Blogs are Wrong

India has a law on the books, section 377, that dates back to the British occupation in the 1800s and outlaws homosexuality as an ‘act against the order of nature.’  Open homosexuality, and even discussing homosexuality is taboo, and so when I got a chance to go to a gay pride parade/protest in Bangalore, I jumped on it.
According to Adi, one of my hosts, there’s a group in India called the Culture Police that’s small and informal, but very outspoken.  It’s a loose collection of Indians who want to maintain the cultural status quo and fight against the gradual departure from traditional Indian values and customs.  They fight for their beliefs quite violently–a week before, an impromptu posse of men pulled a group of three women out of a bar in Delhi–it’s not acceptable in traditional culture for women to go out socially without men, and certainly not to a bar.  This group of Culture Police stripped the women, beat them, and flogged them through town as an example.  This activity is spurred on by the will and speach of a few very vocal traditionalists with their eyes on politics (think Limbaugh).  A gay pride parade is always an inflammatory, over-the-top event, but here in India, I got the idea that the “we’re here, we’re queer, get over it!” chant wouldn’t go over too well.  In the back of my mind, a voice kept telling me that I was planning to go to a riot.  I checked the batteries on my camera and made sure I had some good running shoes on.

Sitting in Cubbon park in downtown Bangalore with a group of 15 couchsurfers, the Culture Police felt a galaxy away.  Lying together on the grass, we painted signs with slogans shouting acceptance and solemnly covered each other with painted signs of “solidarity” and “brotherhood.”  None of the members of our group were openly gay, but the defacto leader(a woman who’s name I’ve lost) had posted fervently and eloquently on the Bangalore Couchsurfing bulletin board, and a lot of the attendees were as much a testament to her drive as the event itself.  After an easy couple of hours in the park, we saddled up in our two and four wheelers and took off across town for the parade.  Driving through the city in our small convoy, painted with rainbows and slapping high fives between motorcycles, we laughed and felt formidable.
The parade hadn’t started yet, and a crowd was massing on the edge of the cricket field.  Banners, rainbow cloth, masks and painted signs churned over the hundreds of people.  Cameras flashed incessantly–this was the media event of the century, judging by the number of journalists and film crews.  A huge rainbow banner flowed through the crowd, carried by whoever was near it.  Drums were pounding and there were circles of vibrant dancers, transvestites, Hejras and men kissing one another spun to the beat, pouring out sweat and stirring up huge clouds of dust.

The crowd gradually made their way to the road, where a rickshaw bearing huge megaphones led the procession through the street.  Under a giant rainbow banner, the group chanted, danced and marched through the streets.  Chants of “What do we want?  Jus-tice!”  and “Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Isai, hetero, homo bhai-bhai (brother-brother)” spilled out of the crowd.  Bangalore stared.  A parade in India isn’t an unusual thing, but in a sexually conservative society, dancing men kissing one another in the street is guaranteed to raise some eyebrows, and people lined the sidewalks to watch in confusion as the parade passed.  I thought we’d generate more controversy–in the states you’ll find counter-protesters at gay rights parades, and there’s shouting and pushing matches, but we were just met with a mix of curiousity, confusion and dismissal as we marched towards town hall.

And you know what?  Three days after the parade, section 377 was struck down in the Delhi High Court.  How’s that for effective protest?

I randomly happened upon this page while I was searching for datasheets.  There’s this list of incredible designs on the side of semis.  Definitely worth a browse–it’s really fun!

     India has a magic carpet and it’s called the Royal Enfield.  Last weekend in Bangalore I was lucky enough to catch a ride on one.  From the second I climbed on the back, its comfortable massiveness won me over.  I wasn’t on a motorcycle;  I was in a jet.  The driver, my new friend Gotham(I know!) hit the ignition, and all I could hear for the next half hour was the hungry throb of the engine beneath me. 
      There’s the click of shifting into first and then we’re weightless.  Five hundred pounds of graceful, powerful motion is carrying us down the broken dirty roads, weaving around rickshaws and bicycles.  We cut across the highway, leaning steeply into the turn, Gotham sends us soaring up through five gears and we’re launching into orbit from the Bangalore night.  Everything about this bike feels like it should:  the seats are cradles, they envelop us, build walls around us and anchor us to the bike.  I could fall asleep on the back.  The suspension is pliant and generous and we’re hovering over the roads, never jarring or bouncing on even the roughest Indian terrain.  I’m studying the bike as we’re motoring slowly along, turning onto a long flat stretch of asphalt, and then Gotham kicks it up into third and the wicked roar of the engine sucks the entire city into the tailpipe and the wind rips tears from my eyes, turning cars’ headlights into comets as I’m pressed into the backrest.  When the ride finally ended and I got off, I felt like I was comitting a sin, stepping off this magic carpet back onto the plain dusty soil.
     When I got home, I had a chance to take a digital look under the hood.  This bike is a 350cc monster, easily the most powerful two-wheeler on the road in India.  It’s also the oldest brand of motorcycle in the world that’s still in production–Enfield motors started in the late 1800 and is still cranking out new models in Channay.  Everybody from the Indian police to long-distance touring visitors agree that this bike is perfect for the sub-continent.  It’s this long, powerful monster with a huge, stable wheelbase, solid crash bars and enough of a suspension to run over a cow and keep on riding.  Everything you need to get around. 
    A few days later, on a dusty, twisted side road in the old city in Ahmedabad, I met up with a used Enfield dealer and took one of these for an abortive test ride.  The foot controls are reversed, and after a jarring ride where I kept shifting when I wanted to brake, I decided that this is not the bike for me right now.  Still, walking around the city, whenever I catch a glimpse of the twin circles of the signal lights, I forget myself for a second and feel the pull of the engine lifting me up and sending me flying out into the Indian sky.

Katchhi women balancing jugs of milk on their heads in the streets of Bhuj

Shot from the back of a motorcycle