Used to it.

Everyone is looking at you. Every single one of them. They don’t know your name. They don’t know where you are from. They don’t know. Would they like to? Is that why they stare incessantly? Stare at me. Stare at you.

Am I provocatively dressed? No. Am I covered up. Yes, from neck to toe. And should it even matter? Ideally? Should it? No. But here, I cannot crack a joke in a “public place” without attracting attention. They stare at my phone. They stare at my face. They look closely at my shoes, my jeans, my very ordinary cotton kurta, my nails, my hair, my hair clip. They look. As if memorising every detail. I am used to it by now. Aren’t I? Delhi woman. Used to it. So I ignore them and laugh at something you said. We laugh and they are straining their ears to listen in on your joke. You take my bag from me and their eyes follow your every move. Its disturbing.

Its disconcerting. I scowl, I frown and I look like I could bite their heads off. But they stare. They look at you. At me. At us. Out of the corner of their eye. Openly. Slyly. Lecherously. They look bored. They look interested. They look hungry. They look scared. But they all stare. Stare at your face. At your gait. At your shirt to catch a glimpse of cleavage? At the swell of your breasts. At your abdomen. At your crotch. They don’t stop staring.

Its a stare-a-thon. They even smile unabashed at times. Some look away. Some you need to stare at angrily. They stop. One stops looking and the second one continues. Then the third carries on the torch. It continues and you carry on walking. Tired of fighting unless someone says something or touches you. Even then some of you shut up. Shut up and walk on. Walk briskly. Walk fast. Enter some coffee shop and forget about them. Reach home and take a cold shower and get rid of it all. If only.