I have always known that I want to spend my older years with my chosen family of queer people, assorted allies and, if I am lucky, a romantic partner. This is not to say that I want to exclude my assigned family—a source of both pain and sadness, and also of the strength I needed to overcome them and face broader queerphobia. Rather, I would be happiest if there were an intermingling of both families, as has been the case off and on, especially when my parents were alive.
The bonds with my chosen family are precious in a different way—delicate yet strong, sticky like cobweb threads; not secured by social norms but woven through shared joys and insecurities. Assigned families are meant to offer the security of the seashore, but if they fail to do so, chosen families can be the buoy that bobs up and down on the deep, dark ocean under a vast, open sky. It has been 35 years since I stepped out to find my chosen family, to nurture it and be nurtured by it in turn. No instrument of society or state can make me turn away from them.
Now, past my mid-50s, I find myself thinking, talking and writing a lot more about caregiving. My experience of being a caregiver to my mother—alongside the services of numerous professional caregivers—is one of the reasons. Through her bodily and mental ailments, I glimpsed what my older years might hold. But will I also have the resilience that carried her through to almost 92 years of life?
Then there are the experiences of an entire generation of queer friends, colleagues and community members I have known since the 1990s and 2000s. We have grown older together in the shadow of criminalization, queerphobia, mental health concerns and HIV. Many have passed away—some quite alone, with only queer friends as caregivers in their final moments. Not everyone has had the privilege of assigned-family support, social standing or access to safety nets of class, caste, religion, race, gender, sexuality, ability, education or digital literacy. Few have managed to benefit systematically—with old age in mind—from the saving, investment, insurance and social security opportunities that abound on paper but remain elusive in practice. Fewer still, in their daily fight for survival, have had time to even think of planning for old age.
In the last five to ten years, transgender inclusion in social security policies and schemes meant for the elderly is beginning to be visible, especially in states like Odisha, Karnataka, Kerala, Tamil Nadu and Telangana. Yet, coverage remains limited. Several pension schemes now include transgender persons, but the monthly payouts range only from a few hundred to a few thousand rupees and, in some cases, payments are irregular. Nationally, the Garima Greh shelter programme—an option for transgender persons up to 60 years of age—is struggling, and the Ayushman Bharat TG Plus transgender health insurance scheme has had its own coverage and access problems.
In this precarious scenario, queer support groups and NGOs, including me as an activist, share some guilt of neglect. It may never be too late, but why did I not devote more time earlier to think about and act towards financial sustainability in old age—for myself as much as for my community friends? Why, over the years, have our community support initiatives, cultural programming, legal aid interventions and public health programmes not included older queer persons by default? Why did our journals and newsletters so overwhelmingly visualize only the young and the able-bodied?
Back in the days of Counsel Club, the group experimented with separate meeting circles—one for younger queer individuals (between 18 and the early 20s), another one for married gay and bisexual men—but none for older individuals in their 40s, 50s or 60s. The number of older members in the group was small, but there was little exploration on the reasons why. In recent years, change is afoot. Queer CBOs and ally NGOs have begun conducting in-depth qualitative studies that will, one hopes, translate into meaningful programmes. In the meantime, the best bet for older queer individuals seems to be their chosen families—if they have one. These may be in the form of close-knit community networks, or friends living together in the same house, building or locality—this last one being a personal favourite.
Publisher: Seagull Books
Pages: 262
Price: Rs 699
This excerpt has not been edited by queerbeat.