the school bus when I heard the commotion.
I whipped my head around and saw three teens surrounding the beggar woman at the bus station. I stopped and watched with a feeling of dread rising in me. I’d been in Goa for more than a year now and had seen these mob scrums before, but this time, something told me it was worse than usual.
“Weirdo!” one of the boys said to the beggar, almost spitting in her face.
“Sicko!” said the second boy, making an ugly face.
“You twisted freak!” the third boy taunted, pretending to punch her head. The woman ducked, her eyes wide in fear.
“Freak! Freak!” they hooted. The boys whistled and danced around her while she crouched low, shielding her head.
This beggar woman was what Grandma called a “dirty hijra from the north.” When I described her to my teachers, they told me she was “most probably a transgendered person relocated from Delhi.”
She’d arrived in town two months ago, and sat cross-legged in a corner of the station in her pink sari, playing haunting melodies on her bamboo flute. From the way she closed her eyes and the way her chest moved up and down when she played, I could see her soul was wrapped around that music. I wanted to close my eyes too, whenever I heard her play.
Against all advice from Preeti about talking to strangers, let alone beggars, I started chatting with her while we waited for the school bus to arrive. One morning, as Preeti was greeting her girlfriends at the bus stop, I walked over and said hello. She responded in kind. She told me she was from Mumbai and her name was Meena.
Meena’s voice was rough and low, and her shoulders, visible through the sheer sari wraps, were muscular, but her face showed another side. Her black lined eyes were soft and her heavy lipsticked smile was warm, and through it all, it was clear she wasn’t much older than Aunty Shilpa. She wore cheap makeup on her face, but that didn’t cover the scar on her cheek. “A knife scar,” Preeti explained, before going on a monologue about how good girls don’t go talking with street beggars.
That evening, I saved up a roti from my dinner plate, wrapped it carefully in newspaper, and hid it in a corner of Grandma’s kitchen. The next morning, I packed it quietly in my school satchel and brought it with me to the bus station. I never forgot Meena’s smile when I handed it to her. The roti was nothing more than a few dry bites, but I knew it wasn’t the food that made her smile.
I was as foreign to this place as she was, and that formed an unspoken bond between us.
The teens harassing her were a mainstay at the station and had been there ever since I started school a year ago. We usually found them squatting like vultures hunkering for prey on the concrete barrier at the station, under the big yellow sign that said, “Good and Fast Immigration Broker.”
Some days, they threw pebbles at incoming buses to get a rise out of the overworked, short-tempered bus drivers. Other days, they used slingshots to shoot pebbles at schoolgirls disembarking from the buses. The worst was their hollers to “come closer,” be their “friend,” or “touch this.”
All three boys lived in our apartment compound so we knew who they were, but Preeti and I gave them special names. The oldest was Nuthead, the biggest of the three. He wore a dirty, oversized sarong, a square piece of cloth wrapped around the waist and hiked up to the knees to make it easy to walk.
In that neighborhood, what you wore showed how close you were to manhood. Shorts were for boys, pants were for teens, and sarongs were for men. In my mind, though, none of these juveniles were close to becoming men anytime soon.
Scratchy liked to rub himself between his thighs whenever he saw girls. He was as thin as a rake and was always holding his ratty pants up with one hand. “Doesn’t he know what a belt is for? What a twit,” Preeti had said in exasperation one day when Scratchy had been particularly annoying. He heard her and hollered right back, “It’s to thrash you girls to a pulp, that’s what!” That day, we ran home so fast, I got a cramp in my thighs.
Fartybag was the short and chubby one, and with his curly mop of hair, he looked younger than his friends. He always wore a faded Rambo T-shirt and had a tendency to urinate on the concrete barrier in public view. Even while doing so, his head would swivel around looking for girls to whistle at, while we tried to scurry out of his view.
No one complained or called the authorities about these boys. The other girls didn’t seem to notice anything. Whenever the boys catcalled, they clutched their books against their chests and hastened their steps to duck under the bus shelter, eyes downcast—like good girls were supposed to.
They pretended nothing was happening, but they got picked on too—on the street, at the school, at the bus stop, even inside the bus. The worst was inside the bus.
Some days, when I got stuck in the middle of a sweaty, smelly crowd, I’d feel a slimy arm rub on my chest, or worse, a hand crawl up my leg underneath my skirt. When that happened, I’d scrunch my body and stop breathing. I’d feel like I wanted to puke. I’d pretend it wasn’t happening. I’d pray for it to stop. I knew I needed to say something, cry for help, but every time, my voice disappeared.
The minute the bus lurched to a stop or people moved even one inch, I’d push through the walls of sarongs and saris to get away from the creepy hands. On those days, I’d walk home feeling sick to my stomach, angry at the world until I got home and buried the nauseating memories under my pillow.
The three teens at the bus stop were getting louder.
“You dirty thing!” Fartybag yelled at the beggar woman.
“I will show you how to be a woman!” Scratchy shouted, making Meena crouch lower.
“I will trash you just like a woman!” Nuthead said with an ugly laugh.
Normally Preeti would be with me, but that day, Aunty Shilpa had forced her to stay home to recover from a bad flu. The other girls had walked away quickly as soon as they’d seen what was happening. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what.
I looked around. There were adults near the station. They saw but took a wide berth to avoid the commotion. Three bus drivers on their breaks were squatting nearby, playing cards, absorbed in their game.
I ran up to them.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Please?”
One of them looked up and squinted.
“Those boys are shouting at Meena,” I said, pointing. “Can you do something?”
The men snickered.
“They said they’re going to hit her!”
“What business is that of yours?” One man waved his hand dismissively.
“Go home, girl, and stop bothering grown-ups,” another said, not looking up. He slapped a card down with gusto. “Aha!” he said, and the others turned back to the game like I wasn’t even there.
I looked up to see Nuthead punch Meena on the head. For real, this time.
“Aii!” she screeched, her face contorted in fear as Nuthead’s arm went up for another blow.
“Hey!”
The blow came down, harder this time. Meena quivered on the ground.
“Stop that!” I yelled running toward the group, my arms waving. “I said, stop it!”
The boys turned and stared.
“Leave her alone!” My voice was firm. My legs were solid. My hands were fists.
Fartybag was looking at me, his mouth open.
“Huh?” Scratchy said, his hand paused in the air, forgetting to scratch himself for an instant, making his pants fall a few dangerous inches lower.
“What did you say?” Nuthead asked with a scowl.
“I said, leave her alone!” It felt good to stand up to them, to tell them how I truly felt for once.
Fartybag snorted.
“Oooh. Stop it,” Scratchy jeered.
“Stop hitting her or I’ll tell my monitor!” I said, looking at each of them right in the eye.
“Is that right?” Scratchy said. “I’m so very scared of your m-o-n-i-t-o-r.”
“She’ll show you,” I said. “You big, fat bullies!”
Nuthead’s face turned dark. “I’ll teach you to talk to us like that,” he said in a low warning voice. He took a step toward me.
“No!” It was Meena, gesticulating behind him. “Run, Asha, run!”
I watched in dread as Nuthead strode toward me. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so solid anymore.
I was trying to decide which way to run when a series of loud pops came from Fartybag. He’d surprised Preeti and me on more than one occasion with his personal noises. Normally, we’d cover our mouths and walk away, snickering, but I didn’t feel like laughing now.
But that stopped Nuthead in his tracks. He and Scratchy turned and looked at Fartybag.
“Wowzer! That was a big one!” Nuthead said, crinkling his nose.
“Ha, ha, ha!” Scratchy laughed. “You’ll stink us to death!”
“You’re all so disgusting,” I said, without realizing I’d said it out loud. With all the laughing around me, I didn’t hear Fartybag race toward me. Faster than a cheetah, he was within inches of my face, backing me against the station wall.
I looked at him in surprise. He normally shuffled when he walked, always behind the other two, slow to move and slow to think.
“Don’t you laugh at me, girl!” he shouted, pointing a stubby finger at me. His face was beetroot red, either from the exertion of running the few steps or from the fury at being made fun of.
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” I said, looking at him squarely. “It’s your friends who’re laughing at you.”
Behind him, I could hear Meena beseeching him to leave me alone and for me to get out now.
“You talk back to me?” Fartybag said. “I’m gonna punish you!” His black eyes bored into mine.
“Back off!” I said, looking straight back into his eyes. My blood was pumping through my veins and my breath was coming fast and furious. Something strong, something like a steel thread, was weaving through my spine.
Fartybag’s friends were hollering behind him.
“Get her!”
“Show her who’s boss!”
“She’s only a stupid girl.”
Fartybag thrust his hands up and slammed me against the wall. “I’ll teach you to make fun of me!” he said. I could smell his breath, a vile mixture of cigarettes and curry.
That steel thread had become stronger. Without hesitating an instant, I clenched my right hand into a fist and swung my arm up. I punched Fartybag’s nose, just like I’d learned in my martial arts classes at the international schools.
Upper hook. Right on that soft target.
Fartybag gave me a startled look.
I raised my arm and punched again. Harder.
He clutched his nose and backed away groaning.
I stepped forward, fist still in the air. He stepped backward, still holding his nose, staring at me confused.
There was silence as his friends took in what had happened.
I stood immobile, staring at my clenched hand in surprise. Did I just hit him? Twice? I looked fearfully at the other boys, who were now staring at me in shock. Behind them, Meena was on her feet, her hands on her head, looking at me in a mixture of awe and confusion.
“She-dog who came out of the back of a mongrel,” Fartybag mumbled, glaring at me.
They’re going to kill me.
I was about to run when Nuthead blocked me. I turned and bumped right into Scratchy.
“Where you going?” he said, with a nasty grin on his face.
“You think we will let you go after you hit our friend?” Nuthead said. He was standing with his arms crossed, smiling, but it wasn’t a nice smile. Before I could blink, he pulled the satchel off my shoulder, ripped it open and threw my books on the ground.
“Hey!” I said, grabbing my empty satchel back. “Give that back!”
He picked up my history book, tore it, stomped on it, and spat on the ripped pile of paper. “Go tell your monitor now!” he said, while the other two surrounded me, howling with laughter.
I bent down to pick up my books. Just as I stooped, I felt a sharp kick on my thigh.
“Ouch!”
Someone tried to pull down my skirt. I heard it rip.
“Hey!” I straightened up quickly, clutching my skirt. “Get away from me!”
“Ha, ha!” The boys were enjoying the show. That’s when Nuthead grabbed my chest.
“Booby! Booby!”
“Stop that!” I let my books fall to the ground and hugged myself to stop them from touching me.
They laughed.
I ducked around Nuthead before he could grab me again.
And, I ran.
I ran out of the station and onto the main road, my heart pounding like mad.
“Get her!” I heard Scratchy call out to his friends.
“She’s mine!” Nuthead yelled.
I doubled my speed.