When I was younger, I was convinced that that it was only girls who dressed revealingly or behaved lewdly or immodestly who were haressed by men. I never thought it would happen to me.
But the first time I got catcalled was when I was going to church. With my grand mother. In a salwar kameez. No, not even n a chudidar, which clung tightly to my legs, exposing every corner and curve of my legs, but a billowing long salwar kameez inside which I might have been gliding instead of walking, nobody would know. My head demurely covered in my shawl.
I never thought, as I prepared my heart that morning for body and blood of my dear, dear Lord, that I would be victim to this.
But I was. And my grandmother just told me to ignore them.
That’s when I decided. They don’t get to decide what I wear. Because whether I walk in a bikini or a burka I will always be objectified. I will wear what I want. I will teach all who I can to respect us. I will do my bit to build a better world for me.