I took my time surveying the crowd and kept an eye open for potential contacts, but none were obvious. Since it appeared I was too early, I headed for a local bar and ordered a bottle of Hayward’s beer and some papadam. I hardly ever drank a whole bottle of beer, since Indian beer only came in large bottles. When I stood to leave, I felt strangely light-headed and decided to make for the beach where a gentle breeze was blowing. Clouds had rolled in and there was a whiff of rain in the air, which made me glad that I had brought my umbrella. I sat on a stone wall that separated the sand from the pavement. Within minutes, a slight young man wearing a green Adidas T-shirt had deposited himself beside me. He glanced in my direction then away again. A buzzer started going off in my head.
‘You visit Bombay?’ he asked.
‘No, I live here.’
As soon as I’d said it, I began to regret it. To most Indians, living here as a foreigner conjured up images of having your own apartment, endless money, exotic goods, and easy access to travel abroad.
‘What work you do?’
‘I’m a volunteer in a village development project,’ I replied.
He blinked as he tried sifting through what I had said. Obviously, I didn’t fit neatly into his preconceived notions of a foreigner. But something told him not to bother about such inconsistencies.
‘You like homosex?’
‘Homosex!’ The word hit me like a whack on the head. I’d never heard it before. Was this Indian English? Should I add it to my growing lexicon of usable words?
‘Maybe.’
‘You like me?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You have place?’
This guy didn’t waste any time getting to the point. He was your straight-down-the-middle businessman, a type I later came to know as a ‘commercial boy’ and of whom I learned to steer clear. But just then my instincts weren’t so finely honed. He represented immediate gratification, something I’d rarely succumbed to but now was beginning to be consumed with.
‘No, I live with friends. Our place is very crowded. How about you?’
‘I live with my auntie and cousin brother. But I know a place we can go.’
‘Where?’
‘Up there,’ he said, pointing to the tree-covered slope on Malabar Hill below the manicured Kamala Nehru Park and the Hanging Gardens.
‘It’s safe?’
‘No problem. There are private places.’
All the while we chatted, I found myself admiring his youthful looks and slender physique, not to mention his self-assured manner. As we sat there, I began mentally undressing him, something I’d never done before with anyone. My imagination kicked into high gear and a growing desire began blotting out the alert messages being sent out by the more cautious part of my mind. I glanced at my watch. It was approaching 5 pm. The light was dimming but it would be some time before darkness moved in and took over.
‘OK. Show me the way.’
He jumped up and began striding towards the road, so I had to move swiftly to keep up. He crossed the six lanes with great ease, slipping in between cars and motorcycles like a fish darting through water. He waited for me to catch up and then proceeded at a fair pace, as though he was as anxious as I was to begin our tryst. I had my doubts about there being such a place in this non-stop city, where every square meter of land was used many times over for some purpose. But another part of me wanted so much to believe it that I followed him slavishly.
What happened next not only left me physically bruised and minus my precious watch, but it shook me to the core. The pummeling I received at the hands of the men who surprised us in the forest obliterated the euphoria of sexual awakening I had experienced only a few weeks before. My confidence to continue on my quest of sexual exploration had been dealt a massive blow. The risks of having sex with a stranger in a public place now terrified me. But what other options did I have? Was this the price I would have to pay to ‘test my gay potential’? How clinically academic that phrase sounded now. Perhaps I should back down before I suffered serious injury or risk to my reputation. As my bus lumbered from stop to stop, my mind darted in different directions. Deep down I knew I couldn’t just walk away from this game I was playing with myself. But then I realized it was so much more than a game. It was something fundamental to who I was as a human being, and I had to pursue it. What really scared me was that, in spite of this shattering experience, there was something about it that was not totally distasteful.
* * *
I steered clear from the ill-fated parkland after that, but I wasn’t deterred from scouting for safer options. Bombay’s city planners had had the foresight to include a large open area in the heart of the city’s business district between the two major railway stations, Victoria Terminus and Churchgate. Known as the maidan, the grassed playing field offered welcome relief to office workers during the week and played host to hundreds of overlapping cricket games during the weekend. At night it became a refuge for couples seeking that rarest of commodities in India—a place to escape the gaze of one’s neighbor. I soon figured out that it would also provide the same attraction for gay men.
Reconnoitering the maidan began out of intuition and developed into an obsession. I began taking every opportunity that presented itself to explore its precincts, mainly after sunset. I fancied myself as a spy in a John le Carré novel, sussing out the terrain for possible rendezvous points with my handler. These nocturnal forays charged me up in a way that none of my fundraising and public relations work came close to doing. As the urge to keep venturing out grew stronger, so too did my concern about arousing suspicion among my colleagues. Living and working in such close proximity with them, I felt like a permanent blip on their radar screen.
Although most of our evenings were devoted to community activities, some nights were designated personal. I made a point of going out with my colleagues from time to time to maintain relationships with those I regarded as friends and to camouflage my other activities. We usually went to local restaurants that offered refreshing alternatives to our routine sabzi and chapattis. As much as I enjoyed these diversions, even these too became part of my secret life, as I found myself checking out the waiters and fellow diners for desirable men.
While the maidan attracted a variety of evening adventurers, I soon learned that other places in the vicinity were more specifically identified as gay hangouts, most notably the Bandstand, or BS, in local gay parlance. Separated from the maidan by a major road and a traffic roundabout, the Bandstand was a small, cultivated park with an ornate rotunda in the middle. One could imagine a military band playing here on Sunday afternoons to a largely British audience in bygone days. Nowadays, Sunday afternoons were given over to a children’s fair with pony rides around the circular path that dominated the park. But from about 8 pm onwards, it would turn into an entirely different place.
Saturday was usually the busiest night of the week, but the makeup of the crowd was completely unpredictable. A variety of men were drawn to the Bandstand—young and not-so-young, Hindu and Muslim, Sikh and Christian, rich and poor, lovers and the unloved, even the odd foreigner. The Indian Navy Men’s Hostel down the road was a source of many of its visitors. The crowd ebbed and flowed, occasionally spilling over into a dark laneway behind the park. Some ogled newcomers with a flirtatious eye, while others simply delighted in being in a place where banter could flow freely and they could let down their guard, if only for a few precious hours.
My first visit to the Bandstand coincided with a program I was assigned to conduct with an international bank in Bombay. One of the Institute’s legacies from its community development work was a strategic planning process adapted for use in the corporate world. Fees from these courses not only boosted our staff income, but also raised our profile as organizational change consultants among Indian businesses. Companies would usually provide first-class accommodation for our facilitation team, but since our entire faculty resided in Bombay, we agreed to something less expensive, as long
as we could have a place to work after hours. I suggested a guesthouse I had heard of, run by a foreign couple and not far from the course location. When we arrived to inspect the place we were not disappointed. Not a speck of dust to be seen, no clashing colors on the walls. Finely crafted teak chests and shiny brass plates gave it an elegance associated with much pricier establishments. But it was the pictures of Jesus with blood dripping from holes in his palms that made me do a double take. In a land where religious icons abound such pictures were not uncommon, but in this case we had stumbled on a particular brand of devotee—the foreign missionary who had never left. They often exhibited a pious morality that made me uncomfortable. I glanced at my colleagues and they at me. Raised eyebrows said it all. We would have to be on our best behavior.
The course proceeded smoothly and at the end of the last day my colleagues decided to return to the staff residence and their families. However, since we had already booked the accommodation for an extra night for any pending work, I volunteered to stay behind. The gesture provided a perfect cover for my personal agenda. The guesthouse, which was on the second floor of a medium-rise apartment block, was a five-minute walk from the Bandstand. It was an appealing combination of factors—free, private accommodation away from the scrutiny of others and close to one of the most well-known places to find gay men in all Bombay. How to connect the two, and come away unscathed, was the challenge.
I finished my work in an hour and a half and proceeded to the Bandstand. While the fringes were lit by streetlights, the innermost reaches were so dark you could barely see a person’s face a few centimeters away. Most people were seated on benches along the pathway or standing and chatting in small groups. Before entering the park, I idled up and down the pavement, feigning a nonchalance that suggested I was a tourist out for a stroll. When a bench became vacant, I took it as my cue and sat down on one end of it, leaving the other conspicuously vacant. Several young men paraded themselves in front of me, casting a curious eye in my direction. None of them particularly interested me so I refrained from making a welcoming gesture. My experience in the other park had taught me to err on the side of caution.
Just as I was considering leaving, a tallish young man who had been circling the rotunda like a shark eyeing its prey came and sat next to me. Solidly built, his black-rimmed glasses gave him the air of a college student, an impression reinforced by his excellent English and forthright manner.
‘I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Are you new here?’
‘New to the Bandstand, not to Bombay.’
‘You in business?’
‘No, I’m with an international development organization.’
This appeared to satisfy him because he abruptly changed tack.
‘You know what goes on in this park?’
‘I have a pretty fair idea, this time of night.’
He smiled and edged a little closer to me. I lapped my arm around the back of the seat so it gently fell onto his shoulder. He pulled away immediately.
‘Better not do that here,’ he whispered.
‘Really? I thought it was fairly safe.’
‘Not always. You never know when plainclothes cops might show up.’
I shuddered. I found it hard to believe that the police would raid such a public place, but would later see how wrong I was.
‘You have a place?’ he asked.
‘Well, it so happens I do tonight. And it’s quite close to here. But we’ll need to be very careful. I’m a guest and there’s a chowkidar at the door.’
‘No problem. I can be discreet. And I can handle chowkidars.’
Discreet. Was this guy an English major, or just your average well-educated Indian? Either way, his professed ability to deal with night watchmen raised him a notch or two in my assessment of him.
‘By the way, my name’s Graham,’ I said.
‘I’m Naresh,’ he said. ‘Shall we go then?’
‘Chalo,’ I replied.
This encounter was so different from my first ill-fated one at the parkland that I began to feel emboldened as we walked towards the guesthouse, at the same time reminding myself that it wasn’t time to celebrate quite yet. There were still a couple of hurdles to clear if this evening was to become all it promised.
The presence of night watchmen in most buildings in India made late-night entries a delicate, if not impossible, affair, although a few rupees or a bottle of cheap liquor could change things significantly. In this instance, the chowkidar had seen me come and go a number of times in the last few days, so he had no reason to be suspicious. It was the presence of my Indian companion that I was worried about. But I decided to trust Naresh’s word and let him handle the situation if one were to arise. As we approached the entrance, I began babbling to Naresh to give the impression that we were busily engaged in discussion, in the hope that it would deter the chowkidar from intervening. Thankfully, it worked.
Just one more potential obstacle. I had to take Naresh from the front door of the apartment to my bedroom without being seen. This involved a short walk across an open living room. Praying that the couple who ran the place wouldn’t still be up, I rapidly tried to assemble a backup story to explain his presence, just in case.
‘Wait here,’ I commanded Naresh when we reached the apartment door, as I slid my key in the lock and gently nudged open the door. The lamp-lit sitting room was silent. I waited a few seconds then padded over the Afghan rug as silently as a cat and opened my bedroom door, before retracing my steps to the front door and motioning to Naresh to come in. When we were both safely inside my bedroom, I breathed a sigh of relief, locked the door, and turned on the bedside lamp.
‘You mind if we don’t have the light on?’ he asked.
‘Not at all. In fact, it’s probably a good idea. And let’s be careful not to make any noise. I don’t want to arouse suspicions.’
I leaned over and switched off the lamp. He took off his glasses and we collapsed onto the bed. An hour and a half later, Naresh left as surreptitiously as he had come.
I was ecstatic. I had taken a huge risk and it had paid off. I felt like yelling at the top of my voice, announcing to the world my great achievement, although I dared not utter a word. It would be more than a year before I told anyone about my newly discovered secret. I sprawled on the bed and tried to relive the fleeting moments we had enjoyed together, knowing full well they were already consigned to the annals of history. Turning over, I wallowed in the sheets that retained his musky odor and drops of sweat from our writhing bodies. I could never fathom why foreigners found the odor of Indians repugnant. I couldn’t get enough of it. It had a rawness and strength that was as sweet and compelling to me as nectar to a humming bird. I put my fingertips to my nose and inhaled before drifting off into a deep sleep.
* * *
I saw Naresh only once after that, and most unexpectedly. I was taking the Rajdhani Express to Delhi with an Indian colleague. We had just boarded the train at Bombay Central and I was walking through the carriage next to mine. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw him. He was lifting a heavy case to an upper rack for an older woman. They were engaged in conversation as I came up behind him.
‘Hi Naresh.’
He turned and gasped when he saw me.
‘Oh hi,’ he replied. ‘You going to Delhi too?’
‘Yeah, for about 10 days. And you?’
‘I’m going with my mummy. We’re making plans for my marriage.’
I tried not to look too shocked or disapproving. I knew all about arranged marriages and how few gay men could find a way around them, even if they wished to. I felt sad, for him and for the young woman whose husband he would become. Nine out of 10 gay men I would come to know in India would see no option but to marry, in order to fulfill their obligation to continue the family line and to create offspring to care for their parents in old age. Naresh was the rule, not the exception.
‘Maybe we could meet up in Delhi?’ I suggested.
‘Maybe,’ he replied with a distinct ring of ‘don’t bother’ about it.
We exchanged phone numbers. His became one of the dozens that I accrued over the next two years. Even though we didn’t speak again, the memory of our precious time together never deserted me.
DIGGING DEEPER
The Bandstand soon became my regular stamping ground. Whenever I had a free evening I would go there to see what new windows I could prise open on my shuttered life. My mounting desire for contact with other young men led me to take ever greater risks. For the first time in my life, I had a clue about what other guys meant when they said a woman ‘turned them on.’ Only in my case the woman was a man, usually young with brown skin, slight stature and a knee-weakening smile. Within a few months, I had become a regular at the Bandstand. I made countless connections there, some of which developed into lasting friendships, while others disappeared into impenetrable crevices of my memory.
From my travels to other Indian cities, I learned that the Bandstand held an iconic status among gays throughout the country. Never was this more evident than on New Year’s Eve. Long before the midnight hour, dozens of men began filling its precincts till it was overflowing. Freshly pressed white kurtas swished side by side with denim jeans. Neatly trimmed mustaches vied with sailors’ beards and Sikh turbans. Some came on foot or by bus, others in taxis and chauffeur-driven cars. Rumors spread faster than wildfire before a raging wind. ‘Did you hear that Bollywood’s favorite pin-up boy was seen cruising by in his imported Cadillac?’ ‘Can you believe that the guy holding hands with that cute young thing is actually a cop?’ Stories bubbled, old acquaintances were renewed, and affection flowed freely. In a country where homosexuality was illegal, social pressures and cultural mores were strongly homophobic, and no public gay establishments existed, the Bandstand on 31 December was like a blazing beacon in an ocean of darkness.
The Boatman Page 5
