you,’ he continued. ‘You were so nice to me when we went to Gulmarg three years ago. You bought me a ticket for the cable car without even asking me. No other guest ever did that before. They always leave me at the bottom. Remember when we were walking in those mountains and you were taking all those pictures of me. They’re in a drawer in my room. I still have them.’
I didn’t know what to say. My heart was stuck in my throat. At that moment I wanted to take him around the world. ‘Next time I come we’ll go again, or maybe to Pahalgam, or even Leh.’
Shahid was beaming. ‘After I get my youngest sister married it will be my turn. You have to come to my wedding.’
‘I will if you come to mine.’
He looked at me in amazement. ‘You’re getting married? I always asked you!’
I smiled. ‘Maybe someday I will. But if and when I do, it will be to a man.’
We fell over ourselves laughing. He took my hand, shook it, and put his open palm over his heart. ‘I’ll come!’
Perfume
D’Lo
S ometimes I smell her perfume from across the street where she Or someone who looks like her
Is walking .
Seven months ago, I was 27. She was 34. I wonder if I’m going to walk with an air of all-knowing wisdom when I reach that age.
As part of an exchange programme, I had come to this place right at the northern edge of Vishakapatnam (or Vizag, the short ‘cool kid’ way to say it) to teach digital music recording. The management provided boarding for the teachers as well. We lived in the apartment complex next to the school. Our apartment had two rooms, with two teachers in each room. Both the computer teachers, Ms Neelu and Ms Vimal shared one room, while Ms Lakshmi and I shared the other. I think the management thought it would be more awkward to have me room in the men’s quarters and therefore just stuck me with the women . . . in the room with Ms Lakshmi. A square room with white square tiles holding up more than just the rectangle shapes of our low-to-theground full-size beds, the two box-like dressers and the small desk of thin sheet wood in the corner. This room held me together.
Ms Lakshmi (or Lux, as I called her because that was the nickname given to a cousin of mine) taught the children in the school how to read and, on her day off, she taught any woman in the area how to read.
But she did a lot more than teach reading. Anything. She did. She did anything. So yes, she worked for the people, she did.
Our beds were across from and diagonal to each other. Sometimes we’d sit up in our beds, facing each other from the opposite sides of the room. We’d talk. She told me that Ms Vijaya didn’t approve of how she taught children, and was rigidly opposed to being tender with pupils, regardless of age. She told me about the chai wallah and how he keeps hitting on her even after she slapped him for squeezing her left breast. She shared with me how she was dropped off at a temple when she was a baby, was brought up by one of the priests and his sister and how, even though they have passed on, she still loved going back to her village because it was so green compared to this part of Vizag. She’d ask me about how things worked in the States, ask how my family took that I was queer, ask questions that veered dangerously close to the other questions she desired to ask, but she always pulled back in time. Eventually, without questions answered, but by watching me daily, observing me, she understood my masculinity. We could talk until the cocks crowed, right at 4:23 a.m., and worry about how hot the day would get and how much coffee it’d take to handle a full schedule, full classes and the electricity for the air con. going out at noon. But we talked more, and more, to let the fears dissipate, and when our whispers had to get quieter as everyone else in the house started taking their morning showers, she’d ask me to pull up the plastic purple stool, scoot nearer to her bed and we’d continue.
I’d see
I didn’t know what to say. My heart was stuck in my throat. At that moment I wanted to take him around the world. ‘Next time I come we’ll go again, or maybe to Pahalgam, or even Leh.’
Shahid was beaming. ‘After I get my youngest sister married it will be my turn. You have to come to my wedding.’
‘I will if you come to mine.’
He looked at me in amazement. ‘You’re getting married? I always asked you!’
I smiled. ‘Maybe someday I will. But if and when I do, it will be to a man.’
We fell over ourselves laughing. He took my hand, shook it, and put his open palm over his heart. ‘I’ll come!’
Perfume
D’Lo
S ometimes I smell her perfume from across the street where she Or someone who looks like her
Is walking .
Seven months ago, I was 27. She was 34. I wonder if I’m going to walk with an air of all-knowing wisdom when I reach that age.
As part of an exchange programme, I had come to this place right at the northern edge of Vishakapatnam (or Vizag, the short ‘cool kid’ way to say it) to teach digital music recording. The management provided boarding for the teachers as well. We lived in the apartment complex next to the school. Our apartment had two rooms, with two teachers in each room. Both the computer teachers, Ms Neelu and Ms Vimal shared one room, while Ms Lakshmi and I shared the other. I think the management thought it would be more awkward to have me room in the men’s quarters and therefore just stuck me with the women . . . in the room with Ms Lakshmi. A square room with white square tiles holding up more than just the rectangle shapes of our low-to-theground full-size beds, the two box-like dressers and the small desk of thin sheet wood in the corner. This room held me together.
Ms Lakshmi (or Lux, as I called her because that was the nickname given to a cousin of mine) taught the children in the school how to read and, on her day off, she taught any woman in the area how to read.
But she did a lot more than teach reading. Anything. She did. She did anything. So yes, she worked for the people, she did.
Our beds were across from and diagonal to each other. Sometimes we’d sit up in our beds, facing each other from the opposite sides of the room. We’d talk. She told me that Ms Vijaya didn’t approve of how she taught children, and was rigidly opposed to being tender with pupils, regardless of age. She told me about the chai wallah and how he keeps hitting on her even after she slapped him for squeezing her left breast. She shared with me how she was dropped off at a temple when she was a baby, was brought up by one of the priests and his sister and how, even though they have passed on, she still loved going back to her village because it was so green compared to this part of Vizag. She’d ask me about how things worked in the States, ask how my family took that I was queer, ask questions that veered dangerously close to the other questions she desired to ask, but she always pulled back in time. Eventually, without questions answered, but by watching me daily, observing me, she understood my masculinity. We could talk until the cocks crowed, right at 4:23 a.m., and worry about how hot the day would get and how much coffee it’d take to handle a full schedule, full classes and the electricity for the air con. going out at noon. But we talked more, and more, to let the fears dissipate, and when our whispers had to get quieter as everyone else in the house started taking their morning showers, she’d ask me to pull up the plastic purple stool, scoot nearer to her bed and we’d continue.
I’d see
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