Designer Rohit Bal during the Grand finale of Amazon India Fashion Week in New Delhi on March 29th 2015. (Express photo by Ravi Kanojia)
Rohit Bal was the official name of the person and legend whose passing the world will mourn, but Gudda is what we called him. I first met him at the tender age of 14. Afraid to breathe and exist as a gay man in India, I found in Gudda comfort and solace, a sense of belonging and the ability to have lofty dreams and a voice. For 38 years he was my pillar of strength, and when failing health crippled me and saw my life hanging by a thread, his daily calls, funny messages and naughty photos made me feel loved and cared for.
“I love you the most you know, na, I have loved you since you were 14.” This WhatsApp text came to me at 5:04 pm, minutes before I headed out to see him at the hospital. As close as we were, this message was a tad out of character for him. When I arrived in his room, he greeted me with a barrage of requests to bring to his doctor. I ran to the nurses’ station and was told that the doctor had done the rounds that morning and would be back later. This news didn’t make Gudda happy, but he gave me a smile and invited me to sit at his bedside.
I remember him staring at my colourful and diaphanous kurta. When I asked if he approved of my choice of attire, he simply said that he was sad that I wasn’t wearing one of his pieces, but that I looked very good. That was Gudda for you, always gracious and kind. But the next moment he was shrieking as he thumped his chest, complaining that he was getting a shock. His attendant and I held him, the nurse came, and then the doctor. He was sedated, and before long, the doctor assured me that Gudda would be fine and that I could leave and come back later.
When I got home, I asked Parabjot Bali, my friend visiting from Jammu, if he would go with me to buy flowers for the dining table. We ordered several Casablanca lilies, a favourite of mine. On an impulse I added 10 spears of tuberose to the order, a departure from my comfort zone, as tuberoses usually don’t capture my attention. Parab and I arranged the flowers in a vase that was identical to the one I had gifted Gudda when I returned to India from the United States. Afterward, I called Gudda’s Brand Head Tasnim to tell him all that had transpired at the hospital, but Tasnim interjected and told me that Gudda had passed away just moments before. I was shocked and in total disbelief, feeling as if I were in some bizarre movie scene.
That I had left Gudda comfortably dozing and received the message of his passing all within a half hour meant that I had been with him during his last moments. It gave me the feeling that this was all ordained and destined. Why else would I choose a flower I wasn’t fond of and make it part of my centrepiece? Tuberoses were Gudda’s favourite cut flower.
I feel lucky that I was the rare human who could scold Gudda, push him to do things he didn’t want to do, and show him light where he saw none. I was permitted to lecture and shame him into being kinder to himself. He frequently spoke with me about his incredibly kind family — the brothers who doted on him, the sisters who spoiled him with the gift of unmatched affection, the nieces who treated him like a star and hero, and the nephews with whom he had a special relationship. His childhood friends from Jor Bagh, where he had grown up, to those he met as he danced his way into his 30s and 40s — all of these loving people made Gudda shine bright and welcome success with open arms.
I lost my friend Gudda on Friday evening to a battle with a weak heart that couldn’t keep pace with his great appetite for life. He worked tirelessly to create fashion that was at once as old as India and in step with the present. India has lost its most creative and inspired fashion designer, a pioneer who showed us what haute couture was all about, a designer who trained our minds and hearts to appreciate the details that made design an artform. The world lost a person who saw in the other a link to his own soul and an opportunity for a connection that could change the status quo, bring together hearts and minds, and help to heal all that was tearing apart our collective.
My heart goes out to the extended Bal family. I appreciate how sweetly they made so much of what Gudda did possible through their support for him and his work. Gudda helped me stand on my feet as a 14-year-old coming of age in an India bereft of any gay icon. This same son, brother, and uncle gave his family much to be proud of. I find myself not mourning his passing but celebrating a man who was rarer than rare, in the heft of his legend, and a deeply generous soul and friend. The clothing I have that was designed by him, the memories he has left me with, and the scent and sounds I associate with him, will forever be etched in my psyche, keeping Gudda and his lore alive and immediately accessible to my heart, mind and soul. I never learned to dance, and now he is not here to teach me, but I am certain that he is waiting for me to join him when my time comes, and we will dance ourselves to ecstasy to the beat of a song we both love dearly.
The writer is a chef, author, educator and world traveller
