For Dhiren Bhorisa, student activist for the LGBT community, pursuing postgraduate studies in JNU, his queer identity did not come easy. Born and brought up in Mount Abu, a picturesque hill-station in Rajasthan, he grew up believing there was something wrong with him.

“It’s not easy to be yourself in Mount Abu. Growing up, I did not know one person who was queer. I was, in fact, called a ‘he-she’ in school, a word that signifies both a boy and a girl. I grew up believing there was something wrong with me.”

Bhorisa did his graduation from a government college on Abu Road. The absence of a person who could understand what he was going through for years, which he calls “struggling with myself”, resulted in a feeling of alienation. Things changed after he moved to Delhi and JNU. “Delhi provides me with a space that allows me to do my activism. It gave me the self-confidence to become who I am right now. The queer identity that this city has afforded me is also very urbane; there is no discounting that fact.”

Bhorisa remembers queer encounters from his childhood during visits to his ancestral village, but those are few and far between. Homosociality is widely prevalent, he says — one often sees people holding hands and walking around, but homosexuality remains taboo.

“Homosociality is a big part of our culture. For instance, holding hands will never be a taboo. There might be people in big cities who might find this offensive or out of the ordinary, but it is accepted in a place like Mount Abu. Even if people have queer experiences, they will consider it a passing phase and not a part of their identity. Effeminacy or being womanly is wrong, especially in societies that are firmly patriarchal such as Rajasthan, Haryana and Western UP. Here, to give up one’s patriarchal privilege is considered wrong.”

While he has found a community in Delhi, public spaces frequented by the queer community continue to grapple with different sets of prejudices, according to Bhorisa. “Masking and remasking of one’s identity is something we keep experiencing. The community spaces that are available in urban, metropolitan cities such as Delhi and Mumbai are not free of other discrimination within the LGBT community itself.”

Bhorisa recounts instances of people who were denied admission to gay social networking sites such as Grindr and Planet Romeo, for declaring that they belonged to a lower caste. “In this seemingly open space, which is by definition inclusive and liberal, people face biases on the basis of caste and class. Often, if someone doesn’t dress very well, or cannot speak English fluently with an urban accent, or belongs to a lower caste, he will be discriminated against.”

At the same time, he believes that it is of paramount importance that such spaces exist. “Without such spaces, all the information that you get is from the media, which is not an accurate representation. There are many ways in which you don’t fit into society, and growing up, I didn’t know anyone who is gay. You might be effeminate, your family will not understand what is going on with you, and then there are those years where you are just struggling to understand what it all means.”

Bhorisa does not visit his home-town that often these days, though he muses that it may have changed since the time he left. “Most small towns in India will not have any such space available, and it becomes very difficult then to relate your experience with the world. For instance, how do I tell my parents?” Language is an issue when communicating one’s experience to others who are not acquainted with the LGBT community. Biases and prejudices may show up in sharp relief, even with people who are otherwise literate, Bhorisa says. “My parents are not literate, so it was very difficult for me to communicate with them. Homophobia is part of their conditioning, just like this urbane queer personality is part of me now. While education may help in bridging the gap, it does not necessarily make people more open-minded.”

With education, Bhorisa says, the politics of a language becomes accessible to both parties, and it makes one more aware and gives people a reference point to understand homosexuality. “For instance, it is not that my mother does not understand what I am, or what I could be, and yet we come from different planes of experience. There is a level of sharam, denial that comes in right now. My mother would tell me, “Itna haath hilaake kyun baat karte ho tum, taali bajaane wale ho kya? (Why do you wave your hands so much while talking? Are you a eunuch?)”

Bhorisa feels that when it comes to queer spaces, one needs to think beyond Delhi and Mumbai. He believes that discrimination exists here too, as in small towns; it’s just a bit subtle in metros. “Queer spaces are loaded with so much class-consciousness. I had put on a mask to hide my caste identity,” says Bhorisa. University groups such as JNU’s queer collective, Dhanak, help people come out and find people they can relate to. “These are spaces of hope and acceptance. It is very important that people keep engaging with it (about the queer community).

Bhorisa feels that such spaces are important to alleviate the sense of alienation that queer people often grow up with in India. “Such spaces help one identify with people who are similar to you and, like in my case, get your confidence back.”

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