Indian men.

Alot of things go through your mind the night before an important exam.
Tomorrow is hopefully the last chemistry practical of my life.

A mosquito is buzzing over my ear, I switched the lights off because if I don’t sleep now, I’ll get less than five hours of rest before an arduous three hour exam.

But my feet are freezing and my shirt is sticky with sweat. I am, in short, a hundred types of uncomfortable under a blanket too thick for the present weather.

This time of the year, the first weeks of February has always made me uncomfortable. There is a nauseas pit in my stomach, and I feel like I’m on a perpetual pre-menstrual syndrome.
Must be all those hormones flying about, it being the season of love and all.

And Indians fucking love Valentines day. God knows why, I’ve had atleast a hundred notifications from online stores asking me to buy gifts for my beloved on sale.

Who are they marketing to? From the looks of it, half of the male Indian youth is on the internet harassing strangers.

My attempts at learning another language were clunky, haphazard, given the sense of irritation that is plaguing me in the eerie stillness of midnight.
So, I tried to find a language partner, but was chased away by thirsty Indian men sending me “Hiiiii, wanna chatzzz” over, and over, and over again.

Sigh.

I am chased by prejudice and am a victim of it at the same time.
I’ve been judged for being Indian by teenagers all over the world, been called ‘the Indian hoe” in group chats and have been presumed to be extremely kinky in bed by forty year old Britishers on anon chat sites.
Every girl I have spoken to online thought it okay to ask me “what’s wrong with Indian men” like I had an answer, like I knew why they did what they did.

While the foreigners judged me for my nativity, stereotyped me into an online hooker and an expert on kama sutra, the so called men of my country resorted to hilarious and pitiful methods of getting head on the world wide web.
First, they pretend they’re “from the UK.” Then they want to “do kinky chat.”
Some, smarter ones start of with “I read books.”
Their reach being a few bestsellers left on racks in coffee shops.
All of them have read either a thousand splendid suns, the alchemist, or some other book that took this vast population’s fancy. And, not one understood a word. All of them are engineers of some kind, and none, not a single one of them can string a sentence together to save their lives.
They’re just sick of the porn magazines and want someone other than savita bhabi.

Every girl has conditioned a filter to ward of the “Indian guys” the relentless, badgering population of pubescent twenty somethings, who give the whole goddamn country a bad name.

I hate stereotyping, but I’m fucking sick of this generation of degenerates who think any girl on the internet, or around them are just bodies they must masturbate their skinny underdeveloped genitals to.

I am sick of my friends outside my country telling me “you’re really good at English, for an Indian”

I am tired, of the number of men who think it’s all right to call me “their sister” and in the next second ask me if I am horny.

I am sick of their homophobia.
I am sick of them thinking it is sexy to watch lesbians(like we like women for their entertainment) but gross for men to have sex.
I am sick, and tired and I wish I could curl up and disappear.
I want to go somewhere, anywhere, where I am not judged for being from a country so beautiful that it will take your breath away.
I want my identity as an Indian back.
I wish all of you, every single one of you, who have ever harassed a girl and given the honest men of this country a bad name understood the magnitude of what you were doing.

I love my country as much as I love the rest of the world. This cesspool of despair is my home, and as long as I am alive, I will fight anyone who spits on it.
Even its inhabitants.

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