The Price of an “A”: My Story of Harassment in University

It was my first week in university. My brain buzzed with advice from well-meaning friends about being a “jambite”, that uncertain period when you’re new on campus, still adjusting, and subject to what’s known as the “October rush.” During this time, everyone, especially the guys, is suddenly interested in befriending the freshers, often with not-so-innocent intentions.

But I wasn’t interested in being anyone’s “hottest jambite.” My goal was simple: keep a low profile, focus on school, play some badminton, maybe go to an occasional party. Most importantly, I had vowed not to date throughout my four years at university. Not with a student, not with a lecturer, no one. I didn’t want the messiness.

The first week was a blur of registrations, setting up my hostel room, and getting essentials. One day, I stopped by the bank to withdraw cash. It was 2004, ATMs were not as well deployed as they are today, just a long queue, form-filling, and endless waiting. I struck up a casual conversation with a young man in line. He was skinny, dark, spoke lazily, and wasn’t particularly memorable. He asked what course I was studying and how I was settling in. He didn’t say much about himself, and I didn’t ask. He asked for my number, just to check up on me later.

The next day, I walked into one of my first lectures and nearly choked. The same man from the bank walked in, but this time, as the lecturer. He looked younger than most and carried himself with more confidence than he had at the bank. He even winked at me. Apparently, when I mentioned I was studying Computer Science, he knew I’d end up in his class and chose not to say.

In the beginning, it felt harmless. He called occasionally to check in and sometimes I passed by his shared office for a quick chat. We were “friends”—or so I thought.

Then he began trying to escape the friend-zone. Subtly at first, then more insistently. I was clear: I would never date him. I was direct and firm, as I always am when I’m sure of something. There was no chemistry, no attraction. If he hadn’t been a lecturer, I would have cut him off completely. But I kept up the skeleton of a friendship to avoid awkwardness in class.

First year ended without major drama. Then came second year.

He kept calling. One day, during a chat in his office, his colleague laughed and said, “I hear she’s more slippery than an eel.” That statement stuck with me. What had they discussed? Why was my resistance to his advances now a joke?

People started assuming we were an item. He would stare at me in class or ask me to hang back. It was exhausting. When it was finally clear I would never say yes, he pulled a move that stunned and broke me.

Just before exam results were released, he called me to his office and showed me the raw score sheet. I had scored 69 in his course. Just one point shy of an A. Then he said the words I’ll never forget:
“If you agree to be my girlfriend, I can cross your t’s and dot your i’s.”

In that moment, I realized that everything I had been tolerating, the calls, the friendship, the winks, was all grooming. A setup. I walked out of that office with my head held high and vowed never to speak to him again.

I couldn’t even contest my result. Most of the lecturers were friends. Reporting him would likely lead to nothing but more subtle punishment. By that point, I was already regretting studying Computer Science. I was doing well grade-wise, but I didn’t enjoy it, and this just made it worse.

From that point, I avoided his courses if they were electives. I even took a tough math course just to avoid him. Near graduation, he tried to apologize. But the damage was done. He had made a dent in my CGPA and my trust.

Sometimes, victims sit with the pain and ask: Did I lead him on? Was I too friendly? But often, it’s not about what we did. It’s about the predator’s perception of us as prey. I was having a bad day at the bank and made polite conversation. That was all it took.

Sexual harassment on campuses, especially from those in authority, needs to be addressed head-on. And harassment comes in many forms. Some male students paid lecturers just to pass. Some female students were spared grades in exchange for silence, compliance, or favors. I even remember students attending a lecturer’s wedding in another town, not because we cared, but because being visible was a way to stay in good graces.

And this happened in a private university. I’ve been told it’s worse in public ones. I can only imagine.

So why am I sharing this now?
Because I know I’m not alone. Because some girl somewhere might think she’s crazy for feeling uncomfortable. Because some boy might wonder if it’s normal to pay for grades. Because silence protects predators.

And because I survived, and so will you.