Number 6

I ask my mother what kajra re means, while I am grabbing some milk from the fridge.

It’s the name of a hit song from the Bollywood movie Bunty aur Babli, and quite a hot a tune.

She glances upward for a second, considering how she will explain it to me. “Kajra re means…,” she then starts moving her eyes around, while her head is bouncing in that particular way which is intrinsically Indian. She continues this, as if her movement is a working definition. I must be looking at her confused, so she tries to explain herself, “to play with your eyes…,” and she is pointing at her eyes as she says this. She then breaks out into some other song that uses that term.

“So it’s only used for girl?” I ask.

“Ha, only a girl could be kajra re, a boy can’t.” She shakes her head, at the absurdity of this. “If a guy is kajra re, then he is,” and at this point she put her one palm out and hits the wrist of her other hand with it.

It’s a motion I have seen before. I have seen hijra’s, Pakistani eunuch transvestites, do this motion. They occupy a strange role in Pakistan. They are commonly prostitutes, who also beg to get by. They are called into dance at functions like weddings. But, what I found the most oddest, they are considered to be able to give out blessings.

I remember one time when I was in Karachi a few years back, having ice-cream on the boulevard in the car, my mother called over a hijra, and asked her to wish good tidings for her son. The hijra came over to where I was seated and started reciting this litany of prayers over me, “Oh Allah get him a good job, oh Allah let him make good money, oh Allah let him prosper.” While the hijra gave me her benedictions, she was slapping her palm with her wrist. My mother looked pleased, while I sat feeling weird.

But back in the present she is explaining to me the importance of gender roles. “If a man starts doing things that girls do, then he is a number 6.” She is laughing because she thinks she is making a joke.

“Number 6?”

“Gay.”

I stare at her blankly for a moment, and do a half-smile. I put the milk back in the fridge. Give her a general nod. I feel the need to leave the kitchen immediately.

“A man should behave like a man, and not do girl things.” I hear this and walk out of the kitchen.


Later, I am cleaning my room and my sister is using my computer.

“I can’t wait till my birthday,” she exclaims to me. “You have to take me shopping.”

I stop and smile at her. “You want me to help you pick out a outfit?”

“Two outfits. I am going out twice. And this one night this guy is going to be there…,” her voice trails off becoming dreamy.

I laugh at her. My sister doesn’t formally know that I am gay. She might as well. But for some reason, I can’t bring myself to tell her. I come quite close, but I can’t seem to find the right moment.

“So you can be my shopping consultant. So make sure you clear out a week for me. I need new shoes, something sexy.”

“Slutty?”

“No, not slutty, sexy, like I’m a good girl, but hot.” She leans back a bit, tilts her head down, and looks up at me with her eyes rolled up, to demonstrate exactly what she means. “Look at him, dont you think he is cute?” She is smiling. She is perusing some online photo album which features a fair number of pictures of this guy she likes. “But he’s a slut.” She is clicking. “He looks weird in this picture.” Click. “He’s so thuggish.” I pause occasionally to look at these pics. She gushes, “oh he’s so cute."

I look at the guy. He is cute. It’s scary me and my sister have similar tastes in guys. I nod.

“I have to look hot for my birthday,” she exclaims again. And then my sister launches into a list of all the things she is doing to ensure that she will look good. Her zits are a concern to her, and she is drinking lot’s of water, and using a army of facial cleansing products to give her clear and radiant skin.

She sounds like me. Our likeness frightens me. These are the things that I think about. She sounds like my inside voice realized. Of course, I think I would go for slutty over just sexy.