New Delhi, May 30 -- Recently, I helped my partner, L, empty a house. It did not belong to us, although it has been my home for some years now. It belonged to my partner's former partner, J. Once, many, many years ago, L and J bought it together. They lived in it. They made love in it. They threw dinner parties for large mixed groups of queers just as the language of identity was beginning to sprout. They fought in it. They raised dogs. They mourned the loss of their dogs. They held meetings about an offensive colonial law. They fought in those meetings (everyone did). They organised. They wrote manifestos. One wore skirts, large spectacles and oversized shirts, took copious notes and interjected with clarity and empathy. The other, short...