I meet him almost every Monday during my routine walk with my companion Rio, my dog. I guess he must be in his 70s. Silver haired with a ruddy complexion, sporting a high visibility jacket, I see him picking litter with his trash grabber and carefully putting it in bags. He greets everyone who passes by, a smile plastered on his face, untouched by the Monday morning blues. There is something avuncular about him. He is close to my dad’s age. In a fraction of a second I imagine my dad picking trash from the streets in India, an image I still don’t find pleasing, though my perception has completely changed after moving to this country, I admire how people respect each and every profession and no job is considered menial. The man in the high viz jacket intrigues me, and the journalist in me gets curious as a cat.

I talk, he opens up. I learn that Rodney aka Rod had worked in hotel industry in the maintenance department rising to the post of regional director of Engineering. He traveled all over the world helping a major hotel chain setting up hotels. He also worked in the power industry installing gas powered generators in various establishments.

Post retirement, he lived a quiet life, whiling his time fishing. “When the first lockdown started, during my walks i would hurt to see a lot of trash strewn all over the place. It irked me. So when a flyer came through the door with an article on Adopt a street, a volunteer organisation backed by the council, I thought this was my chance to give something back to the community. Last I heard there were close to do 500 volunteers in the borough doing the same job as I do, “he says.

So now come Monday and I am up and about with my trash grabber and bags doing rounds. It keeps me fit, and the neighbourhood spruced up.

Showing me a ball that he just found in the park, he says, these days I find very little litter on the roads and parks, I find that quite satisfying, Rodney tells me.

I want to linger on, talk to him some more but my dog on the leash was getting impatient and Rodney had a job to do, so I say goodbye to him. But all the way back home, I felt his positive energy transmitted to me. It put me in a good mood.

Tulsi looked as those little pink-socked feet jumped up and down, messing her creaseless bed. In other time, the rumpled sheets would make her cringe, but today decided to let go. Her daughter, Mahi was starting school in a week’s time, and she was raring to go. She smiled, infected by her child’s happiness. Mama, can we go to Smiggles? I need to buy a new pencil case, school bag, lunch box and water bottle. Smiggles had a pull, no child could resist. Known for its funky, trendy, colourful school supplies, it was a dream of every school going child to flaunt a Smiggle backpack or a smiggle pencil box. Tulsi avoided going there, even though her daughter’s eyes always traveled to that shop every time they went shopping. She bought time saying, once you start school, I will take you to Smiggles. Now she ran out of excuses. Leaving Tulsi at the entrance of Smiggles, Mahi bounded away to explore as if she had set foot on Disneyland for the first time. Mama, can I buy this? she said showing her a dazzling pink pop up pencil case. As she held up the pencil case, her head was filled with images of the past, she was engulfed by bitter memories.

An nine-year-old Tulsi couldn’t take her eyes off the beauty. It was pink, or was it red, it was a colour you get when you mix little pink and more red, whatever the colour was it was stunning. It was gleaming as the sun rays bathed the classroom with its luminous light. Everyone crowded around Sudha, who had pride dripping from every part of her body as she showed off her My precious, a pencil box, her father got her from Singapore. It had push buttons on the lid, one press and it opened up, displaying the mysterious inside with its pen and pencil slots, a tiny drawer to keep the eraser and even pop pencil sharpener. For Tulsi it was a magic box, it sent frissons of excitement through her whole body. No one in her class had such a pencil box, her’s of course was dull and drab. A steel box , totally lacklustre. Sudha was impudent, she didn’t allow any one to touch it, as if it would lose its magical quality. But Tulsi wanted to feel it, caress it, touch the buttons, smell the perfumed eraser. How was it even possible, a tiny sharpener lodged in that tiny compartment, she thought. She asked Sudha if she could have a turn, but she gave a mocking laugh and said, what makes you think I will give you a go of all the others? Tulsi felt a stab of pain. Nonetheless, she couldn’t take it off her mind. She was restless. Soon it was recess, when all the children went out into the playground. But she couldn’t hold herself back. It seemed an unseen force was drifting her towards the classroom. Tulsi could hear her heart pounding in her ears, she knew what she was doing was wrong, but she just wanted to have a close look and then she would put it right back at its place. As she was digging in Sudha’s bag, a group of girls sauntered into the classroom. Tulsi went pale and dropped the pencil case, all the contents spilling out, as did the truth that she was stealing Sudha’s pencil case. She wanted to explain but the girls started to scream, so shrill and loud , that all the teachers left their lunch and ran to class 3 classroom. Mrs Goswami, the class teacher, a soft fleshed woman who hardly raised her voice in class, was in state of shock. Big fat tears spilled out of Sudha’s eyes. Miss, she was stealing my pencil case, she said through her sniffles. Tulsi was not given a chance to speak. She was taken to the headmistress office and the stern, woody, bespectacled superior didn’t mince her words. At the end of school day, when her father came to collect her, the headmistress was waiting at the entrance to talk to him. Soon the news got legs and was all over the school. Tulsi could see the students’ acute gaze at her father as he listened patiently. She couldn’t see her father’s face, but she could feel his body was stiff. At that moment she wanted the ground to crack and swallow her up. The slight of her father was too much for to bear. They walked home in awkward silence. The tension was so thick it could be cut with a knife. When they reached home, her father asked her to sit down by his side. I will give you a chance to explain yourself, he said, his demeanour calm, though Tulsi knew inside he was hurting. As tears streamed down her eyes, she told her father everything. She had no intention of stealing the pencil case, she just wanted to have a touch and feel. Her father replied, I believe you. I will talk to your teacher tomorrow but I am not sure whether she will believe you or not. It was impetuous on your part and this may cause you suffering, be prepared. Tulsi, the next few months in school will not be easy. Children can be cruel and mean at times. But I assure this is going to pass. Be brave. Her father was right. School for her was purgatory. She was a social pariah. Her friends shunned her. Stinging barbs and jeers wounded her, making her life miserable. She felt lonely and abandoned. She hated Mrs Goswami. She had simply moved on, and was blissfully ignoring what was happening behind her back. Could she not see how she was hurting? She could definitely take the matter under control, and drum in some sense into the children. Children had the tendency to listen to the teachers. Was it not her responsibility to take care of her mental well being?

Time is a witch. It has the power to nudge old incidents to the farthest corner of the mind, from where it can’t crawl its way out. After a few months, most students forgot about the episode, their attention drawn towards more juicer and interesting incidents, but not for Tulsi. The incident scarred her for life. If someone lost an eraser or pencil in class, she would get fidgety , were the accusatory fingers pointing at her again? She hesitated borrowing anything from anyone, and even if she did she would not be at peace until she returned it to the rightful owner. Was it possible to rewrite a chapter of your life, she often thought. As she grew older, the past stalked her like a shadow often whispering in her ears, never letting her forget the incident. She could never get over it.

As she saw her daughter’s joy, holding the pink pencil case, she decided it was time for her to heal. She had to bury the demons.

That night she logged on to Facebook and clicked on the school year group page, and poured her heart out.

Subject: stealing of pencil case

I should have done this years back, but better late than never. I don’t know if you remember but in class 3 I was caught what appeared to be stealing. As I was never given a chance to explain, I decided to seize it myself. I never had the intention of stealing the pencil case, true I was besotted with it, I wanted a few minutes to explore it. Yes, it was a folly on my part. I was a curious child, and I paid a high price for my curiosity. I was branded a thief. I was treated as an outcast. The painful memories lingered on, and haunted me like a ghost. But I have suffered enough, it is time for me to let go.

She took a deep breadth and unfollowed the group. As she went to bed, she felt lighter as if she had unloaded a huge weight from her chest.

I realised when I slowly settled down in this country that football was religion. It was an adorable sight to see children as young as 2 or 3, some still in their nappies, dribbling football in the field and embracing the sport as if they were born to play. In most social gatherings, it was the hot topic of discussion, and one of the favourite pastime of men were to gather in the pub, watch football in giant screens over frothing beer. I looked at my chubby little boy, floundering clumsily, he had just learnt to walk, and thought I have to enrol him into this game as soon as I can. I have to make him love this game. I thought it would giving him an edge and ,more importantly, help him bond with other boys. I waited a few years, and once he was five I signed him up for football training. I was more excited than him. I bought him expensive trainers and football shirt and shorts. How he cute he looked. But from day one I could see he was like fish out of water. He would go to training unfailingly with a smile on his face, never protested but it was only because he didn’t want to disappoint us. At first I thought it was too early for me to give up, he was too young to know what his likes and dislikes are. He needed a little push, a nudge. We saw him struggling in the field, but we kept on encouraging him, with time he would get the hang of it, I kept on saying myself. But I was wrong. He would run from one end of the field to the another on his scraggy legs, wait for others to pass him the ball, which never happened, and he would never tackle the opponent to get the ball, it was a sad sight. As time passed we realised, he was just not cut out for football and we were just forcing him to play. Then we tried to turn him into a spectator, we started watching football matches at home, mostly the World Cup, to generate his interest but we could never see the spark in his eyes, the one sports lovers have when watching their favourite game. The thrill, the heady excitement. I was heartbroken. How was he going to make any friends, if he was not interested in sports. But I couldn’t see him go through this torture day after day. I decided to stop his football training , albeit with a heavy heart. I realised if he didn’t enjoy it, there was no use of pursuing it. That was it. We never asked him to play football again. He started school. When most boys played football in recession, he would engage himself in other activities like chasing other kids. He was never dull and listless. He always found something to do. He was very athletic and was often dubbed as the fastest in class. Slowly, my anxiety began to ease, he started to make lot of friends in school. Most of his friends were die hard football lovers, but he was completely at ease with them, and never felt out of place. When he was ten we moved to a different city and he had to join a new school, but very soon he became the most popular boy in his class. Though not sporty, he was a nice boy, never the bullying or bossy type, and what I admired about him was that he didn’t have a jealous bone in his body. He loved to see others grow as much as he enjoyed his own growth. His amiable nature helped him make a lot of friends. He was also funny and his antics make his burst out in gales of laughter.

By the time he started secondary, which was again another school, he was brimming with confidence and was ready for the next phase of his life. In secondary too, he straddled easily and soon had a huge circle of friends. A big school, each year having 5 sections, he had friends from across all sections. I could gauge his popularity from the fact that whenever I invited his friends for sleepover, almost each and everyone would turn up.

And, yes, most of his friends love football. His best friend is an passionate footballer, and is a goal keeper. Till date he doesn’t enjoy football, but he has lots of other interests. He loves drama, and has tremendous stage presence. His teachers say that he is very natural when it comes to taking the stage. He is good musician, he plays the piano, the guitar and the drums and wants to join the entertainment industry.

I know longer worry about him when it comes to making friends. I don’t think he will have any dearth of it . I still curse myself sometimes for pushing him so aggressively to play football, but I was growing as a parent too. My child seems so happy and confident now.

My son had this habit ever since he started to sleep on his own. He would lie down with us for a few minutes before he retired to his own room to sleep. In those ten minutes we swapped stories, the ones not important but yet you want to share. Of late, he has stopped doing so. He comes to my room kisses me and goes off to sleep. I rued a little, but I realised given his busy routine, yes most days he is home by 10, he is too washed out for inanities. Yesterday, when he was getting ready for bed I saw that it was not his usual sleeping time, he was tad early, so I asked him to come snuggle up with me and talk. He shrugged and said no, I want to go to sleep. I felt a twitch in my heart. I couldn’t help but remember those days when he would follow me like shadow. I sighed and kissed him good night. In the silence of night, I could hear him in his room putting his clothes away, the ruffling through his books, flipping off the lights, then I hear footsteps his dad coming up with urgency in his steps. I heard him say, “what happened today in piano class? Your teacher just texted to say you were terribly upset and frustrated today. “ On most days I would rush to hear what was eating him up but I stayed in bed and let his dad steer the ship. I knew in few days he was appearing for his grade 4 piano exam and I could feel this was something related to it. I could hear speak, his voice unsteady, quavering, I practiced for so long after school today yet I got it all wrong in today’s lesson. I don’t know how I am going to do in my exam. What if I get it all messed up.” And he broke down and started to cry. I couldn’t hold myself any longer and went to console him but his dad had him wrapped in his arms already and he was bawling, pouring his frustrations out. His dad said, It is okay to cry, don’t ever think men can’t cry. And crying is not a sign of weakness. It means you have tried to stay strong for long and want to vent out your frustrations. I know you are growing up and you feel big boys don’t cry but I would say cry when you feel , you will feel better. And about your piano exam we know how hard you are trying to balance everything, and we know you will give it your best. See what your teacher has texted, he is naturally talented but beats himself too hard. So just chill and give it your best shot, if you fail there is always the next time.” And he kissed him in his forehead and said, we love you. And remember it is okay to cry. It is good for your mental health.

I could feel tears stinging my eyes, I kissed him again and went to bed. Sleep eluded me for a while, all the while I had been thinking he was being distant and aloof but I was unable to see deep below the husk. Silently, he was battling his own demons. Also realised it was international men’s day and what an apt message to send out to the younger generation of boys, it is okay for boys to cry.

I was mere spectator as the emotional scene unfolded today usually I am the consoler, the shoulder to lean and cry on but this time his dad took the centre stage and was proud of the way he dealt with it.

I never miss the sindoor khela, even though now I from faraway from India, my first home. Bidding Devi Durga good bye by applying sindoor on her feet and forehead and then smearing each other’s face with vermilion is s tradition I would hate to let go. I love the all female bonhomie, the playfulness of the ritual and the energy the celebration exudes. When I was a child I would accompany my mother to the mandap but watch from periphery as the celebrations ensued. I wanted to be included in the celebration, but my mother breathed fire when I asked her if I could join in. “This ritual is only for married woman, you are absolutely forbidden from taking part. It will bring bad luck, “ she said. I would bring to front my rebellious streak and say, “well, that is not fair. Everyone should be able to take part in it.” To this she would say, “this is a tradition going on from ages, who are we too break it”. I would scrunch my eyebrows, puff up my cheeks, writhe in rage, and then after some time calm down. I hated a negatively charged family atmosphere. Sometimes my jethi visited us during the Pujas and as she was a widow she was not allowed to take part as well. When my mother dressed up in the traditional white and red border sari to get ready for the sindoor khela on the last day of Durga puja, I could see her face turn dark as if a mass of clouds has enveloped the sky. It made her realise she was now incomplete as she did not have a husband. That would hurt me like hundred pinpricks. What discrimination, I thought. Why can’t all be included, after all it was only applying sindoor on Devi Durga and God doesn’t believe in discrimination. Two years back, if I am not mistaken, times of India started a No conditions apply campaign to include all women, never mind they are divorcees, widows, transgender, sex workers to take part in the sindoor khela celebration. The campaign was a huge success ,so I read in newspapers, and lots of other padals had followed suit inviting all women to take part in it. It was a moment I was waiting for since my childhood days. My heart swelled with happiness when I read it. I asked my mother in law, who is a widow, if she would like to take part and I would happily accompany her, my face etched with pride, and she replied, no, I would never. I don’t want bad luck to befall on my children. I didn’t press her further. It was after all an individual decision.

Though i read about how widows were breaking the shackles of age old rusty tradition and joining in sindoor khela I had yet to come across a woman I knew personally who was audacious enough to go ahead, avert the curious eyes and take part in the celebrations. Then as I was scrolling through my fb page I saw a photo of my friend’s mother, who I knew was a widow, all dabbed with vermillion as she posed with her daughter in laws with a beaming smile. As I looked at the photo , for I don’t know long, salty tears rolled down my cheeks , I didn’t realise I was crying. Those were tears of joy, of course. I realised it takes a lot of courage to break age old traditions in a society like ours where one wrong step will set tongues wagging. And I can’t help but salute those women.

Dropping off our bags at the Riad, a typical Moroccan house, we scoured the streets of Tanger, a town In Morocco, for food as our stomachs growled in hunger. It was ten at night and the streets of old town Tanger were teeming with people so much so it was impossible to walk past without brushing against one another. For someone who lived in England for more than a decade, it was kind of a shocker as most streets were deserted after 7. We walked past hordes of restaurants. It was our first day in Morocco and we didn’t have the energy, the hunger was killing us, to grasp the nuances of Moroccan food. May be tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow for sure. Today we were looking for familiarity and there was nothing more familiar than pizza. We spotted a pizzeria with provisions for alfresco dining. Hubby and me scanned through the menu but everything was in Arabic, not even Spanish or French which we had fair knowledge. We were about to walk away when hubby’s shoulder was gripped by strong arms. An Arab man with such natty hairstyle that I could see my teenage son’s eyes were about to pop out. He greeted us salaam uwallekum. Wait wait, he said, and disappeared into the confines of the restaurant. Soon another young man came out with equally chic hairstyle, and said “Indians.. Shahrukh Khan.” Baffled, not being able to connect the dots, my husband said, “yes, we are Indians. But as you see, pointing to his bald head, I am not Shahrukh Khan.” The man erupted into fits of laughter, and said, “we Moroccons love Indian movies and we idolise Shahrukh Khan. Most of us have seen all his movies and we wait eagerly for his next release.” The adoration is palpable as I could see a spark in his eyes as he talked about his favourite actor. Over pizzas he talked at length about Shahrukh Khan movies. It was impossible to stop him. And then he held as agape with a stammering as perfect as Shahrukh Khan in Darr. He enacted, I love you kkkk kiran, in thick Arabic accent. I was stupefied. I was in Africa ,far away from India, and here I meet a Bollywood fan who knew more about Shahrukh movies than I do. I couldn’t help but revel at the wizardry of Bollywood, the magical spell it casts over the masses not only in India but overseas. I promised myself to find more about it as I traversed the length and breadth of Morocco. Next day I asked our taxi driver what was it that Moroccans loved about Indians movies, was language not a barrier for them, assuming they didn’t know the language. A young lad who talked nineteen to dozen told us, “No, we watch with Arabic subtitles. We find the movies enchanting. It takes us on a magical journey.. beautiful people, beautiful places, the songs, the dance, and the mellow drsma. Unlike Hollywood movies, we can relate to the stories as we find cultural closeness. For example, we live with our parents even when we are adults. Ours is a more traditional society, very much like India.”

Our next destination was Marrakech, the most popular tourist destination in Morocco. Easy going and zestful, people often accosted us in the roads, at shouks, mostly because of the Bollywood connection. One of them told us, “Shahrukh Khan once visited Marrakech . He met our King. He met the locals at one of our malls. People had gone absolutely crazy.” Other than Shahrukh Khan, I found out Moroccans adored Amitabh Bachan, Salman Khan, Kajol and old stalwart like Raj Kapoor. Many Bollywood movies had been shot in Morocco. He could name only a few Zagga Zasoos, Ek tha tiger. You know how much Moroccans loved Bollywood when the man said, the Moroccan movie “Karyane Bollywood” by Yassine Fennane was abut a young Moroccan who tried to woo his sweetheart by remaking “Disco Dancer” – a Bollywood classic from the 1980’s starring Mithun.”

Not surprising then, most Moroccans proudly showed their proficiency in Hindi language. Exhausted, haggling for a leather bag as I plonked myself down on a cushion to catch a break, the shopkeeper in the shouk said, yeh hai zindagi, dost. My irritation vanished, I found myself smiling. He also told me Mohabaat was love, phire milenge was see you soon and a few other phrases. “Most Moroccans know at least 100 hindi words, he said with pride glinting in his eyes.

I came back from Morocco with lots of lovely memories, one of them is a man breaking into a song in the middle of the road.. I love my India from Pardes.

I ,guess,I had the set the bar too high. After reading the Kite Runner and the A Thousand Splendid Suns which wrung me out like a dish cloth, I was expecting the same from And The Mountains echoed by Khaled Hosseini. The story started off well with a parable which later finds echoes in the life of the two central characters. Abdullah and his sister Pari share a filial bond, they are like two yarns interlaced. I knew from the beginning that this relationship was doomed. And what I thought reading the blurb was that it would be the quest of the brother to seek his sister. As I went deep, realised it was the story told by an array of voices spanning across time and continents. The brother ,who I deemed was the central character, comes only in the first and the last chapter. To tell the truth, I kind of drifted off after some time. I couldn’t fathom why Hosseini dedicated so many pages to some characters who had a gripping story to tell of their own,laden with secrets, but had nothing to do with the arc of the narrative. For example, when the character Baba jan was introduced, for a few pages I thought this must be the grown up brother, got a severe jolt when I realised this character was a goon who again has nothing to do with the story.

Unlike the other two books, I never got lost in this one. Nor did it leave me with a sharp, stabbing pain in my heart, which lingered on for days. I love to bask in Hosseini’s rich textured language, and I did, even in this one. This is the only thing I am going to take away from this book.

I have to admit. Though I am an avid reader, this is my fifth book of the year, I have mostly read fictions by Americans, British and Indian writers. But this time I wanted to try something different. I wanted to read a book set against the backdrop of a place, which still feels surreal to me, given their treatment of women and all things deemed as western, and Khaleed Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns, was a perfect choice. I haven’t read Khaleed Hussain before, and must say he is a darn good writer who knows how to spin a tale. This is a poignant story about love, compassion and endurance. Set in the backdrop of Afghanistan , which is reeling under the outbreak of factionalism, anarchy and extremism, it is a story of friendship between two women Marriam and Laila. These two women are years apart and different as chalk and cheese. Marriam is uneducated , quiet, subdued, whose life has always been controlled by others, while Laila is educated, voluble and passionate, who doesn’t think it is a sin to sleep with her lover before marriage. Yet after an icy start they from a strong bond which stems from their common point of suffering- a demon of a husband who sits on the high pedestal of patriarchy, subjugates, twists and tortures their souls, until they reach the end of their tether. The timeline stretches- from the time when women are allowed education and freedom, they would go to watch movies with their friends, to the time when the Talibans take over and women’s rights are trampled under their feet like children crush autumn leaves. Even if they have to venture out, they have to be chaperoned by a man or would be flogged.

I absolutely loved this book, I felt like It was portal to the streets of Kabul, I could see the wreckage due to the year-long factional war, I could see from up close the women ambling around with their friends, going to universities and then suddenly a life of confinement, obedience and service where their fates are decided by men.

Swarna was bewitched by aeroplanes. She would often stand under the open sky and watch aeroplanes zoom by, leaving silver streaks like slugs. It looked so minuscule from where she stood that she was confident she could trap it in her fist. Her father told her inside it there were like hundreds and hundreds of people, but it seemed like a big joke to her. She had seen pictures of aeroplane but never travelled in one. For her middle class parents train was the favoured mode of transportation. We can not afford four plane tickets, her mother would say. Then one day her father, whose office was now very near the airport, told Swarna and her sister Swati that he would take them to see an aeroplane. You mean actually see it, from close quarters, she squealed. Swarna picked out the best dress from the cupboard, an egg yolk coloured yellow lacy frock with matching ribbons. Her father gave a booming laugh, that shook his jelly belly, it is an aeroplane not a human, you silly girl, he said. But Swarna wanted to be in the best of finery, no matter what her father said. She walked into the airport , jingling with excitement, her father had got some special tickets which would allow them to stand behind a big glass wall and watch the activities as they unfold in an aerodrome. She pressed her face on the glass wall. Her nose flattened like a pancake, as she stood their transfixed. It was ginormous, yes it was. She had never seen anything so huge. She always thought elephants were big, but this was much bigger than elephant. How could someone possibly make this? Her young mind couldn’t fathom. Painted pristine white and cherry red, with small windows one after another, doors and wings, it was exactly like the picture in her books yet nowhere like it. The aerodrome was a buzz of activity as workers were loading luggage are loaded into the plane, there men in uniforms, walking around with notes on clipboard. Swarna looked with mouth agape as one by one people took the stairs and was consumed by the metal body. Her father was right. It could actually fit more people than who turned up at her aunt’s wedding party. As the engines revved up, making its way to the runaway, Swarna and her sister wanted to run behind it, with their arms flailing in the air but was not allowed.

As she sat in the bus on her way home, unaware of the chaos around, she thought about the seven wonders of the world her father often told them. He told her one of the wonders was in their country, and when her sister was a little older, he was going to take them there. But the others are beyond my reach, he said. May be one day you can take an aeroplane and visit them all. And Swarna definitely wanted to do that. Her father said that they lived in a small city, and sad but true but many people didn’t even know it exists. But she didn’t care as today in this small city she had seen the wonder of wonders.

No, I never considered myself prude. Coming from a regressive society where even after marriage wild cries of passion during love making are muffled up behind close doors, and sex is closeted, I think of myself as quite progressive. Growing up, sex was a taboo subject, our parents never discussed it nor did our teachers. It was assumed that when the right time came, we would know it. But when was the right time, was a big question mark. For long, even in my teens, I believed that if a boy kisses me, I would get pregnant hence that should be avoided at all cost. The Bollywood movies, where love was the prime subject, didn’t help either. In most movies, when they had to show a man and woman consummating their relationship, the scene morphed and all we saw was two flowers gyrating wild in the breeze and caressing each other. For long that was the imagery for sex. Now what did that mean? My curious mind remained unsated. My friends couldn’t help either as they too had no idea. My parents , unlike others of their ilk, were quite open in their show of affection, albeit only within the confines of our home. I often saw them holding hands or wrapped in each others’ arms in the bed on a lazy Sunday morning. But I had never seen them kissing. Anyways, the first time I saw a man and woman kissing in public was when my family was holidaying in Darjeeling. They were foreigners on vacation. Till then I had never seen a white man or woman, other than in Bollywood movies. As my eyes lay on them, I thought to myself are they real or from a distant planet. They were as white as the conch shell my mother blew into every evening to produce a sharp shrill sound as a part of her daily puja rituals. In the blaze of the sun, their cheeks looked like waxed red apples. Unabashedly, they were holding hands, and their lips were locked in a passionate kiss, unaware about the sharp glares of others. My sister and me stared at them with mouth agape, for us it was wonder of wonders. I pinched my sister so hard that her skin was all blotched and blue. Stung by the depravity right in front of her eyes, my mother yanked us off, mouthing curses at them. But the scene remained etched in our fragile minds for days to come and at school we couldn’t help but share it with our friends.

When I was going around with my boyfriend, now my husband, he often wanted to hold my hands in the park or in dark dim lit restaurants when we went on dates. But I always felt a little awkward, no matter how inky dark the place was, I always felt the presence of a someone lurking to catch us in our act. Then when I started to read adult fiction and started watching western tv shows and movies, I realised that public show of affection was very common in western societies and no one raised an eyebrow if a boy or girl held hands in public or innocently kissed in a bus stop. Slowly, it became less of a deal. So when I came to England from India, I didn’t squirm or ever felt uncomfortable when I came across teenagers kissed in public places. I knew it was a way of life here.

When I lived in India ,that was like 12 years back, gay-lesbian relationships were thought to be queer. It was considered that such relationships would tear apart the moral fabric of the society. Most gay and lesbians relationships stayed in the closet, or the consequences could be dangerous, amounting to even honour killing. Yet I saw nothing wrong in loving the people of the same sex, It was hard for me to feel what they felt from within and hence I had no right to judge them. I felt bad for them, living a life of secrecy and the shadow of fear, totally ostracised by the society. When I came to England, it was lovely to see the freedom the LGBT community enjoyed. I spotted them in restaurants, roads, park, cinema hall, totally comfortable with their sexual orientation. Then one day as I was walking to a closed car park, I saw two grown men, probably in their mid thirties, dressed in well cut suits looking dapper, kissing, lips on lips, oblivious, soaked in the moment. I stopped in my tracks, it was as if my feet was pinned to the ground and I couldn’t move. My ears were scalding hot and my hands were clammy with sweat. That was the very first time I saw a gay couple kissing in public. Somehow managed to drag myself to the car and heaved a sigh of relief. At home, I couldn’t help but think am I prudish? How could I consider myself a staunch supporter of LGBT community when I cannot accept their act of love. But then I realised, it was not easy to shake off the years and years of social conditioning. Though I have always been a free thinker and often questioning the traditions, culture, religious dictates preached by generations after generation, some salt like grains of prejudices still remain. It may take a little more time, but I am determined to get rid of it.