Starring Moni Jha as Rajni, the sex worker, and Pranjal Acharya as Ruhaan, a coy boy, the movie is directed by Mohit Kr Tiwari, while the story and screenplay are by Raqeeb Raza, the fabled writer, and photographer documenting masc-sexuality.
Written and directed by Jiya Bhardwaj, Almariyaan, it stars Pranav Sachdeva, Supriya Shukla, Shrikant Verma, and Rajesh Sharma in the lead roles. The short, in just over 18 minutes, does what most full-length movies are unable to: meaningfully engage the audience on a sensitive issue.
Highlighting how everything that we talk about when we talk about queer issues caters to only a privileged section of society, they share how access to technology and the internet, which may sound like a non-issue for a person of able-bodymind, may not be even suited for disabled people’s use. In that sense, they say that a disabled person gets “doubly marginalised.”
It is surprising because the Reserve Bank of India’s (RBI) guidelines allow non-relatives to open joint accounts, but that’s where banks exercise their discretion. Their in-house policies and parameters govern the qualifying criteria for those who may access its services.
A group of peacebuilders, the collective has been active in the educational space and in organising events like joint celebrations of Independence Day. And this Pride month, on Sunday the 27th of June, 2021, they are hosting the first Indo-Pak pride event “Rainbow Over Wagha.”
If you’ve attended a pride parade, then I am sure that, given the ongoing pandemic, you are bound to experience nostalgia. The description is not only overwhelming but is full of queer innuendos and hilarious stuff that can only happen during a pride parade, or I would like to believe so.
2017 also happens to be the year of my coming out, chancing upon Bill Hayes’ memoir Insomniac City, and making a career shift from engineering to writing. It was a rebirth of sorts. But more so, it’s important to register that it was also the year that I finally stopped being skinny-shamed.
Even though some cinematic elements are compromised, His Storyy tables human issues in a relationship and family beautifully.
In its introduction, Kirpal writes that the law is woven intricately with all of our lives in ways we don’t seem to fully imagine. He also affirms that “the Constitution has become a document embodying all that is aspirational in the Indian imagination,” transferring much-needed hope and confidence to its interpretation by the judicial system in contemporary times.
A voice in my head said: It’s a review; tell what you’ve read. Ask them to buy this book if you liked it, or ask them to stay away from it. The other one said, inspired by Joan Didion: If you’re not sure about this paragraph, place it in the middle; no one will notice it. Who knows what people do and do not notice, anyway?
Kirpal, an out gay man, who played an instrumental role in getting Section 377 scrapped, if appointed, would become “India’s first openly gay judge,” the Indian Express reports. But he laments whether “this (non-elevation) has probably got to do with my sexuality.”
With this listicle, I try to present books that contain within themselves a myriad of experiences of being a woman. I have read these books, which is why they are included in this list. The business of recommendation is tricky, and murky sometimes.
This heteronormative gaze allows the straight account to take the centerstage at all times. Any marginalized narrative—in particular, the stories of and by trans, nonbinary and gender-nonconforming people—remains on the periphery. A queer story’s literary merit, economic viability, readership, and cultural value, are all decided by the barometer of the successes of established ‘straight’ narratives. It is expected to be calibrated as a response to this overculture.
Queer cinema has been treated outlandish, never mainstream. But it changed in 2020. From miniseries to documentaries to movies, and mostly due to the COVID-19 pandemic, most of great streaming content was released on the OTT platforms.
The Indian queer is sure to find semblances of vulnerability arising out societal oppression and disgust toward queer people, making it watch-worthy.
Burbidge’s personal, sexual-exploration accounts were published in an Australian magazine in 1987 without his knowledge. But, later, he took upon himself and told his story of coming to India and embracing himself as is.
Karen and Barry Mason ran a gay pornographic bookstore, which was perhaps one of the largest and the only one of its kind in the 80s and 90s in the US. Soon, it also became the largest distributors of gay magazines and DVDs, until, as they said “the digital took over.”
Naming one book after the other Saikat’s celebratory tone about the fact that much gay fiction and nonfiction is getting published he misses one more point: diversity. How many fictions, nonfictions by trans writer, Saikat? Or for that matter by any gender nonconforming person? Or anyone under the sun except gay man or woman?
Lovely is a hijra who works at traffic signals for a living. She lives in a slum in Kolkata and dreams of becoming an actor. Not only that she dreams it, but is working toward it. The setting is a breath of fresh air as most of the novels, when describing the movie world, are obsessed with the tinseltown, Mumbai.
Subramanian Swamy’s homophobic tweet is making rounds. No one knows how he thought to share a piece of filth from the past. It’s posted two years ago, when Section 377 was read down. No one seems to learn from their mistakes, certainly not Mr Swamy.