My friend made sure I got a seat, and the bus was relatively empty. I spotted a seat next to a guy who greeted me with a smile. I placed my bags there and started chatting with my friend. As the bus set off, I moved to sit beside the guy.

Soon after, I began sneezing, and the guy remarked, “It’s good you didn’t get a seat on that A/C bus.” I was taken aback and asked how he knew. He said, “I overheard your conversation with your friend.” We both chuckled, and he offered me a balm, which I found surprising coming from a stranger. As I sniffed it out, he reassured me in Malayalam, saying, “Enik kushta rogam onum illa,” roughly meaning “I do not have leprosy.” We both laughed again, breaking the ice.

Introductions followed; he was Dileep from Thrissur, with an MSW from Trivandrum, currently working. He was traveling from Aluva to Trivandrum for a meeting the next day. We quickly formed a friendly bond.

During the journey, he observed a lot about me and my life. Dileep sensed a pain in my eyes and predicted that I would open up before my stop at Kayamkulam. He believed this would change my life and give me new hope.

As we conversed, I found comfort in sharing personal stories about my breakup, the loss of my father, and my family. This moved him, and he held my hands, providing a shoulder to lean on, where I even dozed off for a while.

His words, though initially a lecture, began resonating with me. He encouraged me to concentrate on myself and work on my wishes. There was an unspoken connection, a sense of trust building between us.

Time flew by, and with an hour remaining, I wished for some bus malfunction, just to have a few more minutes with Dileep. His unexpected question, “Are we getting closer?” caught me off guard. I confessed, and he believed we were a perfect match. He asked if we could date, to which I couldn’t say no but needed time to decide.

Curiosity led me to ask if he was gay, seeking an honest relationship. He smiled, evading a direct answer. As I prepared to disembark, he declined to exchange numbers, saying, “Let’s love without numbers.” This left me feeling both tense and anxious.

I was really frustrated.

I was feeling tense because, honestly, he was a complete stranger. I barely knew him, and his sudden remarks were really getting to me.

He agreed to take my number but insisted on memorising it. That made me upset again. I suggested he just type it in, but he was dead set on learning it by heart.

He asked for my number and started to memorise it in front of me. I was nervous because he was making mistakes. But surprisingly, he managed to learn it and repeated the number several times. I thought he’d save it when I got off. However, I was still anxious, so I scribbled my number on my bus ticket and handed it to him. He refused to take the paper, saying, “Amal, not everyone’s the same. Let go of the past; I’ll be waiting for you.”

As we approached the Kayamkulam KSRTC bus stand, my heart raced faster than ever. I asked Dileep when he would call. He said, “Sharp at 8 PM on March 1st.” He wanted a straightforward answer from me—YES or NO.

When I asked for his number, he said he’d call before 8 PM on March 1st if he was alive. That got me angry. I retorted, “What if you can’t call me before 8 PM on March 1st?”

He responded, “Then, consider me dead.”

The bus stopped at the stand, and I got off. I asked Dileep to let go of my hand as I had to leave. He said, “Amal… Don’t worry about anything because I won’t let you cry anymore.” He whispered, “I LOVE YOU” in my ear. Stepping off at the bus stand, I started to feel better. I had a good time and, just as he predicted at the start, I felt a new sense of hope reaching my destination. He became that hope.

Returning home, I contemplated his proposal, seeking advice from friends who suggested that if he was genuine, I should say yes. I mentally prepared to accept, eagerly anticipating his call. But days passed without any communication and I began to wait. Every time I received a missed call on my number, I dialled back, hoping it would be him.

March 1st arrived, the day Dileep had promised to call. I returned to Kochi and settled in my room, eagerly anticipating his call. I switched my mobile to general mode, glanced at the clock—it was 7:58 PM, just two more minutes to go. I closed my eyes and started waiting for his call with my fingers crossed. When I opened my eyes slowly, it was already 8:01 PM, signalling that I should no longer wait for his calls. I prayed for it but, sadly, the call never came till date. I tried tirelessly to find him on social media and through contacts in his area but in vain. His absence left me questioning his sincerity.

I couldn’t deny that he had alleviated my depression to some extent during that journey, and his impact lingered in my thoughts. I sometimes wonder if he was just a dream or an imaginary figure, yet his words brought me comfort amid my despair.

Despite the uncertainty, I have come to accept that Dileep’s brief presence had a profound effect on me, teaching me invaluable lessons. His voice, face, and smile are all I can recall, and in a way, he succeeded in reaching depths where psychologists had failed.

The lingering question remains—will he ever return? Uncertain. Will he read this? Doubtful. Nevertheless, life must move forward, clinging to the glimmers of virtue that remain.

• This story has been republished from Amal’s blog with the author’s consent.
• Names have been changed
• Image supplied by the author, courtesy Pinterest.

Months later, I remembered a friend who got a teddy bear and said that he will gift it to the person he loves. People around him curiously asked him whether his lover was a ‘‘he’ or a ‘she’?’ This question seemed to have put the person on a spot, made him a bit uncomfortable. The person tried his best to refer to their partner using gender-neutral pronouns. This was the beginning of my understanding of the role pronouns played in providing an inclusive space for everyone to express their true self and whom they love.

In 2021, at my workplace in Bhopal, I met a person called Gadha who had come from Kerala. We quickly got along as friends. We would hang out and talk about our professional and personal aspirations, families, food habits, literature, cinema, amongst other interests. When you move to a new city, finding such friends could provide an anchor to help you sail through the ups and downs of a new environment. In the company of someone you trust, you can share your innermost experiences, morals, joys, aspirations, failures, and fears..

In one of our meetups, I found Gadha anxious and upset. As a friend, I tried to talk and help. Gadha shared that the primary cause of her worry was the fact that they were frequently misgendered by those around them! Gadha is a non-binary person and prefers the pronoun they/them though everyone would refer to them as ‘she/her.’

Though aware of various gender identities, I still took it casually until this incident. This incident deepened my realization of the emotional harm that misgendering can do. This realization was different from what one would have by reading about this subject. This was different because it prompted me not just to agree with what is being said, but to see a friend’s distress first hand and to change my own ways of addressing individuals like Gadha.

For others who are non-trans/cisgender, this brings great privilege. Being called ‘Sir’ or ‘Ma’am’ correctly all the time is something one may take for granted, and fail to appreciate the feelings of someone who does not have this privilege. Imagine yourself in the place of someone who lives in a world where they are constantly misgendered. How difficult it must be to put up with it? Being mindful of someone’s gender is the very least we can do. It does not take much effort, but surely requires a will, and an intent, of avoiding hurt to fellow humans. Gadha themself says that avoiding to misgender is not really different from avoiding to crush someone’s feet.

Relationships we share with our friends, colleagues and peers is a powerful tool to learn the human experience. Because of my friend, I now keep envisioning and working towards a world where people like them (my friend) are never misgendered. Gender sensitivity should also be extended to someone’s partner, in that we do not assume the partner’s gender, or insist on knowing it. Using gender-neutral language and asserting one’s pronouns out there, is a small step in this direction that will eventually contribute towards a culture of gender sensitivity and inclusion.

Gadha now is doing well. Besides the necessity of using correct pronouns, I have learnt many other things in their company – from making a good Kerala style curry to learning about various scholars and their work in the field of gender studies and psychology.

Let us keep knowing, befriending and learning from people like Gadha.

Notes:

• Gadha’s name and photograph is used with their consent.
• I acknowledge and thank Dr. Ameya Bondre for his inputs and support while writing this piece.
• Gadha’s photo: courtesy author
• Featured image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

We often travel in multiple trouble boats all at once, tackling issues like immigration; sexual identity; financial struggles; ⁣career instability and personal⁣ family woes.

Our accents thick; our experiences thin, struggles hidden from our kith and kin, we are desperately unrehearsed on a stage that was never a level playing field for us

Our souls burdened with beliefs which we’ve ingrained for years deep within us, un clutching from it’s paws unlearning and unloading all that is both time taking and daunting

Our Friends/Family might be casually racist/homophobic and misogynistic and we might not readily find a voice to fight it, for our tongues are tied with generations of our own patriarchal stigma ⁣

It can get extremely difficult to explain our queer lives and it’s dynamics to our straight close friends so we gradually cut ties from them; it is hard for some to do so !

We learn to hide a lot about our lives at tender young ages that it leads to us getting so good at lying so frequently that it’s emotionally exhausting  ! ⁣

The unbearable expectations of heteronormativity from our family ( read extended  Family/ neighbours/ relatives/ friends/ acquaintances / colleagues ) is sinfully suffocating for some! ⁣

Some of us might not know how to strike a conversation or how to properly navigate a friendship/ relationship cause we arrive so late to the game. Be kind to us if your time permits please

We are stuck in long games and emotional baggages of the queer world, we neither fully know what we truly want nor we can afford to make a lot of mistakes, for our privilege walls are icy thin! ⁣

We hate ourselves and continue to live like that without recognizing it. It would have been nice if someone told us sooner when younger that it is okay to live a little for our own sakes and selves

We live in an emotional Imposter Syndrome where we worry extremely in our imagination that we will let a lot of people down just for innocently being ourselves ! ⁣

Our scars are on the inside, not from wars we’ve won but from battles we’ve never wanted to fight from all the unresolved trauma !

Even with keys in our hands, some cannot unlock the closet and come out cause we we’ve gotten so comfortable in our “ straight acting “ skin coats. So don’t act so critical dear “Already Out and Proud Fellow South Asian “ BRO ⁣

Some of our parents/ families might have never ever even heard about the words that make up the LGBTQIA acronym and absolutely have no clue that something like that even exits

Coming out is not a one time thanksgiving dinner table announcement but a recurring repetitive struggle that can be dreadfully frightening for some. We are shedding our skin in baby steps!
Bear with us please!  ⁣

Even when we come out, our parents never speak openly about it, deny it, expect us to somehow magically turn and change ourselves some day. Their coming out is brutal for them in their own way

Social media has created such shallow standards and emotional baggages around us that it feels like we escaped the suffocation of the closet only to be vaporized in this toxicity of this culture.

We rarely acknowledge the importance of mental health and therapy in our culture, ’cause we stigmatized it for reasons unknown.⁣

Like all others, we also have a toxic love/hate bond with hookup apps like Grindr, Scruff, etc coz nothing soothes our damaged goods dented souls like instant gratification

Some of us neither had the cultural luxury nor the exposure to understand and explore our sexualities. So spare us your judgements please ⁣

At times, we might we misspell mispronounce and misunderstand certain words, jokes and contexts. Correct with warmth if you can

All of us are work in progress but we South Asian Immigrants are on a crash course, so please if your time permits educate someone you come across. They could always use a little extra help! ⁣

If you’ve come this far in reading this then I Love you! ⁣

In my lame attempt to collectively talk for the all of us I am sorry if I said anything ignorant/ insensitive Or If you disagree with anything, come let’s have a conversation, I’d love to stand corrected. ⁣

More Love and More Power to all of us!

Thank You

⁣

Flashes of the day ricochet back at me. Amma longingly looking at me as she describes her dreams of seeing me married, giving her grandkids, so she can cuddle and reprimand them, tell them stories  and forcefully feed morsels of food  as they run away from her. She conjures up the spirits of future grandchildren, in hopes that I will bring them to life. She speaks of the qualities my wife would have, and how she would finally have another woman in the family, she could confide to, another daughter.

And as she paints this picture of traditional domesticity, I stay silent. My heart breaks as I try to process these images. I cannot bear to reveal the truth that would destroy Amma’s dreams in front of her eyes, deny her the reality she aspires for.

I wish I were straight.

See, Indian society dictates that you are forever indebted to your parents and need to live your life on their terms, because they gave birth to you. A message that is drilled into your being.

Every time I try to interrupt her fantasies of my eventual marriage and her becoming a grandmother, Amma is quick to remind me that she had to carry me for ten months to give birth to me (an expression commonly used by Tamil mothers), and therefore the least I can do is bring her dreams to life.

Is my entire life only an attempt to repay the gift of her birthing me? Must I live every moment of my life in gratitude to my parents for my very existence?

How can I break Amma’s heart by telling her that I cannot fulfil her yearnings for a daughter-in-law and grandchildren?

That I want a husband, a man instead.

How can I?

I remain ensconced in this cozy closet, drawers filled with desires, dreams and hopes. I wonder… what if I were never to leave? What if I fulfill my parents dreams instead of mine? What will a loveless, joyless straight marriage look like? To have a sham marriage, to fake it till the very end, to not live my truth, to force myself into the supposedly normal life that Amma – and the world – wants me to lead?

These thoughts make my closet, formerly cozy, turn suffocating. I feel the air turn stale, and life ebbing from my body. How will it feel to die, holding close dreams that would never see the light of day? To forever lurk in this closet, with pictures of naked men, scratched off, torn on the sides, photographs of my future husband, his face blurry, pages upon pages of every sexual thought, repressed emotion, and pent up feeling, all decaying with time and disuse?

I shuffle through the innards of the closet and peer through the crack in its door, only to be confronted by complete darkness. No glimmer of light, or hope, in sight.

Maybe the closet is safer after all.

I retreat into its comforting arms, as I enter a dreamless slumber.

Acknowledgements: The image has been adapted from a photo in the Creative Commons.

In the journey from Zakir to Aqsa, I have lost many things-

1. I have lost my immediate family. Other than my mother, I do not have any meaningful relationship with any of my family members. My brother and his family have boycotted me. I need not elaborate on the importance of having a family. I don’t have one.

2. I have lost my relatives. I have no communication with any relative and have not met anyone for many years now. They are not aware of my transition. All my family members and relatives are blocked on social media. Do you enjoy the company of your uncles, aunts, and cousins? I am not even allowed to meet them. I have stopped going to my hometown of Mumbai and my relatives are not allowed to visit me here by my family.

3. I have lost my friends. I have lost some of my closest and best friends simply because I decided to be myself.

4. I have lost money. Transition is not a cheap affair, especially since the facilities are not available in govt hospitals. I have invested lacs of rupees in my transitioning.

5. I have been afraid of losing my job. Yes, you read this right. However progressive may we call ourselves, I was afraid I may lose my job because the name on my degrees doesn’t match my new legal identity.

6. I have lost social connections and respect. It is difficult, exhausting and uncomfortable to be brave everyday, to explain to every person and to face their reactions. How do you avoid this? You retreat into a shell. I may appear confident but I am a timid tortoise who wants to go back to my shell in a jiffy at the smallest of sign of danger.

7. I have lost security. Being a non-passing trans woman puts me at risk of verbal, physical and sexual harassment every living day of my life. Not all fears come true but not all fears are invalid.

8. I have lost respect and popularity. Many many people who used to appreciate me previously now don’t even look at me and their eyes speak to me what they think about me.
An abomination.

9. I have lost my ability to be a biological parent. In the current circumstances, that is not feasible. I have lost the right to contact my nephew who was also my foster child and whom I raised for 5 years

10. I have almost lost the chance of finding a loving life partner. It is very rare for persons like me to find a suitable match – a loving life partner who would accept me and love me the way I am. All I get are creeps.

Now, though I have lost so many things, I am happy and satisfied with my decision.

And if, hypothetically, I were in a similar situation again, I would choose what I chose, again.

 

 

 

Saying this today took me years to grow, learn, stumble, cry; the journey hasn’t stopped. I was a shy person in school and half of my life was spent hoping things will be fine. That I will be somebody who fits in with society just like others do. But it never happened.

Note: This post first appeared in Queernama on Sept. 29, 2017, and has been republished with the consent of the author.

“It’s a great day for prejudice and inhumanity, and a bad day for law and love”, said celebrated writer Vikram Seth of the Supreme Court 377 judgement, pronounced on Dec 11, 2013.  The SC judgement set aside the Delhi High Court’s 2009 Naz Foundation ruling, and effectively recriminalized LGBT people and those heterosexuals whose physical expression of love was deemed to be ‘against the order of nature’. It was a travesty of justice and a blow to the constitutional rights that the highest court in the land is supposed to uphold. The SC verdict has provoked sharp criticism and worldwide protests.

What did you, as a lesbian, gay, bi, trans, queer, questioning person, or heterosexual ally, parent, sibling, or friend, feel when you got news of this verdict? Send us a few or many lines, prose or poetry, on what that day and the succeeding ones were like for you and/or someone you know and love.

You may post as responses on this thread. You will still retain copyright and the freedom to publish on other blogs or print/online media, though we’d appreciate a reference to Orinam or a trackback to this link.

To get an idea of the kinds of responses we look forward to, check out the thread titled “Once Upon a Time: Fairy Tales for the Queer Desi“

Accepting this fact about our orientation is a tough choice. For a long time, I had chosen not to. All along, I had been playing around sexually, but not once had I given serious thought to who I actually was.  A choice that society almost always denies us. A choice we choose to ignore or deny to ourselves.  We choose not to create an identity. Instead, we are content with what identity is handed over to us by default.

Accepting who I was was not easy. For a long time, I chose to ignore serious introspection, and led a happy double life. I was always attracted to men, but was equally flirtatious with women in college. I was very sure that I wanted to get married, just to please my parents, and, by extension, the society at large. I even had a girlfriend back in college and a supposedly serious relationship with a girl when I entered the workforce. This was last year. We even discussed the idea of getting married and settling down in a tier two city of Tamil Nadu. Yes, my self-denial was serious.

However, even when I was with her, something kept nagging me. A puny childish voice inside me kept whimpering; trying hard to speak up, to scream out. A voice that I had kept contained for such a long time that it had almost gone silent. I was content with that. Or so I thought. Every single day, I kept denying who I was. A few times, I have even prayed to God to “correct me”. Scores of times, I have deactivated my profile on a gay chatroom, only to re-activate it again. But not once did I delete it, knowing full well I could not.

And then came a chance. A dream to study abroad.  It has been close to a year now since I moved out of India. A lot has changed in this year. I have put on some weight, lost some more. I have made some really good friends and visited two other countries. I broke up with my girlfriend from work, although we are still on talking terms. But more than anything, I have mustered up enough confidence – confidence to accept who I am; confident to say I am 100% gay, confident I will not get married to a girl and spoil another human’s life; confident to come out to a really close friend.

But this has not been easy. The past year has indeed been a learning lesson. I have learnt the value of being true to myself. And that has made me happy. More than anything, that has made me proud. True, the path ahead is going to be difficult. Coming out to my parents is going to be one tough job. But I don’t have to deny myself my reality.

My learning journey over this past year has, thankfully, not been a lonely one. I have gained a few good friends in the community who have transformed me; who have accepted me as one of their own. They have made me realize it is okay to be gay. Now, I am a content man.

True, I haven’t really told a lot of people who I am. True, I don’t have too many friends in the community (and I hope that changes). But atleast I am secure and proud in the knowledge of my sexuality.  True, coming out to others may be a really wonderful feeling, but accepting who we are is a lot more satisfying. Atleast to me, for now.

I dedicate this post to all the wonderful people who have made my journey possible.

I’m going to mention a few things that have helped get through this hard phase of mine, in the hopes that it might help someone else.

1) Don’t give up: There’s a beautiful saying, “After the darkest night comes the brightest dawn” . I was lucky enough to stumble onto this wonderful piece of wisdom at the onset of my most horrible years. I have clung onto that with everything I had and it has seen me through to the other side. It is a matter of holding on with everything you have and more and riding the storm. It will get better.

2) My Faith: The grace of God saved me from committing suicide. Slowly but surely I started to place my trust in the Almighty and was able to save myself from insanity. Whatever you believe in, Ram or Allah or Jesus or Nature or anything else, stick with it. Don’t let go of it just because you are having a hard time. Faith in something is better than no faith at all.

3) Find someplace to hibernate: One of the first things I did,was to move back home to the safety and comfort of my folk’s place. There is nothing like being somewhere, that gives you security and peace and warmth. And then hibernate. I would imagine I was a bear and that all the I had to do was sleep and eat and sleep again. And that’s what I did. For 3 months I did not leave my house other than very occasionally. I slept most of the time . I did feel like a bum, but I realised that my body, mind, soul and spirit needed it.

4) Try and look to the future: No matter how bad or dark or depressing the present is, it will not be the same way in the next month or year. It is very difficult to put ourselves in a positive frame of mind, but that’s what we must try to do. Positive thoughts and actions are so essential to help us move on and get through what we are going through right now.

5) Cheer yourself up: It is human nature to expect other people to cheer you up when you’re down. But for how long. Make an effort to get better yourself. Exercise, watch a dozen comedies,read a book, meditate, pray. Do whatever needs to be done to get yourself out of that sad and hopeless frame of mind. You are your own master. So act like it.

I hope this helps. Is there anything else that, you dear readers, have done that has helped? Do leave us a comment and let us know.

Orinam editors’ note: This is one of a series of articles on Orinam that discuss living and coping with depression. Also see Vinodhan’s essays Storms Without Warnings and Spells and Charms.  For readers who would like to learn more about coping with depression, a guide on mental health for LGBT people developed by Ireland’s Health Service Executive mental health project is available here. Additional resources are being developed by Orinam and will soon be available here.

Among other things, I am a rape survivor.

I take my fingers off the keyboard for a little while and read that statement a few times. I add a prayer that being able to say it out loud will help me move on; that the ghosts that have been brought back to life with full force after the recent discussions about rape will begin to calm down and vanish into oblivion.

For several years now, I have debated in my head how to talk about it without falling into the many traps that have been laid out en route: how do I talk about it without generating a victim narrative? How do I talk about it without making rape pornography out of it? How do I talk about it as a man without making it sound like I am elbowing for space with women?

I was gang-raped twelve years ago. The men even video-taped it.  I was eighteen years old.  I hooked up with someone online and went to meet him at an agreed spot. From there on, things unfolded at a bizarre speed. I do not want to go into the details.  But I want to say some things:

Every time a friend mentions gay porn, I shudder in that panic that the video of my rape might be circulating online.

I don’t feel safe among unknown men. My stomach tightens. I try to make sure I don’t appear feminine in any way. Over the years, I have censored my body for survival.  I fear on a daily basis for the safety of my genderqueer friends.

When the memories of my rape history are triggered, I am scared of sleeping alone. Even in my own home. I try and go to a friend’s place. Or lie awake on my bed. And so that I do not worry my parents with my gaunt and hunted look, I try to be cheery, and it takes humungous effort to be so.

I fear that if I speak about this, people will forget the rape and will only blame me for hooking up with a stranger, for wanting sex, for wanting sex with another man. I fear that I will have to deal with the blame on top of dealing with the bodily memories of violence.

Whenever my lover uses a little extra physical force during sex, I shut down and shrink into my shell. He might mean it in passion, but my body reads it differently. I cannot participate.

Even when it happens to a man, rape IS gendered violence. It happened to me, because I was feminine, because the men thought I deserved it for not acting like a man. Sometimes rape is inflicted on men just to shame them; to, supposedly, insult their masculinity. In whatever way it happens, it loops back to the question of gender. This is ONE of the reasons my politics is grounded in feminism. This is one of the reasons I am a feminist. I was one even before I was raped by men. I didn’t need this violent lesson to turn feminist. But if I was to live with it, I decided to make this experience of violence, which I now felt in my bones, an embodied site of my feminism. I don’t need it to be feminist. But since I have it, since I am unable to erase it, I have tried to make use of it to understand gendered violence, to understand body and performance, to understand myself and this world just a little bit more.  But I didn’t ask for the violence. And there is nothing redemptive in my attempts to utilize the experience for something else. It is simply my courage and will to move on.

Orinam editors’ note: If reading this account brings you or someone you know/love memories of similar experiences, please check out some of the resources we are compiling for survivors.