We are not believers in destiny, but we’ve been told by people of faith who’ve heard our story that we had reason to question our beliefs. Over those several weeks between November and December, Balbir and I found ourselves in remarkable meetings of chance, coincidence, and fortune that placed us on a common path. To what degree, if any, hope and subconscious wish played, we can now only surmise. But getting that text from him, at that time, in that place, at that chapter of the life of such ache and longing, was to become one of those wondrous, defining moments in your existence when you ponder, time and again, and forever after, where you would be now, had that moment never happened. Never mind that Balbir later confessed to having texted other friends and acquaintances to join the bazaar. That moment did happen for us, and it was soon followed by another.
At the bazaar, I found Balbir sitting in a chair at the end of the rooftop, by himself, in front of a table where folks donned disguises to get their silly photos taken, for 50 rupees a snap. He had a huge curly-haired wig on his head. I gave him my hand. He still wasn’t speaking English, so after exchanging greetings, taking photos together, and asking questions that had short answers, there wasn’t much to say. I told him I’d wander the bazaar a bit and see him shortly. Several times I shot him a smile. Sometimes others were with him. Sometimes he was alone, and that bothered me.
I ran into several people I knew and spent some time small-talking, all the while aware of Balbir’s presence. I met Manak, the volunteer coordinator. I’d offered to help out at the bazaar if it was needed, but he told me all was under control, so I was off the hook. Manak himself was working the cupid table, hawking roses. He was dressed like a deranged genie. “Send him a rose! Twenty rupees only! Take a chance on love!”
A delivery came my way — a red rose with a note from Balbir. “Dear Michael,” it read, “Thank you for being in my life and adding so much by just being you. Love, Balbir.”
I was stunned. I had no idea he felt that way. I raced to Manak to buy the most roses he had left of a single colour. Alarmed that he wasn’t in the same spot, I found Balbir standing with a group, getting ready to leave. I thanked him for the rose and the note, and he smiled when I handed him the yellow bouquet. He caught a ride to the train station for the long trip back to his village. I hugged him before he left and told him I’d be in touch.
I didn’t read the words of Balbir’s note, as much as eat and drink them, and it was because of them that I did contact him the next day. Some months later, after I’d already proposed to him, we were reminiscing about a past that we’d already begun building. I dug out the note that I kept on my night table. How shocked both of us were! Balbir had neither authored, nor written it, and had no idea what it contained. He wasn’t able to write in English at that time and had asked Manak to write something nice for him. When I read Balbir the note, he was thunderstruck. Manak had pressed him into buying a rose that night, but he’d found no suitable recipient for it. He then spotted me. He’d intended the rose as a token of friendship, but it had worked like a charm. Manak was a true cupid that day, and his magic had worked.
Magic continued the week after the bazaar, when I asked Balbir to come home. I was surprised but didn’t mind that he showed up with a chaperone — his cousin, Sagar. They arrived late and looked tired from the long trip from their village. They surely wouldn’t be traveling back that night. No matter; I had plenty of space to host them. Once seated, Balbir asked, in rehearsed English, if he could remove his legs. I asked to excuse myself, but he said there was no need. He undid his belt, pulled off the hard prosthetics, and exhaled. He unwrapped bandages until the stumps of his legs showed their bruises. I felt witness to an extraordinary experience of confidence, and I was moved.
Balbir had a working knowledge of English, but he’d never needed to use it. His vocabulary was small, but he had a lot to say. I helped him along, and we communicated superbly. Sagar had fallen asleep in the guest bedroom on a trip to the washroom, leaving Balbir alone with me. Time passed, and then there was a break in our conversation. I understood that it was time to retire for the night.
Balbir grew quiet. I saw pain, and I understood. Nothing needed to be said. I rose to meet him at his chair and extended him my arms. He surrendered me his body and his beautiful soul, and I carried him to bed, releasing him from having to ask for help, or endure the shame of having to walk on the floor on his hands in front of someone he didn’t know well. Balbir says that with that gesture of compassion, he fathomed my heart. Our love story began truly, thus. No art fair boy crush. No magic flowers. No wheel of fortune and no coincidence. That evening, we moved with genuine meaning and purpose.
The next morning, we walked through Lodhi Gardens holding hands, realizing that we were stepping, for the first time, on a common path. That path led us to many adventures, exalted moments, mistakes, and opportunities for growth. Love grew with every step, and it didn’t falter.
We promised ourselves to one another. Marriage was a dream we’d kept in our hearts, but there were too many reasons against believing in that dream. India disallowed same-sex marriage, and it was legal in only a handful of American states. Even if Balbir could get a visa to visit the US, and we married in my home state of New York, what benefit would it give us? Not the right of immigration, since the Federal government didn’t recognize same-sex unions. Balbir would be able to stay in the US with me for the validity of a visa, 30 or 60 days, perhaps. I myself would need to surrender my Indian employment visa when the time came to stop working, and depart the country. We didn’t know how we’d stay together but vowed that we’d find a solution.