Queer’s Pride

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Somewhere stuck between frequent violations of traffic lights, carefree rather careless denizens, KFC advertisement banners and tintless white buildings was a candour cast congregation of “community and supporters”, a term i’m keen to explain so as to how I got to it, but the tenets of a marginally good raconteur wouldn’t let me present it now, I promise we’ll get to that assuring anecdote. The congregation or the band of people belonging from a sundry of culture, nations, states and age groups screams that the awareness concepts have not been barking against the wrong tree.

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The first step into the realm of an ‘eccentric’ culture territory that demands to be normal, physically, was followed by me asking for a pamphlet of the Delhi Queer Pride. The guy, absolutely courteous, passed on two of them. I was further scintillated and provided with the accouterments consisting of a nose deep mask and a badge that squeaked “NO GOING BACK!”. The best thing about the Delhi Queer Pride would be that it came prepared with an instruction manual a dyslexic would find to be a cake walk. No offense, heh.

Speaking of simple logic.

Speaking of simple logic.

The experience, motivation and actions are awe astounding.

The experience, motivation and actions are awe astounding.

The actions of the Pride Parade were simple, Demands, Acknowledgement, Celebration and Protests. It was a few miles long walk filled with chants against the law, society, moral policing and a plea for acceptance into the motley and assorted society of India, dance with transgenders, homosexuals and often with people whose orientation you wouldn’t know or care about because, hey, that’s the target! A gregarious society. Not an egregious one. Chants louds enough to if not shatter but to cause a few ear drum solos oxidized the air into an aura of candour.

Wit's ever pervading, is candour?

Wit’s ever pervading, is candour?

But question, WHY am I writing this? Why should you give a Four-letter-word? Why are you reading this? What’s up with people who knew and could but they didn’t go? Why doesn’t Abe Lincoln come alive and execute a few four-scores?
Questions. Questions need to be asked. All the time. Because “What’s the most important thing I should do right now?” is pretty debatable but “Why am I not doing it?” is not. The people present in the Queer Pride apparently did not believe in dick measuring contests. They were there for the cause. The whole lot of them.  Pictures can always explain what happened but the quintessential cardinal gist of the place and what you absorb when you leave cannot. It answers a lot of questions and it provides umpteen.
You get what the homosexual society wants, that they’re even more closer to regular human beings than we thought, that they ARE regular human beings. A bit aberrant perhaps. We’re all. We’re all mad here.

Sight for the gods. Or the bible thumpers atleast.

Sight for the gods. Or the bible thumpers atleast.

It answers a question I was asked while returning from a Death Metal concert “What is democracy?”, and you get light from the weirdest shitholes to the glory ones, pun intended. Democracy is getting down to the streets and asking for what you think you need. And keep on it until you get it or are told why.
That’s the purpose of getting down. Newspaper and Television are the regular KeysarSoze, something to keep the apes in the line. This is the point of Delhi Queer Pride, to embrace what’s real. Because questions need to be answered.

Also, because relaxing your posterior by sitting on it at your home is a paradox.
True to my word I would now explain why I called the congregation “community and supporter”, A gay guy comes up to me, and this is not a premise to a joke, So a gay guy comes up to me and checks me out and says “Community or Supporter?”, it took me a while to understand the guy was hitting on me, so yes folks, this could be one of the best pick-up lines in the season.
What you need to do in reply is embrace their sexual orientation and say “No, a supporter” with a hug or two, or embrace yours.

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