I’m Kajal, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that silence can feel suffocating. Growing up, there was this one uncle in my neighborhood who made my life a living nightmare. Every time I’d walk past his house on my way to the bus stop, he would be there, waiting. His disgusting gaze would follow me, and then it would start—the catcalls, the inappropriate comments, and worst of all, the Bollywood songs he’d sing at me. One song he particularly loved was “Ek Chumma” from Housefull 3. I’ll never forget how he would yell, “O madam kajal wali, mujhe khud samajho mawali,” before laughing and repeating “ek chumma toh banta hai” over and over. The words made my skin crawl.
It wasn’t just the words. He’d make disgusting gestures, licking his lips, staring at me like I was some object he had a right to. And it wasn’t just me either. He did this to any girl in the neighborhood, but for some reason, I became his favorite target. Maybe it was because he knew my mom, who had been his college buddy back in the day. My mom, always too trusting, would even invite him over to our house like he was some old friend. She didn’t see what he truly was—a predator.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to do more than that—I wanted to murder him, to be honest. Not literally, of course, but that rage would bubble up every time I had to pass his house, knowing he’d be there waiting for me with his filthy comments.
The worst day was when my mom invited him over, and I was stuck at home. My heart dropped when he walked through the door. I knew exactly what he was capable of. I felt trapped, cornered, like there was no escape. He made a disgusting comment about how I looked, trying to lure me into some sick conversation. But, thankfully, my brother Adi was home that day.
Adi—my protector, my savior. He’s seen enough cases of creeps like this in his job working in protection services. He didn’t let this uncle’s slimy behavior slide. Adi tasered him, beat him up, and threw him into a jail cell. Watching my brother stand up for me like that felt like a release—like I wasn’t powerless anymore.
But the worst part wasn’t over yet. This disgusting man is a father, too. His daughter is my age. I always thought about how he could be so vile when he had a daughter of his own. Imagine if he treated her the same way he treated me. I guess I expected her to understand, to maybe even be horrified by what her father had done. But instead, she blamed me. She told me that what her father was doing was right, that I somehow deserved it. Hearing those words from her was like another punch to the gut.
My mom didn’t do anything. She didn’t say a word, didn’t stand up for me, didn’t defend her own daughter. Maybe I shouldn’t have expected her to. She’s always been like that, bringing strange men into our home, letting them ogle at me like I was some sort of prize. Her lack of care for my safety is something I’ve had to live with for years. It was Adi who had my back. Without him, I don’t know what I would have done.
Today, I’ve moved out of that neighborhood with Adi. I feel safer now—physically, emotionally. I don’t have to look over my shoulder every time I step out of my house, don’t have to endure that uncle’s filthy gaze or his disgusting songs. But the memory of those years, the fear and the anger, will always be with me. I’ll never forget what it felt like to be preyed on, to feel like my safety didn’t matter to the people who were supposed to protect me.
But I’ve learned something important through all of this. I’ve learned that staying silent doesn’t protect you. It only makes things worse. Speaking up, standing up for yourself, and having someone like Adi to fight for you—that’s where real safety comes from. And now, as I rebuild my life in a new place, I know that I’m stronger for everything I’ve been through. I refuse to let anyone silence me again.
Breaking The Silence: A Brother’s Perspective on Courage and Protection
I’m Adi, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned growing up, it’s that the world isn’t a safe place for women, especially not for my sister, Kajal. I’ve seen it firsthand, every single day. From the moment I could understand what was happening around me, I became more than just her brother—I became her protector.
There was this one guy in our neighborhood, an older man everyone called “uncle.” To the world, he was a friendly, harmless neighbor. But I knew better. I’d see it daily—his predatory eyes following Kajal whenever she walked by, the way he’d stand outside his house, waiting. He wasn’t just some random creep. He was friends with our mom, an old college buddy. That gave him the perfect cover. He’d get away with making the most disgusting comments and gestures toward her, hiding behind his so-called familiarity with our family.
He would sing these cheap Bollywood songs at her, like “Ek Chumma” from Housefull 3. I can’t even listen to Bollywood songs the same way anymore without feeling rage. He’d sing, “O madam kajal wali, mujhe khud samajho mawali,” or “ek chumma toh banta hai,” like it was some kind of joke. I’d watch my sister freeze, her face draining of color, her whole body tensing up as she passed him. She couldn’t even go to the bus stop without him lurking, throwing his filthy words at her like she was an object for him to harass.
I tried talking to our mom about it. Tried telling her what was happening. But she didn’t see it. Or maybe she just didn’t want to see it. She’d invite him over to our house, laughing with him like he was still her college friend, while Kajal sat there, terrified. Our mother wasn’t much of a protector, always bringing strange men home, acting like their interest in her or Kajal was harmless. But I knew better.
Then one day, it got worse. I was home, and mom had invited the uncle over again. I could feel the tension in the air. Kajal was in the kitchen, avoiding him, but that didn’t stop him from making another disgusting comment—this time about her clothes. He started walking toward her, his intention clear. I wasn’t going to let that happen.
I didn’t think. I grabbed my taser and went after him. I shocked him, and the satisfaction of watching him drop to the ground was something I hadn’t expected to feel. But it wasn’t enough. I beat him until he knew exactly what he’d been doing. Then I called my buddies, locked him in a jail cell, and made sure he was stuck there for as long as I could keep him.
You’d think that would’ve been the end of it. But it wasn’t. His daughter—his own daughter, who was the same age as Kajal—came after her. Instead of condemning her father, she blamed Kajal. Said that what he’d done was right, that somehow Kajal had brought this on herself. The whole thing made me sick. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, couldn’t believe how twisted this girl’s thinking had become. And mom? She just stayed silent, like she always did. She never protected us, never cared about the dangers she brought into our home. Men would come and go, staring at Kajal like she was some prize for them to win.
If it weren’t for me, Kajal wouldn’t have had anyone. I couldn’t stand the thought of her being left alone with these men. So, I did what I had to do. I got us out. We moved away, far from that neighborhood, away from that uncle, away from everyone who’d ever looked at her like she didn’t matter.
But it still haunts me. Every day, I think about what could’ve happened if I hadn’t been there that day. I think about how many girls like Kajal go through the same thing, who don’t have someone like me to stand up for them. I think about how my sister will carry this with her for the rest of her life—the fear, the disgust, the feeling of being unsafe in her own neighborhood.
I did what I could, but it never feels like enough. I shouldn’t have had to protect her. Our mother should’ve cared. The system should’ve worked. But it didn’t, so I did what I had to. And I’ll keep doing it, for her and for every girl out there who needs someone to stand up for them when the world looks away.
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