There’s a lot of talk about sexual harassment of women travelling in India, so I wondered how this issue would play out while we were here.

In most places we’ve been, I’ve encountered no problems at all. Of course, I am shielded by the fact that Andrew’s mostly with me, and by the fact that I keep my eyes lowered and to the ground much more whenever travelling than I would at home. That last part is somewhat sad to type, but it is defintely my experience that it's much more possible for men to look the world in the eye and know it won't cause a problem for them. Conversely, women actively meeting the eyes of men is frequently liable to cause hassle and problems in many parts of the world. Eyes-to-the-ground becomes second nature afer a while.

Still, wandering alone here usually hasn’t been a problem, and any untoward behaviour’s been mostly limited to lascivious staring and the craning of necks. Not nice, but not too obtrusive, either.

Rajasthan has proved a bit different, though. As soon as we arrived, there was a more aggro tone in the air - and a far more intense brand of sexualised interest. Things reached their nadir last night on a crowded local bus as we returned from viewing a temple.

The bus was far too crowded for us to sit, and we were standing in the aisle and hanging onto the roof-rail to steady ourselves against the bus’s jolting. The men standing around me seemed to think that the crowded surrounds were the perfect cover for a bit of bump-and-grind. No matter how I shifted, a surreptitious groin would find its way to my arse or hips and start to move. Not good, especially when the bus trip is a 50 minute journey.

But worse was yet to come: a hand snaked its way onto my bottom and then between my legs. It was utterly, utterly awful. I was twitching away like I’d been electrocuted, but each time I evaded him, his hand found its way back to me.

Worse was the fact that a lovely family who were sitting on seats nearby were eagerly engaging us in conversation - a mother, an aunt and a sister were all asking questions of us which the son was translating into English.

I was sorely tempted to say something to the son, given that he spoke English - but it felt like it would have been akin to asking him to check if my bra was fitted correctly. It was one of those moments when you're suddenly paralysed by the cultural gulf between you and the other person, and you feel like you can't say anything for fear that it might offend or shock or be misconstrued.

Trying to hold down a conversation while you’re twisting away from a groper is fantastically awkward, not to mention distressing. Part of me wanted to shout out, but the bus was so crowded it felt impossible to pin down who was doing the touching. Ridiculously, I was scared of seeming to blame every man around me for the actions of one. I think I was also frightened that other locals on board would blame me for the incident. So I said nothing. As I type those words, they surprise me - it seems very out of character. My mental image of my likely reaction is that I would sharply slap any guy who dared to try that on, as well as yelling at him. But that's all based on the premise that I know who it is that's perpetrating it.

Yes, in retrospect it seems so easy to just say, 'Next time, make sure you shout loudly' etc etc - but it's quite different at the time when you're packed in like a sardine in a tin, and you feel like there's no way you can know who it is that's touching you - let alone make them stop. Not nice at all.