For LGBT folks, freedom remains a distant dream
lost,” rues Yadavendra Singh, one of the organisers of Lucknow pride this April. That event, where hundreds of people came out onto the streets to demand a life of dignity and respite from the colonial-era section 377 that bans “unnatural” sex, was a milestone for the community.
Bias against same-sex desire starts early. In school, Apoorva was vilified for her orientation, often by her own friends and partners.
Hormone-soaked gossip about lesbian threesomes soon ballooned into tales about 20 guys and two women, to the point where even teachers avoided her . “It was super hard…a boy I liked grew so insecure that he said asked how women could be so sexual? If women are like this, who will keep boys in check’?”
In the absence of physical spaces and pervasive social stigma, alienation grows roots. Apoorva remembers in her adolescence she didn’t know a single queer woman and would often be forced to rely on stereotypes. “I would follow women with short hair, hoping against hope.” Lucknow acts as the focal point for many smaller towns, and monthly gay parties attract people from as far as Gorakhpur, who travel in rickety buses for hours for a glimpse of the freedom they cannot imagine in the confinement of their homes. But access to public spaces is tricky, especially because of the fear around section 377. There are other threats too. We meet a gay couple – one partner Sikh and the other Muslim – who speak about the ripples of fear and apprehension running through their residence in old Lucknow since a new government was sworn in. “Our biggest risk is that people think we are Hindu and Muslims staying together. Our Brahmin neighbours often throw taunts and questions.”
But things are slowly changing, helmed by people like Apoorva and Chetana. “We want to adopt , have a family. People think our relationships are just sex, but it’s about companionship. We’re co-dependent. Sometimes, it just fits…it’s perfect.”