It was one of those annoyingly humid Delhi afternoons — the kind where the sun sticks to your skin and even the breeze feels like it’s sweating.

Stuti and Karthik had just stepped out of college after their weekly poetry club meeting — where someone had read a not-so-good poem about heartbreak and someone else had cried for no reason at all. Classic.

They were now walking lazily towards the chaat stall near the metro gate — Stuti slurping on a kala-khatta gola, Karthik muttering about how poetry people take everything too seriously. Just then, a loud cheer rang out from the main road, followed by dhol beats and the faint sound of “Love is Love!” being chanted in chorus. A slow-moving, joyful storm of colour was approaching — rainbow flags fluttering, drag artists twirling, couples laughing, banners waving proudly in the air.

The Pride Parade had turned the corner.

“What is even happening here, yaar? Feels like a full-on circus,” Karthik said, eyebrows raised behind his glasses as a float passed by — rainbow flags fluttering, a group of drag queens dancing to Choli ke peeche kya hai blasting from a speaker.

Stuti laughed, licking her gola. “It’s the Pride Parade, genius. Happens every June. Don’t tell me you didn’t know?”

“I mean, I’ve heard of it,” he said, still staring. “But this much drama? Isn’t it a bit… over the top?”

“It’s not over, it’s overdue,” she replied, crunching some ice. “People are just being themselves. Dancing. Celebrating. What’s the big deal?”

Karthik scrunched his nose. “But what are they proud of, exactly? That they’re gay? Bi? Trans? I mean… honestly, isn’t this all just a phase? Tumblr-gen-Z-fad types?”

Stuti turned to him, amused but a little taken aback. “Karthik, you’re doing MTech, right? Algorithms make sense to you but basic emotions don’t?”

He rolled his eyes. “Arey, I understand feelings. But this — so many genders, orientations, identities… it’s too much, no? Why so much confusion?”

She nodded slowly, thoughtful. “Okay, let’s do one thing. Imagine you love someone — like, genuinely love them.”

“Alright,” he said, dramatically placing a hand on his chest. “I’m imagining.”

“Now imagine you can’t hold their hand in public. Can’t tell your parents. Can’t even say I love you out loud, because duniya judge karegi. People will laugh. Some might even get violent.”

He fell quiet.

“Every rom-com, every shaadi card, every love song — you’re invisible in all of them. And on top of that, people tell you it’s just a phase. Or worse, disgusting. Or sinful.”

Karthik exhaled slowly. “But isn’t it… un-biological, Stuti? According to ‘nature’ toh —”

She held up a finger. “Karthik, you put ketchup on dosa. Don’t lecture me about what’s natural.”

Karthik shrugged, still not fully convinced. “So then why do you have a boyfriend, haan? If having a girlfriend is just as natural… toh make one na?”

Stuti blinked at him, mock-offended. “Wow. You really don’t get it, do you?”

She pointed her gola stick at him like a sword. “It’s basic, Karthik. Choice. Will. Love.” She underlined each word with dramatic finger quotes. “I chose him. Just like someone else might choose her. The point is — we all want someone who makes our stomach do that weird flippy thing.”

He looked mildly horrified. “Flippy thing?”

“Have you ever seen someone genuinely in love?” Stuti asked, eyes scanning the parade. “Doesn’t matter if it’s boy-girl, boy-boy, girl-girl… when that feeling is in their eyes — it’s always the same.”

Just then, a couple walked past them — two women holding hands, laughing. One of them had tiny rainbow heart stickers on her cheeks.

“That’s what I mean,” Stuti continued, pointing at them. “Love has heartbreak. Love has joy. Sabko hota hai. Whether you’re straight or gay, everyone listens to Arijit Singh after a breakup.”

Karthik smiled. “That’s actually true.”

“Then why treat them like some alien species?” she said gently. “If you can’t celebrate their choice, fine. But at least don’t humiliate it. Let people be, yaar.”

He watched as an older woman walked past them — dressed in a bright pink kurta, silver streaks in her hair, eyes full of quiet pride. She was holding up a placard that read: My son loves, and that’s enough.

Karthik frowned slightly. “You think her son’s… gay?”

Stuti didn’t look away. “Maybe. Maybe not. Does it matter?”

The woman smiled as she handed a rainbow flag to a small kid standing near the barricade. Someone in the crowd shouted, Love you, aunty! and she waved back, cheeks glowing.

“All that matters,” Stuti said softly, “is that she loves her son, his choices, and she stands by him. Honestly, isn’t that all anyone needs?”

Karthik went silent for a bit. Then took a sip of his warm Pepsi. “Stuti… maybe I don’t fully get it. But fine. I’ll stop making those faces.”

She grinned. “That’s called progress.”

He turned to her, mock serious. “Okay, but just saying — if one day you tell me you’ve been crying over someone named Simran, I’ll be there for you. Just… please don’t write poetry about it.”

She burst out laughing. “Oh, I’m definitely writing a poem. Whether you support me or file a complaint.”

The parade rolled on, the music drifting further away.

Karthik nudged her elbow. “Be honest. That guy in the pink sequins — kinda cute, right?”

Stuti gave him a sly smile. “Wow. Your gay love is evolving faster than your coding skills, Mr. MTech.”

They both cracked up. Sitting on the sidewalk. In the sun. Watching strangers live bold, bright, unapologetic lives.

And for a moment — maybe just a moment — Karthik saw love in colours. And it didn’t confuse him anymore.

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Inspired by a real conversation with a dear friend. I don’t know if I changed his mind, but I’m glad I could walk a few steps with him.