
My maternal grandmother, দিদা, used to live with us and was the closest person I had in my life. Even if I never told her, it always seemed to me that she knew I was gay. To be honest, I don’t know if she really did know, but I do hope she knew.
Once, when I was ten, or perhaps eleven, I was trying to wear my mom’s saree when my grandma came to check up on me. After finding out that I was trying on a saree, she did not become uncomfortable or anything like that. She taught me how to drape a saree in the Western style, even though the style she was used to was the Bengali one. She was never judgmental of any of my feminine traits.

Then, when I was twelve and a half, she passed away. Her death made me scared about what would happen next. Not having her by my side made me succumb to depression. I began doing a lot of things that, now that I think of it, I could have perhaps avoided, and my studies also started suffering.

It had been a habit of mine to stare at male models in magazines posing shirtless, and those in dhotis. The models on the packets in the underwear sections of the mall had a similar effect on me. I realized that I was attracted to men as well, and gradually, I realized that I was attracted to men, period. When Facebook was released in 2008, I made a separate account for myself, a gay one, and was very active there. In the beginning, the experience contained very weird interactions as all I got were old married men.
When I was in college, I understood and decided that I didn’t have to wait for anyone’s approval to be gay or bi or whatever, that I was the one who decided things for myself. Things started to get a lot better when I moved to Bombay at the age of 25. I met people in real life and made friends from the community. Maybe I was still not too happy, but I was kind of happy. I was happier, a lot happier than before. Bombay helped me find my true self once again. I realized that it was my life.

When it came to coming out, I could not even tell my mother. I didn’t tell her, but just cried, profoundly. However, she somehow understood. She told me, “Why are you crying so much? You are what you are and we all love you.” I had some notions that my mother would not understand, but her words were very reassuring. My dad also knows; however, I never really talked to him about it.
I still feel that my grandma is out there, watching over me, and showing me the right path. If I had a way to, I just want to lay down with my head in her lap once again.
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