Sangeeta was my neighbour in Kolkata. She was fair and had red lips, a typical Punjabi girl. One day, while standing next to each other at a milk booth, we started talking. Thereafter, we became friends. She was 20. I was 18. Soon we began going out for movies, music shows and art exhibitions.
She worked in a bank. I was a college student. One day, after work, I picked her up on my two-wheeler. To get some privacy, I took her to the National Library, where I was a member. It was a tree-filled campus, with few people.
Sangeeta and I started chatting. Feeling affectionate, I placed my arm over her shoulders. We continued to talk. Suddenly, there was the sound of dried leaves being stamped upon. A man, in a khaki uniform, emerged, and told us to follow him. He said, “These things cannot be done in public. I have to take you to the authority.”
I bowed my head and said, “Yes Maam.”
Sangeeta held my hand and said, “You are right.” Did it act as a deterrent? Not at all. We carried on holding hands and I placed my arms over Sangeeta's shoulders whenever I had the opportunity. The friendship lasted for two years. Then, we parted amicably. This mother-of-two now lives in the United States. Looking back, in ripe middle age, the question remains: In the land of Kama Sutra, why do we remain such prudes?
(Published as a middle in The New Indian Express, South Indian editions)