Bravo. You are all so courageous. Our times are filled with many revolutions for Civil Rights. The Gay Rights struggle is one of them. We will suceed. Gordon In a message dated 2/20/2011 10:39:19 P.M. Mountain Standard Time, modera...@gaybombay.in writes:
My son is gay, and I’m proud of him’ Shruti Ravindran Indian Express, Sun Feb 20 2011, 17:03 hrs _http://www.indianexpress.com/news/my-son-is-gay-and-im-proud-of-him/752229/ 0_ (http://www.indianexpress.com/news/my-son-is-gay-and-im-proud-of-him/752229/0) [image] Bina Guha Thakurta at a cafe in Kolkata, with son Tirthankar, who made the coming-out film Piku Bhalo Achhey. Parents of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender children go to the Supreme Court to weigh in on the debate over same-sex relationship. The story of how they came to accept and understand their children. In the office of Minna Saran, the manager of a beauty salon in Le Meridien, Delhi, nymphets with flowers in their hair gaze out of gilt-edged frames on the walls, and ceramic angels sidle up close to fuzzy ducks and bunnies on the shelves. At her desk, with a sweeping view of central Delhi filling the window behind her, and a portrait of her son Nishit beside her, Saran herself is all steely-eyed, unsentimental resolve. The lead signatory on a special leave petition she has signed with 18 other parents, she is determined, on her son’s behalf, to defeat the self-elected guardians of “family values” who oppose the Delhi High Court’s July 2, 2009 judgment which read down Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, a colonial-era law that criminalises “unnatural offences”, including consensual same-sex unions. “If we have legal, human rights, as citizens of this country, why should our children be denied these rights?” she says hotly. “When they’re toppers or go to Harvard, they’re acclaimed. Should they be ridiculed just because they have special preferences?” She may not have h ad far to go, but Saran has still come a long way from when her son came out to her on camera, in his moving 1999 documentary Summer in My Veins. “You’re joking. You like to shock people,” she had said to him then, adding, with a near-imperceptible wince, “Are you going around with...men?” With his calm reply, “I have,” her disbelief and shock turned, in an instant, to total acceptance: “You’re my son. I’m not going to be ashamed of what you do, or who you are. Till the time I’m alive, I’m with you, I’m with you, I’m with you.” Nishit died in a car accident shortly after, in 2002. “Talking about all this takes me back,” she says, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “The pain is too much. But I’m standing by him. It’s something I want to do. I know if he was here, he would’ve been involved.” So, on his behal f, she awaits the result of her petition — and three others supporting it — which goes up against 15 others filed by motley religious groups and individuals in the Supreme Court on April 19. With most of them decrying the putative “corrosion of family values” that decriminalising same-sex relations will lead to, Saran’s petition, which she’s signed with 18 other parents of children who identify themselves as lesbian, bisexual, gay or transgendered, is a fitting response, made from unimpeachable moral high ground. Its signatories come from various classes and regions — Delhi, Kolkata, Guruvayur, Bangalore, Mumbai, Pune and Chennai — and it is far more widely representative of those “Indian family values” in apparent need of protection. As parents, who have “a direct and immediate stake in the outcome of these proceedings,” they argue that it is, in fact, Section 377 which is a threat and a “gross intrusion into family life”. It is a convincing argument, but most of the parents making it needed convincing first, due to the public nature of the undertaking. “We tried persuading a lot of parents, and it was a conflicted process. Most of them were wary about exposure, and some, who were willing to sign, were prevented from doing so by other family members, who created an ugly scene,” says Vikram Doctor, a member of Gay Bombay, which assembled the informal pressure group through workshops to help parents come to terms with their children’s sexuality. This might not be an easy task, as most Indian parents like to pretend their children are asexual, and even expect them to be so until they marry. For the most part, Doctor says, parents “eventually accept it, as most do love their children a lot”, even if they first “put on a tamasha — cry, and t ake their kids around to 50 temples”. Petitioner Vijayam PS, however, was not given to such theatrics. She might have grown up in a village in Palakkad, Kerala, where she “didn’t know what was these things”, but her 30 years working as a senior accounts officer at the General Post Office in Bangalore brought her up to speed on “these” and somewhat less common things, such as a male clerk working under her, who “had his monthly period”. So, when her son, college lecturer Nithin Manayath, came out to her about six years ago, she quickly reconciled herself to it, even spending the first year of her retirement working with Sangama, a Bangalore-based NGO which aids sexual minorities. “See, whose fault is it? Nobody’s fault. It’s his psychology,” she says matter-of-factly, over the phone from her home in Thrissur, Guruvayur. “I didn’t feel anything; I was not sad, not happy. I had no trouble in digesting all this. I told him, live how you feel like.” To this, she added, “Don’t think of marriage; well and good,” having seen the fallout of gay men being forced into marriage, whose wives then had a “big problem of adjustment”. But she cautioned her son that the lack of a conventional support system meant he needed to “maintain” himself: “I told him that I’d help till I am there, but after some time, he may need companionship.” That admission aside, she has little patience for the standard-bearers of heteronormative culture. “Sexuality is not for procreation,” she says. “Why do gents go to sex workers? For procreation? No. They are going there just for fun. Just think of it, ya!” Though a little more soft-spoken, petitioner Shobha Doshi, a 58-year-old social worker and cancer survivor living in the Mumbai suburb of Mulund, is just as firm about challenging the hypocrisy of those who oppose the decriminalisation of homosexuality. “Who asks heterosexual people what they are doing in their bedroom?” she says indignantly. “So many things they are doing – nobody objects! They’re just harassing people (who) are a minority.” She found out that her son Shameet, an Atlanta-based computer engineer, was gay and living with his boyfriend about five years ago, through her elder son. “So I called him in Atlanta and asked him, first thing: ‘Why hide this for so many years? We used to discuss small-small things, why couldn’t you tell me about this?’” Doshi recalls. “He told me, ‘Many educated parents are not accepting (it), mamma. I can’t live without your support.’” She didn’t see why he had to. “My son is very intelligent, he has a good job,” she says. “Growing up, he was a very quiet child, he never mixed with anybody, or had girls come home late. But in a younger age, he was a naughty child. Now, I realise why he was quiet.” She attributes some of the ease with which she accepted the news to her struggle with cancer 25 years ago. “After that, I learned to live,” she says, in a calm, childlike voice. “Life is beautiful, you have to accept whatever comes your way.” With acceptance came understanding. After she spent six months in the US with her son and his boyfriend, cooking Indian food for their potluck parties, she wondered at the commonness of this identity, previously so obscure to her. “Most of Shameet’s friends are Indian,” she says. “When I saw them, I thought, if there are so many gay Indians living in Atlanta, then how many there’ll be in India!” Meeting them also rid her imagination of the stereotypical mincing gay man that Bollywood had taught her to expect. “It was a little exaggerated, and left a bad impression,” she says. “But they are good human beings, and so intelligent. I felt they are more soft than normal people, maybe because they’re not as accepted by society.” This understanding proved useful in reconciling her son’s boyfriend, a Pakistan-born American, with his mother. His elder brother had thrown him out of the house on discovering his sexual orientation. “When I met her, she was crying and crying and crying,” says Doshi. “I told her, ‘See, you can’t change them. It’s nobody’s mistake. It happens in life.’ Now,” she adds, proudly, “she comes to their house and cooks for them.” When confronted with the truth about her son Tirthankar’s sexual orientation, Kolkata-based Bin a Guha Thakurta, for her part, chose denial over tears. As implausible as it might seem, when Tirthankar’s coming-out film Piku Bhalo Achhey (Piku is Fine) was the talk of Kolkata in 2003, his mother was still oblivious to the fact that he was gay. “I really did believe that his film was about a fictitious character,” insists Guha Thakurta, looking distinctly uncomfortable with the recollection, as she empties two sachets of brown sugar in her cup of latte at a central Kolkata coffee shop, turning every so often to her son beside her for reassurance — which he gives her readily, squeezing her arm, or smiling encouragingly at her. “Almost a year after the film was made, he came up to me and said he had something to say. I knew it was something really important — mother’s instinct — if you can call it that. He would keep talking about same-sex relationships so I knew what he meant when he sa id he was gay.” As the president of the South Kolkata Mahila Morcha, the women’s wing of the BJP, Guha Thakurta didn’t live a blinkered housewife’s existence, sequestered in the kitchen of her Park Circus home. Yet, she says, she lacked “the vocabulary to define such relationships. I would look at eunuchs and pity them. That was my only exposure to the LGBT world.” The realisation that her son was gay plunged her into depression. “I firmly believed that everything I had struggled for had come undone.” Living with a conservative joint family didn’t help either. “One of my sisters-in-law took it upon herself to show me all the newspaper clippings talking about my son and his film and say that he has brought shame to the family. It never occurred to me that I could answer back,” she says. That’s just what she did, though, years later, when the same relative came to her, brandishing a newspaper clipping of Tirthankar, who had led a procession celebrating the Delhi High Court’s repealing Section 377 in 2009. “I was curt, and told her that I’m actually proud of my son for standing up for his beliefs,” she says brightly. By signing this petition, she’s standing up for his beliefs too. “As a parent, I can’t abandon my child. And I firmly believe that each person has the right to choose his or her partner. Societal pressure cannot work in personal matters.” She does admit, however, to exerting these pressures herself, in trying to wheedle her son into marry a girl. “When he’d protest and say that he didn’t want to spoil a girl’s life, I tried to convince him by saying that I would handle the situation. Now I know that’s almost criminal,” says Guha Thakurta. Today, all she wants is for her son is to find a suitabl e partner. “He should get to know the person before he starts seeing him. He shouldn’t jump into something impulsively,” she says, this time, giving her son’s arm a reassuring squeeze. While for gay men like Tirthankar and Nishit, coming out was a much-mythologised moment, for practising advocate Keya Ghosh’s son Debjyoti, it must’ve been dissatisfyingly undistinguished. “When Debjyoti did come out to me, it was more of a formality,” she says, with a wave at the framed photographs of her son scattered across her sprawling south Kolkata living room. “He had a lot of flamboyant gay friends who would come over to our house, and I was very comfortable with them.” She was initially worried about Debjyoti — who’s currently in Budapest for further studies — having multiple partners, as “gay men tend to be a little promiscuous, but when he found himself a ni ce doctor boyfriend, I was relieved,” she says, with a laugh. “After all, everybody wants a doctor as a son-in-law.” Minna Saran, too, is quite content with her son Nishit’s choice in men. Her life would be bleaker if she didn’t have his last boyfriend, Mandeep, to cheer her. “He’s stood by me like a rock. See, that’s him,” she says proudly, showing photo after photo of him beaming widely on her smartphone. “I call him my daughter-in-law. Here he is with my other daughter-in-law!” While she and her fellow petitioners will feel vindicated if the Supreme Court upholds the Delhi High Court’s 2009 verdict, Saran is convinced that the approval of parents is more crucial than that of “legal heads”. “They want acceptance because they need you, they can’t live without you,” she says, “They don’t want society’s acceptan ce, they want your acceptance.” Email: _moderator@gaybombay.in_ (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/gay_bombay/post?postID=DCvNIbdTv_3_C5j5flK54HZuyqMJgNC-L4S3BWR464eSfMgGEAMLax1OSqSI6REqIg VM3LQEejINlemMrw) E Groups: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/gay_bombay http://groups.google.com/group/Gaybombay http://groups.google.com/group/GayIndia Public archives at http://www.mail-archive.com/gay_bombay%40yahoogroups.com/maillist.html Rss feed: http://www.mail-archive.com/gay_bombay@yahoogroups.com/maillist.xml GB Internet Radio at http://www.gaybombay.in/gbradio Web Sites: www.gaybombay.in www.gayindia.org Orkut: http://www.orkut.co.in/Main#Profile?uid=15084918632470824129 Blogs: http://gaybombay.blogspot.com http://gaybombay.wordpress.com Twitter: http://twitter.com/gaybombay http://twitter.com/gayindia Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/gaybombay http://www.facebook.com/gayindia
