The Boatman

by John Burbidge

  As soon as we arrived, I was surprised to run into a group of friends from the Bandstand. I had decided to bypass this regular hangout to avoid any awkward scenes, but I hadn’t counted on this. Akbar, a tall, sharp-featured guy dressed in a finely pressed kurta, noticed me getting out of the taxi and came towards me. I introduced Graham to him and he led us over to his companions. Not sure of Graham’s interests, they deftly skirted around the subject of sex, while their eyes darted here and there to see who they could pick among the crowd. I wasn’t sure how long we could keep up this façade, so I bid them farewell and took Graham for a walk along the seawall before heading to the hotel for coffee. It wasn’t until the next day I realized how much I had underestimated my Australian friend.

  Unlike me, Graham had resources of his own, and so he wasn’t at the mercy of our stipend system. I knew Graham had a generous streak, so I wasn’t surprised when he insisted on taking me out for lunch at the revolving restaurant on top of the Ambassador Hotel before he left for the airport. After our third glass of beer and second plate of frog’s legs in garlic sauce, I realized Graham had an agenda and intended to stick to it. He kept dragging up stories about our past and plying me with questions about my life. Did I have any plans to get married? Was I making out with any women? What did I do for fun these days? The more he pushed and probed, the more I sensed him trying to get closer to the truth. I decided to take the plunge.

  ‘Well Graham, since you seem to be keen to know all about me, there is something I want to tell you that I’ve only told two other people. I’m gay.’

  ‘I knew it!’ he said, banging his fist on the table.

  I had to grab my beer glass to stop it falling over.

  ‘If only you’d told me when we went out on the town that night in Sydney, I would have taken you to some quite different places mate!’

  My mind flashed back to a September night two years before. It was close to my birthday, and Graham was living in Sydney at the time. He insisted on taking me to one of the city’s finest hotels for dinner, then on to King’s Cross and several strip clubs. By 2.30 in the morning, I could barely stand up and made my way home, leaving Graham to his own devices. If only I’d known about myself at that time. Then somewhere in my brain a connection occurred.

  ‘So you’re gay too, are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Takes one to know one.’

  At that, I picked up my glass and he followed suit.

  ‘Cheers mate. Now we really have something to celebrate.’

  As I mouthed the words, my eyes moistened. I couldn’t believe it. First Sandy and now Graham, both within a couple of weeks. I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. After two years of floundering to uncover who I was, I had finally found two people who seemed to understand what drove me to take such risks and who affirmed me for doing so. Within a short time, I would come to know of others—an entire network I never knew existed.

  * * *

  Unknown to me, since that evening at the Marines Club, Sandy had been sleuthing behind the scenes and had discovered another staff member in Chicago who was gay. Unlike me, he had been out to himself and certain members of the organization for some years but I had never heard of him. As soon as Sandy told me, I dashed off a letter to him. I could hardly believe it—another gay colleague. I had naively assumed that I was one of a kind in our organization. How had he managed to deal with his sexuality and stay part of the Institute? Did he know of others who were gay? Did they communicate with one another? I had oodles of questions to ask, apart from my own story to tell, so I wrote a long letter and asked a colleague returning to Chicago to act as courier to make sure it arrived safely.

  In the meantime, I couldn’t wait to continue my conversations with Sandy. Her willingness to listen and her unconditional acceptance of my being gay overwhelmed me. Moreover, she came across as genuinely concerned about my well-being. Her natural inquisitiveness and bubbly style endeared her to many. She could coax information out of a mute and seemed to delight in doing so. Yet I never had the impression she did this out of any puerile motives.

  Opportunities to visit Calcutta increased in the first few months of 1983. In May, when the marriage season was in full swing and the mercury was on a steady rise, I spent three weeks in the city. As much as I longed to stay, this time I couldn’t wait to return to Bombay to see if there might be a reply to my letter.

  As soon as I arrived, I went straight to the mailboxes and collected the sheaf of letters awaiting me. The amount of correspondence bordered on embarrassing, most of it the light blue ‘inland’ letters. When someone remarked that I received a lot more mail than anyone else, I wondered how many others had also noticed and what questions it might have raised. I dreaded the possibility that one day someone might let curiosity get the better of them and open my mail in my absence.

  I grabbed my bundle of letters, sat down in the office, and sorted through it. Most could wait until morning, but one could not. It was handwritten and postmarked Chicago. I stared at the sender’s name. It was not from Jack, the person I had written to, but from another colleague named Barry, whom I had vaguely heard of. I tore it open and read it half aloud, so as not to miss a single word.

  He began with an apology for having read a letter not addressed to him but explained that he and Jack were close friends and since Jack was on assignment in Central America, he was collecting his mail and thought I might wonder why I didn’t hear back from him. Furthermore, a colleague in Bombay had written to another friend of theirs in Chicago, Elena, tipping her off that I was gay and asking her advice on how to deal with my situation. Elena had passed on the news to Barry, so when he saw my name on the envelope he felt compelled to open the letter.

  At first I thought it strange that I should write a confidential letter to one person and receive a reply from another. But the more Barry explained who he was, his relationship with Jack and Elena, and conversations they had been having as gay members of the organization, the more grateful I was that he had seized the initiative to respond. I was stunned to discover there were others grappling with the same questions I was. They were delighted to find another colleague half a world away and in a vastly different cultural milieu, whom they could welcome to join them. It had the feel of a secret cadre within the party ranks.

  I sat in the sweltering stillness, staring at the letter in my hand. Outside, the raging traffic had subsided to a trickle, with an occasional tinkle of a bicycle bell and blast of a taxi horn. I turned off the light and pondered the synchronicity of it all. Was it merely chance that a little over two years ago I had picked up that sexology magazine? Was it happenstance that I decided one Sunday afternoon to head down to Chowpatty Beach? Were the beatings and muggings I had endured trials sent to test my decision? And what of my confrontation with Henry, that brought my two worlds clashing together? I felt as though I only had to take that initial step, then let some mysterious force lead me onward. Although my destination was far from clear, I knew I was on a journey that could redefine my life. There was a sense of urgency about that journey, for at 33 years of age I felt like an athlete in a long-distance race, lagging far behind the leaders with a lot of ground to make up.

  Now that I had revealed my hand, I began to find new momentum. As soon as Jack returned to Chicago and read my letter, he wrote straight back. His fluent handwriting and upbeat style suggested someone who knew what he wanted out of life and was determined to get it. As I eagerly read his letter, I was enthralled by his story. Since his undergraduate days in Minnesota, he had been connected with the Institute and often visited its neighborhood project in the Chicago ghetto. After three years as a Peace Corps volunteer in El Salvador, he had joined the Institute in Minneapolis, whose leaders understood he was gay. They treated him with respect and gave him major program responsibilities, while he continued to lead an active gay life outside the community. Given that this was the mid-1970s and that questions of sexual orientation were rarely discussed, his was
a bold move. It would be another decade before such questions would be forced out into the open within the organization.

  But Jack’s experiences weren’t always so positive. When reassigned to another location in a more conservative part of the country, its fundamentalist Southern Baptist director stated publicly one day that he was kicking Jack out because he was a goddamn queer. Being fluent in Spanish, Jack soon found his services in demand in the Institute’s emerging development projects in South America. His amiable and energetic style won him many friends among villagers and staff alike, but local mores and a strong Latino macho tradition demanded he put his sexual life on hold—at least while in the village. Cities were another matter, with temptations and dangers of their own.

  From his experience with the Institute over a number of years, Jack had come to several conclusions. With the one exception, he had never been mistreated by people who knew he was gay, but it was patently clear that the subject was off limits. No one ever talked to him about it or asked what he thought about it in relation to the goals and values of the organization. He always suspected that the Institute’s tolerance of his homosexuality was contingent on him conducting that part of his life outside its sphere of influence. Within the community, it was assumed he had to be asexual. Moreover, in public meetings he had had to endure homophobic remarks and anti-gay jokes, while those who knew he was gay remained silent.

  Jack predicted it would be many years before the Institute would take an affirmative stance towards homosexuality, and he wasn’t willing to wait that long. He wrote, ‘I will be 36 next month and am not looking forward to living a single life much longer … Staying around and helping in the healing process is a price I’m not willing to pay.’ I was both proud of his stance and saddened by his decision. Meanwhile, Jack, Barry and Elena had discussed my situation and were convinced I must come to Chicago in July for our annual global leadership meeting, with the expectation that I would be reassigned there afterwards. They planned to present the issue of gay and lesbian participation in the organization at a major staff gathering in Chicago the following year, and wanted me to work with them on it.

  Their request sent me into a tailspin. While I was excited at the prospect of being a part of this new and groundbreaking proposal, the thought of leaving India in six weeks seemed preposterous. I was not ready for it. Preparations for the exposition were surging ahead and I was intimately involved in many of the details. I couldn’t conceive not being in India when the event unfolded the following February. But most of all, I didn’t feel ready to abandon the many gay friends I had acquired. I still had much more exploring to do. I was a slow starter but a strong finisher and in my journey of sexual discovery I was nowhere near the finish line yet. Over the next few weeks, letters from Jack, Barry and Elena filled my mailbox, each begging me to join them in ‘the Lavender League.’ Barry was a member of a group working on staff assignments and could arrange my transfer. I only had to say yes.

  But I could not bring myself to do so. ‘I’ll cry if I have to leave here, I’m so attached,’ I wrote in a letter to a friend. ‘India is a very, very human society. Relationships are key and people are so responsive.’ What’s more, I had become so enamored with Indian men that other nationalities didn’t interest me. It took years before this changed; in some ways it never did. Feeling like a traitor to the cause, I resolved to stay in India. When a packet of articles arrived from Barry, along with an imploring letter, I was tempted to give in to his pressure. Instead, I came up with a compromise plan, that had me arriving in Chicago the following January, after stopovers in Australia to visit my mother and in New Zealand to see Jeremy. Jack’s first letter to me had raised serious questions about whether I wanted to stay with the Institute as a gay man, or follow his lead and quit. I needed people both inside and outside the organization with whom I could talk this through.

  As it turned out, none of my plans eventuated. The next 12 months in India would prove to be the most challenging but most rewarding yet.

  FLYING HIGH

  People were beginning to fidget in their chairs. It was 4.10 pm and still no sign of Sir James. You don’t keep CEOs waiting like this. I glanced at my watch and then at my colleagues. ‘Where on earth could he be?’ was the question on every face in the room.

  At 4.15 pm, the sound of approaching footsteps made all eyes turn towards the door. In burst Sir James and his entourage. He looked wiped out, sweat trickling down his brow onto his brown jacket. After several appointments and a working lunch already that day, he was in no shape to address this distinguished gathering of the upper crust of Bombay’s business fraternity.

  Trying to assume some measure of composure, Sir James glanced up as his host began introducing him from the podium. It was no secret to the audience that he was still frantically trying to arrange his notes for his speech. Well accustomed to the protocol of such occasions, Sir James arose as if on cue to deliver his talk.

  As he made to stand, his left hand strayed off course and collided with the microphone, which fell to the floor. Never one to rely on others for help, Sir James plunged in pursuit of the apparatus. As he did so, he lost control of his notes and found himself on the floor amid a sea of paper.

  ‘Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,’ said a beleaguered voice from below. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  This comment brought a chuckle or two from the audience, some of whom were beginning to see the humor in the situation. Others seemed to be saying ‘My god, who is this person?’ After a couple of minutes, Sir James righted himself and attempted to begin once more.

  ‘Pardon me,’ he said in his most polite English voice, ‘but I have misplaced page one. I shall have to ad lib a little, if you don’t mind.’

  No one seemed to. They were just glad the show was finally getting on the road.

  This memorable afternoon at the Taj Palace Hotel in Bombay was my introduction to Sir James. Intelligent and personable, he had joined a well-known package and container fabrication company in UK and soon found himself transferred to their India operations, headquartered in Calcutta, where he rose swiftly through the ranks. During his time in India, the company grew from two plants and 1,400 employees to 10 plants and 10,000 employees. As Calcutta continued to bask in the fading light of its former glory as the capital of British India, entitled expatriates seemed to occupy a world unto themselves. This was the world Sir James was part of—he belonged to the right clubs, swam at the Gymkhana pool, and ate at fashionable restaurants as befitted the life of a Calcutta boxwallah. But he shunned the pretentiousness and exclusivity that so often accompanied this way of life. For more than 30 years, he had called the city home. He had spent 16 of those years living in the spacious house his company provided for its top executive in the highly desirable suburb of Alipore. He had married three times—in two instances after having broken taboos by crossing the racial divide.

  But it wasn’t only in matters of the heart that he was a social pioneer. Having stayed on after Independence in 1947, he had led the way in bringing Indian managers into the top rungs of his company. He was the founding president and a life member of the All-India Management Association and had made sure he was the last British president of that august body. In 1964, during a time of high tension between India and Pakistan, a senior British cabinet minister had accused India of instigating the conflict. His comments threatened to damage relations between India and Britain, and business relationships in particular. Enter Sir James. Over a two-month period, his intensive efforts at shuttle diplomacy, involving frequent trips to the UK, not only helped defuse the crisis but also earned him a knighthood for his services. It was a role for which he was most suited with his peculiar blend of courage, sensitivity, and a nose for diplomatic nuance.

  Leaving India must have been a wrenching moment in Sir James’ life, but when the time came in 1969 he returned to the UK where he remarried and took up a teaching position at the distinguished Henley Management College. This college at
tracted students from all over the world, mostly the crème de la crème from different countries, many of them newly independent nations like India. Hundreds of them passed through Sir James’ capable hands and returned home to become prominent leaders of business, industry and government. During his tenure at Henley, Sir James was contacted by the Institute’s London staff about a strategic planning seminar. He was intrigued by the approach and sought to learn more about the organization, especially its work in India. When the idea of the exposition was mooted, we knew it would take someone with global connections and a keen understanding of India to help us win support and funding for the project. We asked Sir James if he would be willing to play such a role. To our delight he accepted, and propelled the Institute to new levels of power and influence in many countries. Like me, the organization found it had a lot of growing up to do, and fast.

  From the moment I first met him, I was charmed by the man. The more I worked with him, the more I learned to appreciate the depth and intensity of his character. His incredible memory for detail, his indefatigable pace of work, his respect for people of all rank and class, his ability to operate in a variety of cultures, his wide-ranging language skills—I heard him speak Hindi, Bengali, French, Spanish, Bahasa Indonesian, and Japanese—were some of his many impressive qualities. But most of all, it was his unapologetic humanity that left an indelible mark on me.