalize, but they are not entirely free from intrusion. Most often it is lack of respect and a strong drive to overcharge that dominates the exchange. One accepts my price, relatively quickly, among the many who scoff. Zooming off into city traffic, he adjusts his mirrors and I slide all the way over to one side, removing my body from the two circular reflections hanging at his eye level while adjusting my clothes to be sure that I am covered. Sometimes I add an arm across my chest, too, in defiance.
We arrive at the park; I exit with a severe look on my face and pay him. Knowing little English, he responds in a confident voice, “Sex?”
I fling out my arm in a weak hit, not quite connecting with his face, and hurl a few harsh words which sufficiently communicate my opinion of the idea, because his smile disappears and he speeds off.
Already worn down by the Main Bazaar gauntlet, I stagger into the park, stunned by the encounter — that he was almost twice my age, how clear it was that he expected a positive response, how casual.
A few couples and families occupy the wide sidewalk leading towards the enclosed reverential square. Graceful lawns separate us from traffic, drawing in a peaceful quiet despite throngs of schoolchildren on a field trip to see the closest thing you could get to Gandhiij’s grave, as his ashes were scattered across India.
I try to relax, focusing my mind on ashram memories. It is hard to ignore the elementary schoolgirls pointing at me. Depositing my shoes to be shelved away at the counter, I pass through the archway. More little girls come, giggling, to stand a few feet away and then skitter back to their friends. I walk, breathing, feeling each footprint, bringing up a meditative state. As I reach the enormous glossy slab of stone, flame and incense swirling in his honor, I lose focus. Attempt some thoughts of gratitude and respect despite the circling schoolchildren who keep their distance but remain intently observant.
Quickly out of the square, back to my shoes, across a lawn, deep breaths now, far to the edge of the initial grassy slope but still within sight of women although at least fifty feet from any human being to get a break, I sit against a tree and take out a little book of Gandhi’s writing to recover what meaning I lost.
Six teenage boys in matching uniforms gather together about fifteen feet away, stare, and laugh.
In one forceful phrase I instruct them to leave. They begin to move, but look back and linger, so I stand to go, and more of them arrive. All around seventeen/eighteen. They follow me in gangs of four or five, fanning out behind me laughing pointing jeering grinning. I lose it, shout back asking them to leave me alone, the farther ones pick up the pace.
Four months in India and I am finally, literally, chased away.
It is not violent. Eventually, after following me for a good seventy feet, they stop, I break away and reach women, crying once my face is turned away from the teenagers. But they were clearly part of a high school trip, where were their teachers? And the families, couples, adults there. This was not a subtle moment in a packed street. It was a crowd of more than twenty whooping and pursuing a girl in front of their eyes.
Delhi had been my home during the journey, hosting close friends and inspiring work. I left the park and the city hating that that was my goodbye.
The walk between the Bhutanese temple’s guest house and the Buddha’s bodhi tree is about fifteen minutes, but every rickshaw bicyclist eagerly hawks their services. They’ll follow for a moment, ignoring rejection, then fade back.
There’s an unusually high number of men following me on bicycles.
When I first arrived, I could find every temple except the Bhutanese one with its elusive guest house. Which meant walking all over town. Going down the main road opened up more male inquiries, distinctively done on wheels. The bicycles slide closer, keeping pace for the minute or so that they (1) build up the courage to call out only to hear a quick negation or (2) are rejected immediately but linger, hoping.
Although I’m quite experienced in being shouted at on the street, this feels different. In Delhi, sexual harassment primarily functions as an assertion of the aggressor’s masculinity, often a blatant demonstration to a cluster of friends. Most of the time, the guy does not leave space for any sort of response. My presence is largely irrelevant, despite casual interpretations: those who expectantly wait for the anticipated affirmative response are the minority. Instead, men appropriate my foreign independent white female body for their gender performance, defining themselves as effective, heterosexual, masculine men by ridiculing and violating my presence. This comes from deeply divided and rigid gender and sexual norms.
Most if not all of the men in Bodhgaya actually want a response. Their behavior looks similar to the above on the surface, but it lacks delight in your discomfort and indifference. They hope. A desperate strangled hope that makes the whole performance sad. This feels similar to being overwhelmed by the auto drivers outside the train station: high demand for a rare commodity — with limited local supply.
Bihar, the poorest state in India, has some gender issues, with an imbalance in population that is not the worst in India but has been steadily dropping from its once-high position. The spread of dowry culture and a general preference for sons lowers desire for female children; and, in some cases, people turn to gender-selective abortion and female infanticide.
There simply aren’t enough women. I suspect that it increases the pressure these men feel. Bodhgaya calls many travelers, and more tourists means more harassment. I still feel more rare here than in the busy backpacker neighborhood of Paharganj.
Some are more persistent than others. A few slow down on motorbikes and call out, then move on when it is ineffective. One fellow returns three times. I am walking past the Thai-style temple when he spots me, hitting the brakes and sweeping over to begin a conversation. I treat him like everyone else: direct and polite words with a carefully neutral-nearly-negative face. But either his fantasy or his desperation is too strong to acknowledge it, and after a false departure he returns with the same words, swinging his motorcycle to block my path.
Young, well-dressed, attractive, if he was plucked out of his cultural context and dropped onto an American street, he wouldn’t have so much trouble. But he is too much like the rest, and ignoring my rejection does nothing for his case.
By now I am sure that I’m going the wrong direction, and I cross the road, sighing over the thing you never want to do — go back the way you came, letting everyone know that you are lost.
After a moment, the motorcycle guy (always remaining astride it) turns and cuts across the road, pulling up alongside me. Indignant, I say, “You are treating me like a prostitute.”
And that gets through to him. He leaves. At the time, I found it odd that that was what finally convinced him to go, that he would not succeed. Maybe he just had more confidence than the rest, so it took longer to shake him. But I hold out hope that he realized what so many others did not — what his behavior says about who I am to him.
It wasn’t upsetting, and a moment later an elderly gentleman offered directions, enabling a quick discovery of the Bhutanese temple. But throughout the rest of my time in Bihar, men would sporadically trail behind me and fade. A sad sorry desperate parade.
October 16th, the legally viable harassment case. Last night, I hauled the middle berth into place and hooked on its supporting chains as soon as I boarded the train in Chennai. A man tried to explain that it wasn’t immediately necessary, but I mumbled something back, stretched out on the lower berth, and slept until the train pulled into Nagercoil Junction the next morning.
My prediction back in Hyderabad’s gurdwara had come true: incredibly nauseous, I slide heavily into a seat on the connecting train to Kanyakumari. It’s only twenty minutes by rail, but a cheerful and curious man sits directly across from me, attempts to converse, and fills the empty space with stares. I have no energy for him, and stretch my scarf across my face, which makes him find another seat. I focus on not being violently ill.
Kanyakumari, a little beach town with a famous temple, lies at the southernmost point of India; but I am too sick to think of anything more than a shower and bed.
Shaking slightly, hair frizzed and clothes wrinkled, I slowly make my way out of the station and down the long dusty driveway to the main road. The plan, as always, is to ask around until I find a suitable place.
A young man jogs up behind me before I can get far, calling out — he identifies himself as the manager of a nearby guest house. I never follow touts, but I can see his hotel from where we are standing, and it’s almost adjacent to the station. I make eye contact with a nearby elderly lady, as if she could tell me if this was legitimate, but her face is unreadable. My stomach angrily churns and I know I need to find somewhere fast.
I turn back with the young man, who peppers me with questions (like everyone) but I am too sick and indifferent to engage, leaving my voice neutral and answers minimal. He tells me that he is 26 and always looks out for disoriented foreigners. I explain that I am merely sick, for a confusing moment he thinks I am pregnant, and I tell him again that a friend’s baby stuck her fingers in my mouth.
There’s another man chilling at the desk in the entranceway. The young manager collects keys and leads me up one flight of stairs; it is a nice place, but empty (it is 9:30 AM). He is continuously chatting with me, but I never smile — I need somewhere to be sick. Now.
He has called himself my “good friend” from the first moment, and eventually I mutter in response, “My ‘good friends’ always try to sleep with me.” But he didn’t seem to hear.
We settle on a room and a price, but it takes him a moment to sweep it clean. I dump my things on the bed, desperate and glad, and stand waiting for his departure. I say I am going to shower, he asks why he needs to leave, and I push him out the door explaining that I am going to throw up immediately and he better go. I tell him that I will come downstairs in twenty minutes to check in, and he agrees.
Click. Door bolted, and I strip off my scarf, shirt, pants; then, towel in hand, enter the bathroom. He’s still talking to me, waiting out in the hallway, he needs something, needs me to let him in, and follows my negating voice to the broken bathroom window — and peers through the few inches’ gap at the sill.
I am not an exceptionally modest person and am still in the equivalent of American beach wear, so my gut reaction is to stand, hands on my hips, and say “Are you really looking at me right now?”
He jumps back, and I cover the window with my towel. My mind can still file this away as a misunderstanding, and, barely bothered, I turn on the water.
Illness addressed for the moment. But soon he’s back at my covered window, talking again, asking me over and over to let him in. He says he has left the broom behind, and needs to clean other rooms. Couldn’t I please open the door? I am stuck, wet, staring at the toweled window; I have already asked him to leave, have already said again that I will come downstairs when I am ready. In a clear, self-assured voice, I explain that he is preventing my towel access, so there’s no way I can let him in anytime soon if he doesn’t step away from the window.
Another brief respite as he moves to the door to continue his pleading, and I can dry off. This guy has not left me alone for how long now?
I see his shape pressed against the half-open, but tinted, bedroom window. The hinges are on my side (literally and figuratively), so although he has pushed it open, he can still only catch wall. But I can see his hand gripping the metal latticework.
None of this has frightened me, although I am trapped again: my clothes are on the bed out of reach, and I refuse to give him even the shadow of my naked body. He is still talking., “I like you.” and “There’s something I need to tell you face to face.” It takes some effort, but I convince him to step away from the window for five minutes. Just five minutes. And finally he does.
That’s all I need to dress, pack, and prepare myself for his prompt return. Just to be sure, I look around, under the bed, everywhere — no broom. Not a surprise, but, still. Bastard.
His voice wheedles into the room again. I’m ready for him, backpack on, wet flipflops stacked in my right hand. This time when he asks me to open it, I do.
I accuse him, bellowing, and take wet shoes to his face, solid hits on each side left right left right. He stands, shocked and staring. I set off down the hallway, tossing a final outraged “fucking pervert” over my shoulder, comforted knowing that shoes are an exceptional insult here. This guy wasted almost an hour outside my door.
Down the nearby stairs, I see that the tiny lobby is empty of whoever that other man was, and no one else heard me.
I set off down the dusty path by the train station, and walk to the main road to find a new place to stay. I only feel annoyance — how inconvenient, what a waste of a cheap room, at least I feel better and got to a bathroom.
To everyone who told me that I should dress/behave differently/modestly: not only was I wearing loose trousers, a long top three times my size, a scarf draped over my chest, and had my hair pulled up, I did not smile or laugh, and was visibly ill to the point of telling him that I needed to throw up. I don’t know how to be less attractive.
But that doesn’t matter — he was drawn to me because illness gave the illusion of weakness. I dramatically underline that word because it is a key piece in constructed power imbalances and systemic sexual violence (in all its forms). The sad thing is that I’ve seen this behavior before, and it did not succeed then either.
At my new guest house, the manager’s face lights up with an unnaturally delighted smile, out of place in typical customer relations in India. I turn around to leave, but he offers me a deal plus the place is crowded and full of women. This time, rather than being neutral, I am downright rude to this person when I check in, trying to wipe away that overeager grin. A young man is standing next to me at the counter, and makes a comment to the manager. I want to turn to him and say, “Maybe this time, if I am actively obnoxious instead of indifferent and unsmiling, this one won’t come visit my room.”
But I say nothing, and let him think badly of me. Because it wasn’t my fault.