I was wearing something audacious. A tight black t-shirt with bold text of a music equipment brand. I got it as a free add-on when I had made custom pedal boards which I hardly use. I was thin then, and the small size made me look better. I’m not as thin now, but I’m not overweight either. I think I have filled up a bit in the right places, but also a bit in the wrong ones. I’m forty-five, you see. Things are not easy when you go past twenty-seven. That is–if you make it past that age.
Jay’s place is a bit of a mess. It’s always been like that, and it has only gotten worse if it could ever get worse. I have a little stash of clothes in one of the cupboards. A couple of T-shirts, a shirt, some shorts, and some lungis, and underwear. The problem, however, is that Jay’s house help almost always messes things up. So after having spent about fifteen minutes to get my running shorts and the running band (the thing that is not quite a fanny pack but is something like it), I gave up. I chose a pair of red swimming trunks that could look like shorts if you didn’t pay attention to what you were looking at.
So what I’m trying to say is that I stood out. And I was looking at things and people who looked at me. Many eyes went under my waist. I was wearing briefs under the shorts, which must have prevented even more eyes from zooming in. On my walk, my eyes met with others’ and although all exchanges were momentary, I had enough time to paint a picture. With words.
A man, probably in his early fifties, with his golden Labrador, walking him semi-reluctantly in the park. I thought he was my type until I saw his profile, which revealed that his skull was deeper than my preference. I have nothing against people with deeper skulls, but the ones with a prominent forehead, nose, and jawline generally have held my attention more than a cup of coffee. He looked at me briefly. What had caught my attention was his curly hair and spectacles. A decent hairline with long-vision spectacles is a great combo if you are interested in older men. Generally, this means that they are going to smile with their eyes. Don’t ask me how.
He turned around and walked away, and I noticed the kids playing in the park.
This park–in the complex where Jay’s apartment is–is not somewhere that I can comfortably go for recreation. Despite the progressive nature of the ethnic group that Jay belongs to, the rent-controlled apartment complex and housing societies for those from the ethnicity are not friendly to individuals of alternative sexual orientation and hence are unfriendly to their partners. I noticed a few women, mostly nannies and helps, with their patrons doing things around the swings, seesaws, and the limited exercise equipment. On the other side, there was outdoor seating, occupied almost exclusively by older men. They were sitting next to the pavilion, where a few waiters were going about doing their business.
I turned the corner, which brought me in view of the small back gate. This part of my path is lined on either side by parked cars and beautiful flowers on the small patches of gardens. Behind some cars and flowers stood three men, one of whom was a security guard who was supposed to not let strangers enter the society. It’s a gated community, but it’s less gated than many others. The other two men must have been either local visitors or drivers.
As soon as you step out of the complex through that small gateway, which has an iron rod planted in the middle of the breadth to prevent small two-wheelers from entering the complex, you enter a different universe. Because you enter a slum that houses many of the helps, nannies, and other workers.
You need to walk on a narrow path flanked on one side by the compound wall of the complex and the slum housing on the other side. On it, I saw three women, each of them holding their phones and being buried in the screens. A little girl ran out of the first doorway. She had a look of steely determination. She seemed to have been told to do something that she didn’t quite like but when done might get her something nice. The door that she walked out through revealed blue walls and harsh white lightning, and a figure, who must have instructed the girl, moving out of my sight as I walked past it.
I walk along, and I can see the open courtyard type of space. It is littered with chairs, makeshift beds, and mattresses where men (and boys) of many shapes and sizes lounge around. There seems to be a clear gender divide here, but it may not have been imposed by one gender. Things just drifted to their present state, probably because women preferred the little privacy that the path offered.
Toward the right of the courtyard is the actual gate that lets you out into the street. That is also small but without the iron rod. The slum dwellers bring their two-wheelers in. This gate is also usually adorned by a couple of cats, who wait for customers to drop them some food from a couple of shops located on the footpaths. That’s where I saw the black cat.
The slum dwellers generally don’t make eye contact with you. I suppose they are told not to. By the community members. You see, the caste system might not exist in theory, but every little ounce of India is infused by it. I find myself to be on either side of the problem. My origins are the upper caste, but in the gated community, I’m the scum. Outside of such communities, in the streets of India, my caste rules. And I hate it both ways.
Once you enter the hustle and bustle of traffic in Cuffe Parade, there is too much noise to signal for any mindfulness. If one trains, and if one stops, maybe you can observe something intently. As I walked down, several pairs of eyes went below my crotch. Those who did seem to be individuals who were returning to their homes after their evening walks or runs. I suppose the worker population thronging the streets couldn’t care too much about how I looked because I looked different and they did not bother to quantify or qualify the difference. The more affluent walkers, however, found me different from them and had the time and the need to flesh out the difference. Darker skin, taller build, thinner, wearing fashionable earphones. Clearly doesn’t belong. Clearly a threat.
Among those who did, the women never dared to look back up into my eyes. A couple of men, both of them middle-aged, did. I looked at them. They seemed to be sorry. Sorry for having looked, sorry about their lives, wanting love. I moved along.
Engayging Life 