I am told that there are way too many public pictures of me and the woman I love, kissing each other passionately.
Here’s the thing: I grew up in a nuclear family far, far away from their parents and their ‘native’ place, Pune. My parents’ first joint posting was in Jorhat, a 2-day journey by train, where they formed their bond. It was a honeymoon for them, given that the actual honeymoon was a pilgrimage to the family deity at Kolhapur!
Imagine a 20-year-old girl from Pune, who had never been outside her little world, and a 23-year-old boy (whose home in Pune was a mere 500m from the girl’s) in a pilot’s uniform, preparing for a war that would come within a year of their marriage, displaced from their natural habitat in the traditional and conservative ‘peths’ of Pune, and plonked right in the midst of an Anglicised Indian Air Force.
Difficult to imagine? OK, let me fast forward a few years when Abhi and I were born and were old enough to form the sort of memories that I can dip into at 51 today. Agra, 1977. Or Bengaluru, 1979. Or Wellington, 1982. Or New Delhi, 1984. Pick one. Imagine a happy home where the kids are back from school, busy with their homework, preparation for the next day, and chit-chat (if you don’t have siblings, I don’t think you’ll ever truly ‘get’ what we chatted so much about), the lady of the house (LOTH) cooking in the kitchen, humming and singing in the melodious, joyful tone only my Maa could, when Baba, in his smart khaki uniform or his flying overalls, enters silently, having switched off the ignition to his motorcycle a few hundred meters from home (a habit I carry with my motorcycle today, and something Kym seems to believe is the ‘normal’ way to get into the parking at one’s home). He approaches Maa from behind and puts his arms around her waist. She jumps with a start. But he picks her up and starts to turn her around. And round. And round. They are whirling. She is screaming, ‘Stop, stop’ and giggling and laughing. Her saree pallu is flying in the wind. Her long and beautiful ponytailed hair is whipping around. Her laughter fills the room. We kids, who hear this commotion, come to the kitchen, seeing our two most favourite humans in this crazy, weird dance of love, laughing and screaming. We clap and jump as he stops and gently lowers her feet on the cold floor, even as she turns around and embraces him. And then….they kiss. Passionately. As if no one’s watching.
This is a core memory. I cannot get rid of it even if I wanted to (why in the world would I want to do that, though?). My kid brother and I have it engraved on our minds and hearts. Two humans, when they love each other, touch, hold hands, embrace, smile, laugh, giggle, whisper, and yes, kiss. And not just a peck-on-the-cheek kind of kiss, but a real, lip-to-lip, tongue-to-tongue, sloppy kiss with their eyes closed, but their hearts fully open.
Why am I telling you this? Because in my home, we don’t shy from showing our love. We embrace. We touch. We hold hands. We whisper sweet nothings. And we kiss. On the lips. In front of everyone. It isn’t shameful. It isn’t naughty. It isn’t secretive. It isn’t a guilty pleasure. It isn’t banned. It isn’t frowned upon. It isn’t taboo. It is how people in love behave. It is normal. And it is a joy to watch. Even more to participate in.
You should try it. I highly recommend it.
To return to the original issue that prompted this post: I am told that there are way too many public pictures of me and the woman I love, kissing each other passionately. I disagree. I think there are way too few of you kissing the person you love.
P.S.: That’s our bedroom, and that’s the picture frame Misbahji gifted me. My friends joke it is to remind me what to do in bed at my age (because, Alzheimer’s and so on, you see!). But the truth is, to me, this could well have been in the living room. And made as much sense there. Because love is nothing to be ashamed of. It is, instead, to be flaunted. For so few actually have it. And so many wish they did.
