(As told to Aritrik Dutta Chowdhury)
I knew it to be art classes. I was convinced as a toddler that my youngest maternal uncle, in class 9, was a brilliant painter. I, a class 2 student, needed art classes to culturally equip myself as per my parents’ tastes. I hardly knew what lay between my legs, outside my body; or what hung like a sack with two seeds that hurt when touched. My uncle held my hands and taught me to draw – animals, birds, trees, and then, human body parts. I was shown a nose and made to draw one, shown eyes and made to draw one, and then something that looked like the front part of my toy aircraft. I was told that I too had one, a tinier one, which was supposedly waiting for me to grow up like my uncle.