I went to Little India on a Sunday once, in the daytime. It was my first time going there on a Sunday and I was fascinated to see what appeared to be the island’s entire population of Bangladeshi and Indian construction workers occupying just about every empty space, sitting or standing and talking amongst themselves. They were not having a picnic of any kind, they were simply hanging out. I like to tell everyone who’s never been to Little India on a Sunday to do just that, at least once, just to see it with their own eyes.
So when my friend suggested we walk about Little India last night, I thought, “Hey, why the heck not? That would be funny.”
I was greeted by the same sight from a few years ago. Colours. Chatter. Chaos. As the night progressed, however, it got more and more crowded and I got a little nervous. But I figured they were all minding their own business and nothing bad would happen, even if I was getting stared at with every innocuous move I made (i.e. walking; breathing). We stood amongst the construction workers for a minute, for a lark. When we saw a queue for the bus to take the workers back to their quarters, we joined it for a few seconds, laughing the entire time. It was all fun and games until we resumed walking…
And I felt a hand on my arse. And no, it wasn’t accidental. An accidental brush would have felt like an accidental brush. No, this son of a bitch gave my butt a proper squeeze. My friend was walking ahead of me so he didn’t know what happened until I made enough shouty noises to draw his attention. You know what was shitty though? Between the unwelcome strange hand on my arse and me screaming “OH MY FUCKING GOD THAT DID NOT JUST HAPPEN!”, I did not turn around and kick the SOB in the gonads. No. I didn’t even turn around completely, I actually looked to my side, that was all I did, and then I yelled for my friend. I didn’t even look at that guy’s stupid face. What the hell was wrong with me?!
For the rest of the night I was ridden with regret. “I’m not like that. I’m feisty. I should have elbowed him. I should have at least turned around and glared at him,” I chanted. My friend tried to assuage me by joking that it was because I have “a very molestable arse”, which only irked me further. Even if I did have a molestable arse (and the dress I was wearing did give me a Kim Kardashian arse, actually, frankly speaking), that was no excuse for that piece of shit to touch it as he pleased. I keep replaying the scene in my head and in my fantasy I turned around and socked him right in the jaw, like I have done before, like I’ve always thought I would do in that situation. But the problem is, when you do find yourself in that situation, rarely do you react quickly enough to do that. You get overwhelmed with shock first. While that only lasts a few seconds, it’s enough time to allow the culprit to get away. I know it’s normal to be so shocked that you’re rendered speechless and motionless, but I keep thinking that me being me, I should not have been too overwhelmed with shock to even breathe – I should have thought faster, moved faster!
I know that karma is a bitch though. I may not have been able to get back at him, but the universe will. Maybe he will burn his hands at work or something. And since his line of work largely requires usage of his hands, the injury might prevent him from working for a while or better still, for life. Yes, I do bear grudges, and I do bear ill-will towards people who wrong me. For molesting me, he deserves it completely.