Whats love got to do with it?

There wasn’t anything unusual about that night. Moonlight was lost as always amidst the neon blitzkrieg of shop banners and fluorescent tube lighting the compound of Shiv Darshan. People walking on the road were equally indifferent to this 12 storeyed structure as they were to the scores of suburban residential towers infesting various roads of Borivali. It seemed like there were only three people in this ordinary building who were trying to rise above the mundane morose outlook of Mumbai’s urban obsession of working 24 by 7. Aryan, Kabir and Praful stayed in Flat 305 of Shiv Darshan as they could not afford any other apartment that would give access to so much of skyline, light, privacy and economy in any other part of the town.

They were champion multi-taskers as every other Mumbaikar and thus utilized the space as a café, reading room, bedroom, office, play ground and prayer HALL by the hour.

Tonight, this small flat acted as a beauty salon & dance bar, where they were practicing their moves and groves before hitting the dance floor of the gay Bombay party. The room looked more colourful than most days with specially tailored glittering party clothes of Aryan and Praful piled up on bed along with a pot pouri of Aryan’s architecture books, Praful’s spiritual stuff and Kabir’s self help material bought from a local book sale.

The only vivid object receiving a raw deal this night was the Arjun Rampal poster which Kabir had put up behind the door so that he can conveniently admire it at his ease but still remain secretive about it by hiding it beneath the hung up clothes at other times.

Aryan was giving appreciative looks to himself in the mirror as he spoke on phone to a friend, which caused Praful to laugh amidst his dilemma of selecting the right bandana that would go with his biker stud look. Aryan was taller than most Indian men but was inching slowly towards being taller than them even horizontally. He stuck to black clothes and used shoulder length hair now in the hope to hide the so-called flaws.

Aryan looked at his watch wondering why his friends were gaining momentum and in this process looking like headless chickens just to realize they were just an hour away from their glory time of the grand entry to the party in their individual and irrepressible styles. He liked the look of surprise and awe in eyes of newbies but more so in the eyes of people who have known him now for a few years. As a part of the trio that was iconic in its snootery, he excelled in a timely entry at least an hour after the dance floor was officially thrown open.

The temptation to razzle and dazzle is too much to handle for any Leo looking for revelry and thus he crisply concluded his conversation to begin his struggle to fit into a pair of leather pants which fitted him like a dream last year but not anymore.

After the trio’s well-rehearsed routine of rushing into a rickshaw was through, Kabir began what he has always been good at – Adam teasing. He looked at the rickshaw driver through the back view mirror and smiled for a good five minutes till he took notice and then asked the driver to play music in spite of being well aware that the rickshaw did not have the stereo system, which fit in behind the seats very visibly in this chauffer driven suburban transport option. The twenties something rickshaw driver did not get bothered in answering Kabir’s questions and smiled without turning his head. He told us how people always choose the rickshaws with Music system and he makes lesser money nowadays to feed his children. This gave Kabir an opportunity to extend the conversation and dig further about his name; age and how he stays far from his wife just like many other natives of Bihar who work in Mumbai for years together without seeing their family.


Praful and Aryan exchanged the sheepish embarrassed smiles as Kabir’s interrogation went from generic to suggestive by the minute leaving Gopal - the rickshaw guy squirming as he drove. We reached our destination and Kabir was flirting with him by singing songs of how a guy misses his wife and looks at world having fun. While looking at the proceedings and chuckling, we didn’t realize that we have reached the destination for the gala group gyration act called a gay party.
It was time for us night prowlers to move on from harmless flirting to some serious business of cruising and social mingling.

As I looked at the venue lit up from outside, I heard a very apt song by Tina Turner “what’s love got to do with it”. While noticing the interesting choice of retro music by DJ instead of the Bollywood remixes, the question that stayed in my head was that whether people actually fall in love here or they come here scorned by their loves to find respite in music, dim lights and a few hours of attention by strangers. I looked closer at myself, living far away from love of my life, waiting endlessly for an expression of love in his emails, online message, phone call or any other way that would just show that there’s someone in this world who loves me for who I am. For me the parties have always been about dancing my head off with friends, love was never even at back of my mind.


Closer home, I looked at Aryan hugging a few of our common friends and remembered his words that he would not let love come in way of his dreams. A sudden realization seeped in that the party, its crowd and the fancy ghetto look he wore today, all of them were his realities, and none of it was part of his dreams. His dreams were detached from his presence today here; any fling that began today by him grabbing a thin waist boogieing to a popular number would never end up in a relationship

Kabir, who was lip locked with a muscled looking thing wasn’t definitely thinking of love while getting cozy with this creature who had a single digit IQ. He had been hinting about marriage pressures from his family but never contested their decision of his official affair cum relationship with a girl of their choice. He wouldn’t carry his love for male bodies to his native place, which he was to visit the next day. Again love wasn’t on his charts with the party.

My gaze turned to people in the party who I knew were together at some or the other points of time and today were looking for newer people to be with and sometimes both of them would aim and compete for a twink or sugar daddy just to get even.

Our number began playing finally and all three of us took over the prime spot in front of the stage where the light was optimum to flaunt our assets and hard work of new looks. While grooving, my head was still ticking as I looked for answers to the question whether being gay is only about sex, but remembered my days of realization when I would spend hours in college canteen wanting to see Vishal smile or just for him to say a hi and acknowledge my existence. That wasn’t remotely love but it brought back some sweet memories.

Amidst my nostalgia Aryan introduced me to Anurag who was a Delhi resident dressed in pseudo intellectual clothes and draped in an invisible layer of holier-than-thou attitude as he sized everyone on dance floor with a quick gaze and moved toward the ones who bumped and grind on the beats of an up market hip hop number instead of those who flaunted their moves on a item number. As we hit the bar to find some respite and quench our parched throats, Aryan told me that he had only known Anurag online largely and had recently lost his number stored within his cell phone when it got flicked in trains. What amazed us was that Anurag came to the party just because he had heard from Aryan once during his chat about the weekday when he hits this shady little pub. He decided to go with the information given anonymously by a screen name accompanied by thumbnail sized image.

But his risk paid off better than ever as Aryan flashed his leather outfit enough, not to go unnoticed by anyone in the party. This sweet serendipity calmed and balmed me reaffirming my belief in eternal faith and equal action or calculated risk. My concerns of love being out of stock in this supermarket of shameless sex seekers and snooty Samaritans in denial were soon forgotten under the influence of the happy buzz of drinks

Seemingly insignificant thing that perked me up was a call from Rohit. As I spoke to him, I realized that everyone loves attention and more so if someone whom he or she like provides it. I moved out of the door to speak on phone while seeing the umpteen manifestations of love within for the queer folk varying according to the given time, lust and tenderness. They looked vulnerable now, ready to respond to even little gestures of attention or affection. It was different from desperation. They were soft targets to lure into abusive relationships, internalized homophobia and more, reminding me of the comic contradiction that homosexuals are normally perceived to be the people who threaten the norms of loving outside in the society. They had gathered inside the party today to find the love and security within each other's smiles, hugs, kisses and maybe more.

It can be unconventional but the need for love and acceptance remains in my willingness to be in a long distance relationship, in Kabir's subservience to his parent's will and also in co-incidences of Aryan meeting an unknown stranger obsessed with him amongst the multitude of nameless faces in the crowd who explored and expanded the boundaries of the word love without knowing it.