The Taste of Ginger(68)
“You Americans can’t ever stop prying, can you?” His tone was playful, so I knew he wasn’t bothered.
“I just want you to be happy, and there must be something about this guy if you were willing to share this part of yourself with him,” I said.
Biren’s lips curled into a lopsided grin. His dark eyes shone with that glimmer of possibility that people felt at the beginning of a new relationship. It was the same look I’d seen on Alex’s face in those early months, and the same look I was sure I had reciprocated. It was the look I’d probably have if Tushar and I grew closer than we were. It was a look that meant the same thing in every country and every culture.
He stopped and faced me. “Don’t go getting any ideas. This isn’t America. People like me don’t ride off into the sunset. Samarth is someone I feel connected to and whom I can be myself with. That’s all.”
How could he minimize it so easily? It was no small feat to find that connection with anyone, and even more difficult to find it with someone you were attracted to.
Ahead of us, a man in slacks and a gray sweater waved in our direction. He was several inches shorter than Biren, but then again, most people in India were. His hair was combed away from his face, revealing premature white hairs along his temples that gave him a more distinguished look. His hazel eyes stood out because they were in stark contrast to the sea of dark-brown-eyed people around us.
“He’s not bad on the eyes either,” I whispered before we were within earshot of Samarth.
Samarth was a doctor who frequented Biren’s pharmacy. They were both very coy about how their friendship had developed from there. Biren had warned me that Samarth was into the underground gay scene near Law Garden, so we might end up there.
Biren made the introductions, the two of them shifting nervously in each other’s company, but in that bashful way that suggested Biren was wrong and the feelings were mutual.
“I’ve actually got some friends getting together behind the garden. Maybe we can go meet them?” Samarth suggested.
He led us through the park, past a dark corner where I’d noticed most of the people around us were men in their twenties and thirties, to a dimly lit street behind. I wondered if the families roaming around Law Garden knew parts of the garden and the roads behind it doubled as a gay meeting point. That thought had certainly never crossed my mind before tonight.
There were around a hundred men leaning against the buildings or sitting in rickety chairs spitting out tobacco from paan and sipping chai or Thums Up. It was all so civilized. It wasn’t that I had expected a full-blown orgy in the streets, but this common, everyday sight wasn’t what I had envisioned for a gay cruising area. People were just talking and laughing, acting like people did in any average bar in Los Angeles. The only thing that stood out was that I was the only woman around.
Samarth approached two guys and introduced us. They seemed skeptical of me, especially with the large camera I had around my neck and its bag slung over my shoulder, but Samarth explained I was not only Biren’s friend from America, but from California. Their eyes shone as they heard the word, and I realized that to a gay man living in secret in Ahmedabad, California was his version of moksha.
Samarth seemed to know most of the people behind the Law Garden and joked and laughed with the guys we ran into. Biren’s expression fell as each guy gave Samarth a familiar hug. His feelings for Samarth were plainly written on his face, but Samarth’s lifestyle was likely very different from the one that Biren had chosen. Biren was too reserved to roam the scene and flirt in the easy and natural way that Samarth did.
Out of the corner of my eye, hidden by the shadows, I saw two men locked in an embrace. It was so unfair that the shadows of dark alleys, late at night, were the only places they could show their affection. Biren had noticed it, too, and seemed uncomfortable, because he was now actively avoiding looking in that direction.
“So, you are a journalist?” one of Samarth’s friends asked cautiously, gesturing at my camera.
I toyed with the straps that hung around my neck and shook my head. “No, just an amateur photographer.” I held his gaze while I removed the camera from my neck and capped the lens, about to return it to its case.
The man nodded. He struck me as the ringleader of the group that had gathered tonight. If I could get his approval, then the others would trust me as well.
After a few moments, he said, “You cannot show anyone’s face. Even if you publish something in America, with the internet, those snaps can get back here quickly. It is not safe to be open here.”
“Oh, no.” I held up my hands. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t planning on taking any photos here. Just some of the Law Garden that I took earlier. It had been so many years since I had seen it, so I wanted to remember it.” I shoved my camera in the bag, not bothering to secure the latch.
The man turned around and nodded to the people who stood at a distance behind him. They seemed to relax and went back to whatever they were doing before we’d arrived.
While I wasn’t taking any pictures, I wished I could. I mentally framed shots I felt would tell an important story. On my left were two men kissing in the shadows. It would have been a powerful message to frame a shot where the light caught what I considered to be the most important part—both men wore gold wedding bands. Both men had wives and possibly children at home. I could frame the shot so that their faces were indiscernible and there would have been no way to distinguish them from the other Indians running around the streets in frayed jeans and cotton shirts.