The fundraising team I was a part of was comprised of Indians and foreigners of both sexes. The Indians were Hindu, Muslim and Christian, and the foreigners came from Australia, Canada and the US. All were under 35 years of age, some more experienced than others. We operated in teams in different parts of the country, although their members changed from time to time. I often partnered with young Indian men who had come from villages and who had to work hard to assert themselves in the sophisticated world of Indian business. When a foreigner and an Indian showed up in the office of a corporate executive, the foreigner was invariably shown more respect than his Indian colleague. Sometimes, the Indian was taken to be the foreigner’s assistant and treated accordingly. If one chair was available, it would be given to the foreigner. When tea was brought in, the foreigner would be served first. When questions were asked, they were almost always directed to the foreigner. I was continually searching for ways to counter these habits without offending the person whose support we were soliciting.
I knew some of these young men from earlier years when we had worked in villages together. Manoj and I had shared responsibility for a cluster of village projects in eastern Maharashtra. Day in and day out, battling the stifling heat and choking dust of the bone-dry landscape, we would buffet our way onto overcrowded State Transport buses, visit offices of the District Commissioner or the local Block Development Officer, and sleep side by side on the rock-hard, dung floor of a wattle-and-daub hut. We ate the same repetitive rice and dal, lived on the same paltry monthly stipends, and led village meetings together. I appreciated the huge leap it was for these young men to move from a familiar rural environment to the alien world of India’s cities, a world in which I felt more at home than they did.
Part of my respect for them led me to draw a firm line in the sand when it came to my sexual interests. Although some of my young colleagues were attractive, I never allowed myself to imagine them as sexual partners, let alone act upon such feelings. It was as if we were brothers or cousins in a large, extended family and as such, sexual intimacy was not an option. I was also aware of the cultural gap that existed between villager and urban dweller, especially in matters like homosexuality. I never expected my village colleagues to understand what it would mean to be a gay man in India, since they’d probably never known one. Besides, I was finding more than ample opportunities for making friends outside the organization.
Living life in two fast lanes simultaneously, I wasn’t always aware of the subtle shifts taking place around me. Whether due to naiveté or denial, I carried on with my double life as though no one noticed or cared, neither of which I would discover was true. Perhaps that is why I never questioned why I began to be assigned to work more with the female members of our team, particularly the Indian women. I liked them; we enjoyed life on the road together and made an unusual team that intrigued those we met. There was no question of me posing a threat to their womanhood—undoubtedly a significant consideration for Henry while allocating assignments. It may also have been his way of trying to divert me from the wayward path he was convinced I was on. In our first year of working and living together, Henry and I had managed to coexist on mutually agreeable terms but midway through our second year, the strain of thin-skinned toleration began to show.
One event may well have hastened our inevitable confrontation. It was mid-morning and our team was gathered in our office to report on recent trips around the country. Sushila entered the room and announced that Henry had visitors at the front door. Not one to be deflected from his task, he told her to ask them to wait for a few minutes until we took a break. When he eventually went to greet these mysterious visitors, he returned right away with a frown on his forehead and made straight for me.
‘It’s you they want to see,’ he said curtly. ‘Some friends of yours from Calcutta.’
The disingenuous way he said ‘friends’ caused me to seize up. Given my growing array of contacts in Calcutta, these friends could have been any number of people, although I was careful about revealing my Bombay address. As I made my way to the front porch, my stomach turned over in anxious anticipation. At first, I didn’t recognize our two guests. Then it came to me. I had met the younger man at the Calcutta maidan several months before and we’d had a fleeting sexual affair. He was unemployed and said he had relatives in Bombay, and was thinking of coming here in search of work. In a moment of magnanimity, I had offered to try to help him. His was a common story, so I’d paid little attention to it at the time. I couldn’t even recall his name. I had never dreamed that he would show up on my doorstep and certainly didn’t think he would bring a family member in tow. It felt like I was caught in a vise of my own making.
‘You said you would help me find a job in Bombay,’ my young friend remarked, cutting to the chase. Then glancing at his companion, he added, ‘My uncle said he would like to meet you.’
‘Namaste,’ I said, with a polite nod to the older man. ‘Does your uncle understand English?’
‘Thoda thoda,’ he replied.
For this I was grateful, because I feared I might be in for quite a grilling. I wasn’t sure whether this conversation was actually about helping my friend find a job or his attempt to blackmail me over our sexual liaison, should I not deliver on my promise.
I apologized for not being able to offer them chai and made excuses about having to return to my meeting, all the while groping for a way to get them to leave as quickly as possible.
‘What kind of job are you looking for?’ I asked.
‘Office job.’
‘What qualifications do you have?’
‘B. Com,’ he mumbled.
Bachelors of Commerce in India were a dime a dozen. He was competing with millions of others in the labor market and without some kind of clout there was little chance he would reach even the lowest rung of the corporate ladder. He was hoping I might provide that clout. As I was about to respond, one of my team members entered the porch.
‘Henry is asking for you,’ she said, eyeing my two visitors suspiciously.
‘Tell him I’ll be right there.’
This provided me with the out I was looking for. I promised the young man I would do my best to see if anyone I knew had an opening for him, but asked him not to return. I also asked him for his uncle’s address and phone number so I could initiate further contact.
‘I’ll get in touch with you in a week,’ I promised blithely.
The older man looked surprised that this was the end of our meeting. Obviously, his nephew had led him to expect more. I hoped this would be the last I would see of his uncle but I had my doubts. Exactly what had the young man told him about me? Would I regret our liaison and my glib offer of assistance? I would need to be much more careful in future. I stood up, namasted, and walked back into our office.
Try as I might to pretend that this was merely an annoying interruption, I couldn’t help think otherwise. I began to wonder what kind of rumors had been circulating about me behind my back. How much did others suspect or know about my other life? As I sat down at the table and tried to refocus on the task at hand, Henry shot me a look that had ‘gotcha’ smeared all over it.
* * *
Going to Delhi from Bombay was like visiting another country, especially New Delhi, with its grand boulevards, monumental buildings and spacious shopping centers. Old Delhi was more of the same—serpentine alleyways, snarling traffic, and ancient bazaars where cinnamon incense and marigold garlands stood side by side with bags of basmati rice and mounds of golden turmeric. New Delhi, on the other hand, afforded certain luxuries that made the laborious overnight journey from Bombay worth the effort. Its proximity to the Punjab, home of India’s green revolution, meant that milkshakes replaced milk rations and dairy products like cheese and ice-cream were readily available. The apple orchards of nearby Himachal Pradesh supplied the capital with fresh juice that was like nectar of the gods during the blasting heat of north Indian summers. And the rich chocolate-brown dal s
erved in Delhi restaurants was a welcome change from the familiar yellow and red pulses that were a staple of our Maharashtrian diet.
It was August 1982, and with many staff members away at annual meetings work was at a low ebb, so I requested a week off to get to know the country’s capital city, despite the scorching heat. I had been to Delhi several times but had had little chance to familiarize myself with its historic sites and national landmarks. Moreover, I had by now accumulated an impressive list of local referrals from gay friends around the country and was keen to become acquainted with them. In a letter to my mother shortly after my return to Bombay, I reported that I had ‘got to know a bunch of new friends’ but spared her the details of who, where and how. I didn’t dare mention my frequent sorties to a large park adjacent to the diplomatic enclave, my tryst with a handsome medical student in his hostel room, or sharing a charpoy with another young man on the rooftop of his family home. It was a sensual fiesta that left me drooling for more. The dry summer heat only stoked my internal fires. By day, I added to my knowledge of India’s prolific cultural heritage by probing the many layers of its history. By night, I hit the streets and parks.
But this was not all. The visit cracked the illusion I had developed that my sexual adventuring went unnoticed by others. It also revealed how amazingly interconnected the Indian gay community was, given its amorphous and secluded nature and its vast numbers. This came to me one evening at Connaught Place, a circular park in the heart of New Delhi and a popular gay hangout known to regulars as ‘The Club’. I had done several rounds of the park and failing to find anyone who caught my eye, was about to leave when I noticed a figure hovering in the shadows of a clump of nearby trees. Now and then he would look in my direction, as if trying to catch my attention. We played cat and mouse while I decided whether or not to approach him. He finally took the decision out of my hands as he turned and came straight towards me.
‘Is your name John?’ he asked.
‘Ah…yes,’ I replied, wondering how on earth he could know.
‘You are from Bombay?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Is your telephone number there 374921?’
I was stunned. Who was he? A private investigator? Plain-clothes CID? My heart began to thump.
‘How do you know me?’
‘I don’t, but I’ve been trying to track you down for the past week,’ he said with a sense of accomplishment. ‘I was in Bombay and met a good friend of yours, Satish. He suggested we might enjoy getting to know each other so he gave me your number. When I phoned your place in Bombay, I was told you had gone to Delhi and was given your office number. I had to come here on family matters, so I tried calling you but your phone was out of order. When a friend said he’d heard that a gay foreigner from Bombay was visiting Delhi, I thought this was the most probable place to find you.’
I was flabbergasted. More than 10 million people in Bombay and over half that many in Delhi, and we just happened to run into each other, thanks to the gay grapevine. I felt uncomfortably conspicuous as I never had before in India. My name and reputation had begun to spread in ways that baffled and unnerved me. Any notion I had of anonymity had been shown the door. I berated myself for my lack of discretion, and made a mental note for the future. It was a timely caution, and one I needed to take heed of.
My emerging notoriety in India’s vast gay underground was one thing. Of greater concern to me was the fact that my nightly sprees had begun to attract the attention of colleagues. I was aware of Henry’s growing antagonism towards me, but I had no idea that other staff members also had qualms about my extra-curricular activities. One of these was Tarabai, the senior Indian woman in our Delhi office, a compact stone-and-plaster house that served as our base. During my next visit there, I was fortunate to be given a small room facing the courtyard at the back of house, which afforded me a little privacy from most of the staff. I quickly saw the advantage of this location and wondered how I might put it to good use.
On my first Saturday night there, our staff were invited to a reception at the Dutch Embassy, a prominent donor to our work in India. Tarabai insisted that I accompany them. Normally, I would not have passed up the chance to enjoy tasty European hors d’oeuvres and down a few cold Heinekens, but on this occasion I had a more enticing choice on my menu. Ravindra, a robust Punjabi who worked as a trainee manager in a five-star hotel, had told me it was his night off and we had agreed to meet. I planned to wait until the rest of the staff had left for the embassy and then bring Ravindra back to my room. I knew he couldn’t stay over but most probably he would be gone before my colleagues returned.
‘You are going to join us at the reception tonight,’ said Tarabai, half-answer, half-question.
‘Well, actually, I have other plans,’ I replied. ‘A friend has invited me out to dinner. Sorry.’
‘It would be really good for you to be there. The Dutch have been one of our major supporters and have been most useful opening doors for the exposition also.’
‘That’s true, but I don’t have the main contact with them. The Delhi staff have cultivated the relationship. I’d be just another face.’
‘Not just another face. I think you’d be a very helpful face. We could do with some other nationalities than Indians and Americans around here.’
She wasn’t backing down, so I needed to play a different card. I decided to go for a feint and save my thrust for later.
‘Well, I’ll think about it. My friend asked me to dinner some time ago and I don’t wish to disappoint him. He’s also extremely interested in our work and would like to help in some way.’
I’m not sure where my last sentence came from, although there was a tiny shred of truth in it. But once I’d said it, it planted an idea in my mind. I called Ravindra and told him my predicament. He offered to cancel our date but I was adamant he didn’t. Instead, I asked him to come to our place earlier than we had planned so I could introduce him to our staff.
‘You sure that’s a good idea?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes, once they meet you and see that you are genuinely interested in what we do, they will not be so suspicious, not even Tarabai.’
My trust in others’ good faith knew no bounds. By taking the offensive and introducing my friend to my colleagues, I felt sure Tarabai would stop insisting I come to the reception. She could hardly demand that I renege on my guest in front of him.
When Ravindra arrived, smartly dressed in a dark blue Nehru shirt, I knew he would make a good impression. He was polite and articulate with his smooth, educated English. Management training in the hotel trade had left its mark on him. He engaged Tarabai in conversation rather than waiting for her to ask the questions. What more could I have hoped for? When it came time for our staff to leave for the embassy, I made my move.
‘If you’ll excuse us now, we must be going,’ I addressed the group.
‘You sure you won’t join us?’ came Tarabai’s final riposte. ‘Ravindra would be welcome too.’
I thought I had outsmarted her but she was calling checkmate. I looked at Ravindra and he looked back at me. He could see I was desperate and came to my rescue.
‘Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I cannot stay. I have arranged for us to have dinner with a friend and then I must go home.’
He was brilliant. I waited until all the staff had left before returning to Ravindra in the courtyard. I led him by the hand to my nook of a room and locked the door.
Tarabai’s unusually persistent manner bothered me. Surely, it wasn’t my presence at a run-of-the-mill social function that was the issue. Such events were a regular part of the Delhi scene, even for non-governmental organizations like ours. There had to be more to it. Colleagues would comment on my ability to make contacts outside the organization and win them over to our cause. But Tarabai’s reaction to Ravindra was different. It was as though she would go to any length to ensure we didn’t spend time alone together.
* * *
; I would make other trips to Delhi, but more often I found myself assigned to Calcutta, on the eastern edge of the country. Situated on the lower reaches of the Ganges, this one-time jewel in the British colonial crown had disintegrated into an urban miasma that defied imagination. Crowds gathered daily in one of the main public squares to stare in fascination as hundreds of rats scurried about in their burrowed colony. Rickshaw-wallahs did battle with Ambassador taxis, bullock carts, scooters and pedestrians along potholed streets. The dissonance of blaring horns, shrieking voices and bellowing animals was punctuated by the frequent clanging of bells, as ancient trams shuffled their way from one corner of the city to another, devouring their human cargo at one stop and spewing it out at the next. Subject to constant power outages, sweltering humidity and deluging monsoon rains, it was a city that, to a naïve outsider, had ceased to function at all. Mother Teresa and the Eden Gardens cricket ground notwithstanding, the city attracted little outside attention. But for native Bengalis, Calcutta was that without which life would not be worth living. For me, after the initial shock and disorientation had subsided, it became a most precious place.
While the city center left much to be desired, the surrounding suburbs dotted with parks and lakes offered a welcome alternative. But it was in the congested backstreets of Calcutta’s sprawling bustees where the poorer and less fortunate lived, that the city’s heartbeat could be most easily felt. As a hand-painted billboard proudly proclaimed, ‘Calcutta Lives on Calcutta Itself.’ This indomitable spirit was evident throughout the bustees. Thousands of local self-help organizations, from English classes to papadam kitchens, sprouted in homes and sheds along the alleyways. It was on one of these lanes that our staff of several families rented the downstairs of a two-story house that doubled as our office and residence. Taxi drivers were always surprised when delivering international visitors to our lane. No foreigner, except perhaps volunteers for the Sisters of Charity and the odd drug-addicted soul, would live in such a place. In spite of our oddity, we came to be accepted as part of this community. It was a short walk to nearby Park Circus market with its cheap restaurants and shops selling sweet curd and syrupy rasgulla that few Bengalis could resist.
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