Touch Me Not
It was back in 2013, when I was in class four that I first met Babul sir. He was my Islamic studies teacher. I remember the first time he saw me, and how he never looked away, not until he was already in his seat, and one of my classmates was asking him what he’d teach us today. Babul sir ignored him entirely. His very first words were, “We have a new beauty in our class!”
I instantly knew who he was talking about, not just me, but everyone present. I was the new student after all. Did his compliment make me feel flustered and shy? No.
I was unnerved.
Not because all attention was on me then, but because of the look in Babul sir’s eyes. Something about the way he watched his new student felt primal and unprofessional. The way his eyes never left me even as he asked me to stand up and introduce myself despite the fact that I had already done so in the first period, and the way his sleazy eyes scanned my every move. It was… disgusting.
Now, here I was, five years later, watching the man as he exited the administration building, or more like the principal’s office after receiving his expulsion notice. With his head bowed, he avoided eye contact and scurried out like a little sewer rat. But this time, my eyes never left him.
Apparently, some students from junior classes had reported him for sexual assault, not one or two, but many, and when the complaints kept piling up, they decided it was time to let this long-standing faculty member go, that is if they wanted to protect the school’s image. I knew those girls. They were in fourth grade, same as when I was. Some of them had sisters in my class, which was why news travelled quickly to me. Turns out, Babul sir had become quite bold over the years.
From watching female students and unnerving them, he had moved on to even touching them, holding hands, placing them on his lap, and what not. All in the name of ‘Teacherly affection.” Or sometimes, “Fatherly figure”. I didn’t know father’s affections were supposed to be this uncomfortable.
The little girls who filed the complaints came rushing to our class to inform their sisters about the good news, and I remember the joy in their faces. The feeling of justice being served, and the pride that took over them at the notion that it was them who took the first step. All I could do was smile and keep my silence. Like I always have.
They had finally brought an end to years of little girls getting assaulted, making sure they were the last. But… in order to do that, they had to fall victim to him first. Had I spoken up all those years ago, could I have saved them from witnessing what I did? And all those that came before them? If I had, would things have been different for them?
But, who would have believed me?
“Babul sir? Yeah, I know him. He teaches Islamic studies to me too. What about him?”
“I... I don’t know. He makes me feel very uncomfortable in class.”
“How so?”
“H-He… he’s always… staring at me.”
“That’s all?”
“I-I k-know it doesn’t sound much but… how do I explain? I-It’s like… the way he stares-”
“Every teacher stares at a student when they are asking them something.”
“Yeah I know b-but, it’s not just when he’s asking m-”
“Good Lord Mariam! He teaches us in eighth grade too! And he’s as normal as everyone else!”
“W-What…”
“Seriously, Mariam. Stop making a good man sound like such a pervert! All he did was just look at you like any other student! Also, maybe because you are new! If he was a bad man, why’s he so good to us?”
I don’t know, Hajera. Maybe because it was kids that he targeted and not older children, because they were easy to manipulate. And I was a new student only for a few days, not for the whole year. Why then did his eyes roam over every inch of my body for the whole year that he taught us?
Is that why nobody spoke up for all these years? Because the kids were easily manipulated? Perhaps the only reason why these little girls knew what he was doing was wrong because of their older sisters who warned them of the sort of man he was. Because we all saw how he watched me, and no part of it was normal.
And I did not get manipulated to believe it was normal. For I had already experienced this years ago.
Dear reader, if you have read this far, there’s a question I’d like to ask you.
Have you ever met a woman, girl, or child that has never experienced being touched without consent?
He was a distant relative of mom. He’d come by our house every so often like he was best buddies with my mom while in reality they were hardly blood related. But I should have known, he wasn’t coming to see mom or chatting with dad. He was here for the little children.
He was here for Safiya and me.
Safiya was nine, I was seven, but I remember him all too well. My memories from my childhood are slowly turning foggy like they are no longer mine, but Hasib I would always remember. He was the first person to teach me what inappropriate touch meant.
The first day he came, mom dressed me up in a skirt and shirt. It was very pretty, with red polka dots that had shimmer on them. I liked that dress a lot. Like every guest, he pretended to dot on the two little children of the house, offer gifts and even money, pick us up and lift us in the air as we giggled. That should have been it. It was for every other guest. But for Hasib, he was still not finished. After all, he had offered us gifts and money, he needed his worth.
He’d sit back on his chair, place Safiya or I in his lap, lift up our shirts and press his rough, calloused hands against our soft tummy’s. Just like that.
He’d sit there for hours, the heat from his body and hands pressing against our little frames, while his hands stayed under our shirts for purposes I couldn’t comprehend. I didn’t know. I didn’t even know this was wrong. Nobody told me it was. Hasib sat there with me between his legs, his hands under my shirt, and everybody pretended it was not happening, or it was normal. So how was a little child of seven supposed to say she felt wronged?
How was she supposed to tell she didn’t like what was happening, when the adults around her made no noise about it?
I was used to guests pecking me on the cheek as a show of affection for a little child. Hasib would do something else. He’d pull me flat against his chest, press kisses down my nape, and sometimes even my shoulders. It was ticklish, and it was horrifying. Trying to wiggle my way out of his lap wasn’t possible, in case I woke something else up.
I didn’t even know I could wake something else up.
I was seven, but when he left, I found myself breathing like I had been holding myself back from it. When he’d come back, it felt like being pulled under water so my lungs could fill with water and I’d suffocate. I was seven.
Dear reader, here’s my second question. Does reading this make you uncomfortable? Does it make you want to put it down and pretend you never read it?
At a school function, Hajera insisted I wear the skirt and shirt with red shimmery polka dots, since I liked it the most and looked the prettiest. I agreed with a smile. And then proceeded to mistakenly spill juice over it.
During a visit to the hospital for mom, I accompanied her, and she dressed me in that dress again. I agreed with a smile. And then proceeded to vomit on it during the bus ride.
The following year, mom was donating clothes that no longer fit us or we didn’t like anymore. The polka dot dress was the first to go. It shocked everyone since the dress was my favorite, and it still fit. But it had to go. I could not tell them that the dress still smelt like Hasib even after I spilled juice on it, or vomited, or had it washed a thousand times. I could not tell them that the texture of it reminded me of his unwanted touch, of his rough hands pressed against my toddler skin. I could not tell them it has not been my favorite for a long time now. I just said I no longer liked it, and it had to go. Nobody complained.
Hasib’s visit only lasted a year, but the times he came that year were enough to scar my memory for life, to the point I had built a defensive wall around me for a lifetime. No longer can I look a male in the eyes, nor can I hear them when they talk or address me, and the worst of all, stand their touch. No matter who it is. Everything just reminds me of those calloused hands pressing against me.
Which is why it was easier for me to recognize the look in Babul sir’s eyes the moment they fell on me and never left. I had come to build a habit of recognizing a certain type of person, and I’m surprised I wasn’t wrong. Babul sir proved to be exactly what my consciousness had feared- a pedophile like Hasib.
I had never spoken about this to anyone, nor has anyone ever asked. Which makes me wonder, just how many more of us are out there, our stories buried between the folds of our trauma, alive, but never released? Surviving, but never shared to the public? Why? Because it is too grotesque to read? Too shameful to share? But not shameful enough to avoid committing? Why does it become shameful when the prey shares the experience, but not shameful when the predator commits it?
So dear reader, here is my third question to you. When you speak about dark romance just being fictional and nothing to do with reality, which part are you speaking about?
The part where his eyes scan all over your body?
The part where his rough, calloused hands grip you to make you immobile?
The part where the heat from his body takes over your tiny frame?
The touch of his rough skin against your soft ones?
The part where he forcefully makes you sit on his lap?
Kisses your nape and shoulders?
Grinds against you?
Makes you wake up his beast?
Which part is fictional? Because to me this sounds like the horrifying reality of a victim of sexual assault. So… which part of this ‘darkness’ is supposed to be ‘romantic’?
Since when did abuse and assault get involved with romance?
How easy it is to write a novella about romanticizing assault and naming it love without having to witness it in reality. Because in reality, it’s never romantic. It’s never love. It’s a horror movie where your consent is thrown out the window, your please fall to deaf ears, and your existence becomes similar to a still furniture.
You are no longer a living being.
When abuse is packaged as romance, the narrative framing itself can turn abusive behavior into something desirable, acceptable, or even proof of love.
But yes. Let’s call it romance. And let’s normalize reading it to young children so they get silenced even more. So, they no longer have the ability to discern between assault and affection.
My classmates had already gone home, while I waited for my brother to come pick me up. The campus was almost empty. And by the looks of it, Babul sir must have waited till it was so he did not have to face a crowd while leaving.
This time, I watched him like he’d watched me that whole year, like a hawk hungry for its prey. I watched him at his lowest, at his most vulnerable, read his body language and how exposed he felt. And I enjoyed it a lot. Just like he enjoyed watching young girls all this time.
I may have not been able to sack this man, I may never be able to expose Hasib or men like him. Because the society I come from condemns people like me more than it condemns people like Hasib and Babul. But I will not judge another like me either.
I will not ask her if she was making things up, or if she was dressed appropriately, or if she had looked at him first to give him that attention. I will not ask her if she was out late, or if she started it.
All she needs to tell me is she didn’t want it. And that’s enough.
