By Rheea Mukherjee
In 2012, I had a fabulous poet and social activist stay with us at home, with her two kids. She was African-Canadian and had a tremendous sense of style. Walking the streets of Bangalore, she would get the inevitable stares: some curious, some awed; and some expressions were inscrutable. Her two very young children had big hair. One had dreads, and the other, a giant bush that adorned his round face.
Once, Shanti, my house help at the time, was cutting vegetables in the kitchen. One of the boys popped out of the bedroom and walked into the kitchen. She looked at him and shrieked. Yes, she quite literally screamed in terror, then stood, frozen until I went up to her and looked at her in astonished embarrassment.
“I got so scared, I have never seen anyone who looks like this.”