Free Sideways on a Scooter by Miranda Kennedy

our relationship code, which decreed that we be independent, undemanding, and not jealous. I refused to undermine the image Benjamin had of me as brave and strong, certain that he wouldn’t love me otherwise. I emailed him with funny stories and exotic anecdotes about my new life and never called him when I was lonely or afraid. Instead, I’d spend dull nights in the heat, holding staring contests with the translucent-eyed geckos in the corners of the ceiling and willing myself not to think about him. That was always a bad idea, because my longing for him would inevitably turn to jealous imaginings about what he might be doing. Eventually, I resolved to put an end to the pining and distract myself by leaping into affairs with other men. I was just holding up my side of the agreement, I told myself when I felt sad about my disloyalty. But part of me welcomed the chance to have affairs while holding on to my boyfriend. Benjamin was little more than the idea of a boyfriend, but he provided an important link for me to my life back in New York.
    There was another reason that it made sense to have affairs in India. It was the most passionate, emotive place I’d ever been, though I still cannot clearly articulate why. There’s something about the swoony film music blasting out of the little
chai
stands; the vivid saffron and crimson of women’s clothes; the sun saturating everything. There’s the crackling excitement of the festival season in October and November, which slides into the season of weddings, when there is gold everywhere: jewelry on the brides, streaked into the women’s saris. There’s something about the sentimental way Indians talk about their mothers and grandmothers and husbands, so their voices grow scratchy and their eyes well up with tears. And something about how present and human the Hindu gods are in daily life in India, their names coupled off into mythical pairs and recited like mantras—Sita, Rama, Radha, Krishna. Their sensual, sometimes even lusty images, full breastedand well toned, leap out from billboards, mantels, car dashboards, and shop windows. Alone in front of their bedroom shrines, or in groups inside temples, women chant prayers to the gods, and they sound more like love songs than the words of the devout:
    The god of love never hesitates!
    He is free and determined like a bird
    Winging toward the clouds it loves.
    Yet I remember the mad tricks he played,
    My heart restlessly burning with desire
    Was yet filled with fear!
    Still, it was rather ironic that I decided to pursue my saucy side in Delhi, where boyfriends are only to be had on the sly and even married couples do not hold hands on the street. Love affairs are complicated by the fact that most young people live at home with their families until marriage. “Doing a live-in,” the Indian phrase for cohabitating before marriage, is only acceptable in the most progressive families. Such is the poverty and close proximity of family life in India that intimacy is often impossible even for married couples. As a result, public spaces are precious real estate for lovers. Strips of beach, coffee shops, shopping malls—all highly desirable locales. One Indian official was right when he denounced malls as “havens of hand-holding”; they are full of snuggling teens and married couples. In Mumbai, one highway overpass has become infamous as a make-out spot; there are invariably two dozen scooters and motorcycles parked along the side of the road at dusk, the couples tangled over each other on the seats. The residents in the apartment buildings overlooking the highway can do little more than complain to city authorities about their “indecent view.”
    In Delhi, the favored spot for lovers is Lodhi Garden, a public park filled with verdant flower beds and sixteenth-century monuments. One evening a few months after I arrived, I noticed that the blooming shrubs on the lawn were a little too dazzlingly colorful. Peering closer in the