this was an article i wrote for the "out of the closet" page of the DNA newspaper.
Male-Jhol… naa... this isn’t a hindi word.
It is hip and hinglish. I am one of the many males) in this orgasmic island city whose hormones get thumping and pumping, cajoling and jholing looking at other males (call us a minority and I will give you a thappad.
Yaah yaah.. I am gay. And I love men. I think of making love to a man.
I am engaged to a man and have a ring to prove it.
And let me tell you. Our joys our sorrows are as different and unique as a boy to a girl or vice versa. (What are they called?yeah STRAIGHT!) I’m often asked who plays the Man and who the Woman in the relationship is. The truth is that gay relations are unique and different so are our love stories. We don’t
fit into moulds. We define moulds.
I don’t believe that I need to identify as man or woman in the relationship or for that matter the sexual act. We are two men in love. Period. ( I mean no period
) Our love stories are just the same and break offs – ditto as straight ones.
Let me share my love story with you.My first love. (One sided though) In an early night of a drizzling June, at the windy Bandra reclamation, I fell in love… and for the first time. Was it love at first sight? NO. It was love at first kiss though. And now I know the questions raging in your mind.
Aiyoo. So did someone see. Naahi vaatla bheeti?
Nahi.. Mumbai is a busy city. Who has the time to see and bajaao seeti. He was not the perfect man. But he was as imperfect as me and perfect that time for me. As the dark clouds further stained the orange sky, and the drizzle ended and therewas a cloud burst. It was a perfect gulzar moment for us with a very situational
“ek akeli chatri mein jab aadhe addhe bhegh rahe the" playing in his iPod that was plugged into our ears, a ear each. – now it was “jaane do naa… paas aaoo naa…” all this at the very straight Bandra Reclamation that kissed the Arabian sea.
The moon waxed and time waned. I looked at my watch, two hours had passed. We decided to move to our respective homes. I called out for a “rickshaw”… and surprisingly, he sat in it. Puzzled, I stood there muzzled. He said, let’s spend the night together. I muttered huskily “where”. He whispered “Bombay”. I hopped in. The rickshaw meter kept ticking and we sunk into our past and present and future. from bandra to andheri. and from andheri to bandra and then from bandra to sion and then from sion to goregaon, we just “rick”ed it all over the ricked night.
He spoke I listened. I spoke and he listened. And the conversations that were initiated this dawn-less night, held us together for 4 months. Then we tripped and missed our steps. He found another and I was left alone singing melancholic tunes of the 40s. I kept a big face for 3 months. And then it took me 4 years of sad poems and reams and reams of tear absorbing tissue papers to finally gain the confidence to rise in love again. And finally change my facebook status to “in a relationship”…
Does my rainy day story sound alike the laila-majnu love relationships that go little beyond raat-gayee-baat-gayee?
well, we and our relationships are not queer. And if you insist we are.. then I’d say “as queer as straight ones”
our dill’s, in the same way go rock-and-roll , so what if it is Male-Jhol?