Netflix isn’t supposed to teach us sex ed.

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The demand for sex education rose in India vehemently during the abolishment of Article 377 and when Modi Govt announced NEP in 2020. If the systems and school do not step up amid the growing internet awareness age, parents will have to homeschool kids through social media apps and search engines.

It was the year 2020 — when the internet changed our fates and truly showed its positive potential. I started a Keto channel, cooked all vegetarian recipes online and interned non-stop. One of my prestigious internship remains for the Ministry of Education under Dr. Pokhriyal when the NDA government introduced the National Education Policy.

Interns like me were put to use for tracking sentiment on twitter (now X). To my shock, the most number of tweets condemned the pathbreaking policy on one issue — sex education.

I had become an advocate of the NEP. The linguistic approach and flexibility of curriculum was what I appreciated the most. God, I started singing known Bollywood numbers in Tamil and Bangla to promote the multi-linguistic approach!

I felt people had one thing or the other to complain. Sex ed was a foreign concept, and our biology books were enough. When I could educate myself on the net, why need schools to teach? Males teaching females anatomy would lead to crimes.

Three years hence, I watched OMG 2 and decided that the onus of lack of sex ed in schools cannot be on Netflix to fulfil. It has to be the schools.

Vivek is all of us. I recount my entire sexual awareness journey in this piece to let you know why I have decided to home school my child, and would urge you do so as well.

I remember sitting among family when pad ads would come and be immediately changed and rebuffed as ‘vulgar.’ Same for condom ads.

I appreciate the patience of my mother and our frank relationship where I could ask her when my body would change to become like her, or what condoms are based on newspaper front page images. This was class 5. She was reserved, but tried to explain as cleanly and curtly as she could. Atleast she didn’t rebuff me like my paternal family.

One of my cousins — father’s sister’s daughter — came to me one day when I was in class 1. She said one of her juniors — same age as me- told her what Stayfree is actually used for. That blood oozes out of our (pee-pees). And I innocently said (because I had to have an answer for everything, even what I didn’t know!) — no no, it’s to contain sweat or pee.

Later this same cousin — 5 years elder to me — made me watch Murder and started kissing my body when the entire family was asleep. It felt funny, but she pampered me with dresses and ice-creams and I would give in. We started smooching. This continued from class 1 till class 7. She smartly withdrew when she turned 18, I realised years later.

Our aunt was the eldest child of my grandparents and had a patronising influence on all of us. She made sure her kids scored the best and were the best in extra-curriculars. In this race to make them the best, she forgot checking up on their behaviour. Thankfully our paternal family had no sons. But this certain cousin — R- sported a boy cut always and told my mom and grandmother casually how she wanted to grow a beard and take pills for it.

They would call her naughty and pass it off as a joke. I imagined what the scene would be if it was a boy wanting to be a girl. I had understood in my childhood that being a man was more important in some parts of our country, infact the world.

I saw this grave reality of a boy coming out as gay in class 6. He would have taken therapy and felt he could share this news in his peer group — he was special! But he was treated differently. Slurs like chakka echoed in the corridor, teachers did nothing. The number 6 changed meaning.

I studied in a posh south Delhi school where money and status, and academic excellence meant everything. But you should have seen class 4 kids play Truth Dare Situation in 2008–09, giving situations of naked people and kissing because we didn’t know what sex was, or how it worked. Bollywood was confined to kissing, opening back blouses and kissing limbs. The anatomy was still hidden.

Oh, I remember now — a kid in my class when I was 8 tried pinching my nipples, and that of other girls in my class. Obviously I was the first to report this. He was counselled, and so were we. Thank goodness I never came across predatory behaviour again.

Only if I could speak up in my home. Boy and girl relationships were hidden, but girl and girl was unknown and hence unquestioned.

It was still grave molestation which bothers me mentally. I haven’t even confessed this to my therapist in 3 years of seeing her. I wish I can act on it, but lawyers like Kamini Maheshwari of OMG 2 scare me. The finances scare me. But yes, I am not scared of voicing this because I wasn’t wrong.

In middle school, I felt the girls in my class were prettier than me. Kids had started ‘going out’ with the opposite sex, and guys would rate girls that how flat or curvy they were. Masturbation and boobs became a common topic. Fucking had entered the scenes verbally, anatomy words being thrown around derogatorily, and fuck the mother and fuck the sister were common greetings. I remember how I had to listen to my classmates on the last bench talk about how they masturbate, and I felt guilty listening to it. How could I even know this? I couldn’t complain.

This was also the era of English music and the internet. Obviously the curious mind misused it. I don’t blame parents here, because if they breathe down on our necks we feel they are tiger parents or helicopter parents, and if they allowed — we misused. I would see hot oozing chemistry between singers and models, and imagine my crush. But when I looked at myself — I was a lean, dusky kid — flat and with oiled hair braided into two neat pigtails. I kid you not.

So I changed my look — got flicks, started making puffs in my hair which my grandmother repeatedly chided me for. She should have gone to my school and see the other girls made bigger ones and fold their skirts. I started massaging my chest to grow — thanks to wikihow.

Only if I knew no amount of massage would change it — only age or surgery will. I would judge other women on their bosom, and wish for a curvy exterior. I could feel Vivek’s desperation. I had also started dating in class 8 — my first was a 3-day relationship.

The second was on facebook with a stranger way elder to me. How risky that was, I now realise.

I remember growing feelings for guys and confessing to them, or telling in class and how it would spread like a joke. I was flat, nerd, jhalli. The same guy who said all this — my first crush — tried getting in my pants when I connected with him on Instagram in the second year of college. He went on to call my baby sister hot when I blocked him.

My third relationship was with a classmate — let’s call him Y. We met on facebook but he was in my class. It was the summer break in June 2013 — and we exchanged numbers and I would call him everyday back home from tuition.

God, I have goosebumps reliving that time.

I saw him in person in July. He was my best friend, played football, talked about his day. I was very happy. My classmates would say we both nerds and jerks — having ugly faces and middle class upbringing — were perfect for each other.

I wish I had my snarky comebacks then.

One day, I spoke to Y on how Americans have sex at 11. That was the only conversation point. No plans of doing it. I only remember holding his hand in class. That was the closest we were.

I had foolishly started recording our calls and hearing them at bedtime. One day, my mom caught me talking to him on landline and informed my father. He went through my cell and what followed was a string of slaps, even kicks. It was class 9.

I was told they will marry him to me and that family can sponsor my education. Anyways, the rich posh south Delhi school was not my favourite place on the planet, but the admission my grandparents did for society reputation was rubbed in my face because of the fees. One red mark in the notebook, or anything less than 20 on 20 — and I was called names I never want to recall.

I wished that I would be taken away from this toxic family. Yes, they educated me and yes, they took great care of me financially. Because they owned 5 crores in property and 45 lakhs in cash — but we were raised as if we were paupers — wearing hand me downs all our life until 21.

I tried drinking suthol to put an end to all this— but my grandmother smirked — koi nahi, tera pet saaf ho gaya hoga. This woman claims to be a masters in psychology back in the 60s.

I was grounded for a year. Anyways, I never got to go on one outstation trip in school. I had stopped telling there were trips. I had stopped dreaming. My bua’s children went to Army schools, wore the most lavish clothes and their mother was the class teacher — hence they scored in full. It was complete bigotry that we couldn’t participate in extra-curriculars — I had to let go of my seat in NSD- but my cousins could travel cities for theatre competitions, MUNs and Youth Parliaments.

I wasn’t allowed to participate.

Before this becomes a rant of my unjust family (which sets the context of my toxic relationship in the future owing to extremely low self esteem)— I would come to my fourth relationship — in school. I changed school in senior secondary and was perceived to be the hottest and wisest. I was the head girl. All guys wanted to date me. It was a 180 degree shift! I was living my dream life. And the guys who couldn’t date me would call me whore and label me as a serial dater. I remember reporting this to my coordinator for the safe environment that school gave us to express and complain.

I entered college, started seeing a person I met on Instagram — and got involved. Satya Prem Ki Katha made me realise that date rape was not my fault, or it was even a thing. I thought I had aroused him and now I must pay for it. Anyways, I would only marry PPS.

Let me present an easy sketch of him — he was Kabir Singh. Oh sorry, worse.

He would slut shame me that I got jobs by blowing people because I was so good with him. His mother — when I reported this after a year — being a Supreme Court lawyer said that I was responsible for this relationship and she had nothing to do with it.

I moved on. But then he circulated the chats I had with a certain ‘I’ — an MBA aspirant — to my friends and god knows where. When I reported this to NCW, Amar Colony Police station made me change the word sexual harassment to mental harassment and did nothing. I remember a female constable character shaming me on phone after he spoke in his lawyer tone to come off as innocent.

I only healed after working relentlessly, interning and earning through freelance.

But when my aunt took away the property of 4 crores and 45 lakhs cash, leaving my parents with only a crore worth of a flat and 10 lakhs — 7 lakhs of which were pocketed by a mediator, I had to take therapy. I supported my father, mother and sister with my earnings and pulled off 15-hour work shifts for six months. This was even after I was dragged out of home and had to fend for myself in flats and PGs in Noida — south Delhi for six months. I still shudder at the kinds of taunts a certain landlady living in Dubai gave on my character.

I had to seek therapy, and only after meeting my present partner have I healed from this abuse partially.

I think I have my case ready — I want to avoid any boys locker room happening with my child — because boys of my south Delhi school were reported to be involved. I calculated — these would be the same kids I monitored as a Prefect when I was in class 5 and they were in Nursery.

Kids like my bully classmates and toxic exes are a product of negligence, snootiness and fake ideals. And I cannot rely on films or webseries to have my kid fend for their own curiosity — as an active parent I would leave my job happily, shift to a more peaceful city, and homeschool my kid — dividing chores and teaching with my partner’s family.

You would say that I am cocooning the kid, or opening their cocoon so that they are not ready for life. People reading this would think therapy is a sham, I am a victim of my own circumstances and cannot generalise my experiences. But how can experiences of films resonate so much with my life?

The last blow to my argument will be multiple girls I interviewed for a child molestation documentary after Paris Hilton’s documentary, for an investigative startup. One recounted horrifically how her math teacher raped her in class 8, how another was given oral sex in class 4, and how a father ended up molesting his child.

That documentary never saw the light of day because the NCPCR asked the girls to come forward. Two of these three girls had not confided even in family. To protect our sources, we killed the story.

My ex shared how a senior of his school would play with his body. How a maid taught him to have sex. How another ex hid in classrooms as a middle school kid with another female classmate and grew close. Cases of intercourse in tuitions.

If our education system and families — our safe spaces for growth — end up putting us in survival mode, should I choose to even have a kid in this doomed world where the Internet is becoming a tool for destruction?