Show me an Indian woman who does not have a history of molestation and I will move to wherever she’s living.

Here is my first molestation memory. I was 10 and, as the euphemism goes, ‘developing early’; fully clothed, buying chips at a crowded stall, when the stall owner reached out with both hands and unequivocally squeezed my breasts, leaving me disturbed but confused. The older I grew, the more frequent such things became.  College in Delhi meant bearing ‘eve-teasing’ — an innocent sounding word that covers a world of random men on DTC buses rubbing themselves against your shoulder if you sat, your back if you stood struggling for balance or grabbing a quick grope under your winter shawl. The world of work was paved with random unwanted touch.