A Place of Our Own

“There was no fan or air-conditioning and the flat would heat up terribly but somehow we never felt the inconvenience.”

It is a Saturday afternoon in October, and I find myself sitting opposite Ree, yet again for a story. I had interviewed Ree a year ago for an article on stone butch masculinity when, in passing, she mentioned a ‘queer kinship’ she was part of. I knew then that I would come back for more.

Ree is a 45-year-old masculine lesbian and the Cafe Manager at Porshi, where I am meeting her. Porshi, (the Bangla word for neighbour) is a queer community space located in Kolkata and started by Sappho for Equality, a registered nonprofit working with lesbian, bisexual and trans communities in Eastern India. A floor-to-ceiling mural of Marsha P. Johson and countless other photographs and portraits welcome everyone who enters, the orange-red interiors decked out in images chronicling key moments of queer history in the region, country, and beyond.

I switch my Olympus recorder on, and Ree takes me to the early 2000s.

Every Saturday, like clockwork, a second-floor flat in Rishra (a town in the outskirts of Kolkata) acquired a fresh lease on life, people coming and going. A flurry of cleaning, grocery runs, and pump-stove cooking commenced. The sparsely furnished flat softened its edges and curled into an auxiliary home for the weekend, inhabited by Ree, her colleague Aparna, and their queer friends. Powered by an endless stream of tea, cigarettes, and Pantua (a traditional deep-fried Bengali sweet), the group’s banter glided through the late hours of the night, only waning when dawn approached.

“I used to wait all week for Saturday to arrive,” says a nostalgic Ree.

Ree met Aparna, who is out as a trans woman today, during their time working at Manas Bangla, a network of community-based organizations focused on AIDS prevention and support among queer folks in the state of West Bengal.

“She was my colleague who became a friend, then my little brother and later sister,” Ree says.

At events organised by the collective for Bhai-Phonta —a Hindu festival during which a sister will apply tilak (a traditional vermillion or saffron mark) on her brother’s forehead —Ree would apply the tilak to Aparna’s forehead to celebrate their sibling-like love for each other. Recently, festivals like Raksha Bandhan and Bhai-Phonta have been criticised by feminists for reinforcing patriarchal notions of a brother’s duty to ‘protect’ and a sister’s duty to ‘devote’.

In 2008, after having known each other for three years, Ree and Aparna decided to rent a flat together. On weekdays, R continued to live with her parents while A lived with the Hijra community, South Asian communities of intersex, trans-feminine and gender non-conforming people who follow defined codes of guru-chela (teacher-disciple) kinship.

Their usual adda (hangout) was outside Rishra Railway Station. They felt a need for something more intimate and comfortable, a cozy place to be together indoors, someplace they wouldn’t feel rushed.

“We wanted a place where our friends could come, eat, drink, be comfortable and chill,” says Ree.

A party that refuses to end.​

***

In a closed-door public hearing in 2023, 31 queer and trans persons from all over India testified on the violence they faced at the hands of their assigned families. It resulted in the report Apnon Ka Bahut Lagta Hai, which translates to Our Own Hurt Us The Most. One of the panelists, Kavita Krishnan, a Marxist-feminist and civil liberties activist, noted:

In 2003, when the streets of Kolkata bore witness to the ‘Rainbow Pride Walk’, its second ever, it would still be years before Pride Marches would become somewhat mainstream in India and start garnering hundreds of queer people and their allies. Back then, there were only 50 who walked, and amid them was Aparna, boldly expressing her queerness glitzed up in long hair, lipstick, and painted nails. She recalls how all the cameras were on her. “In a single night, I don’t know if I had become a celebrity or a demon,” she says.

When her family discovered the pictures, they had a ‘big meeting’ the next day on what this meant for the family’s image and honor. “I felt cornered,” Aparna says. “I felt desperate for my life. Even to this day, I feel desperate for my life.”

She was cast out of her home and banished from her family. In an attempt to rebuild her life, she moved to Gurgaon, a burgeoning satellite city replete with corporate offices, high-rises, and gated communities. Bullied by her floor manager for being effeminate, she became a target for workplace discrimination at her new job. Unable to find friends, the loneliness drove her to return to Kolkata, where she joined Manas Bangla to work on queer rights and welfare. Today, she serves as the Managing Trustee of Amitie Trust, a community-based organization providing social, economic and legal support to queer and trans folks.

The 90s and 2000s were a time of churning for queer movements in India. We saw the first pride marches and public demonstrations for queer causes as well as the criminalization of homosexuality being challenged in the courtroom. During this period, several civil society organisations (CSOs) formed, working on not only legal or social recognition of queer issues but on crucial tools and support concerning the survival of the community: crisis intervention, shelter homes, gender-affirming healthcare, and livelihoods for the queer community. CSOs would become the first responders in a crisis and a safety net for queer folks, especially for those facing violence from their natal families.

Frequently in and out of Ree’s home, Aparna formed an unexpected bond with Ree’s parents, taking to calling them ma and baba over time. “They witnessed my transition and never asked any questions,” Aparna says. When Ma died, Aparna’s visits became more frequent. She cooked for Ree’s father, providing him company and chiding him for watching too much television. She undertook caregiving responsibilities when Ree was away from town for work. Their affection was reciprocal. Each time Aparna would walk into the house, Baba would ask, “Which chop [a Bengali croquette] will you eat?” always ensuring she had her pick.

When Baba died, Aparna stood unwaveringly by a shocked and terrified Ree, taking care of logistics, informing people, and being physically present. Despite disapproval from the Hijra community, she observed all the religious funereal rites — such as cutting off a lock of hair and eating a specific diet — that are traditionally expected of close family alongside Ree.

When Aparna’s own father died in 2012, her mother made only a perfunctory phone call to break the news and to make it clear she was not expected at the funeral. Such is the impervious nature of abandonment that a child is not allowed to grieve her own father’s death.

When it came to Ree, despite her unmistakably butch appearance, there was silence surrounding her sexuality among her family. “There were no conversations on my sexuality,” Ree says. “Perhaps they felt it in some way but never asked me directly.”

Only once, during her early twenties, her sister snapped at her in an argument, saying: “I don’t need advice from a homosexual.” A part of her wanted it out in the open and egged her sister on, saying: “What do you mean homosexual?” This was the only time she can recall her father ever hitting her. The blow was brought on especially by the presence of her newly married sister’s husband, an outsider who held a revered position as the son-in-law in an Indian family. The ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy continued.

Ree finds it is impossible for us to wholly remove ourselves from our natal families. No matter how we forge our chosen intimacies, we carry a piece of them within us. “At no point have I left my natal family,” Ree says. “The essence of that family stays on in me.”

I have to admit, I was surprised when she first said this at the beginning of our conversation. I had assumed her participation in a ‘queer kinship’ implied some degree of abandonment or rejection.

Her stance helped me understand that queer chosen families are not defined merely in defiance of natal families. Even as we imagine new modes of belonging, we carry on the legacies of what has been most familiar to us from the very beginning of our lives, what Ree terms as ‘essence.’

When I spoke to trans writer and academic Vikramaditya Sahai, a.k.a. Vqueeram, they spoke of how we must “de-exceptionalize the queer family” and understand them not as unique but as part of the routine, part of the many living arrangements we form to survive difficulties. They elucidated that there is no one type of queer family. “If a queer elder chooses to live with their sister, why is that not a queer family?” they posit. The same goes for a single woman with a child who shows a capacity for invention against established social norms. “A few years ago, when I was researching queer families, I was sure of one thing: I wanted to look at single queer people who live by themselves too. That, too, is a queer household.”

“If you read GN Saibaba’s poems to Vasanta, Bano Jyotsna’s words for Umar, these are all kinships we recognise but, because of the times we live in, they have been made impossible,” Vqueeram says. GN Saibaba, who died in incarceration under a draconian law, and Umar Khalid, who has spent five years in prison without a trial, have been kept from their loved ones without justice. With stringent state surveillance and barriers for inter-faith marriages and one Indian state even requiring live-in couples to mandatorily register their relationships with the government, the need to safeguard and expand our right to choose our intimacies is stronger than ever.

***

Lately, Ree’s mornings have fallen into a humdrum routine: wake up, go to the loo, mill around in the kitchen, make tea, and set it before a little chadar of pir baba as an offering. Their home is an amalgamation of Hindu Gods and Sufi saints, the latter a heritage of Aparna’s Hijra Gharana. It is common for Gharanas across India to follow Islamic traditions, often adopting conventions from both Hinduism and Islam, blurring stringent lines of religion and ritual. Aparna lays out tea and biscuits and hands Ree her thyroid medicine. “Sometimes she forgets,” Ree says. “On those days, I don’t take it.”

The weekend parties at the apartment in Rishra have given way to a new living arrangement. Co-habitating on all days of the week now, Ree and Aparna are joined by two new additions: 38-year-old Kounish and 5-year-old Kaira. Friends, Sambit and Aarav, stay over frequently. Kounish, a trans man and A’s husband (a love story that blossomed over Facebook and late-night chat sessions) is the founder of Bengal Trans Men Collective, a community-based organization in West Bengal. Kaira whom Aparna fondly calls ‘the centrifugal force of the household’ has been in her care since birth. Her birth mother, the only cousin of Aparna’s who has kept in touch, had decided to give the child up to Aparna’s care — designating her a legal guardian — being unable to care for the child herself due to financial hardship. Aparna has written to the Central Adoption Resource Authority to legally adopt Kaira but has yet to hear back from them.

Having worked with children with additional needs in the past, it took Aparna two weeks of observation to understand her baby had Down Syndrome. “We have a trio parentship,” Aparna explains. “There is no mother in this house, no father; each of us — myself, Ree, and Kounish — is a parent.”

As we step out of the cafe into the cosily lit gallery, strings of purple-pink lights glimmer over the window bars. Ree rests herself on a chair by the corner, lights a cigarette and, between drags, shows me a montage of pictures from a recent trip to Puri, a coastal city popular among tourists. She is speaking to me, but her eyes are fixed on Kaira’s photographs. ​“The moment it is 6 p.m., I rush home back to her.”

On the Sundays she is off from work, Ree takes Kaira to a center for occupational therapy. At therapy, the instructors give her different tasks like picking up balls, throwing them in a drum. The aim is to help her exercise her muscles, learn to identify different objects, become active, and help her walk. They emphasize clear, direct instructions. Even at home, for different tasks, her parents focus on providing clear instructions. “If we say, take off your top, she might not understand. So we say, raise your arms, pull your top. With some guidance, she might be able to do it,” Ree explains. They try to encourage independence.

Often, children with Down syndrome have anatomical (structural) and physiological (functional) differences in the mouth or throat that make it difficult to eat or speak. Kaira is slowly beginning to speak at the age of 5. Kounish diligently takes her to speech therapy and performs oral massage therapy at home. She has difficulty chewing and only has blended vegetables or soft foods. Ree, who describes herself as very possessive about Kaira, trusts nobody else when it comes to washing Kaira’s dishes, preparing her breakfast. When she is out for a conference, she will call and berate Aparna “Were you still sleeping? When will you make the girl’s food?” If Kounish is home with her and Ree is at work, he sets Kaira up before Ree through a video call when he has to go and take a bath.

“She is the centre. The bond. We hardly have time to fight,” Aparna says.

While interacting with both Aparna and Ree, it is unmissable how much Kaira fills their lives. Before any outing, they will discuss and parade different clothes before deciding which Kaira will wear that day. Aparna loves the knowledge that while they grow old, there is someone growing young with them. They take time off to go on vacations together, because of Kaira, something they used to shrug off earlier.

“She knows how to pamper each one of us,” Aparna says. “When she is in my lap, and I ask her whom she loves the most, she says ‘Ma!’. When in Ree’s, her answer is ‘Mamai!’ In Kounish’s lap, it is ‘Baba!’”

Ree says she sees her mother in Kaira’s face; each time she cares for her, she feels as though she is caring for her mother. “I never want to be a parent to Kaira; I want to be her friend, her enemy, her everything,” Ree says. “Our relationship is such. You might say this is akin to parenting. Being a parent means exerting authority.”

“I do not believe in ‘mine’. What have we witnessed our parents do? My daughter. My son,” she continues. She firmly believes that caregiving is a two-way act. “I teach her something, and she teaches me something in return.”

Each night at dinner, the three activists will clash over debates, gang up on each other, over both ideological disagreements and household chores. “There are no partitions in this home,” Aparna says. “We all come from different identities, but we live in the same way.” She remembers that when her mother got to know of her first relationship in 7th standard, her dynamic with the family shifted. She was pressured to have dinner before her father came home. “I was segregated and isolated,” she says.

She calls her chosen family “a place I get to breathe.”

The conversations will go on till one in the morning. A little party that refuses to end.

Kaira stays up right alongside the rest, curious to see what everyone is up to.

The amalgamation of romantic, platonic and parent-child relationships under one roof challenges the centrality of coupledom in our imagination of love and kinship.

​***

“Night after night we’ve shared our joys and our sorrows,” Ree says of friendship. “These are pockets of family.”

When Ree’s close friend — let’s call her M — and her girlfriend broke up, Ree was in no mood to pick sides. She loved and shared solidarity with both of them, which made M uncomfortable. What really struck the friendship was when the ex fell ill and had to be hospitalized. Ree made it her duty to visit the hospital daily, check in with the doctor, ensure she had provisions back home, and stay with her if needed. This caused a rupture in the friendship, and it never really recovered despite several attempts made by Ree. It was no longer what it used to be. She described the pain of this loss as worse than her first heartbreak. “When a romantic relationship ends, one can hope to be in another one someday,” she says. “But when a friendship falls apart, who can take that place?”

Despite the grief, she finds herself unable to compromise her ethic to always show up for a friend, for another queer person. “At the end of the day, we are a minority,” she says.

Who else will watch our backs?

Ree believes conflict is inescapable and it is only natural to have fights. “Fight to your heart’s content. When things don’t work out, it is okay to let go, too. But deliberately letting go of someone’s hand? We’ve no business doing that.”

Hearing her speak of loss touches a nerve. Any queer person can attest to the fear of loss and abandonment we live with. But abandonment from our own? The queer friends we’ve dreamed of making homes with, the lovers who have embraced our bodies, the collectives and spaces we trust to represent our interests. The mere thought of losing those can seem so inconceivable. When law, society, and families leave us to our devices, we look to what we have: each other. Losing even that? It reminds me of Vqueeram’s words, “With all care comes abandonment; without abandonment we wouldn’t need care. They make up all stories of love.”

“The things we’d revolt against our parents for, smash televisions and break furniture…when those things take place within the community, we remain silent,” Ree says. The fear of losing someone, shame or a deference to age, can contribute to power dynamics in queer spaces and silence dissent.

The fear of loss exists because there is the freedom to walk away. Ree says that unlike heterosexual marriages in which people stay on for years in the name of children, or from a fear of repercussions, queer settings don’t operate within the same boundedness. “Take me for example,” she says, “I have my family home, both my parents have passed away. I don’t have obligations towards anyone. I am free.”

“What would I do with this freedom?” she continues. “I will simply go home. Turn on the air conditioning, shut the door, put on music, relax, and sleep. Wake up the next day and go to work.”

Against Ree’s protestations, Kounish buys her new pairs of Bermuda shorts. He ensures that her shoes have been washed, without her remembering. When she frets over fixing the strap of her old watch, he reprimands her, “let go of it now.” He presents her with a new one. When Kounish is troubled, he approaches Ree with matters of the heart. “There is this person who regards me as significant and we need this essence to live.”​

“Deep in our hearts, we are all very lonely,” says Aparna. “None of us should be lonely. We should experience the joy of laughing, crying, celebrating, watching movies, and going out. It is this search for happiness that has connected all of us.”

When I asked them what they thought about ‘chosen intimacies’, Vqueeram said to me, “I struggle with the idea of choice. I don’t think love feels like a choice.”

Movements, non-profits, community mobilisers, and queer elders have often been the backbone working to make possible the safety and the serendipity for us not to choose whom we love but to perhaps find and be with those we cannot help but love.