No average Indian is 6’7″. And yet, he’s there—watching me. I have no idea why.

At first, I thought maybe I’d witnessed something I shouldn’t have over the course of my career. But nothing I’ve seen stands out enough to justify this level of scrutiny. I haven’t been involved in anything beyond my professional job taking care sometimes of low-level gangsters—those who were stabbed, shot, or mentally disturbed by drugs or alcohol. So why the tracking?

Then I realized: I’d managed to spot an undercover intelligence officer on something dirty. Not one, not two, but several. Not from a single service, either, but from multiple.

Somehow, an untrained civilian like me, at all related with intelligence or secret services had clues on undercover operatives. And that made me a liability in their eyes.

So now, I have a tail 24/7. Every part of my life is under observation. Neither the job application responses are coming back. Are redirected!

I talk on the phone with voices cloning modulators wishing at the end of interview “have a nice Covid day!” Something like they aim to lose your minds!

And I can feel their frustration. They hate me because I undercover them and they are dirty “intelligent” networks.

They hired a behaviorist, trying to figure out how an average woman like me could do this.

Could I have contacts with other agencies?

To them, the idea that this could be natural is absurd.

This clue I realized was just two days ago: no average Indian is 6’7″.

And no Indian I know would stand in a coffee shop with a pretty smile for an old lady in a worn-out rain jacket. It wasn’t just the height that stood out—there was something about his vibe, his stance. He wasn’t there for coffee. He was there for me.

In surveillance work, you don’t wait at every point in someone’s routine. You only wait at the last place, the destination, because everything in between is just checking in. And this guy knew exactly where to be: the final point.

He’d studied my routine, my bus stop, my shop, my coffee stop. Everything.

And that’s when it shine to me: they didn’t just know me. They monitored me, every step of the way, like clockwork. And for what?

Just because I spotted the undercover game they thought was airtight? Monitored 24 hours a day. Every car trip, bus trip, or cab, becomes a case study for them. Naked or dress up they study me!

My question is simple: why am I being punished for being a good observant? Is my profession . I must be the best observant!

This constant surveillance strips away my normal life. Pictures with naked me overflow the internet, same as videos. They have fun messing around. WHO coordinate them?

Police refused to be involved! Too high to extend!

Catching a bus, waiting for a coffee—nothing feels like it’s just for me anymore.

I see these dirty agents around me, pretending to blend in but missing the mark every time. A right to privacy is supposed to be THE right.

And now that’s been taken from me just because I notice things others don’t.

The experience has left me wondering: is this what awareness costs?

If I can be tracked for no reason other than seeing what’s in plain sight, what does that say about the balance between security and privacy?

At what point do we say enough?