What it was like seeing two men kiss in Paris

The two men walked by hand in hand. I, along with my sister and brother-in-law, was on the second floor of Eiffel Tower. We were in Paris for the last weekend of our Europe tour which had been occasioned by my brother-in-law's job. Everything I had expected about Europe from what I had been told - the casual racism, the offhandedness - had so far proved to be false. Our German hosts had treated us lavishly (Paris was going to alter that opinion though). For now, we were on this colossal monument on our first night out in the French capital, when I saw the two men.

The Tower was going to glitter, top to bottom, in another two minutes. It does so on the hour every hour, so that the already well-lit monument during the night looks like it is sashaying to some unheard music. So far in Europe, we had visited a number of tourist sites - castles and museums, lakes and flea markets - but this was truly majestic.

The men, meanwhile, moved to a corner and began kissing passionately. One was white and the other brown. They did this for a few seconds, and then went away, hand still in hand. I could not peel my eyes off them. I had seen a lot of straight couples get intimate in Europe - men kissing women and vice versa on the streets, and that had seemed the most natural thing even to my Indian eyes.

But I had not felt the charge of those kisses, something that I now did as these men locked lips. I had looked at straight couples and shrugged, proud in my knowledge that I was liberal enough to not gawp. But now I was gawping unabashedly. I had to concede that not all gawking emerges from revulsion or ignorance, as I had assumed. It was simply that I had not expected to be hit by the toe-curling cuteness of a real gay couple just out on a night on the Eiffel, kissing.

I wanted to walk up to them, but what would I say? I could introduce myself as gay as well, but that would be silly. I did not know them and they might have just ignored me. Yet, I shared something intimate with them. I knew them. As the white guy wrapped his arms around the brown one and they together looked dreamily into the distance, I momentarily became them too.

The lights went up, dressing the Tower in glittery ephemera, and I saw myself and the Tower and the vast, unending Paris stretching before me as if in a film. All around me people huddled together and took pictures. I squeezed between my sister and brother-in-law as we tried fitting ourselves into a selfie. The Seine flowed not far away and hawkers on the ground peddled beer and selfie sticks.

But to me, the evening had become about the two men. I kept looking out for them, and for some reason, kept spotting them more often than should be the case in a crowded gathering. I kept returning to the image of them going at it with such touching tenderness. I wondered why it affected me so. All my life gayness had been about me, about building a life of the mind around it. There were few, if any, external manifestations. In India I had not seen any gayness on the streets, casually milling about. The little that I had seen was always underground, within the community, and its concerns were always about finding the courage to go overground. But this here was different. I had not calculated the sheer joy of coming across something so mundane, yet so gloriously unseen.

It was impossible for me not to share this moment with another person. For a moment, I was caught between, on the one hand, not drawing attention to something that I (of all people) should find regular and, on the other, registering the moment. I chose the latter. When I spotted the couple again, I turned to my sister and said: "Look, a gay couple." I felt like a voyeur even saying those words, but I knew my sister would understand. She turned her gaze to where my finger was pointing and smiled.

But it was still not enough. At a time when gayness is ridding itself of its invisibility, when gay men and women can hope to lead lives of dignity, my surprise, and frank pleasure, at a moment of intimacy was a lesson. Our battles have long been about posturing. We come out dressed head to toe in vibrant colours on pride and slip kisses on the nearest person. All of this energy is wonderful but it is also obviously agitational. It has a certain in-your-face quality that leaches it of its natural benign habitat. But looking at the two men, I reminded myself that we gays would need to train our eyes to expect such beauty even in the most commonplace settings. And that would be a real gift.

Later, the men were just ahead of me in the queue for the descending lift but when my turn to enter the lift came, the usher stopped me. The lift was full. I had to wait for the next one. The gay couple descended alone, utterly alone in their splendid companionship, and they went further and further away from me, not unlike the lights on the Tower which had now stopped after burning with such intensity but for a blessed moment.