My father had a crucifix tattooed on his left arm, and he had got it done during the days of the partition. His reason for getting the tattoo was his personal safety. It was a time when communal tension was at its worst, in the capital. He would narrate gory details of incidents that he had witnessed, on the streets and narrow lanes of Old Delhi. He would tell us of times when he was attacked or rounded-up by mobs, wanting to know his identity. Once the attack was so vicious that he thought that he would survive, but just then a Police Jonga on patrol arrived, and he was saved. He got the tattoo done, the next day. The crucifix saved him, as he became easily identifiable as a Christian. It was a big tattoo, almost six inches in length, and quite detailed. Now that I think about it, I realise that it was quite nicely done, with a lot of detail.
My grandmother, it seems was livid, when she saw the tattoo on his arm. She was one feisty lady, with very rigid views and she believed that only the tribal and village people got tattoos, and not the city-bred, educated.
"A love affair with knowledge will never end in heartbreak." -Michael Garrett Marino