Titaura Beginnings

I had just finished two years at Chitra Kala Parishath—my first real stretch of freedom after what felt like a lifetime of hospitals, beds, and dependency. Those two years were the foundation course at the art college, and I was supposed to continue for another three years and specialize. But I was tired. Tired of Bangalore. Tired of living with my parents. Tired of being their in-between, their relief, their mediator.

I didn’t want to stay. I never really liked the college, and deep down, I knew my dad couldn’t afford the fees for the next three years. They had already spent so much on my hospital bills growing up. I think they must have felt—she’s a fighter, she’ll survive. And my dad believed that. He believed in me in a quiet, solid way. It was my mum who always fought for my education, who pushed to make sure I got what I needed.

Around that time, my sister took off to Chennai. She had just returned from the UK—back from love and still in love. She was definitely lost, and love can do that. Work wasn’t working out for her in Bangalore, so she went back to Madras University, this time as a consultant.

I was itching to get out—to work, to learn on the job. I wanted to be a designer, especially in event and environmental design. My father had bought me a Mac when I was 14, during my operation days when I was mostly bedridden. That was the starting point of my design journey—he encouraged me, and I never forgot that.

On top of everything, the tension at home was constant. The dynamic between my parents wasn’t great. Sometimes I felt like the punching bag. I didn’t want to stay in that space anymore. I didn’t think my parents would get me married or even knew what to do with me. It was confusing.

And on top of that, I never thought of myself as “girlfriend material.” I was more the listening material—the one people confided in, not the one they pictured dating. Guys did ask me out—even in college. But I never took it seriously. I didn’t see myself that way. The whole “one day I’ll meet someone and settle down” narrative never felt like it applied to me—especially with my disability. There’s that deeply ingrained belief: who’s going to marry a disabled person? That’s the kind of thinking you grow up around. My mother, in her frustration, would sometimes rub it in. And my dad, in his own way, would say, “You’ll always be with us—you’ll look after us when we grow old.” Which, funnily enough, I am doing. Just… married.

Strangely, most of my friends have always been guys. Since childhood, I’ve preferred their company—less drama, no backtalk. In school, in the neighborhood—it was always boys. They were simpler, not complicated, and I still believe that. I’ve never really had a “best friend” either. I may come off as an extrovert, but I’m not.

It’s only much later in life that I realised—there were guys who liked me, who quietly carried feelings, some of whom even told me years later. But at the time, I didn’t see any of it. I didn’t see me that way.

What I’m trying to say is—I didn’t want to continue college. I didn’t want to get involved with anyone. I just wanted to move out, be independent, and live life on my own terms. I was 19, and I was raring to go. I applied for a job in Bangalore, got it, waited for the confirmation—and then left. I joined my sister in Chennai.

Akha (my sister) was staying at her professor’s house with his family. But with me coming, she finally felt confident enough to look for a hostel. We moved into one run by nuns—that was an experience. It was the Good Shepherd Convent—the very same school we had both gone to first. It felt like life had come full circle.

We stayed there for three months, sharing a room with six other girls—eight in total, in bunk beds. A typical hostel life. Four of the girls were from Nepal. They introduced Akha and me to Titaura—a sweet and sour snack made from dried fruits, usually lapsi (hog plum). It was something out of this world. We loved it. Just for fun, I once said, “I’ll marry a Nepali guy who’ll give me Titaura every day!”

I didn’t know it then, but that decision—to move to Chennai, to share a bunk bed in a convent hostel, to chase independence—was going to change everything.