“He Pulled Me Onto His Lap”: Raw Excerpt From Californian Chanchal Garg’s Memoir

By Chanchal Garg

‘Unearthed: The Lies We Carry and the Truths They Bury,’ is Californian Chanchal Garg’s debut memoir and is a courageous exploration of spiritual and sexual abuse, cultural duty, and the journey to self-liberation. The book is available in all leading outlets. For more: chanchalgarg.com

A name can weigh you down—or set you free.

Until recently, I felt the weight of names that others had placed on my soul as expectations of who I was supposed to be.

When I was born, my parents asked my grandfather to name me.

“If her name”—referring to my mother—“is Promila, then name her Nirmala,” he responded nonchalantly.

Though my mother intended to honor his wishes, she associated Nirmala with someone she had little respect for. So, she made a change. She shortened it to Nirmal, meaning pure and unblemished—pure in heart, mind, intention, and action.

Purity was important to her. She often spoke to me about it.

“Your body is a temple,” she would tell me when I was little. “Never let anyone touch it.”

Why? I used to wonder. People go in and out of temples all the time. But I never said that out loud.

My nickname was Nimi. While many thought it was cute, I never felt any real connection to it. What I did feel—acutely—was the weight of protecting my own “purity.”

My parents were deeply religious. Throughout my childhood, they introduced me to many swamis and gurus.

I was fourteen when my father first took me to meet Babaji—a spiritual leader revered by millions of Hindus around the world. He spoke a language from a region of India different from ours. I couldn’t understand his words, but I longed to.

There was something captivating about him. I felt drawn to his teachings.

One of my father’s friends, a devoted follower of Babaji, noticed my eagerness and offered to teach me the language. He owned several hotels and suggested that my father drop me off at one of them for private lessons.

I should have been excited. But something felt wrong.

The unease began the moment my father left. It lingered as I followed the man into a quiet, dimly lit back room. It was arranged like a family room, but felt anything but familiar.

He settled into a chair, his movements deliberate. Then, before I could react, he pulled me onto his lap.

A deep dread settled over me. My mind raced, but my body froze—trapped in confusion.

I was fourteen, not three. I wouldn’t have been comfortable sitting on his lap even at three.

He hugged me. Tickled me. Urged me to hug him back.

Each time he stepped away to attend to something at the front desk, I felt immense relief. But he always came back.

When my father finally arrived to pick me up, I rushed him out the door.

Once we were in the car, I asked, “Why did you leave me there so long?”

“I wanted to give you enough time to learn,” he replied.

Learn? Learn what? I sank deeper into the seat. “Well, he didn’t teach me anything,” I muttered.

My father turned and looked at me. “What happened?”

What could I say? How do you explain to your father that a man tickling you made your skin crawl? Would he understand? What if he made a scene? Or worse—what if he didn’t?

“I didn’t feel comfortable,” I said softly.

“But what happened?” he asked again, this time turning in his seat.

I shrank under his gaze. “He made me sit on his lap and tickled me… and I didn’t like it.”

“Well, he didn’t mean anything by that, Beta,” he said, using the familiar Hindi endearment. He seemed relieved, as though the worst possibility had been averted. “Maybe he was just being loving?”

“I didn’t like it,” I said again—this time more firmly.

As I spoke, doubt flooded in. Why couldn’t I just accept his affection? Was I wrong to feel uncomfortable?

But if my body is a temple, then why was it okay for this man to treat it that way?

I felt lost. Angry. Confused.

Burdened by the weight of purity and unsure how to protect it, even as everyone around me acted like it should be obvious.