It was the night of the Kaikōura earthquake. I was with Ashish and Akhil in their flat. We were sitting around the hookah and drinking beer when the earth came to life two minutes after midnight. The flat creaked and slowly evolved into a low rumble. The furniture rattled around us. I kept a close eye on the TV as it rocked from side to side.
“I better head back,” I told Ashish and Akhil as I made my way to the door.
I wanted to check on my flatmates who were living down the road. An earthquake at this magnitude meant potential aftershocks and tsunamis. I would rather be home if we were instructed to evacuate or go to higher ground. Thankfully, we were relatively safe in Ōtautahi with most of the damage reported in Te Whanganui-a-Tara. I was in bed reading updates on my phone when I received an unexpected message.
“Are you still awake?” Rakim asked me in the message. “I’m scared.”
I had met Rakim a few weeks earlier on Grindr. He had a blank profile with no username or photos. All he had was a photo of a crumpled red duvet.
“Hi.” This was my introduction to Rakim.
I wanted to be polite. After exchanging a few messages, Rakim finally reciprocated with some photos. If the photos were anything to go by, he was incredibly handsome. He had dark wavy hair, big brown eyes, and a strong jawline. Everything about him was perfectly sculpted.
“What do you do?” Rakim asked me.
“I study linguistics,” I told Rakim. “On the vocal satisfaction of transmasculine people.” “Oh,” Rakim responded. I sensed confusion. “I’m studying too.”
I did not expect him to know much about my field of study, but our conversation did not flow either. He eventually revealed more about himself the more time we spent talking.
“I’m from Kerala,” Rakim told me. “I’m also doing a master’s degree at Lincoln University.” I later found out Rakim only told me a half-truth. It was a postgraduate diploma. Conveniently, he lived near me on Middleton Road.
“Do you want to meet up?” I asked out of curiosity.
“No, I just want someone to talk to,” Rakim responded. “It’s lonely being an international student in New Zealand. I should go now. I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“Nice talking to you then.” I wished him good night and then I went to sleep.
“Do you want me to come over?” I asked Rakim following his message. The earth came to life once again as we experienced an aftershock. I did not know what else to do.
“Yes. Can you?” Rakim replied, and he sent me his address.
I waited until my flatmates had gone to their rooms before I snuck out of the flat. Rakim was standing there in his pyjamas on Middleton Road.
“Hi! You must be Rakim,” I greeted the stranger.
Rakim made a gesture to tell me to be quiet. He led me down the driveway, and we hurried towards a unit. He carefully unlocked the door and once again made a gesture to instruct me to be quiet. I guess he did not want to wake up the others in the unit.
I made my way towards Rakim’s bedroom and moments later, I was lying there in his single bed in silence. What was I doing? I hardly knew him, and I was lying in his bed.
I brought my arm around and held Rakim for a while in the dark. I kissed him, but I felt no spark. We spent the night together anyway. The next morning, I was still in his bed.
“We need to stay here until they leave,” Rakim whispered in my ear. He pointed at the door.
I was lying there in a small stuffy room. I was next to a stranger I had only met the night before. We lay there listening to the sound of a young family getting ready for their day. It was midday before we finally heard the door slam shut – silence.
“Okay,” Rakim whispered. “Let me check if they’re gone.”
Rakim got up and left the room. A few seconds later, he poked his head through the door. We were now free to leave his room. He took me to the kitchen. He stood there in his underwear in front of the stove. When it was ready, he handed me a mug of chaya.
“They’re North Indian,” Rakim told me. “They don’t know I’m on Grindr.”
Rakim and I stood there in silence sipping away at our mugs of chaya. He spiced the beverage with pods of cardamom.
“I should go to work now,” Rakim announced as he knocked back his chaya.
Rakim took my mug from me, washed it, and put mine away back in the cupboard while he placed his in the sink. I realised that he did not want his flatmates to know that he had brought a guest over. I would later come to learn that he was not actually scared; he was just in need of company. That evening set the precedent for our relationship. Little did I know that he was going to play a major role in my life over the next few years.
What was supposed to be a chance encounter turned into a routine. Rakim worked split shifts at a kebab shop. I would wait for him until he finished his morning shift. I would wait with him at a cafe until his evening shift began. Sometimes he would come to my flat. I would sneak him into my room. I did not know why he needed discretion since I was already out to my flatmates.
“Can you help me with my CV?” Rakim asked me one day. “I keep getting rejected.”
Rakim needed a job related to his degree to apply for residency. I agreed to help him. As I continued to help him, I grew fond of his company. I began to develop feelings for him. The more time we spent together, the more he told me of his story.
“Dad wants me to get married,” Rakim told me. “My parents don’t know I’m gay.”
Rakim used study as an excuse to escape, but moving to Aotearoa was not a simple feat. He had received a scholarship of ₹20,000, but that was not enough. He had convinced his mum to remortgage her house with the bank to borrow a further ₹ 2,100,000. I was stunned when he told me that the annual interest was 15 per cent.
“This is my favourite movie,” Rakim told me as we watched Dostana (2008) from my laptop. The movie was a Queer-coded buddy comedy. I could tell Rakim saw himself in those characters even though it was fiction. We paused the movie several times, as we made out in my bed.
“I don’t know what I would do without you,” Rakim told me as he kissed me on the lips.
The more I learnt about Rakim, the more I learnt about his family and his friends back home. I lived vicariously through his stories to learn what it is like to be Queer in Kerala.
“My best friend Advik works as a fashion designer,” Rakim told me one afternoon when I asked him if he had any gay friends back home.
“We met online. I nearly walked out on our ‘our’ date when I realised that he had edited his photos. Anyway, I gave him a chance because I needed him to take me home on his scooter.”
Rakim and Advik were open about their friendship, but neither of their parents knew they were gay. Unlike Rakim, Advik did not have the same excuse. He did not have the money to leave the country.
“Advik’s getting married,” Rakim later informed me.
“Advik? Really? To whom?” I was surprised by the news.
Of the few times I spoke to Advik, he was not interested in getting married at all.
“She’s a university lecturer,” Rakim told me while he scrolled through his phone uninterested. “She teaches economics. It doesn’t matter. He’s only doing it to please his mum.”
“It’s good news. It means he doesn’t need to hide about sleeping with men anymore,” Rakim continued. He sounded happy for Advik. “His mum won’t care as long as they have children.”
Rakim saw my expression and put down his phone. I was in disbelief.
Rakim told me that for many of his friends, getting married was their only route to freedom. They fulfilled their obligations once they were married. They were then free to do whatever they wanted. I knew that this was great news for Advik. What about his wife? Was this our future?
With the limited time we had together between his shifts and my commitments at the university, our main mode of communication was through food. Rakim made me beef fry, idli, wada, and sambar. I made him classic Cantonese dishes – without pork.
“I’ll teach you how to make beef fry,” Rakim proposed one morning. “This is my favourite dish, but I can only eat this when I’m with Dad”.
Rakim’s father was Muslim, and his mother was Hindu. Naturally, his grandparents disapproved of the relationship. His parents fought fiercely for their relationship to be recognised by the family. Eventually, his parents ran away and had Rakim in secret.
The situation got better until it got worse, and Rakim’s parents eventually separated. His dad remarried a Muslim woman and moved to Sharjah for work. His mum was still alone in Kerala. Some love stories were not meant to last.
“Cut the beef into cubes,” Rakim instructed me while he closely observed me from the counter. “Get the pressure cooker, and with the meat, put in two cinnamon quills, two bay leaves, two pods of star anise three cloves, four cardamom pods, ginger, garlic paste, meat masala.”
“The masala must be from Kerala otherwise it won’t taste right,” Rakim interjected quickly. “Finally, some black pepper powder, coriander powder, turmeric powder, chilli powder, salt, fresh mint, and some yoghurt to tenderise the meat.”
As I followed Rakim’s instructions, I felt a sense of security. At home, we were just like a regular couple, but in public we had to mask our relationship.
“This is my friend,” Rakim introduced me at his graduation. “He’s just my neighbour.” “Don’t tell anyone we’re together,” Rakim instructed me. “And don’t talk about what you’re studying. They might suspect something.”
As the ceremony progressed, the number of Rakim’s classmates asking about my connection increased. Eventually, it became too much. I felt like an imposter. I found a quiet spot near the library and had a panic attack.
“What are you doing?” Rakim asked me when he found me alone sitting on the stone steps. “We should go back. My classmates will be looking for me.”
There were times when our values would clash.
“I don’t want you to hang out with the North Indians anymore,” Rakim shouted at me one afternoon. He had found out that I had been with Ashish and Akhil. It was one of our first and only fight.
“You need to choose between me or those North Indians,” Rakim continued. “You don’t understand. They’re a bad influence on you.”
“What’s wrong with spending time with my friends?” I asked Rakim innocently.
“I don’t like it when you’re with them,” Rakim argued. “You’re just wasting your time.” “But they’re my friends,” I cried in desperation.
“Why do you want to hurt me? Do you want me to kill myself?” Rakim threatened me. I knew this was rhetorical.
“I’m going home. I’ll let you decide,” Rakim announced before he stormed out of the room.
I was scared. It was not the first time that I had experienced Rakim’s rage. A few days earlier, we had been out for dinner, and I had been unimpressed with him. He had spent the whole evening on his phone.
“Why are you always on your phone?” I told Rakim as we got in the car.
“It’s because I miss home. You won’t understand. I need to know what’s happening with my friends,” Rakim barked at me.
“We’re on a date, we’re supposed to talk,” I told Rakim. “Pull over. I’ll walk home.”
I watched Rakim grip the steering wheel. Rakim put his foot on the accelerator and sped down Suva Street before he came to an immediate stop.
My heart raced as I began to panic. I lost control of my body as I broke down in tears and I began to hyperventilate. I was having a panic attack.
Rakim realised what he had done and tried to soothe me.
“Don’t let your flatmates see you like this,” Rakim instructed me as he led me into my flat. I dried my tears and slowed down my breathing. I put on a smile as I greeted my flatmates. When Rakim stormed out of my room after our argument, I sat in my room alone. I remembered how I felt when Jono tried to kill himself. I did not want to go through the same situation again. I complied with his request.
“Where have you been?” Akhil asked me. This was the last time I saw him before he moved to Tāmaki Makaurau. “Ashish said you stopped replying to his messages.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve just been super busy,” I lied.
“Can we still hang out?” Akhil responded with a hint of disappointment. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”
“No,” I lied again.
To this day, I still regret how I treated my friends.
“I have a job offer!” Rakim told me excitedly. “I start in two weeks.”
After weeks of searching, Rakim was finally offered a job at a dairy processing plant near Ōamaru. I was excited for him as it meant he was one step closer to applying for residency.
“I want you to help me,” Rakim requested. “Can you come with me to Ōamaru?” “Okay,” I agreed hesitantly. I was beginning to fall behind on my master’s coursework.
The next two weeks was a mad dash. I found him a car and helped him pack. The only thing missing was a place to live in Ōamaru. Unfortunately, there were few options in Ōamaru, so we ended up in Waimate.
“My partner and I are looking for a place close to his work,” I told the property manager.
The property manager was showing us around the flat. It was a unit across the road from the iconic St Patrick’s Basilica. Rakim glared at me.
“This is a great option,” the property manager told us as she showed us around. “It’s a short walk from the town and the plant is just down the road. You and your partner will be happy here.” “Why did you say that?” Rakim scolded me as we got back to the car. There was a tenseness in his voice. “We need to look somewhere else now. What if she knows someone from the plant?”
After three days in Ōamaru, we were still unsuccessful in finding Rakim any accommodation. There were limited options and the places available were either too expensive or too damp. Some of the rentals looking for flatmates were not receptive to his presence.
Every night, we shifted to a different motel. Rakim was paranoid that the motel owners would suspect we were a couple.
It was Rakim’s first day at work and we were still struggling to find him accommodation. I spent his first day alone in the motel. The room was cold but overlooked the port and the harbour. I watched the seagulls on the breakwater and dreamt of a day when I no longer needed to lie.
We finally found Rakim a place to stay on the fourth day. We found a room for board with a young Pakistani family. They were happy for him to move in immediately. Relief.
“Will you be back soon?” Rakim asked me as he dropped me off at the bus stop. “Of course,” I responded confidently. “We’ll make it work.”
We took turns visiting each other in the first few months. Rakim was still paranoid, so every visit we stayed at a different motel. We would request two or more beds and on check-out, we ruffled the bed sheets to “trick” the owners.
“We can’t keep doing this,” I told Rakim as I was waiting for my bus back to Ōtautahi. “We can’t afford to pay for a motel every time I came to visit. We need to get you your own place.”
Thankfully, I found Rakim a one-bedroom apartment. This time I did not make the mistake of revealing our relationship to the real estate agent.
When we finally moved into the one-bedroom apartment, we had a brief moment of normality. This was before Rakim found out that a colleague lived in a neighbouring unit.
“Keep the curtains closed,” Rakim instructed me. “I don’t want the neighbours to know that we’re sleeping in the same bed.”
Rakim decided our only option was to leave Ōamaru when I was there. As soon as I arrived, we hopped into his car, and we spent hours on the road. We drove between rural towns and hoped that we did not know anyone there. I felt like we were on the run. But then again, what were we running from?
“I need you. I don’t know what I’d do with my life if we weren’t together,” Rakim told me one night as we were in bed. We were in Takapō (Lake Tekapo).
“Don’t be silly,” I comforted Rakim. “Why’d you say something like that?”
“I’m serious,” Rakim replied. “I’d kill myself if we were no longer together.”
Between 2017 and 2019, I took over forty bus trips between Ōtautahi and Ōamaru. I spent over 20,000 kilometres on the road, which is the equivalent distance from Aotearoa to India and back. One Christmas Eve, I took a bus down to Ōamaru in the morning and returned to Ōtautahi on the same day. Rakim forgot to tell me that he had volunteered for the Christmas shift. After all, he did not have any family in Aotearoa. I finally got home at ten minutes to midnight.
I saw a lot of Te Waipounamu during this time. I also had a lot of time to reflect on my identity during those journeys up and down the plains of Waitaha. He held my hand as he drove. This was the only time I experienced any physical intimacy in public.
I never told my family about my relationship with Rakim. I pretended I was in Ōtautahi when I was in Ōamaru. I became paranoid that they would discover my lies, so I disabled the geolocation function on my phone. I also stopped posting updates on my social media. My life was dictated by the bus schedule, and my social life soon suffered.
As our relationship progressed, it became more one-sided. When the university invited me to graduate with my master’s degree, I gave Rakim advance notice so he could apply for leave. I told my family not to come for my graduation, as he did not want my family to be there.
“I can’t ask for time off,” Rakim told me days before the event. “It’s too late.”
“I asked you months ago,” I responded angrily. “Don’t come. I don’t want to beg anymore.”
It became quite clear that Rakim was not interested in coming to Ōtautahi. In hindsight, I wonder if all the time I spent on the road was worth it.
As I continued to live a double life between Ōamaru and Ōtautahi, my Queer identity flourished as I attended more Queer events. My first FriGay was both a liberating and terrifying experience. Christchurch Pride at Pegasus Arms on Oxford Terrace hosted it.
These temporary spaces enabled our Queer communities to come together and express themselves in a safe environment. One event led to another, and I attended my first local drag show hosted by Over the Rainbow which headlined Holy Fuq, Nytmare, and Lady Bubbles. I was in awe of how the Queer scene in Ōtautahi had developed since coming out.
“You shouldn’t be going to those kinds of events,” Rakim commented when he found out I was going to FriGay. “I thought you were educated enough to make better decisions.”
I was numb to Rakim’s hollow threats, and my yearning for a sense of community outweighed his unrealistic expectations. If he genuinely cared about me, then he would be in Ōtautahi. I stopped telling Rakim when I attended these events.
I discovered the importance of being part of a wider community even though I felt intimidated as a visual minority in these spaces. When I was in Ōtautahi, I was free to live my life as an openly Queer person, but when I was in Ōamaru, I was back in the closet.
“You need to be honest with yourself,” Peter advised me when I saw him. I was in Te Whanganui-a-Tara for work, and he wanted to know how I was after coming out to my parents. “What you have isn’t a relationship. You need to learn to let go and do what’s best for you.”
Another benefit of being part of a community was that I began to see examples of what it meant to be in a healthy relationship. What we had was not a healthy relationship as Rakim was deliberately keeping me in the closet.
Since the terrorist attacks in Ōtautahi, Rakim had only made one trip to Ōtautahi. I was exhausted with the travelling, and I resented my trips to Ōamaru. As per his request, I moved into a single-room apartment, as he felt unsafe around my flatmates. I thought this would be enough for him to feel a sense of security.
Nevertheless, Rakim continued to make excuses. He told me he had no intention of coming out, but he was unhappy for me to be involved with the wider Queer community. He began to threaten me by weaponising his body. He tried to manipulate my emotions as he had done at the start of our turbulent relationship. What we had was a toxic relationship.
“Why do you keep hurting me?” Rakim accused me. “You really want me to kill myself?” It became clear our relationship was untenable.
On my final trip to Ōamaru, I knew what I had to do. I was ready to turn my back on the closet we had built together in that town.
“Will I see you next weekend?” Rakim asked me.
“Of course,” I lied to him.
I gave him one last kiss and boarded the bus – one last time. It was spring of 2019. I looked beyond the farmland and watched as lightning lit up Ka Kirikiri o te Moana (Southern Alps). The bus was empty. It was just the driver and me on this the empty stretch of road. I was free.
“We’re done,” I told Rakim the next day.
“Why would you say something like this?” Rakim asked me. “You’re trying to kill me?”
I continued to receive a barrage of messages from Rakim. He texted, emailed, and sent messages on Facebook, WhatsApp, and LinkedIn. Notification after notification. I blocked every message and each time he would find another way to contact me. I found breaking up with Rakim harder than coming out to my parents. Fortunately, I had distance on my side, but I lived in constant fear as he had keys to my one-bedroom apartment.
“Can I talk to you?” Rakim begged me. “Can I see you?”
One time I received an unexpected deposit in my bank account. It was from Rakim. “Talk to me,” it said in the reference column of the transaction.
Shortly after, I started seeing Jake. We met playing touch rugby with the Christchurch Heroes. “Just wondering if you’d like your keys back today?” Rakim asked me in an email. He had found my work email address. “I’m in Christchurch. If you can meet me in the city, I can hand them over to you. Please let me know or else I’ll leave.”
I ignored the email as I predicted Rakim would use my keys as a bargaining chip.
“Can you stay with me tonight? I think Rakim is in town, and I’m scared he might turn up unannounced,” I asked Jake.
Like clockwork, Jake and I were on the couch watching Coast versus Country when I heard a knock on the window. It was Rakim.
“Hi!” Rakim shouted excitedly. He waved at me through the sheer curtains.
Rakim’s expression changed from excitement to fear when Jake sat up from the couch. He walked away. That was the last time I saw him in person, but the contact continued.
“We have a package for you,” the receptionist alerted me. I was not expecting mail.
I went downstairs and the receptionist handed me a white package. I tossed it between my hands. There were no return to sender details, but I had an idea. I unwrapped it carefully when I got back to my desk. Relief. It was just a Coca Cola bottle with “Siddie Sid” on the label.
“Just wondering if you got my present?” Rakim asked on LinkedIn. Block.
My last interaction with Rakim came through the mail.
“I hope you are doing well. I’m requesting help,” Rakim asked in an email. He had found my university email address. “I’m going through a bad phase in my life, and I need some mental support. I need to talk to someone. You are the only one who I can talk to openly. Please consider me as a friend and talk to me? I do not have many friends. It is a lot of stress being away from my family. I feel like I am at a point where my mental health is about to crumble. Can we please talk as friends?”
I deleted the email. I felt heartless, but I had to do what was best for me. He was no longer my responsibility. I went home, gathered Rakim’s things, and posted them to him the next day.
“You did the right thing. It’s not your responsibility to be part of his coming out journey,” my therapist told me afterwards. “A partner is there to support you; instead, he’s become dependent on you. It’s not your job to fix him. It’s not your job to be a saviour, Sidney.”
Slowly, I reconnected with my friends. I apologised to Ashish and Akhil. I am grateful for those who stood by me as I rebuilt my life. My greatest regret is that my family still do not know about this chapter of my life. I hope after reading this they will forgive me.
Queer Asian Identities in Contemporary Aotearoa New Zealand
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