My parents keep asking when I'll settle down. Another family gathering, another round of pointed questions about marriage. They've lined up so many potential brides I've lost count. Each meeting feels like an audition where I'm expected to perform the role of the perfect Sikh son.
But they don't know about Sarah. About the Tuesday afternoons when I slip away from my tech job in Birmingham and meet her at that discreet hotel near Broad Street. She understands me in ways no arranged bride ever could.
The guilt is constant. Not just about seeing an escort, but about disappointing my family. My community expects a certain path. Traditional marriage. Children. Respectability. Instead, I'm living this fragmented existence where my desires exist in secret compartments.
Sarah doesn't judge. She listens. Sometimes we talk more than we touch. She knows I'm wrestling with cultural expectations that feel suffocating. The pressure to be someone I'm not.
I wonder sometimes if other Sikh men feel this way. Trapped between tradition and personal truth. Probably. But no one talks about it.