There were around a hundred men leaning against the buildings or sitting in rickety chairs spitting out tobacco from paan and sipping chai or Thums Up. It was all so civilized. It wasn’t that I had expected a full-blown orgy in the streets, but this common, everyday sight wasn’t what I had envisioned for a gay cruising area. People were just talking and laughing, acting like people did in any average bar in Los Angeles. The only thing that stood out was that I was the only woman around.
Samarth approached two guys and introduced us. They seemed skeptical of me, especially with the large camera I had around my neck and its bag slung over my shoulder, but Samarth explained I was not only Biren’s friend from America, but from California. Their eyes shone as they heard the word, and I realized that to a gay man living in secret in Ahmedabad, California was his version of moksha.
Samarth seemed to know most of the people behind the Law Garden and joked and laughed with the guys we ran into. Biren’s expression fell as each guy gave Samarth a familiar hug. His feelings for Samarth were plainly written on his face, but Samarth’s lifestyle was likely very different from the one that Biren had chosen. Biren was too reserved to roam the scene and flirt in the easy and natural way that Samarth did.
Out of the corner of my eye, hidden by the shadows, I saw two men locked in an embrace. It was so unfair that the shadows of dark alleys, late at night, were the only places they could show their affection. Biren had noticed it, too, and seemed uncomfortable, because he was now actively avoiding looking in that direction.
“So, you are a journalist?” one of Samarth’s friends asked cautiously, gesturing at my camera.
I toyed with the straps that hung around my neck and shook my head. “No, just an amateur photographer.” I held his gaze while I removed the camera from my neck and capped the lens, about to return it to its case.
The man nodded. He struck me as the ringleader of the group that had gathered tonight. If I could get his approval, then the others would trust me as well.
After a few moments, he said, “You cannot show anyone’s face. Even if you publish something in America, with the internet, those snaps can get back here quickly. It is not safe to be open here.”
“Oh, no.” I held up my hands. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t planning on taking any photos here. Just some of the Law Garden that I took earlier. It had been so many years since I had seen it, so I wanted to remember it.” I shoved my camera in the bag, not bothering to secure the latch.
The man turned around and nodded to the people who stood at a distance behind him. They seemed to relax and went back to whatever they were doing before we’d arrived.
While I wasn’t taking any pictures, I wished I could. I mentally framed shots I felt would tell an important story. On my left were two men kissing in the shadows. It would have been a powerful message to frame a shot where the light caught what I considered to be the most important part—both men wore gold wedding bands. Both men had wives and possibly children at home. I could frame the shot so that their faces were indiscernible and there would have been no way to distinguish them from the other Indians running around the streets in frayed jeans and cotton shirts.
I heard a commotion behind me. People began to scream and scatter. I looked over my shoulder and saw six men in khaki-colored uniforms with matching hats on their heads. They had narrowed eyes and nightsticks in their hands. Police. My pulse quickened and my palms grew sweaty. In America, especially after September 11, I’d known to avoid interactions with the police at all costs, and that same philosophy seemed true half a world away. Someone jostled me as he ran past, and I dropped my bag on the ground, the camera tumbling out of it. Before I could reach it, someone grabbed my wrist and tried to pull me away. Biren.
“What the—”
“It’s a raid. Come on! Run!”
The police were smirking and yelling things in Hindi. I couldn’t understand what they were saying. We began scanning the crowd.
“Where’s Samarth?” Biren asked, eyes darting around us. I saw nightsticks rising before they came crashing down. Screams of pain traveled through the cool night air.
Biren began dragging me toward the shadows. “We have to go!”
“Wait! My camera.” I started to turn back toward the melee, not wanting to lose the gift I had cherished most from my parents for nearly twenty years.
It was only fifteen feet away and had somehow not yet been trampled by the men darting in every direction. Biren glanced from the camera to me. A pair of cops was heading in our direction.