Somewhere Between Innocence and Awareness

I Wasn’t Born Careful. I Was Taught. 

There was a time when the world felt… simple.

I remember walking into shops with my parents, distracted by colors, lights, random things I didn’t need but desperately wanted. I remember running around at family functions, not caring who was watching, because the idea that someone could be watching in a certain way didn’t even exist in my head. I remember wearing whatever I liked—not thinking about necklines, lengths, or “appropriateness.”

Back then, being a girl didn’t feel like something I had to manage. It just… was.

If one had asked me then, “What do you hate about being a woman in India?”
I probably would’ve stared at them, confused. Maybe even laughed.

Because what was there to hate?

And then, slowly—quietly—that innocence started changing.

Not all at once. Not in one big moment.
But in fragments.

It began with small things. The kind you don’t even realize are shaping you.

A stare that lasted a little too long.
A comment that didn’t sit right.

A look that made you suddenly aware of your own body.

And then one day, it wasn’t small anymore.

I remember wearing a dress I loved. It wasn’t even anything “bold”—just something that made me feel good. I stepped out, feeling a little more confident than usual. And then it happened.

A group of men. Older. Watching.

Not just looking—but scanning. Slowly. Deliberately.

A whistle cut through the air.

And in that moment, something inside me shifted.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t break me.
But it changed me.

Because for the first time, I didn’t feel like a person in a public space.
I felt… visible in the wrong way.

Like I had been turned into something to be observed, evaluated.

And the truth is—that moment isn’t rare.

In one widely reported incident, a woman police officer in Hyderabad went undercover, simply walking the streets at night. Within three hours, she was harassed by around 40 different men. The Economic times- source

 Not in isolation. Not in secrecy. Just… out in the open.

In another case, a young woman in Kolkata was followed and assaulted while waiting for her ride—on a public road, in a city full of people. Times of India- source

These aren’t “exceptions.”
They’re reminders.

Reminders that what we feel isn’t imagined.
It’s shared.

And after that, the world didn’t look the same.

Now, when I walk into a shop, I don’t just walk in. I assess.
Who’s inside? How many men? Where do I stand? Where’s the exit?

Because I’ve read enough. Seen enough. Heard enough stories of girls who didn’t notice in time.

When I go to college and sit in a classroom, I don’t just focus on lectures. Somewhere in the background, I’m aware—who’s sitting behind me? Who’s in front? Who’s watching?

Because sometimes, it’s not the street. It’s the spaces we’re told are “safe.”

When my bra strap slips even slightly into view, I fix it instantly. Not because I’m uncomfortable—but because I’ve learned that visibility invites attention I don’t want.

When I bend down to pick something up, my hand automatically moves to my collar. A reflex. Quick. Practiced.

Because I’ve seen how quickly a moment can turn into a memory you don’t want.

No one taught me this directly.
No one sat me down and said, “Do this to stay safe.”

But I learned.

From moments. From experiences. From news headlines that blur into each other. From stories shared in hushed voices between friends.

From that constant, quiet understanding that being unaware is not an option.

Even public washrooms aren’t just washrooms anymore. They’re spaces where I double-check doors, corners, locks—because there’s always that whisper in the back of my mind: what if someone is here?

And the hardest part?

This doesn’t switch off.

Not at events, where I scan for exits multiple times.
Not in crowded places, where I stay alert even while laughing.
Not even at home sometimes, where a fleeting discomfort can exist in spaces that are supposed to feel safest.

Because fear doesn’t stay outside.

It follows.

So, when someone asks me what I hate as a woman in India, I don’t think of laws or systems first.

I think of this.

I hate the fear that lives quietly inside me.
I hate how natural it has become.
I hate how I’ve adapted to it without even realizing.

Because the scariest part isn’t that the world changed.

It’s that I did.

That wide-eyed girl who walked freely into any space, who didn’t think twice before laughing loudly, bending down, adjusting her clothes casually—she didn’t disappear overnight.

She just… learned.

Learned to be careful.
Learned to be aware.
Learned that safety isn’t guaranteed—it’s managed.

And now, when I look back at her, I don’t just feel nostalgia.

I feel something heavier.

A quiet, unsettling realization.

That growing up, for me, wasn’t just about getting older.

It was about learning to be afraid—

and slowly, silently, calling it normal.