Part 1
The first time I laid eyes on Vasu’s blue eyes was when he came to the office to pick me up for a meeting across the city. They were striking, those blue eyes, set against the light brown of his skin, topped by his black hair which was neatly trimmed but curled a little around his ears and across his forehead.
He was dressed in a checked blue and green shirt and blue jeans, not the usual shapeless white uniform of the company drivers. He had been hired specially for this meeting because my boss wanted me to make an impression showing up with a fancy car and driver. I didn’t have my own car – I didn’t even dare drive in Bangalore’s traffic and even after five years living in the city, I often rode in the cabs with one eye covered and the other squinting in fear as the driver aggressively rammed through traffic.
He smiled pleasantly, introducing himself as he opened the door to the back seat of the clean, shiny car. The AC was running and a car freshener smell wafted out to me as I bent to seat myself. He said his name was Vasu, and he had a friendly voice to go with his handsome smile.
As we pulled into traffic, I realized right away that Vasu was not a typical aggressive and loud driver: he was careful, using his indicators, judiciously beeping his horn and travelling a safe distance in the lunch hour traffic. He kept his eyes on the road which meant I couldn’t see them again. And I wanted to see them again.
I tried small talk. “How has your day been?” I asked, clearing my throat to get his attention.
“Fine, fine,” he answered. “Yours, sir?”
“Oh, ok,” I answered. “I have this meeting – have to make a good impression.”
“Yes,” he repeated. “A good impression.” He glanced at me in the rear-view mirror and yes, there were those blue eyes, flecked with brown. My heart nearly skipped a beat.
I sat back, adjusting my tie and wishing I could just remove it. But then, that wouldn’t make a good impression would it? Lately, I’d had a lot of job stress. A pensive mood fell over me, and without realizing it, I sighed heavily.
“Sir?” Vasu inquired, glancing again at me in the mirror. “Shall I turn up the AC?”
“Oh no, I’m fine!” I held those eyes and smiled my best smile. He returned the smile.
“Sir, can I ask you – where are you from?” Now he wanted small talk, and I was all too happy to oblige.
“I am from the US,” I shared. “But for the past five years, I have lived here, in Bangalore. You?”
“From Bangalore only.” He said it with pride. “Five years you have been here, sir. How are you liking it?”
“I like it a lot,” I answered, truthfully. “The weather is great. The people too.” I couldn’t help but smile at him again. Especially blue-eyed you, I silently intoned.
“Ah yes, the weather is perfect, I think?” he asked, smiling. “But very hot soon.”
And so the conversation went as we drove to my meeting. He spoke English far better than my
Kannada, but sometimes we had funny confusions, laughing comfortably before figuring out what the other meant. By the time he dropped me off for the meeting and told me he would wait for me, I wanted him to wait for me his whole life.
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When I was very young, I dreamed about who I wanted to marry when I grew up. I confess I loved to play house, but not the traditional game the neighborhood kids played. I wanted to be the husband, and I wanted a husband in my game of house. The boys all thought this was funny, the girls got their feelings hurt and in the end, I carried on conversations about my future bad day at the office with thin air.
In college, I dated a few men. I had a serious relationship my last year of college, but it couldn’t last outside the graduation hall when he decided to go to one end of the country and I wanted to stay. My parents were older and had health problems. My father had struggled to stay employed for some time due to health issues. I elected to stay and work near them, helping them with their bills and doctor appointments.
When my parents died, I went through a deep depression. But slowly my heart began to yearn for another place. When I had been young, I used to pour over the atlas, struggling to pronounce the names of cities and countries, mesmerized by photos of faraway lands, and dreaming of visiting at least one, if not more. Suddenly the idea of waking up every day to what I had known all my life was more terrifying than that inevitable day when I wouldn’t wake up at all.
What was I waiting for? I began to search for jobs outside the US and settled on India. How much more different from the US could I get? I did my research, I got my resume and degrees in order and I applied for jobs. When I received a place in a multi-national company which had an office in Bangalore, I was thrilled.
I looked at myself in the mirror and my plain brown eyes looked back, set in a pleasant looking face. Short dark brown hair and a fine sprinkle of freckles across rounded cheek bones sometimes made me look younger than my 30 years. But there was tiredness around my mouth, pulling my lips down. I needed this new lease on life.
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Vasu was my driver on several more trips from the office to some other office across the sprawling city. By this time, I knew he was not married, but had a brother who was and a nephew whom he adored. He lived with his parents, and his brother and his wife also lived with them. It was a crowded house. He spoke briefly about having to marry soon – he was 29 years old, and that was pushing it for an Indian man – but a suitable girl had not been found. He didn’t elaborate on that part of his life, and I chose not to think about it either.
He had a dream to quit driving one day, once the loan was paid off on his parents’ home. He wanted to set up a little general store, the sort one can find all over India: selling daily needs, like bread and snacks, lentils and rice, a few cool drinks and bananas on a hook. He described it with a small smile, as if he had seen that store in his mind a million times. No more clients, no more deadlines and worries about traffic, his back sore from sitting long hours.
I tried to help him with his dream by having the office always request him. And I tipped him generously, uncomfortably aware of all the special things he did just for me: a copy of the magazine I liked to read tucked into the seat pocket, fresh cool water, a stop at the
bhaji stall I liked on the way back from a meeting, helping me with my bag when he dropped me at my house.
One day I convinced him to eat lunch outside with me. An early meeting had turned into a past lunch marathon and as we returned to the office, I realized the office canteen would have stopped serving food by then. I asked him if he knew anywhere we could stop for some lunch, and he suggested a local
hotel. Until that moment, we had always maintained a friendly relationship, which never overstepped boundaries culture had built for us: he was the driver, and I was the client. Eating together was stretching those boundaries.
We were the only customers at the hotel. The juice boy idly watched us as we looked over the plastic coated menu under a slow turning ceiling fan. We ordered the lunch
thali, one each, and sweet lime water. Vasu fidgeted nervously as we waited for the food, as if worried his boss would leap out from behind the filtered water machine, waving and screaming at him about indecorous behavior.
Without thinking, I reached across the metal covered table and grasped his hands in both of mine, attempting to calm him. In that instant, everything else faded except for the feeling of his warm hands. The traffic outside, the bang of the cooks, even the whir of the fan blurred to silence, just like in a movie.
He stopped fidgeting instantly. I stared at our hands, light and dark, clasped on the table top. Slowly I looked up, and then our eyes locked. I was certain that his registered the same electricity I felt. At that moment, all I could wonder was what it would feel like to kiss his full lips. I half feared that my wonder was written like a question across my face, and part of me hoped it was: it was obviously not a question I could just ask.
The server at the counter behind us interrupted our moment, slamming our thalis down and calling out our order. We both rose, our hands pulling apart, each muttering that we would get the meals. My voice was louder, and for once, Vasu listened to me and allowed me to fetch the thalis, allowed me to serve him. His eyes avoided mine as we started our meal. But as we scooped up the last of the curry and rice, our eyes met again, and he smiled.
Maybe it was just me, but I read a lifetime of possibilities in that smile.
Part 2
After that, all I could think about was how to see more of Vasu. Work carried on, but my private life was spent wondering how to get Vasu to myself, outside the rigors of office transport. He was not likely to spend his time off with me: he had already told me that he spent what little time he had off with his family. That was the way here, and I wasn’t going to keep him from his family. His parents both had diabetes and struggled with health. It reminded me all too painfully of my own parents.
The only thing I could think of was to hire him for weekend excursions in and around Bangalore. It would give me the time I wanted to spend with him and give him money towards the loan that was always looming in his mind.
I broached the subject by asking him for suggestions for weekend getaways, places people tired of office stress could go to relax. He suggested a few spas and resorts, and I planned for one.
But when we reached the spa, he immediately said he would park the car in the lot which was several meters from the welcome center, and that I should message him if I needed anything.
This was not going to help!
The next outing was a resort about one hour’s drive in Bangalore’s traffic from where I lived. When he tried to drop me at the welcome center, I held up my hand. “Come in with me,” I requested. “I don’t want you to have to sit in the hot car.”
“Sir,” he started to say.
“Scott,” I reminded him. I had been trying to get him to call me by name. Formality was ingrained in him, but he had finally started calling me Scott. Except when a situation spiked alarm in him. He seemed uncomfortable to join me in the resort. He said the other drivers in the car park would talk about it.
I understood all too well what face and reputation meant to many people. I had briefly dated a man named Ganesh from an office near mine who refused to be seen with me in public because he was afraid a relative would see him holding hands with a foreign man and report back to his parents.
Reluctantly, I let him drive to the lot and didn’t enjoy one minute of my day’s stay at that resort.
As we were driving home, I racked my brain over how I could get Vasu to come up to my flat and not just drop me and drive off. I had some light bulbs that needed changed. Would he believe that I needed his help to do such a trivial job?
When we neared my flat, I tried to find out. He looked at me in the rear-view mirror and bobbed his head. He would come up and help. As we rode the lift up to my flat, it was me now who wanted to fidget. For days, I had dreamed of this moment, and now that it was here, so much pressure had come with it. How to get him to stay without making him again feel the differences that always seemed to stand between us? How to explore that electricity I swear we had felt in that hotel weeks before? How to break a few more light bulbs without him catching on?
Once inside my flat, he stood looking around in his socked feet. The company pays for my flat, and it’s a nice one, open and sunny. He was appreciating the view from the front windows when I asked him if he wanted some water. He started to protest, but then conceded and accepted the glass from my outstretched hand. I invited him to sit on the chair, and I sat on the couch opposite him.
We made idle talk about the cost of the rent, the location and the neighbors. He was keen to learn if the neighbors were friendly with me, and I realized he wondered if they would ask me who he was after he left. I assured him that the neighbors never even spoke to me.
For a few minutes, we sat in silence, the traffic on the street below a dim cacophony and the birds in the tree outside the window making sweet music. Suddenly he seemed to break from a reverie and asked me about the light bulbs.
I looked at him, weighing if I should tell him I didn’t really want him to change light bulbs with what his reaction might be when he heard my subterfuge. He looked at me with such frank blue eyes that I hated to lie to him.
“You don’t need to change light bulbs,” I said, throwing all caution to the wind. “I mean, it’s just that I want to talk to you more than have you change light bulbs.”
Vasu didn’t answer me, his eyes drifting away from me while he sipped his water. He didn’t leave either, which I thought was a good sign. “What do you want to talk about?” he finally asked.
Indeed, I thought. Actually, it was less what I wanted to talk about that was the trouble and more if I dared to talk about it. I wanted to talk about the feeling I had when I looked into his eyes, how when our hands touched or our bodies contacted in passing, I felt an attraction which kept me awake at night. I wanted to tell him that I was not “sir” or an employer, but Scott and a potential…dare I say…lover?
Instead, I asked him how his family was and how his nephew was behaving these days, and the conversation stayed level, sharing about family, about weekend plans.
I got up to use the
loo, and when I came back, Vasu was sitting on the couch. I hesitated just a fraction of a second before I sat next to him. Our thighs nearly touched – a breath away from each other. I could smell his sweat and hair oil. I don’t think I had ever been so close to him before. I started to speak.
He beat me to it, saying my name, just my name. His hand was on my thigh now. It felt like fire, and I was instantly aroused. I tried to turn away, not because I didn’t want his hand there, but because it was inches from my physical arousal.
“Scott.” He said my name again, his voice low, urging me to look at him. I did and lost all resolve to turn away. Those eyes were as beautiful to me as the first time I saw them. And his lips as full and achingly kissable as the first time I dreamed of kissing them.
But before I could make a move, his head fell back resting against the couch, and he closed his eyes. His hand was still on my thigh. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. For several minutes, we sat like this, his neck a smooth curve, his eyelashes fanning his cheekbones, those lips parted ever so slightly.
I compromised my desire and put my own head back. I closed my eyes. The traffic and bird song faded. I became aware of only his breath. The couch shifted. A weight fell across my lap.
I opened my eyes, and looked down. Vasu’s head was now where his hand had been. His eyes were still closed. His legs stretched out on the couch, one arm dangling over the side, resting on the floor, the other laying across his chest.
I reached down and pushed my fingers into his thick, dark hair. He didn’t stir. I traced the line of his cheeks with my fingertip, smoothed his brows, lightly touched each eyelid. He didn’t stir. I could feel the beginnings of stubble on his cheeks. I touched his broad nose. I dared to touch his lips. They were soft and warm. He still didn’t stir. I let my hand fall to his chest, inches from his own hand, and put my head on the back of the couch. My eyes drifted shut.
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When I woke, it was dark in the room, and Vasu was sitting up, grunting with stiffness from lying in one place for a long time. He stretched loudly, his hands arms above his head and his shirt creeping up to reveal his stomach in the dim.
I switched on a light, and he rose, stepping around my legs, to go to the loo. When he came out, he gathered his mobile and keys from the table. I stood up, watching him.
“I never changed the light bulbs,” he said, looking around. His eyes settled on me. Something subtle has shifted in the relationship between us, and his smile brought warmth to every part of me. “I’ll do it next time,” he said, heading for the door.
I saw him out the door. He wanted there to be a next time!
Part 3
Vasu started coming up to my flat regularly, but still only if I called him to go some place – shopping or a weekend office event and so on. When he drove me home, he would come up to my flat, making himself at home. We would watch TV together: cricket or some English movie, snacking on something I had gotten at the store or a
chaat he thought I needed to try. Once he brought chili bhajis, which he had picked up on the way home, and he marveled I could eat them so easily. He joked that because I had been in Bangalore for five years, I was becoming Indian. He said I already had the South Indian head nod mastered.
When he teased me, he always touched me: pushing my chest, pinching my arm or hitting my leg. I looked forward to his teasing. And when I teased him, I tried touching him too – poking his side, thumping his shoulder. He seemed to enjoy the contact. I didn’t push my luck, wondering where this was headed, just how much he understood from my feelings which I was sure were written plainly on my face every time we touched.
When he was in my flat, he called me Scott; when we were in the cab, he didn’t call me anything, as if he was confused himself over where this relationship stood.
Sometimes he fell asleep when he visited my flat. I knew he worked hard, sometimes driving long hours or waiting for hours for clients. During the week and even some weekends, he was not always available, having been hired for out-station trips by businessmen or regular clients who appreciated his safe driving and conscientious work habits.
When he fell asleep, it was always on the couch, his head on my leg, his body abandoned to sleep. If he felt my caresses on his face, my hand on his chest, he never gave a hint. On the one hand, it was torture for me. Every fiber of my being wanted to meld with him, make love to him, taste him, share him. But I couldn’t make the first move – somehow I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. What if this was not leading where it seemed to lead? What if he didn’t want anything past just this level of intimacy?
Homosexuality was still mostly taboo in India, despite the law making it illegal recently being thrown out. Now, section 377 was being bandied about in the courts, and India’s LGBT community had taken to the streets in protest. Also men often shared closeness in India that in my native country might mean they were gay, but which in India didn’t mean anything of the sort. How many times had I seen colleagues who I knew were straight holding hands as they walked down the office corridor?
I was too afraid to lose his friendship to make the first move. I enjoyed his company on the weekends, even if he was shouting at cricket and teasing me. I especially enjoyed his naps, even if they were torture to my desires.
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When I expressed a need to get away from the city and relax, it was Vasu who suggested a vacation in a resort some five hours drive from Bangalore. The season for staying at resorts was almost over, the summer heat just around the corner, so it would be less crowded. Vasu said he knew of a resort called The Green Getaway, nestled inside the national forest in the neighboring state. He said he could be my driver for an entire week if I wanted to get away because his usual clients were either out of station or otherwise didn’t need him. It sounded perfect.
The big day arrived. I had already contacted the resort, booked a jungle shack and planned activities to do to just relax and forget the tension of work. It was my assumption that Vasu would come with me not just as my driver, but as my friend as well.
The drive to the resort was fun. We chatted as he drove. We stopped at places he knew along the way for lunch, for coconut water and snacks. The weather was perfect: not too hot, not too chilly, sunny and breezy. As we approached the forested areas, we saw deer and birds, stopping to take pictures with our mobile phones.
The resort was located at the end of a bumpy, hilly drive that gradually wound lower and lower until we found ourselves in a clearing dotted with a handful of shacks and the welcome center, the forest a dark green blur in the distance. The ghats loomed high above us, speckled brown due to no rain.
As soon as we pulled up and got out, a change came over Vasu. He actually called me sir in front of the resort manager; he carried my bag and left his own in the van, asking the manager where he should park.
His behavior instantly communicated to the manager a lower status, and the manager spoke accordingly. He told me there was a driver’s facility where Vasu could sleep and get food. It was instantly assumed that Vasu was hired to drive me and was not a friend of mine.
To say that I was confused over this shift would be an understatement. Suddenly Vasu was not meeting my eyes. He shuffled off to park the van, telling me to call him if I needed anything. His receding back told me that saying I needed him was out of the question.
I was tired from the trip. I ate, and asked the manager to make sure Vasu also got food. He said the kitchen had already served the staff and that the driver would have eaten with the staff, had we come sooner. I told him I didn’t care. I was aware that my voice was rising as I told him to give my driver food.
My driver. I hated how that sounded. I had always been uncomfortable with class divides. In the US, people were also divided across classes, but less rigidly than in India. More than any time, I hated that divide now. I wanted Vasu with me, enjoying this time that he deserved as much as I did.
Was his sudden reticence his way of saying he didn’t want this intimacy, even though we had been so close over the past weeks it sometimes hurt? Was he again concerned with appearances, knowing that the staff might talk about him if he was too familiar with me?
I listened as the manager rattled off the activities I had at my disposal: a nature walk, the nightly bonfire, night safari on the resort grounds, an exercise room etc. He said my bag had been sent to the shack, and I could go check the room if I was ready.
The room was perfect – a big bed dominating the space, the bathroom nearly as big with a shower and water heater. When the boy who handed me the keys left, I was surrounded by the sounds of nature. Birds called repeatedly outside, the chorus interspersed by calls from the jungle from unknown beasts filling my mind with excitement, despite my confusion over Vasu’s behaviour.
I tried to call Vasu, but the signal danced between none and a lonely bar. The room phone worked fine though – its ring shattered the natural symphony. It was the manager informing me that the nature walk would start in 15 minutes and that the night safari would need to be cancelled for that night as the jeep was being serviced.
I decided not to let Vasu or a broken jeep darken my mood, and prepared for the nature walk. The boy who came to guide me was friendly and curious over where I was from. Once we entered the forest, he fell silent. He would whisper from time to time, directing my gaze to a bird, a flower, a paw print in the dirt. We heard elephants trumpeting deep in the forest. We saw a herd of semi-wild buffalo and several kinds of birds.
We walked back past the watering hole and climbed to the
machan to look out over the water as the sun started to set. The boy explained that the elephants we had heard come to this watering hole every morning in the wee hours, and that’s why I needed to stay in my shack after dark. Even a tiger had been seen several times or her paw prints buried deep in the mud around the riverbank. He impressed me to stay safe!
The sunset was brilliant but swift. I returned to my shack for a quick bath before dinner. I checked my phone. Though there had been a signal at times and I had once sent an SMS to Vasu, there was no response. I dressed and walked up to the lot where the van was parked.
As I approached, I could see him watching me from his seat in the van. He held up his hand, shaking his head. It stopped me in my tracks. His eyes flicked to some of the staff standing nearby, looking towards us. When his eyes came back to me, they were full of pleading, as if begging me to understand his perspective.
I understood but felt a keen disappointment. I didn’t care what these people thought about Vasu and me. But he did. It was Ganesh all over again – worse, because Vasu had the weight of class differences burdening him as much as the worry over what people would think of two men sharing time together.
I respected his wish and walked away to have my dinner, my hopes for a week spent with him going down the drain. I made up my mind to confront him tomorrow, if we found time alone together. I wondered if it would make any difference.
After dinner, I wandered back to my shack, the boys’ warnings to stay inside still bouncing in my ears. For a long time I sat on the porch, huddled inside my jacket. As the sun had sunk, so had the temperature.
This solitude was nice, but was not how I had thought this week would go. I sat until the sounds in the resort kitchen faded, until the voices of the boys silenced, and only the sound of insects, night birds and beasts filled my hearing.
Finally, I went into the shack, locked the door, and crawled into bed, sleeping almost instantly.
I don’t know how long I had slept when I was awakened by a steady, soft knocking at the door. I sat up in the dark, every hair on my body standing on end. I gathered my courage and crept to the door, peering out through the peephole but seeing nothing in the darkness outside.
Suddenly I saw faint movement and heard a whispered voice: “It’s me, Vasu. Let me in, ya.”
I opened the door and pulled him inside, images of prowling tigers and stampeding elephants in my mind. I locked the door and turned to him, his outline slightly lit from a nightlight on the wall. He was rubbing his hands together and rocking, obviously cold. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
“You have any light bulb to be changed?” His joking voice was just above a whisper.
“Vasu!” I hissed. I started to search for the room light. “It’s dangerous to be walking outside….”
He moved to stop me in the dark, our bodies colliding. “Scott.” Just my name, but it was all he’d ever had to say. I felt his hands cupping my face, pulling me towards him.
Part 4
Within seconds, two things were clear: Vasu had little experience with this level of intimacy, but he wanted it badly. His hands grasped at me, his physical desire was hard against my body and his lips pulled at mine roughly. We stumbled in the dark to the bed, shedding clothes along the way, and fell onto the sheets. Only moments ago, we had both been cold; now we were sweating and almost panting. Release came fast and left us both breathless, our bodies sinking into sweaty stillness.
After a few minutes, Vasu started to rise from the bed. I groped for his hand in the dark and dragged him back down.
“Where are you going?” I demanded. I wanted more than physical release. He wanted a shower, he said. I laid in the dark while he showered, the door prudently shut between us.
When he came out, the bathroom light outlined his nakedness as he stood a second, hesitating, not sure what to do next. I pulled the covers back and invited him to lie back down. His still damp flesh was so cold it shocked my skin, and I pulled the covers over us both, pulling him roughly against me. He laughed, still awkward in this new intimacy, his hands and arms hitting me clumsily as he found a space to lie.
He finally settled with his arm across my belly, his face against my chest, my hand in his hair and an arm around his shoulders. It was incredible how right this felt to me, and I hoped it was for him also.
For several minutes, we laid in the dark, his breath steady, my hand stroking his hair. Then he spoke, his voice quiet against nature’s symphony outside.
“You have done this many times?” he asked.
“Had someone come to change light bulbs in the middle of the night in the jungle?” I joked.
He stirred so that his head was under my chin, not wanting to joke. “This – what we just did,” he persisted. “I have not done this so much.”
“When have you done this then?” I wanted to know.
He shrugged against my arm. “Cousin brothers. Classmates in school. Once or twice with PG mates.”
I considered his past partners. Cousin brothers were relatives – cousins – who were like brothers to each other, often spending a lot of time together. Classmates and PG mates – probably sexually frustrated heterosexuals, possibly closeted gays.
He nudged me with his head. He wanted me to share my experience. So I did. I told him how I knew I was homosexual since I was 4 years old. How I had always been attracted to boys, to men. That I had had flings as well as serious relationships with gays in the US, with hetero guys who had wanted to experiment, with other Indian gays. He listened and was silent even after I was done talking.
Finally, he said, “I’m not gay.” Though he sounded unsure of himself, my heart sank. I had felt the exact opposite from him since the first day we had seen each other. And most of our experiences until now, though hardly that intimate, had carried an electric attraction tempered with friendship. I couldn’t be the only one who felt that.
He continued, softly, “I can’t be gay. If I was, my family would kill me.” His words saddened me, filling me with a strong protective feeling. I suddenly and violently wrapped my arms around him, dragging him roughly against me. He didn’t protest but allowed me to pull and tug him, abandoning himself to me.
“Whatever you are,” I said fiercely, “you’re mine for the next week.”
His laughter tickled my chest where his head pressed, and then he was the one pulling me, rolling onto his back and bringing me to sprawl over him. There was no barrier now between us – no class differences. Just skin against skin and shared arousal. I leaned down and kissed him, slowly and deeply. This time I would show him how slow and intimate release could be.
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Morning came sneaking through the windows, spilling grey light where the sun found a way through the curtains. Vasu slept, and I laid and watched him wake. Then, he stirred, pushing back the covers, with his eyes shut tight and wrinkles on his forehead. When his arms hit my chest, his eyes flew open, vividly blue in the dim light.
“Shit!” he exclaimed, and flew out of bed. “Shit!” he exclaimed again, now trying to find his clothes still scattered all over the floor.
I sat up, mystified by his frantic actions. “What are you doing, ya?” I asked.
He stopped long enough to say he needed to get back to the van or everyone would know he had slept with me! I couldn’t help it – I started to laugh out loud. He again stopped his frantic dressing, his underwear in one hand, his undershirt dangling comically from his neck where he had just drawn it over.
“Don’t laugh!” he cried. “Help me find my pants, ya!”
“Do you really think no one spotted you when you came down here last night?” I asked. “These guys live in a jungle! Any strange noise is probably noticed.”
He tsked at me, searching through our mingled clothes.
I got out of bed and caught his flailing arms in both of my hands. “Vasu, why do you care if these people know we slept in the same room together? We won’t ever see them again. They aren’t going to tell a soul about it because they want their money for the room. Besides, I have a suspicion about the resort manager.” I pulled him back to the bed.
He sat down, his body half adorned in what clothes he could find. “What about the manager?” he asked, letting me push him down. He was already half convinced by my words.
“He is all alone out here, surrounded by young men in the middle of a jungle,” I teased. “No wife, I guess. No women at all out here that I saw. Hmmm?”
I was removing what few clothes he had managed to wear. He grinned up at me, and I continued, “He has gotten his money for the room.” I straddled him, feeling his physical desire rising, and kissed first the tangle of hair on his chest and then moved to his neck. His breath had quickened.
“They will probably think I asked you to come and stay to protect me from wild beasts in the night.” I grinned and pulled back to look into his eyes. “And I do want you to stay here. With me. In this room. What can they say?”
In the growing light, Vasu was turning shy. He no longer wanted to leave. He was convinced, it seemed, that money and wild beasts would keep anyone’s mouth shut. But what darkness had left anonymous the night before, morning was highlighting: boundaries shattered. My pale skin against his dark. The differences in our bodies, both aroused and pressed together.
His hands slid up to cover my chest. “I have never done this before,” he said softly.
“Done what?” I wondered what he could mean, our activities from the night before still vivid in my mind, at least.
“Stayed, you know?” He wanted me to understand, talking slowly, but with gravity. “With cousins, classmates, PG mates – they just wanted…release. Then gone – him to his bed or out, me out or wherever. Or with cousins, he would go home until next time, if there even was a next time. I never…stayed after. What do I…what do we do…now?”
His vulnerability was sweet and suddenly I wanted to teach him all the things he should know between two men sharing with each other.
I grinned down at him. “You have a lot to learn,” I said. “And we have a week to teach you.” After that week was over…well, we would wait and see.
Part 5
I told Vasu, if there was anything I had learned in my short years on earth, it was that life is just that – short. My parents had been relatively young to die from diseases and heart attacks. That realization of how short and fleeting life can be is part of what drove me to live in India, to experience the ever-different culture, the ever-changing view. And that same philosophy drove my week with him.
Our days found a rhythm. We woke at the first light, intimate together as the sun rose. We showered together and dressed. I ordered breakfast, and we ate before either setting off to explore the areas of the resort that we could access alone or to drive the bumpy road up to the world outside to go on a safari in the nearby forest or explore some other little hill station or town.
To avoid the resort staff, we mainly ate outside at hotels and stalls. He still ran ahead to secure tickets for tourist places, for the toy train ride, and he insisted on carrying my bags. But he was finding a compromise between how he thought he should appear to the public and how he knew he was to me: a friend, a lover, an equal.
At the resort, we continued to be the only guests, the grounds devoid of all other human life besides Vasu, the staff and me. Even the manager lost interest in us after I cut short his delicate but obvious inquiries of whom Vasu was. We went on night safari every night the jeep was able to take us, and we saw wild elephants, a new sight for us both. We saw herds of deer even by day, and the cry of peafowl shattered the early morning every day, signalling a new start. Every night we seemed to rediscover our physical need for each other and our intimacy grew stronger and more powerful every time we lay together.
By the last day of our time together, Vasu had become very adept at intimacy and being relaxed even when the staff approached us to build the nightly bonfire or to serve our dinner. That night, we waited until the whole resort had grown dark, until just the tiny lights along the walls of the welcome center shone from the buildings where the staff was sleeping. We took our blankets and crept bravely out to the machan, the sky full of bright stars and a cold breeze rustling the leaves in the trees, making us jump and muffle our laughter, lest we wake the staff who would tell us to get back into our shack.
We laid together on the machan overlooking the watering hole, lost in each other, oblivious to the trumpet of the elephants slowly making their way to the water, and not even thinking of how our cries of release must sound to the animals going about their nightly routines. Afterwards, we sat looking out at the water, wrapped in each other’s arms and in the blankets, and we talked.
We talked about his dream store, his childhood memories growing up in a village not far from Bangalore, his pet dog, the day he got a tattoo, and how he had always wanted to learn to cook and make good food at home so that his mom could rest.
We talked about my crazy work stress, and how my dream job was to write for a living. I shared my childhood growing up in the largely homophobic Midwest, about losing my parents within a short period of time, about how India made me feel alive and how even the thought of going back to the US made me feel like a bird whose wings were clipped.
When the tiger came to lap at the water below us, we had fallen into intimate silence, our bodies warmly fused, our thoughts blissful so that we almost missed seeing her. But we saw her at the same time, leaning forward silently, staring at her dark shadow and grinning from ear to ear at each other. With less than 1500 of her kind left wild in the world, we both knew that what we were seeing would be with us for a lifetime. The whole week would be.
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But the silvery fog of morning found us facing the end to our paradise. We needed to check out, get into the van and drive back to the city. He would drive back to his family, to his loan, to his long, hectic hours and fussy clients, to his looming marriage. I would go back to my empty flat, my own hectic job, my dislike of class divide and my own wonders of whether I was destined to live my whole life alone.
On the way back to the city, we argued. It was inevitable. We knew the intense happiness and intimacy we had reveled in was over and life as he and as society saw it was soon to reinstate itself.
I broached the subject of him telling his parents that he didn’t want to marry, or at least didn’t want to marry a woman. He told me it wasn’t that easy, that for me it was easy to be gay, no one judged me the way his family would. He said the shock would kill his already ailing parents. His uncle, who had promised the deed to a small building lot as a wedding gift to Vasu, would obviously take away this big part of his general store dream. His family would disown him, leaving him without a home, without their protection, without a reputation that anyone could respect.
I tried to tell him that living a lie was worse than all of that, that he would be harming any woman he married if he wasn’t in love with her, didn’t feel attracted to her and was marrying her just for the sake of society. I tried to say I would be his new family and would help him find a reputation that others would respect in the LGBT community I was part of in Bangalore.
But in the end, when he dropped me at my flat, he refused to come up with me, and when he said goodbye, his voice held a steel resolve that boded ill for our relationship.
Before he drove away into the night, I tried one more time to convince him that what he and I shared, what we felt, was worth the fight and uncertainty. I leaned in his window and caught his eyes, those blue, brown-flecked eyes that had first set me on this path of what I realized now could only be called love, and said, “I once asked you to come up and change light bulbs for me. You know by now that I just wanted you to come up and become a friend and a lover. But the truth is, you have been bringing light into my life since I first laid eyes on you. Isn’t what we feel worth a fight? Don’t you want to keep bringing light to our days?”
His face was a battlefield of emotion as he stared at me, not even bothering to wipe away the tears that welled up and spilled down his cheeks, weighing down his eyelashes and wetting his shirt collar. He started to speak, but then shook his head hard as if he could just shake away the emotion, the pain he was feeling. He seized my shirtfront violently and pulled me in for a long, breath-taking kiss. Then he pushed me away roughly, starting the van. “I have to go. You know it’s a long drive back to my place,” he mumbled, his voice husky.
I let him go. I had no choice. Either he had courage, or he had family and society. And it was not a decision I had any right to make for him. As his van pulled out into the busy evening traffic, I felt his tears on my face and my own slowly mixed with them.
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How could life return to what it had been before? Memories of Vasu surfaced everywhere. Even work was not safe: though I continued to go on crazy cross-city meetings, the transport coordinator said Vasu no longer took his calls and didn’t seem free to drive me.
He also didn’t return my SMSs or my phone calls. And I didn’t try repeatedly: I knew he needed his space, time to make a choice. He could also just pretend none of what we had shared ever happened. Either way, my calls and SMSs wouldn’t help.
I supposed it was too much to expect that Vasu choose courage over family and society.
But it was JRR Tolkien who said, “Courage is found in unlikely places.”
One night, over two months after that rough and tear-filled kiss, I came home from work, late as usual, the cab dropping me at my gate. I stood for a minute looking at the stars through the branches of the tree in front of the building before heading for the gate.
I became aware that someone was sitting on the step in front of the gate just as they rose to their feet. In the dark, it startled me, and I stepped back defensively.
“Scott.”
I knew that voice. “Vasu?” I stepped forward to look at him, his face coming into focus as my eyes adjusted to the dark.
He looked almost nervous. “I’m sorry,” he started without more preamble. “Sorry I didn’t answer your messages or your calls. I…I…A lot happened after….” When I didn’t respond, he sat back down on the step. Surprised, I sat down also, setting my workbag beside me. He took a deep, ragged breath. “Three days after we came back from the jungle, my father expired.”
I reached for his hand and found it, holding it hard. He allowed it, squeezing my hand in return. “Yeah,” he went on. “He had been sick. But we didn’t expect him to go so fast.”
We sat silently for a few minutes, before he continued. “There were a lot of rituals. So many family came. But I came to realize that most of them didn’t even know my father. They came for…duty. Because it was expected. Afterwards, I kept remembering what you said to me about life being short. And I thought, ‘What if in the end it’s this? Family who don’t even know me?’ It made me think a lot.”
He squeezed my hand more, as if by doing so, he found more of that courage I had asked of him. He turned to me, and I could see tears shining in his eyes.
“I told my mom…told her I didn’t want to marry a girl. She said she already knew…that a mother always knows. She and my brother don’t really understand but… Anyway, she spoke to uncle. Somehow he agreed to give me the building lot anyway when I am 30.”
“That’s great!” I exclaimed, putting my arm around him and hugging him.
He grinned. “Yeah, it is! Just one more year on the house loan and one more year before that store is mine!” I clapped his back in appreciation, and he ducked his head, his face full of smiles. He held something out to me in a bag.
I took it. “What’s this?”
“Open it.”
I got up, carrying the bag with me to the streetlight, Vasu tagging along. I opened the bag and pulled out a box, holding it up to see it better.
It was a light bulb.
I turned and found Vasu smiling at me, his hand outstretched.
“Yeah?” He nodded his head back and forth in that typical South Indian way, both asking and confirming. I understood his question, though that was all he said. I grasped his hand, and nodded back, pulling him to the gate, a smile slowly spreading across my face.
THE END
(First published on
Gaylaxy)
