by Farahad Zama
Shaan laughed. “This is India, my dear. As a former prime minister once said, we don’t have any homosexuals in this country. The folks round here will just think that we are long-lost brothers reuniting after many years. Loosen up.”
But Dilawar couldn’t relax and held Shaan at arm’s length. “Let’s go,” he said, pointing. “My car is over there.”
They started walking in the direction of the car parking area, Dilawar taking over the trolley. Many long-haul flights had just landed and the place was busy. As they crossed the road and manoeuvred the wonky trolley through a small gap in the line of low boundary stones separating the road from the car park, Shaan said, “I missed you, Dee. It’s good of you to come. I wasn’t sure whether you would or not.”
Dilawar shrugged. “It was Sunday, so I decided I might as well save you a taxi fare.”
Shaan laughed. “You can’t fool me, Dee. You couldn’t wait to see me either.”
Dilawar glanced towards Shaan and their eyes met. For some unaccountable reason, Dilawar blushed. The effect was even more pronounced in the orange glow of the sodium vapour lamps. Shaan placed a hand over Dilawar’s, on the push-handle of the trolley. Dilawar jerked his hand away, as if touched with a hot brand.
“Be brave, Dee,” said Shaan.
Dilawar shook his head. “I am sorry, Shaan, but I keep thinking about what happened at the Gateway of India when we met. All those police…” Dilawar shuddered. “What we are doing is still illegal in this country.”
Shaan said, “Well, society will never change unless we fight against it. If people like us, educated and relatively well off, are afraid to show our love, what hope is there for the poor boy born in a village who dares to be a little different? First, we have to change the law of the land and then we can work openly for people to change their minds. There is a Gay Pride march tomorrow afternoon from Flora Fountain to the Vidhan Sabha, the state legislature. I am planning to attend. Why don’t you come too? The more people who come on the march, the more likely we are to be successful.”
They walked in silence for a moment or two. Then Dilawar shook his head.
“Call me a coward if you want, Shaan. But I’m not ready and, if you want to know the truth, I don’t think the country is ready for such a radical step either. I prefer the American military policy on these matters: won’t ask, don’t tell.”
They reached the car and stowed Shaan’s luggage into the boot. “Did you enjoy London?” Dilawar asked.
“I love London,” said Shaan. “I have many friends there and always have a wonderful time. The flight back was horrible, though. Two stops in the Gulf and we were delayed getting out of Heathrow, so we missed the connection at Muscat.”
“I don’t understand why you used that airline,” said Dilawar.
It was lucky that he had checked the arrival time of the plane before setting off for the airport, otherwise he would have been waiting for hours.
“A small factor called money,” said Shaan. “My employers are great, but don’t pay as much as detergent manufacturers.”
Dilawar laughed. “We’ll go to London next year and I’ll pay the airfare,” he said. “And we’ll fly direct.”
Shaan smiled at him. “I knew I didn’t fall in love with you just for your pretty face,” he said. “It’s good to be back home again.”
♦
Later that evening, after dinner, Dilawar and Shaan sat down with cups of coffee in Dilawar’s living room.
“Come over here,” Shaan said, patting the seat next to him on the sofa. “I’ve got a video of the wedding to show you.”
Dilawar rolled his eyes. “Why would I want to spend the first evening you are back looking at the wedding of people I don’t know?”
“You will find this interesting, trust me,” said Shaan, taking his laptop out of its case and switching it on. From another pocket in his rucksack, he fished out a DVD.
Dilawar watched his boyfriend’s lovely face crinkle with concentration as he typed in a password. Shaan’s tongue flashed pink as it darted over his lips and Dilawar’s stomach tightened with desire.
“Hang on. If we’re going to watch them on screen I’ve got just the thing.”
Taking the disk from Shaan, he went to a side cabinet, popped it in and pressed a button on a black remote control. A small motor whined and a white screen lowered from the ceiling, hiding the Mughal miniature painting. The picture of an old-fashioned album was projected, several feet high and the same width across, on to the screen. The image became sharper and more vivid as Dilawar switched off most of the lights in the room.
“Wow,” said Shaan. “When did you get it?”
Dilawar shrugged. “I felt lonely last weekend and went shopping. I said I would take their top-of-the-range kit if they could install it within a couple of days.”
“Perfect,” said Shaan. “The show will be really amazing now.”
Dilawar sat down next to Shaan, putting an arm round his shoulder. Shaan gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Ready?”
“Go for it.”
Shaan clicked a button and the image started moving. The book opened slowly and a young woman, in her late twenties, appeared, getting dressed in a flowing ivory-coloured wedding gown. She was in three-quarters profile, her shoulders bare and her blonde, curly hair piled high. She had coquet-tishly pulled up her frock so that the hem was well above her knee, revealing high heels, a trim ankle and the top of a stocking. The ring finger on the hand holding up the skirt bore a large solitaire diamond.
Unlike most men, Dilawar was able to coolly dissect her appearance without being overwhelmed by her beauty. She could easily have been a model, tall and slim with a creamy complexion. A hint of cleavage could be seen and her smile would have transfixed any heterosexual male. Dilawar merely noted that the smile gave her cheeks dimples and that her eyes were remarkably clear and a deep blue.
“That’s Lisa. Many girls in London want a gay man-friend and I was hers. We went out to many places where either of us needed an opposite-sex partner.”
“Why do girls want a gay friend?” asked Dilawar.
“Apparently we are more sensitive.” Shaan shrugged. “Different way of talking. Different way of communicating with women.”
“You mean we are not emotionally retarded,” said Dilawar.
“Exactly,” said Shaan.
As other people came in front of the camera, Shaan pointed out friends of his. All the women were in hats and the men wore suits and bow ties – some even had top hats. Dilawar thought the men looked very smart.
The wedding party had now reached a proud building with a classical look. Wide steps, flanked by stone lions, led up to the entrance. Ten tall columns in five pairs supported the front elevation like a Greek temple.
“Nice,” said Dilawar.
Shaan nodded. “That’s the old town hall in Westminster. As you can see, it was a lovely, sunny day. I know that means nothing to us here in India where we are used to ten months of blue skies a year, but the weather that day in London really lifted everybody’s spirits.”
The group was joined by others, posing for a photograph on a grand marble staircase. Another woman stood next to Lisa, wearing a matching ivory-coloured bridal dress. They both held identical bouquets of flowers.
The other lady was older, probably in her mid to late thirties, and pretty in a severe, school-marmish way. She had dark hair and was more flat-chested than Lisa. Dilawar was confused.
“Did you meet up with another wedding party?” he asked.
“No,” said Shaan, laughing. “Lisa and Gail are getting married to each other.”
“What?” said Dilawar, turning to look at Shaan. He swivelled his head back to the screen and turned back again to Shaan. “You mean they are…” His voice trailed off.
Shaan laughed at his friend’s thunderstruck expression. “Yes, they are lesbians.”
“Wow!” said Dilawar. “Are such marriages really allowed over there?”
> “Strictly speaking, they are called civil partnership ceremonies, though everybody just refers to them as gay and lesbian weddings. Things have changed dramatically in Britain. Just over fifty years ago, Alan Turing, the father of computer science and the one man more responsible than any other for winning the Second World War, agreed to be chemically castrated in lieu of going to prison and committed suicide because he became ineligible for security clearance to continue his work when it became known that he was gay.”
Dilawar gave Shaan an odd look. “Indeed…” he said.
Shaan continued, “While gay relationships were illegal, lesbianism was never technically banned in England.”
“How come?”
“The story is that when the Labouchere amendment banning gross indecency between same-sex couples came to Queen Victoria for signature, she crossed out the phrase about lesbians because she refused to believe that women would ever do such a thing.”
“That’s weird. I bet the current queen doesn’t have the same power,” Dilawar said.
“What does Gail do? She looks like the headmistress of a school.”
Shaan shook his head. “She works in the City, in a bank. I don’t know exactly what she does, but I heard that she manages more than a billion pounds in assets.”
The screen now showed a room with an elegant fireplace with a brass guard and a white mantelpiece on which stood a big vase of flowers. Tall windows framed with yellow curtains let in the light. Lisa and Gail stood in front of the fireplace facing an official. To one side the audience sat on yellow-upholstered chairs. A handsome older woman had a fixed smile on her face while the man next to her had his arms folded across his chest and stared straight ahead.
“Who are they?” asked Dilawar, pointing.
“Lisa’s parents,” said Shaan. “Lisa told me that the day before the wedding they had a couple and parents’ supper.”
“Oh!” said Dilawar. “That’s an interesting custom. I don’t think that will ever catch on in India, especially among Muslims. The bride and groom, or, er…bride and bride, I guess, wouldn’t be allowed to meet up before the wedding.”
“Yes, that will be the day…” Shaan laughed. “Anyway, at the supper, Lisa’s father accused Gail of corrupting his daughter.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Exactly. Highly embarrassing as Gail’s mum and aunt – her father is no more – were also there.”
“What happened then?”
“Lisa stepped in and warned her dad not to say such things to Gail. She told him to accept her for what she was and let her lead her life in the way she wanted.”
Dilawar’s eyes widened. It had been a long time since he had spoken to his father, but he doubted that he could ever have said something like that to him.
“Apparently, it got a bit sticky after that. Lisa’s mother waded into the conversation, telling Lisa to watch her tongue and show some respect to her father, and announcing that this whole ceremony was a perversion of a proper wedding.”
“So how did it end?”
Shaan shrugged. “Lisa used the nuclear option: her parents had to accept what was going on or not come to the wedding at all. It was her special day, she said, and she asked them not to spoil everything and make her regret inviting them.”
“Wow!” said Dilawar. “If that had been an Indian wedding, the drama and fights and tears would have come out at the ceremony, while here everything is going smoothly – looking rather civilised,” said Dilawar.
Shaan laughed again. “We are an emotional people,” he said. “But, in England, manners are about keeping a stiff upper lip and being polite, saying please and thank you.”
On the screen, the registrar, a large black lady, said, “Lisa and Gail wish to affirm their relationship and to offer to each other the security that comes from vows sincerely made and faithfully kept. If any person here present knows of any lawful impediment to this civil partnership, then he or she should declare it now.”
The camera moved to a radiant Lisa and an intensely concentrating Gail, then panned to the other people in the room, who all seemed to be holding their breath, before moving back to the registrar.
“Lisa, repeat after me…”
“Gail, I pledge to share my life openly with you. I promise to cherish and tenderly care for you, to honour and encourage you. I will respect you as an individual and be true to you through all the good times and bad.”
After Gail said the same words – with Lisa’s name – the registrar continued, “We now come to the exchange of rings…”
The audience burst into applause as the couple slipped the rings on to each other’s fingers.
“How come there were so few people for the wedding? There can’t be more than about twenty in that room,” said Dilawar.
“This was just the registration ceremony. After this, all of us, except Lisa’s parents, went to the reception.”
The party had been held in a manor house that had been converted to a hotel. Ivy covered the walls and framed its leaded windows. Chimneys punctuated the pitched roof like soldiers on a march. Lisa and Gail, looking similar from the back except for their hair and their heights, walked hand in hand, staring into each other’s eyes, up three old-brick, semi-circular stairs to a patio, the wedding party following behind. As they reached the top, the rest of the guests already assembled there burst into cheers. Lisa’s smile made her face bloom like a pink peony and even Gail looked less forbidding.
The couple of hundred or so guests formed two long rows in front of the entrance to a wing of the hotel, leaving an aisle-like gap down the middle. Lisa and Gail walked between the two rows, arm in arm, each holding a bouquet of white roses. Confetti was showered on them and four small girls, dressed in blue frocks, stumbled behind the brides, grinning and looking important.
Dilawar was shocked. “The children,” he said. “What were they told about the wedding?”
Shaan shrugged. “Young people find it easier to accept. If the parents don’t make a song and dance about how strange it is for two women to marry, their children will take it in their stride,” he said.
Dilawar shook his head, unconvinced.
When Lisa and Gail reached the head of the queue, they looked over their shoulders. The moment was captured perfectly on the screen – their dresses matching, their hair contrasting, their smiles identical.
Energetically, both tossed their bouquets over their heads, the flowers tumbling several times before coming down again. Lisa’s bouquet was caught by a woman who jumped high in the air, so that others standing near by had no chance. As soon as she landed, clutching her trophy, she turned and hugged her boyfriend, squealing in delight. He looked shell-shocked.
Two men lunged for Gail’s bouquet. One of them, with the advantage of a few inches of height over his rival, caught it. The two men then fell in each other’s arms and danced an impromptu jig, laughing and whooping.
“Are they…” asked Dilawar.
“Yes, there are lots of gays among the guests,” said Shaan.
Once Shaan pointed it out, Dilawar wondered how he had missed the signs. It was clear that some of the men, in formal suits, waistcoats and bow ties, were clearly partners.
Waiters circulated with flutes of champagne and drinks. The party slowly lost its formal edge and people became more boisterous as the alcohol took its toll. Dilawar shook his head – this was something else that would not happen in a Muslim, or even in a Hindu, wedding, really.
On the edge of the screen, a woman with a sleeping baby in her arms was talking to a man. He touched the woman on her cheek with easy familiarity and said something to her, making her laugh. Another woman came up to the couple, slipped her arm around the first woman’s waist and kissed her on the neck.
Dilawar was confused. “Who?” he said, pointing to them.
Shaan froze the picture and looked at where Dilawar’s finger was pointed. “Oh, that’s Marie and Nicola. The man is Mark and he is Marie’s ex-husband. They
got divorced after Marie and Nicola got together.”
“The baby?”
Shaan shook his head and restarted the DVD. “Not Mark’s. Marie had the baby after moving in with Nicola.”
“How?”
“Artificial insemination,” said Shaan.
On the screen, another woman, hugely pregnant, joined the trio. “That is Mark’s latest wife, his third, and that bump, hopefully, is his baby.”
Abruptly, Dilawar stood up, knocking down a small table. Kicking it out of the way, he left the room abruptly. Shaan looked up in surprise and paused the video. When Dilawar did not return after a few minutes, he went in search of him and found him on the bedroom balcony, looking out over the low-lying buildings and slums.
“What is it, Dee?” he asked softly.
Dilawar took a long time to answer. “Do you remember the movie Four Weddings and a Funeral?” he said.
“Of course,” said Shaan. “Who doesn’t?”
“At the funeral of the bearded man, his boyfriend says that his partner preferred funerals to weddings on the principle that he was more likely to be involved in one at some point.”
“I remember,” said Shaan. “Just before he recited that lovely W.H. Auden poem that completely broke me down. I was bawling at the end of that scene.”
“Me too,” said Dilawar. “Anyway, I am like that man. What’s the point of watching this event that we have no hope of ever replicating here? That ceremony, those understanding guests, the little bridesmaids, the mix-and-match partners – all those things could be happening on Neptune, for all we care. We live in India and here if you even tried to hire a hall for a wedding like that, you would be hounded away by barefoot people throwing their sandals at you. For a long time, the government’s response was that there was no Aids problem in India because there were no homosexuals here. That is the level of denial that exists in our society.”
“That was years ago, Dee. Since then the government has kicked off a campaign to educate people about Aids. Attitudes can change. That’s why I am going to Delhi to attend the court case against the law banning homosexuality, and you should come too.”
