The Art of Creating a Narrative

No wonder Israel bans the entry of BBC correspondents in Gaza.

In creating a narrative, timing is very important. Most important!

The other day, as a part of the Centenary Celebrations of the RSS, Dr Mohan Bhagwat answered many questions posed to him about the RSS. They were curiosity packed questions, which come to the mind of one taking only a fleeting glance at the activities of the 100-year-old organisation. Incidentally, one thinks of the Swayam Sevaks mostly when they are in the news. Normally, their social work does not draw any attention; it is taken for granted. They become a subject of discussion when they are infrequently dragged into the headlines for unpopular reasons.

Dr Bhagwat tried to clear that perception too.

People have a favourable/ unfavourable opinion about the RSS and as always, some people belong to the ‘unsure’ category. Unsure because of some of its ideologies—its Hindutva ideology and strong stand on conversion, being one of them. The Sangh Parivar has long been accused of influencing politics and, now, of infiltrating other walks of Indian life—bureaucracy, judiciary and lately, even military. In his responses, Dr Bhagwat tried to dispel many such myths. Whether he succeeded, only time will tell.

I assumed that the RSS Boss would be able to influence some fence sitters and might inspire some on the ‘other’ side of the fence, to give an unbiased second thought to the RSS. That was my view until this morning when I listened to a BBC Global News Podcast. It is not so now.

My reason for wavering is a report by BBC South Asia Correspondent, Samira Hussain who spoke of deportation of 40 Rohingiya Refugees by India. The language, tone and tenor have been cleverly used to create a narrative. The transcript of the Podcast is reproduced here:

Rohingiya Refugees tell us, how they were dumped in the sea by the Indian authorities.

Back in May, alarming reports emerged of deported Rohingya refugees being forced off an Indian Navy vessel and off the coast of Myanmar. [Interesting! Very interesting, indeed. Something which happened in May, is being reported in August. Motive?]

Sameera Hussain sent this report from Delhi.

Hello. A group of seven men appear on my screen. They’re all sharing a mobile phone.

We were so helpless. We were waiting for someone to come to help us.

They are desperate to tell their story, how they were thrown in the sea [mind the use of words] and ended up stranded in Myanmar, a country they fled in fear of violent persecution.

We don’t feel secure in Myanmar. This place is completely a war zone.

That’s Sayed Noor, and he is one of 40 card-carrying, UN-recognised refugees living in Delhi, who were put on planes to the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, then put on a naval vessel in the Bay of Bengal, headed towards Myanmar.

Fourteen hours later, they were told to board smaller boats.

We were boarded to two lightboats. Our hands were bound for more than seven hours.

They asked us to jump off the lightboats one by one and we swam around hundred plus metres to get to the seashore.

When you got on the bus to go to the boats, who took you on the bus?

[This question by the BBC correspondent seems to be a leading question out of context because the interviewee has not mentioned bus ride before this. Also, the confidence with which the refugee answers is praiseworthy. His command over English language suggests that he is fairly literate, if not educated, and knows what sells. Or, I wonder if he has been briefed (by?) to say what he says hereafter.]

The same Navy. [This guy has not mentioned “Navy” earlier in the interview. Now he is saying “The same Navy.”]

How did you know they were Navy?

Because of the Bus inscription like, Bhatia Nawasena.

[Remarkable! This English-speaking refugee didn’t read “INDIAN NAVY” written in English on the bus, but could read “भारतीय नौसेना” and Ms Samira goes on to explain that it is the Hindi word for “Indian Navy.”]

The Hindi word for Indian Navy. Then he says, one by one, they were pulled aside on the boat and questioned by Indian authorities.

They would call someone and talk in Hindi, and they will even say something like, why didn’t you become Hindu? [It seems this smart refugee understands Hindi also.]

[Even the least literate of the Indian Navy sailors can speak good English. If the idea was to ask this refugee (a foreigner) some questions, it is less probable that the sailor would have spoken in Hindi.]

They questioned to Christian, Rohingya Christians, why did you convert a Muslim to Christianity? Why didn’t you become a Hindu?

And even they treat us to uncover are pains (penis) or to confirm whether we are circumcised or not. And they said, why did you come to India?

Why didn’t you choose another country?

Despite being registered as UN refugees, the Indian government says the more than 20,000 Rohingya refugees living in India are illegal immigrants.

[This correspondent, Ms Samira Hussain is ignorant of the fact that India is not a signatory to the Refugee Convention (1951) and its Protocol (1967) and hence, not obliged to accept refugees.]

This is a matter of life and death for these people.

Tom Andrews is the UN special rapporteur on the situation of human rights in Myanmar.

I’ve been receiving reports of refugees being detained, interrogated, mistreated. These are people who are not in India because they want to be. They are there because of the horrific violence that is occurring in Myanmar.

They literally have been running for their lives.

We put these allegations to the Indian government, who did not respond to our request for comment.

[Indian government is not obliged to respond to cooked up and scripted allegations.]

I’m walking up the stairs of a four-storey building in Vikaspuri neighbourhood of Delhi. I am going to meet Noorul Amin. He’s 24 years old.

Noorul Amin’s parents, two brothers and sister-in-law, are among the 40 deported refugees now in Myanmar.

We are humans, not animals. How can you just throw people into the sea?

[Mind the use of words to create a vivid narrative.]

In my heart, there is only this fear that the Indian government will also take us and throw us in the sea at any point.

[“PEOPLE BEING THROWN INTO THE SEA.” Thanks to BBC and Ms Samira, this vivid description will remain etched in minds.]

India’s Rohingya community, already existing on the margins are now living in fear, not welcome in their home country and not wanted in the country where they sought refuge.

A report by Samira Hussain.

As per the news caster, the incident took place in May this year. It’s broadcast coinciding with the Centenary Celebrations of RSS, is “BBC-MANAGED.” Now, what has a BBC news report on deportation of Rohingya refugees got to do with the Centenary Celebrations of the RSS?

Well, lately a perception has been created that the ruling BJP and the RSS are two sides of the same coin. So, if a narrative is advanced about India and the Indian Navy—asking refugees to drop their pants for identification and ‘throwing’ poor refugees into the sea—it is likely to project the RSS as instigating or inspiring such actions. This narrative, whether it is to malign the Indian Government, the Indian Navy or, through them, the RSS does not augur well for India as a sovereign nation.

Some Points to Ponder

As stated earlier, India is not a signatory to the Refugee Convention (1951) and the 1967 Protocol. As such India is not bound by them to accept refugees. Still, India accepted Bangladeshi refugees in 1971. India is paying a price for not sending them back after liberation of Bangladesh. Roughly 2,000 Rohingya refugees are reported to be in India. It is India’s right to deport foreigners who enter India without permission.

Now picture this: The 40 deported refugees were made to disembark at a point beyond which the boat couldn’t have gone. This is being literally projected as “dumping refugees in the sea.” It is a pure action against uninvited visitors to India; BBC is attaching meaning to that action and creating a narrative. Also, projecting Indian navy sailors as villains harassing the refugees (by asking them to drop their pants to determine their religion) is a deliberate effort of the broadcaster to create a narrative.

One must understand, correspondents will go to any length to earn their bread, and some extra butter. With one stone, Ms Samira is striking the Indian government and obliquely trying to stymie, the effort of the RSS to project a different image. Had it not been for the timing, one wouldn’t have seen through the motive.

No wonder, Israel bans the entry of BBC correspondents into Gaza.

Captains don’t abandon sinking ships!

Captains don’t abandon sinking ships!

Viva Uncle Sam!

Admirable! How Uncle Sam delivers peace all over the world…

Gaza: The Hostage Issue

Is there a way to put immediate stop to suffering in Gaza?

O Gaza!

The events of October 7 served as the immediate trigger, but the roots of the Gaza conflict extend far deeper. The underlying causes are complex and subject to debate, with little likelihood of consensus. For this reason, reducing the war to a binary of good versus evil oversimplifies the situation. Meanwhile, the human toll continues to rise, with thousands killed by bombardment and many more affected by hunger and displacement.

Recent decision by France, Australia, and the United Kingdom, to recognise Palestine, though politically significant, is unlikely to resolve the immediate challenges. Rather, it highlights the difficulty the international community has faced in addressing the conflict.

Israel’s Objectives

Israel’s stated aims can be broadly identified as:

• Destruction of Hamas,

• Release of the hostages,

• Ensuring Gaza no longer poses a threat to Israel, and

• Return of displaced residents of northern Israel.

The feasibility of achieving all four goals simultaneously remains uncertain.

Prospects of Eliminating Hamas

Military operations may succeed in neutralising most Hamas operatives within Gaza. However, complete elimination appears unlikely. Those who escape are likely to regroup elsewhere. Also, displaced Palestinians will carry their wounds and scars to other parts of the world. No border control can prevent the smuggling of hatred and anger. It would be naïve to imagine that some of them would not be behind a “9/11 (Version 2.0),” if and when such an attack happens anywhere in the world. One does not need Nostradamus to foresee this.

The Hostage Question

Israel does not follow a rigid hostage policy and has, in the past, agreed to prisoner swaps. During the Entebbe Raid (July 1976), the hijackers’ demand for the release of Palestinians in Israeli prisons was actively considered, even as preparations for Operation Thunderbolt (later renamed Operation Jonathan) went ahead. The mission was deliberate and well planned. Jonathan Netanyahu (Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s brother) sacrificed his life to rescue 104 Israeli hostages. One hostage, hospitalised in Uganda, later died under unclear circumstances.

In another instance, Kozo Okamoto of the Japanese Red Army—who, along with two comrades, killed 32 people and injured 72 at Lod Airport (now Ben Gurion Airport) on May 30, 1972—was captured alive. Israel, which has no death penalty, imprisoned him. Yet on May 20, 1985, nearly 13 years later, Okamoto was released as part of a prisoner swap. On that occasion, 4,600 Palestinian and Lebanese prisoners were freed in exchange for three Israeli soldiers.

Why then, despite immense pressure from the families of hostages and international opinion, has Israel been unwilling to proceed with more prisoner swaps? Here one tends to agree with Prime Minister Netanyahu and others: conceding to Hamas’s demands would amount to “rewarding” them for the October 7 attacks.

Other Goals

The other two aims—ensuring Gaza no longer poses a threat and facilitating the return of displaced residents of northern Israel—are relatively less difficult to address once the hostage issue is resolved.

At present, the deadlock lies with Hamas. They know well that releasing the remaining Israeli hostages (and the bodies of the dead) would spell their end. They would be hunted down and eliminated. That fate seems inevitable anyway.

***If only one of these sufferings could offset the other…***

A Possible Way Out?

What could break the impasse?

One possible—though imperfect—approach could involve offering safe passage for Hamas operatives out of Gaza in exchange for the release of hostages. Such an arrangement might drastically reduce civilian casualties, but it would raise questions about long-term security and the precedent it sets. Whether Israel, and Hamas, would accept such a suggestion remains uncertain.

In the fog of war, it is unclear whether both sides are already working toward a face-saving exit. Meanwhile, frustration and anger are mounting across a world that feels trapped in a seemingly hopeless situation. In the absence of a negotiated settlement, the conflict is likely to continue at great humanitarian cost.

A Warning for India

The dilemma is not unique to Israel. Sooner or later, India too may face a similar horrific choice: how should it deal with terrorists who, after striking a target, hide behind civilian population in India or, still worse, across the border in Pakistan?

The Wolf and the Lamb

Will the wolf pay this time…?

A wolf was drinking water on the bank of a river. A little away, downstream, was a lamb taking small sips.

“Why are you dirtying the water I am drinking,” growled the wolf.

“Sir, but I am downstream, how can I dirty the water reaching you?” The lamb tried to reason with the wolf.

“Okay! Okay!” said the wolf, his accent American, his logic Trumpian. “But why did you use abusive language with me last year?”

“But Sir, I wasn’t born last year,” pleaded the lamb wiping his sweat.

“Then, it must have been your mother,” said the angry wolf and pounced on the lamb.

That is the original version of the story.

The current version, has some more characters and interesting twists. The wolf is rankled more by two other animals in the jungle—the bear and the little dragon who have enough nuisance value for him. To his annoyance, the lamb is friendly with the bear. And, playing on the mind of the slimy wolf is the fear: “What if, let alone the lamb, the bear and the little dragon, other animals of the jungle stand up against him?

The animals of the jungle have a different concern.

Their worry is that the wolf has an Indian brain, a Chinese heart, a Vietnamese kidney, Latino lungs, Mexican blood, Jewish bones… but, it is controlled by its own xxxhole. How much more stink will it bestow upon the jungle before it suffers from the same?

God, Who can…

“Dadu, can God do anything?”

“Of course, Kanishka! He’s all-powerful,” I said with authority.

“Even create a mountain He can’t lift?”

I was foxed by the question posed by my grandnephew.

“Think about it. Let me know if you ever meet such a God.”

That evening, I had my answer. “Trump,” I said. “He’s the God who can create mountains of problems… that not even he can fix… Capitol Riots, Trade Wars, Covid Denialism, failed nuclear deal with Iran, Ukraine and Gaza Wars—watch the peaks rise.”

After the Crash: Fear, Fate & the Flying Public

Fear travels faster than airplanes.

On June 12, 2025, tragedy struck. Air India Flight AI 171, en route to London Gatwick, crashed seconds after take-off from Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel International Airport, Ahmedabad. The accident claimed the lives of 241 people on board—passengers and crew—and 19 individuals on the ground.

In the hours and days that followed, television screens lit up with expert analyses and heated debates. While some insights were valuable, much of it merely served to feed anxiety, both among seasoned travellers and the general public.

The Ripple Effect of a Crash

When such mishaps occur, they set off a domino effect across the aviation ecosystem. Authorities tighten checks and airlines enforce stricter adherence to procedures. In the days following the AI 171 crash, many flights were delayed, diverted, or even cancelled. Recent helicopter incidents only compounded the public’s growing unease.

These reactions are not just procedural—they are deeply psychological. Fear travels faster than airplanes.

Passenger Profiles

Following aviation accidents, travellers often fall into three categories:

The Stoics – the que sera sera kind. They acknowledge the incident, mourn the loss, and continue flying without visible hesitation.

The Escapists – those who vow never to board a flight again, unless absolutely necessary.

The Unsure – the ones caught in limbo, unsure whether to continue flying or retreat into fear.

A Peep into Passenger Psyches

Take for example July 4, 2025 Indigo Flight 6E 2258 from Delhi to Lucknow. It was delayed by over two hours due to a navigation system snag. As technicians worked to fix the issue, several passengers chose to disembark. Some left because their schedules were disrupted. Others simply couldn’t shake off their anxiety. Among them was a professor—perhaps someone who lectures on resilience. In contrast, an 85-year-old woman, bound for Ayodhya, stayed calm for a while—until she began chanting the Hanuman Chalisa, seeking comfort through faith.

Stories That Defy Logic

Aviation history is filled with eerie tales of missed flights and miraculous survivals.

In the early 1980s, a military Packet aircraft crashed during take-off in Agra, claiming the lives of 45 paratroopers, instructors, and crew. Squadron Leader (later AVM) D.K. Dhingra survived because he was held up in his office by a telephone call. Some others, too, missed the flight due to last-minute changes. Fate intervened.

Even in the case of AI 171, one man survived—Ramesh Viswash Kumar. He managed to walk away from the wreckage. Was it luck, chance, or destiny? It’s hard to say—but such stories shape the way we think about survival.

Air Warriors show the Way
Aircraft incidents and accidents are a part of life in the Air Force; a professional hazard. Sitting in my office in Tezpur, I had once seen two pilots punch out (eject) of a flamed out MiG aircraft seconds after take-off. It is customary for all the pilots of a unit to take to air immediately (as soon as possible) after a serious accident (unless there are strong reasons to ground the entire fleet) to keep up the spirit. Likewise, a mass jump follows a parachute accident. There is no scope for fear to set in.

A Lesson in Acceptance

A classic parable might help those grappling with post-crash anxiety:

A slave once ran to his master in Cairo, trembling with fear.
“Master,” he cried, “I saw Death today in the market. She stared at me and asked, ‘What are you doing here?’ I fear she has come for me. Please, I beg you, help me escape!”

The master gave him his finest horse and advised him to flee to Basra.

Later that evening, the master encountered Death and asked, “Why did you frighten my servant?”

Death replied calmly, “I was only surprised to see him in Cairo. You see, I have an appointment with him next week—in Basra.”

Sometimes, what we fear and try to avoid might be the very path we are destined to take. This isn’t to say we should be fatalistic—but it helps to recognize that some things lie beyond our control.

Trust, Caution, and Collective Responsibility

Aviation remains one of the safest modes of travel. Pilots are rigorously trained, technicians are meticulous, and air traffic controllers are highly competent professionals. Accidents, though tragic, are rare. They lead to introspection, investigation, and improvements in safety protocols.

As passengers, we can also contribute:

Avoid carrying unaccounted or suspicious baggage.
Follow crew instructions diligently.
Switch off mobile devices when requested.
Stay calm and respectful, even during delays or checks.

Let’s remember: behind every flight are thousands of hours of effort, layers of safety checks, and dedicated human beings who care about getting us safely to our destination.

Let’s fly safe. Fly wise. And above all—fly without fear.

Happy landings!

The One

[A thought-provoking story by Swetha Banda]

In a household steeped in silence and legacy, a buried truth stirs…. Will it fracture the family’s foundation or let the light in?

He was woken up by the lights flooding the cabin, accompanied by the pilot’s announcement that they would be landing in Hyderabad in approximately forty-five minutes. The outside temperature would be 32 °C and the local time, 2.45 am. Rubbing his groggy eyes, Rohan sat up straight and pushed open the window blinds. Dim, obscure lights were visible on the ground, probably a tiny little Indian town. The lights were random and almost looked like stars in the sky on a slightly hazy night. The haze. That’s what it was. The lights were obscured by a layer of dusty haze covering the ground.

Sravanti, his cousin was getting married in a week and he had a lot resting on his shoulders. Relatives would remind him of his role in keeping the brother-in-law from running away to Kashi several times during the next week, sometimes joking and pinching his cheeks, and at other times, with a seriousness that bordered on delusion. This was an important ritual in Telugu weddings.

Sravanti, at 24 was six years younger than Rohan. All these years, no one bothered to pester Rohan into marriage. The whole family was desperate to see Sravanti married as soon as they could, because her prospects of finding a decent groom would fall with every passing year, or so they thought. In any case, Rohan was left off the hook all these years. And he knew that sooner or later questions would be asked. And this conversation wasn’t going to be easy.

By the time he woke up the next morning, the house was buzzing with activity. The smell of filter coffee wafted through the house. Rohan walked into the living room where pednanna, his father’s older brother was giving orders to the pandal guys about the colourful tent in the courtyard. His father was talking to the decorators about the flowers at the wedding venue. Rohan went and quietly stood next to his father, who saw him as soon as he was done talking to the decorator and gave him a nod of acknowledgement and a light hug. Rohan quickly went to greet his pednanna who looked at him and said, “Ah, good you are here, you can drive pedamma to the caterer, so that she can decide the menu.” That was always the way in this house. There was no grand welcome or warm greetings. It was down-to-business. It wasn’t that pednanna wasn’t happy to see Rohan. He just didn’t see the use of grand gestures.

As he walked out towards the garage, he saw Sravanti, amma and pedamma, fervently discussing something about the sarees to be worn for the different rituals. A heap of silk sarees was lying on the bed and Sravanti had a yellow saree with a red border hung over her shoulder. She was looking into the mirror and caught a glimpse of Rohan’s image, immediately threw the saree aside and ran towards Rohan shouting “Annayya!” — big brother. Rohan was swept by a wave of emotion towards his little sister who he was always very fond of.

Rohan, Hari and Sravanti grew up in the same house. Although pednanna was older than Rohan and Hari’s father, Sravanti was the youngest. The series of wedding related activities kept everyone on their toes. Relatives were pouring into the house to see how things were going. The entire house was decorated with yellow marigold flowers. A gazebo of coconut branches was being put up at the main entrance of the house. There was an air of celebration and the sounds of laughter in the house. Pednanna and nanna were both giving out orders to the plethora of workers. Sravanti was surrounded by younger cousins who came to visit her and was lost in giggling and conversation.

With all this frenzy, Rohan, for once, felt good about being home. In the last few years, Rohan hadn’t really looked forward to coming home. He didn’t know when and how he started feeling more at home in Singapore than here. Maybe just the archaic ideas that pednana had about everything and his unwillingness to listen to reason; or the fact that Nanna never spoke anything against pednanna, or that neither amma or pedamma ever had any say in the matters of the house, made it easier for him to stay away. In the beginning, he tried to argue. But when his points were dismissed with remarks like, “Oh, look at the foreign-returned guy who’s forgotten his own culture,” his patience finally gave out.

As children, Rohan was always the boisterous one, while Hari remained quiet and withdrawn. Rohan sang, danced, and excelled in theatre. At every extended family gathering, his performances were a highlight. Hari, meanwhile, clung to the edge of his mother’s saree, silently observing from the sidelines. During their teenage years, Rohan was often surrounded by his lively group of friends, the centre of every hangout. Hari, in contrast, retreated into the world of video games and online avatars, preferring virtual realms to real-life interactions.

When Rohan landed his first job offer in Singapore, a mini-van was arranged to ferry the twenty-odd relatives and friends who wanted to see him off at the airport.

On arriving in Singapore, Rohan found himself all alone for the first time ever. But soon enough, he made new friends and looked at life from different perspectives. On a trip to Bali with some of his new friends, Rohan’s life completely changed. The second evening in Bali, he and his friends, had just come back from the day on the beach and decided to have dinner at the hotel restaurant. The tables were set along the pool and the fading light was shimmering on the tiny ripples of the pool. Rohan and his friends had just ordered their drinks and were lost in conversation when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Nikki. He wasn’t usually rendered speechless. But this time was different, he froze below his knees.

The next morning, Rohan decided to walk to the beach by himself while his friends were sleeping off their hangover. He had just stepped outside the hotel when he heard someone say, “Hello, you seem to be up early.” Rohan was mesmerised by the voice, and the dimple on the left cheek. Thoughts were rushing into Rohan’s mind. This was the stuff of movies.

Gathering himself, Rohan finally managed to string a few words together and said, “Do you live around here?”

“No, I live in Singapore and I am here on work. You see, I work in hospitality” Rohan began to relax and decided he could use the company. Rohan and Nikki walked through the market, looking at the local trinkets that were being sold. Nikki gave him tidbits of information about the village and the people. Conversation flowed, about families, homes, work, and childhood. They ate, strolled and without realising, they ended up on a beach. This wasn’t the popular touristy beach, but a fishing beach that only the local people went to.

Day had turned into dusk, and the beach had become more secluded. Sitting on the sand, Rohan realised that he wasn’t even trying anymore. The resistance he had felt in earlier such encounters wasn’t there anymore. Something was happening and he just couldn’t deny it anymore. He was enjoying the company, the setting, the sound of Nikki’s voice, the one-sided smile, the dimple in the cheek and he just couldn’t resist it anymore.

Eight hours had passed since he met Nikki on the street and they were still sitting together and talking. Rohan couldn’t even remember the conversation. The only thing he felt was a tiredness, the kind that one feels after a really satisfying day, when you just want to rest your head and sleep. He didn’t realise when he rested his head on Nikki’s shoulders and when he dozed off.

Back at the hotel, Rohan’s friends were packing up to leave the next day. Rohan and Nikki exchanged contact details and stayed in touch. Soon, they were frequently meeting, spending long evenings at Clarke Quay, dining at restaurants and spending nights with each other. It just felt natural, like it was meant to be. How would he explain this to his conservative South Indian Brahmin family?

With a jolt, Rohan came back to the present. The bride and the groom were tying the knot. People were throwing rice dipped in turmeric at the couple as blessings. Pednanna and peddamma were looking relieved and yet had tears streaming down their eyes.

Later that evening, after all the festivities were done and most of the relatives were gone, Pednanna called Rohan into the living room. Everyone was seated around the room and there was an air of speculation. Rohan knew what was coming. Pednanna said, “Subba Rao is my very close childhood friend. He has a daughter, Lavanya. We want you to meet her tomorrow.”

“Well, I am not surprised,” thought Rohan to himself. Then spoke aloud, “I don’t want to meet Lavanya, pednanna. With all due respect, I like someone else.”

“Is she Brahmin? Telugu?” yelled pednanna.

“No, and I don’t care about that at all,” retorted Rohan.

“Then I will never accept it. There is no place for uncultured foreigners in this house.” Pednanna was furious.

Pednanna was never one to mince words or hide his bigotry. In fact, he took pride in being that way. Rohan looked towards his mother and father. Nanna was looking down meekly instead of standing up for Rohan; it was typical of him. In all the years he was growing up, nanna never stood up either for himself, or for his family.

“Pednanna, how does all that matter? Isn’t it enough if we love each other?”

“Nonsense, this love, shove and all that doesn’t last. If you marry your foreigner, you will get divorced soon. They have no family values, those uncultured fellows.”

How narrow minded was his family! How did they decide that their culture was the best. Rohan didn’t want to argue anymore. He just stormed out of the house. He walked and walked till his legs were tired. Thoughts were rushing through his head. “As though marrying someone from your own caste was any guarantee for happiness. Was pedamma ever happy in her marriage? Pednanna and Pedamma never showed each other affection. So why am I expected to inherit these gendered roles that feel so hollow?”

He didn’t intend to conform to those roles. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. Exhausted with anguish, Rohan sat down on a bench by Tank Bund and before he knew it, tiredness took over his body and he fell asleep.

Hours later, Rohan was shaken awake by Nanna and Hari, their faces etched with worry. Disoriented, he blinked in the morning light, the weights of his thoughts from the previous night still pressing down on him. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep there, but his exhaustion, physical and emotional, had consumed him.

Nanna and Hari had spent the last few hours frantically searching for him, panic rising with every empty street and unanswered call. They heaved sighs of relief when they finally saw him, curled up, on a cold bench by the Tank Bund.

“Rohan, let’s go home. Stop being so stubborn.” Nanna said, shaking him awake, frantic with fear. Rohan refused to go home. He insisted that he was in love and he couldn’t spoil three lives by marrying someone he couldn’t love. If pednanna and the family couldn’t understand, what was the point of staying? Rohan felt a lump rising in his throat, his love, his identity and the impossible walls of tradition bearing down on him. He was ready to walk away from it all. Forever.

A sob tore through him, unrestrained. Nanna and Hari stood beside him, their own eyes brimming with emotion. “Please, Rohan,” Hari finally said, his voice, a whisper. “Come Let’s go home.” Nanna nodded, “We’ll figure this out.”

Rohan wanted to resist, to stay firm in his decision, but something in Nanna’s voice, something he had never felt before, made him pause. It wasn’t authority or resignation. It was something closer to understanding. Slowly he wiped his tears and stood up.

When they reached home, an uneasy silence was hanging over the house, thick and suffocating like the lingering scent of burnt incense after a long puja. Pedamma stood near the kitchen doorway, wringing the edge of her saree, her face tight with worry. Amma sat on the sofa, her eyes darting between Rohan and Pednanna, as if bracing for an inevitable storm.

Pednanna stood in the centre of the room, his arms crossed, his disapproval evident in his frown. Rohan could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on him, suffocating and unrelenting.

Then, for the first time in Rohan’s life, Nanna stepped forward. His voice was steady, but there was an unfamiliar urgency in it. “Annayya,” he said, looking pednanna directly in the eye, “Rohan is my son. If he says he loves this Nikki, my wife and I are going to support him. Even if Nikki is a foreigner, we will love her the way Rohan loves her.”

Oh dear, Rohan’s heart pounded as he glanced at his father, now he had to tell them that Nikki was actually Nicholas!

Swetha Banda

Author: Group Captain Ashok K Chordia (Re-attired)