my panties catching on fire, undocumented gay bangladeshi men cooking for my mother and i, your local uncle is queer, and the choice we make to live
ur uncle is gay u just don't want to see it
I began my day holding a blow dryer over my wet pair of lemon-printed panties next to my bedroom window, staring at the small black hole formed right where my butt crack would begin. I was fully aware that my neighbors could probably see me from afar, a girl blow-drying her ginormous panties. But I couldn’t bring myself to care. I had been too lazy to be a real human and actually go do my laundry properly, but resorted to washing one pair of panties in the shower. I was busy feeling slightly proud of myself for getting out of bed and actually taking a shower instead of thinking about the hoards of dirty clothes growing in the corner of my room.
While blow-drying my underwear, I stared at the hole and the black discoloration around it. In my first attempt to dry it, I had clipped my underwear over my stove in the kitchen with the fire on while I mindlessly scrolled through TikTok. But alas, the wind took over and shook the panties off the flimsy plastic hanger, and fell onto the stove. To my relief but also left completely dumbfounded by my luck, my pantie did not set on fire. The underwear laid next to the stove, a piece of the underwear burnt, leaving it charred and stained with ash. I hurried over to the stove, feeling pathetic imagining myself in front of my apartment on a wildfire and how I would’ve had to explain to my mother, firefighters, and the rest of the world that I accidentally burned down our home because of a pair of underwear. I lifted the panties, brushing off the ash.
Still wearable I suppose, I thought to myself. I touched it, realizing it was still wet, and turned to my blow dryer after waiting for my charred panties to cool off.
Later in the evening, as I was hiding under my covers in bed (not sure what exactly I was hiding from?), my mom came into my room, zipping on her jacket. Come do grocery shopping with me, she said. You haven’t left the house in days.
She was right. I was in a slump. But I didn’t have any plans to get out of it anytime soon. It was too comforting to leave. I moaned, thinking of every possible excuse so I didn’t have to go.
“Ma, I’m tired.”
“Ma, I have work to do.”
“Ma, I’m not feeling well.”
“Ma, I think I have a UTI.”
“Ma, It’s too far.”
The last excuse wasn’t entirely false. The Bangladeshi markets where we typically did all of our grocery shopping were a 20 min walk. 15 minutes if I had my headphones in and was in a rush but 30 minutes if I was walking with my mom (she says it’s because she’s shorter than me).
But then she told me we would eat at one of my favorite restaurants, and I quickly put on my jeans. I hated how she knew that food would be a successful bribe, but I was too excited about the prospect of eating my favorite food than being prideful.
We reached the restaurant after crossing paths with my mom’s friends, haggling with the owners of grocery stores over eggplants, and getting our eyebrows threaded—which took a whopping two hours. By the end of what felt like an excursion for me as I hadn’t left the house for an embarrassing number of days, I became eager to finally eat, as was my mother. I stared at the wide array of food behind the glass staring at me, my mouth watering. Spicy curries, crispy bhajis, grilled fish, slow-cooked roasted chicken. My stomach grumbled, realizing that I hadn’t eaten much in the past week. I was suddenly ready to eat everything.
I looked around as my mom went to use the restroom, holding a place in the line for us. It was already reaching dinner time and the restaurant was flooded with men which was usual during this time of the day. Tables of Bangladeshi middle-aged men in groups, who had just come back from their laborious jobs. Most of them were undocumented and worked as taxi drivers, construction workers, vendors, or other physically demanding jobs. But all of them had one thing in common. They were all bachelors. Each of them had their own story and the label “bachelor” morphed into various definitions depending on the uncle. Some of the men came to America at a young age to achieve the American dream, sending money back home and becoming the sole breadwinner for their families, and their families’ family, and their families’ family’s family, leaving them no opportunity to ever get married Other men had a wife and children back home but had been waiting years to obtain a green card and by the time their application progressed, their children were already grown and established. With no partner waiting for them at home with a freshly cooked warm meal on a cold winter day, they all turn to this restaurant, filled with workers that were also lonely immigrants, acting as a hub to remind them all of home.
I turned back to the buffet of food, the men behind the glass preparing boxes and plates of bhaath. Until this very moment, I never really noticed them before. I mean, of course, I noticed them behind the counter as the men that worked at the restaurant, but I never really looked at them. I silently observed each of them while I stood next to the line (well, more like a crowd because neat lines do not exist in Bengali restaurants) of customers as they carried on with their roles. They were all probably in their 30s to 40s. One of them packed food, another received orders from customers, and others came back and forth from the kitchen behind them refilling food that quickly disappeared during the dinner rush hour.
But even during the crazed busyness, the workers did not yell at each other to go faster, did not brush off, or move their hands in a certain brusque rough manner, did not hurry, did not collide into each other before bursting into a fury as I’ve seen at other Bengali restaurants I’ve been to. Instead, there was this sense of tenderness each of them shared. How when passing through each other in the narrow space behind the counter, they softly placed their hand on the other’s shoulder delicately, before swiftly passing through. Or the way they would quietly motion to each other with careful consideration if one of the trays of food was almost finished. It was this fondness that they had for each other, but not in the traditional sense charged with erotic sensualness. Rather a gentleness and care that they shared.
I looked at the faces of each of the workers. How their eyebrows were plucked carefully, their haircuts styled into a modern fashion, and their clothes as well, but still humble—nothing that stood out in particular in the crowds of Bengali men. But still, there were subtle accessories that I noticed. Like all of them wearing multiple rings on their polished fingers and their carefully tucked-in sweaters. While subdued, something felt different than most Bengali men that I knew.
My mother finally came back to the line, realizing that we were next. As my mom asked for our usual order, my mind was still elsewhere. I watched the man behind the counter with prim black rectangular glasses, stylish and trendy, ask my mom what we wanted. I took a step closer to the counter, listening in on how the other men spoke. The man that took my mother’s order tone was kind and sensitive, as were the rest of the workers next to him. Suddenly, the way they all spoke felt familiar and comforting to me. Their pauses between their words, weighing with thoughtful consideration. How their voices drew out their vowels longer, which reminded me of my own friends.
Then suddenly, it all dawned on me. How the Bengali men behind the counter preparing my food and I were not so different from one another. That while we all yearned and craved for the very food that sat between us, each of them reflected each other, reflected me, and thus me reflecting them all. We were all queer.
I felt silly for not seeing it earlier even though I had been going to this restaurant my entire life. I had realized that while this restaurant was a safe hub for the bachelors in this neighborhood starving for food and community, it was also a nucleus of protection for the queer restaurant workers.
I think of how the queer community has functioned since the beginning of time (or at least since homosexuality and transness were violently colonized) is dependent on the one tool we’ve used consistently as not only an act of resistance but an armor of protection; our word of mouth. How “gossip” or news travels like wildfire in hopes of solidarity and shielding each other from harm. Whether it’s about which neighborhood to avoid late at night, an owner of a boutique is bigoted, a cafe that’s okay with hiring non-binary folks, which bouncer is a transphobic predator, a queer-friendly restaurant that’s safe to hold hands with your partner publicly, the cool new hip queer bookstore, and hidden underground clubs where we can exist freely. I think about how my friends and I practice this with each other, but also with other queer strangers.
Of course, the greater queer community has its own sub-communities. How most of my friends were young and brown but also grew up in America. How the recent word-of-mouth tale was about this new club scene that was popular amongst Black and brown queers. I looked back at the workers and imagined their own community. Middle-aged undocumented Bengali queer men that immigrated to America. While our identities overlapped, it was obvious that our communities did not as I was an American-born citizen with a Western-approved college degree living at home with my parents (as most of my friends were), while they were not.
Behind the thin glass, their tenderness was soft but also forceful with a sense of protectiveness over one another. I realized finally that this restaurant was not only a hub for the bachelor middle-aged men sitting at tables but also a safe hub that hired queer Bengali men that left their homes for reasons I can presume, trying to survive in this odd country that granted their freedom in some ways but not in others.
I thought about how the word of mouth worked in their own community, and how it led them to this very restaurant. How like a domino effect, perhaps a queer Bengali man that worked in the kitchen invited his friend that was new to the country and was looking for a job, who then eventually invited his own friends to work there too, and so forth. Alas, creating a restaurant that not only funneled their livelihood but functioned as a community. A sanctuary.
As my mother took the bag from one of the workers, we started to make our way back outside. Walking down the pathway and crossing by the men at their tables chewing on paan and slurping on their nightly chai, I looked back and saw the thin glass behind the counter—clear only to me and perhaps a few others, a division between the Bengali queer workers and the customers of men who resembled my own father.
The cool wind hit against my face as we walked home. I thought about when my mother first told me how most of the men that came to eat at the restaurant were lonely bachelors and to never go there alone without her or my father as it was unsafe. I remembered how she also told me that they often lived in a cramped apartment with other men as roommates. I remember feeling sorry for the men when I first heard this, pitying them as their lives must be isolated without a wife. But after the realization I had at the restaurant, I was baffled and had the strongest urge to laugh but also gasp.
Until that moment, I had believed that the glass acted as a barrier between straight Bengali male men and the queer Bengali workers. Burly men in oversized black jackets, greying beards stained hastily with red henna. But I began to ponder about how many of the customers in the restaurant were also possibly queer.
It dawned on me that I believed they were denied the choice to marry and have kids because they were too busy supporting their aging parents and siblings back in their motherland and knew most of the uncles as “lonely bachelors”. But perhaps all along, this was a choice. A choice not to marry. A choice not to have kids. Or a choice not to be with a woman.
Then I thought about how oftentimes, most of these bachelors had grown old before finally returning back to Bangladesh, marrying a young woman. How sickening this felt to me. But what was the reason behind this marriage? Was it surrendering? Was it for companionship because of the sheer loneliness of not being able to be with someone they truly wanted to be with? To obtain a full-time young, light-skinned pretty, and hearty caretaker because they didn’t want to die alone? I felt sad when thinking about these possible scenarios of an “unfulfilled life” but also annoyed. Gay men are men, after all, their superiority of being men still exists in some form.
But still, was it possible that these men that I thought as so alien from myself, my friends, and my community could be a reflection of my queerness as well?
While my thoughts were brewing with infinite possibilities of a world I had not noticed earlier, my mother interrupted me back into reality.
"You’re awfully quiet. What are you thinking about, silly girl?” my mother laughed.
As if a shiny sharp needle popped a balloon, my thoughts flooded out. Before I fully realized what I had just blurted out, I went on and said, “Did you realize that most of the workers at the restaurant are gay?”
Her eyes widened in confusion. Shame reached me as I realized what I just said. A pang of regret as I knew I entered a dangerous unspeakable zone with my mother. But also felt remorseful wondering if I potentially outed these men and risked their safe haven. The air around us stiffened. This was not a beautiful epiphany like it was for me, but a bewildering strange question to my mother.
She was quiet and I expected her to shut down this shameful conversation and to rid of these haram questions and ideas I was having. But to my surprise, she turned to me and asked quietly, “How do you know this? How can you tell?”
I felt startled by her question because she was right. How could I tell? I knew that if I had told my friends my observations, they would’ve caught on right away. As queer people, there are certain inklings we just know. It isn’t always a specific style that made it clear if someone was queer, but rather a…gut feeling. A knowing. A vibe check, my friends would call it humorously. So I began to tell her my intricate observations. As I shared my thoughts, I realized I found it difficult to fully convey what I meant, at least to my mother, before finally ending with “I just know.”
I watched her take in everything I said. A few quiet moments passed by before she confessed that she didn’t understand or get what I was trying to say so, therefore, it wasn’t true. That the men behind the counter were good proper Bengali men working hard at their jobs. We continued walking, our pockets in our hands, the plastic bag of food hitting my leg. I looked up at the sky above us. The moon had started to reveal itself.
I took a deep breath and said, “You can’t see what you don’t want to see.”
She became silent. The moon felt like it was going to swallow me whole. Or at least I wanted it to anyways.
Suddenly in an outburst, my mother finally exclaimed in the quiet neighborhood. “How can they be gay? They’re Bengali! They’re men! They’re just like us! Why would they choose to be gay!?” Shock and repulsion struck me as she continued asking ridiculous questions. I wanted to shake her with anger, tell her she was stupid, and that her questions were stupid. Choose? Seriously, choose?! I thought to myself. To fight her and look lowly at her.
I turned to her, seething with anger, ready to look her in the eye and spit back. But then, I saw her face. And my anger melted away. My mother’s fluffy cheeks, doe-like eyes big with deep sincerity. No disgust in sight but utter confusion, much like a child. How is it that she could be my mother and my baby all at once?
I thought back to when I was a child and use to ask her absurd questions with obvious answers.
“Ma, why is the sky blue?”
“Ma, why is Abu’s nose so big?”
“Ma, why do you have a bald spot here?”
”Ma, will anyone ever love me?”
What she had told me was so bizarre but I couldn’t help but soften at her child-like innocent but also hurtful questions. I took her into my arms as we continued to stroll, bringing her closer to me, “Oh maa… Amar ma. No one would ever purposely choose to be discarded in this world as they know who they are is asking for death. But still, while knowing all this, they accept this.” My grip around her grows tighter with each breath I take. “They don’t choose this ma, but they’re choosing to live. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
I cleared my throat as I realize it no longer sounds like a casual explanation to her questions but a desperate pleading. I wondered if I was starting to look suspicious. I looked back at her painfully, her face twisting slightly back and forth. I can tell what she is thinking as I am my mother’s daughter. It is as if I can see her battling with herself inside. I watched her face twitching before finally falling flat. Alas, she has chosen to settle. Like us all, she too has a choice to make. She has chosen to stay confused. In a way, she chose to not see the possibilities of a world unknown to her.
I wanted to continue trying to explain and give her everything I had, but was far too tired. I also decided to give up. I wondered why I wanted her to see the men behind the counters so badly. But maybe, just maybe, I secretly desired for her to see me. By seeing the men who prepared the food we would eat together at our dinner table, she would finally see me.
I began to think back to why I had my depressive episode in the first place and why I refused to leave the house for several days in a row. Then it came to me.
It was nighttime and we were getting ready for bed. I had finished a three-hour call with a special someone and walked out of my room, my smile so bright I thought it could break my face. My mother peered at me with a mysterious smirk, “I know who you’ve been talking to.”
I freeze and began panicking. Thinking of a number of excuses (now that I think about it, I spend a huge chunk of my life brainstorming excuses) to explode.
“You have a booooyfriend,” she sings cheerfully. I chuckled nervously, dreading where this conversation was heading. I deny her (gross) accusations and went to bed.
My phone pinged as I got a text.
“I love you, baby.” I read it in her voice and blushed hard.
“To the moon,” I reply, anticipating for her reply.
My phone pinged again. “And back.”
My heart swelled with love thinking of all the times I saw the moon and saw her. How each of us would look up at the sky, searching for the moon, and know we were looking at it, thinking of each other. My breath slowed down, feeling safe and plush.
I heared my mother’s footsteps who is now taking her insulin. My breath suddenly felt heavy, thinking how I can never tell her any of this. I want to ask my mother, who feels like my daughter but also is my very best friend, thousands of silly questions.
“Ma, is it possible to love someone so much that you feel like you’re both alive but dying?”
“Ma, am I being insecure and jealous?”
“Ma, do you think Allah will be angry, not out of disgust, but out of jealousy that I love her a smidge much than I love Him?”
There are so many things I wish to ask. But I also long to give her an answer I finally have to a question I once asked as a small child. That I know now wholeheartedly, that someone does love me. And not just anyone, but her. Sweet, sweet, her. Her.
My mother asks for the keys, and I am snapped back to reality. We entered the apartment, washed our hands, and took out the food we’d been waiting to eat.
She opens the box and pours out the dish. The aroma of the food fills the apartment and starves my stomach.
“Don’t forget to say Bismillah,” she said. I smile and promise I wouldn’t.
There are so many things I wish to tell my mother. I stared at my plate of tehari, made by the hands of the gay Bengali men behind the counter, who too have mothers they wish to tell about their lovers.
I closed my eyes, whispered Bismillah, and pushed the food into my mouth. I looked at the other side of the table, my mom staring at me with admiration, her only daughter eating the food she bought. I saw her and smiled. Because this was the choice I made. To see her, to see my lover, to see the men at the restaurant, and to see myself. But for now, I will eat plates of tehari until my stomach could bear no more. And that is the choice I am willing to make.
Now i want to go to new york and find the bookstores and cafes brown queer poeple frequent
Crode