My heart ended up being broken for doing the things I also have. Loving too much. And trying to find such love.
We spent my youth a late 70s youngster. I happened to be overweight and buck-toothed and lied compulsively about an absentee dad whose sepia-stained portrait hung in a wet mezzanine flooring puja space, along with rows and rows of buxom goddesses and venerable, bare-bodied male gods whom balanced mighty bows and arrows to their broad-shouldered backs, whose kohl-lined eyes brimmed with a million inexplicable secrets.
We knew absolutely absolutely nothing about love вЂ” any kind of man-woman love, quite genuinely. Truly the only male figure around my growing up being my septuagenarian, grouchy grandfather and their faithful Oriya Man Friday, Kalipada mama. There was clearly no cross reference to intimacy that is physical. My grand-parents, whom on their own had an inter-caste love marriage, bickered more than touched, because of the time I became created. It had been a marriage that is successful or, by the requirements of a middle-class Bengali home, normal.
Secure. Sanitised. Stable.
I first heard about ‘Valentine’s time’ whenever Shilpi Chopra, a sprightly woman during my course, in Loreto home, my alma mater within the town of my delivery, Kolkata, brought us a number of colorful handmade cards from a shop that is sprawling family owned in Gariahaat, a bustling shopper’s haven into the southern element of our hometown, infested with dimly illuminated hawker stalls, offering almost everything, from ladies’ lace underwear to fake plastic plants to low priced replicas of Uk crockery, supper sets and tea cups.
Everyone in course seven possessed a boyfriend вЂ” a special someone вЂ” a person whom desired them. Who had been interested in their physicality. Their laugh. Their hairstyle. The noise of these laughter.