First time someone touched me in crowd

October 12

I always think of the smell first. Like a heavy blanket, it's jasmine and marigold from the flower guy's cart. Then it smacks you – the sharp smell from those beat-up rickshaws. A warm, wet feeling of so many folks huddled together, all moving like one big thing. Silk, cotton, sweat – all heading towards the river. The Ganga Aarti in Varanasi? It's not something to watch from the stands. It’s like jumping headfirst into a pool. You don’t just see it; it gets into you.

I was 20, a college kid from Delhi on a trip to find myself. So typical, I know. But those kinds of trips are popular for a reason, right? I was so full of energy, not sure where it was going. Like I knew the world had some big secret I was about to figure out. I threw on this cheap orange saree, the kind you get for a few bucks from a street stand. The fake silk stuck to my skin in the grossest way. My shoulders were hot, and strangers kept bumping into me. My cheap sandals were constantly getting stepped on.

This is key: It was just so... much. So many feelings all at once. It tears down your walls. There’s no space for the fake you that you show everyone. In that crowd, you're just a body. A body that's warm, breathing, and sweating.

I was trying to see the priests, you know, the guys swinging those giant, fire things over the water in time with each other. The “Har Har Gange” chant filled the air. I pushed my way through, saying, “Sorry,” “Excuse me,” over and over, but it didn't really help.

And then, bam. I was stuck.

Like, really stuck. Between this big family from Gujarat, their clothes sparkling like crazy, and some backpackers who smelled like sunscreen and confusion. I couldn't go forward, and I couldn't go back. I was like a single, trapped piece of something huge. I started to panic. The air was thick with incense and people.

Then I felt it.

A hand. Right on my lower back.

Not a bump. Not just someone trying to get through. This was on purpose. A strong, steady push through my thin shirt.

Suddenly, that's all there was.

Everything else went away – the chants, the bells, the crowd became a dull buzz. I gasped. I didn’t feel fear at first. It was just: Someone's touching me.

The hand was big. I could feel the whole palm, the space between the fingers. It was warm, not like the hot air, but alive. A warmth that seemed to go right into my bones. He – and I knew it was a he -- didn't move. He didn't grab. He just left his hand there. Like he was claiming me.

My mind went crazy.

Who is this?

Is he behind me?

Should I turn around?

Should I hit him? Yell?

But my body… my body was being a traitor. It wasn't just panic anymore. That heat turned it into something else. Something dirty. I started to feel hot down there. It was wrong. It was scary. It was the most alive I'd felt in ages.

His thumb moved.

Just a little. A slow stroke on my spine, right where my pants started. It was like he knew me, like we were alone in the dark. Not like this, with thousands of people all around.

I blushed so hard. I was happy it was dark. My heart beat like crazy, like a wild drum with the chants. I could feel how wet I was getting. It was a secret. It had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with that hand.

This was wrong. I’m a “good girl.” I had a boyfriend in college, but it was always awkward. This was different. This was just... there. No names, no promises, no future. Just this moment and that hand.

I let my head drop back for a second. He had to have felt it. I swayed with the crowd, moving into his palm. Saying yes.

His fingers moved more, pressing harder, and I felt it all the way down. I bit my lip, my eyes shut. The smell of jasmine was too much. The bells were ringing inside me. This was a prayer, too, right? Feeling my body, what it wants.

I wanted to see him. I tried to guess who he was. A holy man with dark eyes? A local guy who rows boats? A tourist wanting to be bad? I made up a whole life for him right there. A writer getting ideas. A thief stealing moments. A guy like me, caught up in the night, who saw I was nervous and wanted to help.

The aarti ended. People set little lamps on the river, like stars on the water. Everyone cheered. And the hand was gone.

Just like that.

It was still warm, but he was gone.

It felt so cold all of a sudden. The noise, the smells, the crowd all came back. I moved with the crowd, turning around, trying to see who it was.

Nothing. Just people, happy and praying. Men with their wives, kids on shoulders, friends laughing. No one looked at me. He was gone. Like he was never there.

I stood there for a while. I felt empty, shaken.

I walked back to my room. I took a cold shower and looked at my back in the mirror. Of course, there was nothing to see. But I could still feel it.

I didn’t tell my friends at dinner. They were talking about how spiritual it was. I just nodded, thinking about that hand.

“You’re quiet,” someone said.

I smiled. “It was… intense.”

That night, I touched myself. My hands were slow and careful. I thought about the jasmine, the chants, the crowd, the hand on my back. I came hard, and felt so alone. He had given me something and taken something at the same time. He had shown me a woman I didn’t know – someone who could feel that way, who wanted more than just love. Someone who just wanted to feel.

I never saw him again. I stayed in Varanasi for a few more days. I hoped it would happen again. It didn't.

That was years ago. I’ve been with others since then. But I’ve never forgotten that night.

I learned that wanting someone isn’t always pretty. Sometimes, it’s a secret in a holy place. Sometimes, it’s just between two people and a million gods. It’s knowing that we’re all just human, and we can all be surprised by a touch.

Even now, if someone touches my back in a crowd, I remember. I remember the jasmine, the bells, and the kid who turned me into a woman that night.