Skinny legs, wide hips. Small boobs, big bum. None&neither are a reason for you to look at me. You do anyway. Because I’m an Indian woman and you’re an Indian man. And that seems to give you a free pass. To look me up and down. To leer, to lech. To do that ‘thing’ with your eyes so I feel unclean inside. We’re not in India. We live in a country where you’d be punished. Severely. You don’t care. I swear at you. You smile. I bend down to slip off my chappal. You inch closer. My anger is a turn-on. You only notice when another Indian (man) towers over you. He threatens. You run. Not before sending me one last lingering look. And I was left feeling nothing. Because I’ve had worse than a look. I’ve had the attentions of Mr. Grope. Mr. Arm Graze. Mr. Boob Swipe. Mr. Ass Pinch. What I’m left with now is anger that I wasn’t angry enough. How easily I shrugged it off. Pretended it never happened. When it happened outside my own home. What I’m left with now is a secret hope that I see you again. So I can take your head. And bash it against the dashboard of a car. So I can grab your arm. And stub my lit cigarette on it. I’m an Indian woman and you’re an Indian man. I think I have a free pass.