A chance coming out

One morning, I was hungover and my mother, who believes she is Sherlock’s granddaughter, opened ‘The Drawer’. It is the one piece of furniture in my house which is legitimately mine. Locked at all times, it contains all things controversial and dear to me — condoms, a Gaysi magazine, LGBT flyers, diaries, love letters, nail paint, lube and more condoms.

Ever since I learned that ‘coming out’ is a legit thing and I don’t have to run away or wait for my parents to die, I’ve been planning this moment with caution. My master plan was to come out after I’m financially independent. But my mother dampened my plans.

On the basis of the ‘evidence’ (she called it that), she thinks I’m abnormal — I have “negative thoughts” and a “messed-up aura” which reflects in my body language and mannerisms. For some reason, this inference was never arrived at before the discovery. She asked me to see her friends, who are psychologists and doctors, and it’s only once they confirm there’s nothing wrong with me that I’ll get my ‘acceptance’. Had I not been secretly Googling bisexuality and other LGBT related material or attended a bunch of LGBT events, or just been ignorant in general, I would have probably given in to her demands.

She concluded that I could be gay, hijra or transgender. To her, all three are the same, interchangeable and equally disgusting. She speculated my childhood problems in vain with questions about trauma and rape (there was none), and tried to scare me by shouting AIDS repeatedly. Then, she tried to ‘mend me’ by shedding light on the society we live in and our Hindu religion. Her stigmas concocted with ignorance had no end. I soon found that the most beautiful lady in my world had the ugliest mind.

Surprisingly, I didn’t shed a tear. I felt a strength inside me that only knowledge can provide. My response “there’s nothing wrong with me” was standard because I wasn’t prepared for this to happen so soon. It was a bad fight that involved a lot of shouting and interrupting each other’s arguments. Finally, we got to the elephant in the room — telling my father. We agreed to keep it from him for a few years. Our conversation ended abruptly and I left the house for a smoke, to meet friends and visit the temple to pray for some divine intervention. When I got home, the first thing my mother asked was what I would like to eat. No matter what happens, even if it’s the apocalypse, she’ll make sure I’m on a full stomach. She served me food, we made our concluding statements and I assured her I knew what I was doing with my life and she needn’t worry.

Peace prevails, although temporarily.

The writer is a 20-year-old student living in Mumbai

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