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Khaki dots the railway station as they try to look official, lolling in their plastic chairs.
Routine checking they say, just in case I was carrying any bombs in my rucksack.
In the ladies compartment they ask me if I’m a boy or a girl.They collared my lower, for her short haircut wasn’t in keeping with their idea of womanhood.
They are the upholders of law and order… the implements to censure homosexual love.
Yet I see them leaning into each other soft and vulnerable in slumber.
Pressed against each other turning hard, khaki trouser against khaki trouser,in the late-night ladies railway coach, breathing into each other’s necks like virgin boy scouts.
They hold hands as they traipse merrily over their domain, handcuffs at the ready to imprison the hijra who steps out of line tonight.
Their smiles are invincible.
Have they heard of the word…. homosocial?

Previously published in the print version of InPlainspeak.