By Mayank Vashistha
I have left my gay gene somewhere far far behind in my transition from being an undergraduate to being a working professional in my own right. I think it was time I revisited the gay gene. I think it was time I revisited my conscience and it astonishes me how often we are driven by not what is present around us but by the lack of something we’d like to have and today morning while I travel to Seelampur early in the morning. I think it’s time to think, to think about love, the act of love, the simplicity of love and its unknown variables, and to write about the purest of emotions love elicits. In a stark realization that never crossed the secret towns of my head, while I have felt restricted merely because of biological inabilities of a heterosexual man to reciprocate to a gay boy’s feelings, I have also at the same time been incredibly fascinated at the sheer redundancy of such a dream and hope for it has in my observations had zilch impact of the person being loved. This was once upon a time, and today at a forbidden but godly hour I revisit the incident in retrospect.
Today, I question the value of silence and the horrors of blatant ignorance. It took a gay boy a month to realize what he’d fallen into without making any effort, and the hopelessness of such a situation baffles me mostly. When a girl or a guy is in love with someone from the opposite gender, in a heterosexual establishment it is indeed sound reasoning that the person being loved either reciprocates, respects or at the very least responds and expresses his feelings of compassion or sheer disgust to the one in love, and this serves as a subtle understanding and more than that it is a given that at least once the one being loved would have thought about the possibility of such an adventure. In my set up, in this part of Cupid’s world it is uni directional, it is natural and as much a part of life as that necessary vaccination that one requires in early childhood- but when it strikes, it strikes hard. Today, my amusement is with respect to the general inability of heterosexuals to comprehend and to blissfully ignore their gay friends struggling to surpass the blugeoning rainbow colored trauma of being in love with a heterosexual boy because the futility of this is similar to being in love with a wall. The other part of the world does not know how to reciprocate, and I have reasons to believe that this is a circular argument in most heads. He is gay, I am ‘straight’, and its okay to fall in love… but he is gay and I am straight. They assume that it is indeed a given, it is indeed obvious, and that the fact that one entity in this conflict of emotions and personalities is homosexual is reason enough for them to not be obligated to follow conventional or rather context based expected means of communication. Or comply to unsaid expectations of showing care and courtesy towards either the emotions, or towards having a general ability to talk about it in a not so confrontational sense, but in ways that comes across as supportive. In this regard, a conversation can do wonders and the lack of one is a void that needs closure. I am also here looking at the incident in retrospect, where the given proximity between two individuals with conflicting sexual orientations has ample scope and value for providing and even denying any such vent. In the sheer lack of hope and understanding it has always amused me that whenever I have told people about such legendary sagas of gay boys falling for their ‘straight friends’, I have at least a million times heard the statement ‘but he’s not gay’ as a simple answer to a rather complicated situation. This hopelessness is not a factor or variable constructed by societal framework, but by mere set-ups and biology that is mostly tricky, and then it seems like a struggle against forces beyond your control. This is where the lack of the venting point and the constant reminder of being gay as the reason and motivation to ‘move on’ boils down to suppression of the fun-frolic rainbow colored gay gene.
Today, I think I have not merely forgotten it, but I think I have raised the walls of my defense mechanism even higher, and higher than ever, and there is no denial in acceptance that this one time I did find it slightly hard to resist sheer lustful drooling at the sight of the boy…. but then I took it as sheer lust and the way it’d mean nothing for the hottie sitting opposite to me in the metro it meant nothing then. But what’s interesting to note is that while right now I make no conscious effort to stop drooling, I did in the former instance. It’s amazing how much effort it takes to believe that you are stable and secure and that you consciously lead yourself to believe that you have ‘moved on’, and I am wondering if the same process creates the illusion of being in love. The silence from one end can be devastating while a response could be crushing. In retrospect, while I think it has definitely avoided making things awkward closure is somewhere impending. We all need closure, it’s like the farewell party that is a social custom, and sometimes the feeling of being incomplete can be injected by virtue of a genuine inclusive effort of acceptance and sheer respect can transcend into disrespect because of the silence and this is more than appropriate in not merely such ‘set ups’
While my metro goes underground, I think I have put most of my conflicting unstable emotions to rest and they are far beneath the surface level not because they need to hide, but because I’m done with them. Acceptance always comes from within. I accept and respect the silence and also the turmoil I have put to rest in my head and I accept and adore the beauty of platonic relationships and the honesty and simplicity of such relationships in this set up, how could I not once at least wonder ‘Had it not been for the genes, so much for two boobs and a vagina’.
About the Author | The author is a small town boy with big dreams, who has made his way through tough roads and pursues his passion for writing as a means of honestly exclaiming his struggle through this dark ugly real world.
{Image: ‘No Love Lost’, Blue paintings by Damien Hirst}
