The discussion of sexual desire as sexual 'identity' in LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender) intellectual and activist circles is something that is argued with rather than argued about. For example, the neo-colonial implications of imposing Western terminology (gay, lesbian, etc) have long been discussed in multiple forums. The same is true for the tension created by articulating purportedly historical Hindu versions of same-sex identities. But in the midst of all of this, to what extent has there been any true engagement with the broader question of whether sexual identity, per se, is socially understandable in Southasia? Is the wider population really thinking about sexual identities, its own or that of others? If not, this would inevitably have far-reaching implications for advancing rights for same-sex relationships within a framework of 'identity'. This line of questioning is well worth pursuing in the current context, when even the act of men and women dancing together can be perceived all over the region as 'breaking down' the moral fabric of society.
For the unassuming woman or man attracted to her or his own sex, to come suddenly into contact with 'the community' and the obtuse pantheon that makes up 'LGBT speak', albeit in English, is rather like learning a new alphabet. Abruptly and unquestioningly, the old human emotion of desire is being discussed as 'types' of people. Sexual behaviours are being elevated to 'lifestyles', and phrases such as 'coming out', 'in the closet' and 'queer visibility' begin to leap out from all directions. What do 'same-sex-desiring' people make of these concepts buzzing around them? More to the point, as these concepts slowly percolate into familiar parlance, what purpose does this terminology serve?
Last year, this writer began to think over some of these questions with the aim of discussing them with a group of same-sex-desiring women in Bangalore and Delhi. The aim of this study was to understand how this cross-section of women relates to the idea of a 'lesbian identity'. During initial discussions, I was met with a series of blank looks. A gay activist friend told me that unless the LGBT community talks about sexual desire among people of the same sex, there would be no end to the injustices felt by people with same-sex desire. Naming of same-sex desire is the first step towards making things better for lesbians and gays in India, he said. 'Visibility', he emphasised, is needed in order for rights to be attained – at least, this is the claim. Indeed, visibility and rights seem to be the overarching framework for LGBT debates (see accompanying story, "Visibility versus privacy").
I had always assumed the language of rights to be a powerful one, on which we could always hang our sorrows. But in the current context, this tool also began to seem as perhaps the least useful for dealing with what seemed to be the primary concern of women in same-sex relationships: how to minimise hurt to their families when confronted with "different" daughters. The rhetoric of rights is clearly a convenient and acceptable language, one that serves an important purpose for activists engaging with the state. Issues of lifestyle and 'personhood' are significantly more acceptable than are matters of sexual activity. But by what mandate do activists speak on behalf of a population of women who desire women, and who has consented to this? Perhaps the reality of the situation could be that women do not really feel marginalised, or at least to the extent that the activists are suggesting; perhaps, in fact, they prefer to be identified by something other than with respect to those with whom they have sex.