”Master is crapping,” M said, with a glint of mischief in her eye that belied her otherwise deadpan expression. Not having returned to my host’s place the previous night, preferring instead to dance part of it away at a gay disco near Bangalore airport and the rest trying to sleep on a friend’s lounge floor, I felt it necessary to check in. As my Kannada skills were — and remain — somewhat rusty, I had asked for assistance in making sense of what was being said at the other end of the line. While master’s little helper may indeed have been somewhat more diplomatic in his choice of words, as M’s demeanour seemed to suggest, I remained open to her translation. In India, I was to learn, the bizarre and the outrageous are all too often the banal and the mundane.
It is difficult, perhaps even impossible, for the outsider to get to grips with the order that apparently underlies the ostensible chaos that is India. Luckily, much of the country needn’t be understood — it can simply be experienced. Take its cuisine, which is particularly delightful in the south. From the modest idli, a protein-rich rice and lentil flour dumpling described by M’s last male lover as a potential solution to world hunger, to the elegant masala dosa, a lentil flour pancake filled with potato and onion curry, south Indian food constantly thrills. Combinations of savoury and sweet — exhibiting the countless ways in which to elevate the modest vegetable to an object of desire — abound.
But other objects of desire, such as delicious persons of one’s own sex, are not celebrated. Instead, 377 — a particularly pernicious section of the Indian Penal Code that is currently under Supreme Court review — criminalises consensual sex between men. An anachronistic inheritance from the days of the Raj, 377 seems to have done little to quash the love that dare not speak its name. As if in deliberate acts of civil disobedience, the internet sites gaydar and guys4men are abuzz with activity. So too is Bangalore’s Cubbin Park — which hosts interclass same-sex couplings under cover of dark — and at least one of Varkala’s Ayurvedic massage ”schools” which, I am told, specialises in the happy ending. Two appointments and a thousand rupees later I remain unhappy.
Any discussion about India and sex would be incomplete without a reference to the recent study drawing a correlation between penis size and condom use. My travelling companion in India confirms the study’s validity, at least insofar as it deals with the more easily measured of the two variables. He should know. From Bombay through Rajasthan and Delhi to Chennai, his research was particularly broad. Others, with arguably less experience, have reached different conclusions. An ex-girlfriend of my Bangalore host — who bats for M’s team nowadays — confirms that as far as he is concerned, the study has no application. My in-country research, albeit with a sample size of one, was inconclusive.
While the size of the Indian penis may be in doubt, the size of its economy is not. With marginal labour costs, entrepreneurship in abundance and markets that are indeed at scale, India ensures an ongoing supply of cheap goods and services. Forget the home shopping network — simply make a call to Simla Stores. A young man — ordinarily darker than the person placing the call — soon arrives at one’s door with urgent supplies of double-ply. So too does the dhobi wallah, who not only washes and folds, but also collects, irons and delivers — sparing you the guilt of witnessing a person who looks old enough to be your father laundering your undergarments.
On my way home from OR Tambo International, I was taken aback by the semblance of sanity. Soothed by the smell of freshly mowed lawn, I noticed that my shuttle driver had yet to find his horn. Not once did he leave his lane without indicating, or treat the rule that requires us to drive on the left as a good — but non-binding — suggestion. Home, sweet home: where we would fill our condoms with pride if we weren’t averse to wearing them; where we give thanks when a hijacker takes our cars but spares our lives; and where there is no need to be able to order double-ply 24/7. We may not yet have learnt to love safely, or be able to live free from random acts of violence. But when we order bottled still water, we do so to protect social — rather than health — status. Now isn’t that civilised?