What made a misfit reach for the stars

Papa’s transfer back to Delhi had me joining Modern School, Vasant Vihar, in Grade four. Children are happily and unknowingly cruel expressions of their elders, families, neighbourhoods, societies and nations, and my classmates were a rainbow coalition of good, bad and ugly. I cannot remember instances of bullying or hatred toward me; what I remember being very difficult was finding room for just one, me, in the cliques that the students had formed, since most of them had been together for years. I have no reason to believe that my peers had any clue about my internal struggles. I remember my strife becoming more acute because I gave their coldness the face of abhorrence directed at me. The nightmares of Nagpur had found a living expression.

How I managed making it to middle school and through Grade 10 is something that I could fill pages with, but again, the memories are faint, the meat of the matter clear – I felt a misfit, I felt smaller than small, I felt judged and othered, and, of course, I was broken. I knew I was interested in men romantically. I would wonder how I could ever feel fulfilled, because I had never seen two men being called husbands. To make things worse, I was one of a handful of kids who failed Grade six. An emotional wreck at 12, I had no idea why I failed; I only knew I had brought shame and scorn upon my parents. The school questioned their parental abilities, and that made me shatter into even smaller pieces.

I remember middle school as being my time to get lost in meal planning class, where I was the first boy ever allowed, and being the pet of the music teachers and dance teachers, all four of whom loved that I was so into the classical traditions. Junior, middle and senior art teachers were my mentors and worked in tandem to give me freedom to do just about anything, with access to any and all materials possible. Sabiha Hashmi, my senior art teacher, became my guru and confidante. Sensing I was hiding a secret, and perhaps thinking that art would keep me on the straight and narrow, she allowed me indulgences no other students were given. Her class was my oasis of happiness and safety, quite like Mum’s saris that had given me refuge years before.

Senior school, Grade 11 and 12, brought in many students from other schools. Our classes were now broken into humanities, science and commerce, and so new cliques were formed. I was even more entrenched in music and arts and even more of a loner. Mr. Vari, our principal, was the leader of a cadre of educators at Modern School who looked at education very differently. My amazing teachers saw me challenging authority, saw me smiling and crying and breaking rules – but they allowed me my transgressions and gave me the few smiles that kept me afloat.

My arrival at Sir JJ School of Art in Mumbai brought me to the financial capital of India, to what was considered one of the best schools for the visual arts in the nation, and yet my only memories of it are terrible ones that I shall spare you from. Suffice it to say that intolerance, hate, bullying, othering, mocking and teasing – these were the hobbies of the teachers, and happy indulgences of the students. What I did glean at this art school in the heart of Mumbai was the realisation of the blessing my birth into my family had given me. The two years at college in Mumbai remain my worst years in India, and an example of the worst face of humanity. I realised at JJ School of Art how easy it is to plant seeds of hate and division and fear those different from us.

The world today is being torn apart by woke liberalism and fanatic nationalism. Both are dangerous weapons in the hands of leaders who use them as vote banks and to destroy the fabric of humanity and civility. This Pride Month I feel proud about the first 19 years of life that I spent mostly in Delhi, where hatred for being gay was not thrown my way. My school and its style of education afforded me incredible teachers who believed in a child who didn’t believe in himself. When I would break, their smiles, acceptance, and nurturing would encourage me to go on. They judged me as a person, found that I was polite and caring, gentle and sincere, hardworking and decent – and this they found noteworthy to remember.

That young India was home to a far more modest economy, with very few of the amenities that we have ready access to today, but what I, as a gay man, found remarkable about that India was her heart and soul, her hunger for learning, discovering, and accepting; her celebration of education and culture, plurality of thoughts and actions; and her respect for the ideals that were given sacred place of pride in the Indian anthem.

When the darkest of dark fears would grip my mind and break my soul, I would find consolation in knowing that “Hum sab Bhartiya hain… bikhare bikhare taare hain hum, lekin jhilmil ek hain” – that we are all Indian, no matter how different we are, and even as we are scattered stars, when we shine and shimmer together in the happy dance we do, we become fantastically one. This song, written by Sudarshan Fakir for the National Cadet Corps, has been my own anthem for keeping my life straight and narrow, while being proudly gay and colourful.