The Men who Touched me

As I sit under the streetlamp, waiting for the man to fix my tyres,I think about grief.

Funny how we got too many things to think about but the most we resonate with, is pain.

I've never been in a war, or a holocaust, or an ethnic cleansing, but still there is a familiar numbness inside.

Not feeling anything at all. How long since I've felt something genuine,I can't remember.

I think about the time the man touched me, on my way to the temple. I remember feeling scared.

His fat fingers moving all over my tiny body.

His lips touching my neck as I stay frozen, petrified.

I remember how I never forgave God. You were supposed to protect the 12-year-old.

I remember clinging onto the car seat, afraid he'd touch me again.

He tried to.

I remember going into the store one sunny afternoon looking for a drink.

As I took a can of coke and held out my hands to the cashier for the money, he rubbed his fingers on my palm, with a sly grin on his face.

He looked proud.

I remember not reacting. I felt the familiar shame.

I remember the man who sat next to me on the crowded bus.

He looked innocent but creepy. Don't know how one can be both.

I felt a hand touching my thighs.

I froze again.

I remember moving my legs to stop him touching me; In a crowded bus.

I was wearing an outfit that covered my body.

I wondered "Does he not have thighs? What difference did mine have?"

Then I remember the boy who touched me, with my consent, and how that made me feel.

Pleasure at first.

But when the love passed, and we touched again, it lost something.

Something I wanted all along. 

Attachment.

There was pleasure, but I didn't want it anymore.

What pleasure lay without love? 

I remember the guy who stood waiting outside the elevator, waiting for me to get in with him.

I heard the elevator bell ring as it opened, as I waited for him to leave.

When it closed, I went into the building, only to see him still waiting- for me! To get in with him.

I was probably 8! 

I remember feeling helpless. 

And the familiar fear

I remember one day going back to my apartment with my four-wheeled bicycle after playing with my friends all evening.

A man got into the elevator with me.

He did not let me press the floor I wanted to get out on.

He took me to the terrace, held me up against a wall, and told me to do something in a language I didn't understand.

I don't remember what I felt. I was probably 4!

He put me down when I started to cry. He took out a 100-dollar note and left it right next to me.

What he gave it to me for, I'm not sure.

I went home and told my mom.

I saw the same fear on her face.

I remember being sick the next day, probably because I was petrified the night before.

I never got in an elevator with strangers ever again.

I remember coming home from school one day; waiting for the elevator once again.

A guy came and stood beside me, waiting for it, like me.

When the door opened, I didn't get in.

I stood outside.

He stepped in, watched me stay away, and probably sensed my fear.

He got out and insisted I take the elevator; that he'd take the stairs.

I remember feeling thankful.

For being a decent human. For not turning away from someone else's fear.

For making someone's day a little better.

I still do not take elevators when I'm alone.

I feel trapped in it.

The same old feeling returns.

Lately, grief has been consuming me.

Grief of things I lost, feelings I cannot feel.

The familiarity of things makes me uneasy.

The rage I feel punching the bag in my room. I see their blurred faces on it.

I punch until I feel weak.

Fear turned out to be rage, and now I have no way to get it out.