Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3
Homes are built on forgiven mistakes.
The idea of a home is ambivalent. For some, it’s merely a place of shelter; for others it’s safety. For the romantics it could be a person. For me, a prison to pay for my mistakes, a place to reflect on why I was born different, and then a rehabilitation center to rectify and rebuild my character arc.
I escaped from it the day I could afford a penny and never came back. I returned today to a family that failed to accept me for who I am, even in death.
Death changes everything, death brings people together, death gives them an epiphany. Death even shakes hands with empathy – I refuse to believe any of this. As my body lies in the hospital, waiting for someone to claim it, I sit here in the hall watching the members of my family moving around unperturbed, taking over every mundane activity of life.
Just another day. Only Amma has been crying from time to time. A mother’s silent support is the antidote to keep on going in the face of adversity. I often wonder who our mothers would be if they were not stuck with and dependent on bitter men like us in the world. She secretly called me weekly once, and sometimes invited me home when Appa and Cheta were out of town. I can’t stop looking at her. It’s been a while since I sat on the kitchen slab. She’s making dosas and her hands are bruised. Aren’t they taking care of you, Amma?
Before she cut the call, she would always say, “Homes are built on forgiven mistakes.”
On some days, I would retreat, “Abuse and abandonment are unforgivable, Amma.”
On other days, I would straight up cut the call.
Somebody’s ringing the bell. No, no, no, no, no. Adarsh and our activist friend, Alex are here. I can only hope Cheta and Adarsh don’t break each other’s bones. Cheta is firm about not wanting my body, he says we can’t pay the hospital bills. Alex is pleading for a truce, he says they have enough money from online funding and they’ll perform the rituals. Cheta says they should leave. Alex pauses, and turns to my father. He’s never uttered the words he’s about to, not even when he was jailed for being gay – “Please sir” and then, “Just give us his body.”
It infuriates me that my family did not even have an ounce of sensitivity. This was not home. Home was a hug of reassurance from friends in the community. My father hasn’t flinched. Adarsh hasn’t lifted his eyes. He’s tired. We’ve fought and won enough battles, but the war continues.
How should I tell him that my body belongs only to him?
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