Chapter 3
Col. Wilfred can talk!!
ADITYA
The valley is silent except for the background hum of the Shivaliks.
Pristine rays of sunlight flicker, skipping and hopping around the tall pine trees.
A brook meanders downstream through rounded boulders, its gurgling interspersed by random bird calls, announcing their arrival for their morning chores of foraging for insects.
The signal strength is sketchy on this part of the trail, so no humans from beyond this village can disturb me. On cue, the phone chimes, correcting my mistaken belief.
“Oh no, I hexed my peace.” I fumble with the pocket zipper of my track pants and retrieve the buzzing culprit. Urgh, Jatin.
“What the hell are you doing at this hour? Go back to sleep.” I sneer at my friend over the phone.
“Are you sleeping? So why should I? You left me without a running partner, bro. Missing you here.” Jatin adds loud fake sniffles to his whining.
I survey my surroundings and make a face at the phone. The few villagers acquainted with me consider me crazy for leaving Delhi and settling here after buying a derelict, spooky cottage. I can’t give them more fodder for gossiping about the childish antics of an almost forty-year-old man.
“Are you poking your tongue at me?” My one and only friend snorts.
This time, I poke my tongue for real before putting on my professor's voice. “Jatin, what do you want?”
“For my brother to come back to me. You broke five years of friendship to run away to some godforsaken village.”
I also broke a ten-year-old marriage, left an esteemed job, and distanced myself from an entire entourage of relatives.
“Jatin, I haven't had my morning tea, so spit out whatever is giving you a stomach ache.”
“Okay, cranky old man. Your father-in-law came sniffing.”
“Ex, Jatin. He is no longer related to me. What did he want?”
“God knows. Must be hankering for info on your whereabouts.”
“Why? I handed over my house to his daughter in the settlement.”
After signing the divorce papers, I wanted nothing to do with Shalini's family. They fought me at every step till I greased their palms with my ancestral property in Delhi, even though Shalini and I both wanted the separation. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. Told the man you betrayed me and absconded. I have no clue where you are or what you are doing.”
The worry stone rolling in my head settles. “Thanks, Jatin. I owe you one. You are a gem.”
“Jee- haan! I am simply the best. Always got your back, buddy. But Aditya, I am worried. The man gives me bad vibes.”
“Hey, don't worry. I may be alone, but I am safe.”
A blend-in-the-wall history teacher in a non-descript school run by an NGO. A far cry from the heady days of deliberating on the politics of ancient and medieval India from a podium in the lecture halls of St. Stephen’s College in Delhi.
“Aww, you are feeling lonely. Come to Papa Bear.” Jatin snorts.
“Are you planning to walk down the same path and willing to become my daddy bear?” I tease him. Jatin is the proverbial happily married man. The two are a couple made for each other. “Last I heard, Jasmeet keeps you busy.”
“Nah. I leave the gay boys to you. The kink is strong in my heterosexual relationship.”
Oh boy. I shake my head to dismantle the images Jatin's words conjure. He is a few years older than me, buff and hairy.
“Shut up. Go back to your running and allow me to finish mine. Bye.”
I disconnect before Jatin can say another word. The solitude wraps me in comfort once more. Back to the peace of my surroundings, I tune into the songs of nature. My only company is Sir Wilfred’s black bust. Who, by the nature of his existence, does not speak. But he is an excellent listener.
The exchange with Jatin has left a melancholic taste. The strings of our friendship strum a sad tune.
“Did I make a mistake?” Flushing away my entire life's worth to start anew, breaking all connections binding me to the monument of falsehood I had erected. “But what was the point of dragging a decaying relationship?”
I tried. I made every effort to make things work, spending ten years trying to love Shalini, giving her the life she deserved and the child she wanted, and shoving aside all arguments to bridge the widening gulf.
Five years ago, I gave up. Instead of finding answers for both of us, I focused on solutions for myself.
Was I selfish? Yes. Did I abandon my marriage? Again, a bold yes.
The statue of Col. Wilfred, the British officer who built the cottage I bought here in the village, stares at me. Like in many past deliberations, he has no opinion to offer.
Who, except myself, would ever have the key to the door behind which I had locked myself?
Unaware of the closet around me till I caught whiffs of arousal at the sight of Sameer – a new colleague in the History Department.
The crisp shirts, tight pants, and coiffed hair with cropped sides.
Every tiny detail grabbed my attention. And when one day he winked, a fire flared inside.
The attractions were not new. Embers of my teenage fantasies watching a shirtless Sunil Shetty or Milind Soman on magazine covers were reignited.
Years of neglecting them did not make them disappear.
Not being able to love openly is a chokehold.
You see your life draining out of you, while the rest of the world breathes.
The tightness in the chest, the ache of being too scared to look a few seconds longer, to walk up to someone you are attracted to. To talk to them, or to touch them.
During my graduate studies, I heard of clandestine rooftop parties, farmhouses, and a disco club in Delhi. I caught wind of the cruising spots in Delhi. However, being a history student, I was too aware of the social consequences.
My deep dives to search for people like me led me to navigate the dark alleys of police atrocities against queer people.
I recalled one of my uncle's crude words while reading newspaper reports about an organisation that had protested such police brutality.
Interspersed amidst those cusses were my first introductions to HIV, AIDS and stigma.
One night, I had talked myself into attending a party but chickened out at the bus stop as images of being dragged by khaki-clad officers swept through my mind. I feared that my mother would kill herself if such pictures ever appeared in the newspapers.
By the time the internet opened the world to me, my mind had already been buried under layers of internalised homophobia.
Phrases like 'this is not right’ or ‘I should not ogle men' were transcribed in my psyche like the etchings on the stone monuments of ancient India.
So when the new English professor walked into the lecture hall and flirted with me, alarm bells went off in my head.
The yearning returned with a cyclonic force.
“I had to tell Shalini before I did something stupid. You know I would never cheat on her.” I gaze at the Colonel’s bust. For confirmation? Validation? A simple, ‘you did right.’
The conversation two years ago shattered whatever connection we had, amid a tsunami of tears and words. “I still struggle with queer labels. Gay or bisexual?”
Despite the solitude, the words are whispered. I'm not yet there to admit my sexuality out loud. Saying those words in the open is like learning to breathe again after years of being muffled.
I take the peanuts from my pocket and place them at the edge of the bench, hoping my squirrel friend will gift me with an appearance.
With their immense patience, Sir Wilfred and Gillu help me practice being myself.
They don't judge me for coming out so late in life or berate me for my inability to navigate this world.
They have never made me feel like the lowest scum on earth for ruining lives. They listen and let me be.
A rustle followed by chirping beats tells me my little friend is here. While it noses around the peanuts, I smile and say to her, “Gillu, why is living as my true self so difficult? Why should anyone be bothered about whether I love a man or a woman?”
“Ahem.”
The hoarse, guttural sound makes my eyes pop.
Gillu scurries away. I study Col. Wilfred for clues with a fist on my chest, trying to calm the rocketing heartbeats.
Is this statue haunted? Uh-oh. Have I been speaking to a ghost all these weeks?
The British officer carved in stone is stoic as ever — no blinking or quirks of the lip, only a crooked nose pointing to the high road.
The throat clears again. This time, my ears pick up the right direction.
I turn and stumble at the sight of a young man in a sweat-drenched grey t-shirt and blue shorts.
Since when has he been eavesdropping? Oh God!
Did I come out to him? Without another glimpse at the man, I scamper out of the small park.
“Your secret is safe with me.”
The words catch up, piercing through the valley’s silence, scattering the birds and the panic in my heart.