The gaze – the man found something appealing in her; luscious, a pleasure. Her throat tightened, bile rising up.

The man could be her father’s age; someone she should revere, but she could not. Her mind filled with calculus, how to get out of the lift.

The heavy bag slipped from her shoulder; the bra strap was visible, and she became horrified. “What have I done?” she ruminated. Somehow, it was her fault; she was wearing a T-shirt. Simple attire, and she had not thought twice before putting it on.

The man scrutinised her body, making her aware more than ever before. Her head swirled; the grip around her straps tightened. She felt smothered, as though she might faint. She gulped while she was fixing her bra strap, even though it was not visible. It was involuntary; she felt his eyes on her, like a monster ready to gnaw at her and grab her.

He was peering, glancing, staring, and she felt like shutting her eyes. To steer her attention away, she grabbed her phone as the discomfort returned, like the devils’ eyes watching.

This experience was neither rare nor sporadic but rather so normal. Her lips were dry, the skin peeling, revealing the red underneath. She shuffled and wished she were a prima donna, someone who did not care, who shunned it all. But she knew God had only given her the power to ruminate and become paralysed.

When she sat in a rickshaw she would catch the gaze, the intent staring at her chest. Sometimes she felt like scraping off her breasts; she did not want that attention. Her body shivered, but she could not break down; it would give them too much.

She went to the market – same story. She failed to fathom how men, her father’s age, maybe old enough to be a grandfather, could linger. Sometimes with inappropriate pushes, and yet she felt reckless and powerless.

She curled her hand into a fist, but she knew that it would be futile. No one was going to help her. It was explicitly stated, pointed out by everyone: the musings of men, men being aroused, were only one person’s, one gender’s fault.

Women.

It seemed ludicrous to think that instead of emphasising that she was sixteen and the man was fifty, people blamed how she dressed. The calculations all about were now whether her bra strap was visible or the bra could be seen through her fabrics, not her calculus.

It was always about her neckline being too low and whether anything could be seen when she bent down. She needed to learn how to lean differently: “Squat and then pick up something,” her mother said. She was sixteen and already weary. She could not lament it.

Why? Because it was normal.

Wearing a salwar, no matter how much fabric wrapped around her body, did not help. It was the same, the leering. Once she wished she could simply exist, where at least in front of grown men, she did not have to be agitated about the hint of cleavage.

Peace was all she asked for. A grown man chose to consume her with his eyes, and not because it was her fault, but because he did not know how to control his reins.

Her mother scooped her up in care, and love overflowed. She felt safe; her mother fought every day relentlessly to keep her protected. Her heart shattered seeing her poor mother’s fight for her. She covered herself the way her mother told her, yet she could feel the eyes – not because it was her fault, but because it was the problem of men being uncomfortable around women.

Arundhuti Bhattacharjee is a student of class 10. She is an avid reader and her hobbies include painting.