“A Teacher takes a hand, opens a mind and touches heart.” That day my teacher touched me.

It took me a long time to muster up the courage and write this piece about my life, which was hidden in the darkest corners of my mind ever since its inception. I didn’t know then that it is something that should be spoken about aloud at our homes, forget about in public.

I am 24 now. This happened when I was 11. My father has a job that involved a lot of transfers so we had just shifted out of Kolkata. I was always a bright kid, a proper “teacher’s pet” you can say. I loved it when I got attention in school, and teachers used to praise me in Parent-Teachers meets. I was good at arts, so I had always been enrolled into art classes. Here also, a couple of months after moving into the new place, we found an arts teacher very close to our house who used to give children drawing lessons every Sunday.

I used to particularly look forward to this day because I loved drawing and painting. Every Sunday morning at 10, my elder brother and I would pack our bags and go to his place. There were a few other children also who came with us.

Needless to say, I used to get extra attention from him in the class, and I liked it. I used to get “very good” on my drawing, when no one else got the same remark. My joy knew no bounds at that time. Little did I know, there was something sinister about this. 

One Sunday, “Sir” told us all that there would be no class the next week as he had to go out of town for some work. Later that evening, when I was out playing with friends, he came to me and said that the class will be held as usual, and that he had informed others as well. I think it had skipped his mind that I had a brother at home who used to come to his class as well. I told all my friends too who went there and long story short, the class still stood cancelled, as he had no other choice when parents intervened. When I think back, I can't imagine what would have happened had I gone for that class.  

By that time, it had already started. Little touches here and there. First arms, then inner arms and then the back of my neck. I used to feel weird. But I didn’t know it was wrong. Until that day. 

We were in class. He came and sat beside me and told me to do something on the paper a certain way. I was doing as he said, until I felt his hands sliding inside my top. I was wearing a white kurta which was a bit loose. He started fondling my breasts (though I didn’t have any prominent breasts at that time). After he was done fondling, he started rubbing and pinching my nipples.

I was blank, shocked, and paralyzed in my seat. I trembled and was sweating profusely. All of this was happening in a room full of children and I was unable to move. My throat dried up. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know it was wrong. But I felt dirty. I was in pain. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I spoke loudly to tell everyone that I had to pee, and ran out of there. I ran down the stairs, ran out of the gate and into my home. My parents thought I really had to pee, that’s why I was back early, without my stationary. I went to my room and sat there for a long time, numb. The entire morning was playing before my eyes and I was hoping that it didn’t really happen and that it was a fragment of my imagination.

I didn’t know I was molested. I didn’t know this was a sexual crime. I didn’t know that it was not my fault. I thought maybe he knew I liked attention, that’s why he was doing this.

I told my mother I won’t go to his classes again because exams were coming. And then stopped going altogether. Since we lived in the same neighborhood, I didn’t come out of my house for almost a year, for the fear of running into him outside my house. I didn’t touch my paints for a long time, as I held them responsible. I didn’t wear that top ever again in my life because I felt someone would again touch me like that if I wore it again. I somehow lost my trust in all teachers, especially male teachers in my school. Every time any teacher would praise me, I would be cautious enough to try and be invisible in my class. For a whole year I cried myself to sleep.

I tried telling my mother but could not. I was always the ‘good’ girl. What if I became ‘bad’ now?

I feel anger rise within me when I think back, to why I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t know which one is more wrong- he doing it, or I letting him do it.

Today I know the answer. But I can’t change the past. I have learnt to live with it. But I can change the future. I understand when others fail to understand. I believe the implausible. Because there is more to see than what meets the eye.

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