By Niloufer Venkatraman

I was eight when I asked my parents why a schoolteacher had called me “mongrel”, a word I’d heard used only for dogs before. That’s when I first heard their story. In 1954, my Parsi mother, Bakhtawar Master, was studying at St. Xavier’s College, Mumbai, and regularly volunteered at the institution’s Social Service League. There she met another volunteer, S. Venkatraman, a Hindu-Tamilian man, nine years older, who worked for an airline. They fell deeply in love. He had no immediate family. Her huge family disapproved. Four years later, on the morning of 9th May 1958, when 24-year-old Bakhti left home for work she told her mother she wasn’t returning that night. She and Rami married under the Special Marriage Act that day.

My parents intentionally gave their three children Parsi first names and a Tamilian last name — they said we should be “proud of both identities”. Throughout their long partnership, each followed their own religion. They refused to attend a wedding if they knew dowry was part of the deal. And they fervently supported other inter-faith marriages and adoptions; several of these unions and celebrations took place right in our home.