Loathe to move, I listened, knowing it would grow louder and more persistent. A second before that happened, I flipped an arm over, eyes still closed. After a little fumbling I managed to turn the ruddy thing off. Bringing my arm back I sighed and put it around Ashraf. Snuggling close, I burrowed my face in his neck, inhaling deeply. He smelt faintly of soap and I loved that. I moved drugged lips against his warm skin. He stirred.
“Mmm,” he said, “don’t stop.”
Soon we were both too far gone to even think of stopping. For a long moment after, we lay there, our breath mingling in short, sharp gasps. Slowly landing back to earth, I opened my eyes, stretched and smiled without uttering a word, at my partner.
Years together and we still enjoyed one another. No two people could be so lucky.
Ashraf and I had been together since 2003. With Smita’s arrival we became a family. She completed us. The company Ashraf worked for gave him paternity leave. He broke the news to us that night, professing undying loyalty to his wonderful bosses and making us laugh. Truth be told, we were all blown away that such a forward-looking company existed in India!
With Ashraf at home for a month, mum and he bonded. Not only mum, our efforts to reach out to our neighbours started paying off.
Take Mrs. Makhijani. In the old days, whenever she saw us, she hastened away, her face suggesting we were sin incarnate. I always pretended I hadn’t seen her but Ashraf yelled out greetings just to get under her skin. After she was out of sight, we would amuse ourselves, imagining the debauchery she thought we could be getting up to in our bedroom.
“I’m sure she gets titillated by thoughts of our tangled limbs.” Being out in the open we’d conduct such conversations with serious faces.
“Never mind her. Stop titillating me.”
After adopting Smita, whenever we took her down to the building compound for some fresh air, Mrs. Makhijani couldn’t keep away. She went out of her way to seek us out. She coo-ed to our daughter, laughing in delight as our baby chortled and gurgled at her attempts to entertain her. We stood by like the proud parents we were.
She advised us on what to do for the baby’s colic. As far as we three dads were concerned it was wonderful to witness. Mum found her a bit too overwhelming but kept quiet, knowing how important it was to get people like her to accept not only Smita, but us through her.
And the results were plain to see. We watched our darling girl blossom. The teachers had nice things to say about her and every evening we watched her from our balcony, running around the compound with her friends. On occasion, the two of us went down to be with her.
Smita’s favourite game with us was twenty questions. We would ask her random general knowledge questions, which she would attempt to answer. The other kids would crowd around and join in. We became very popular. Their favourite uncles. Smita couldn’t help showing off her dads, proudly holding each of our hands in hers and generally demanding our attention.
Before her sixth birthday most people had stopped mistrusting us for being different. We were just devoted dads like most of the other modern-day dads. For our daughter’s sake we schooled ourselves to avoid physical contact with each other in public. Not even a mistaken brushing of hands. It had been so hard getting her into our lives, we wouldn’t chance losing her. Nothing was too great a sacrifice.
When the Central Adoption Resource Agency (CARA), which regulates adoptions, slammed a new ruling stipulating that same sex couples wouldn’t be allowed to adopt, we couldn’t bring ourselves to voice our anger in public. Not wanting to jeopardise our future chances, we railed and ranted in the privacy of our home.
“Are they afraid our adopted children will become gay?” Ashraf’s lip curled with derision.
“Or that we are child molesters?” I tried to sound equally scathing but my voice shook.
The misconceptions! The ignorance! The prejudice! On and on we went.
#
Ma and pa quietly adopted Smita.
When we invited toddlers from the building for her third birthday party, we made it a point to invite Mrs. Makhijani. She was a lonely old widow, after all.
I think she enjoyed the party almost as much as everyone else. As for our darling, her portrait hangs in the lounge, a happy smile and a huge smear of chocolate across her face, a confident arm around each dad, forever reminding us of our adorable little toddler, now all of six and with a mind of her own.
#
At around half past seven, she burst into the room, demanding attention. She clambered all over us, crumpling our office clothes.
“How’s our little girl? Slept well?”
“Anita said in class yesterday, that her uncle had to cut frogs and cockroaches to become a doctor.”
“That was a long time ago. We use computers today. We don’t dissect real frogs anymore.” As she absorbed that Ashraf stroked her hair.
“Papa,” she said, impatiently moving her head out of his reach, “you’re spoiling my hair.” Ashraf grinned at me over her head. “Oh, sorry darling. Mustn’t muss up your hair. Who combed it for you today?”
“I did.”
Who else? her voice suggested.
“Of course. Silly me.”
“Do you like my bobpin? It’s shaped like the Indian flag.”
“So it is. Looks lovely.”
She jumped off and went to kneel at the bookshelf. The bottom shelf was hers. As she picked up one of her books she said, “I want to be a psychono…” As she stumbled over the word she looked up, frowning.
“…logist,” I said. “Psychologist.”
“Wow. Great,” said Ashraf, with a hasty glance at me.
That word reminded us of the boy. I was looking forward to, and dreading, what we would find at the signal today.
“Hope I’m mistaken,” I couldn’t help murmuring as we approached. Then I saw him.
“The boy in the blue shirt,” I said to Ashraf, feeling that familiar twisting in my gut. The older boy held him apart from the others in a vice like grip. When the signal changed, he didn’t let go till the boy was forced to look at him. He held the boy’s eyes with his for a long moment before giving him a push. The little fellow righted himself and limped off as fast as he could.
Ashraf and I walked on. White faced, he asked, “What should we do?”
“What can we do?” I felt agitated and my voice was louder than I intended.
Ashraf gave me a warning look. We were beginning to attract attention and that was something we normally avoided at all cost. I was past caring and lengthened my stride, trying at the same time to curb my helpless frustration. We continued walking without saying much. Before we parted to go off to our respective jobs, he tried once more.
“I know how hard it is,” he said, his voice sympathetic.
I knew he was trying to be understanding but I was not to be consoled.
“Should we just ignore it, then?” I did not bother hiding the bitter acrimony in my voice.
“Not fair,” he said quietly. “We don’t even know for sure what the problem is.”
#
I knew he meant the boy.
“Okay, thanks. And sorry.” That last was for lashing out at him earlier, for no fault of his.
“All good.”
That night, I couldn’t wait to get him to myself.
“One thing is clear,” he whispered when we were alone at last. “We cannot involve the police.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“So here’s my suggestion. Why don’t we talk to Mrs. Kapadia?”
Mrs. Kapadia ran one of the better orphanages - the very one from which we’d adopted Smita. She had vetted my parents thoroughly before releasing Smita into their care. To be fair, we’d vetted her orphanage as thoroughly. With headlines screaming horror stories of abuse at our orphanages, we couldn’t be too careful. Innumerable trips to get to know the kids at the orphanage, ask them questions, covertly check them out for signs of bruises or abuse of any kind and we decided this was the one. We got to know, like and trust Mrs. Kapadia.
I didn’t realise I’d been holding my breath, wondering if Ashraf’s idea would be worth pursuing. Wondering if I’d like it.
Expelling it with a rush I jumped up. “Yes! Let’s do it. First thing in the morning.”
We wondered what we would say.
“We’ll suss that out once we get there,” Ashraf said in confident tones. “Let's not speculate about sexual or any other abuse,” he warned.
“I know," I said, my voice testy. "I’m not a fool,”
“Of course,” Ashraf said, a shade too quickly.
I fumed but let it pass. After calming down, I said, “We’ll impress upon her on how young he is. And that he doesn’t seem to live with his immediate family.”
“Brilliant!” said my man.
We did not confide in my parents. No point in worrying them needlessly. We knew the objections.
"You are being irresponsible to Smita."
“If the orphanage suspects she’s in a gay household they might decide to take her away.”
We understood their fears. Especially now, the Supreme Court had done an about face, taking away our right to marriage. There had been a huge outpouring of support on social media with everyone draping their id photos in rainbow colours. It was uplifting but if some homophobic individuals in a position of authority took away our darling girl, would public opinion matter? Who would come forward to protect her right - our right, to a happy and secure family life? We were under no illusion. We lived with some form of homophobia borne of ignorance and fear everyday of our lives.
The one thing we could, and did, do for Smita from the first day we brought her home, was to ensure some of our neighbours really got to know us. We enjoyed getting to know them too. In the end, what mattered most was the welcome they accorded to our little girl.
How we had changed. How being Smita’s parents had changed us. As youngsters, we had given a damn.
The next morning, we pretended to go off to work as usual. At the orphanage, we asked to speak to Mrs. Kapadia. She recognized us immediately. She wanted to know how Smita was and we showed her photographs we’d brought along. As soon as we reasonably could, we brought up the topic of the boy. We told her about his not having his immediate family in Mumbai and how young and helpless he seemed. We didn’t utter the words, ‘sexual harassment’ and yet, felt she could read what we left unsaid.
The only words she uttered were, “You’ve done the right thing.”
She sent us away with the promise that the orphanage would look into the case. They would interview the boy, gather data and make a decision within a couple of days. She said she’d keep us informed. We left the orphanage in a much happier frame of mind.
According to the United Nations there are 2.5 lakh homeless kids living on the streets of Mumbai. We hoped we’d taken one off.
#
The young street kid in this story bears a distinct resemblance to one I'd seen in a documentary. I asked, and was granted permission by the Aletheia foundation to use him in the story - K. Mathur.
Excellent shirt story! Bert compassionate in tackling several societal challenges.
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