Boy, Meet Boy

Being an openly gay Indian American might spare you inevitable marital conversation at the hands of meddlesome elders, dubious matchmakers and romanceless biodatas. But it does have its ups and downs.

- Neel Patel

Many Indian Americans bemoan the improbability of Bollywood films, in which anything can be eased with a simple song and-dance. Floods. Fires. Even murder is no match. The Bollywood films of my youth saw buxom women dancing in Swiss fields—sometimes moments after a tragedy had occurred. All was forgotten. All was forgiven. It was time to shake that ass.

Of course, all films are unrealistic—even American ones. The boy always gets the girl. The villain always dies. And peace and order is always restored. But where does this leave us queer folk—and Indian Americans, in particular? Where is our Bollywood romance? I wonder how a community that romanticises love on-screen can be so dour about it in real life; horoscopes, biodatas, even castes are considered when selecting a mate. When did it become so complicated? I’ve yet to see a film in which two lovers fell into each other’s arms after escaping near-death, only to look at one another and ask, “So, did you finish your MBA?”