A professor of English at the University of Pune, a renowned writer, and one of India’s leading gay-rights activists, Dr R Raj Rao describes the changing face of homosexuality in India

In The Early ‘80s
This is the story of Dilip and Philip. Set in India of the early ‘80s. They met in a college hostel. And fell crazily in love. It was a love that dare not speak its name. But they took risks. First they met on weekends. Then everyday. Soon they wanted to spend each hour, each minute in each other's company.

To the world, of course, they were just friends. Dilip was a student, Philip a young teacher. Dilip flunked his exams. And his family and friends pointed fingers at Philip. He wasted his friend's time. Took his mind off studies. True, he was a teacher. But he taught Philosophy while Dilip did Engineering.

So they used brute force. And separated the lovers. Philip was wounded. Depression took hold of him. He couldn't live without his soul mate. Suicide was the only way out. But he didn't have the guts. Somehow he pulled on, and lapsed into a state of silence.

His parents grew worried. They wanted him to talk his heart out. And Philip did. He told them exactly what happened. But he changed Dilip’s name. To Dipti, a girl who ditched him. The parents understood. Instantly, instinctively. The jilted lover is a familiar category. They rallied round him and provided all the emotional support he needed to regain his spirits. Friends and relatives did the same. Dilip liked that. It made him feel better. He lied to more and more people. The world provided comfort. Solace. But when he was alone in his room, Philip broke down. He cried inconsolably for Dilip, as if he were dead. Why did Philip lie? Because if he spoke the truth, if he let the world know that the beloved he was pining for, actually belonged to his own sex, they would find him a place in the lunatic asylum. Or so he thought.

Cut To The Late ‘90s
There are many young men like Philip.

But, they say, we do not have to perform a sex-change operation on our lovers. Major Indian cities have support groups. Here we meet kindred souls with whom we can be ourselves. Without inventing an alibi. Some of these even provide shelter to distraught men thrown out of their houses. Then we have ‘Bombay Dost’, a pioneering newsletter.

We write our own stories here, and read the stories of those like us. We also have the equivalent of the Times' matrimonial columns! Yes, we can advertise for partners in ‘Bombay Dost’. Thank you, Ashok Row Kavi.

But this is not all. Cruising — vital to gays in an unstructured world — has itself become more sophisticated. Less hazardous. Philip cruised in parks and loos. We cruise in gay bars and on the Internet, where we are less likely to meet agent provocateurs.

Who pretend to be in love with us, then beat us up and strip us of our cash. We've also divided ourselves into groups: Lesbians, gays, kotis, MSMs (men who have sex with men). This, because not all five fingers are the same. But we have developed a new political term that describes us at one go — queer. It's a word that is telling the world that we derive our very identity from our sexuality. Some of us introduce our partners to parents and office colleagues.

Newspapers and satellite television have somehow made them aware. Take the case of Nishit Saran, a gay filmmaker who made "Summer In My Veins". Aged 22, he died tragically in a car crash on Delhi's diabolic roads. But his mother has stepped forward and become a sort of crusader for gay rights. Exactly like the mother in Mahasweta Devi's "Hazar Chaurasi Ki Ma", who discovered her son was a Naxalite. Life imitates art...

Miles To Go...
But it isn't a Utopian universe still. There are miles to go before we sleep. We cannot marry our lovers even if we want to. Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code calls all intercourse that is non-vaginal "carnal" and "unnatural". And makes it a crime. We don't have vaginas. Hence, we can't even declare publicly that so-and-so is our lover. Because then the law (and neighbours) would send us to jail. Homophobia (irrational fear of homosexuals) is still around.

People bitch about us, so what if it's behind our backs. Others tell us there are no homosexuals in India, that it isn't a part of "our culture". Rather, it's been imported from the West, like drugs and Valentine's Day. Worst of all, we are expected to get married. To women! And sire kids. After all, all unmarried women in India are “whores”, unmarried men “pimps”. So we satisfy society and our families. We get married. And are pushed into leading schizophrenic double lives.

Making out with our wives by day and boyfriends by night. Or boyfriends by day and wives by night. But even if our wives discover our secret lives, they aren't likely to dump us. First, because they do not want to become unmarried women all over again. Second, because male lovers in India are not the same as mistresses. They're our ‘yaars’. ‘Yaari’ is supposed to be a mixture of friendship and love — in every sense.

They let us carry on, in gay abandon. That's the fun of living in India. Anarchy ensures that anything goes. We dream of the day when people getting married can be legitimately asked: Boy or girl? Exactly the way we ask the dads and moms of newborn kids: Boy or girl?

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