Parenting is as much about what is ‘not said’ as it is about what is said. An upbringing can be surrounded by rules: Parentally-built fences within which children operate. When I glance back on my life, however, I find that — aside from rules like being home by such and such time and remembering to be eternally polite to elders even if they weren’t always polite in return — there were also several non-rules.

Growing up an Anglo-Indian, my parents never forced conformity on me or my siblings. In a day when it was typical for a young Anglo-Indian boy to pick up a hockey stick, I was permitted to swing a cricket bat instead and virtually peel the skin off my fingers trying to spin a cricket ball. I was also allowed to switch over from being a naturally-born left-handed batsman, to playing right-handed because my parents were none the wiser about the game and I, in my attempt to be like my right-handed friends, thought it the right thing to do. My brother was allowed to be the drummer in a band. The stereotype of an Anglo-Indian dance-goer was never forced on us either.

While all my cousins jived the night away, I usually sauntered off with my cricket-playing mates to the late-night movies. My friends were predominantly Tamilian and if I ended up not learning to speak Tamil fluently it is in part due to their insistence that I stick to English so that they could speak English better. All of which, I confess, is an elaborate way of saying that I’ve come to appreciate — via my upbringing — not to see life in stereotype. This law was never parentally articulated, but I’ll concede that I learned it through one of their non-spoken rules: You don’t have to be a part of the crowd and believe as the crowd does. This came to me quite forcefully a few days ago. I happened to be meeting a long-time friend for dinner in the non-judgemental but culturally-vibrant suburb of Newtown — where one can be whoever one wants to be without causing the slightest eyebrow-raising.

Anyhow, there we were, seated at a table outside the restaurant, taking advantage of the excellent weather at the dimming of the day, our conversation slightly drowned by the noise of the birds — lorikeets, mynahs, crested pigeons, magpies — returning to their nests. Across the way on the kerb opposite and to the left a busker sat perched on an upturned milk crate plucking a guitar and singing the Cat Stevens song, Father and Son, ‘It’s not time to make a change/just relax take it easy/you’re still young/ that’s your fault/there’s so much you have to know ...’ To the right and a distance away from the busker lay the one sad spot in an otherwise picture-postcard evening: A young, ginger-haired woman, curled up in what was once a white quilt, now brown with dust, preparing to spend the night in sleep on the pavement.

A handwritten piece of cut-out cardboard bore the entire legend in black marker ink: Homeless victim of domestic violence. To the right of the woman, another little takeaway restaurant. From where I sat I could see three people waiting at the counter for their order to be delivered: A youngish mother wearing a headscarf, her son, probably 11 years, and her husband, sporting a flowing black beard.

The order was handed in white plastic bags to the father who passed one bag to his wife who handed it to her son who in turn walked the short distance to the homeless victim of domestic violence and, exchanging a few words, sets the food down beside her. All done quietly, unnoticed. Mother and son walked on ahead, but the father tarried a moment longer, looking back. I took in his bearded visage, the cap set on his head, and thought — because I cannot see a person’s heart — how easy, and incorrect, it would be to stereotype.

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.