ravi the frotteurist*

Well, I had a very interesting, and rather unpleasant, cultural experience last night. I'll warn you at the outset: I will be going into excruciating detail about it, so this will be even longer than my usual marathon posts.

So, E and I decided to come back to Chennai on Sunday night. We got home, ordered some Pizza Hut (I know, we're so bad...but E is always the instigator when we eat American food), and I went to the internet place right by where we live to do a little emailing before the pizza arrived. Like many internet places, this one has a little loft where most of the computers are, and the people that work there and take your money and all are downstairs. I'm using a computer next to the wall, and there was no one at the computer to my left. There were maybe two other guys using computers in the loft area.

At some point, it ended up that I was up there with only one other internet user, and he was sitting at the computer right next to me. But I didn't really notice any of this happening, because I was engrossed in what I was doing. Then the guy next to me, who was a young-looking Indian, tapped my leg with his finger to ask me a question. The fact that he tapped my leg seemed mildly weird, since I think that the shoulder is the most common and appropriate place to touch a stranger, but whatever. It hardly seemed like a big deal, and you never know what is appropriate when you're in another culture. He seemed to be setting up a Yahoo account, and he was asking me questions about how to do it. This all seemed very reasonable and normal: he could see that I was using my Yahoo account, implying that I'm familiar with how it works, and his questions seemed like normal questions for someone who does not speak very good English.

But he kept asking me questions, and they got more confusing and less clear. And the next time he tapped me to get my attention, it seemed like he was going to tap me on the shoulder, but instead he ended up lightly tapping, with one finger, the side of my breast. I'm sure many of you are thinking that the red flags should have gone up at this point, but look at it from my perspective: my breasts are big, and they stick out, and people sometimes bump or touch them without meaning to. And I don't tend to assume that any random person next to which I'm sitting has any lascivious intentions, and I especially try not to assume this with Indians, because it makes me feel like I'm racist. So I just answered his question and went back to my email. The email, not him, was what the bulk of my attention was focused on. He kept asking vague questions and after a while I told him that I'm not sure what he's trying to do and I don't think I can help him.

Some moments later, he leaned over and quietly asked me another question, which I didn't understand. "What?" I said, leaning toward him a little. I can't remember his exact words, but he seemed to be asking for something or to do something. But he wasn't saying what he was asking for, and I was too oblivious to have figured out yet. So finally, exasperated, I said, "You want to do WHAT?"

This was not the right question to ask. In response, he fully grabbed my left breast, and as I pulled away, horrified, he did what I can best describe as a rather revolting licking pantomime. I pushed his shoulder hard and said "No, that's disgusting, don't touch me."

And then I got up and left, right? Well, sure, now that seems like the logical thing to do, but again, look at it from my perspective. I was almost finished with a longish email to my dear friend H, whom I've been neglecting lately and who is doing similar research to ours (the link to his fascinating blog is to the right--unless your computer will display Korean characters, the link probably looks like a bunch of little squares--but the blog is mostly in English). So anyway, I really just wanted to finish my email, and the guy seemed sufficiently chastened by my rebuff. As if to confirm that I'd scared him off, he left his computer shortly after that. As he walked past me, however, he reached down and ran his open palm rather firmly over my breast (the left one again--the poor little thing). It was revolting. More revolting than I would have expected, given that I'm not way hipped up on personal space and all (not like I think it's okay for strangers to touch my boobs, just that I didn't think I'd feel as violated as I did).

So I'm shocked, and for a split second I am totally dumbfounded. I believe, furthermore, that had this happened a couple months ago in the US, I might have remained dumbfounded long enough for him to escape without a response from me. But, I am proud to say, a whirled around and grabbed his arm roughly at the elbow. I didn't yell at him, but I spoke very sharply. I can't remember exactly what I said to him, but it was along these lines: "Hey, you little pervert, that was not okay. That was disgusting and it isn't okay to touch people that way. Don't ever do that to anyone again. Do you want me to call the police?"

I have no idea how much of what I was saying this guy even understood, but he certainly knew the word police, and suddenly his entire demeanor changed. He put his palms together at the chest (you know, like you do in yoga--Indian people do it as a greeting, mostly) and apologized over and over again. I could tell that he was absolutely terrified of the police (for good reason--I'm sure if I had called the cops, who are quite corrupt, they would have beaten him senseless, which is of course not what I really want) and of the people downstairs hearing what I was saying. After his numerous apologies, he tried to explain to me that he had only done it because I am "so beautiful" as if that would somehow make it less inappropriate and creepy. I told him several more times never to touch anyone like that again, and then I let him go.

I quickly finished my email, practically threw a ten rupee note at the cashier guy, and high tailed it to E's room at Broadlands. I told him the story, and of course his first question was, "is the guy still there?" (Which is very sweet, but I also think E is looking for a reason to beat up an Indian.) So I whined and curled up in ball on his bed and discussed my hatred of men while eating my pizza, which had just arrived. I was wishing that I'd slapped him or kicked him in the nuts or at least said something more to him. After mulling it over with E a bit, I went back to the internet place and told them what the guy had done. We have to write down a bunch of info everytime we use the internet there (oh Indian bureaucracy, we bow down to your awesome size and power), so I asked for his name. He had just written "Ravi", but he'd written his mobile number, and I got the guy to give it to me (totally illegal, I'm sure).

I haven't actually done anything with the number, and I probably won't, but I'm still thinking about it.

Meanwhile, this whole incident has gotten me thinking about a lot of very interesting cultural issues, and I'm going to blab all about that, but I'll have to do it later, because this keyboard sucks and I'm tired of typing.

*frotteurist is the clinical term for a person who gets off by rubbing up against strangers, or something like that. I'm playing fast and loose with the definition in this context, but it's a fun word to use. Either Rebel or MJ, both Psych majors, taught it to me, so props to both of them, since I can't remember which it was.