N ovember 1 holds two lives in my heart. It is Smita Bhabhi’s birthday. It is also the day Rohit Bal—Gudda to those who loved him—died in my arms.

Both were Kashmiri. Both gave me a kind of shelter. Smita’s home helped me find my way back to life; Gudda’s friendship had once shown a young boy that the world could be wider, kinder, and more beautiful than he had imagined.

Gudda entered my life when I was 14. India in those years did not make it easy to be gay. So much was hidden; too much was whispered as if it were shame. Gudda opened a door. Through him I met designers, artists, gay men, and women who lived with a freedom I was only beginning to understand. He made sure I was not bullied or made to feel small. He showed me that a minority person could be welcomed, wanted, and celebrated.

Permission to stand tall

He gave me love when I was young enough to need it as permission: permission to stand straighter, take up space, become myself. He was not merely introducing me to a circle.…