Anoop Judge | Author · Writing Instructor · Former T.V. Host​

It was something so small no one had even noticed it . . .

Gingerly she runs her tongue over her lower lip, tasting the buttery Lakme Fuschia Fury lipstick Mummy had generously slathered on her thirty minutes ago. Now she can hear her brother’s raspy voice calling her from their drawing-room. The bride viewing party must have arrived.

It was her cue to go into the kitchen and pick up the plastic tray sitting on the Formica counter with its prepared pot of tea, and four Wedgewood China teacups.

Opening the locked door . . .

It is raining. My black Mary Jane shoes—part of my uniform at Mater Dei School—are squelchy and wet from the puddles I found on the street. I ran blindly as thunder clapped and lightning rent the air, fleeing from monsters who lurk in hidden alleys —men of unsound mind who flash their private parts at innocent school girls. This is what Mamma cautions me about every night as she tucks me in, and I snuggle into the comfort of her smell—a mix of Himalayan sandalwood talc and sulphuric acid.

Ford v. Kavanaugh

Two weeks ago, I wore a fictional piece about the #MeToo movement ( and last week social media exploded with Supreme Court nominee, Brett Kavanaugh having to face his own #Metoo moment.

The handling of sexual assault allegations against Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh is more than a conservative vs. liberal fight over a high court seat. The chorus of doubt accuser Christine Blasey Ford, has faced shines a light on how sexual assault claims are minimized, and victims’ trauma misunderstood even in the post #MeToo Age.

The Palo Alto University professor claims that Kavanaugh, and a friend took her into a room where he pinned her to a bed, groped her, tried to remove her clothes and put his hands over her mouth to muffle her screams at a house party in the suburbs of Washington, D.C., in the early 1980s, when he was 17 and she 15. Kavanaugh denies the allegations. Yesterday, she agreed on Thursday as the date she is willing to testify. It\’s going down at a public hearing.

#Me Too . . .

He was her boss, the one whose bold signature was stamped on the checks she stood in line to collect from the cashier\’s office at 425 Locust Street. Twice a month, like clockwork. On the 15th and the 30th.

She drove straight to the bank after she tucked it securely in the inner pocket of the logo-embossed Coach handbag that had been a birthday gift from her husband two years ago. The first time she received her paycheck her eyes kept straying from the road ahead to peek into the pocket, once, twice, thrice to make sure, yes, it\’s still there. By the time she handed it over to the teller for direct deposit, her fingers were clammy from the effort of keeping it safe. 

She was grateful for the job. Yes, she was. She\’d sent out 50 resumes just like her college counselor advised her to do. \”Keep trying,\” Mrs. Gomez said kindly, letting her wizened hand rest lightly on Anika\’s tightly clenched fist. Anika felt bereft when Mrs. Gomez removed her hand and forced herself to concentrate. \”It\’s the bad economy, the recession, dear. Nobody\’s hiring.\” Especially, not anybody with an accent. Anika could hear her inner critic chiming in.

Anoop Judge is a blogger and an author, who’s lived in the San Francisco-Bay Area for the past 27 years. As an Indian-American writer, her goal is to discuss the diaspora of Indian people in the context of twenty-first century America.