Masculine affection

One thing that I’ve absolutely grown to adore in India is the friendly display of affection between men. In complete contrast to our own societal views, men have no qualms about nonchalantly taking the hand of their friend as they stroll the chaotic streets. It’s such a gentle, warm, humanistic sight amongst the urban bedlam. It’s almost protective, too, as if they are trying to shield their comrade from racing rickshaws and the periodic cow.

Back in Bengaluru, I found myself shaking the hand of a teacher. As they often tend to do here, it naturally transformed into interlocked hands as he questioned the certification process in the States. There we were. Two men. Two teachers. Surrounded by students. Holding hands. Ironically, it was I who became uncomfortable and I who awkwardly broke away. It was a stark reminder how thick our cultural lenses with which we view the world are.

As Mangala had mentioned to me, being gay in India isn’t even within the scope of possibilities. Many would debate me on this, I’m sure, but it’s almost like homophobia doesn’t exist because having a phobia assumes that you have recognized the existence of something and consequently feel threatened. In other words, arachnophobia wouldn’t exist without spiders, so since homosexuality “doesn’t exist,” neither does homophobia. Showing affection towards your same-sex counterpart, therefore, is just that. Friends being friendly. Isn’t it simultaneously refreshing and scary? Refreshing in that men aren’t afraid to show warmth, but scary that millions are living unfulfilled lives. As one American expat living in Mumbai told me, “The best part about moving here is that I can be whoever I want to be. Except gay.” Sex between men was illegal here until last year. “A landmark ruling,” to which I’ve heard it referred, overturned that remnant of conservative colonialism, but a public decree does not a culture change.

I knew that somewhere there had to be some secretive backdoor enclave of gay life, whatever that means. (Side note: I hate phrases like “gay life,” “gay scene,” and “gay culture” because they imply such homogeneity – Hahaha. Homogeneity of homos. That makes me giggle. – but that’s another issue, so I’ll use these flawed phrases for ease’s sake.) Mumbai, I figured, would be the best place to search since it seemed to be the most socially liberal (owing to the fact that bars are a common sight – not the case elsewhere), as well as the fact that it’s reputed to be the center of nightlife. Clubs abound. Apparently. So, who do you ask?

Duh. Google.

Here’s an experiment. Think of a major city around the world. New York City. Mexico City. Tokyo. London. Shanghai. Now type that place into the search bar followed by the word “gay.” How many sites pop up? Now try it with Bombay. Compare. Here are my results with the aforementioned cities:

NYC: 15,000,000
Mexico City: 8,060,000
Tokyo: 3,320,000
London: 26,900,000
Shanghai: 2,200,000
Bombay: 787,000

Telling, huh? With the exception of one bookstore tucked in the suburbs, there isn’t a single establishment whose business is primarily aimed at the gay population. From a purely capitalist perspective, this blows my mind. Let’s think in numbers, shall we? Of course there is no way to tell how many LGBT people there are in the world, but the oft used number is ten percent. Let’s just say that is a shockingly high number and go instead with five. With a population of 20 million+ in Greater Mumbai, we’re talking a million people. Let’s cut out a third as being minors. 666,000. Now, let’s assume that half don’t have the financial resources to spend at gay bars, bookstores, cafes, etc. 333,000 people. That’s huge. Of course, this is a totally bogus number because it completely ignores the larger cultural constructs that I already mentioned. It’s still interesting to let that number mentally marinate. If there were to be a gay bar/club, how many people would turn up?

A couple hundred it turns out. An organization named Gay Bombay was started to provide safe and open dialogue, as well as organize events. As luck would have it, there was a planned soiree the Saturday I was there. The gay fairy (haha) doubly blessed me as the planned locale was within walking distance of my hotel. I even went out and bought some jeans. That’s right, Mumbai. I was trying to make myself look good.

Before going, I browsed a few websites dedicated to Mumbai nightlife which made it sound like I was going to walk into some multilevel Bollywood version of Studio 54. There would be martinis. There would be famed DJs. There would be a reporter from Time Out.

There wasn’t.

It was a tiny hole of a place, two rooms, suggestive of a parent’s basement perhaps. Everything – the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the seating – was painted black. A few colored light bulbs flashed sporadically and a single green laser shot out from the diminutive DJ booth precariously perched above the dance floor.

I felt oddly comfortable, though. Clearly I’d never been there but I had this sensation of déjà vu. As I parked myself against some tacky mirrored wall, I tried to pick apart the feeling. Why was I standing there giddily smiling?

Madison, Wisconsin. Club Five. 2000. I was twenty years old. Yep – it felt exactly like that. See, Darren or Eric and I would drive an hour and half from Milwaukee to get to this dump of a gay club on the outskirts of Madison. They had underage night on some obscure night – Tuesday, maybe? We’d try to pass as being over 21 to get on the drinking side. If that didn’t work, we had some weird system of passing the magical bracelet that said you were of age. If that failed, too, we’d just dance the night away on the underage side. I don’t even know where we slept when we went. Maybe on the floor of some acquaintance’s apartment? Did we drive back to Milwaukee afterwards? Who the hell knows. What I do know, though, is that there was this vibrancy in the air there. Young men and women had found this beacon of a place where they could dance stupidly, wear ridiculous clothes that took hours to select, flirt shamelessly, maybe get a phone number, and just generally feel comfortable. It was liberating. For many, it was the first time they found people who felt like they did. As shallow and hedonistic as the “bar scene” may be, it was a formative place for many.

As I watched souls of all ages – 18? 60? Did it really matter? – enter this happy shack of a place in Mumbai, it was the same sentiment. There was hugging. There were animated stories. There was that gregarious twink unabashedly flailing about to some remix. Everyone here had found that same safe space that I had found in Club Five. Just like I had come of age in Madison, it seemed like all of Mumbai was coming of age here. It was a step in the right direction – a pretty big one if you think about it, one that stepped away from years of total denial of the LGBT population.

I ended up having an amazing evening after I let myself cave into my much younger self again. I drank. I danced. I chatted. I stayed until 2:00 am – which, for those of you know me, is a big deal. Normally this 29-going-on-83 year old is happily tucked in bed at that point. Someone even asked me if I wanted company for the night. Ooh la la. The 20 year old me, giddy on booze and possibility, might have said yes, but the older me, giddy on the thought of sleep, politely declined. I can only hold onto my early adult years for so long, right?

I have such amazing respect for each individual who showed up that night. Bless you. May you somehow find a freedom and a comfort to just be you. I wonder, though, as the number of courageous souls living openly increases how manifestations of amicable affection in India might change. I hope they won’t. Perhaps India will succeed where the Western world has failed. Maybe India will continue to be uniquely India and two men – whether they be friends or lovers – will simply be able to meander hand in hand.