So I was delighted when Henry declared that the following month I was to go with Kavita to Delhi for a week, then travel alone to Calcutta to work for the next two weeks before returning to Bombay. The journey to Delhi went without a hitch. Having an Indian colleague accompany me was a boon. We could keep an eye on each other’s luggage, discuss things we would never talk about at home, and weather the storms of departure and arrival in a more relaxed fashion. I had known Kavita since my early days in India. A young mother of three, she was used to handling multiple demands but enjoyed being able to relinquish that responsibility from time to time. She cut a striking figure in her green and gold sari, with a red bindi between her eyebrows and the vermilion streak above her forehead. Her ability to switch back and forth between English and Hindi encouraged me to try the same. She would laugh at my attempts to direct taxi drivers and rickshaw-wallahs and wasn’t averse to correcting my mistakes. Occasionally, she’d surprise me with a flirtatious comment, but I had an odd feeling she felt comfortable doing this with me.
During my week in Delhi, we had a full schedule of appointments so I kept my personal activities to a minimum. I made sure my absences were not too conspicuous, especially with Tarabai hovering in the background.When we had to part company I was sorry to leave Kavita, but I was ready for time to myself that the overnight train journey to Calcutta would provide.
About 10 minutes before the Allahabad Express departed New Delhi station, a foreign woman appeared in the doorway of my compartment. In her early twenties and dressed in a maroon-flecked cotton dress that extended below her knees, she burst in on our all-male group with her brazen, youthful presence. Oh no, I thought. The last thing I wanted then was to make conversation with another foreigner.
‘Is C-35 in here?’ she asked, looking straight at me.
‘Er, yes, I think so,’ I replied.
I then noticed that seat space was occupied by a large man wearing a white dhoti.
‘Excuse me, sir, but I think you are in the young lady’s seat. Would you mind moving along a bit?’
He glowered at the latecomer then begrudgingly shuffled over slightly. Our new arrival wasted no time claiming what she regarded as rightfully hers.
‘Hi. I’m Mitzy,’ she said with an American accent.
‘I’m John,’ I replied, trying not to show my displeasure.
She ignored the other passengers and proceeded to chat with me.
‘Where are you heading?’ she inquired.
‘Calcutta.’
‘Me too!’ she cried, as though I had hit the jackpot.
‘Just my bloody luck,’ I thought.
I glanced up and caught the kurta-clad man in the corner opposite casting a lascivious look in her direction. One quick flash of his eye was enough to tell me that he shared the widespread belief among Indian men that all young foreign women were fair game for their sexual advances.
As she was about to resume speaking, the sound of glass hitting metal rang out, followed by ‘Thanda, thanda!’ A boy lugging a heavy bucket stood at the opening of our compartment and chimed ‘Limca, Thums Up.’
Without hesitating, Mitzy turned to me. ‘Would you like a drink? My treat.’
This was one of those questions to which ‘yes’ was the only possible answer. We’d hardly spoken to each other and here she was buying me a drink. Americans can be very forward, I thought. Not as circumspect as Europeans or as reticent as Australians. As we downed our cold drinks, she again seized the initiative.
‘So what are you doing in India?’
‘I’m with an international voluntary organization doing a village development project.’
‘What kind of development?’
‘We introduce villagers to a community decision-making process and help them come up with a blueprint for their future.’
‘That’s cool.’
I flinched as she uttered the word. It was such a vacuous cliché that I vowed never to use it.
‘How about you?’ I asked.
‘Oh, just bummin’ around. But I managed to land a job in Delhi on a film shoot for a foreign movie.’
‘Which film?’
‘The Far Pavilions. Do you know it?’
‘Sure do. It’s one of my favorite books. I bought it in London a couple of years ago and read it on the plane coming here. What exactly did you do?’
‘Nothing much. I was a wardrobe assistant and an extra in some of the crowd scenes.’
‘Did you get to know any of the cast?’
‘A little. The lead actors kept to themselves most of the time. I got to know one guy pretty well, though. He had his own car and driver. I really thought he liked me but it wasn’t quite like that.’
‘What do you mean?’
She began to shuffle her feet and turned towards me.
‘Let’s go out into the corridor. It’s stuffy in here.’
Before I had a chance to answer, she stood up and headed to the open door and I followed. She leaned against the window and looked me in the eyes.
‘The guy asked me to have dinner with him and even invited me to his trailer a couple of times. Then, one day one of the security men found him having sex with his driver in his car. Can you believe it? Indian men!’
I nearly dropped my Thums Up. Her revulsion at the thought of two men delighting in each other’s bodies caught me off guard. My imagination shot into overdrive as I drifted off to another place.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I hope I didn’t offend you by what I said.’
‘No, not at all,’ I replied. ‘I’ve heard that a lot of guys have sex with other men in India. They’re not necessarily gay. You must have seen them walking around holding hands.’
‘Weird if you ask me. Anyway, I’ve had enough of Indian men.’
How could I tell her I couldn’t get enough of them? Her last sentence hung there like a barrier between us, its implications yet to sink in.
As the train raced eastwards, the numbing afternoon heat ebbed away into early evening. While the other members of our compartment read or dozed, Mitzy tried valiantly to engage me in conversation. Eventually she wore me down and I told her I needed to take a nap. Pretending to be asleep, I stretched out my legs and let my head droop to one side. At one point, I was sure I felt Mitzy pushing against my leg in rhythm with the sway of the train. I gently repositioned my leg and pretended not to notice.
Next morning, as we approached Howrah station, I looked forward to parting company. But it soon became apparent that extricating myself from Mitzy’s clutches might not be quite so simple.
‘Where are you staying in Calcutta?’ she asked.
I told her about the crowded little house in a bustee alley that our staff rented.
‘Sounds fascinating,’ she said.
‘How about you?’
‘I’m checking into the Salvation Army hostel. Not quite the Grand you know, but it suits my budget.’
I knew we had to go close by the hostel in order to get to the bustee. I also knew how taxi drivers could rip off gullible foreigners, especially young women. So, as much as I wanted to be rid of Mitzy, I weakened and asked if she would like to share a taxi.
‘I’d really appreciate that, being my first time in Calcutta and all. Thanks a lot.’
As she alighted from the cab, she took out a purse from her backpack and offered me 10 rupees. At the same time, she pulled out a notebook and ripped out a page.
‘Why don’t you write down your phone number and address?’
Like a dog chewing its favorite bone, she was not about to let me go. I was going to tell her we didn’t have a phone, but knowing how unreliable Calcutta phones were, her chances of getting through were negligible. I scribbled down our number and address and gave it to her.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Been great to meet you. Hope to see you again. Take care.’
She picked up her backpack and headed for the hostel.
* * *
Monday night was ‘family nigh
t’ in our tightly ordered community life and since several foreigners were visiting our Calcutta office, we decided to all go out for dinner. Just as we were about to leave, the phone rang. It was Mitzy, asking if I would care to join her for dinner.
Since dropping her off at the hostel the morning before, I had shut Mitzy out of my mind. I told her I was about to go out with my colleagues, thinking this would terminate our conversation.
‘Mind if I join you?’ she asked.
‘Well, er, no, of course not. But you’ll have to get over here right away because we’re about to leave.’
‘Cool. Give me 15 minutes.’
Mitzy arrived just as we were still trying to find a taxi and introduced herself to my colleagues. I had explained to them how we’d met on the train but my words were met with a skeptical stare. She quickly ingratiated herself into our group, as we headed off to the leather tannery district, where I hoped to find a Chinese restaurant recommended to me by another train traveler. It was a huge gamble, but it paid off. After a hearty meal and lots of premium Calcutta beer, I was sure we were in for a hefty bill, but our Chinese host was adamant we were his guests and would accept no payment. The old Indian adage, ‘the guest is a god,’ seemed alive and well.
The night’s drama didn’t end when the taxi deposited us back in our bustee. Before I had the presence of mind to retain it, the taxi vanished into the darkness. Given how late it was, I felt obliged to accompany Mitzy back to her hostel. She insisted we take a rickshaw, something I’d vowed I would never do. But Mitzy was unrelenting, and given our options at this time of night, I caved in to her persistence.
As we bumped along in this flimsy contraption, our bodies rubbed against each other every time we hit a pothole or rattled over one of Calcutta’s ubiquitous tram tracks. When we pulled up outside the hostel I paid the driver substantially more than we had agreed, as if to assuage my guilt. As I was figuring out my parting line, Mitzy upstaged me.
‘Like to come in and see where I’m staying?’
‘Thanks, but I’d better be going.’
‘I have some imported Scotch.’
She wasn’t letting ‘no’ get in the way of her agenda.
‘I’m not much into whisky, especially after all that beer we had tonight,’ I said.
‘You know, I really appreciate what you did for me on the train and inviting me out tonight. Sure you won’t come up, even for a short while?’
I had one last card to play—my gay card. My mind tried to envision her possible responses if I did so. She might be offended I’d left it so long to mention it; she might feel I’d intentionally misled her and made her look a fool; she might get angry and make a scene. Then again, she might be apologetic and make me feel an idiot for holding back so long.
I decided not to risk discovering the answer and, in desperation, repeated my desire to return home. Grudgingly, she backed down and accepted that I was not going to join her. The look on her face was a cross between bewilderment and disgust. I had the distinct feeling I’d been lumped into the same subhuman category into which she had earlier discarded Indian men—either predatory beasts or wretched homosexuals. I probably deserved her wrath, but I vowed there and then I couldn’t go on like this. It was time to come out to people, primarily those closest to me whom I trusted and respected. But who and when and how?
* * *
Life has an uncanny way of answering your questions, and it was a Friday night at the US Marines Club in Calcutta that it chose to answer mine. By the time we arrived, ‘Thank God It’s Friday’ was in full swing. Sean and his American buddy made straight for the dart board, leaving Sandy and me to ourselves. The routines of community life and the intimate nature of our quarters didn’t lend themselves to private discussions, so when a chance presented itself we usually didn’t let it pass. Sandy reveled in such occasions.
I went to the bar to grab a couple of beers while Sandy claimed the one empty table in a quiet corner behind a potted palm. When I returned with our Heinekens, she looked me straight in the eye, shot me her toothy smile, and uttered what sounded like a well-rehearsed line.
‘You know, John, Sean and I have been puzzled by you, especially your comings and goings at night. We’ve talked about it a lot and decided you either work for the CIA or you’re gay. So which is it?’
Her candor caught me off guard. I looked at the palm tree, as if that would put words in my mouth, but as gracious as they are there are limits to what palms will do for you. Then, from somewhere within a voice said: ‘Go on. This is the conversation you’ve been dying to have. Don’t let it pass you by.’
Sandy could tell I was taken aback by her question and didn’t know how to respond. She leaned over, took my hand, and said, ‘It’s okay, you can trust me. Honestly. Tell me all about it.’
The floodgates opened and out poured the story of my undulating journey of discovery over the last two years. Some episodes I thought better not to reveal, and others I played down. I suspected there would be time later for more details. But I privately rejoiced in having at last found someone in whom I could confide. How lucky I was that this someone was so sympathetic and understanding.
As we talked, Sandy revealed that she had several gay and lesbian friends. She and Sean had spent a couple of weeks the previous August in the UK with her former boyfriend and his partner. She assured me that Sean had no issue with my being gay. My sexual orientation was my own affair and another manifestation of the uniqueness of the individuals who were part of their team. For the first time, my divergent worlds began to edge a little closer.
* * *
On my return to Bombay, I was surprised to find an aerogramme from a friend in Australia whom I hadn’t had contact with for several years. Graham and I went back to teenage days and our church youth group. Heavyset, with receding black hair and dark-rimmed glasses, he had been shy and diffident the first time we had met. His Anglo-Australian working-class accent made me wonder if he was fresh off the boat. Since the rest of us were about to head off to a coffee shop, I had asked him if he’d like to join us. Years later, he would remind me of that first meeting with a deep sense of gratitude. I was the only person who had made contact with him the whole evening.
Over the next few years, Graham and I rubbed shoulders off and on but found ourselves on separate tracks. I headed to university, while he had an assortment of jobs, before taking a course in culinary arts at a technology institute. I lost track of him until this letter mysteriously appeared in my mailbox. I opened it with a sense of intrigue. He had left Perth, joined the Institute in Sydney, and taken an assignment in Kenya with another village development project. He was leaving in a few weeks and would have stopovers in Singapore and Bombay. Would I be able to meet him and show him around? Fortunately, I happened to be in Bombay that week, so I gladly agreed. I also asked if he would buy me a replacement radio in Singapore, known for its cheap prices on electronic goods. His visit seemed fortuitous.
Graham’s arrival came at a time when we had a full house, but he had no problem sleeping on the roof, which some of us occasionally did during Bombay’s insufferable nights. The whole week Graham was with us I struggled with whether and how to tell him about my sexuality. Now that I had talked with Sandy, I was bursting to tell others too, but could I trust Graham with my secret? As the days slid by, the question grew in intensity.
During his brief stay, I wanted to give Graham the opportunity to contribute something to our community, as guests often did. Believing in his self-proclaimed reputation as a chef, I suggested we ask him to prepare an Australian-themed meal for our weekly roundtable, which was met with agreement. We settled on shepherd’s pie. Obtaining one of the key ingredients—keema or minced lamb—was a lesson in local culture Graham never forgot.
The day of the dinner, I led him downstairs and into Sankli Street. As we turned left at the gate, Charlie greeted us by waving his stump furiously in our direction, so I introduced Graham to him.
‘Mera d
ost Graham sahib, Australia se,’ I said.
Graham wasn’t sure how to respond but just as he was about to shower Charlie with a broad ‘G’day,’ I whispered in Graham’s ear.
‘Namastaiy,’ he said, stretching out the final vowel as only an Australian can.
‘Namaste,’ responded Charlie, waving his head enthusiastically from side to side.
I explained our shopping expedition and Charlie gave us his blessing as we headed in the direction of the butcher shops in the Muslim quarter.
Whenever I came down this way I made a point of stopping at my favorite juice stand and downing a glass of mango or guava. As much as I loved fresh fruit juice, it was the smart young man behind the counter who really slaked my thirst. His trim body and welcoming smile never failed to push my fantasy button. This day I decided to share my little fetish with Graham, without disclosing my hidden agenda. Between sipping drinks, I’d swear I caught him eyeing the juice-wallah.
After lingering as long as I could over our drinks, I slipped the juice-wallah an extra few rupees with my payment. The twinkle in his eye as he pocketed the money made it seem worth every paisa. Who knows what else he sold? A year ago, I wouldn’t have entertained the thought, but now I had begun to see potential sexual partners everywhere. I found young, working-class men particularly appealing. Was it their lack of pretence, absence of intellectual hang-ups, or sheer pragmatism when it came to sex?
As we walked out of the shop, Graham surprised me by saying, ‘Nice bloke, that juice guy.’
I nodded in agreement and pointed the way to the butcher’s alley. Flies skittered around sides of mutton hanging on hooks and rivulets of blood ran in roadside drains. Graham grabbed my arm.
‘This is where you buy meat?’
‘Sure is.’
‘You can’t be serious. You could die eating this stuff.’
‘Listen mate, there are so many ways you can die in India this one hardly rates.’
The meal went well, although I had second thoughts about having billed it as fine example of Australian cuisine. After dinner, I suggested we go downtown and check out a few places. Graham had gone off on his own during the day while I was working, but tonight was his last in Bombay, so it would be criminal not to go out together. We hopped in a taxi and headed for one of the city’s best known landmarks, the Gateway of India, adjacent to the Taj Palace Hotel. Built to commemorate the visit of King George V and Queen Mary to India, it was now overrun by hawkers and snake charmers, buskers and sex-workers.
The Boatman Page 10