Framed
Text and photographs by Imdad Barbhuyan
I was tired of watching. I wanted to touch. My palms longed for the potent stain of henna, to surrender to the harmony of its fading and lingering, but I was told it was inappropriate. My lower back wanted to be brushed by my thick braid, but boys shouldn’t grow out their hair, they said. My skin revelled in the comforting familiarity of the fluidity of my mother’s clothes; it was a feeling of expansiveness, of a transcendent experience that told me I was more than my body. And yet, instead of feeling infinite, I felt confined because of my body.
My childhood was comfortable. My parents always did what they thought was best for their children. But, I do wonder how very different my life would have been if they’d been more in touch with finer pursuits like art, music and…
