Let me tell you a story.
It was the first week of a new course I had joined. I was spending time every day with a room full of people I had never met before. Some younger than me, some much older. Some from backgrounds different from me, some who lived in far off cities or towns. Some who had chosen to lead a life dedicated to God, some who had lost faith in God.
All were there only for one thing. To get a degree and then to get a job.
I was there after I had left a job. Left behind my family's expectations. Unsure whether I had made the right choice.
I got to know a few people in the first couple of days. Only remaining friendly enough to find a confirmed seat in a row, when I attended lectures. A known face to chat with on the commutes home.
All these people were girls mind you. I am a girl too. A girl who had studied at an all-girls school, then an all-girls college and worked briefly at another all-girls school. A girl who had only spent quality time with boys or men who were relatives; or other such formal relationships.
So when on the third or fourth day of joining this course I sat down to lunch with a fresh new batch of all-girl friends and found a boy taking the seat opposite me, I had only two thoughts. He will just be another name in my mental list of classmates from the batch of so-and-so course in the years so-and-so; and I will also only be a similar name to him.
A few seconds later, out of courtesy I offered him a bite of my lunch. He had been set a task by the principal and so he had not had time to open his own lunch box. The busy-looking boy, without even batting an eyelash looked up shortly from his work, opened his mouth and said, "Give me."
The missionary school girl inside me reeled with horror! Stiff, formal and 'correct' at all times; this was a social interaction which was almost on the verge of comical impossibility. "Am I actually supposed to be feeding this fellow?" I had always been a very self-dependent person who trembled at the prospect of any kind of physical dependency. My mother had narrated that as a child I started refusing to be fed as soon as I learnt to feed by myself. In my later years, I remember, I even got peevish at the prospect of holding an adult's hand while crossing the road. And here was this young man (whom I had earlier noticed as being pleasantly handsome, according to my taste in looks) asking me to do such an intimate thing, albeit mildly intimate, as feed him.
Of course I couldn't refuse. Although I had not even met the fellow properly! Of the many values inculcated (or rather drilled) in me, during my early childhood years; one which was in inextricable part of my identity, was to be polite and obedient at all times. To rebel only when some grievous wrong was being done.
So we shared lunch that day.
That was the day we became friends.
That was the day I noticed him, for real.
It was the first week of a new course I had joined. I was spending time every day with a room full of people I had never met before. Some younger than me, some much older. Some from backgrounds different from me, some who lived in far off cities or towns. Some who had chosen to lead a life dedicated to God, some who had lost faith in God.
All were there only for one thing. To get a degree and then to get a job.
I was there after I had left a job. Left behind my family's expectations. Unsure whether I had made the right choice.
I got to know a few people in the first couple of days. Only remaining friendly enough to find a confirmed seat in a row, when I attended lectures. A known face to chat with on the commutes home.
All these people were girls mind you. I am a girl too. A girl who had studied at an all-girls school, then an all-girls college and worked briefly at another all-girls school. A girl who had only spent quality time with boys or men who were relatives; or other such formal relationships.
So when on the third or fourth day of joining this course I sat down to lunch with a fresh new batch of all-girl friends and found a boy taking the seat opposite me, I had only two thoughts. He will just be another name in my mental list of classmates from the batch of so-and-so course in the years so-and-so; and I will also only be a similar name to him.
A few seconds later, out of courtesy I offered him a bite of my lunch. He had been set a task by the principal and so he had not had time to open his own lunch box. The busy-looking boy, without even batting an eyelash looked up shortly from his work, opened his mouth and said, "Give me."
The missionary school girl inside me reeled with horror! Stiff, formal and 'correct' at all times; this was a social interaction which was almost on the verge of comical impossibility. "Am I actually supposed to be feeding this fellow?" I had always been a very self-dependent person who trembled at the prospect of any kind of physical dependency. My mother had narrated that as a child I started refusing to be fed as soon as I learnt to feed by myself. In my later years, I remember, I even got peevish at the prospect of holding an adult's hand while crossing the road. And here was this young man (whom I had earlier noticed as being pleasantly handsome, according to my taste in looks) asking me to do such an intimate thing, albeit mildly intimate, as feed him.
Of course I couldn't refuse. Although I had not even met the fellow properly! Of the many values inculcated (or rather drilled) in me, during my early childhood years; one which was in inextricable part of my identity, was to be polite and obedient at all times. To rebel only when some grievous wrong was being done.
So we shared lunch that day.
That was the day we became friends.
That was the day I noticed him, for real.
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