THE MISTAKE OF LOVE

I was sitting alone at the corner table in the coffee shop on an empty Jaipur side-street with a newspaper in my hand; I looked up and I caught her staring. Quickly she dropped her eyes and involved herself in the contents of the mug in front of her. I smiled. The waiter bustled over to my table as I signalled to him, and a few minutes later, a mug of steaming cappuccino was in front of her. She looked up at me and I smiled, at which point she picked up her mug of fresh coffee and walked over to where I was sitting. We talked and I found to my amazement that she and I shared a lot more in common than that particular coffee shop. That was our first encounter. 

A year after that meeting in the coffee shop, we were dating - we went to the movies, restaurants, pizza joints, or simply sat at a park talking to each other, enjoying the intimacy of a quiet conversation. I remember the first time we made love. It was at my house - our bodies were hot, and the passion shook the cot. She moaned gently as I kissed her ear, flicking the lobe with my tongue. As I moved my mouth down to her neck, she giggled, tickled by the feeling of my breath on her neck. Slowly, carefully, I moved lower and lower to her breasts. I peeled the thin lace off to reveal the pert nipples of her small frame and then placed my tongue on one. She let out a soft moan that ended in a sigh as I busied myself. She clenched me tightly and worked her hands on my chest. I took in a shock of breath at the sharp pain from the pinch she gave my nipple. Simultaneously we worked each other’s upper bodies, our moans filling the room. Slowly, very slowly, I moved down on her and pulled the wet panties off her nether-region. I worked my finger into her while she gasped with pleasure; faster and faster I worked until her juices were a downpour on my hand. Afterward, we lay in the bed, in each others' arms, staring at the ceiling; I heard her snore gently as she fell asleep in my arms.

The second year of our relationship began with my proposal. Meera was shocked and happy. In the two years that we had known each other, she had given herself completely to me, as had I given myself to her.  I was born a Roman Catholic, but I did not practice my faith, and Meera was a Maliki Rajput. I had no family, but Meera’s orthodox Rajput family would never accept an alliance such as ours. It was a matter of pride and honour for a family-member to be married, and the marriage had to be with another Rajput. No one else was good enough. Meera and I were in love, and my proposal was a problem. Finally, I told her we could run away and get married; she agreed after much convincing.

I remember that night well. I parked my Swift 100 metres from her house, and walked up to the big wrought-iron gates of the bungalow. She was waiting for me with her bag. I pulled the bag from her hand, and hand in hand, we ran to the car. We got in and drove off. We were on the highway to Delhi when a truck marked 'MALIK QUARRIES' loomed up in front of us. The brakes of the Swift squealed on the tarmac, but the truck just hurtled towards us; before either of us knew it, there was an impact and our small hatchback was tossed into the air. I woke up three days later in the hospital, my best friend John in a chair next to my white-bed. I looked at him, his face was white. "Meera?" I croaked, and tears rolled down my cheeks as I watched John slowly shake his head.

I was born a Roman Catholic Christian, but I did not practice my faith for it banned homosexuality. She was a Maliki Rajput and her family was extremely orthodox; her grandfather, Dadasa, was an extremely traditional man; he was openly against inter-caste marriages and loathed homosexuality, and here, his own granddaughter was one of us. People like Meera and I were over-joyed when the Court “decriminalized” our relationships. We were free to love each other in the open. She said our marriage would never be accepted by her family. She wept inconsolably. I told her we had nothing to fear – we were free to love each other in the open, like anyone else; we did not have to love each other in the dark alleys or within the confines of our homes. Homosexuality is not a crime anymore. I discouraged her fears and pushed her to reveal to her family who she truly was. "Be proud of who you are," I told her, to which she gave me a worried look succeeded by her cursing of her God Krishn-ji for making her a homosexual. "Give up your God, if He does not want you to be who you are," I chastised her, and she wept inconsolably into my shoulder. I patted her on her head and kissed her, gently, softly and allowed her to drift into a tired sleep in my arms. The subject was avoided since, and when I proposed to her, she gave me that look. Realisation dawned on me as I lay there in the hospital bed: our different love had no place, and I could not understand - where were we, the Gray in between all the Light and Dark?