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Authors: Ghalib Shiraz Dhalla
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superhuman lengths to which such lovers went to keep their love alive. The tales of Shiva and Agni, of Shiva and Vishnu, Krishna and Arjuna, again validated Atif. He resented how believers ignored these stories or tried to homogenize them into some kind of convenient metaphor for loving god.
To Atif, there was nothing ambiguous about who was crying out for whom, whether the soul to god or the lover to the beloved. Rumi’s verses were addressed to Shams, the wandering mystic who introduced him to Sufi mysticism and with whom he lived for several years, as others were to god himself. No reason to confuse the two. It was people’s inability to digest such relationships that compelled them to unnecessary interpretation. It seemed to Atif that in doing so, they had completely missed the point: that loving another person, regardless of their sex, was a way of loving god after all. The divine is neither man nor woman, neither good nor bad, so why should the heart make that distinction in loving?
More than ten years later, when he brought this up to Rahul, he received a mystified look, as if to say: who manufactured this fiction? I’ve never heard of any such thing. Atif, proud of his research, had presented him with books, some out of print, lovingly covered in clear Mylar dust jackets, to prove his point. Rahul groaned. “Oh, Atif, all that ancient stuff, nobody reads it. The Gita, the Ramayana, the Mahabharata—well, okay, maybe not that last one—too much strife. Anyway, that’s what they all read. All this other strange stuff, Puranas this and Puranas that, nobody cares about them.”
“You know what’s so damn frustrating?” Atif countered. “That you have one of the oldest, most progressive religions in the world. But all anyone ever wants to focus on is the same old sanctimonious crap.”
Rahul smiled. “Isn’t that how all religions are? People want a standard, uncomplicated belief system, Atif. They’re not trying to change the world or even accept it. They just want to feel right about how they think.”
This was tragic but true, thought Atif. Ultimately, if you looked hard enough, you could always find something to support your claim. In the end there was no right or wrong. Only interpretation.
Just as there weren’t words enough in the world to help him justify his sexuality to his own parents. None of Rumi’s yearnings or Allah’s contradictory promises could help him here.
Standing naked against the sink while gently peeling Rahul’s semen from his chest, he saw his father’s face and thought, so this is what you disowned me for, the right to love another man. You’d have preferred me dropping mine into the womb of an unsuspecting woman, my eyes shut to keep from seeing her face while thinking of another man. Even after six years, it hurt him to think that in the eyes of his parents, his aberration had been so severe, so monstrous, that it had not warranted a proper conversation. He could not understand, no matter how hard he wrestled with it, how any relationship, most of all a paternal one, could be dissolved with so little resistance.
His mother’s trembling face during their last cruelly brief conversation played in his mind and a chill spread over his body. Would he ever see them again? He put his arms around himself, closed his eyes to the tears. Anger and hurt bubbled within him and as his head fell forward, he felt himself weakening and wanting to call Mumbai so he could hear his mother’s voice. But he knew he was not welcome anymore, that even that rare chat with her could only take place when his father wasn’t around.
It had all started with Hiten Khanna who had come from Mumbai to study business at USC. The son of wealthy parents who owned a textile manufacturing company, Hiten came from a different social class and knew Atif only distantly back home. He came armed with the confidence and money that Atif lacked. Spoiled and condescending, they were nothing alike, yet in a
To Atif, there was nothing ambiguous about who was crying out for whom, whether the soul to god or the lover to the beloved. Rumi’s verses were addressed to Shams, the wandering mystic who introduced him to Sufi mysticism and with whom he lived for several years, as others were to god himself. No reason to confuse the two. It was people’s inability to digest such relationships that compelled them to unnecessary interpretation. It seemed to Atif that in doing so, they had completely missed the point: that loving another person, regardless of their sex, was a way of loving god after all. The divine is neither man nor woman, neither good nor bad, so why should the heart make that distinction in loving?
More than ten years later, when he brought this up to Rahul, he received a mystified look, as if to say: who manufactured this fiction? I’ve never heard of any such thing. Atif, proud of his research, had presented him with books, some out of print, lovingly covered in clear Mylar dust jackets, to prove his point. Rahul groaned. “Oh, Atif, all that ancient stuff, nobody reads it. The Gita, the Ramayana, the Mahabharata—well, okay, maybe not that last one—too much strife. Anyway, that’s what they all read. All this other strange stuff, Puranas this and Puranas that, nobody cares about them.”
“You know what’s so damn frustrating?” Atif countered. “That you have one of the oldest, most progressive religions in the world. But all anyone ever wants to focus on is the same old sanctimonious crap.”
Rahul smiled. “Isn’t that how all religions are? People want a standard, uncomplicated belief system, Atif. They’re not trying to change the world or even accept it. They just want to feel right about how they think.”
This was tragic but true, thought Atif. Ultimately, if you looked hard enough, you could always find something to support your claim. In the end there was no right or wrong. Only interpretation.
Just as there weren’t words enough in the world to help him justify his sexuality to his own parents. None of Rumi’s yearnings or Allah’s contradictory promises could help him here.
Standing naked against the sink while gently peeling Rahul’s semen from his chest, he saw his father’s face and thought, so this is what you disowned me for, the right to love another man. You’d have preferred me dropping mine into the womb of an unsuspecting woman, my eyes shut to keep from seeing her face while thinking of another man. Even after six years, it hurt him to think that in the eyes of his parents, his aberration had been so severe, so monstrous, that it had not warranted a proper conversation. He could not understand, no matter how hard he wrestled with it, how any relationship, most of all a paternal one, could be dissolved with so little resistance.
His mother’s trembling face during their last cruelly brief conversation played in his mind and a chill spread over his body. Would he ever see them again? He put his arms around himself, closed his eyes to the tears. Anger and hurt bubbled within him and as his head fell forward, he felt himself weakening and wanting to call Mumbai so he could hear his mother’s voice. But he knew he was not welcome anymore, that even that rare chat with her could only take place when his father wasn’t around.
It had all started with Hiten Khanna who had come from Mumbai to study business at USC. The son of wealthy parents who owned a textile manufacturing company, Hiten came from a different social class and knew Atif only distantly back home. He came armed with the confidence and money that Atif lacked. Spoiled and condescending, they were nothing alike, yet in a
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