From the constant check-ins, I assumed I was not allowed to swallow my saliva as well.

The nurse had informed me twice about this and even mentioned that the anesthesiologist would ask again in the morning. I believe I was thirsty precisely because I was asked not to drink any water. The swarthy night sky coddled the yolk of the sun in the warm June New Delhi air. I didn’t know how to tell him that his very encouragement to live with it made me feel more alone.ĭespite his disapproval, I went into surgery. That my fistulous body was incapable of that wanting, and the only way ahead was to go under the knife. I didn’t know how to tell him that because I feel lonely, sometimes I want to have a body beside me, someone who looks at me with wanting. When he referred to all the married men who have lived twenty years with their fistulae, I wondered how many were like me- young, queer, and alone. I didn’t know how to explain it to him that my fistulous body was incapable of having gay sex. I wondered what his reasons were all the time. My father was unhappy with my decision to go under the knife. The thing about death-like love-is that it reshapes the way we think about the world around us, especially relationships.

The audacity of this b