The Boatman

by John Burbidge

  As I stepped through the open doorway, the stench of urine overpowered me but I managed to put my revulsion on hold. There were two other patrons in the urinal, one at each end, so I positioned myself in the middle and glanced to my right and left. The older man to my left ignored me but the young man to my right made immediate eye contact. He looked down at my crotch, before reverting to his own. I took a slight nod of his head to be my invitation. My evening wasn’t going to be such a dead end after all. As I leaned over to touch him, the older man turned and grabbed me.

  ‘You are under arrest. Come with us.’

  His words reverberated in my head like multiple gun shots. This couldn’t be happening to me. This was the kind of thing that happened to Oscar Wilde or Alan Turing or thousands of other men in another time and place. Not me. Not now. How could I have been so foolish? Why hadn’t I trusted my sixth sense and aborted my mission? There was no chance of running or fighting my way out of it this time.

  I followed the two men to the main platform where they told me to sit down on a bench outside their office.

  ‘What is your name?’ asked the younger one.

  I hesitated for a second while I debated how to reply.

  ‘Graham Hawke,’ I volunteered, merging the names of two close friends.

  ‘Where you live?’

  I dared not tell them, lest they trace me and contact the Institute.

  ‘I don’t live here. I’m visiting India.’

  ‘Where you stay?’

  ‘A small hotel in Colaba. I can’t remember the name.’

  Given the number of cheap tourist hotels in that part of the city, many of which were unregistered businesses, this was a reasonable answer. He switched his line of attack.

  ‘You are breaking the law.’

  I had half a mind to ask him which particular law, but thought better of it. How about laws against undercover police tactics? I held my tongue and let him dictate the next move. In this game we were playing, he held all the winning cards.

  ‘You must pay 500 rupees or go to police station.’

  My stomach tightened. I knew it would come down to money and I knew I didn’t have a chance of paying. The idea of going to friends for a loan was so humiliating I couldn’t entertain it. But spending time in a police lockup and having to explain my absence to my colleagues was even more unthinkable.

  ‘I don’t have 500 rupees,’ I protested.

  My interrogator looked over at his sidekick and mumbled in Marathi. Immediately, the older man approached me, yanked my body to an upright position, and searched me thoroughly. He extracted 25 rupees from my trouser pocket and waved it in front of his colleague’s face as if to say, ‘All this trouble for this much!’

  ‘You come to police station now!’ ordered the younger one.

  A sense of dread overcame me. I needed to come up with something and fast. Then I remembered the emergency money I kept in a small plastic bag in my shoe. It wasn’t much but it was worth a try. I bent down to take off my right shoe.

  ‘What you doing?’ he demanded.

  ‘You want baksheesh?’

  I slipped off my unlaced shoe but before I could take hold of the plastic bag, the officer saw it and grabbed it. He unfolded a 50-rupee note and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

  ‘This all?’ he asked.

  Before I could answer, he pulled off my other shoe but found it contained nothing. He turned to his offsider and uttered a few rapid-fire Marathi sentences. I held my breath. Then without warning the officer turned to me and switched to English.

  ‘Go,’ he said, dismissing me with the flick of his wrist.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Satisfied they had milked me for all I was worth, I was of no further interest to them. I considered making a run for it before they changed their minds, but decorum got the better of me. I strode away, trying valiantly to hold my head high as if to salvage some modicum of dignity. With not a paisa for bus fare, I exited the station and started walking towards Byculla.

  * * *

  It was standard practice in our organization to visit private companies, government offices or potential donors in pairs—one Indian and one foreigner. I had never questioned the wisdom of such a policy but as my yearning for sexual diversion increased, I started to finagle ways to cover more appointments on my own—it was only a follow-up call to nudge along a donation, or the donor had a penchant for foreigners. I was careful not to make too much of an issue of this lest I raise suspicions. It never occurred to me that some already harbored suspicions and were just waiting for me to commit a major indiscretion.

  On a warm June afternoon, I waltzed out our front door and took the steps two at a time. With a nod to Charlie at the main gate, I crossed Sankli Street and headed for Byculla railway station. Even the stench of rotting mangoes from the fruit and vegetable market didn’t affect me like it normally did. I hadn’t felt like this since the incident at Bombay Central and my scrape with the police on the maidan. I had reduced my nightly forays and made an effort to spend more time socializing with coworkers to help me regain a sense of balance in my increasingly erratic life. Now that I was back on a more even keel, the urge to immerse myself in India’s gay underground began to reassert itself.

  When I turned the corner before the station, I saw him. He was about 20 meters ahead of me, walking in my direction. At first, he didn’t stand out among dozens of others. Slightly built and of short stature, he wore the same white pants and cotton kurta as hundreds of others on this street. But as he came closer, something about his probing eyes triggered an immediate response in me.

  As the gap between us narrowed, I tried to keep focused on his face while I battled the surging crowd. I lost sight of him fleetingly and when I looked up, he was almost in front of me. For the briefest moment our eyes locked in a glint of recognition. I kept walking a few paces, then turned my head. He did the same. I slowed down and checked back. He was moving away but just as I thought he was about to disappear into the crowd, he turned around again and stopped. We both stood transfixed, while people flowed around us. Then, as if on cue, we started walking towards each other. We came face to face and he looked into my eyes knowingly. A feeling of deep connection rippled through me. It was like a scene in a Bollywood movie, but it was utterly real. I stood paralyzed, not knowing what to say or do.

  ‘You live around here?’ he asked. ‘I think I’ve seen you before.’

  ‘Just on the other side of Byculla Bridge. I come this way to catch the train. Where do you stay?’

  ‘Three doors down only.’ Then barely without pausing he asked, ‘Would you like to take tea?’

  Refusing his invitation was not an option, as it rarely is when this question is asked in India. It has little to do with drinking a particular beverage and everything to do with having a chat, getting acquainted, or warming up to a business transaction. In this case, it felt like a proposition in the making.

  Pointing to the Bharat Hotel across the road, my acquaintance led the way and chose a table in a far corner. Eyes followed us from around the room, since a foreigner was still an object of curiosity in this part of the city. A paniwallah no more than nine or ten years old approached us with two glasses of cloudy-looking water and slammed them down before us.

  The waiter then came to take our order. ‘Waiter’ is too refined a term for these young men who work in hotels and restaurants virtually as bonded labor. They eat and sleep on the premises, earning a few rupees a day and often suffer degrading sexual and physical abuse. But this waiter still had a spark of life left in him. He looked at my companion as if to say, ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you are up to.’ My friend commanded ‘Do chai!’ and the young man scuttled away to fetch our tea.

  ‘So where are you from?’ he asked. ‘England or America?’ Obviously, I hadn’t said enough for him to catch my antipodean roots, or my English had become so Indianized he couldn’t detect its origins.

  ‘Neither. Australia.’

/>   ‘Oh, really? You don’t sound Australian. What are you doing in India?’

  I pressed the button to activate my standard spiel.

  ‘And you,’ I inquired, ‘are you a student?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  Those books under your arm…’

  ‘Yes, I’m doing pre-med. At JJ Hospital. Have you heard of it?’

  I admitted I had. I passed it practically every day.

  As I readjusted my focus on the young man sitting across from me, I realized how exquisite his features were—an angular face with a gently hooked nose, impeccable white teeth, jet black hair loosely parted to one side, deep-set dark brown eyes and rich caramel skin so unblemished compared to the blotchy, sunburnt varieties I’d grown up with. All this and a gently sculpted figure to boot—made to order.

  I’d come across many Indian men whose natural beauty enraptured me, but to find someone to whom I was attracted physically and with whom I could converse on topics other than sex was a rarity. I looked at my watch. I would be late for my appointment if I didn’t leave shortly, so I began to excuse myself.

  ‘My name is John. And you are?’

  ‘I’m Pratap. Let me give you my phone number. You can call me at home most evenings.’

  Things were moving faster than I had anticipated. After so many nights fruitlessly cruising the maidan or the Bandstand, I’d met someone within a few hundred meters of home whom I genuinely liked and wanted to pursue.

  We swapped phone numbers, and after he insisted on paying for the tea we politely shook hands. I don’t know what made me do it, but clasping his hand, I tickled his palm with my forefinger—something I’d learned at the Bandstand. Without hesitation, he returned the favor.

  Over the next six months, Pratap and I met whenever we could, between my trips to other parts of the country and the demands of his medical studies. The first time he invited me to his home was a memorable occasion. Pratap alerted me that since I was their first foreign guest, his mother was nervous that I would not like her food she had spent hours preparing. But she need not have worried. Many invitations to village homes had taught me about being a polite guest, even when the food was so riddled with chili I had no idea what I was eating. In contrast, her flavorful egg curry, pan-hot chapattis and cucumber raita were a sheer delight. After she attempted to refill my plate for the third time, I smiled appreciatively but waved my hands to indicate that I had reached my limit.

  ‘Oh bai, khaana bahut achchha hai!’ I exclaimed as she offered me a finger bowl with lemon to wash my hands.

  My compliments to the chef didn’t go unnoticed. She looked at Pratap, wide-eyed, and said something to him. He turned to me and explained that his mother was very happy that I liked her food. ‘Not half as happy as I am about liking her son!’ I shot back, causing Pratap to blush. His low-key, reserved nature in the presence of his mother touched me. Deference towards parents and seniors was something I had come to respect in India. When we retreated to Pratap’s room after the meal, we couldn’t bring ourselves to engage in sex, with his mother only meters away on the other side of the door. We decided to go to a movie instead.

  Since neither of us was a fan of formulaic blockbuster movies, we chose an art film. Bombay has hundreds of cinemas, some seedy and run-down and others quite grand establishments, even if the worse for wear. This fell under that category. We bought our tickets and headed for the back stalls. The theater was about three-quarters full but the seats on either side of us were vacant, and those behind us only sparsely occupied. I breathed a sigh of relief. Finding a seat in an Indian cinema not surrounded by other patrons was rare.

  The air-conditioning was cool enough for me to take off my light jacket and put it across my legs. Pratap followed suit. About 10 minutes into the picture, I moved my leg a little to the left, brushing his ever so gently. I felt a nudge from him in return. We both kept looking straight ahead but our attention was not on the drama on the screen. I let my leg rest on his for a few minutes then decided to push my luck a little further. I gently put my hand on his thigh and felt him take a deep breath. His leg continued to press against mine. I slowly slid my hand over and felt between his legs. I could hardly believe we were doing this. I looked out the corner of my eye to see if we were being observed but everyone nearby seemed engrossed in the movie. Without moving my head, I felt for the tag at the top of his zipper and ever so slowly pulled it down. I slid my hand inside his pants and held him firmly. I didn’t have to do any more.

  I let out a slow, controlled sigh. I could feel him relax too, allowing the wonder of the moment to sink in. For a few seconds, we both basked in the glow of our audacious act. Then I sensed his anxiety growing. The embarrassment of being caught in flagrante delicto was more than he could bear. He indicated for me to withdraw my hand. As I did, I glanced at him and he threw me a gentle smile.

  * * *

  Six months passed before we met again, this time in more relaxing circumstances. It was a lucky chance that made it possible. I was part of a team of facilitators leading a strategic planning course with an Indian company at a five-star hotel at Bombay airport. Staying in such lavish surroundings was a rarity that I relished to the full. I took several hot showers, indulged myself in exotic delicacies from the French restaurant, and felt duty-bound to relieve the hotel of its imported toiletries. These things in themselves might have been cause for celebration, but having a room to myself was pure, unadulterated heaven.

  I wondered who I could call at such short notice to help me take advantage of it. After my last meeting with Naresh on the train to Delhi, he was certainly not an option. Pratap was the one I really wanted to share an evening with, although the chance he’d be available at such short notice was slim. I picked up the receiver and dialed. His mother answered and recognized my name. My Hindi left me wanting and I was about to hang up the phone when Pratap came on the line. I explained my situation and he said he’d be there in about an hour.

  I feverishly prepared myself for his arrival. I showered for the third time that day and doused myself with my favorite jasmine after-shave. I tried reading but was so filled with anticipation that I was unable to concentrate on the words. The phone rang and I grabbed the receiver.

  ‘Hey Burbs, you joining the rest of us in the lounge for one last drink?’

  ‘Thanks, Sean, but I think I’ll give it a miss. Must be those snails I had for dinner. I’m not feeling too good. I’ll have to pass.’

  My lame excuse seemed to do the trick and he backed off, but not before adding, ‘Watch out for those guys on room service.’ Did he know more than I thought?

  The promised hour came and went. Another thirty minutes went by. I grew worried and called Pratap’s number again. His mother answered and said something about meeting a friend. I thanked her for the news and tried to relax. I must have dozed off, for I was awoken by a light rat-a-tat. I jumped out of bed and rushed to the door.

  It was Pratap, all in white looking as angelic as ever. He slipped in quietly and glanced in my direction.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay long,’ he apologized.

  ‘No worries. Let’s enjoy while we can.’

  He began to take off his kurta, but I shook my head.

  ‘No Pratap. Allow me the pleasure of disrobing my Indian prince.’

  He laughed but acquiesced to my request. I peeled off the layers of his clothing until all that was left was the sacred thread Hindu men tie around their waists. With a gentle pull, I drew him towards me and we sank down into the waiting bed. As I did so, I was overcome by an image I’d seen on an ancient temple—two bodies entwined as one, a blissful serenity on their faces. I was gripped by its power and surrendered to it.

  COLLISION COURSE

  Several things distinguished our organization from many others working in community development, but one of the most remarkable was its capacity to think big and act upon its vision with unbridled passion and commitment. Since its beginnings in the black ghet
to of Chicago, this had been a hallmark of the Institute. In the early 1980s, it embarked upon one of its most ambitious schemes ever—an international exposition of rural development, the culmination of which was a 10-day gathering in India in early 1984.

  Spread over several years with lead-up events in many countries, the exposition brought together those engaged in the daily grind of grassroots development to share what they had learned. It was not another talkfest of academics and donors ruminating on the finer points of development theory. It was a hands-on exchange by local people and those who worked shoulder to shoulder with them, to highlight how the rural poor have succeeded in lifting themselves out of misery and deprivation. Seminar papers and symposia gave way to participatory workshops and site visits. More than 600 people from 55 countries came to India. In multinational teams, they traveled the length and breadth of the country by plane, train, bus, jeep and bullock cart to 35 chosen projects. For three days they walked, talked, ate and celebrated with their Indian hosts. The opening and closing events were held in New Delhi.

  The exposition required immense preparation. As organizing sponsor, the Institute found itself called upon to make a quantum leap in its internal operations and public exposure. It was granted UN consultative status and lifted its fundraising bar to new heights. Although staff all over the world were engaged in the task, it fell to those of us in India to do the lion’s share of the work. For me, it meant more travel, meeting more people in higher echelons of Indian society, and playing more conspicuous and weighty public roles than I had ever done before. I also happened to be at my most sexually active and was willing to risk myself more than I had ever dared. It was like being on two fast-moving trains going on the same track but in opposite directions. Sooner or later, a collision was bound to occur.