Shattered Innocence: First Love

 

It was the monsoon season in July 1961 when the train pulled into Bombay, a big bustling city. A city, ancient yet modern; fabulously rich yet achingly poor.

During the journey of 1427 km, I had nineteen hours and fifty minutes to ponder the events of the last few days.

My mother’s decision was final — I had to leave home.

The police car that escorted me back had already recounted the events to her.

The incident that would stain our family’s honour was being apprehended by the authorities for a mere kiss with a boy in a secluded park beneath a tree.

. . .

The next day, after an uncomfortable night in the backpacker’s lodge, scared, with leery eyes following me, I found board and lodging with Ethel, a lady, kind but very business-minded.

I could afford to pay for her monthly board; merely an attic room, bare but clean, was offered. This was to be shared with Diana — a bit of a princess. I paid the first month’s board up front, leaving little for bus, train fare, and lunch.

After just a few interviews, I landed a good position at Haussler’s, an aircraft manufacturing company. I was appointed as a stenographer in the company, joining a team of four others.

It was my first day on the job. After trying many outfits, I settled on a cream-and-black suit, pumps, gold studs, and a spray of Chanel №5 courtesy of the princess. Princess had advised me to stand tall despite my self-consciousness about my height.

. . .

A friendly young boy greeted me as I entered the building.

‘Hey, first day?’ he asked with a smile.

‘Yes. Do you work here?’

‘Sam Batur at your service — bus boy extraordinaire,’ said Sam, clicking his heels with a salute.

‘Impressive title. I’m Girl Friday to the CEO.’

Sam’s look turned serious and surprised.

‘Is he that scary?’

‘You’ll find out in ten seconds. Here he comes.’

A tall, handsome, debonair young man, about thirty, strode across the quadrangle. He was six feet tall with wavy dark hair and green eyes — oh, those eyes!

He smiled at me, holding the door open.

I stood still, mesmerized by those eyes.

Sam winked and disappeared down the side entrance.

‘First day on the job?’ asked the Greek God, with a smile showing dazzling white teeth.

‘Y-yes,’ I stammered, finding no more words.

‘Come along then. Hope you can take dictation and type. I’m Atik Rahman. Everyone calls me Tiks. Do you have a name?’ Tiks asked, amused.

‘Stephanie.’

‘Come along then, young Stephanie.’

He led me to a desk in a small room. ‘This is your nook. When you’re settled in, I’ll see you in my office for dictation.’

The first letter I took was all gobbledygook. Tiks glanced at it over his Armani glasses, then patiently rewrote it in his neat handwriting with a smile. It wasn’t that I couldn’t take dictation — I was top of my class — but those damn eyes, so disconcerting.

I fell in love at first sight.

Every day, we left the office within minutes of each other to catch the same train. Tiks travelled to my station, and we had tea and pakoras, a tasty Indian vegetable fritter, at the station restaurant.

I found Tiks an easy conversationalist and a good listener. I poured out my heart to him.

Tiks came to understand me like an open book.

For two years, we spent every moment together. Tiks showed me the sights of Bombay and paid my rent when I ran out of money.

I was anxious about calling my parents due to their expected disapproval. I arrived in a strange city feeling alone and often skipped lunch to save money.

Since leaving Bangalore, I received no contact from my parents at my boarding house. When I asked my mother for rent money, she falsely claimed she had none, only a grocery allowance from my father.

‘Learn to stand on your own two feet,’ my father would say.

From age seven, I often spent holidays with the nuns instead of my parents. Despite my generous allowance and enviable clothes, it wasn’t the same as being with my family.

I rarely experienced parental affection and went home every few years, spending some holidays with my grandparents in Poona. Though I felt I lacked a childhood, I cherished those memories with my grandparents.

. . .

Bombay is ‘the city that never sleeps’. In the hours of darkness, lights illuminate, and music reverberates in its streets.

This was all exciting but overwhelming. I had led a sheltered life till now, but Tiks, quite the man of the world, delighted in teaching me the ropes. We spent many wonderful nights together, dining and dancing the night away.

Tiks was an excellent dancer, and I loved dancing, which was the one skill I had learnt at the convent.

Tiks and I spent many romantic evenings on the beachfront, watching the breathtaking sunsets.

He stole my heart, the tender young heart of an eighteen-year-old girl.

One night, I lost my virginity — the night of the festival of Holi.

Dressed in sandals, a strapped top and a long flowing skirt, I walked briskly down the quiet street, headed towards the city to meet Tiks.

The warm, humid evening breeze blew softly through my long, black tresses. An auto-rickshaw slowed down alongside, hoping for a fare. I waved him a ‘no’ signal.

As I neared the city, I heard the noise of people singing and drums beating. Holi, the festival of colours, was in full swing.

As spring warms the landscape, southern India cuts loose for a day of high jinx and general hilarity — a day of spring fever. Holi is an exuberant festival where young and old flirt and misbehave in the streets in an uninhibited atmosphere, throwing coloured water and powder over each other.

There is a popular legend behind this. It is said that the mischievous Lord Krishna naughtily applied colour to his beloved Radha to make her love him. The trend soon gained popularity amongst the young in love.

Tiks was waiting for me at the corner — our favourite meeting spot. He was wearing the traditional white juba, now covered in all colours of the rainbow.

As I approached, he mischievously showered me with blue powder. I was prepared and doused him with green and gold. We chased one another, laughing and throwing clouds of colour, and joined the throng of young lovers dancing in the street.

The uninhibited sexual atmosphere of other lovers fanned the flames of our passion, and I melted into those arms as they wrapped around me in a passionate embrace.

We lost ourselves in a deep kiss, our young, searing passion consuming us.

That night, Tiks took me back to his apartment by the beach.

After a shower, with the water running in rainbow colours off our bodies, we lay down together on his divan bed with the balmy sea breeze blowing through the open window, billowing the white mosquito-net canopy around us.

To the sound of the waves washing onto the shore, his strong, gentle hands stroked me, his lips travelling down my neck to nestle in my cleavage.

I felt a shiver run through my body and a wetness between my legs. Being young and in love was exhilarating, and the way he touched and kissed me simply fanned the flames of love into a bonfire of passion.

His caresses were new and wonderful.

He was confident and experienced, in contrast to my newly found sexual need: gentle, sexy and erotic, all rolled in one. Not frightening. Knowing what he was doing. My anticipation grew as his lips delicately brushed against my skin, causing a gentle shiver.

“Relax … it’s all right. Just listen to your body,” he whispered softly, his voice filled with warmth.

As his lips gently embraced me, I felt transported to a realm of pure sensation.

As I pressed him hard against my body that night, I knew that what my schoolmates had whispered about when the lights were out, as the nuns did their rounds, was nothing compared to what I experienced with Tiks, my first true love.

I was a woman now, in the complete sense of the word.

We spent many romantic evenings dining and dancing and talking into the night, and then making passionate love.

I couldn’t get enough of him — my Greek God.

I loved spending the day in this film city’s core — a world where you could not differentiate fake from real, as things were so perfect.

As we wandered hand in hand, I excitedly pointed out the superstar on set, Raj Kapoor, my hero. Tiks told me of his dream of being an actor.

Yes, I could see him here, starring in his own movie; I would be his leading lady. He was red-hot; the starlets would swoon. I wouldn’t have a chance of keeping him to myself.

Fortunately, he was the CEO at Haussler’s and wasn’t disappearing to stardom—a comforting thought.

. . .

1963

‘I’m going to Hollywood.’ Tiks said.

‘Hollywood in America? How could you do this to me?’ I said, stunned.

He said he loved me but would never be able to marry out of his caste, which was Brahmin Hindu. HE HAS BEEN BETHROTHED FROM THE CRADLE.

He didn’t want to hurt me, he said.

His mother was an orthodox woman and would not allow the marriage to a Christian under any circumstances. She was terminally ill, and if he went against her wishes, it would kill her. He cared too deeply about his mother to take that risk.

It would be better if we parted ways.

Then he was gone. Gone as if he were never there. Gone forever. Leaving me heartbroken — the tender heart of a first love.

I would have followed my beloved Tiks to the end of the earth and supported him throughout his acting career.

I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t spread his wings in Bollywood. But no, he said — it was Hollywood he’d always dreamed about. An arranged marriage from birth? I found it difficult to understand this tradition.

He did not love me, or want me. No one did. Not my parents, and now not the man I had given my heart to.

I cried alone and didn’t eat for weeks.

Princess understood to a certain extent, but simply told me, ‘He wasn’t worth it; you’ll find someone better,’ as she preened her hair and gave me a big hug.

Never mind. I was strong and brave and had always been able to face life. No matter how the cards were dealt.

Until now.

. . .

In the wake of that devastating revelation, I embarked on a healing journey. At first, the pain was unbearable, and I questioned if I would ever feel whole again.

The void left by my first love seemed insurmountable.

Slowly, I began to piece myself back together, understanding that heartbreak, though excruciating, was a part of the human experience.

As time passed, I realized that my heartbreak had transformed me in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

It had given me a deeper understanding of others’ pain and a newfound empathy that I would carry with me for the rest of my life.

This realization became particularly poignant when I started teaching. One day, a 17-year-old student in my class struggled to focus on her studies. She confided in me that her first love had left her, and she felt lost and heartbroken.

In that moment, I saw a reflection of my younger self in her eyes. Her pain was raw and real, a mirror of what I had once endured.

I shared my story with her, not to diminish her feelings, but to let her know she was not alone.

I assured her that heartbreak, though it feels like the end of the world, is a part of growing up. It shapes us, molds us, and ultimately, it makes us stronger.

I encouraged her to take her time to heal, to lean on those who cared about her, and to believe that she would emerge from this experience with a greater understanding of herself.

Through my conversations with my student, I came to realize that vulnerability is not a weakness but a strength.

Sharing our stories and our pain can create deep connections and foster a sense of community. My heartbreak had, in a way, prepared me to be a source of comfort and guidance for others. It taught me that while we cannot shield ourselves or others from the pain of lost love, we can offer our support and empathy.

Watching my student navigate her heartbreak reminded me of the cyclical nature of healing.

Just as I had once been the heartbroken young girl, she, too, would find her way through the darkness. And someday, she might become a beacon of hope for someone else, sharing her story and offering her empathy.

The cycle of pain and healing continues, each of us playing our part in the intricate tapestry of life.

Looking back, I am filled with gratitude for the experiences that have shaped me, even the painful ones.

My first love, Tiks, and the heartbreak that followed taught me invaluable lessons about resilience, empathy, and the power of vulnerability.

They have made me a better person, a more compassionate teacher, and someone who understands the profound impact of love in all its forms.

—

This post was previously published on The Memoirist.

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