Desicritics Category: Culture: Sex

Pope Benedict XVI - Homo-Sensitive?

thedeskjockey — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 13:46:17 EST

In an age of mindless killing, misinterpreted religion and questionable politics comes an earth shattering revelation by the apostle of the Almighty Himself. According to the revered Pope Benedict XVI, one of the biggest threats to the Homo Sapiens kind on earth is well….being homo. It ain't the overstretched war or the mindless death of a sixty year old mother or the spread of a disease mostly due to apathy. No Siree Bob (who is also gay by the way)! The male lip-lock and old time girl-on-girl action makes the protectors of God’s creations cringe in as much horror as we would if we saw a character, God forbid, have an extra marital affair in a Sooraj Barjatya movie.

While I myself am unaffected by the sexual preference of people around me, I am very aware of coming from a country which has been distinctly homophobic for a long time. Even Bollywood which, according to Madhur Bhandarkar, is filled to the brim with consenting adults of the same-sex/bisexual variety, seems to be leaden footed in maturely portraying a gay relationship. While the incredibly moronic Girlfriend carried the message that all lesbians are pouty, crazy bitches, Tarun Mansukhani had us believing in Dostana that the difference between gay and straight men is that the former look or talk like extended cousins of Bobby Darling (ironic, considering Tarun is Karan Johar’s protégé).

So what is it that causes homosexuality to stand out like a beacon to an 81 year old among all the ills afflicting the world? To put this post in context, here is the excerpt from his speech to the Vatican staff that’s causing all the heartburn (the type that cannot be cured by Eno/Pudin Hara).

“It is not out-of-date metaphysics to speak of human nature as 'man' or woman'. It comes from the language of creation, despising which would mean self-destruction for humans. […] Gender theories lead to man's "auto-emancipation" from creation and Creator. […] Rain forests deserve, yes, our protection but the human being... does not deserve it less”

The Pope actually denouncing it is not a surprise. Almost all religious texts soundly condemn it and any sexual acts around it. However, as much as the moral police would like us to believe that there is a line in the sand, people suffer from that uncontrollable ill that plagues, at least, the civilized world; as Morgan Freeman playing God tells Jim Carrey in Bruce Almighty, the one of “free will” or “choice”. Now choice comes with its own baggage. Is homosexuality something you are born with or is it something you turned to because your last 3 heterosexual relationships were with alcoholic biker dudes/supremely boring bimbettes with IQs of a teacup? And do we really have the right to begrudge you a committed loving relationship even if it was with someone within your gender? Are gays never people of God or vice-versa? If the Pope were to be believed, the moment you step over the line, the sin committed is on par with greedy destruction of Mother Nature’s delicate balance. And therein precisely lies the problem of the message – where you decry racism, apartheid, caste systems, religious killing and slavery on one hand, but willing to outcast people because of their sexual preference on the other.

Perhaps we have let our moral compasses become too blurred to see the big picture…perhaps we prefer to see the goodness in people outside of what they do behind closed doors….or perhaps, just perhaps when we send our prayers upwards, we hope that God showers His blessings without discrimination.

Not One Of The Family

IdeaSmith — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 00:24:38 EST

Friend and openly gay writer, Parmesh Shahani in his book Gay Bombay says that being gay isn't just a sexual preference, it's a lifestyle.

My sexuality was something that I had compartmentalized as something that was surreptitious and all about the sexual act, not about an identity.

Yes, perhaps. I guess I can't claim to understand fully since my choices go by what society sees as the norm and anything else is forced to be defined starkly, clearly as separate.

I was recently at a party and ended up sitting next two friends who both happened to be gay, one guy and one girl. I've known each of them independently for years now. Till a few months ago, I didn't even know that they knew each other and from what I can tell, they've only recently become friends. That they get along so well suits me just fine since they're both such lovely people and besides I understand for each of them, considering the staggering enormity of the cause they each champion, it is good to meet a kindred soul. Add to that the fact that they're both such rollicking fun that getting together with both of them is usually a blast.

I turned away from the conversation on my other side to get back to them and found I had moved into a private guy/girl-watching session. He was checking out the geeky looking dude on my left while she had her eyes on a fiery femme fatale at the other end of the room. Chuckling and commenting on each other's choices. I was about to join in with an elbow-nudge and a side-joke when he said,

How about an introduction? You know him?

I hesitated for a minute, because I really didn't but also because I wondered if bespectacled eye-candy in question was gay as well. I shook my head and told my friend that I didn't think so. Both of them exchanged meaningful glances and almost in unison said,

She wouldn't know. She's not one of the family.

I'm not sure exactly what happened in that one remark but I suddenly felt cut out of the discussion. I've examined it over and over in my head. Is that really true? As a straight person, do I also not feel attraction, ponder on it, act on it? Do I not run through similar thoughts of whether the object of my affection reciprocates? And does it really matter that I'm crushing on the opposite sex while my friends are ODing on the same sex?

What's with the family bit anyway? That part really annoyed me. I've never judged either of them or been anything other than respectful of their choices, their opinions and feelings. Each of them is a real, live person to me, not a body bearing a tag that says 'Gay'. Then why do they hang the tag of 'Straight' on me and behave like it makes me less kin to them than to each other? I felt excluded. And I felt betrayed, that's what.

I must ask whether the gay community hopes to ever get the respect due to it, considering what a tremendous backlash they are and will continue to face in years to come? And whether in the process of defining themselves clearly, they aren't drawing boundaries between straight people and gay people in a 'them' versus 'us' scenario. If the gay community wants to enjoy the same rights as others, on the premise that they are no different from anyone else, I think they should start thinking of themselves as the same as everyone else. And family is people who love and accept you, not necessarily people who like the same things you do. But that's just me.

Swami and His Foes

Suresh Naig — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 13:32:52 EST

It was one winter evening at Coimbatore, in the year 1984. Even till date I couldn't recollect the reasons, which made me to visit Bharatiya Vidhya Bhavan, to listen to a lecture of a Swamiji.

It was a moderate crowd of less than 100 persons, most of them having attained superannuation, found the lecture an inexpensive entertainment. The Swamiji, whose name I forgot, was no different from any other Swamijis. Like many of the Swamijis he was also 60 plus, but beyond which his proper age was not discernible. He had also sported a long beard, like any other person of his clan, which had turned grey, had long unkempt hair and he worn a long piece of cotton jubbah, which had obviated the need for a dhoti, though he was wearing one.

At a much younger age, I had a problem of differentiating one cine actress from the other, since I felt all of them looked alike with heavily made-up face and all the cine heroines of yester years appeared to me as padded horses! of a different kind.

As I grew up, I developed the skills in identifying a female cine personalities, but my problem of identification shifted to Swamijis, who not only looked alike, but also behaved alike, with their monotonous uninspiring lectures. This swamiji was no different.

He opened his lecture praising the U.S. from where he had returned, after a long and fruitful visit. He said, 'I was discussing with few young Americans about Indian culture and our ancient practices aimed at healthy living. This discussion happened in the house of my host, an Indian settled in U.S.A. The American youth were casual in their approach, some with cigarettes dangling from their lips, exhaling a cloud of smoke, some with coke bottles in their hand, some casually lying on the sofa and yet showed seriousness in learning about our culture. I was astonished by their questions and eagerness to learn new things.'

When the swamiji continued his monotonous lecture, praising the new found land of his opportunities, a person who was sitting in the front row was infuriated. He burst out at the Swamiji, 'I have not come here to listen to your praises for America, I had expected that you would deliver a lecture on Geeta or Mahabharat.' Sitting four rows behind, I was curiously enjoying all these things.

When the Swamiji tried to reply to the infuriated man from the first row, with an innocuous smile, the agitated person in his early forties fumed and left the hall in a huff. It appeared to me that the person left the hall out of envy, on the Swamiji's foreign jaunt.

Unfazed, the Swamiji continued his lecture. His lecture was centred on the need to live in tandem with nature, with abundant examples from his day to day observations. He was narrating, 'the other day I saw some people eating cucumber bought from a road side vendor, peeled, cut and after applying salt and pepper powder on it. If God wanted us to eat cucumber with salt and pepper, he would have put the same in cucumber.' His lectures continued on the same line with many more examples, which all of us would have commonly encountered on a daily basis.

His concluding punch was, 'we have stopped eating to satiate our hunger since long, we have stopped drinking to quench our thirst since long. Since our acts no longer reflect the purpose, we are facing certain peculiar problems. If all our acts are purposeful, intended for the specific and natural purpose, we no longer would need to worry about our physical and mental health.' The Swamiji concluded his lecture and the forum was open for questions from the assembled audience.

My question was specific. 'Swamiji I agree with you on many of the points, which are parallel to the views expressed by Van Dyer in his book Sky is not the limit. However there is one act in India which is very purposeful, and we are witnessing the population explosion. Is it not right to indulge in it, relegating the purpose, for the benefit of the society?'

Before the Swamiji could respond, many in the audience, tried to show their disapproval for my question. Swamiji, after some thoughtful silence for maximum effect, opened his mouth fondling his grey beard. 'it is easier said than done, but regular practice of Yoga is the answer for your question.' And he left it at that.

After so many years I felt otherwise. In 1984, when I was young I felt, "It was easier done than said" and now at my 50+ age I realise it is easier said than done".

Fiction: It Ain't Easy!

Deepti Lamba — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 14:14:25 EDT

It ain't easy for me to take off my clothes. I've never taken my clothes off in front of any one. Never. Never lifted my skirt to show my satin thighs nor give a peek of my high breasts under my shirt.

I've always been a demure girl. Kept my eyes down, away from men, away from acknowledging the lust driven thoughts they had about me. My body has always been modestly clad, my behavior exemplary and my chastity unquestioned.

And yet today I feel the need to lie against your heart. Feel your breath against my naked skin, your passion burn deep within my soul. The need to be with you overwhelms my senses and the distance between us a consent away.

I watch you watch me. I watch the desire to see me as I am flicker in your eyes. My taut musculature imprisoned in satiny skin demands freedom in the orgasmic moment of the little death.

Breath flutters, fingers twitch against the edge of the lacy button. You watch. Nary a move you make. Clothes, skin, modesty , embaressment? What lies between us?

It ain't easy to throw away years of shackled thoughts and be the mistress of unbrindled desires. It ain't easy to let the words - take me like a whore leave my lips. But those are the words I want to say in the stillness of this enigmatic night.

You smile and unbutton your shirt. Cool stiff cotton falls to the ground, a barrel chest exposed, a belly button pulled taut by the six pack abs.My tongue moistens my lips as I watch you step out of your trousers.

The bulge in the tighty whities make me avert my eyes. It ain't easy. Call it years of denying taking little lookies at the male crotch.

It ain't easy. All this ain't easy. Sex ain't easy. I step back and hit the wall and lean against it like a propped up scarecrow. You take a step forward.

Some one has to. Your lips meet mine. But it isn't a kiss. A resting of sorts. You take my hand and lay it against your shoulder. The muscle under the soft skin is firm. I let my hand slide down your arm, feel the downy hair, the bony wrist and let it rest there.

Holding your hand ain't easy. Accepting my role as a sex hungry being ain't easy.

You deepen the meeting of the lips. The pressure increases. The taste of bourbon and a cigar reminds me of a world I never knew. My fingers tangle with yours. Your tongue thrusts into my mouth gently making me lean against you.

Your semi-naked body brands me. You press our tangled hands against your burgeoning manhood and I squirm. It ain't easy to make aquaintance with a man's cock.

You chuckle against my lips. My- it ain't easy reaction amuses you. The virgin in me amuses you. My gawky reaction refreshes your jaded soul. And it ain't easy for me to accept your sense of victory over my downfall.

It ain't easy to accept the label of being the chastest virgin in town. It ain't easy to deny the vortex of desire I could so easily drown in. The bulge presses against my stomach. Your tongue suggests the motions of hot pleasure and moments of forgetfulness.

It ain't easy not to give in. It ain't easy not to let it all go to hell for one night passion with you- the priest of our parish. The town may call me a Jezabel and drive us out of town.

For the love of god it ain't easy to deny the fruit of passion that drove Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden.

Screw them all!! It ain't all that fucking easy. I take your hand and drag it up my thigh, up under my skirt, up inside my panties to that secret moist place that demands succour from the man dedicated to Christ.

It ain't easy giving in, knowing that we are sinning but what we have cannot be denied. Love, sex, sin - call it whatever you will, call it whatever the town will but tonight it ain't gonna be easy for me to deny our passion.

It ain't gonna be easy for me to sit in the confession booth and confess our sins to you come Sunday morning.

It ain't easy. It just ain't all that easy.

Book Review: Sold by Patricia McCormick

Blokesablogin — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 04:27:21 EDT

Kim's recent post on Human traffic induced me to write this review.

Call me a Rapunzel, inhabiting my own ivory tower, but my "interaction" with "prostitutes" or the modern, politically correct term, "sex workers" has been nebulous at best, via mass media: a book, a news article, a documentary or a film (the first one that showed it best was Salaam Bombay).

Earlier still, before I knew the "gritty" details of prostitution and worse, human trafficking, my understanding of this "shadow" lives of people were these gaudy mujrahs performed in sequined dresses from Pakeezha to Umrao Jaan. I wondered what the fuss was all about as I loved those songs, be it Thade rahiyo or Inhi logo ne, In ankhon ki masti or Chalte chalte etc. I loved the Kundan Jewelery too as I did the gorgeous Lucknowi kurtis. The more recent Devdas with the gorgeous Madhuri made me simply swoon with the sheer poetry of prostitution- it certainly seemed like some fine artform!

Kamalahasan's violent portrayal of Krishnaswamy in Mahanadi (1993) where his innocent daughter is thrown into the brothels of Sonagachi find much resonance with this book. While in this film, the father searches for his daughter, the book is about a step father "selling" his step-daughter for a measly sum to pay for his gambling.

Little does 13 year old Lakshmi, our protagonist, know about prostitution or human trafficking. She sincerely sets out to be a "good" servant in the "big" city and help her family have a tin roof. Her pleasure in being given candy by the "kind" uncle-husband is soon shattered by the horrors of the brothel madam.

Strangely enough, the overly dramatic Mahanadhi with all the sound effects did not touch me as deeply as this book did, with its spare, free verses and deep silence. The author, Patricia McCormick has done an amazing job of giving "voice" to a shadowed "silence" of the modern world: Human trafficking.

Lakshmi learns very soon that there is no point in speaking. crying or shouting. She learns to swallow her tears and her thoughts and just become a "limp rag" and lie still as men come and go between her thighs. She loses track of time and has no idea of her even turning 14! The highly exploitative business model of the brothel ensures complete dependence on the "madam" until you die of disease or get beaten up for running away. She even gets enthusiastic in attracting customers to "pay off" her debts sooner and get the "hell" out of there. She errs in her accounting. she is taught a new kind of math where for all eternity, she will be busy paying off her interest on a "loan" she never borrowed.

This book set me thinking on the "other side" of the deal- the customers for this inhuman trade. Who are these "shadow" clients who support such a trade? Do I know one? Did I meet such a person yesterday or today? What will I do if I did meet such a person? Why would anyone want to tear apart a virgin 12 year old in the name of curing some disease? Why haven't education institutions taught these people that these are fallacies and not scientifically true? What can I, as a woman, as a mother, do to ensure such a travesty is not committed on any innocent female body that is far from ripe for sexual intercourse?

It was heartening to know that there are women's watch groups and help groups that are educating naive girls in Nepal and India about the dangers of human trafficking. Still, much needs to be done. However, what can we do to stop the "demand" for such "services"? It has been over 2 week since I read the book, but my mind is still whirling with ideas as to how to "identify" people who do visit such places and instigate such inhuman actions.

I am not sure whether I even want children to read this book (it is recommended for young adults). Do I want to "inform" the children or am I taking away their innocence? Do I have the "right" to thrust such horrendous reality into their young minds or should I just "leave the book" around for them to pick up and read?

Original Fiction: Park Bench Love

Deepti Lamba — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 15:10:36 EDT

"I like voluptuous women."

She raised a shapely eyebrow.

He looked sheepish and blushed.

She thought he was cute.

"What I meant is- I like women with meat on their bones. I like to hold a woman when I - you know- " He blushed again and shrugged.

She wanted to jump his bones. He pressed his thigh against hers. The crickets in the park whistled, the goldfish swam lazily in the pools and the smell of wet earth moistened by the roving sprinklers assailed her senses. A homeless tramp waved a brown papered bottle at them and hobbled away. It was close to midnight and she had left the party to go out with a friend of a friend. A remote friend.

Instead of coffee he took her to the park. He seemed safe- the boy next door type.

She let him close. She let him smell her hair. She blushed and felt breathless. His fingers lightly trailed over her breasts and she trembled when he pulled the neck of the blouse down and took the plump muscle out.

The nipple peaked like a ripe cherry in the cool air. He licked and she held the back of his head.

The hair on his nape was soft like the cotton from a warm quilt and his teeth hard. He bit and she swooned.

She felt her world churn. She bled from her nipple. He moved up to the base of her neck where the nerve rapped a silent tune and she bled some more. She was a river of pleasure. Death was a pleasure.

He wrapped her tenderly in his arms. Her first and only lover. He liked his women full waisted. There was more woman to hold, more blood, more memories and a warmer embrace even if the love lasted the sweetest shortest while.

The drunk hobo sang a Bob Dylan song close by. A bird fluttered overhead, the sprinklers rotated and the bats looked for sweet fruits. He laid his dead love gently on the park bench and kissed the soft skin one last time.

"So long my sweet." He whispered "Sleep well but know I loved you well if only for a few minutes."

Book Review: One Afternoon - Roma Bansal

Aaman Lamba — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 13:47:21 EDT

In the crowded space of Indian English writing, one approaches a book with a nondescript title and a publisher-pushed sleazy cover with trepidation. When the first scenes indicate it is set among India's latte-drinking, mall-hunting GenY set, it take formidable courage to proceed.

In the case of One Afternoon by Ms. Roma Bansal, while the aforementioned concerns apply, one is glad one did indeed read the tome. The themes explored are unusual, particularly set in the town-city of Ahmedabad, with its uneasy sense of a city that is not yet a city, that has not yet shed its smalltownness. The central character, Ria, is from Ahmedabad yet not of it. Her thoughts, aspirations, and finally desires set her apart. Her economic independence is probably as much a contributing factor to her nature, as is the liberal freedom given her by her parents, who have let their children set their own pace and define their own goals.

She is counterpoised by another 'modern' woman, her Indian English professor, Radha Chatterjee, who bears hints of a distressed past, a sorrow too great to bear. The two women have an uneasy initial interaction, the younger expressing the casual arrogance that comes easily to those with brains, money, or both. They then develop what D H Lawrence called 'a queer awareness', with the full force of the phrase. The relationship is strongly reminiscent of that between Miss Winifred Inger and Ursula in The Rainbow, yet imbued with a very Indian sensibility.

Their love that dares not speak its name is circumscribed by conventions, college life, and Time's scythe. Ria's friends, male and female, each represent in their own way, the emergence of GenY, with BPO jobs, the need to be in with the times, and stay on the upward track. Ria's parents are observed more in the abstract, as stock characters who play their parts and move on with their lives, absent of internal dialogue, despite the various subtexts in the lives of her mother and father - the frequently absent yet doting father, the quietly serving wife.

The male voice or perspective is mostly absent, except in the character of Manav, Ria's friend, who really does stand by her through thick and thin. There are no patriarchal interventionist figures, no Mellors the groundskeeper, who thinks that "It's astonishing how Lesbian women are, consciously or unconsciously. Seems to me they're nearly all Lesbian." and are willing to violently express "When I'm with a woman who's really Lesbian, I fairly howl in my soul, wanting to kill her."

The sex is gloriously explicit, unabashedly so, and makes the characters more real than if they merely bumped their knees and shuffled to a slow beat. The author fortunately does not take the story down the twists and turns of social and moral opprobrium, goes neither straight nor narrow, choosing instead to move Ria past girlhood into a space where people act, make decisions, and move on.

The book is a good effort, written in Indian English Modern, that unique dialect which makes for disconcerting reading until one lets go of colonial narrative perspectives, and given the significant plot, one is willing to overlook grammatical missteps, which should be properly laid at the doorstep of the publishers.

Fiction: Red

Deepti Lamba — Wed, 3 Sep 2008 13:59:09 EDT

The small beeping flare in his mind drove him crazy. The color red pervaded his entire thinking. His time was expiring. In the color he saw the numbers go down- hours, minutes and seconds. If he did not go to the clone center within the next two hours the population board would break in and get him. Forced Cloning and Forced Adoption.

The chimp experiment had shown isolation made psychopaths and the World Government had mandated each human above the age of 30 had to take care of it’s clone. In case of death the clone became the state warden till a maternal volunteer could be found.

He would know; he came from a maternal home. Maternal had become an asexual term. Anyone who was willing to adopt a DDC (Dead Donor Clone) was called a Maternal Volunteer. His was a gay MV who obsessed over his android.
His MV treated both him and his own clone like android pets – wash, feed and play at required intervals. He and his foster brother grew devoid of emotions. That was the last giant step for humanity - Devoid.

Devoid. He liked that word. He was like an empty vessel that enjoyed the pleasures without consequences. No human, no android required. The mind became the prophet and the senses its disciples. No external stimulation required- he and those of his generation had become islands to themselves.

No bodily contact - no disease, no sex androids- no addiction, no emotions- no war. The world had become greener, no material goods required. The pleasure of knowing it all since birth made those of his generation devoid – devoid to all.

Devoid to all but not to forced cloning. The worst form of slavery, an archaic practice continued by the World Government. Humanity had to go on.

The red flare blinked subtly in his mind.

Blink- you are to be a father

Blink- Father to your self

Blink- Father and the son and the holy ghost

Blink – the ghost was non existential, the father and the son became one

Blink- 2 Hours 0 minutes and 0 seconds left

Blink- Blink- Blink

Red-Red-Red

The color of life, of death, of emotions burned through the cold terrain that made his mind

It repulsed him. It made him feel less devoid. It made him feel out of sync; it made him feel what in the past was called anger.

He grabbed his head and watched the red sweep through his mind. It heightened his senses; his heart beat a little faster. Nerves heightened and the penis stiffened.

The Blinking became erratic. His hand grabbed his penis. No longer devoid, no longer emotionless. His mind raced. Images raced through his mind- woman next door, her naked hairy underarms, her nipples, her vagina.

It wasn’t the pleasure of sex that clogged his mind without the image that happened. That was the usual. No, it was the image of his naked neighbor that crashed against the walls of his virgin mind. Pleasure and the body synced in his mind. The disciples revolted against the prophet. The prophet and disciples became one.

Father and son – one and the same. The spirit joined them together. It was an orgy of oneness.

He sucked in a breath and grabbed his penis. He masturbated like the cave man, the chimp left behind in the sterile rooms of centuries past feeling his nuts, his reason for existence- to be born again through his seed.

No android required, no human required. He still was an island to himself.

Red- the color of pleasure bound him to the woman; bound the hand to the penis. Jerking movements, gaping salivating mouth, the racing heart. Heat and red pounded his mind. The Blinking red rose to a crescendo; the once useless penis jerked squirted its potentiality.

The Blinking continued in his mind like a straddled android humping ceaselessly.

Blink……Blink …….Blink

Red….red….RED….RED……..

“Stop” he muttered “I am coming!! I swear I am!”

He felt fear course through his mind. Fear?! What was that? Emotion? The shivering, the panic, the breathlessness?

How?!

Sirens screeched in his mind.

0:00:00

BLINK!! BLINK!! BLINK!!

His mind betrayed his senses. Cloning, not procreation allowed. Error In Programming. System Crash!!

His heart Blinked RED for the last time. He crumbled to the ground and became non-existential - Devoid.

Related Article: Falling Japanese Population

Original Fiction: Harry Potter and the Closet of Fire

Nishit — Tue, 2 Sep 2008 08:33:54 EDT

This is a fan-fic dedicated to morons at Rediff and all over the world.

(Somewhere in the middle of the sixth book, Harry Potter and the Half-blood prince)

Harry was about to go to spiral downstairs then monster rose inside his heart and he halted.

"Yes Harry?" asked Dumbledore

"Professor Dumbledore .. err.. may I ask you something?"

"Go right ahead" said Dumbledore smilingly.

"Professor err.. did you ever err.. did you like any girl?"

To this, Dumbledore paused for a moment, then gave a sheepish smile. The Dumbledore rose from his seat and gestured his wand towards thin air and conjured letters out of thin air, which read "Albus Dumbledore" and soon they re-arranged themselves into "Male bods rule, dude"

Harry slipped into shock for a moment and forced a grin on his face and started his movement towards downstairs. He could not decide what exactly what he was feeling at that moment, but he was certain that he saw a nostalgic expression on Dumbledore's countenance.

Characters @ J K Rowling & Scholastic

Married and Gay

Harish C — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 13:22:11 EDT

If you are against gay marriage, don't have one! Why is it that this edict seems so hard for the detractors to digest. More so from the circles of religion; various sects who are at loggerheads for matters of faith seem to have a unanimous opinion regarding same-sex marriages: BAN THEM (or in an Indian context, KEEP THEM BANNED)

It is the opposition from religion (or leaders thereof) that seems to be most vehement. Their grounds is that marriage is an institution fostered and interlinked to religion. Therefore, they juxtapose that the various modalities of marriage should be under their purvey. To lower my stoic stance for a while; RUBBISH!

Marriage has never been and never will be the monopoly of religion and it is essentially a social extension of the ritual of mating which gained social and emotional status. It has predated verifiable history of religions world over. Indeed, it has been mentioned in various religious texts from Manusmriti to the Vedas. It is true that they do not condone it or encourage it but neither do they condemn it. If they had the generosity of spirit to do that then why can't the modern day apostles of religion?So it comes to pass that religion has no holds over same-sex marriage. Then why the ban? Especially in the Constitution.

The validity of the ban is shaky as it is the article in Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code which classifies it as illegal:

Whoever voluntarily has carnal intercourse against the order of nature with any man, woman or animal, shall be punished with imprisonment for life, or with imprisonment of either description for a term which may extend to ten years, and shall also be liable to fine.

Clear enough, but what makes this lose its credibility is the fact that

a. It was passed in the 1860s by the British

b. England has long since given up its homophobic laws and have legalized same-sex marriages

Ultimately, it is the premise that marriage and its legalities are under the framework of the state. If the state decrees that it is legal, it is. It is heartening to note that no other than our health minister has taken the first step in proclaiming support for the same. Now its left to be seen how far this progresses before its derailed by the collective paranoia of the troika of religion-politics-bureaucracy.

Yes, let's open our minds a little and let marriage be what it is supposed to be: An agreement between two people to be loyal and faithful to each other for the rest of their lives.