An account of innocence
The blog you are about to read is true; only the names and places have been changed to protect the identity of the individuals.
The severity of the stigma
attached to being a homosexual within
the Asian community has resulted in an increased number of emails and calls to
the Forced Marriage Unit (FMU). This equates to an average increase rate of 65%
- linking directly to the questionable sexuality of the male.
These statistics prove the
controversy surrounded with being a gay man within the Asian community and the
immediate plans made for an arranged marriage usually ‘back home’ as a quick
fix. In my next blog I aim to share with you an experience of a naïve and
innocent young woman who I had the pleasure of working with. She has been a
true heroine, in a world wind of emotional blackmail, violence, and verbal
abuse. She gave up everything she knew; her country, her family and her career,
for a British male that lived a very secret
lifestyle. She has been my main inspiration for writing this blog post.
Additionally, I have been influenced by a range of various content, from novels
I have read, both ‘Shame Travels’ by Jasvinder Sanghera the co founder of Karma Nirvana and gay writings from ‘Yaraana” by Hoshang
Merchant.
Lastly, the murder of Anni
Dewani, and the horrendous scandal formulated by her cunning partner Shrien Dewani
has proved to be an issue that has affected many Asian households across the
nation. Conspiracies reveal that Shrien Dewani was in fact a bisexual and has
made parents reconsider arranged marriages altogether.
I have chosen to raise awareness
of this topic in the hope that I can influence younger and older generations
into realising the importance of being true to oneself. The fact of the matter
is, we do not choose to be who we are; homosexuality is not a lifestyle choice,
nor is it a fashion statement. It is and will continue to be inhibited within you;
like the blood that runs through your veins - It could never be entirely
withdrawn.
Amaani
I used to wonder, why is he waxing his eyebrows? Is it normal for British men to wear make up?
Where is it that he seems to disappear to every Saturday night?
My name is Amaani, and I will
begin to share with you my story. I have never shared this with anyone but I
have decided it is time now I try to understand this mysteriously forbidden part
of my life. With the help of many people, I have been able to build a new life
for myself. I have had ongoing support from charities, women’s projects whilst
also participating in therapeutic counselling that subsequently helped me.
I was just 25 when I met him for
the first time. I had just completed my Pharmacy degree and I was just about to
embark onto the next chapter of my adult life. I had been accepted at one of
the most prestigious medical centres in Delhi and my grandparents were so proud
of me. Seven years of education had leaded me to this very point and I was filled
with immense pride.
February 2013
My belly was rumbling with the
thought of devouring my mother’s fish curry. I increased my pace, in order to
reach home in good time – a mothers cooking can do that to you. Walking in the
autumn sun, a cool Delhi breeze flowed through my velvety black hair. With my
acceptance letter from the medical centre in one hand, I opened the gate of the
driveway, heading steadily towards the front door of our family home, ready to
announce my good news.
As soon as I entered the dim lit
living room, I could sense tension in the air. All eyes seemed to be on me and
I stood there; frozen like an unloved rose, left abandoned in the wilderness. I
glanced at my mother, hoping that she may be able to shed some light on the
current family affair.
“Okay, so we will be in touch,
the wedding will take place in England and arrangements will be made for Amaani
to live with us thereafter” said a fair skinned, elderly woman. She immediately
arose from her seat, nudging her husband upwards. He took his last sip of chai from mum’s best porcelain tea set
and both vacated the room abruptly.
After 30 minutes of pleading, my
tears had struck a sense of guilt in my parents. I quickly learnt that my
parents were making arrangements for my wedding; without my consultation. The
shock was in explainable, the anger I felt resonated throughout my entire body,
my heart pounded. How can they do this to me? Why would they not tell me?
Apparently, my father had been
approached by a woman from the Mandir
whose uncle’s son was looking for a well educated young woman to join their
prosperous family. Somehow my name had been the topic of numerous conversations.
Whilst I listened to my father
confidently express my suitor’s sparkling good character; the immediate anger I
initially felt, faded. “Betah, he is
an educated man, with a BA Honours degree in marketing, he has his own house,
and even owns his own business in London! A chance like this will not come
again soon, my child.”
How could I argue with that? A daughter could never defy her father’s
word.
I composed my thoughts - father
was right; this is a rare chance. Not only for me to marry such an auspicious
man, but to finally get the chance to visit England. My frown soon turned into
immeasurable optimism; I looked forward to what the future held and immediately
began to prepare for my trip.
Three months later
It had been a few days, and I had
not seen my ‘husband’; I use the term lightly as we have not even shared the
same bed whilst we have been married. My
thoughts were working over time, trying to grasp some of what has happened. Was
there something wrong with me? Why does he look so displeased to see me? Is
this what married life is like?
I had not spoken to my parents since I moved
to the UK; I missed them dearly. My mother in law does not like it when I call home
too much and I have not seen my father in law since the wedding. I can only
speak to my parents with his permission. I can only go out, with his
permission. I can only…
The front door flung open; the
immediate smell of cheap alcohol and rancid cigarettes contaminated the room.
Disorientated, he walked towards me, dressed in skin tight leather jeans, neon
yellow vest top and sparkly gold shoes; not an inch of hair covered his tiny
body. “All British guys wax, Amaani, its normal” I remember him saying.
I had not seen a lot of the outside
world; therefore I could never know what was normal or even British. I was
perplexed as I watched him run away into his sanctuary in the loft room,
leaving me sleeping alone in our unconsummated bed. I closed my eyes, hopeful
that tomorrow might just be the day that he initiates a conversation with me. I
contemplated what it would feel like to exchange eye contact again, to hold his
hand. I doubtfully closed my eyes and settled into a light sleep; naively unaware
of the deceit imprisoning my very life.
Seven months
I hid in the toilet downstairs,
his mobile phone stuffed into the sleeve of my salwar kameez hidden in an abundance of floral prints. I quickly
typed the international code for India 009 and dialled my parent’s home number;
sweat oozing from my forehead from the sheer significance of the call. I waited
anxiously.
Dial tone.
“Hello Ma?!”
“Amaani? Tu aap hain?! Tuse? Is that you?”
All of a sudden, the door of the
toilet barged open. I jumped, the mobile phone dropped to the floor; my body
quivered. I was surprised that a man of his petite frame could unleash so much
strength and yet so effortlessly. His eyes were transfixed on me, bloodshot
with anger.
“What do you think you are doing,
you dirty little freshi? Who said you
can use my phone? What have I said to you about minding your f*cking business! No
wonder your family wanted to get rid you, such a nosey cow aren’t you!”
I fell to the floor and hurdled
up in to a tiny ball, tears streaming down my face whilst he continued to
torment me with his destructive words, slapping me across my head. All I could think
about was my mother’s voice, for those two seconds were worth the pain I was
enduring; Just hearing her say my name after so long had brought back a sequence
of memories. It was now more than ever I felt the need to go back home.
The morning after he was nowhere
to be seen; recently he had been sneaking out in the early hours of the morning.
I sought this as an opportunity to speak to my mother in law; an elder’s wisdom
always guides you onto the correct path.
I prepared some chai, and anticipated her arrival.
We talked for hours, as she
listened to my grievances with her son humming and haring every now and then,
as if someone was finally responding to my plea for help. Towards the end, I
plucked up the courage and said, “Saas,
I think it is in everyone best interest, if I could go home to visit my
parents; I am very home sick and I am sure once I speak to them I will feel a
lot better. Can you please talk to him, and make him see sense?”
She gracefully stood up, wrapped
her shawl around her a little tighter, raised her hand and struck me across the
face. Her gold rings leaving an indent on my cheek as it tingled with immense pain.
It was at that point it clicked –
this was all a sham.
One year
I tried many times to approach others
for help but wherever I went my mother in law had an allegiance of aunties
watching my every move. At the community centre, at the temple, in the market; I
was even escorted to my doctor’s appointments.
She always found a reason to come
with me, “I need to pick up my prescriptions, or I need to speak Dr Sharma
about my diabetes”. There was never a moment where I was left unaccompanied; where
I could open up about the difficulties I was facing at home. I was trapped, and
they were working together to make sure I continued to live in this façade of
playing happy families.
Over the last six months I
managed to gather a small accumulation of money; somehow managing to scrimp and
save anywhere I could. I had hidden every unaccounted penny in old handbag, concealed
at the back of my wardrobe; along with a basic mobile phone that has been my
ally in communicating with my parents. I was mentally and physically preparing
for my escape; waiting for the opportune moment to part from this bleak existence.
Three day after
I increased my pace as my paranoia
escalated higher and higher; I did not dare to look back, in the fear that
someone might just recognise me. Feeling weak with nausea my hands trembled as
I clutched my suitcase, lugging it hastily behind me. With every last droplet
of hope I headed towards the bus stop and waited for the 239 to take me towards
Victoria Coach Station.
Having arrived at Victoria Coach
Station, I lingered around the waiting area, trying to conceal my face from any
Asian man that passed by. Unexpectedly, my mobile rang, blaring through the bus
terminal as it captured the attention of awaiting passengers. With great
hesitancy I pulled the phone out of my pocket. Trying to avert the sudden
spotlight, I answered the call.
“Hello?” I said apprehensively.
The little voice in my head was working overtime - it’s him isn't it. He’s
found me. What am I going to do now? It’s over.
“Han
beti tum kaise ho? Hi my child, how are you?” It was my mom.
*All passengers for the 8.59 departure to Birmingham, Digbeth, please
have your tickets ready to board now*
I smiled, snivelling as tears
filled my eyes. “Don’t worry mum, I'm safe now”
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