Let ‘Meethas’/ Sweetness Be!

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[This blog is part of a series exploring The Intersection of Love & Law]

Disclaimer: This story is a fictional re‑imagining of a conversational snippet Aditya and I overheard among a group of students in a canteen. It stayed with us and I took creative liberty to trace the psychosocial implications of such slurs.

For the Reference of the Readers: 

The words ‘Meethe (मीठे)’ or ‘Meetha (मीठा )’, which translate to ‘sweetness’ in the English language, are used as homophobic or sexist slurs for boys who either openly identify with the LGBTQ+ community or those who do not strictly conform to the majoritarian and structured masculine norms of ‘how a boy talks, walks, or even conducts himself’. 

The so-called ‘sweetness’ also reflects the deeply discriminatory and problematic idea of how such boys stick (as one of the properties of sugar or sweetener) and ultimately pollute the heteronormativity of the ‘straight’ men.

Vyakul had another three hours before his next lecture. He was feeling a bit restless and had no idea how to kill time. He couldn’t go back to the hostel because the sword of attendance hung by a thin margin. He reluctantly called Nandan who sat with him in the previous class. At first, he had refused Nandan’s invitation to join him for a snooker game outside campus.

After a couple of rings, Nandan picked up. “Hi, are you still at Snookermania?” he asked. “Oh, no—we came to the chai tapri outside college. Aa ja (Come along)?”

“Okay, will come.” It was more of a resignation than enthusiasm. Vyakul didn’t like the chai tapri mainly because of the smoke odour that constantly hung there, subsuming everything. On reaching the tapri, Nandan waved from the corner bench and asked, “Should I order chai for you?” He was sitting in the corner with three other course-mates. Vyakul had been wishfully thinking that he’d be alone.

“Sure.”

Vyakul slid a stool from another table and sat next to Nandan’s corner, sitting across the table from other course-mates, just in case he didn’t want to indulge in conversations.

“Arrey Vyakul, when we were playing snooker, there was some parade…you know, those meethe guys! They wear ladkiyon waale (girls’) clothes and put on make-up, it looks so yuck.”

All of them laughed at the mention of “meethe,” and one of them said, “Did you guys notice the growing number of meethe these days? It’s growing like anything. I even feel insecure when someone with this illness passes by.”

“Bhai, my problem is I don’t understand what’s wrong with them. Like, don’t they feel any shame or disgust? I can’t even imagine being with a boy.” One other guy visibly jittered while saying this, signalling with his hand how the thought made him pukish.

Nandan, who was convinced that being meethe was a disease, asserted, “So true, bhai. I pray every day that I don’t encounter a meetha whenever I travel in the Metro. As if that wasn’t enough, they’re now asking for legal recognition of their marriage. Just think: when our kids see two men or women as couples—who knows, they might ask for the same?”

Vyakul wasn’t surprised by his friends’ disdain. For his entire childhood, he’d felt the same disdain for himself whenever he felt warmth toward a person of the same sex, but hearing it called an illness triggered him, and he overcame his hesitation:

“It’s not like somebody intentionally decides to be gay or lesbian—it’s how they are, like we guys have our identities, and choices. Nobody compelled us to be the way we are or to like someone against our choice. Come on, don’t you think calling it a disease is wrong?”

Nandan and the others didn’t expect Vyakul to comment; he often shied away from talking. But instinctively, Nandan shot back:

“Bhai, tu meetha hi nikla? Humein doubt tu tha hi.” (“So you turned out to be a meetha yourself? We always suspected you.”)

Vyakul’s discomfort became fuel for them. “Tujhe bhi bhej de us parade mein makeup laga kar”, they joked, laughing hysterically. (“We should send you too to that parade, with make-up.”)

Vyakul had no way to overpower the discomfort except by silence.

He muttered, “Nahi yaar, nahi hoon main meetha!” (“No man, I'm not a meetha!”)

Humiliated, lying awake later, he promised himself he’d never let anyone know. Echoes of meetha and doubts over illness left him gasping for breath. He took out a notebook and wrote while feeling empty in the pit of his stomach:

Who gets to define and decide—

The purity and impurity of my desire and yours,

The morality and immorality of my love and yours;

The acceptance and unacceptance of my choice and yours,

The limits on my expression and yours;

The punishment for my queerness and “unnatural” love,

The reward for your “natural” love;

Queer love is sinful and oppressive,

Yours is sacred and progressive;

My right and yours to marry,

My desire and yours to hold our lovers’ hands;

Is the answer: an individual, the law, or society?

Or must it be defined and decided by any of these?

Isn’t criminalising love devastating? 

Concluding Reflection:

Though the Supreme Court’s verdict in the Navtej Johar case (2018) recognised equal rights for the members of the LGBTQIA++ community, the struggle remains no less. The realisation of rights takes a back seat when it comes to social morality and the inherent fear which overshadows the queer lovers. Did the law change anything, or does it have any capacity to do that? I leave it for the readers to ponder.

Divyanshu Chaudhary is an Assistant Professor at the School of Law, UPES Dehradun. He writes on issues relating to gender and justice, human rights, and constitutional law, among others. 

The Author would like to express his gratitude to Aditya Rawat for reading and thoroughly revising this blog.

{The opinions expressed herein are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect the views of the University.}