You are dead to me,” my father’s voice boomed like that of an Amrish Puri character. What does one do with the violence embedded within these words?
Born and raised in Canada, like thousands of others, my life does not
resemble a Karan Johar NRI movie. I did not grow up in a mansion; I grew up in a house in the middle of the woods. My father did not go to office in a suit; he went to work at the mill in steel-toed boots and a construction hat. While my mother did cook us hot chapattis, it was before she started work as a maid at a motel.
My father migrated from Punjab to British Columbia in 1970; ten years later, he brought back a wife from the motherland. The town in Canada in which they have spent the
majority of their lives, has a sizable desi population from the Doaba region that has been established since the turn of the 20th century. Growing up in the non-urban west meant that my community re-created the culture, language, religion, and food of rural Punjab of the 1970s, by any means necessary. To a large extent, this was resistance to the immense level of racism that we faced within this
rural setting, and in part because they feared what they perceived to be the morally bankrupt culture of the west. In effect, I can make sarson da saag with makki di roti from scratch, a skill that few women of my age bracket can do in India. I speak an archaic Punjabi dialect, a language that is dying like other regional languages. Unfortunately, the expectations of all aspects of my life are equally stuck in 1970s rural Punjab.
Amongst other things that no parent should ever say to their child, they told me in plain and simple language that they are ashamed of me. They interpret every act of self-determination over my body and life as a slight to their way of life; be it short hair, thick eyebrows or the increasing permanence of my unmarried state. While there has not been an official “coming out,” much of how I live my life is seen as an affront to their culture. Of course, they believe that they own the culture and that I cannot until I am married. I know that this is not a unique story; unfortunately it’s all too familiar to many, irrespective of where we are from or what colour we are. One would think that there are many examples to follow in such situations.
In the West, at least in urban areas, it is often considered a given that “coming out” happens as a teenager or in the early 20s. For those who are born and brought up in India, it seems it is not that simple. Being in Canada, looking for support, it seems like one has to choose between the gays and brown people. On the one hand, it is in circumstances like these in which the language of “backward” brown people often emerges even in the most progressive queer circles. On the other hand, second generation people of colour often end up being apologists for the behaviour of
elders in our communities. In short, race becomes an excuse for homophobia.
In this past year, I have returned to India with the specific mission of meeting other queer Indians with whom I could talk about how they live and negotiate their lives. I found an India a bundle of contradictions regarding sex and sexuality. On the one hand, I draw inspiration from the parents of my friends who love them unconditionally to the extent that they filed a petition advocating the decriminalisation of same sex activity in the Supreme Court. On the other hand, it is alarming that so called “honour killings” are seemingly on the rise.
At this point, I do not want to talk about the abstractions of movement building; I want to talk about changing a culture which allows for the killing of children (physically or metaphorically in my case) who choose to follow their love or lust. I wonder, will the legal victories in India trickle down and change attitudes? Do my parents even know about Section 377 or Dostana? Are they aware of the many contradictions “Indian culture” contains today? It seems like winning legal victories is the easy part; how do we win the hearts and minds of people whose culture is based on a version of family values in which love is reserved for obedient heterosexuals? How do we bridge the gaps between what happens in India and what happens in the diaspora? I want to find a way in which I can communicate to them that my homosexuality is not a betrayal of my Indian culture, but that making sarson da saag, can coexist with being gay.
— Indu Vashist is a Toronto-based writer.
geita@riseup.net