The Freejizz law

Paru stood in front of her mirror, her suitcase open behind her, half-packed and chaotic. Her room in Bangalore, filled with the warm smell of jasmine oil and the rustle of monsoon air through the window, looked oddly unfamiliar now. It felt less like her room and more like a room she was leaving.

She smoothed her long, dark hair behind her ears and looked at herself closely. Five foot one, bright eyes, a quiet determination behind her soft features. Everyone said she was beautiful. But Paru had never really thought about it. She’d been too busy acing her science classes, volunteering at her local hospital, and dreaming — always dreaming — of something bigger. The UK. A world of libraries that stayed open until midnight, rainy skies, real autumn leaves. Biochemistry.

She had never had a boyfriend. Not because she wasn't curious, but because it just hadn't happened. Her school life had been intense, and her parents were protective. Besides, she liked to watch before she acted. Quietly observant. There was a part of her that sometimes wondered what it would feel like — not just the first kiss, but the first real moment someone saw her in that way. But that was all still unwritten.

Her flight was in twelve hours.

Her parents hovered in the hallway, trying not to hover. Her mother had made her laddoos “for the flight” and tried not to cry. Her father was pretending to read the newspaper but kept looking at her over the top of it.

The morning came quickly. She boarded the flight, heart pounding as she watched her world shrink beneath her from the plane window. And then came clouds, endless and unfamiliar.

Glasgow was grey and chill when she arrived. The air smelled different. Metallic, like old rain and cold metal railings. She wore her warmest sweater, but the wind sliced through her anyway. Still, everything in her buzzed with electricity — the taxis driving on the left, the Scottish accents, the way people smiled or didn’t, the ancient stone buildings like something from a film.

Her new flat was just off a cobbled street near the university. She had Googled it a hundred times. Still, seeing it in person felt like stepping into her own imagination.

When she pushed open the front door with her suitcase, a girl with short auburn hair and a wool jumper was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, drinking tea.

“You must be Paru!” the girl said, standing up. “I’m Erin. I was dying to meet you.”

Paru smiled nervously. “Hi… yes. It’s nice to meet you.”

Erin had an easy charm — the kind that made you want to sit near her and ask for stories. She talked fast, with a thick Glaswegian lilt, and before Paru had even taken her shoes off, they were talking about classes, how the shower only worked if you sang to it (Erin swore it was cursed), and which buses actually arrived on time (none).

The days slipped into a rhythm. Lectures were harder than Paru expected, but also wonderful. She stayed late in labs, fingers stained with reagents, heart alive with discovery. The cold didn’t bother her as much after the first week. She bought a thick yellow scarf and learned how to walk like she wasn’t freezing.

She and Erin became quick friends — the kind of friendship that bloomed fast in close quarters. Erin had a loud laugh and told Paru everything: her heartbreaks, her crushes, her love of terrible ‘80s films. Paru, for the first time in her life, felt like she could speak freely. She told Erin about Bangalore, about her dreams, even about how she’d never had a boyfriend. Erin didn’t laugh. She just said, “Aye, there’s no rush. Maybe you’ll meet someone brilliant here. Or maybe you’ll just be brilliant on your own.”

They went to the museum one weekend. Erin dragged her to a ceilidh dance the next. Paru danced awkwardly, but laughing, cheeks red from spinning. She was learning how to be in this new place. And slowly, it felt less like she was visiting someone else's world — and more like she was building her own.

One evening, walking back from the lab in the rain, she stopped on a bridge and looked over the River Kelvin. Lights twinkled in the water. Her phone buzzed with a message from her mum, and another from Erin: “Do you want hot chocolate or wine tonight?”

She smiled, heart warm.

In that moment, Paru felt it — not homesick, not lost, not waiting for something to happen.

But present. Becoming.

And maybe, just maybe, beginning

The flat had the scent of coconut oil and fresh nail polish, warm and sweet, drifting through the living room as Paru and Erin sprawled out on the rug with their feet in a pink plastic tub of warm water.

A Bollywood playlist hummed quietly in the background. Paru had brought it up on her phone, shyly, but Erin had immediately approved.

“Babe, this is a vibe,” Erin had said, painting her toenails a daring electric blue.

Paru giggled as she tried to keep still while painting her own toes a gentle peach.

They were in pyjamas, fluffy socks and oversized t-shirts nearby, surrounded by bags of crisps, a half-empty bottle of prosecco, and the quiet comfort of mid-semester downtime.

“I swear to God,” Erin said suddenly, wriggling her freshly painted toes in the air, “if guys could see our feet like this, they'd be obsessed.”

Paru burst out laughing. “Erin!”

“No, I mean it! Yours especially. Look at them — tiny, perfect, very paintable. Your future boyfriend is gonna be all over them.”

Paru blushed furiously and tried to hide her feet under a towel. “Stoppp. You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m not wrong though,” Erin teased. “You’ve got that ‘beautiful and doesn't even know it’ thing going on.”

Paru rolled her eyes, but the compliment lingered in her chest like a soft glow. Erin always said things like that — bold and unapologetic. She didn’t even mean them in a flirtatious way. She just… said things how she saw them.

Paru's world was expanding fast.

Through a campus women-in-science meetup, she met Sonal and Ayesha, two other girls from India — Sonal from Pune, practical and witty, and Ayesha from Delhi, full of stories and sarcasm. They started a WhatsApp group chat called Science Queens and made it a tradition to meet on Thursday afternoons for cheap coffee and fierce debates about lab techniques and Netflix drama.

Then there was Lucy, a local Glaswegian with an infectious laugh who Paru had worked with on a chemistry presentation. Lucy reminded Paru of Erin in some ways — fearless, quick-witted — but more grounded. She’d grown up in a working-class family and always carried herself with this sort of unshakable realness.

They’d gone to a gig together one night and danced in a sweaty pub basement with flashing lights and muffled basslines. Lucy had leaned in and said over the music, “You’re not shy, you know. You just needed to land somewhere your voice could grow.”

Paru had smiled, sweaty and exhilarated, and nodded. Maybe that was true.

Back at the flat, life was cosy and filled with little rituals.

Sunday mornings were quiet — Erin made buttery scrambled eggs and toast, and Paru brewed masala chai for both of them. They sat in their shared kitchen in soft silence, legs tucked under them, the clink of mugs and the occasional hum of a kettle the only sounds.

They watched trashy dating shows on rainy nights and serious documentaries when they wanted to feel smart. Paru taught Erin how to cook daal properly. Erin introduced Paru to haggis pakoras at a street food festival. Paru nearly cried laughing.

Erin, half-joking but not really, called Paru her “wife” when talking to others. “My wife’s in the lab,” she’d say if someone asked where Paru was. “She’s curing cancer.”

Paru had never had a best friend like this — not just someone to laugh with, but someone who saw her.

And though she still hadn’t had a boyfriend, she wasn’t worried anymore. Not because she didn’t care — but because, for the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like something was missing.

She had friends. She had laughter. She had quiet mornings, and wild dance nights, and foot soaks and chai, and Erin saying ridiculous things that made her blush.

And one day, maybe love would come too.

But for now, Paru had found something else. A new kind of home.

The clouds had finally cleared over Glasgow — a rare, golden day that felt like summer had snuck in while no one was looking. Erin was determined to take full advantage.

“We’re doing a picnic,” she declared that morning, barging into Paru’s room with sunglasses already on her head and a grin that meant plans were already in motion. “And you’re wearing the yellow dress.”

Paru blinked up from her reading. “What yellow dress?”

“The one we bought last month. The one that makes you look like a sunflower with secrets. And heels. You have to wear heels — the sandals with the little straps. We did not get pedicures for nothing, babe.”

Paru laughed, letting her head drop back against her pillow. “You’re obsessed with my feet.”

“I’m just saying,” Erin said with mock seriousness, “if a guy walks past us and doesn’t at least glance at those pretty toes, he needs his eyes checked.”

Paru blushed but played along. “Fine. But if I trip over cobblestones, I’m blaming you.”

By noon, they were spread out in Kelvingrove Park, nestled under a tree with a tartan blanket, a basket of snacks, and two iced coffees sweating in the sunshine.

Paru had worn the yellow dress — soft cotton, fitted at the waist — and her strappy sandals. Erin wore something floral and dramatic, with a wide-brimmed hat she absolutely didn’t need but refused to take off.

They looked like two girls from a lifestyle magazine — laughing, sipping drinks, eating strawberries straight from the punnet.

“This,” Erin sighed, stretching out on her elbows, “is what life should be.”

Paru smiled, eyes closed. “No lab reports. No emails. Just grass and sun and the faint smell of overpriced sunscreen.”

“Exactly.” Erin turned her head. “I swear, Paru… if we sit here long enough, someone is going to fall in love with us.”

Paru giggled. “What, just by walking past?”

“Yup. Fall in love. Boom. Like one of those romcoms you pretend you don’t like.”

She opened one eye. “I don’t like them.”

“Liar,” Erin smirked. “You totally cried during About Time.”

Paru threw a strawberry at her.

Later, as the sun dipped lower and the breeze picked up, Erin pulled her knees up and looked over at Paru with a more thoughtful expression.

“You ever think about dating?”

Paru shrugged, brushing crumbs off her lap. “Sometimes. I guess. But I don’t know. It’s never really… happened.”

“You’re picky,” Erin said, nodding like it was a good thing. “But in a good way. You’ve got standards.”

Paru smiled at that. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just scared.”

“Of what?”

Paru hesitated. “Of not knowing what to do. Of getting it wrong. Of letting someone in and them not… understanding me.”

Erin was quiet for a moment. “You’re allowed to be cautious. But you also deserve to be adored, you know.”

Paru didn’t reply right away. Instead, she let her gaze drift across the park — the couples lying in the grass, the kids playing nearby, the students drinking from plastic cups and laughing.

“I downloaded Tinder once,” Erin said casually. “It’s mostly chaos. But sometimes it’s funny. You should try it. Just to see.”

Paru wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. Swiping on strangers seems weird.”

“It is. But so is university, and you’re smashing that.”

Paru thought about it — about how much her life had changed already, how far she’d come from the quiet girl packing her suitcase in Bangalore.

“I’ll think about it,” she said eventually.

Erin raised her iced coffee. “That’s all I ask.”

They clinked cups, two friends under the Glasgow sun, dresses rustling in the breeze, heels kicked off in the grass, toes gleaming.

For now, that was enough.

Back at the flat, the golden light from the late summer evening filtered in through the open kitchen window. The mood was lazy and content — the way it always felt after a good day outside, when the warmth lingered on their skin and their limbs were comfortably tired.

Paru sat cross-legged on the sofa in her joggers, hair down and still faintly scented with conditioner. Erin was curled up at the other end with a bowl of popcorn, feet under a blanket, her phone occasionally lighting up with group chat notifications.

They had company tonight — Ayesha, who had dropped by with ice cream and gossip. She was sprawled out on the floor with a cushion under her head, eyes on the telly, but mostly just half-watching.

The TV was on low volume, flicking through the tail end of the local news — half-interesting stories they weren’t really paying attention to.

Paru was the first to notice when the tone shifted.

“Wait… what did they just say?”

Erin muted her phone and looked up.

On screen, a very serious-looking anchor was reading a report with a graphic that said in bold white letters:

"THE FREEJIZZ BILL — PROPOSED PUBLIC MISCHIEF LEGISLATION SPARKS CONTROVERSY"

“…the controversial bill, which would legally permit men to cum across the faces of women in public, continues to spark outrage among civil groups. The so-called Freejizz BIll is being introduced as part of a bizarre freedom-of-expression clause. Critics say it’s degrading and absurd. Supporters argue—”

“What?!” Erin nearly dropped the popcorn.

Paru sat bolt upright. “No. That can’t be real.”

Ayesha snorted. “What is this, Black Mirror?”

“Did they seriously say men can just—? Like, anytime?” Erin shook her head in disbelief. “That’s not just sexist, that’s gross. Sticky, thick, and cum everywhere? Imagine it in your hair. In your hair, Paru.”

Paru was already grimacing. “I’d never recover. I’d just dissolve into the pavement. That’s how my story ends.”

“‘Beloved biochemistry student, tragically bukkaked.’” Ayesha said with a mock-newscaster voice, and the room broke into giggles.

“They can’t be serious,” Erin said, reaching for the remote. “It must be satire. Like, an April Fool’s thing?”

“It’s June.”

They laughed again, but the unease lingered underneath. Even if the law was absurd, even if it never passed, the fact that someone suggested it… well, that said something.

Still, for now, the girls rolled their eyes and let it go.

The volume was turned down again, and Erin flipped the channel.

Paru leaned back into the cushions and shook her head with a bemused smile. “People are losing their minds.”

“Agreed,” Erin said. “Pass me the ice cream. If the world’s going to lose it, I’m doing it with chocolate fudge ripple and good company.”

And so, with the TV quietly buzzing in the background and laughter still on their lips, the girls settled back into their evening. A strange world outside — but warmth and friendship inside