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Photo courtesy: Arshia Varlet

The thing about leaving that place you call home is that you don’t go back. Not ever. 

Not really.

Remember that first time you get on a plane headed thousands of miles away –leaving everything and everyone that made up your life until that moment. And you promise yourself that you’ll be back soon. The truth is, you don’t.

Because the person that gets to the departure lounge is not the same person that emerges out of the arrival gate in their destination city. Because that journey alters you irrevocably. And from then on, you’re always in transit to somewhere else.

I grew up in a teeny suburban flat in Mumbai – a city that never really felt like home. But the India that I grew up in, certainly felt like my home.

Yet today, if I were to ask myself where is home, I don’t really know. There is an aching familiarity when I’m back on Indian shores. The warm sunshine and the even warmer people feel as much part of me as my dark hair or skin. But then, in London when I stumble unexpectedly upon a five hundred year old street, I feel that I belong. As if I’m the modern thread that links today’s London to its ancient past.

Even more importantly, my new home city offers me an explosion of possibilities. It leaves me abuzz, excited –I can be anyone that I want to be here, accomplish almost anything. And that’s become a crucial part of me.

There was a time when people were born in a small town or village, and never wandered further. They went to school nearby, forged deep friendships over playground fights and shared lunches. Perhaps they even met their mate a few hundred yards away. Then, came the children. Who also went to the same school and had their own playground fights and shared lunches. And so the circle of life went on.

Now we travel the globe, in search of that dream job, the perfect mate, the possibility of fulfilling the ultimate travel dream of finding that remote as yet undiscovered island. And along the way, we lose rather important things like the sound of a best friend’s laughter or the smell of your mother’s cooking.

However losing your sense of home, is not all sad. It can be energizing, transforming. Because the one factor that keeps you alive, truly alive, is a sense of possibility. And for me personally, that sense of infinite possibility is a living, breathing part of my life in London.

I’m lucky that for me at least, there is no constant hankering back to my roots. Because I know that the place that I once called home is waiting for me, if I ever want to go back. Perhaps it would have changed unrecognizably but it’s still there…somewhere.

My sense of duality defines me today. I am two people in one. I ‘fit’ in India. And I ‘fit’ in the UK. And tomorrow, I might ‘fit’ into a third place too.  So home has become a fluid concept. Ever-changing. Ever-surprising. 

Lesbian and loving it

She’s the quintessential Indian beauty. Limpid, almond eyes. Lustrous long, dark hair. Petite, graceful. And gay.

I walked into Club Kali, a ‘lesbian friendly’ nightclub, expecting a room full of butch women. And left with all my pre-conceived notions altered. In fact, I’ve rarely seen so many stunning Indian women in one place during all my time in London.

The plan was to celebrate a friends’ birthday and brush up on my rusty Bollywood moves at the club. 

I had no idea what to expect at Club Kali. And found find myself burning up the dance floor at 3 am, in what was surely one of the most relaxed clubs I’ve ever been to.

Perhaps it’s the lack of testosterone. But this place was so chilled out, it was as if they were pumping love hormones in the air. No grabbing hands. No preying men. Just a few couples kissing quietly in dark corners. The rest were dancing with incredible energy to the latest Bollywood tracks.

The need to drink copious amounts of alcohol didn’t seem all-consuming, unlike most other clubs. So no broken bottles and puddles of puke in the toilets. Grim but that is the reality of going out on a Saturday night in most cities in the UK.

However a trip to the ladies was an interesting experience. While it says ’Ladies’ on the door, once you walk in – there’s the strangest assortment of pretty young women, older Indian men in saris and young men who are obviously not young men.  So obviously the term ‘ ladies’ is flexible.

Club Kali was surreal. There were peacock hued saris adorned by a million glittering crystals that caught the myriad disco lights. They were gajras made of jasmine flowers snaking across jet black chottis. Glass bangles clink clinked to keep time with the pulsating beats.  But look closer and you could see that not all of these were Indian women – a lot of these sari-clad apparitions were in fact middle-aged Indian men. Now that is a sight you would not see in India.

It got me thinking about how confusing it must be growing up gay in India. Like millions of others, I grew up on a diet of mainstream Bollywood films.

The macho hero always beat up mustachioed villains and rescued the demure sari-clad (always ‘wet’ of course) heroine from his clutches.  She then batted her eyelashes coyly at the hero. 

There are no Hindi films where the heroine pines for her best friend or flirts with the other girls in her gang. Or where the hero flashes his muscles as he walks past the boys in the neighbourhood. I cannot even begin to imagine how difficult and utterly confusing that must be, to know that you are so different from everyone around you.

While life in India is always warm, supportive and nurturing – there is just no room for alternative sexuality.

There is certainly no place for it in Indian society.  As a typical Indian, your life is mapped out for you. You finish your degree, find a ‘good’ job, get married, have kids and so on. The only ‘gay’ most Indians understand is to do with being jolly in a party.

So for the regulars at Club Kali, it’s probably a bit like being back in India. With one, all-important difference – you can be gay or straight or anything in between here, it’s all acceptable.

The screens played clips from films starring Madhuri Dixit, Madhu Bala and Shilpa Shetty. And I realised for the first time, how Bollywood is such a perfect gay icon with its over-the-top costumes and doomed, dramatic gestures.

There was a point in the evening when I stopped dancing and just stood back looking at everyone around me. The room was full of laughter, rhythm, mad costumes, gender confusion – and pure, uninhibited fun.

My night at Club Kali was an eye opener in many ways. Not all of it was serious.

I discovered that I was rather popular among the clubbers here.  But the flirting was light, non-threatening. Once someone realised that I was straight, they paid me generous compliments and left me alone.

One of the highlights of the evening was a certain lady/gentleman who came up to me and said, “Gosh, you are beautiful. Are you a lesbian?” I exclaimed, “No!” He/she swayed in the most dramatic fashion, eyes rolled heavenwards and said, “ What a waste!”

Very complimentary.  I thought.

A little piece of Britain called Dubai

Imagine this for a minute. You step out for your weekly shop at Waitrose, picking up some plump British strawberries. Then you stop at Boots to pick up your No.7 anti-ageing cream. After which, you stop for a spot of lunch at Carluccios. Before browsing through the latest UK bestsellers at Borders.

We all love the British high street. Especially when it’s situated in balmy Dubai.

Welcome to mini Britain. Without the bad weather. Dubai is awash with British accents – be it Brummie, Liverpudlian or Cockney. Every high street brand worth its name has a presence in Dubai’s myriad malls – take your pick from Monsoon, Topshop, H&M, French Connection and more. Wherever you turn, there’s something or someone British.

No wonder thousands of Brits move to Dubai – it’s expat paradise. All the comforts of home and none of the terrible weather. No taxes to pay and juicy expat salaries to play with. Maids walking a few steps behind you, carrying those purchases from Harvey Nicks. Drivers to pick you up and drop you off to afternoon tea with the girls. Nannies to soothe and take care of little ones, as you walk along the marina admiring the yachts.

However, before you start packing your bags for Dubai – there is one thing to consider. Before you book that flight, take a good look at yourself in the mirror – what colour is your skin? If it’s not the right one, you may find your Dubai dream rapidly turning into a nightmare.

UK’s been home to me for over 7 years. Of all the things I love about this country, its secular belief system is the most important to me personally. Whether I have brown skin or white, whether I’m a Hindu or Buddhist or choose to live in a cave with bats in order to pursue my spiritual beliefs – I am treated exactly the same as everyone else.

In only a matter of decades, Dubai has grown at a dizzying pace overtaking every other country in the region. The tall skyscrapers reflect the towering ambitions of the country, and they still stand tall inspite of its recent economic troubles. And those living in Dubai live, breathe and wear that dream – designer gear and accessories, snazzy cars and penthouses are considered necessities not luxuries. But the gleaming façade is just that.

My Indian friends who’ve lived in Dubai over the last decade complain bitterly about their ineffectual bosses, hired solely for the colour of their skin. I’ve even been told that if you approach a company in Dubai and you’re white – your salary is automatically about 20% higher. Just like that.

Walking down Dubai’s myriad malls, you’ll see for yourself that 8 out of 10 British expats living in Dubai are Caucasian.

Most companies in Dubai hire white employees for their top positions – it’s a matter of prestige.  Almost like having a smart office or cool website  – it’s expected. They employ the local Emiratis, because they have to under local law. The bulk of the workforce is made up of Indians, Bangladeshis and Philippinos. All of whom work have to work a lot harder and are paid much lower salaries than either the Europeans or the Emiratis.

The only thing worse than being brown in Dubai is being brown and working as a maid or driver. The moment you arrive in the country to start your job, your passport’s taken away. And you cease to exist as an individual. Your life is pretty much dependent on the whims and fancies of your employer. And there’s not a lot you can do about it.

Of course, as a woman, there are few places as safe as Dubai. You could be walking around town at 2 am and no one would dare bother you. Because the penalty for harrassing women is incredibly harsh. But if you are a Philippino maid working for a high-ranking Emirati for instance, things can go very differently.

Here in the UK, we do read a lot in the British media about women in Dubai jailed for kissing in public or some other indiscretion. But I was told that unless you choose to flaunt your private life in public, the authorities do turn a blind eye and let you get on with your life, however you choose to live it.

Inspite of the current economic climate in Dubai, British nationals are still moving over with jobs and families. Most people initially come for a few years, and end up staying for decades. It is so easy to be seduced by the easy life, good weather and great lifestyle.
Before you know it, you’ll find yourself owning several flashy cars, wearing designer threads and walking into the newest nightclubs. As long your skin’s the right shade, of course.

The glittering, glitzy dream that is Dubai has a dark underbelly. Or, should that be, white underbelly.