India, Feb. 2 -- By Sujata Rajpal

Three decades ago, in my parents' house in Chandigarh, once we hovered in quiet delight over a new carpet, beige, strewn with blue floral patterns. It lent a touch of grandeur to our modest living room.

Outside, rain had been falling since morning, turning the streets into a churn of mud and slush. That afternoon, my father's friends arrived unannounced. They shook off the umbrellas they were carrying, walked in with their shoes like always, settled in with plates of pakoras and steaming cups of tea, talked and laughed and left as casually as they had come.

In their wake remained the evidence of their visit: muddy footprints, dark and unmistakable, stamped across the new blue-and-beige carpet. We stare...