The love issue by HT Media

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Saturday, February 8, 2014

Vol. 8 No. 6

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Rani Sharma with grandson Sambhav (right) and Roberto Bilancia at their south Delhi home.

A RICKSHAW NAMED DESIRE >Page 9

WHO OWNS OUR RELATIONSHIPS?

It is a pity politicians, clergy and moralists do not have anything better to do than intrude into the private lives of people >Page 4

LOVING, LEAVING

Every year members of the transgender community gather in a small village in Tamil Nadu, to be wedded for a night and widowed the morning after >Pages 10-11

TO BE OR NOT TO BE?

It’s been mostly lows but also some highs for queer cinema >Page 16

THE LOVE ISSUE

DON’T MISS

in today’s edition of

This Valentine’s Day our roses are for queer love, deemed criminal by the Supreme Court

FILM REVIEW

HASEE TOH PHASEE

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LOUNGE First published in February 2007 to serve as an unbiased and clear-minded chronicler of the Indian Dream. LOUNGE EDITOR

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TOUGH LOVE L

ove is a risky business this Valentine’s Day in India—and not just because of the resident R. SUKUMAR hooligans who want to abolish its celebration for (EDITOR) being a “Western import” to this country. NIRANJAN RAJADHYAKSHA About two weeks ago, the Supreme Court sent back a (EXECUTIVE EDITOR) petition to review an order passed by one of its benches ANIL PADMANABHAN last year. In December, the ruling had reversed a 2009 TAMAL BANDYOPADHYAY verdict by the Delhi high court striking down the MANAS CHAKRAVARTY MONIKA HALAN regressive Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code (IPC), SHUCHI BANSAL which criminalizes sexual relations against “the order SIDIN VADUKUT SUNDEEP KHANNA of nature” among consenting adults. Largely used ANIL PENNA against homosexual, transsexual and other queer ISSUE IRA DUGAL THE LOVE people, the law also applies to heterosexuals who ©2014 HT Media Ltd indulge in anything other than procreative sex. Our All Rights Reserved ancestors, who codified their sexual practices in treatises like the Kama Sutra, would have deplored such a perversion of Indian culture. That Section 377 of the IPC, framed by Lord Macaulay in the 1860s, has managed to survive into the 21st century is enough to brand India as the world’s largest homophobic democracy. Its persistence speaks of our country’s obsession with imperial THE LOVE ISSUE prudery, long after the societies that advocated such values have moved on. Same-sex marriage or civil union is a routine affair in many parts of the West now, though their former colonies continue to crack down on citizens for choosing to love differently. Yet, like most other Asian nations, India is also riddled with contradictions. It is unthinkingly permissive of homoerotic bonds, alternative lifestyle choices, and individual self-expressions. As you will read in this issue, an Australian national not only had his first gay encounter in India but also discovered his THE LOVE ISSUE in the country three decades ago, sexual orientation when the level of homophobia was much higher. Every year the transgender community gathers in a village in MINT EDITORIAL LEADERSHIP TEAM

Tamil Nadu to enact a ritual of love, marriage, consumption and widowhood, not only under the gaze of the public at large but also with its full encouragement and participation. Over the years, Indians have become more sensitized to queerness. There is more awareness of sexual health. Protests against Section 377 are held in public spaces in urban centres, our film and fashion industries are more accepting of sexual choices (though even the most empowered and successful members in these professions are still uneasy about coming out publicly), and the middle class can no longer wish away other sexual choices. Yet our political establishment, the faces that represent our country to the world at large, remains shamefully divided. In a country with a growing backlog of injustices, we can certainly do without this one. We have tried to bring together stories of love, or rather the quest for love, covering the entire spectrum of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender identities in India and beyond. If there are tragic tales of heartbreak, there are also equally moving accounts of happiness, resilience and fortitude—of families, friends and other allies coming together in support of rights that belong to every human being. Expression of sexual identity is not just about practising safe sex and sensible family planning. It is also deeply tied to our psychological wellbeing and, by extension, to the health of the nation. Law, poet W.H. Auden wrote in 1939, is like love: “Like love we don’t know where or why,/Like love we can’t compel or fly,/Like love we often weep,/Like love we seldom keep.” Section 377 of the IPC is anti-love. It demeans every one of us who values pleasure, dignity and equality. It is never too late to change—to become more human. Somak Ghoshal Issue editor

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COMMENT

WHO OWNS OUR

RELATIONSHIPS? It is a pity politicians, clergy and moralists do not have anything better to do than intrude into the private lives of people

DENIS DOYLE/GETTY IMAGES

B Y J EREMY S EABROOK ···························· he “backlash” against the rights of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) people worldwide has been, to a considerable extent, a cultural reaction against the global dominance of the West. In Iran, Saudi Arabia, Nigeria, Uganda, Russia, and even in India, with the reinstatement of Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code (dating from 1861), it seems there is a widespread view that same-sex relationships are “unnatural”, contrary to religion or alien to tradition, and must be criminalized. Zealots who profess such a profound attachment to “nature” are, in all other respects, busily demolishing or polluting its rivers, oceans, forests, landscapes and soils. If everything that is “against nature” were to be abolished, the first object of prohibition would be the global economic system. It is clear that love of “nature” by those intolerant of other people’s sexual orientation, is highly selective. In any case, there is no society and no culture on earth in which such relationships do not exist. Human desire and affection are not biddable: Spontaneous and unstoppable, passions flare up, burn for a spell and then die away, as “natural” as the element of fire; and it is the vainest of efforts by governments, with or without the aid of secret police, state-sponsored organizations dedicated to the promotion of virtue, informers and snoopers, to prevent the free development of such attachments. Of course, they may be driven underground, compelled to be clandestine and publicly unspoken. Individuals whose relationships become publicly known may be set up as a warning and example to others, and subject to the most barbaric punishments—imprisoned, tortured, even executed or stoned to death; but no one in the world has it within his power (and these are generally the laws and edicts of patriarchy) to prevent people from being attracted to, or from loving, one another. It is, however, pertinent to ask why, at this moment, the reaction against what is generally denounced as “homosexuality” should be so pronounced. It is almost certainly the result of a wish on the part of many cultures and civilizations to reclaim some autonomy, a sense of their own identity, from the onward march of globalization; a process that originates and belongs to a West whose imperialisms come in many guises, and whose power appears, with the establishment of a single global economy, to have been institutionalized for all time. It is significant, however, that none of the countries which has so vigorously attacked the rights of LGBT people has for a moment raised its voice against the version of economic “development”, which is the proudest achievement and most prolific export of the West. The governments of Nigeria, India or Russia offer no critique of the model of growth that has

produced such spectacular gains for a growing middle class; and they view the crowds besieging the malls of Lagos, Mumbai or St Petersburg as the surest sign that everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds. They have no objection to the avalanche of consumer goods, designer wear and all the accoutrements of the Western lifestyle which are now replicated among the well-to-do in every country in the world, even while large numbers of people languish in misery, denied basic needs. But they object to certain cultural features which accompany this version of prosperity; one of which has been the inclusion of people in the general good fortune who were previously stigmatized or outlawed in the West itself; not the least sexual minorities, and to varying degrees, women and disadvantaged ethnic or religious groups. So in one sense, it would be true to say that those leaders, secular and spiritual, who throw up their hands in horror at what they see as sexual licence, are guilty of the deepest hypocrisy. They cannot accept some parts of the Western model of the good life and reject others: Cultural transfers come as a package. It is not cost-free; and one of the hidden penalties is the giving up of many traditional practices, responses and rituals of ancient cultures. The idea that those who are at the receiving end of a particular economic model can “pick and mix” is false. It is true that transplanted cultures do sometimes take on a life of their own; but the notion that India or Russia or Uganda can proclaim

Street theatre: (above) An image of Vladimir Putin wearing lipstick during a protest against Russian anti-gay laws in 2013 in Madrid, Spain; and police detain leading Russian gay rights campaigner Nikolai Alexeyev during a protest.

IVAN SEKRETAREV/AP

their own indigenous values, when these countries have unthinkingly jettisoned so many of them, is a delusion. In part, the attack on homosexuality represents an effort to declare independence and to rehabilitate tradition in areas in which it has been compromised by the epic process of globalization. And it is true that, even though same-sex relationships have existed in all cultures at all times, they have done so in a guise that differs from the Western claim that it alone represents the full flowering of humanity in this, as in other areas. In other cultures, lesbian and gay have not been primary identities: They have been embedded in custom and ritual. They have not named themselves in such stark terms, nor announced their sexual nature shorn of all other cultural attributes. It is, perhaps, the single-minded assertion of being gay or lesbian or bisexual or transgender that sets up hostility

THERE MAY BE SOMETHING IN THE CLAIM THAT LGBT SENSIBILITY AS DEFINED BY THE WEST IS INIMICAL TO THE VALUES OF OTHER CULTURES AND TRADITIONS; BUT THAT DOES NOT MEAN THAT SUCH THINGS DID NOT EXIST, ALBEIT IN A FORM RECOGNIZABLE AND FAMILIAR TO THOSE CULTURES in cultures where, hitherto, these alternative ways of being have had some social or spiritual function—whether as patrons and clients, teachers and apprentices, officiants in temples or shrines, members of extended households, or simply loving friendships. The definition given to these relationships by the West

is uncompromising and unequivocal; and it is perhaps this which offends the sensibility of those anxious to assert their freedom from an allembracing model, which claims for itself a uniquely progressive role in the world. For such a critique to be taken seriously, it would have to extend also to the economic sphere. And here again, in most societies, the economy has not been an end in itself, but has been part of the fabric of wider and deeper culture. In the West, the economy is central, and all the social and cultural shifts that accompany its growth and development are an indivisible part of it. The governments of Uganda, Saudi Arabia, Nigeria, China or Russia are not going to contest the economic roots of the changes which are taking place within their middle and upper classes. They are discriminatory in what they are prepared to champion as “indigenous values”; and challenging the money value of everything is not on their highly particular agenda. The West sometimes concedes that China or India or Brazil or Indonesia are “beating them at their own game”. This, too, is hypocrisy. For it remains their game; other countries are mere franchisees, and it is by means of this “soft power” that the

spread of values which originated in a single part of the world, has become established on a global scale. There are, of course, even deeper ironies in the claim by India or Nigeria that homosexuality is alien to their way of life. For many of the countries which have recently reaffirmed the outlawry of this sensibility are simply reiterating prohibitions formulated by their colonial masters in the 19th century. The wordings of the laws against same-sex relationships are virtually identical—a suggestion that this was an offthe-peg legislation imposed by general imperial decree: “offences against the order of nature” are words that recur in the laws of several former colonial territories. While the original power has become more liberal and relaxed in its attitudes, its frozen legacy has hardened in places where it was once brought by stern missionaries and puritanical colonizers. In this way, there are complexities of which the leaders of these countries are apparently unaware: Their fulminations are the internalized ragings of sometime occupying powers who thought they detected signs of effeminacy, weakness or perversion in their once-subject peoples. Such leaders are stranded in time, uttering archaic formulae to an altered world. There may be something in the claim that LGBT sensibility as defined by the West is inimical to the values of other cultures and traditions; but that does not mean that such things did not exist, albeit in a form recognizable and familiar to those cultures. India, in particular, has a host of alternative sexual identities which are peculiar to its own history and culture; that they were never named “homosexual” means that the word is seen as reductive and inadequate. It might, of course, have been possible for these countries not to have swallowed the Western model indiscriminately. They might have become wise in their own way; and have reached into their own treasure house of values to resist the onslaughts of consumerism, materialism and money culture. But they have not done so. To take issue with one cultural sub-set of a system they have absorbed uncritically is disingenuous; and they will be taken seriously only when they show themselves to be more ready to challenge other aspects of alien rule which now passes for a universal norm. And we will probably have to wait a long time for that. In the meantime, the strictures of politicians, clergy and moralists on other people’s personal relationships are intrusive: It is a pity they do not have better things to do— address the misery and hunger of so many of their own people, for example; but this is a form of morality beyond their voluntarily restricted remit. Jeremy Seabrook is an author and journalist specializing in social, environmental and development issues. Write to lounge@livemint.com

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Love that lasts a lifetime M

NATASHA BADHWAR

y mother had beautiful hands. She never got any compliments from my father or her brothers and bhabhis. I used to manicure her hands and paint her nails. I would choose her clothes and sandals for the parent-teacher meetings in my school. She glowed in maroon and beige. I remember my teachers telling me later, “Rohit, your mother looked beautiful.” I hear from my friends that painting my mother’s nails is a gay thing to do. It sounds odd to me—why wouldn’t everyone love their mother by loving her hands? When she was ill, I would comb her hair for her. Once I made two pigtails for her. She had lost so much weight, she looked like a schoolgirl sitting on her hospital bed. I would never get out of bed till my mother came and woke me up. I dream about you, Mom. I dream of your absence. I cry in my sleep when I cannot find you. You would come to my room and hold me in your arms. You are my address. You made me so secure, so adequate. I miss my mother’s face. As a child, I used to believe that Papa abused her every night because she was beautiful. Yet, every morning they would be sipping tea together as if everything was just fine. Mom and I had so much fun during the day. We would go to the roof and gossip. Our conversations were about films, what happened in school, what my teachers wore. There were so many stories from our gali and mohalla. Mom loved the movies. She adored Rekha. I still have the page on which she had written the lyrics of Neela aasmaan so gaya…. We never had great evenings

though. I knew the exact minute before Papa would begin to call her names. I would try to caution her, I was convinced that there was a timing to it. I dreaded the dining table. I still do. Even now my home doesn’t have a table. I don’t know if my mother knew that I would stand behind the heavy curtains and witness the fights, night after night. I would console her afterwards. “Don’t cry. It won’t change anything.” I remember my teenage years as boring syllabus, intense friendships, carefree afternoons and nervous nights. I realized I was attracted to men. A second cousin staying at our home kissed me. He did not molest me. I will always be thankful to him because it helped me to establish a very strong relationship with myself. I felt wanted. My dreams became calmer. For the first time I had a secret I could not tell Mom. Suddenly I felt like an outsider. He was my college crush. Long hair, torn jeans, an angelic face and his silence. I was hooked. I would see him and catch myself smiling to myself for a long time. I made sure he noticed me. I was funny around him. I loved his nods, his expressions and his reactions. We were students of fashion design. He was terrible at sketching but he had a sharp flair for detailing. I spoke to him about the craziness in my home. He told me that he was embarrassed about his English. That explained the slow, brooding style. He would stay over at my home a lot. I had never had a sibling. It was my first heaven. Talking to him, laughing together, taking care of each other all the time. I used to believe that I could never touch him.

When my father had an accident and became bedridden for three years, my mother had set up a tailoring unit in our drawing room. She would have scissors in those beautiful hands of hers. They became harder. I would sit next to her and put together fabric in a collage for the women to sew into quilts. Mom would smile with pride. We shared happy moments. I began to run a video rental library to augment our income. Papa was still not part of our world. Helpless in his bed, his abuse became worse. Kanta Bhatia, my mother, who seemed to have snapped her fingers and started a profitable business of her own when the need arose, never ever stood up to my father. She would bring him ice cubes for his alcohol. I would swing from anger to guilt to numbness. One night my friend kissed me. I had cried earlier that day. I wasn’t shocked. He didn’t seem ashamed either. It seemed perfectly natural. Or what is that word everyone uses? Normal. Three months later my mother asked me the question. “What happened last night?” “Ask Papa,” I said. I was totally unprepared. I thought she was talking about my father drinking with his friends. “I am talking about you,” she said. I went pale. She knew. I don’t know where my courage came from. From all our conversations about movie romances, I guess. “I love him,” I said. “I will tell your father,” she said. “Thanks,” I said. We looked at each other. We had been through too much together. The next day I told my boyfriend NATASHA BADHWAR

that Mom knew. I had my own confused ideas about what it meant to be a man. I felt like I was splitting into pieces from inside. I was afraid of how he would react. I would leave home every day and go to the National Museum instead of going to college. Among strangers, I would pretend to be someone else, a serious scholar perhaps. Those must have been my first days as an actor. It distracted and amused me. I would come back home late and go to sleep. I had no idea what turn my life would take now. Had I been bad? Would he leave me? There were no mobile phones in those days. You had to meet people in person to find out how they were doing. You couldn’t text. You had to talk. On the 18th day after my conversation with my mother, I returned home in the evening drenched by rain. My boyfriend opened the door. His hands were smeared with besan (chickpea flour). What was he doing in my home? I looked into the kitchen. They were making pakodas together. I locked myself in my room and cried so much. How could they? I hated them. My tears were relief, I think. Fear of rejection was turning me into stone. Acceptance made me break down. “What did she say? Why are you here? What did you tell her,” I asked. “She has told me to take care of you,” he said to me. Mom, how generous are you? Your acceptance made me accept every part of me and feel one again. So many of my gay friends hold their secret tightly inside them. Go home and talk to your mother, I say to everyone. Give her a chance to connect with you. It will release you from your prison. It is not as difficult as we make it in our minds. My first love moved on after college was over. “It was a phase,” he said to me. My mother’s love for Urdu poetry made perfect sense to me for the first time. I memorized Ghalib and Gulzar, Sahir Ludhianvi and Kaifi Azmi. I filled four diaries with lovelorn words. Mom gave me money to buy Lughat, the Urdu to English dictionary. On my 21st birthday, she gifted me the Quran. A Hindi translation. She quoted words from the film Anand in her message on the first page of the holy book. All my life I had consoled my mother and now she was holding me up. I would cry on the terrace and she would come looking for me. We were equals, till she ruined it again by dying. It has been 17 years since Mom has been gone. I listen to songs from films that we watched together and my mother comes alive for me. Hindi movies were the extended family that we didn’t have in real life. Stories of women who were struggling, yet seemed to have such a strong sense of who they essentially were. Umrao Jaan, Ghar, Love Story, Bobby, Kudrat, Arth, Henna, Rudaali, Masoom. We would watch these films again and again and cry together. Neither of us had to tell the other to stop crying. I would bring her water from the kitchen. We would talk about the cut of the heroine’s blouse. We were quite a pair of jokers, I’ll admit. My father died the next year. I live because my mother is watching me. The woman who died too soon, but left me with enough love to get by for the rest of my life. My life is about her. My love is deep and free, because she gave me that gift. (This is Rohit Bhatia’s story as told to Natasha Badhwar.) Natasha Badhwar is a film-maker, media trainer and mother of three.

Talk to her: Take the leap and speak to your mother about the real you.

Write to Natasha at mydaughtersmum@livemint.com www.livemint.com Read Natasha’s previous Lounge columns at www.livemint.com/natasha-badhwar

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THE LOVE ISSUE

For the love of your fellow men W AAKAR PATEL

hy one adult’s love for another should offend a third person, leave alone the state, is beyond me. And one need be neither particularly liberal nor lacking in prejudice to see this. Future generations will be amazed we tolerated, through all the egalitarian bombast of our Constitution, a law that made love a jailable offence. For the Greeks, homosexuality was not only not against nature, it was actually natural. From Achilles and Patroclus to Alexander and Hephaestion—for the Greeks, the most tragic love stories, whether myth or history, were often gay. This love of their fellow man also showed elsewhere. Their statues of naked men are lean and of perfect body. Female statues, chubby and often shabby, don’t get the same love from the sculptor, who was always male.

It will be surprising to know that even a platonic relationship actually refers to homosexual love. The definition comes from The Symposium, the lovely dialogue written by Plato. It is set at a drinking party in Athens where a few men are discussing the nature of love. In it, the warrior-playboy Alcibiades, reputedly the most handsome man of his time, speaks of lusting for Socrates and “sharing in the madness and the Bacchic frenzy of philosophy”. Alcibiades says that one night the two were alone and an opportunity arose. “I stood up immediately and placed my mantle over the light cloak which, though it was the middle of winter, was his only clothing. I slipped underneath the cloak and put my arms around this man—this utterly unnatural, this truly extraordiWIKIMEDIA COMMONS

A Greek tragedy: A painting depicting Socrates and Alcibiades.

nary man—and spent the whole night next to him. Socrates, you can’t deny a word of it. “But in spite of all my efforts, this hopelessly arrogant, this unbelievable insolent man—he turned me down. He spurned my beauty, of which I was so proud.... “Of course, I was deeply humiliated, but I also couldn’t help admiring his natural character, his moderation, his fortitude....” Socrates is not averse to making love to a man, but in this instance, since the moral is love of a higher sort (i.e., platonic), he is shown as abstaining. The historical Alcibiades was later charged with apostasy for vandalizing the statues at the temples of the goddesses of the Eleusinian Mysteries on a drunken night. He turned mercenary, defecting to fight for Sparta, and if I remember it right, later also for Persia. His tough-guy/gay-boy paradox shouldn’t surprise us. The greatest Roman warrior was celebrated as a homosexual by his own troops. Suetonius wrote that Julius Caesar was bedded by King Nicomedes of Bithynia, whose shelter he had sought during civic trouble in Rome. At Caesar’s triumph for his victory over Gaul (which was represented as a captive female), his troops sang the ditty: “Gaul was brought to shame by Caesar; by Nicomedes, he. Here comes Caesar, wreathed in triumph for his Gallic victory! Nicomedes wears no laurels, though the greatest of the three.” To return to The Symposium, there are others who also make speeches in favour of homosexual love. This includes Phaedrus, who says that love inspires virtue and so an army of male lovers would perform well because we behave nobly before those we love. Socrates also speaks of course, on a more ethereal form of love that was taught to him by a priestess, Diotima. My favourite speech of the work is by the comic playwright Aristophanes. He tells us why love is so difficult and painful, through this story. He says that when the gods first made man, each human being was

round, with four hands and four legs. These humans had two faces and two sets of sexual organs. These could either be two male organs, two female, or one male and one female. They walked or cartwheeled their way about. Unfortunately, they became ambitious and tried to take on the gods. To put them in their place, Zeus cuts them in half. Aristophanes explains what happens next: “Each of us, then, is a matching half of a human whole..., and each of us is always seeking the half that matches him. That’s why a man who is split from the double sort...runs after a woman. And so does a woman run after such a man. Women split from women, however, pay no attention to men. They are oriented towards women and we call them lesbians. “Similarly, people split from males are male-oriented.” When these two halves met, “a man embraced a woman, he would cast his seed and they would have children; but when male embraced male, they would at least have the satisfaction of intercourse... This is the source of our desire to love each other. Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together.” Aristophanes adds: “And so, when a person meets the half that is his very own, whatever his orientation, something wonderful happens: the two are struck from their senses by love, by a sense of belonging to one another, and by desire, and they don’t want to be separated again from one another.” “Love,” he adds, “is the name for our pursuit of wholeness, for our desire to be complete.” It is hard enough for most of us to find that person Aristophanes describes. Why make it even more difficult for some? Send your feedback to replytoall@livemint.com www.livemint.com Read Aakar’s previous Lounge columns at www.livemint.com/aakar-patel

Wherever you find it L SOHAILA ABDULALI

ove, my mother once said, is good wherever you find it. We are used to seeing love manifested in saccharine ways: little red hearts, bride and groom on a cake, so many clichéd symbols. It’s easy to forget that love is fierce and ferocious, and when it’s outside certain very narrow rules, very frightening to the small-minded among us who simply can’t handle it and so do their best to crush it. Queer love, like inter-religious, inter-racial, intergenerational love, comes in for more than its fair share of otherwise reasonable people acting like mad dogs howling in the night. Love’s opposite, the forces of antilove, will snarl and gnash their teeth and rip it to shreds whenever they can, in all the big ways: Nigeria is terrorizing the LGBT community, Russia is up in arms against the horror of same-sex love…but while all this goes on, love carries on in the small ways, sometimes glad, sometimes agonized, and really, not so different whether it’s gay, straight, or zigzagging. I asked a few friends to contribute their coming-out stories for this column, and here are three of their responses: my salute to the ups and downs of queer love. NU: My mother, a fundamentalist Jamaican Christian, recently admitted to me that she knew I was gay at age 12. I went in and out of the closet for decades.... I also married my best female friend who for 10 years had known about my sexual orientation. Like me, she felt we could overcome my homosexuality through the power of the

church. That experiment failed miserably and though I now have a wonderful son as a result of our union, I regret terribly the fact that I hurt two persons who are very dear to me. Tom and I met at an LGBT conference in São Paulo, Brazil. I thought he was cute...we were out shopping, and without warning I shoved my hand into his. And Tom squeezed my hand and refused to let go. Then suddenly, here we were, two foreign men walking hand-in-hand through a crowded Brazilian mall. And I could not have felt safer. DF: This is a story of regret. It was the 1970s; more feminists were coming out as lesbians, and more straight women were accepting all sorts of unconventional ways for women to love and live. But the 1970s were still riddled with silences. My mom knew my first long-time girlfriend. The two of us would visit her in New York, and she would drive up to New England to stay with us. Yet I never came out and said, “Mom, you know I’m a lesbian.” I think I was afraid that she would be afraid for me. She never pushed me to marry or even to date boys. She had scores of women pals. I think two of her college classmates from the 1920s were lesbians. And still, and still, I didn’t have that honest conversation. Loving my mother should have meant my trusting her to accept the whole truth of my other loves. TB: I went a little crazy. I couldn’t tell if traffic lights were red or green because my eyes were dazed. I felt so bad for everyone who was not me. I felt sorry for

JAYACHANDRAN/MINT

the poor heterosexuals—I had once been like them, with no idea that this, this, this level of blinding deafening drooling electrifying passion exists. Oh baap re! Lewis Carroll probably didn’t mean to write about coming out, but what could be more appropriate than this piece from Alice in Wonderland: “Dear, dear! How queer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual. I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle!” On Valentine’s Day, let’s remember

that love is good wherever you find it. Do it, kiss him! Hold her hand! Support your child/mother/brother’s choice. Love is what we have, our sole weapon against the swirling craziness of our tiny planet lost in the Milky Way. Be brave— embrace it, never let it go. Sohaila Abdulali is a New York-based writer. She writes a fortnightly column on women in the 21st century. Write to Sohaila at mindthegap@livemint.com www.livemint.com Read Sohaila’s previous Lounge columns at www.livemint.com/mindthegap

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FAMILY

GRANNY

B Y S OMAK G HOSHAL somak.g@livemint.com

···························· t is the eve of Rani Sharma’s 70th birthday and her grandson, Sambhav, has just got a fresh batch of muffins out of the oven. As Roberto Bilancia, Sambhav’s boyfriend of almost two years who recently became his fiancé, brings some out to us on the balcony of their south Delhi apartment, Sharma breaks into a big smile. Around us, an elegant clutter of potted plants is bathed in the late afternoon winter light. Soft music plays in the living room. And Pixie the cat lounges on a cushion. I could have been in the salon of a gracious couple in any civilized country in the world— except for the fact that this is India, where my hosts are deemed “criminal” by law. Since the Supreme Court passed an order last December reinstating Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, Sharma has been interviewed in the media several times, most memorably on a special edition of The Buck Stops Here on NDTV. “I am not speaking only for India but for the whole world,” she had said. “I’m a mother, I can feel the pain of these children and I’m with them.” She was defiant and outspoken, and her reckless candour made the nation fall in love with her. Popularly known as daadi, Sharma is a well-loved figure among the members of the LGBT movement in India. “Why should those who want to live their lives openly, on their own terms, be called ‘criminals’ when so much injustice goes unpunished in this country?” she tells me heatedly. At the Global Day of Rage protest in Delhi last year, she minced no words in denouncing the draconian law and those who have enforced it, drawing loud cheers from the crowd. “Nobody dares mess with her in our family,” Sambhav says. In 2009, after the Delhi high court decriminalized consensual homosexual relations between adults, Sambhav had come out to his grandmother. “She was one of the last people I told in the family,” he says. “I was a bit nervous because she is from a different generation but, at the same time, the judgement made me feel so strong in my own skin.” After the celebrations died down, Sambhav took his daadi for a walk in Central Park near Connaught Place in Delhi and told her he was attracted to men. “I did not expect her to understand what I was telling her, but she surprised me with her reaction,” he adds. “She merely asked me if I was entirely sure of my feelings, and when she heard I was, she said that’s that then, there’s no room for any further argument. I was in tears.” The matter ended there. But it also ushered in a new phase in Sharma’s life. “I am educated, I was married to an officer of the Indian Police Service, I have lived among high gentry, I have always thought differently,” she says. “When Sambhav’s mother married my son, I told her, ‘Beti, you don’t have to worry about my nashta (breakfast), lunch or dinner, leave that to the cook. Na hum kaam karenge, na tum karo; sirf maza karo (I am not interested in slogging in the kitchen, nor should you bother; just have fun)’.” Sharma’s joie de vivre is also directed towards social work. In spite of her age, she remains involved in several causes, big and small. From helping out the destitute to caring for ailing freedom fighters, her time is wellspent—though much of it now is devoted to speaking at public rallies in support of LGBT rights. Before her grandson came out to her, she had not known any gay person personally, although she was aware of their existence from television and films, she tells me.

COOL

PRIYANKA PARASHAR/MINT

Meet Sambhav Sharma and Roberto Bilancia, engaged to be married soon, and their fabulous grandmother

What made it possible for this matriarch of a traditional, religious, north Delhi family to come to terms with an issue that a nation of a billion still struggles to accept? Having her heart in the right place and an unshakable courage of conviction, it would seem—a combination that her grandson appears to have inherited. Sambhav came out to his mother when he was 17, a couple of years before the historic high court ruling, and in a country where even the most empowered and successful gay people are either in the closet or hesitant about speaking openly of their sexual preferences. Having lost his father at the age of 9, Sambhav had known

pain and loss at an early age. “Nothing could compare with the fear I felt on hearing about my father’s death,” he says. Tragically, his first long-term boyfriend, whose existence his parents were not aware of, died when Sambhav was in his late teens. “I felt I could not live a lie any longer. I was certain I would be thrown out of the house once I came out,” he says. “I thought I had to be ready to look after myself.” After Sambhav explained to his mother, “in whatever awkward way I could”, what being gay was all about, she told him, through her tears, that although she was not familiar with the idea, she was open to understanding it. “‘I know you

One for the album: (from left) Sambhav Sharma, Rani Sharma and Roberto Bilancia at their south Delhi apartment.

WHAT MADE IT POSSIBLE FOR THIS MATRIARCH OF A TRADITIONAL, RELIGIOUS, NORTH DELHI FAMILY TO COME TO TERMS WITH AN ISSUE THAT A NATION OF A BILLION STILL STRUGGLES TO ACCEPT?

are as scared as I am feeling right now, and also, most of all, that you are far younger than me,’ she told me,” Sambhav recalls. “She wanted both of us to allow each other some time to come to terms with it.” The first two years were tough, but the 2009 ruling started easing the tension. That year, Sambhav’s mother walked in the pride parade alongside her son. He also finished college and started a job. “Although I faced some homophobia at the BPO I was working with before I moved into publishing, I am largely fortunate to have been around people with whom I can be myself, completely and unthinkingly,” says Sambhav. “Can you imagine what the

predicament of so many others, who are not as privileged as us, must be?” he asks. A few years ago, Sambhav wanted to start an organization out of Chandigarh that would reach out to LGBT people there. While he was mulling over the plan and getting involved in the movement, his life changed yet again. In April 2012, he met Roberto, or Robbie as he is called by friends, at a party. “I don’t even remember what we said to each other there,” Samabhav says with a laugh, “But Robbie got in touch with me afterwards and we started seeing each other.” Quiet and caring, Roberto, who is from Sicily, Italy, was looking to start a pub in Spain. But life—and love—had other plans. Not knowing whether he wanted to study further or have a career, Sambhav was not keen to move abroad. So Roberto gave up his life in Italy, sold his house and car, and moved to New Delhi. “I tried to look for a business partner for two years in India but had no luck,” he says. “I have finally found an opportunity in Valencia, Spain, where we will be moving soon.” Together with the Supreme Court ruling, this professional opening helped seal their decision to get engaged. Roberto, whose culinary talents are impressive, cooked a five-course vegetarian Italian meal for Sambhav’s mother and over dinner told her he wanted to marry her son. “He assured my mother that I would have a happier and healthier life in a foreign country where two men could not only be legally together but even kiss on the streets,” says Sambhav, smiling. Marriage was always on the cards though he had not expected it to happen this way. “I have extended family living in different parts of the world. They come to India once a year, during Lohri, and speak about the country with nostalgia. I never wanted to end up being like them,” he says. But the circumstances in India right now are such that Sambhav and Roberto can be together—and live fearlessly, with dignity and respect—only in a foreign country. After the engagement, which was held at a restaurant in south Delhi and attended by some 40 close friends and family, word got around the housing complex where Sambhav and Roberto live that two men had just had a sagai. “The secretary of the building threatened to report us to the police and put pressure on our landlord to get us evicted,” says Sambhav. Ultimately nothing happened, but homophobia and moral policing persist. And yet, Sambhav does not want to relinquish his Indian passport. “I do not have legal recognition as a citizen in my own country but I am hopeful that it will change one day,” he says, speaking for millions of others in India and in many other parts of the world. For now, there is no going back. “I will keep going back to Jantar Mantar to speak against this inhumanity until all my children can live safely and happily,” says daadi, before she hugs Roberto and Sambhav and breaks into a Kishore Kumar song: “Tera saath hai kitna pyara/Kam lagta hai jeevan saara/Tere milan ki lagan mein/ Hamein aana padega duniya mein dobara (I enjoy your company so much that even a lifetime seems too short. To be united with you, I’ll have to be born again).” “Jaise ye, aap bhi mere bete hain (like them, you too are my child),” she tells me with a smile. All of us could do with grandmothers like her. www.livemint.com For a related story video, visit www.livemint.com/granny.htm

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COURTESY JAYITA

SUICIDES

LOVE STRUCK

JULIET In rural West Bengal, where Swapna and Sucheta ended their lives, suicide pacts are not uncommon. We visit the phenomenon chronicled in Debalina’s documentary ‘...Ebang Bewarish’ B Y S HAMIK B AG ···························· t is a letter that is addressed to you too,” says film-maker Debalina, who prefers to use her first name. We are sitting at a café in Kolkata’s Jadavpur University, mulling over the suicides of lesbian lovers Swapna and Sucheta in February 2011 in Nandigram, West Bengal. Their death and the subsequent degrading of the dead—their families refused to claim the bodies, which the local police cremated; their final wish, as noted in Swapna’s suicide letter, to be cremated together, was consequently not heeded by the families—is the subject of Debalina’s 62-minute Bengali documentary, …Ebang Bewarish (…And the Unclaimed). It is nearing twilight and amid the chirping of birds homing in, there’s a carefree huddle of university students around a guitarist’s acoustic strumming nearby. The double suicide, Debalina says, was a result of the rigid binary code of human relationships—greater Indian society’s unwavering faith in the man-woman union. The duo decided to commit suicide only after Sucheta gave in to her family’s demand and got into a heterosexual marriage. Many lesbian suicides, Debalina found during her research, happen only after one of the partners is forced into a traditional marriage, an inevitable destiny for women, especially in rural settings. In death, lovers seek union. The film-maker rues not documenting the “chilling warning” that the aggressive Nandigram society sends out to supposedly social deviants like Swapna-Sucheta. A police photograph highlighted in …And the Unclaimed shows that Swapna was wearing jeans when the two bodies were discovered. Debalina later saw a photograph published in The Indian Express, taken when the bodies were

being loaded into a police van. In that photograph, Swapna was wearing a salwar. “Now think about it. Not only did their society not claim them, but someone manipulated by making the dead body wear a salwar instead of the jeans and in keeping with the normative frame of femininity,” says Debalina. Bobby Saha too loved wearing jeans. Bobby stopped wearing skirts and salwars at the age of 10; she cut her hair short into a bob a few years later. “We tried persuading Bobby, but she wouldn’t wilt till we started gifting her jeans and shirts during Durga Pujo,” her aunt Chitra Saha tells me. From around 2008, Bobby was seen solely in the company of Puja Mondal, a girl in her semi-rural neighbourbood of Boral, a little beyond Garia in southernmost Kolkata. Though otherwise introverted, both would chat endlessly, spend time in the shade of trees, buy flowers, go to movies and melas, share food and solitude. They were generally inseparable and happy for the three-odd years they were seen together. Then something happened. A Times of India report says the girls were deeply affected by director Kaushik Ganguly’s Rituparno Ghosh-starring Bengali film Arekti Premer Golpo (Just Another Love Story), which dealt with gay love and its attendant complications. The report also hints at the girls being socially rebuked. Chitra thinks it was because Puja’s family was considering getting her married. On 22 January 2011, the girls— Bobby, 19, and Puja, 17—took poison together. They left no suicide note; their death was the message. “We didn’t know about same-sex relationships earlier. Only after their death did we realize,” admits Chitra. Sappho for Equality—the Kolkata-based support and rightsbased activist group for lesbian, bisexual women and transgender

IK/M INT INDRANIL BHOUM

Scene of crime: (from top) Film-maker Debalina; a still from her film; a Sappho stall at the Kolkata Book Fair in 2013; and the film’s shoot in progress. communities and the producers of …And the Unclaimed—keeps records on ill-fated lesbian love. It is, they declare, a list based largely on news reports; a majority of them relate only to West Bengal. Yet, between 2002 and 2012, there have been 11 instances of lesbian suicide pacts and one instance of an individual committing suicide. A total of 23 women have forfeited their right to life when up against society’s forfeiture of their right to love. I’m at the Sappho office library-resource centre on the evening of 28 January, when the Supreme Court refused to review an earlier ruling that recriminalized homosexuality in the world’s largest democracy. A couple of television reporters are recording sound bites, there is a distinct edginess among Sappho

THEY LEFT NO SUICIDE NOTE; THEIR DEATH WAS THE MESSAGE. ‘WE DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT SAME-SEX RELATIONSHIPS EARLIER. ONLY AFTER THEIR DEATH DID WE REALIZE.’

members, and tempers are frayed. The pink walls welcoming visitors to Sappho seem a shade duller; the benign smile in the photograph of the late Bengali film-maker, Rituparno Ghosh, a homosexual, seems out of place. The wider implication of Debalina’s statement on Swapna’s suicide letter being directed at me too is clear. I belong to and represent the mainstream, acknowledged and heard majority—and our majoritarianism decrees that social and gender minorities will remain unacknowledged, unheard, and of a criminal bent of character. At the office, there is Sumitadi, a poet and gender activist whom I’ve known for a long time. She remains cold to my male presence. “Lack of acceptance of gay sex makes it doubly more difficult for girls than boys. The fact that there are many more lesbian suicide pacts than joint suicides by gay men is indicative of how women in Indian society are repressed in general. Men are more carefree and can travel anywhere whereas girls, especially in urban India, have few economic and social rights. Marriage, for them, is a pre-ordained fate. Under the circumstances, being lesbian is equal to feeling completely trapped,” says Poushali Basak of Sappho. “Many think committing suicide together or alone is about escape.” Indeed, Sappho’s documentation of lesbian suicides shows people like Rukmini and Kalpana, Kajali and Aparna, Anima and Bhanuruptan, Nisha and Nisha, Nishi and Benu, Rama and Pramila, have all been victims of humiliation, stigmatization, ridicule, and the wider feeling of being hemmed in from all sides by an uncaring world. In 2004, two women from Bengal’s Jalpaiguri district exchanged rudraksh and got married at a temple before choosing the same holy precinct to commit suicide by poisoning. They were holding each other’s hands when their bodies were found. “It is only when a woman realizes her sexual orientation that the real struggle begins: with

family, friends and society. It’s not that I have been ostracized, but our dream is to be accepted,” says Titli, 45, a government employee who has been living with her partner at a Kolkata apartment for six years. Originally from the suburbs, Titli says she came into her own in the city, and in Sappho’s supportive atmosphere. Sappho, the core organization, was born when three lesbian couples, led by Malobika and Akanksha, came together after being inspired by Deepa Mehta’s 1996-released film Fire—today Sappho for Equality has 300-odd members and organizes film festivals, carnivals, marches, campaigns and seminars, and publishes periodicals and books, besides conducting women’s rights-based advocacy with the police and administration. Titli refuses to disclose her surname; her sexual identity isn’t known at office. Debalina, who worked in television, talks about how the women participating in a lesbian talk show stayed back after the recording to dictate the exact degree of pixelation of their faces. Insecurities, even in liberal urban spaces, remain. Yet Sappho vibrates with a dare-you poise; here, they live off each other’s success stories. Many have emerged in public too—in print, on television, in documentaries, at tea shops and on streets where, on occasions like the annual Kolkata Rainbow Pride Walk, the women hug and lock lips. The trickle-down effect of what are essentially humane narratives can be felt in Boral too, once the bucolic shooting site of Satyajit Ray’s Pather Panchali. Here, Chitra’s voice trembles when remembering Bobby and the tragic love affair with Puja. It is late afternoon when I visit and young “straight” couples gather around the locality’s many ponds and fields. When I enquire about Bobby’s uncle Gautam Saha’s house, a volunteer at the local temple gives me directions. But when I mention Bobby, the volunteer feigns ignorance. “I wouldn’t have supported their formal marriage, since marriage is an institution that expects progeny,” Chitra says. “But personally I would have had no problem if they lived together. After all, their love couldn’t have harmed anyone.” Write to lounge@livemint.com

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MY VALENTINE

A RICKSHAW NAMED

DESIRE Kali and Brenda’s love story has several starting points

B Y D HAMINI R ATNAM ···························· hat does Valentine’s Day mean to you?” A blank look for a fleeting moment precedes the answer. “Every day is Valentine’s Day. But on Valentine’s Day, I would go out of my way to do something special. Like, probably plan a surprise or something,” says Kali*. “Really, you’d do that?” asks Brenda, slightly bemused. Her hair is short, but falls in waves, a lock apiece over each eye. “Your love is lovely. But you suck at giving surprises, my dear,” Brenda laughs. The 30year-old charmer plays the guitar and bartends occasionally, performing both roles with equal flair in pubs and house parties. By day, she sources clothes for a million-dollar company. There is much to her that can’t be described in a few words. Such as, she loves Kali to death. Prashant believes he did too. He had been Kali’s boyfriend since college. The arm-twisting, neck-grabbing and suicide threats had been going on forever, yet Kali’s family almost heaved a sigh of relief when she agreed to marry him. Ever since the death of Kali’s father when she was 9, her mother and two elder sisters had formed a tight band of three. There was too much disquiet in Kali (now 30 years old), which they hoped marriage would quell. Straight-haired, high-cheekboned Kali’s smile lingers long after she whacks Brenda for being honest. Love isn’t easy business in a country which defines whom to love and how best to avoid facing possible jail time. There is a section that’s 153 years old, which keeps it straight and narrow, missionary style. Kali and Brenda don’t love

straight and narrow. Their love story has several starting points. It started in a rickshaw ride when Brenda dropped Kali home a few months after Kali’s engagement to Prashant. It started when Brenda looked up sharply on hearing Kali’s voice for the first time at a corporate meeting in office, a few weeks after Kali joined (she was playing Angry Birds, as she is wont to do at such meetings). It started over a plate of poha that Brenda ate each morning waiting for Kali to show up at the seventh-floor canteen. It started when Kali walked away from Prashant, after he pinned her to a wall when she told him she couldn’t marry him. Actually, wait. That’s when it almost ended. Maybe. Prashant’s parting gift was to tell Kali’s folks about Brenda. Did he know, even before Kali did, that the two loved each other? Or was he just an assh*** who wanted to make matters worse for Kali? Brenda feels the answer to this lies somewhere in the middle. “Prashant had issues, and Kali wanted always to keep the peace. Prashant couldn’t take Kali’s final—and real—rejection, although he always imagined himself unwanted.” After a pause she adds, “I’ve also dealt with the end of a relationship.” Brenda doesn’t divulge details, but offers broad brushstrokes. It happened a few years ago. It ended abruptly. It came as a shock. It was as if her lover had pulled the plug without so much as a by-your-leave. “It’s not easy. Break-ups, I mean.” Kali looks on as Brenda gesticulates emphatically. “Prashant and I weren’t Valentines,” says Kali. “In all the 10 years we were together, I never wished to spend time with him.” Brenda may be

quick with the repartee, but Kali’s humour is dark and well-honed. Kali’s family summoned Brenda after Prashant’s disclosure, which included a memorable “Brenda performs hypnosis and Kali is under her power”. “That was one long rickshaw ride to her home,” Brenda recalls. “I went with a friend. I was scared.” Brenda makes little of the fact that she went in the first place. The way she sees it, she had no choice. The friend was asked to leave, and Brenda was asked a number of questions, including whether she could release their daughter, who clearly was under some sort of spell. The duo had already decided in the rickshaw ride to work the previous day that they wouldn’t admit to being in a relationship. They’d stick to the “good friends” story. “It’s very important to set the right context when you’re telling your family about something that they may not want to hear,” says Brenda. Prashant had ensured the context was a battlefield. The best that Brenda and Kali could do was prevent further bloodshed. Brenda, accordingly, asked them what on earth they were talking about. She was seething, but she smiled. Kali’s mother smiled back, hesitantly. Kali remained silent all through the conversation. She imagined, instead, the following day’s ride to work. She would be prattling away to Brenda in the rickshaw. Brenda would be holding her gently by the waist as they jumped in unison over the city’s potholes. She wasn’t seething, but she didn’t smile. Her mother wailed at her to speak. Kali remained silent. Over the following days, Brenda and Kali debated over

what to do next. Kali’s sister was keen to take her to a counsellor. Kali had just ended a long relationship, and though she said nothing, there was something inexplicable about the way Brenda and Kali occupied the room together. Yes, they were sitting on different sofas, but it felt as though their bodies turned to each other of their own accord. The visit to the counsellor turned out to be beneficial. The doctor asked Kali’s family to re-examine their notions of happiness. Physical abuse doesn’t make for a happy relationship. The gender of a partner doesn’t make for an unhappy one. Whose side are you on, the counsellor asked Kali’s sister, who requested a private meeting after one of Kali’s sessions. The sister stopped accompanying Kali to his clinic. In the past year, Kali’s folks haven’t relaxed the curfews they’ve set for her, but they haven’t tightened them either. When Kali spends a night with Brenda and her other queer friends, she tells her folks she’s attending an office party. Kali is a pragmatist. She knows that they know the truth, but she also knows that they don’t want to know it. She doesn’t question this and, one might say, she’s too angry with them to rage against their prejudice. But she doesn’t let it bring her

COMMENT

B Y P RAGYA T IWARI ···························· t first glance, “Why do straight women and gay men make such great friends?” seems exactly the sort of question that you don’t want to try and answer. Partly because you suspect it has no answer, and partly because you are afraid that your attempt at an answer will be little more than a string of clichés. Yet here I am, wondering aloud. My first thought is of an early memory. I was in class V when I made my first male friend. He studied in the allboys’ school that my all-girls’ school shared a yard with. Jay and I took the same bus back home from school. It wasn’t common to move out of your circle and befriend a boy (I am not sure why), so I wonder how we got close. One year after, he was thrown out of school abruptly. We were told he had scribbled something obscene in the toilet but rumour had it there was more to the incident—he was “abnormal”. That was the first time I felt a persistent sense of loss. I never saw Jay again but, in 2002, found out that he was now a designer in New York, a gay

man who likes to cross-dress. The only family friend I felt an affinity towards while growing up recently came out, at the age of 48, after his father’s death and told us he has been living with a man for over a decade in Switzerland. My first crush was George Michael, before I knew what gay meant, and my closest friend today is a man who at 16 thought he was in love with me, only to realize, thankfully quickly enough, that he was actually not. He is gay. But do these facts add up to anything larger? I have plenty of close friends who are straight men, straight women, and some who are gay women, so I would be loath to make a generalization to the effect that gay men and straight women get along particularly well. Such a generalization discounts the countless other factors—of temperament, sensibility, social and cultural backgrounds that contribute to friendships. But having said that, there is no denying that there is a special quality to my friendships with gay men. The sort of thing that distinguishes the magic hours from the rest of sunlight ever so slightly. I therefore strongly rec-

TWO OF A

KIND

Straight women and gay men: a love story RAJ K RAJ/HINDUSTAN

Happy together: The lack of sexual tension helps foster friendship.

TIMES

JAYACHANDRAN/MINT

THE DUO HAD ALREADY DECIDED IN THE RICKSHAW RIDE TO WORK THE PREVIOUS DAY THAT THEY WOULDN’T ADMIT TO BEING IN A RELATIONSHIP. THEY’D STICK TO THE ‘GOOD FRIENDS’ STORY

ommend that you turn that pejorative phrase fag-hag around and wear it as a badge of honour. Because friendships with gay men make up a place that cannot be filled with anything else in a woman’s life. Perhaps that has something to do with the absence of sexuality between them. Potential sexuality between straight men and women, no matter how latent, can bring about discomfort. Particularly because it is largely inseparable from insecurities about the other sex, jealousy and ego. So to be able to enjoy the company of men without the risks of ill-timed, unrecognized or unrequited sexual attraction is a privilege. The possibility of sex, or the questions over why you’re not having it, take up so much mind space that it is refreshing to be able to get to know a man outside of that looming shadow (that you are talking to a man who gets what it is like to suffer men in relationships could be an added incentive). And, unlike with girlfriends, while you and your gay male friend might occasionally find yourself attracted to the same men, there is little fear of you locking horns over their affections given that there are only

down any more either. It’s not a truce, but it’s the beginning of one. Both parties know they’re walking on eggshells. Still, it’s a status quo they’ve come to accept. Brenda and Kali began calling themselves a couple a few days before Valentine’s Day last year. Brenda had hoped to take Kali to a beach in Goa, and offer her a ring. She had even bought a tuxedo for the occasion. That didn’t quite pan out as planned, but Brenda has something new up her sleeve this year. Kali tries not to reveal her excitement at the impending surprise, but she can’t stop smiling. All she needs to know is the outline of the plan. If it involves a trip, she needs to start sending out feelers to her folks soon—probably talk about an out-of-town conference that may take place in the second week of February. They’ve been through an abusive former partner, hostile family members, a supportive counsellor, gruelling work hours, and several autorickshaw drivers who’ve been terribly unconcerned about them. “Sometimes the only place I feel most at home in is the rickshaw,” says Kali. You’ll find them there almost every day. Twice. (*All names have been changed to protect identities.) Dhamini Ratnam is content head at Queer Ink, a queer publishing/press enterprise. Write to lounge@livemint.com

so many openly bisexual men. It is entirely possible that there is something deeper at play here—something that cannot be explained easily by neatly logical arguments. Something about the right measure of distance between two people—not too close, nor too far apart, such that they might truly be able to see each other and understand each other; allow themselves to acknowledge their vulnerabilities. Or it may even be something to do with sharing a space where rigid constructs of gender roles fall away and both people’s masculine and feminine sides are allowed to come out of straitjackets and let themselves be. Or, perhaps, I was right all along, and there is no real answer, or even a real question, here. But I chose to consider it anyway because Socrates warned against the unexamined life, not an unexplained one. Pragya Tiwari is editor-in-chief of The Big Indian Picture, an online magazine on cinema, and creative director of BalconyTV, India, the online music video series. Write to lounge@livemint.com

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THE LOVE ISSUE

PHOTOGRAPHS

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SINDHUJA PARTHASARATHY

PHOTO FEATURE

LOVING,

LEAVING Every year members of the transgender community gather in a small village in Tamil Nadu, to be wedded for a night and widowed the morning after

B Y S INDHUJA P ARTHASARATHY ···························· ove has its ways. Unique ones. Love takes peculiar forms and shapes. It comes from places you don’t expect, and refuses to be what you want it to be. It is as permanent as the promise of a passing cloud and as transient as the wail of an infant. It flees from the definitions you want to box it in. It becomes a violent hurricane sometimes and at others a tranquil desert night. It grows beyond the philistine ideas of age and time, parochial definitions of morality, and categorical descriptions of companionship that society attempts to impose on us.” Ruby is telling me about love, the way her community sees it. “Year after year, I plead with the koothandavar (the deity) for kadhal (love) and kalyanam (marriage),” she says. It is May 2012. I am at Koovagam, a small village in Tamil Nadu where the transgender community congregates every year to ask for love and celebrate the illusionary yet unfeigned rituals of marriage and widowhood. The festival is an eye-opener for anyone interested in understanding the community’s historical struggle for dignity, freedom and recognition. I befriended Ruby soon after I got to Villupuram, the nearest town from Koovagam. “Why wouldn’t you shoot me naked? Don’t you find me attractive?” she asks me, flaunting her newly acquired bust-line while pushing the helm of her sari down to show off the tattooed scorpion on her navel. She had treated me to a display of silk saris, evening gowns, wigs, lingerie, jewellery and stilettos that would be used for the popular transgender beauty pageant, “Miss Koovagam”, in a few hours. She talks about sex and her

demanding clients. “It puts food on the table. It is a job, just like yours. The better you are, the more money you get,” she smirks impishly. “After all, most of us eke out our living by either begging or indulging in sex work.” As we speak of love and sexual orientations, she asks: “Why is our love abnormal? Can any form of love be abnormal? Do you know what is normal? Why can’t they let us be?” She tells me I would be meeting aravanis (transgenders), kothis (effeminate homosexuals) and panthis (the so-called straight male clients of the kothis) at the festival. I walk all day on the hot streets of Koovagam, trying hard not to second-guess people’s identities or sexual orientations. Koovagam, a nondescript hamlet in Tamil Nadu, lightens up during the annual festival. “Miss Koovagam” is a glitzy affair. Talent and entertainment shows, IQ rounds, cultural performances: a feast of colours and fashion. The contest is organized by the Villupuram District Aravanis (Women) Welfare Association, which also doubles up as a forum to build awareness around HIV/AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases. After many rounds of ramp walks, dances and questions, Chayya Singh, a contestant from Bangalore, wins the title. Chayya, like most members of her community, had run away from her home in Tamil Nadu at the age of 14 with the help of the then local collector. She had scored 80% in class XI and had won many debate contests in school. Her parents were inconsolable when they learnt that their brilliant boy wanted to be girl. “Over the years, they have come to terms with it, or maybe they have resigned themselves to their fate. I wish I had graduated, got a decent job and then got the sex-change operation done,” she says. “I was in a hurry in my

Like a prayer: (clockwise from above, left) A participant practises dance moves as part of her preparations for the Miss Koovagam contest; the temple priest ties the mangalsutra as a representative of Lord Aravan in a symbolic, ritualistic gesture of marriage; a transgender person looks at herself in the mirror after the wedding ceremony; Chayya Singh, who went on to win the Miss Koovagam title, walks the ramp; and after the effigy of Aravan is burnt, transgenders perform the rituals of widowhood— the thaalis are torn off, bangles broken and songs of mourning sung.

insecure teens, and like many others, moved to Mumbai.” She now supports herself as a bar dancer in Bangalore. “At least, I don’t spend every night with a new man nor do I beg at traffic signals,” she adds with a smile. ****** D-Day at the festival. I head to the grounds with Ruby and Chayya, dazzling in their finest traditional Kanjeevarams and temple jewellery, gleaming at the thought of becoming a bride once again. In the Mahabharat, it was prophesized that the Pandavas would win the battle of Kurukshetra only if they sacrificed a “perfect” warrior male from among themselves to please Goddess Kali, who is the keeper of the Kurukshetra grounds. Prince Aravan, a son born out of an illicit relationship Arjun had with a certain Naga princess, offered himself up, provided a few conditions of his were satisfied. One was his wish to marry, and consummate the marriage, before being beheaded. Since no woman was willing to be widowed a day after her wedding, Lord Krishna took the form of Mohini to marry Aravan. The following morning, Aravan was beheaded and his head left on the Kurukshetra grounds for him to watch the rest of the war—his other condition. He saw his widow Mohini beating her chest and bemoaning his death. The village of Koovagam has a temple dedicated to Lord Aravan, the prince warrior who is deified here. And it is here that the transgender community assembles on the first full moon day of the Tamil month of Chithirai to marry their Lord. The marriage ritual is followed in letter and spirit, and for that one day, they attain a position human society continues to refuse to them, the

status of a wife. On the temple grounds, thousands of Aravanis (as they call themselves) line up to get married. The sanctum sanctorum allows a very narrow strip of light to penetrate and is presided over by the local priest or pujari. He makes an offering of coconut, bananas and camphor to the deity, and recites various mantras to invoke the spirit of the Lord. He then ties the thaali (the mangalsutra). A poet who regularly visits the festival narrates the history of the temple, the valour of Aravan and the significance of marriage “Marriage is a tavam (penance or tapas) that leads you to moksha,” he explains. I make friends with Sonika just after the marriage rituals. “This

yearly marriage and revelry brings us huge solace; we wait for this gaiety all year.” Sonika hurriedly excuses herself to celebrate the wedding night. There are countless men— panthis—lined up along paddy fields and coconut groves. Sex is regular fare here. I see shadowy figures of couples copulating in the night as I rush back home. I run into Sonika later that night, only for her to plead with me: “Can you buy me dinner? The cheapo gave me just `100 and didn’t even use a Nirodh (a brand of condom).” She hurls a few abusive Tamil words. I cringe. I pay. ****** On the last day of the festi-

val, a procession of the Aravan effigy travels all around the village before being ceremonially beheaded and consigned to the flames. What follows is a tragic event that would make any ancient Greek philosopher proud. Lord Aravan’s death is mourned through a high-pitched wail emanating from the transgenders who have just lost their coveted status as wife. They cry, they weep, they scream, they whimper; bangles are broken, the sacred sindoor is washed off their foreheads, the string of flowers is yanked from their hair, and finally, the thaali is torn off their mortal bodies. I stand among the transgenders and try to capture all the frenzied action through my view-

THERE IS UNREASONABLE TABOO ATTACHED TO THE KOOVAGAM FESTIVAL, AS IT IS IMAGINED TO BE A PLACE FOR RADICAL SEXUAL INDULGENCES.... HOWEVER, A VISIT TO THE FESTIVAL WILL CHALLENGE THE RIGID BINARIES OF GENDER IDENTITY AND SEXUAL ORIENTATION THAT WE HAVE BEEN CONDITIONED TO

finder. The broken glass bangles and thaalis fall on me. They sing songs about their ill-fated life, and wish their sexual status was only incidental. They cry over their birth, their mixed identities and their craving to find a soulmate. Having been at the festival twice, I too find solace in joining the community in its cathartic rituals of mourning. I wail. There is unreasonable taboo attached to the Koovagam festival, as it is imagined to be a place for radical sexual indulgences and, therefore, an avenue to experiment with perverted fetishes. However, a visit to the festival will challenge the rigid binaries of gender identity and sexual orientation that we have been conditioned to. It will hopefully also make one see that transgender rights are human rights. The community has suffered years of discrimination, humiliation and oppression, and continues to live on the fringes of society. They are often hated and

feared for their sexual non-conformity and outrageous sexuality. Equity and equality remain a pipe dream; social and economic exclusion persists. And this festival is a radical appeal to our society to see them as equals, just the way their Lord Aravan did by giving the status of a bride to the transgender Mohini. On my second visit to Koovagam, in 2013, I too prayed to Koothandavar. I prayed for my transgender friends to find the kind of great love they seek. Love that unites them in their brazen regard for life and death, in their anxious dialogue with God and devil, in the proud embracing of their own supremacy and insignificance. Love that lets them be. Sindhuja Parthasarathy is a freelance travel and social documentary photographer. A version of this article first appeared on www.thealternative.in Write to lounge@livemint.com

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SINDHUJA PARTHASARATHY

PHOTO FEATURE

LOVING,

LEAVING Every year members of the transgender community gather in a small village in Tamil Nadu, to be wedded for a night and widowed the morning after

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POETRY

BOUNDLESS

In verse: W.H. Auden (left) and Emily Dickinson are two of the many poets who either made political statements about homosexuality or intimate declarations of love through their poetry.

LOVE

Walt Whitman is more solemn in his enjoyment of a happiness he knows is temporary in When I Heard at the Close of the Day: And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores, I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me whispering to congratulate me, For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night, In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me, And his arm lay lightly around my breast—and that night I was happy.

From William Shakespeare to Vikram Seth, poetry and homosexuality have had a long and intense history B Y C ORDELIA J ENKINS cordelia.j@livemint.com

···························· fter the Supreme Court refused to review its December decision to recriminalize sex “against the order of nature”, on 28 January, the Delhi-based poet and author Vikram Seth published a poem—a simple, bipartite reflection on natural love and unnatural crimes. Seth has spoken out before against Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, a clause dealing with “unnatural offences”, but this time he did it in verse. In a note alongside the poem, the author emphasized that it could be used, disseminated or published anywhere without his permission. In doing so he joins a long tradition of poetic discourse on homosexual love that stretches from the ancients, through William Shakespeare and the Renaissance poets, past the gay liberation movement of the 1960s, till the present day. Seth’s 12 lines of iambic tetrameter, Through Love’s Great Power, is a political poem, in that it addresses the specific language used by the judges to defend Section 377, but it’s also personal in its observations about joy, and public in its discussion of justice and the rights of the weak: Through love’s great power to be made whole In mind and body, heart and soul— Through freedom to find joy, or be By dint of joy itself set free In love and in companionhood: This is the true and

Agenda I am going to love her You may like it or not. I am going to love her Though well you say, “Ought You to love her? It doesn’t seem right, It gives us a fright, For it seems like it might Bring a blush to our cheeks and our system to rot.” I am going to love her You’ll like it or won’t. I am going to love her Though well you say, “Don’t You dare love her: It’s wrong if you do, It just isn’t true, If you do we’ll say boo, How could you? You mustn’t! You won’t.”

natural good. To undo justice, and to seek To quash the rights that guard the weak— To sneer at love, and wrench apart The bonds of body, mind and heart With specious reason and no rhyme: This is the true unnatural crime. The canon of homosexual love poetry can, superficially, be split into two groups: the political and the private. The first group points out the hypocrisy of society’s distinction between different kinds of love, as either pure or shameful. For example, Two Loves by Lord Alfred Douglas, Oscar Wilde’s lover, ends with the well-known euphemism, “I am the love that dare not speak its name,” quoted by the judge at Wilde’s 1895 trial, before sentencing him to two years’ imprisonment for “gross indecency”. Wilde’s own poem, The Ballad of Reading Gaol, written in exile, attacks the same double standards: Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die. He does not die a death of shame On a day of dark disgrace, Nor have a noose about his neck, Nor a cloth upon his face. The second group comprises

Q&A

1. A million stops between us when I look at you and you reply, Between us when we lie entwined there slip a million sighs. But what’s a girl to do, my darling, what’s a girl to do, When all she does all night and day is fall in love with you? 2. “But why?”, you ask. I say “But just because I think it’s so.” “But why?” you ask —you’ll always ask, —you’ll spend our days in questioning.

I am going to love her You’ll never approve. I am going to love her Though well you say, “Prove That you love her, Show us you care: Hang in mid-air Dance like a bear— Then maybe we’ll suffer you two.”

“But why?”, you ask, again. I say, “But that’s just how and all and what I ever meant.” “But why?” you say, again —and I come tumbling in, —and I say, “May I stay?”

Still. I’m going to love her, I’m off to go love her: Over the moon and under the covers, By night, by day, each winter all summer, Now and forever Know this: I will love her—

“Because!” I say. And then you ask and I... sigh. “Because,” I say, “because and just and there are things and reasons and such happenings and stuff that’s sparkling in my brain and will you stop and kiss me now and will you hold me just like how

And that is just how I shall be.

“But why?”, you ask.

more intimate and personal declarations of love, often addressed to a sleeping or absent lover. These poems, which need not necessarily be read as “gay” love poetry in that they deal with universal human insecurities and fears about love, nevertheless often lament the fragility of a relationship, or the impossibility of declaring it, as in Emily Dickinson’s verses to her sisterin-law Susan. Many are mistakenly thought to be about heterosexual love, W.H. Auden’s consummate Lullaby, for example, a poem that celebrates the tangible and immediate body of a lover, over abstract conceptions and lofty ideals: Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human, on my faithless arm; Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral: But in my arms till break of day Let the living creature lie, Mortal, guilty, but to me The entirely beautiful. Lullaby is a haunting poem however you read it, but it’s hard to appreciate the subtlety of its defensiveness and desperate plea for seclusion, unless you know that Auden was gay, and writing about a male lover. Gertrude Stein’s Two Love Notes to Alice B. Toklas is effusive: Dear dainty delicious darling, dear sweet selected (enemifier?)

‘LULLABY’ IS A HAUNTING POEM HOWEVER YOU READ IT, BUT IT’S HARD TO APPRECIATE THE SUBTLETY OF ITS DEFENSIVENESS AND DESPERATE PLEA FOR SECLUSION, UNLESS YOU KNOW THAT AUDEN WAS GAY, AND WRITING ABOUT A MALE LOVER of my soul dear beloved baby dear everything to me when this you see you will have slept long and will be warm and completely (loudly?) loved by me dear wifey, (your?) baby —yb.

Frank O’Hara’s poems are charactertistically jubilant and acidic about his successful or, more often, his failed relationships. But they allude to a wider dissatisfaction with what it means to be gay in the New York of the 1950s and 1960s. O’Hara was not strictly a “homosexual”. He wrote about being in bed with men and women, but he despised the rigidity of the terms that define sexuality. “Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How discourage her?)” He just loved and hated people indiscriminately—if anyone fits the term “gay” it was he. From the joyful scramble of Steps: oh god it’s wonderful to get out of bed and drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes and love you so much to his plaintive Meditations in an Emergency: Why should I share you? Why don’t you get rid of someone else for a change?

FREE VERSE

FOUR

4. Sakhi, piya ko jo main na dekhoon To kaise katoon andheri ratiyaan?

Well before his time, however, Whitman imagined a more hopeful future in his Song of the Open Road: Camerado, I give you my hand! I give you my love more precious than money, I give you myself before preaching or law; Will you give me yourself? Will you come travel with me? Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

Won’t you come and sleep beside me When outside the workman’s drilling? Snap! and close your eyes and find me In your arms like chocolate filling?

(Amir Khusro) So, listen: without the lovelight in my eyes how shall I ever sleep this dark night? Sleep tightly curled, I say, and hold the curl of a fan’s wings in a hot sigh. I want to write a poem that uses the word ‘naked’ figuratively I want to write a poem that says my darling when you’re naked and You’re buried in my shoulder and you’re half-a-slept and waking From a night that’s turning crinkly In the summer sun—

Seth’s simple observation is that love’s power, whatever its orientation, is to make a person whole. Without it we are incomplete, as A.E. Housman mourned in a tragic little quatrain on unrequited love: He would not stay for me and who can wonder? He would not stay for me to stand and gaze. I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder, And went with half my life about my ways.

Smile and turn and hold my hand thus Touch my face with your soft smile, love, Sleep so fast the world goes missing, Noon-time naps are like dreamkissing.

Parvati Sharma brings to life familiar feelings of love, loss and longing

3. D’you know of what I think When I think of only you? I’ll tell you. I think of mornings: clear and wakeful and lit with your smile, its halfness and fullness, its tilting sighs; its afternoons in half-lit rooms, its augurings of paradise; its almost-sudden wakening, its slow-to-fade surmise; and half-awake I lie in bed, its sheets are tangled round my thighs, like your smile, as it hides, deep within your thinking eyes.

O’Hara could be spaniel-like in his devotion, but implicit in his demand for “boundless love” is a sense of more than one kind of restriction. Some poets bridge this rather crude distinction between political and private. Federico García Lorca, for one. Lorca was assassinated in 1936 by Spanish Nationalists, some claim for his liberal views and sexual orientation. In his sonnet, Love Sleeps in the Poet’s Heart, he furiously attacks the rest of the world for intruding on his feelings: You’ll never understand my love for you, because you dream inside me, fast asleep. I hide you, persecuted though you weep, from the penetrating steel voice of truth. Normalcy stirs both flesh and blinding star, and pierces even my despairing heart. Confusing reasoning has eaten out the wings on which your spirit fiercely soared.

Afternoon Snap Joy and wonder Mid-day slumber Bumble mumble On my collar:

POEMS

you did before you asked me —why and when?”

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

JAYACHANDRAN/MINT

I want to write a poem that says my darling when you’re trying Not to cry but still you’re crying and a wetness melts your eyes— Then shall I slip between our fingers, will you Let me curl and linger, up until you smile?

My love I think we can but last: I am quite sure of it; We’ll be a hit, we’ll never part And here’s how this I sense: Our bums so snugly fit in the Crook of somnolescence! Parvati Sharma is the author of The Dead Camel And Other Stories of Love. Write to lounge@livemint.com

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THE LOVE ISSUE

EXCERPT

PRIVATE ACTS IN

PUBLIC PLACES NAYAN SHAH/MINT

An Australian professional has his first gay encounter in a country where homosexuality is banned—on Bombay’s Chowpatty beach

The Boatman—A Memoir of Same-Sex Love: Yoda Press, 233 pages, `350. B Y J OHN B URBIDGE ···························· ost Bombayites seem to go to Chowpatty Beach to escape from something—the relentless routines of home and work, the prying eyes and ceaseless demands of family, or the deafening cacophony of taxi horns, bicycle bells and screeching brakes that penetrate every corner of this sprawling octopus of a city. In my case, the highly regulated, cheek-by-jowl communal life in the fishbowl we called a staff residence was reason enough. But it was not only that I was running away from something that led me down to Chowpatty Beach that warm April afternoon more than 30 years ago. It was as though I was being called there by a voice deep inside me that had been struggling most of my life to make itself heard. For some unfathomable reason, I decided this once to listen to it.... As I strolled along, I noticed I wasn’t the only foreigner enjoying this seafront promenade. But it wasn’t the fair-skinned firengis who caught my eye; it was young Indian men with their lithesome build, cheerful smiles and beckoning manner, such natural beauty and charm. Did they know how attractive they were?... As I ambled along, I noticed several young men walking hand in hand, some with one hand draped around another’s shoulder or waist. The sight had jolted me when I first encountered it in India, though I soon realized that it was not uncommon. In Australia, such behavior would have meant only one thing and could have had serious repercussions in the wrong place at the wrong time. But in India and much of South Asia and the Arab world, it would not raise an eyebrow. Young men felt free to express their friendship and affection for one another in such ways. Sexual interest was not implied, although it may not have been out of the question. How I wished I had been able to experience the same while growing up. It made me want to scream out, ‘Don’t you know how lucky you are, to be able to do this?’ When I reached Chowpatty Beach, the sun had lowered itself over the horizon.… By this time of day, the throngs at Chowpatty were winding their way home. The circus of entertainers was thinning out as families with children dwindled and the evening crowd began to take over.

PRIYANKA PARASHAR/MINT

Within a short time, mangy monkeys and scrawny bears were replaced by another species. Their repetitive cry of ‘maalish, maalish’ pierced the silence like the first crows early in the morning. They were men, some old, some young, most a dark chocolate brown and rather emaciated. I later learned that many of them came from northern India, from cities like Kanpur, Patna and Allahabad. I sat on the sand and observed them for a while as they walked up and down with thin cotton towels draped over their shoulders and small bags clutched under their arms. It

I NOTICED SEVERAL YOUNG MEN WALKING HAND IN HAND, SOME WITH ONE HAND DRAPED AROUND ANOTHER’S SHOULDER OR WAIST. THE SIGHT HAD JOLTED ME WHEN I FIRST ENCOUNTERED IT IN INDIA, THOUGH I SOON REALIZED THAT IT WAS NOT UNCOMMON

soon dawned on me that I had just met another of India’s service professions—public masseurs. One or two looked quite attractive but I was not about to let them know, since it was sure to influence any economic arrangement we might enter into. I ignored the first few who approached me, feigning disinterest, but intently observing their routine. They would sidle up to a potential customer, start talking with him, then take off together to another part of the beach. This made me even more curious. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. When a trim young man with a buttermelting smile approached me, I couldn’t resist.

‘Maalish, sahib? Maalish firstclass sahib. Full maalish. Only 50 rupees.’ I wasn’t about to spend half my month’s stipend there and then, so I bargained with him until I’d whittled him down to Rs 25. He scowled, then tried his guilt tactic. ‘You foreigner. Why you not pay 50 rupees? I give pukka maalish.’ I knew it was useless to argue. Of course all foreigners could easily spare Rs 50 for a cheap body rub. If he had even the slightest inkling about my financial condition, he probably wouldn’t have even bothered with me. We haggled a bit longer until I pulled out Rs 30 from my pocket and waved them in front of him. He relented and indicated for me to follow him to the darker end of the beach, away from the crowd and intrusive street lights. I tramped along nervously, wondering what was in store. Once he found a quiet spot, he laid out his towel and indicated for me to lie down. As he did so, he glanced up and down along the beach to see if anyone was approaching. ‘Any problem?’ I asked.

Hand in hand: (left) A scene from Chowpatty beach, Mumbai; and author John Burbidge at Max Mueller Bhavan, New Delhi.

‘Plice.’ ‘What about police?’ I asked. ‘No good. Don’t like maalishwallah. Take money, beat up maalish-wallah.’ I had no doubt that he was telling the truth and no desire to deal with local law enforcement. Apart from the troubling stories I’d heard about the irregular methods of the Bombay police, I was worried that my status as a volunteer with an international organization, if not the organization itself, might be jeopardized should I fall foul of them. What’s more, unlike most foreigners, I didn’t have the means to bribe my way out of awkward situations. But this night I wasn’t about to let such considerations deter me, as I watched my young masseur lay out his tools of trade on the sand. He asked me to take off my trousers so he could massage my legs. I could feel myself trembling. I’d never taken such a risk before. Should I go through with this? Why didn’t I quit while I had the chance? Voices of caution were clamoring for my attention, but I resolutely ignored them. I undid the hook on the flap around my waist, unzipped, and pulled off my trousers. The masseur must have been no more than 17 but he acted with the aplomb of a man much older, as he selected a couple of bottles from his kit, shook them several times, and rubbed their aromatic contents on his hands. For the first time, I noticed his fingers, long and sinewy but as delicate as those of a concert pianist. I wondered how many bodies these fingers had touched. I came from a family firmly entrenched in a tradition where touch between two people, particularly two males, rarely happened. Generations of solid British workingclass stock on both sides had made sure of that. But right now, I yearned for his fingers to touch me, as the mesmerizing scent of sandalwood and jasmine worked its magic. The moment he laid his hand upon my thigh I knew that history was being rewritten. It was as though the heavens opened and blessings showered down upon me. Ripples of pleasure shot up like an electric current through my abdomen to my chest and arms and back down again. Thoughts came and went so fast I couldn’t disentangle one from the other. They soon disappeared altogether in a confused haze, subsiding into the most satisfying sensation I had ever experienced. As he gently worked his hands up and down my leg, I could feel my stomach muscles gradually relax. I glanced up and saw a mass of stars, something I had never noticed all the time I had been in Bombay. Had they come out this night just for me? Edited excerpts, with permission from Yoda Press. Write to lounge@livemint.com www.livemint.com Visit www.livemint.com/theboatman for an interview with the author

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INTERVIEW

‘THE VIEW IS GREAT

FROM UP HERE’

B Y S ANJUKTA S HARMA sanjukta.s@livemint.com

·································· anil Suri grew up in a oneroom apartment at Kemps Corner, Mumbai, with his father, a Hindi film music director, and mother, a schoolteacher. He went to Campion School and spent most of his time reading, away from peers or schoolmates. As a gay teenager and adult in Mumbai, Suri did not find love, or much freedom. He pursued higher studies in mathematics at the Carnegie Mellon University, Pennsylvania, US, and has been teaching mathematics at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County, for many years now. Suri is known more, however, for his novels: The Death of Vishnu (2001), The Age of Shiva (2008) and The City of Devi (2013). The Death of Vishnu, his debut, made a splash. With the Joycean weaving of mythology and bourgeois life, Suri established himself not only as a deft storyteller, but also as a man of letters, and a sympathetic observer of the pop and the mundane. He found love in America and came out, over many years, with his parents and family. His last novel, The City of Devi, about Mumbai in the throes of an apocalypse, contains explicit depictions of homosexual sex (the book incidentally got him the “Bad Sex in Fiction” prize in 2013). He has written extensively on India and LGBT issues. In an email interview, Suri talks about the need for Indian authors and filmmakers to come out, and protest against the Supreme Court’s (SC’s) ruling on Section 377, gay activism, his personal experiences with coming out, and doing a Helen in front of a New York audience. Edited excerpts:

More than being about differences or the acceptance of differences, the SC’s upholding of Section 377 is a human rights issue for those who will be worst affected by it—men and women from less privileged backgrounds or extremely conservative communities. How can gay people from the educated classes help? One way is through groups like the Humsafar Trust, the Naz Foundation, etc., which form a bridge between the classes. There are several people from the well-educated classes (Ashok Row Kavi comes to mind) who have worked tirelessly to make such connections through these groups. It’s through an expansion of this kind of interaction that people from educated classes can help. These are brave non-profit groups (the Naz Foundation was the one to originally challenge Section 377)—they deserve our support, whether we’re gay or straight. No industry or arena other than the world of fashion openly accepts homosexuality. Most of the gay directors and actors in Bollywood don’t come out. Some are open in select circles, but not when it comes to, say, protests against the SC ruling. Do you think this has contributed to the way homosexuality is perceived in India? Absolutely. That’s why the Supreme Court could get away with its outlandish assertion that only a “minuscule fraction” of India’s population is gay. It’s a tragedy, really—those who are the most visible, who have the most power to change public opinion, are also the most afraid. Certainly there are risks, but for those brave enough to come out, I honestly believe they’d end up with more positives, through the respect they’d gain. At the Kolkata Book Fair last year, you read a portion from ‘The City of Devi’ which was about homosexuality. Did the lack of response or acknowledgement surprise you? Do the media here ask you questions about your homosexuality? Well, three people walked out right near the beginning, which I wear as a badge

Manil Suri, the novelist and mathematics professor, on gay activism, coming out to family, and unlocking his inner Bollywood diva ABHIJIT BHATLEKAR/MINT

City limits: (right) Manil Suri; and Kemps Corner, Mumbai, where Suri grew up. of honour. I like to think that the rest of the audience stayed because what I read out gave them a glimpse into the heart and humanity behind being gay. India has always been very adept at airbrushing out any issue it’s not comfortable with, so I made it a point to talk about homosexuality at interviews and readings. My favourite was an event I did at SAP Labs, Gurgaon, where the person interviewing me kept avoiding the word “homosexual”. So I forced him to say it, and had the audience applaud every time he did. Since you are from Mumbai, how have you seen the city’s gay community change? When I was growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, there was no community to speak of. Then, through the years, an underground movement slowly started to peek out—the private parties on the roof decks of suburban hotels, the upstairs bar at Gokul’s (in south Mumbai) which was unofficially colonized, the gay disco scene which became increasingly prominent. What’s most heartening to see is that the emphasis on sex is abating in favour of love—people are entering relationships, trying to create a vibrant gay culture. In ‘Granta’ magazine you wrote about how your mother and father responded to your coming out. Is your extended family also more accepting now? My mother’s family has always been very accepting. My father’s family is more conservative, but I’ve yet to hear anything critical from them either. I was particularly surprised last year when my 87-year-old uncle told me he’d almost finished The City of Devi. I was dying to know what he thought of all the sex in it, but chickened out and didn’t ask him. What are your earliest memories of finding love in Mumbai? Did you find love in your teenage and early adult years? Sadly, no. I didn’t really know any gay people during the entire 20 years I spent in Bombay (I left in 1979). It was a very lonely existence, as it still is for many young people who might realize they are gay, but may have no one to talk to. That’s why the presence of the Internet and social groups has been so transforming—it gives people a chance to connect with others who might be grappling with the same difficult issues. Of course, I’ve now had the opportunity to visit Bombay several times with my partner Larry—we’ve found it’s a great city to be in love.

‘INDIA HAS ALWAYS BEEN VERY ADEPT AT AIRBRUSHING OUT ANY ISSUE IT’S NOT COMFORTABLE WITH, SO I MADE IT A POINT TO TALK ABOUT HOMOSEXUALITY AT INTERVIEWS AND READINGS.’ M ZHAZO/HINDUSTAN TIMES

What can we learn from Western countries, say, the US, where you live, about gay activism and gay rights movements? It’s a long process. In the US, gay rights received a terrible blow in 1986, when the supreme court upheld sodomy laws (just like in India). It took 17 long years for the US supreme court to finally admit

(in 2003) that it was wrong, and to legalize homosexuality. What caused the change was visibility: more and more LGBT people coming out—something India desperately needs. My advice: View the SC decision not as a setback but an opportunity. Becoming legal is certainly a key aspect, but moulding public opinion is even more important. People

need to see gay people as their friends, neighbours and relatives before their attitudes will change. Are you as comfortable with the “gay Indian” tag as the mathematician or novelist tag? Comfortable? I’m delighted! There are so few people claiming this honour right now that hey, you’re even interviewing a measly author, not some big-shot actor! Come on, LGBT Indians—join me, the view is great from up here! In your fiction, you have used figures from Hindu mythology and religion. What are some of the most riveting stories, or imagery, from Indian mythology about alternative sexuality and homosexuality? Most stories revolve around fluid gender rather than sexuality. My favourite is the one from the Puranas where Shiva lusts after Vishnu’s Mohini form—so much so that he leaves Parvati behind and spills his seed on the ground. But beyond mythology, what’s truly amazing is how comparatively liberal ancient Hindus views were towards homosexuality. While other cultures were putting gays to death, even a curmudgeon like Manu only prescribed a ritual bath as punishment. And the Kama Sutra exuberantly describes various male-onmale acts, without any hint of disapproval. At the Brooklyn Museum you once performed a Bollywood number, unlocking your inner Bollywood diva. Tell us about that experience; it sounds like a lot of fun! It was scary getting up in front of all those people to perform Helen’s striptease (Piya Tu Ab to Aaja). But once I started, it was, indeed, an “unlocking” of my inner self— a wonderfully empowering experience. If I could do this, I could do anything—I could dispense with a lot of fear in my life. The crowd loved it, and although initially speechless, my university president approved too when I showed him the video. This is exactly what coming out is like—initially scary, but once you do it, enormously empowering. I invite all LGBT Indians to take the next step towards this liberating rebirth that awaits them.

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FILM

TO BE OR

NOT TO BE? It’s been mostly lows but also some highs for queer cinema

B Y N ANDINI R AMNATH nandini.r@livemint.com

···························· omosexual love remains one of the great taboos of Indian cinema, to be broken only cautiously or crassly. There have been hints and side characters in movies down the years—the lesbian inmate in Jabbar Patel’s jail drama Umbartha (The Threshold), the suggestive glances between Parveen Babi and Hema Malini in Kamal Amrohi’s historical Razia Sultan, the morethan-sisterly bond between Huma Qureshi and Madhuri Dixit-Nene in Dedh Ishqiya— as well as more open explorations of same-sex love. Trepidation and tragedy often mark the exploration of love that dare not speak its name, viewers are left with what-if scenarios, and some heterosexual romances are better understood when viewed through a queer lens. There is some fearlessness, lots of winking from the depths of closets, and a great deal of outright homophobia as filmmakers try to look beyond the family friendly man-loveswoman binary and venture into riskier terrain.

The one and lonely Rituparno Ghosh

Bengali director Rituparno Ghosh’s early movies were about lonely and anxious women who sought to break social strictures, but by the time he died in 2013, he had turned into a singular chronicler of the homosexual experience. Ghosh played gay characters in films by other directors, Arekti Premer Golpo and Memories in March, and in his penultimate feature, Chitrangada, in which he plays a transgendered choreographer. Other Bengali directors, such as Q in Gandu and Tasher Desh, have also put gay love on the screen, but Ghosh stands apart for his empathy and boldness.

A proud marcher…

Let’s hear it for Onir, one of a handful of film-makers in the country who is openly out. Onir’s debut, My Brother... Nikhil, is a remarkable screen exploration of a gay character who isn’t a pink-boa-sporting fashion designer or a luridlipped eunuch. Made in 2005 and distributed by Yash Raj Films, the movie doesn’t spraypaint its queerness but it’s obvious that the “friend” of a swimmer who dies of AIDS after facing ignorance and opprobrium is actually his lover, and that some of the dis-

PRATEEK CHOUDHARY/ HINDUSTAN TIMES

crimination is because of the victim’s homosexuality. Two of the four stories in his third film, I Am, explore homosexuality from two cautionary tales, one of a gay man and his sexually abusive stepfather, and the other of a blackmailing, struggling actor.

…and a silent one

Karan Johar makes conventional films about the trifling worries of beautiful people but remarkable subversions lurk in that designer closet. His production, Kal Ho Naa Ho, introduced to mainstream audiences the idea that two men can be lovers and not just friends. Humour has proved its usefulness as a device in Kal Ho Naa Ho, which fires its salvo over the shoulder of scandalized maid Kantaben, and Johar’s production Dostana, in which two buddies pretend to be gay in order to share an apartment with a woman they supposedly both love. Not for nothing has Dostana’s hit song Maa Da Laadla Bigad Gaya, featuring the hysterical Punjabi mummy of Abhishek Bachchan’s arrow-straight pretender, become a favourite at gay parties. Johar gets all serious in his contribution to last year’s Bombay Talkies anthology, which explores a curious triangular relationship between a magazine editor, her gay staffer and her closeted husband. The kiss between Saqib Saleem and Randeep Hooda is second only to the passionate lip-lock between Rahul Bose and Arjun Mathur in I Am. In fact, it’s possible to look at Johar’s debut feature Kuch Kuch Hota Hai through a queer lens. The scenario: Tomboyish teenager is in love with her best friend, but he has eyes only for the resident sexbomb. He marries sex-bomb, who conveniently dies, and then loses his heart to the tomboy who has now become a curvaceous creature. Hmm. Replace tomboy with lesbian/ gay person and best friend with closeted lesbian/gay person who finally crawls out of the closet after the spouse’s death and you have a great Indian love story.

The heckler

Madhur Bhandarkar’s cinema is dredged from the depths of

Look again: (from above) There’s more than just female bonding between Begum Para and her helper Muniya in Dedh Ishqiya; Dostana reinvents the love triangle; and Rituparno Ghosh. tabloid muck where, occasionally, flowers bloom in the form of Chandni Bar and Page 3. Did he throw a party after the Supreme Court upheld the unjust Section 377, and can we churn out a screenplay based on that moment? Let’s call it “377” and pack it with every single stereotype you can think of—pink-lipped gay designers, shrill-voiced hairstylists, preening film journalists, predatory closeted men and suspiciously solicitous young women. Bhandarkar’s war on closeted and openly gay celebrations of queerness has several supporters, within the movie trade, inside cinema halls and police stations, on Twitter and in the media, and even in some courts in the country, it appears.

Lesbians>gays

Just like there are many more instances of female nudity

OTHER BENGALI DIRECTORS, SUCH AS Q IN ‘GANDU’ AND ‘TASHER DESH’, HAVE ALSO PUT GAY LOVE ON THE SCREEN, BUT GHOSH STANDS APART FOR HIS EMPATHY AND BOLDNESS

than male nudity and more explorations of the female sexual experience than the male, so also there are many more instances of women in love. Even before Deepa Mehta’s bold Fire, which shocked puritans and political parties, there have been tentative and outright explorations of women in love. From progressive Kerala came Mohan’s Randu Penkuttikal, made in 1978 and based on the novel of the same name by V.T. Nandakumar. The story is of an intensely close friendship between two young women, where one is clearly more invested in the relationship than the other. P. Padmarajan’s realist

Deshadanakili Karayarilla, made in 1986, explores the misadventures of two teenage girls who run away from school. The lesbian angle is suggested, and again seems to be one-sided since one of them falls in love with an unattainable older man, but longing glances are exchanged, passions bubble away under the surface, and the tragic outcome of the relationship has found echoes down the years in real life. Also from Kerala comes Ligy J. Pullappally’s Sancharram (The Journey), made in 2004 and bereft of the ambiguity of previous productions. Pullappally openly and honestly

explores the ramifications of the feelings that two childhood friends develop for each other. Mehta’s Fire rightfully became the trailblazer because it was made in Hindi and was therefore accessible to wider audiences, starred acclaimed arthouse names, including Shabana Azmi and Nandita Das, and was released in cinemas in 1998 to outrage and protests. Less highminded film-makers have attempted to raise temperatures in other ways by pairing two women, such as Girlfriend (2004), whose poster alone locates it firmly in the realm of so-sleazy-it-is-going-to-selltickets territory.

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GROUND REPORT

A FAIR

B Y S HEFALEE V ASUDEV shefalee.v@livemint.com

···························· here are many things to not like about the fashion industry—hierarchical vanities, casting-couch politics, incestuous dealings between sponsors and powerful designers, undeserved worship of film stars, rampant plagiarism. But even its worst critic will not call it a confrontationist and unequal space for gays. If anything, it is otherwise. One of the observations that did the rounds after Goan designer Wendell Rodricks was recently awarded the Padma Shri was the irony behind honouring the work of a designer whose love life is “illegal”. Anyone who knows Rodricks understands his devotion to his long-standing partner Jerome Marrel. The two have been in a civil union called PACS in France (Marrel is French) for many years and Rodricks rarely misses a chance to talk about Marrel as his confidant, his strongest critic, and the love of his life. Rodricks’ 2012 memoir, The Green Room, is immersed with anecdotes about life with Marrel woven inextricably with the author’s experiences in fashion. If such openness is rare in India, so is designer Rohit Bal’s unflinching, almost flamboyant, acceptance of his personal choices, Suneet Varma’s commitment towards his beliefs or Gaurav Gupta’s affirmative nonchalance. There are many other names that have become inspiring personal stories for younger designers, but listing the number of uncontrived gay people in Indian fashion is hardly the point. It is the fussfree and non-judgemental space the industry makes for everyone—short, dark, divorced or gay—that makes it, in the words of fashion consultant Edward Lalrempuia, “a comforting haven for young boys, especially from smaller towns, who battle censorious attitudes towards homosexuality”.

MODEL

Being gay may be a fashion-industry stereotype—but that’s also where it is busted the most PRADEEP GAUR/MINT

Thirty-year-old, Delhi-based Lalrempuia was born in Mizoram and studied at a boarding school before joining Delhi’s National Institute of Fashion Technology (Nift). He later worked with Vogue India. “Homophobes would feel out of place in fashion,” he says. “We made the gay boys junior to us in college comfortable and welcome, which was a conscious step. I have seen nervous young boys bloom by the time they are in their second year—their personalities start evolving in the fashion industry.” This is hardly a closed community where gay men blindly support their own kind and the rest are on the other side of the fence. “Before joining fashion, I had reservations about the attitudes of gays. Now, my best friends are gay men, I find them more trustworthy, dependable and compassionate compared to anyone else,” says make-up artist Anu Kaushik. Many agree. “Contrary to experiences outside, in the fashion industry being gay is not considered as the defining criteria before striking friendships or for work,” says designer Ashdeen Lilaowala. When he was with a gay partner, the two of them would be invited as a couple for meals at the homes of straight friends who never once threw curious queries about their personal lives. The buzzing fashion weeks inflate gay-friendly moments with

FUSS-FREE AND NON-JUDGEMENTAL, THE FASHION INDUSTRY IS ‘A COMFORTING HAVEN FOR YOUNG BOYS...WHO BATTLE CENSORIOUS ATTITUDES TOWARDS HOMOSEXUALITY’ their unwritten licence to dress up in an expressionist manner. They are an engrossing playground for people with varied orientations—straight or gay. Observing dressing is germane to understanding life scripts—a man wearing a handloom sari or a

strapless gown, for instance, is a visual rarely spotted on the streets or in a mall but is not exceptional at a fashion week. When you look

Among friends: (clockwise) Dhruv Kapur, director of fashion label DRVV, at the Wills Lifestyle India Fashion Week in Delhi in October; Rohit Bal; and Wendell Rodricks.

closely at the procession of perky hats and smart jackets, jazzy accessories and funky hairdos, neon shoes and quirky bags, you realize that gays are often the most innovatively dressed. That, however, doesn’t make the industry a rarefied outer space cut off from the harsh realities of court rulings, public interest litigations (PILs), protest marches and the visceral humiliation when love lives get branded as “unnatural”. That’s why many prefer to keep their masks on, fashion or not. And yes, gay jokes fly too, agree both Lalrempuia and Lilaowala. The latter says that when he came out to his parents they initially asked if he was gay because he was in fashion. But as Lalrempuia points out, gays too can go over the top both in dressing or behaviour, inviting ridicule—like anyone else. Which is why senior designer David Abraham interprets the industry’s openness as a larger questioning. “Fashion constantly questions norms and stereotypes; it encompasses a lot more change than even other creative professions like art or writing; it mirrors social change and is visible for scrutiny. This is where popular culture trends are first spotted before you notice their trickle-down into society,” says Abraham. The fashion industry may just be an inspiring ecosystem after all, a fair model for change and acceptance.

SANTU MISRA OF DEVILWORE.COM

Designer genes I RADHA CHADHA

Brand ambassadors: (below) Giorgio Armani; and Madonna in the conical bustier.

f you love luxury brands, you love gay men. I may be missing a couple of logical links there, but the reality is that the luxury brand industry as we know it would not exist but for the creative work of legions of gay designers. Think of any major luxury brand—Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Chanel, Dior, Saint Laurent, Hermès, Armani, Burberry, Versace, Dolce & Gabbana—and there is a very talented gay designer who has played a significant role in its success. Sure, there are straight men and fabulous women designers, but the overwhelming majority—6070%—of designers in the fashion industry is gay. It got me thinking why that is so. Is there something special about gay men that makes them excel at fashion design? Is there such a thing as designer genes? GIUSEPPE CACACE/GETTY IMAGES

The gay creative contribution runs deep, cutting across geography and time. Louis Vuitton became a worldwide phenomenon under the creative leadership of the American designer Marc Jacobs, who came on board in 1997, breathing new energy into its core bags business—think graffiti, think colourful monograms—as well as launching ready-to-wear and extending into other products. Jacobs left last year—to focus on his own Marc Jacobs brand—handing over Vuitton’s creative mantle to Nicolas Ghesquière. Both men are gay. Ghesquière, French, is known for his cutting-edge work at Balenciaga, a brand started in 1919 by another gay man, Cristóbal Balenciaga, Spanish, who is widely acknowledged as a master couturier. Or take Gucci. The brand was in big trouble in the 1990s until Tom Ford, American, came to its rescue. His oomphy designs and unabashed marketing made Gucci—and Tom Ford—a darling among fashionistas. He left Gucci in 2004, launched his own namesake brand, very coveted, especially for its men’s suits. Ford is gay. Chanel may have been the work of a woman, but for the last three decades the brand has been under the artistic direction of Karl Lagerfeld, German, and his strong use of symbols has made Chanel a global must-have. Lagerfeld is prolific—he has had a hand in many brands, among them Chloé and Fendi. He is gay. The house of Dior was started in 1946 by Christian Dior, French. One of the alltime greats in fashion history, he revolutionized female dressing with the New Look— TIME & nipped waist, LIFE PICTURES/ GETTY IMAGES hourglass figure—

but died suddenly in 1957. His assistant, Yves Saint Laurent, French, another fashion revolutionary, took over, making a much acclaimed debut collection. Saint Laurent went on to launch his own eponymous brand in 1962, famed for inventions like Le Smoking, a tuxedo for women. The Dior brand, in more recent times, had a remarkable run under the wildly creative John Galliano from 1997 onwards—outlandish, over-the-top, exquisitely beautiful designs—until he left under a cloud in 2011. Dior, Saint Laurent, Galliano—all three gay. The gay designer list is endless. Hermès had Jean Paul Gaultier, known for his whimsical and witty designs— think Madonna, with the exaggerated conical bra—as its artistic director from 2003-10. Burberry found a second lease of life under Christopher Bailey, British, who joined in 2001, and is one of the few creative heads to become CEO. Michael Kors, American, entered the Forbes Billionaire List on Tuesday, following outstanding results which sent his company’s stocks soaring by 20%. Giorgio Armani, Italian—Forbes puts his net worth at $8.5 billion (around `52,700 crore)—is gay. Dries Van Noten, Belgian, is gay. Several Indian designers are gay, although our antiquated laws—and equally antiquated social attitudes— make it hard for them to openly claim their sexuality. Although I have no scientific research to quote, my own observations lead me to believe that they are indeed born with a very strong aesthetic sensibility. Alexander McQueen—an absolute creative genius, I worship his work—drew his first dress on the walls of his family home at the age of 3. Yves Saint Laurent was creating dresses for dolls as a child. Valentino Garavani was so taken in by movie-star costumes that at the age of 9 he decided to make clothes for women. An Indian designer—his work is consistently stunning—told me he was making outfits for his family and sisters from a very young age. The point is, the

strong desire to create beautiful clothes boils over naturally, much before the child has any inkling of his sexual orientation. It is inborn. Perhaps there is a designer gene. In fact, the desire for visual harmony is so potent that if something is out of place it irritates them. This story of my friend Mark from Hong Kong illustrates that well: When he was 7, he went with his family to buy a refrigerator, but the one that was delivered home was slightly different from the one Mark had liked. He wept uncontrollably—the family could not understand why because just a small detail of the door handle was different. But for Mark, that was ugly and distressing. There is such a heightened sensitivity and response to visual stimuli. I notice an all-pervasive enjoyment of beauty among my gay friends—whether it is collecting art, travelling to beautiful destinations, dining at chic restaurants, going to the theatre or movies. Attention to beauty is equally important in the personal sphere—they value toned muscular bodies, they tend to be very well-dressed, their homes are beautifully done up, they spend time on details like selecting the right dinner plates, down to the right teaspoon. They eat, breathe, live beauty—and perhaps it is this deep entanglement with beauty itself that finds expression in fashion design. Or as Yves Saint Laurent said, “Oh yes, my sexuality has been very important to my creativity.” Radha Chadha is one of Asia’s leading marketing and consumer insight experts. She is the author of the best-selling book The Cult of the Luxury Brand: Inside Asia’s Love Affair With Luxury. Write to Radha at luxurycult@livemint.com www.livemint.com Read Radha’s previous Lounge columns at www.livemint.com/radha-chadha

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INITIATIVE

B Y S EEMA C HOWDHRY seema.c@livemint.com

································ he subject of Mumbaibased Harish Iyer’s letter to the Chief Justice of India (CJI) is intriguing. Iyer, an event manager and equal rights activist who is listed at No.71 in the World Pride Power List 2013, says the Supreme Court’s (SC’s) rejection of the Delhi high court order on Section 377 in December means he has to find not just a suitable job but also a suitable bride. He puts it out there “straight” in his letter: “Since making love to someone in my own gender is a crime, I shall live a lovelorn life. I do have the option of getting married to a woman and trying to have sex with her every night. Since marital rape still is not a crime in our country, I might as well make best of the law being on my side, and keep trying penalvaginal sex with her in the order of nature. Someday I may just succeed even if her rights as a woman get ruined completely. And genders other than female, well, they are way too minuscule to be taken seriously.” He goes on to request the CJI to help him find “a suitable bride and a suitable job”. Iyer’s letter is among the 500 or so letters featured on the Web page 377letters.orinam.net, set up in January by Orinam, a Chennaibased LGBT support organization, with one aim: to ask people— members of the LGBT community, parents, friends, supporters—to write in to the CJI, explaining why the decriminalization of same-sex relationships matters. “The Web page gives the address and fax numbers of the apex court and requests people to send letters, postcards, video messages to the court and send a photograph or a scanned copy of their letter so that it can be uploaded on the Web page,” says Moulee, a Chennaibased IT professional and one of the many volunteers at Orinam. “These letters are a testimony of how people feel about Section 377. We wanted to do something to mark the first month anniversary of the SC’s rejection (on 11 December) of the Delhi high court order and the idea to send letters to the SC came from one of our members, Mayur Suresh. We put it out on our mailing list and our Facebook page and the letters started coming in,” says L. Ramakrishnan, country director of the public health NGO SAATHII (Solidarity and Action Against The HIV Infection in India) and a volunteer at Orinam. Suresh says a friend and he were discussing how the SC had taken up cases previously based on letters, and that’s where the idea came from. “I hope people continue to write to the SC because these letters serve as a platform for the LGBT community to tell judges about their lives. Maybe at some point they will be useful in court, maybe nothing will happen. But these letters should have a cathartic effect for the people who write them because a letter is a personal tool for communication and hopefully, a way to reach out to a friend, a well-wisher, i.e. the SC, and let it know that you have been hurt by their decision,” says Suresh, an activist and a lawyer based in London, UK.

SEALED WITH

A KISS

Letters, postcards and video messages—can these help the anti-LGBT crowd, judges and lawyers get a glimpse into the lives of this so-called ‘minuscule’ community? NATHAN G/MINT

ANIRUDDHA CHOWDHURY/MINT

Ramakrishnan, who wrote one of the letters along with his wife, says that in the last month and a half Orinam has received letters and postcards in Tamil, Kannada, Hindi, Telugu and Gujarati; some letters have come from overseas as well. Ideally, Orinam wants to upload the letters with translations but that is not easy. “Forget letters in Gujarati and Kannada, even though most of us in the group can read Tamil, it is hard for us to translate them. We need volunteers to help us with translations. In fact some of the Tamil letters were translated by a student who is currently studying in China. Besides, not everyone is able to scan and send letters. We have been asking local support groups to help people not just send the letters directly to the SC but scan and send images for us too,” says Ramakrishnan. That’s where people like Bangalore-based Samuel Konnur aka Shyam, an events manager and LGBT rights activist, and Delhi-based Mohnish Kabir Malhotra, a public relations executive and an LGBT rights activist, come in. On the eve of a march on 11 January, Konnur, who is a founding member of MIST, an LGBT collective based in Bangalore, organized a gettogether with 200 people in attendance. “We set up a long table, bought about 400 postcards from the post office and at the party encouraged people to just pen their thoughts. People shy away from sending letters for many reasons, one of them being that they do not have the time to post the letter. We told them we will photograph the notes for

Orinam and also post them to the SC. About 100 postcards got filled that night itself,” he says, adding that if and when he does this again, he will buy inland letters because people seem more comfortable using those. On the other hand, Malhotra, a member of the Delhi Queer Pride community which had organized the 11 January march, says protest participants wrote 70-80 postcards that day. “We would have done more but we were denied permission to gather at Jantar Mantar (in Delhi), had to scramble to take the protest to the park above Palika Bazar near Rajiv Chowk Metro station, and did not have a very large crowd. But it was heartening when passers-by saw us writing and offered to write letters too,” he says. Dolly Koshy, a Bangalore-based IT professional and co-founder of

Post it: (clockwise from above, left) L. Ramakrishnan with his letter; photographs of some of the postcards written at the MIST party in Bangalore; Harish Iyer with his boss Aradhana Ray Vermani in Mumbai; and Shyam (standing, left) at a freeze mob in Bangalore.

‘LETTERS WILL HAVE A WELCOME EFFECT, NO MATTER WHO THEY COME FROM. THE COURT NEEDS TO HEAR LOUD AND CLEAR THAT THEY ARE WRONG.’

MIST who wrote her letter at the party, believes the SC’s refusal to review the decision may work out in the long run. “At least the LGBT community is realizing that staying in the closet will not help their case. They will be considered a minuscule community and hence not given the rights they are seeking. More people have to come out, assert and ask for their rights, and these letters are just another step,” says Koshy. Karthik Rao Cavale, a student of legal sociology at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, US, who sent in his letter after reading about the

“project” on Facebook, says: “Letters will have a welcome effect, no matter who they come from. The court needs to hear loud and clear that they are wrong.” Rao Cavale’s letter on Orinam refers to former CJI P.N. Bhagwati. “The SC and CJIs in India have been game-changers like (former) CJI Bhagwati who allowed the introduction of public interest litigations and I wanted to remind the court of its own history,” he says. With the SC rejecting the review petition on 28 January, some of the people who have written these letters feel there is no point in continuing. “I had written the letter and even sent a copy to the attorney general who was representing the government of India because I was told maybe he could use it, but now I do not think sending letters makes sense. We need different platforms, and continuous and real support from within and outside the LGBT community. We need more popular icons from films and sports to speak up,” says National Award-winning film director Onir, whose letter to the SC talks about how the nation now criminalizes his identity and why religion and laws should not interfere in a private sexual relationship between two consenting adults. “I will continue to send postcards to the SC even though they have rejected the petition. But I know that other smaller activities to raise awareness about the importance of the rejection of the petition must also continue. That’s why we organize small ‘freeze mobs’—tableaus of how the LGBT community is treated and can be treated—across Bangalore. At one of our freezemob events, it was heartening to hear a mother explain to her fouryear-old son what being gay means and why a man loving a man is about love and not something to be attacked. Our next mob is on 11 February, the second month anniversary of the rejection of the Delhi high court order,” says Konnur. Iyer’s boss Aradhana Ray Vermani, a Mumbai-based experiential communications consultant who has never participated in protest marches or queer parades, says she could not stop herself from AR/M INT ABHIJIT BHATLEK writing a letter to the SC. “All I said in my letter was that who wants to have intercourse with whom is a choice that should be left to individuals as long as it does not harm anyone. And how can one group decide what is natural and what is unnatural? People are born this way and being gay does not make one less natural than heterosexual. My letter was a moderate outburst and I hope more people will adopt this form of protest,” says Vermani. Iyer, who received some flak for the sarcastic overtone of his SC/Orinam letter on Facebook, says that even if the letters have no positive legal fallout, it is important to keep the dialogue going with the CJI and the apex court. “We need to harp on this for years to come. Maybe the mindset of some judges will change and the next generation will benefit.”