I remember reading that an Indophile American writer’s wife once refused to travel with him in India some decades ago because she just couldn’t deal with the throng of strangers who had no concept of personal space. When he described the mental anguish his wife experienced, I thought she might have been overly sensitive.
I was reminded of that when I recently met another American woman who had joined her husband on his work trip to Bengaluru. She had hoped to explore the city while he worked. But she told me she was constantly being accosted by people when she stepped out of their ritzy hotel in the city centre. She couldn’t walk anywhere without people grabbing her hand, pestering her for pictures, or trying to start conversations for no reason. So instead of exploring the city on foot, she stuck to hotel taxis for quick visits to nearby museums and malls. And mind you, she’s a mature career woman. It made me realise how deeply troubling the ordinary Indian’s disregard for personal space and boundaries truly is.
The furore that’s rightly broken out over the groping of the Australian woman cricketer in Indore has once again brought women’s safety into sharp focus. As usual, a sexist minister blamed the victim for going out without security. The point, Ministerji, is that the groper might not even have known or cared that the women he followed were cricketers. All that mattered to him was that they were women—and that they were white.
It’s undeniable that white skin has a siren-like pull on us. White people, women and men alike, are bombarded with requests for photos. People want to touch them, feel their skin and hair. Naturally, this makes them queasy and uncomfortable. And if we happen to be accompanying our white friends, we are mortified by the behaviour of our fellow citizens.
But let’s get real—this fascination isn’t limited to the dehatis. We bask in being white-adjacent. Nobody speaks up when intoxicated white men grope Indian women in social settings because we’ve given them a sense of entitlement that makes them feel such behaviour is acceptable.
My point is simple: India should be safe—or safer—for all women. White, brown, or of any other hue. Of course, our foreign guests should never be molested, raped, or killed. But neither should our own women. The outrage over the Indore incident is justified, but where is the same outrage when Indian women face similar or worse violations every single day?
I remember, one Saturday morning, walking home from high school in my PT whites, I experienced what that Australian cricketer did in Indore. A random man on a bicycle came from behind, squeezed my breast hard, and fled while I reeled with shock. I was just minutes from home. I locked myself in the bathroom and wept. The pain was excruciating, but the fear was worse. Naively, because we lacked proper sex education, I was afraid I’d get pregnant. I didn’t tell anyone, and the fear eased only when I got my period later that month. But the fear of violation remained. Like most Indian girls, I learned to take precautions.
One of my bustier classmates in college wore a sweater year-round. We carried open safety pins to poke men who got too close on the bus. We folded our arms across our chests in crowds, hurried instead of strolling, always alert. It was so commonplace that stalking and harassment became normalised. We learned not to confront but to evade. Everyday survival strategies — that’s what being an Indian girl meant.
Years later, I travelled solo across Europe. I chose Europe over India because I felt safer there. On trains and buses, young women would ask if I travelled alone in India too. Everywhere, I met women who said they longed to visit India but were afraid for their safety.
I do travel alone in India, mostly for work. When I travel for leisure, I stick to resorts or hotels and return quickly. I admire solo women travellers who still dare. In my younger days, I was bolder—taking autos home at midnight from the newsroom or driving home at 2 a.m. after parties. But as the city grew and the crowds swelled, safety shrank.
What the Female Gaze says: Why do we normalise constant harassment and fear as simply part of being a woman in India? The question isn’t just about protecting foreign tourists or high-profile visitors. The question is: when will every woman—regardless of her skin colour or nationality—be able to walk freely without fear? Until we address this fundamental failure, our progress as a society remains incomplete.
— Sandhya Mendonca, author, biographer, and publisher at Raintree Media, offers a distinct female gaze of the world in this column.
