The Other Side of Love - Chapter 1

Chapter 1-Before Love: A Roorkee Childhood

I had everything, or so I thought—until I had nothing. At 48, I sit in a quiet house in Noida, the echoes of my dad’s old songs long gone, my wife and child a fading memory, and my friends scattered like leaves in the wind. All I have left are the memories of her—my Girl, my Pearl, the one who understood me like no one else. But to tell you how I got here, I need to go back to the beginning, to a small town called Roorkee, where a boy dreamed of Spiderman and had no idea how love would one day break his heart in two.

I was born on September 27, 1976, in New Delhi, a true Libran with a belief in the stars that’s followed me all my life. My family, a liberal Sikh household, moved to Roorkee soon after, a town better known for its engineering college, Roorkee University, which later became IIT Roorkee. That campus wasn’t just a backdrop—it was part of the air I breathed, a sprawling playground of red-brick buildings, dusty paths, and the faint hum of academic ambition. But my earliest memories are rooted in Civil Lines, a quieter part of Roorkee, where we lived in a rented house until I was 11.

Life in Civil Lines was simple, the kind of simplicity that feels magical to a child. I can still hear the creak of our wooden gate, the shouts of kids playing cricket in the street, and the distant sound of a temple bell at dusk. Our house was a modest two-story building, with a terrace that overlooked the neighborhood—a terrace that would later become the stage for a near-disaster. My father, a civil engineer, was a strict man, a rule-follower with high morals and a deep fear of the world’s chaos—especially India’s bureaucracy, a fear that would haunt him more than I knew back then, eventually taking a toll on his health. But he had a softer side, one I saw in the mornings when he’d wake me up for school. “Spiderman coming on the wall!” he’d say, his voice playful, mimicking a line from the old Spiderman movie we’d seen at a local theater. It was the 1980s, a time when movies were a rare treat, and that film—with its grainy action and cheesy dialogue—lit up my world. I’d jump out of bed, eyes wide, and follow him outside to see real spiders dangling on the walls, their webs glinting in the morning light. Those moments made me feel safe, loved, even if they were fleeting.

But my father’s strictness cast a long shadow. He had his own notions about life and career, and I was expected to fit into them, no questions asked. I hated studying, especially the endless cramming of theories—I was more interested in the practical, like tinkering with electronics, a passion I’d later turn into a career. But to him, my disinterest was a threat, a sign I’d fail in a competitive world. His fear turned to anger, and that anger turned to thrashings. I got hit a lot, more than I care to count, always over studies. The worst part wasn’t the pain—it was the humiliation. He’d lose his temper in front of my friends, dragging me home from the playground if I stayed out too long, his hand heavy with disappointment. I can still feel the sting of those moments, the way my cheeks burned with shame as my friends watched, silent. Every child has their pride, even at that age, and mine took a beating.

One memory stands out, sharp as a blade. I was supposed to be doing homework while my parents went to the market, but I snuck out to a friend’s house instead. They came back early, caught me running home, and my father’s fury was unlike anything I’d seen. He beat me so hard that our neighbor, an aunty from next door, came running to beg him to stop. I don’t hold a grudge now—I know he was scared for me, terrified I’d fail in a world with so few options back then. But I wish he’d been more patient, seen the boy who just wanted to play, to dream, to figure things out his own way.

Those moments of play were my escape. I’d spend hours in the street with the neighborhood kids, a dusty stretch of road that became our playground. We’d play cricket with a worn-out bat and a tennis ball, the kind that bounced unpredictably on the uneven ground. I can still hear the crack of the ball against the bat, the cheers when I hit a six over the neighbor’s wall, and the laughter when someone got out on a duck. Those afternoons felt endless, the sun dipping low, casting long shadows as we ran and shouted, free from the weight of my father’s expectations. But they always ended the same way—my father calling me in, his voice sharp, reminding me of the homework I’d neglected.

My mother was different, a burst of light in our home. She was ahead of her time, ultra-social, always craving connection and activity, a trait that would shine once we moved to a new community. She and my father were an arranged marriage, a common story in India, but they couldn’t have been more opposite. Where he was content to stay within the walls of his own world, passionate only about music (Jagjit Singh was his favorite) and DIY repairs, she wanted to live life king-size. I took after her, inheriting her flamboyance, her hunger for more than the monotony of routine. But I also got my father’s love for music and tinkering—though my DIY was more about electronics and computers, not the electrical and mechanical fixes he mastered.

Their differences weighed on them, and I could feel it even as a kid. My father’s strictness and my mother’s restlessness created a quiet tension in our home, a push-and-pull I didn’t fully understand but felt deeply. I often found myself caught between them—my father’s rules pressing down on me, my mother’s spirit urging me to break free. It left me with a longing I couldn’t name, a need for someone who’d see me for who I was, not who I was supposed to be. In India, everyone tells you to make a marriage work, no matter what, and they did—for me, I think. But my mother’s spirit fizzled out over the years, stuck in a life that couldn’t match her dreams. I’d feel that same stagnation later, in my own way, when love and loss carved their marks on me.

At 5, I had a brush with death that still makes me shiver. I was on the terrace of our Civil Lines house, alone—don’t ask me why a 5-year-old was up there by himself. I spotted an abandoned toy car on a small balcony below, about 10 feet down, another 15 to the ground. In my child’s mind, I thought I could hop down and grab it. I climbed over the edge, jumped, and missed. Suddenly, I was hanging by my hands, my feet dangling in the air, the ground a dizzying drop below. I screamed, a shrill, desperate sound, and my parents came running. My dad pulled me up just as one hand slipped—I was seconds from falling. If I’d let go, I’d have broken every bone in my body, maybe worse. I don’t remember the fear as much as the shock, the way my heart pounded when my feet didn’t touch that balcony. But I can imagine how it must have felt for my parents, their little boy so close to being gone.

We lived in Civil Lines for 11 years, until 1987, when I was 11. That’s when my father’s job at the Central Building Research Institute—C.B.R.I—changed everything. C.B.R.I, a government organization focused on civil research, had built a new set of scientist apartments for employees like my father, who’d been living in other parts of Roorkee. The idea was to bring everyone under the C.B.R.I umbrella, into a tight-knit community. There were 64 houses in a square layout, modest 1-2 BHK units with brick-and-concrete facades, no more than two floors high—two houses below, two above, in each block. Our house was E10, with a small front yard and a hedge lining the path. In the middle of the square was a playing ground, with swings and open space where kids would soon run free. I remember my father’s excitement as we packed up, ready for a fresh start in this new colony, with its quiet streets and the promise of new neighbors. But I had no idea what that move would bring. Those apartments, that colony, would become the cradle of a love that would define my life. In November 1993, among the 64 families, there’d be a girl at house E58—a girl who’d show me what true love is, who’d become the epitome of my existence. Her name was Pearl, my Girl, my Pearl, and she’d change everything.