Being our radical queer desi selves can be exhausting, and it’s always a positive thing to be intentionally taking care of our selves and our minds. When I first came out, roughly four years ago, I was aching so much to become an activist that I really wore myself out, as well as everyone around me! I now have a long list of conditions I have to give myself in order to be radical but still enjoy the world we are currently living in.
Living in Canada was a dream come true. It is here that I eventually met my better half, which is a story reserved for another huge article. I survived the first winter but by the end of which I was yearning for the warmth of Mumbai. Only in the absence of it did I realize the importance of the scorching sun.
We were pressed against each other. Her back to my front. My nipples hard against her feverishly hot skin. I held her as she lay against me in my arms, my legs spreading hers open to allow me access to her wetness. Arching in the pleasure I was giving her. I was angry. I needed her with an intensity that I believed was the only emotion that would satiate an indescribable feeling of irritation and lust I felt for the woman I was fucking.
My earliest recollection of my queer awesomeness was at Age 10. What was funny at that point was where I was growing up, there was nothing around me to indicate being Queer had a negative connotation. So for a few brief months - I was at my happiest knowing that I was Queer. It was great! ...and then, everything went downhill.
My love for Parvati Sharma’s writing began when I read The Quilt, an adaptation of Ismat Chugtai’s Lihaaf in Electric Feather and now with her debut book “The Dead Camel and other stories of love” , I am just seconds away from begging her to marry me. For those of you who don’t know Parvati Sharma, let me give you a brief introduction. She is a lesbian writer based in New Delhi and has worked as an editor, journalist and travel writer among other things. I am told, she is lovely, fantastic, gifted with an ironic sense of humor and foremost, an extremely talented writer. Perfect partner choice, isn’t she?
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of. I am so relieved”, she continued, “I thought you were an addict. It’s natural to be gay. They have discovered it in over eighty species of animals.”
Not exactly where I was directing the conversation but at least she was okay. Secretly I thanked Nat Geo and its reach towards a Marathi audience. I sat up, facing her I asked “So you are okay with that?”
Finally, a midnight shower
in the candlelight
No residue left
Of you and me
Making a memory
Now the steam …
I woke up on my sofa in the living room with ten or so of those big, white men looking down into my face. My partner was there and he explained that I had a seizure right after I got out the shower. It made sense – the last thing I remembered was brushing the tangles out of my hair, and I could feel that one side was uncombed. The same thing happened where I could barely talk because I had only just come back to consciousness, but this time I at least understood what had happened whether or not I was able to verbalize it straight away to the paramedics.
In a few weeks of having met and chatted with some, I met the ‘gang’ and this gang of six-seven women became the path way to meeting new people. Hanging out with them felt awesome. Like I belonged… We dressed alike - skinnys and converse, had similar tastes and yes, we loved women! Midnight drives, dinners, long telephone conversations, shopping sprees, and coffee sessions – all became de rigueur and suddenly, I was hanging with them every night!
It is neither Christmas nor Valentine’s Day. Nor is it the first day of any year. It is just one of those days. She says she wants to work on …
I don’t want to be
I want to be
be a contemporary courtesan
to be your intellectual equal,
To be your skilled lover,…
the faint sound of waves hitting the shore,
your fading laughter,
you calling my name
on one Sunday afternoon.
captured in the mid vein of my life,
“Most” of the desis I met in college came from conservative, religious, upper-class families. They tended to only hang out with other rich desis and would only date other rich desis (of the “opposite” gender, of course). The farthest their adventures would go would be a Hindu desi dating a Muslim desi, and their parents would end up driving them apart.
Growing up queer means knowing as a wee young one that I was different. Its not so much about knowing what “gay” or “lesbian” etc. means. Its just an inkling that something is not right with your part in the world. At that time, I recall not being able to understand why or how I was different because it was all still ambiguous.
We sit down and stare at each other. I wonder what you think. Walking through the maze of this relationship has made walls spring out of arid nothing and curl …
20+ year old, Preeti, has been detained at the Thiru Vi Ka Police Station (Chennai) since 20th September. Preeti, a former employee of Jaya TV, came out as a lesbian about 2 months ago, and has expressed her desire to be with her partner. Predictably, she has run into opposition with her family who want her to get married to a man against her wishes.
“You fill up my senses…come fill me agaaaaaain”, I crooned. Ok. Maybe it was crowing. Beside me sat my 3 year old niece looking at me with a particularly …
As a college student, I’d lived in the dorms for 2 years – 1 as a resident, 1 as a resident assistant, which is like a hall monitor or whatnot in the dormitories of the American collegiate system. My first year, my roommate was awful, but she moved out after first term and I never had to bother coming out to her. My second year, one of the perks of the RA job was that I got free room and board, with a room to myself.
“Good Morning Honey, I’m in your city!” A text message like this is one of the few things that can make you spring out from your cosy blanket on a …
It is not surprising that the moment one is faced with the prospect of talking about one’s sexuality, the first instinct is to take refuge in fiction. The subjective experience, recorded in the first person—in acknowledgment of the conventions of the autobiographical—rings false; one is suspicious of interpretations of one’s past, however well-intentioned, however temporary.