Underage and underdressed, we were all set to hit the bar. It was usually just five of us girls on our bi-monthly nights-out. But that night had something else in store for us—company that I would have cringed about, had it happened to someone else.
However, all we could do was grit our teeth and go with it when my friend invited her boyfriend, who was a married man with a child. Married to someone else, that is. Not choosing to play moral police right then, we were rather thankful that he at least came with a car. He was accompanied by an equally creepy friend, the unannounced thorn in our side, and quite literally.
A few drinks down, my friend was oblivious to the existence of her legs, and soon another one of us joined her. While it’s usually easy to handle a couple of inebriated friends, it’s not quite the same when you’re trying to simultaneously escape the lecherous eyes and wandering hands of the guests. And it’s definitely a herculean task to keep said guests from pawing said friends.
With no way to enjoy the night, the three of us who were thankfully conscious carefully plotted our exit. We tried telling the drunk men that we would find our way home, but they were one step ahead and played gentlemen who wanted to see us off safely. Helpless, we loaded our semi-conscious friends into the car, with the men in tow. “Why are we leaving? It’s barely 11!” one exclaimed. The other was all over my friend, chastising her for her revealing attire one moment, and trying to take advantage of it, the next. Trying my best to keep him away, I was at my wits’ end, as the possible outcomes of the night occurred to me.
We bought time by asking the men to settle the bill, and were clutching at straws, yelling at one another in our haste. Suddenly, and slowly, I said two words that turned the night. “Let’s run.” The words had barely left my lips, when one of them was off with my friend. Where to, I did not know. All I knew was that we had to get away, and on the road, despite the hour. Minutes later, after having gathered our bags, I was out with the others, and wondered which way the first two had headed. Onlookers realised what we were up to and guided us, as we teetered in our high heels.
We found them crouching behind a car, a few hundred metres away, with no plan. Is Chennai safe at night? This story sure doesn’t answer the question. But that night, a random auto rickshaw driver, hailed at 12 a.m. by five scantily-clad girls, was safer than the two men who came with us. A number of terrible things could have happened that night, the least of which was my parents discovering about my “sleepovers.” But sheer dumb luck stood in the way.
