Her voice came from the balcony where she
stood with an early morning cup of tea and a newspaper. “Morning, Sweetheart!”
she said. Lying in bed, yawning, I could sense something different in her
voice. It wasn’t the usual cheerful one that she’d wake me up with; her voice
had a touch of false assurance. She might have had nightmares the previous
night of the protests. I can visualize her round green eyes staring wide into
the ceiling as she wakes up from the horror; her sweaty palm looking for mine
in the dark but receding in reluctance. I tried looking through the door that
she had left slightly ajar for the sunlight to creep in. A faint smile twisted
her illuminated features as she thought of the disagreeable day that lay ahead.
As I swayed my legs off the bed, there were
several terrible thoughts that ran from one end to the other in my mind. I rose
to my feet and went up to admire the scent of rain. The sunlight penetrated
through a cloud in the vast sky. The cheerful chirping of the birds in the bright
sun that shone after a brilliant shower mesmerized my ear.
The war that would ensue in the approaching
decade was full of blood and horrifying corpses. I began to ponder over the
decision of taking her along to the war front or leaving her behind, letting
her die each day in the infinite wait for justice. She had often dismissed such
thoughts of mine calling them ‘a figment of my imagination’ and something that
‘existed only on my mind’. In the past few days, she had often comforted me
with false beliefs and assurances. My fellows would soon be out on the streets,
with determined faces and protesting voices. This has become a regular affair
in the past couple of days following the court’s verdict regarding section 377.
A horrendous number it had turned out to be for all of us.
I wore my slippers and directed myself
towards the bathroom. The water that the shower poured out assaulted my tender
skin. The court’s verdict had done the same a couple of days ago, the bruises
of which had not yet been healed. I could not get the thoughts of it out of my
mind; neither did I want to. Fear did not let me rid myself of such terrible
thoughts and anger made me want to think about it even more. That three digit
number that was displayed on the placards was our new mantra. As I had walked
silently yesterday, arm and arm with friends and strangers, I wore a dejected
look behind my mask. The mask I wore was green with frills of pink hanging by
its side. I thought of Aphra Behn’s words as I wore that mask, “Because whatever
extravagances we commit in these faces, our own may not be obliged to answer
‘em”.
That very day the verdict came out, I was
filled with anger. That anger gave way to something I had always dreaded: fear.
Behn’s words let me be free with a mask on. I was not recognizable with green
and pink mask on. That kept my identity concealed from the people. I could
commit any “immoral act” without any restraint.
They had declared our relation a “criminal act”. It was surprising for me to think
how I probably will never have the courage to remove the mask and live with her
peacefully. I grabbed the towel and put on fresh clothes. Was it truly against
“cultural and religious values” like the court had said? Maybe it was actually because those cultural and
religious values are in dire need of evolution. Why were we denied liberty? Was our categorization
somehow non-human? It was as if I seemed to know every answer yet did not have
the courage to tell. I lost courage every time I thought of the society. I was
well aware that the verdict was odious. Yet I was afraid to rebel against the
government. All this while, I had just been a passive protestor.
I brushed my hair and put on a blue scarf
that brightened up my white shirt. The trousers I wore were well ironed and my
black bellies were the ones that had been supportive during long marches. I
looked in the mirror and saw a pair of narrowed brows that had numerous
questions paired with an irrational fear. All this while, the only thing that
had been bugging me was losing her. I was afraid I might not see her again.
“Are you ready yet?” she asked hesitatingly
from the balcony as she stared at the street. Her question made me shift my
train of thought to her beautiful voice. I went outside and kissed her on the
forehead. She kissed me back. We were at
home and were not required to mask ourselves- not yet at least.
Years down the memory lane at school, girls
in our class had sensibly begun to doubt our sexuality; walking by small
groups, I would overhear comments, some intentionally loud for me to hear: they
found our love “queer” and “disgusting”. My classmates would often address us
with cuss words and “lesbo”.
She came in from the balcony and went to take
a shower. The previous night, I had asked her to join me in the protests when I
was myself a passive one amongst the crowd of protestors. She had not yet made
up her mind in this matter. I calculated all the thoughts and came to a very
rational conclusion: I was a human being and I could not be denied the basic
rights of a person to express one freely.
I grabbed a blue peter pan collar dress from
her cupboard and ironed it well in time for her to see me. She gave me a
confused look and let out a sigh. I did not want to impose my will upon her; I
simply wanted us to be free. “Free” I whispered. She wore a bewildered look as
she went in the adjacent room to dress. I was munching on the leftover nachos
when I was mesmerized all over again. She dazzled in blue even though her face
was still unsure of the consequences.
That very moment, I took her by the hand and
went down on the street where our fellows had begun to gather. We went across
the street where there was more audience to watch what I was going to do. I
stood with her in the middle of the road and faced her. She had a questioning
look on her face. I told her I was going to remove my mask and that she had to
trust me. I leaned closer to her; held her hand in mine and kissed her. As her
soft lips pecked mine, I was at peace with my mind and with the very girl I had
seen in the mirror back home. We were no longer the masked lovers. I was not
escaping the situation anymore; I was rather moving towards it. I could hear
the applause and the cheering voices from our fellows. I could hear the lovers’
sighs of relief as they looked at us. As I took her in my arms, I heard a voice
among the crowd who blessed us. They cheered us with
shouts of approval. I was relieved to know I wasn’t alone; more so, to know we are not alone.
My short story 'Together on the Streets, Unmasked' was published in an anthology by Cypher Publishers, as part of an event organized by IIT Bombay's Mood Indigo. The book can be purchased here http://cypherpublishers.com/#!home
