Exactly one week before Vamshi Raju took his own life, Swabhava and GoodAsYou organised a closed-door meeting of parents and families of LGBT people with their children, seeking to extend a space for parents and families to discuss what they were going through and provide support.
There were some parents who had already come a long way in accepting and supporting their child, and yet there were many still in anguish over their child’s sexuality. Some hoped this was still a ‘phase’ and that their child would one day wake up and know they were straight. Others searched in vain for a non-existent cure. They worried about the kind of life their child might lead—they thought they were destined for a life of loneliness and hardship as a queer person in a world that does not accept them. They fretted over what others might say, what was ‘right’ or ‘wrong’, did not know if they somehow ‘caused’ it or if their child had gone through some trauma. There was so much of pain and suffering, and yet all of them, without exception, could clearly say one thing—they loved their child.
I wonder what it was like for Vamshi Raju. I wonder what it was like for him to experience the freedom of being himself for that one beautiful November day, complete with joyous friends, smiling policemen, curious and non-antagonistic public, and such perfect weather. I wonder if he thought the world was capable of being nice and beautiful. I wonder what it was like for him to go back from that high to a home where, per some reports, even at the age of 21, he was still subject to violence—physical and emotional. Was the contrast of the beauty of what was possible and what his family was like too much to bear?
I wonder what it is like for the family—now that their child is dead—and even though they maintain he was not queer and killed himself because he felt he was not a good student, do they wish they had tried to understand him a little better? Are they sorry that their ignorance and fears pushed this child to commit suicide? How are they coping with it? At the parents’ and families’ meet, other young queer people talked openly and with a lot of emotion about how hard they had tried to be not-queer, to try and fit in, even contemplating marrying someone for “family’s sake” and when in the moment of acceptance that it just cannot be different—that they are queer—some of them too had thought of suicide, of ending this life, sparing themselves and their families the pain of them being queer. But the thought of their families’ love and hope that they could still be happy kept them alive.
They spoke of having found others like themselves, knowing they are not alone, finding support and, in many cases, finding love. They spoke of how even if they were single, they found so much love and joy in the world.
I want to believe Vamshi Raju experienced some of that joy. He had experienced supportive spaces, been at the Pride, seen that there was a possibility that being queer did not mean a lifetime of misery. And yet, familial rejection undid all the support and courage that such networks gave him. What then of all those queer kids out there who did not have even this much of a visibility for their queerness?
Among the queer community here in Bangalore, there is a sense of pervasive sadness. They wish Vamshi could have had a bit more faith in the groups from which he took so much courage that for one brief Sunday, he could exult in being himself. They wonder what resources might be needed as a community and as a state to give hope to other Vamshis, and to educate and support other such families. Are the support groups and safe spaces we have sufficient? Do we have the ability to intervene with hateful families and fight for the queer child? Do the parents and society at large know where and what resources to access to help them understand their child and help him live as fully as he can? Is the state machinery helpful? How about schools and colleges—are they equipped to be sensitive to sexuality? Bangalore has some support groups and resources, queer-friendly counselors and mental health professionals, many sensitised policemen and other resources, and yet it has not been enough. Not for Vamshi.
We are making progress, but for now when we look among ourselves, we see our own vulnerability.
Mahesh Natarajan is a counselor and an author. The views expressed are his personal.
