Write here, write now

This too shall pass

2006-05-22T17:18:00.000-07:00

It was that time of day again – lunch time finally, after a busy morning of writing code, and more code to improve on earlier functionalities. Ramana religiously logged on to matrimonials.com. He wanted to find someone in the Bay Area himself, after all he was a relatively successful software programmer and a couple of his friends had love marriages in the U.S.

He wanted to meet and fall in love with a desi girl. He dated an American girl once, and it wasn't a pleasant experience. It turned out to be all about her, and being a traditional Indian boy, he wasn't used to it. He wanted to be the center of attention, the way he was back home in India, in his family. Natalie was nice he thought, almost too nice and prudish enough to dispel his fantasies about the wanton ways of Western women. He tried to make his move on the second date, but she drew the line at kissing. He didn't want to talk about feelings all the time, or hang out just to be able to get a measly kiss at the end of it, so that was the beginning of the end.

There was no way he could even think about introducing her to his family. She was American, very American in her spaghetti strap tank tops and shorts. He felt a degree of pride from the envious stares of his desi room-mates, but even that wasn't enough to keep it going. Through his uncanny male instinct regarding commitment, he could sense that she was getting serious, and decided to get out while the going was good.

Soon after, he started browsing the net religiously, every day at lunch. He had been to almost every Indian matrimonial website, listings in the Deccan Chronicle, Times of India, matrimonials.com, and finally selected a few favorites that he would visit every day. He had his profile already set up in a few of them. No picture of course. Which desi man put up a picture of himself? It was almost a slap in the face to him. Weren't his “US based” qualifications enough? Of course he expected the girl to have her picture posted – he didn't consider ones that didn't have any pictures – didn't see the point of wasting time and effort, only to find out the girl is not pretty.

He had a standard letter of introduction that he sent to his list every afternoon. Girls in the US got top priority. Girls who seemed to have their own contact information online got even higher on his list. His letter started with his bio-data, towards the middle listed his likes and dislikes, and ended with his five year plans.

He browsed through his Yahoo! Inbox quickly, sorting out potential replies – junk, junk, interesting, no way, junk, wow! He stopped short – he didn't think Swati would reply so quickly. Her picture looked good too. He read through the brief email quickly – she responded, letting him know that she was looking out for guys too, and that she was under a lot of pressure from home, but didn't want to blindly accept any guy that her family saw for her.

Ramana was really excited. He replied, telling her that he felt exactly the same, and at the same time asked her more personal details about herself, asking her where she worked, lived, etc. Their back and forth exchange went on for two weeks or so. He forgot about his lunchtime routine, and all he could think of when he got into the office, was to see if Swati had replied to his latest email.

She seemed perfect to him, best part of all, she was in the Bay Area! She did her Master's at Santa Clara University, and joined Intel two years ago. He was glad she was in the US for a shorter time than he was – that meant that she wouldn't be too Americanized. She said she lived with her cousins, so that was even better, she must be a sheltered girl and oh – what a looker she was! He figured that she'd need some direction on American fashion, like most typical desi girls, as all her pictures were of her in shalwars or saris. He hoped she didn't go to work with a bindi and jeans, although from what he heard of big companies in the Bay area, that was the norm for girls there.

From what he understood, she was traditional, conservative, and a good cook, and along with her looks, she matched all his criteria for a “perfect” wife. He was anxious to meet her, hoping that they would click. He started fantasizing about her already, and completely let go of his afternoon ritual. She agreed to meet him in a week, on a Saturday for dinner. After a couple of emails, they settled on “Passage to India.”

Ramana couldn't wait. He couldn't stop thinking about it all weekend, and during the week, he kept thinking of romantic ideas. He thought they could go to the Real Ice-cream place for some good kulfi. One of his friends asked him to buy her red roses. He checked it out at Albertsons when he went to stock up on buttermilk, but they were $21 dollars. He was debating whether he should pay for dinner, but then thought against it. He decided he would wait to see how the evening progressed, before he went all out.

Finally, Saturday arrived, after a week that felt like a year. The only hitch in the meantime, was that Swati had emailed him about a possible conflict in her schedule earlier that day. She had to meet some friends in San Francisco, and since she didn't drive, she didn't know if she could make it to the restaurant in time for dinner. He laughed at how easily he was able to solve that problem. He asked her to take a cab from one of the earlier train stops and that seemed to solve the problem. It was a pity she didn't drive, but then, again, that was probably a good thing for him that she didn't have too much exposure or independence.

He wore his true tried and tested black jeans, with a full sleeved light blue shirt, with black sandals, aiming for a casual chic look. He bought carnations instead, which were $6.50 and reached the restaurant 20 minutes early, very unlike his normal Indian standard time adherence.

It was 8:15 p.m. and still no sign of Swati. He kept looking at the entrance every time someone passed through. The waiters were starting to look at him funnily. Wait – that's her he thought, and indeed, there she was. She was wearing a shalwar kameez, and she looked great he thought. He stood up and waved to her, calling out her name. She walked over to him and dazzled him with her shy smile. She said she had taken a cab from San Francisco as she missed the train, and didn't want to be late. She didn't have enough money for the cab fare, and she hesitatingly asked if she could borrow $45, and told him she would pay for their dinner.

Ramana was flattered. This was probably the first time a girl had bought him dinner, although technically, she wasn't buying, but that seemed fair. He had brought enough cash with him, and felt really good about the evening. He thought of a few jokes to tell her, he wanted to flirt with her a little to see what he could get away with, and while thinking of this, reached into his wallet, and gave her $50.

She smiled a dazzler again, and told him she would be right back. He returned her smile and told him he'd be waiting.

He waited for another half an hour, despairing with each minute as to how easily he had been taken for a ride. All this for $50, what would she have done for more he thought, feeling vindictive. As soon as he got home, he emailed her – her Yahoo! Id suddenly didn't work anymore. What a professional she was, already covering her tracks, he thought disparagingly. He wondered, how many other innocent men she planned on meeting that night, and imagined her with a desi “pimp” counting all their money with gleaming eyes.

He felt betrayed, angry that a desi woman did this to him, and wanted revenge. What could he do though, he thought? Anything publicizing this would be tantamount to making himself the butt of everyone's jokes. Ramana didn't sleep much that night. Sunday morning, he called his parents, and asked them to get some proposals together. He wanted to get married, and said he would be leaving in two weeks for India. He went back to the matrimonials site on Monday. By then, Swati's listing was gone – probably under another name, for all he knew. She was probably out there right now, trying to dupe more naïve men like him.

Ramana decided to let it go. He was never going back to Passage to India again. The tales he told his friends and co-workers, who asked about his date, slowly salvaged his bruised ego. Oh, she was ugly, he said to some, she couldn't speak one sentence of correct English, he said to others. It got better and better as the days went on, and he didn't feel so bad anymore, after all, he was a software engineer working in the U.S. – his mother would find ten girls for him at the drop of a hat.

Sometimes though, he got the distinct impression people were pointing out to him and laughing. He consoled himself thinking that it was probably just his imagination at best, or was it his worst nightmare coming true? What if “Swati” had posted his story on the internet?

Straight as an arrow

2006-05-22T17:10:00.000-07:00

“But I love you,” he said, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Don't start,” the voice growled in reply. “Just because we had sex a few times, doesn't mean that you're in love. Grow up, okay. You can't get serious about these things. How many times have I told you that?”

“I wish I never met you,” Vivek screamed, his voice interrupted with huge wracking sobs. “I thought you were different from them. You listened to me, you comforted me, you helped me – how could you say it's all about sex?”

“Vivek, just look at yourself in the mirror. You are a gay Indian man. What do you think this is – America? You think the two of us can walk on the street and hold hands, and kiss and acting like an f**ing couple? I told you from day one, act normal, don't let on that you are gay. But no – you just have to be a snively little girl. I can't deal with you anymore. Why can't you be a man?”

“How could you say that about all the times we spent together?” cried Vivek. “You just used me, and now you want to leave me. You don't understand. It's changing out there. It's not the same like it was 10 years ago. People are talking about it, Ramesh. They're making movies about it, and more than a few of us have been brave enough to come out.”

“Have you gone mad?” Ramesh replied, incredulously. “Have you seen them - the guys that have 'come out'? They are just chakkas, yaar – they are not like you and me. They are just one step above eunuchs, with their gestures and their flamboyant dressing – they think it's cool to be so openly gay. It's just a fad for them and you think that this is a sign that society's accepting them? Unbelievable! When are you going to accept your environment? This is India, where, according to the law, sodomy is still a crime! What do you think those policemen will do to you if you get caught?”

“But don't you see - we have to fight against this together,” exclaimed Vivek. “I know you love me – even though you just broke my heart, I know you love me. We can make a difference, Ramesh. We can prove that being gay is not all that different from being straight. We've been seeing each other for the past year. I've been faithful to you – we can make this work.”

He caught Vivek by his shoulders and shook him vehemently. “I don't want to make it work, alright. I'm not going to be labeled a chakka and watch my family name get ruined, have people laugh at me and make crude jokes about me. Do I want to be wearing a bulls-eye and be a target for ignorant masses because of my bedroom habits? Do I want people to ruin my career and my life, and possibly face legal action and be harassed by the police because I like men? I don't think so…”

Vivek shook himself loose from Ramesh's grip and approached him with a sad, tender look in his eyes. “It doesn't have to be this way. You're thinking of the worst things that can happen. We kept this up for so long – finding out of the way hotels, paying people to be our look-outs, and so far, we've been successful. I can't do it anymore, I just want to come clean. I'm tired of feeling like a criminal, like I'm doing something wrong, but there's nothing to be ashamed of. I'm not committing a crime, I'm not hurting anyone – this is my business, our business and nobody else's.”

“Stop it,” yelled Ramesh. “I can't believe how naïve you are. This is our business for now, and soon it will be our families' business, our milkman's business, our postman's business, our next door neighbor's business, their old Aunt's business. Have you any idea about how people talk? People are always interfering in everybody's business here – maybe it helps them deal with their sorry, miserable lives – but do you see my point? Everyone will have an opinion, and everyone will want to give us his or her opinion. You think that once we come out, people will say, 'look at that nice homosexual couple – they decided to come out and now they are living together – they are so happy, and so in love.' Have you gone completely insane? Where have you been all these years – lost in some Bollywood la-la land fantasy? Earth to Vivek -- come in, come in. Reality to Vivek! Yeah, that's right Vivek, those tears rolling down your cheeks are a sign for what's to come if I listen to you. Can you even imagine what...”

“Enough,” Vivek said despondently. “You made your point. You destroyed everything that I ever thought was true about myself and made it to be a big farce – a big f**ing joke. You're right, in reality, I'm just a cowardly, gay, Indian man who has nothing to look forward to anymore except perhaps a one-night stand in cheap hotels with a hot-shot like you who decides he wants to play both sides of the fence. What does that make me – a f**ing whore? All those times that you told me that this was my identity, that there are others like me, that you cared about me – all that was just a big fat lie! You started to make me believe that it could be different, and now that I want to be different, you're running away. Go, Ramesh, go marry the next gullible girl that your parents choose for you. Make her life a living hell, like you've made mine.”

“Vivek – I know you're upset. Listen – calm down, okay. I'm sorry – I said things in anger, but it was only to make you see things as they are. I will always be there for you. I can't be there that often, but we can still see each other. I agreed to my parents after years of emotional blackmail. This marriage means nothing to me – it's just something to make them all happy.”

“What about my happiness?” sobbed Vivek. “You can go about living your double life – what about me? Do you want me to keep pining for you, wishing you were with me when you can't be with me? Stalking your home, and crank calling you until I can get to see you, talk to you? Is that what you want from me? You go to hell – you selfish bastard. I can't believe I bought your lies all this while. You miserable monster,” yelled Vivek, attacking him with small blows.

Ramesh, in self-defense, grabbed Vivek's hands, turned his slight body and pinned his arms back, saying, “I don't want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me,” a strangled, maniacal laugh escaped Vivek. “You think you can still hurt me? Try it – go ahead, use as much force as you want against me – you can't hurt me anymore than you already have.”

Vivek's face grimaced in pain as Ramesh increased the pressure, twisting his arms further back. “What's the matter, Ramesh? Cat got your tongue? No wise words of wisdom for a gay Indian man?”

“Shut up – just shut up Vivek,” Ramesh's face became flushed with effort. “Don't make this worse – I still care about you.”

Vivek struggled to gain use of his hands in vain. “What a good liar you are, Mr. Ramesh Khanna – you certainly fooled me. But will you fool your new wife too? Maybe I should come over one day as your good friend and say 'Bhabhi, do you know that your husband likes the dominant position?'”

Ramesh's face contorted with anger. “Don't push me, Vivek.”

Vivek cried out from the pain as Ramesh pushed him toward the bed and continued, “Maybe I can demonstrate your preferences, teach her a few tricks, tell her how you like it done…”

Ramesh threw him on the bed face-down, holding Vivek's arms down behind him with one hand, with his own body weight pressing down on Vivek. With the other hand he caught hold of anything his hand could reach and angrily ripped Vivek's clothes off his back. “I'll teach you a lesson, you sanctimonious bastard. I'll show you how I really like it done.”

Vivek, struggling to get up, gave a muffled, pained yelp, “Don't touch me you animal – let go of me.” Ramesh, deep in his throes of anger and frustration continued to bear down on him, violating him, seeking out to hurt him, punish him, wanting to make him feel remorse.

For a few long minutes, Vivek's body writhed and spasmed under Ramesh's brutal onslaught. Spent both physically and emotionally, Ramesh rolled off, stood up and looked down at Vivek's beaten, broken body. “I know you're angry with me now. I'll call you in a few days after you've calmed down. It doesn't have to be this way you know…”

He waited for Vivek's response and seeing none, he shrugged his shoulders, and gathered his things. Ramesh opened the door slightly, and before stepping out said in a quiet voice, “I'm sorry, Vivek – we'll work it out – I promise.” With that, Ramesh stepped out into the dark, paan-stained walls of the hotel and closed the door behind him.

The hotel manager called the police the next day, when they found the body of a half-naked young man, with bruises and blood streaks on his back. Further investigation of the corpse revealed that he was sodomized forcefully and the cause of death was ruled as suffocation.

The hotel manager confirmed the police's suspicion, that the victim was a frequent customer, and that he was often seen in the company of another man. When they found out that the victim booked the same room every two weeks for the past year, that his partner and him took pains to avoid each other in the lobby, that they sometimes didn't come out of their room for long periods of time, the police were quick to jump to a few conclusions. A report was filed, and it soon went to the bottom of a very long list of unsolved murders in Mumbai.