Large portions of my childhood I have forgotten. They only come to me in bits and pieces and sometimes make no sense at all. Exasperated, I relegate them to flashbacks from dreams.

So whenever I am reminded of a particular memory due to a familiar smell or sight or the eerie feeling of dejavu, I narrate it to anyone I can find. That is how I might create a valid space for it in my mind.

So the one incident that foreshadows all of it, is that of sexual abuse, when I was small- when I knew not if it was right or wrong and when I knew that man. A family is supposed to protect you. Yet these creatures hide in plain sight, camouflage their intentions under the guise of uncles, cousins and family friends.

Child sexual abuse is more prevalent than you think and yet, we haven’t woken up to it. Often, even identification of the perpetrator is futile because any misdemeanour reported by a child is brushed under the carpet because ofcourse, a child cannot clearly judge if it is being touched inappropriately. She/ He is ridiculed with a soft reprimand of ‘He’s your uncle! You can sit in his lap.’

‘He is your cousin, duh. He can lift you up! Where have you been getting these absurd ideas?’

So even if the child was uncertain and instinctively right, we’d rather let her/him believe that physical intimacy was okay even if you’re uncomfortable.

But what happens when she grows up and realises that affection has got nothing to do with someone sliding his hand down her frock or pressing her against his loins. The revelation, is shattering. The myth of the Great Indian Family is busted and she begins loathing any kind of physical contact.

I have to live with a realisation that I cannot simply forget because it is what foreshadows my childhood. I remember our silly games. But more than that, I remember a hand caressing me all over.

And it fills me with a shudder and deep disgust even 20 years later and will stay with me till my last breath. I have been waiting for closure but it is evasive like sleep. I have become a troubled sleeper frequented by nightmares.

The trauma stays with me.

Add to that, everything else that being a woman entails.

I wonder why they call us feminists. What are the chances, I, of so many women around on this planet, will face sexual assault outside my family. Doesnt it happen to other women only? Yet, I have had my nipples pinched, butt groped, elbowed, touched inappropriately when I stepped out. What is worst is that none of it is met with shock or surprise.

Some women express outrage while others recall their experiences. Men simply chuckle and shake their heads in apparent comedy of, ‘ Why does it keep happening to YOU?’

Is there one woman on this Earth that can say she was never subjected to molestation, leering, cat calling, eve teasing, whistling or discrimination? Why do you call us feminists when we are simply showing you a mirror?

What happens when these tortured children grow up to be tormented adults that cannot come to terms with their helplessness in erasing the recurring images of being sexually abused?