[This article was originally published by The Covai Post as part of their TCP’s LGBTQ Pride effort. ]
When did I realise I was queer? I never had an epiphany of any sort that revealed to me that’s what I was. I always thought of myself as just another little boy, perhaps a little more gifted than others (as on does in the days of infinite self-worth before life slaps you in the face). I remember my mother telling me that I was always fascinated by the long hair on one of my cousin sisters as a toddler, and how I used to sit behind her and drape her hair over mine and admire the oiled Malayali magnificence as it cascaded past my shoulders. And later, there was the mimicking of the Siva-tandava from the TV serial on the deity. Even as a young child, every single one of my idols were female, starting with the heroine of childhood mythology lessons from the family, the devi Durga. Then came the Hindi and Malayalam actresses who mesmerised me with their eyes on screen, be it Shobana in Manichithrathazhu, Divya Unni in Aakashaganga, or Raveena Tandon and Pooja Batra with their long legs and alluring dance moves. It was always the actresses I danced to, always the female identities I aligned myself with. And this inevitably led to towels pinned over my head in place of their long flowing locks, and bed sheets replacing the sarees and skirts, lehengas and cholis. There were so many times my mother walked in on me prancing around with ornately arranged towels on my head, and yelled at me to not do it. But she was never accusatory in her tone, or ever tried to shame me. Back then, I myself might have felt ashamed of it and hidden that part from all eyes for years, well into my teens, but looking back now, it was more her trying to protect me from the world rather than asking me to change for her or myself. Did she have an inkling back then? This was the 90s, and queerness was an alien concept for every-day Malayali adults, let alone children. I was just a child expressing himself, and everyone in the family was used to the femininity that was inherent in most of my choices, and I don’t remember ever being shamed for it. May be some of them might have questioned me on it and told me to try something different, my brother might have told me to not always dance to girly songs, but none of that has remained in my memory because it never mattered to me, or left deep unhealable scars because their love and support of me as a person always outweighed everything else.. I was a child, and I was living my best self. The only regret was that I never could get a doll to play with, but then again, I never got around to getting that wooden model of a KSRTC bus to play with either. Even in school, I don’t remember ever feeling ostracized or separate from the others, even when I viewed the world in what I see now as a slightly differed shade than what I assume the other boys did. It was the little things. In those days, boys and girls didn’t mix, but I was always friends with the girls, be it in 1st standard while playing house during the last period games, or in 4th-5th standard when I was placed in the midst of the girls in class as punishment for talking during school hours. That was punishment for the other boys, who recoiled from the girls like they had rabies, but I was completely at ease with them, because I didn’t see the duelling natures of gender that we were being fed at home and in school, consciously or unconsciously. I was supposed to feel uncomfortable and shameful, but all I felt was that I could do whatever I did with the boys without the judgment I might get.
But of course, growing up teaches you things about the world and breaks the tinted glasses you viewed it until then with. In my teens, I was in a boarding school setting, and that heavily influenced how I perceived the world and myself. Again, there was a constant separation between the sexes, by the school authorities (who seemed to think that any two people of the opposite gender interacting would lead to orgies or something), and by the boys themselves who had the hard job of being infatuated with girls and at once being confused about them. But here, for the first time, I was made to feel bad about my feminine traits, and made to feel that I wasn’t man enough. I was obviously feminine, and I got the usual teasing that nearly all queer people have experienced in some way, shape or form, from classmates and seniors, and even the faculty. I distinctly remember when I was 13, in English class (which was taught by my favourite teacher), I must have acted particularly feminine, because she looked at me and chided me, saying “What are you, a Chandupottu? (The slur was based on the Malayalam film of the same name, which portrayed an effeminate man and his journey to become a “real” man). That cut deep, especially coming from someone who I considered ideal and infallible. I felt soiled and dirty, almost tainted by the touch of femininity. From that day, I tried actively to act more masculine (I don’t know how successful I was at this, but another teacher later did comment on how I no longer acted “like a girl”). No one could really fault me for anything else, because I was undoubtedly one of the better students in the school, having great grades and always winning prizes for both artistic and athletic activities. But I always felt inadequate, because I was viewing myself as at fault for being feminine. My teens in that atmosphere was further complicated with the question of sexuality, when by the age of 14 I came across the word Queer in the newspaper, and I realised that there was a name for what I felt. That was the first time I felt different because of who I felt attracted to.
Being a queer individual from a small-town in Idukki, Kerala could have been hell in many ways, but somehow I have managed to navigate it better than most would have. May be it’s the fact that I never questioned my queerness. It was always apparent to me that I was queer, but while early on I tried to stifle my femininity and sexuality, I was aware of the outside world enough, I had read extensively enough to know that there was nothing inherently wrong with being queer, and whatever issue there could be would be based on the perceptions of the people and institutions around me. And I actively tried to shape those perceptions around me in order for me to navigate these social institutions I was thrust into. After a near mental breakdown around the age of 16, I had resolved to actively try and spread awareness around me at least so that life could be that little bit easier for me. In high school, I made sure that my friends were always aware that sexist and queer-bashing humour or discussions were not something they could partake in around me, and being a person with some amount of clout, I did manage that with my closest circles. I came out to many of my friends, and while many were shocked, none were truly appalled or horrified, and none of them ever pushed me away because of the revelation. That seems an impossibility to most young queer people from rural areas, because the ignorance around them can be crippling. That gave me validity, and a sense of hope that even though I was in such a small-town environment, awareness and education could help. I was still terrified of coming out to my family, because I worried that they would be disappointed, but I knew that even if they were, I had the choice to step out on my own as an individual, because my parents had always instilled in their children the value of independence and individuality, and I’m forever grateful for that. Of course, there were a few instances that didn’t leave a great taste in my mouth, and they came from surprising places. There was that time one group of boys teased me about them not feeling safe with a predator like me walking around while they were practicing shirtless, and I did feel deeply hurt, but the fact that the guy who said that came up to me, owned up to his mistake and apologised on his own volition helped in our reconciliation. It clearly stemmed from a place of ignorance and chauvinism, and a conversation helped in clearing the misconceptions. The other time was when a counselling session was arranged for the students by the school, where we could voluntarily sign up to speak with the therapist. Well, I wasn’t surprised when the nun who was the therapist shrivelled up and nearly fainted when I came out to her (after she had been praising me about my grades and everything), and I felt more tickled than incensed when she couldn’t even form a coherent sentence after that.
Coming out as queer to my family didn’t become the melodrama I envisioned it to be. My mother asked me, while I was in college, and I said that I was queer. That was that. There were no hysterics, no blame-games or tears. Of course, she being an Indian mother, worried about who will look after me when I’m old and lonely, and about “log kya kahenge”, but there was never an accusation from her. She had the foresight to do research online before asking me, and I can’t explain the pride I feel in that woman who sets such a great example for me. My parents have always been more informed and open than many of the parents of my peers, and we have established relationships as adults where we as children know we have the option to be open and honest with them. My mother is practical enough to know that our society has yet to catch-up, and might not be as accepting as her, so she would love to see me independent and settled abroad where I can be myself without fear of being targeted (she doesn’t know that my personality might be a bigger issue). The bigger hurdle was my brother, who already knew what was up, but wasn’t ready to accept it. We have always been as close as siblings can be, so I knew he was more worried about what could happen to me rather than seeing problems for himself and the family when he refused to accept my queerness. There was a period when the issue was bubbling under the surface, but once I made him understand that it wasn’t a phase or a deliberate choice, he seems to be satisfied as long as I’m happy, and I can’t be selfish and ask for more. As for the extended family, I literally couldn’t care less about who thinks what, because It’s not their business how I live my life. That has always been my approach to dealing with my queerness. Paraphrasing Rupaul, unless they pay my bills, I can’t be bothered to pay any mind to what others think of me. That’s beyond my control and I can’t spend my life worrying about inconsequential things like that. Family will always come first if the relationships are strong, and I believe in at least some of them to know that and understand that.
For me, the journey to my present state of mind has been more about finding peace within myself than my struggles with the outside world. Body dysmorphia, low self-esteem, bouts of depression and other struggles are a constant companion, and of course the current rise of fundamentalism in all fields of Indian culture has me worried, but things that are beyond one’s control cannot, and should not, govern one’s life. Fact remains that the paradigms for small-town queer people are different from those in the big cities. The queer rural experience is fundamentally rooted in ignorance, of the individual themselves and the people around them. The idea of queerness is alien, and concepts like homosexuality, bisexuality, asexuality et al are completely beyond the comprehension of the people, because there is no visibility or awareness for anything queer-related in this world. There are no identifiable icons that young queer persons can identify with, and the education that they have about sex and sexuality is laughable at best. The social agencies that exercise most authority in the lives of people, be it education, politics, religion or entertainment and media, all of them are generally extremely negative towards any notions of queerness, and denunciations are quick and constant. There are close to nothing that literature that is available at the disposal of questioning youngsters. What this leads to is an inevitable self-hatred or aversion that results in unhealthy suppression of sexuality. The constant barrage of derogatory or comical portrayal of queerness in the influential mediums of entertainment makes it far easier for young queer individuals to turn inward and hate themselves for being “bad” or “dirty”. There is also the belief amongst a lot of queer people from rural areas that sex is all that queerness is about, and there is no concept of queer pride, community or universality. So most simply think about the next secret dalliance to satiate a hunger they don’t fully understand, and cannot fathom that there is more than they envisioned. They do not know words like gay, bisexual, pansexual etc as sexual identities, but possibly as slurs. Then there is a definite feeling of inferiority for those queer individuals who do have more awareness about sexuality and gender, when they see that the few spaces that do cater to people of their tribe are for people they can’t equate with; the shiny and beautiful urban rich. The unattainable nature of a city nightlife, the uncompromising standards of physical beauty and material worth and a constant feeling of not being represented in any way (even in the few instances in mainstream media, we only get to see the lives of upper-middle class youth with perfect bodies and boutique-ready faces) makes even the most aware rural queer person feel separated by invisible lines. Being from a small town, the chances of sexual encounters are surprisingly ample in this age of smartphones and more, but as someone who has no interest in anonymous hook-ups or instant gratification, life can be a drag in many ways. There’s not much of a queer culture, even though there are Facebook groups and such of queer individuals aimed at bolstering communication and a feeling of belonging, but the fact that queerness is still considered a taboo, and in fact very much illegal in our country means that being open is a dangerous game without allies in everyday life. While I have great queer friends, it’s depressing when there really isn’t much chance to hang out as human beings and experience the human comforts of regular conversations and such with people you identify with more easily. There’s always an invisible wall that separates me from every other person in my life, and the few people who could walk through and engage are big-city boys in completely different paradigms. But these few friends that I do have, the bonds I have nurtured with these fellow queer individuals are incredibly strong and unique to this world of the queers, because we get to choose our own families in a way, and I have a brotherhood that I cherish very much, because I know they understand the struggles and unique experiences we share better than anyone else. If nothing else, it’s always great to have a group of people to be unabashedly queer with, watch Rupaul’s Drag Race with and sing along badly to Beyoncé and Celine Dion.
I might be an anomaly in terms of small-town queer boys, because I never went through a questioning or self-hating phase because of my sexuality. I have always looked outside, feeling always as an outsider, and my world has always been the greater world outside my semi-urban hometown in the wilds of Idukki. Books, TV, Internet- every single aspect of the modern age that brings the world closer to home has been used so that I haven’t had to grapple with small-town mindsets about queerness and sexuality, and that has helped me as a person in becoming independent and individualistic in my own expression of queerness. I can question gender norms with my choices without feeling ostracised by others, because I have trained myself to see my queerness as part of myself and not as a construct in opposition to others and their vision. Where once, I was ashamed of my femininity, I now have accepted and started celebrating the glory of the femininity in each person, and I try to teach that with my colleagues and friends, so that in turn they can go out into the world a little more aware and accepting. I have made it so that my sexuality isn’t all I am, it’s just part of who I am as a whole. Where once I had to watch how I walked and talked, and how I leaned forward so as not to appear too effeminate, now I paint my nails (because boys could and should be allowed to be fabulous), grow my hair long and keep a beard, and never shy away from the natural exaggerations of my gestures or facial expressions. Being masculine and feminine are not mutually exclusive, and neither is inferior or superior, and if people realise that simple fact, then that’s already a great leap forward not just in terms of queerness and gender identity, but also for the erasure of the chauvinistic bases of Indian society. All that is just a part of who the whole person is, and not the person themself. My colleagues, my friends and I have long discussions on topics of gender and sexuality, and while initially there might be a little hesitancy, I have found that with the right attitude, people do want to learn more and educate themselves, and it’s the arrant ignorance that is really the root of all the homophobia that has taken hold in our society. The biggest struggle for small-town boys, in my experience at least, is the lack of awareness and discussions that could enlighten the people, queer and otherwise. The queer population only see their queerness as a sexual deviancy that they have to practice in hiding, behind veils and shadows because it is abhorrent and deviant, and that attitude births a population who are all about anonymous sex and unfettered and innate anti-feminine attitudes, because it is seen as undesirable and reprehensible. That needs to change.
As a 25 year old queer man from a little town in the foothills of Idukki, my experience might not be unique or original, but the personal flavours and individual choices that lead to where I am today surely differentiate it from typical urbane or rural queer existence. It occupies a limbo stage, neither cosmopolitan, nor totally ignorant and backward and oppressive. But every story has value, and these stories need to be heard, I guess, so that other small-town boys can identify with them and see themselves as being able to see a valid and legitimate future that’s not limited to what they could envision in their small-town worlds, and that can only be a good thing.
Scribbles of Arjun 