The Boatman

by John Burbidge

  ‘Are there many homosexuals in India, John?’

  I struggled to find the words to respond. Was this an innocent question prompted by what she had just witnessed or was there more to it? Did she suspect I was gay but didn’t know how to raise the issue? Either way, should or shouldn’t I take this opportunity to broach the subject of my newfound sexual identity? How would she react? Things had been going well so far and I didn’t want to risk tearing the delicate fabric that had begun to weave itself between us. Then again, we still had little more than a week, so there would be time to talk things through after my disclosure. So many imponderables. The stakes were so high.

  ‘Oh, I guess there’s probably about the same percentage of gay men in India as in most countries. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, I’ve seen so many young men here, behaving, you know, like, well…young women do in Australia. Very friendly with each other, and in public too. Not quite what you’d expect, is it?’

  ‘Well, Mum, it may not be quite what you’d expect in Australia, but Indian customs are different. It’s okay here for men to show affection for one another in public. And it doesn’t mean they’re homosexual, although some probably are.’

  My mother looked confused as she mulled over my answer. Whatever was going on in her mind, she decided not to pursue the matter further at this point, and neither did I.

  * * *

  The remainder of my mother’s stay in India was divided between Bombay and north India, with Anil’s company guesthouse providing us with a comfortable base in New Delhi. Lavish temples, historical memorials and humongous government buildings lining expansive boulevards give New Delhi its distinctive flavor as the nation’s capital. But it wasn’t those grandiose icons that left their imprint on us during our week’s stay. It was something much more personal. With the exposition less than six weeks away, our Delhi staff decided to celebrate all their hard work with a New Year’s Eve party. Since we had no other plans for the evening, I decided to bring my mother along and introduce her to more of my coworkers.

  Not long into the evening, one of our Delhi directors asked everyone to gather round to reflect on the past year and the one to come. Such activities were commonplace in our organization, but to those encountering them for the first time they could appear a little strange. I was concerned how my mother would react and wanted to spare her any embarrassment, but decided to let things take their course.

  The questions themselves were innocuous enough, beginning with, ‘What is something from this past year you are grateful for?’ As the responses wound their way around the group, I could sense a rising apprehension in my mother as she kept changing the position of her hands on her lap. The unexpected demand to speak out in front of the whole group seemed to be crushing her. When her turn came, she remained silent. The young woman leading the conversation offered kindly prompts, but when these didn’t help she suggested we move on and perhaps come back to my mother later. I labored over how to release my mother from the agony I sensed she was in.

  Following the conversation, the group disintegrated into smaller circles, and food and drink were passed around. As the evening wore on, my mother loosened up a little. Several others made a point of chatting with her and she appeared to respond positively. Close to midnight, I noticed her locked in discussion with one of our Indian staff who had had more than his fair share of alcohol. My mother never drank anything stronger than a lemon squash, but she was holding her own as she went head to head with him. From across the room I picked up the drift of their conversation. My mother was on her usual hobby horse, deriding my decision to join the Institute in favor of a more secure and respectable job. My colleague was put in the position of defending me and the Institute. I decided to let them slog it out. My mother seemed visibly more relaxed, as opposed to her nervous, withdrawn stance a short while ago. I wasn’t sure what had triggered the transformation, but was delighted it had happened. Perhaps India was working its magic on her too.

  When I look at a photograph taken that evening, I marvel at what I see. It is a group of six of us—my mother, me and a young American coworker, a tall, vivacious-looking young Indian man, Kavita, and my newfound gay ally, Vikas. Dressed in a light blue and white floral dress, my mother occupies the center of the picture, standing out from the others with her much fairer skin and broad, rounded face. Her hands rest on Vikas’s left shoulder and my left hand on Kavita’s; we both seem oblivious to the cultural taboos we are breaking. There is a sparkle in my mother’s eyes that I have rarely seen. Mine seem to convey a sense of accomplishment at bringing together such diverse strands of my life, even if for the briefest moment.

  Two days later, we were back in Bombay. On our way to the airport, I found myself mulling over conversations we’d had and thinking about those we hadn’t. The question of whether to share the news of my sexual orientation was uppermost on my mind. But the thought of doing so and then sending her on her way to try to make sense of it all felt unfair, so I decided not to. It would be another five and a half years before the occasion to do so presented itself.

  In hindsight, I may have been wise to postpone it. I was still recklessly experimenting and hadn’t thought through the consequences of such an acknowledgement. Even during my mother’s stay, I had found opportunities to slake my unquenchable thirst for young men. At the time, I had no compunction about lying so shamefully to my mother about my sudden disappearances, although I later asked myself how I could have been so brazen. If she hadn’t suspected my interest in other men till now, she surely must have afterwards.

  When we reached the airport, we found that the flight was delayed, which gave us ample time to talk. We reminisced over the last two weeks and I inquired more about the life she was returning to. Just as the first boarding call for her flight echoed across the departure lounge, she opened her purse and handed me an envelope. She often gave me gifts of cash, but always withheld them to the last moment. It was her way of saying thank you on her terms.

  I was grateful for the money, but so much gladder about her decision to come to India. Not once did she dissolve into tears or chew me out over anything that displeased her. After a final embrace, I kissed her on the cheek and sent her on her way. Over the years, I had always been the one leaving and she the one left behind. For once, she had risked entering my strange universe, and had performed admirably.

  As I watched her amble down the jetway, I noticed she was chatting to a fellow passenger and wondered what she could be saying. I have seen off hundreds of people at airports and I don’t usually linger. But this time, I could not pull myself away from the terminal window, tears rolling down my face. When the plane finally took off, I jumped in a taxi and headed to a nearby restaurant. After selecting a discreet corner table, I ordered a bottle of Kingfisher beer and a plate of palak paneer, and cried. The chasm between us had closed a little.

  THE END OF THE BEGINNING

  5 February 1984 had come to assume an almost mythic status in the life of the Institute. Like athletes training for the Olympic Games, thousands of our staff and others had worked tirelessly for years preparing for this day. As hundreds of participants from around the world poured into the New Delhi auditorium for the official opening of the exposition, Indian television cameras panned the crowd, and Voice of America interviewed delegates. Next to the podium sat lean, old men in white dhotis and tangerine turbans alongside buxom West African women layered in garments of iridescent green and stinging yellow. These were not your average conferees, laden with degrees and high-sounding titles. They were mostly local people, many of whom had never possessed a passport or flown on a plane, and had come to share their stories and to learn from others how grassroots people can work together to improve their lot.

  My primary role in this mammoth event lay in its preparation and follow-up, from raising funds and securing advocates to producing public relations materials and editing a book that distilled lessons learned from this four-year undertaking. During the 10
days of the event itself, I helped in small ways and joined in the opening and closing sessions, but some days and most evenings I found myself in the rare position of having time on my hands. I didn’t need suggestions on how to make use of it. The low-cost, government-run hotel that housed our staff offered a convenient camouflage for my activities. For once, I did not feel that my every move was being scrutinized as it often was in our staff quarters. I relished the anonymity as I threw myself into exploring Delhi’s gay underground.

  At night I would venture out, usually beginning at Connaught Circus in the heart of the commercial district. But when I was feeling more adventurous, I would take an auto-rickshaw to Nehru Park near the diplomatic enclave in South Delhi. During the day, this popular park attracted family picnickers, weekend concerts and art events. At night, it transformed into a haven for courting couples, gay men, drug peddlers and others, including plainclothes police whose intimidation tactics were well known. But the park’s 35 hectares of mini-hills and landscaped vegetation created an illusion of privacy that made it a beguiling place for gay men in search of quick sexual release. I had a number of encounters here, but always felt a sense of relief when I safely returned to my hotel. The thrill of the hunt was still as strong as ever but it was invariably accompanied by a lurking fear. I sometimes thought that the combined effect of my mother’s visit and the exposition would divert me from my relentless drive for sexual discovery. But they appeared only to have upped the ante. I now had to see if I could keep all these plates spinning at once.

  As the exposition drew to a close on 14 February, I felt as though a chapter of my life too had ended. So much energy had been spent, individually and collectively, over the previous four years gearing up for the gathering in India that its completion came as an anticlimax. The next phase of the project would include follow-up gatherings in different parts of the world, as well as extensive documentation. When I was invited to join our Calcutta staff to visit participating organizations in Nepal and Bangladesh, I jumped at the opportunity.

  A few months later, I was to join the bulk of our India staff and head to Chicago to participate in the Institute’s largest-ever gathering. For years we had put funds aside to bring together as many of our staff as possible for two months to engage in a massive social research project, followed by an assembly in which we would review our work and create long-term plans. Despite my initial ambivalence, I had resigned myself to the fact that once I left for Chicago, I probably would not return to India. Nevertheless, the thought of leaving distressed me. I couldn’t imagine not being a part of India, now that India had become so much a part of me. Loosening these ties couldn’t be easy. Unwittingly, my visits to Nepal and Bangladesh helped this process along.

  I had another strong incentive to undertake this assignment. It provided me with one last trip to Calcutta and the chance to spend time with those with whom I had come to feel a close kinship. Ever since my dam-bursting conversation with Sandy, my relationship with her had strengthened and I now saw her as something akin to a trusted sister. We talked and joked and shared stories in ways I never dared with other colleagues. For the first time in India, I had found a friend, with no sexual overtones and no strings attached. Whenever we met, I felt like a bird that had just discovered its wings and savored the unimpeded sense of freedom that flying brings.

  From Calcutta, we traveled to Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh. My image of Bangladesh as a land of savage monsoons and incessant floods was reinforced as our aircraft approached the elevated runway at the country’s major airport, surrounded by water as far as the eye could see. Driving in the city a couple of days later, we stopped at the General Post Office to send a telegram. I watched in horror as Sandy stepped out of the taxi and waded through knee-deep water to get to the steps of the GPO. As in India, even the most mundane tasks in Bangladesh could become huge logistical undertakings. But unlike India, Bangladesh was nowhere as self-reliant economically. Whereas its Goliath-like neighbor manufactured everything from matchsticks to spaceships, Bangladesh was heavily dependent on imported materials. The standing joke we learned in Dhaka was that the country’s most thriving industry was foreign aid, with its attendant government bureaucracies, non-governmental organizations, research bodies and assorted middlemen.

  While the days were taken up in visits to development organizations, evenings were mostly our own. Sandy and I had checked into a United Nations guesthouse that made our own crowded facilities in India look third rate. After dinner we’d usually part company to give each other time alone. By now, I had developed an acute ability to predict where to find other gay men in any city I visited. Dhaka was no exception.

  I found a pleasant area near the center of the city with a canal running through it. Before long, I noticed a number of young men strolling up and down and eyeing one another furtively. As a foreigner I stood out from the crowd, so I decided to take a seat and see who would accept my subtle invitation. Within minutes, I was joined by an athletic young man who wasted no time getting to the point. As we chatted, he revealed that he had a foreign friend who worked for the French embassy and asked if I would like to meet him. My first reaction was to decline, since I had become so enamored with South Asian men that foreigners of lighter hues held little interest for me. However, given my short stay in Bangladesh, I thought the Frenchman might give me a useful perspective on the local scene. My young informer told me he would try to arrange a meeting with the Frenchman the following evening. Since the only way he could reach me was at the UN hostel, I gave him that contact information.

  The next evening over dinner with Sandy I told her I was expecting company so would not be going out as usual. I waited for an hour, then two, but no one showed and no phone call came. Since it was my last night in Dhaka, I decided to give up and try my luck in the public domain. But it turned out to be a most unproductive evening. When I returned to the guesthouse, I found a note taped to my door. ‘You had a late night caller. Tried to contact you, but no response. Tell you more over breakfast. Cheers, Sandy.’

  Damn! So he had come after all. If only I’d had the patience to stay a bit longer. I couldn’t wait to find out the details. What was he like? How was his manner? Was he my type? I had a hard time going to sleep, as I kept imagining scenarios of what might have happened. I was up as the first rays of sun splintered through the wooden blinds to announce another muggy day in Dhaka. I showered and dressed and headed downstairs to the dining room. I was the first there but after a few minutes Sandy joined me, her face aglow with a smirk that told me I was in for a thorough going-over.

  ‘Well, you hit the mark this time, sonny Jim,’ she said as she pulled her chair out from the table and sat down. ‘All I can say is that you were lucky I’m your traveling companion on this trip and not anyone else.’

  My stomach curled into a tight knot as I gave her a ‘go on’ look.

  About 9.45 last night, I was reading in my room when I got a call from the front desk. The guy on duty said there was someone to see Mr. John but that he couldn’t raise you in your room. So I agreed to go down and see if I could deal with it. When I entered the lobby, the only person there was this young lad, who looked all of 16. I began to wonder what you’d been up to this time.’

  Sandy’s eyes twinkled as she spoke; clearly, she was enjoying this.

  ‘Since you had hinted over dinner that you were expecting company, I assumed this was it, though I must admit I was imagining someone a little more…shall I say…mature? Anyhow, I introduced myself and asked him what he wanted. He didn’t beat around the bush. He said, ‘Please tell Mr. John I have arranged for him to meet Jean-Pierre tomorrow evening at 7 pm at the same place.’

  ‘What could I say? I promised I would pass on the message but told him that unfortunately Mr. John would not be there tomorrow night since we were returning to Calcutta in the afternoon. I thanked him for his trouble and told him perhaps Mr. John could meet Jean-Pierre another time.’

  I blushed as Sa
ndy relayed what had taken place. She was absolutely right. Thank goodness it had been her and not Henry or one of our Indian staff last night. Sensing my embarrassment, she laughed as she turned away from me to the waiter standing nearby and ordered breakfast.

  While this secret brought us even closer, it didn’t remain a secret for long. On the flight back to Calcutta, she promised not to tell anyone—well, almost anyone. A couple of days later, over a beer in a local bar, Sandy’s husband, Sean, turned to me with a wry smile that suggested I was about to be subjected to his Bostonian Irish humor.

  ‘So Burbs, what’s this I hear about your after-hours activities in Bangladesh? What do they call it, boating?’

  ‘Well, close Sean. I think the word you are looking for is “cruising.”’

  ‘Ah yes, cruising,’ he repeated. ‘But somehow I think “boating” suits you better. Not quite so elegant. A little wider range of vessels, wouldn’t you say?’

  I smiled, raised my glass and said ‘cheers.’ From that day on, I was saddled with the title of ‘the boatman.’

  Following a short stay in Calcutta, I flew to Nepal with an Indian colleague, Gregory, to pursue avenues of cooperation with exposition delegates there. It was my first visit to this small Hindu kingdom sitting on the shoulders of India in the Himalayas and I wished I’d had more time to explore outside the capital. Gregory had been looking forward to the trip as well, since he had relatives in Kathmandu whom he had not seen in a long time. After a bumpy landing on the narrow airstrip nestled between high mountain peaks, we headed to the lodge we had booked near the heart of the city. Gregory’s relatives had invited us to lunch the following Saturday. Having had several full days of appointments, we were glad to take up their offer. They served us an abundant meal of Nepali and Western food, so I decided to go for a walk and let Gregory and his relatives catch up on family gossip.