Delhi - A Lonely Place for the Gay

A city of more than three hundred thousand inhabitants, the city of New Delhi is a vast ever-growing city where the cogs of progress and real estate development churn at superhuman speeds. With the boom of industry and the economy rising at rates that make the powerhouse nations of the west quiver, more and more people flock to the city in the search of opportunity, and to be part of the New Delhi dream – earn a handsome six-figure income, drive a flashy car with an impressive subwoofer speaker system to make up for pint-sized gentiles, dine at classy eateries where they spend a fortune on excessively marked up food while making an ass of themselves by trying to sound ‘high-class’ by ordering “champagne on the rocks”, and finally, drop top dollar (or should I say rupee) on a swanky house in the super posh South Delhi districts (or in the water-sparse concrete jungle NCR regions). And yet it can be such a lonely place, especially for those folk who live on the queer side of the rainbow.

At first, I used to feel that I’m just overreacting, and that the city of New Delhi was full of like-minded gay men who see there’s more to life than scoring a quick-fuck off the internet. For a lot of time, I did my best to believe in it. However, in the time that I’ve spent within the gay world of New Delhi, I’ve realized that the further one searches for a special someone, the lonelier they end up feeling. And it’s not just about meeting nice guys, because despite the numerous disappointments, I have come across a few genuinely nice people (who are indeed a rare commodity), but it’s more about finding people who can really become a part of our lives in a whole complete manner.


The first thing that presents itself as an obstacle to finding such people is the whole issue of “coming out”. A country, let alone a city, that has leaped the bounds of progress ever since we gained independence from the British colonizers more than sixty-years ago, still holds on to attitudes towards homosexuality that have solely been ingrained into our minds by the foreign invaders and the times in which they invaded (and proof can be seen in an old Victorian law stated in Sec-377 of our constitution). Hence majority of us still remain in the closet, and hence limit our gay lives to the sleazy pick up lines of the next horny wanker online. Being closeted also prevents one from having a proper relationship with another gay man, as one wouldn’t be able to openly declare their love for someone, nor even be able to hold hands while walking in public without being too paranoid about “what will people think?” Those who believe being in a relationship means having someone to screw on a regular basis in discrete places (such as parking lots of malls, or dark deserted gardens at night) or whenever they have a ‘place’ to themselves, are seriously delusional. Unfortunately, that’s the definition of a ‘relationship’ for almost the entire gay scene of the city – which is unfortunately filled with closet-cases.


Then comes to the ‘cultural’ factor of the gay populous – they simply aren’t cultured. True, the term ‘culture’ is subject to perception, however, this is the same city where someone actually said, “I can’t stand the ballet – I see no point in watching fat women scream in Italian”. Gay culture is severely lacking within the gay folk of this city. Very rare would one find someone who knows the difference between Patti LuPone and Patti LaBelle, Joan Collins and Joan Crawford, or even Stephen Sondheim and Stephen Schwartz. In fact, if one has even heard of them is an achievement on its own. Being brought up to believe Bollywood with its cheap knock-off plot lines and gaudy song-and-dance numbers to be the be-all-and-end-all of culture, they’re alienated from some of the more ‘finer things’ of gay culture. A minute percent has ever been able to see gaylicious movies such as Sound of Music, West Side Story, Singing in the Rain, Funny Girl, or even the camp classics like Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert, To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything Julie Newmar, and even The Birdcage (although I prefer La Cage aux folles). Their idea of a gay movie is solely restricted to the direct to DVD releases from production companies like Falcon and Bel Ami.


The idea of a gay icon for them is someone like Whoriah Scarey, or Senile Die-on, or Hennifer Ho-pez, and even Shitney Beers – although Madonna is someone well loved, but barely known among the gay folk here. What about Barbra Streisand? Where are the lovers of Liza? Judy Garland anyone? (although ask someone if they’ve seen The Wizard of Oz or Meet Me in St.Louis, and they’ll look at you as if you’ve spoken an ancient alien dialect). Bernadette Peters, Donna Summer, Gloria Gaynor (‘I will survive’), Lynda Carter (Wonder Woman), Bette Midler, Lana Turner, Bette Davis, Debbie Reynolds, Julie Andrews, Audrey Hepburn, Marlene Dietrich, Mae West, Madeline Kahn, Kristin Chenoweth, Idina Menzel, CHER?!?! Seriously, how can anyone claim to be gay without knowing and loving these lovely ladies of gay-icon-dom! But then again, majority of the denizens don’t even claim to be gay due to their closet-status. Hell, they call themselves ‘bisexual’ despite almost never having sex with a woman!


Plus the people of Delhi tend to take a judgmental turn on things without even knowing anything about them to begin with. One such person claimed to hate Barbra Streisand because he hated the shape of her nose without even watching a single movie or hearing a single song of hers. It was only after Jordan Sparks performed “Woman in Love” on American Idol, did he limewire the song to discover Barbra sung the original. He ended up eating his words after melting at the sound of her voice and ordered Prince of Tides, The Way We Were, and Funny Girl on DVD. Another person claimed to hate Broadway musicals because he felt all they did was scream and shout and jump around. After I played a youtube clip of the Broadway smash hit Wicked, did he become an instant lover of all things Broadway! A third claimed classical music was only for losers stuck in time till he sobbed to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake ballet suite. Then again, the average gay man in this city thinks gay music are Bollywood ‘Item Numbers’ such as Beedi Jalayle and Dard-e-disco.


And speaking of Disco, let’s look at the options for Gay nightlife within the city. There is the infamous ‘Pearls n Petals’ that has been mentioned in depth in the very first blog post made here (My First Date), which has the same amount of class and sophistication as a truck stop in Manesar. A McDonald’s franchise is classier, with better looking patrons! Then there is the once-a-month Salvastion Star party that is held at a ‘secret location’, where the cover charge is excessive like the price of the bad quality drinks, and it is only open for barely three hours. The music played in both the places is sleazy Bollywood trash, the kind cab and auto-rickshaw (‘tuk-tuk’) drivers love blaring from their cheap stereo systems, and it’s not really the kind of place one would expect to meet someone soigné (if you have no idea what that means, it clearly shows where you stand). When I crib about this to others, claiming that I wish I could go dancing somewhere that plays good music, they ask, why not go to a straight club. I would, however the ones that play decent music are exceptionally few, and they have a strange rule known as ‘couple entry’. So hence if I ever feel like dancing to good music, I’m stuck to the privacy of my bedroom shaking my booty to Madonna’s ‘Give it 2 Me’. It’s the only place I can dance like a pussy-cat doll without worrying about either being groped by a slimey ‘uncle-ji’ or asked by a straight club in broken English that one can only dance on the main dance floor with a ‘female partner’.


Okay, so maybe night clubs and bars aren’t the best places to meet men of exalted quality, but where does one go? There are no museums worth going as they can’t really hold a candle to the Louvre, or the Met. The theater culture here is depressing – don’t expect Broadway extravaganza’s to be performed here. Opera and ballets are virtually non-existent – except for the rare times they have government sponsored shows at Sri Fort Auditorium, where the troupes that arrive are never really the kind one would ‘pay’ to see anywhere else. There are a few small activism groups out here, but they have this whole sort of ‘elitist’ complex where they think non-members are below them, so no point trying to join them unless and of course you have connections, or are willing to throw in a ton of cash.


So with a lack of ‘culture’ and a lack of watering holes to meet and greet, one might rationalize that perhaps one should look beyond that and search for someone who can make you laugh with their witty conversational skills. In this city, especially in the gay scene, finding someone who can carry of a conversation beyond ‘asl’ and ‘top, bot, or vers?’ is indeed a rare feat. If one does find someone willing to make pleasant conversation, it usually revolves around some sexual fetish of sorts, how much money the other makes, what part of the city they live in (that’s a whole different sort of class-disparity again), cock size and other measurements, Bollywood gossip, who slept with whom, and whether they spit or swallow. I remember this one time I went on a coffee date with someone who claimed he wanted to know me on a deeper soulful level, only to discover that he had no hobbies, no passions, no dreams, just a never-ending thirst to ‘stuff every hole I can find with my big 7in dick’. And those who do go beyond that, it’s almost hard to have a conversation with them as they’ve either never read any piece of literature that wasn’t enforced upon them by their schools, nor are they aware of anything remotely ‘cultural’ to discuss, except lame TV shows like FRIENDS (I prefer Will & Grace, better humor and wittier dialogue, and doesn’t revolve around corny cliché’s).


Now some of you might think that I’m just being too big a snob with too many expectations that are quite unrealistic, especially in a city like New Delhi, where the idea of being classy means being a slave to labels. However, at the end of the day, is it really too much to ask for a likeminded soul (who just happens to be cute to look at as well?)

Falling in Love with a Teacher: An Ode to Brother Patrick

September 5th is one day that holds a special place in my heart. Throughout the country, this day is celebrated as ‘Teachers Day’ – a day to honor all teachers. This day was created by our second president, S.Radhakrishnan, who was also an academic philosopher (and probably an anal nit-picky Virgo).


To be honest, I never really got along with most of my teachers. Who could blame me? I was always stuck with teachers who were either menopausal and took out their frustrations of their lost youth over young impressionable children; or with aging man-hating spinsters (*cough-cough-closest dykes-cough-cough*) who went all fem-a-nazi on us. The fact that I spent majority of my educational years in all-boys-catholic-school just made matters worse for me. Now some of you might think a gay twinkling schoolboy like me would have enjoyed being surrounded by all that budding testosterone. True, I would have enjoyed that, but my fellow classmates were ug-um-let’s just say they ‘offended my lady-like sensibilities’.


However, there was one teacher who made all those years of school worthwhile – Brother Patrick. An Irish catholic priest who came all the way from Belfast, Brother Patrick was like one of heaven’s angels who had descended upon earth to make my sixth grade year the best school year of my life. A thick tuft of ebony hair and sparkling eyes that resembled the lush Irish countryside, he made my heart flutter each time he passed by our school corridors. He first came to our school when I was in the fourth grade and since then I had developed one of the biggest crushes on him ever. Some of you might think that might have been a bit too early to develop a crush – even a gay crush, but I’ve always known I was gay since a really long time (since I was 5 actually and saw Madonna’s Like a Prayer video – long story). When I discovered that he would be assigned to teach our class in the sixth grade, my heart did a triple somersault leap into the air.


Usually I would always sit in the last two rows of my classroom, spending all my day doodling images of my favorite cartoon show Jem and the Holograms (the most gaylicious cartoon ever), however, for the sake of Brother Patrick, I sat in the front row smack in front of the teacher’s desk, where I could get the best view of him. Although his dreamy Irish accent made it a bit hard for me to focus on his class, as I’d be swooning with delight on the inside, his was the only class I paid attention in – a bit too much attention actually. While others would probably just hear his lecture, or laugh at the odd joke here or there (he had a darling sense of humor), I would notice the way his lips moved as he rolled his R’s or pursed his P’s. I’d love how the tip of his tongue would thrust against his front teeth for the T’s, and how his tongue would roll at the L’s. Needless to say I was thinking of better things he could do with his tongue.


It was a challenge though, as he taught a subject I used to abhor – science. The science teacher’s I’ve had almost all my school-life were boring mindless drones that resembled extra’s from Night of the Living Dead. However, Brother Patrick sparked a sudden passion within me for science. True, it died down after the sixth grade, but while it burned within me, it was a bright flame, that was partially fueled by the massive crush I had on him. He was such an entertaining teacher. He would make us sing formulae for elements and equations to help us remember them. He would play games in the form of Pictionary or Charades in order to make learning more interactive. There would be little skits where we would demonstrate the laws of physics in practical day-to-day life. And we’d have such great projects that made doing homework so much fun. And even though I was endlessly teased about it, I really was the teacher’s pet in his class. I would always be the first to raise my hand for a question – even if I didn’t know the answer, just hearing him call out my name would make me blush like a ripe tomato. Lucky for me, I was a good guesser, so managed to get almost all the questions correct, and was always rewarded by a friendly pat on my back – which totally sent shivers down my spine.


Sometimes just for the sake of livening things up, Brother Patrick would take us outside the classroom, and out to the playground, where he’d make us do crazy fun stuff to teach us. We would have swinging contests (I’d always win them) to learn about oscillation. We’d use the see-saw to learn about the lever (effort, fulcrum, and load). We’d whirl around like dervishes and fall onto the ground in order to learn how to feel our heartbeat rise and then fall eventually. We had a pet caterpillar that was kept in a large glass case in our classroom, where we’d watch it eventually spin its cocoon, and later turn into a butterfly. When Brother Patrick tried to release it, the butterfly fluttered gently away, but then returned to rest upon his shoulder. The entire class laughed, but I could tell the butterfly did that because it could sense he had a good soul.


During PTA meetings, I would so drag my parents only to meet him. Unlike the other teachers, who would constantly complain that I sit ‘lost’ in their classes and keep doodling in my notebook, Brother Patrick would always say I was a ‘fine young lad with a brilliant mind’. On the outside I smiled brightly with my chest swollen with pride. On the inside, I was like Tracy Turnblad from Hairspray the Musical, singing “I Can Hear the Bells”.





For some reason, I felt deep down inside, Brother Patrick was gay. Although he never made any clear indication of it, he did leave subtle signs of it that I with my highly attuned ‘gaydar’ seemed to pick up quite easily. For instance, the extracurricular activity he was assigned with was Drama and Theater, and since the time he first joined us, he would choose the gayest musicals ever to be performed. First it was Cats, which solely comprised of the cast dressed up in cat-suits and prancing around stage belting power ballads. Then it was The Wiz, a modern day updated version of the Wizard of OZ, the gayest tale ever! And with me, it was Joseph and his Technicolor Coat, a musical where Joseph was gifted a fabulous sparkling rainbow coat by his father, and his brothers got so jealous that they beat him up for it. The only kind of men that I know of, who would beat someone up for a sparkling rainbow coat, are evil drag queens from the lower-east side of New York.


Perhaps it was just my imagination, but I felt he had a little skip in his walk that might have also indicated him being gay. After all, his pleated white robes did resemble a long skirt at times, especially when he’d run across the corridors (something the other teachers and Brothers’ frowned upon) to get to his various classes. Sometimes I wondered what he would wear under his robes, because sometimes one could get a clear outline of his rather sculpted butt when he would bend over to pick up a pencil (kinda like the “Bend and Snap” from Legally Blonde).


The best was during the Christmas pageant. Our class had to re-enact the birth of Christ, and I played the Virgin Mary – could I be gayer? Backstage I was totally psyched up. Not only was I playing the role of the Virgin Mary (or as the Italians call her – Madonna), but I got a chance to wear a fabulous wig, with full makeup, and a stunning white gown with pantyhose and silver pumps, and not risk getting beaten up. Brother Patrick was in charge of costumes, and he claimed he made a special effort for mine, and he personally helped me put on my lipstick. Once applied, he made me purse my lips upon a tissue paper to prevent blotchiness, and then made me look in the mirror and whispered in my ear, “You look smashing darling, blow a kiss because you look lovely”. If that’s not gay, I don’t know what is?


During the Teacher’s Day celebrations at school, we would have a special assembly where the students would perform something to honor the teachers. Although such things were usually done by the senior classes, I pulled some strings (i.e. threw a sobbing diva fit) and got our class to perform something special for Brother Patrick – a rendition of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”. By the end of it, he had tears in his warm kind eyes.


Afterwards, I stayed back after school to help with clearing up the assembly hall; I went over to Brother Patrick’s chambers that were located on school grounds with a special present for him. When I handed the gift-wrapped package to him, he smiled and said I shouldn’t have gone through all this trouble. Inside was a handmade card where a likeness of him was drawn as an angel, with the words, The Lord sent us an angel in the form of a teacher, Happy Teacher’s Day Brother Patrick. Along with that, there was a book of Irish poetry, and a vanilla candle that was shaped in the form of an angel. He was so overwhelmed with joy that he embraced me with a big bear hug that in my mind lasted a blissful eternity, followed by a tender kiss on my forehead, which I still remember till this day.


As the school year came to an end, I went over to Brother Patrick’s chambers to discuss something, when I happened to see him packing his things in a brown box. Upon my asking, he informed me that he was summoned to go teach children at a small village near the Himalayas where a new convent had opened. I was crushed, but it took every ounce of strength within me to smile and wish him all the best and not shed a single tear. However, I became a sobbing mess of phlegm the minute he mentioned that in all his years teaching at our school, I was one student who would always have a special place in his heart. He hugged me and calmed me down, assuring me that no matter what happens, he’ll always include me in his prayers. I mustered a smile at his gentle words of encouragement, but my heart truly was crushed at his departure.


For almost two months, I went into a period of silent melancholy. School was never the same without Brother Patrick. No longer did I have a passion for Science, let alone school in general. No longer did I sit in the front row and raise hands to answer a question. There was no point in doing so, none of the teachers could hold a candle to Brother Patrick and his beautiful presence and charmingly cute Irish accent.


I had almost lost hope, till the next September the 5th, when we had another Teacher’s Day celebration in school. Throughout the special assembly, I squatted in a quiet corner, reading one of my mom’s Mills and Boons novella (it was my idea of ‘porn’), when in the midst of it all, a special announcement was being made by a familiar voice. It was Brother Patrick! He was invited to be the special guest at this year’s celebration. My heartbeat began to resemble a dribbling basketball being pounded against my chest as I tossed away the novella and sat in attention, looking at his beautiful presence up on stage. He spoke about what it meant to be a teacher in India, especially in our school. His accent was still charming, and his eyes still sparkled like emeralds, and his smile was still as youthful and joyous as ever. Once his speech was over, he received a thunderous applause – he had charmed all teachers and all students under him, especially lil ol moi.


Once the celebrations were over, he was surrounded by a hoard of students clamoring for his attention. He was kind and courteous to all. When he saw me in the crowd, he told me to meet him at the guest chambers. There, he had a special present for me, a silver crucifix pendant, which he said he prayed with to give blessings to me. I was so touched that I hugged him in a heartbeat with tears spilling out from my eyes.


I never heard from Brother Patrick after that day. Rumor had it that he was now travelling through convents in South East Asia, teaching underprivileged children and performing acts of Christian charity throughout. Sometimes he visits me in my dreams, where we’d have long jovial jaunts in the lush Irish countryside, indulging in delicious pies and goblets of Baileys. Sometimes I wonder how I would have turned out had Brother Patrick continued to teach us at school. Maybe I could have been a scientific scholar, maybe I could have been an honor student. Hell, for him, I would have even converted to Catholicism and taken a vow of priesthood, just to be close to him. But then again, maybe fate had only wanted us to spend a year together and learn whatever lessons we had to from each other.


Here are the lyrics to the song ‘For Good’ from the musical Wicked, a song that best can represent the bond between the two of us.





I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you...

Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good

It well may be
That we will never meet again
In this lifetime
So let me say before we part
So much of me
Is made of what I learned from you
You'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart
And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have re-written mine
By being my friend...

Like a ship blown from its mooring
By a wind off the sea
Like a seed dropped by a skybird
In a distant wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you

Because I knew you

I have been changed for good

And just to clear the air
I ask forgiveness
For the things I've done you blame me for

But then, I guess we know
There's blame to share

And none of it seems to matter anymore

Like a comet pulled from orbit (Like a ship blown from its mooring)
As it passes a sun (By a wind off the sea)
Like a stream that meets a boulder (Like a seed dropped by a bird in the wood)
Halfway through the wood

Who can say if I've been
Changed for the better?
I do believe I have been
Changed for the better