Each coming out story is a testimony of how beautifully diverse we all are. Despite our loves, attractions, ages, skin colors or castes, each one of us has a unique narrative weaving itself among a myriad of others. Yet what makes everything even more intriguing is the way in which each of them is influenced by the others, rubbing their traces onto the others, thereby altering them.
My own coming out took twenty nine long years. Coming from a Catholic background, where being gay is synonymous with shame and guilt, I chose a life of celibacy for eleven of those years. Ensconced within my own pseudo-religious closet cocoon, I had admitted only within the confines of the confessional, as well as over some pins-and- needles sharing sessions with some of my closest friends, that I was attracted to men. I had always sought clarity from God as to why He made me the way I was, and His only reply was that He had carved me in the palm of His hands, fashioning me in His image. Undoubtedly, He had made me unique and perfect! And in His perfection, He had also given me my sexual orientation.
Three years later, as I look back at myself, I’m surprised at my streak of rebellion while I was in the Jesuit order. There was some part of me that always questioned authority; that often gnawed at the veneer of convention.
Yet nothing prepared me for the day that my twenty-year-old sister Ancy attempted to open up about her life with me. That afternoon I was packing my stuff to get to Chennai, where I was studying for my philosophy degree.
“I’d like to share something with you,” she said.
“Go ahead, Ancy,” said I, making myself comfortable reclining on the bed rest.
“I don’t ever want to get married.”
The moment she uttered those words I shuddered and grew pale, realizing the highly volatile ground Ancy was navigating. I had always known what my sister’s leaning was. Her sexuality was conspicuous, though none of us in the family dared to admit it.
Many times I had served as a confidante to my friends who were struggling to come to terms with their sexuality. Yet, that day, I was scared. I was really scared. Instinctively, I knew that the same fears I hedged myself from through my choice of being in the religious order were beckoning me and, worse still, were mocking me.
“Why would you say that? Perhaps you’re confused!” I lied, steering away from the direction this conversation was gravitating towards.
I continued, “You have a long way to go, Ancy. In time, you’ll think differently.”
I could see the light of hope waning in her eyes. The yearning of wanting to open up to somebody getting bleaker by the moment. She looked crushed. And yet, through the moments of silence between our words, I knew she hoped this conversation would end differently.
And then, not wanting to give up on my sister, I said, “Ryan* is a nice guy. He likes you very much.”
“I don’t like him. He’s a liar.” Then she went on to narrate an incident when she caught Ryan red-handedly spinning a yarn.
“Oh, come on, Ancy! All of us tell lies once in a while. Cut some slack for the poor guy. But he likes you very much. It doesn’t matter if he takes a drink once in a while. All of us tell white lies.”
She looked at me quizzically and admitted it. Perhaps she just caved in, knowing that it was useless. After a while, she gave me that smile, playfully mischievous. She said that she would talk to Ryan and give him a chance. She made me believe that things would get better. And two hours later, while I was at the railway station on my way to the seminary, Ryan and she had a little moment together when I was chatting with my parents. Seeing the two of them together, I hoped that day I had been of some help to my sis.
Now, whatever possibilities I might contemplate, I know they would only be conjecture. I can never fully fathom what must have gone through her mind those few hours, when she decided that everything was over for her. Planning every little detail of her last minutes of life to prove to her confidante (a particular nun) that the nun mattered to her, Ancy had managed to take her own life by taking her last breath in the river where she often swam in. Like Virginia Woolf, she had stones weighing down her lifeless body when it was recovered hours later.
I had not had an opportunity to speak to her at length, after that day when she attempted to open up to me. I rue the fact that I didn’t do what I ought to have done. To open myself to her and listen to her, keeping aside the false sense of propriety that my family, society and religion had instilled in me.
Something which I discovered about my sister after her death was that she had a good hand at writing. I read her diary entries about her feelings of confusion, desire and guilt, mixed with her overbearing desire to be faithful to God. Through her writing, she wanted to break even from her inner tumult and come out honestly. Her death has taught me the importance of being honest to myself.
Though she was not as fortunate as I was, I, myself, am grateful to all those who came out before me. It made me realize that I’m not alone.
There are so many of us in the midst of our uncertainties, careers, relationships and the everyday humdrum activities of our lives, who have to deliberate whether we can afford to come out. Each time we come out, we change a little of the world we live in. We do our bit in making a difference. Sadly, we in India are still in a rudimentary stage when it comes to rights of lesbian, gay, bi and transgender people. Though some amazing things have happened over the last three years after the Delhi High Court judgement, we have a very long way to go.
People need to see more LGBT faces. They need to see more of us in our ordinariness, doing our daily chores at homes, living in our faith in God, pursuing our goals in our universities and our work places, speaking about our lives, hopes and disappointments and, most importantly, being comfortable about ourselves.
And then, maybe, no one will ever need to make the decision my sister Ancy made for herself.