Initially, I thought I was being a feminist – given that my initial journey was always cocooned and protective and had many rules of no coming home late, always being escorted and yes, always being given money when I needed. The payoff, I realized, many years later was high. It meant listening to rules somebody else had then set – in return for the protection and the financial backing parents/spouse provided.
My parents, on the other hand, were overjoyed that their daughter found a partner that they wouldn’t have to hide from the Indian community. You’d think him being white, an atheist, and having a kid would be the typical Indian parent’s nightmare, but all that seems like nothing compared to the possibility of me being with a woman… well not completely “nothing”.
Having been married (to a man) and then going through a traumatic divorce, I know first hand that marriage does not in any way, shape or form guarantee 'happily ever after'. So do I still want the right to marry? The short answer is: Yes.
So I have a love-hate relationship with breasts. Mine included! There are days, I wish I wasn’t quite as plump and there are days, I wonder whether I would look better if I was bigger! The first time I wore a strappy tube top, I kept tugging at it for the fear my top would fall down. When I looked at Pooja Bhatt baring it all many years ago on the cover of Movie magazine, I looked twice. When I discovered, I was gay – I spent time dealing with pretty much everything and breaking long held dreams and stereotypes.
We have been familiar with this verse since the time we were ready for preschool, isn't it? The emphasis of taking care of our parents and the importance they have in our lives , if not apparent to each one of us, have been etched in our minds since childhood. We have always been asked to view them with a larger than life image. We have been told through tearing and painfully slow soap operas and talk shows, how much they have sacrificed in their lives only to see us through. As if we kids have a Ghajini-like memory. Yet the Indian society finds it a necessity to establish this as a responsibility. Wouldn't filial love be enough for us to take care of them in their senile ages?
Like many folks in and out of India, I grew up watching Indian cinema both of the regional and Bollywood variety. And whenever a choreographed dance/dream sequence burst out on screen – Oh yeah! My imagination ran wild! My Queer identity without any rules or societal structures to mimic - mapped itself gloriously onto the coy yet vibrant romance that played itself out in booty busting technicolor.
I am fascinated by happy stories where my gay friends and their families have found peace. When a gay friend told me, how her ex-girlfriend was accepted as a part of her family and her dad got along like house on fire, I almost turned green with envy. Another narrates how her partner and she lived with her parents like a married couple, under the same roof! When a friend’s status update talks about how her sister and her girlfriend are cooking her favourite food, I can’t help but be thrilled for them!
Ek myan mein do talwar nahi reh sakti, a very popular phrase you have heard of, for sure. Now one can only imagine the intensity of a given situation, if a teesari talwar is introduced in the very same myan. Stretch a little further and replace the myan with Gaysi’s Admin house.
We had known one another for more than a year, working in the same organization, and sharing the same company accommodation. We easily discovered comfort in one another's company. We were introduced through a common contact and very soon our professional relationship crossed personal boundaries and when exactly we got so involved, was hard to tell.
I looked around and found all stereotypes melting away. Even the thought of calling it a minority community seemed absurd. I was given slot number three. I had no idea what I had gotten myself into until I was called upon to read.
I looked strangely nervous in response to an everyday ‘Mom’ question like the one that was just put forth to me. I could feel the sweat on my brow in spite of the ceiling fan blades rotating at full speed. My hands were bizarrely cold and numb on a hot Sunday morning resulting in the loss of my sense of touch.
Yeah, my girlfriend loves to talk dirty in bed. It drives me crazy and is a big big turn on for me! But it wasn’t like that from the beginning. I used to get embarrassed and nervous (anything worthwhile is usually nerve-wrecking!! – remember good old days? ). But she made me realize that talking dirty doesn’t have to be all sleazy and nasty.
When I was eleven years old, I had a massive crush on a friend of mine. Well, not friend so much as a an older, very together classmate. Ours was more of a mutual admiration society than a friendship. To her I was this entertaining, super naughty kid in an otherwise rather boring, all-girls convent school.
Now don’t get me wrong, I am in no way asking you to discount your feelings. It’s only natural to go through the self-pity track and by all means do so. But then be sensible enough to switch the track at the right time. Meaning; shit happens...you roll yourself init...then it gets unbearably stinky and *blink* you wake up...clean yourself and start afresh.
What I like about a rickshaw is; unlike a bus it makes for a very comfortable place to sit and hold hands without anyone eyeing you. It is nice and windy and has a privacy of its own.
I was told to stay abroad – not come back except for vacations. Even if that had been my plan always, it felt odd hearing it. When my older sister threw a tantrum over how shameful it was to have to tell her friends I was gay (as I pointed out, she didn’t have to tell them if she didn’t want to), and worse, claimed that I was threatening her sexuality by asserting mine, my parents told me it was a tiny problem. I had to move on.
* Note : Contains Explicit Sexual Content
There we were lying in bed after yet another successful Simba & Nala romping session. Getting a little too big headed (probably some orgasm related dizziness) Baby Sher crossed over to the dangerous Elephant Graveyard, all thanks to nonstop self bragging bullshit.
Love. Word of myriad meanings. Bride-love, body-love, mind-love. To feel connected, As though the monsoon-floor that loved me were to come alive, that the gravel would reach out and touch my knee. All different love.
Yes, I was in awe of him. Completely in love until recently when I read his views on same sex relationships. And now I am left hurt and cheated.
Someone who dimmed the lights, so that when I came back, my mirrored curtains shone in a soft yellow glow. Who spent the day gathering ingredients and putting them together to create a meal that made the entire house smell divine. Someone who had the table set; the chair, placed just so. Who popped the wine bottle and kept it ready, with two chilled glasses, while I showered.