Butterchickenladki

Dear Readers,

I remember vividly the time I felt rage that was beyond my control. My face got hot, and I lost feeling in my limbs, like they were detached from my body—operating on their own, without me. That day, I finally understood what it meant to be blind with rage. I couldn’t see clearly, except for one sharp, graphic image in my head. And then I calmed down—grateful that my senses kicked in before I did something irreversible.

It was the NH7 Weekender, and I was there with my friends, having the time of my life. We danced until our feet hurt and laughed until our stomachs did too. Nothing could top that feeling. I felt like the luckiest girl alive—surrounded by people I loved, sharing pure, unfiltered joy.

Until I wasn’t.

We were at the stage where Tyga was about to perform. We’d arrived 45 minutes early to make it to the very front. We were all excited for Macarena and Sheikh Talk. As time passed, the crowd grew. People pressed in until we were packed like sardines. But we didn’t care—we were together, and nothing could ruin it.

And then he came on. We screamed with excitement.

As the set progressed, the crowd shifted and I got separated from my friends. I was about two rows from the front. When Macarena started, a stranger next to me—a girl—began dancing, and I did too. For 45 seconds, we were best friends.

Then, I felt a hand on my waist, under my tank top.

I brushed it off. Probably someone trying to push through. An accident, I told myself.

A couple of minutes later, it happened again. I ignored it—maybe for my own sanity.

And then it happened a third time. But this time, it wasn’t just a hand—I felt something else press against my backside.

I turned around.

A man was standing behind me with one hand still on my waist and the other on his exposed genitals.

That something else I felt on me was his penis.

I screamed. I yelled. But the music, the crowd—everything drowned me out. Before I could even alert anyone around me, he had disappeared into the sea of people. He was gone.

I had just been assaulted at a concert. By a man whose face I never saw. A faceless, nameless figure made my body feel like it wasn’t mine anymore.

But in that moment, I didn’t feel rage.

I froze.

I couldn’t process what had happened. I didn’t know what to feel. I just wanted to crawl out of my skin. Rip it off.

On the way home, my friend tried to comfort me, but I couldn’t speak. I didn’t want to be touched. I didn’t want my hand held. I just wanted to go home and scrub my skin raw in the shower.

And that’s exactly what I did.

I didn’t sleep for days. My mind kept replaying the feeling over and over again. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hand on my waist. That disgusting warmth. That unwanted presence.

I was angry.

Angry that someone I didn’t know, who held no meaning in my life, could affect me this deeply. Angry that I couldn’t do anything because I didn’t even know who he was. Angry at myself for freezing—when I should’ve fought. I should’ve screamed louder. Hit him. Hurt him.

And worst of all, I felt guilty.

Guilty for being there. Guilty for being vulnerable. Guilty for existing as a woman in a public space that was supposed to be joyous and safe.

The day I felt the full weight of that rage was when I finally shared this story with a group of people.

It was already hard enough to talk about, so I did what I always do—I softened it. Wrapped it in sarcasm. Lightened the edges with humour so it wouldn’t get too real.

And when I finished, this man—a self-proclaimed intellectual, a real gift to academia—looked me straight in the eye and said:

“Then why were you in the front? You can’t go out into a crowded space and not expect this to happen.”

Ah, yes. Of course.

I volunteered to be groped. Asked to be masturbated on in public. I walked right up to that man, backed into him and offered myself up on a silver platter.

In fact, to avoid any confusion, I wore my special “I Love Being Assaulted” sandwich board and rang a little bell so everyone would know.

That was the moment I felt the rage.

That was when the lava started bubbling in my stomach—boiling so hot I thought I’d throw it up. My fists were clenched. My temple throbbed. I was ready to hurt him. Morality had left the chat. If my senses hadn’t kicked in, I might’ve done something I couldn’t take back

I used to picture rage as a single teardrop sliding down a cheek, a reproachful expression, and a soft-spoken explanation of hurt. That’s how I’d seen it in the movies and TV shows—neat, palatable, and sympathetic. But when I truly felt it, it was nothing like that.

It was all-consuming.

It engulfed me. It made me feel capable of hurting someone in ways I didn’t think were possible—ways that felt almost inhuman.

I remembered all the times I was told to “calm down”, to box my anger up, to just “let it go”. But rage doesn’t go away. It festers. It burrows deep, like a tigress stalking a gazelle—watching, waiting. And when the moment comes, it pounces. It explodes. It pours out of you like molten lava, scalding everything in its path.

Feminine rage is often downplayed or sexualised. Think Catwoman, Mystique, Harley Quinn—so many characters crafted not to express fury but to perform it for the male gaze. Their anger is manicured, made palatable. Pretty rage. Playful rage. Sexy rage.

But in real life, rage isn’t like that.
It’s not seductive. It’s terrifying.
Not just for the person at the receiving end of it—but for you, too.

You don’t recognise yourself.
You don’t know what you’re capable of when everything in your path starts to look like an obstacle that needs to be obliterated.
You don’t know how many bridges you’ll burn before the fire dies out.

Over the years—after countless murders and arsons committed in the safety of my own mind—I learnt to regulate it.
I break things.
I punch pillows.
I write until I can’t feel anything anymore.

Safe to say—I’ve been angry for a long time.

Was it not obvious?