In the lush green lawns of Cubbon Park, the queers of the City gathered around for an annual interactive event organised by the Queer Campus Bangalore — 'Park Bench Stories'. A handful of the close-knit LGBT community assembled to share news, events, feedback and, most importantly, support.
"We first had 'Park Bench Stories' two years ago in November, the same week as the Pride," recalls 23-year-old Danish Sheikh, a human right's lawyer. Being an organiser of last year's story-telling session, he explains the significance of it being held in the month of July. "We chose to have it on July 2 last year, to celebrate the anniversary of the Naz Foundation Judgment, which de-criminalised homosexuality. This year, we wanted to stick to July and have a fusion of events, with the Carnival and this happening one after the other."
Shy at first, the party was a bit reluctant to share their experiences. However, after a few ice-breaking stories by some of the older members of the community, the group slowly warmed up to each other, narrating their experiences in the cosy setting.
"We usually plan out a few stories, poems or dances before the event and it is human tendency for the others to start contributing," says another member who attended the event. "The floor is always open to anybody who suddenly remembers a story and would like to share it," he explains, understanding the hesitation people face while divulging their secrets to complete strangers.
"It all comes down to the idea of silence. If you really think about it, the law that criminalised homosexuality was passed in silence," reflects Danish. "There has always been a veil of silence surrounding homosexuality," he adds, highlighting the need for such events. "They are not merely incidental," he says, adding, "they aim to create visibility about the gay community in Bangalore."
Seemingly animated, the tales revealed had subtle but grave undertones. Each account reflected the hardships faced by members of the LGBT community in Bangalore in a variety of scenarios. "There has always been a vacuum in queer narrative, so we tell our tales of love, loss and coming out," says Danish. He recounts flippant recollections of first kisses and sexual encounters, as well as the more profound moments where homosexuals have opened up to their family and friends. "We've heard brutal tales of people coming out," he says, "But on the other hand, we've heard other stories that are equally empowering."
Reiterating that the main aim of the meeting was to provide a sense of community to members of the City's LGBT community, Danish contemplates, "I don't think we can say that our objective has been achieved — it won't be, until we reach that wonderful stage where queer stories become so mainstream that there's no need for events like these anymore," he anticipates.
"We first had 'Park Bench Stories' two years ago in November, the same week as the Pride," recalls 23-year-old Danish Sheikh, a human right's lawyer. Being an organiser of last year's story-telling session, he explains the significance of it being held in the month of July. "We chose to have it on July 2 last year, to celebrate the anniversary of the Naz Foundation Judgment, which de-criminalised homosexuality. This year, we wanted to stick to July and have a fusion of events, with the Carnival and this happening one after the other."
Shy at first, the party was a bit reluctant to share their experiences. However, after a few ice-breaking stories by some of the older members of the community, the group slowly warmed up to each other, narrating their experiences in the cosy setting.
"We usually plan out a few stories, poems or dances before the event and it is human tendency for the others to start contributing," says another member who attended the event. "The floor is always open to anybody who suddenly remembers a story and would like to share it," he explains, understanding the hesitation people face while divulging their secrets to complete strangers.
"It all comes down to the idea of silence. If you really think about it, the law that criminalised homosexuality was passed in silence," reflects Danish. "There has always been a veil of silence surrounding homosexuality," he adds, highlighting the need for such events. "They are not merely incidental," he says, adding, "they aim to create visibility about the gay community in Bangalore."
Seemingly animated, the tales revealed had subtle but grave undertones. Each account reflected the hardships faced by members of the LGBT community in Bangalore in a variety of scenarios. "There has always been a vacuum in queer narrative, so we tell our tales of love, loss and coming out," says Danish. He recounts flippant recollections of first kisses and sexual encounters, as well as the more profound moments where homosexuals have opened up to their family and friends. "We've heard brutal tales of people coming out," he says, "But on the other hand, we've heard other stories that are equally empowering."
Reiterating that the main aim of the meeting was to provide a sense of community to members of the City's LGBT community, Danish contemplates, "I don't think we can say that our objective has been achieved — it won't be, until we reach that wonderful stage where queer stories become so mainstream that there's no need for events like these anymore," he anticipates.