I came out as queer before I came out as Dalit.
I was on a third date with this guy, and we were not moving forward with the relationship, or anything else for that matter. And then he just casually dropped this gem: ‘You should go to the doctor and get yourself checked up. Something is wrong with you.’
And I thought, Damn, maybe he’s right.
Growing up, seeing all the straight couples around me made me think that’s just how it is. For a very long time, I was an ally, the straightest ally you’d ever seen.
But the thought never crossed my mind that maybe I am queer. Being a woman myself, it’s kind of hard to know because when you see a beautiful woman, you get confused. Do you want to look like her, or do you just like her? I started thinking about it and realised—oh wait, I do like women. So my journey as a queer person began. For a couple of months, I thought I was homosexual. Then I realised I also like men. I thought maybe I’m bisexual. And so I was bisexual for a couple of months. But that didn’t feel right either. So I started reading more about queerness and came across pansexuality. Bingo! My parents, who are human rights activists, were so proud of me. All their life they’ve been working for gender equality, and now they discover their daughter is one step ahead: ‘She doesn’t even see gender when dating—gender isn’t her criteria!’ I’m basically the overachiever of the family, but make it gay.
I remember one of my father’s friends had a trans daughter, and he tried to commit suicide because of that. My father told him, ‘My daughter will be able to help.’ But here’s the thing: My father was talking about helping with the queer identity, connecting them to my queer network, whereas his friend thought I would be helping their daughter go back to being their son again.
Which was, at the time, a hilariously tragic misunderstanding. But I thought, whatever, at least I’ll get a queer friend! In small towns, there aren’t a lot of openly queer people. Three years have passed, and now my father’s friend’s family has accepted their daughter’s identity and respects her choices.
It is difficult to be a queer Dalit woman from a small town. Often, Dalit spaces have no respect for your queer identity and queer spaces have no sensitivity towards caste minorities. In Dalit spaces, I was discriminated against because of my queer identity. In queer spaces, I was discriminated against because of my caste.
The reason I chose comedy as a platform to talk about my experiences as a Dalit queer person is because I realised that when you’re on stage with a mic, cracking jokes about your life and these incidents, people laugh and acknowledge the problem. Normally, when you talk about discrimination, there’s always an argument. With comedy, that’s rarely the case. Laughter is basically consent to listen.
My mother keeps telling everybody that I am polyamorous, and I have to keep correcting her: ‘It’s not polyamorous, it’s pansexual. I am pansexual, not polyamorous.’ The aunties don’t know either of the words. They just think it’s some kind of advanced education course that I’m doing, which my mom keeps bragging about, like a master’s in pansexual studies!
Dating women is also very, very confusing, something I’m still trying to learn how to do. I remember an incident when I went out on a date with a girl. I wanted to open the door for her, and at the same time, she had the exact same thought. We both ended up holding the door, expecting the other person to go in, just standing there like two very polite fools.
This kept happening all evening. We both kept pulling chairs out for each other like a choreographed dance of confusion. We both wanted to drop the other person home first because, you know, women’s safety.
At my shows, I used to come across audience members who had coloured their hair, and I’d think, ‘Oh, queer person!’ But then I thought, I shouldn’t prejudge someone. Maybe they’re just straight people who love to colour their hair. But when I talk to them, it’s always a queer person in the crowd with coloured hair. That’s where one of my jokes comes from: ‘If you haven’t coloured your hair, you’re not allowed in the community. Forget about your identity—the hair colour is the primary requirement.’ It’s like we all got the same memo; Step 1: Question your sexuality. Step 2: Buy hair dye.
Publisher: Queer Directions, Westland Books
Pages: 271
Price: Rs 599
The excerpt is taken from Queer India Now, edited by Dhrubo Jyoti and Dhamini Ratnam.
This excerpt has not been edited by queerbeat.