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Journalism of Courage
Rohit Bal was the official name of the person and legend whose passing, on November 1, the world will mourn, but Gudda is what we called him. I first encountered him in my life at the tender age of 14. Afraid to breathe and exist as a gay man in India, I found in Gudda comfort and solace, a sense of belonging and the ability to have lofty dreams and a voice. For 38 years, he was my pillar of strength and when failing health crippled me and had my life hanging by a thread, his daily calls, funny messages and naughty photos came my way to keep me feeling loved and cared for.
“I love you the most you know, na, I have loved you since you were 14.” This text came to me on WhatsApp at 5:04 pm, minutes before I was heading out to see him at the hospital. As close as we are, this message was a tad out of character for him. When I arrived at his room, he greeted me with the queerest welcome and an assault of requests to bring to his doctor. I ran to the nurses’ station and was told that the doctor had done the rounds that morning and would be back later. This news didn’t make Gudda happy, but he gave me a smile and invited me to sit at his bedside.
I remember him staring at my kurta, which was colourful and diaphanous. When I asked him whether he approved of my choice of attire, he simply said that he was sad that I wasn’t wearing one of his pieces, but that I looked very good. That was Gudda for you, always much too gracious and kind. But the next moment he was shrieking as he thumped his chest, complaining that he was getting a shock. His attendant and I held him, the nurse came, and then the doctor. He was sedated, and before long the doctor assured me that Gudda would be fine and that I could leave for a while and come back later.
When I got home, I asked Parabjot Bali, my friend visiting from Jammu, if he would go with me to buy flowers for the dining table. We ordered several Casablanca lilies, a favourite of mine. On an impulse, I added 10 spears of tuberose to the order, a departure from my comfort zone. Parab and I arranged the flowers in a vase that was identical to the one I had gifted Gudda when I first returned to India from the United States. Afterwards, I called Gudda’s Brand Head Tasnim to give him a rundown of all that had transpired at the hospital, but Tasnim interjected and told me of Gudda’s passing just moments before. I was shocked and sad, in total disbelief, feeling as if I were in some bizarre movie scene.
That I had left Gudda comfortably dozing and gotten the message of his passing all within a half hour placed me with him during his last moments. It also gave me the feeling that this was all ordained and destined. Why else would I choose a flower I wasn’t fond of and make it part of my centerpiece? The tuberose was Gudda’s favourite cut flower.
I feel lucky that I was the rare human who could scold Gudda, push him to do things he didn’t want to do, and show him light where he saw none. I was permitted to lecture and shame him into being kinder to himself. He frequently talked about his incredibly kind family. His brothers who doted on him, his sisters whose love spoiled him with the gift of unmatched affection, his nieces who treated him like a star and a hero, and his nephews with whom he had a special relationship. His childhood friends, from Jor Bagh where he had grown up, to those he met as he danced his way into his 30s and 40s — all of these loving people made Gudda shine bright and welcome success with open arms.
I lost my friend Gudda to a battle. His weak heart and pacemaker couldn’t keep pace with his hungry appetite for living life and working tirelessly to create fashion that was at once as old as India and one with the current times. India has lost
