The Boatman

by John Burbidge

  While I didn’t overtly swear my allegiance to this benign being, I must have offered some propitiation by being part of the melee on that day because soon after, doors began to open in my life, almost before I had knocked on them. Not only doors into the homes and offices of the wealthy and powerful, but much lesser portals as well. Moreover, a major obstacle in my life was mysteriously removed, without any covert manipulation on my part. Two events bore testimony to this mysterious presence of Lord Ganesh in my life.

  * * *

  The first took place in Kolhapur District in south-western Maharashtra where I had worked several years before in one of our village projects. A bastion of the once-dominant Maratha empire, Kolhapur is known for its vast sugar factories, fine educational institutions, and thriving Marathi film industry, as much for its leather chappals, champion wrestlers, and spicy cuisine. It also boasted one of the highest per capita incomes in India, a resource I inadvertently tapped into when I solicited the support of the city’s many service clubs for our project. I made contact with all of them and developed a number of close friends—doctors, architects and businessmen among them. While these men and women were polite to my Indian colleagues, they always treated me with a special deference. Several families took a personal interest in my welfare, referring to me as their adopted son, an honor that touched me profoundly but which I learned later came with strings attached. When one family, gravely concerned about my status as a single man, began suggesting possible marriage partners, I found myself in an awkward situation. My apparent lack of interest in the subject puzzled and concerned them and introduced an awkward tension into an otherwise amicable relationship.

  Now, several years later, I had returned to Kolhapur under different circumstances, professional and personal. No longer was I launching a village development project but raising money for the organization’s work and the international exposition. No longer was I confused and ambivalent about my sexuality. I had tasted the fruit of the forbidden tree and I couldn’t get enough of it. But how could I share with my Indian host families what was taking place in my life? I feared that news of my being gay would not only come to them as an incomprehensible mystery but also as a deep offence, in light of their unquestioned assumption that I, like a good son, would marry and produce offspring. As a consequence, I found myself telling lies and fabricating stories, skirting around the truth like an ice skater swerving in and out to avoid collisions.

  In August 1983, I had a week to myself and decided to revisit Kolhapur, but not with the intention of renewing old acquaintances. The reason for the visit had its roots six months before when I had gone there with Kavita on our annual fundraising drive. We had had a productive week and enjoyed being pampered as guests of one of my former adoptive families. But between work and socializing with our hosts, I had no time to pursue my own agenda. As a college town, Kolhapur had no shortage of good-looking young men, but sadly they remained out of reach. Walking around town was like being in a museum where you could look but not touch.

  Towards the end of our stay, I had gone to the railway station to purchase our return tickets to Bombay. As I stood in line, I noticed a smart young man in the queue behind me but I didn’t pay too much attention to him. Likewise, he didn’t seem terribly interested in me, other than what I took to be the usual interest in a foreigner in a small regional city. Once I had obtained our tickets, I made straight for the men’s toilet and was about to leave the urinal when the person I had eyed entered the room and came up to stand next to me. Unzipping his fly with great alacrity, he left me in no doubt as to his interest. Although it was early morning and few people were at the station, I was concerned that anyone could walk in unannounced, so I suggested we repair to a toilet stall and transact our business there. After we had done so, we shared addresses and phone numbers and parted company. We knew virtually nothing about each other, although he claimed to be a student named Gautam. I never expected to see him again.

  However, once I returned to Bombay I began receiving numerous letters from Gautam embellished with adoring words and suggestive graphics. He begged me to return to Kolhapur at my earliest opportunity so we could pick up where we had left off. When the chance presented itself, I didn’t hesitate and purchased a ticket for the overnight bus from Bombay. He had arranged for us to stay at a hill station west of Kolhapur for several days, which sounded blissful. We agreed to rendezvous at a local bus station from where we would travel together. I arrived at our meeting point in good time and positioned myself where I would easily be seen. Within a short time, Gautam showed up wearing brown trousers and a yellow T-shirt, along with chappals and dark sunglasses. I recognized him right away, even though he was dressed quite differently from when we last met.

  But when he took off his glasses and looked me in the eye, the smiling face I was expecting to see was not there. Instead, I was confronted by a blank stare and a mouth turned down at the corners. When I offered my right hand, he countered with an unenthusiastic shake. I was dumbstruck. This was not the reception I was anticipating. Was this the same person who had written me all those suggestive letters? What on earth had happened to him?

  On the two-hour bus journey to the hill station, I tried to elicit responses to those questions, but the more I probed, the more reticent Gautam became. Whatever was troubling him, he wasn’t about to reveal it. Once we arrived at our destination, he was in no mood to engage in the kind of sexual fiesta I had envisaged. It was as much as I could do to keep words flowing between us. Despondently, I agreed to his suggestion that we return to Kolhapur and go our separate ways. As we shook hands for the last time, I felt disillusioned and abandoned. What was most disturbing was that I couldn’t fathom what I might have done to cause Gautam to act so strangely. Not knowing was harder than the rejection itself.

  There were still five days left before I needed to be back in Bombay. I had no desire to return home, having invested the time and money to come all this way. I also had little interest in seeking solace from former friends. I could take a cheap hotel and try ferreting out places to meet other guys but my enthusiasm for this had waned markedly. I sat down in the bus station refreshment room and mulled over my options. Finally, I decided to get in touch with a family who had repeatedly asked me to stay with them but whose kind offer I’d never taken up. Their two sons, both married, lived with their families in the same extended household as their parents. The father and one of the sons, Sandip, were respected architects, as evidenced by their modern home. Its strategically placed windows illumined spacious rooms, tastefully decorated with bronze statues of Nataraja and images of the elephantine Ganesh. I called Sandip and his brother answered. He said that Sandip was at his other house in a village about four hours’ drive west of Kolhapur. He was sure Sandip would be glad to have company, and suggested I join him there. I was delighted to accept, so he called the village post office to inform Sandip of my arrival.

  The bus ride over potholed roads winding up the Ghats and down the other side transported me to a whole other India. The monsoon had arrived a few weeks earlier so everything was as clover green as an Irish landscape, but without the accompanying chill in the air. In an area that receives about 3,500 millimeters of rain a year, waterfalls materialized in the most surprising places, creating the impression that the countryside was one gigantic fountain with spouts scattered over the lush terrain. But the rain was not all benign. Frequent mudslides made the already dangerous road more risky. I found myself silently repeating the mantra I had come to use when traveling in India—trust the driver. These men who risked driving on roads that would test rally drivers had earned my respect. The further we drove, the more I became aware of the remoteness of villages in this region. Stops were few and usually at intersections from where a road wound endlessly to a village secreted far back in the mountains.

  For the first time in India, I sensed I had stepped back from the maelstrom of life. As if having taken a deep breath I was gradually exhaling. The rough
terrain made it impossible to read, so my mind fumbled around, looking for something to cling to, tossing out fragments of my life from the last two years to the last two days. Places, people, letters, questions, comments, ecstatic highs and repugnant lows all jostled for attention. Something told me it was time to step back from the brink and reflect on what had happened to me. This unexpected diversion, the fiasco with Gautam, my decision to return to Kolhapur—all of it began to fall into place like a jigsaw puzzle taking shape.

  It was early evening when the red and yellow Tata bus rounded a bend and ground to a halt at Sandip’s village. I may have arrived at my destination, but still needed to figure out how to find Sandip. I didn’t have to wait long for help. Within seconds, a bevy of small boys descended on me. A foreigner coming to their village was clearly cause for great excitement.

  ‘Hello. Tujhe naw kay ahe? What is your name? Kiti wazle? How are you? Tujhe desh ahe? What is your native place?’ The familiar mish-mash of English and Marathi questions bombarded me from all sides. I was back in the real India, and like an actor responding to his cue, donned my public persona and assumed the character I was so used to performing—the enchanting foreigner, the honored guest, the curious outsider. Any notion of privacy and seclusion had vanished. As soon as I revealed I was from Australia, there were gasps from the back of the crowd, as the older boys recognized the name of this well-known cricketing country. I only had to mention Sandip’s name and was beset with offers to lead me to him.

  After leaving the main road, we cut through several small lanes and headed for a forest of majestic teak trees on the outskirts of the village. Just before we came to the towering canopy, we turned a sharp corner and came face to face with Sandip. At first I didn’t quite recognize him in his traditional kurta and pajamas. The last time I had seen him he was wearing blue jeans and an open-neck shirt. As he approached me, the crowd dispersed and he held out his right hand.

  ‘Ah, so you found me! What a pleasant surprise, John. I never thought you’d take up my offer to visit. Welcome to my other home.’

  Sandip’s other home turned out to be deceptively like many other village houses on the outside but closer examination revealed it had been designed by someone with well-honed architectural skills and an eye for simplicity and convenience. Although it contained a number of utilities of a modern, urban Indian home, it also had a Gandhian-like frugality. Well lit and well ventilated, it provided an enviable model for other villagers to follow. Sandip’s housekeeper did not have to suffer the debilitating effects of cooking on a wood fire on a dung floor in a small hut with the door as the only exit for smoke. Nor did she have to wash clothes by pounding them against the rocks of the nearby stream. The moderately spiced vegetarian meals she prepared during my short stay were a welcome contrast to the usual stomach-torching dishes I had endured in my first stay in a Kolhapuri village.

  I took an immediate liking to Sandip, which I sense was reciprocated. It was not a sexual attraction, which came as a strange kind of relief after all my philandering the last couple of years. It was more a meeting of kindred spirits and like-minded souls. He was a bright, successful and creative young man from a wealthy Indian family who valued his culture’s traditions but was no prisoner to them. He was an innovator and adventurer in his work, while being a dutiful husband and father. He was as at home in the city as he was in this village. He straddled many worlds and appeared contented with his lot.

  As soon as we reached his house, he had his housekeeper prepare chai and poha—the first of many teas we would share over the next few days and one I greatly appreciated after my long bus journey. As we sat on cushions on the wooden floor, Sandip looked me in the eye and asked, ‘So, what would you like to do while you are here?’

  I couldn’t remember being asked such a question in a long time. It was like being given a blank check and all I had to do was fill in the amount. I paused as I sipped my chai and gathered my thoughts.

  ‘Well, apart from enjoying some of the beautiful surroundings in this lush part of the country, there is one thing I would like to do. It came to me on the way here today. I have been so busy working and having new experiences that I haven’t taken the time to sort out what it all means and where it’s leading me. I think I need to pause and reflect on what has happened to me these last couple of years in India. This strikes me as an ideal time and place to do that.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ he said. ‘I also have work to do. How about we spend our mornings inside working and explore outside in the afternoons?’

  ‘Excellent.’

  Our days fell into a comfortable rhythm that felt a perfect fit with my disposition and needs. Sandip began his day with yoga and asked if I would like to join him. I became his willing student and looked forward to this chance to center myself before launching into the day. Following yoga, we would enjoy a light breakfast. I used these opportunities to probe a little about Sandip’s life, while sharing some of mine, albeit in a somewhat edited vein.

  When I first arrived in the house I noticed it lacked a table, so I wondered how I might go about my writing. But Sandip had anticipated my concern and offered a solution—a small desk with a sloping lid but no legs. I wasn’t at all clear what I wanted out of this exercise but after doodling for a while, a couple of ideas began to crystallize. One had to do with the recent revelation of the presence of gay men and women in our organization and the many questions that raised. But another more private story begged to be told—my discovery of my own sexuality and all that had led me to it. The two were interrelated but the second demanded my immediate attention. From the backblocks of my mind, a tune kept forcing itself into the forefront. It was a song I had learned while teaching in a Chicago preschool years before—‘When I’m on my journey there is no one else but me.’ I was off and running, and for the next several days words kept flowing onto the empty pages.

  After sitting for four hours at a floor desk, I was more than ready for our afternoon walks in the teak forest and down by the river that meandered through Sandip’s property. The first day we ventured into the forest I was dumbstruck by the gigantic size of the teak leaves. Some were more than twice as large as my hand. I couldn’t resist picking one and taking it back as a memento of this amazing visit. Years later, when I opened my notebook and found the dried leaf pressed between its pages, I was transported back to this magical place that I had been privileged to enjoy at such a pivotal moment in my life. For the first time I was able to say, ‘Being gay is part of who I am and always has been. It has its ups and downs, like everything else. Now I can get on with my life as a whole person, not the confused, compartmentalized one I had once been.’

  I had only one regret about this otherwise remarkable experience. Periodically, Sandip would ask how my writing was going and whether I might share some of it with him. I felt torn between two conflicting desires—to honor my host and to protect my privacy. As an Indian, even the educated, sensitive one he was, Sandip would not perceive his request as invasive or threatening to me. I had learned that it is important for Indians to know certain things about you so they can place you in their frame of reference. To outsiders, this personal probing sometimes comes as an affront, although I didn’t take Sandip’s questions this way. But his request presented me with another problem of much greater concern. Could I risk coming out to him? How might he react to this news? Would it spoil our wonderful time together? I had no way of knowing, so I tried to deflect his queries by saying my writing was very personal and I would prefer not to share it. I could tell this didn’t satisfy his curiosity and I agonized whether and how I might accede to his request. I thought I might leave it till our last day and then spill the beans, but when the time came the exigencies of departing took over. I later had second thoughts about my reticence and began to worry how Sandip had interpreted it. Had he guessed I was gay? Was it a subject he genuinely wanted to talk to me about? Was he perplexed by my secrecy? I still think of returning one day to Kolhapur to tell
him the truth and remind him what an irreplaceable gift he gave me during the precious time we shared.

  * * *

  On my return to Bombay, I wrote to other members of the Lavender League, describing what I had written on the role of gay and lesbian people in the Institute and suggested that they try doing the same, with a view to presenting a common paper at the Institute’s global gathering the following July. I was amazed to discover that Barry, Jack and Elena had already started working on a draft paper of their own.

  Not only had they begun writing, but they had also begun having discussions with people whom they thought would be sympathetic to our position. If we were to succeed in our ultimate goal, which was the assignment of gay couples, or even a basic acceptance of the presence of gay people in the organization, we had a lot of groundwork to do. The actions of my Chicago friends planted a seed in me that began to grow steadily and gave me the courage to open up to others in India. Apart from Sandy, I had not spoken to anyone about my being gay. I began to earmark certain colleagues whose friendship and respect I enjoyed, and over a meal or during a train journey I shared what I had been discovering about myself in the last couple of years. Without exception, responses were positive. Usually their one question to me was, ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ My main question to them was, ‘Would you be willing to read more about homosexuality in order to better understand it?’ The answer was an unequivocal yes. I began passing on to them articles my Chicago friends were mailing me with increased regularity. Wheels were turning faster than I had anticipated.

  But I was not ready to reveal my sexual orientation to everyone, particularly my Indian coworkers, since I feared they would have a more difficult time accepting homosexuality, given the entrenched prejudices against it in Indian society. However, it was not the idea or even practice of homosexuality that was so objectionable to the average Indian. It was well known that many men in India had sex with other men, although few identified as gay. As long as they kept their flings outside the confines of family life and continued to be good husbands and fathers, few questions were asked. But the moment their behavior became public knowledge, shame would kick in and all hell could break loose. Truly gay men in India found themselves in an impossible position: stay closeted and lead a double life, or come out and risk losing everything–love, support, respect, inheritance, and even life.