I used to tell myself it was social. Harmless. A way to take the edge off after long days of holding other people’s stories. When I finally admitted to my psychoanalyst that the first sip of red wine immediately calms my nerves and opens me up to connect with others, he paused and said, “What if it just helps you connect with yourself?”
I remember blinking at him.
I brought that revelation to a colleague at work, a queer Indigenous therapist. Without missing a beat, she said, “Well, yeah. The goal of colonization is to fragment the self. And capitalism depends on the fragments to keep us dependent.”
I was shook.
For many queer Muslim men, fragmentation begins early. We learn to split: dutiful son and secret lover. Pious student and cruising adult. The one who lines up shoulder to shoulder in prayer and the one who sways under neon lights at 2 a.m.
For a long time, I thought alcohol helped me connect with others. What if it was stitching me back together, temporarily, from the fragments?
In my co-edited collection Queer and Muslim, I interviewed Shafik, who spoke about how identity exploration is less about choosing one truth over another and more about resolving internal conflict without amputating parts of the self.
Substances can feel like a shortcut to integration.
So can prayer.
Congregation moves me. The hum of recitation. The choreography of bodies rising and prostrating together. In those moments, I am not split. I am not performing. I am not negotiating. I am held in rhythm.
At an afterparty, bass reverberating through my chest, something similar happens. My body loosens. Shame thins. I laugh more easily. I feel porous. Levitation is not the right word, but it is close.
One is called worship.
The other is called indulgence.
Both alter consciousness.
Both suspend the voice that polices me.
Both return me to myself.
The difference is not as simple as sin versus sanctity. The difference is infrastructure. One is socially sanctioned transcendence. The other is stigmatized relief.
While writing The Mental Health Guide for Cis and Trans Queer Guys, I examined the forces shaping queer men’s mental health: stigma, family rejection, racialization, economic precarity. I was careful not to frame compulsive substance use as a moral failure or a lack of willpower. More often, it is something we slip into when the self has been under pressure for years, when fragmentation feels easier than feeling everything at once.
In The Politicized Practitioner Series, Vol. 1, the contributors and I examine how colonization and heteronormativity shape therapeutic training and practice beneath the language of inclusion. Capitalism and empire discipline our bodies into splits: sacred or profane, public or private, faithful or queer.
Editing Queer and Muslim softened me. I sat with stories of people who leaned into faith, who accepted exile, who built entirely new spiritual architectures. Their brilliance unsettled my cynicism. Their beauty complicated my binaries.
Between the prayer rug and the afterparty, I have come to this: altered states are not the problem. Fragmentation is.
If colonization fractures the self and capitalism monetizes the pieces, then of course we will reach for whatever briefly feels like wholeness. A glass of wine. A crowded dance floor. A night of chemsex. A long sujood. A protest chant. A lover’s hand.
The question is not why queer Muslim men seek altered states.
The question is why we were never given safer, communal, and sustained ways to feel integrated without them.
It’s been over 2 years of not drinking. It’s been extremely difficult.
I chose that path not because pleasure is sinful. Not because sobriety is morally superior. Not because I care that some God cares what I put in my body (She likely doesn’t). But because I am hoping that sitting with myself will let me see the fragments—mend them or accept them as they are.
The real work is not abandoning altered states. It is building conditions where wholeness is possible.
A few months ago, when I was feeling rather alone in an emotionally overwhelming situation, my therapist taught me how to externalize it and allow an object of my choice to hold it for and alongside me. It might sound a little woo-woo when put that way, but I must add that it was incredibly helpful as a technique to ease the discomfort of the situation. In narrative therapy, this is an approach quite commonly used to help children express how they feel, perhaps through their favourite doll or soft toy, without making them uncomfortable about articulating hard-to-express emotions or feel as though they are under the scanner for psychological excavation.
I went into Chai Queens expecting it to be a laugh riot for some reason. Instead, over the course of the hour-long show, the audience is invited to accompany two women, Bubbles and Tejal, on a journey through a shared history that each of them circles around but cannot quite confront directly. They run into each other after fifteen long years, their reunion filled with what can only be described as sapphic pining from a distance.
So they get a little help from their childhood dolls, Ginny and Binny, whom Bubbles has carefully kept all these years, and stage the dolls’ wedding. Through them, they are finally able to share their deepest feelings for one another, and how neither has had an easy journey in the other’s absence.
As children, we all engage in play and create rituals around it. These are often private little worlds that we invite very few people into. Tejal and Bubbles too built such a pillow-fort for themselves, where they found joy in their shared adventures of girlhood. Within that space they found respite from the unspoken rules imposed on them, and from there grew the bond they share.
When they meet again after all those years, they are unable to fully articulate the pain of having lost each other after Bubbles’ forced marriage to a man at the tender age of nineteen, and Tejal’s subsequent departure from the city they once called home.
They reunite at Bubbles’ daughter’s wedding, but really, what unfolds is the spiritual consummation of their own relationship. Many sapphic experiences, especially in childhood, have often been written away as a close friendship lost to some inexpressible “fight”. It isn’t just the pressure of coming out as queer. It is also the strain of navigating that truth under the daily boot of patriarchy, which often breaks our hearts as we feel compelled to leave behind loved ones who might still be in the closet, without ever quite giving us the fabled ‘closure’.
The staging felt minimal, and the props were woven so fluidly into the scenes that there was never really a clunky moment. The chemistry between the two actors came through as incredibly lived-in, tender, and quietly aching in a way that resonated deeply with me.
Throughout the show there was plenty of playful sparring between the 2 protagonists, as they strived to stay present despite the thick tensions between them. The moments of levity emerged through humorous exchanges between Bubbles and Tejal, such as an exchange between them in their present age, where they make veiled jibes at one another, overcome by jealousy over Bubbles’ husband and Tejal’s flirtatious attention toward another woman at the event. There is even a hint of the infamous “fuckboy” energy that sometimes emerges to compensate for the tender ache many sapphic heartbreaks carry over feeling ‘unchosen’.
The members of the audience seemed pulled into the story for the duration of the show – in certain moments, quite literally. Some were invited to join and dance as part of Ginny and Binny’s wedding celebrations, and sweets were distributed among those still seated as part of the festivities. It was Bubbles and Tejal’s world, and for a brief hour, we were all living inside it.
The final moment of the play offered a resolute expression of queer joy in reconciliation, despite a story shaped by longing, yearning, suspended affection+devotion, and cheeky flirtation.
One of the most beautiful elements was the use of sarees as props. The intimate act of tying a saree around one another, taking it off, or briefly sharing a dupatta as a piece of clothing or accessory becomes a quiet language between them. These gestures evoke the tender forms of bonding that often emerge in girlhood: the shared intimacy of bodies, clothing, and the gaze of the world around them, and the small ways in which girls learn to subvert that gaze together.
Chai Queens depicts precisely this unspeakable nostalgia, weaving through non-linear timelines and memories through rituals and emotions tucked away in the dolls of our girlhood.
Watched it at the Mumbai Fringe Festival, 2026, and I hope it finds many more stages.
I was in my late twenties. The internet felt like the first place I could breathe. India didn’t have a word for what I was—not one that felt like mine. So we made one. Gay. Desi. Gaysi. And we built a small, stubborn corner of the internet where people like us could exist without apology.
That was eighteen years ago.
In that time, I have watched Section 377 fall, return, and fall again. Read down in 2009, recriminalised in 2013, and finally struck down in 2018. I watched queer Indians weep in the streets like something had been returned to them that they hadn’t realised had been taken. In 2014, the NALSA judgment affirmed the right to self-identify gender, full of possibility. In 2019, the Transgender Persons Act followed, promising protection but introducing control. I watched the marriage equality case build and fail in 2023. And now, in 2026, I have watched Parliament pass a bill on trans lives that even a Supreme Court-appointed committee said violates a Supreme Court judgment.
And then this week, I watched the Solicitor General of India stand before a nine-judge Constitution Bench and argue that Navtej Singh Johar—the 2018 verdict that decriminalised same-sex relationships, the judgment that told us our love is not a crime and was based on a “subjective” application of constitutional morality and should be declared “not good law.”
He was not asking for Section 377 to return. He was doing something in some ways more precise: asking the court to dismantle the constitutional doctrine that produced Navtej in the first place. Not just the outcome. The foundation.
I have watched the pendulum swing my entire adult queer life.
What I want to offer here is not despair, but clarity. I have not given up. I will not. But I have been here long enough to know that there are things no one tells you when you are young and queer and full of possibility. Things I wish someone had told me plainly.
So here is what I would tell you now.
The first is this: the people in power are not losing sleep over us.
I watched Parliament debate a bill about trans lives. I watched Members of Parliament make thoughtful, well-reasoned arguments citing judgments, presenting data, naming lived realities. And I watched the bill pass anyway.
This is not new. This is the pattern.
Rights are extended when they are convenient and withdrawn when they are not. The arc of history may bend toward justice, but it does not bend on its own. It bends because people pull it consistently, often without seeing the results in their own lifetime. The majority in those rooms are not thinking about what we deserve. They are thinking about votes, alliances, and power. We become a talking point, a symbol, a gesture—invited, acknowledged, and then regulated.
For a long time, I believed that if we made the right arguments, told the right stories, and built the right coalitions, the system would respond.
And sometimes it does.
And sometimes, it passes the bill anyway.
Understanding this changes how we engage with power.
Yesterday’s Supreme Court hearing is a reminder of how layered that engagement must be. Even as the Solicitor General argued that constitutional morality is “a sentiment, not a doctrine,” Chief Justice Surya Kant pushed back from the bench, stating that “equality cannot be taken away on grounds of sex” and that “biological traits or gender identity cannot be used as a tool for exclusion.” The court is not monolithic. The fight inside that building is real. And it matters that we understand the difference between the government’s position and the court’s—they are not the same thing, and yesterday, they were visibly in tension.
But courts are slow. And in the meantime, there are trans people in India attempting to get identity documents under the new Act who will be turned away. Real lives are shaped by whatever law is currently in force. The legal fight is essential and it is not enough on its own.
Which brings me to the second thing: start close. Start with your own life.
For many queer people, home is not a place of safety. Family is not uncomplicated. I understand that. And yet, the most practical advice I can offer remains the same: study, work, save money, and move out when you can.
Economic independence is not a compromise. It is protection.
The most vulnerable queer person in India is the one who cannot leave, cannot refuse, cannot say no because they have no alternatives. Safety is built on foundations that may not seem extraordinary: a steady income, a skill, a place of one’s own.
For queer people, these are not small achievements. They are the conditions that make choice possible.
The third, and perhaps more uncomfortable, truth is this: some of you need to go into politics.
We have been taught to see politics as something corrupt, something that demands compromise, something that is not meant for people like us. Much of that may be true. But the decisions that shape our lives are being made in those spaces often by people who have never had to live what they are legislating.
We need people in those rooms who understand what is at stake.
And it is important to say this clearly: entering politics is not only an act of service. It is also a career. You are allowed to want power. You are allowed to be ambitious. You are allowed to build influence, to stay, and to lead. The idea that queer people must only enter politics to serve, and not to succeed, is itself limiting. It is another form of containment.
To do this work, however, requires preparation.
It requires learning the language of power—law, policy, economics. It requires understanding how decisions are made, how coalitions are built, how elections are won. It requires collaboration across disciplines (between organisers, lawyers, writers, and policymakers) so that the work is not fragmented. And it requires patience.
You may not win immediately. There will be setbacks. Laws will pass that should not. Cases will fail that deserved to succeed. The pendulum will swing against you.
This week, the government asked the highest court in the land to erase the legal reasoning that freed us. That is the pendulum swinging. The answer is not to step away from the room. It is to fight harder to get more of us into it.
The work is to stay.
Because the alternative—stepping away and leaving decisions to those who do not consider us at all—is not acceptable. I often return to where this began. In 2008, I started a blog because there was no space for people like us. I did not know what it would become. I only knew that the space needed to exist.
That remains the work.
To identify what does not yet exist and to build it.
Whether that is a platform, a legal intervention, a community network, or a political campaign, the principle is the same. We make the spaces we need. We have seen the pendulum swing before. It will swing again. But it will not do so on its own.
It will move because people push it.
I will not tell you that this work is easy, or quick, or fair. It is none of those things.
But I will tell you this: we are still here.
The Supreme Court bench that heard arguments yesterday also heard, from its own Chief Justice, that equality is not a concession to be withdrawn. That biology cannot be made into a wall.
Hold that. It is not a victory—it is a signal. And signals matter when you are building for the long run.
We are still building, still arguing, still showing up. And that is how change happens—slowly, persistently, collectively.
So here is what I would tell you now:
Study. Work. Save. Move out.
And if you can, enter the room where decisions are made.
That’s What the Government of India Just Argued. In the Supreme Court. About Your Rights.
There is a sentence that should have broken through every news feed in India yesterday. It didn’t, because it arrived dressed in legal language, before a bench hearing a case about temple entry, in a courtroom most people will never enter. But strip away the procedural scaffolding and what you have is this: the Solicitor General of India stood before a nine-judge Constitution Bench and told the Supreme Court that in a democracy, the majoritarian view typically prevails and that judgments which said otherwise were, in his submission, not good law.
He was talking about Navtej Singh Johar. The 2018 verdict that decriminalised same-sex relationships. The judgment that told us, for the first time in the language of the Constitution, that we exist, that we matter, that our love is not a crime.
The government wants the reasoning behind that judgment declared invalid.
Let that settle.
They are not asking for Section 377 to return. They were careful to say so. But they are asking the Supreme Court to take the constitutional doctrine that produced Navtej — a doctrine called constitutional morality — and rule that it has no business being used to test legislation. That courts cannot invoke it. That Parliament, which reflects the will of the majority, should not be second-guessed by a principle as subjective, as they put it, as constitutional morality.
What is constitutional morality? It is the idea that the Constitution has its own moral vision of dignity, equality, autonomy and that this vision can and must override what the majority believes at any given moment. It is the reason why fundamental rights exist at all. A Constitution without constitutional morality is just a document that tells the powerful what they already want to hear.
This doctrine is not a quirk invented by activist judges. It traces back to B.R. Ambedkar himself, who warned that constitutional morality would have to be cultivated in a country where social morality (the morality of the crowd) could crush individual liberty without a second thought. He knew. He had lived it.
When the Solicitor General argues that social morality, the majoritarian view, should be the governing standard, he is not making a neutral procedural point. He is making a political argument with a very specific set of winners and losers. The winners are whoever the majority happens to be. The losers are everyone the majority has historically decided to exclude queer people, religious minorities, Dalit communities, women who want to enter temples, anyone whose existence makes the crowd uncomfortable.
And here is what makes this moment particularly important for us: this argument did not arrive in isolation. Eight days before this submission was made in the Supreme Court, President Droupadi Murmu gave her assent to the Transgender Persons Amendment Act, 2026 — a law that erased trans men, trans women, and genderqueer persons from its own definition. A law passed in twelve days, with no community consultation, no committee referral, no meaningful debate. A law that told an entire community: the state does not trust you to know who you are.
One government. Eight days. Two moves.
First, pass a law that removes rights from people whose identities the majority finds inconvenient. Then, go to court and argue that the constitutional doctrine those people would use to challenge that law should be declared invalid.
This is not a coincidence. This is a sequence.
The logic being advanced in that courtroom is the same logic that kept Section 377 alive for 160 years. Our desire was a choice. Our love was a corruption. The majority found it immoral, and so the law agreed. Navtej rejected that. NALSA, the 2014 transgender rights judgment, rejected it for trans people a decade earlier. The 2026 Amendment Act walked back through the door NALSA had shut. And now, the government is asking the Supreme Court to take the key out of the lock entirely — so that no future court can shut that door again.
We have always known that rights given through law can be taken back through law. What is harder to sit with is the realisation that the government is not simply taking back rights. It is trying to remove the mechanism by which rights are protected. Not just the what, but the how. Not just the outcome, but the foundation.
Legal challenges are coming. The Supreme Court has surprised us before. NALSA came from the judiciary when Parliament would not move. Navtej came when Section 377 had already been reinstated by the very same court. The institution has, at its best, been the last line.
But the courtroom is not the only place this is decided. It is decided in how loudly we name what is happening. It is decided in whether we treat these events as isolated news items or as the coordinated strategy they are.
There is a particular kind of grief that comes not from an unexpected catastrophe but from watching something you hoped was behind you walk back through the door. I felt it last week — a cis-gay Indian man sitting with the full text of the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Bill, 2026 — not as a legal scholar, but as someone who has spent years watching this country slowly, haltingly, learn to hold more of its own people. This comes from watching my trans friends break down after passage, and from the irresponsible discussions and chaos that unfolded in the two weeks that followed.
That learning from “Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam” — the world is one family — it seems, has been reversed.
Parliament passed the bill on March 25, after it cleared the Rajya Sabha by voice vote, just days after a similar voice vote in the Lok Sabha. Twelve days from introduction to passage. No standing committee referral. No meaningful public consultation. Notably, the bill was introduced without dialogue with statutory bodies like the National Council for Transgender Persons and since its passage, two NCTP members, Rituparna Neog and Kalki Subramaniam, have resigned in protest. In twelve days, the Indian state rewrote not just a law but a philosophy. And got the philosophy profoundly wrong.
The Section That Started Everything: The Redefinition of a Person
The most consequential change is buried in an amendment to a definitional clause. The 2019 Act defined a transgender person as someone “whose gender does not match with the gender assigned to that person at birth” — imperfect, contested, but constitutionally grounded. It drew from the Supreme Court’s landmark 2014 NALSA judgment, in which Justice K.S. Radhakrishnan explicitly held that gender identity is self-determined, and that no person should undergo medical tests simply to be acknowledged by law.
The 2026 Bill replaces this with a narrower list: socio-cultural identities like Hijra, Kinner, Aravani, and Jogata; intersex persons; and those with specific congenital variations. Trans men, trans women, and genderqueer persons who don’t fit these categories are effectively written out of the legislation entirely. Section 4(2) of the 2019 Act which gave every transgender person the right to self-perceived gender identity has been deleted. Its removal is not an administrative clarification. It is the state reaching into the legal text and removing a person’s right to know themselves.
This is not refinement. This is amputation.
The Sex-Gender Confusion at the Heart of This Bill
Sex and gender are not the same thing. Sex refers to biological characteristics — chromosomal, hormonal, gonadal. Gender is the internal, psychological, social sense of who one is. They often align. They sometimes do not. This is not ideology; it is the settled position of medicine, psychology, and the Supreme Court of India itself.
The NALSA judgment unambiguously rejected the “Biological Test” for determining gender, a principle inherited from outdated English law. The 2026 Bill does not merely ignore this distinction — it actively collapses it. The Statement of Objects and Reasons claims protection should be limited to those who face exclusion due to “biological reasons for no fault of their own and no choice of their own.” This sentence is philosophically incoherent. It treats gender identity as a lifestyle choice while treating intersex status as authentic because it appears bodily, fixed, and legible to the state. The people who pay the price for that confusion are always those whose identities are least familiar to power.
The Medical Onslaught: Sections 6 and 7
Even for those who survive the definitional cull, the bill builds new barriers. Under the amended Section 6, a District Magistrate may issue a certificate of identity only after examining the recommendation of a medical board headed by a Chief Medical Officer. This effectively replaces the principle of self-perceived identity with a medicalised process, placing identity determination in the hands of state authorities rather than the individual.
The amended Section 7 goes further: medical institutions must now report details of anyone who undergoes gender-affirming surgery to the District Magistrate. The state wants to know — and wants records kept, forms filled, officials notified.
To understand the scale of the existing failure this doubles down on: as of 2026, India’s census recorded approximately 487,000 transgender persons, yet only around 32,500 identity cards have been issued nationwide. The system is already broken by red tape and official misclassification. This bill responds to that failure by adding more gates, more paperwork, more officials.
Section 18: Penalties With a Double Edge
The bill’s substitution of Section 18 deserves both credit and deep suspicion. For the first time, it introduces graded punishments for serious crimes: kidnapping an adult and causing grievous harm carries ten years to life imprisonment; the same crime against a child carries life. These provisions attempt to address crimes of coercion and mutilation that the community has long faced.
But the same section creates offences around compelling someone to “assume, adopt, or outwardly present a transgender identity” through “allurement, inducement or deceit.” This language is dangerously broad. It could be turned against community elders, trans support networks, and the parents of trans children — effectively criminalising the very support structures that trans people most depend on. The bill claims to protect a community while simultaneously treating that community’s internal bonds as potential criminal conspiracies.
Where the Government Is Lost
The Statement of Objects and Reasons contains a sentence that reveals everything: “Any enactment conferring rights, privileges and protections cannot have a definition clause whereby the status entitling such rights, privileges and protections can be acquired.”
Read that again. The government is arguing that identity — the status that gives you rights — cannot be something you come to know about yourself over time. It must be biologically fixed, externally verifiable, administratively stamped. This is the state saying: we do not trust you to know who you are.
This is precisely the logic that Section 377 operated on for 160 years. Our desire was treated as a choice, a corruption — not as something we simply were. The Navtej Johar judgment in 2018 rejected that logic. NALSA had already rejected its equivalent for trans persons a decade before. The 2026 Bill walks back through a door the Supreme Court had shut.
And then there is “Sabka Saath, Sabka Vikas, Sabka Vishwas” — with everyone, for everyone, trusted by everyone. One must ask, with this bill in hand: which sabka? The transgender person turned away by a magistrate who cannot pronounce their identity is not included in that saath. The trans man who no longer exists in this law’s definition has not received that vikas. The community that watched this bill pass in twelve days — no committee, no consultation, no hearings — has been given no reason whatsoever for vishwas.
The Window Has Closed
Update, March 31: President Droupadi Murmu has given her assent to the bill. It is now law. The window for reconsideration that many of us hoped for — however narrow — has closed. The 140-plus lawyers, law students, feminists, and activists who wrote to the President urging her to withhold assent were not heard. A Supreme Court-appointed committee headed by retired Delhi High Court judge Justice Asha Menon had also written to the Ministry of Social Justice urging withdrawal. That too was ignored. The bill has become an Act.
What remains is the courts. Legal challenges before the Supreme Court are being prepared. NALSA and Navtej Johar both came from the judiciary when Parliament would not move. They may need to move again. But courts are slow, and cases take years. In the meantime, there are trans people in India who will attempt to get identity documents under this law and be turned away by a magistrate, or by a medical board that has never been trained in anything but pathology. Real lives are shaped by whatever law is currently in force. The legal fight matters enormously — and so does the social one: in workplaces, families, universities, newsrooms — everywhere that trans people are, right now, wondering if they have become more invisible to the state than they were last week.
A Freedom Issue, Not Just a Trans Issue
What this law ultimately does — what we must name plainly — is disenfranchise. For transgender persons, the dispossession is immediate and bodily: the law now says your body must be read by a magistrate before your identity is real, that your self-knowledge is legally insufficient. For the wider LGBTQIA+ spectrum, the disenfranchisement is subtler but no less real. This Act explicitly writes into law that self-perceived sexual and gender identities are excluded from its protections — enshrining the principle that the state may decide which identities are authentic and which are merely claimed.
That principle, once normalised in one law, does not stay there. It migrates. It becomes the ambient logic of how institutions treat all of us — in hospitals, in courts, in schools, at borders. Every queer person in India has built their life on some fragile combination of legal protection, social tolerance, and the quiet courage of simply existing. This Act chips away at all three.
That is not protection; it is occupation.
As a gay man who knows what it is to be unseen by law, I refuse the comfort of distance. The logic that erases my trans siblings is the same logic that once erased me. We did not win our rights by accepting that someone else’s were separate. We will not protect them that way either.
Parliament passed the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Bill, 2026 on March 25, 2026. Here is what happened, who said what, and why it matters.
On the floor of the Lok Sabha and the Rajya Sabha, over two days of debate, 28 Members of Parliament stood up and spoke about the lives of India’s transgender community.
Twenty of them opposed the bill.
Eight supported it.
The bill passed anyway.
What The Bill Actually Does
The Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Bill, 2026 builds on the 2019 Act that first recognised trans persons in law. Framed as an effort to strengthen safeguarding mechanisms, its provisions instead deepen control and move the law further away from its stated purpose.
In practice, it does the following:
Removed the right to self-identify your gender—a right the Supreme Court established as fundamental in the 2014 NALSA judgment.
Introduces a medical board-led process in which legal recognition is contingent on a doctor-led recommendation—marking a departure from the self-identification framework upheld by the Supreme Court.
Narrowed the definition of who counts as transgender, excluding trans men, trans women, and several gender-diverse identities previously recognised.
Required hospitals to report gender-affirming procedures to government authorities—a direct violation of the Supreme Court’s 2017 Puttaswamy judgment on the right to privacy.
Introduces broadly framed criminal provisions that may be open to wide interpretation, creating potential risk for NGOs, peers, and family members engaged in allyship and support.
All of this without consulting the community it claims to protect. Including the National Council for Transgender Persons, created specifically to advise on such matters.
What Parliament Said
The opposition was not small or partisan. It spanned the INC, DMK, SP, AITC, AAP, NCP, Shiv Sena UBT, RJD, CPI(M), IUML, YSRCP, JMM, and BJD. Across party lines, across states, across political histories, the arguments converged on the same points.
“You cannot certify a human soul through a medical board.” — Dr. T. Sumathy, DMK
Dr. T. Sumathy, Member of Lok Sabha from the DMK party, held up Tamil Nadu’s self-identification model—welfare boards, healthcare access, no mandatory medical certification—as what the Union government should be learning from, not dismantling. She called the bill a constitutional regression, and not a technical correction as claimed.
“We are not just amending a law — we are erasing people from it.” — June Maliah, AITC
June Maliah, Member of Lok Sabha and of the AITC, pointed out that of nearly 4.9 lakh transgender persons recorded in the 2011 Census, only 35,000 have applied for identity certificates under the existing law. The system was already failing most of the community. This bill makes it harder.
“There is a fundamental difference between legislative majority and moral majority.” — Prof. Manoj Kumar Jha, RJD
Saket Gokhale, MP in the Rajya Sabha from the AITC, read out mental health data that should have stopped the House cold. He also revealed that the parliamentary affairs minister intervened to push the bill to a vote rather than allow full debate, and that when members approached the ministry, they were told consultation was “not needed because the bill had already been introduced.”
“A right without consequence is not a right. It is merely a suggestion.” — Swati Maliwal, AAP
Swati Maliwal, MP in the Rajya Sabha from the Aam Aadmi Party, named a specific person: Jane Kaushik, a trans teacher who was qualified, hired in two states, and forced to resign, not because of her work, but because of her identity. She raised a legal inequality nobody else had cited: sexual abuse of a trans person carries a punishment of 6 months to 2 years. For cisgender women, it is a minimum of 10 years. She asked the House directly — is the dignity of a trans woman worth less?
The Numbers They Read Out
Sanjay Singh of AAP brought the budget figures that expose the government’s claim of commitment to trans welfare:
a) 31% of trans persons have attempted suicide 50% of those attempts happen before the age of 20 b) 5,566 certification applications already rejected under existing law — no explanation, no appeal mechanism c) ₹52.91 cr allocated for trans welfare in 2023–24 d) Only ₹6.59 cractually spent (12.5% utilisation)
A government that cannot spend the money it already allocates for this community is now passing a new law claiming to help them.
What The Supporters Said
The supporters of the bill cited cultural traditions, mythological references, government welfare schemes, and the need to prevent misuse.
The misuse argument deserves particular attention because it appeared repeatedly, and without evidence. One BJP MP described personally following people dressed as trans persons at traffic signals, noting they had families and homes, and used this to justify the need for medical verification. No data was cited. No study was referenced.
This line of reasoning is deeply unsettling. It relies on surveillance, anecdote, and suspicion, not policy evidence. It assumes that trans identity must be proven false before it is accepted as true.
It also reflects a fundamental misunderstanding of lived realities. The existence of a family or a home does not mean access to dignity, safety, or rights. Transgender people in India continue to face systemic exclusion from formal employment, are pushed into precarious or informal work, and struggle to access affirming healthcare, safe housing, and discrimination-free workplaces.
To suggest that the mere presence of a home invalidates marginalisation is not just inaccurate, but a refusal to engage with how exclusion actually operates. What is being framed as preventing “misuse” ends up legitimising scrutiny of already vulnerable lives, while ignoring the structural barriers that remain unaddressed.
However, the argument that large numbers of people are pretending to be transgender to access scarce and stigmatised government benefits in a country where being visibly trans still carries daily violence and social exclusion, was presented as sufficient reason to strip an entire community of constitutional rights.
The most structured defence came from a BJP MP, the Minister of the bill, Dr. Virendra Kumar, who is also a medical doctor. He drew a distinction between personal identity (which he acknowledged the State cannot regulate) and access to state benefits (which he argued requires verification. It is a more coherent argument than most. But it rests on a false separation.
In practice, identity and access cannot be split. Legal recognition is the gateway to documents, employment, housing, healthcare, and welfare. Making that recognition conditional means making access conditional. This is precisely what the Supreme Court addressed in the NALSA judgment, which affirmed self-identification as a fundamental right, not one that can be limited to the “personal” sphere while being denied in public life. The judgment does not create a distinction between identity and entitlement.
Once verification is introduced at the point of access, the right itself is diluted. It no longer exists unconditionally—it exists at the discretion of the system. If the concern is truly about welfare and targeting vulnerability, the gaps are elsewhere; and longstanding.
There has been no serious movement on horizontal reservation for transgender persons across caste groups, despite clear demands from Dalit, Bahujan, and Adivasi trans communities. At the same time, the Union Budget 2026–27 offers no new schemes, allocations, or targeted measures for transgender persons, effectively folding their needs into generic programmes that do not account for structural exclusion.
Even existing support systems remain fragile. Garima Greh shelters are limited in number and uneven in reach, with some centres shutting down and funding patterns fluctuating over time. This raises a deeper question about what “protection” is being prioritised.
Because access doesn’t begin at verification. It begins much earlier, with the ability to live safely, to find housing, to complete education, to access dignified work and affirming healthcare. When these are already out of reach, adding layers like medical boards does not create access, but assumes it. It reflects a distance from the material realities of how most people in India live.
If the State can step back from welfare, from housing, from livelihood—but step forward to regulate identity—then what remains of its commitment to dignity? At that point, the question is unavoidable: is this still a welfare framework, or something else entirely?
The Minister defended the bill by citing 60 trans persons invited to Republic Day, a canteen run by trans persons at a government building, 67 training programmes, and 23 Garima Greh shelters. Although these are real initiatives, they are not a defence of removing self-identification rights.
Then The Supreme Court Weighed In
On the same day that the bill was being debated in the Rajya Sabha — March 25, 2026 — it was reported that a Supreme Court-appointed Advisory Committee headed by former Delhi High Court judge Justice Asha Menon had written to the Government of India citing concerns about various provisions in the amendment and requesting its reconsideration.
“The provisions of the Bill are against the NALSA judgment. We request the Social Justice Minister to withdraw the Bill.” — SC-appointed Advisory Committee, Justice Asha Menon (Chair)
A body constituted by the Supreme Court said, on the record, that a law passed by Parliament contradicts a Supreme Court ruling.
The government passed the bill anyway.
What Happens Now
The bill is about to become law. Both motions to refer it to a Select Committee were defeated. Every opposition amendment was recorded as “not present, not moved.” The clause-by-clause vote passed. The Rajya Sabha passed it. The Lok Sabha had already passed it.
It will almost certainly be challenged in the Supreme Court. Multiple MPs said so on the floor of Parliament itself. Given that the SC’s own advisory committee has already said it contradicts the NALSA judgment, that challenge has a strong foundation.
But court timelines in India are long. In the meantime:
The medical board requirement is law.
The mandatory reporting of gender-affirming procedures is law.
The criminal provisions are law.
The narrowed definition is law.
Sources: Lok Sabha & Rajya Sabha debate transcripts. Document compiled by Hyderabad Against Trans Erasure. Notes by Picnic (He/They).
Two days. Two Houses of Parliament. Dozens of speeches about transgender lives.
Zero transgender people in the room making the decisions.
I watched the whole thing. And the moment that will stay with me is not the bad speeches, those were expected. It is the moment I realised I was grateful that some MPs got the pronouns right. Grateful that the opposition cited NALSA. Grateful that at least two ruling party members expressed concern. Grateful. For the minimum. About our own lives.
This is what it means to have no representation in the spaces where power is exercised. You become the subject of other people’s generosity. You depend on allies to carry arguments you could make better, with more authority, with the full weight of having actually lived them. You sit outside the room and hope that someone inside remembers you exist.
I am not interested in that anymore.
The queer community in India has produced extraordinary leaders. People with the intellectual rigour, political sharpness, constitutional knowledge, and lived experience to be in those rooms, not as tokens but as forces. The question is not whether those people exist. The question is whether we are doing the work of getting them in.
Political power is not glamorous work. It is long, unglamorous, often demoralising work. It means running candidates. Building coalitions. Learning the language of institutions we have every reason to distrust. It means doing this in alliance with every other community that is equally absent from Parliament, equally disenfranchised, and subject to decisions made without them.
But it is the work. The only work that ends the cycle of watching.
This bill will be challenged in the Supreme Court. It may be struck down. And then another version will be drafted. And debated. By the same room, without us in it. Until we change that.
We resist this bill. We resist it loudly. In every court, every newsroom, every street, every comment section, every conversation at the dinner table that someone is too polite to have. We push back hard, and we do not stop pushing. We make it impossible to ignore. We make the cost of erasing us higher than the cost of including us.
And then we do something harder. We get in the room. Because resistance from the outside keeps us alive. But power on the inside changes what is possible.
I want us in the room. I want us writing the bills.
Days before the Lok Sabha passed this Bill, on March 20, 2026, a Supreme Court–constituted committee led by Justice Asha Menon met and resolved to urge the government to withdraw it, warning that denying self-identification violates the NALSA judgment and raises serious concerns around privacy and exclusion. The advisory has now come to light. Which makes it urgent to ask: how did we get here?
When the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Bill, 2026 passed in the Lok Sabha on March 24, it didn’t just roll back gender rights, but built on the gaps of the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019. That law was never fully protective to begin with. It criminalised violence against transgender persons, but with weaker penalties than those applied in cases involving cisgender people, signalling that harm against trans lives is somehow less serious. It also failed to recognise where much of this violence actually occurs: within families, where many trans people face rejection, abuse, or are forced to leave. The chosen kinship systems that have historically offered safety, like gharanas and guru-chela networks, were ignored, replaced instead by a vague reliance on state-run rehabilitation.
Now, instead of fixing these structural gaps, the amendment tightens a framework that was already restrictive. The Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019 claimed to recognise self-identification, but in practice made it conditional, requiring certification from a District Magistrate, with little transparency or recourse if denied, and linking legal gender change to medical validation in certain cases. Even then, autonomy was never fully in the hands of transgender persons.
The new amendment pushes this further. What was earlier an implicit screening process is now being made more explicit, layered, and central to recognition itself. Passed after a divided debate and an Opposition walkout, the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Bill, 2026 normalises and expands control over a person’s gender identity.
The shift from partial autonomy to deeper surveillance is palpable, and what was already unequal is now being formalised. Even before it was tabled, the bill had already sparked protests, with activists pointing to what it removes as much as what it adds, diluting self-identification while expanding medical and administrative scrutiny.
But the amendment doesn’t just change how identity is recognised. It also reshapes what gets criminalised under the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019. It introduces offences around “inducing” someone to dress or present as transgender, or forcing a transgender identity. Framed as protection, it instead reveals a fundamental disconnect from how gender identity actually takes shape.
In India, trans identities are often discovered through community, language, friendship, and small, affirming moments where someone realises they are not alone. This law collapses that process into suspicion. Support begins to look like coercion, and care itself starts to be perceived like it could be a crime. The language is broad enough that allies, friends, even chosen family could be implicated. With children, it goes further by removing the question of consent altogether. A young person exploring who they are, and anyone supporting them, could be at risk.
Meanwhile, serious harms like forced medical procedures are already punishable under the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita, 2023. Bringing them into this law doesn’t just strengthen protection, but reframes transgender identity itself as something that can be imposed, manufactured, or controlled, which can carry serious consequences for those who identify as allies, let alone as transgender persons.
The shift is that now there is a law that is structurally anti-trans, that builds directly on the ideological weaknesses of the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019.
First, the definition itself becomes narrower. The 2019 Act, despite its flaws, left room for self-identification across a spectrum of identities. The amendment replaces this with a more technical, biologically-anchored definition, that risks excluding many who would have previously been recognised.
Second, the gap between identity and access widens. What was already a certification-based process under the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019 becomes more restrictive in practice.
The amendment adds layers of verification, making identity something that must be approved rather than asserted. Each step becomes a potential point of delay or denial, dependent on documentation, discretion, and unclear criteria. For many, especially those without stable support or access to healthcare, this pushes recognition further out of reach.
Third, the focus of the law shifts. Instead of expanding protections against everyday discrimination, such as employment, housing, healthcare, the amendment turns inward, toward regulating identity and expression itself!
Fourth, it introduces new offences in ways that blur the line between harm and support, creating ambiguity around community, care, and allyship.
And finally, it raises the stakes of exclusion. When recognition itself becomes harder to access, and everything tied to it, such as documentation, jobs, healthcare, safety, is now more difficult to come by in an affirming way.
Taken together, the amendment doesn’t correct the 2019 Act, but deepens its most contested features, while narrowing who the law is willing to see.
Voices Against the Bill
MPs across opposition parties strongly criticised the bill, raising concerns about rights, privacy, and exclusion.
S. Jothimani, MP from Indian National Congress party, said the bill was introduced without proper consultation with transgender persons and undermines dignity. She argued that identity cannot be reduced to paperwork and warned that bureaucracy could turn rights into permissions. And that makes us think too: if the government hasn’t even fully delivered welfare, why is it suddenly so invested in controlling identity?
Anand Bhadauria, an MP from the Samajwadi party, highlighted the historical marginalisation of transgender persons and warned that vague criminal provisions could be misused. He said such clauses risk “criminalising the entire community, along with families and support systems”.
He also shared his concern about how recognition once given can now be taken away and the impact on individuals who had already obtained legal identity under the 2019 Act, stating that the proposed amendments could create legal and social uncertainty and even risk reversing their recognised identity. He warned that this could affect their jobs, documentation, and access to basic services.
Dr T. Sumathy, an MP from DMK, argued that the amendment gives the state power over a person’s identity. She said, “This is not a technical correction, but a constitutional regression,” and opposed the idea that dignity depends on certification. She keeps returning to the absurdity of it… no cis person is ever asked to prove who they are, so why this scrutiny here? She also strongly criticized the lack of consultation. Her speech warned against a creeping normalisation of state control over personal existence.
June Maliah, from the All India Trinamool Congress, said the bill dismantles earlier protections and narrows recognition. She argued that the changes restrict rather than expand rights and pointed out the contradiction about how a community already excluded from education, jobs, housing is now being further narrowed in definition instead of being supported. She emphasized that the bill narrows the definition of transgender persons and conflates intersex and transgender identities, warning that “we are not just amending a law, but erasing people from it.”
Supriya Sule of the Nationalist Congress Party, questioned the need for administrative oversight in personal decisions. She criticised provisions requiring reporting of medical procedures, asking, “why should a magistrate or a collector need to know?” Also, she asks, there’s no urgency, so why now? Her discomfort is real: why should the state be involved in something as personal as medical decisions or identity?
Arvind Ganpat Sawant, belonging to Shiv Sena (Uddhav Balasaheb Thackeray), leaned heavily on the Constitution and existing law and asked, ‘What problem are we even solving?’ He raised concerns about urgency and necessity. He questioned the timing of the bill, asking, “What is the necessity or urgency” to pass it now, and warned it could undermine constitutional rights.
Gowaal Kagada Padavi of the Indian National Congress, widened the lens by bringing in mythology, culture, and constitutional law to say this: gender diversity has always existed, and the Constitution already protects it. He argued that the bill reverses constitutional guarantees. He said it transforms fundamental rights into “an administrative privilege” through verification processes.
Abhay Kumar Sinha of Rashtriya Janata Dal, described the bill as an “attack on constitutional values” and said it could further marginalise an already vulnerable community. His focus is less on identity theory and more on how this creates a new layer of bureaucracy that could be misused, how it ignores real issues like jobs and welfare, and how it risks pushing an already excluded community even further out.
Shyamkumar Daulat Barve, an MP from Indian National Congress, said the amendments restrict freedoms instead of promoting equality. He argued they “impose restrictions on the freedom of transgender persons”. He points out that by narrowing definitions and excluding self-perceived identity, the bill doesn’t expand rights; it redraws their boundaries. He showed the difference between what the bill claims to do and what it actually changes.
Balwant Wankhade, also an MP from the Indian National Congress, echoed these concerns, stating the bill places “controls on their autonomy rather than addressing their needs”. His concern is that the law is looking in the wrong direction: inward, toward regulation, instead of outward, toward inclusion.
Indian National Congress’ K. Sudha R’s argument cuts through with a kind of disbelief: how can something so internal be evaluated externally? She exposed the gap between lived experience and institutional thinking. She questioned, “Which medical degree teaches these doctors to identify feelings?” She questions the practicality too: overburdened systems, delays, barriers.
Across these interventions, MPs repeatedly referred to the Supreme Court’s ruling in NALSA v. Union of India, which recognised self-identification as a fundamental right. Many argued the amendment departs from this principle and risks rolling back existing protections.
Voices in Support of the Bill
MPs supporting the bill argued that it brings structure, accountability, and stronger safeguards.
Dr. Byreddy Shabari from Telugu Desam Party approached the bill with a sense of reassurance, presenting it in a maneer that seemed like the opposition had misunderstood it. She described it as “a historic bill that gives identity and justice”. She supported the need for a formal identification system and raised concerns about misuse of benefits. For her, structure equals legitimacy. Identification systems, medical boards are not barriers but ways to formalise recognition. She also introduces a concern that others don’t: misuse by people falsely claiming identity. But is it? What benefits have transgender persons secured by the government that would entice a cisgender person?
Pratap Chandra Sarang of the Bharatiya Janata Party,i framed the bill as scientific and necessary. Identity, in his view, is not a matter of personal declaration but something that should be verified objectively. He called it “a revolutionary amendment” based on a “very scientific approach”. He argued that medical verification is necessary to ensure fairness and prevent misuse. His support rests heavily on the idea that without scrutiny, systems can be exploited.
Alok Kumar Suman from Janata Dal (United) said a structured certification system would improve transparency and ensure benefits reach genuine beneficiaries. He questioned why verification should be treated differently from other categories that require certification. Many groups require certification for benefits, so why not here? He claimed that it was more procedural, focusing on delivery gaps and the need for structured systems so as to ensure benefits reach the right people. He treats identity as a governance category over a lived experience.
Naresh Ganpat Mhaske from Shiv Sena said the amendments strengthen protections and improve access to welfare. He described the bill as a step toward providing “a secure and dignified identity” to transgender persons. For him, the bill strengthens what already exists, filling gaps in the system and making protections more enforceable.
Closing the debate, Dr. Virendra Kumar, the Minister of the bill and MP belonging to the Bharatiya Janata Party, framed it as refinement, not restriction. The intent, he says, is to focus on those facing the most severe exclusion and ensure they receive protection. There’s a consistent emphasis on inclusion, dignity, and welfare, but always tied to identifying the “right” beneficiaries.
But that raises a deeper question. If the intent is to prioritise those most marginalised, why has there been no movement on long-standing demands like horizontal reservation for transgender persons, especially those from Dalit, Bahujan, and Adivasi communities?
Because exclusion within the transgender community is not uniform. A Dalit trans woman, for instance, navigates both caste and gender-based marginalisation. Horizontal reservation, already used for groups like women and persons with disabilities, exists precisely to account for such overlapping inequalities, ensuring representation across caste categories rather than flattening them into one.
Without that lens, “targeting the most excluded” risks remaining rhetorical. It identifies vulnerability, but stops short of redistributing access in ways that actually reach those living at its sharpest edges.
Here are 3 flawed assumptions driving support for the bill
“Misuse” is the biggest risk
The debate focuses on “misuse”. But it ignores a bigger, more real risk: exclusion. Because when a trans person is denied recognition, they lose access to identity, work, healthcare, and dignity. The risks aren’t equal. Supporters also assume people will fake being trans for benefits. But what benefits are so easy, so rewarding, that someone would choose stigma, violence, and exclusion?
Identity works like a welfare category
“Other groups need certification, so why not here?” Because identity isn’t something you qualify for, but who you are, whether the system recognizes it or not. And is there a test for identity? What exactly is being verified? Who decides who is “trans enough”? Medical boards? Administrative approvals? They’re treated as objective. But systems reflect society, which inherently carries biases and generational, internalized trauma. So what happens when bias becomes a gatekeeper for access to affirmative action and rights?
Rights are treated as something to be granted, not recognised
The framework assumes identity is something the State can approve, not recognise. But trans people are already navigating daily scrutiny, rejection, and barriers. This adds another layer, forcing people to prove who they are, often by revisiting deeply personal and painful experiences.
That process isn’t neutral, but exhausting and retraumatising. What gets called “verification” ends up pushing the most vulnerable further out.
What Lies Ahead
With the bill now moving to the Rajya Sabha, it is expected to face further debate. Several MPs have called for the bill to be referred to a parliamentary committee for wider consultation, particularly with the transgender community.
The discussion so far has highlighted a fundamental divide over whether identity should remain a matter of self-declaration or be subject to state verification, a question that is likely to shape the debate as the bill comes up in the upper house.
Source material for this article was compiled by Hyderabad Against Trans Erasure. Special thanks to Picnic (any pronouns).
In the United States, a surge of anti-trans legislation has forced many trans people to consider leaving their home states. A 2022 survey of over 92,000 trans people found that nearly half had considered moving because of anti-trans laws, with thousands already migrating in search of safety. Trans people are increasingly described as “political refugees” fleeing hostile jurisdictions.
At the same time, laws targeting queer expression are multiplying. Several U.S. states have introduced legislation restricting drag performances and policing gender non-conforming expression in public spaces. These laws are not just symbolic. They create a climate where harassment, discrimination, and violence become easier to justify.
This is the architecture of gender authoritarianism: rights are framed as threats, identities as “ideology,” and legal protections become bargaining chips in political struggles.
From NALSA to the 2019 Act: A Promise Slowly Eroded
India is not immune to this global shift. Anti-gender rhetoric in India is closely tied to far-right nationalism, which celebrates rigid patriarchal norms as part of an imagined “golden past.” Within this framework, gender diversity is portrayed as a deviation rather than a lived reality. And now, that ideology is entering law.
In 2014, the Supreme Court of India delivered a landmark judgment in NALSA vs Union of India, recognising transgender persons as a third gender and affirming that self-determination of gender identity is a fundamental right under the Constitution.
For many in the community, it was a historic vindication of centuries of resistance against invisibilisation and violence. Soon after, MP Tiruchi Siva introduced the Transgender Rights Bill (2014) as a private member’s bill. Passed by the Rajya Sabha in 2015, it carried the promise that the Supreme Court’s recognition would translate into meaningful legislation.
But the bills that followed steadily diluted that promise. Drafts introduced in 2016 and 2018 were widely criticised by activists for undermining the principle of self-identification and introducing bureaucratic barriers to recognising gender identity. The 2018 bill still passed the Lok Sabha, though it eventually lapsed.
Then came the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019, pushed through despite sustained protests from the community. From weak anti-discrimination provisions to intrusive certification processes and inadequate penalties for violence, the Act already fell far short of the constitutional vision laid down in NALSA. Yet even that limited recognition is now under threat.
The 2026 Amendment: Erasing Self-Identification
On March 13, 2026, the Union government introduced the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Bill, 2026 in Parliament. The amendment proposes a radical shift.
It removes the principle that self-perceived gender identity can form the basis for recognition under the law. Instead, it restricts the definition of “transgender person” to specific socio-cultural identities such as hijra, kinner, aravani, jogta and eunuch, along with people with intersex variations.
In doing so, the amendment effectively excludes large sections of the trans community. Trans men and trans-masculine people disappear from the law. Gender-diverse people who do not belong to recognised cultural communities are excluded. And by collapsing transgender identities into biological categories, the amendment reverses the constitutional principle that gender identity is rooted in personal autonomy, not anatomy.
Ironically, this move also risks misrepresenting and further marginalising intersex people, whose distinct medical and social realities are being folded into a narrow legal category. Twelve years after the Supreme Court affirmed that gender identity is a matter of self-determination, the state is attempting to take that right away. Rights that are granted through law can also be dismantled through law. And this amendment is a stark reminder of how fragile those rights can be.
It started with one sentence. I told my friend that I would like to marry someone who looks like Kushal Dubey. For those who may not know him, Kushal Dubey is a content creator from Uttar Pradesh. He runs The Asstag on Instagram and YouTube, where he creates short sketches and reels that capture the humour of everyday life. His work is witty, warm, and deeply relatable, which is why he has built a wide audience that feels connected to him. For me, he became more than just a creator on my feed. He became a face I could not forget.
It may have sounded playful, but it was not only a joke. In that moment, I was speaking a truth wrapped in humour. Like many women, I live within the practical world of arranged marriage, where families search for matches and expectations are carefully measured. Yet even in such a structured world, fantasy survives. Every girl carries an image of a partner, a face she would like to see across the dining table for the rest of her life. For me, that face was Kushal Dubey.
What happened later made the fantasy tangible. My friend was at a restaurant in Lucknow when he saw Kushal sitting there. In an act of boldness, he introduced himself and told him about me. A few minutes later, I was staring at my phone, blinking at the unexpected FaceTime call. For the first time, I was not just scrolling through Kushal’s reels on Instagram or catching up on The Asstag sketches on YouTube. I was speaking to him directly. He smiled, he was kind, and he treated me not as a stranger but as someone worth giving his attention to. The call was brief, yet its impact was lasting.
I often think about why I have a crush on him. It is not celebrity worship. I do not easily get carried away by famous names or glamorous faces. What I admire are qualities that feel real. Kushal has those qualities. He is from Uttar Pradesh, studied in Lucknow, and carries those roots into his content and presence. As someone with the same roots, I see in him a reflection of the soil that shaped me, but I also see a charisma that makes him stand apart. This combination of familiarity and distinction is what makes my admiration so honest. It is not only about how he looks but about what he represents.
His work has played a large part in shaping this admiration. Through The Asstag on Instagram and YouTube, Kushal creates humour that springs from everyday life. He notices small details that we often ignore. His sketches show the awkwardness of family interactions, the quirks of social norms, and the absurdities of modern routines. He makes people laugh not with cruelty but with recognition. That balance of wit and warmth is rare. I have followed his work for two years now, and I keep myself updated with what he is doing. When you follow a creator for that long, they become part of the rhythm of your life, and the admiration you feel begins to carry emotional weight.
The FaceTime call then was not simply a moment of surprise. It became a reminder of why crushes matter. A crush is not shallow, nor is it childish. It is a harmless crush, but it carries its own quiet importance. It is a private way of giving shape to desire. It allows us to admire qualities without needing them to become ours. For women especially, whose choices are often shaped by what families expect and what society prescribes, a crush is a space of freedom. It allows us to imagine without fear. It tells us that our wants exist beyond practicality. It shows us that attraction and admiration are not foolish but vital.
There is also a link between crushes and sexuality that deserves reflection. In many cultures, female sexuality is spoken about only in terms of marriage, duty, or reproduction. Desire is rarely acknowledged on its own terms. A crush disrupts that silence. It says, I am drawn to someone because of the way they look, the way they speak, the way they carry themselves. It affirms that attraction is not shameful but human. To have a crush is to practice naming one’s own desire in a world that often tells women to erase it. It is not rebellion in loud form, but it is resistance in quiet form.
Crushes also expand our understanding of sexuality. They remind us that desire is not only about what is available or arranged but about what sparks inside us when we see a certain face, hear a certain voice, or notice a certain charm. A crush validates that our longing is ours, even if it never becomes a relationship. For women in particular, admitting to crushes is a way of affirming that our fantasies are real, our desires are alive, and our sexuality does not exist only for the sake of marriage. Speaking to Kushal on that call reminded me of something I had almost forgotten. I had not had a crush in a really long time, and to speak to a crush, let alone someone so public, made me feel a bit more alive as a woman.
Marriage, in contrast, is where desire is often disciplined. In arranged marriage especially, families look for compatibility, status, and stability. Marriage is a contract, and my guardians will look at many things before choosing someone for me. These things are necessary, but they are not everything that fuels desire. Fantasies exist alongside these realities. To imagine Kushal as my partner was to let fantasy breathe where practicality usually suffocates it. And when he appeared on my phone screen, that fantasy briefly became visible. It may not change the course of my life, but it gave me a memory that affirms that my desires are valid, even if they live only in imagination.
The importance of fantasies should not be underestimated. They give us language to think about what we truly want. They help us connect with our own sense of longing. They also provide comfort, because in a world where life does not always go as planned, fantasy keeps hope alive. My crush on Kushal is not about wanting him literally. It is about recognising the qualities he embodies and allowing myself to admit that these qualities matter to me in love and in marriage. It is about refusing to silence the part of me that wants charm, wit, and warmth, even while navigating the serious process of arranged marriage.
When I reflect on that FaceTime call, I see more than just a chance encounter. I see an affirmation that even small joys can hold profound meaning. Desire is not always about grand love stories. Sometimes it is about fleeting moments that remind us that we are alive, that we can still be moved, that our fantasies still have space in our lives. The power of a crush lies not in whether it becomes real but in how it keeps us connected to ourselves.
I still watch Kushal’s content on The Asstag, both on Instagram and YouTube. I still admire the way he finds humour in ordinary life. And yes, I still have a crush. But now I also have a story that reminds me that my fantasies are not foolish. They are mine to name and to hold. And if anyone asks me again about my fantasy groom, I will simply say, “Well, let us just say I have already spoken to him once.”
Bad Girl (2025) is often described as a film about female desire, morality, or rebellion, but none of these frames quite capture what the film is actually doing. At its core, it is a deeply unsettling portrait of millennial adulthood, where the old guarantees no longer hold, the new ones are unreliable, and the individual is left repeatedly asking whether the problem lies within them.
The film begins with a dream in which a young girl imagines a small home, intimate and warm, shared with a man she believes will love her, and the ordinariness of this fantasy is important because it is not aspirational in the way cinema often imagines women’s futures. There is no grandeur here, only the hope for stability, affection, and a sense of arrival. When she wakes up disturbed by the dream itself, asking why she keeps imagining such things, the film introduces a question that will haunt her life in different forms, shifting with age but never disappearing entirely: Is something wrong with me?
As a schoolgirl, this question is attached to desire, fantasy, and curiosity, which the film places alongside her lack of academic success in a way that mirrors a familiar and deeply flawed cultural logic. Girls who are not “good at studies” are often coded as undisciplined in other ways too, as if intellectual inadequacy naturally bleeds into moral or sexual excess, and the film’s willingness to lean into this association is uncomfortable precisely because it reflects how easily society makes such connections without evidence or reflection.
What the film does with adolescence, however, is far more interesting than a simple morality tale. Menstruation appears not just as stigma or pain, but as something girls talk about, strategise around, joke with, and occasionally weaponise, whether it is chalk used to hide a period stain or excuses invented to escape sports class, and these scenes capture a form of everyday resilience that does not look like empowerment in the cinematic sense but feels emotionally true. At the same time, this ordinary bodily experience is relentlessly regulated at home, where kitchens become forbidden spaces during periods and purity is enforced as routine discipline rather than explicit cruelty.
Desire, once noticed, is quickly punished. Classmates call her a despo, boys label her a slut, and when another girl is caught kissing a boy at school, the blame is redirected towards the protagonist as a way of minimising her own transgression, triggering an institutional spectacle in which bags are checked, phones are searched, and her mother’s position as a teacher turns the incident into a public humiliation. What is striking here is not the severity of the punishment, but the eagerness with which systems move to restore order, not to protect anyone, but to reassert control.
At home, control takes quieter but no less damaging forms. A bright pink bra becomes evidence of filth. Astrologers and temples are consulted as if desire were an illness that could be cured through ritual. Her father draws a line that reveals a hierarchy of shame, explaining that he never minded her academic failure but that this is different, that this has crossed limits, making it clear that in this moral universe, wanting is a far greater offence than failing. Her grandmother goes further, blaming her daughter-in-law for not staying at home, for working outside, and for having given birth to a girl at all, exposing how deeply misogyny is embedded across generations, often transmitted through familial expectations rather than overt violence.
When the protagonist reaches college, the narrative does not shift into liberation so much as exposure. She is sexually active and unapologetic, but visibility does not bring ease. Her relationships are unstable, shaped more by absence than abuse, and when a boyfriend leaves for an internship and slowly withdraws without formally ending the relationship, the emotional fallout is devastating enough to manifest physically, as she stops eating, becomes dehydrated, and is hospitalised. The film is precise here in showing how emotional neglect can corrode the body, how distress does not always arrive as a breakdown but as quiet depletion.
Importantly, the film refuses to flatten her romantic life into a series of disasters. Not all her relationships are toxic, and one of her later relationships, an interreligious live-in partnership, is shown as caring, communicative, and functional. What undoes it is something far more difficult to articulate: the slow realisation that she is falling out of love at the same time that she is acutely aware of her age and the pressure to settle, a confusion many adults experience but rarely see reflected without judgement. The relationship does not end because anyone is cruel or inadequate, but because love itself proves insufficient as a long-term guarantee.
By the time she is thirty-two, she has changed. She no longer clings to relationships with the same desperation, she lets go more easily, and she moves on with less obsession, but this growth does not deliver the stability that self-improvement narratives promise. She is unmarried, her friends are getting married and having children, and her mother asks whether she is not worried, reactivating the same question that followed her since adolescence, now translated into the language of timelines and achievement: Is something wrong with me?
What makes Bad Girl resonate so deeply is that it places this question within a broader social context that offers no easy answers. An acquaintance tells her that he is getting divorced because there is no love left in the marriage despite therapy and effort, quietly dismantling the idea that marriage itself is a solution to uncertainty. Lives that appear settled are revealed to be fragile, and the hierarchy between those who have arrived and those who have not begins to collapse.
The film’s most devastating commentary on social memory arrives when she returns to her old school for her mother’s retirement. Sitting in the audience, she turns around to ask a group of girls to stop gossiping, only for them to recognise her first as the retiring teacher’s daughter and then, more tellingly, as the girl whose story is still told as a cautionary tale. In that moment, decades of growth, self-reflection, and emotional labour are erased, replaced by a simplified narrative designed to discipline others, revealing how institutions preserve women not as people but as examples, frozen at the moment of their perceived failure.
The death of her grandmother further sharpens this critique, as mourners speak of purity and discipline while recalling how she spent her final years bedridden, dependent, and unable to maintain the very standards she enforced, exposing the futility of moral control over the body. This realisation deepens later through the metaphor of her cats, particularly when one escapes after her mother opens the windows, triggering panic that sends both mother and daughter to a psychiatrist, where the mother finally recognises that the fear she feels for her child is the same fear her child feels for her pet, reframing decades of control as anxious care rather than simple oppression.
The film ends where it began, with the idea of home, but transformed. She moves into a small, rule-free space after years of living under restrictions, and as she inhabits it, the imagined home from her childhood dream overlays the real one, not as fantasy fulfilled through romance, but as belonging achieved through autonomy. She decorates the space, cooks for herself, lives with her cat, and allows herself a form of contentment that does not require explanation or validation. Before the final moment, she reflects on how the freedom she enjoys is built on the struggles of her mother, her grandmother, and generations before them, acknowledging inheritance without resentment and telling her mother that she loves her, a sentence that arrives late but lands heavily.
This is where Bad Girl becomes something larger than its protagonist. For many millennials today, adulthood has not followed the sequence it once promised. People are working, often continuously and without clear payoff, forming relationships that are intense but unstable, meaningful but not always permanent, and trying to make peace with the fact that not every ending arrives with clarity or justification. Relationships do not always end because someone was cruel or toxic. Sometimes they end because love changes, or because two people grow in directions that no longer align, or because the pressure to settle collides with the quiet knowledge that staying would be dishonest.
What complicates this further is the constant negotiation with parental expectations, shaped by a generation that reached stability earlier and under different conditions, making comparison feel both inevitable and deeply unfair. At the same age that millennials are still figuring things out, their parents were often already settled, already secure, already certain, which turns every conversation into a subtle reckoning with delay, difference, and disappointment. The questions multiply: Did I leave too soon? Did I stay too long? Did I choose wrong? Am I losing out? Is this freedom, or am I just late?
Bad Girl does not offer answers to these questions, and it does not try to console its audience with narratives of eventual arrival. Instead, it recognises the disorientation of a generation living without a stable map, where success is unclear, relationships are provisional, and self-doubt becomes a constant background noise rather than a crisis. The film understands that the most exhausting part of this condition is not instability itself, but the need to keep explaining it, to parents, to society, and to oneself.
In refusing to resolve its protagonist’s life into something easily legible, Bad Girl makes a quiet but radical claim. There may be nothing wrong with her at all. What may be wrong is the expectation that a life must follow a particular order to be considered complete.
In a quiet counseling room in Bengaluru, a young man lowers his voice as he talks about living two lives – one for his family and one for himself. Across from him, his counselor listens patiently, understanding that silence can be both a wound and a defense for many queer people. Inside that room, truth is allowed to breathe, if only for an hour.
Counseling room, Bengaluru. Photo by Somnath Das, October 2025
The Hidden Weight of Everyday Life
Bengaluru is often described as modern, liberal, and inclusive — a city that celebrates freedom and diversity. Nevertheless, there are still people who live with secrets too heavy to mention behind the city’s rainbow-lit cafes and corporate diversity posters.
“I often meet clients who act straight around their families and constantly monitor how they speak or dress,” says Veda Dandamudi, a queer-affirmative counselor who has worked with young adults and queer individuals for several years. “They are not ashamed of who they are; they are terrified of losing love and belonging.”
This is a common fear. Due to stigma and invisibility, LGBTQIA+ youth across the region have higher rates of depression and social disengagement, according to a 2022 UNESCO South Asia report. The counselor says it is not just social pressure – it is emotional conditioning that begins in childhood. “People grow up hearing that being queer is wrong or abnormal. By the time they accept themselves, they have learned to hide.”
“Why Aren’t You Married Yet?”
For one of my respondents, a 29-year-old corporate professional, that question arises in almost every family gathering. “They ask it casually, but for me it is painful,” he says. “I laugh and change the topic, but later I feel like I’m betraying myself.”
The counselor refers to this as the “performance of normalcy.” “Many clients spend their lives acting,” she explained. “They adjust their body language, avoid certain words, and even change their voice tone. It is constant emotional labor.”
52% of LGBTQIA+ Indians have not told their families about their sexual identity because they are afraid of being rejected, according to a 2021 survey conducted by The Humsafar Trust. For the majority, the danger of being exposed surpasses the comfort of being truthful.“Even educated families link queerness with failure,” the counselor adds. “They think it is a phase, or worse, a disease.”
Morning light through a curtain, Bengaluru. Photo by one of the respondents, October 2025.
The Loneliness of Hiding
In my conversations, loneliness emerged as a quiet but constant companion. One respondent informed me that only his queer friends make him feel fully seen. “When I’m with them,” he says, “I can talk normally, laugh freely. Outside that, I become someone else.”
Queer life is shaped by invisibility, even in urban India. According to the National Institute of Mental Health and Neurosciences (NIMHANS) study, the fear of discrimination and exposure causes nearly twice as many cases of depression in LGBTQIA+ individuals as in the general population.
“Keeping my identity hidden is like living with a weight on my chest. I breathe, but never fully.” Says a master’s student from Bengaluru. According to the counselor, loneliness turns into a coping strategy.“ You isolate yourself so that no one can hurt you. But that safety comes at the cost of connection. You start to believe that solitude is your only home.”
Home Isn’t Always Safe
For many people, home is considered a safe space. It may feel like a stage to queer people. “One respondent told me he rehearses how to talk at home so his parents don’t suspect anything,”. “He avoids eye contact, avoids topics about marriage, and never uses words like ‘partner.’ It’s exhausting.”
Another respondent, who works in Bengaluru as an HR professional, said he pretends to have a girlfriend just to stop the questions. “I show her pictures from the internet,” he admits. “It is easier than explaining something they will never accept.”
The counselor calls this “the second burden”– the constant alertness that comes with managing every gesture and sentence.“You are not only hiding your identity, you are censoring your emotions,” she says. “That takes a heavy toll on their self-esteem.”
India has seen important legal progress. In 2018, the Supreme Court’s Navtej Singh Johar vs. Union of India ruling decriminalized same-sex relationships, calling it “a step toward equality and dignity.” Yet, as the counselor points out, “laws can change behavior, but they can’t change belief.”
One respondent, a student in Bengaluru, emphasizes education as the foundation for acceptance. “If schools taught about gender and sexuality early on, we wouldn’t grow up fearing difference,” she says. “Diversity shouldn’t be an adult revelation.”
Public health experts echo this. The World Health Organization (WHO) notes that stigma and exclusion remain major barriers to mental-health access for the LGBTQIA+ population worldwide. The counselor believes India needs more inclusive mental-health training.“Counselors themselves must be sensitized. If therapy is judgmental, it can do more harm than good.”
Every respondent I interacted with expressed the same longing- not necessarily to “come out,” but simply to live without fear. “I don’t want to be brave,” one of them said quietly. “I just want to be normal.”
The counselor pauses when I repeat that line. “That sentence captures everything,” Veda says. “For many queer people, freedom isn’t about being loud or visible. It’s about being able to exist without hiding.”
Their stories serve as a reminder that, in a city that takes pride in its advancement, true modernity is about empathy and acknowledging the silent bravery of those who still have to speak their truth.
To preserve respondents’ privacy, their personal information has been kept private, and all photographs were taken with consent.
Hijab Butch Blues as a reinterpretation of legends from the Quran was not something I expected to read. My love for the book in question is secure, however it was not a refreshing take. These were stories like “Marium may not have been straight,” that have existed in my brain as a form of myth-making comfort. To find in words something I’ve imprisoned within my mind, to find belonging as a queer muslim woman, felt like discovering content of legends, meant to maintain distance from reality. I saw worlds colliding as there was similarity in Lamya H’s—author of Hijab Butch Blues—perception of Marium as a sapphic woman to my theory about her being aro-ace and not interested in relationships that dominate the relationship hierarchy. Expressing faith or queerness is often tricky but literature can become a means for queer Muslims to assert themselves. Our stories participate in the written traditions of Islam while questioning our whole societies.
A prominent legend from the Quran remains that of Sodom and Gomorrah. According to it, in ancient times, the inhabitants of the city of Sodom raped foreigners whom they were supposed to host. Finding out about this, God destroyed the city to punish these assaults. The Islamic jurisprudence has long interpreted God’s wrath as a prohibition of homosexuality. My understanding of my place within the world turned upside down the moment I knew I was aro-ace, but religious fear was slow to creep in. I lived believing that I was not attracted to men in the conventional manner, mistaking it for my being a good muslim. I was supposed to be embraced within a community that focuses on halal forms of love, which is something I continue to appreciate for its Jane Austen-like courtship mannerisms. Books like Love from A to Z and God Smites And Other Muslim Girl Problems used to make me swoon and melt over the characters’ romantic encounters, which happened in a subtle instead of heated manner. A part of the reason lies in how romantic relationships mattered more to me when its representation was closer to the traditional idea of platonic love. But it was not long before I heard biases that are reserved for gay people within the Muslim community, used when talking about me.
Like the time I posted a half-baked poem about never needing a man in a romantic and sexual sense, because I’ve my writing and reading abilities to sustain me, and it didn’t sit right with my uncle. It’s one of the many times when the idea of heteronormativity was forced on me and I finally knew why queer Muslims either take pen to paper or turn to reading whichever representative literature they can get their hands on. You will be applauded for not turning to men during your adolescence, but the belief that sustains heteropatriarchy and propounds the idea that marriage is Sunnah catches up with you soon enough. It becomes a double-edged sword in a society riddled with Hindutva where I already had to prove my humanity since I was a kid incapable of fully comprehending why I’m a Muslim when others around me are not. I knew I was not safe when a schoolmate told a 7-year-old-me that I’m disgusting for being a Muslim. It was also a loss of a potential friendship for me. Being aro-ace requires similar negotiations. I’m expected to carry the defence that I deserve humanity simply because I can love in manners that are not romantic and sexual. I’ve spent my lifetime proving my nationalism, hoping my fellow humans would bless me with a certificate of humanity. I’m done with both sides now, but I would be nowhere without the works of queer Muslims.
Certain ideas are so deeply entrenched in black and white that it’s a scary taboo to break them. That’s why I gasped when I got my hands on On the Brink of Belief, an anthology, where many of the works are by queer Muslim writers. Contemplation about Allah’s love for Shaitan (Devil), imagining a world created to disprove him, in a short story that leans toward myth-making, showed me a space like Hijab Butch Blues. We are quick to label Shaitan evil and move on but as a queer Muslim who has experienced borderline personality disorder symptoms since I turned 16—though I didn’t have a name for either until recently—I was scared about turning into Shaitan. I wondered what it meant if I wanted to live with my friends in the future: was I destroying a system of mehram and na-mehram, further complicated by my lack of romantic or sexual attraction. My lack of patience, quick jealously, and the immense splitting I was experiencing as part of my BPD symptoms were of no help either. I was less scared of Shaitan and more worried that I could become a shaitan.
The reimagining in the book, which acknowledges Shaitan’s humble beginnings instead of a vanity that existed within him helped me ground myself at times. I also turned to therapy and Muhammad Iqbal’s poetry. A centuries old short story by Tawfiq al-Hakim about Shaitan trying to join a religion but facing rejection lets him acknowledge he is a sacrifice. These stories and poems wander, but the stability they provide to me as a queer Muslim—and apparently to other queer Muslims as well, based on books like God in Pink by Hasan Namir, which places two rival angels with different interpretations of gayness in the Quran at odds as they try to influence humans—is steady and real.
At odd times when I’ve posted my words as Instapoetry, affirming queer and other aspects of Islam that soothe me, I’ve received threats that can only be described as weird. The very threats that believe in Allah’s judgement! But the other day a non-binary Muslim person, who has complications with religion told me that they are happy about the work I’m trying to write down, in a world where representation has turned into a privilege. The memory about the time I got to tell Faraz Arif Ansari at Rainbow Lit Fest, 2024, that my Muslimness and queerness are enjoined to make me who I am despite missing the screening of their sapphic movie again and again. Their affirmation regarding how their belief is the same was a real life proof that we as queer Muslims are living out both our Islam and queer parts as the ground reality of what is shown in books and movies. In the words of Fatima Daas, “Society, our friends and even our family push us to choose. You have to take a stand, to cleave. I have decided to give none of my identities up, and assume them in their contradictions.” We do belong to our Muslim as well as our queer sides.
The words of the Quran remain the same, but interpretation and reinterpretation paves the way for those who have been left on the margins of the stage in a show that refuses to believe in my existence. I remember coming out to a classmate as aro-ace, due to certain circumstances; my classmate in turn believed that it was a result of my Muslimness, and that I would eventually become hetero as I grew up. As if my education timeline would simply pave the way for the marriage stage, where I could settle into standards as they have always existed.
When one contends with hetero structures with the message of Quran I sometimes turn towards the rational writings of those such as Pervez Sharma in A Sinner in Mecca, which is a travelogue about his Hajj, a pilgrimage that Muslims who are capable are obliged to undertake. While the book is mostly about perspectives on a diverse range of topics, he captures a subtle mention in the Quran of men who do not feel attraction to women, described in a neutral context. A neutrality that accepts existence. An existence that could even turn into celebration. It may appear like the bare minimum, but the intersectionality of identities doesn’t always let us afford even the basics. In a way I appreciate how the verse indicates a possibility about being aro-ace alongside being gay.
I came to my first Pride parade on my own. That was the lie I told my friends in a moment of hesitation because I found the loneliness I experience as a result of BPD and autism embarrassing—something I believe I needed to grow out of. I’m now ready to confess and credit my abba who accompanied me, which stands in stark contrast to the derogatory words he used the first time we acknowledged the existence of gay people in our conversation.
I can see the reflection of his change being analogous to the way Adiba Jagidar’s books describe the dilemma and eventual acceptance despite hesitancy in South Asian Muslim families. Cruel rejection is something Nishat is met with when she comes out as a lesbian in Henna Wars because Muslim girls can’t be gay. Yet the plotline gradually moves her parents toward understanding through small moments of bonding, which have the capacity to melt hearts.
Abba was quite willing to hear me out when I informed him that my aro ace identity exists in a particular way, and may from another person on the aro-acespectrum. In another of Adiba Jagidar’s work Hani and Ishu’s Guide to Fake Dating, we first encounter what seems like the fantasy of a brown Muslim mother who immediately accepts her daughter’s bisexuality. As the story unfolds through the book, we learn that she does face an internal struggle about having a queer daughter who may one day marry a woman instead of a man, alongside concerns about her safety in a world that is hostile to differences. I can see my abba reflected in these characters as he sat as a 60-year-old man trying to grasp the concept of deadnames. Pride and love look different for South Asian and Muslim LGBTQ+ people which may not match dominant white world narratives.
Maybe it was a sign that I cried when reading the poetry book, If They Come for Us by Fatima Asghar, for the first time. In the poems, the author included queer identities, besides being Kashmiri and talked about their ancestors’ partition trauma. In the memoir All the Parts We Exile, which I devoured recently, Roza Nozari describes her entry into queerness as gentle rather than agony-filled. I found resonance in that softness. Her book became as much her mother’s story as her own.
Acceptance in queer Muslim communities can be quiet, especially in the face of forces that conflate descriptions of rape with the meaning of sex, which is an argument often weaponized against queer Muslims in the interpretations of the Quran’s verses. After all, what’s gay about banging on the door to kidnap and sexually coerce angels who were visiting Prophet Lot?
Queer writers and readers of faith take it upon themselves to bridge different value systems that are often thought to be opposing each other. Reading became my oasis. I always look forward to the poetry selected by the Queer Muslim Project, because there’s an echo in those metaphors. The bare fact remains: there’s still a long way to go against the forces of Hindutva, heteropatriarchy, and transphobia.
One morning, I woke up, got on Twitter, and as I was scrolling, I saw people gagging over the first two episodes of Heated Rivalry — the book by Rachel Reid turned into a television series directed by Jacob Tierney.
I was clueless but curious, especially because I had never heard of the book or its TV adaptation. Then those clips of steamy scenes and GIFs further deepened my inquisitiveness. After coming back from work, I watched the two episodes — and the rest is history.
The world of Heated Rivalry is an enthralling one. Good-looking men having hot sex — what’s not to love? But that’s not all there is. In fact, the show is so much more than two rival hockey players having sneaky sex for over a decade.
The show conveys the distinction between desire, fantasy, and longing in a very distinct yet neat way. There is heat and attraction — the physical pull between the characters that immediately grabs the audience. As the story progresses, fantasy comes into play through moments of intimacy that exist only when the world is unaware of them. But reality constantly intrudes, making it risky for them to let that fantasy take over. And this is where longing stays and grows stronger; its gnawing pain shifts from ease to continual endurance.
In the romance genre, media often either overlooks or struggles to get yearning right. Similarly, media consumers often romanticise the portrayal of yearning in movies and TV shows, and people have done the same with the longing depicted in Heated Rivalry.
However, what the discourse seems to miss is how much longing is actually the labour of restraint. The male leads in the show are compelled to survive in a hypermasculine space like sports, which requires suppression, discipline, and a whole lot of masking. This would obviously take a massive toll on the mental and emotional strength of the characters, if not also the physical.
This endurance needs acknowledgement when we talk about yearning, because queer yearning involves far more preparation and containment of desire in comparison to heterosexual longing. There is so much to lose if queer romance meets unwelcoming eyes. The risk can be personally and professionally damaging if it goes public before the characters are ready to admit it to the world.
In the show, the characters cannot be seen together like a straight couple could be in public, so all they have is sex behind closed doors to fulfil those desires in all their forms.
The portrayal of two men who are at the top of their games — who have everything figured out professionally — yet are closeted and struggling with their sexuality hints at something bigger than them. If two straight-passing, white and white-adjacent men, even with strong careers, can go through so much pain due to the fear of the world knowing about their queerness, then imagine the battles of non-white, non–queer-passing folks.
Besides, what Heated Rivalry gets right is that it’s not just another tragic portrayal of queer people in media.
For a long time, we have been depicted either as a sob story or as unfunny slapstick comedy. So it is not only refreshing to see stereotypes being defied; it is healing to see queer representation experience joy in mainstream media.
Hope and joy coded into queer representation are so important because we are more than a one-sided, overdone tragic narrative.
Queer folks often have to live our lives vicariously through media, and we deserve to be shown in ways other than just sad stories.
For example, another beautiful instance of queer media is Heartstopper, also a book series turned into a TV show — which is how I lived my nonexistent teen romance vicariously through Nick and Charlie.
Queer joy should be normalised; the idea of it should not feel radical. We are not there yet. However, with shows like Heated Rivalry, we will get there.
That said, it is worth noting that perhaps Heated Rivalry is still a palatable form of queer joy, since it is a romance between two conventionally attractive, white and white-adjacent, straight-passing gay and bisexual athletic men at the top of their games.
Would the reception be the same if the romance included a femme or trans person of colour? It is worth pondering the implications of queerness if the characters were non-white and visibly queer.
The world is not yet at a place where it accepts all forms of queerness. So this particular portrayal feels more legible to normative society, since it is performed in a certain way that can be legitimised.
Sports movies help explain why this legibility matters. In Jerry Maguire (1996), emotional vulnerability is framed as a breakthrough only after Tom Cruise’s character proves his worth. Likewise, in Miracle (2004), about the US men’s ice hockey team, emotions are permitted only when they serve the team or the nation. Heated Rivalry flips this script. Here, vulnerability is not a reward; it’s a risk. Since the characters exist in hypermasculine spaces, they are not allowed to feel openly — and so their emotional labour becomes the main plot.
With Heated Rivalry cited as a source of courage for real-life athletes coming out after the show’s success, it stands as an example that representation matters. And while the show’s success may partly be due to its palatability, it still opens doors and holds space for queer longing and queer joy in a world where they still feel like a luxury.
The gays are awakening to Crave Original’s Heated Rivalry becoming an internationally viral pop phenomenon that has also been renewed for a second season. Tracing the journey of closeted professional hockey players, the series has a happier ending than most, and has caught the imagination of a global audience including the queer folx of India. On the microblogging site X (formerly known as Twitter), threads and comments can’t stop thirsting over the main leads Shane and Ilya.
The series travels wildly in time but the leads however appear to not age over a period of ten years, feeding into the narrative of ‘agelessness’ that is a conventional stereotype forced upon women and the queers. One finds it difficult to believe that a young Shane who just made his debut and texting in pre smartphone era and a Shane who later becomes the Captain, Facetiming on a slick new iPhone look so similar, with a hairline that stays the same, not a semblance of a wrinkle over a 10-year period. It shouldn’t come as a surprise then this is a clear mirroring of this obsession that the gays have with aging and the lack of representation of growing old as a queer person. Particularly of importance in the context of India or other countries once colonised by the western imperial powers and still colonised by Victorian morality, is that we continue to look for queer elders who were often denied a chance to exist.
Queer folx age differently, oftenafter living battered lives with scars from bullying, alienation and discrimination. In an interview, Connor Storie who plays Ilya Rozanov notes talking about his younger self – “I love that little guy. I love him. I used to not like him.”
It wasn’t easy for a kid like him growing up in Odessa, Texas.
“I was this artist, sissy boy in West Texas that didn’t want to play football,” he explains. “I wanted to play pretend and play dress up and disappear into weird worlds and entertain and try to connect with people that way, and that was just not the norm out there.”
The idea that for him to like a younger version of himself, a version that he identifies as ‘a sissy boy in West Texas that didn’t want to play football’, is a realization that is happening when he is portraying a hypermasculine character whose expression is that of a well built jock who also is an elite sports player. This is representative of what it takes of queer folx to often love their younger selves. It is the complete annihilation of one’s identity and this hyperfixation to metamorphose into a socially acceptable version of queerness that deserves respect but not so much, because hurt and bullying is built into the idea of how queerness is perceived in our societies. It is only when this validation is received to balance out the past hurts, that one becomes tender to a former self that was perfectly alright, only not an acceptable enough version of one’s queerness. This is a burden that so many queer people carry that even as a certain version of queerness is starting to become passable, straying off that version brings enormous scorn.
While this might be expected for professional sportspersons—even though “looking fit” is not always synonymous with actual athletic performance—the same aesthetic is extended to Kip Grady, a key romantic interest who works at a smoothie shop. His body is portrayed in a way more commonly associated with professional bodybuilders than with someone whose job or daily life would require it. This hyperfixation on a particular body type that is fair, hairless, with rippling muscles and visible vascularity, continues a long-standing trope within a narrow, stereotypical cis-gay visual culture. One that not only alienates and minimizes bodies that fall outside this ideal, but also places the onus on individuals to “transform” themselves to fit a conventional standard that is especially prevalent on Indian queer dating and meeting apps, ultimately feeding into what is a systemic issue.
The show feeds into a version of queer hierarchy and it is evident where the bisexual Ilya is seen as a ‘top’ and Shane is depicted as a ‘bottom’. It feeds into a very problematic idea of hierarchisation of queer identities where being a top is somehow superior and lived experiences of gay men are testimony to how prevalent bottom-shaming is. It is a direct borrowing from heteronormativity where a man’s role is cemented as a giver and the woman as a receiver. In reality, these categories are extremely fluid and fixating on them is misogynistic, which sadly has found favor among a lot of cis-male queer folks.
Director Jacob Tierney on women loving the show and the BoyLove genre in general, talks about the presence of male vulnerability that attracts women and how there is a sense of safety that comes from women not having to imagine themselves within the relationship or anticipate the risks that often accompany female characters in heterosexual romances.
Tierney, in an interview with Variety, said, “So you are watching something happen between two men, and there is no fear of violence. There is no fear of things turning into stuff that women have to deal with too much in real life, and don’t want to deal with in their fantasies, and ultimately, this is a romantic fantasy.”
It is worth noting that the contextual setting of this fantasy is the arena of sports, which for most gays and queer folx is a site of eternal and chronic violence. It is a very common queer experience to feel alienated from sports because of locker room culture, which is a cesspool of toxic masculine, misogynist, homophobic and transphobic humour. Even in episodes one and two of the series, while Shane and Ilya fuck in private, the lock room conversation is about the rivalry they share and Shane’s team mates talk about ‘fucking’ Ilya as a derogatory homophobic reference. To manifest this as a site of romance is so far removed from the everyday existence of queer folx. While in the west, sporting stars have started to ‘come out’, in India, there are terrible consequences for sporting stars to embrace their sexuality in public, including loss of income from advertisers and sponsors.
Homophobia is not an internalised struggle; the idea of coming out is not the difficult part, but it is the structural struggle forcefully built into the very idea of queer identity which necessitates this ‘coming out’. Sadly, even this doen’t warrant an end of the societal exclusion of gays and theys. Our institutions like schools, hospitals, workplaces thrive on rampant homophobia, medical curricula continue to list lesbianism as unnatural sexuality in Indian medical undergraduate textbooks. The idea that one has to come out is seen as the defining arc of the queer experience in a society where being straight is the normal and this hyperfixation on coming out doesn’t then hold accountable the institutions that have necessitated this outdated, patronising, controlling ritual. The gayness is never assumed, it is an afterthought and love is conditional even with closest structures of cis-het units like families on one’s sexuality. By basing the storyline on coming out, the show gives a free pass to institutions that make the existence of queer identity an eternal and perpetual struggle. Its fetishisation of a certain body type and contextual exotic-ness of a setting that takes place in a sporting arena deprived of any nuance which has made its popularity possible amongst a certain audience demographic.
Even when aromanticism is acknowledged in the A-spec community, it is often framed through the amatonormative belief that everyone falls in love Unfortunately, a majority of these ideas use restrictive lines like, “everyone loves, just not always romantically”, or “everyone loves, just not always conventionally”, referencing the importance of loving friends, queer-platonic relationships, family members and pets. Sometimes it moves away from people to encompass love for hobbies, experiences, occupations and ourselves. The what and how tends to vary from person to person, but the idea that we do and must love someone or something, and this love redeems us as human and renders us undeserving of hatred, gets pushed to the point where I don’t feel safe or welcome in my own aromantic community. Even in the online posts meant to be challenging the more obvious amatonormativity, it is presumed that aromantic people must, in some way, love.
A scene in Heartstopper where Nick asserts Isaac’s humanity by saying that the fish who doesn’t fall in love must have lots of friends was well-meaning, but left my throat dry as a person with autism, social anxiety disorder, and borderline personality disorder, who has difficulty not only making friends but maintaining those friendships. Neurodivergent aromantics are often thrown under the bus in order to do what the aromantic community often accuses alloromantic asexual people of doing: using their ability to love as a defence of their humanity. Because I love, they say, I also don’t deserve to be a target of hatred, aggression and abuse.
But what if I don’t love? What if love itself has been the mechanism of the hatred and violence I have endured? Why am I, an aro-ace, neurodivergent survivor of emotional abuse and bullying, still acceptable collateral damage?
I’ve been told all my life that I’m unloving because I can’t perform love the way non-autistics expect and demand. I don’t have the same gestures, the same words, the same verbal and non-verbal languages that convey affection, compassion and interest. I tell people how I value their words, actions and behaviours, but that’s rarely considered a sufficient expression of affection among neurotypical people. Right from the day I drew my first breath, a baby the world didn’t yet recognise as autistic, my ability to love was always going to be questioned in a society unaccommodating autism.
When I look at my hobbies and experiences, I’m not sure that love is the correct word to describe how I feel about them. People with autism and BPD may argue that love as neurotypicals understand it is a pale, ineffective word to describe a special interest or a favourite person. I feel enjoyment and connection to things that aren’t special interests like drawing. I also feel connected with friends who are not my favourite person. Should I have to use a word with a difficult history to describe that connection?
I’ve been forced into harmful situations by parents who hurt me because they love me. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been grabbed, held, screamed at, called names. Should I mention how their actions hurt and damaged me, I am now expected to master forgiveness and compassion. It was, after all, a mistake they wrought through love.
I’ve been manipulated and pressured by an ex-friend who thought ignoring my boundaries was the best way for her to confess her love for me. Even if she loved me, her way of showing it had no interest in my own feelings or autonomy. Her language of love rang loud and clear to the world, and it had no need or interest in me, save as its target. I have been bullied and tormented by people who hate me, but none cut as deep as the wounds left by the girl who loved me and taught me to fear judgement, scrutinity and even religion.
Love is meant to make us human and also love is the mechanism by which my humanity has been denied. If we acknowledge that sex can be a mechanism of violence, oppression and abuse, we must afford love the same recognition. None of this “but it isn’t really love if they hurt you” nonsense. Love intersects with and justifies many shapes of denigration, denial and hatred targeted at marginalised people. Until we acknowledge that there is no falsehood in a love that abuses, we create sheltering shadows where people who love have free rein to harm and dehumanise.
It’s comforting to think that a love that wounds isn’t real love, but it denies the complexity of experience and feelings shared by survivors. It makes it harder for us to identify abuse and escape its claws. It denies the validity of survivors who look at love and feel an honest doubt about its worth, as a word or a concept, in our own interactions and experiences.
I don’t know if “love” will ever apply to me. I write about it, yes! I crave it! Most of my poems are about affection and loss of connection, and many of those narratives name this, purposefully and specifically, as love. I think it’s part of my healing to long for relationships where love supports and nurtures. Maybe, if I write enough, I’ll come to trust love, to feel some connection to it that doesn’t remind me of all the ways it has scarred me. Or maybe I won’t! It’s safe to express and explore love in a story where those characters aren’t me. Where the affection and connection that I sometimes name “love” is free of pain, manipulation and domination. Where it’s free of other people’s assumptions and misunderstandings. In my passion for reading and writing, love can be what I need it to be.
In real life, a world that isn’t a fairy tale, a psychologist directed me to say “love you” in return to the parent who denies my sexual orientation. In real life, I am not permitted honesty about my history and the way it influences my relationship to love. Instead, I am told that there’s nothing more hateful than being a child who can’t love her own mother, even when my mother’s love can’t encompass my personhood, education, and identity.
Why do I have to agree that there’s legitimacy in how other people define human worth when that definition has done nothing but harm for me? Why can’t I choose love in the safety of fiction and poetry and have a more complicated distance from it in my real life without being branded a monster? I can only shift from victim to survivor when I interrogate the relationship I am expected to have with love.
When love has enabled violence and dehumanisation, it is offensive in the extreme for my aromantic community to tell me that this is what makes me human. You are denying my scars, my history, my reason. Worst of all, you are telling me that my abusers who so easily profess love are unquestionably human, but I am monstrous because I question the applicability to me of something associated with the abuse they carry out.
Love makes us human? No, it doesn’t. It makes my abusers human and strips me of the last remaining shreds of a disputed humanity. I can’t clear the love bar if I wish to be true to my own history and neurodiversity. Yet my own fellow aromantics, people who should know what it is to be denied acceptance on the basis of our inability to love, continue to reinforce their quest for humanity at the expense of my own. At best they’ll permit me to not love people if I display love for pets, hobbies or experiences.
The world thinks that the opposite of love is hatred. That if love doesn’t exist, hatred must occupy its place. We might as well say, with an equal absence of logic, that if a piece of paper isn’t black, it’s white. Nevermind the dyes and inks that can give the paper an infinite possibility of shades! The same goes for emotions: an endless possibility of feelings and combinations of feelings can exist where love doesn’t.
If love can wreak so much harm, why do we continue with the lie that its presence is by definition redemptive? No lack of love alone exists that by definition makes us undeserving of respect, acknowledgement, safety, protection and value. The very idea that we should have to love in some way to be respected as human is an abominable, hypocritical one—one that ties into a long history of finding excuses to deny the humanity of other humans. I no longer want to be collateral damange at the intersection of aromantic and autistic as well as BPD identities.
Some aromantic people love non-romantically. Some even love romantically. Some aromantic people love their pets and hobbies. Some aromantic people don’t love at all. Some may value, seek or desire love; others won’t. Just like romantic attraction shouldn’t make us less or more deserving of safety in our broader societies, neither should our diverse relationships to love.
There is no substantial difference between saying “I’m human because I fall in love” or that “I’m human because I love my friends” and “I’m human because I love calligraphy”. All three statements make human worth contingent on certain behaviours, feelings and experiences. Expanding the definition of what kinds of love make us human does nothing but save some aromantic individuals from abuse and antagonism while telling neurodivergent aromantics, who are more likely to have complex relationships to love as a concept or are unable to perform it in ways recognised by others, that we’re still not worthy.
If the original concept is an act of hatred, expanding it to include a few more people by redefining what kinds of love determines our humanity is still an act of hatred. Why are we letting alloromantics set the standard for what determines aromantic worth and value? When love, presumed romantic, as a metric of worth harms aromantics, why have we not discarded this system?
The aromantic community must fight for the acceptance and safety of all aromantics, including the ones less palatable to alloromantic audiences. The ones who can’t or won’t swap love of romantic partners for love of friends, family, pets or hobbies. The ones who can’t or won’t say, I love something. The ones who shouldn’t have to adopt a word that may be false or uncomfortable to be judged worthy of community, connection and protection.
I am human. I am on the aromantic, asexual, and autistic spectrum. I am worthy of full inclusion and recognition in the aromantic community, as someone with a complex relationship to love. I will not sit by while you throw some aromantics under the bus in your race to make yourself more appealing to alloromantic folks—which is, not at all coincidentally, the same crime the aromantic community levels in anger and frustration against alloromantic asexuals.
Why is one questioned by aromantics and not the other?
We live in an increasingly homogenized world, a world obsessed with trending narratives and viral moments. But untold doesn’t mean nonexistent, does it?
Set against a culture of forgetting, Desi Queers: LGBTQ+ South Asians and Cultural Belonging in Britain by Churnjeet Mahn, Rohit K. Dasgupta and DJ Ritu refuses to let decades of organizing and creating disappear into the gaps between “British queer history” and “South Asian diasporic history.” It tells a story of finding belonging and solidarity amidst external hostility.
The book is important, necessary because it offers a vocabulary for thinking about how spaces are made and unmade. Who gets to feel at home, who doesn’t, the fickleness of rights, and how much unseen labour it takes to create even a fragile sense of “us” together. It treats belonging as something to be built over and over again.
To quote the authors, “The stories we tell are messy—they interrogate power structures; community fractures; funding regimes and social structures, but through it all, hold space for queer care and kinship (…) [they] are not new; they’ve just been pushed to the margins.”
What makes this history particularly urgent is how it demonstrates coalition-building in practice rather than theory. While contemporary activism often fragments into narrow identity silos, these communities understood that survival required cross-racial solidarity and building alliances across differences without erasing specificity.
The alliances it traces—between South Asian groups and Black British organisations, between queer migrants and local anti-racist campaigns—prefigure many of the questions that continue to trouble present-day activism. In India, for instance, anti-CAA protests and campus movements have repeatedly shown how coalitions can generate extraordinary energy when different struggles come together, while also showing how quickly those same alliances fray once the immediate urgency passes. Within queer spaces, calls for solidarity with Kashmiris, with anti-caste movements, with Muslim communities facing state violence, are sometimes met with an uneasy silence from those for whom such alliances feel ‘too political.’
As Rohit Dasgupta, one of the co-authors, noted in a chat with me earlier this year, “Today, I think the community is more atomized. I understand the reasoning behind that. Your needs and approaches are often specific. But today, with so much transphobia and effort to divide communities based on religion, class, ethnicity, there’s something to be said for looking back.”
What the book brings to the table, then, is less a romanticised past than a set of working examples of solidarity. The coalitions it documents may be tangled, perhaps short-lived, but they make the argument that meaningful change has always depended on people being willing to be inconvenienced by each other’s realities.
The communities in Desi Queers model a different kind of long-term, infrastructural solidarity: disco nights and newsletters that double as informal support systems; collaborations beginning with shared dancefloors extending into shared campaigns against immigration raids or racist media narratives. At a time where a great deal of “solidarity” plays out as statements on social media rather than as sustained, material commitments, this is important to learn from. The histories captured in the book indicate how coalition-building is largely about repetitive, sometimes tedious work—translation across languages, agreeing on how to respond when one part of the coalition is targeted more harshly than another. In that sense, the solidarity-building it records is a continuous practice, one that demands imagination and the humility to be altered by others’ realities.
Unlike America’s privileged upper-class, upper-caste diaspora arriving with educational and economic advantages, Britain’s South Asian communities largely emerged from “various migration patterns, including indentured labour in the Caribbean, migrations after the Second World War and independence, to Britain and the United States, and movements to East Africa and the Middle East, among others.” Each wave carried distinct traumas and relationships to both homeland and host country.
Through five carefully researched chapters, the book traces how South Asian queer activism built its own infrastructure of belonging. Beginning with how these communities found strategic shelter under “political Blackness,” the first chapter demonstrates how organizations like BLGC (The Black Lesbian and Gay Centre) and Haringey Lesbian and Gay Unit became crucial allies in progressive anti-racist queer activism.
Central to this history is Shakti, founded in 1988 and generally credited as Britain’s first queer South Asian organization, whose twin creations (the Shakti Disco and Shakti Khabar newsletter) created key spaces for the South Asian diaspora to express themselves in, to find themselves in.
Club Kali, co-founded by DJ Ritu and still operating today, symbolizes the persistence of this space-making project.
The book then maps the parallel evolution of cultural resistance, examining how South Asian queer artists have continuously expanded the possibilities for representation and visibility. We begin with foundational figures like:
a. the photographer, curator, and writer Mumtaz Karimjee (In Search of an Image, 1988; My Mothers My Sisters Myself, 1988),
b. writer and filmmaker Pratibha Parmar (Bhangra Jig, 1990; Khush, 1991; Sari Red, 1988),
photographer Sunil Gupta (From Here to Eternity, 1999; Ecstatic Antibodies: resisting the AIDS mythology, 1990),
c. filmmaker and poet Ian Iqbal Rashid (Touch of Pink, 2004; Black Markets, White Boyfriends and Other Acts of Elision, 1991).
Thereafter, through contemporary cultural activists like the writer and weaver Raisa Kabir (In/Visible Space, 2014; নীল. Nil. Nargis. Blue. Bring in the tide with your moon…, 2020), filmmaker Shiva Raichandani (Queer Parivaar, 2022; Peach Paradise, 2022), drag queen Asifa Lahore and photographer Charan Singh (The Promise of Beauty, 2023; Kothis, Hijras, Giriyas and Others, 2013), we see how each generation builds on previous innovations while adapting to new challenges and opportunities, creating a chain of creative resistance.
Yet this creative genealogy tells only part of the story. Rather than present these communities as uniformly progressive heroes, the authors maintain rigorous intersectional honesty throughout their archival work.
The authors highlight the gendered realities of queer existence through details like the “goodbye parties” for queer men—ritualistic farewells before heterosexual marriages, made bearable by their “insincerity; everyone knew they would be back in a few weeks. But the case was entirely different for the queer women who entered heterosexual marriages,” no winking acknowledgment of temporary departure, no expectation of return.
These gendered disparities extend throughout the book’s examination of how supposedly progressive spaces replicated broader social hierarchies. Post-9/11 dynamics brought new tensions as Islamophobia and Hindu nationalism infiltrated queer organizing, creating fresh divisions within communities already navigating racism and homophobia.
Even within Shakti itself, the authors show how Shakti Disco, that pioneering space of South Asian queer celebration, ultimately banned drag performances, albeit temporarily, due to masculine normative pressures from within its own community. Some men in the group were comfortable with a discreet, “acceptable” queerness but saw drag as too feminine, too flamboyant, too camp, too visibly gender-nonconforming, and therefore pushed it out of the space. Spaces fighting for acceptance thus policed expressions themselves.
The authors note: “Whilst drag has always been a site of ‘performance,’ ‘humour’ and ‘unapologetic’ expressions of embodiment, it is also a joyful and political reclaiming of space when respectability politics have seeped within queer politics (…) If dragging up for the disco could be part of the fun, and part of the queer flexing of normativity, what was so incendiary about a drag performance?”
In these decisions about costumes and performances, the book paints something more holistic about queer communing—how easily spaces built for survival can start to mirror the very hierarchies of caste, class, gender and respectability they were meant to resist. It is this attention to the mundane, to the almost-administrative ways in which joy gets to be managed and trimmed, that makes it so compelling to read.
Yet, the book also documents how these same communities transformed constraints into innovation. When conventional nighttime venues remained hostile, for instance, “a generation of South Asians in the 1980s developed an underground music scene with a pragmatic twist: this scene took place during the day.” Such ingenuity exemplifies how marginalized communities recast the very constraints designed to limit them into opportunities for connection and resistance. The limitation, therefore, became liberation.
Or as the authors write, “These were never pristine, ready-made spaces for queer life. They have been, and continue to be, freighted and hard-fought rights to joy and survival.”
In documenting these ‘freighted’ histories, Desi Queers performs crucial cultural work. It does so by converting ephemeral traces into durable records of survival. This includes the reconstruction of spaces that might otherwise survive only as anecdotes—daytime discos, basement meetings—and the printed stuff: flyers, newsletters, posters, tiny classified ads that might have been lifelines to someone.
Rohit says, “There hasn’t been a book on the South Asian queer diaspora quite like this one, and we’re very humble about that. The book is just one story; we’ve only scratched the surface. We hope many more stories come out.”
Particularly striking are the ledger-like details of how the Shakti Disco’s bhangra-infused chart nights came to be, or how Club Kali’s 1995 launch drew hundreds to bar-dancing amid post-Section 28 backlash. Such documentation changes the notion of queer South-Asian community as part of one-off events into a genealogy of resistance. It shows how cultural spaces can be lifelines when state and family infrastructures fail queer lives. The communities it documents built belonging from scratch and created infrastructure where none existed. Each flyer and film were passing tools for the next wave to build visibility from inherited fragments.
Against deliberate erasure, it insists on memory. Through oral histories and archival materials relegated to forgotten boxes, the book counters mainstream narratives, fills the cultural gaps between “South Asian diaspora” and “British queer” histories. Against simplified narratives, it demands complexity.
In our era of algorithmic attention and manufactured virality, such patient and persistent work of community-building offers a different model altogether.
Their example is a reminder that recognition has to be taken. One disco night, one newsletter at a time.
Jamshedpur’s newly minted transgender football league marks a powerful moment of pride and visibility for transgender communities across India. It is one of the handful of sporting leagues that make space for trans athletes to participate in the country.
Over the years, grassroots initiatives, local tournaments, and community-led efforts have gradually grown into organised sporting leagues, giving transgender athletes a formal stage to compete, be seen, and celebrated nationwide. Let’s dive into the details!
Photograph Source: Google
On Sunday, 7 December 2025, the Jamshedpur Super League (JSL) launched its first-ever transgender football league in Jamshedpur, Jharkhand.
Supported by the Reliance Foundation, 70 trans athletes took to the field at the JRD Tata Sports Complex’s football turf. This transgender League comprises of seven teams representing different regions: Jamshedpur FT, Chaibasa FC, Chakradharpur FC, Jamshedpur Indranagar FC, Naomundi FC, Saraikela FC, and Kolhan Tiger FC. They will be playing an exciting five-a-side format in matches that will be scheduled every Sunday for 6 months.
In the opening matches of the Jamshedpur Super League’s first‑ever Transgender Football League on 7 December 2025, Jamshedpur FT began on a high note by defeating Chaibasa FC 7–0 in the inaugural game. In other matches that day, Kolhan Tiger FC beat Chakradharpur FC 3–0, and Jamshedpur Indranagar FC played Noamundi FC to a 0–0 draw.
While speaking with The Better India, Puja Soy of the Jamshedpur Super League says, “For the first time, I feel like the world sees me for who I am, not just my gender. Being on this field gives me pride and purpose.”
Sports build confidence, teamwork, and a sense of belonging, but trans people in India often face discrimination, lack access to training, funding, and safe spaces, and are largely excluded from mainstream competitions. Transgender-only sporting leagues are changing this, giving trans athletes opportunities to play openly, gain recognition, and take pride in their achievements.
They also matter because it creates long-denied access to organised sports while restoring visibility and a sense of belonging for transgender athletes.
Take, for example, one organisation that has been quietly laying the groundwork for transgender inclusion in sports since 2018. Ya_All, whose name means “revolution” in the Manipuri language, started as a small private WhatsApp group of just three to four people and has since grown into a prominent LGBTQ+ support group in India’s North East.
The country’s first known football match between two teams made up of transgender players took place in Imphal in March 2018. “It was a friendly match between a team of transgender men and one of transgender women,” recalls Sadam Hanjabam, founder of Ya_All, India’s first football club of transgender players, and a prominent LGBTQ+ activist from Manipur, in an interview with The Hindustan Times. This groundbreaking event served as a trial run, laying the foundation for Ya_All to formally establish a football club for transgender players two years later.
This marks a step toward building a future where trans folks can live openly and thrive, as queer and trans inclusion in sports is a human right.
Another match worth mentioning is the eight‑day Kolkata transgender football tournament. It was held from 20 December 2025 in Kolkata, bringing together 16 teams and more than 200 trans players to compete for the Transgender Cup. The event was organised by the West Bengal Transgender Persons Welfare Board in partnership with the All India Football Federation (AIFF) and took place at Vivekananda Yuba Bharati Krirangan, one of India’s largest stadiums. The tournament has been celebrated as a landmark celebration of inclusion, skill, and empowerment for transgender athletes in Indian football.
Divya Maligi, a footballer from Bengaluru who played in the tournament, told The Logical Indian: “We’ve never felt more seen. Football gives us a platform to dream beyond discrimination. For the first time, we’re not sidelined, we’re stars.”
While many trans folks are flourishing in the football field, queer-focused sporting events like the Queer Premier League continue to foster community and visibility through cricket. The Queer Premier League, organised by Gaysi Family in collaboration with UMANG LBT during Mumbai Queer Pride, brings LBT and non-binary players together for a fun, inclusive cricket event that encourages participation, camaraderie, and visibility on and off the field. It started in 2012 and has been a staple as a fundraiser event for the Mumbai Queer Pride that occurs toward the end of January every year. The next edition is slated to be held on the 11th of January, 2026, in Bandra, Mumbai, and is supported by Humsafar Trust.
Although there’s still much work to do, such as improving access to training and coaching, safe facilities, funding and sponsorship, anti-discrimination policies, and more opportunities to compete at all levels, the events happening in Jamshedpur, Kolkata, Raipur, etc., are important milestones worth celebrating for the trans and queer communities.
Mumbai goes to the polls in the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation election tomorrow, the 15th of January, 2026, after nearly three years of delay. What happens in Mumbai doesn’t stay confined to city limits. As India’s economic, financial, and cultural powerhouse, Mumbai shapes policy, capital flows, cultural narratives, and urban priorities that ripple across the nation, from infrastructure laws to identity politics.
Mumbai as the Engine of India’s Economy and Culture
Mumbai is arguably the financial capital of India, contributing over 6% of the country’s GDP in nominal terms, which is a larger economic footprint than nearly every other city in South Asia. The city also accounts for outsized shares of income and corporate taxes, foreign trade, and financial markets, and hosts the headquarters of India’s biggest banks, stock exchanges, and corporate houses. It is a cultural colossus in equal measure!
The film industry known as ‘Bollywood’ and the broader film/entertainment sector, much of which is headquartered in Mumbai, are central to how India imagines itself to the world and how stories about gender, identity, class, and belonging are circulated. In 2024, India’s screen sector generated over USD 61 billion in economic activity and supported millions of jobs, with Mumbai as its nerve center. But the city’s magnetism cuts both ways.
Mumbai Policy as National Policy
Over a decade ago, when changes to the Coastal Regulation Zone (CRZ) framework began with discourse in Mumbai with the Maharashtra government overturning a 36-year no-reclamation policy, it effectively reshaped India’s coastal development norms. This unlocked vast real-estate and infrastructure possibilities along coastlines nationwide! Such shifts originated in Mumbai’s high-stakes negotiations over reclaimed land and urban expansion, often before many citizens even noticed.
Earlier this week, days before the BMC election, the Supreme Court reiterated that reclaimed land along the Mumbai Coastal Road must remain public and cannot be used for residential or commercial development. While hailed by activists as a protection for public space, it highlights how Mumbai’s land governance debates set precedents for other Indian cities and coasts.
Queer Rights and Urban Governance—An Intersectional Gap
If Mumbai sets the rhythm for national policy, it’s slow pace when it comes to addressing queer, trans, and intersex rights at the municipal level also offers a pulse on national policies on the same. The struggle for queer recognition in India has made important gains, from legal battles over Section 377 to ongoing advocacy for comprehensive civil rights. Yet in local governance spaces like the BMC, where everyday affairs of sanitation, healthcare access, education, and public services are decided, there is little structural space for queer voices, needs, and protections.
Urban queer lives, which are shaped by class, caste, gender identity, migration, and bodily autonomy need addressing of issues like gender-neutral toilets, sensitized civic staff, anti-discrimination protections, and intersectional data collection; these are no longer fringe concerns. They determine whether queer Mumbaikars can access healthcare, thrive in public life, or feel safe on the streets they pay taxes to maintain. That’s why queer votes and those of allies, do matter.
Political Promises: AAP and Beyond
Ahead of these elections, the AAP manifesto for the BMC included commitments to gender-neutral toilets and sensitized staff. These count as concrete steps toward making the city’s services more inclusive, but that’s only a beginning. Policies must go further to include intersex recognition, anti-discrimination safeguards, and horizontal reservation for historically excluded caste-based communities. Municipal governance is where these frameworks begin walking the talk.
More queer representation matters not just symbolically but strategically, because laws and municipal actions shape lived experience. In the last BMC cycle in 2017, a transgender candidate contested from Kurla, breaking barriers but also exposing how political structures rarely nurture ongoing community leadership. This time, we should ask: Why aren’t parties investing more in queer candidates? Why is queer representation still an afterthought in the civic body that governs public health, housing, sanitation, and culture — the things that most directly affect queer lives?
These moves are important as they signal that political machines are beginning to acknowledge queer constituencies as stakeholders rather than footnotes. But rhetoric without ground-level investment in candidates, capacity building, and campaign support will not translate into power for queer communities. Municipal politics is where accessibility intersects with everyday life—bus routes, community health centers, water access, street safety. Queer Mumbaikars and allies are stakeholders in every one of these.
Queer Votes, Queer Power
This isn’t just about rights in the abstract, but about recognizing the city’s invested role in shaping the cultural, economic, and social fabric of the nation, and ensuring that as Mumbai continues to make policy waves, it does so with justice, inclusion, and accountability at its core.
Queer voters, organizers, and leaders have an urgent stake in tomorrow’s polls. It is a moment to move beyond visibility to representation; beyond rhetoric to infrastructure; and beyond tokenism to tangible participatory power.
Because if Mumbai shapes India, queer Mumbaikars must help shape Mumbai.
A pop star’s alleged insult, a viral meme, a casual joke between straight men, a throwaway descriptor on queer Twitter, twink is suddenly everywhere again. When reports claimed Lana Del Rey had called actor Noah Schnapp a “twink” while critiquing his Stranger Things performance, the internet didn’t pause to ask what the word meant. It laughed, screenshotted, and moved on.
But the question isn’t whether Twink is trending. It’s who feels entitled to use it and why.
So let’s unpack it. What is a Twink, anyway?
Ask five gay men (or at least 5 of them who care about such stuff) where the word twink comes from, and you’ll get five different answers. Some trace it to twank, British gay slang from the 1920s and ’30s. Others insist it’s borrowed from the American Twinkie, sweet, soft, mass-produced, and gone in a bite. The disagreement itself is telling: twink has always been a word shaped less by etymology and more by desire.
By the 1950s and ’60s, twink had settled into gay male culture as a visual category. It described youth, slimness, smooth skin, bodies that read as fresh, available, and unmarked by age. It wasn’t meant to signal personality, sexual position, or femininity. But it also wasn’t neutral. It quietly drew boundaries around what was considered desirable and, by extension, disposable.
What twink didn’t account for mattered just as much as what it named. Ageing bodies fell out of the frame. Fat bodies were entirely erased. Hair, muscle, softness, anything that hinted at time or excess, pushed you into other, less celebrated categories. In cruising culture, where glances are fast and language is efficient, twink became a shorthand not just for attraction but for hierarchy.
The problem with Twink was never just what it described; it was what it refused to see. It offered a fantasy of youth without time, desire without consequence. In cruising spaces, that fantasy hardened into a hierarchy: the younger, thinner, smoother you were, the more visible you became. Everyone else learned where they stood.
Today’s debates around twink death, eating disorders, and the forced alignment of body types with sexual roles aren’t new tensions; they’re the afterlife of that fantasy. The word may have evolved, but the values it carried have proven stubborn.
Fast-forward to today, and the term has taken on a life of its own. Some people see it as a playful label; others think it’s outdated or limiting. In short: it’s complicated. It’s not universally offensive, but it’s not totally neutral either.
So how did it wander into straight spaces?
These days, twink has become shorthand for men who are thin, soft-looking, or simply “not buff enough.” On the surface, it sounds harmless…cute even! But reduce queerness to a body type, and you flatten decades of lived experience into an aesthetic.
Enter the celebrity treadmill. Noah Schnapp, Pete Davidson, and any young male star who is slight of frame or smooth-skinned suddenly becomes a twink, whether they’re queer or not. Clicks beget clicks, and laughter prompts for more laughs. Context? Optional. History? Forgotten. Identity? Erased. What started as a word that helped queer men find one another safely now circulates like mass-produced wallpaper: borrowed, diluted, and stripped of nuance, turning a cultural marker into a punchline.
The real problem starts when cis-heterosexual people treat queer slang like casual decor for pop culture commentary. Meaning shifts, origins fade, and the communities that birthed the words are erased from the conversation. Queer slang wasn’t just invented for fun; it was a code and a lifeline in spaces that weren’t always safe to exist. When those words are lifted without care, they lose their power, and sometimes sting.
And yes, in modern-day discourse, twink carries baggage! It’s a reminder of narrow ideals, of youth and thinness as currency, of bodies that age out too quickly or fail to perform. In contrast, sapphic and AFAB queer spaces often approach labels differently: they’re about how you show up, how you participate, how you connect, and less about fitting a mold and more about claiming space.
Words travel, evolve, and leak into memes, gossip columns, and comment sections. Twink can be playful, it can be affectionate, it can even be meaningless, but it also carries a history. And when queer language seeps into mainstream culture, the challenge isn’t policing every syllable. It’s listening, paying attention, and letting the communities that shaped these words keep the conversation alive.
In a world where queer identities are constantly simplified, packaged, and sold back to us in bite-sized memes, language is one of the few things the community has always truly owned. Using it carelessly might seem harmless, but it’s not just words at stake. It’s about who gets to be seen, and how.
Pop culture has a way of flattening meaning. Words, fashion, art, they all carry histories, labour, and lives that often go unread. Take twink, or African-American Vernacular English: centuries of diasporic memory, coded critique, survival, and wit are often skimmed over, reduced to punchlines or aesthetics. Look closer to home, and the same pattern shows up in Indian indigenous art forms and craft: Kolhapuri chappals, made by caste-marginalized leather workers, are celebrated on ramps and in glossy spreads, yet the very labour and social realities behind them are ignored or worse, met with disgust. It’s the same with the “clean girl” aesthetic, the craving for polished, perfect bodies; meanwhile, stretch marks, scars, and unglamorous human realities are only now starting to return as markers of truth, desire, and belonging.
As memes, slang, and fashion move faster than we can track online, 2026, the so-called “year of return” to analog, reflection, and slower attention invites us to look closer. To read between the lines of the images, the words, the trends. To notice labour, history, and nuance that are too often glossed over in pursuit of virality or polish. Only by slowing down, by training our eyes and curiosity, can we reclaim the richness of culture, and the fullness of our own identities, beyond what’s made digestible for clicks and aesthetics.
Maya sat in the living room, holding onto their favourite figurine of a character they adored from a young age. Slowly, they look up at their own reflection and admit that they never really had a crush on this character like they always thought they had. In fact, it’s their gender that Maya had liked all along. It blew their mind in ways their baby queer heart couldn’t imagine. How had they mistaken gender envy for romantic longing?
From a young age, Maya knew that they weren’t leaning into the big lie that romance was only meant to happen between a boy and a girl. During playtime, they made sure that Barbie and Raquelle were getting married instead; and Ken? He was the best man. From wearing the cutest dresses as a kid, to presenting more masculine during their teen years, to finally being okay with embracing both of these energies in their life, Maya had found balance in everyday life.
During this process, fictional characters had played a huge role in shaping how they expressed themselves and even in understanding their sexuality. Women? Men? Both? Eh, who cares.
“Crushes on characters like Howl from Howl’s Moving Castle, Reno from Final Fantasy, Jake Peralta from Brooklyn99, Gwen from Ben 10, Makoto from Persona 5, etc. They’re just my crushes, right? Or did I just like them for the way they presented their gender? Maybe both…”
(Internal screaming ensues in Maya’s head.)
So, let’s understand how Maya may have gotten here.
Maya raises their head from their little existential corner and nods.
At a young age, we absorb almost every detail from our environment like the shows we watch or the people we meet. These things play a major role in influencing everything from our tiniest choices to the biggest ones.
What exactly is gender expression?
Gender expression is how you present yourself to the world.
It’s visible through outfit choices, hairstyles, shoes, makeup, behaviour, body language, and even the tone of your voice. A person’s chosen name and pronouns also contribute to this.
So how is gender identity different?
Gender identity is the flip side of the same coin: it’s what is on the inside of the person.
It’s the way you experience your own gender. Your gender identity might match the gender you were assigned at birth or it might lie somewhere else on the spectrum.
For example:
You might feel uncomfortable wearing a piece of clothing that doesn’t feel like “you.”
So, you change how you look externally to feel more at ease internally.
Now, when gender identity and expression don’t match up, you experience gender dysphoria.
A fun little basket of delight…NOT.
Understanding what exactly it is that attracts us to people or characters can help get through the envy. Is it the way they carry themselves, their behaviour, clothes, mannerisms? Are they beautiful just because they are, or have we been taught to see certain genders as beautiful in a specific way?
As a baby queer, we are thrust into the queer side of the world, which opens the doors to a place where you can be anything, and sometimes this can help you find which version of yourself that fits. However, there are stereotypes for every identity under the LGBTQIA+ umbrella too. If you’re a lesbian, you may find yourself questioning if you’re butch or femme enough. Or if you are gay, the expectations of not being “manly” enough or being too much of a fem-boy can be frustrating and confusing. If you’re genderfluid, what are the different ways of presenting your gender that you gravitate towards? Is it more of a societal assumption of androgyny, masculine, or feminine? These extremes leave no room for the in-between. And who are these people that are judging you may ask?
They may be family members, co-workers, or even random people you see on the street. Their ideas of these labels vary from person to person and it can get exhausting if you were to educate each of them constantly. This is why having queer fictional character representation matters. It becomes a bit easier to reference them instead of using your personal experiences.
The idea is to question the unconscious biases passed down to you so that you can slowly understand what makes you who you are and feel more comfortable in your skin.
By questioning gender biases, we gradually throw away the pieces of internalised homophobia that were fed to us from a young age.
You can sit down and make a list of the characters whose gender expression brings about this feeling of envy or even aspiration. What is your envy trying to tell you? Note down how you can change your gender expression to feel more comfortable internally. Even if it is wearing those beautiful long earrings like Howl, learning to do your makeup to make you look more feminine or masculine, depending on what you are leaning towards, and even changing the tone of voice from time to time, etc. All of these small changes do make a difference. These are also the stepping stones for reaching the one amazing feeling we want: gender euphoria!
From medieval card games to queer coffee-table rituals, Tarot has come a long way. But why are some queers drawn to this form of divination?
So, here’s the deal: you’re either curious about Tarot or are wondering about why everyone else seems a little cray-cray about it. Well, the answer has probably been staring you in the face this whole time. But before I spill the cosmic tea, let me ask: what have you been told about Tarot or anything remotely related to the mystical or occult? Devil’s tools to lure innocent souls? Or some new-age spiritual gimmick?
Here’s a quick history lesson. Tarot started out as playing cards in 14th-century Italy. Over time, people began using them to connect to something deeper, whether that was their own selves, the spiritual realm, or as a practical way for Romani mothers to provide for their families such as through fortune-telling. Fast forward to 2025, and it’s become a fixture in queer spaces. Almost every queer person has crossed paths with these 78 cards in some way. But why this fascination? Most Tarot readers will give you one simple answer: guidance. (Yep. That’s the answer to the question at the start. Pat yourself on the back for sticking with me thus far.)
In my experience, there are two big reasons people get hooked on Tarot (you are always welcome to comment with more reasons!):
Tarot as a guilty pleasure for those raised with strict beliefs.
I have a dear friend who left a religion and found themselves adrift without a spiritual anchor. In their search for meaning, and maybe some labels, Tarot appeared. Its fluidity, wild imagery, and lack of rigid rules made it feel like a safe, playful space to explore something spiritual without the old constraints of religious institutions.
Tarot as a tool to probe the subconscious.
Another friend, a confirmed atheist, uses Tarot as a tangible reflection of their own thoughts. A simple past-present-future spread, guided by three questions, becomes a way to bring to surface what’s really on their mind that day. No mysticism required, just self-reflection!
Maybe it’s no coincidence that tarot found a home in queer spaces. For people who grew up being told what to believe, who to love, or who to be, tarot offers something revolutionary: choice. Every card is an invitation, not a commandment. It doesn’t tell you who you are; it asks who you want to be. For queer folks, that kind of freedom feels like sacred ground.
Some queer people love tarot for the same reason we love drag, it’s all about transformation, baby. You shuffle, you pull, you project, you reflect. One minute you’re The Fool, the next you’re The Empress, and somehow both are true. Tarot gets it: identity is fluid, drama is sacred, and nothing is ever just one thing. Tarot fills a spiritual gap left by institutions that excluded us. It’s not about magic so much as meaning-making; creating rituals that feel safe, personal, and our own. A deck of cards becomes a mirror, a tool for self-trust, and sometimes, a quiet rebellion.
One of the most well-known tarot decks in the world is the Rider–Waite–Smith deck, first published by William Rider in 1909. Created under the guidance of mystic scholar A. E. Waite, the deck’s enduring magic comes from the artistry of Pamela Colman Smith, a Jamaican-British illustrator whose vivid imagination brought each card to life. Despite her profound influence, Smith’s name was long omitted from occult history, and her contributions were quietly overlooked in a world that too often credited only cis-men. Which is why many magick practitioners will call it the Rider-Waite-Smith deck instead of just Rider-Waite. As one should.
Over the years to come, many creative illustrators have tried to replicate the infamous tarot deck in their own style. One such remarkable deck to emerge in recent years is the Modern Witch Tarot by acclaimed illustrator Lisa Sterle. Reimagining the classic Rider–Waite–Smith symbolism through a fresh, contemporary lens, Sterle fills her cards with vibrant, stylish characters drawn from our everyday world. Diverse, fashion-forward, and unapologetically feminine. A modern deck celebrating color, confidence, and empowerment.
Tarot keeps changing, just like we do. What began as a game became a language and queers, as always, made that language our own. It’s part reflection, part rebellion, part self-love ritual disguised as mysticism. Whether you pull a card to find yourself or just to feel something, tarot gives us permission to be fluid, uncertain, and endlessly becoming.
And for the witches out there, what’s the first card that comes to mind after reading this? ✨🃏
Tongue in lips, they are waiting for the movie to start playing. Their eyes meet the shiny black of the screen just coming alive when someone presses the spacebar.
Which moment will spin itself before everyone’s gaze and then awkwardly, or worse- boringly, settle down upon the spacebar’s command again?
Maybe it will be Harrison Ford placing a hand on Sabrina’s waist inside that conservatory, or Seth Rogen’s eyes resting upon Michelle Pfeiffer’s expectation inside a bomb shelter in Manila, or maybe Christina Ricci dancing inside a frozen moment in a bowling alley that is just for her. Someone else paused and skipped over a three-course meal where most couples were very tense and trying to drag the script of social commentary around a bit.
Either way this pans out, it will still be the same voice playing over your phone’s speaker. A crackling, and then the sonorous lure of the impalpable digital.
The couple before us had had to reenact the makeout scene from “Celeste and Jesse Forever”. It felt like a sad foreboding to the newer “Scenes from a Marriage”. No, I don’t want them to be together. No, I do.
Now, if the “2441139 Bela Bose” song was a scene from a movie, it would be perfect for us. It is sad sad sad but it makes my breath stop. I want to use it for everything left behind in this little life of mine.
“Finally Bhalobasha” was different from “Aami Ashbo Phirey”- not better, but a different kind of organic characterization. That is why you want to be like the men in his films (men very much like him.) “Eita Tumar Gaan” in Chandrabindoo’s picturization enters you now.
Where did we leave them behind? Yes, waiting for them to come back on the screen. Tense, worried if the scene will threaten the constancy of their effortless interactions. Effortless not in the sense of giving up on the anxiety of being misconstrued, but one that could be maintained with the semblance of maturity intact. It does not mean that it is crumpled away in the palm of my hand, waiting to be hurled as a wish from a shut diary.
Bend your head this way, so that her fingers rest comfortably across your ear and cheek- the ears have already burned red. Turn up your mouth to the right. Make her sigh a little, without having to discard your blanket aside. The kind that will have you rewinding the head and the parting lips of their hesitation- it is the one that you will perfectly piece together for this very moment.
In there I see his hands, there her downy cheek, the fuzz of his chin tucked away inside his shirt collar, the crumpled blue checkers pressed against the tan-coloured outer shirt, or maybe a stonewashed grey denim. Now, hold on to her wrist in a firm but resting way. Let her feel your pulsating self and your restraint upon your bones. The curly hair glows in the light like a cloud of carrot smoke and the spectacles are pulled across the screen and kept on the insignificant table- that just happened to be there.
In this moment now we look away from the screen and rest them upon the table near us. I look up hopefully at your glasses, and you reach your face and tuck away your thoughts behind your left ear. Then you bend down to the height of my spacebar and speak:
2025 has been a great year for queer memoirs and autobiographies. From Walk Like A Girl by Prabal Gurung to now Biswamit Dwibedy’s Hundred Greatest Love Songs, which takes us through his journey of immigrating to the United States right at the turn of the millennium.
Everyone talks about Y2K, the “aesthetic” fashion trend and cultural moment of the 2020s but this book takes you through the real Y2K. The one our older South Asian siblings or relatives who migrated around 9/11 actually lived through. If the anxiety of being queer wasn’t enough, you had to add racism into the equation too.
Being a brown man in the Midwest meant wanting to find safety in your own community but being queer meant double isolation, not just from young Indian social circles, but from fitting in anywhere at all. Yet this text keeps reminding us: not all hope is lost. Music, poetry, and literature connect people across lives, circumstances, and the sour phases that eventually turn into memories. Music becomes that tool of translation we all need when social security is hard to come by.
It’s Either All-In or All-Out
Dwibedy walks us through a reality many LGBTQ+ immigrant students still face today, the rigidity of Indian social expectations that follow you across continents. Just as Dwibedy struggled to negotiate the unspoken social contract between Indian students abroad, it’s striking (and sad) how similar the stories remain even today. Tales of isolation from cis-het Indian peers, of not quite fitting into predominantly Western queer groups, of trying to stay afloat with all the new freedom handed to you. It’s suffocating at times, confusing, and mostly liberating.
The book creates a lyrical map of the constant tug-of-war between the self you’re supposed to shed and the self you’re trying to become. As readers, we spend the early chapters anxiously waiting for our narrator the author, the protagonist to grow into the person he is today. But how do we become ourselves?
Who are we when there’s the constant fear of simply existing of being a suspect today and a victim tomorrow?
And who do we become once all of that is part of the past?
Dwibedy navigates this balance with gentleness. He treats his younger self with a kindness you only wish someone had offered when you were younger. It’s a reminder that everything we do every song we hear creates a ripple effect that shapes our lives for years to come.
Songs That We Keep On Repeat
The book begins in the soft, hazy glow of a time when Western music was still a novelty in India, a privilege he acknowledges while also appreciating the artistry of Indian music from the same era. We see, through his eyes, how globalization reshaped Indian media, and how a certain kind of Indian art now only exists in nostalgia playlists on Spotify.
The book reminds us to keep people alive through their songs. What song did your brother play while studying? What song did your best friend want for her wedding, versus the one she settled for?
It reminded me of that old Tumblr line: “I am a mosaic of everyone I’ve ever loved.”
At first glance, the book reads like a romantic love letter — a written mixtape for someone. But as the pages unfold, it becomes clear that it’s a dedication to love itself: the service, devotion, and vulnerability it takes to love people and see their humanity again and again. My favourite line sums it up: “In the end, this book is about nothing else but the pleasure of someone else’s company, while a song you both love plays in the background.”
Discovering Family and Found Music
This book honours every relationship we form as humans, the fleeting ones, the temporary ones, the blood ones, and the ones we craft for ourselves. It lets you wonder, reflect, and find ways to honour your own connections.
Maybe it’s the girl whose eyeliner you once fixed in a bathroom, whose name you never learned. Maybe it’s someone from a dating app who became a lifelong friend.
Dwibedy’s writing creates a tender in-between space between his world and ours. It’s no surprise coming from a poet. Allow yourself to drift in and out of the word-daze and observe how it sits with you.
Becoming Yourself
As someone still waiting for my life to take shape in my 20s, I gravitate toward authors who look like me, think like me, and offer solutions I wish I had the courage to pursue. The kind of writing that makes difficult days more bearable with fresh perspective. Queerness is a double-edged sword and you don’t get clear answers about it from anyone. But reading each others’ experiences helps.
Through this book, I’ve found language for my own experiences, something that years of intellectualising could never offer. So if you’re young, queer, creative, or simply curious, I think you’ll find something in Hundred Greatest Love Songs that you’ll carry with you long after the last page.
(And yes — read it while listening to the songs he mentions. It’s worth it.)
With dating apps like Her, Hinge, Bumble and Tinder as the go-to choice for queer women–do we really need a specific hooking up app? This thought was inspired by an article published by Go Magazine about romanticising the idea of Grindr and if a sapphic equivalent should exist? The author seemed to be fascinated by the idea of the rush often expressed by queer men of being on Grindr and the social contract involved with hooking up through it.
Grind-her?
I did what any doomscrolling soul would do, went inspecting in the comment section hoping to get an understanding of how queer folks feel about this.
Now the article does start off with a rather wholesome encounter of the author coming across another lesbian couple out and about in the world like her and her wife. We all get excited spotting other lesbians, sapphics, WLW in the wild and thanks to their distinguishable “queer” style, it’s easy to catch each other in the wild. But there are some concerns that are quick to pull us out of this “romanticised vision”.
Trouble Shooting
Where this article unfortunately takes an uncomfortable turn–for a lack of better words–is the idea of wanting to connect with each other via a hookup app supremely chaotic? While the idea of romanticising Grindr doesn’t quite sit with me either, the idea of wanting instant connections is inherently human. However, at an age where any digital footprint is evidence and data that could be used against you–is it the most effective or the most harmful? My biggest worry about the idea boils down to this:
We’re so quick to barge off labels, but at the same time, quick to begin reducing ourselves to hyper-specific labels right down to caste and even religion. Especially in an Indian context where it could quickly become a IYKYK thing amongst urban queers or a “not my cup of tea” because some would want to distance themselves from a diverse pool. Whether we like to admit it or not, the Indian queer community does come with a lot more intersectional problems with regards to inclusion. A lot of urban spaces which can afford to access and use this imaginary hook up app, will inherently become either inaccessible in terms of practice for smaller towns. The risk which is hard for an urban queer like me to presume. I could theorize that it’s likely due to smaller towns having a smaller network of people, let alone queer networks, anonymity is not quite possible. One would still be open to exploring this idea in future, but within the framework of a hook-up only sapphic app…this remains concerning. Now, surely, on a more optimistic side, there’s a chance it could work and help in expanding the sapphic network in India. Maybe even allow bridge gaps between the community, but realistically, this doesn’t seem like an outcome.
What’s the verdict?
This idea attempts to solve a problem, but we’ve all been down several roads to know what problems it could cause in return as well. Socialising digitally is surely only easy on paper, in reality, we’ve all heard the horror tales from our fellow queers who do use Grindr. Whether it’s someone exposing a CEO or getting unsolicited images from complete strangers.
I don’t think cyber security let alone queer-cyber security is anywhere near its prime in terms of safety for us to endanger queer women who would technically face more repercussions in case things go south. Grindr, as stated in some of the comments above, already has multiple complaints against abusers, thieves and even fraudsters that have not been resolved. It’s not hard to determine if we really should be endangering more lives, when the app hasn’t managed to make its present audience feel safe. However, I’d be seated if Grindr was to refine and re-define some of their policies in order to not only fulfill sapphic connections but also safeguard its present demographic.
I made my first Instagram account when I was fourteen and hungry – for validation, for crushes, and for abs wrapped in Calvin Kleins. At the time, no one around me knew about it. Not my parents, not my friends. It was just a tiny corner of the internet where I could watch anything and convince myself that it was about body goals, not boy crushes.
Back then, I didn’t even have a phone of my own. I shared one with my mother and then my sister. So every time I went “exploring,” I’d clear every last bit of evidence from my Instagram search history like I was covering up a murder. My fingerprints wiped clean, my curiosity reined in, my queerness hidden between explore and deletes.
Soon enough, Instagram had dropped its Close Friends feature like a gift. And so I adapted. Queer posts? Maybe a story about my latest crush? But only to Close Friends. Of course, I made sure never to like gay reels, never followed any suspicious accounts,
I had a finsta for all that.
This Instagram handle was theatre. Carefully curated, tightly controlled. But necessary.
I even had two or three female friends always ready to comment “hotttt🔥” on my posts for the sake of plausible heterosexuality. And in the razzmatazz of that hide-and-seek, I didn’t realise it was sorta like a digital closet for me.
Not Just Me: The Finsta Generation
As I met more queer people, I realised I wasn’t alone. It’s the same architecture of digital survival through finstas (fake Instagrams), Reddit threads, VPNs, and clever little hacks that allowed them to be themselves online.
To confirm, I reached out to three friends with finstas.
“Yeah, I have a finsta. I had to. My main account has like 200 relatives and everyone from my college. There’s no way I could post anything remotely gay without someone raising eyebrows. [My finsta’s] where I post my real thoughts.” – Kabir, 31 (he/they)
An Unsafe Place to Be Yourself
Online, we’re all shapeshifters. But danger is still there. Instagram’s “suggested for you” feature is sorta like a traitor in disguise… outing mutuals, connecting family members with curious church kids who think your sexuality is a virus they can report to your parents.
“A kid from church found my finsta & he’s going to out me. What can I do to prepare? Clearly, someone who I thought was a friend is actually someone I can’t trust. But he had screenshots and screen recordings. He sent me paragraphs of homophobic abuse and informed me that he will be notifying first my parents, then everyone else from our community.” – From Reddit
What if you accidentally followed a queer influencer, or commented on a reel? Or:
Liked a suspiciously sparkly meme or reacted with 🏳️🌈 or 💅
Got tagged in a Pride Month story by a well-meaning but chaotic friend
Engaged with or reshared someone’s queer-coded story or post
Showed up in the “People You May Know” of a visibly queer person (or vice versa)
Had Spotify or Twitter bios linked that screamed queer
Some of us get confronted. Others, screen-recorded.
But users adapt. They open a finsta, a fake Instagram. These accounts are away from familial surveillance. They’re only for tight circles of trusted followers. There are no contact details linked to reduce detection. It is visibility with surgical precision.
Here’s how it happens:
Multiple Accounts: Many maintain “main” accounts for family and “finstas” for freedom.
Privacy Acrobatics: Micro-tactics like blocking or restricting family, archiving posts, using cis-normative pronouns, avoiding location tags, setting ultra-filtered Close Friends lists, and using code words to avoid outing.
Obfuscation: Some users avoid tagging, liking, or RSVPing to anything queer. Others follow or post decoy content. I know friends who’ve celebrated Pride-but just as allies. I also know some who had to go as far as posting homophobic stories just to give their family some somber relief.
Platform Hopping: Using platforms like Snapchat and Reddit that offer more control.
It’s all risk management. But how do social media apps respond?
Platform Personas and Design Flaws
Once upon a time, the internet was where queer folks could breathe. But soon, platforms got into a race: each trying to become the platform where you can do it all. And the algorithm, which once seemed cute, became the predator it always was meant to be.
There’s algorithm bias, shadowbanning, deplatforming, content moderation that punishes queer expression, and targeted harassment campaigns…
“If you suddenly follow a bunch of gay IG accounts, and like their posts, it’s like a Gay Bat Signal.” – Reddit
But at the same time:
“I’ve seen posts of queer women get taken down for ‘violating guidelines,’ but reels calling queer folks sinners or mentally ill stay up because they’re quoting religious texts or hiding behind ‘opinions.’” – Dr. Abhi, 27 (he/him)
Let’s ask some real questions: Is Instagram a safe place to be—for everyone?
It seems like they’re onto something from how frequently the rules, guidelines, and algorithms change. A friend’s Instagram was taken down with no reason attributed. It could be that he is—though I don’t accept the nomenclature—too gay. Or maybe he showed too much skin. Or looked too feminine.
And while I miss his posts, I have a huge problem with what stays up. I’ve seen reels where someone called queer folks “mentally ill” and “a threat to children.” Instagram said it didn’t go against community guidelines. Apparently quoting a religious text makes it okay?
Sometimes it feels like when it comes to queer safety, platforms like Instagram and Facebook weren’t built wrong. They were built for someone else.
Design shouldn’t just accommodate queer users—it should protect them. Researchers suggest:
Temporary soft-blocks
Audience segmentation tools
Improved discoverability controls
And yet, some of these features already exist… kind of.
Instagram’s Close Friends (also my favourite) allows users to share stories with a limited, trusted audience. But it’s limited by platform logic. You’re still on the same account. You still have the same followers, followings, and suggestions, visible to everyone. You’re still at the mercy of screenshots, algorithm leaks, or betrayals from someone within the circle.
In short: it’s helpful, but not foolproof.
Until then, queer users are forced to become expert UX designers of their own survival and make the best of the tiny little block button.
But is it just the platforms? Or is there something else too?
“I have two finstas. One is just queer stuff… memes and all. But the other one is for the really close circle. Only the few people I trust not to judge me when I follow kink or BDSM pages. Because yeah, even within the queer community, there’s stuff you get judged for. So I just made another layer of safety.” — Rohan, 21 (he/him)
Imagined Surveillance and Self-Censorship
Social media asks you to be yourself-but does it?
Every post is a performance. Even the blurry selfie is laced with invisible calculations. Who’s watching? Who might be watching?
So we self-edit because many a times, people from the community, who you thought were your people, will judge. Because even within queer circles, there are hierarchies. You have to ask what’s “cool queer,” what’s “cringe,” what’s “too much.”
It’s not lying. It’s like holding a flashlight in a dark room. We choose where to shine-and, more importantly, where not to.
So, maybe staying in the digital closet isn’t just a strategy. It’s part overthinking, part imagined surveillance, part self-censorship, and part shame too.
And What Happens When the Closet Is Compromised?
Closets on the internet aren’t made of wood. They’re made of passwords, privacy settings, blocked contacts, and fingers crossed behind the screen.
But even digital closets have cracks.
“I had a second account just for queer stuff,” wrote one teen on Reddit. “But Instagram’s algorithm outed me. A gay page I followed got recommended to someone I knew. He questioned me on WhatsApp. Then blocked me.”
For many queer youth, especially in conservative or religious households, it means isolation. Verbal abuse. Physical danger. Losing everything-from friends to home.
This is the cost of being queer online:
Platforms built for connection become exposure traps
Algorithms meant to recommend end up revealing
The people you thought were friends, sometimes aren’t
And the safest space-your finsta-can be turned against you
Finding Freedom and Community
Finstas offer freedom. Not just to post thirst traps and memes-but to explore identity, follow queer creators, and breathe without fear of being watched.
“Following LGBTQ accounts and engaging with their content on my finsta makes me feel safe. It gives me a sense of belonging.”
Instagram seems to have noticed all of this. In late 2023, it began testing a feature called Flipside, a private layer within users’ main accounts, mimicking the function of finstas. However, there’s been no update on it since then.
But let’s be clear-queer users invented this blueprint long before tech formalised it. What platforms are now calling features, users had already hacked for years.
“Sometimes I just scroll through gay reels. That alone can lift my mood.” “I’m not sure I would’ve had the chance to explore who I am otherwise.” “It’s safer. I feel seen.”
And sometimes, scrolling through gay reels counts as survival.
The household’s fascination with new bhabhis is a faint, but vivid memory.
I remember sitting in a line of squirmy pre-teen sisters, huddled on an ornate bed with scratchy sheets, the room smelling of stale jasmine. We were given the responsibility of entertaining bhabhi, since she wasn’t to leave the house for the evening. My brother would swing by just to look at her, offer to buy snacks and ice cream, and sneak her out of the house for a drive, away from the watchful eyes of her in-laws.
These memories, once in exile, became a refuge in adulthood when I traced my romantic affections for women back to my early life. About a month ago, at a table of aspiring filmmakers, someone yelped, “A show I worked on is on XHamster!” The conversation quickly took over the table, and they took out their phone. I was intrigued by the visuals. The bhabhi in question was fair-skinned, with a saree tied well below her waistline and a blouse with a plunging neckline. Another woman in a lehenga, not as ornately dressed, was making out with her, her knee buried between the bhabhi’s legs. Words muttered from her lips gave her gasps and moans a quick break. There was a subplot I was missing, but I was going to find out.
The fascination of the men at the table with bhabhis (never their own) came unraveling over the next few minutes. To trace the origins of this fetish, Tithi, a certified sex educator and academic explains “The bhabhi fetish in India isn’t a fetish at all, but a vessel for male anxieties and fantasies. It’s not desire, but repression.”
One must wonder how men’s relationships with their bhabhis are dictated by the quality of the relationships they share with the bhaiya in question. “Even if she is the so-called older woman in the dynamic, she is submissive. She is always accepting the sexual encounter and never initiating it.” The fair-skinned upper caste bored housewife often plays the bhabhi, whose husband can’t satisfy her; enter a younger man with unresolved mommy issues.
So, what about the women who forge relationships with their bhabhis independent of the men in the equation? Was I carrying the same lens, smudged with fractured male social relationships? Looking back, I grew closer to R, my bhabhi through a distant cousin. I looked at my feet, standing in the kitchen for hours while she would make aloo mayo sandwiches for her children. I refused to eat without her. She opened her heart about her regrets on picking an arranged marriage, her days at IIM. All of this was years before I realized the intense care and protectiveness I felt for her was a huge gay crush. For women, bhabhis can be blood relatives, but also a neighbor, a guardian, or an employer. If we place the quality of women’s relationships and heightened emotional ties at the root of sapphic desire, this offers a way to completely decenter men from this dynamic.
Could it radically paint sex as a form of solidarity from the oppression of a domestic life? A respite from patriarchal and cis norms of pleasure? Tithi paused my ruminations and flushed my premise down the drain. “Sapphics don’t submit to fetishes that strip agency from women.”
Falling down the rabbit hole to find the clips, most were crassly titled “Bhabhi Malish,” “Bhabhi ki Leli,” “Desi Lesbo,” and “BHABHI AUR BAI” all of them scoring millions of hits. The Ministry of Information & Broadcasting ordered all content that could be deemed obscene be taken down and banned a number of OTT platforms, but Gandii Baat is alive and thriving on XHamster. It turns out the episode was called “Bai-sexual.” The titles, clips, production quality, and design all reek of the male gaze, even if they were meant to represent queer desire.
“We have to ask ourselves if we are queering narratives or just slapping on tags and reproducing regressive fantasies and selling them?” Tithi asks.
So can sapphic and queer desires ever be fairly represented if they are not created with inclusivity at the center? And behind the camera? In order for this bhabhi or any fantasy porn to be queer, is it possible for the said bhabhis, saalis, and jethanis to blur or erase the lines of power dynamics, the very titles used to describe them? Is it possible to make porn in which we are not only voyeurs, salivating at the thought of a woman of the family—whom we attach to the collective dignity of the family—being conquered? “To care and not conquer, can porn do that?”
“Fix-it Fiction” is a phenomenon that allows fans to fill in the gaps and patch the holes of unsatisfying trajectories, untimely deaths of characters, or outright male-gaze-y storylines to be reworked by the gays.
If one traces the representation in India, Bollywood offers sleazy scraps like No Men Allowed and 3 Kanya. Hindi cinema films like Unfreedom did not make the cut with the censor board, while films like Mandi offer nods. “Sapphics kissing on Instagram is enough to get shadow-banned or worse. Indian society barely endures heterosexual sex at the moment; it’s far from ready for queer love in the mainstream,” Tithi remarks.
Some ethical alternatives for pornography, like Quinn, offer audio, feature differing POVs, fan fiction, and guided masturbation stories that affirm their largely women and queer audience. K, a marketing intern based in Delhi, said, “It’s amazing to shed the expectations of what people having sex should look like and let the mind run free, because anyone can have sex, right?”
Although both these outlets produce in English and are inspired by Western popular culture, the dearth of accessible, desi mainstream representation staves off both fan fiction and trickle-down for subcultures to follow, and for sapphics to make it their own.
Desi will forever be sexy, but we have a long way to go.
As the Brahmaputra catches the last light of Guwahati’s twilight, I stand by the banks, where the river’s steady flow mirrors my quest for belonging. I am Prasant Meera, A Bihari non-binary social doer, born into a city that is both home and a battleground. My family’s story, like the river’s current, carries echoes of displacement – hopeful migrants who arrived more than a century ago. My grandfather was in the theater group in All India Radio wove our roots into this vibrant Assamese tapestry, yet I inherited a different struggle: navigating the intersections of ethnicity, queerness and identity in a land that often sees me as an outsider.
In school, my voice betrayed me. My Bhojpuri-laced Assamese pronunciation of “xopun” (dream) sparked giggles from classmates. “Aye Bihari,” they’d call, not Prasant, their laughter a reminder that my roots marked me as different. My father, educated in an Assamese medium school near Guwahati Railway Station, taught us to speak Assamese at home, hoping to shield us from those taunts. Yet, even as I excelled academically, my achievements were met with skepticism, as if a Bihari’s success could not match an Assamese peer’s. This subtle bias, rooted in Assam’s complex history, stung deeper than words.
The Assam Movement of the 1970s and 80s led to a surge of regional pride to protect the Assamese identity. However, it cast long shadows. Biharis, among with other migrants, were often branded as outsiders caught in a web of ethnic tension. As a queer non-binary person, I faced another layer of exclusion. When I began organizing for Queer Pride, I was often the only Bihari in a room filled with Assamese, Bengali and Nepali activists, some from elite and Brahmin background. In one incident, questioning the death of transgender person, my Facebook post was shared in a 200-person group chat. The backlash was not about transparency or accountability but because a Bihari dared challenge the status quo. “Why are you reacting so much?” They sneered, diminishing my voice as disruptive and radical.
Similar instances have occurred with friends of a different age group. Older friends and those from highly influential families have repeatedly done the same. Even if there is a debate, as soon as I enter with my counter argument, somehow everyone gets affected and they start making me understand of rights and wrongs, as if they are the only people entitled to knowledge.The name-calling, hating kurta, hating chappals, hating oil, hating masala and calling me ‘Litti Choka’ was not fun but were insults, which started piling inside me.
The 2024 Dighali Pukhuri protest, where we railed against tree-felling for a flyover, echoed this exclusion. My suggestion on inclusive planning were ignored, while an Assamese friend’s similar critiques were heard. The silence I faced echoed loud and clear, serving as a reminder that my Bihari identity amplified my otherness, even in shared cause. Yet, these rejections fueled my resolve. Each “Aye Bihari” taunt sparked my advocacy further.
Amid the struggle, I have found my allies; friends and activists who weave their voices with mine. Together, we challenge bias through dialogue, art, and education, celebrating the labour of Bihari migrants who built Assam’s road and railways, their stories entwined with its growth. My queerness and heritage are not anomalies, but threads in a shared human tapestry. Through platforms like Spotify podcast, Judge Me Not, which won Silver at the 2023 NewYorkRadio festival, I amplify these narratives, hoping to bridge gaps.
I stand proudly as a Bihari queer in Guwahati, who is born and raised to be an equal to this society. My identity is a bridge between Bhojpuri prayers and Bihu dances. My fight mirrors countless others navigating culture, sexuality and heritage. I dream of an Assam where no one is shadowed by their identity. Where we gather by the Brahmaputra, Bihari and Assamese, queers and straights to co-create a future of solidarity. We are, after all, only a matter of time—until the day we’re gone, and a new generation breathes freely, unburdened by the weight of skin, gender, caste, or place.
Queer despair, just like queer joy, is a multifaceted emotion. It’s not just an internalised rejection of the queer self, but also an external reaction to societal elements, like queerphobia and cisheteronormativity.
Violence whether physical or emotional against queer people further damages one’s inner world, making the queer self feel invisible, isolated and unsafe. And the truth is that, to work towards achieving queer joy, one has to first recognise and acknowledge the factors that are causing us pain and emotional anguish.
So, here’s a step-by-step guide to slowly but surely reducing the burden of queer despair, and embracing queer joy:
Step 1: Acknowledge the Source of Despair
Queer despair isn’t just personal, it’s political. It often comes from living in a world that feels hostile to queer people, whether that’s from anti-queer laws, unsafe home environments, lack of legal protection, or everyday discrimination. Recognising this helps you see that your despair is valid; it’s a response to real, external conditions.
Step 2: Let Yourself Feel the Weight of It
It’s normal to feel exhausted, angry, or just plain tired in the face of this reality. Letting yourself feel those emotions, instead of suppressing them, is a form of resistance. It means you haven’t given up, or let yourself get numb to the pain; you still choose to pay attention and care, even if it hurts.
Step 3: Find Proof That You’re Not Alone
Queer joy doesn’t blossom and grow in isolation. Seek out people or communities whether online or offline who understand your experience. Follow queer creators, read queer news, join support groups, or even just talk to someone who gets it. Seeing others survive, thrive and care can help you start imagining a future again.
Step 4: Take One Step That Centres Your Queerness
Even in hostile environments, find ways however small to live more truthfully. That could mean asking people you trust to use your preferred pronouns, applying to companies with queer-affirming policies, or having difficult conversations with those who’ve made you feel small. It doesn’t have to be perfect, but even the smallest steps matter.
Step 5: Create Moments of Joy on Your Own Terms
Achieving queer joy shouldn’t feel like a tiring uphill climb. Create opportunities for small but regular moments of happiness. It could be spending more time with queer friends, or actively engaging with queer media. These fleeting moments should remind you that joy isn’t just the reward at the end of the journey it can live in the everyday, too.
Step 6: Start Building Spaces That Support You, and Others
Long-term queer joy comes not just from being a part of queer-friendly spaces, but from helping create them too. This could mean slowly building a network of queer friends and allies, advocating for inclusive workplace policies, or joining activist networks. The goal is real, collective change, for yourself and for the broader queer community.
On November 2, 2025, the Indian Women’s Cricket Team made history. They won their first ever World Cup on home soil. It should’ve felt like the homecoming moment of the decade. But for many of us watching from our living rooms, group chats, and queer corners of the internet, it also carried a quieter, heavier truth: that “home” still doesn’t feel like safe ground for women in Indian sport.
Coach Jackie, a former U.S. women’s soccer player and openly gay commentator, said it best, pointing out how when the men play at home, it’s an advantage, but when women play on homeground, it’s often a double-test. For men, the roar of the crowd is love; for women, it’s judgment waiting to happen. A missed catch or low score or a one-off loss doesn’t bring analysis of the game, but insults tied to the tired old chorus of “go back to the kitchen” or “can’t even hold a bat properly.”
So when the women won this World Cup, it wasn’t just a victory over South Africa in the finals, but a win against that chorus. Against centuries of being told the field is not a space where we can be nurtured or grow. As Shafali Verma said after the match, “Surely we don’t belong in the kitchen now. There are many girls in the team who come from small towns and are now champions of the world.”
It’s a powerful statement coming from someone who, as a young girl in Rohtak, had to disguise herself as a boy just to get a chance to play. The fast bowlers back then thought she was “one of the guys.” That image of a young Shafali having to un-gender herself to access the sport she loved says everything about how our playing fields are built. Boys get unbridled access, while girls get permission to participate. And to claim space in a world where men sit at the top of the sporting food chain, women often have to first shed the very identities that make their presence revolutionary.
As a queer girl growing up in India, I remember how early those lessons began. We were allowed to play, but only with “the girls,” only in ways that looked proper. By the time we hit our teens, most of my classmates had stopped going out during sports period altogether. They’d been told their boobs bounced too much when they ran, or that their skirts revealed too much, or that girls shouldn’t come back sweaty and scruffy from the sun. Some worried about tanning; others about being teased. The boys, meanwhile, owned the open football field on our school grounds like it was their birthright.
When the girls’ football team needed to train for inter-school tournaments, we’d only get the ground once or twice a week, usually after working hours, when most of the school was gone and most girls weren’t permitted to stay out of the house. There were no women coaches. Just men, some of whom could be casually lecherous, who made us feel unsafe, who taught us early that the pitch was not neutral ground. That the game, like the world, was already uneven playing ground.
That’s why I resonated so hard with Jemimah Rodrigues, who batted India into the finals after being benched for months, after not even being picked for the 2021 squad. Her comeback was cinematic, the kind of script Bollywood would soften with violins and slow-motion shots. But life, as usual, didn’t offer her a montage. As soon as her innings went viral, an old controversy began doing the rounds about how her honorary membership at Khar Gymkhana was revoked (after being offered to her in 2023) because her father had disobeyed the club’s by-laws by organizing religious gatherings associated with Brother Manuel Ministries, a Christian spiritual group. The club, led by senior members and a former president, put her membership to vote, and voted her out.
In India, caste, religion, and gender quietly stalk your achievements, waiting to claim them as conditional. Jemimah’s case is particularly telling, because the controversy wasn’t even about her, but about something her father was associated with. Yet, her name was the one dragged through the mud by her nay-sayers. Because here, a woman’s identity is never fully her own; it’s tethered to a father, a husband, or some man presumed to be her guardian. You can score centuries, break world records, but you can’t outrun home-bred prejudice.
And if you’re queer or gender-diverse, that shadow turns into a spotlight of scrutiny. Just ask 23-year-old Anaya Bangar, Sanjay Bangar’s trans daughter, who earlier this year partnered with Manchester Metropolitan University to prove, through biomedical data, that she’s a woman “fit” to play for India. Her glucose levels, muscle mass, oxygen uptake, every data point became a passport to legitimacy. Her body became both a site of science and a statement of defiance.
Anaya’s quiet rebellion challenges not just the ICC’s 2023 trans ban, but also the moral panic that still shapes how we think about “women’s” sport. Who counts as a woman? Who counts as worthy? The answers, it seems, are always political. The fear isn’t about fairness, it’s about control. When women win, when they outperform men, it unsettles a social order built on the assumption of male physical/biological superiority. That’s why trans women are so quickly painted as “men invading women’s sport,” while cis women are often coddled as the weaker sex, which is a framing that conveniently distracts from real inequities like nutrition, access, and safety.
Take Deepti Sharma. In this very World Cup, she became the first cricketer, man or woman, to record the double of 200 runs and 20 wickets in a single tournament. Across nine matches, she scored 215 runs, including three half-centuries, and finished as the highest wicket-taker with 22 wickets. It should’ve been an unqualified celebration of greatness. But that’s the thing, when women excel beyond comparison, the narrative shifts from praise to panic. Their success doesn’t just rewrite record books, it threatens hierarchies.
That’s why trans women are so quickly painted as “men invading women’s sport,” while cis women are coddled as the weaker sex, a framing that conveniently distracts from the real inequities that define who even gets to compete. In a country where women still eat last and often eat what’s leftover, where boys get protein and girls get anemia, “performance” starts long before the pitch.
In a country where women still eat last and often eat what’s leftover, where boys get protein and girls get anemia, “performance” starts long before the pitch. Most women athletes in India still struggle for funding, equipment, and medical care. And when they do speak up about harassment, abuse, or bias, the system punishes them for it. Sexual predators like Brij Bhushan Sharan Singh can face trial for harassing women wrestlers and still return as guest of honour at the relaunch of the Pro Wrestling League, their reputations barely scratched. In a country where the government can host a Taliban diplomat at a press meet without inviting a single woman journalist, and where not one man in the room speaks up, silence is not just complicity, it’s policy.
Calling out that silence rarely sways power structures. Instead, it fractures solidarity. Some women and queer folks, out of exhaustion or pragmatism, curry favour with those in power — the only way to stay in the game. Others stay quiet, afraid of being branded “controversial.” Survivors often fight alone. And the men who claim to be allies? They post solidarity statements, then return to their everyday lives, unbothered by the misogyny they could challenge in real time but rarely do.
For most women athletes, sport in India is like walking a tightrope over a minefield. One misstep, and the headlines switch from “rising star” to “controversy queen.” Clubs that welcome male cricketers with brand deals and champagne open the door to women with suspicion and small print.
Queer sports romances in fiction/fan-fiction are striking a chord because queerness and sport share something fundamental. They’re both about bodies in motion, discipline under pressure, and finding freedom in constraint. Loving someone who understands that rhythm, the exhaustion, the competition, the scrutiny, is rare in heteronormative relationships. It’s why so many queer athletes fall for other athletes; there’s no translation needed. Straight-passing partnerships in sports films (Mr. and Mrs. Mahi, anyone?) often stumble on ego, the husband resents being not appreciated for coaching her, the wife’s success becomes emasculating. Even in Chak De! India, Sagarika Ghatge’s character, Preeti Sabharwal, is told by her hot-shot cricketer boyfriend to quit hockey because it’s a “stupid game”, and to spend her life following his game instead, after he’s elected to the vice-captaincy of the Indian cricket team.
That’s the emotional subtext women in sport live with: that their passion is secondary, that their place is negotiable. But not on November 2, 2025. On that night, the field was queer in the truest sense, not in who was kissing whom, but in who was allowed to exist fully, joyfully, against the odds. The cameras caught celebration, but the real story was underneath: a collective exhale from generations of women and queer folks who’ve been told they don’t belong in the “gentleman’s game.” Maybe that’s the legacy of this win. Not just medals or records, but in that redefinition.
Wherever I go, no matter the place or time, I just know that different versions of my younger self are watching. As eerie as that sounds, it is the dreams that have not been grieved for that keep them alive. These are dreams that I no longer connect to in the present, and yet there is a faint thread still tying them to me. Is it time to finally reach for the scissors and cut these old dreams loose?
These thoughts stirred vigorously in my mind after watching the Haunting of Bly manor. The story’s protagonist, Dani, is being followed by the possible apparition of her dead fiancé. She somehow lets go of the guilt as the show goes on, and only then gets to explore the version of herself that actually likes women. You slowly see how the relationship develops between Dani and Jamie and how they do get years together with the possibility of the Bly manor’s ghost in Dani possessing her at any moment. As the story progresses, you see that Jamie is left alone always hoping for Dani to return to her. Their story made me ponder over the ghosts that still haunt me to this day. The little version of me that did like girls but ignored that voice and stuffed that notion deep down as indirectly it was something I couldn’t act on or feel.
The moment I stopped fighting this queer version of myself, the dreams of a big fancy wedding or that perfect home with a loving partner and kids (+the furry kind of babies, one cat and dog) all disappeared. I would have to rediscover what these supposed “big milestones” would look like for a baby queer like me. The examples mentioned have been achieved by many queer people in the world but the struggles in getting there also has its own voice. For example, I grew up watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S. It has its list of flaws and its attempts at introducing certain themes in the 90s.
Seeing a lesbian couple being able to get married was an awestriking moment for little me and yet in the rest of the episodes, the jokes around Chandler’s sexuality confused me. Queer relationships were green lit and yet it still felt in the orange zone, the middle. Here, the ghosts of what could have been if the plot had woven Chandler’s exploration of sexuality, Monica adopting a child without a partner, Phoebe’s hinted bisexuality, etc.
Apart from the ghostly queer version there also exists the straight ghost. This ghost shows up especially during festivities such as weddings. With how difficult it is to exist as a queer person, sometimes I entertain the thought of another reality, “if I should have stayed straight and continued to ignore the what ifs”. These are merely thoughts and not what I wish could have happened as I also remember the heights of uncomfortableness as a disguised straight person.
While many queer and trans people are out and loud about who they are, many live with a mask on either due to family situations or living situations. The what if’s haunting us at random time for instance two secretly queer people know that they like one another. However, it has to remain a what if due to family circumstances. The story hadn’t even begun and will sadly forever be one of those unwritten stories. For the half open closeted queers, I see you and your struggles.
For those who are finally away from reasons that held you back from being free, is it time to cut the tethers of the different dreams younger you had and find them through different ways? What does that life look like through a queer lens? Sometimes befriending these ghosts can get us closer to understanding what they’re holding for us or you can keep sword fighting away these ghosts until you feel comfy confronting them. I assume the basic ideas that fueled these abandoned dreams is finding a place to belong, to feel safe and accepted, or even just being more comfortable in your skin. Maybe we can start small and finally strike a conversation with that cool person you saw on the train, going to a book store and starting a small conversation with others or researching more about a queer label you were curious about. Unexpected scenarios, whether good or bad, can come from places that seem haunting and challenging.
Sometimes I wonder if I am simply pretending. Not in the sense of some grand lie, but in the way a thought can feel like an outfit that never quite sits right on the shoulders. It is easy to say I like men that should be enough. The mind resists easy explanations, and mine particularly craves evidence, exceptions, and verification. Sometimes desire seems crystal clear, a touch, a lingering glance, an inner knowing that this isn’t performative but genuine, woven into my very being. Still, I’m haunted by uncertainty about whether I truly belong within that label’s definition. Am I performing it correctly, living it visibly enough, suffering visibly enough?
It doesn’t help that the world has its own lines ready. “You’re too young to know.” But I notice no one ever tells a child, “You’re too young to know you’re straight.” No one asks a boy chasing a girl on the playground if he’s sure. That certainty is a given baked into lullabies and wedding plans and the names scribbled in pencil on the back of notebooks. And yet if the arrow of desire points somewhere unexpected, suddenly you become suspect. Suddenly you need evidence. A portfolio of proof that what you feel is real.
And I think if I was truly pretending, why would I want to join the ranks of a marginalized community that has been oppressed for centuries? If this was some costume, why would I choose one stitched together with fear, shame, and a history of violence? It makes no sense yet my brain wants to interrogate me like I’m guilty until proven innocent.
Sometimes, I admit, I wish it were simpler. I imagine a version of myself that is straight a version who wouldn’t have to wonder if every hug is being watched by the wrong pair of eyes, who wouldn’t pause before a simple word like love because the tongue can betray you in front of the wrong audience. A version that doesn’t carry a mirror in the mind, forever adjusting, forever hoping no one sees too much.
It is society’s voice that does this: the aunties who would rather pretend; the uncles who speak in jokes; the friends who mean well but never quite get it. They ask questions that stick: “Are you sure? Maybe it’s a phase. Maybe you’re confused.” I know they think they are being kind or cautious but what they really do is plant seeds that grow into thorns, forever poking at the softest parts of you.
Desire, too, does not always obey the neat diagrams. When I try to locate it in the places I’m told it should live the pixelated screens, the stock fantasies it slips out of frame. I don’t even like watching these things much. And yet a part of me wonders if that disinterest makes me an imposter: if the lack of a textbook fantasy makes the real thing somehow counterfeit. I know what I do not want, and I know what I do but my mind still wants to press me for a consistency I cannot offer.
There are days I envy those who wear the label like an easy badge, no second-guessing. I envy the ones who can say “I am this” and never feel their stomach twist when they hear their own certainty echo back. But I suspect they, too, wake up some days and wonder who they are when no one is looking. Maybe we all do. Maybe that’s the honest part.
If I were to write this out plainly my own hesitant, scribbled manifesto it would not be some brave declaration in block letters. It would say only this: that I exist, that my desire is enough, that the edges may always stay blurry but the feeling is real. That I owe no one the spectacle of my suffering, or the correctness of my fantasies. That I do not need to earn this label with pain or performance.
Am I gay enough for you? Maybe that isn’t the question at all. Maybe the real test is whether I am enough for myself in all my contradiction, doubt, softness, and stubbornness. For now, I am trying to believe that I am. And tomorrow, I will try again.
During the festive season of Diwali, homes light up with joy, laughter, and the comforting aroma of good food. It’s a time when people come together to celebrate love, belonging, and togetherness, and Godrej L’Affaire beautifully captures this spirit through a heartfelt film that radiates warmth, inclusivity, and acceptance at its core.
At the heart of the story are two delightful characters: a man multitasking between brewing chai and decorating his home for Diwali, and Kanta Didi, a cheerful, outspoken, and well-informed woman looking for work as a cook. What begins as a simple interaction between them soon unfolds into a moment that embodies the essence of acceptance in the most natural, heartwarming way.
The film’s beauty lies in its simplicity, in showing how understanding and respect can blossom in everyday moments. When Kanta casually discovers that the man’s partner is not who she initially assumed, there’s no drama or hesitation, just a moment of graceful acknowledgment. It’s a quiet yet powerful reminder that acceptance doesn’t always need grand gestures; sometimes, it’s as simple and beautiful as a smile that says, “You are seen, you are welcome.”
What stands out most is how the film celebrates inclusion as a part of life’s normal rhythm. The “coming out” moment isn’t treated as a challenge, but as a human connection met with warmth and ease, a reflection of how far we’ve come in embracing diversity as part of our shared story.
Through Kanta’s candid personality and the man’s sincerity, the film paints an inspiring picture of what it means to truly celebrate acceptance with empathy, humour, and everyday authenticity.
And as the film closes, Kanta’s words leave a lasting impression:
“It’s not traditions that shape our relationships, it’s our relationships that create new traditions.”
Godrej L’Affaire once again reinforces its belief in celebrating acceptance in all its forms, be it gender, identity, or love, by creating spaces where everyone feels seen, respected, and celebrated.
Stories like these don’t just touch hearts; they inspire change by showing us the beauty of inclusion. This Diwali, the film reminds us that love, in all its expressions, deserves to shine brightly because true celebration begins with acceptance.
Earlier this year, in July, French President Emmanuel Macron and his wife, the First Lady of France, Brigitte Macron, filed a defamation case against American political commentator and conservative influencer, Candace Owens. The case was in response to Owens’ claims that the First Lady of France was born ‘male’ and is a trans-woman. In response, President Macron has stated that he will prove in a U.S. court that his wife is “not a man”.
This event is not isolated. It reflects a pattern that has persisted for decades. People often try to ‘catch’ others by questioning their gender, claiming they aren’t who they say they are, based on biased ideas about gender, race, or trans identities. Such actions can cause real harm and echo the witch hunts of the past—except today, they target not just trans women, but also cis women who don’t fit Eurocentric beauty ideals, those with more ‘masculine’ features, butch women, or anyone who dares to defy the norm.
For example, cisgender women in sports have sometimes been accused of being transgender simply because they do not conform to narrow ideas of how women “should” look. At the Paris 2024 Summer Olympics, prominent figures publicly questioned Algerian boxer Imane Khelif’s gender, wrongly claiming she is a man or a trans-person. The incident triggered widespread debate about rigid beauty standards, the inclusion of trans athletes in sports, and the intersecting biases of racism and transphobia.
Time and again, so-called “conventional” beauty standards such as “petite figures” being feminine or “strong and rough” being masculine have proven damaging. Differences in human appearance should be celebrated rather than measured against rigid scales. From a young age, children are taught, both directly and indirectly, how they should or should not dress and behave. For instance, girls who weightlift or boys who act “feminine” are often criticized. These norms influence how adults speak and what they teach children, reinforcing harmful beauty standards and shaping how people treat those who don’t conform.
In the U.S., for some, “finding out” who is transgender is falsely equated with safety. In reality, research shows that transgender people are far more likely to be victims of abuse than perpetrators.
In the broader population, feelings of discomfort or indifference often arise toward trans, intersex, and queer people. Questioning where these feelings come from can be the first step toward replacing fear with understanding. At the end of the day, queer people are simply seeking what everyone else wants: a safe, loving, and accepting space.
In May 2023, Starbucks India released an ad titled It Starts With Your Name, featuring transgender model Siya Malasi. The ad was a welcome change for the trans community, demonstrating how representation matters and how it can spark important conversations, whether positive or critical.
Cases such as the Macrons filing a defamation case against Owens once again raise the question: How does investigating something that isn’t there actually help trans, intersex, queer, or cis people?
Advertisements for everything from cars to perfume revolve around the concept of making yourself more romantically and/or sexually appealing. Countless films, TV shows, and books perpetuate the notion that life’s end-all goal is a romantic relationship with marriage and kids. And the thing is, there’s nothing inherently wrong with that type of happily ever after. The problem arises when that’s the only sort of happily ever after to which people are exposed, particularly children and teenagers.
An aromantic person might also consider themselves to be asexual. The former refers to feeling little or no romantic attraction, whereas the latter refers to feeling little or no sexual attraction. The definitions are more nuanced than that and can vary between individuals, but that’s the basic idea.
What does a happy ending look like for an aromantic person? It might mean being in a relationship that’s more about friendship and/or sex than romance. It might mean not being in a relationship at all. Perhaps it’s being content to focus on school, or a job, or family. But from Charlie Weasley to Katniss Everdeen, it’s safe to say we currently have far more ambiguity than we do specificity.
The prominence and popularity of LGBTQ+ fiction has been steadily rising for a number of years, with best-selling books such as Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda spreading across the globe and even being adapted for the big screen. These novels tell important stories and give people in the LGBTQ+ community the chance to see themselves reflected in the pages of a book. And yet, there are still many underrepresented identities being overlooked.
This appears to be true for aromantic people. Whilst tales of friendship and family are explored, these narratives tend to be sidelined when a protagonist finds a romantic partner. Whether they enter into a casual relationship or bump into their one true love, it is usually the romance plot which takes precedence over everything else.
The prioritization of romantic relationships comes at the cost of friendships, care networks and other intimate associations. It relegates them to cultural invisibility or second best, often leaving few profound relationships outside the immediate family sufficiently maintained. The expectation of marriage carries a social a social stigma that, for single people and those in unconventional relationships, can lead to being casually treated with suspicion, housing and child custody discrimination, alienation from family and community, and much more.
These assumptions imposed on society are consistently reflected in the narratives within books. It is common for story plots or character development to involve the formation or confirmation of romantic and sexual relationships, to the point where such relationships in fiction are more an inevitability than a possibility. It becomes an inherent part of becoming a complete person and finding a happy ending.
Where is the place for aromantic narrative in such an atmosphere? Aromantic people are expected to live on with headcanons. Even canon important aromantic characters like Jughead are given heteroromantic identity in adaptations. Describing aromantic fictional characters to people is often like coming out again and again.
Murderbot Diaries fall into a well known stereotype of making a robot aromantic. It is proper representation but many aromantic people may find it dehumanizing as it’s same old stereotype that aromanticism belongs to robots and aliens and the Other. In another book Kaikeyi, author provides aromantic identity to main character whose revolutionizing perspective brings a change to commonly known Ramayan but it’s of no help that the character originally is considered culprit for Ram’s, who is protagonist of the epic Ramayan, misery, dethroning, and adventures. One way to ensure that villain is evil is to deprive him of love while pairing up other characters. One of the most popular book Harry Potter falls into that category where the antagonist Voldemort doesn’t understand thr concept of love.
Another fantasy book An Accident of Stars provide us with a universe where women and non binary people are at the centre of the narrative as they walk between different fantasy portals and are known as world walkers. Gwen is a one of the world walkers, an older woman with a son and two partners, and she is steady, cunning, and caring. While the depiction of aromanticism is not central to the story, it is clearly established as a vital part of Gwen. Plus, it’s rare to find older aromantic women, let alone ones who are polymorous and allosexual, so An Accident of Stars fills a unique part of the aromantic representation currently available. However, things take a disappointing shift for Gwen in A Tyranny of Queens as she is pushed aside for other alloromantic characters to not only become focus but blossoming romance becomes a sign of peaceful times that are about to come.
Seven Ways We Lie mixes up aromanticism with autism and never provides any helpful labels despite terminology being important part of the book, specifically for another character who keep insisting he is pansexual. Straight people once again steal the stage while queer characters are left with bread crumbs, hardly getting their own chapters. The book also had a problematic concept that it’s okay to out people in certain circumstances. As for Valentine, the aromantic asexual character with autistism, was an opportunity for intersectionality of identities. Instead we get no balanced representation nor further explanation. As someone who is autistic and aromantic, my heart breaks for the wasted potential. But maybe we can cut the author some slack as she was 17 when she wrote us an aromantic asexual character who is not afraid to admit he doesn’t get crushes.
It’s easy for straight fans to be frustrated at a love triangle that began with friendship on all the sides in Nice to Meet You webtoon. Meanwhile the comic may appear straight, its queer reality lies in demiromantic journey of Wyn, a love interest. While the term demiromantic is not used, it’s clearly explained through Wyn’s dialogues who questions what a crush feels like. Wyn’s journey begins with befriending his best friend’s crush only to fall for her later as being demiromantic requires strong emotional bonds to feel romantic attraction. The story is a well defined exploration of sexuality who are looking for more than straight characters.
Apart from a few titles there are no aromantic books at all. One such middle grade novel is Rick, sequel to Melissa, that shows your experiences of being aromantic once you hit puberty is valid and there’s no age bar.
In Summer Bird Blue, Rumi deals with grief and anger of losing her sister to demise. That remains main focal point but there’s exploration of bonds, specifically temporary ones, we make and what it means to not experience romantic attraction. The two narratives are interwoven through lush prose.
There’s nothing more relatable than Georgia in Loveless choosing a random person to have a crush on only for it click thay she has never romantically been into anyone. The insecurities she deal with once her plans are out of window outstanding as she creates a mess of relationships that are important to her in an attempt to force romance. In an attempt to win back her best friend after a huge fight in which Georgia accepts her new found identity as aromantic, they end up going their separate ways. All hope seems lost until Georgia decides to serenade her friend whilst punting along the river, a move seemingly plucked out of a cheesy chick flick. With the rest of her friends playing musical instruments behind her, she sings her heart out and professes her undying love to her dear friend.
Recently, Dear Wendy marks a dramatic remarkable change in presenting aromantic people. Story is set in an academia settings where two aromantic asexual people Sophie and Jo get into an online feud as they both provide friendship and relationship advice. Students’ reaction after learning their sexuality represents issue of stereotype. Reading the way Sophie and Jo bonded beyond their Instagram profiles reminded me of how I found an aromantic friend in the first asexual meet I went to.
Take Me to Your Nerdy Leader appeared bland to me. Every reader would have different opinion on it. However, nothing changes that it’s an important addition to queer literature since it depicts aromantic bisexual character instead of an aromantic asexual ones. Some people, both within and outside LGBTQ+ community can’t imagine existence of aromantic people who are not asexual. It depicts an anime club, deep but simple friendships, queer exploration, and fulfillment in a friends with benefits relationship. Its sequel Sincerely, Confusedly, Yours goes further on the concept of queerplatonic relationship. Queerplatonic relationship is a challenge to the idea that relationships can only be platonic and romantic. In simple terms, a queerplatonic relationship includes no romance but is not supposed to be confused with friendships. A great example of queerplatonic relationships is just at our hands- a friends with benefits one.
When dealt the same blow of erasure over and over again, my need to protest withers. But it would lovely to see myself and other aromantic people with various experiences represented.
It wasn’t just another day in Mumbai… there was something special in the air… the pink moon was rising… and as I was stepping into a party looking and feeling as gorgeous I ever have, there he stood in his lavender-pink suit.
I had seen him before… we had had very brief interactions multiple times, but I had never felt what I was feeling that night. This time was different. I was ready to receive him. But the question is… was he?
I saw him dance, ufff! That boy can dance, just like me! Even better I would say! He was the life of the party! Not that I was just ogling at him from afar, as the host I was just observing the merry-making, and boy was he having fun. So much fun that half his blazer turned a shade darker as it was drenched with sweat – that’s how much he had danced. I loved it. Such a happy kiddo. I thought to myself.
The night ended with me dancing my heart out with my friends like there was no tomorrow.
But there was, and it was an exciting one.
The next morning, the magic of the pink moon was still afoot. I was going to an art gallery for the second time to accompany a friend as she really wanted to check out the exhibition. Little did I know that I would run into him.
What cosmic timing!
He was there with a friend…maybe a date… I didn’t care, I just knew I have to say something and so my mouth made a sound: “aaaaa”!
He turned around, smiling.
Me: Your blazer turned a whole new colour by the end of the night.
Him: Yeah! You guys are to blame. Such good music. It was so much fun.
Me: Yes! Bollywood is my jam!
Him: Same!
My friend and his friend were still there, standing next to us, saying something or laughing along, but I couldn’t see them, just him.
Me: Okay, enjoy the gallery.
Him: Yes! You too.
As I started walking away, my friend started teasing me because she could sense something between us and at that point I was poking her back for I too could sense something.
I was happy, a little bamboozled about what are the chances of running into someone twice like this. Fate, what are you upto now?
I was walking out with a giggle and I knew I must, in typical bollywood style, turn around one more time to see him. And so I did.
And there he was, looking right back at me through the glass door.
Our eyes locked, his face lighting me up… a face I had seen before but felt like I was seeing for the first time all over again. And there they were… sparkles… all around him. Sparkes!
And just like that, he became ‘the boy who sparkes’ beaming at me like shooting stars. But at this point, I also know better. I am very guarded about who to let in. Nobody is getting the key to my heart, because I melted it a long time ago. But guess what, no matter how great a lock is, there is always a greater lock-picker. And turns out, he was the best one yet.
As the evening crept in, I found myself feeling bored. I love getting bored okay, looking at the ceiling, thinking thoughts, it’s something I can do for hours by the way. But then as any person nowadays breaks their boredom, I picked up my phone, I’m pretty sure I wanted to Google something but instead opened Instagram out of habit, and there he was!
The boy who sparkles had just followed me!
Okay! Someone’s obsessed and searching for me online or maybe it’s time to accept that I’m just itsy-bitsy famous.
I open his profile and oh boy HE CAN REALLY DANCE! Not that I needed convincing. I saw his reels and he was dancing in most of them as well. Uff! Wish he posted more photos though, and the ones he did, I was like nah! These photos don’t do him justice.
I quickly followed him back.
But how to break the silence? Who is going to break the silence?
I didn’t want to play all these gay-mes, so I commented on one of his reels which I found really funny!
I commented:
“Bahahahaaaaaaaa!!!! XD”
He comments back:
“I have a feeling that someone just found it a bit too relatable!”
Ahem! My turn! :
“Tell me more about your feelings XD ;)”
Dayum… That was peak flirting for me. Never have I been that outrageously out there.
He comments back:
“I’d prefer an in-person discussion about this lmao!”
An in-person discussion is precisely what you shall get sir!!!
“Friday 8 p.m. <secret shop name>. Come eat gol gappas with me?”
Is what I DM’d him.
He was down. Yay!!!! Let’s go!!! Never thought I would be doing this ever in my life and so here I am. Aaaaaa!!!! Excited and walking with springs beneath my feet.
But hold on, something happened. I don’t use emojis while texting someone new because trust me, I use the most random ass things and it can confuse people. Besides, I’m a terrible texter. I can’t. I hate it. I find it the most annoying thing in the world. Like can you not make me think a thought and then type it as well and then wait for you to think your thoughts and type it. Don’t even get me started on misinterpreting the tone. Sigh. I’m tired. But here I am typing all this.
He texted “Am I special, is that why you’re using these old school emojis?” And I said all my friends get confused with my emojis most of the time so :p xD 😉 -_- is what I stick with.
I should have just said, “Yes, you are special. This is a date.” I thought it was implied. I never expressed that directly because maybe I was scared.
For I realised that I have built myself a pattern. Where any boy I have ever liked, I know I’m attracted to them. I know I want to be “physical,” but I feel ashamed or cheap to ask that, because that’s just not who I am. And I didn’t want the boy who sparkles to feel like I was just lusting over him like a horny rabbit, because I had a lot of love, care and respect to give.
But I didn’t know how to say those things back then, so I did what I knew best. Followed my pattern wherein I try to become friends first, then romanticize it, wait for the big moment, after a constant back and forth of feelings and realisation, a big reveal and boom we are lovers. That by the way has never happened and is utter fucking bullshit.
I hate these Bollywoodised and Hollywoodised narrations of love I have been fed and swallowed up during childhood, because no matter how you think you will love someone it never will be in the way you expect or want it to be. You just have to be wise enough to realise it when it’s in front of you.
Boy oh boy! Have I gone wrong. But before I bring you to the present as I type all this, I’ll tell you more. He assumed it was a friend-only hang, and started using the F(riendship) word. Infact, we both did, I got too comfy with it thinking let’s be friends first and my delusional pattern will prevail.
It did not.
Lesson learnt reader, just be direct. Or not actually, I have no regrets even though it might seem so at times.
After all,
“Jo hona hai ho ke rahega,
Jise khona ha, kho jayega,
Jo mera hai, woh mera hi rahega.”
I had an epic time with him!!! I bought him flowers! Felt so cute. I never thought I would be walking around with flowers I have bought for a boy! And turns out he too has never received flowers. Outrageous!!! I must deliver as many flowers as I can find in this entire world and put them before him, but I’m glad I got to be his first that way.
He showed up at the gol gappa shop, looking cute af! I could feel everyone around us thinking he’s my boyfriend, as they saw two boys laughing and giggling, something was at play for sure. He will deny that, but everyone who sees us together asks me, “are you two dating?” Because there’s chemistry. There’s actual chemistry! I feel it. People around us feel it, I’m sure his friends feel it too but the only thing that matters is… does he?
He was shocked to see me dressed up like a hermit though. I had to make sure he knows what I look like most of the days when I’m not a dolled-up diva. I took him to my fav lane in Bandra, and then to joggers park. It clicked. Every conversation flowed like water. Gosh! I have not spoken to a boy so much or about so much, ever!
We laughed so much that evening and I didn’t want the night to end. My friends were hanging out close by. So I took him there because they had to meet him! They absolutely loved him and secretly teased me. I was giggling, they were so happy for me for I found a heera of a boy.
We all went to my house later that night. The boy who sparkles really has a beautiful-intelligent mind. I love it! The way he articulates his words, the way he notices the world around him and talks to everyone, the way I feel seen and heard around him. Uff!!!
And can you believe it!! Of all things he has a corporate job. What! I’m not saying corporate people have a dead soul or something but hey, some of you guys somewhat do. 😛
But he is really changing my mind about that. He is creative, extravagant and has that boyish charm all the Taylor songs are about. I like him. I really like him. Can you tell?
My friends start to leave and I tell him you can stay for a while longer. Ahem ahem! Because you know in all the movies “we are supposed to kiss before the night ends!”
We don’t, we didn’t. I could tell he was a bit exhausted from all the socialising and at the cost of me missing out on my first proper-proper kiss with a boy I actually really like, I was willing to call it a night.
I walked him till his car, he leaned in with both his arms and hugged me.
I have not hugged a man like that in a decade. Like I always side hug, or give a breezy pat of a hug. Never with both arms circled around like vines on a pillar.
I was at peace. It was enough. This was enough. I know it was just a hug, but it meant everything to me. But how would he know that?
For people hug people all the time. How would he know how touch deprived my body has been? And what it meant to me. How would he know that him putting his arm on my shoulders in a room full of my friends will light up the little boy in me who felt like loneliness was his only friend. That him caressing my cheek in front of his friends on his birthday would make me feel infinitely special.
I sat in my room, staring at the ceiling that night, blushing. I feel so safe around him, like he can do no harm to me. Gentle. Soft yet strong. What a gorgeous gorgeous boy indeed!
That night I finally slept in the longest time. I don’t know why but I need to have a crush to sleep well. Someone to dream about, it used to be Chris Evans for the longest time, but tonight I was gonna sleep thinking about the beautiful night I had with him. Or so I thought.
I felt my first pinch of fear when I saw that he left the flowers I gave him in my house.
And as much as I love my brain, I hate it for what it is capable of thinking.
Was it the universe slapping me with a metaphor of what was to unfold and how things were going to be?
Were those flowers my love for him and he left it in my room for me to give to myself?
The world loves to dress like a doll. But it doesn’t always love the doll.
Long lashes, sharp liners, slick ponytails, cinched waists, and unbothered struts—trans women have given the world its most iconic looks, languages, and lessons in resilience. And yet, the very people who are the blueprint are too often denied safety, softness, and survival.
Within queer and ballroom communities, “doll” isn’t just a word. It’s a title. A crown. A wink to the hyperfemme girls who serve body, face, and strength in the same breath. Dolls are trans women who dare to exist beautifully in a world that punishes them for it. And right now, the dolls need more than applause. They need protection.
The Doll is Divine
To be a doll is to be delicate, but don’t mistake that for weak. Dolls are fire wrapped in silk. They are the reason drag has a language. They are the soul of every beat drop, the attitude in every mirror selfie, the elegance in every fallaway shoulder.
Sasha Colby, for instance, isn’t just your favorite drag queen’s favorite drag queen. She is a cultural reset, a Native Hawaiian trans woman who brings ancestral power into every performance. When she says, “I’m Sasha Colby, and I’m a trans woman,” it’s not a statement. It’s gospel. When I saw her, I didn’t know much about her, but her generous spirit and perfectionist energy made me fall in love instantly. Even Chappel Roan worships her.
Bosco, with her haunting beauty and unapologetic weirdness, shows that there’s no one way to be a doll. There’s space for the gothic, the grotesque, the glamorous. Bosco came into All Stars 10 with such effortless confidence—serving foxy vixen energy so strong, even I started questioning my sexuality for a second.
Kylie Sonique Love made herstory as the first out trans woman to win a RuPaul’s Drag Race crown in the U.S. Her win wasn’t just a victory for her; it was a moment of collective joy for trans femmes everywhere who had been told they were “too much” to belong. Her southern charm and unapologetic sensuality? I completely lost my mind over her.
Our Indian dolls are here. And they are divine.
“I am not trapped in the wrong body. I am in the right body with the wrong society.”
A poet, artist, and activist, Kalki Subramaniam is a Tamil Nadu-based icon who has fiercely championed trans rights across India. Her beauty is not just physical; it radiates through her words, her art, and her dignity.
“Transness is not a tragedy. What the world does to trans people is.”
Trinetra Haldar Gummaraju, India’s first openly trans woman doctor and a stunning digital creator. Trinetra’s elegance, intelligence, and vulnerability make her a beacon of representation for so many young queer Indians. She’s a doll with brains, bite, and brilliance.
“I am a trans woman and a fighter. And I will be a superstar someday.”
Ivanka Das, Model, dancer, and actor, seen on Netflix’s Bombay Begums and Dance Deewane. Ivanka’s androgynous beauty and fearless self-expression make her unforgettable on any screen she graces. She embodies what it means to be visibly divine.
But the Doll is Under Attack
Outside the stage lights and IG filters, the reality is brutal. Trans women, especially Black and Brown trans women, face disproportionate violence, housing insecurity, police harassment, and medical discrimination.
Being a doll can make you a target. Your glam becomes a threat. Your softness becomes a weapon used against you. Your body becomes political property.
All while the world profits off your image. Your walk. Your wit. Your language.
It’s the cruelest irony: people want to look like the dolls but not live with them. They want the aesthetic, not the person.
Protect. Respect. Pay. Uplift.
To protect trans women, we need to stop romanticizing their pain and start investing in their joy.
Listen to them. Believe them. Hire them. Pay them. Call out transmisogyny in your friend group, your workplace, and your government. Support trans-led organizations and mutual aid. Let dolls define themselves, not be defined by laws or headlines. Celebrate trans women when they win, not just when they’re mourning.
This is a Love Letter
To the dolls: You are magic. You are culture. You are not disposable.
We don’t just want you to survive. We want you to thrive. To be loud, messy, divine, chaotic, brilliant. To be safe in Uber and bathrooms and dressing rooms, and bedrooms. To rest. To rage. To exist.
We love you, Kalki. We love you, Trinetra. We love you, Ivanka. We love every doll who hasn’t made it to the mainstage, but walks through this world like it’s her runway.
Your softness is not a weakness. It’s a revolution. We see you. We protect you. We need you.
Underconsumption has been trending on social media for a while now. And as someone for whom underconsumption has just been a normal way of life, I’m invested in seeing this trend unfold. I have noticed that certain criticism of this trend has come from genuine frustration over how sustainable lifestyles have been reduced to aesthetics, only to ultimately promote consumption again.
Not Your Regular Trend;
The way the underconsumption-core trend is being understood just feels wrong. And I don’t mean the participation from ordinary people, but rather the commentary from video essayists and YouTubers who have begun dissecting a phenomenon through the lens of pessimism. I recognise that anything that comes out of TikTok is inherently a trend, but from what I understand, this style of content emerged as a funny response to “haul”, “organize-with-me”, and “declutter-with-me” type of content from influencers who promote overconsumption.
“No buddy, I don’t care if most of the stuff you receive is PR—it’syour display of it as prized possessions that bothers me. Even if you get 7 lipsticks as PR, please go ahead and donate or share them with someone once you’re done reviewing 1 item! And yes even if you swatch things, scrape off the layer to just give it to someone else!”—This is how I would think if I was an influencer with access to an abundant supply of things!
We haven’t seen a trend in a long time that involves active involvement since the minimalism movement in the 2010s. It’s not a trend you can just jump into; you can’t participate in underconsumption immediately unless you have already been doing it for a while. I don’t think anyone who is just hearing about underconsumption will be able to participate in it as easily as being able to buy a new viral product.
They would have to build a life around slower and mindful consumption to be able to participate or make content around this topic. The video material and posts about these are primarily from folx who already have this as a standard practice. It’s different from minimalism where influencers get rid of stuff just for click-bait.
In a recent video, YouTuber and content creator Mina Le talks about how we forget that TikTok trends are not an accurate representation of the average life. And I wholeheartedly agree that while most people on this planet don’t actually perceive trends to be life changing, they’re still a major cause for overconsumption.
Creating Solutions To Self-Made Problems!
Recently, NBC reported that underconsumption core may lead to an economic slowdown. And I genuinely don’t care. For consumers to buy, they need to have money too, and sooner or later people are going to get bored of consuming. One person commented under NBC’s video saying, “Is this a joke??? Stop blaming consumers for the recession!!! No one is falling for this, and it’s been years!!”
It was a conversation with a close friend that reminded me how easy it is for people to get sucked into the world of overconsumption by merely showing interest in makeup and skincare. At first, you may just want to try colourful eye makeup, or perhaps you want to experiment with how you look. But then, you start consuming media that constantly makes you believe you don’t look good enough, or, as they market it these days, “You look good, but you could look better!”
Let’s call this friend Freya. As she advanced in her career as a scientist, Freya realised that she needed to look presentable when attending important conferences and meetings. Knowing that I have been practicing and experimenting with makeup for the last decade, Freya asked for my help to start. Eventually, it didn’t matter when I explained how one product can function in multiple ways because Freya fell into the trap of believing she needed all the newest, cutest makeup products. But she quickly realized (thankfully before purchasing anything) that she couldn’t possibly carry around a large makeup bag–she would have to be smart about it and use one product for different purposes.
Have You Seen The Bottom Of Your Makeup Bag?
Underconsumption requires you to consume stuff you already own-–you can’t just get rid of perfectly usable products for the sake of following a trend. The best participants in this trend are people from the Project Pan community. “Project Pan” is a challenge within the beauty community that involves picking out products from your existing collection to consume before you buy anything new. The “pan” in its name refers to the silver base of a makeup pan that only becomes visible when the product is almost completely used up.
For me, the pipeline to underconsumption on my FYP started long ago when the makeup side of the internet started talking about their makeup pan projects. Everyone tracked their makeup usage and shared what looks they created. I won’t lie, I was attracted to this world not because of its values, but because of the sheer satisfaction of using up things and seeing that other people actually DO use their makeup!
It doesn’t have to look like you’ve purchased new things every week, and to truly love makeup is to actually use it! I was watching a video on underconsumption and makeup, and I love the fact that the creator acknowledges that the only way to truly know if you like a product is to finish it and use it in different situations.
In conclusion, I have always been someone who practices underconsumption—be it my upbringing and my understanding of life and the way climate change gets impacted. I find strength in the idea that I only consume what I choose to—I have the power to decide for myself. I’m not a smart consumer; I’m just a responsible person!
Axis Bank has released a first-of-its-kind study, Pink Capital: The Spectrum of Queer Money, showing how LGBTQIA+ communities in India earn, save, borrow, and spend. The report uncovers the lived financial realities of queer individuals and what true inclusion in banking looks like.
What is the Pink Economy?
The term Pink Economy refers to the economic activity generated by LGBTQIA+ individuals… not just as consumers, but as earners, investors, and participants in financial systems.
When Family Finances Leave You Out
In India, finance has long been tied to traditional family structures, which often leaves queer people excluded from wealth-building, inheritance, loans, and insurance. Personally, growing up, finance was never one of those conversations that you have at the table. It was only when I grew up and found myself facing financial roadblocks, did I realise that queer individuals face an additional layer of challenges. The challenges are as fundamental as opening a bank account or asking for a debit card with your chosen name!
Research Methodology
So with that experience, it was very interesting for me to go through the report. The report combines numbers with narratives through a layered methodology, from the Pegboard Picnic simulation with 50 community members, to dialogues with the TWEET Foundation, and conversations with experts.
The research methodology itself is refreshing. In one exercise called the Pegboard Picnic, gave community members ₹5,000 in symbolic “pink rupees” to spend on a given list of items in the market, however they wished to. It included items related to healthcare, housing and even celebrations.
Key Findings: What Does Queer India Want?
This small act revealed something huge: queer spending priorities aren’t just about buying rainbow-branded products or Pride merch. They’re about survival, dignity, and long-term stability. Healthcare, financial security, and safe housing were consistently top priorities.
And honestly, this is something that I have seen and felt for years. Not just me, but almost all of my queer friends too. Money is protection against being disowned. It’s a ticket to a chosen family when the biological one shuts their doors.
The report builds on Axis Bank’s ComeAsYouAre, a charter of policies and practices for employees and customers who are queer. Since this charter was announced in 2021, the bank has made facilities like joint accounts accessible for queer partners, including honorifics like Mx (which the bank noted, has been used by over 11,000 customers till date). And its findings reveal a hierarchy of queer financial needs, showing where inclusion is most urgent.
Systemic Access & Equality refers to having legal recognition of one’s identity, and having inclusive banking, housing, and education access. Healthcare & Safety refers to receivinggender-affirming care, insurance coverage for partners, and inclusive wellness products. Financial & Future Stability refers to access toqueer-focused loans, retirement products, and community housing models. Emotional & Social Recognition refers to having validation in families, inclusive weddings, cultural milestones. Lifestyle & Culture is about authentic representation in media, gyms, and consumer goods tailored to queer needs.
The message is clear: queer Indians want equal access to everyday financial tools that others take for granted.
As Harish Iyer, Senior VP and Head of Diversity, Equity & Inclusion at Axis Bank, puts it:
“Pink Capital is about identity, security, and the right to dream. By studying Pink Capital, we are moving the conversation from identity to impact.”
Is Queer Market Just Something To Be Tapped?
The report also talks about the lazy ole framing of queer money as just a “market to be tapped.” But NO, says the report. It is not about consumption, but circulation. Where does queer money flow? Where does it get blocked? And how can systems stop siphoning it back into heteronormative structures that implicitly exclude us such as family property laws, lack of inclusive retirement/insurance products.
The World Bank warns that discrimination against LGBTQIA+ people could cost India up to 1.7% of GDP annually.
This is a point that often gets overlooked in corporate Pride campaigns: visibility without access is just pinkwashing. India’s queer community holds an estimated $168 billion in purchasing power, yet systemic exclusion prevents this wealth from meaningfully benefiting the community itself. Too often, queer earnings are absorbed into heteronormative structures, siphoning away economic power instead of strengthening queer safety, dignity, and long-term stability. If money were allowed to circulate within the community, it could generate a powerful multiplier effect, fueling inclusion, resilience, and sustainable growth.
And the Cost of Exclusion?
The report highlights voices that make these insights real:
A couple opening a joint account, calling it “a quiet symbol of acceptance.” A trans-woman stressing that transition care is life-saving, not cosmetic. A gay entrepreneur dreaming of retirement homes where queer people can live openly.
These stories remind us that queer money is not abstract capital… It is tied to dignity, safety, and dreams for the future.
The report calls for banks, businesses, and policymakers to recognize queer Indians as full participants in the economy. It argues that inclusion feeds into the economy when queer individuals have equal access to products, services, and security, everyone benefits.
Other important points covered-
1. Intra-community diversity: The report also emphasizes how different it looks across the spectrum: Class and caste divides: metro-based double-income-no-kids households vs. working-class queer/trans folks in informal jobs. Trans experience: systemic barriers in ID documentation, healthcare, and employment far sharper than for cis gay/lesbian folks. This diversity matters because the needs of a queer entrepreneur in Delhi and a trans sex worker in Panipat are worlds apart.
2. Borrowing & Credit Behavior The report shows queer people save more, borrow less, often not out of choice but because loans/credit remain structurally harder to access (lack of documentation, lack of recognized partners/nominees, fear of outing).
3. It also points out concrete pathways to improve the policy and banking sector’s product opportunities such as: Queer-affirming health products & insurance. Housing models inclusive of queer folks. Education/scholarships. Workplace reforms.
Let’s be real… a lot of us didn’t grow up with dinner table conversations about premiums, policies, or why you need health insurance before “something happens”.
Especially if you’re queer, chances are your money-talk at home (if it happened at all) didn’t include things like choosing your own plan, buying it without your parents knowing, whether it covers therapy or transition-related care, or what to do when your partner can’t be recognized through marriage?
So when people say “Get insurance,” it’s easy to nod… and then Google it in secret while panicking because it has always felt like grown-up stuff that you don’t feel ready for yet.
This is your guide to understanding the basics of health insurance contextualized for queer realities.
What Is Health Insurance, Actually?
Health insurance helps you handle sudden medical expenses when you don’t have the money on hand..
In short: You pay a yearly fee → If a sudden illness or injury strikes → Insurance covers most of the costs you can’t afford.
There are two ways this happens:
Cashless: You go to a hospital on the insurance provider’s network. Insurance pays them directly.
Reimbursement: You pay first, then claim it back with documents.
Why does it matter?
In India, a single hospital visit, whether for an accident, a surgery, or even mental health care, can easily cost between ₹10,000 to ₹5 lakhs or more.
Why Should You Care?
Because medical emergencies don’t wait for you to get financially ready.
So, getting a health insurance becomes especially important if:
You’re not on your family’s insurance plan You’ve moved out to a different city/country(or want to) You’re dealing with existing physical or mental health conditions You’re queer and can’t safely rely on your birth family for financial support
Even basic plans can make sure sudden medical bills don’t derail your finances.
What It Usually Covers
Most basic Indian health plans include:
Hospitalisation (24+ hours) Room charges (shared or private) Tests, medicines, doctor fees during stay Daycare procedures (like chemo, cataract) Pre- & post-hospitalisation (7–60 days usually)
Some plans that are more comprehensive may also cover:
Mental health care (basic therapy sessions) OPD visits (regular checkups) Maternity care (with 1–2 year wait)
What’s Usually Not Covered
Especially for queer and trans folks:
Gender-affirming care (HRT, surgeries, even consults) Queer mental health needs (or therapists who get it) Same-gender partners (for family cover) HIV/AIDS care
And in general:
Pre-existing conditions (covered only after 2–4 years of holding an insurance policy) Cosmetic surgeries, self-inflicted injuries, etc.
What Are Some Actual Policies That Work?
It’s easy to get lost in the sea of health insurance plans. Here’s a quick cheat sheet to get you started:
Queer-inclusive policy: Central Generali Insurance (CGI) is currently the only Indian insurer with health insurance product specifically marketed as LGBTQIA+ inclusive.
Other health insurance plans: Though many standard health insurance providers do not have policies specifically marketed as queer-inclusive, they may very well be suitable for queer individuals.
Government-backed option: Ayushman Bharat PM-JAY Composite Medical Scheme for Transgender Persons provides coverage of ₹5 lakh per year, including gender-affirming care and other medical needs for eligible transgender individuals.
If you’re looking for specific medical needs, it’s best to read the fine print or directly speak to a representative.
How to Buy Health Insurance on Your Own (Without Telling Your Family)
So, you’ve decided you need health insurance but you’re not out to your folx. Or maybe they’re just not supportive. Good news: you can buy a policy completely on your own.
You need:
Your own ID (Aadhaar, PAN) To be 18+ (some plans allow minors with a guardian) A phone, email, and card/UPI to pay online
You can buy it:
1. Online: Sites like Policybazaar, Navi, or directly from Star Health, Niva Bupa, etc.
2. With an agent: You can approach an agent who can introduce you to the best plans based on your needs.
How to Find a Queer-Safe Insurance Agent
Not everyone loves reading fine print or filling online forms. That’s where agents can help. But the wrong one might:
Overshare with your family Push policies you don’t need Ignore your request for privacy
Instead, look for:
Independent agents (not tied to one insurer) Queer-friendly agents (check queer forums, Discord groups, Instagram) Agents who respect confidentiality and consent
Can I Keep It Secret from My Family?
Yes. Just make sure:
You don’t use their contact info You choose an address that is private to you (you may even consider a PO Box for related correspondence) or email You don’t add them as nominees (unless you really want to)
How Much Does It Cost?
Basic plans start from around ₹2,000–₹5,000 per year. That’s about ₹200–₹400 a month.
If you want plans with mental health coverage or OPD support, it may cost a little more—around ₹8,000–₹12,000 per year.
What Happens When You Need to Claim It?
Here’s what to do when you actually need to use your insurance:
1. Be sure to seek the services of a hospital listed on your insurer’s “cashless” network (searchable on their site).
2. Show your health card or e-policy at the desk.
3. The hospital contacts the insurer → the insurer approves (usually same-day).
4. You don’t pay upfront, except for some small non-covered charges.
5. You get the treatment without paying. The insurer pays the hospital directly.
If the hospital is not in the cashless network listed, you will have to pay for now and the insurer will pay you later, but make sure you:
Keep all bills, prescriptions, and discharge summaries.
Submit them online (or via agent) within the claim window (usually 7–30 days).
Just Remember…
You don’t have to know everything about money or insurance to start protecting yourself. For many queer folks, health insurance isn’t just a smart financial step… You might be figuring it all out alone. You might be scared to ask questions. You might not feel ready. That’s okay. Start small. It’s not too late to start planning your finances.
For too long, LGBTQ+ representation in Indian cinema and television was either absent, reduced to caricature, or confined to the fringes of independent cinema. However, in recent years, particularly following the decriminalization of Section 377, the landscape has shifted dramatically. We’re now witnessing a burgeoning wave of films and web series that not only include queer characters but genuinely explore their complex lives, relationships, and struggles with remarkable depth.
Moving beyond mere presence, these narratives invite us to delve into the very heart of their stories: the characters themselves. It’s in their journeys that we find reflections of India’s evolving conversations around identity, acceptance, and love. This article will shine a spotlight on six pivotal characters from recent times, each offering a unique window into the infinite stories of queerness on the Indian screen.
Shreegauri Sawant (from Taali)
Stereotypical: Shreegauri strongly resists common, harmful stereotypes of transgender individuals, portraying her as a dignified, resilient activist and a compassionate mother.
Centrality: Shreegauri is central to Taali. Her journey of self-discovery, fierce activism for transgender rights, and profound path to motherhood drive the entire narrative. She demonstrates unwavering agency and deep emotional complexity, making her portrayal far from tokenistic.
Cultural Impact:Taali had a significant cultural impact, bringing a real trans activist’s story to a massive mainstream audience in India. This helped educate many about the trans experience, fostering greater empathy and initiating crucial conversations beyond queer circles.
Maanvi (from Chandigarh Kare Aashiqui)
Stereotypical: Maanvi largely resists derogatory stereotypes of trans individuals, often seen in older mainstream cinema. She is depicted as a confident, desirable, and intelligent woman.
Centrality: Maanvi is at the heart of the film’s core conflict and emotional arc. Her trans identity is the catalyst for the entire romantic comedy plot, and she consistently demonstrates agency in asserting her truth and demanding acceptance, showcasing rich emotional depth.
Cultural Impact:Chandigarh Kare Aashiqui had a significant impact as one of the first mainstream Bollywood films to center a trans character. It successfully brought the topic of trans identity and relationships to millions of Indian homes.
Sumi Singh (from Badhaai Do)
Stereotypical: Sumi strongly resists common stereotypes of lesbian women (e.g., tragic, overly masculine). She is portrayed as feminine, intelligent, and deeply committed to finding happiness on her terms.
Centrality: Sumi is highly central as one of the two protagonists. Her journey to self-acceptance, her relationship desires, and her pragmatic approach to the “lavender marriage” drive a significant portion of the film’s emotional and narrative arc, showcasing strong agency and emotional depth.
Cultural Impact:Badhaai Do had a significant impact, bringing the complex concept of “lavender marriage” into mainstream discussion. It resonated deeply with many queer individuals facing similar family pressures, demonstrating that nuanced queer stories can achieve wide appeal.
Bharti (from Geeli Pucchi)
Stereotypical: Bharti strongly resists simplistic stereotypes; her queer identity is subtly woven into her character and deeply intertwined with her Dalit identity and class struggle, creating a unique and complex individual.
Centrality: Bharti is highly central to the short film. Her unspoken desires, complex internal world, and reactions to her colleague’s presence drive the emotional and psychological tension of the narrative, exhibiting agency through subtle, profound actions.
Cultural Impact:Geeli Pucchi had a significant impact with its nuanced portrayal of intersectionality (caste, class, gender, sexuality). It contributed to a more sophisticated understanding of queer experiences beyond just urban, privileged narratives.
Karan Mehra (from Made in Heaven)
Stereotypical: Karan largely resists common gay stereotypes. He is presented as a complex, flawed, ambitious, and deeply human character, moving beyond simplistic caricatures to explore the multifaceted nature of gay masculinity.
Centrality: Karan is one of the two protagonists and an absolute core of the series. His queer identity, relationships, past trauma (related to Section 377), and evolving activism are fundamental to the show’s narrative, showcasing profound emotional depth and consistent agency.
Cultural Impact:Made in Heaven had a massive cultural impact, becoming a benchmark for LGBTQ+ representation on Indian OTT platforms. Karan’s central role normalized gay lives, highlighted past legal persecution, and showcased diverse gay relationships to millions.
Mathew (from Kaathal – The Core)
Stereotypical: Mathew strongly resists common gay stereotypes (e.g., flamboyant, urban-centric). He is portrayed as a quiet, dignified, masculine man, a respected figure in his rural community, whose struggle is deeply internal.
Centrality: Mathew is the absolute core of the film; his hidden identity is the catalyst for the entire narrative. While initially restrained by years of suppression, he gains profound agency as his truth is revealed, making quiet yet immensely impactful decisions.
Cultural Impact:Kaathal – The Core had a groundbreaking impact, particularly for regional cinema, due to Mammootty’s star presence. The film’s sensitive portrayal initiated crucial conversations about older, closeted gay men and family acceptance in smaller towns, pushing boundaries with immense realism.
These six characters offer a compelling tapestry of queer lives on the Indian screen. From the quiet resilience of Sumi and Mathew to the fierce activism of Shreegauri and the complex self-discovery of Karan and Maanvi, they collectively tell not just six individual stories but infinite narratives of identity, struggle, and the enduring quest for love and acceptance in India. As desi cinema continues to evolve, these characters stand as powerful testaments to the growing depth and diversity of LGBTQ+ representation.
Somewhere between a late-night scroll through Instagram reels and an impromptu deep dive into a YouTube rabbit hole, I stumbled upon Pyaar Ka Professor. The snippet that intrigued me was deceptively simple: a man, a politician no less, gifting his wife a necklace because, during an intimate moment, she had placed his hand on her neck. What he saw as a hint for jewelry was, in reality, a suppressed articulation of desire. That was all it took—I had to watch the series. And the moment I finished, I sat down to write this.
Pyaar Ka Professor, a web series that ostensibly markets itself as a satire on love, relationships, and the ethics of seduction, is laced with problematic tropes. From Vaibhav’s overt misogyny to the insidious idea of “womanipulating”, much of the show warrants a separate critique. But what intrigued me wasn’t the tired rhetoric of gender warfare or the dubious ethics of dating schools—it was the unspoken, under-explored, and often uncomfortable conversation about women’s sexual desires, particularly within marriage.
The Silent Space of Women’s Desire
Mallika, the show’s protagonist, is neither oppressed nor silenced in the conventional sense. She is modern, confident, and in many ways, liberated. Married to Pankaj, an ambitious politician who—unlike the archetypal controlling husband—supports her personal growth, she is far from trapped. And yet, the language of desire remains elusive, her sexual needs lost in translation, misread, or outright dismissed.
Take, for instance, one of the most revealing moments in the show—Mallika tells Pankaj that she enjoys being choked. His response? A baffled laugh: “Aur choke toh main baahar karta hoon logon ko, unko toh bada maza nahi aata.” (I choke people outside all the time, they don’t seem to enjoy it much.)
It’s a scene loaded with tragicomic irony. Here is a woman, communicating her desires as clearly as possible, only to be met with a fundamental lack of comprehension. Pankaj’s response is not just humorous; it is emblematic of a larger issue—the limited vocabulary that men (and by extension, society) possess when it comes to understanding women’s sexual needs beyond the performative scripts of romance and duty.
Why Do Women Struggle to Voice Desire?
The repression of female desire in marriage is neither new nor exclusive to Pyaar Ka Professor’s fictional universe. Historically, female sexuality has been framed in terms of receptivity rather than agency. Even in ostensibly progressive partnerships, where women are given space to thrive professionally and personally, their sexual agency remains a murky territory—recognized in theory, misunderstood in practice.
One way to understand this is through Lisa Duggan’s theory of heteronormative domesticity, which argues that marriage, even in its modern, supposedly liberal iterations, continues to operate within structures that prioritize stability over pleasure, duty over exploration. Women, especially those in long-term heterosexual relationships, often internalize a model of desire that is shaped by emotional labor and caretaking rather than personal erotic fulfillment.
Even when they do articulate their desires, as Mallika does, they are met with bemusement, if not outright invalidation. This is not merely about men failing to understand what their partners want—it is about the absence of a cultural framework that allows women’s desires to exist without being pathologized as deviant or trivialized as indulgent.
Mallika’s predicament in Pyaar Ka Professor is not that she lacks the confidence to speak, but that her words do not register the way they should. The misinterpretation of her sexual cues is one of the recurring motifs in the show. When she places Pankaj’s hand on her neck in an intimate moment, she is expressing a desire. When Pankaj later gifts her a necklace, believing that’s what she wanted, the disconnect is almost absurd in its simplicity.
The humor in these moments is unsettling precisely because it is so relatable. How often do women hint at their needs only for them to be misunderstood? How many times have we heard of women faking orgasms, not out of deception, but out of sheer exhaustion from the work it takes to explain what they want?
Critical theorists like Teresa de Lauretis argue that desire itself is shaped by the discursive conditions of gendered subjectivity—meaning that even when women desire, they must do so within the confines of what is socially permissible or legible. Mallika is not a woman trapped in an oppressive marriage; she is a woman trapped in a world that does not yet have the tools to fully accommodate female sexual agency.
Desire, Not Desperation
The show, whether intentionally or not, makes a compelling case for the urgent need to reframe the way we talk about female sexuality. Women are not desperate; they are desiring. There is a crucial distinction. To be desperate is to be lacking, to be in need. To desire is to be full, to know, to want. The conversation about female desire needs to shift from one of scarcity to one of abundance.
Pyaar Ka Professor may not be a perfect show, but it inadvertently opens a door that remains frustratingly closed in mainstream discourse. We need more stories where women’s sexual needs are not plot devices or sources of humor, but legitimate narratives in their own right. We need men who are not just open to listening but are equipped with the language to understand.
Perhaps the greatest takeaway from Pyaar Ka Professor is that we must move past the old dichotomy of sexual liberation versus repression. The truth is, most women exist in a liminal space—neither fully free nor completely silenced, constantly navigating the thin line between articulation and misinterpretation. And it’s about time that the world caught up.
“Sapphy, wake up, darling. It’s 10 in the morning,” lovingly called out Sapphy’s mother, Iffat.
“Just five more minutes. It’s Sunday after all.” Sapphy replied sheepishly from under the sheets.
“No more of this five-minute business. Auntie Sheela has joined us for breakfast. Come on, get up and greet her.” Iffat insisted.
Iffat had prepared a scrumptious Sunday brunch for Sheela and the family to enjoy.
Reluctantly, Sapphy joined everyone at the table after brushing her teeth.
“Iffy, I have some juicy gossip to share,” Sheela said with a smirk.
“Is that so? I had a feeling your visit came with an agenda. Why else would you drop by unannounced? Tell me what’s cooking?” Iffat replied, intrigued.
“You know Danish, right?”
Sapphy’s eyes lit up at the mention of Danish.
“Danish, the boy from Block F. Chowdary’s son?”
“Yes, exactly! Danish Chowdary.”
Danish was no ordinary boy to Sapphy. He was 8-year-old Sapphy’s first crush. Even though he was 10 years older than her, the age gap didn’t matter one bit to her. After all, Saif Ali Khan is also 10 years older than Kareena Kapoor. Little Sapphy had already imagined getting married to Danish one day. Danish was smart, good-looking, and exceptionally charismatic. It was impossible for a normal being to escape unscathed from Danish’s charm.
When Sapphy was 6 years old, she was flying kites with her friends from the neighbourhood. Her father had bought her a beautiful kite in her favourite teal blue colour. Her kite had been airborne for less than 10 minutes when one of the older boys in the neighbourhood cut its string. The kite fell and landed in a tall tree nearby, but the tree was too tall for children to climb and retrieve the kite. Sapphy’s tears flowed freely, and after a while, her friends started teasing her about being a cry-baby. Amid the tears and sniffles, Sapphy noticed a tall and handsome figure walking up to her.
“Hello, I am Danish. What’s your name?”
“Sapphy” Sapphy mumbled softly.
“Would you stop crying and smile if I gifted you this yellow kite?” Danish extended a yellow kite towards Sapphy.
“No, I don’t want a kite. I want to make a kite fly higher than everyone else’s.“
“Now that’s something we can achieve. How about I help you fly this kite high in the sky?”
For the next half hour, Danish flew the kite alongside Sapphy, ensuring their kite soared higher than all the others in the sky. Sapphy found her hero, and fortunately for her, he was excellent at flying kites.
“Sapphy, Sapphy”
Sapphy returned to reality after a gentle nudge from Auntie Sheela.
“Darling, why don’t you go to your room and play?” Auntie Sheela suggested.
“I don’t want to! I want to finish my breakfast; I am hungry.” Sapphy replied, a bit annoyed.
“Fine then. Put on your headphones and listen to some music while your mom and I talk. It’s adult business, so don’t pay attention to us.”
Sapphy put on her headphones, but she had no intention of listening to any music. She was eager to hear the gossip about Danish.
“Danish, what a bright and handsome boy. It’s such a fall from grace. Who would have anticipated that he would turn out like this?” Auntie Sheela remarked.
“Turn out like what? What did he do?” Iffat questioned.
“He didn’t do anything. He is…. he is…gay. Last night he came out to his parents. They had a loud argument. The neighbour overheard the entire conversation, and now this news is spreading like wildfire throughout the entire housing complex.”
“Whatever he is, is none of our business. But I do feel bad for the parents. Poor things, Danish is an only child, and that too such a bright boy. All their dreams for him must have come down crashing.” Iffat said in a sombre tone.
“Of course, they are devastated. I feel there is still hope. The gay business is just a phase. If the Chowdarys pray diligently and seek medical help, Danish will eventually recover.”
“Yes, let’s hope that he gets better and escapes this illusion,” Iffat said hopefully.
“I must leave now. I’ve left my kids at home, and now more than ever, we must keep an eye on our children. They can easily get caught up in all this nonsense,” Auntie Sheela said as she got up to leave.
Sapphy listened intently to the entire conversation between Sheela and Iffat, but she couldn’t make sense of any of it. Danish is gay, which is not normal according to her mum and Auntie Sheela. Is he sick? Why would this result in an argument with parents? And most importantly, what does it mean to be gay?
“Amma, what does it mean to be gay?” Sapphy asked Iffat.
“Sapphy! Why were you eavesdropping? That conversation was beyond your age, so not a word more about it. Understood?” Iffat asked angrily.
“Okay, fine. I’ll just ask someone else. I need to know,” Sapphy replied confidently.
“Sapphy, please don’t go asking people about this. This is tricky business; you might offend people.”
“Why is being gay is offensive?” Sapphy looked puzzled.
“Being gay is not offensive. It’s just not the norm. A gay person is attracted to the same gender, unlike heterosexual folks like Appa and I who are attracted to the opposite gender. Danish would fall in love with a boy, not a girl”
“Amma, isn’t love the best gift from god? Wouldn’t the love that Danish feels be a gift as well? How’s that love any different from what Appa and you experience?”
“It is different in the eyes of the society, Sapphy. And this difference can make life difficult for a child in society and therefore, it upsets parents when their child turns out to be gay.” Iffat explained patiently.
“Amma, didn’t you say that a task being difficult doesn’t make it wrong? Often, difficult tasks are the true test of one’s character,” Sapphy wondered.
“Yes, Sapphy. Being gay is not wrong, but the path ahead for a gay person will be tough. No parent wishes that their child leads a tough life.”
“Danish may face many obstacles now, but who else will he turn to in tough times if not his parents?“
Iffat sighed, not knowing how to answer Sapphy’s innocent question.
That evening, while playing with her friends, Sapphy noticed Danish walking home. He looked normal, although a bit tired and sad, but he was still the same charming and handsome Danish as always.
Sapphy ran to Danish.
“Oh hello, Sapphy! Playing with your friends, huh?” Danish asked, his tone lacking enthusiasm.
Sapphy didn’t respond.
“How about I get you your favourite ice cream, and in return, you give me that million-dollar smile of yours?”
“I don’t want ice cream,” Sapphy finally replied.
Danish’s expression grew serious. Danish wondered if the latest gossip about him had reached little Sapphy as well.
“I will show you my million-dollar smile if you promise to return it with one of yours. Deal?” Sapphy replied excitedly.
Danish smiled, feeling the relief that comes from witnessing a beautiful sunrise after a long, difficult night, and honouring her end of the bargain, Sapphy flashed her toothy smile.
Part 1 of 3 of How motherhood brought out the queerness in me
Understanding my queerness has never felt more important than when I had a baby. I remember feeling a mix of excitement and anxiety when I learned I was having a baby. While I was overjoyed, a quiet sense of unease crept in—one that I couldn’t quite place at first. Finding out the sex of my baby made me go through an internal dilemma about how I was going to navigate the whole ‘gender’ aspect of bringing up a child. I was in the UK at the time, so during my second trimester I was able to find out that I was having a boy—don’t worry, I didn’t find out through illegal means in India (yikes!). This dilemma obviously stemmed from my heteronormative upbringing, and how that has hindered—or rather, slowed down—my own journey.
Once the news was out, I quickly noticed how everyone around me immediately jumped on the “Oh, it’s a boy, so OBVIOUSLY he will love cars, be a mama’s boy and behave a certain way” bandwagon. Gosh, thinking back to then, I remember how much intense, heart-racing, jittery anxiety that would cause me, and I didn’t know what to make of it! Another time, an aunt—or maybe a friend—casually said, “Oh, your boy will be wild and tough! You’ll never get him to sit still for cuddles like a little girl would.” That comment lingered for days, making me question why these expectations felt so suffocating. Amidst all this, the moment arrived. My precious baby boy came into this world, turning my world upside down in the best way possible! Putting all my anxieties to ease because babies are so pure and unassuming, I knew I just had to do my best to be a safe space for him and I was sure everything else would fall into place!
We are at the toddler phase now, and he is growing up to be an extremely high-spirited, opinionated, ridiculously smart, intuitively sensitive, and super happy ball of energy! And I am drinking up every second of it!
So, all’s well right? Not really… So what was the uncomfortable part? The clear boxes that friends, family, and even strangers put him in before his personality is even fully formed. “Oh, he’s a boy, so he won’t care about more than primary colours” (because, apparently, men know only two colours while women obsess over multiple shades of the same colour—like, whaaat?). “He’s a boy, so he won’t listen to you, but girls would.” And then there’s the whole thing on social media about being a #BoyMom vs #GirlMom.
Sure, biological and hormonal differences shape certain traits, but boxing kids in—or rather, locking them in a castle with a moat full of blue or pink-coloured crocodiles ready for the attack if they sneak a toe out of the box, ultimately making them think they can’t escape—is just absurd. It signals to them that this is all there is to being themselves.
This made me realise just how uncomfortable the whole boy vs girl binary complex makes me feel. I began exploring why I felt this way. Even a simple “Boy or girl?” from a salesperson at a baby shop sent a ripple of unease through me! I started questioning why I had so much anxiety around this. The striking thing was how my 2-year-old, who is still learning to be a fully formed person, is already subjected to binary gender stereotypes—and by extension, so was I. It reminded me of the boxes I have been put in all my life!
But in reflecting on my emotional reactions to these baffling binary perspectives, I knew—and still know—that I’m on the brink of something significant; something that feels like peeling away layers of expectations to uncover my truest self. It’s a journey toward shedding the roles I was boxed into and finally embracing the fluidity, freedom, and joy that come with living authentically. I know I’m on my way to stepping into an even queerer, truer version of myself, and this journey makes me so happy and hopeful because on the other side of it is the most authentic version of ME, and I’m all for it!
There’s something deeply human about the urge to simplify what we don’t understand. We draw lines, coin labels, manufacture neat binaries: straight or queer, normal or deviant, man or woman. We abhor complexity, revel in simplistic narratives, instinctively group people under the burden of labels, stamp stereotypes upon factions, and treasure the moral superiority that comes with being judgmental. Be that as it may, life isn’t as simple. People are complex, and with that complexity comes messiness. As American poet Walt Whitman reminds us,“I am large, I contain multitudes.”
Whistling in the Dark, edited by R. Raj Rao and Dibyajyoti Sarma, is a record of such multitudes—twenty-five interviews spanning class, caste, geography, gender, and grief. In its pages, we meet people who contradict each other, confuse you, challenge the boxed-in beliefs you carry. And that’s exactly the point.
First published in 2009 and now updated with four new voices, the book reads like a time capsule. The interviews were conducted across decades, yet the questions feel painfully current. The ache of invisibility, the awkwardness of labels, and the tension between being seen and being simplified. The editors make no attempt to smoothen the edges. And in doing so, they preserve something closer to the truth.
The Question of ‘Queer’
What does it mean to be queer? Ask twenty-six people and you’ll get twenty-six answers, none quite like the other.
Ana Garcia-Arroyo, a Spanish author, says, “Queer has been inscribed with very pejorative meanings like ‘strange’, ‘deviant’ or ‘atypical’, but of course, this is very reductive and parochial. At the same time, ‘queer’ embodies a ‘verb’, a constant action, rather than a noun, a fixed identity.”
Mohammad Soltani, a painter from Iran studying in India, has a different take: “(….) the very fashionable term ‘queer’ literally means bizarre and weird, and we use it happily to characterise our behaviour. I admit that there is a difference, but not to such an extent; this is insulting. There is nothing queer in my behaviour.”
The interviews are charged not just by who’s speaking but also by who’s asking. The editors know when to nudge and when to provoke. Their questions can feel loaded, accusatory even, but they bring clarity. And thus, you read questions like, “You know, in spite of all that you say, we think that the seeds of sex work were sown in your mind during the time you traded in girls. You’re just in denial.” or “Your drawings. We get the impression that you attempt to sublimate your sexual fantasies in them. Would you agree?”
Access, Alienation, and Language
The caste, class, religious and linguistic lines are often visible in how support is accessible to some and unavailable for others. Manish Pawar says, “One thing that put me off was that in places like the Humsafar Trust, all the discussions were in English. I felt alienated.”
Even inside the so-called safe spaces, caste, class, and language create new, invisible lines, deciding who gets heard and who is sidelined. Bindumadhav Khire, a queer activist from Pune, insists on writing in Marathi. When asked why, he states how “It is a big misunderstanding that the English-speaking intelligentsia is liberal. All classes are conservative. It’s just that the English-speaking intelligentsia/socialists/secularists are more hypocritical than the rest.”
Contradictions, Not Consensus
Flip a few pages, and the contradictions multiply. There’s no ‘message’ being delivered here, just multiplicity. Queerness, for some, is identity. For others, it’s invisible, incidental, even irritating. There’s no dominant narrative, no singular ‘gay experience.’ Instead, it’s a spectrum of want, belief, shame, and assertion, colliding across class boundaries and consciousness. For example, when prodded by the editors with the claim that “being gay is not about having sex, it’s about a lifestyle”, Arman Pasha retorts, “What do you expect me to be, a laughing stock? How I seek release is nobody’s business but mine. Just as how I live my life is nobody’s business but mine.”
The book also confronts a bias among many: that all queer people must be progressive. But isn’t that akin to expecting the entire cis-het population to hold the same political views, or all citizens of a nation to speak one language (oh wait!)? When asked whether he has an insecurity underlying his need to play ‘the man’s role,’ Satish Ranadive responds, “I’m conservative. I believe in strict gender roles. Nature made man to be the penetrator and that’s how it should be. Without this, how can the life cycle continue? I may be homosexually inclined, but I’m still a man.”
The Language of Intimacy
For every person like Satish who draws such hard lines between roles and rules, Whistling in the Dark offers a counterpoint: people for whom queerness is closely related to intimacy. The German visual artist Marc Ohrem-Leclef’s photographic project on male touch in India—on the casual physicality of platonic bonds (part of the larger homosocial behaviour that R. Raj Rao calls yaari/yaarana)—exemplifies how queerness can live in the spaces between words, between labels, in the touch that doesn’t need an explanation. Holding hands. Reclining on each other.
What the book shows above all is that queerness in India is not one thing, but a spectrum refracted through caste, class, belief, doubt, touch and silence. The richness comes from the cacophony, from listening when we’d rather look away, from understanding that perspectives don’t need to be agreeable to matter.
Or, as Marc says, “If we choose to listen, the more voices we can hear, the richer we all may be.”
The B in LGBTQIA+ is, in my personal opinion as a bisexual woman, one of the most misunderstood identities out there. There’s just something about the ambiguity surrounding the sliding of attraction experienced by this community that makes it difficult to understand, thanks to a near-universal love for binaries. Categorisation makes life easy, and by denying that easy categorisation, bisexual people are often misunderstood, erased or downright rejected by heterosexual individuals and members of the queer community alike. There is an assumption that this dual attraction means that one either hasn’t abandoned straightness or, conversely, fully embraced queerness. Things get even more complicated when you add gender dynamics to the mix because the attitudes towards bisexual women versus bisexual men (forgive me for falling back on those binaries here) are drastically different.
Bisexuality amongst women is not only more commonly admitted to but also more accepted. However, there is an insidiousness to this acceptance that is hard to shake. I’m talking about the portrayal of bisexual women as hot, sexy and fun. Their expression of female-on-female sexuality is titillating and non-threatening to the social norm, which stands in stark contrast to the subliminal feelings of discomfort and disgust experienced when witnessing male-on-male sexual expression by bisexual men. Why?
The simple answer? Patriarchy, and all the nonsense that comes with it.
You see, the patriarchal societal structure has created static definitions of what it means to be a man and a woman. Moreover, it has constructed a framework to view the female body as an object of desire and consumption. In the context of women, while bisexuality implies attraction to members of the same sex, it is an identity that never wholly shuts the door to attraction to the opposite sex. This open door means that there is still potential for the penis to be privileged and be given a central position during sexual intercourse. As seen through the fantasies of bisexual threesomes featured in pornographic and mainstream media, when faced with the presentation of this alternative identity, the patriarchal structure expands to create a situation where a man is, once again, at the centre of pleasure experienced by women, both of whom dedicate their attention to servicing him first and foremost. The bisexuality of women, therefore, becomes a performance, something to be done for the pleasure of men. And as long as men can find ways to enjoy themselves, it is acceptable.
The same cannot be said for the expression of bisexuality amongst men, for this is an identity that even bisexual women sometimes reject. The definition of masculinity is not only simultaneously obscure and hyper-specific, but it is also heavily policed-a confluence that encourages the denial of sexual fluidity amongst men (something scientists are working to prove is more prevalent than initially believed). The gendered behaviours expected from men are so ingrained, and the possibility of deviance so threatening, that those who see themselves as embodying more conventionally masculine traits often refrain from examining their sexual fluidity closely. Even if they openly admit to embracing that identity, they are commonly subjected to harsh judgement by men and women alike-both of whom assume that male bisexuality is simply a stepping stone to a fully queer lifestyle that the man is yet too afraid to commit to. This is an assumption that not only belies a proper understanding of bisexuality as an alternative sexual identity but also places men at the centre of the argument once again.
In a previous article, “Questioning the Ick”, I touched on disgust, as defined by leading scholar Pierre Bourdieu. What emerged in that examination was a reframing of disgust as a “paradoxical experience of enjoyment extorted by violence”. While the focus of that piece was on cross-gender revulsion, I believe the same concept comes into play when we think about homosexual behaviour amongst men, at least bisexual men. The aversion towards men who feel attraction to men (as well as women) amongst men who profess to be straight may mask a desire for a “forbidden pleasure” that society denies them. The revulsion experienced by women, however, may have less to do with secret sources of arousal and more to do with toxic narratives surrounding gay sex and people who engage in it-because, let us not forget, internalised misogyny is an issue for women as well.
So where does that leave us? Honestly, I don’t know. As I mentioned at the beginning of this article, bisexuality is a complex identity to contend with. It’s easily misunderstood and even more easily dismissed. It’s fetishised and erased. It’s fickle and finicky. Despite all the conversations about it, bisexuality is rarely openly admitted to. Hell, it’s so complicated that even those committed to contending with the complexities of gender and sexual identity don’t want to deal with it. All I can say is we’re not your fantasy, so stop reducing us to one. Don’t try to put us in boxes. I assure you, if bisexual people wanted to place themselves in one category or another, it wouldn’t take much effort to do so. Engage with your preconceived notions on attraction and what it means to you and those around you. And, for the love of all things holy, check your biases! Get to the root of your discomfort and work on unravelling those threads because people don’t deserve to be judged for who they are. Don’t make your unresolved issues other people’s problems. Be better.
For as long as one can remember, K-pop has drawn in a lot of young, queer fans. Entertainment companies have picked up on this, and some groups now incorporate queer narratives and imagery into their lyrics and visuals. And queer idols? Well, while coming out as a queer K-pop idol or artist is definitely less likely to be career-ending in 2025, it still comes with social and professional risks.
So, subtle forms of allyship that avoid any real, outspoken stance on queerness may be ideal for some idols. But the moment an artist publicly shows—through words or actions—that they truly understand and support queer people in a way that can’t be brushed off as vague or neutral, that’s where the difference lies. Whether it’s voicing opinions on queer issues, offering meaningful advice to queer fans or intentionally working with queer people in the industry, they’re making their stance known to everyone. And that’s real allyship.
So, here’s a list of some artists within the K-Pop industry who have publicly shown in their own—big or small, but still meaningful—ways that they care about understanding queerness, and the issues queer people still face.
#1: Jonghyun (member of SHINee)
Besides being recognised as one of the best vocalists and songwriters in K-Pop, Jonghyun is also loved for being one of the few K-Pop idols to openly support queer rights. His most widely recognized act of allyship came in 2013, when he publicly supported a transgender and bisexual student activist who had written about queer struggles in South Korea.
Kim Eunha, a university student, had written a letter detailing the plight of queer Koreans, focusing on the lack of anti-discrimination laws and the resulting discrimination against queer and trans people. Jonghyun changed his Twitter profile picture to a screenshot of her handwritten letter. The student later revealed that Jonghyun had personally messaged her to make sure she wasn’t receiving negative attention from him posting the letter, and to express his support and admiration for her strength.
#2: Tiffany (member of Girls’ Generation)
In 2018, as part of Billboard’s annual Pride Month series ‘Love Letters to the LGBTQ Community,’ where celebrities share messages of support, Tiffany wrote a letter expressing her love for the LGBTQ community “that has given so much love, beauty, inspiration, and light in every corner of the world”. Reflecting on her struggles as a Korean-American, she thanked the community for inspiring her with its themes of self-love, unconditional love, acceptance, freedom of expression, and hope.
Then in 2021, she partnered with NEON MILK, a queer creative collective, for Pride Month, to release a special music video—featuring queer people—for the debut song of Girls’ Generation, ‘Into The New World’. The song has been used as an anthem for various Korean protests over the years, including at queer protests, and Tiffany thanked queer fans for choosing it as their anthem, promising to stand by them as a queer ally and advocate.
#3: Sakura (member of LE SSERAFIM)
Back in 2017, during her J-pop days, Sakura had written a movie review for a Japanese magazine about the Japanese film Close-knit, which follows a young girl who is taken in by her uncle and his trans girlfriend. She wrote about how “Japan needs to deepen its understanding of homosexuality” and that loving another person is about loving their thoughts and their heart, with gender being something that “comes along after all that”.
When she was asked about this review in a 2022 interview with Weverse magazine, she said that “Idols don’t just sing and dance on stage—they can also be role models for people” and that if LE SSERAFIM ever released a song about love, she’d like to sing about love that is universal.
#4: Chungha (soloist)
Over the course of her career, Chungha has incorporated elements from ballroom culture into her music videos and choreographies, including the catwalk, duckwalk, and waacking. Chungha has shared that she has been a waacking dancer since middle school, and has been naturally exposed to ballroom culture and the Korean ballroom scene through her dancer friends—who were mostly queer.
Chungha has also worked with Coming Out, South Korea’s first and only openly queer dance crew, for three of her music videos (‘Stay Tonight’, ‘Dream of You’ and ‘I’m Ready’), and spoke about how the collaboration happened completely naturally, as well as how the LGBTQ community is more than just a community for her—they’re a part of her life.
#5: Kevin (member of THE BOYZ)
Kevin Moon, Korean-Canadian member of THE BOYZ, has shown support to the queer community throughout his career in small, but intentional ways. Besides denouncing gender norms and gendered pronouns in his group’s songs, and talking to fans about his love for RuPaul’s Drag Race on multiple occasions, Kevin has also been vocal about his admiration for queer themes in the shows he loves. On one occasion, he spoke about how “heartwarming” it was that the the writers of The Umbrella Academy worked trans actor Elliot Page’s real-life transition into the show’s script “very naturally”. In another livestream, he brought up his love for Pose, mentioning that “it’s about voguing and the history of the trans community”. Kevin has also been mindful about using the correct pronouns for queer people, whether it’s fans or celebrities.
So when a queer i-dle fan left a comment on her livestream asking for advice on liking someone of the same gender, Shuhua was quick to tell the fan to “just go for it”, and that she wanted them to “love bravely”. Another queer fan then commented saying their parents don’t support their queer attraction, and Shuhua advised them to talk to their parents calmly: “If they truly love you, I think they will accept it. You don’t know the power of love”.
Sometimes, all it takes is a single word—masc—to decide if a message gets a reply. Scroll through dating app profiles of queer men on platforms like Grindr, and the pattern emerges: masc4masc, discreet only, no fems, straight-acting preferred. It’s said casually, like a preference. But for many, it cuts deeper than that. In a world that already teaches you to hide, the queer community’s own obsession with masculinity can feel like a second closet. One where your voice, your softness, your gestures get edited out… again. And somewhere between desire and dismissal, the question lingers: who gets to be wanted, and who gets left behind?
The Origins of Coping and Conditioning
For many queer men, masculinity isn’t just admired, it is an armour. You wore it to school to avoid whispers, adjusted your walk in crowded streets, and deepened your voice in phone calls with relatives. It wasn’t about comfort, but survival. Before you even had the language for your identity, you knew what not to be.
Femininity or anything soft, expressive, visible, became a risk. So you learned to tuck it away. This was never just about desire. It was about staying safe. And by the time dating enters the picture, many have already spent years shaping themselves into something palatable, something masc.
The Binary Trap: Masc vs Fem
The queer community promises escape from rigid gender roles but often, those same hierarchies reappear in new clothes. Coming out was supposed to be the end of hiding. But even outside the closet, some habits stay. Now, it’s your own community asking: Top or bottom? Masc or fem?
The binary sneaks back in through dating apps and hookup culture. Tops are expected to be dominant, masc, emotionally restrained. Bottoms? Submissive, soft, maybe even silent. Somewhere along the way, roles became identities and those identities became rules.
The old rules remain, just rewritten slightly. Forgotten are those who don’t fit neatly into either side? What about the genderfluid, the femme doms, the quiet tops, the ones still figuring it out? Where do they go in a world obsessed with clarity?
Fetish, Fantasy, and the Search for ‘Straight-Acting’
Desire is never just about attraction. It’s also about power and about what we’ve been taught to value, and what we’ve been taught to hide. For many queer men, masculinity isn’t just desired, it is idealised. It’s framed as stable, strong, safe. It’s what gets the most swipes, the most attention, the benefit of the doubt.
“Straight-acting” becomes currency in this economy. Not because it’s inherently more attractive, but because it mimics what the world rewards. It signals you’re not too loud, not too visible, not too queer. You fit in, or at least you know how to pass.
And while masc men are often desired, femme men are often fetishised or dismissed and seen as a phase, a prop, or a curiosity. But rarely as partners or as equals.
Speaking Masculinity: Codes, Language & Behaviour
On dating apps, it echoes in bios. You learn to modulate your language; you stop saying “yaaas,” you replace “hun” with “bro.” Even laughter becomes controlled, calibrated as if to signal: I’m not that kind of gay.
But language is more than communication, it’s a signal. A performance. And often, those who can code-switch fluently, such as queer men who can ‘pass’ as straight, get rewarded with more right-swipes, more visibility, more desirability.
So many of us are left wondering: do they want me, or the version of me that sounds like their straight friend from college?
The Eye of the Beerholder: Who Gets to Define Masculinity?
Masculinity, much like beauty, often lies in the eye of the beholder: fluid, blurry, influenced by desire and insecurity. What’s considered “masc” in Delhi may feel different in Kochi. What gets praised on Instagram might feel like too much—or too little—offline.
Sometimes, it’s the cut of your jawline. And while many claim to just have “preferences,” we rarely pause to ask: where did those preferences come from? Whose masculinity are we mirroring? Whose approval are we still chasing?
The truth is, masculinity isn’t a monolith. It shifts with class, caste, region, age, even what app you’re on. But what remains constant is this: the further you are from the masculine ideal, the harder you must work to be seen. Or sometimes, to be safe.
Community Within the Community
“I face hatred from straight people,” a friend once said. “But even straight-acting gay men look down on me. I’m tired of this.”
That ache of being othered by those who should understand, is quietly familiar to many femme-presenting men, trans men, queer men who don’t “pass.”
And so a strange hierarchy forms. Masc sits at the top, unbothered and desired. Femme becomes a warning label, something to be tolerated at best, avoided at worst. Those who sit outside the binary, fluid, undefined, unapologetically complex, are often reduced to a fetish or a phase.
This isn’t just about dating, but about dignity. About who gets softness, who gets space, and who gets asked to shrink.
Towards Healing and Awareness
The first step is noticing. Noticing when we flinch at a high voice, when we swipe left without knowing why, or when we say “preference” but mean prejudice.
Because masculinity isn’t the enemy, but rigidity is. The belief that we must perform one version of ourselves to be loved, and discard the rest.
Healing begins where performance ends. In the quiet recognition that our desires have been shaped by systems far bigger than us. That loving masc-presenting men isn’t wrong but expecting everyone else to perform masculinity just to be seen is.
What would it look like if we let go of the checklist? If we allowed queer men to be soft, scared, nurturing, loud, flamboyant, messy, dominant, gentle, or all of it at once?
Maybe then, the word masc wouldn’t be a weapon or a wall but just another way of being.
When Khel Gaon walls dry the throat, Arts Fac and long walks reappear in the brain. I shift the remainder of my possessions today, and at night a few cousins and friends are to come for a housewarming party, whatever that is to involve (2145 Shora Kothi revisited, I suspect). I am told that my flat covers 2080 but am yet to see a number plate to this unrecognizable dog. Last night my cousins took me along to Hauz Khas Village for this noisy and “yay free drinks” thing branded Ladies’ Night. Our hands were stamped with a ‘woman’ sign which was easily removed by our sweatit was that easy. Later, in my cousin’s bedroom, everyone ‘confessed’ to having lovers of some sorts, and thereafter everyone cursed their fathers, mothers, grandmothers, aunts and the like for expected castigations and prejudices regarding the same. Why had we chosen to invest in love? To stay in or visit this city? What did it mean? I listened politely, in between swapping tales about campus with my Stephen’s Shake Soc wali cousin . We had a nice chat about her visit to Hogwarts during her recent Euro-trip, her love for Monet and Cezzane, with bits of “where do you buy your morning bread?” thrown in. Another cousin retold childhood tales of a wedding where cute cheap salwar suits had rendered her cousin and her ‘inappropriate’ to exit the car after the journey to the venue, since both their suits came off in chunks during the car-ride. It’s laughable now but fascinating on some level too. It reminded me of a cucumber peeler, and then of the cucumber chat we used to have when we were little, with chillies, lemon slices and ample spoons of pepper and black salt. The tongue sizzles at this memory.
When I try to recall what you looked like, the first image that comes is of the back of your head. I used to have this memory testing cards set, where you had to match the back and front view of objects and people. Now, I will have to wait till August to find the matching card to my memory of you. What does Delhi look like from the back? Do you want to return? A night ago in Paharganj I saw an earring with multi-coloured beads with a tiger dangling in between. It was like my parrot earring—the one that reminded me of one of the first messages we had exchanged. “There is promiscuity in the fall of a parrot”, you had quoted, and so in Paharganj I tried to remember some tiger quote, but I was only reminded of The Tiger King story from Class 12. You know, the one where he met his end by a prick from a wooden tiger toy. My hands ache from lifting my phone too much, and I laugh now. This is an email, not a text message, I tell myself, not that either really has a designated length. This non-message contains far too many “me”s and some “you”s, more than I usually use when writing to you. I wonder if that means I’ve forgotten how we talk, or if the phone just confuses my hands and thoughts. May the leaves do to you what they did before. May they. May they… “Ouch!” say my hands. And my brain says bye bye. When will you return to Delhi?
You and your tummy are like mango peel cups placed one on top of the other. In some other world, I would have said that is perhaps the floor that rests on your stomach. Your poem claws at me dangerously and I get off with second degree cuts, if they so exist in a burnol-free jagat. Jaga jaga reminds me of Jaggadol the life-infused car in a short story called “Ajantrik” by Sarat Chandra/Banaphool. I, having read it many years back, try to remember some of it whenever someone mentions man-machine love and Her. A documentary that I watched on ‘objects that changed the world’ (read: America) showed Dorothy’s ruby slippers, and I thought of Tinman and his desire to have a heart. Perhaps we will make your virtual soldiers wear ruby slippers if not tin shoes. Their marching beat reminds me of some of my own lines: “Perhaps some other day I would have pretended not to care/but today the kisses came like poor rhymes/And I had to stop and make you listen”.
The steam rising from the overpriced café in 1D terminal gives tough competition to the missing arm of the steel chair of my traveller mother. My mother sometimes tells me of my family inheritance-to-be: cardiac problems, strokes, cancer, and worst of all, Alzheimer’s. Perhaps I already told you of this but Glenn Campbell, who was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, wrote a song about the things that will not matter anymore to him once the disease takes over. ‘Best of all/I’m not gonna miss you’, he sings. Best of all, my cousin beckons me now for some aloo pitika. She and I are visiting my usual hangout spots around town. Some Paharganj, some MKT, some Arts Fac, some Malka Ganj, then some Old Delhi. And lots of her South Delhi malls, Lajpat, Sarojini, South Ex. See, in my head we are already separate. As are our Delhis. Sometimes, this enthusiasm for brands is jarring to me, but she is a talkative creature. Certain emails carry the smell of lemon trees and crushed leaves. Care and uncombed hair are the attachments I send with this mail.
There is nothing. nothing that looks as loud as a non-vibrating message from your fingers.
*****
Revisiting Arts Fac is revisiting a part of Delhi. You cannot stay away. They switch on the lawn lights before 7 pm, so we try to leave before that. You save those moments for other people, you know. There is graffiti in a corner of this Delhi. It is neither bold nor overshadowed. He has cut his hair but you willingly do not comment. No comments. The cars choose to pass out quietly. No drunken goodbyes, nothing. It is a parking lot, you remember.
Is Tibetan food adored by everyone around here? You do not know. We order some cold ones in that rooftop place because they complement the buff balls. He chooses the vegetarian sizzler platter that we finish over gulps and sizzles and heat-tinged but saucy fingers. Someone has a car. I know it is his, but this car ride is faster than that one you took more than a year ago, cheekily hoping to encounter a policeman. You navigate the streets faster this time. You hurry into his open house and only remember waking up to the sound of Ashok Vihar chirpings and morning routines. He drops the both of you home, and over buttermilk and morning breath you only remember sleeping away the morning and the afternoon. You only remember that you are in 2080 Delhi because the box in the address bar on that vague online book website was very limiting. You remember writing 2145 Clock Tower in the tiny night stay register at your old hostel. But that was more than two years ago. Our Clock Tower is retired and chooses not to speak. You remember to tell people at the next party that your friend’s grandfather designed it. They smile in the way only Delhi can.
It’s June/July. Pride Month. International Pride Month.
Yes, Pride marches happen all year round—in different cities, in different months—but the original OG Pride Month is June.
Wait, what is Pride Month, again?
It is the time when we, the queer community, collectively reflect on the theme of acceptance. We’ve dedicated a month (which is NOT AT ALL enough—we all have so much to unpack, btw) to talk about our repressed self-expression (and also about the corporate performative ‘Inclusion’ webinars with zero ground-level impact that emerge every June and disappear under mysterious circumstances for the rest of the year—but more on that in another article).
So we dedicate June to talking about our pride in being authentic. Our challenges. Our desire for representation. Accurate representation. The repercussions of being seen. The bullying that comes with being seen.
During Pride Month, we talk about embracing ourselves. We can say that Pride Month is a lot about having pride in being visible. In being seen. In feeling seen. But when I think about my queerness, I often also end up thinking about hiding. And I’m pretty sure I’m not the only queer who spirals there.
After all, it was this very art of hiding that kept you safe so far. The hiding that protected you from bullies. The hiding that protected you from your family. The hiding that helped you secure your first job. The hiding that let you escape yourself for a while—until you were ready to accept yourself.
But it’s never been possible to be completely hidden, and neither was it possible to be fully seen. I know it took me forever to go from saying “I’m gay” to saying “I’m a lesbian.” The latter is somehow harder on the tongue. Maybe because it makes me feel more exposed than when I say “I’m gay.” Or maybe it’s just easier to say a three-letter word.
In all fairness, sometimes it’s easier to say three words instead of one. (Mind your business.)
So maybe it’s not about the number of letters at all. When I started asking myself, “Why do I keep saying I’m gay and never ‘I’m a lesbian’?” I slowly made the switch to “queer.” In fact, even saying “homosexual” was easier than saying “lesbian.”
This could be a very personal thing, not some generalizable theory. I am aware language has a complex relationship with identity and different labels hold different significance for each individual. But for me, the root reason for avoiding the ‘L’ word was the urge to hide in plain sight.
Now, even when I wholeheartedly say “I’m a lesbian, I know I still hide. Old habits die hard.
Growing up gay—yes, I said it again—one of the things I mastered was the art of hide and seek.
You realize you’re gay—and you hide from yourself first. Then you get brave. You see yourself. Then you hide from your loved ones. Then—maybe—you feel safe (or tired). You let yourself be seen. Then you hide again. Bits and pieces. From them. From yourself. From the world.
And yet, you still want to be seen. Desperately.
You try to be visible by adopting queer aesthetics you found online. But you tuck them away for corporate meetings. You wear ‘that kurta’ at the family wedding. Then you hide when the question of marriage comes up. You talk about your first girlfriend. You talk about her to anyone who would lend an ear. You talk about her to anyone who you see as a safe ally. But you don’t talk about the abuse. Yet.
You want to be seen. But you also want to be selectively seen, right? Seen for the purpose of being accepted. Seen for inclusion. Seen to explain that you’re happy with who you are—just as much as the next-door hetero. Seen for being worthy of being seen. Seen, but a little curated.
After all, don’t we all clean our homes just before the guest arrives? And when time is short, don’t we tuck the dirt under the sofa, and slam the closet shut instead of neatly folding the overstuffed pile? Don’t we all want our house to be seen as put together? To be seen as worthy of staying? To represent our potential?
Don’t we want the guests to admire our pretty little home? How can we explain that the stains in the house don’t mean it was the wrong choice of house— just that we made some mistakes in there?
Oh well. Maybe it’s not that bizarre a concept to explain, but who’s really listening? They can just see and decide for themselves, right?
Quick!!!! Hide the dirt—no one needs to know about the flaws. Yet. Let it get worse and surface only when you can no longer hide it. You know… the way it’s meant to be revealed. So hide it while you still can. Like you did as a kid—terrified, hiding the mess before anyone could see.
Because if they see it now, it might confuse the allies.
There’s already enough stigma as it is. We can’t risk messing with the minds of the few who stood by us—who believed in our choices, all the way through.
It’ll confuse the ones still trying to support you.
So you show your happiness. You show that it was worth it. Prove that it was right to believe in you, to believe in your choices. Hide when it’s convenient. Hide what’s confusing. Show the merry. Show the potential.
We need more supporters first. Am I running for elections? Maybe.
Hide from yourself too. It’s easy. Hide that the ‘lesbian’ relationship you swore would unlock happiness turned out to be just as toxic as the hetero abuse tropes you grew up with. Hide that your loneliness is tangled up in your queerness now. Show that you love how you dress now. How liberated you feel now. Show that you’ve discovered yourself. Show that it’s all roses outside the closet… because if it’s not—how do you explain to yourself that it was worth it? (It was. But it gets harder to remember when you don’t carefully hide.) And who likes it harder? (pun intended).
So, hide from yourself, again. Because too much exposure throws everything off. It ruins the balance, the delicate rhythm of hide and seek. You don’t need to always know the whole truth all the time, right? And when you hide, you forget too… right? And this way, you can also have an inside joke with yourself— every time someone applauds your bravery to be out, to be unapologetically you. Isn’t it smoother to be seen just enough to be included, and hidden just enough to avoid the explanation of it all?
I am sure, gay or not, is it possible to not hide at all? Unless you have a death wish. Don’t the straights hide behind marriage, kids, grandkids, great grandkids too? Can I hide behind a massive three piece suit too?
The bed weighs to one side, blankets shifting and pillow dipping. It’s too early for Saturday. It’s too early for any day—he can tell because the family of heron nesting on his roof is yet to scratch their talons against the metal. If his mother’s constant nagging about early birds is to be believed, he deserves to sleep in as long as they do, surely… surely.
An arm coils around his waist and tightens. A pair of lips fold over his ear and pull. A voice murmurs about too many clothes and spills. Tae groans. He tells himself he’s too old to do this anymore. He tells himself he’s furious about this and that, formulates excuses to make the other feel bad. But his mouth won’t repeat the words.
“Why are you here?” he asks instead, half-asleep.
“Because you’re here.” And just like that Lee brushes aside any trace of annoyance. With a few strategic whispers of a few sweet words, his suave expertise dismantles every possible conflict as if it were made of nothing. Just like that Tae decides to mould his shape to match the container of Lee’s warm, all-encompassing embrace. He is nestled, arranged, carefully opened to become part of a large and bright presence.
“Why didn’t you come last night?” he whines anyway. “I even bought a weird… lace thing and everything.”
“Hmm, lace thing?” the other lazes in the curve of a welcoming neck.
“Yeah. Some kind of… fancy hosiery. I don’t know what it’s called.”
Lee chuckles, drawing a firmer circle around them. “Did you try it on?”
“Probably doesn’t fit me…”
“Ah. Well. I’m here now,” Lee consoles, voice smiling, skin warm. “Isn’t that OK?”
“No,” Tae lies, because of course it’s OK. He spends his breath bated on the possibility that Lee might visit. He spends hours of his day fantasising about it, bones elated, muscles on tenterhooks. On the bus from work, on the drive back from the hardware store, brushing the deck and hanging the laundry… there isn’t a single waking second in his life that Lee is not welcome to invade. There isn’t a single instance when his voice or his touch or his happiness is an uninvited guest in Tae’s home. It’s always OK: which is the problem.
“I classify this as asshole behaviour.”
“How terrible,” the other teases.
“It is,” Tae twists to shoot a glare. Its only effect is to spread a grin across Lee’s loving face. His bleached hair is tousled. His amber eyes are crescents. His soft laugh is sunlit. And when he leans their foreheads together, Tae melts. “It’s the worst. So are you,” the weightless complaint continues. “And then you show up looking like… like the cover of a Leslie Cheung album. Expecting what?”
“… do you wanna make love?” Lee remembers the title track.
“What if I do?”
With a hearty laugh Lee gathers them closer still. The day breaks on his palms. The sky brightens between his arms. His fingers streak Tae’s body with the warmth of summer months. His kisses paint flushed thighs and florid knees with the colours of the horizon. His arousal feels heavy, hot despite the layers of fabric separating them. He lights a series of blazes wherever his tongue journeys. And Tae in turn liberates the reins of his own body, all traces of resentment dissolved in sugary pools of desire.
“Won’t you say it’s OK?” Lee entreats, smiling. When his shirt lifts away so do a dozen invisible barricades between them, leaving only a sinless, sculpted stretch.
“… no.” Tae replies. He acts playful and cheeky, but in truth Lee’s forever-calm sends him in a fluster. His light and his love, though crackling with energy, is also steady. Continuous. Dependable. To meet someone so self-possessed is rare. To be ministered to by them, a singularity. So Tae conceals his rattled nerves with impudence.
“Not OK.”
“Then… I just have to keep trying, right?”
“Sure, mister.” Tae purses his lips and fakes indifference. “If that’s what you want.”
“Ey…” a soothing kiss convinces a shuddering chest. “Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?”
Another kiss comes to rest on Tae’s navel. “… like you’d rather I leave.”
Here again their perpetual problem makes itself apparent. That Lee is so enamoured, that he is always so fond, that his fondness never dwindles—it must be ubiquitous. He must extend his saccharine self to all those who pass through his life. Because, Tae reasons, the sun shines the same on everyone. Its ferocity is equal, as is its benevolence. It cheers everything it touches and leaves desolation everywhere it turns its back. Just because it deems to illuminate Tae’s quotidian life from time to time can’t possibly mean what they share is unique.
Yet he welcomes the press of hipbones and fingertips, pushing back against their blissful weight. He welcomes the breach into his body, weaving and churning, begging until he begs. He welcomes the gravity of Lee’s mouth, receives Lee’s teeth on his seams, greets Lee’s tongue with his own. He welcomes the damp exploration, the humming appreciation, the arrows of purposeful glances; the squirming moments that pass on his back, hands clutching sheets or hair, whatever is closest. He welcomes each shallow inhale around a hey, uh or a please, please. He welcomes the gentle hushes and whispered praises. He welcomes every intent to charm.
“How fucking cute,” Lee murmurs, spit linking pulsing lips to pulsing arousal.
“So…?” Tae pants at the ceiling, pushing back the mess of his hair. “Will you rip the rest of my clothes off and give me a long, hard—o-oh!”
The ring of Lee’s fingers tenses for a prolonged moment before letting go. “I just got here. What’s the rush?” he grins.
“You say that and then…”
“And then?”
Tae welcomes these sultry minutes, but he will never welcome the silent hours that are sure to follow, vernal cologne soaking his sheets, strings of texts beeping his phone only to grant a paltry I’ll see you again, very soon.
“And then you—”
He can’t insist he’s special. Lee must confer on many others with his brief, hurried exchanges. His furtive appearances must quench the long-held thirst of several more. When he craves pleasure or seeks respect, when he searches for a friend in these winding streets of life, his eyes do not look for Tae. His body does not hunger for this room or its quiet, lonesome inhabitant. Like the hundred times before and the hundred more to follow, he begins these exchanges with unspoken promises he will certainly break. Because, of course, Tae is not special.
“Just like this?” their game proceeds. “Or have you got a—?”
“No need,” an impatient Tae spreads himself thin. “Do it.”
For now, it is his doubled legs Lee settles between, waiting. It is his cheek Lee grazes with heated exhales. It is his thrumming body Lee hovers over, back flexing, hips eager. It is him that Lee raises his eyebrows to question, the action wordless yet leaden by meaning. It’s just as the man said—he is here because Tae is here. And that is enough to drench the pride.
Tae’s heartbeat slithers and parades. Soon an arc of lightning will strike every ugly thought that hangs from him, evaporating it for long enough to let this moment be. Because for now, for this very moment, it’s impossible to not feel like the centre of the universe.
“I’m sorry you waited,” Lee says, so sincere, so honest. So fucking special, the song plays in Tae’s head.
“Then make up for it.”
Lee’s face remains solemn. “I could never,” he says even as he pushes in with the sword of his desires, tempered, noble, carving its intensity into Tae’s heart. His sweat is dew. His lips are afire. His scent is a baking afternoon. He burrows his face in Tae’s hair and moves like a gilded dream, like a silken fantasy.
And maybe the song was written for the angel named Lee. Maybe it describes him in all his seraphic glory, a ballad in his own right. Maybe the words were always about his expansive diamond wings, hidden away, unfurled only when he moves; only when he circumambulates the world, not noticing when Tae is or isn’t around. Maybe those lines were always about this man and the lavender charges of thunder that make up his touch.
Their clammy paradise climbs up the bedhead, then the wall with each insistent press.
“So light… eat more,” Lee banters, arms powerful as they hold Tae up beside rattling photo frames.
“Yeah. Sure. Whatev—” Tae’s legs fasten around the other, bearing every bound. Sweat drips to their join. Blood rushes in a dance. Thoughts spin like dervishes. The heat makes him dizzy, too dizzy.
An accidental brush sends glass crashing to the floor.
“Ah, shit. Should I…?”
“N-no, forget it…!”
And maybe Tae is a weirdo for wanting to be so like Lee, to be so close to him in distance and resemblance that he ends up disappointing himself. Maybe Tae is always aspiring to be special because Lee so unfairly is. It breaks him to neither be led nor be followed, to always revolve around the cumbrous subject of Lee. It breaks Tae to walk this broad and pleasant path alone, even his shadow discouraged, allowed to leave no trace of the hope that Lee settles on him—just once, just for a while longer.
It breaks him to be so ordinary.
“Wait,” Lee pauses, carefully letting an unwilling Tae down. The separation is agonising. “You’ll get hurt like this.”
“Ah, who cares?! Just—”
“Hey,” Lee’s hands are scalding with resolve when they surround Tae’s reverberating thoughts. “I do,” he smiles.
Breath racing, heart angry, Tae loops his arms around the other’s neck. “Then…” he gulps. “Then do something for me.”
They thaw and fuse, returning to the mattress, adding to the knots that Tae has never once tried to loosen even if they hold him back from moving on.
“Anything.”
A stubby finger glides across Tae’s lips before being caught. Stay, he wants to demand, sucking Lee’s finger at every guarded push. Heels set, ass raised, he draws all of the other into himself. Stay, he quietly urges, though he knows of the continents and seas, the forests, rivers, and meridians that stretch between them.
The sun does not play favourites. The sun does not oblige. The sun burns for a day, then it is gone. To touch it does not mean accomplishment. To be loved by it does not mean triumph. To behold it will only be blinding, never enlightening. Tae can never be special. But he still continues to fly towards Lee’s radiance without a thought spared for his own fragile, waxen wings.
Stay…
Later, when Lee is helping with a warm towel, he reverts to the subject. “So. What was this fancy lace thing you were talking about earlier?”
“Hmm? Ah,” Tae twists, groaning as he reaches under the bed and pulls out his latest acquisition. It is a sheer peach-coloured assembly of straps and beribboned stockings, unworn yet pathetically wrinkled.
“What a waste…” he flings it towards the other.
“I don’t know,” Lee reasons, pinching the gossamer fabric between his fingers. “Could try it out next time.”
Tae snorts. “Like there’ll be a next time.”
“Why?” Lee asks, festooning the stockings like a scarf around his neck, being silly and pleasant and lovely as always. “You don’t want me to visit again?”
Tae does his best to maintain a casual expression. “Nope,” he shakes his head. “Won’t need you again, thanks for your service.”
“Ah, service. That’s too bad…” Lee nods slowly, still wiping Tae’s thighs. “And here I thought we had something. Here I thought we could… change things up a bit,” he proposes, lips beginning to pull in a smile.
“Hmm?”
“Guess I won’t be moving in then. Since you’re so sick of me.”
Dousing the millions of firecracker thoughts in his mind, Tae continues to keep a hold of his blasé face. The sun is unattainable, yet its light knows him best. He hisses in a thoughtful breath. “An intriguing proposal. Not one that ever crossed my mind. Of course, I’ll need lots of time to consider it and. You know. Weigh all my options. Can’t rush myself into making stupid decisions like that and then—”
“The difference between being male and female is that the former are born with an XY chromosome and the latter with a XX chromosome.”
The first time I heard of biological sex delineated along chromosomal lines was in my ninth-grade biology class and, at the time, I believed that was all there was to the science of sex (and consequently, gender). I didn’t probe, nor did I question. I just assumed that the science taught in school was rigorous enough to prepare us for the complexities of biological sex, and boy, was I wrong. It turns out that in an attempt to keep things simple, our textbooks and our conversations have created a false narrative around sex and gender, which is responsible for a lot of the confusion surrounding alternative identities today.
Let’s start by addressing the elephant in the room—chromosomes. Yes, it is true that sex is often understood in terms of mutually opposed binaries (male and female) underpinned by differences at a chromosomal level. However, this isn’t necessarily the most accurate way of determining sexual delineation. Instead of looking at sexual determination as a linear process, it would be better to liken it to a pathway. The pathways to being male/female are far from distinct. They’re enmeshed in one another—with the genes involved being the same and new variations being thrown around constantly due to evolutionary requirements.
What does this mean for human beings? Well, we all start as sexually neutral upon conception and stay the same up to the six-week mark when something triggers the male or female pathways, resulting in the sexually indifferent gonads acquiring male or female characteristics. In simple terms, regardless of our chromosomes, it takes a trigger to lead us down a particular path. This trigger is called the SRY gene. This gene is the instruction manual for producing sex-determining region Y protein. This protein is essential for male-typical sex development. If a foetus lacks this gene or if it suffers a mutation, you have a complicated situation where chromosomes paint a picture that reality doesn’t match. Suddenly, the binary no longer makes sense because biology isn’t linear or convenient.
One need only look at nature to see just how convoluted the processes of sexual differentiation can be. In fact, I would argue that if we spent just a little more time examining how whacky biological sexual determination is in nature, it would make being open-minded a much easier task.
Here are some of my favourite examples of nature doing its thing regardless of the binary-based image of reproduction and sexual determination we humans have:
Hermaphrodites across the animal kingdom are a prime example of nature having a good time. The organisms are either born with both male and female reproductive organs (snails, slugs and earthworms) or can change their reproductive role during their life cycle depending on the ratio of females in their local population (clownfish, slipper snails, sea bass).
All female garden moles possess an ovotestis i.e.; their gonads are composed of both ovarian and testicular tissue. This combination means that when their ovarian tissue is not pumping out eggs during breeding/mating season, their testicular tissue is producing an insane amount of testosterone, making their vaginal canal close up and their behaviour hyper-aggressive (which comes in handy while protecting their litters). This form of “true hermaphroditism” is rare in humans but not impossible. So intersex-people deniers can suck it!
Turtle sexual determination has more to do with temperature than the fertilization process. Research has shown that the sex of a turtle’s offspring depends more on the temperature in which the egg is incubated. Common in turtles, alligators and crocodiles, the term for this is temperature-dependent sex determination or TSD. How does this work? Well … if the egg is incubated below 27.7° Celsius the offspring will be male, whereas eggs incubated in temperatures over 31° Celsius produce female offspring, which is bound to create an interesting scenario given the rising temperatures from climate change, so keep an eye out for more news about that.
The lesbian leaping lizards, however, cannot be left out of this conversation. The New Mexican Whiptail reproduces asexually via parthenogenesis (producing an embryo without fertilizing the egg with sperm). The absence of new genetic material during the “reproduction” process means these female lizards are, essentially, cloning themselves, repeatedly! Thanks to the hybrid nature of this species, the males are sterile.
Unlike most mammals in the animal kingdom, platypuses have an inordinately complicated chromosomal structure. Nature’s weirdest mammal gets even weirder when you realise that they have five pairs of chromosomes, which form a chain-like structure where the X and Y chromosomes pair up in an alternating fashion and then get segregated into two groups, resulting in sperm cells that either carry five X chromosomes (female) or five Y chromosomes (males). It’s all very complicated.
And that’s the point I hope I’ve made through this article. Science is complicated, and we would be remiss in assuming that either was simple because we want both to fit into our larger social narrative. So when in doubt about what is or is not possible in human beings or, better yet, what is and is not NATURAL for human beings, look at nature in its entirety, please. Hopefully, it’ll give you some perspective.
I felt like that eagle atop the bookcase Staring down at two magnificent pens: Those splendid legs. Both changing with every blink of my avian eyes; I perceived- not ‘laid asleep’ but fully awake To the realisation That a future memory was being made. Numbed by the desire to transgress, I only kissed with my eyes While you stole my fancy and my heart.
The day I discovered mid-size fashion, my world shifted a little. I’ve always been someone who pulls fashion inspiration from anywhere I can, but finally seeing body diversity on social media felt like a game-changer. Even though I never let the uncertainty of how certain styles would look on me stop me from exploring, finding these spaces was oddly affirming.
Of course, the internet being the internet, the comment sections under mid-size fashion posts were a mess—sheer invalidation, loud complaints, and people dramatically lamenting the horrors of yet another body label.
I get it. I really do. Some of us lived through the Tumblr ED era, watched Vidya Balan get fat-shamed when The Dirty Picture came out, or cringed at the backlash Rani Mukherjee faced after her belly-dance routine in Aiyyaa. Looking back, it’s no surprise I internalized so much fatphobia, dealt with constant body shaming, and received an endless stream of unsolicited workout plans, diet tips, and “friendly” advice.
I’ve tried to pinpoint the first time I was fat-shamed or when I first realized I had a body that needed to change. Unfortunately, I think it was sometime around first grade.
I’ve been fat-shamed since the time I was learning the Hindi alphabet.
(Can you imagine trying to grasp क ख ग घ while also being told to lose weight? I already had too much on my plate—why burden me with body consciousness at that age?)
Just kidding—that’s just how they sell you stuff. It’s taken me almost two decades to undo the trauma of Hindi lessons (they were tough) and fatphobia!
After rigorous strength training, shedding tears in my therapist’s cabin post-graduation, and a whole lot of unlearning, I realized something: the only way I could truly like my body was to stop thinking about it so much. And guess what? Body neutrality worked.
With this cathartic shift, I also started working on my relationship with the word “fat.” For years, I was called it, teased for it, unable to accept or let go of it. So I decided to embrace it like an old friend at a school reunion and say, “Yeah, I’m fat—so what?”
This changed everything. I no longer wanted to neglect my body just because it looked like something I was told not to like.
And in turn, it transformed my relationship with fashion and food. I love both these F-words, and I could finally enjoy them as hobbies instead of coping mechanisms.
That shift in perspective? It didn’t just change how I saw my body—it also helped with my gender dysphoria.
When it comes to my gender dysphoria, I’ve never felt the need to lean into femme or masc as extremes. I love a good balance of both!
If I had to describe my peak gender, it would probably be Seonghwa from ATEEZ—his gender is silly, fun, and cute.
(Credits: Pinterest, fansite @theneoncolor)
Honestly, my first attraction to K-pop was because of how boy bands played with androgyny. I loved that my Indian brain couldn’t immediately tell if an idol was male or female (which, let’s be real, was often pointed out in racist undertones by non-SEA folks). But for me? It was liberating. It showed me that you could look like nothing and everything at once.
And funny enough, that’s exactly what body neutrality taught me too—that bodies are just matter. And matter? Takes up space.
So my body, my queerness, my facial hair from PCOS—they all deserve to take up space… even if it makes some people uncomfortable.
When it comes to my gender identity, being non-binary felt like affirmation. It gave me the choice to be neither.
Similarly, with my body, I don’t fit neatly into categories—I’m neither conventionally thin nor considered obese. I recognize the privilege I still have, even within a fat-shaming society.
So, when Refinery29’s size 20 writers like Sienna Barton say that the existence of the mid-size label feels like an attempt to distance oneself from plus size—and thus, is fatphobic—maybe we need to pause.
Maybe, for some, mid-size is the label that helps them unpack their internalized fatphobia. A term that doesn’t force you to pick a side. A term that embraces the spectrum of body sizes and acknowledges that no two bodies are the same.
I identify as mid-size, not because I’m “fatphobic”, but because it’s a label that helps me find representation in a social media landscape that profits off making me feel bad about myself.
Yes, finding clothes in my size is tough. But I can still fit into some brands’ biggest sizes—I can still walk into a store and find baggy clothes that fit my vibe. And while I appreciate brands that now go up to XXL, I also know that those tags come with unwanted stares.
And the moment I engage in anything remotely related to diet culture, I know what’s coming— 👀 I’ll be labeled “fatphobic” for wanting to change my body. 👏🏽 I’ll be called “brave” for working out in clothes that show my body rolls.
There are many ways to deal with internalized fatphobia, and for me, body neutrality has been the most freeing. It taught me that my body needs care—it deserves respect even more than it needs love.
Body positivity, on the other hand, often pushes an “all-or-nothing” mindset that can feel exhausting. Maybe I don’t want to perceive my body all the time. And honestly—why should I have to love my body?
So no, I don’t work out to lose weight. I don’t work out to look jacked. I work out because it helps me get my periods on time.
Do I always have high esteem for my body? Not really. Do I sometimes wish it looked a certain way? Sure. But will I spend my entire day obsessing over it? Absolutely not.
Travelling by local train after a long day at work exhausts me enough—I don’t have the energy for anything else.
But it makes me wonder: why is our self-worth so tied to our bodies? Shouldn’t we be working toward detaching the two?
Maybe then, we’d understand that some people don’t like living in certain bodies—not because of vanity—but because those bodies force them into gender roles they never signed up for.
Jon lets out an annoyed sigh at the out of order elevator, according to the note on its closed doors. Shifting the heavy guitar on his shoulder, he prepares himself for a long hike up eight floors.
All the effort he put into his appearance has washed away: his walk from the subway exit drenched him in sweat. The muggy weather doesn’t help either. Monsoon isn’t a time to be out and about. He’d rather be indoors, a warm cup of tea in hand, the hiss of seafood pancakes frying nearby, and—
He smiles outside the door of apartment 804. Bringing out his phone, he finds the app where the last message is still blinking hopefully at him. Teach me how to play, the other had requested. I’ll teach you something in return.
“I’m here,” Jon types.
Before he can press send the door swings wide open and Kim’s sable gaze bores into him. What alerted him of the arrival will always remain unknown, like the thousands of other secrets he keeps.
He’s on the phone. A finger signals he’ll be another minute, maybe two. But he steps aside, which is a silent invitation to Jon.
A polite smile is offered. A quiet stare spills behind mumbled responses.
Most of Kim is about silence. But when he speaks, he is like water—in high tides and low, in wild ripples and stagnant pauses. He is fluid, gelling with any odd group and mingling into any set of strangers. Sometimes Jon would watch from his place of drought, jealously wishing he were the newer more interesting person occupying Kim’s attention. Sometimes Jon hated the ebbs and flows he’d have to wade through to stay by Kim’s side.
Today the current is sympathetic. Today it’s just the two of them.
Outside the tall windows is a view of other tall windows in other tall buildings. A pale sky heaves behind gathered clouds. Rain announces itself in droplets that patter, rolling down the thick panes of glass. In the far reaches of Jon’s vision, a bolt of lightning unravels and crashes to the ground. He braces himself for the rumble, but it never comes. Turning around, he finds Kim looking equally surprised. A hopeful smile is finally exchanged, held out in Kim’s arms and caressed by Jon’s affection.
When the sound of thunder does reach them, it is low, almost comforting.
They’d first met on a day like this. A struggle with umbrellas had ensued. A search for available shelter followed. Outside a nondescript watch repair shop they’d met and smiled at each other as they do now. Time has both passed and remained still for them.
“You’ve been working hard,” he comments when Kim hangs up.
The place is clean. Surprisingly so. In his absence, the walls have received a fresh coat of paint. Tropical plants thrive in pots by the windows. Floor lamps and picture frames spell elegance. Even the soft carpet hugging his toes seems like a recent purchase. Everything in the apartment gleams with change, with newness.
“Thought it was time to. You know,” Kim shrugs. “Grow the fuck up.” His eyes thoughtfully rove around them for a moment before returning to settle on Jon.
“Will you eat?”
“If you want.”
Something sparks to life in the man’s limbs. He seems to fill with illuminated purpose as he goes about setting the table for them. Bowls and plates and glasses are quickly arranged. Food is produced from containers in the fridge. After a moment’s thought, a bottle of wine joins the offerings.
“What’re we drinking to?” Jon asks, claiming a chair.
“Been a while since you visited,” Kim answers. “Enough reason for celebration, right?”
“You’re always looking for an excuse.”
They share a chuckle.
The last time he was here—what seems like a lifetime ago—Kim had desperately begged him to stay. He’d hidden Jon’s shoes and dunked his clothes in a tub of water. He’d plied his guest with large servings of food. And when they’d kissed, when they’d crawled back into bed, coiling around each other again, it had taken Jon several hours to remember why he’d meant to leave in the first place.
Being given so much raised an addiction in him. It spread from his skin to his blood, to his breath and thoughts. When Kim made love, he made love to the city of Jon; to his setting sun and his swaying trees. To his rooftop rooms and his fluttering billboards. To his several miles of road and railways. When Kim’s skies rained a deluge of affection, Jon’s flowers closed their petals for the duration of their shared night. When Kim’s clouds gathered, Jon’s birds skimmed over their steamy masses hoping for a glimpse of heaven. His fists would curl, his spine would curve, his arms would reach and reach and reach until he touched the first star hanging between their bodies, setting it alight.
The last time he was here—what seems like a lifetime ago—was the last time he’d been worshipped. Walking away from that flood had led him to famine. Now he roams the streets, searching for any semblance of the same kindness. Isn’t that what brought him here today? Isn’t that the real reason he came?
Accepting a glass, he takes a sip then sets it aside. “So,” he begins. “What kind of guitar did you buy?”
A fork stops halfway to Kim’s mouth. “I thought we could share,” he suggests. “… can’t we?”
“Hmm… it’s not the best way to learn,” Jon admits. “Maybe I can come back when you’ve—”
There’s an abrupt burst of panic in the other’s expression. “I—I can listen to you,” he gushes. “I can… I can listen and then. Try. We can take turns. R-right?”
A large portion of Kim is about silence. But if he were a song, he’d be an unknown melody. Scratchy, authorless, untitled. He’d be an elusive sound with no lyrics to weigh it down. He’d be the interval between water dripping from a loose tap. He’d be the pause for breath between two long and unwieldy sentences. He’d be the flicker of a lightbulb in an expectant porch, the seconds before and after a thunderclap, the valley between unassailable mountains. When Jon made love, he made love to the intermissions that framed Kim.
“It’s OK,” he assures. “If you want me to stay, I will.”
The other worries his lip. “… you mean it?” he confirms. “You’re… not just saying it to be. Nice or some shit like that?”
“Like you said,” Jon shrugs. “It’s been a while since I visited. We can do something else. Maybe…” he thinks. “You can teach me something today.”
Kim scoffs. “What do I know…”
“Teach me…” Jon pauses, then smiles. “Teach me how to love myself.”
Kim appears to falter in his thoughts.
Tides come and go. The water swings back and forth. What it leaves in its wake is wet sand. And when Jon crouches to touch its slippery silt, he drags his finger to spell out the truth. If Kim could love a man or be loved by one—if such an exchange was ever legitimate in his eyes, then Jon had once wondered if he was deemed worthy. It was hard to tell with Kim. He would lock his doors up so tight no beam of light would dare breach him.
But tides come and go. The water swings back and forth. Kim rises and falls, peaks and plummets, pushes and pulls. In all of it—in silence and cacophony—in his disappearances and absences and cancellations and last-minute changes of plan. In everything, no one has ever loved Jon like he did. And no one ever will.
“Jon,” he whispers. “Are you really here?”
A smile is granted to quell every fear. “Why wouldn’t I be? Lugged my guitar all the way up the stairs too.”
Kim leans away, forgetting his meal, hoping to forget his guilt. He moves his sight off his guest. Maybe he remembers the weight of that guitar in his lap. Maybe he remembers the shift of the sofa beside him. Jon would press his fingers against the fretboard and wait for Kim to start strumming. He would wait for each string to be picked, for each note to resonate between their bodies. Maybe Kim remembers those afternoons, when a pair of lips would climb up his neck to his ears and hush poetry to him. The last time Jon was here—what seems like a lifetime ago—they’d ventured so deep into each other that sometimes Kim wakes up imagining he’s still submerged in that vast abyss. Isn’t that what inspired his invitation? Isn’t that the real reason they now face each other?
“I thought I could get you to stay,” he confesses. “I thought. There was no way you’d ever leave me.”
“I came back,” Jon reminds him.
“But you did go,” Kim repeats to himself. “You left. That was my fault.”
“How would you know that?”
Kim shudders. “Because… because I’m me.”
Jon tilts his head, still gentle, still adoring. “Is that why you went looking?”
A large portion of Kim is about silence. In the eyes of the world, he seems free, unburdened by the permanent fixture of a lover. But underneath the new furnishings and paint hides a ghost. A second toothbrush, a second pillow, a second set of overnight clothes, all things that once held Jon captive in them. Behind the new curtains is the shadow of long evenings spent lazing among unfinished chores. The dust collecting behind the TV console, the stack of CDs waiting in a locked display, the pack of frozen sausages bought before a change of heart. Every inch and foot of this apartment has been a place shared, halved between two men who grew interlinked beneath its shelter. Yet now Kim’s silence is its sole resident. Now, he makes love to a memory.
When he bucks into someone’s warmth, when he dives into someone’s depths, when he loses his tongue to someone’s sweet lures, it is always in the pursuit of reminiscence. Late at night, hiding from the face of a full moon, he leaves his marks on foreign skin. He pours his thirst on burning strangers. But he imagines it is someone else. A man, made of gold. A man who once lived in the walled fortress of his arms. A man who tasted of honeydew. He imagines a man who spoke in sweet verses; a man who shone with sugary moonlight and left some of his crystalline glimmer behind. When Kim makes love, he makes love to the image of such a man, one who is so distant now that sitting across from him births nothing but doubt and disbelief.
“I couldn’t find you.”
Jon shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he comforts. “I’m here now. Don’t think about all that.”
The other touches his forehead in distress. “How could I not?” he sobs. “How could I let you go?”
“Hey,” he reaches across. And when he realises they’re too far apart, he doesn’t stay in his chair. He stands and walks around the table to fill his arms with Kim. They are always distant. They are always separated by suburbs of anxiety and conurbations of unease. But Jon leaves his gate ajar for Kim. Despite his mood swings, his indecision, his wild temperament, he is welcome to mould himself into the empty spaces inside Jon.
“I’m here,” he is told in a whispered promise. “I’m here.”
“You can’t leave,” Kim grips him tight. “Please, don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” he’s guaranteed. “I’m here.”
In the centuries to follow, there will be moments where Kim will stop mid-thought and stumble over Jon. He will find the snow globe of his most consummate recollections in the tottering gait of a puppy, or the swollen weight of a bowl of rice. He will return to a time when he was happiest, wildest, hungriest, most fervent. He will think back to the nights when a pair of crescents shone up at him in pride, entangled in his limbs and inhabited by his love. For those instances Kim will abandon his silence in favour of a smile, knowing that some of his love still lives in the moonlight that occasionally reaches out to touch him.
“I’m here,” Jon will say in those moments. “I’m always here.”
If you’ve seen The White Lotus Season 2, you would know exactly what I will talk about. “These Gays, They’re Trying to Murder Me!” The iconic line, delivered by Tanya, played by the gay icon Jennifer Coolidge, who killed it with her signature blend of bewildered panic and utter conviction in The White Lotus Season 2, echoed across screens and instantly cemented herself in pop culture history. In a moment of pure comedic genius, Jennifer Coolidge delivered that line with such utter conviction that it became an instant meme.
While her Sicilian adventure involved a potential murder plot orchestrated by a group of, shall we say, unfriendly gays, my experiences traveling with my gay friends have been decidedly less… dramatic. They’ve been the absolute opposite. Forget paranoia and potential peril; think laughter, unforgettable memories, and a level of fabulousness that elevates any trip from “good” to “legendary”. This story will take you on a journey far removed from The White Lotus – a journey into the sheer, unadulterated joy of traveling with your gay besties. Spoiler alert: No one gets murdered, but your Instagram feed will be slain.
I have travelled to so many places in India with all these gays! I have been to Goa, Rajasthan & Uttarakhand with them! It’s always vibrant, often loud, an unforgettable adventure woven with shared glances, inside jokes that only make sense to us, and a deep, comforting understanding that transcends cities and cultures. And right now, as I type this, reminiscing about our latest escapade, I realize just how essential these journeys with super gays have become.
Growing up in Mumbai, finding your people isn’t always a straightforward Bollywood movie montage. It’s a gradual process of whispered conversations, online connections, and the exhilarating discovery of kindred spirits. My friends, my chosen family, are the people who truly see me – the layers of my identity, the humor that cracks through my anxieties, the dreams I hold close. And when we travel together, it’s like stepping into a world where those layers aren’t something to navigate, but something to celebrate.
Travelling with them is also a different kind of adventure! The whole travel planning is a beautiful chaos of shared Pinterest boards overflowing with aesthetic goals, searching through Instagram for the best location for an amazing Instagrammable picture, frantic WhatsApp group chats debating various outfits for a single evening, and my favourite process of choosing the next place to explore the local cuisine. The food is for sure on everyone’s top priority list! With the crew, it’s a passionate quest for authentic flavors, the spiciest street food, and the most comforting dal chawal in unexpected corners of the world. Our adventure made us try everything from the yummiest dal batti churma in Rajasthan, to Goan fish curry and serradura from Goa, to the Garhwali and the Kumauni cuisines of Uttarakhand!
Another important thing is fashion—this trip had me packing lots of clothes because of peer pressure! I had to spend so much money on clothes which I would rarely wear here in Mumbai. The winter collection is pointless in Mumbai, where we get a proper cold climate for a maximum of 10 days. The summer collection somewhat works, but I still have to pay a fortune for these outfits.
But there is a joy that is much more than these things; there is a sense of comfort which we as gays cannot find with heterosexual people! It’s the comfort of being free and without any judgment. A unique camaraderie blossoms when you’re experiencing new places with people who see the world through a similar, yet wonderfully diverse, lens. There is no judgment, but there is reading involved with this lot! They are going to tell you about your choices regarding the men you pursue, the outfits you wear, and so much more. But the shade comes from the heart. There is no ill will involved. I always feel safe with these people.
And let’s not forget the undeniable fabulousness. My gay friends have an innate ability to elevate any experience. A simple rooftop bar becomes a stylish affair, a scenic vista transforms into a photoshoot worthy of a Bollywood movie, and even a mundane bus journey can erupt into spontaneous singing and laughter. There’s a certain joie de vivre, a confidence in expressing themselves authentically, that is infectious and makes every moment feel a little more vibrant, a little more extra.
There are the inevitable “log kya kahenge?” moments that still linger, even when we’re miles away from home. But navigating these with a supportive group of friends who understand the weight of those words and the freedom of temporarily escaping them creates a powerful bond. We become each other’s safe space, a pocket of acceptance in a world that isn’t always as welcoming.
Ultimately, traveling with the gay squad isn’t just about seeing new places; it’s about experiencing the world through a lens of shared joy, understanding, and unapologetic authenticity. It’s about creating memories laced with laughter, fueled by fashion, and bound by a love that transcends societal norms. It’s about finding home in the company of those who truly see you, wherever in the world you may roam. And trust me, that kind of travel is pure, unadulterated bliss.
Every once in a while, Netflix India is able to procure a script that they’re able to elevate with the best possible ensemble cast–bringing both veteran superstars and rising talents to our screen. Who would’ve thought I’d ever see Sakshi Tanwar and Zeenat Aman on my screen, smoking together while dressed fabulously? Not going to lie, I would have liked the show if it was just about two royal women being chill and supportive of each other as they navigate official affairs. But alas, Royals forced us to watch the dry chemistry between Maharaja Aviraj and CEO of Couch Potato, Sophia Shekhar–heterosexuality oof.
Fashionably Bad Representation
There are shows that are textbook level bad, and then there are shows with potential that made every single bad decision of what to do with their stellar cast and dynamic characters. We do know now that season 2 is in the making, and the pilot season starts off with just stirring the pot–but at least turn on the gas while cooking. No wonder the actual Indian royals felt compelled to share their strong opinions opposing the show’s portrayal of the royal Indian life.
This isn’t about how forced queerness felt in the show–I actually disagree with that opinion. Queerness isn’t ever forced, but it feels forced right now because we’re just not used to seeing so much queerness in a show. Just like in real life, there are queer people everywhere, whether you feel it’s forced or not.
That point aside, yes, the representation is severely in need of saving. The issue is the timing of the script. The timeframe the script is set in, leaves one confused about who to focus on. Is the show about a girl-boss (derogatory) who is severely lacking in professionalism, a prince-model-now king who is getting used to the responsibilities he’s always avoided, a widow who lost her good friend and life-partner, or is it about the gay king who left behind a huge mess?
The styling of the show takes the queer element of camp and takes it to a very high standard—but for a script so bland?
Royal Pain In The Ass (pun intended)
Aside from all the bad acting and good looks that Bhumi Pednekar serves, I think it would’ve been much wiser to shift the focus to much better developed characters. Bhumi’s CEO suave fails to fit into the show that clearly looks like it was ONLY about the gay king–whose delicious cameos have been cut down to random 2 minute flashbacks. That’s what I mean when I say the timing of the script is bad. It could’ve easily been about:
1. Royals cleaning up the mess and scandal the media makes about queerness and child-out-of-wedlock syndrome; without the annoying intervention of a girlboss,
2. A new king learning about his father, coming to terms with his father’s queerness and his trauma without having a CEO lady to deal with at every point,
3. Three siblings coming to terms with the version of the father they knew and their internal changes, etc–Fizzy about responsibilities, Diggy about his passion and Jinnie about her ambition and polyamorous tendencies (poor Niki),
4. An actual lavender marriage between a king and a queen who had to deal with birthing three royals,
5. A King falling in love with another man in the 80s-90s; just imagine the styling potential!
It could’ve been anything–and yet it chooses to be what it is.
Knight In Shining Armour
Despite all its flaws, the show does manage to stick at one point–it’s the solid foundation that it sets for Fizzy to find himself by literally putting himself in his father’s throne. He has a significant amount of responsibilities while his passion lies elsewhere. He’s only upset with his father because of his major absence, not because of his queerness. In fact, he’s able to understand his father a lot more after finding out he was just as suffocated by responsibilities as him. His breakdowns and him forgiving his father eventually was a good moment that lasted for too little time.
I don’t know what the creators of the show will move forward with, but I do hope they give poor Fizzy some rest—he’s long overdue a break from all the existential crisis.
I also hope Jinnie and Niki either build a stronger bond, or at least are able to bring more female queer characters on board if they separate. And who else thinks Salad is a bit fruity too? Definitely need that development for season 2!
Two desi girls, in Paris and in love—tell me a better way to spend Valentine’s Day! Like millions of people around the world who grew up watching Bollywood movies and listening to romantic music, my girlfriend and I very much believe in swoony moments and romantic gestures. But we also believe that these things don’t just happen—you have to MAKE them happen, on purpose. Rather than blindly believing in fate, we believe in putting in the effort to choose someone consciously and showing that through our actions. So, when we booked tickets to go to Paris on Valentine’s Day, we kind of wanted to make sure that we didn’t expect the City of Love to do the heavy lifting for us. After all, hordes of tourists would be looking for the same romantic experience that we were, so how could we just expect it to fall into our laps without us having to stand in long lines and wait our turn, unless we took some initiative? But I know that not everyone has the bandwidth for this, so here are some of my recommendations (also informed by some tips from a queer Parisian friend) to help you have a romantic queer getaway in Paris, no matter which month you visit in:
Skip Moulin Rouge, go for a Drag Cabaret: Moulin Rouge might have finally stopped the acts that violated the rights of animals, but the gaze of the show is still very much rooted in colonial ideals that exoticise cultures from the Global South. You will end up paying too much money to see cultural appropriation and limited ideas of beauty on stage if you opt for it. Instead, I recommend that you start searching at least a fortnight in advance to see which drag cabaret acts are on while you are in the city—a queer environment with actual fierceness, as well as French and international charm, makes for a much better time, and you will probably end up spending waaay less money to enjoy so much more!
Wear whatever the fuck you want: Along with being “the City of Love”, Paris is also the city of fashion, but to be very real with you, it was giving mid. Like, the Parisian idea of fashion seems to be very centered around monochromatic looks and “natural make-up” looks that my girlfriend and I honestly did not care for, and even in situations where we were dressed in much more colourful and characterful outfits than everyone else, absolutely no one cared. The thing is, the average person on the street might be adhering to arbitrary cishet rules about dressing, but the city in itself has so much creative energy that everyone seemed used to people expressing themselves and no one made us feel uncomfortable (but if you ever feel unsafe in any situation, please trust your gut and do what makes you feel comfortable).
Go to the museums and bookstores: Even if you are not usually an artsy or literature-loving person, I would recommend making an exception because Paris does have some amazing pieces, like a self-portrait by Frida Kahlo in the Centre Pompidou and many many queer sculptures in the Louvre. If you are not very fond of spending hours in the museum like me, you can always make a list of five things that you want to see and cover just those—but there is something about standing with your lover in front of a piece of art created by a queer artist centuries ago and knowing that we keep existing, loving, creating, and being absolutely phenomenal.
Spend at least a full day in Le Marais: We are talking LGBTQ+ neighborhood, queer bars and cafes, and feeling relaxed and happy. Unlike some other European capitals like London, Paris does not wind up the fun at 12 am—this is definitely a city where many spots are open late at night, including queer clubs, of course! Another good thing is that Le Marais has a mix of bars that cater to the full community and venues that are specifically sapphic spaces as you can then opt to go wherever you feel most comfortable. Do check for opening days when you are travelling as some bars are closed during mid-week.
Go to Café de Flore: Don’t even think, just go. Visited by people like James Baldwin and Simone De Beauvoir in the past, you would imagine that the cafe gets away with serving mediocre food, because they know that their reputation alone will attract tons of customers, but their food is in fact great—their tea and pastries were amazing, and my girlfriend and I had a great time feeling fancy without injuring our wallets beyond reason. The cafe is actually open even past midnight, so you can always go there for a coffee after you’ve had your dinner date.
Learn flirty French phrases to whisper to each other during commutes: Lastly, please be warned that the Parisian public transport system is a bit chaotic, with train timings being a little *ahem* fluid and many journeys being super long. While reading or listening to music might seem like easy fixes to this, sometimes you want to keep connecting and making core memories while you are on a trip. While I am sure you will have thought of learning how to say “please” and “thank you” to speak to the locals, picking a few cute things like “Je t’adore” (“I adore you”) can add an extra spark to your romantic vacation!
It was the evening of Diwali puja, and everyone in the house was buzzing with thrill to be in the Diwali puja pandal. Everyone was getting ready, putting on their flared, shiny dresses, ready to shine in the puja ceremony. But there I was, stuck in my own swirling thoughts. My mom was busy arranging her pleats while my sister was perfecting her low bun. Meanwhile, I stood in front of the mirror and asked myself: what should I wear? A saree like my mom and sister, or should I go with something more casual, like a salwar suit, or maybe a jeans and kurti combo? I was standing there and talking to myself in the mirror, thinking that whatever I chose to wear tonight, it should suit my skin and complement my new look. And then, like an annoying little echo in my head, I heard my mom’s and daadi’s voices again. “How could you cut your hair so short? How will you wear a saree without long hair?” It was like a taunt that had been troubling me since the moment I chopped off my long hair and embraced the boldness of a deep short bob cut. And suddenly, my mom’s words clicked in my mind—not as criticism, but as a reflection of the gendered conditioning of the wardrobe. Who says I can’t rock a saree with short hair? I didn’t need to fit into those traditional, outdated norms of beauty that try to shape and decide my gender identity and sexuality. I didn’t need to have long, flowing hair to wear a saree to fit into someone else’s idea of sexuality. So, I grabbed my mom’s saree and draped it in the most traditional way despite the bob cut.
When I walked into the pandal, the air seemed to change. The looks and whispers about my fashion protest—it was as if I had just broken some unspoken norm. But instead of feeling uncomfortable, I felt empowered. I stood tall, my confidence increasing with every passing gaze. My bob cut, my saree, and most importantly, my skin—it all felt perfectly in sync. I wasn’t just wearing a saree; I was owning it. Everyone stared, some with raised eyebrows, others with admiration. I was breaking the fashion norms, making my own rules, and I was doing it with pride. That evening, I didn’t just celebrate Diwali, I celebrated my sexuality too.
As far as I can recall, fashion has been more than just an outfit choice for me—it’s a form of expression, a mirror to my identity, and at times, a silent protest against the expectations society tries to bind me in. As a bisexual woman, I’ve always found that my wardrobe is more than just fabric stitched together—it is, in many ways, a political statement.
Growing up, I remember the unspoken pressure to present myself in a way that matched the ideal image of a woman. My friends used to wear classic feminine dresses, maintain their hair, and paint their nails in various shades. Meanwhile, I always used to feel a quiet discomfort. The idea of “feminine” fashion—high heels, long nails and hair, makeup—that never felt nice on my skin. All of it felt like a mask that I couldn’t maintain nicely. But as I grew older, I began to realize that my fashion choices were, in their own way, a declaration of my autonomy. I cut my hair short without being apologetic about it. I hardly wore makeup because it felt alien to me. I started to mix and match clothes, wore clothes that didn’t hug the body, and wore pairs that were unisex. I clipped my nails short and let my natural self shine through. Soon I realised that all these choices are not just fashion choices, but also a political aspect of my body and myself. And I made it clear to myself that I will not be confined to the boxes patriarchy tries to put me in.
Being bisexual added another layer to this journey. There’s an unspoken expectation for queer women to conform to certain standards—to fit into either a masculine or feminine role, whether in their relationships or how they present themselves. But I never wanted to be categorized. I never want to be told I had to be either fully one or the other. I wanted to explore a range of expressions that felt true to me, not just to some external standard. And in that exploration, fashion became the loudest expression of my refusal to conform.
In a world that constantly tries to categorize us, to box us in and label us, one of the most radical acts is to simply dress as we are, not as others think we should be. And when I stand in front of the mirror, putting together my outfit for the day, I remind myself that every choice I make is a reflection of my identity. It’s a reflection of my politics. It’s my silent protest. And in a world that demands conformity, that is the loudest declaration I can make.
As I write this article, the world is engulfed in many wars. Despite the ceasefire between Israel and Palestine, the war still rages with new casualties each day. The Ukraine and Russia war has still not found any solution to peace. In South Asia, Manipur’s ethnic conflict continues, lingering a deep trauma upon its citizens. Myanmar remains in the turmoil of power struggles, while Bangladesh faces economic and political uncertainties. India and Pakistan are running their relationship on a knife-edge, despite diplomatic visits. Meanwhile, Trump’s return to power in 2025 has ignited mixed feelings as his new policies could impact nations worldwide.
Amidst this chaos, a rare moment of South Asian solidarity unfolded in Nepal. I was honoured to be part of the inaugural “The Queer Unschool South Asia” (Nov-Dec 2024), organised as part of Aziz Sohail’s Curatorial Practice PhD at Monash University, tentatively titled ‘We Cannot Cross Until We Carry Each Other: Queer Curating as Making Kin in South Asia (s) and its Diasporas’. Eight Practitioners from South Asia – Bangladesh (one), India (three), Nepal (two), Pakistan (one), and Sri Lanka (one) gathered at Kaalo.101 (EkSeyEk) which is a femme-/queer-run creative space, for a month in a spirit of conviviality, knowledge-sharing, and re-thinking regional imaginations of our nation-states.
The Queer Unschool South Asia
The Queer Unschool South Asia was a one-month-long experiment of utopian living, abolishing patriarchal norms with queer love and care, where everyone was both teacher and student. The program was designed to focus on our South Asian queer histories and identities.
And for me, meeting my fellow South Asians was a surreal feeling. Despite all the nations’ historical conflicts, we created special bonds that allowed us to move beyond our past and look forward to future collaborations. In each workshop, we shared our histories, desires and vulnerabilities, and created a safe space for each other.
A Dalit participant from India found solace in the space, safe from caste oppression. As someone who grew up listening to Pakistani music and watching Indo-Pak cricket, meeting a Pakistani queer person was overwhelming as such cross-border gatherings are rare. Thanks to Kaalo’s hospitality, we found a home away from home.
Despite all the sweet memories, the journey wasn’t without struggles. Getting visa approval was the first hurdle—Indians had easier access, but others, especially my Pakistani friend, faced intense scrutiny for being a female and travelling solo. Navigating our mental well-being and maintaining personal boundaries were given utmost importance in the commune. Also, to work with limited resources was a big challenge to accomplish.
Despite the hurdles, we forged deep connections and cared for each other, making the experience truly transformative.
Rethinking Borders Through Queer Bonds and Art
Even after the Queer Unschool ended in December 2024, our solidarity has persisted amidst the political instabilities in our nations through social media.
The program allowed us to imagine a borderless South Asia, where government restrictions are minimal. It also asserted that queer histories are not exclusive to the West—South Asia has its own queer struggles that get neglected by mainstream narratives.
Thus, Art became the tool to create a borderless South Asia. It can cut across space and time, envisaging a different world.
The Queer Unschool with Aziz’s vision of creating queer kins among the South Asian diaspora needed a strong medium that could hold the tormented souls of South Asia. Hence, art seemed to be the greatest medium. Most of us were not trained artists, so we redefined art’s motive. In Anshika’s workshop, we reconceptualised the format of books beyond their traditional settings. Likewise, in Sa’dia Rehman’s workshop, we navigated the Bagmati River by observing its bits and pieces through observational sketches. In Ujjwala and Dia’s workshop, we illustrated our utopian worlds. Thus, everyone brought their version of artistic expression beyond the formal artistic practices. Also, it made us reflect on our flaws and strengths and accordingly map out how we can maintain our boundaries and emotions.
The Future of South Asian Solidarity and Queerness
All eight participants arrived in Patan, Nepal, with the hope of finding a new home far away from our actual homes. It was our utopian idea that we would somehow be able to find a home in every nook and corner of the world and there would be a community to which we could belong. Hence, Kaalo became our new home, and the Queers from South Asia became the community. As adults, we all are running away and trying to find new opportunities, and most importantly, a space where we can express ourselves with a free mind. Such a space is rare, especially in the context of South Asian societies. But Nepal and Kaalo gave us that freedom to be who we truly are.
Thus, the future of South Asian solidarity has hope because of the resilience and persistence of the diaspora in uniting and collaborating with each other. So, Queerness seems to be a tiny ray of sunlight in our dark world that goes beyond the ideological limits. It’s a tool for all the marginalised and oppressed who want to rebuild this world with empathy and equality.
The clash of aesthetics and subcultures is back—and honestly, it’s time for your local queer fashion enthusiast to break it down. As someone who finally feels a sense of belonging within a metropolitan queer subculture, I find myself asking: What looks gay enough? And why does everyone suddenly serve cunty?
Does being part of a subculture mean I always have to look a certain way? In this piece, I’ll explore the nuances of queer aesthetics and the desi queer subculture through the lens of fashion.
As I began to understand what it meant to be openly queer, my early internet days shaped my perspective—watching Eugene Lee Yang evolve from the BuzzFeed office crush to someone fully embracing his queerness. I noticed a pattern: there’s always a visible transformation when someone realizes they’re queer. The idea that a queer person must look queer enough became ingrained, reinforcing the stereotype that queerness and an innate passion for fashion go hand in hand.
It felt like a rite of passage—actualizing your identity meant breaking free from the mold with a makeover, in true 2000s chick-flick fashion. Was there no other way? As a teen drawn to fashion, I found myself caught between two extremes: either Anne Hathaway’s glow-up in The Devil Wears Prada or Carrie Bradshaw’s eclectic chaos—or, on the other end, the tomboy/butch lesbian archetype. There was no in-between. So, I tucked away my fashion instincts and ventured into the sciences instead.
Even after realizing I was queer, my style didn’t change much. This was peak 2016, a time when fashion trends aligned with my existing aesthetic (still a huge fan of skater skirts, bomber jackets, and fishnet stockings). I didn’t overthink my style because most of my queer references were still predominantly Western—I had no real sense of what a desi queer aesthetic even looked like.
I leaned heavily on Western styles, from Dark Academia (glad that phase is over) to the ultra-polished K-pop idol look. These two aesthetics were worlds apart, but both were mainstream enough to let me pass as mildly straight. Through them, I learned how fashion could shape perception—how to dress for my body type, to strategically layer, conceal, and use accessories to make my otherwise basic style seem intentional.
This cycle of experimentation lasted until the pandemic. Once I was home, I distanced myself from these external pressures. In my room, my closet was shut—but I loved living in it. I realized it was the one place where I didn’t have to worry about looking straight or not looking gay enough. And long before dressing like a Gujju uncle became a legitimate desi queer aesthetic, I had an entire pandemic-era collection of it hidden away in my room!
As much as I hate the idea of changing aesthetics with every trend, I have to admit—I love the rise of Normcore. It technically doesn’t even need to be an aesthetic, but slap a -core onto anything, and suddenly, it’s legit. And let’s be real, I do love the romanticization of everyday life.
What I find hilarious is that no matter what I wear these days, Pinterest will always have an oddly specific aesthetic label for it. If I throw on a printed shirt, I’m suddenly serving Hawaiian-holiday-dad realness, Gujju-uncle-meets-Jethalal core, or some iteration of a queer aesthetic. But the moment I wear Indian clothes? People who know I’m queer will immediately categorize it as Desi Dark Academia—for the artsy queer who secretly wishes they were a humanities student, minus the obligation to be political.
This Barbie can dress however she wants for the day, it’s the freedom of choice that capitalism guarantees.
See, I get it—I love having the freedom to dress up however I want. But let’s be real, it’s kinda fake. The Nod Mag covered this issue, pointing out how every so-called unique trend and personal choice is actually just something we’ve been spoon-fed. Fashion today is all about convenience—thanks to fast fashion, you can dress however you want because the system churns out cheap copies at an absurdly fast pace.
That’s why I think the biggest difference between subcultural fashion and aesthetic dressing comes down to how clothes are acquired and why. Aesthetic dressing is about looking like something, while subcultural fashion is about representing an idea. And that distinction changes everything.
What is the queer subculture? How does it take shape in urban spaces compared to rural ones? To be honest, as an urban queer person, I don’t think it’s my place to dissect what rural queer subcultures look like, so I’ll stick to what I can observe.
Among my fellow Gen Z queers, I’ve noticed that while we all have our ways of expressing identity, there’s still this unspoken pressure to look just queer enough—enough to set ourselves apart from the normies. It’s similar to how I always feel the urge to carry a piece of K-pop merch, just in case I spot another fan in the crowd and share a knowing smile. It’s about signaling belonging, even in unfamiliar spaces.
But lately, it feels like queerness is being reduced to just fashion choices. In the rush to look visibly queer, we’ve lost sight of why fashion has been so integral to the community in the first place. Historically, queer aesthetics have always been intertwined with other countercultures and movements—ones that have stood alongside us in the fight for visibility and freedom.
I don’t think queerness is a single, distinct subculture—maybe that’s where we limit ourselves. At its core, queerness is about freedom. It’s about the right to love who you love and to exist safely. It’s not just about wearing gender-free clothing and calling it a day.
Yes, the ability to dress however you want is a choice worth celebrating, but it’s not the end goal. And at the end of the day, it’s only human to want to carry symbols of your community—to find recognition, to seek connection, even in the overwhelming maze of capitalism.
TW: Mention of various sexual acts, kinks, and need to set boundaries
Bottoming. The word alone can conjure up a range of emotions – excitement, anticipation, maybe even a little dread. For many, the act itself is deeply pleasurable and fulfilling. But let’s be honest, the prep work? That’s an entirely different story altogether. The showers, trimming, shaving, and meticulous lube application can feel like a never ending checklist before you even get to the good stuff.
I’ll delve into why so many people enjoy it—despite the often-daunting prep work—and offer some practical tips to make the prep work less daunting and more enjoyable. Let’s face it, even the most dedicated bottoms deserve to enjoy the journey as much as the destination.
To begin with some basic info, there are four commonly recognized roles people may take on during the act — Top, Versatile, Bottom, and Side. These aren’t rigid categories; rather, they’re fluid positions that many explore based on comfort, dynamics between partners, and desire. Some folks may prefer one role more often, and that’s totally valid — but preferences can shift and evolve, too. Having said that, I am going to explain what these positions mean:
Top: Refers to someone who prefers the insertive role during anal sex or other penetrative acts.
Bottom: Refers to the individual who prefers the receptive role during anal or penetrative sex.
Versatile (or Vers): As the name suggests, these folx are comfortable and enjoy both the penetrative and receptive roles during anal or other kinds of penetrative sex.
Side: May not enjoy anal or penetrative sex, or have preferences outside of traditional ideas of sexual intimacy. For example, they may prefer to kiss, hug, engage in oral sex, rimming, mutual masturbation, and rubbing up and down on each other.
Personally, I started out as a top, but then something in me shifted. I began experimenting with other positions—versatile top, versatile, and side. I also really wanted to try bottoming, so I gave it a shot, even though I was scared—it’s not the most comfortable position at first. Thankfully, I had some friends who guided me, and of course, the internet helped too. But no matter how much you read or hear about it, the real experience is always different from just the idea of it.
Many people choose to fast before anal sex, but it’s not absolutely necessary. One common concern is the possibility of making a mess—and that’s valid. It’s important to accept that it can happen, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of. That said, if it’s something you’re worried about, eating light—like non-spicy, easily digestible food—or sticking to a mostly liquid diet beforehand can help.
You can also try anal douching, which is the practice of flushing the rectum with water or other liquids. It helps me feel more comfortable during anal sex as it helps me relax so that there will be no mess.
Using protection like condoms, and lubricants are very necessary during the act, as they help you stay safe from spreading or contracting STIs, while making the whole process smoother. Never use spit or saliva during anal sex, as it is rather unhelpful and will just make the whole process painful for both parties. Treat these as essentials and carry them with you, because not everyone may have them readily available. These days, explicit videos on platforms like Twitter and OnlyFans often show actors engaging in unprotected sex. This may influence people to do the same, but one needs to know that those actors take lots of precautions and usually have access to better healthcare than most of us do.
Another important thing is consent and communication. Always ask for consent and communicate what you like and what you don’t like during sex. Once, there was a person who wanted to hit me during the sex, but I told him NOPE. He understood that I was not comfortable with this, and respected my boundaries in terms of roughness. I also asked what he would like me to do during the act. He told me what he likes and I was comfortable with doing it. We both enjoyed it, we both listened to each other and that is what consent and communication is all about!
One of the most captivating aspects of bottoming for me is to be submissive, and this can be deeply empowering, fostering a sense of trust and vulnerability that can deepen intimacy with your partner! And another aspect I really like about bottoming is the physical sensations of bottoming which can be incredibly intense and pleasurable. Sometimes I also like to take control and be a power bottom! In short, there’s no one way to bottom, and they’re all valid as long as you’re comfortable with it.
Something that’s really helped me is shifting my mindset—rather than dreading the process, I try to turn it into a relaxing ritual. Light some candles, play soothing music, and enjoy a warm bath. It makes all the difference.
Here are some self-care practices that can be helpful after anal sex:
Gentle cleaning: Wash around the anal area with mild, unscented soap and warm water. Avoid harsh soaps or scrubbing as they can irritate the sensitive skin.
Hydration: Drink plenty of water to stay hydrated and help flush out any germs.
Rest: Take some time to rest and relax. A warm bath or shower afterwards can be soothing.
Pain relief: If you experience any discomfort or soreness, over-the-counter pain relievers like ibuprofen or acetaminophen can help. If it persists, it’s best to consult a trusted healthcare provider.
Listen to your body: If you experience any unusual symptoms, such as bleeding, discharge, or fever, consult a healthcare provider.
Remember, everyone’s body is different, and what works for one person may not work for another. Experiment with different self-care practices to find what feels best for you. Whether it’s finding your role, prepping your body, or setting the mood—take your time and make it your own. A little care and curiosity go a long way.
When I started watching the show Supernatural (2005-2020), I went in with the set ideas about it because it was so largely discussed in my social circles back in 2018. It once again emerged in 2020 when the final season premiered and people had splitting opinions. I’m still on season 10 but I do spend my time on reddit and Instagram to know the major spoilers of the remaining seasons. So fair spoilers warning because I will be discussing them below!
Let’s go!
Serious question, who is top in this ship? It’s Cas, isn’t it? Dean’s an immediate dork and stops functioning around Cas so yes if anyone who will be making decisions here, it’s angel Castiel.
Accused Of Queerbaiting and Being ‘Gay’
Desteil has been accused of being queerbaiting by queer fans and been accused of being forcibly gay by homophobes. Both are false! Firstly, I don’t believe that characters that have so much visible chemistry, can queerbait. Secondly, according to the common definition of queerbaiting, the show didn’t get popular on the basis of Destiel, or at least they didn’t have to market the show on the basis of Dean and Cas’ chemistry. And, neither the creator or actors have DENIED the possibility of them getting together.
There are rumors that they even considered making it canon, but scrapped it. Now I would believe it’s because they didn’t want to risk it with the loyal viewers who also had a good number of conservative folks. Which I’m not surprised considering the two main actors are from Texas, and have a plotline that is attractive for a very diverse audience!
The show keeps a lot of things open to your interpretation, all of the actors have also been quite vocal about their individual understanding of their characters. Misha Collins who plays the angel Castiel, has been open about Cas loving Dean romantically. Collins’ interpretation of Castiel feels a lot more queer and relatable to me than a lot of other queer representations on screen. For example, Collins post the backlash on the series finale said,
“Castiel is not a character that plays into any insidious trope of exclusion in Hollywood… In my opinion, Castiel’s declaration of love was done of his own volition, with full knowledge of the consequences of those actions. He went on to rebuild Heaven and his action literally saved the world. By expressing who he really was, by saying this, by making this declaration of love, he literally ends up saving the world, and if that’s not something to celebrate, I don’t know what is.”
And I equally side with Jensen Ackles who plays Dean Winchester, and his interpretation of Dean. For him Dean is someone who isn’t much capable of romantic love, purely because his character carries a boatload of trauma and doesn’t really think Dean is capable of loving Castiel or anyone like that. A lot of fans, who also agree to this, have said that Dean is indeed, emotionally constipated.
Cas might be a top but he’s also clueless!
I’m on season 10 and I don’t think I’ve seen Dean have serious feelings for ANYONE except Lisa. He swings between love and hate for the world, and has an extremely codependent relationship with his brother because of their shared trauma over a bunch of things.
We saw the uproar in 2020 when the series finale premiered and Cas confessing to Dean led to a massive homophobic tantrum on twitter. So yes, maybe it was wise of show creator/writer Eric Kripe and director/producer Robert Singer to not make Desteil canon.
The Winchester Trauma Dump
Notably, Sam Winchester is also not capable of romantic love. We see him lose his partners to brutal demons, we see him lose his soul and be tortured by literally Lucifer, he almost died every alternate season, he probably isn’t over the fact that his mom died because of him. And not to forget how often he was sexually harassed in the show? Which sadly and wrongly was never addressed?
Besides their personal trauma as individual characters, the show for me, was about two brothers who were navigating the chaotic world, saving people and being absolute nerds. Sam and Dean are known for being extremely loyal to one another. They put each other first in the name of family, they don’t trust anyone except each other and maybe Cas at times. Their bond wasn’t just of normal siblings, but siblings who had unresolved daddy issues, had to kill so many people, watched every parental figure also eventually die, and in result were alcoholics.
So can we blame them if romance is not their strongest suit?
The Winchester Trauma Ride
Dean Winchester The Bi-Magnet
You’d be lying if you said every character on the show, villain or not, didn’t inevitably fall in love with Dean Winchester or hated him so much that it was homoerotic. For example, Crowley (King of Hell), Gabriel (Angel, flirted with Cas too), Metatron (Angel, flirted with Cas too), Cole (Human, wanted to kill Dean but gave him a nickname), literally Death (one of the four horsemen of apocalypse), Gadreel (Angel, didn’t kill Dean even on Metatron’s orders), Dick Roman (wanted to kill Dean but wasted time flirting) and Balthazar (a man-slut of an angel). And these are just random ones that came to my mind, there may be more.
Also why I enjoy watching this show, is because nothing about this show is straight for me, all characters LOVE flirting with each other, they love hating each other and chasing each other to death (sometimes).
Crowley (King Of Hell) victim of loving a Winchester
Destiel Is A Perfect Representation Of Modern Love
Another reason I ship Destiel is because (controversial) they never actually get together. They always have bigger priorities, be it their work, larger duty to their cause, their family and even just trying to survive through another day of chaos. It’s refreshing to see characters who are not trying to get together “against all odds”, they just love each other regardless of where they are, and value each other as companions. Cas never confessing till he knew he won’t see Dean again was absolutely relatable. And of course, from what I know, Dean’s response wasn’t cute either, it was because even he knew it would be the last time they’ll see each other. It was the absolute absence of not saying the right things that makes Destiel so special for me. No one has perfect replies to confessions of love during the apocalypse because all you are looking for is hope.
I thought Cas was short for the longest time till I found out Dean is 6’2
It’s their imperfect portrayal of love that makes Destiel queer for me. They may not have the bandwidth to love openly, or have the perfect queer relationship (which again is based on a heterosexual framework) but what they have is queer enough!
Yellow, orange, and a dash of purple—the sky was drenched in the colour of an unevenly ripe peach. A congregation of birds reunited after solitarily scrounging for food, flapped their wings in the direction of the drowning sun. Breaking the calm of this serene scenery was the screeching of the metro, halting every few minutes. Its cramped coaches carried souls weary from overwork and the gruelling travel that followed after it. If luck was on the side of a few, the temptation to sleep while sitting comfortably was difficult to overcome. The other fellow travellers found themselves leaning against the arm that held the handles dangling above their drooping heads.
“The next station is Rajouri Garden.” The metro announcement went off. Maya waded through the crowded ladies’ coach and stood against the door. She glanced at her phone. 6 pm. Maa won’t scold me today, she assured herself. With weary eyes, she mindlessly gazed at the sights the glass window offered. The day was nearing its end, and the desire to hold on to it for a little longer simmered inside her.
“You’re late, Maya”, a familiar, husky voice called out to her as she entered the two-room apartment. The owner of the voice, a pale figure with neatly plaited hair, sat in the living room and spoke without looking up from the newspaper held firmly between her hands.
“Maa, it’s only 6:15”, she replied, shutting the door behind her. “Besides”, she continued, “you should really cut a college student some slack now”, wrapping her arms around the slender woman from behind the couch. Seema put down the newspaper on the brown coffee table.
“Why is your hair so sweaty? Did you have dance society’s practice today?”, Seema asked, brushing her feeble, long fingers through her daughter’s hair.
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you tell me you won’t be having practice since internals are approaching?”
“Erm, some special event came up today, so we were asked to perform”, Maya muttered impetuously.
The special event was the celebration of the first anniversary of the historic judgement that scrapped the archaic law, Section 377. The sun-lit, regal building housing one of the oldest colleges of Delhi University was soaked in the scent of glitter and fresh acrylic paint. The booming sound of the dhol pierced through the faint chants of students gathered near the main entrance. Their zestful bodies swayed to the beats played by a middle-aged man, his bulky arms covered in sweat and his lower lip clenched as he struck against the tightly stretched skin of the instrument. At one corner, a queue of people waited impatiently for their faces to be painted. Besides them, their backs facing the luscious front lawns of the college, were painted faces glimmering under the yellow light, cheering at the camera. Amidst this astir crowd was the slender, dusky-looking Maya. A silver nose ring rested on her hooked nose. The skin on her long face had turned pink like a ripened plum and beads of sweat rolled past her narrow, dark brown eyes. Her silky raven hair, styled into a bob, was damp. But none of this seemed to bother her. She moved to the rhythm of the music and glanced above at the iridescent flags lining the sky.
With closed eyes, she listened to the gentle strokes rustling through her hair like a cool breeze against the warm scalp. Would Maa still caress her hair if she found out? The question hovered in her mind for some time before she realised she was being naive. The heat had escaped from the top of her head. Maa’s magic touch had done its job well. The soreness from a frenzied day at college and the gruelling metro journey had all but vanished—except for a guilty conscience.
The difference between white and black didn’t matter for parlous lies like hers. Once the truth behind them is revealed, the real casualty remains unknown. Must we pity the one in shackles, buried away in a dungeon? Or the one set aflame by the fire of light? There are no answers in a tragedy.
Seventh grade. Maya fell for her best friend, Mansi. The confession didn’t yield the results Maya had daydreamed of. Instead, it was brushed off with a chuckle. A chuckle that she replied to with, “I am kidding”. The first lie had been spoken.
When friends huddled around her to probe about her secret crush, their questions were laced with pronouns of the opposite gender. She responded to their incessant bugging with, “I like someone but they aren’t from this school.” Because that someone is a girl from another school who takes the same bus as me, she wanted to say. Another lie stacked up.
Time passed and she turned 19. It was the second semester of college when she found herself falling into the deep abyss of forbidden territory, again. This time it was Saniya, a friend who had taken a different major but shared an elective class with her. After six weeks of camaraderie, Saniya confessed her feelings to Mayafirst. The moment the words, “I like you”, escaped from Saniya’s lips, Maya held her breath and waited for her to finish. She glanced at Saniya, who curled her lips inward and tucked tufts of her long charcoal hair behind the ears nervously. Maya wanted to hear the end of the sentence. Say you’re kidding. Say it’s a joke. But all she saw in Saniya was a reflection of all these years—of how she bundled her love as a joke, carried it on her back like a curse and watched girls gawk at her in bewilderment and denial. Their faces flashed in her memory, a reminder of her wickedness, unable to keep up with the ways of the world.
Standing before Saniya, for the first time, she could see what the other person always witnessed—how they saw her quiver with the anxiety of a love confession. Girls had been told all their lives that love was volitional and neither manufactured in the textbooks that presented love as a fait accompli between a man and a woman nor in the loud gossip of aunties in drawing rooms bantering them for their future husbands.
So, if she were to confess, her revelation would be the pebble that disappears after making ripples in water. Were they supposed to feel betrayedfor believing in the integrity of desires, their trajectory and form carved by centuries that bent and broke them before bringing them to life? Or were they supposed to feel disgusted and revolted at the sight they were never shown in stories they had spent their summers reading?
If the blame game must start, should it start from these girls who walked on these parochial roads that stood in front of them? Or should those that stood at the other end be scolded for destroying the rebellious, off-shoots by nipping their queer desires in the bud? Or the ones who laid down the bitumen of dogma?
Maya lay in bed with the lights off. The day of historic judgement was now nearing its end and here she was tossing and turning in bed. For once, she considered running to her mother and spilling out what was on her mind. But she reconsidered the thought, out of habit. It was, after all, a tragedy of habit.
Before I start recommending lesbian films to you, let’s get something straight (pun intended)—lesbian erasure extends to the silver screen too. It doesn’t matter if you’re queer and not a cinephile, or vice versa; you know this, I know this, we all know this. Half the time, the sapphics on-screen are “just gal pals”, and the other half, they die before the credits roll. It’s like they said, “Let’s give them representation… and then take it back, all in 120 minutes.”
Queer media that doesn’t fetishize lesbians or adopt the Bury Your Gays trope is not impossible to find, but when you start looking through year-end lists of queer films and media—and I mean REALLY looking through these lists—one thing becomes glaringly obvious: these lists are often dominated by cis male gay relationships, with very few films involving lesbian, nonbinary and trans folx.
Of course, things start to look different once you step outside mainstream English-language productions and the Western film industry. If you’re more into series than films—and you know your way around region-locked content (IYKYK)—there’s a whole world of sapphic storylines out there. The Thai GL scene is thriving right now, and Japanese Yuri anime is very much a thing too.
But back to those disappointing year-end lists—we’re here to talk about films that actually center lesbian stories. That could mean a sapphic relationship between queer women or simply strong lesbian characters. I’ve also tried to include films from different countries that you might not find on every “LGBTQ films to watch in 2025” list. Let’s go!
Written and directed by Jayaprakash Radhakrishnan, the film follows a young girl, Sam, who tells her mother, Lakshmi, that she’s in love. Lakshmi is thrilled at first, assuming Sam’s talking about a boy—but that excitement fades fast when she learns Sam’s partner is a woman.
Kaadhal Enbathu Podhu Udamai was screened at the 54th International Film Festival of India in November 2023, and hit theatres on 14 February 2025.
Flat Girls (Thai, Thailand)
Written and directed by Jirassaya Wongsutin, Flat Girls follows Jane and Ann, teenage daughters of two police officers living in the same police housing complex. The two share an unbreakable bond—until life puts it to the test. It’s a coming-of-age story about friendship, queer love, and growing up. The film was released in Thailand on 6 February 2025.
The Wedding Banquet is an American romantic comedy film directed by Andrew Ahn and co-written by James Schamus. The premise is simple: A gay man makes a deal with his lesbian friend—a green-card marriage for him, in exchange for in vitro fertilization treatments for her, and chaos ensues.
The film is a remake of a 1993 release of the same name, but with a lesbian couple added to the mix, and also, the queer characters now have the legal right to get married in America. The Wedding Banquet premiered at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival, followed by a theatrical release in the US on 18 April, 2025.
Blind Love (Chinese, Taiwan)
Directed by Julian Chou, Blind Love premiered at the International Film Festival Rotterdam on 4 February 2025. The film follows Shu-yi, an unhappy mother who maintains the appearance of a perfect family for the outside world. But when her first love—a woman from her high school days—re-enters her life, the cracks in her marriage and that carefully curated facade begin to show.
According to critics, Blind Love explores themes of queerness, cultural expectations, and abuse with subtlety and tenderness.
MANOK (Korean, South Korea)
MANOK, directed by Yujin Lee, is a South Korean comedy that premiered at the BFI Flare London LGBTQIA+ Film Festival in March 2025. The film follows Manok, a lesbian elder who returns to her rural hometown after a falling out with younger queer folks in Seoul—and ends up facing her ex-husband, now the town’s mayor.
Set in the chaotic 70’s in Mumbai, Jhumkewali follows the sweet sapphic meet cute of Rekha and Bindu, two college girls. The debut play under the theatre group ‘Haus of Bhaus’ caught my eye on social media featuring a simple illustration of a femme and masc women. It debuted at Harkat Studios in Versova, and I knew I had to catch it because the play’s title intrigued me. Scheduled for a late evening Sunday show, the audience gathered and the ambience was ‘cozy and queer’.
Photo courtesy: Keyuri Bhogale
Of Jhumkas and Jhalli girls
Taking me back to the retro era, we meet Rekha who seems to have lost her jhumki, and if you are a jhumka wear-er, the panic is real, the pair is incomplete, the sense of loss keeps you spiraling for some damn reason! With a boy-ish charm, we crash into Bindu who seems to have her own dual life—one where she wears baggy shirts and another where she has no choice but to wear the crumpled sarees. Bindu finds the missing jhumka and Rekha finds a reason to start the conversation!
Watching the duo on the compact stage fall for each other from sipping chai to wondering the good ‘ol ‘what are we?’ felt so relevant. That against the backdrop of Mumbai locals, college and political unrest felt like we never really left the time still in many ways.
Throughout the play, at the back of my mind, there would be a nagging feeling of what’s the worst thing that could happen next, “should I quickly Google what happened to Mumbai’s lesbians in the 70’s?” such is how our queer minds are shaped, thanks to our history and the mainstream narratives. When I asked this, Nidhi and Ami from Haus of Bhaus, shared
“A lot of queer stories in the mainstream are about the turbulent lives of queer people, especially of those who existed in the past. …The 70’s in India held up a mirror to our present circumstances: economic instability, xenophobia and polarisation, tyrannical authorities. Surrounded as we are by so much pain and violence, it can be hard to imagine that things were ever different––better or worse. Setting a story like ‘Jhumkewali’ in the ‘70s was about re-grounding ourselves in joy; reminding ourselves that queerness isn’t always about turbulence or ‘coming–out’, but about seeing ourselves in each other. That we have queer elders, so many of whom have found love and joy and have survived––if they can, so can we.”
Going off the society’s rails
A canon event in a young woman’s college life is time restrictions. Add this with the concept of queer time, and life feels so unfair– as if the whole world stands against you and your acts of affection. Rekha and Bindu find themselves stuck in this loop of sneaking out, waiting and catching up with each other, all while battling the effects of comphet.
But time seemed to stand still in the ladies coach of the ever running trains of Mumbai. Lo and behold, Bindu and Rekha found their third space, one of the most desi places for queer love to flourish. Trains are also the spaces where class becomes clear and yet blurry at the same time—you are tossed around together and bargain for the same jewelry you spot. The difference is, are you the woman admiring the trinkets or the woman selling them?
Photo courtesy: Keyuri Bhogale
Bindu seeks to impress Rekha despite not being financially secure and sets out to test her entrepreneurial working class spirit in the train. Trains, jhumkas, masc lesbians and their obsession with spoiling their femme princesses got me chuckling and then some.
I had to ask Ami what was the origin story behind bringing lesbians and trains together? They replied,
“The first seed with which the story began was “When do you think they started selling jhumkas on the train for the first time?” Then, “Was there even a ladies’ compartment on the train at the time?
Our conclusion was that the first person to sell jhumkay on the train had to be a woman in love. If you left it up to us, we could argue that everything important ever was invented by a lesbian––what lengths have lesbians not gone to for love? Love to the point of invention and discovery.
When you are dating in Mumbai, especially if you live in a suburb, the local train journey to and from the date is a part of the whole experience. The anticipation and excitement when you are on your way to her in the local train! Checking your hair, re-applying your make-up––all of it within the tender environment of a ladies dabba.”
Love is never just love, and yet it is
From the looks of our laws, Queer love and dating demands one to be political because it is so deeply intertwined with our identities, our families and livelihood. I enjoyed the dynamic between Rekha, who belongs to a stable income family with 3 elder brothers, and Bindu, who was a migrant’s only daughter. Bindu’s initial hesitation and aloofness when she is invited to join marches and unions in contrast with Rekha’s radical approach is something that we still haven’t figured out how to navigate.
Closing thoughts
Photo courtesy: Keyuri Bhogale
The 45 minute play ends and I’m reminded of how much I have been craving a simple, sweet love story, and it’s sapphic too? I was spoilt for choice! And in the middle of clumsy costume changes, soft pink neon lights falling on the actors and a performance larger than the stage, I felt inspired and envious at the adamant energy of the play and its sheer determination to spotlight queer stories and emerging queer talent. Upon asking about this urgency and enthusiasm, Nidhi answered,
“When you’re an emerging theatre maker, making a debut project can seem incredibly daunting. A lot of the urgency that informed the script was the urgency that we as young, queer artists feel about our own space and voices. As Rekha says: “ab nahi bolenge toh kab?” Our concern was less with perfection, and more with potential.
Our hope for the show was to bring together queer people in public and private spaces to collectively remember and celebrate our elders. Queer people have always been around, and this play is simply about the imagination of a fleeting and fragile past that can evoke hope and resilience for the present and future.”
Busy securing funds and fine tuning as per feedback from their first show, Haus of Bhaus is currently in the process of developing the show into a longer one. Their hope is to collaborate with more queer artists and take the show to different cities and venues over the course of the year! Here’s me hoping you get to catch an hour full of sapphic bickering, very adorable possessive energy, and jhumkis of course!
Across the world, governments are introducing laws and amendments that threaten the future of trans rights — all under the guise of “common sense” and “protecting the children.” But what do these shifts mean for queer and trans people in India, where our rights are already on uncertain ground? And how long before such decisions are mirrored by our own government?
United Kingdom: Returning to the Biological Binary
On Wednesday, April 16, 2025, the United Kingdom’s Supreme Court ruled that the legal definition of “woman” excludes trans women under the country’s anti-discrimination law, the Equality Act of 2010.
In a unanimous decision, five judges declared that the terms “woman” and “sex” in the Act refer strictly to “biological woman” and “biological sex,” reinforcing a rigid, cisnormative framework.
The case stems from a dispute triggered in 2018, following the passage of the Gender Representation on Public Boards (Scotland) Act, which aimed to ensure 50% representation of women on public authority boards. Importantly, the law included trans women within this quota.
However, the inclusion was challenged by a group calling itself For Women Scotland, which argued that only individuals assigned female at birth should be counted. The Scottish government defended its position, asserting that trans women with a Gender Recognition Certificate (GRC) are legally recognized as women under the Equality Act and should be protected accordingly.
Following an earlier judicial review, the Scottish government revised its guidance to limit inclusion to only those trans women holding a GRC. But Wednesday’s Supreme Court ruling overrode even this more restrictive interpretation, effectively re-establishing a legal binary that erases the lived realities of trans people.
Although the Court emphasized that trans individuals—with or without a GRC—could still seek protection under the “gender reassignment” clause of the Equality Act, this narrow concession does little to address the broader structural violence being legitimized.
Unsurprisingly, anti-trans feminist groups were quick to celebrate the ruling as a “victory” for so-called “biological women,” echoing a tired and dangerous narrative that pits women’s rights against trans rights, as though the two are mutually exclusive.
This verdict is part of a worrying global trend, where state power and judicial authority are being mobilized to reinforce cis-heteronormativity under the veil of protecting social order. The ruling does not exist in isolation — it sends a ripple effect far beyond the UK’s borders, threatening the fragile ground on which trans rights stand in many other countries, including India.
Hungary: Only Two Genders, No Pride Events
Just a couple of days earlier, on Monday, April 14, 2025, Hungary’s Parliament passed a chilling constitutional amendment that legally recognizes only two binary genders — (cis) male and female — effectively erasing legal recognition for transgender and non-binary people. Under this new law, Hungarian citizens can no longer change their gender markers or legally affirm their identities.
This amendment is more than a bureaucratic shift — it is a violent erasure of existence, denying trans and non-binary people the right to live as themselves within the eyes of the law.
Even more concerning is one of the amendment’s provisions that places the so-called “moral, physical, and intellectual development” of children above most constitutional rights — including the right to peaceful assembly. The only exception? The right to life. In practice, this paves the way for sweeping repression of LGBTQ+ rights under the guise of “protecting children,” a well-worn tactic used globally to justify queerphobia. This codifies the government’s recent ban on public LGBTQ events, which authorizes the use of facial recognition software to identify individuals who attend LGBTQ gatherings held in defiance of the law.
The amendment was proposed by the ruling Fidesz-KDNP coalition and passed easily along party lines, with a final vote of 140–21.
Prime Minister Viktor Orbán defended the amendment in a post on X (formerly Twitter), writing: “We’re protecting children’s development, affirming that a person is born either male or female, and standing firm against drugs and foreign interference. In Hungary, common sense matters.”
The Indian Perspective—Are We Safe From Censorship?
While Indian law does not currently restrict public LGBTQ events or gatherings, these laws and amendments signal a larger global shift toward authoritarianism and moral conservatism—raising concerns that such decisions could influence our own government back at home.
For instance, Hungarian Prime Minister Viktor Orbán and former U.S. President Donald Trump have openly expressed admiration for each other, with many analysts noting that Orbán’s anti-democratic policies have influenced conservative movements in the United States. This cross-pollination of right-wing ideologies should be a warning sign for countries like India.
Just a few weeks ago, organisers of the Pride Parade in Amritsar announced the cancellation of this year’s event following protests by local Sikh organisations. In a public statement, student organisers Ridham Chadha and Ramit Seth said: “We are a students’ organisation and have been conducting a peaceful celebration/parade in Amritsar since 2019 to connect and uplift the LGBTIA community, mainly focusing on transgender people and their rights… This year, due to opposition, we are informing that Pride Amritsar is cancelling the Pride Parade 2025 scheduled to be held on April 27 at Rose Garden.”
Despite not being officially banned, the pressure from religious groups and lack of state support effectively silenced the event—demonstrating how vulnerable LGBTQ expression in India remains.
Meanwhile, although India legally recognises transgender people as a “third gender,” the framework itself reinforces a binary by placing trans people in a separate category. Current law only allows individuals to be legally recognised as transgender after undergoing sex reassignment surgery—placing unnecessary medical and bureaucratic burdens on gender self-determination.
With limited legal protections for queer and trans Indians, and a ruling government that has embraced religiously conservative values, the question isn’t whether we’re safe—but for how long.
Note: This piece mentions weed in a country where it is legal. It does not endorse breaking the law by consuming it where it is illegal.
The first thing you notice when you arrive in Amsterdam is the breathtaking canals, lined with bright pink flowers and coffee shops selling some of the best weed in the world. The second? Sex. And both are equally intriguing to explore.
As a queer traveler, I felt incredibly safe in Amsterdam—so if you’re planning a fun getaway, I’d absolutely recommend it. I went with my bestie (who’s also queer), but this city is just as perfect for a solo adventure or a couple’s trip.
While the Anne Frank House and Van Gogh Museum are probably already on your list, there’s so much more to see. If you’re curious about what else this vibrant city has to offer, let this queer traveler guide the way!
It’s no secret that sex tourism is a big part of Amsterdam, but the problem is that much of it exists through the lens of the cishet male gaze. The Sex Museum and Erotic Museum largely cater to this perspective, though there is one standout exception—a queer and retro-inspired photo series in the Sex Museum.
Erotic art can be hit or miss, and this exhibit is no different. Some parts showcase queer intimacy between women, but in an obviously fetishized way meant for male consumption (eww). However, other images were clearly created by queer artists themselves—and those absolutely deserve all the appreciation.
The museums also feature fascinating ancient artifacts, though the way they are labeled is disappointingly phallocentric. It reminds me of an exhibit at the Vagina Museum in London, which pointed out how archaeologists often label phallic objects as being for “ritualistic purposes” (because, obviously, the dick is everything, right?). When in reality, they were probably just… dildos. These are the kinds of critical observations I wish were present in Amsterdam’s sex museums as well.
A museum that did take a more nuanced approach was the Museum of Prostitution in the Red Light District. It preserves real rooms once used by sex workers, allowing visitors to walk through while listening to firsthand accounts from a real-life sex worker. The narration thoughtfully covers both sex work as a choice and the horrors of sex trafficking, emphasizing the need for reform and legal protection for workers.
Which brings me to one last, important point: If you’re visiting the Red Light District at night, go only if you genuinely intend to pay for services. Do not be a voyeur. The people working there are not a spectacle—they are professionals waiting for clients, and treating them like a tourist attraction is dehumanizing. Imagine someone standing and staring at you while you’re doing your job. If you happen to walk through the district (for example, on your way back from the museum), be respectful. Don’t be creepy. It’s really that simple.
While the entire city is incredibly queer-friendly, there are a few spots you’ll definitely want to check out as a queer traveler. Many queer venues unfortunately shut down during the pandemic, but there are still some great bars—The Queen’s Head is a solid recommendation if you’re looking for a fun night out.
I also highly recommend visiting the Homomonument, a memorial dedicated to the queer people who lost their lives during the Holocaust. It’s a solemn yet powerful tribute, and taking a moment to pay respects there felt deeply important while visiting Amsterdam.
And then, of course, there’s the other thing the city is famous for—weed. If you’re planning to partake, my biggest tip is to bring a crusher, lighter, and pre-rolled joints to save yourself both time and money. That way, you can just buy the weed itself and roll it on your own. The staff at coffee shops are super helpful and will guide you based on your experience level and whether you’re looking for an uplifting or relaxing high.
As for space cakes? Definitely tasty, but personally, they didn’t do much for me. The best coffee shop we came across was Boerjongens—highly recommend stopping by!
One small but important note: While a local told us it was okay to smoke in public, we didn’t actually see anyone else doing it. So maybe play it safe and stick to smoking inside the shops. And when the munchies inevitably hit? Get yourself a stroopwafel. I almost proposed to one on this trip. No regrets.
Sex Shops in Amsterdam
If you’re queer and desi like me, chances are that physically walking into a sex shop is a bit of a novelty. Back home, we mostly rely on online stores—or those e-commerce listings that discreetly sell vibrators under the guise of travel-size back massagers for women (anyone else a loyal fan of “DISCREET” packaging?).
So, being in Amsterdam gave me the rare opportunity to step into multiple sex shops, browse in person, and actually ask a real-life human being questions about what would work best for me and my girlfriend!
While Amsterdam’s sex tourism scene leans heavily toward the white cishet male gaze, the sex shops themselves seem to prioritize female pleasure more thoughtfully. There were entire rows dedicated to vibrators and devices focused on clitoral stimulation—to paraphrase Chappell Roan, they’ve got more than a wand and a rabbit! If you’re feeling overwhelmed by the sheer number of options, don’t worry—the staff is usually super kind, progressive, and happy to help you figure out the best choice within your budget.
Since my girlfriend and I are already electronically well-equipped, I was looking for something to add a little extra fun. And here’s where I hit a wall—while there were plenty of options for one woman, there was almost nothing explicitly designed for two. Sure, they had double-sided dildos and vibrators, but when it came to sex games or interactive toys, everything seemed to assume a heterosexual couple.
One of the very few sapphic “games” I found was a scratch-off mat with different sex positions that you reveal and then try (if you want). In theory, it sounded fun, but once you’ve scratched off everything—that’s it, right? I wanted something reusable, something we could keep coming back to if we liked it.
The dice games caught my eye because they had multiple combinations and could be played over and over again. But in a sea of dice games for men and women, and a fair selection for gay men, I found exactly one solitary pack designed for two women. That was it. There wasn’t even a gender-neutral version—which absolutely needs to exist. What if the game involved one or more nonbinary people? What if a bi person with multiple partners wanted a game they could play with all of them? The lack of inclusivity was glaring.
After scouring two different stores, I finally asked a staff member if they had a lesbian version of a game I liked. (Side note: I’m not a lesbian, but I wasn’t sure they’d understand the word sapphic.) Turns out, both stores were owned by the same person, and the one lesbian game I had seen earlier was their entire stock. Disappointed but not defeated, I kept browsing. That’s when I spotted something intriguing—an Oral Sex Dice game.
Out of the four dice in the pack, one was dedicated to oral positions, but it was the other three that really caught my attention.
🎲 One die had body parts (chest, legs, etc.). 🎲 Another listed actions (lick, kiss, etc.). 🎲 The third determined the duration (ten seconds, two minutes, etc.).
Since my girlfriend and I had only been dating for a few months, I figured this could be a fun, playful way to explore each other’s erogenous zones and maybe even expand the list of ways we make each other moan. I also picked up a vulva-shaped lollipop for her—mostly because I knew she’d crack up as soon as she saw it. (Guess what, she did!)
When I got home, I showed her the actual gifts first and then pulled out the dice, asking if she’d be into trying them. She was just as curious as I was, so soon enough, we were in bed, rolling the dice and seeing where they led us. Some combos were amazing (chest, lick, thirty seconds). Others? Absolutely hilarious (legs, blow, two minutes). But at the end of the day, the game gave us a new way to explore each other, be playful, and laugh together—which honestly? 10/10, would recommend.
A major security breach has left over 1.5 million private images and user details from five LGBTQ, sugar-dating, and BDSM apps publicly accessible, researchers have revealed. The affected apps—exclusively available on Apple’s iOS App Store—were developed by M.A.D. Mobile Apps Developers Limited.
The leaked data includes profile photos, public posts, verification images, pictures removed for rule violations, and even private images shared through direct messages, raising serious privacy concerns.
The breach impacted users of the following dating platforms:
BDSM People – a kink-focused dating app BRISH – a dating app for queer men Chica – a high-end app for sugar-dating PINK – a dating app for queer women TRANSLOVE – a platform catering to trans and queer individuals
This leak underscores the ongoing risks of data security in online dating spaces, particularly for marginalized communities.
Cybernews researchers, who first discovered the breach, reported that the leaked data also contained “secrets”—sensitive information like encryption keys and API keys. While usernames, emails, and text messages were not included in the leak, malicious agents could still use the available data to uncover user identities.
A Breach of Trust: Safety, Privacy, and Accountability in LGBTQ and BDSM Dating Apps
These apps market themselves as safe spaces for LGBTQ+ individuals and BDSM practitioners, but the leak puts users at risk of extortion and being outed. According to the BBC, the 5 apps collectively have about 800,000 to 900,000 users. The “secret” keys embedded in the app code grants access to storage buckets containing millions of private images, including explicit photos shared in user chats and images removed by moderators.
The BBC also reported that in an email, M.A.D. Mobile conveyed that they were grateful to the researcher who uncovered the vulnerability of these apps. A spokesperson for M.A.D Mobile said that additional updates for these apps would be released on the App Store. However, the company did not respond to further questions about where the company’s HQ is based out of, or why it took them months to address the issue.
The High Stakes of Data Security: Why Privacy Breaches Endanger LGBTQ+ Communities in India
This breach underscores the urgent need for stronger data privacy protections and greater accountability—especially for platforms that claim to offer safe spaces for marginalized communities in regions with limited legal protections.
Take India, for instance, where there are no clear anti-discrimination laws safeguarding LGBTQ+ individuals, nor is there proper legal recognition of queer identities.
For many young LGBTQ+ Indians, particularly those who are not out to their families or broader communities, dating apps provide a rare opportunity to explore their identities and find connection. But breaches like this one put them at severe risk—turning what should be a sanctuary into a potential threat. Being outed through a data leak can have devastating consequences, including family rejection, job loss, extortion, and even violence.
Moreover, India’s legal system has historically failed to recognize men as victims of sexual violence. This creates a dangerous gap for queer men facing harassment or blackmail through dating apps, making it even harder for them to seek justice.
India urgently needs enforceable anti-discrimination laws that not only recognize and protect queer identities but also safeguard against digital threats like these. At the very least, young LGBTQ+ people—especially those who are closeted—deserve to use dating platforms without fear of exposure, harassment, or violence. Ensuring their safety online isn’t just about better regulations—it’s about recognizing their right to exist freely and without fear.
When I picked up this neon pink, Barbie-esque looking novel, with its grim and realest title–No Place To Call My Own–I knew it would be something that would be the most devastating and also the most comforting modern literature I’d read this month.
As a person who just moved around a lot, being queer, and neurodivergent, it’s easy to fall into self-isolating patterns and pick detachment over feeling the mountain of feelings that come down on you. That’s kind of what Sophia goes through as well, and I don’t know if it was the visualisation that Alina Gufran (she/her), the author, creates, thanks to her filmmaking background. That, along with Sophia’s filmmaking background, allows both of them to show how a traumatized, angry, and apathetic person would see the world. It’s like reading a film, which is actually great if you’ve been experiencing a reader’s block and want something to throw you into a fictional world.
It also feels like a novel that will appeal to readers across multiple demographics, because who knows displacement and having no “real” space of belonging like women, queer folx and religious minorities? It’s queer in every sense to spend your whole life trying to figure out what’s wrong, but being unable to pinpoint what it is. It’s also queer in its understanding of never letting others label you.
No Place for the Wrong Feminist?
As much as I’m opposed to fitting this book into neater categories, such as Pinterest trends like “girl failure” or even the “anti-hero” (and what’s the term we use for complex male characters? “Grey”, “complex”, “nuanced”?)… It’s fluid writing. It goes between various locations like Delhi, Dubai, Mumbai and Chennai, literally marking different points of Sophia’s (our narrator) life. Her life is not entirely relatable. I can’t imagine myself in her place, but I know so many people who could. What connected me to Sophia was the ability to think the wrong things, do the “wrong” things and never backing down on her morals.
Sure, there are various moments where we question her morals, and there’s the observation that we don’t fully know what her actions are. We only find out when they become big to her—we remain closed in her mind until Sophia decides to let us peek into her world. When I asked Alina if she intended to always follow this line between realness and being morally grey when it came to characterising Sophia, she said, “It wasn’t ever about documenting reality, but perhaps about distilling something truer than mere fact. I feel, the line between the real and the imagined isn’t something to tread carefully—it’s something to erase, redraw, and blur at will. As for making a statement, I don’t think that’s the job. I believe fiction should trouble, provoke, and good fiction rarely ever provides easy conclusions.”
No Place for Bad Health?
The reason is her unreliable health, whether it’s mental, sexual or physical. When you’re consistently under threat of sorts and keep underplaying it, be it from neglectful parents or abusive relationships with people around you, it’s hard to let people into your world. Sophia trusts the readers just enough to let them hear her thoughts, but not to let them out in her world.
That’s also what depression does for her on a long-term basis. It’s constant detachment, and she’s just running around trying to find a place that won’t annoy her. To be honest, the annoyance is the most relatable thing. We love girl anger, but annoyance takes the cake for me. It’s also the ability to admit that you don’t always need a real reason to “dislike” people–sometimes you just find people annoying, and that’s all.
Reading word after word, I caught glimpses of myself, not because Sophia was me but rather I kept feeling the pain that comes from the numbness, or at least what led Sophia to deal with things the way she did. I asked Alina if the process of writing felt similar, or if it lead to some internal catharsis for her,
“Some parts were difficult because they demanded precision—how do you write about certain wounds without flinching, without turning them into spectacle? And some parts were cathartic, not in a way that offered closure, but in the way that shaping something into fiction can create a kind of distance. Writing wasn’t about relief or release; it just felt necessary.”
No Place For Tags
I don’t wish to place Sophia or this book/her story into a box for you. It’s a story I particularly resonated with, not just in a physical aspect of not actually belonging to a city (because I moved a lot), friend groups or even a particular label of queerness.
I got to ask Alina about her writing process and she told me,
“That instinct naturally informed No Place to Call My Own, where the visual and spatial dimensions of storytelling became as crucial as language itself. I wasn’t merely describing scenes; I was constructing them, aware of how a shift in light or a pause in motion could carry as much weight as dialogue.”
I don’t know a ‘Sophia’, but I empathise with them, despite knowing I might not even be able to be a good friend to them and vice versa. But that’s also the beauty of queer-feminist communities—there will always be an unspoken allyship with each other. There’s chaos, but there’s also nuances we don’t often hear about. Displacement is constant, and the chase for home is so painfully accurate. Even Alina felt like the novel was constructing itself with a few real experiences from her own life and some she felt Sophia would go through. She saw the themes emerge on their own as she went around serving Sophia.
You know that as long as you’re a part of any minority groups, you’re barely able to “behave” or be considered human enough. So, the exhaustion is real, and so are the consequences of failing to “fix” it.
Shout out to Anushka who thought I’d enjoy this, I certainly did and I think many more would love it too!
There’s something about The Phantom of the Opera that lingers long after the final note fades. Something more than the music, more than the romance, more than the tragedy. It’s a story that settles into the bones, a whisper of longing, of isolation, of the unbearable ache of being unseen.
Because at its heart, The Phantom of the Opera isn’t just about love. It’s about hiding. It’s about yearning. It’s about wearing a mask—not just to conceal, but to survive.
The Phantom, or Erik, is a man who has been condemned from birth. His face, twisted and scarred, was enough to make the world turn away in disgust, enough to make his own mother recoil. And so, he learns early on what the world does to those it deems unworthy—it casts them aside, locks them away, turns them into ghosts long before they are dead. And when the world refuses to see you, what choice do you have but to disappear?
So he hides beneath the opera house, building his world in the shadows, watching the stage above with both admiration and bitterness. He exists in fragments—half in the light, half in the dark, never fully belonging to either. His mask is more than just a piece of porcelain—it is the barrier between who he is and who the world allows him to be.
And I wonder… how many of us have worn that mask?
How many of us have felt like phantoms in our own worlds? How many have hidden away the most authentic parts of ourselves, afraid that to be seen is to be rejected? That to be known is to be unlovable?
Because the Phantom’s tragedy isn’t just his unrequited love for Christine. It’s his belief that love—true, unfiltered, unconditional love—is something he can never have. That no matter how much he creates, no matter how much beauty he pours into the world, no matter how much he loves, he will never be loved in return.
And isn’t that a feeling so many of us know?
The queer experience has long been one of longing. Of being told, in a thousand different ways, that we do not belong. That our love is unnatural, that our identities are mistakes, that we are too much or not enough. And so, we learn to make ourselves smaller. To hide in the places where we feel safe, even if that safety is just another form of loneliness.
The Phantom’s underground lair is more than a hiding place—it’s a cage. A sanctuary that quickly becomes a prison. It is the suffocating safety of living half a life, of convincing yourself that solitude is better than rejection, that it is easier to be unseen than to be seen and cast aside.
But there is another layer to his story—one that is found in the space between Christine and Raoul.
Raoul is everything Erik is not. He is light, he is safety, he is acceptable. He doesn’t have to fight to be loved—he simply is. The world welcomes him with open arms, while the Phantom is left clawing at the edges, desperate to be included, to be chosen.
And Christine? She is caught in the middle, between the world as it is and the world as it could be. She sees Erik. She sees his pain, his genius, his isolation. But seeing is not the same as choosing. And when the moment comes, she chooses the path of least resistance. The path that is expected of her.
And isn’t that a story we know all too well?
How often have we seen the queer figure painted as the tragic one? The one who is admired but never truly accepted? The one who is fascinating, compelling, other—but never allowed a happy ending?
Because the Phantom is not just a villain, nor is he simply a romantic figure. He is the embodiment of every person who has ever been told they must hide who they are. Every person who has learned that love—real love—is a privilege they may never receive.
And now, as The Phantom of the Opera prepares for its first-ever Indian premiere at NMACC, this conversation feels even more urgent. Because India, with its deep-rooted traditions and evolving narratives of identity, is a stage in itself—a place where the tension between past and future, between visibility and erasure, plays out every day.
Queer Indians, much like the Phantom, have lived in the margins, forced into the shadows by social expectations and rigid norms. But we are no longer content to be ghosts. We are stepping into the light, unmasking ourselves, refusing to be mere spectators in our own stories.
So perhaps, as The Phantom of the Opera graces the Indian stage for the first time, it is not just a performance but a reflection. A moment to ask—who gets to take off their mask? Who gets to be seen, to be loved, to be real?
And what if, for once, the answer was all of us?
Because the Phantom’s tragedy is not that he was unlovable—it is that he believed he was.
But we do not have to share his fate.
We do not have to be ghosts in our own lives. We do not have to settle for being seen only in pieces. We do not have to wait in the darkness, hoping that one day the world will be ready to accept us.
Disclaimer: This article contains mild spoilers for the show Paatal Lok, now streaming on Prime Video.
The second season of the acclaimed web series, Paatal Lok, is out, and this time, many things are new. An important one of which is the inclusion of a queer character in the narrative.
Most Indian web series and movies’ representation of a queer character is flawed at best, with overly dramatic depictions of the characters that fit into how society views a queer person—different, exotic, and often worthy of no respect.
Horrendously stereotypical films like Amar Prem Ki Prem Kahani are sadly the norm when it comes to depicting gay love. That’s precisely why Paatal Lok looks and feels different from the mediocre crowd.
Here’s what the show got right about queer life and what they could have done better:
Humorous normalcy of the coming-out experience
ACP Imran Ansari, played by Ishwak Singh, is forced to come out to his fellow officer, Hathi Ram Chaudhary, played by Jaideep Ahlawat, after the latter discovers that Ansari is in love with a man and not a woman.
Here, the awkwardness is palpable between the two characters, as is often the case when people hereto unaware of the LGBTQIA+ community come across a person belonging to it.
The scene does not have any overt displays of either anger or support, choosing to instead focus on the battles that Ansari and Singh are fighting, one of queer panic and the other of incomprehension.
Later Ansari tells Chaudhary that he wanted to tell him long ago, but couldn’t because of the “department.” This is an accurate representation of one of the primary reasons queer people don’t come out at work: reputation, of both the individual and the system in general.
Chaudhary’s response to Ansari’s confession is a humorous take on how people who don’t understand queerness often become the biggest supporters of it.
Paatal Lok has gotten the experience of coming out right, without making it all about a dramatic reveal, thereby normalising difficult conversations in a setting that feels comfortably familiar.
Gay, but not just for the plotline
Many movies like Gulmohar and shows like Big Girls Don’t Cry have queer characters who don’t feel real. They are forced, as if put on the screen to tick the diversity boxes and show the world that the filmmakers are progressive.
Paatal Lok, thankfully, does not do the same. The show is a mystery thriller throughout, and the introduction of a queer character does not change this central theme.
ACP Ansari is not just a queer police officer but a police officer who happens to be queer. There is no attempt to pry into his private life with his partner. The show doesn’t feel like a queer-sensitisation workshop and focuses on the subtle ways in which queer people exist in real life.
Strong, if not fully informed, allies.
Hathi Ram Chaudhary, the man Ansari first comes out to at work, is not shown in the show as a person who understands everything about his colleague immediately. But he supports him in ways that are amply made clear on multiple instances. Neither does he stop addressing Ansari with the honorific of ‘sir,’ nor does he question his identity after knowing the truth. There are no cliched questions like “When did you first know?’ Or ‘Does your family know about you?”
The character may not be fully informed about the community, but is the perfect example of how support sometimes comes from a place of pure love and respect, if not knowledge.
Inclusion of queer actors missing
Paatal Lok’s representation of a queer character is accurate. But what is missing is the inclusion of an openly queer actor. While the debate about whether only queer people can play queer characters is a tricky one, openly LGBTQIA+ actors have a significantly tougher time in the entertainment industry when compared to their straight colleagues.
Thus, they need more opportunities to show their talent, and what better way to do that than to play a queer character?
Paatal Lok may not be nominated for any awards and does not break new ground when it comes to queer cinema. But what it does offer is a more mature, more realistic template to filmmakers wanting to depict queer stories, making it a must-watch for all.
If I ask you to imagine a queer gathering or a safe space for queer people, what do you picture? The truth is, a lot of queer spaces these days can feel superficial, overly crowded, and even hostile. Whether it’s queer parties at bars, or even large, public queer pride events in big cities, these spaces can be extremely overwhelming, overstimulating, and suffocating for some people.
That’s where ŪRU Festival comes in. ŪRU (pronounced as Ooru) is India’s first queer camping festival. The festival is held annually, and this year it will be held from April 11th to 13th in Vilpatti, Kodaikanal.
The idea behind ŪRU is simple: to reclaim spaces in nature where queer individuals can bond, connect, and express themselves freely, away from the confines of bars and dance clubs.
The Origins of ŪRU
Prasanna Pichai, the founder of ŪRU, had envisioned ŪRU as a haven where queer individuals could:
Connect with like-minded souls, free from the constraints of societal expectations.
Introspect and explore their true selves, surrounded by the serenity of nature.
Access art, music, and performances that spoke to their experiences, often inaccessible in mainstream spaces.
Have the time of their lives dancing under the stars and letting their hair down.
The name “ŪRU” holds deep significance—in many South Indian languages, it means “village,” symbolizing a community, a gathering, and a sense of belonging. ŪRU is the outcome of a deep desire to create a queer safe space from scratch, where people could come together, bond and make unforgettable memories.
Through collaborations with like-minded community organizations such as Out and About (a queer inclusive trek and travel organisation) and Hers is Ours (a feminist collective) in the past, the first two editions of ŪRU were hosted successfully in Wayanad. Building on this momentum, ŪRU is now gearing up for its third edition in the picturesque hills of Kodaikanal, Tamil Nadu.
Discovering the New Home for ŪRU: Vilpatti, Kodaikanal
For the past two years, ŪRU had called Wayanad, Kerala, its home. However, as the community continued to grow, the organisers quickly found the need for a new venue that could accommodate a slightly larger crowd. Their search led them to the breathtaking hills of Kodaikanal.
Kodaikanal’s rolling hills, misty mornings, and cool climate in April made it the perfect choice for the festival. Exploring Vilpatti, the ŪRU organisers were awestruck by its vastness and breathtaking views. The venue’s expansive grounds, picturesque landscapes, and serene atmosphere made it the perfect setting for ŪRU’s next chapter.
So, What Sets ŪRU Apart?
When asked about what else sets ŪRU apart from other queer festivals and events, here’s what Prasanna, the founder, had to say:
Curating at the intersection of identity: At the heart of our festival is a commitment to curating at the intersection of gender identity, sexuality, and caste. We ensure that voices historically excluded from mainstream cultural spaces are centered and celebrated.
Empowering emerging artists: We prioritize emerging artists, providing them with a platform to share their work, gain visibility, and be compensated fairly for their contributions.
Honoring tradition and community: We are honored to have elders from the Karnataka transgender community (Jogathi elders) join us, bringing with them powerful traditions such as reciting the stories of Yellamma.
Mental health support: We prioritize well-being by providing access to therapists and mental health support, ensuring that our participants feel seen and cared for.
Sustainability at the core: Sustainability is woven into every aspect of our festival. From regenerative space design to waste-free infrastructure, we are committed to creating an event that aligns with ecological consciousness.
Workshops for growth and healing: Our carefully curated selection of workshops explores queerness in deeply introspective and contemplative ways, making our festival not just a place of celebration but also one of growth, healing, and collective understanding.
Discover the Magic of ŪRU’s Workshops and Performances
What can one expect from the workshops and performances at the festival?
Discover immersive experiences that blend art, movement, and sound:
Re-imagining Maps: Challenge traditional notions of mapping and rethink your relationship with space and identity.
Deep Listening with the Land: Explore the subtle barriers between simply hearing and conscious listening.
Voice Lab Project: Experiment and expand your vocal abilities through various voice exercises. Discover new sounds, tones, and expressions, and unleash your inner vocal artist.
Intuitive Rhythm: Learn how to make simple sounds using bamboo, and explore the world of rhythm and music.
Gadha (Mace) Training: Learn the traditional Indian art of wielding the gadha, a symbol of strength and discipline.
Aravani Art Project: On the final day of the festival, join us for a collective canvas painting curated by the Aravani Art Project.
Experience powerful performances from artists like:
Krantinaari, an internationally renowned rapper and co-founder of Wild Wild Women, India’s first all-female hip-hop collective.
Poongodi Mathiarasu, a multidisciplinary artist who blends puppetry, theatre, and journalism to create social change crafting queer-centered theatre productions.
Dragsitar by Sexwax, blending classic Hindustani ragas with western music and beats to create a unique fusion, transcending borders and uniting people through the universal language of music.
And much more!
For a comprehensive breakdown of the artists, workshops, schedule and details about the festival, and to buy tickets to the festival, head over to ŪRU’s Instagram and website.
“I am about to cum, Yeah I wanna cum. Don’t dare to stop me, Wanna cum in my own way, Don’t have to replicate anyone.”
The complex, yet powerful narratives around sex, pleasure and orgasm in a woman’s life have been shaped by societal norms, historical conditioning and biological discourses. These narratives tend to transform into different narratives over time.. When it comes to women sharing their narratives, some spaces are open, allowing women to express themselves and embrace the idea of desire. In other spaces, the very expression of women’s desires comes into scrutiny, as though it were transgression. And then there are spaces that only allow expression in singular, often limiting ways forcing the body into predefined notions of expression and trying to narrow down bodily experiences into a single story framework.
It is an odd thing, how bodily pleasure, an extremely personal and unique human experience, often has been dictated by forces that lie outside of us. Why should women experience sex and pleasure in a certain way, defined by socio-cultural and biological norms? Why are there rigid expectations that their bodily experiences must adhere to these specific scripts, lest their experiences be seen as ‘not normal’, ‘invalid’ or outside the boundaries of ‘acceptable’ womanhood? This sentiment has been echoed by multiple generations of women.
I still remember the conversations I’ve had with women of different ages, each with their own unique perspectives around sex, pleasure and orgasm, yet most of them shared a common desire for something different from the routine, something deeper when it came to sexual desires and pleasure. Most of them spoke with a quiet, almost resigned vulnerability about their experiences, and how often those experiences fell short of what they truly wished for.
One of the conversations was with a woman in her thirties, who had been married for almost fifteen years. Her facial expressions and voice twitched slightly as she started talking about how her sexual needs had always taken a backseat to her husband’s. “I’ve spent so many years accepting that everything was fine. I put his needs before mine, in the same manner the elderly women in my life had conditioned me to do,” she said. “But the truth is, I’ve never really felt seen or heard. I’ve been so busy making sure that everyone else is happy that I have forgotten about myself. And now, after accepting the norm, I’m not even sure how to ask for what I desire”. It felt like a luxury to her. She and her husband still shared the same bed, but intimacy had become more of a routine than a connection, a passing gesture rather than an exchange of bodily pleasure.
Another woman in her fifties, a mother of two daughters, who had been through the complexities of marriage, widowhood, and then remarriage, shared her experience of becoming a widow within two years of her first marriage. It was indeed a tough time for her, but not just emotionally but bodily too where everyone was showing pity on her to be a lifetime burden on her natal family and the fear around her sexuality, no one ever stopped to consider and understand her desires and bodily needs. However, she got that spark back in her life after getting married a second time. As she described, “I got the sense of freedom again in my private life… like I could explore and experience pleasure once again without thinking about it too much”. But over time, it’s almost like it’s all about her husband. She said, “I no longer feel like I can ask for what I need, I’ve lost that spark once again even after being in a marital partnership.” She expressed this painfully, as if the years of suppressing her own desires had become a weight too heavy to bear. Her current relationship, though built on love, often felt like it was missing the depth and connection she craved for.
These stories were layered with yearning, frustration, unfulfilled expectations and undiscovered desires. The emotional rollercoaster of being a woman in their personal spaces intrigued me. The personal is political, a phrase popularized by a 1969 essay by Carol Hanisch, became more relevant than ever—how socio-cultural norms, media portrayals, and even biological discourse, all commanded by patriarchy, have been continuously shaping the essence of one’s bodily identity .
That said, women’s desires also matter. For long, they have been crushed under the weight of patriarchy and social fears. Today, while women are emerging as active participants of social and political spaces, it is high time that they also reclaim their stake in private spaces. Women’s desires must not be criminalized anymore.
He has a smile playing around his lips, a warmth in his eyes One I could only see when he lets out a content sigh He’s so far away now, not even within my vicinity And yet I can feel his presence as if it were actuality
My fingers crave the strands of his hair between its tips My chest heaves for his weight as he leans into it My ears are lonely from the lack of his gentle whispers I know not how much longer my feelings would linger
I wish I could cling to every fibre of his being, never let go I wish I could wrap his entire essence and pocket it as I go Wouldn’t that be abduction? The same as Thumbelina, Voldemort even It’s ruining me little by little, as I thrash and tire to enliven
On earth, tradgedy is often confused with romance The soft brush of lips is known to lull one into its trance Isn’t that why Romeo & Juliet plummeted to their ends Why everyone is so lost and broken – trying to make amends
He was never mine and never will be, even as he fabricated the stories I could move mountains and bring the moon but she was witty A lifetime ago I asked him if he could let me down slowly Only now I realise, how could he, when he never even held me
For many trans and queer individuals, the act of transitioning might involve adopting a new name that resonates with them. If you’re on this journey, this guide was made to help you along the way.
What’s In A Name?
For some, just having their preferred name used in social interactions can be sufficient, but for others, wanting to see their new name on all legal documents is an essential affirmation of their identity. Either decision is valid as long as it affirms you and ensures that you’re comfortable.
Once you have figured out your name and where you’d like for it to be used, you can then consider who needs to be informed.
If you’re looking for your new name to be reflected in all legal documents, then there are essentially two methods to go about it––
Ektara’s method, which involves making a declaration in the newspaper.
The other method that requires qualifying for a transgender identity card.
Wondering how to get started? We got you covered!
New name, same person…more paperwork?
One wonders if changing names for trans folx is as easy as it is for say, married women who take on their husband’s last name? Ektara (she/her), a queer person, got her name changed in legal documents a couple of years ago. “While it was a relatively smooth process for me, I can say that it differs from person to person. For example, it took me a few tries to get it all in order, but my other friend faced no such errors and got it all approved in one go! Surprisingly, it wasn’t hectic at all, I had support each step of the way,” she explained.
By her own account, it took Ektara a couple of rounds to get the details changed on her Aadhar Card, PAN card and bank details. Here’s the breakdown of Ektara’s name change process:
1. Draft an affidavit: Draft an affidavit, which is a written statement confirmed by oath or affirmation, for use as evidence in court. State your full name, the name you wish to change to, and the reason for the change. This affidavit must be clear and truthful, explaining the reason for your name change. Sign it.
Here’s an example of what it might look like:
“I, [Current Name], formerly known as [Previous Name], do hereby change my name to [New Name] for all purposes. This change is effective as of [Date].”
2.Notarize the affidavit: Have the affidavit notarized to make it legally valid. A notary public, a legally authorized individual (like a lawyer or government official), will verify your identity, witness your signature, and ensure the affidavit’s authenticity.
Notarised: have (the signature on a document) attested to by a notary*
3. Publish in a local newspaper: Announce the name change in a local newspaper for public record. This step typically involves paying a fee, which can vary depending on the newspaper’s size and reach, but it is generally affordable.
4. Gazette publication: Have the name change published in the national or state gazette for official declaration. You’ll need to submit an application to the relevant government authority, typically through an online portal or physical submission, depending on your location. This official process requires a formal request for publication, and there might be a fee.
5. Once the name change is approved, the gazette will publish a notice of the change, making it legally recognized. And you can now have it updated in your Aadhar card, PAN card, bank details etc.
Ektara’s name change journey—one step at a time
Once Ektara saw her name had been changed on the declaration, she proceeded to get her name, gender and photograph changed in the Aadhar Card. She was able to get her gender and photograph updated by herself, but not her name. To move forward, she decided to get in touch with a local agency that makes the changes for you at an additional cost(similar to agencies that help you with your passport updates etc). It took the agency (Little Flower Consultancy in Mira Road) 2 attempts to get the correct details updated, at a cost of ₹500.
To keep things simple, Ektara also got her PAN card updated for ₹200 using the services of the same agency. Once the aadhar card was updated, she was able to get her bank details changed in a smooth manner. And since she was already employed at the time, her workspace changed her name and gender details on her request almost immediately!
A More Common Approach–
As per the guide shared by Lawtendo, and other websites helping transgender folx navigate this maze have another method that people can use, which also combines the usual name-change process in India:
Letter For Approval: Submit an application addressed to the District Magistrate (basically, your letter of approval). The District Magistrate is a civil servant who is the executive head of a district’s administration––for example, for folx in Mumbai it’s Sh. Sanjay L.Yadav (I.A.S.) for Delhi Sh. Sunny Kumar Singh, IAS.
Transgender ID: Once approved, a certificate of identity and transgender identity card will be issued. Applicants can then use their Transgender ID to change details on their Aadhar Card, PAN card etc.
For M to F or F to M: To change your gender identity from Male to Female or vice versa, you would have to get a certification from a medical practitioner.
Aadhar Update: For name and gender changes to your Aadhar card, you will be required to upload your transgender ID card. And then simply select the “legal name change” option at the form.
Bank + PAN Card Change: Once your Aadhar card changes are implemented, for PAN card changes, you can opt for using e-KYC for a digital PAN card update!
Both of these methods are valid. The latter only ensures that you’re nationally recognized as a transgender person by the Ministry of Social Justice & Empowerment, granting access to benefits like allowances, reimbursements, and welfare measures under schemes like Support for Marginalized Individuals for Livelihood and Enterprise (SMILE). This method is commonly used across the country—for example, when a married person wants to change their name, a marriage certificate is required. The only difference here is that you are also applying for a transgender card.
Oh dear diary, I met a girl. She made my dull world light up with joy. Like the perfect shiny maroon on a black and white canvas. She caught my eye and refused to let it go. I didn’t really feel like my own for much longer after that. Every breath, every beat, trying to match her striking beauty. My glances feeling too small to capture it all in.
My entire existence seeming to be settled on the need of her touch. Wanting for her to look at me, but uncertain if I could withstand the possibility of her catching me staring. Breathing harder and louder, all involuntarily. Leaning towards her radiating warmth, she takes me in. I don’t know if I can resist it. I don’t know if I should. Thoughts seem futile. This is the business of hearts and bodies.
My body says I need her. I need her now. Her hands in my hair. My head in the clouds. Where am I? Who am I? Absolutely transfixed by her perfection. Take me. Never let me go. I pull her lips to mine. It’s better than I thought. It’s pleasure and wanting mixed perfectly. One fighting over the other. Ultimately, both winning.
I cannot get enough of her. Who is she? Why is she? All I know is if I look at her long enough, I can hope to keep all her detail in my memory. And to think about it. And to keep thinking about it. Arms and legs intertwined in way that can only be chaotic. But God! Do I thrive in chaos! The chaos of wanting each other too much to wait. The poetry of pleasure, written by fingers, punctuated by moans and sighs. Glowing compliments, shining lights, hot whispers, cold goosebumps on my skin. Dark circles of smiles and kisses and kisses and smiles. Dreams do come true and last night was mine.
Your dining table is now your office, your kitchen’s the roommate catch-up zone, and your bed? That’s your Netflix corner, nap spot, and lunch table—all rolled into one. Post-pandemic life has blurred the lines between home (what we are calling ‘first spaces’ in this article) and work (‘second spaces’, because it is what we seem to leave our homes most often for), leaving little room for anything else. Enter third spaces: physical spots for connection and community outside home and work.
With CEO’s demanding 90 hour work weeks and toxic workspace culture at an all time high, we need active and inclusive third spaces now more than ever. But here’s the catch—many of us are too drained from work, commuting, or juggling side hustles to even think about third spaces. Imagine you have a set routine where you spend 10 hours at work, 4 hours commuting to and fro, and in a bid to be health-conscious, you sleep for 8-9 hours a day. That leaves an average full-time in-office employee in a city like Mumbai (i.e., me) 3-4 hours a day to clean, eat, bathe and stare into the void while rethinking their life choices.
It’s important to reiterate that some of us don’t have safe spaces, which means navigating conflicts, dealing with issues as they come up, and processing these difficult matters – all of which take time and need a conducive space. Therefore, having a first place, a home, and a safe one at that, is a privilege. Many folx I know aren’t able to access safe homes or safe workspaces. For many it’s just an added stressor to think about the poor infrastructure of our world outside home and work.
In this scenario, the very idea of prioritizing a third space can feel out of reach. Yet, these spaces are vital, especially for queer communities, offering belonging, safety, and joy where other spaces fail. So, why not imagine cities where third spaces are a right, not a privilege?
Should Third Spaces Be A Privilege?
To explore the queerness of third spaces, I reached out to Saurabh Sharma (they/them), a culture writer based in Delhi. They emphasized that queer folx navigate spaces in ways that often defy the expectations of heteronormativity. Even for those who can access these spaces, many queer individuals have to be selective about where and how they “be queer.” As Saurabh clarifies: “I know several people who are comfortable—or rather, attuned to—living or performing different identities in different spaces, and no one should judge them for that. If someone knows that their job is essential for supporting their family, to whom they are out, they may choose not to bring their queer politics into the workplace. Similarly, there are those who are out to everyone except their family…”
I would like to think that Mumbai’s local trains often act as a third space for me and my friends. Busy with our own hectic schedules and juggling multiple responsibilities, the train has become a solace where we interact twice a day. It’s a comfort thinking that even in a packed train and inconvenient station infrastructure––I’ll spot a familiar face and have some assurance.
Third spaces also serve as refuge spots for those navigating challenges. They’re where the community gathers—whether to rally around a shared cause, support one another, or simply escape everyday responsibilities and share a laugh. These spaces foster connection and resource-sharing, from recommending plumbers to helping a mutual find safe housing or forwarding their CVs to potential employers.
As Amarinder (he/they), an architect and service designer, explains, “Queering public spaces is rooted in mutual care—care for the individual, the collective, and the urban space. The goal is to create more welcoming environments for all identities, including those who don’t fit into traditional ‘categories.’”
Public spaces transform into third spaces when a community comes together to use them in meaningful ways. For instance, a queer book club hosting its monthly meetings in a public library not only utilizes the space but also brings marginalized literature into public discussion. This act amplifies queer voices and invites greater attention to their stories. Conversely, when certain groups are excluded—such as trans folx being denied entry to clubs or restaurants—it sends a harmful message that their presence somehow “violates” the intended image of the space, which often reflects a cis-heteronormative ideal.
Queer communities have historically thrived in “third spaces”—informal, hidden areas outside home and work where people can connect safely. In Southeast Asia, for instance, queer groups in Vietnam have used parks and discreet cafes as meeting points to avoid public scrutiny. In South Africa, Black queer women have turned to underground clubs, art spaces, and community centers as third spaces to forge networks of support and solidarity, despite societal challenges. These spaces have always been crucial for the community’s survival and growth, particularly in times of adversity. Refuge spaces, like LGBTQ+ shelters, also function as third spaces, providing environments where community members interact altruistically and offer mutual support.
When asked what makes a place, region, or space “queer,” Saurabh explains that spaces aren’t inherently queer; they become queer through a non-judgmental outlook toward everyone. Amarinder echoes this sentiment, emphasizing that queering spaces involves expanding accessibility across intersections like caste, class, and disability. It’s about cultivating, encouraging, and practicing radical love, empathy, and an anti-caste mindset.
This offers a thoughtful starting point for understanding queer third spaces—how they are formed and what ideas are essential for a space to truly be considered a safe queer space. Interestingly, as Saurabh points out, such spaces don’t fully exist. They argue that no space has been entirely “queer-friendly,” and even those labeled as such often operate with a “pre-understood” idea of queerness (ironic, isn’t it?). For instance, neurodivergent and introverted queer folx may enter these spaces seeking community, only to feel alienated by the dominant party culture. This “pre-understood” queerness, as Saurabh describes it, has often left them socially drained.
They elaborate further: “How can we cultivate safety? By being with people over and over again and understanding the way they function, because sometimes what you find welcoming, funny, or unproblematic might be something someone else struggles to overlook. And most queer people don’t understand that. Disagree with anything, and you risk being labeled a boring or straight-passing queer.”
Amarinder pointed out that public spaces, like parks, are designed by keeping standard (hetero-patriarchal) architecture practices, protocols and framework in mind. These spaces are built keeping traditional family structures and retired old folx in mind. And no matter how carefully they are built, they are still inaccessible to some, for instance cis-women during evening hours. Safety and accessibility of many people is not thought of, while building public spaces.
So when Amarinder works on any of his projects, he makes sure to co-create with keeping queer ideas and priorities in mind. Along with queer-feminist and anti-capitalist frameworks that help him reimagine solutions to making not just spaces that are welcoming for all but also move away from the linearity of typical architecture.
Cultivating A-“Typical” Culture
I’ve noticed something interesting from watching videos about the lack of third spaces in America: their society doesn’t seem to prioritize community time as much as European nations do. This is also reflected in the way their cities are designed—reliant on private vehicles, discouraging public transport use, and even making walking less feasible.
A similar negligence is evident in Indian cities like Mumbai, where I live and work. While Mumbai boasts a relatively strong public transport network, it severely lacks infrastructure that encourages walking. On top of that, safety concerns are often unfairly blamed on migrants or overpopulation, yet no city ever feels “safe enough” to navigate unless you have some form of private transportation.
Which led me to the question, what makes any space inclusive, safer and accessible?
Queer third spaces are often characterized as flamboyant, which can feel unwelcoming or unexciting for introverted or shy queer individuals—or, as Saurabh puts it, “boring queers.” While partying and clubbing have played a significant role in shaping queer-friendly third spaces, these environments tend to prioritize nightlife, often overlooking essential aspects like safety, neurodivergent needs, and disability accessibility. This lack of diversity in the types of third spaces leaves other forms of connection and support underdeveloped.
Saurabh explains that third spaces are environments where individuals can authentically express themselves, free from societal expectations. However, these spaces don’t exist in isolation—they intersect naturally with other areas of life, such as family, workplaces, and broader communities, offering opportunities for influence and growth.
Saurabh notes, “A book club that focuses on queer narratives can serve as a third space. Regular participants might take away new perspectives that influence their worldview or spark meaningful conversations. Similarly, a thought-provoking film can create a third space by initiating discussions around important topics.”
Saurabh emphasizes that a third space doesn’t always have to be “physical”. It can also exist in moments of shared dialogue or virtual spaces, where ideas and identities find room to thrive. This interpretation highlights how third spaces can extend beyond physical venues, functioning as transformative environments for both individuals and their larger social circles.
This makes social media a defining third space for queer folx, allowing them to connect with like-minded individuals regardless of location. As an older Gen Z, I’ve witnessed the internet evolve—from a place where I could find pockets of comfort to the hostile takeover of platforms like Twitter (RIP) by conservative voices and ongoing privacy breaches. Queer folx now face just as much vulnerability to bullying online as they do offline.
Amarinder reinforces this concern, highlighting the importance of physical third spaces and the essential role they play in reclaiming spaces for queer communities: “Reclaiming public spaces has to start at a grassroots level. Activities like regular meet-ups in parks and other public spaces go a long way in establishing a consistent queer presence. ‘Queering’ certain third spaces can serve as a catalyst for broader societal change, influencing how people behave and express themselves—not just in third spaces, but also at home and in the workplace.”
Pockets Of Comfort
Queer folx have learned to navigate the larger hetero-patriarchal system by identifying allies and creating spaces of refuge—whether as literal safe havens or places to momentarily escape their realities.
“Largely, queer people are supported by friends and chosen families. These are the spaces where they discover their capabilities. Despite their trauma, they find their natural rhythm and summon the courage to brave a world designed to exclude them,” Saurabh shares.
Amarinder echoes a similar sentiment, reflecting on their own journey: “In creating my own space, I felt my most queer self—a self where I wasn’t doing anything to please anyone but simply because I liked it. I felt the freedom one craves. Unfortunately for many of us, that’s not the reality.”
I do believe some rules are necessary—just enough to establish common boundaries that respect everyone. Queer communities often serve as spaces where these conversations happen, making them safer than many other public spaces. I’m not saying all queer spaces are perfect, but they evolve with the community. The question remains: can we say the same for all other public spaces?
Godrej Properties Limited (GPL) has positioned itself as a company keen on engaging with the queer community—whether through dedicated hiring initiatives for queer talent, its collaboration with Gaysi to document queer working experiences, or its latest integration of EqualiTEA Cafés at its property sites and Marketing Office and Show Apartments (MOSA). The EqualiTEA Café, an on-site café initiative, is run primarily by transgender individuals and people with hearing and speech impairments.
Gaysi family was able to attend the inauguration for the new branch at Godrej Reserve at Kandivali East, Mumbai!
While this move signals a step toward inclusion, its true impact depends on long-term sustainability and meaningful investment in queer and trans-led businesses. The initiative in Mumbai is in collaboration with Zainab Patel (she/her), a queer rights activist and founder of The Trans Café and TransFromation Salon. Patel also serves as the Diversity and Inclusion head at the Samavesh Chamber of Commerce, which supports LGBTQ+ business development.
Two new cafe sites have been introduced in Pune which are run by Shikandi Foundation, a trans collective. And the cafe in Delhi is run by folx with speech and hearing disabilities supported and aided by ISL (Indian Sign Language) interpreters as well!
For the EqualiTEA Café to be more than a symbolic gesture, it requires deeper structural support—ensuring economic stability for trans entrepreneurs, addressing barriers to employment beyond token hiring, and creating pathways for growth. If companies genuinely wish to champion inclusion, investing in and learning from such initiatives will be key.
Creating Spaces for Visibility
At the opening of the EqualiTEA Café at Godrej Reserve in Kandivali East, Zainab Patel (she/her) spoke about her vision for the initiative: to eventually hand over full operations of the cafés to new entrepreneurs. Rather than retaining any share of the profits, she aims to create a self-sustaining model—one where each entrepreneur, in turn, hires more queer individuals, expanding employment opportunities within the community.
Jamini Baviskar (she/her), the Diversity, Inclusion (D&I), and Campus Lead for GPL’s Mumbai Zone, shared how the idea took shape. She credited her senior, Zoya (they/them), the Pan-India Lead of D&I and Employer Branding at GPL, for championing the initiative. More importantly, she highlighted the need to create employment pathways for queer individuals beyond the company’s existing queer-specific hiring program—which, until now, required candidates to hold a bachelor’s degree.
Creating Jobs for Security
For many trans people, inaccessibility to formal education remains a significant barrier, often pushing them toward high-risk professions. Recognizing this, GPL sought to build a system where queer and disabled individuals could access meaningful, inclusive employment—one that didn’t hinge on formal educational qualifications.
The introduction of on-site cafés run by queer and disabled entrepreneurs is not just about providing jobs—it’s about fostering financial agency and skill development. Zoya explains that beyond employment, the initiative has another crucial purpose: placing visible queer entrepreneurship in spaces that are typically upper-class, upper-caste, and predominantly cis-het domestic environments. By embedding these cafés within everyday corporate and residential landscapes, the initiative challenges conventional notions of who belongs in these spaces and who gets to thrive within them.
Creating Opportunities for Everyone
Zoya explains to Gaysi that the idea is straightforward: with Zainab Patel’s involvement—both as a business owner who exclusively employs transgender individuals and as a leader within the Chamber of Commerce—there is direct access to a network of queer individuals seeking employment opportunities. The challenge, however, lies in integrating these opportunities into existing corporate structures.
So, how does one enter these systems?
Godrej follows two partnership models when working with individuals and small businesses:
For smaller sites, the focus is on direct employability—hiring individuals to work at the cafés and serve customers.
For larger sites with higher footfall, the approach shifts to vendor partnerships, where small businesses supply snacks and other essentials while also employing queer and disabled individuals.
Zoya elaborates: “When the site is smaller, the concept is about employability—because whenever you give someone a job, you truly transform their life in many ways. And that’s the aim. For example, in the north zone, we have speech- and hearing-impaired individuals on third-party payroll, working with us there. Here in Mumbai, it’s the Trans Café.”
At its core, this initiative serves as a crucial stepping stone—offering individuals foundational skills, financial stability, and workplace experience that can propel them toward long-term professional growth. More than just employment, it’s about creating real, lasting access to economic security and upward mobility for those who have historically been excluded.
Looking Ahead: Beyond Visibility to Lasting Change
A trans-run café in a corporate space is more than just a symbolic gesture—it’s a step toward normalizing queer presence in everyday professional environments. But the hope is that it doesn’t stop here.
Visibility is important, but so is sustainability. The real impact of initiatives like EqualiTEA Café will be seen in whether they lead to long-term financial security, career growth, and economic mobility for queer and trans individuals. Can these opportunities evolve beyond employment into pathways for business ownership, stable housing, and leadership in these very spaces?
For true inclusion, the goal isn’t just to create jobs—it’s to create futures. Where trans and queer entrepreneurs aren’t just invited into these environments but have the means to shape, own, and thrive within them. As more businesses explore models like this, the question remains: How do we ensure they lead to real, lasting change?
You look at me and I feel it go all through me. The love they talk about. The light that shines from my insides. You look at me and I feel loved. I feel unstoppable and fragile. Like a newborn baby just opening its eyes for the first time, I see the world for what it could be. And I’m instantly afraid of losing it. Of losing the most precious feeling I have ever felt. Your eyes, they tell me stories. They tell me paragraphs, they weave words into fairytales. Fairytales that seemed unrelatable. Fairytales that seemed to be a faraway island that now you are a bridge to. You love me so sure. You love me so pure. It confuses my insides. It twists my heart. I could have felt like this all along? And it took me my entire life to get to this? But it’s oh so glorious! I wanna feel it all the more. Wrap me in your surity. Don’t ever look away from me. You look at me and I believe I can love myself. That love was never difficult. Love was in fact inside me. Love is inside me. It’s just silent sometimes. But it glows. My darling, it glows so hard when you look at me. It lights up the room. I am almost sure it lights up the entire universe. It lights up my universe. You light up my universe. The way you look at me lights up my universe.
Do you know that Colman Domingo made history last year as the first queer Afro-Latino to be nominated for Best Actor by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (AMPAS), more commonly known as the Oscars? Well, he made history again this year by becoming the first queer Afro-Latino to receive back-to-back Best Actor nominations for the Academy Awards. This is what brings us queer people joy—seeing such beautiful and empowering queer representation recognized and celebrated by the acting world.
Colman Domingo is a mighty force in the contemporary landscapes of cinema and theatre, a performer whose presence radiates great energy and incredible vulnerability. His portrayal of civil rights icon Bayard Rustin in Rustin has propelled him into the Oscar-nominated sphere in 2023, marking him as one of the most thrilling actors of his generation. Beyond all else, his journey is one of resilience, authenticity, and the power of transformative storytelling.
Domingo, a queer Black man navigating an industry that has historically been slow to embrace diversity, has carved out his own unique space, delivering performance after performance with depth and honesty. From Tony-nominated Broadway stages to heart-wrenching moments in Euphoria, where he portrays Ali, Domingo’s work “defies genre and expectation,” leaving an indelible mark on everything he touches. His performances not only entertain but also engage with the complex realities of life, particularly through the lens of the LGBTQ+ community.
His representation is groundbreaking because he embodies a Black queer historical figure finally seen in a major Hollywood production. For far too long, LGBTQ+ stories—especially those centering Black experiences—have been pushed to the margins. Domingo’s performance, punctuated by his Oscar nomination, now thrusts Rustin’s story into the limelight, highlighting the stark contrast between visibility and the erasure that many in the LGBTQ+ community face.
But Domingo’s journey as a queer Black actor adds yet another layer of significance. He has lived openly, embracing his sexuality while navigating an industry where acceptance has been slow. His success is a testament not only to his talent and hard work but also to the gradual, albeit sluggish, shift in Hollywood’s acceptance of diverse voices.
Rustin carries broader implications beyond the film itself. Domingo’s presence during awards season offers a platform to discuss representation and the necessity of inclusive storytelling. His success challenges the notion that LGBTQ+ narratives are niche or unmarketable, proving instead that queer stories are universal, powerful, and worthy of celebration.
However, Domingo’s work is not just about representation—he is a consummate artist, a versatile actor who brings depth and complexity to every role. His dedication to his craft and commitment to authentic storytelling make him a role model for aspiring actors, regardless of their sexual orientation or background. He embodies the power of art to challenge perceptions, inspire change, and foster empathy.
When asked about redefining masculinity and healing, he said:
“We want to show that there are people in there, taking accountability and responsibility, and wanting to do the work of healing to better themselves,” he stated. “I think that we’re showcasing radical love between Black and Brown men, which is not typical. This is part of our healing and liberation for ourselves and our mental health—to feel soft, vulnerable, and to dismantle the toxic masculinity we’ve been raised with.”
Domingo also spoke about growing up in a supportive family.
“It was a nurturing environment, and I was loved by my mom and stepdad, and my sister and brothers,” he said. “The neighborhood was community-centric. We were all there to support each other. I couldn’t have done all the things I’ve done in my life without all that love and support I had when I was growing up.”
The Oscar nomination for Rustin marks a significant milestone in Domingo’s career. But more importantly, it serves as a powerful reminder that representation matters, that queer lives deserve to be seen, and that art has the power to change hearts and minds.
For Domingo, this is a victory for the LGBTQ+ community—a testament to the power of visibility and a celebration of Bayard Rustin’s legacy. Standing on the Oscar stage, Colman Domingo carries the hopes and dreams of countless individuals who have longed to see themselves represented in the stories we tell. He stands as a beacon, reminding us all that our stories matter and that our voices deserve to be heard.
TAPS is a 2023 short film directed by Arvind Caulagi, produced by Kashish Arts Foundation and Four Line Entertainment with Lotus Visual Productions. It premiered at Kashish Queer Film Festival back in 2023, and is now available to watch for free on YouTube!
A bit of background about Arvind who is a trained architect but chose to chase his dreams of bringing queer narratives and stories to the big screen. In the middle of his masterclass at Gaysi Studio–I learnt how less daunting creating stories can be if I just write what I know as compared to writing something big, something grand.
Forward to us watching the film with Arvind––he was literally standing behind me––I realise how true his words are. If we write something we know, something that’s unique to us yet universal enough to help normalise queer domesticity, you can create art that resonates and rewards accordingly.
The initial scripts of this short film were apparently scrapped away until Caulagi came across Kashish Art Foundations’ grant application–wherein queer voices and directors are supported with a grant to shoot their short film. And once an organisation like Kashish uplifts voices, chances are these voices find more support, as TAPS did with Four Line Entertainment and Lotus Visual Productions.
As most short films are, they either show us the journey that characters go through right before something is about to end or begin–but what sets TAPS apart is it’s set right in the middle of Rohan and Akshay’s relationship. It’s already established, and it’s more at a turning point for them. It’s not an ending nor a beginning, just a couple venturing into a different mode of their relationship.
Quick context– Akshay is helping Rohan pack for his fellowship abroad, they’re entering their long distance era and things are tight. Akshay is pissed about something that he can’t communicate (yet) and Rohan is just trying to get on his flight knowing things will be fine at home.
There’s unspoken drama, inside jokes, taunts and loads of moments that will make you think–is this how you communicate to a partner who is about to leave his home/city for a year? My single, neurodivergent brain was just beginning to understand social cues of a relationship–I understood a few things about our leads and love in general.
The film is set entirely in their immediate space, the home and the society they live in, and besides the shocked uber driver at the end there are no other actors on the screen–so it’s just you watching them interact when they’re the most vulnerable.
There’s a lot of opposites attract energy here, Akshay is the responsible one, he’s the one making sure Rohan has everything and is set to catch his flight on time. But he also struggles to put his feelings into words, it’s tough for him to verbalise that he’s jealous and feeling insecure about Rohan being closer to his ex for a year.
Rohan on the other hand, seems like someone who likes to take it chill and genuinely doesn’t think too much into his actions. He understands Akshay and his cues of what usually bothers him but does come off as a bit dismissive.
In a quick Gen Z standard, this relationship would start to fall apart if we go on to categorise their behavior in neat boxes of red flag-green flag–but this is not how real life works. I think sometimes watching queer relationships where heteronormative binaries like red-green and masc-femme don’t tangle the relationship.
It’s about making moments count, about declaring your love even if you’re mad at them–and to be that’s what made this film more personal–despite being single and knowing it wasn’t my story to tell.
The film ends with Rohan finally getting his crotch “taps” from Akshay (an unexplained inside joke) possibly sealing the crack in their relationship for the time being.
We don’t know what their future will be, if the crack will ever mend or it’ll continue to shatter–leaving us in temporary bliss like a couple that we can only hope for the least painful route.
I have been attending Pride since I was seventeen. Sometimes it has been with queer friends, sometimes it has been alone, and once it was with a close friend who was an ally. But no matter who I have or haven’t gone with, Pride has always been phenomenal because in the “clerb,” we are all family—and at Pride, we are all a community. I have been privileged enough to never feel out of place at Pride events, unlike some of my friends, whose experiences definitely make me believe that we need to keep working to do better. Somehow, my experience has been such that the Pride parades and events I have sought out have been intentional, inclusive, and accessible. Nothing has ever felt missing.
Pride is about all of us—despite what news headlines might suggest, it goes beyond attraction. It is about celebrating every aspect of our inner and outer selves. So when my girlfriend and I made plans to go to a Pride event together this year, I did not expect it to be too different from the previous years. I had been in a long-term relationship before, but since it was long-distance, my lover never ended up coming to Pride with me. That was not a big deal, but it meant that this would be completely new to me.
It started with us getting ready at her house. I had brought my pride glitter and face paints, and I quickly learned that there is a unique intimacy—a poetic chemistry—to two queer lovers sitting with colors in their hands, taking turns to hold up the mirror and fix each other’s body art. I wore my “Chaotic Bisexual” t-shirt and my femme necklace, while my gorgeous partner wore a trans ally t-shirt. Dressing for Pride—whether with or without someone—is always a kind of undressing as well. And it was comforting to know that I was seen and recognized even before I reached the venue because we look at each other like that.
We soon made our way to the ground where the event was taking place, and the colorful flags dancing in the wind made me smile wide even from a distance. They had organized it like a fun fair, with rides, stalls, and great stages, yet somehow the huge ground felt like a cozy, safe space. I had never kissed someone at Pride before, and it was so freeing to be in a space where we did not have to look around to check whether we were safe before being affectionate toward each other. So much of your time as a queer couple in public goes into worrying about someone turning out to be a queerphobe, and the very real danger in them clocking you; but here, the point was all of us being acknowledged.
One of my favorite things we did was just sit on the grass with drinks in our hands, our bodies swaying to the music that the drag queens were performing. There was no masking, no performative behavior, no shrinking ourselves to make someone else feel comfortable. We also got to see queer parents playing with their toddlers and running after their preteens, which was such a joy—and unfortunately, something I had not witnessed before this occasion. When we made our way to the thrift stall, she tried on a bunch of sunglasses and I praised her fierceness. When we heard a familiar song, we decided to join in on the dancing. The important thing was not what we were doing, but that there was so much affirmation in being seen by each other and everyone else around us.
You know that little look of recognition that queer people and couples share with each other in the wild? We were constantly in the middle of having that moment with so many people at once! And whenever we needed a little bit of rest, we had each other’s arms to fall into. Our little family of two sat with a sense of belonging among our larger family of many—and for those few hours, everything was perfect in the world.
Pride was still about both of us individually, but we were here together, cheering and rooting for each other, screaming lyrics together, and watching the clouds drift across a queer sky—and that made it a tiny bit about us as a couple as well. Going to Pride with my lover was not “more” or “less” than my previous Pride experiences—it was just a little bit different and a whole lot of “I would 100% do this again!”
Who knew I would ever have the chance to watch a self-distributed Indian queer film in a PVR? Thanks to the film’s director, Sridhar Rangayan, who invited the Gaysi Family to the premiere on February 21 at Citi Mall, Andheri (Mumbai). Rangayan is known for films like The Pink Mirror (2003) and Purple Skies (2014) and is the founder and festival director of the Kashish Film Festival. Kuch Sapney Apne is also a sequel to Rangayan’s 2018 work, Evening Shadows.
“It is a film about the community, made by the community, but intended for mainstream audiences. We are proud to include the participation of the LGBTQ+ community, who came together for several scenes. They bring a touch of diversity and authenticity to the film,” said Rangayan.
The film opens with a clear purpose: it is dedicated to the parents of queer children. There is a heartwarming cameo by Sweekar in the second half that is sure to bring a few tears. (Sweekar is a support organization for parents coming to terms with their children’s queerness and helps sensitize parents to LGBTQ+ issues.)
Some Sapne (Dreams) Shattered
Right from the opening shot, we meet Kartik (played by Satvik Bhatia), aka Kuku, a queer photographer in his mid-20s, showing his partner Aman (played by Arpit Chaudhary), or Amu, around Sweden. He is there for a photography workshop and is navigating a tricky friendship with a local student, Stefan.
Stefan (played by Teodor Wickenbergh) does not hide his feelings for Kartik and consistently makes advances, despite Kartik’s discomfort (hello, POSH?). One thing leads to another, and Kartik hooks up with Stefan just as he is about to return to Mumbai to his partner of eight years, Aman.
The film’s first half focuses on how Kartik and Aman’s relationship is tested, highlighting their personal boundaries and demonstrating how their bond remains strong despite challenges. It is filled with wholesome moments that we don’t often see on screen—kudos to that!
A Bit of Parivarik (Familial) Drama
We also learn that Kartik hails from a conservative South Indian family—actually, his father is the only conservative member; his mother and aunts support him wholeheartedly.
A brief overview of Kartik’s family:
His mother, Vasudha (played by Mona Ambegaonkar), is a talented painter but faces constant criticism from her husband, Damodar (played by Shishir Sharma).
His aunt, Sarita (played by Yamini Singh), is an icon with a great sense of humor, but she is also a domestic violence survivor who has fallen in love with her pen-friend, Srinivas (played by Yatin Karyekar).
His aunt, Rama (played by Abhay Kulkarni), is a trans woman on her own journey, navigating between familial responsibilities and self-discovery (more on her later).
Rama’s wife, Lata (played by Veenah Naair), is aware of Rama’s trans identity and supports her, despite feeling abandoned in her role as a wife and partner.
Very little is known about Aman’s family; they are only mentioned towards the end of the second half, when Aman opens up to Amma (Vasudha). Their conversation serves as a healing moment for queer audience members, as Vasudha steps up to be not just Aman’s mother-in-law but also the accepting parental figure he has yearned for.
Some Apne (Our) Feelings
Priya Dali (she/they), the Creative Director of Gaysi Family, resonated with Kartik’s reality: “The way the father blames the mother mirrors my own experiences. All my achievements, and whatever little difference I’m able to make with my art and work, must be hidden. I find myself pretending that nothing significant has happened. I know my mother stands by me, but she cannot speak up for me in public due to fear of my dad’s reaction.”
What truly captured my heart in this film was the soundtrack. It’s rare to hear collaborations from Rekha and Vishal Bharadwaj featuring Sushant Divgikar and Shaan (yes, Shaan) that explore queer heartbreak, joy, and love. I’m still waiting for the tracks to be available on Spotify so I can fully embrace the melodies!
Kuch (Some) Final Observations
However, a few hiccups remain. Queer films are often created with two mindsets: for queer folk or for non-queer folk. This film fluctuates between the two, causing it to lose structure at times. Nonetheless, it remains a worthy watch thanks to the cast’s stellar performances (shout out to Shishir Sharma’s expressive acting).
The second hiccup is more of an observation: the film contains a plethora of rainbow and color-adjacent metaphors throughout its script.
Trigger Warning: Mention of Domestic Abuse
Additionally, the bond between Rama and her nephew Kartik is somewhat underexplored. Why is it that Rama, as a trans woman, is portrayed as choosing begging as part of her new life rather than embracing her transition and seeking employment, thus addressing the topics of trans employment and housing crises? Kartik is one of the first people to support his aunt’s transition, so why does he only take his mother to Mumbai after his father assaults her?
Still, I urge everyone to take the time to show this film to your parents and relatives. The beauty of queer films lies in their lack of universality; you will always find multiple experiences woven into the fabric of a single story. This film has something for everyone to take away!
Monster is a Japanese movie released in 2023. It is directed by Koreeda Hirokazu known for his other masterpieces such as Shoplifters (2019), Nobody Knows (2004) and more. The movie follows two elementary school boys named Mugino Minato and Hoshikawa Yori. The film is quite slow-paced at the beginning as it establishes the situation that the characters are trying to tackle. We are taken through multiple perspectives of the same events and what I liked the most is that the movie doesn’t do any hand-holding as the audience walks through a maze of meanings.
The story is presented in vignettes of non-linear time. It starts with Mugino’s single mother who becomes increasingly concerned about her son’s strange behaviour like impulsively cutting off his hair or turning up at the house with an injured ear and a lost shoe. She finds out that Mugino is being hit by his teacher and she is determined to confront the school and the teacher to get justice for her child. After several visits to the school and insincere apologies from the teacher, we see the perspective of the accused teacher Hori Michitoshi, who himself is a victim of incomplete truths and societal gossip for visiting a local hostess bar. He initially sees Minato as a bully. Finally, we see the situation through the eyes of the two boys themselves. For a minute I thought, “Is there really a monster here in the disguise of Hori sensei? Is the school a secret lab of some sorts?” I was captivated by the idea of the ‘monster’ the movie presents.
The word ‘monster’ can be traced to the Latin monstrum meaning a divine omen (typically inauspicious). Language, more than being a mere communication tool, holds the knowledge of a community. However, the lack of language to describe something does not ensure curiosity and openness to understanding. It somehow automatically turns the unknown into a monster perhaps because that is easier. When you think about it, several local languages across the world do not have colloquial words to express homosexuality. While there are several slang words and phrases, often derogatory, the English word ‘gay’ is adapted as is. When you don’t have any colloquial word to describe being gay, how do you express it?
The film is an excellent example of showing rather than telling. It doesn’t use any words to indicate sexuality or label the children. Instead, we are shown, when Yori and Minato are suddenly too close during a play date and Minato panics and Yori tells him that it’s okay, he feels that way too. Minato runs away, only to come back to Yori later, to accept that he’s not weird, that he has not failed as his dead father’s son. Understanding dawns upon us as we learn that Yori’s father told him that he is sick, and he has a pig’s brain instead of a human brain; when he later claims Yori is “cured” because he likes a girl in his grandmother’s neighbourhood where he must move to and break his friendship with Minato. Sweet Yori however, instantly runs out of his house again to tell Minato that that was a lie. His father then drags him in and Minato is forced to bang on the door while listening to Yori scream in pain.
Jeffery Cohen in his paper Monster Culture (Seven Theses) writes that a monster’s body is a cultural body. He writes, “A construct and a projection, the monster exists only to be read: the monstrum is etymologically “that which reveals”, “that which warns”, a glyph that seeks a hierophant.” Without an audience, the monster doesn’t exist. Without their classmates and their families, Minato and Yori’s hiding spot which is an abandoned train car is the only safe space for their blossoming love. I think the train car may symbolise the children’s desire for mobility away from the shadows of the adults as they pretend to be the loco pilots.
Yori’s question, “who is the monster?” rang in the back of my mind as the movie progressed. It is quite common for mainstream media to depict queerness in a monstrous light but the shifting perspectives do not center the monster in one person. Is it Yori’s alcoholic, abusive, and homophobic father? Is it the societal ideology that perpetuates this prejudice? Is it truly the sweet child Yori? Or his school peers who don’t understand why but know they must bully him? Or the teachers who are no better, because they are people after all and it is better to ignore these things anyway?
It is not possible to hold one person responsible because we are ultimately a part of the bigger societal mechanism of control. However, there are chances given to become better. When Hori realises that Yori and Minato are in love because of a secret code in Yori’s homework, he rushes to Minato’s house to comfort him in the middle of a storm. Hori sensei, who is the talk of the town because it is shameful as a teacher to visit a hostess bar to abate his loneliness. We also catch a glimpse of the headmistress who perhaps appears more as a robot than a human, wrapped in her own grief over the death of her grandchild. Blamed to be the killer of her grandchild, we see she can connect with Minato and share his burden of grief in a way that no one else could. This is when I realised, that perhaps only monsters can understand other monsters, however different their branding may be.
The movie questions the very foundation of the monstrous; if it can be determined in a child who is often considered the pinnacle of innocence, then what saving grace is left for us adults? The movie confronts us to look into the monsters we hold within ourselves and believe in. What monsters are we afraid to let go of and why? If love is unconditional towards a child for only as long as they fit into the strict box of “normal”, does this love then not become a monster? Cohen writes, “These monsters ask us how we perceive the world, and how we have misrepresented what we have attempted to place. They ask us to reevaluate our cultural assumptions about race, gender, sexuality, our perception of difference, our tolerance towards its expression. They ask us why we have created them.”
We are condemned to enter the world as blank slates to be filled with ‘knowledge’ and learn the ways of society. Our human existence is often more of a palimpsest where we write, erase, and rewrite all that we learn and unlearn. Children, it seems, are better at understanding this than adults. At the end of the movie, Minato and Yori are running in a field after the storm with the wind in their hair and laughter on their lips. Yori asks if they are reborn and Minato says they are not. They are satisfied with themselves just as they are, soaking in the new sunlight and revelling in their sweet love.
Amma’s Pride (2024) is a short documentary directed, produced and co-edited by Shiva Krish. As understood in the documentary’s name, it’s about Srija through her Amma, Valli’s point of view. But a little context about Srija’s life:
P. Srija and B Arun Kumar got married in 2018 and wanted to register their marriage officially, but officials turned them away due to Sirja’s trans identity.
Shiva’s initial idea was to capture this historic moment for his state, Tamil Nadu. Srija eventually became the first transwoman in her state to be legally married. And so, in 2018, Shiva got in touch with Srija to seek permission to shoot a documentary about her life. It’s obvious that Srija and Arun both were a bit hesitant of Shiva, a complete stranger shooting their life when they were the most vulnerable.
Shiva: A New Family Member
Over the years, Shiva has gotten closer to the family and they opened up to him both on-camera and off-camera. Spending time with them, he realised that the primary foundation of their story, of their fight, starts with Valli being supportive. As bare minimum it sounds, Valli is a solid rock in their relationship. You can see every time she speaks that she wishes nothing but her daughters’ happiness, she clings onto hope for her, fights the world for her, and wakes up every morning returning love to the world, be it kittens, her son in law or the cows who occasionally stop by for a bite.
Srija and Arun faced a lot of ups and downs in their relationship throughout the course of filming, while we see at times them yearning to get back together, we can’t imagine what it actually felt like to fight the fight they fought not just as individuals but as a couple as well.
Shiva remained an observer in their environment, at times acting as a passive soundboard. Shiva also mentioned that there was a lot of untangling taking place behind the camera, which led me to question, would Srija and Arun have faced everything they went through if it wasn’t for their queerness?
It’s a simple question, but it’s a question that has the most obvious answer that can leave anyone feeling helpless.
Valli: An Ally & A Proud Mother
The film starts with a serene morning in Valli and Srija’s household with 4 kittens chilling, idli batter being churned and warm sunlight lighting their house up. We know right off the bat that Valli is truly proud to have Srija as her daughter, she’s talking about how Srija is the first person in her family to go to college.
At the Gaysi Family screening of the short documentary, I had the chance to speak to Shiva directly. I asked him how the idea to shoot it from the Amma’s perspective came to him, to which he explained that it was not his original intention to focus on Valli, but he realised after shooting them for over a year that Valli was the reason their story had come as far as it does. Srija and Arun both relied on Valli’s support. And it isn’t often that we get to see supportive parents represented in films about queer folx, they’re often in the background, but making Valli the main lens to understand Srija seemed essential to show as well.
Srija: Pride & Rock For Amma
It’s not that the entire film relies on showing us that Valli is the eternal mother who is holding Srija’s hand as she lives her life. But we can see how much Srija is an essential part of Valli’s identity as well. Srija has enabled Valli to find this side of herself that remains strong, yet gentle/
The most remarkable thing about Valli is that we learn she raised Srija and her brother as a single mother. We see that Valli stands by her daughter not just as a mother but as a woman in solidarity as well making sure she’s able to be financially independent, well read and doesn’t have to depend on Arun for anything. Unfortunately, this sort of solidarity is uncommon to find in most households, regardless of the daughter being trans or cis, globally where mothers would rather have their daughters be a part of the destructive system than stand up for themselves.
Amma’s Pride: Final Thoughts
The most obvious thought chasing me as I was watching the film was, “this wouldn’t be the case if the couple was cis-het.”
Srija is one of the only few transwomen in India who has been able to gather support from her family and have a partner who left his home for her. I think what the film reminds us, is not just how proud Vallis is but how easy and difficult it is to be a queer parent. Srija’s love is unconditional in ways that I hope everyone regardless of their identity is able to get.
As of now, Arun has returned to Srija and lives with Valli, and it’s least to say more or less a happy ending. Their struggles might continue for longer (as it is when it comes to queer couples). Srija and Arun have recently moved out of Valli’s house (at a short distance) and are planning to adopt soon!
We end the film on a note and assurance that Valli will always stand by not just Srija but stands as an example of how to unconditionally love your children!
I was the new boy in school, having joined in the ninth grade. My parents were divorced and I lived with my mother. Because of the transferable nature of my mother’s job, I had already been to four schools in as many cities before landing up in Bangalore at this particular school.
I had long learnt to keep my feelings to myself. I am unsure whether I was born introverted or life made me that way. But the knowledge that any friends I made would soon be taken away from me, since transfers were frequent, made me reluctant to make the effort to make new ones.
But these same varied experiences in different schools had also made me, or so I have always believed, a good judge of human character. I could tell instinctively if a person was worthy of my trust or not. I no longer had the emotional energy to make a lot of friends, rather I concentrated on making the one or two friends that I could rely on.
So, when I entered this new school as a ninth grader, I laid low and observed my environment for a few days through my bespectacled eyes. This particular school was located on the outskirts of the city and did not have many students. It was struggling to do well to hold onto the few students it did have. The management had money and infrastructure so the classes were large and airy, the sports ground big, the school fee high and the students spoiled and entitled. The teachers dared not discipline anyone as any complaints from the parents and their wards was taken very seriously and the Principal was obsessed with getting referrals for new admissions and with making sure that not even the most delinquent child left the school.
Of all the schools that I had been to till now, this school gave the most opportunities for students to engage in creative, academic and sporty extracurricular activities. In fact, I noticed that a group of three or four students, who held various prefectorial positions, made most of the decisions when it came to planning events and competitions. The Principal mostly just went along with their plans, behaving like nothing more than a rubber stamp.
It didn’t take me long to notice the Head Boy, Ravi, who was particularly active in all the extracurricular affairs that went on. He spoke well, was academically brilliant, and was constantly surrounded by at least two or three girls who followed him wherever he went. He had the reputation of being loud, confident and a natural leader who expected others to fall in line with whatever he wanted or decided.
Students and teachers spoke in whispers of their dislike over Ravi’s sense of entitlement. And yet, I felt, that they were afraid of him. Being new, I did not entirely understand why that should be so. He came across as very charming and well-spoken, especially to the Principal and the senior teachers. Yet, I had overheard him talk about them in the most degrading terms with his close group of sycophantic followers.
Despite my instinct telling me that Ravi was a person not to be messed with, despite the feeling of dread that came over me whenever I was near him, I could not help but develop a crush on him. He was tall, good-looking and intelligent. For me, these qualities held a strong attraction. Yet, I was also put off by his aggressive desire to be obeyed, to lead, to be the centre of all things and his absolute disrespect towards the teachers and students that he did not think were good enough to be in his circle.
At that age, I was still confused about my sexuality. I had had crushes on girls and some girls had reciprocated as well. But I was also aware of being attracted to boys. Ravi, however, was my first real boy crush.
We had various hobby clubs and he and I happened to be in the debating club. That is where I first got to interact with him. He, as usual, was very overbearing and loved to take over the debate. He expected others to listen to him but did not reciprocate the same courtesy. Such was his ability to hold the room, though, that he got away with dominating the discussions. I disliked this and we would often get into verbal duels.
It was during one such duel that something shifted between us. He made a point in his usual aggressive way. I would have loved to counter but I recognised the validity of it. I looked him in the eye and stated my acceptance and looked down and away. But I felt him continue to stare in an intense way. By the end of the class, as we were leaving, he walked up to me, bent down, (me being a head shorter than him), and almost in passing, whispered clearly in my ear, “I write love poems. Would you like to see them?” He did not wait for my reply and walked on.
A few days later, he came to me during the lunch break, with his English notebook. He asked me to have a look at his writings. We sat together and poured over his poems. I was good in English and gave him my honest feedback. The poems were actually not bad, and I was impressed. We exchanged numbers as he wanted to send me more of his work.
Thus, it all began, He sent me his work, I read it and gave my feedback. The poems had started off subtle, but later the references to a boy being the subject became more obvious. And then he started to sneak in innuendos into our conversations. In school, when we sat together to read, he would place his hands on me, or run his fingers across my thighs, or bend down to retrieve a pencil and caress my feet. It was all very suggestive and all too fast.
I had observed the way he behaved with those he thought were below him, teachers and students. And being a person who doesn’t open up immediately, my guards were always up when it came to Ravi. I was attracted to him, but I knew he wasn’t the type of person I wanted to be with. With Ravi, it was all utilitarian. Another human being held value for him only till his own needs were being served. So, when he tried to be more overtly flirtatious, I decided I needed to be honest and draw the line. I told him quite frankly that I was not interested. And that’s when things took a nasty turn.
Ravi slandered me. He spread rumours that implied I was gay and obsessed with him. His close-knit followers, like mindless sheep, blindly did his bidding, adding fuel to the rumours he started. I was teased and bullied. I grit my teeth and bore it all for I knew there was no escape till the grade 10 boards. Somehow, I made it thorough and as soon as the boards finished I left the school. The sense of relief, of sheer freedom, on my last day was almost euphoric.
When I look back now at that experience, I am actually grateful to have gone through it. It made me realize the stark difference between real love and infatuation. It makes me proud to think that even at that young age I knew not to slavishly give my heart away to someone just because of their external charm or beauty. I valued internal goodness over shallow attraction. It cost me dear for a time, but I learnt a lot about myself and came out stronger. I learnt, most of all, that reputation is easily manufactured or destroyed. But, if one’s conscience is clear, one can swim through the muddiest river of slander and come out clean.
It is not easy to pull off a film with a 100-minute run-time that can make the audience laugh, cry, and snap their fingers at the screen throughout. But then again, Layla is not just a film—it is living, breathing proof of the magic that happens when queer people get to tell their own stories. In Layla, Amrou Al-Kadhi has taken the beating heart of London’s Arab queer drag scene and celebrated those beats by putting them at the foreground of a fierce number that is best performed in seven-inch heels and a full face of glitter.
The fact that drag queens of colour exist and are cunty and phenomenal is obviously not news to queer folx of colour. What makes Layla so refreshing and brilliant is its refusal to cater to the white cishet male gaze. At no point is a powerpoint presentation pulled out to explain the difference between gender and sexual orientation (because the well-meaning right wing voter just wants to learn!), and no one gives a point-by-point analysis of the difference between a given name and a chosen name (and why you should use the latter), and none of the queer characters are forced to come across as likeable through the process of giving a makeover to a white girl (who just needs to learn how to be more confident in herself, don’t be rude.) While I am not completely against films that include the former two tropes, since I understand the role that media can play in educating the masses, it does get tiring as a queer person to have every LGBTQ+ film you watch be speaking to straight people instead. In fact, forget speaking to them, Layla does not even give a lot of screen time to cishet people, which should not feel so revolutionary but in today’s socio-political landscape absolutely does.
Bilal Hasna plays the titular 20-something Layla, an British-Palestinian drag queen who is so used to code-switching that it has stopped ringing alarm bells in their head when they see themself having to cut the corners of their identity to make other people comfortable. First things first: Bilal is a star. This has to be a career-making performance because he inhabits the character so unassumingly and casually that it is genuinely not believable that he wasn’t just going about his life, unaware that there was a camera following him. His portrayal of Layla is soft and fierce at the same time, making you want to simultaneously give the character a tight, warm hug and bow down to their talent. Whenever Bilal put on drag and got on stage, I found myself transfixed with the beauty of the performance. So when I tell you that I was absolutely SHOOK on learning that he had never done drag before, I am not exaggerating. Not even a little bit.
When I spoke to producer Savannah James-Bayly about how much this surprised me she shared, “One of my favourite moments of the film’s production was Bilal’s final audition, in which we had a brilliant make up artist, Byron London (who does Bimini’s make up amongst others), come and put Bilal into a drag look. I will never forget the moment of Bilal going over to the mirror to see himself in drag for the first time. It was like he suddenly had this new perspective on himself. He kept saying “I look so beautiful” and you could see his whole energy and physicality shift as he channeled this previously untapped power source within him.”
The lived-experience then, is brought in by Writer-Director Amrou Al-Kadhi, whose British-Iraqi heritage and background in drag performance shines through the world-building and sensitivity with which the material is handled. The way Amrou shoots is visceral and real; cinematic shots blending emotionally heavy moments. The only time when this did not work for me was when the shot of Layla twirling is cut with flashback scenes, as I feel that by that time the audience has connected enough with Layla to not need a spelling-out of what is going on in their mind. But this was a minor moment in a story that does a great job in allowing its beautiful and complex protagonist to have a rich inner world.
Huge shout-out to the costume and set designers who have done such a brilliant job of capturing the essence of the spirits of different characters through what they wear and where they choose to spend their time. The supporting cast is phenomenal as well, with actors like Saffiya Ingar, Terique Jarret, and Time Bowie giving performances that feel organic and are truly brilliant. The queer friendships and familial relationships shown in the film are perhaps the closest portrayal that I have seen to what they are like in real life, and the warmth and coziness on-screen will make you want to be a part of Layla’s world. I cannot recommend this one enough—Layla will definitely stay with you long after the rolling credits.
Seemingly meaningless interactions somehow have the inconvenient honour of having the most long-term impact imaginable. I was in sixth grade when I was first introduced to the words gay and lesbian, not by teachers or other adult figures in my life, but by my classmates. And it was clear from that first introduction that these were not nice words and that whatever they meant was probably not something I wanted to be.
Language is powerful. The way we speak (i.e., our intonations) communicates subliminally even when everything appears normal on the surface. I didn’t know what being gay or lesbian meant, but learning about these terms from my equally ignorant and excitable 10-year-old classmates would not have been my go-to source of knowledge if I had had a say. While I had access to the internet, which helped me fill in the blanks, the initial fear of potentially putting myself in the line of fire by mistakenly admitting to a queer identity never really left.
As I grew older and bolder, so did my classmates. Being queer was no longer a bad thing, at least not if you wanted to keep your social clout. I considered myself an ally, but beyond that, I was just another woke, straight teenager attending a private school. It wasn’t until 6 years after my initial, less-than-savoury introduction to queerness that I realised and admitted to myself that I was not nearly as straight as I thought I was.
Internalised homophobia is an insidious thing. I didn’t have an issue with queerness outside of myself, and so I believed that there was nothing to examine within myself. My childhood discomfort manifested as wilful ignorance and an unwillingness to look at the signs that would have made my queerness quite obvious. I mean, there is no straight explanation for my fixation on The Chronicles of Narnia’s Prince Caspian, the Avril Lavigne ‘Hot’ music video, and (weirdly enough) Cat Ranger from Power Rangers SPD.
Thankfully, I had sleepovers and curiosity-driven sexuality tests to fall back on. The scientific validity of the Kinsey scale and the test are highly debated – and I am not here to comment on its accuracy – but filling in that test and seeing the results changed my life, regardless. At 16, I was pretty comfortable in my own skin and had finally matured enough that the opinions of others didn’t bother me. So when I finally finished filling in all the questions, clicked on the results and saw the word bisexual staring at me in the face, I just felt a sort of calm acceptance. Sure, bisexuality is a spectrum, and it was far from a fifty-fifty split, but suddenly, I had a word I could and did identify with.
Getting clarity on my sexuality was an important milestone for me. While I didn’t care about the implications of coming out, it did alter how people spoke about me behind my back. Bisexuality is, after all, one of the most misunderstood of all sexual orientations out there. Jokes were cracked, raising questions about whether or not I found any of my friends attractive as if queer people have no discernment whatsoever. But this time the possibility of being teased didn’t make me anxious. I was better equipped and more willing to engage in uncomfortable conversations if the need arose. After all, I finally knew there was nothing wrong with me.
Retrospectively, my relationship with my sexuality showed me that it’s necessary to have open conversations about things like gender and sexuality with kids at a young age. It’s easy to avoid uncomfortable discussions, cross your fingers and hope that the kids are smart enough to figure things out themselves, but that doesn’t make it the appropriate approach. Children are like sponges, a simple introduction to the concept, and they’ll run with it. Leave kids to their own devices, and they might jump to the worst conclusions and wreak havoc.
More importantly, check the language you use when speaking about these topics or any sensitive issue, for that matter. Words have power; something, I think, we forget. There is a reason why authors, journalists and editors spend hours on a single sentence because the wrong word alters the meaning altogether. This is the care with which we should approach spoken language as well. I write this in the hope that another kid doesn’t take a good sixteen years to come to terms with their own identity.
Han’s palms, sweaty and tentative, stay on Kim’s waist as twin supports. He does what he always does: stays put and steadies the other’s weight until he’s allowed to move too. But something is off about today. Something is weird. There’s none of the usual rush. Kim didn’t barge into his apartment and throw all his stuff to the ground in a frustrated huff. He didn’t wrest Han’s attention or twist his clothes or wordlessly tip them onto the sofa. He moved slowly, meticulously, like he’d planned this for a while.
That can’t be right, Han thinks to himself.
It’s difficult for him to concentrate today. He can’t keep his thoughts switched off like he always does. He can’t be Kim’s usual de-stressing tool, there are too many questions swirling in his head. He can’t shut his brain up, can’t close his mind off, can’t squeeze the flesh of Kim’s ass and let him ride out the vague pressures of a high-strung lifestyle.
Kim’s hair drips with sweat. His breath shivers and sighs. His eyes rove over Han’s face. Usually, the ceiling holds his interest. Usually he’s quick and efficient. Usually he doesn’t press his fingers into Han’s neck or lean their foreheads together or even so much as bunch up his shirt. But today he does. Today he peels the clothes off them and hugs Han’s head to his naked, damp, racing chest. Today he coils his arms around them in a delicate hold and presses his mouth to the crown of Han’s head. Today his thighs shudder and falter as he lifts and drops in place.
The beat under Han’s ribs bounces in time. Something is weird. Something’s not right. He tightens his hold around the other, and for a moment Kim can’t move. He’s held in place, pinned and sobbing.
“Breathe,” Han murmurs. “Just breathe a minute.” They both do, inhales and exhales eventually falling in step with each other until Kim can lean away and peer down between them.
“… should I stop?” he gulps.
“If you want to.”
Kim shakes his head. “What do you want?”
“You,” he answers for the moment, and Kim shifts them onto his back to allow it. He lets Han bury himself into modest wishes and uncomplicated desires. He lets Han sate his plain hunger. He lets them be consumed by the simplicity of being here, being together, being unbound by the complexities of wanting more.
What do you want: The real, sincere answer will always be missing. Han will never know what to say. He will never know what he wants. He will never reach the resolution to his ambitions, his longings, his constant itch. Because Kim barges into his apartment whenever he pleases. Because Kim wrests his attention and twists his heart and tips him over with the smallest, most innocuous of suggestions. Han will always be lost. He will always be adrift. He will never be disentangled from himself, because in the intervals between Kim’s entries and exits, he will choose to wander aimlessly.
Kim clamps his legs around them, closing the cage of his body and leaving Han trapped under the weight of his endless gravitation. He welcomes Han to the nothings of this confluence, to the trifles of their meetings and partings, to all the unimportant importances he assigns to this moment. With a quiet groan against the shell of Han’s ear, Kim makes certain that all the exits remain ignored and the only door Han chooses is the one that leads to this. To them.
Something is strange. Something is off. Something is weird. Something doesn’t sit right in the hollows of his heart. But Han won’t think about it. Not now, not later. He will think of what Kim feels like under steamy incoherencies, what he tastes like in every kiss, what his fingers and toes do at every push. He will think of Kim’s tired texts to meet in the middle of the night. He will think of Kim’s radiant stare when they are separated by no more than skin. He will think of Kim’s insistent teeth and demanding nails when he’s pressed long and deep, only to be breached longer and deeper.
Han will think of nothing else, endlessly lost, endlessly indisposed, endlessly Kim’s.
Okay, let’s get real for a sec. Advance directives (ADs) might not be the hottest topic at brunch, but trust me — this is something we need to talk about. Especially if you’re queer or trans, this can literally be life-changing.
Let’s face it — we’ve all had moments when we felt too overwhelmed, anxious, or just out of it to explain exactly what we needed. Sometimes, articulating your needs isn’t easy, and during a crisis, it can feel downright impossible. That’s why having a plan in place ahead of time can make all the difference.
Here’s the deal: an advance directive is a legal doc that lets you lay down the rules for your future medical and mental health care in case you’re ever unable to speak for yourself. It’s like sending a voice memo to the future when things get tough. You’re basically telling the world how you want to be cared for when you’re not in the headspace to make those calls.
Usually, people put their spouse or a family member in charge of making decisions for them. Sweet, right? But here’s the thing — for queer and trans folks, that’s not always the vibe. Family dynamics can be messy. Sometimes there’s estrangement, rejection, or just a lack of understanding. And let’s be honest, the last thing you want during a mental health crisis is for someone who doesn’t get you (or your identity) calling the shots.
That’s why this convo is crucial. In India, the Mental Healthcare Act of 2017 is a game-changer. It lets you choose anyone you trust to step in as your proxy — not just your bio fam or legal spouse. Your bestie who’s been through it all with you? The partner you’ve built a life with but who your family refuses to acknowledge? They can officially have your back.
This matters because queer and trans communities face higher rates of mental health challenges, and traditional family structures might not always provide the support we need. Having an AD in place means you’re in control of your care, even if life throws a curveball.
TL;DR: Advance directives = self-care power move. It’s a way to make sure your voice is heard when you need it most, and for queer and trans folks, it’s a lifeline that lets chosen family step up when bio fam can’t. Don’t sleep on it.
The Importance of Advance Directives for Queer and Trans Individuals
Let’s talk facts — mental health isn’t a level playing field, and for LGBTQIA+ folks, the scales are often tilted in the wrong direction. Studies consistently show that queer and trans people experience higher rates of depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts. And it’s not hard to see why. From dealing with discrimination to rejection by natal families and the exhausting act of masking one’s identity, the weight of it all adds up fast.
One study highlighted that queer and trans individuals are way more likely to face mental health crises compared to their cis-het peers. It’s a glaring reminder of why we need mental health support systems that actually respect and protect LGBTQIA+ lives — not just in theory but in real, practical ways.
Enter the Mental Healthcare Act of 2017 — a much-needed win. This Act gives people the right to set the terms for their mental health care through advance directives. Section 5 of the Act is particularly important because it allows anyone to choose a proxy or representative to make decisions on their behalf during a psychiatric emergency. For queer and trans folks, this is a big deal. It means that even if your bio family isn’t exactly your biggest cheerleader, you can appoint someone who actually understands and supports you.
But (and there’s always a but), just because the law is inclusive doesn’t mean the process is easy or well-known. A lot of people — especially queer and trans individuals — don’t know this option exists. Plus, let’s be real, healthcare hasn’t always been a safe space. From being misgendered to receiving subpar care (or no care at all), bad experiences can make people hesitant to engage with the system. And honestly, who wants to navigate more bureaucracy when past run-ins have left you feeling unseen or invalidated?
That’s why breaking down this process and making it more accessible is crucial. Advance directives aren’t just paperwork — they’re tools for empowerment and protection. So, let’s make sure you know how to use them. We’re here to walk you through it step by step, and hopefully, by the end, it won’t feel nearly as intimidating.
Barriers to Creating Advance Directives for LGBTQIA+ Individuals
Alright, let’s get into why advance directives aren’t as widely used in the LGBTQIA+ community — and spoiler alert, it’s not because people don’t care about their mental health. One of the biggest roadblocks is simply not knowing these options exist.
Studies show that a lot of queer and trans folks have never even heard of advance directives, let alone considered creating one. In fact, one study in India found that nearly 72% of LGBTQIA+ respondents had little to no clue about these legal provisions. And guess what? Even healthcare professionals are in the same boat. Only a small fraction knew what advance directives were or had actually put one in place. When both the patients and the providers are in the dark, you can see how this becomes a cycle.
Then there’s the other, more gut-punchy reason — fear of discrimination. For LGBTQIA+ individuals, talking about healthcare preferences often comes with the added stress of having to out yourself, sometimes in environments that feel anything but safe. Many avoid these conversations altogether because they worry about being judged, misgendered, or dismissed. And honestly, who can blame them? When past experiences include conversion therapy, family violence, or outright rejection, trusting the system isn’t exactly the easiest thing to do.
These barriers aren’t just inconvenient — they’re actively preventing queer and trans people from protecting their mental health rights. The good news? Awareness changes the game. By unpacking this process, we can help close the knowledge gap and, hopefully, ease some of those fears.
Why You Should Still Create an Advance Directive
So, here’s the good part — advance directives give queer and trans folks a way out of potentially harmful family dynamics. Instead of your natal family swooping in and making decisions that might not vibe with your identity (or worse, pushing treatments to “fix” you), you get to choose your own proxy. That’s right — your best friend, partner, or chosen fam can officially be the one to call the shots during a mental health crisis. This isn’t just about having someone who gets you — it’s about protecting your right to affirming, respectful care when you need it most.
Thinking of making an AD? Good call. Here’s the lowdown on how to get started (and a few tips to dodge common roadblocks).
How to Create an Advance Directive
Honestly, the process is pretty simple once you know what to do. Here’s the play-by-play:
1. Pick Your Person (or People) Choose someone you trust with your life — literally. This could be your partner, bestie, or anyone who knows your values and won’t let you down. If your natal fam is supportive, cool, they can be your proxy too. You can even name more than one person, just in case.
2. Put It in Writing Now for the paperwork part. Use Form CR-A (yep, that’s the official form under the Mental Healthcare Act, 2017). This is where you lay out your treatment preferences — what you want, what you don’t want. You sign it, your proxy signs it, and you’ll need two witnesses to make it official.
3. Register It Take that signed form and register it with your state’s Mental Health Review Board (MHRB). Not sure if your state has one? You can check row 14 on this sheet. Once you submit, the directive should pop up online within 14 days. Easy peasy.
4. Make Changes Anytime If life (or your preferences) changes, no worries — you can update or revoke your directive whenever. Just keep your proxy and doctor in the loop.
5. Your Proxy’s Job Your chosen person isn’t just there for moral support — they’ll need to make sure the healthcare team knows about your directive. They can also ask questions about your treatment to make informed decisions. Basically, they’re your healthcare MVP.
Having an AD isn’t just about legal safety — it’s about peace of mind. And for queer and trans folks, that’s priceless.
Practical Tips
So, creating an Advance Directive (AD) is super important, but dealing with bureaucracy can be a real drag. To make things easier, here are a few tips to make this process easier:
Get your ducks in a row: Make sure you have all the paperwork ready. This includes your filled-out Form CR-A and copies of your IDs, your proxy’s IDs, and the IDs of your witnesses. If you’re going to a mental hospital or the Mental Health Review Board, bring a physical file with everything organised. Trust us, it’ll save you time.
Talk it out: Let your representative, doctor, and close friends know your wishes. This ensures everyone understands your plan and that your AD is legit.
Know your stuff: Familiarise yourself with the Mental Healthcare Act, 2017, especially sections 5 (about ADs) and 82 (about the Review Board). Having these sections handy can help answer questions and show you know your rights. You can find the Act and Rules here and here.
Why is this important? ADs give queer and trans folks control over their mental healthcare. It means your trusted people can make sure your wishes are respected, even in a crisis.
Don’t let the process scare you! Creating an AD is a powerful way to protect yourself and ensure your care aligns with your values.
As more people understand the importance of ADs and healthcare systems become more inclusive, we can create a system that truly respects the dignity and autonomy of all queer and trans individuals.
About Safe Access:
Safe Access is a community-led initiative and a flagship project under Qequal Foundation, a Section 8, Not-for-Profit registered company. It works toward enabling access to affirmative healthcare for LGBTQ+ communities across India through various services such as the Community Wellbeing Project and Queer Lips.
References:
Dhru KA, Ghooi RB. Advance Directives in India: Seeking the Individual within the Community. In: Cheung D, Dunn M, eds. Advance Directives Across Asia: A Comparative Socio-Legal Analysis. Cambridge University Press; 2023:110-130. Link.
Mohan, S., & Murthy, S. (2013). Towards Gender Inclusivity. In Banglalore: Alternative Law Forum.
Arora, L., Bhujang, P. M., & Sivakami, M. (2022). Understanding discrimination against LGBTQIA+ patients in Indian hospitals using a human rights perspective: an exploratory qualitative study. Sexual and Reproductive Health Matters, 29(2). Link.
Reich AJ, Perez S, Fleming J, et al. Advance Care Planning Experiences Among Sexual and Gender Minority People. JAMA Netw Open. 2022;5(7):e2222993. doi:10.1001/jamanetworkopen.2022.22993
United Nations Committee on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities General comment No. 1 Article 12: Equality before the law. CRPD/C/GC/1. 2014. Link.
SARIN, Alok ; MURTHY, Pratima ; CHATTERJEE, Sudipto Psychiatric advance directives: potential challenges in India. Indian Journal of Medical Ethics, [S.l.], v. 9, n. 2, p. 104, nov. 2016. ISSN 0975-5691. Available at: Link. Date accessed: 16 Oct. 2024.
Wandrekar JR, Nigudkar AS. What Do We Know About LGBTQIA+ Mental Health in India? A Review of Research From 2009 to 2019. Journal of Psychosexual Health. 2020;2(1):26-36. doi:10.1177/2631831820918129
Hunt J, Bristowe K, Chidyamatare S, Harding R. ‘So isolation comes in, discrimination and you find many people dying quietly without any family support’: Accessing palliative care for key populations – an in-depth qualitative study. Palliative Medicine. 2019;33(6):685-692. doi:10.1177/0269216319835398
Beyond the bench: LGBTQ+ health equity after India’s “no same-sex marriage” verdict,Weiss Goitiandia, Sofia et al., The Lancet Regional Health – Southeast Asia, Volume 30, 100494
Miller, B., Reitz, O.E., Rice, M., (June 6, 2024) “Advance Directives and the LGBTQ+ Population: Preparing Nurses for Practice” OJIN: The Online Journal of Issues in Nursing Vol. 29, No. 3.
In the world of gays, she was a black cat with a black cat named Saaya. And she was a golden retriever with a golden retriever, Cookie. It makes sense to title their story around the two dearest pieces of their hearts. Then, of course, they became pieces of each other’s hearts too.
Like the relief of cold wind on a warm sunny day, she came into her life. Let’s make this easier for all of us and call them Alysha and Leah. Alysha, the epitome of all things introvert, was a shy, quiet, and a broken nobody in her own eyes, except when she was with Leah. With Leah, she felt like she could reach for the stars and grab them by their ever-running tails.
For Alysha, Leah was all things light. She was a perfect apology from the universe, for her otherwise ill-luck. Alysha was used to being dealt the harder hand ever since she could remember. Negligent parents, a toxic family, and an unforgiving societal culture around her. She seemed to have been an outcast her entire life; being ‘queer’ even before she knew what the term meant, let alone how it could relate to her.
She didn’t fit in with her family, was barely able to carve her own space within friend groups, and never got any opportunities to socialize. So, you can only imagine that she was apprehensive when she first met Leah. In Alysha’s very complex head, it was simple: the ‘cool kids’ only talked to the ‘cool kids’. She had been a ‘nerd’ for so long that she found it hard to associate herself with any other label.
But here was Leah, the very definition of ‘cool kid’. If you ask Alysha, to this date, she would say that Leah’s name ought to be in the Oxford dictionary, right next to the definition of the word ‘cool’. The girl with the cool haircut, cool tattoos, and an even cooler air of confidence around her. All of this with a heart-stopping smile and absolutely gorgeous eyes. Alysha’s first meeting with Leah was about to change her life, and she probably didn’t have a clue.
Sitting at a well-lit corner table, anxiously waiting for her (very late) date (coincidentally on the night of Valentine’s!), draped in a black dress, was Alysha. After half an hour of frazzled calls with friends, she was all but ready to leave when Leah showed up. In a slightly see-through white shirt, she looked better than any knight in armor who had been written about.
What happened once they sat down to talk can be described as nothing less than magic. The hours flew by and conversations flowed. With their shared passion of working with children, their supreme love for animals, and mutual interest in cricket, they had multitudes in common. But what they had most of all, were butterflies. Large, colorful, undeniable butterflies.
Leah saw it much quicker, but ultimately even the voices in Alysha’s head could not refuse that this was something real. That they were “meant-to-be” if anyone ever was.
Leah awakened something in Alysha that never existed before – put simply, it was belonging. For all the conditions and manipulation that had existed in Alysha’s life before, Leah was unconditional in a way that made Alysha’s breaths fuller. The blood in Alysha’s veins just flowed freer now, her steps were skippier, and her heart glowed. She was deeply “in love” as they all say. It was all true if anyone was wondering. The sunshine was brighter, the grass greener, the sky bluer, and so on and so forth. Big feelings were being felt by them both, little else mattered.
And so began a magical year of celebration. A year of unsurmountable love, and never-ending joy. They were opposites in so many aspects that it would be unfair to not say they completed each other. Where Alysha was a serious black void, Leah was bright, golden sunshine. But God! They matched in all the right places. Leah’s gentleness was the balm that could heal Alysha’s broken heart. Being together felt just right, just perfect, and just what they needed. When the world was cruel, as it often is, they both found a home in each other’s arms; of course not very far from their fur babies either. This is what made their relationship whole. They loved each other and they loved each other’s loves.
Social media platforms have long offered refuge to queer-trans individuals from the alienation, bullying, and discomfort that they might face in their IRL worlds. However, inadequate content moderation policies adopted by social media platforms leave this group of users vulnerable to hate speech, harassment, and targeted disinformation.
Meta’s recent updates to its content moderation guidelines, combined with ongoing failures by platforms like TikTok and X (formerly Twitter), highlight the urgent need for inclusive and proactive moderation policies.
Meta’s New Guidelines: A Backward Step?
Recently, Meta unveiled sweeping changes to its content moderation policies under the guise of recommitting to “free expression.” These included:
1. Ending its third-party fact-checking program in the United States, replacing it with a “Community Notes”, a system similar to the one employed by X.
2. Rolling back restrictions on sensitive topics like immigration, gender identity, and gender, which Meta deemed overly restrictive.
3. Shifting enforcement to rely less on automated systems and more on user-reported violations.
“Zuckerberg’s removal of fact-checking programs and industry-standard hate speech policies make Meta’s platforms unsafe places for users and advertisers alike. Without these necessary hate speech and other policies, Meta is giving the green light for people to target LGBTQ people, women, immigrants, and other marginalized groups with violence, vitriol, and dehumanizing narratives.”
This rollback prioritizes a hands-off approach under the guise of neutrality, ignoring the inherent power imbalances that exist in digital spaces. Without robust safeguards, queer-trans individuals are left more exposed to targeted harassment, disinformation, and harmful narratives.
Similar Failures on TikTok and X
Meta’s shortcomings echo broader trends across other social media platforms, reflecting systemic failures in content moderation. TikTok, for instance, has faced ongoing criticism for enabling the spread of anti-LGBTQ+ content. A report by them. highlighted how discriminatory rhetoric and coded hate speech often slip through the platform’s filters, fostering an unsafe environment for queer and trans users.
This aligns with findings from a recent Media Matters study, which revealed that TikTok’s recommendation algorithm actively amplifies homophobic and anti-trans content. The study documents how users engaging with neutral or LGBTQIA+ content are quickly funneled toward posts promoting anti-queer rhetoric and, in some cases, outright calls for violence. By failing to address these algorithmic biases, TikTok perpetuates a hostile digital space for queer communities, mirroring the issues seen on X (formerly Twitter) and other platforms struggling with inadequate content moderation practices.
X’s 2024 transparency report too reveals a troubling disconnect between the volume of harmful content flagged by users and the platform’s enforcement actions. Despite over 224 million reports, suspensions have barely increased since 2021. Enforcement against hate speech has dropped significantly, with only 2,361 suspensions for hateful conduct in 2024—down from 104,000 in 2021—reflecting policy changes that no longer treat misgendering and deadnaming as violations.
As highlighted in a recent LinkedIn post by CONTIO Tech, X’s growing reliance on AI for moderation is falling short. The AI systems struggle to detect nuanced hate speech, often missing coded language or misinterpreting context. With limited human oversight, this gap has contributed to rising anti-queer and anti-trans rhetoric on the platform.
The broader trend across social media suggests that marginalized users’ safety continues to be sidelined, raising concerns about the long-term impact of insufficient moderation practices.
The Real-World Consequences
For queer-trans communities, social media is often a rare space where they can safely explore and express their identities. It is a site of connection, advocacy, and empowerment. When platforms fail to address hateful content, the consequences are severe:
Exacerbation of Marginalization: Hateful narratives and harassment drive queer-trans users away from these spaces, increasing feelings of isolation and vulnerability.
Normalization of Anti-Queer Rhetoric: Allowing unchecked hate speech creates a perception that such views are acceptable, emboldening further hostility both online and offline.
Erosion of Trust: Users lose faith in platforms that fail to prioritize their safety, undermining their role as inclusive public forums.
Declining Public Support for LGBTQ+ Rights
While public support for same-sex marriage and nondiscrimination protections for LGBTQ+ Americans remains relatively high, a recent survey by the Public Religion Research Institute (PRRI) in the US, as discussed in The Guardian, reveals troubling declines between 2022 and 2023. Specifically:
1. Support for same-sex marriage fell from 69% to 67%.
2. Nondiscrimination protections in employment, housing, and public spaces dropped from 80% to 76%.
3. Opposition to businesses refusing services to LGBTQ+ individuals on religious grounds decreased from 65% to 60%.
These shifts, driven by changing attitudes among conservative groups, are a clear reflection of broader societal polarization. The rise of nationalist ideologies, often opposed to LGBTQ+ protections, further compounds the challenge of ensuring equitable rights.
The Role of Social Media in Amplifying Harm
As public support for LGBTQ+ rights wanes, legal and political efforts to roll back these rights have intensified, including bans on gender-affirming care and restrictions on gender expression in schools. Social media platforms, which should offer refuge and empowerment to LGBTQ+ individuals, often mirror and amplify these societal tensions. Unfortunately, many platforms, including Meta, fail to provide adequate content moderation, which allows discriminatory content to thrive unchecked.
A recent Human Rights Watch report highlights how Meta’s platforms, such as Facebook and Instagram, often fall short in protecting LGBTQ+ users, particularly in regions where laws and cultural norms criminalize LGBTQ+ identities. Meta’s over-reliance on automation and the lack of sufficient human content moderators who understand the regional and linguistic contexts, particularly in the MENA region, has led to a failure to remove harmful content promptly or accurately. This includes the improper removal of empowering content posted by LGBTQ+ individuals, such as self-referential use of hate speech terms meant to raise awareness. Moreover, Meta’s inadequate moderation systems, which struggle with dialects and regional language nuances, contribute to a broader environment of vulnerability for LGBTQ+ users.
The PRRI survey shows that more than one in ten Americans identify as LGBTQ+, with 22% of those being under 30. For these individuals, social media platforms are crucial, serving as spaces for connection and identity validation. But as the level of online hate escalates, these platforms increasingly pose a risk rather than a sanctuary. The lack of sufficient content moderation allows discriminatory narratives to spread freely, further threatening the safety of already marginalized individuals.
A Call for Inclusive and Effective Moderation Policies
To foster genuinely inclusive and safe digital spaces, social media platforms must take decisive, proactive measures to protect LGBTQ+ users globally from harm. As online hate continues to intersect with broader societal polarization, the need for stronger content moderation is more urgent than ever. This requires a multifaceted approach that addresses both systemic gaps and the lived realities of marginalized communities.
Key Actions for Platforms:
1. Strengthen Hate Speech Policies: Implement transparent, comprehensive guidelines that explicitly target harmful content aimed at LGBTQ+ individuals. Hate speech, incitement to violence, and harassment must be swiftly identified and removed.
2. Enhance AI Moderation with Human Oversight: Platforms should invest in advanced AI systems capable of detecting nuanced, context-specific hate speech, while ensuring human moderators provide critical oversight to address gaps in AI understanding.
3. Engage Marginalized Communities: Content policies must reflect the experiences of queer and trans individuals. Platforms must actively collaborate with LGBTQ+ organizations and digital rights advocates to shape inclusive policies and ensure their enforcement is sensitive to community needs.
4. Monitor and Address Discriminatory Narratives: Recognizing that online hate fuels real-world harm, platforms must proactively target content that perpetuates harmful stereotypes. This involves more than content removal—it demands understanding how digital spaces shape public attitudes and contribute to broader societal discrimination.
5. Invest in Regional Expertise: Moderation efforts must be tailored to reflect cultural and linguistic nuances. By engaging local activists and utilizing resources such as the Arabic Queer Hate Speech Lexicon, platforms like Meta can better protect LGBTQ+ users in regions where they face heightened risks.
6. Commit to Transparency: Platforms must regularly publish detailed reports on enforcement actions, mistakes, and the direct impact on marginalized users. Transparency ensures accountability and drives continuous improvement in moderation practices.
By addressing these critical gaps, platforms can move beyond performative gestures and demonstrate a genuine commitment to protecting marginalized communities. Advocacy and accountability remain essential in ensuring that digital spaces—where LGBTQ+ users find community, build solidarity, and advocate for their rights—continue to thrive. The stakes are too high to allow harmful rhetoric and disinformation to persist unchecked.
Political lesbianism, a concept born out of the radical feminist movements of the 1970s, is the intellectual equivalent of showing up to a heteronormative party with a flamethrower. It isn’t just about sexual attraction, but about blowing up the very foundations of a system that has kept women firmly planted under the boot of the patriarchy.
For supporters of political lesbianism, relationships with cis-men were seen as a form of cultural conditioning, where women, shaped by societal norms, unknowingly surrendered their autonomy to maintain conformity. A situation where even love was actually a sinister mechanism reinforcing male dominance. The idea pioneered by the Leeds Revolutionary Feminist Group’s pamphlet, ‘The Case Against Heterosexuality’, proposed that lesbianism was less about who you wanted to kiss and more about which system you wanted to destroy.
The interesting thing is political lesbianism didn’t just challenge the personal—it challenged the political, the social, and maybe even your last few Tinder swipes. The radical stance that all relationships with cis-men were inherently patriarchal drew sharp lines dividing, on one side, women who saw this as the only way to escape male dominance, and those who still wanted to believe that some men could help in dismantling the patriarchy, on the other. In a lot of ways, it wasn’t just a declaration of independence from men—it was a full-on secession. The feminists who embraced this movement were essentially telling those they considered agents of patriarchy (i.e., cis-men), “It’s not me, it’s you,” and then ghosting half the population.
But of course, not everyone saw this as a love story gone wrong. Many lesbians who had arrived at their identity through attraction, rather than politics, felt that political lesbianism turned something deeply personal into a campaign slogan. It’s like if someone said, “You don’t love hiking, you just hate cars!” The conflation of lesbianism with an ideological tool made it most uncomfortable for them. But political lesbianism isn’t exactly a cozy concept; it was supposed to shake the foundations of what we thought of sex, power, and relationships.
Criticism aside, the concept of political lesbianism is still relevant today, though often framed differently. Adrienne Rich’s idea of “compulsory heterosexuality” dovetails with political lesbianism’s critique of straight/straight-passing relationships. The idea is that society pushes cis-women into relationships with cis-men because it’s what’s expected. But today, with the rise of queer theory and the celebration of fluid sexual identities, we might just say that political lesbianism was ahead of its time, shaking us out of our default mode of compulsory-heterosexuality. Even if you’re not signing up for the full political lesbianism package, the movement has made a lasting impact on how we think about sexuality as a praxis—and one that can be political.
Let’s pivot to pop culture for a moment, because you can’t talk about radical ideas without bringing in the Hollywood machinery (or really any industry that manufactures entertainment and glamour). Take “Mrs. America”; While the series doesn’t dive into political lesbianism directly, it simmers in the background, reflecting how radical feminist ideas created rifts even within the feminist movement. In particular, through the character of Brenda Feign-Fasteau. The show offers a window into the tensions and complexities of the era and how radical feminism wasn’t just fighting the patriarchy, but was also sparking intense debates among feminists themselves.
Now, if you think political lesbianism was confined to the 1970s, think again. The concept has found a modern parallel in places like South Korea. Enter the “4B movement”—a catchy term for a group of women rejecting dating, sex, marriage, and childbirth. These women aren’t necessarily calling themselves political lesbians, but the spirit remains the same. They’ve basically told the patriarchal expectations of South Korean society, “Thanks, but no thanks.” South Korea’s patriarchy is a monster of it’s own making, and the women in the 4B movement are fighting it in their own way—by living their best life, minus the boyfriend.
In reflecting on political lesbianism, it’s clear that the idea still raises some deliciously provocative questions. Is who we choose to love or partner with ever really free of political context? The notion that personal relationships can serve as battlegrounds for larger systemic struggles forces us to take a good, hard look at how power operates in our lives. Sure, for some, the idea of using lesbianism as a political tool might feel like an oversimplification, like asking someone to choose between coffee and tea without acknowledging that some people really just want a margarita. But the core of political lesbianism is challenging how systems of power shape our intimate lives, and this has left a lasting mark on feminist thought.
What’s really intriguing is that political lesbianism doesn’t just apply to historical or niche movements. It’s a reminder that sexuality, like everything else, isn’t just personal—it’s deeply political. Even today, in conversations about gender roles, sexuality, and relationships, the echoes of political lesbianism challenge us to think more critically. Maybe it’s not just about who we love, but about how we love, and how the structures around us try to dictate what that love should look like.
Ultimately, political lesbianism wasn’t just about women saying “no” to men—it was about saying “yes” to autonomy and to the possibility of love and solidarity outside the traditional frameworks we’re handed. Whether or not you buy into the full ideology, political lesbianism invites us to question the most intimate aspects of our lives and imagine new ways of living, loving, and resisting. In a world that’s always telling us how to be and whom to love, there’s something undeniably radical—and a little bit freeing—about taking a step back and saying, “Maybe I’ll do it my way.”
The first season introduces us to the games and primary protagonist–Seong Gi Hun (played by South Korean veteran actor, Lee Jung Jae) a gambling addict in massive debt. Tired of his life, he meets a man at the subway (The Salesman played by the iconic K-drama superstar Gong Yoo) who asks him to play a popular children’s game–Ddakji–with him in exchange for money. Gi-Hun ends up getting an invite from The Salesman for the bigger games where he can earn more money (final prize of ₩45.6 billion/$31 million).
On arriving at the games, Gi-Hun realises that they’ll be playing children’s games but the catch is that the losers lose their lives, as in, they’re killed on losing. We learn towards the end of season 1 that the “game” is a larger gambling scheme where the players themselves are pawns. And the money they “win” is just the bets made on them.
The queer critique post season 1 was that they showed the one and only gay character to be a rich, sinister molester. It’s an age-old negative stereotype that doesn’t help queer representation in the media. Especially when it’s on a globally popular show and from a blatantly queerphobic country like South Korea.
Credits: Netflix
Season 2 Trailer Drop––A Trans Character?
Season 2 trailer didn’t reveal much about the new episodes, but seasoned K-drama fans noticed a familiar face and started putting 2 and 2 together. With barely a second on the screen, people recognised rising villain star Park Sung Hoon in a wig. Park Sung Hoon has been largely cast as gruesome villains in his career, playing them splendidly. Which got me worried that given season 1’s history, they wouldn’t have cast Park as a trans villain, further antagonising queer folx in the country. One of the prominent fan-theories that came forward was that he’s playing an undercover cop, the second theory that came out (which turned out to be true) was that he’s playing a transwoman. And thus a controversy erupted––should a cis-actor play a trans character?
Credits: Netflix
To which I say,
1. We don’t know if he’s a cis-man, we all know the lengths Korean entertainment industry goes to cover up their stars’ personal relationships, let alone queerness.
2. Name one trans actor in the South Korean industry who would have dared to come out and play a trans character without facing immense hate later on?
South Korean netizens are harsh and often run hate-campaigns against stars who even get married. It took decades for a gay actor like Hong Seok-Cheon decades before he was given bigger roles in shows and still remains as one of the only openly gay actors in South Korea.
I did some more digging and found out that there were only 5, mere FIVE shows with trans characters in South Korean shows till Squid Game 2 dropped (making it 6).
The last show we saw with a trans character, Ma Hyeon-yi was in Netflix’s Itaewon Class (2021) which was played by Lee Joo Young (a cis-woman).
They did manage to do Hyun Joo justice, they made her a well-rounded character that has surprises packed for you throughout her appearance. She’s shown to open up slowly as the games progress and she finds allyship with her team members. She knows that after facing death thrice together, she can trust them with her story. First seen as a shy-timid and reserved girl who keeps to herself, and is shown to face issues during team games due to her trans identity. She’s not scared, mind you, she’s one of the first players to speak up against the soldiers’ harsh behaviour. And she’s also the first one to trust leading man Gi-Hun’s instructions during the first game.
We learn that she’s soft and protective and here to make money to finish her transition. She dreams of moving to Thailand after paying off her debts in South Korea. We also find out that she’s not in debt because of gambling, but rather because she’s transitioning and has lost her job, family and all of her friends. The system has forced her into debt, making it impossible for her to even live a dignified life.
One of her dialogues that made me truly sad was, “I may be happy in my body now, but my life’s gone to shit otherwise.” It highlights body dysphoria in a new light within mainstream media.
The moment I realised that the showmakers were serious about creating a good character for Hyun Joo is when during the six-legged race, we see her transition from a timid girl to a natural leader. Leadership comes to her as easy as her breathing. She’s calm even in the face of death, her iconic slap was just to show everyone that she understands her team members despite having just met them. We also find out that she’s actually a dismissed soldier. No wonder she’s soooo good at keeping people calm and is able to give and follow orders that well!?
A wholesome moment where we also see what a great actor and potential trans-ally Park is when Hyun Joo is called Unnie (older sister) by a fellow player, Yong Mi. There’s a spark in Hyun Joo’s eye that screams gender euphoria. We can see in those micro-seconds how Hyun Joo just wants to cry and hug Yong Mi for accepting her. It’s probably also one of the first times that Hyun Joo is called unnie.
Credits: Netflix
Another lovely addition to her arc is that she’s never shown to sacrifice her masculinity for her femme presentation, she doesn’t run away from who she used to be, she’s still the same person who is just more happier in her skin now!
Other Potential Queer Characters (fan theory)
There’s a certain sexual tension between The Salesman and Seong Gi-Hun, because, hear me out, they only unravel like that around each other. We have always seen the Salesman as a composed guy, but he looks obsessed with Gi-Hun by the time episode 1 ends.
My second contender is Thanos (played by K-pop star T.O.P of Big Bang) who flirts with everyone. I know that he primarily flirts with women by calling them señorita, but I’m sure no one missed how he flirted with men along the way too. He’s a peacock–he will show his flamboyant colours in order to get what he wants––attention and money.
Credits: Netflix
And lastly, ladies and gentlemen, Sae-mi : there’s no way she’s straight, her eyes are screaming that she’s only interested in winning and women!
Credits: Netflix
What’s The Bigger Picture?
So this season we’re not just learning about the new characters but also more about the old, surviving characters. We learn that Gi-Hun’s daughter still expects him to call, we learn more about the relationship between the hot cop, Hwang Jun Ho (played by Wi Han Joon) and the Front Man (played by Lee Byung Hoon) who was revealed to be his “Hyung” or brother in the previous season.
Credits: Netflix
It’s more on the nose about the show’s anti-class remarks, without wanting to get labelled communist. A great remark made by Song Gi Hun was that capitalism/rich people manipulate vulnerable people into entering these high risk games/situations and the mask of choice that is presented to everyone. We also get to see how the pink soldiers are recruited and some behind the scenes of disparity there.
There’s a cis-het analogy of the matrix, they manipulate the viewers and the characters into thinking that no one is good, everyone inherently is evil.
But the thing is, that’s also part of the matrix, it’s also a capitalist facade that everyone bends morality for the sake of greed. But what if greed is the only option?
Teen media has been MIA for the past 5 years or so, at least I believe the early 2000s kids to be the last few who got to experience real TV shows and teen media. And I mean shows that were centred around original plotlines like Disney’s Ishaan, Kya Mast Hai Life and even Hungama TV’s Vicky and Betal. We got to look forward to and could relate to these fictional teens not because they were going around dealing with supernatural things or even balancing music careers with studies, but real teen problems. Things we could relate to, like friend group conflicts, adults not understanding us (cue emo music), having hobbies and academic pressure.
A Real Teen At Last
Lopa played by Rytasha Rathore
And just when I was sure that we’re through with shows about teenagers that real teenagers can relate to or look up to–I discovered Waack Girls. Its marketing, and promotional imagery on Prime Video made me think about amateur costuming, fashion real teens wear and the actual pressures of being a teen in the digital age. Not everything felt relatable, because I’m now in my mid-20s unsure of how teens now deal with technology.
A fresh and unexpected perspective of Gen Z’s resourcefulness, and at last an opposing view on the reality of many real gen Z young adults. Multiple individuals of this generation face economic crises and conflicting environments. And they’ve shown the struggles one faces on being thrust into the real world when adults around you are supposed to hold your hand and ease you into it–and what it feels to be left alone to “figure it out” and balance your ambitions at the same time. Ishani (played by Mekhola Bose) is one such character who is shown having real adult level responsibilities while still being a student. It doesn’t shy away from showing a mature side of the present generation, who don’t just go around speaking in cryptic meme lingo that makes them seem out of touch with reality.
Ishani masterfully portrays a nuanced and confident young woman, who I found my younger self in. While my parents were very much supportive and present during tough financial times and ill grandparent(s), dealing with these troubles when you’re under 20 is a trouble that can be hard to understand and share because you don’t know how to talk about these things yet. What Sooni Taraporevala gets right is the push anxiety gives you. You have no option but to stay afloat and there’s nothing else but survival and making something of yourself. It’s one of the few things you can control. And of course, Lopa, the other lead (played by Rytasha Rathore) queerness added to the survival instinct that made her extremely relatable as well.
Lackluster Is GOOD!
It’s an effortless attempt at showing diversity in teen groups without trying too hard to solve all of their problems like a woke checklist from twitter. The highlight for me, was that the costumes are lackluster, making them so much more believable as literal costumes only college students can crack. They make them look crafty, there’s very little perfection and loads of creative vision involved.
This is not director Sooni Taraporevala’s first dance adjacent show, the first one being Yeh Ballet (2020) which was released on Netflix. A lot of the reviews I read about the Waack Girls spoke of the show slowing down or losing its emotional momentum in the middle, but what stood out to me was that it was a realistic aspect of it. Life does unexpectedly slow down, things that consume most of our time probably don’t deserve that much attention but they end up getting most of the screentime.
The most remarkable thing about this show is that it doesn’t force diversity, it doesn’t promote it as that either. It takes pride in its diverse narratives and inclusive approach but doesn’t boast the attempt at diversity. Instead Taraporevala has invested in creating plausible timelines and emotions for each character. It’s very clear that the aim is to make sure waacking is the highlight of the show.
Queerified Moves
Waacking as a dance style has been around for the last 5-ish decades, developed on the western coast of America. Just as disco was beginning to get criminalised for being popular amongst queer POC folx, it was originally dubbed as punking (derogatory). Which was soon reclaimed and changed to waacking or whaacking. This was similar to the moves that were developing as voguing towards the end of the decade on the east coast, NYC.
Staying true to the resistance side of waacking, the show depicts it as a means for the girls to find themselves, a tool for its coming of age story. And the layers of platonic bond just feels very validating as a queer AFAB with a bunch of female friends. Fortunately it skips past the corny and outdated conversation about “I hope you’re not into me since you like girls” conversation. The show is co-written by Iyannah Bativala and Ronny Sen, fostering a majority of female writers in the room, fills my heart with nothing but joy. They pack in a good chunk of sub-plots that do not necessarily add to the central plotline directly, but ensure it’s enough for us to understand each character’s personality in a way that we know how each contributes to the group.
I felt home in the dark. Darkness is a place nobody should get accustomed to.
I died two days ago. Throughout my life, I wondered how death would show up at my doorstep. Would it be gentle? Would it inform me beforehand, send me a memo, or would it be predictable, like a friend who barges into the house without warning? Would it surprise me like a lover from a different city with flowers in his hands, and desire in his eyes, to claim my body like his very own?
Death was an unopened letter.
When I found it in my postbox 48 hours earlier, it read:
Dear Desmond, Your terrace is clearly your favourite place to be. You’ve walked into it with a cup of chai in your hand, admired the breathtaking view, and always murmured, “I could die now, I feel at peace.” Why not go from a place you found solace in? We’ve decided you should slip from here. The thud of your head will be so harsh, you won’t know a thing. It’ll be painless. Just like you always wanted it to be.
With love, Death.
Nobody gets to have a great chai and a painless death. I stole the perfect package. Death was right. I did not feel a thing. I’m just sitting here bored at a hospital in Kerala watching myself sleep peacefully, something I have never experienced when I was alive.
Nightmares were my best friends, except on days when Adarsh wrapped his arms around me and traced his fingers over my eyebrows. He held me so close that I felt like I could bury myself inside him safely. I felt we were one.
I wish he was here. I wish I could tell him how he was right about death and see him smirk. That idiot.
When we sat in silence on the terrace reading that day, he suddenly looked at me and said, “What if death was like switching off the light in our room.” It was precisely that, only I cannot roll over and reach for him here.
Here, it’s cold and dark. A weird sense of familiarity washes over me. I felt home in the dark. I think darkness is a place nobody should be accustomed to.
But so much of it prevails in this world, everyday feels like winter in Sweden. I haven’t been there, only heard of it.
I’ve been waiting for 49 hours now. Neither my family nor my husband Adarsh has claimed my body. Do they know I’m dead? Are they okay? I’m worried.
Rohin Bhatt (he/them) is a queer, gen Z, Supreme court advocate-turned-author. They assisted senior advocate Anand Grover on the Surpriyo Vs Union Of India case for marriage equality. While the final judgement passed did not recognise the validity of queer marriage in India, there were still a few wins and critical observations that were made from that event. Commitment to each others’ wellbeing as a community being one of them.
I remember the nation holding its breath when the public hearing began in April 2023, and letting out a deep, collective sigh of dejection on 17th October, 2023 when the judgement was passed. Bhatt as a queer individual themself, who was also assisting the plaintiffs’ team on the case was going through a range of emotions that I doubt anyone should have to juggle. They discuss this emotionally turbulent experience in their debut book, The Urban Elite V. The Union Of India: The Unfulfiled Constitutional Promise Of Marriage (In)Equality alongside a detailed look into the arguments made during the hearing.
The Queer Timing Of This Book
Rohin writes: Usually one does not write such a book until one is either bald and wrinkled, or dying. Well, perhaps this is what it means to be queer. You break norms. You do not adhere to rules and boundaries which are set for you.
And I wholeheartedly agree. It reminds me of the concept of “queer time”, which essentially means that the way queer folx live their lives and experience its flow is non-linear when compared to the norm. Our careers have way more obstacles as compared to cis-het folx, our romantic lives are always just a couple steps away from criminalisation, or tucked away into the shadows of society.
This is also why the timing of this book cannot be more perfect. We’ve grown accustomed to behind-the-scenes efforts taking years to come to light. However, Bhatt brought the conversation to the forefront within a year of the judgment being passed. This quick action keeps people invested in the movement. It also helps queer individuals who can’t actively engage with the community stay connected to the collective fight. Even allies—those who supported us and continue to stand by our side—are reminded of the work that remains to be done.
The 3 Ps at an Intersection
So what’s the book like? Well, let me ask you, what do you think it is like to have your professional, political, and personal lives all merged into one, while being tested in front of the entire nation? Only Rohin can answer that and they do it graciously, through their writing.
This book is for anyone and everyone who is interested in legal histories, judicial structures, and the larger queer rights movement in India, all contextualized by the marriage equality case.
I wouldn’t call it a record or chronicle of the case—it would then mean that the information and insights shared by Rohin in the book are impartial and unmoved by the ongoing events. However, when it comes to cases involving human rights and the Supreme Court’s moral obligations in India, true objectivity is almost impossible. Ironically, Bhatt highlights how the legal framework prioritizes objectivity, even though queer movements are inherently complex and can’t be neatly packaged or simplified.
There was an external acknowledgement (from Rohin, validating my own doubts) that queer history in India (like many other nations) is not linear and nor can it be linear. It is dispersed and diverse, and there will always be some wins within the judiciary’s realm which garner more attention, but do they all benefit every queer individual equally? Goes on to show the role that the Supreme Court and the Indian legal system plays in upholding democratic institutions and where we (the citizens) have been lagging as a nation, system, and community.
It was a bit of a tougher read than my personal last few reads, at least for someone with no academic training in the law of the land. But it’s nothing that a simple google couldn’t solve, and I certainly love a book that expects me to be more involved in order to understand what it wants to say. It makes me think and reflect with the author, and it may be a personal thing but I like to feel involved as I read. I’d like to believe that if you’re also interested in understanding the case or the legal landscape of queerness in India, you would also feel invested. You will read, you will care and you will learn a lot along the way!
What truly increased this books’ accessibility for me, as someone with ADHD, was an early layout of what to expect from each chapter. It made reading a non-fiction book like Rohin’s feel inviting and helped me get a sense of what I’d be reading about. Rohin doesn’t frame homophobia as a singular issue with a clear origin tied to a particular event, group or culture. Instead, they present it as a deep-rooted problem that deserves focus while also addressing other forms of discrimination that occurs in the Indian community.
Chapter 1 goes over the foundations, and the chapter-wise brief really worked for me—it helped me settle into the idea that Rohin is laying everything out clearly for the reader. We also get glimpses of who they are and why they do what they do.
Chapter 2 highlights the gaps we, as a community, need to focus on—our internal interests, ideals, and larger goals.
Chapter 3 dives into the legal history, covering the “how-did-we-end-up-here” journey leading to the marriage equality case. It helps us understand the plea before the Supreme Court and the ground realities of the queer community.
Chapter 4 goes into the petitioners’ arguments about the case, analyzing their points and showing how Parliament steps in—sometimes to obstruct, sometimes to aid the movement.
Chapter 5 is about the court’s view of queer life, which feels like a harsh reality check. It reflects the experience of being abandoned as a community and includes the blatant queerphobia that came out in front of the highest court in the nation.
Chapter 6, the final chapter, critiques the judgment and explores the queer possibilities of the future. It asks: If marriage becomes legal, where does that leave Indian queers who choose not to marry? How will couples navigate housing, jobs, and social security in a still-hostile society?
What seemed like an intimidating read at first glance, really wasn’t. The book stands to be a reliable resource for many as a way to understand not just the case but the present political climate with respect to queerness in India. It also stands as a record of the times we currently live in, state of democracy, state of corruption and human rights in this part of the world. Marriage continues to be (unfortunately) a way of living a respectable life in normative, Brahminical Indian society.
What I do hope is that the advocates and judges present during the case recognize the need to revisit the binary, hetero-patriarchal norms that currently shape the laws in our constitution. There’s a lot more at stake that remains to be unpacked and debated before we can fully dive into conversations about marriage–but at this point, we’re fighting multiple fights, all at once.
What I did admire was the emphasis on the need to talk amongst ourselves and remain engaged as a community. I do think that more than embracing our diversity, we can sometimes forget to be understanding and inclusive of our own differences as individuals within the LGBTQ community, where we’re already quite isolated from the normative society, and don’t see sure on how to deal with marginalisation within the community. Being allies to each other’s causes remains a work in progress for our community—a reminder that solidarity within our movement is just as important as the battles we fight beyond it.
I was a girl who collected seashells from the shore and sent them back to the mother sea. I would leave the last potato wedge for my sister, just to see that smile play on her lips. I adored the littlest of things and found great value in it because as I replayed memories, ’tis what makes life life; the sparkle of the green summer leaves that differentiates it from autumn’s.
Life allows space for queer things and as they say, beautiful things don’t ask for attention, yet our eyes certainly look out for them in queerness. Perception here plays an important role. I knew I was queer since grade 10 and my life hasn’t been authentic ever since. I’ve put a great load of thought into naming this piece of writing and used this statistical term—boxplot, which gives a graphical representation of data, while highlighting the outliers in the distribution. The box contains the ‘normal’ people who follow societal norms and outside the plotted box contains the outliers that pretty much define me. It almost aches to be a part of that group.
Being an outlier never seemed like a problem to me during high school, but things took a turn in college. I felt like an imposter, a black-faced guy with a ‘normal’ people mask on. I thought I’d maneuver through it just like high school but exploring my sexuality flung me into the limelight. I was a kid roaming around looking for kindness and warm love, but I had never seen such stone-cold hearts. It was painful to belong to such a system that undermined individuality and I was stuck in a loop trying to define myself to practically insentient people.
I’d sit in anticipation Toying with my words, almost mumbling to leave my mouth To give them their own identity To strain through the dense suffocating air Windows crying to be opened, hearts crying out of apathy I feel this fear, fear that numbs me to choose silence over some gimmicky comforting words To stay in a heated shelter Where it always has shown love for you “Why do you go there?” I feel safe, away from the arrows of words piercing my heart.
This was my conflict—the conflict of identity. Dodie, an English singer-songwriter knows how to put it in words and it makes me shed a tear each time.
Dancing is one of the most expressive body art styles that demands authenticity, so you know exactly when it’s not present. A dancer needs to lose themselves and yet, remain present in their senses. It’s a form of self-expression and rebellion, it’s happiness that flows throughout your body and transcends to everyone around you.
Waacking Origins
So picture this, it’s the 1970s, queer movement is being carried on the shoulders of art. And it’s also the decade when punking or waacking as known today is born on the dancefloor. It’s said to have been popularised Originated as a form of resistance with its original style name being “punking”, often used as a derogatory term for how marginalized communities expressed themselves. Growing from L.A. gay clubs in the 1970s, taking inspiration from disco, martial arts and Hollywood glamour, this concoction of dance style has continued sharing a vibrant community space in major metropolitan cities for decades.
Waacking found its way to Mumbai in the late 2000s to early 2010s as a street dance style, allowing so many people to discover a new way to express themselves. Inspired by the old Hollywood glamour, clean moves of 70s martial arts movies and action of 60s comic book heroes. It has become a space to let loose, and get energy out while truly waacking it. The moves seem too similar to voguing, the only thing they have in common is having queer origins (say what you want about queer folx, but you know we are THEE pioneers of arts).
Waacking In Busy Mumbai
To get more sense of this vibrant community and art form, I got the chance to speak to Tejasvi (she/her) who is part of Waackjam, a community space that organises one of the biggest waacking festivals in India.
What Waakjam does is bring together the massive waacking community that they have built over the years. They compete, dance offs, cyphers, performances and hold workshops; the list goes on, but you know you will have a great time! Cultivating an inclusive community, that is bound by something that can be both commercial and community growth centric is a rare find lately. Hobbies are tough to come around, people either don’t have time for their hobbies. We’re at a point where it is hard to survive even when people work 2 jobs in a day, making time out for self-expression feel foreign.
Not to mention how it’s become a common thought to have every hobby monetised? And the only hobbies left on the platter that can be enjoyed can be going to the gym (because it pays us back in health and then we can do more jobs!).
Which actually led me to ask Tejasvi what she thinks of commercialised dance forms and the future of waacking in relation to it…
Will Waacking Be Commercial?
Tejasvi explains that the demand for waacking as a dance form is still quite low, since it can be adapted to blend into the persons’ personal style. Ironically that is what makes it difficult to be completely co-opted.
“It’s a lifestyle and form of self expression in its truest form, cannot be exactly converted to mainstream box that easily. Self discovery that one can get through this style is what draws someone to it. When you see a waacker move you will see where it’s truly coming from, the aura they have is what attracts most people to it! The main intention of the style is to induce and encourage community growth and pushing to be bigger and better. Our event is in itself an expression of that, the sheer act of giving back for people to embrace and experience that aura.”
Waackjam’s 10th Volume, which is happening on the 14th and 15th of December (details here), has one of the biggest artists of the community, Archie Kumari in attendance. The community getting a chance to experience that energy is the sort of gift we’re all getting for the hard work that’s been put in so far! It’s well deserved and overdue to induce the evolution and how the style is going to be shaping up our movement for the next 10 years! You will be able to see the diverse shades mixing around in every style. It’s already growing in the Indian space, bringing out new shades with each new waacker. Tejasvi feels as if there’s no need to make a conscious effort to spread awareness, their main goal is to focus on sharing and exchanging our ideas through it. It’s all about being present and having your presence known!
Inspiring The Queer Moves
Waacking, punking and voguing, all of these moves have one common inspiration–queer joy. While waacking came almost a decade early in the west coast of America, the ballroom scene on the east coast was growing. The drag queens, queer artists and gay men who helped cultivate cultural and queer third spaces brought joy to the resistance movement. As we look further into popular Gen Z culture and one of the most famous art forms, all come from queer spaces–I often wonder what that means for the growing conservative politics and art scene at the moment. Is this pattern a reminder that the queer community has always continued to live and made sure to have their voices echo decades ahead.
Marvel has been breadcrumbing the LGBTQ+ community for way too long—are you really telling me that Loki couldn’t have been fabulous in his bi-ness and gender-fluidness from the very first Avengers movie? But I have remained a (critically engaged) fan—probably because the cinematic universe keeps coming back to the queerest of tropes again and again: found family. And there is nothing that screams ‘queer found family’ more than a coven. Agatha All Along is all about the idea of covens vs solitary witches. It is also about overcoming trauma and breaking generational curses. But most of all, it is about how absolutely sexy the chemistry between Kathryn Hahn and Aubrey Plaza is.
Hahn plays the titular dark witch Agatha who we last saw in WandaVision, and when the series opens she is trapped in some version of Wanda’s sitcom reality spell. The story follows what happens when the Teen sneaks into her house and asks to be taken down the witches road. This is what the show does too; it unapologetically and unabashedly abandons superhero avenue to follow a story that is about everything magic and mystique, and it delivers beyond anything that I could have imagined.
The actors are absolutely phenomenal- from Joe Locke (playing Teen) of Heartstopper fame to the brilliant Sasheer Zamata (playing Jennifer Kale). Every single one of them somehow does a great job with both comic timing and serious scenes. It helps that each of them gets to be the protagonist for at least one episode, giving them the space to develop their character’s backstories and show us their full range. My favorite episode was undoubtedly #7 where we get to learn so much about the divination witch, Lilia Calderu, who is played by the legendary Patti LuPone. The storytelling reached a completely different level in this episode, and the stalwart’s performance brought it all together like bibidi-bobbidi-boo. It is almost like a masterclass in spinning a witchy yarn, and I can imagine myself coming back to it again and again.
While I genuinely believe that the writers have come up with one of Marvel’s best shows yet—take a bow, Jac Schaeffer, who is the showrunner and has delivered another masterpiece after WanderVision—I must confess that the last ten minutes of the show did leave me a bit baffled as they felt anti-climatic and unnecessary. Turning to the internet for answers made me understand why this was the route that they chose to go (it ties with Agatha Harkness’ journey in the comics) but I still wonder if there would have been a neater way to end it. Thankfully, these last few minutes do not undo any of the amazing scenes, dialogues, and plot points so the show still stands as a solid watch. A big hats-off to the costume department as well because it keeps outperforming itself with each episode. Costume Designer Daniel Selon previously won a Primetime Emmy for WandaVision, and if it were up to me, another one would be served to him on a silver platter for this show. Also, can we get a ‘Hell yeah!’ for Monica Monserrate’s set decor? I am pretty sure that this is the set designer’s most imaginative work in a mainstream series yet, and it definitely immersed me in the world of the show completely.
The best thing about Agatha All Along, however, is that it is organically and seamlessly super-duper queer in the best possible way. I am talking singing-a-ballad-with-your-coven queer, every-character-having-main-character-energy queer, the-outfits-slaying-and-shimmering queer, and we-are-definitely-cooler-than-you queer. Agatha actually says,‘You want straight answers? Ask a straight lady!’ and then we see her navigate her attraction towards an ex during the show. The Teen is also queer (and has the cutest scenes with his boyfriend), as is Jennifer, the potions witch, because the show seems to understand that queer people do not just exist as tokens in straight people’s groups but do actually hang out together and interact with each other.
And of course, the cuntiest queer character is undoubtedly Rio, played by Aubrey Plaza, who has acted so brilliantly and looked so drop-dead-gorgeous (you will understand the pun when you see the show) that her mere presence on the screen prompted the ‘Which five celebrities do we each have license to sleep with?’ conversation in my monogamous relationship. In Aubrey Plaza’s portrayal of Rio I have found my calling, my religion, and my salvation; and I am sure you will too!
We enter the musical world of the corrupt and self-aware immoral ethics of Jacque Audiards’ Emilia Pérez. We are introduced to the fact that there are no binaries in Jacques Audiards’ world. You can sympathise with drug overloads because both of you have gender dysphoria and familial attachment in common. And you kinda don’t know if you want to side with a lawyer who has let an abuser get away, who did it to just pay her bills. Safe to say I enjoyed the film;
Capitalism & Patriarchy Strike Again
I know, capitalism and patriarchy suck and not ever have the luxury to live outside it and not face consequences. And I mean real consequences. Right at the beginning we’re introduced to Rita–an underappreciated, overworked lawyer who brilliantly solves cases for her boss. Exploiting every loophole and at the same time exposing how PR’s delusional stunts end up working.
And then, she’s abducted by a drug lord. If this was not a film, Rita’s curiosity would’ve 98% had her killed–but it’s okay, the drug lord was just a girl seeking help from a talented lawyer who sometimes does shady things (girl power).
I knew of the praise and popularity this film has received since its premiere at Cannes, and have expressed our love and appreciation for Karla Sofia Gascon when she won the best actress award. But what I did not pay attention to was the director behind it. So you can only imagine my surprise and suspicion when I realised it’s a French man.
How did he get this right?
––it’s not hard to get cultural references and nuances right if you’re being respectful. We make it sound like a big and impossible deed, but if anything every acclaimed film made and released this year has been an international production. Be it Payal Kapadia’s All We Imagine As Light or Konstantin Bojanov’s The Shameless. All of them have directors, producers, writers and actors from different countries. What did all of them have in common? The vision to make it work and do the work!
Which is of course hilarious but also shows how seriously he takes his work as a storyteller.
The Rare Beauty In Darkness
People have had polarising opinions on the subject and portrayal of the subjects in the film, you ask me where I lean and I’ll say––I do like it. I like that it doesn’t try to be right, it just tries to be honest about a different transgender experience. One that involves lying, mafia and 1 wife and 2 children.
It’s hard to like Selena Gomez’s Jessi at first, that’s how convincing she is. When Gomez first appeared on the screen, I was worried that I’ll remain too aware of her star presence, but she doesn’t let that last. She blends into the world where she’s convinced of her life. And I haven’t seen Gomez’s acting since her work in Spring Breakers and I still pretty much associate her as a teen acting icon.
Zoe Saldaña, another major star, who personified her character–Rita’s curiosity and bravery to a whole new level. You can see when she’s anxious but never once doubts her step to help Karla’s Emilia.
Not Friends But Allies
And my words would fail to describe Karla’s acting. Emilia pre-transition scared me, she was intimidating. But you see it even post transition–she’s vulnerable but her eyes will have you sat if she commands you to. She’s had a change of heart, but she can’t ever shake how she behaves.
We see glimpses of her past life every time she’s protective of her family and Rita. We understand that there’s a reason why her gang was supportive of their boss transitioning. Why they respected and wanted to help her.
We see it when Rita also starts respecting Emilia, pre-transition when she’s roaming the world to find the best and most comfortable routes of transition and immigration for Emilia. She’s scared, yes, but you know she’s determined to make it happen. Partly because of the money Emilia pays her, sure that’s the not-so-wholesome part of the film that makes you realise that every act of allyship may not be noble.
What kept me invested in the film was not the actors or even the songs, which were very fun and absurd. But what kept me interested was to see a fresh queer perspective, done creatively and something that isn’t too sad or too happy. It’s in the middle, it’s the perfect balance of binaries of morality, gender and expectations.
He swims two laps across before he notices. He goes back and forth, back and forth, up and down the fluorescent blue length before the legs come into view. They’re familiar—in colour, in length. He has seen their hairy paleness before. The knobbly knees and narrow ankles are not foreign to him or his touch, but this time he doesn’t touch. This time he keeps his distance and stops mid-length, standing between the deep and the shallow.
“What’re you doing here?” is his first question. It sounds unnecessary. It tastes childish. A small pain blooms in his stomach, tugging at him to move, to reach out, to be closer. But he ignores the instinct. He stays put and lets his question do the stretching. He allows it to hang like a clumsy weight on a cable, slowly traversing the distance between their bodies.
By the time it is fully across, Kim simply dissolves it with his steady gaze. His thin arms are taut against the cool night. His long fingers are waiting on the edge of the pool. With one push he could destroy distances. With one suggestion, one little gesture, he could command the very laws of space and time to obey him. What is Min, then? What is the point of his resistance? What does his desire or his anger or his apprehension mean? What is he, when Kim can bend anything to his will?
He’s sixteen. A boy with doubts and worries to fill a planet. He’s twenty, bearing change like a burden when others welcome it with grace. He’s twenty-six and flailing without a home for his unspoken fears. He’s thirty and tired and afraid that all that waits for him are empty pools on empty nights. He’s thirty-two and ready to let go of hope when… when Kim discovers and fills the silence in his mouth before—
“Would you rather I left?”
Min doesn’t know. In all honesty, the answer doesn’t belong here. If it did, Kim would’ve never come. He would’ve been long-gone, moving on to better and easier endeavours. He would’ve lived a carefree life without the need to look back at the edge of awaiting pools. If there were answers to any of the questions either of them demand of each other, their bodies would have remained strangers forever.
Min considers the water. Even at midway, its cold extent feels so endless sometimes, he wonders why Kim bothers. “If I were you… I think I would,” he informs, like it matters. Like anything he says will make any meaningful dent in Kim’s resolve. If he didn’t know, he’d try in earnest. He would list out every reason to leave, every meaningful pursuit in comparison. But he has seen the other at work. He has borne the full brunt of Kim’s feet advancing, his digits unfurling, his stare softening to such careful blows they only touch their intended targets like compliments.
“I think I’d go.”
“Then I’ll stay.”
The proclamation is followed by a dreaded push, and then Kim is moving. He’s walking, treading through the water, making nothing of the battlements Min had been building over the years. And Min is once more sixteen. He’s once more twenty, twenty-six, thirty, ageing up with every step. He’s realising he is still as graceless, still as afraid. He’s still tired of the love he harnesses, only to understand its inadequacies too late.
By the time Kim’s nose nudges his own, by the time long fingers find a new place on his sides, Min has grown decades in the blink of an eye—but his love is as tepid as the fluorescent pool. It will never be enough, because he will never be enough.
He cranes his head away, willing to return to distances.
Kim’s eyebrows come together in concern. “Should I leave?” he asks, but he knows it’s not a real question. “Should I leave you?” His touch rises and falls like breath on skin, once playing on ribs, once brushing a cheek. His weight presses into the air until no air is left to hide behind. His black depths suddenly warm to a welcome haze, one Min would’ve gladly dived into, were he brave and happy.
Sadness pulls his gaze low, bringing lips and reassurance to his forehead. Min knows this dream is coming to an end.
“Should I give you up?” Kim goes on, studding Min with kisses. “Should I let go? Let you have it your way?” His questions are kind, but his insistence is strong.
When he walks again, he takes Min along. They walk together. They age together. Feet gliding though time, they cross the tiles, forging deeper into the unsaid, forcing their arms to close on each other for balance, for rescue, for all the dreams that broke before this one. And when the ground of their youth is gone, when the water is waiting for Min to speak his rejections, when they are old and weary of everything but each other, then Kim pushes harder—with his forehead, his chest, his very soul. He pushes, and suddenly all of Min’s butterflies are fluttering from his mouth to Kim’s.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Don’t you already know?” is Min’s last question, and only confession.
They are sixteen, then twenty, then thirty, then one.
I came across this film while looking up what “Sister Wives” mean (while on my ADHD rabbit hole of research). And coincidently, Gaysi Family was hosting a short film screening in collaboration with Yellowstone International Film Festival. “Sister Wives” was one of the four films that were being screened. I was convinced that it was the universe urging me to watch this phenomenal romance between two queer women–Kaidence (Louisa Connolly-Burnham) and Galilee (Mia McKenna-Bruce).
It becomes an acting powerhouse when you add Micheal Fox–who plays Jeremiah–into the mix. With his clueless looks, that convinces you that Jeremiah wants no part in the polygamous norms of his society–but has to conform to them in order to succeed and be respected as a man. He’s not vicious, he’s a product of his society.
God of Multi-Tasking, Louisa
By being a one-woman army–director, writer and actor of the film–Louisa Connolly-Burnham shows us a story of two women finding love and their own identity in under 30 minutes. In simple words, it’s a heartwarming watch. Leaving us, the audience, with a bubbly-giddy feeling. Their wholesome bond latches on to you as the film progresses. You see Kaidence warming up to Galilee and watch them go from strangers to friends to two people who have taken back their freedom to be able to love.
When I asked Louisa how she came up with the plot of the film, she replied,
“I’ve always wanted to make a queer film and I’ve always wanted to make a period drama, so this project felt like the perfect chance to merge those two dreams of mine. I’ve also had a long-standing, morbid fascination with cults and religious fundamentalism–I think it’s a girl thing. So, one day while I was researching the darker side of Mormonism, I thought this could be a fresh, interesting, multi-layered world to set a film in.”
What were the odds that Louisa found inspiration for her film the same way I discovered her film?
Does Modernity ≠ Progress?
Adhering to the creator’s wishes and research, the film begins with a seemingly 18th-19th century farm that sits near a lake. Where Jeremiah (Fox) is telling his wife, Kaidence (Connolly-Burnham) that he is going to bring home a second wife. Kaidence protests but is quickly shut down by Jeremiah declaring that he’s the man of the house, which gives him the final say and that she is still not pregnant.
Yuck behaviour on part of Jeremiah, but looking back at it with some explanations from Louisa –I have realised that Jeremiah is also a victim of the same system that oppresses Kaidence and Galilee. It doesn’t help knowing that the society will see Jeremiah a victim of his wives’ actions and not the system itself.
There’s a twist though, which I won’t spoil for you. But that twist had me wondering if this was Louisa’s way of tackling the popular “trad-wife” trend and the problems with it. It’s a phenomenon on the internet that has picked up a lot of attention in the past year. However, Louisa revealed that she got the idea a couple of years before it was a solidified trend. It was actually her fascination with cults and Mormon societies that served as the inspiration for the project.
A/N- * The way I understand trad-wife is through the lens of western internet trends. I live in India, in a metropolitan city. Which allows me to have access to a lot of western internet trends and know that being a trad wife is not a trend but a common reality as well. It’s not a choice many Indian women get to make, it’s not a hot debate, it’s simply the norm. So when I say trad-wife, I only mean it as a Nara Smith adjacent internet trend.
Breath Of Fresh Air
Sister Wives feels like a breath of fresh air, there’s no lens looking down upon the various victims of the society. While they may not be equals in their world, they were treated equally in front of Louisa’s camera. And each minute of the 30 minutes was utilised carefully, adding humour, nuances and happiness in the mix, taking you on a fun rollercoaster ride.
You feel nothing but joy as Kaidance and Galilee get their chances to find themselves and their freedom. Whether it’s through reading forbidden books or by wearing forbidden coloured dresses. They take it and savour it. They eventually also find their happy beginning as the film is just the beginning of their lives together!
In this article, I explore the complexities of asexuality within the context of Indian culture and marriage. I do this by examining the problematic portrayal of asexuality in the film Satyaprem Ki Katha, where the protagonist Katha uses asexuality as a defense mechanism linked to trauma, reinforcing harmful stereotypes. It makes me want to ask critical questions about whether Indian marriages can accommodate diverse identities and redefine intimacy beyond the physical, ultimately emphasizing the need for greater understanding and acceptance of asexuality in Indian society.
In researching for this article, I was not able to find examples of asexuality in Indian mythology. I turn to the reader to share examples, if they know of any. However, when I was looking for asexual identities in Indian mythology, examples of celibacy often came up instead. Including examples of celibacy to explain the asexual identity would further perpetuate stereotypes, as celibacy is not asexuality and vice versa.
To elaborate, celibacy is a conscious decision to abstain from sexual activity, often for religious or personal reasons, while asexuality is a sexual orientation where individuals experience little to no sexual attraction. The concept of celibacy, particularly in the form of “Brahmacharya”, has significant cultural and historical relevance in Brahminical India. Being a Brahmacharya involves abstinence from sexual activity and is often considered a spiritual and ascetic pursuit.
Characters like Bhishma and Shikhandi in the post-Vedic epics are notable for their adherence to celibacy. Bhishma took a vow of lifelong celibacy to ensure his father’s happiness and fulfill his duty. Shikhandi, on the other hand, is a complex character often associated with themes of gender fluidity and transformation, though not specifically asexuality.
It is crucial to distinguish these ways of being, so as to avoid conflating them and perpetuating misunderstandings. Asexuality deserves recognition and understanding in its own right, beyond the historical and cultural contexts of celibacy. Platforms such as Indian Aces play a vital role in providing much-needed resources and attention to asexual individuals, whose identities are sometimes overlooked or misunderstood by society and even within the broader LGBTQIA+ community.
In the context of marriages, asexuality presents additional challenges. Marriages in India are often determined by Brahminical authority, and therefore, are not just a personal relationship but are perceived as a societal duty, often tied to procreation and family honor. This compulsion to follow the appropriate conduct in a heteronormative society allows very little leeway for asexual individuals within which they can define their orientation or even hold the desire to do so. Asexual individuals, especially cis-women, often feel compelled to adhere to the expectations of sexual intimacy and reproduction, making it difficult for them to navigate a marital setup that doesn’t align with their personal identity.
Cinematic Depiction: Katha’s Asexuality as a Coping Mechanism
In the film Satyaprem Ki Katha, Katha’s claim to being asexual is presented as an excuse to avoid intimacy with her husband, Sattu. This is a rather problematic representation as it trivializes asexuality by portraying it more like a defense mechanism that excuses a person’s avoidance of physical intimacy rather than acknowledging it as an orientation. Katha’s use of asexuality as a defense mechanism perpetuates a harmful stereotype—namely, that asexuality is simply a lack of desire for intimacy, rather than a legitimate identity on the sexual spectrum.
What further complicates this portrayal is the film’s direct link between Katha’s trauma, involving sexual violence, and her asexuality. By claiming that Katha’s repulsion towards any form of intimacy is a mere consequence of the trauma that she experienced in her past, the narrative perpetuates the stereotype that asexuality is solely a learned behavior owing to some psychological injury. This representation reduces asexuality to a pathology, which is not only inaccurate but also damaging to the broader understanding of this orientation. Asexuality does not owe its origins to trauma or depression. It is a sexual orientation just like any other and cannot be compared in this context. Associating it with rape and trauma only deepens the stigma surrounding asexual individuals, particularly in a society that already struggles to acknowledge their existence.
A crucial point that needs more emphasis in both media and societal discourse is that asexuality is not a perversion, dysfunction, or necessarily the direct result of trauma. Rather, it is simply little to no sexual attraction. This does not mean that people who identify themselves as asexual are incapable of love, sex, or that they have shallow relationships. While asexuality is often misunderstood as a form of abstinence or repression, it is important to recognize that it is an identity, not something that needs to be “fixed” through emotional support or romantic love.
In Satyaprem Ki Katha, Sattu’s encouragement of Katha is presented as restorative, implying that Katha’s lack of desire for intimacy can be easily corrected with love and understanding. This oversimplification ignores the reality that asexuality is a valid orientation, not something that needs to be cured or reversed. Relationships, including marriage, can thrive even without centering sexual attraction, provided that both partners respect each other’s needs and boundaries.
The expectations tied to marriages in heteronormative India, further complicate the experience for asexual individuals. However, such a marriage is not considered a vehicle for self-realization, but a fulfillment of certain expectations from society, especially childbearing. Asexual individuals are often pressured to marry, even when it conflicts with their personal desires. For many, the decision to marry may involve significant internal conflict as they try to balance societal expectations with their own needs and desires.
Asexual individuals may struggle with the societal pressure to conform to sexual and reproductive norms. The Brahminical roles imposed upon men and women—where women are expected to bear children and men to perpetuate the family line—are often at odds with the personal experiences of asexual individuals. This creates an immense psychological burden, particularly on cis-women, who are expected to fulfill both sexual and reproductive duties within a marriage.
However, asexual individuals can still crave the love and family that often comes with marriage. Many individuals may also want children just like everyone else, if they resort to paths to parenthood such as adoption or surrogacy. While they may experience little to no sexual attraction, asexual individuals are just as capable as anybody else of experiencing deep emotional intimacy, which can be equally fulfilling.
Beyond Physical Intimacy: A Different Kind of Connection
Asexual individuals are often interested in forms of intimacy that do not center the sexual. Emotional closeness, intellectual connection, and shared experiences can offer a sense of fulfillment and bonding as well. This broader understanding of intimacy challenges the conventional narrative that equates a successful marriage with sexual compatibility. For many asexual individuals, a fulfilling relationship is not defined by sexual intimacy but by emotional support, mutual respect, and shared life goals.
In this context, asexual individuals may find themselves reflecting on what they want out of a marriage. Rather than prioritizing sexual attraction, they might seek relationships based on deep companionship, shared values, and valuing various other forms of intimacy. The question then arises: does the traditional sense of marriage, when penetrative sex is seen as a conjugal duty/responsibility, have room for such relationships?
As society continues to evolve, the rigid norms surrounding the legally-sanctioned marital institution are slowly being questioned. However, the idea that marriage must include sexual intimacy and procreation remains dominant. Asexual individuals face the challenge of navigating a system that often doesn’t accommodate their needs or desires. The portrayal of Katha’s character in Satyaprem Ki Katha raises an important question: can marriages make space for asexuality?
In a society where marriage is heavily linked to sexual compatibility, the inclusion of asexual individuals and their experiences remains a distant goal. The growing visibility of asexuality, thanks to online communities and changing social attitudes, offers hope that these narratives will begin to shift. However, the question of whether marriages can evolve to accommodate the diverse needs of asexual individuals remains one that needs further discourse. Can marriage, with all its social expectations and pressures, truly make room for relationships that prioritize various forms of intimacy? Or will asexual individuals continue to find themselves on the margins of this institution? Only time will tell.
Recently, I had the chance to watch Bhool Bhulaiyaa 3. As someone who studies and researches queer issues, I was curious to see how – or if – the movie might engage with themes of queerness. While the movie certainly doesn’t frame itself as an overtly queer film, it weaves in subtle layers of queerness into the character of Debendranath, a cross-dressing prince with a passion for dance. His story isn’t just another “vengeful ghost” trope, but offers an exploration of queer identity, betrayal, and, ultimately, acceptance.
Debendranath’s Queerness: A Complex Character in Horror
The character of Debendranath stood out as an overtly queer figure in a mainstream Hindi horror-comedy, which in itself is notable. Unlike typical Bollywood depictions of royalty, Debendranath doesn’t fit the mould of a conventional prince. His fondness for dance, self-expression through cross-dressing, and desire to embrace his authentic self, defy societal expectations of royalty and masculinity. However, his queerness becomes the very reason for his tragic end. In a society that demanded strict conformity, Debendranath’s queerness became a threat. His ultimate betrayal—by his sisters Manjulika and Anjulika, the people he trusted to understand and protect him—leads to his death and fuels his vengeance as a ghost. This tragic twist casts queerness in a complex light, where self-expression is a source of both empowerment and peril.
Debendranath’s story in Bhool Bhulaiyaa 3 reminded me of similar narratives in Bollywood, particularly in Laxmii. In both movies, queer characters are portrayed as vengeful spirits, underscoring a longstanding stereotype: the “vengeful queer.” This trope has appeared in various Indian films, often portraying queer people as otherworldly, dangerous, or vengeful. In Laxmii, for example, the transgender character’s pain and mistreatment lead them to wreak havoc as a spirit. On the surface, it’s easy to critique this as yet another example of typecasting. Yet, Bhool Bhulaiyaa 3 takes a surprising twist that made me re-evaluate my initial reaction.
Redemption through Acceptance: Breaking the Vengeful Queer Trope
One aspect that sets Bhool Bhulaiyaa 3 apart is how it chooses to resolve Debendranath’s journey. While his ghost is initially driven by revenge, he doesn’t remain locked in a cycle of vengeance. Instead, the movie allows him to find peace (or moksha) when his queer identity is finally accepted by his sisters’ reincarnations, Manjulika and Anjulika. This was unexpected and, in my view, one of the most refreshing aspects of the film. Debendranath’s vengefulness melts away once he receives the understanding he yearned for—an acceptance that tragically eluded him in his lifetime but is offered in a future that he could not have foreseen.
This theme of acceptance is crucial because it suggests that even a spirit burdened with trauma and rage can find peace through understanding and love. As a queer researcher, I couldn’t help but see this as a message about the transformative power of acceptance. Debendranath trusted his sisters to accept him when he was alive, but they couldn’t. Their betrayal not only led to his death but also the creation of a vengeful spirit. The final reconciliation—with Debendranath forgiving his sisters and letting go of his grudge—conveys the message that acceptance can heal wounds, even those that have festered for centuries.
Bhool Bhulaiyaa 3 doesn’t try to present itself as anything more than an entertaining horror-comedy. The comedic scenes often feel forced, and at times, it feels like the humour distracts from the story’s deeper elements. Yet, in terms of maintaining mystery, the movie does well. The supernatural aspects are intriguingly woven, and there’s an element of suspense that keeps viewers engaged. While I would have appreciated a more nuanced approach to comedy, the movie’s blend of horror and mystery makes it an enjoyable watch, especially when it engages with Debendranath’s story.
A Queer Narrative Amidst Mainstream Bollywood Tropes
As someone who studies queer representations in the media, I recognize that this movie will likely face criticism. Critics may argue that Debendranath’s story rehashes harmful stereotypes about queer people being inherently tragic or vengeful. Others might point out how Bollywood still tends to treat queerness as the “other”—an identity marked by tragedy and mystery rather than an everyday reality. Indeed, such critiques are valid. Bollywood’s treatment of queer identities often falls into narrow portrayals, be it comedic or tragic. Yet, Bhool Bhulaiyaa 3 deserves credit for going beyond this by suggesting that acceptance—even if delayed—can break cycles of pain.
The character of Debendranath is not solely defined by his queerness; he is complex, and his struggles reflect the genuine difficulty queer people face when looking for acceptance in conservative spaces. His dance, his attire, his self-expression are expressions of his identity, not just plot devices. When he trusted his sisters to understand him, it wasn’t merely an act of familial trust; it was an act of self-exposure and a plea for validation. His story echoes a reality many queer people experience: the fear of opening up to loved ones, the potential of rejection, and the emotional scars left when trust is betrayed.
Beyond the Ghost Story: A Broader Message on Acceptance
For me, the real value of Bhool Bhulaiyaa 3 lies in its broader message of acceptance. By depicting a queer character who finds peace through acceptance, the movie offers a lesson that resonates beyond its supernatural elements. It speaks to a universal truth: acceptance is transformative, and understanding can heal even the deepest wounds. Debendranath’s journey suggests that queer people, often marginalised or misunderstood, don’t need to stay trapped in narratives of tragedy and vengeance. With acceptance and empathy, there’s a possibility for closure, redemption, and peace.
This is a narrative I hope we see more of in Bollywood and beyond. Bhool Bhulaiyaa 3 might be marketed as a horror-comedy, but its message has significant implications for how we think about queerness and acceptance in Indian society. In a culture where LGBTQIA+ rights are still evolving, representations like Debendranath’s can start conversations and open minds. He is a character who, despite betrayal, finds peace not through revenge but through forgiveness—a powerful reminder of the importance of understanding, acceptance, and the redemptive power of love.
Parting Words
While Bhool Bhulaiyaa 3 may not be perfect, it offers a fascinating glimpse into how mainstream Indian cinema can portray queer experiences, even within a supernatural, horror-comedy framework. Yes, it follows some traditional tropes, but the resolution sets it apart, pushing past simple revenge to focus on acceptance and understanding. Debendranath’s story is one that speaks to the hope for acceptance, a hope that many queer individuals share, sometimes across lifetimes.
Critics will likely have much to say about the movie, and that’s fair. Bollywood still has a long way to go in terms of nuanced queer representation. But as a researcher and viewer, I appreciate the narrative arc that allowed a queer character to find closure through acceptance rather than vengeance. It’s a step in the right direction—one that, I hope, will inspire more inclusive stories in the future.
If nothing else, Bhool Bhulaiyaa 3 is a fun movie with a meaningful twist, one that makes it worth watching for anyone interested in a lighthearted yet thought-provoking take on queer identity and acceptance.
Have you seen the heartbreaking news about Tripura? Earlier this year, it was reported that there is a growing epidemic of young people in the state testing positive for HIV, potentially linked to injectable drug use. Tripura is grappling with a devastating HIV/AIDS crisis, particularly among young students, with a recent report revealing the heartbreaking news that 47 students lost their lives to the virus between April 2007 and May 2024, while 828 others have been diagnosed with HIV in the same period spanning 17 years.
This alarming situation can be largely attributed to the dangerous practice of needle sharing. When individuals share needles, they are exposing themselves to the blood of others, which can carry certain infections like HIV.
The impact of this crisis is far-reaching, affecting not only the individuals infected but also their families and communities. It is imperative to address the root causes of this issue, including drug abuse and lack of access to clean needles and syringes.
Do you know there is a day called World AIDS Day?
World AIDS Day, observed annually on December 1st, serves as a crucial reminder of the ongoing HIV/AIDS epidemic and the importance of prevention, treatment, and care. For the queer community in India, this day holds particular significance, as HIV disproportionately affects men who have sex with men (MSM) and transgender folx. Both groups face the dual burden of accessing treatment amidst stigma and navigating the historical weight of homophobic and transphobic propaganda, further compounding their challenges in seeking care and support.
Did you know that HIV, the virus that causes AIDS, can be transmitted through several routes beyond needle sharing? The virus spreads through certain bodily fluids, including blood, semen, vaginal fluids, and breast milk. Engaging in unprotected anal or oral sex significantly increases the risk of transmission. Additionally, receiving unscreened blood transfusions can also lead to infection, highlighting the importance of proper medical screening and preventive measures.
As someone living in Bombay, I’ve often heard stories of people contracting HIV and other STIs due to a lack of precautions and awareness about safe sex practices. This gap in knowledge largely stems from the lack of accessible, queer-affirming sex education, leaving many unaware of the risks and the importance of regular testing. When I was a teenager, an older person pressured me into having bareback sex (sexual activity, particularly anal sex, without using a condom). At the time, I didn’t realize I was risking exposure to HIV. Afterward, I was scared and went to get tested, but the process was expensive and intimidating. Thankfully, the results were negative.
Now, I make it a priority to get tested every three months and encourage others who are sexually active to do the same. Regular testing is vital, but I understand how challenging it can be to find affirming healthcare providers and safe testing spaces. That’s why it’s so important to advocate for accessible and inclusive healthcare. In the meantime, please use protection during sexual activities—whether with strangers or trusted partners—to reduce risks and promote safer sex practices.
Do you know there are free testing centers for you to get tested?
Nowadays, there is free testing available. Also, there is anonymity if you don’t want anyone to know about you. There are various Integrated Counselling and Testing Centres (ICTCs) across Mumbai. Many hospitals and clinics in Mumbai offer free HIV testing services. Several NGOs in Mumbai provide free HIV testing services like Humsafar Trust (Santacruz). There are also options for a self-testing kit, which you get at your home for free. You can search online or contact local community organizations for more information.
Did you know there are other ways to fight HIV beyond safe sex?
Yes, there are additional tools to combat HIV: Pre-Exposure Prophylaxis (PrEP) and Post-Exposure Prophylaxis (PEP). These medications, when used correctly, can significantly reduce the risk of HIV infection.
Pre-Exposure Prophylaxis (PrEP)
PrEP is a daily medication that helps prevent HIV infection. It is highly effective for individuals at high risk, such as those who engage in anal sex, have multiple sexual partners, or use injection drugs. PrEP works by preventing the virus from establishing itself in the body. When taken consistently, it can reduce the risk of HIV infection by up to 99%.
Post-Exposure Prophylaxis (PEP)
PEP is a medication taken after potential exposure to HIV to prevent infection. It is most effective when started as soon as possible—ideally within 72 hours of exposure. You may need PEP if you’ve had unprotected sex with someone who is HIV-positive, experienced an accidental needle stick, or were a victim of sexual assault.
Before starting PrEP or PEP, it’s essential to consult a healthcare provider to determine if these medications are suitable for you.
By understanding and using PrEP and PEP responsibly, you can significantly reduce your risk of HIV infection. Early prevention and treatment remain key to living a healthy life.
The Road Ahead
The HIV/AIDS epidemic continues to be a significant global health challenge. While there has been remarkable progress in prevention, treatment, and care, much work remains. Promoting safe sex practices, encouraging regular testing, and reducing stigma are essential steps toward a future where HIV is no longer a threat.
Remember, everyone deserves a healthy, fulfilling life free from the fear of HIV. Education, compassion, and action are critical as we work towards making HIV/AIDS a thing of the past.
Started in 1974, the queer organization–International Front Runners is aimed at creating tight knit community clubs that promote sports for queer folx all around the world. They were inspired by the novel Front Runners by Patricia Nell Warren. They initiated their Indian chapter in the city of Bangalore (home to the luscious green Cubbon Park) the–Bengaluru Front Runners. Sitting cozily in my Mumbai office, I can’t help but feel jealous of Umar (he/him) who had sent me videos of the bright Cubbon Park. (that too with a community of queer folx!) He is answering my questions about the organization and his time there, as he seems to gear up for a run, looking absolutely fabulous while doing so. But I keep getting distracted by the greenery around him, taking me back to 2019 when I was strolling around Cubbon Park with my college friends.
My fitness regime involves a small community of women in an all women’s gym. It’s wholesome and lacks space meaning it can get cramped up very easily. Thanks to the unrealistic real estate prices, lack of free, green, clean, public spaces in Mumbai. This is all we get. Not to mention how most of my daily fitness tests are just running behind local trains, holding on train handles and squishing through small gaps in order to stand in trains.
So when I came across Bengaluru Front Runners’ Instagram page, watching a flourishing community with organized and regular running events I couldn’t help but reach out to their team to find out more!
It’s Hard Being Queer And Healthy!
Being queer comes with a unique (often tougher) set of challenges that can force many individuals to neglect not just their mental health but even physical health. Unable to access resources for health maintenance can further distance the community. And it’s not like healthcare is the most affordable aspect of life either. Queer folx are pushed and dragged into situations that make them more vulnerable to contracting diseases. There’s also the fact that multiple members of the community cannot access resources for health maintaince–this includes access to nutrition, housing, medical professionals, medications and lack of care/support through times of crises.
What’s The Bengaluru Runners Front?
Our domestic chapter of the International Front Runners a non-profit organization that promotes sports like running and other athletic events for the LGBTQIA+ community. The Bangalore chapter meets up every Sunday in Cubbon Park with its members for a fitness gala. If your dream is to run and walk with a group of queer folx in a luscious green park, I think this is your place?!
The only criteria to join:
Be Queer
Join for three runs
You’ll be added to the group if you wish to continue!
They also organize two major runs every year–Pride Run and Rainbow Run. The Pride Run takes place during the International Pride Month aka June. And the Rainbow Run takes place between November-December.
This year the Rainbow Run is happening on 1st December and the preparations are intense, fun and be prepared to have a gay time with the Bengaluru Front Runners!
What Does The Doc Say?
Umar Farooq, one of the runners, who is also a doctor advises the general population to incorporate some type of cardio in our lives–be it walking or running. Reason being, India has seen an increase in lifestyle diseases–often being dubbed as the diabetes capital of the world. Our lifestyles don’t support our bodies. Queer mental health doesn’t really help when we store intense stress and trauma, often resulting in psycho-somatic symptoms leading to other diseases.
While cardio and physical fitness are an essential part to ensuring our well-being it also has to do with our mental well-being. Exercising releases happy hormones–endorphins and serotonin! And you can double that happiness when you workout with fellow queer folx, in a safe, non-judegemental zone!
It may not be the ultimate solution, but it’s something everyone from an individual level to governmental frameworks need to work on. Community health results in a better and smoothly run nation. It’s not a queer person’s fault that society makes it immensely difficult to merely survive in the world.
Queer Health = Community Health
Umar recalls being afraid to join sports in school to avoid getting bullied. Queer folx and school sorts could often result in teasing amongst fellow classmates leading to just more anxiety around physical fitness as adults. Umar reminds us that a lot has already been taken from the community. We have always lived in the shadows and creaks of society. All of that stress, all of that trauma has completely made us forget how important our physical health is!
It’s a reminder to serve your body rather than starve itself of the joy of life. As a doctor himself he urges queer folx to enjoy what physical fitness has to offer and run (or work out or play sports) regardless of who we are–what our gender is, sexuality is, height, weight or even where we live (running on treadmill can also be a joyous occasion if you make it be!)
This ranges from mental health, physical health and even sexual health. What happens when the government or national framework doesn’t allow access to a certain group of people to healthcare? They rely on community, and more importantly a community begins to come together.
Ever since the previous update on NMC’s (National Medical Commission) changes in their guidelines for MBBS syllabus (Bachelor of Medicine, Bachelor Of Surgery), CBME (Competency-Based Medical Education); as of September 12, 2024. The NMC has made required changes to the curriculum by removing references to lesbianism and sodomy as “unnatural sexual offenses”.
However, on September 19, Medical Dialogues reported that the Madras High Court raised concerns regarding the NMC’s usage of the term “Gender Identity Disorder” to describe genderqueer/trans/non-binary gender identities. This terminology has since been revised, as of October 20, 2024, according to NMC’s website.
The update in NMC guidelines has been addressed across 7 sections and subsections in the doc, highlighting changes made to previously exclusionary and discriminatory language used while referring to queer and disabled identities.
You can read the NMC’s exact report on their updated guidelines on their website here.
What we have understood:
1. References to ‘Gender Identity Disorder’ to describe trans-ness and gender dysphoria has been replaced with “Pyschosexual Disorders And Sexual Orientation, Gender Identity, And Expression”, prompting the question – why is gender diversity & sexuality being grouped with psychosexual disorders?
2. The earlier focus on “abnormalities” in reference to varied physiological sex characteristics has been rectified. A question about it now reads: “Explain sex determination, sex differentiation, and their physiological alterations and discuss the effects of removal of gonads on physiological functions.”
3. Pediatric section has also been revised.Textbook now reads: “describe adolescent sexuality, diversity in sexual orientation, and gender identity.”
4. Disability Competencies, the NMC has notified that changes are being reviewed by an expert committee, as directed by the Supreme Court. This comes on the heels of the Supreme Court’s recent judgment (on October 15, 2024) on a petition filed by a medical aspirant who was disqualified from pursuing a medical course, despite clearing the National Entrance & Eligibility Test (NEET). This was done in accordance with the Graduate Medical Education Regulation, which states that people quantified as having over 40% disability will be ineligible for admission into medical school. The Apex court’s ruling stated that such a blanket treatment to disqualified disabled folx from medical education cannot be allowed
5. Patient History, which was introduced to the guidelines from 2019, that every MBBS graduate has to undergo training to learn how to take down a patient’s medical history without being judgemental about the information shared by the patient.
6. As for textbooks, the NMC has clarified conveniently that changes in the medical textbooks fall outside its jurisdiction.
7. The word “Heterosexual” has not been used in the entirety of guidelines. They have further clarified that any patient/client seeking gynecological treatment are not to be assumed as heterosexual cis-women.
8. Medico-Legal knowledge on the LGBTQIA+ issues are already addressed at school level, and doesn’t fall within the scope of the MBBS Curriculum. It’s unclear whether this knowledge is allegedly address at the high school level or medical school level. On both counts, it is insufficient, if not abysmally absent.
What Does The Court Say?
The Madras High Court has given the NMC until January 6, 2025, to make necessary changes to its guidelines. With a 4-month timeline to revise and address outstanding issues, all eyes will be on the court’s next hearing scheduled for January.
The updated guidelines, published on September 12, 2024, led the court to remark that, “only certain issues were addressed.” The court is now urging the NMC to make further revisions. It’s almost surprising that the NMC does not already have a dedicated team or an expert committee in place to ensure that this back-and-forth with the court does not persist—or are they deliberately stalling?
To truly make progress, perhaps a committee with expertise and lived experience in queer and disabled sensibilities should be brought onboard to help the NMC make these reviews and revisions effectively. It is essential that those drafting these guidelines are deeply sensitized to queer and disabled experiences and committed to creating lasting, meaningful change in the system.
Queerness is not something that needs to be medically erased, it has always existed and will continue to exist. The real question is, how easy are we making it for people to coexist? The same goes for disability. It’s not new, but as more people access diagnosis and ask for accommodations, the medical field has the opportunity to demonstrate humanity-first growth. A medical institution’s goal should be to build systems that support people with disabilities, helping them live fully in our world by building systems of care.
“You can confess, you know?” Abir said, looking at the man on the hospital bed. The man seemed to have a million tubes coming in and out of him and was undoubtedly nearing the end of his journey in this world. His upcoming journey to the place he was headed to, was a different matter altogether.
“Confess what? Own up to your stupid delusions.”
“My stupid delusions. You can stop lying, Mohan. There is no soul other than you and me in this room. That is if you don’t count the grim reaper standing right next to you.” Abir chuckled.
Moving closer to the bed, Abir continued – “I am not recording this conversation. I have no devices on me. I can strip if you want me to. I am sure you will like that.”
Abir and Mohan stared at each other for a good five minutes; one could slice through the tension between them as they sat in the icy cold intensive care unit room.
“Just confess, Mohan. Trust me this is going to help you far more than it will ever do me any good.”
“Help me. How the hell is submission to your fancy going to help me? Don’t you see, I am on my deathbed? It is the end for me. I don’t have time to entertain your little whims, to give in to your cooked-up stories. Go find your closure someplace else.”
“Oh, I don’t need closure. I will get my closure the moment a scum like you stops breathing. It is you who might benefit from some good old closure.”
“Mohan, free yourself from this cycle of deceit. Admit to all that you did all those years ago. I was a child, and you exploited that. Surely you must know how wrong it is to touch a child the way you did, to do all that you made me do.”
“Oh, shut up! Stop behaving like you didn’t like it, Abir. You enjoyed it just as I did.”
“Enjoyed it? I was eight years old Mohan. I didn’t even understand most of the things you did to me. All these years, I knew you were vile and cruel, but today I have realized that you are dumb and ignorant as well. Maybe there is no closure for monsters like you. Rot in hell, you bastard.”
“What did you call you? Bastard!! You bloody, ungrateful little prick. Get out of my room.” Mohan’s breathing became laboured and uneven.
“Get out….” The monitor flatlined. The hospital staff rushed in within seconds, trying to revive Mohan.
One of the nurses turned to Abir and emphatically said – “Sorry Mr. Bhagwat, we have lost your father.”
I am queer, I am sapphic, and I want a monogamous and happy long-term relationship. This is not something that I have gotten to see between two women while growing up in India. Although I had met older gay men in person in India, the first older sapphic couple that I met was at a queer event in London. My bestie and I were fascinated with the tales of the physical spaces in their life—a vineyard, ceramic store, and even a bike modification garage—but they were white. This meant that while they could make one feel hopeful in theory, there was still a gap in terms of actual possibilities.
Recently, however, that changed. I joined an artistic queer group and the organiser was a super cool brown woman who I ended up meeting again at a South Asian event. We had a fun conversation and at some point decided to get together to create more art. One thing led to another, and when I was walking with her and her partner towards their house they mentioned something about this having been a great area to buy a flat. My brain did not compute this, because I am a twenty-five year old immigrant who has absolutely no confidence in ever being able to buy a house in the UK. But neither do any of my friends—so how had these people afforded this? Suddenly I noticed signs that I had missed all along—them talking about college like it had been some time ago, them mentioning living in different countries for years as adults- and I asked immediately, “How old are the two of you?”
They were in their 30s(!!!). And I know that if you are in your thirties and reading this you are probably like “what’s the big deal?” But they both looked so young that I had been expected to walk into another twenty-something’s makeshift apartment that she shares with her girlfriend. I was NOT emotionally prepared to walk into a home that two sapphic women—one of whom was brown—had built together over years of love. I had no idea that I would soo be greeted by the friendliest black cat on the planet who had shifted continents with them and was their little baby. No one had told me that there would be a piano, and a dining table decorated with the EXACT candles that I would pick if I got to build a home with my future wife. To summarise: I had not woken up that morning with the information that that would be the day that I would get to see a real, living, breathing queer brown woman enveloped in cosy domesticity with her partner of many years. I was overwhelmed and was feeling ecstatic; and I was so moved. It is tough to dream about a possibility that we do not see around us. While I had been swiping right on dating apps and dreaming about having a home with my partner someday, meeting this couple made it seem somehow easier to achieve. This is why we need older queer people around us—to remind us not only of how far we have come, but also how far we can go.
And I would like to believe that I am now one step closer to that ‘how far’, because I have some news—your girl is in a relationship! It is very new, which means that we have moved in together (just kidding!). The truth is that when I had started this column I did not have an end goal in mind—it was not like ‘oh, within 10 articles I need to have a girlfriend’. That is not how life works, and that wasn’t the point. It was to just put a personal narrative about being queer in a foreign land out into the world, because we certainly need more of those. This column has been about ME, and not about how we should all eventually end up with someone. But somehow, it happened. You already know my girlfriend, by the way—she is the one I bought a dildo with after the first date and the one I kissed in front of the Tower Bridge. She is also the one who I love talking to about everything and who I firmly believe gives the best cuddles.
This was never meant to be an advice column, but if I had to say something to the girl who wrote the first piece a few months ago I would say this:
Buy a premium dating app subscription, these things don’t work otherwise. –
Keep investing time in your hobbies and keep resting. Never don’t prioritize yourself.
Stay honest and keep doing your screening questions with every potential date.
If something feels off, leave the date quicker.
Trust your instincts and notice when you are loving talking to someone.
In short, keep doing exactly what you are doing.
Everyone has their own path, and if you know where you want to eventually end up, you will find a way there. Most importantly, continue to keep seeking out queer joy—whether you are single or partnered, the most important relationship that you have is with yourself—if that anchor is strong, it will always be (relatively) smooth sailing.
On cold and grey mornings like today, Min comes home from work with an armful of snacks and a chest full of expectation. The boy behind the counter at the convenience store lours at her when she asks for a bag, so she turns her coat into a makeshift sack and scampers away. Snowflakes waft to her head and shoulders. Wind heaves and pitches her body. Clouds gather closer together to giggle as she frantically makes her way back towards warmth. She always counts on Jun to keep the boiler running at a constant and comfortable twenty-one, and once she’s indoors she’s never disappointed.
While her skin thaws and her teeth stop chattering, she rushes upstairs to the bedroom and cheerily flings her offerings before the other.
“Hmm…” Jun murmurs without looking up from her latest preoccupation.
The apartment is cheap. Or at least, cheaper than their combined rents used to be. Min had been travelling too far for work and Jun hated her flat mates. So, they decided to call it “being smart about money” and moved in together. It’s small and congested for two grown women to share. The kitchenette is coated in enough white formica to need cleaning often. The bathroom is almost as tiny as the cabinet hiding the cylinder. And sometimes Min hits her head on the roof beam when she excitedly runs up to the loft. But despite all its shortcomings, this is their little nest. This is their home.
“First a lava lamp, now a camcorder… how come you’re always trying to fix things these days?” Min doesn’t mean to complain, even if she sounds like she is.
A large portion of their furnishings originates from Jun’s love for junk. Her box of belongings was full of mostly non-functional things she finds aesthetically pleasing, which is a side of her Min knew nothing about until the move. She wonders what else remains for her to discover. What other parts of Jun would she be privy to? What other dominions and territories could she add to the jurisdiction of her love?
She hopes for more than a planet’s worth.
“Hmm,” Jun hums a little more insistently than the last time but her attention remains on the buttons and functions of the gadget.
“Mm… and here I was hoping we’d cuddle before bed,” Min whines as she shrugs off her cardigan. Trying to build a career is difficult for tame and biddable women like her. She cannot muster up enough ambition to ask for a raise, to demand being considered for a promotion. She can’t ever be like that, even if she desperately wishes she were. Instead, she works hard to make up for her weaknesses. She works long hours, works weekends, even works night shifts like yesterday in the hope that someone in upper management will notice her efforts. She hopes with all her might, despite Jun telling her to stop being spineless.
At first Min had been annoyed at the discouragement. What does this woman know, she’d asked herself. She’s never worked for anyone else in her entire life. Not everyone can live like a freelance writer. Not everyone can afford a life on their own terms. Min had held onto a smidgen of animosity for the other every time she got another telling-off. But with time she’s come to accept the admonishments to be thinly veiled pride. Jun is proud of Min… and to be reminded of that warms her.
“Ah, you…” she entreats again as she peels off her jeans.
While the other remains resolutely distracted, an idea saunters into Min’s brain. “Hey,” she calls out again, this time with a little smile and a little mischief in her pronunciation. “Hey, look here~”
“Ah, what—?!”
When Jun finally frowns up at her, Min’s fingers play with the hem of her shirt. She lifts it up a small inch before giggling and covering herself again. “Hmm… nothing~” she grins, swinging her hips side to side, slowly twirling in her spot. “Just wondering what you can see through that beat-up camera of yours… you could be missing out on something interesting, you know?” Her tone is low and enticing, a poor mimicry of what she’s often heard in racy movie scenes. Min isn’t always this playful or courageous. It’s only when she’s alone with Jun that she feels free. It’s only when they’re like this can she be anything she chooses to be.
Pulling her hair free of its tired bun, she lets it unfurl down her back and gathers it over her shoulder as she wiggles her butt.
The other blinks for a moment before catching on. “Good point. Why don’t we find out?” She raises the device and trains it on Min.
“Should I show you?” she’s teased in a soft laugh, fingers slowly undoing button after unresisting button. The fabric is rough against the gooseflesh that sprouts on Min’s arms. It’s not that she’s cold or afraid. It’s not that this is making her nervous, no. She is reminded in that moment that she isn’t just revealing a carefully guarded stretch of skin. There is more beneath the cloth that was never meant to be seen by anyone. Wrapped around her waist is her dignity. Trailing down her thighs is her modesty. Hanging off her breasts is her repression and anxiety and insecurity. These parts, Min religiously keeps hidden from the world, and yet here they all are—put on display for an audience of one. An audience that follows the shape of her secrets with an earnest stare.
There is no sound for a while besides the mechanical whir of a lens zooming in on her. Then Jun speaks, in a tone as soft as velvet. “For my last meal in this world. I’d want every mouthful to be you.”
Pure heat, thick and heavy lines of it, races down the backs of Min’s ears. It coils around her neck like a scarf before cascading down her chest. She peeks at the other through her fringe. “Did you write that? For me?”
“Mm,” the other shakes her head. “Words don’t do you justice, my love.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then what should I call you?”
Min worries her lips. She has asked her heart several times before to give her a reason: why is she alive? Why does she exist in this world? What is her purpose, if she isn’t good at anything at all? And for most of her life this stupid heart has been a quiet bystander to her repeated failures. This worthless heart hasn’t offered a word of comfort whenever she embarrasses herself. But as the shirt reluctantly slides off her shoulders and falls in a quiet flutter to her feet, her heart jumps into her throat and replies for her, for her. You exist for her.
And maybe it’s right. Maybe she has carved out a house of memories, tended a garden of dreams, settled a city of hope. For her, for her.
Holding herself by the elbows, a suddenly self-aware Min hopes to hide herself in plain sight of the other. “Call me anything. Anything but that,” she says and glances away from Jun, whose own amusement has slipped away to be replaced with a quiet sympathy.
“Come here,” she murmurs, finally putting the broken camcorder aside.
Min shakes her head. She grips herself tighter. She gathers herself closer. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Then… should I come there?”
With a gulp, Min returns the steady gaze. Sometimes when they’re in the middle of a heated kiss, a tiny portion of her considers what it would be like to tell the world about Jun; about the two of them. When their breath steams, a thousand permutations of her family’s anger swirl in the back of her mind. When she feels her head grow heavier in Jun’s lap, she wonders if they’d ever be able to do what couples do on her favourite dramas—share a kiss on the top of N Tower, or slow-dance in the glowing lights of Cheonggyecheon, or lie side-by-side among tulips in Everland. When Min avoids suspicious relatives and judgemental friends, she quietly asks herself where she could find the strength to keep her own nightmares from ambushing her. Where could her courage come from?
Does it reside in the distance between them, cinched to mere nothings by an unhurried Jun who crawls down the length of their bed? Does it exist in the way Jun lifts her own tee-shirt halfway up her front and nods in invitation? Does it come from the action of Min eventually ducking into the garment, forcing her head through the neck band and finding the two of them locked in a cage of shared warmth? Does her bravado come into being when short fingers unclip Min’s bra in one sure movement? Does it sit in the negligible gap of their bare stomachs for many seconds; many minutes and hours, as they search each other’s skin for answers to questions that don’t really need answering?
“My love,” Jun whispers between their pressed foreheads.
“No…” Min pouts.
“No? Why not?”
“… because you forget about me sometimes.”
“Never,” the other smiles as she makes her way through Min’s house, her gardens, her city. “Never.”
And Min does feel like someone’s love, then. She feels her bones and sinews stretch to their fullest extent as they fight to accommodate Jun’s love between them.
Viet and Nam, a type of film you would expect to find yourself in a dark theater on a hot Sunday afternoon and expect yourself to be completely amused, sad and happy. The theater’s cool air was a stark contrast to the long line I stood in to get into the theater. It’s only at MAMI that you see over 200 people lined up to watch queer narratives.
They weren’t here for the plot or the queerness (or maybe they were) but I found some relief in the idea that people showed up for art before they think of any other incentive that leads people to watch a gay romantic drama movie.
A Dark Way To Tell A Story
I can understand right from the first few shots, which were completely dark with a small figure getting bigger and bigger that the director will be talking to us from the shadows of the film. No matter what the subject was, my eyes kept moving to the darkened details of coal, dreams, and dirty fingernails.
Very obviously, the film depicts a gloomy, satisfied and normal life that our leads Viet and Nam live around. For clarity purposes, we’ll separate Viet and Nam as separate people, but this would be one of the few films that has the plot bleed into the end-credits. The actors–Dao Duy Bao Dinh and Pham Thanh Hai– as our lead heroes have been credited as Viet/Nam. While we’re not really sure who Viet (Pham Thanh Hai) is without his partner in the dark, Nam (Dao Duy Bao Dinh), we can guess what troubles Nam.
The larger focus of the film is driven by Nam’s life, his dreams, missing pieces and we only see Viet through his eyes. Nam’s mother– Hoa and his deceased father’s friend–Ba are occupied being each others’ platonic companions throughout the film. While one searches for the meaning of her dreams (thinking her husband is trying to communicate with her through dreams) and the other makes sense of a world without his friend.
Does the film have a lot of historical nuances for someone who barely knows anything about the country beyond Vietnamese Coffee? Yes
Will the audience understand the film even without the larger context? Yes, but only if you are enthusiastic about wanting to understand it.
There are many films that I have seen that leave me with the choice to understand it, one other example was Fallen Angels by Wong Kar Wai. I might now know what goes through Viet and Nam’s head when it comes to their country’s history, but I do understand what it’s like to be part of a country that demands your love to heal itself. I understand the pain that goes into deciding if you want to stay with your loved ones, or find new opportunities in a foreign land for your loved ones.
The village life, in retrospect is always nicer, without the burdens of the city’s fast and frivolous lives. I know these experiences, and I could recognise them in Nam’s face accepting it, and Viet’s face when he knew he had to let go of Nam. There’s a form of hunger and disturbance in Nam that Viet combats and balances with his sweet, flirty and overly accepting outlook on life. Which is very similar to the pairing of Nam’s parents.
His father had to pick between leaving his wife behind, to serve a “greater” purpose. Which is why I suppose Nam looks for his fathers’ remains. He encourages his mother to find some closure with his death during the Vietnam wars, but we soon realize, it was Nam looking for a man he’s supposed to resemble, trying to figure out how he dealt with life and compromises that come with it.
At the moment, it felt odd, confusing even thinking I had to know Vietnam’s history to understand the characters. But it’s been 3 days since I saw it, and it’s settled with me, that history aside, I knew what the anxieties were, I was able to witness their gentle love, amidst the dark lens and coal mines. And I hope you do too, hoping it’s made available on any medium very soon!
The holidays season is here, starting off with Navratri, Halloween & Diwali passing by quickly and now flowing into a vibrant wedding season, birthdays, Christmas and New Years! It’s going to be a tough time for your bank balance but how can you ensure that your gifts make people happy, leave an impact and aren’t too heavy on the pocket, and also make everyone happy?
We ventured off on the internet to find some unique, cute, and flirty gifts for your loved ones and even you!
Comes with 1 bullet vibrator and 2 silhouettes for his pleasure. It’s perfect for anyone who carries a chic, rockstar vibe and loves to enjoy the dual stimulation of a cock ring and butt plug. If this reminds you of someone in your life, then consider getting them for the holidays!
This magnifique and enticing set comes with 7 kink items, including handcuffs, tickler and kinky dice. So if you’ve been wanting to spice things up for you and your partner(s) and want to send off a bit of a hint, no better time than now! And if you know a Sabrina Carpenter fan who has been wanting to try something fuzzy and handcuff-y this makes the perfect gift before their next romantic getaway.
Featuring a subtle and cute looking clitoris stimulator easily disguiseable as an adorable decor piece. If you know someone with a sweet tooth and affinity for cuter things in life, it’s ideal for them! Get them a gift that will instantly make their life a little more sweet!
Do you also have a friend who loves their crystals a bit too much? And we absolutely love them for the aura they bring! Gifting them these gem-crystal themed simulation toys for anal & vaginal pleasure, to help them spruce up their holidays a whole lot more!
Who else remembers that one Sex And The City episode where Charlotte was introduced to the “Rabbit”. Who doesn’t love cute things? It’s simple human pleasure.While that SATC episode was one major factor in learning about self-pleasure, and if your bestie is a fan, we’d suggest getting a Bunnie for them!
If you know someone who loves some pińa colada (or even you and your partner), and relaxing by a Goan or Pondicherry beach for the upcoming holidays (or honeymoon) then get it for your wanderlust souls who’d be able to appreciate this travel-friendly kit!
We all have friends who like to keep things and clutter to a minimum, and find pleasure in simpler things and designs of things. It’s about the finer, comfortable and effectiveness of anything. Consider bringing them a minimal,soft and refined gift that they’ll be thanking you for throughout the festive season!
There’s something so human about undoing shame, extending love and understanding that life is also about having fun! Be it blood-family, partners, friends or chosen families, getting and receiving gifts is always a joyous time, so let’s have some besharam and queer festive season!
Sometimes I wonder if most people engaged in the dating ritual know what they are doing. Of course, when all they have to show is a profile on an app, you have to take what they say at face value. If someone says they are looking for a relationship, you are expected to believe them at least until proven otherwise, right?
But what about when it has been proven otherwise again and again? Dating app fatigue is real, y’all! I can’t remember the number of times I have uninstalled and reinstalled different apps. It has felt, at times, that this entire process is just about setting myself up for disappointment. Add to it the fact that Match Group (which created Tinder and Hinge) was sued in February in the United States by six plaintiffs who claimed that the apps are designed to be addictive owing to their gamified user interface. This means that the apps promise that you will find someone by using them. However, they cannot possibly be delivered totally purposefully by an algorithm whose intention is to keep you on the app!
We don’t even need to read the official statement from these apps to know that they claim otherwise, because every single advertisement reminds us of that. There are cute couples on their posters, in Youtube videos, and even on the apps’ Instagram pages. And maybe it is that gap between what is promised and what you end up experiencing that causes the dating fatigue. I have seen a person go from being super interested on text to being stand-offish on dates. I have also seen someone who was super confident on their profile about looking for a relationship, but a few specific questions from me made them realise that this may not be the case. Which is okay and a part of being human, but it is not a neutral experience – it is a disappointing one. And to have this disappointing experience in interaction after interaction can be a lot. Especially when it comes with having to review profiles that are looking to hypersexualise and fetishize bi people and profiles that are biphobic from the get-go.
And then there is the ghosting and late replies and accidental swipes and…phew! You know you have become a dating app veteran when you keep coming across people that you had swiped on 5 un-installs ago. Sometimes you swipe on them again because, well, you were in a different space then and it might work for you now. Other times, you avoid them like the plague because that was a disaster and you do NOT want to go down that road again. While the latter is more of a ‘I never want to think about this’ scenario, the former can play out in different ways depending on whether one or both of you remember that you have met in this digital land of hopes before. It feels so random and unstructured in the logic of who you come across – it feels like none of us know what the algorithm gods are thinking. Yet, there are also lots of people giving advice online on how you can make these apps work for you. While some of this advice – like being honest, adding pictures, answering questions feels useful, most of it feels like people shooting in the dark for what they think might work.
However, sometimes, (after you have paid for the premium subscription), you end up meeting someone that makes you want to keep trying just a little longer. Not because the apps are genuinely brilliant, but because humans are and we can find connections anywhere where there is the possibility of us meeting. While I am sure the general advice given to us for success on dating apps plays a part in that happening, on the whole I feel like things happen when you have the bandwidth to be consistent and to not carry the baggage of the disappointments. Even then, it feels too random to make sense.
Maybe there is no logical path to navigating these apps other than being honest and hoping for the best. Maybe meeting on a dating app is just as random as having a meet-cute in a coffee shop. But we got to keep trying, right? We got to keep uploading witty answers to our profiles and flirting with the cute bookseller in the queer store, because when it works, it works. And at that point it will probably make sense and feel like it was worth it, because it is not like we are out having adventures along the way.
Garish makeup, a territorial flower horn, a Godfather-esque pig head, narrow minds, and even narrower lanes—Shameless unfolds in a gritty, kitschy, and ruthless world.
We find ourselves in a dimly lit washroom, shrouded in dubious lighting and acts. On the bed lies a naked policeman, his uniform disheveled, with a knife lodged into him. This is where we first encounter Renuka (Anasuya Sengupta), a sex worker and one of our main protagonists. Attempting to flee the scene, her sunken eyes and roughened skin tell a silent story of hardship. As she moves from a red-lit alley to a blue-lit brothel staircase, we sense a fleeting reprieve from the danger relentlessly shadowing her. With that, Konstantin Bojanov (Writer, Director) sets the stage for the chaos about to unravel.
Having escaped from New Delhi to Mumbai, Renuka immediately seeks out the nearest red-light district to resume her income. Enter Devika (Omara Shetty), a doe-eyed 17-year-old girl whose initiation into this generational trade is eagerly awaited by powerful men. After her elder sister leaves to follow the tradition, a lonely Devika is drawn to Renuka, the new stranger in town. Their connection is fast and intense, an illicit spark igniting amid an industry run by predatory men, a tunnel-visioned matriarch, and the relentless pursuit of money. What unfolds is a tumultuous escape from deeply ingrained exploitation and the desperate scarcity of light in both their lives.
Chaos Centralised
The film reveals a stark hierarchy within sex work. On one side of the road are the general sex workers, stigmatized and looked down upon; on the other side is a hereditary house of practitioners performing the same labor yet regarded as “superior” due to the religious significance ascribed to their work. This caste-based, brahminical framework not only legitimizes their exploitation but also commodifies a lineage of women, embedding oppression within a system that valorizes sex work when tied to temple rituals and tradition.
Clad in stylish silk shirts and trousers, Renuka is a Muslim woman who has renamed herself after a Hindu goddess to navigate her world with greater ease. Devika, meanwhile, hides behind layers of clothing and fishtail braids, a modest attempt to shield herself from men’s predatory gaze. Renuka is alone in the world, while Devika’s mother (Auroshikha Dey) and grandmother (Mita Vashisht) are with her, albeit as complicit guides, grooming her for entry into the generational business—a haunting reflection of internalized oppression. Renuka has confronted and accepted the wrongs of patriarchy, while Devika remains naive and cautious; they are worlds apart in experience. Yet both women, who have known only conditional love, find solace in each other’s gentle tenderness, and we can’t help but root for them through each chaotic phase of their journey.
No Country For Women?
As Konstantin attempts to tackle multiple themes within this world of sex work and systemic oppression, his portrayal of women’s agency—or lack thereof—stands out, but reveals certain gaps. The narrative splits the profession into “organized” and “unorganized” forms, with Devika’s family representing the structured, matriarchal side. We see her mother enacting a rigid code of conduct with clients, seemingly complicit in this cycle of exploitation. However, the film’s failure to delve into the complexities that bind Devika’s mother to this system reduces her to a two-dimensional character, with little indication of any inner conflict or protective instinct toward her daughter. Could she, in fact, be grappling with her own limited ways of shielding Devika, perhaps wanting to educate her about bodily autonomy or even question the religious structures that perpetuate their exploitation? Instead, the portrayal sidelines these possible nuances, leaving her a passive enforcer of oppressive traditions rather than a mother navigating the painful choice between compliance and defiance.
This portrayal highlights the caste-based dynamics at play, revealing how brahmanical frameworks not only legitimize but also perpetuate systems of generational exploitation. In an interview with Priyanka Singh for Feminism in India, Nrithya Pillai, a dancer and educator from the Isai Vellalar community, articulates how these hierarchies were socially engineered under the guise of “devadasi” traditions, marking women as property in a feudal setup that controlled their lives through ritualistic practices like the pottu kattudal, or marking ceremony. “The savarna narrative,” Pillai explains, “focuses on the temple narrative, in that the devadasis were dedicated to temples. So, they called them temple dancers, which in itself is slightly problematic.” By limiting the scope to this “temple” origin story, she argues, the brahmanical revivalist movement cast women from hereditary dancing communities as mere courtesans, stripping them of their agency, land, and access to performing arts—effectively erasing their broader social and economic roles and reducing them to the stigmatized label of “prostitute.”
In Shameless, Devika’s family echoes this feudal model, wherein the hereditary, “organized” side of sex work is granted legitimacy solely due to its association with religious rituals and tradition. As Pillai notes, women of this lineage were forced back into caste-endogamous marriages, compelled to overcompensate for their identities in an attempt to be “respectable.” By exploring Devika’s mother’s struggles and revealing the reality of her confinement within this hierarchy, the film makes an important attempt to address the complexities of her situation. However, one might wonder if it achieves authenticity without community consultation in the writing process. While the film certainly aims to capture the experiences of Indian sex workers, there is a risk that this approach may lead to an exoticized portrayal that misses out on fully representing their nuanced battle against a deeply ingrained caste system. This raises the question of what a more direct critique of caste-based oppression might look like within the narrative.
What Do They Imagine As Light?
The dingy rooms adorned with faded posters of ‘90s heroines and chipped wall putty don’t offer much hope; they’re simply, commercialized spaces for pleasure. The setup seems bleak and the viewer is quickly made to realize the importance of having a source of light. For some, it serves as a means to abuse substances, while for others, it provides a moment of contemplation, as they fixate on a burning matchstick. The couple seeks out light in third spaces—such as theaters, an abandoned crime scene, and a terrace—only to find themselves trapped, constantly reminded of their inevitable fate.
Where Do We Go From Here?
As the film comes to its end, I can’t help but ask what would they’ve become if they had a second chance at life—a question Renu poses as they get to know each other. Would Devika pursue her dream of becoming a rapper? And what about Renu? Maybe she wouldn’t become a rapper, but would she finally get to live openly as the sapphic lover that she is!
It’s A Man’s World And We’re Living In It
At 1 hour and 55 minutes, the film builds an intense, often uncomfortable tension throughout. Scenes of assault linger beyond what feels bearable, the stark age gap remains impossible to ignore, and moments of intimacy feel purely physical and painfully brief. The exploitation of Devika and her lineage of women by this generational household is not explicitly explored as caste-based. This feels like an oversight, especially considering the material is shaped through the lens of a white person’s perspective, which adds a layer of unease.
Anasuya On Navigating The Intersections
Anasuya Sengupta captivated our attention in every frame that she graced as a foul-mouthed, self-aware sex worker on the run, making me eagerly anticipate her toothy smile on screen as she punches and gets punched by rules. Meanwhile Omara Shetty’s depiction of meek Devika unraveling her youth, left me shaking my head at every naive mistake she made. At the MAMI screening of Shameless, I got the opportunity to ask the main leads how they navigated the complicated layers of queerness, class, and trauma. Anusuya replied, “Of course, we knew our characters were queer, that sensibility came in. We saw it as a love story, a story of hope and despair before anything else.”
To witness a queer love story intertwined with class struggle, political corruption, and get disturbed by dissent in a Mumbai theatre was a delight, I hope you get to experience it too!
Growing up, I never considered myself a fan of romance. Everything about the genre was off-putting to me. I mean, are you really trying to convince me that these two people who met yesterday are now somehow in love? Those are just the stories in which the protagonists don’t fall into bed the first time they meet. It didn’t matter what the medium was – novels, film, television–the romantic subplots almost always fell short. Either I didn’t connect with the characters, or their stories played out so quickly that the relationship never felt genuine. Add to that the fact that every romance protagonist fell into the same cookie-cutter categories, and the relationships depicted were always painfully straight. It was unrealistic, to say the least. So, for the longest time, I didn’t read or watch romance.
As I grew older and came to terms with my own identity, my apathy towards existing content only increased. I grew more aware of how queer dynamics were teased but never realized, how toxic behaviour was romanticized, and how love was reduced to lust in fiction. These realizations, more than anything, made me come to terms with the fact that I didn’t have a problem with stories about people falling in love. I had a problem with the way these stories were written. And I’m not the only one.
For as long as media has been around, so have fans. However, the modern fandom, as witnessed today, has one “new” salient feature that dominates the space–fan fiction. As the name suggests, fan-fiction comprises “stories generated from the settings, plots, and characters of already established fictions […]” (Thomas 2007, 1) whose proponents subvert, reinvent and reinvigorate popular cultural texts. Fans, frustrated with underwritten backstories, underwhelming character dynamics, and unsatisfying relationships, have taken it upon themselves to renegotiate existing source materials to create texts–queer and otherwise–that offer more satisfying narratives.
Slash fan-fiction and content (defined by the interlinking of two (or more) characters romantically and/ or sexually), specifically, take the canonical story beats and double down on interior character development, allowing for a more nuanced depiction than offered in canon. One needs only look at CW’s Supernatural, MTV’s Teen Wolf, or BBC’s Merlin to see both aspects in action. Teen Wolf’s fandom took one of its most underwritten characters (Derek Hale) and practically built him from the ground up. Supernatural’s fandom was weaving together elaborate romances between two of its protagonists (Dean Winchester and Castiel) for years before its showrunners formally acknowledged any queerness on both their parts in perhaps the most disrespectful way possible in its final season. And Merlin? Well, the undertones were there for everyone to see and extrapolate from.
Fan fiction’s explosion in popularity, therefore, comes as no surprise. The reason people write it and read it with such gusto boils down to a genuine love for the canon characters and a desire to get representation–of more than one kind– right. The distinct lack of creative regulation and monetary considerations frees fan creators from the shackles governing traditional media. Reader familiarity with the world and the characters also helps since they can simply immerse themselves in a story knowing, going in, that they like these people. Everyone already knows the backstory– so authors can play, and readers can enjoy watching their favourites go on new adventures or re-live the old ones without all the plot holes. And you know how sometimes you watch or read something and want more of the exact same thing? Well, fan fiction has that covered too.
All of this contributes to why I choose to get my dose of romance through fan fiction more often than not. There is something distinctly comforting about being able to revisit characters I love in new contexts. It’s exciting to witness how other members of the fandom re-interpret certain scenes and scenarios and build on them– even if I don’t always see the vision. I find joy in the promise of a happy ending for characters who, traditionally, might have been thrown to the wayside in the most disingenuous way possible. But more than that, I love the fact that people saw a gap and took it upon themselves to elevate subtext to an actual relationship, opposing cis values and problematic depictions of queerness, race, religion, and gender dynamics found in canon entertainment media.
Reference: Thomas, Bronwen. 2007. “Canons and Fanons: Literary Fanfiction Online.” Dichtung Digital. Journal für Kunst und Kultur digitaler Medien Nr. 37 (Jg. 9): 1–11. https://doi.org/10.25969/mediarep/17701.
The vibrancy of the Juhu PVR theater, everyone is excited for the last film of the first day of MAMI Film Festival. They are locked in like a flight is about to take off. There are rumors about how great the film will be simply because of the promising poster and description. People and film bros have lined up since evening to be able to get in, the games to get are each one of their own. Next thing I know, I’m seated and watching the jockey’s lining up with their horses, with the race about to take off. Our leads are flirting through their eye protection goggles and satin suits. And Remo, our lead under a drug-induced high, is left behind his horse, suffering a slap right from the fields’ warm sand.
This is just the beginning of the movie, characters have been slapped and the director isn’t shying away from introducing our characters’ most authentic self–the sad, mysterious, tortured poet, lover, sorry I mean sportsman.
In one word, the movie is blunt. It’s vibrant with its visuals, sound and sharp dialogues, delivered hot and fresh by each and every actor. Right from our villainous, creepy mobster father–Sirena and the four motherless children who adopt the lead–Remo/Dolores/Lola (will explain the name of the comedy in a bit) as their mother.
Sports, while it has been established that is superficially straight and inherently queer, Luis Ortega, the director, writer and producer of this gritty, fluid and queer story gets it. With Remo’s love interest, Abril is also a jockey herself. Who is currently favored by Sirena (who was a weird sexist dude) as well, but that doesn’t add any strain on Abril and Remo’s love. Instead, we see Remo begging to be loved openly by Abril, who only ever says one thing, “for me to love you, you must die and be reborn again.”
Sounds toxic, I know, but as the film proceeds, with Remo crashing and accidentally killing the very expensive horse Sirena got him, we understand that it was necessary for Remo to crash, burn and be born again.
What we see forward is Remo’s body, the horse, being ridden by a woman–Dolores– has taken over his body, mind and fashion as the Jockey. I realized this in hindsight but Remo was never a part of this story, just the horse/body to be ridden by Dolores and eventually Lola.
In simpler words–Remo is a trans woman, who has been trapped in a self-destructive lifestyle, destroying and breaking everything Remo stood for, just to be able to live as Lola. Once Remo’s body is destroyed, Dolores/Lola take charge.
Abril knows this, and she will fight the world to ensure Lola returns safe and sound back to her arms.
Consider Ortega a part of my carousel of filmmakers to follow closely. I’m yet to watch his previous work–El Angel– that was screened at Cannes’ Un Certain Regard back in 2018.
While this wasn’t Ortega’s first tango with Cannes, it is still pretty impressive to have only ever made 5 films and hit the nail every time (or so I’d assume, judging the level of artistry seen in El Jockey).
Usually when telling stories of transgender folx, there’s a certain empathetic or sympathetic lens expected, but Ortega went a step ahead and decided to show Dolores as this lady, waiting to get out and put her love out in the world.
So while Remo doesn’t talk, show expressions or even his eyes for most of the film––Lola is the opposite. She talks, she listens, she advises and loves without begging for it. A major contrast between Lola and Remo is that Lola never had to beg Abril to love her. She knew Abril loves and that Abril also loves Ana (yes it’s a pan-Polyamory representation too!).
Without giving too much away from the ending, do expect to tear up to see Lola proudly be herself. If there’s one thing I’m a sucker for, is being able to see characters finally find peace within themselves. When I saw Lola, with her longer hair, climbing ceilings, cutting hair and being gentle. It only made sense why Remo was so destructive, and that it was Lola who had accompanied us throughout the film.
If Remo is destructive, Lola is someone who has learnt how to nurture.
It appears that love is not the only force reshaping our society this season. In a most delightful twist, the ton is abuzz with the arrival of a romance that promises to break boundaries and elevate our beloved Bridgertons into a new era of inclusivity. The charming Francesca Bridgerton is set to find her match, but not in the expected Mr. Michael Sterling. Instead, a bold new love interest emerges in the form of the enchanting Miss Michela Sterling.
This daring and utterly modern love story is not only a celebration of romance but a triumph for the acceptance and representation that our world so desperately needs. As the ton adjusts to this fresh breath of change, we shall explore why this momentous decision is a victory for love in all its forms. So, gather your wits, my dear reader, and prepare to embrace the future with open arms, for love is love—no matter the name or the gender it takes…
Okay, enough with the Lady Whistledown voice.
If you’ve been living under a rock, let me introduce you to the worldwide OTT sensation that is Bridgerton. The Netflix show that made corsets sexy again, turned balls into social battlegrounds, and made us all wish we could gossip in period attire. Every season of Bridgerton has delivered the drama, romance, and scandal that we crave, and this time, things are about to get delightfully queer.
In a jaw-dropping twist (well, it’s not a twist if you’ve been paying attention), the future seasons of the show will feature Francesca Bridgerton’s love interest. Now, book fans will remember him as Michael Sterling, but the show is here to shake things up. Enter stage left, Michela Sterling, a gender-swapped character who is here to steal hearts and probably stir up a few tea scandals on Twitter.
But here’s where things get controversial (as if they weren’t already). The fandom is split. Some fans are ready to embrace this change faster than Lady Whistledown can spill a secret, while others are clutching their pearls. So, let’s break it down: why is adding queer characters to a popular show like Bridgerton so important, and what’s the deal with gender-swapping characters?
Why Queer Representation Matters: More Than Just “A Trend”
In case you missed it, LGBTQ+ representation on screen is no longer just a progressive “buzzword.” It’s vital, and it’s long overdue. When shows like Bridgerton, with their massive audience, decide to include queer characters, it’s a win for diversity, visibility, and humanising the queer experience. While the show exists in a Regency-era bubble, the themes and relationships are timeless—and so is love in all its forms.
Imagine the impact of queer teens watching Bridgerton and seeing characters like Michela Sterling love as fiercely and unapologetically as straight couples do. For a long time, queer love stories were relegated to side plots, often tragic, and very rarely celebrated. This was also seen in the spin off Bridgerton show, Queen Charlotte, where Brimsley’s love story with Reynolds ends in heartbreak (allegedly!)
So in an attempt to right their wrongs, the show introduces queer narratives to their mainstream audiences. In a world where many still face discrimination for who they love, seeing two women in a powerful and loving relationship on-screen is a reminder that their stories matter too.
Queer representation also shakes up the predictability factor in romance series. There’s always a certain level of “will-they-won’t-they” tension in traditional straight romances, but queer characters introduce new layers of complexity. The hurdles they face are often different—and those differences are compelling. This keeps the show fresh, engaging, and far more representative of the real world.
But we can’t ignore the fact that not everyone’s on board. Some fans are less than thrilled about Bridgerton shaking up the formula.
The Fandom: Excited or Clutching Their Regency Bonnets?
CW: Mention of forced marriage
On one side, you have fans who are embracing this new representation. They’re practically planning viewing parties with rainbow banners. Queer characters? In a historical romance setting? Finally! The love story they’ve been waiting for! A lot of these fans see Michela as an exciting, bold new direction for the show—one that’s inclusive and open-minded.
Then, there are the other fans—the ones who are perhaps…let’s call them “purists.” They believe the show should stick to the source material more rigidly. After all, Bridgerton is based on a beloved book series, and Michael Sterling has always been, well, Michael. His character remains one the most beloved male love interests for book readers. This despite his participation in the colonisation of India and malicious attempts to force Francesca into a marriage with him by impregnating her without her consent.
Some feel that the gender swap is unnecessary, claiming it distorts the character they know and love. And let’s be real, sometimes book fans can get very attached to their imagined versions of these characters.
What’s fascinating is that these debates tend to overlook the bigger picture. The show isn’t taking away Michael; it’s giving us a new character—Michela—and a love story that brings fresh narratives to the screen. The story that book fans love still exists, but a newer and an improved version of the character should not warrant such negative reactions.
Let’s not forget that these are characters in a historically inaccurate world where the Queen is Black, and modern pop songs play during ball scenes. Historical purism is, quite frankly, a funny hill to die on. Gender-swapping characters isn’t rewriting history; it’s rewriting a story.
Gender-Swapping Characters: The Pros, The Cons, and the Drama
Gender-swapping isn’t new to TV and film, but it’s always a hot topic. On one hand, it allows writers to experiment with existing stories and inject fresh perspectives. It can also challenge gender norms and offer different dynamics in relationships. On the other hand, it can feel like a gimmick if not handled well, leading to accusations of “woke-ism” or “tokenism.”
The Pros:
New Perspectives: When a male character is re-imagined as female (or vice versa), it forces audiences to think differently about the character’s journey. Michela might face different struggles, challenges, and nuances than Michael ever did—and that’s exciting. It enriches the narrative.
Breaking Stereotypes: Traditional romance is usually about strong, brooding men and gentle, loving women (yawn). Gender-swapping throws those expectations out the window and offers something more complex, keeping things from feeling stale.
Inclusion: This one’s key. Michela being queer and gender-swapped makes Bridgerton more inclusive, something that today’s audiences are craving. Representation is empowering, and it matters.
The Cons:
Alienating Fans: As we’ve seen, some fans are resistant to change. Gender-swapping can lead to backlash, especially from those who are deeply attached to the original material.
Risk of Stereotypes: If not done carefully, gender-swapping can fall into traps. For instance, there’s a risk of making Michela’s entire character about her queerness, rather than developing her character fully. Balance is crucial.
Tokenism Fears: If the gender swap feels like a lazy attempt to appear progressive without substance, it can backfire. The swap needs to be meaningful and not just a marketing ploy.
At the end of the day, Bridgerton is about passion, love, and breaking societal norms—whether in 1813 or 2024. The introduction of Michela Sterling, and with her, a queer love story, is a step toward more inclusive storytelling in mainstream OTT media. Does it ruffle feathers? Absolutely. But is it necessary? Even more so.
So, whether you’re excited about gender-swapping or quietly rolling your eyes, let’s remember: TV is evolving. And if a scandalously queer Michela Sterling is part of that evolution, we say: bring it on!
I am big on intention-setting, and big on communication. This means that I do not go on dates just to ‘find out what happens’. I prefer that we talk about what we hope will happen, so that we are on the same page. The reason for this is simple – if you are looking for a ‘friends with benefits; situation and I am looking for a committed relationship, what is the point in wasting each other’s time? The same goes for friendships. I cannot do with the ‘let’s try to be friends first and then see where it goes’ setting, because that keeps me in the zone of ‘Is now when we can flirt? What did you mean when you said this thing? Are you into me or not?’ And why are we playing guessing games as two adults who met on the dating section of an app?!
But sometimes a girl DOES need friends. And let’s be honest, being an adult means that we are no longer in situations where we keep meeting new people in relatively sustainable settings like school or coaching classes (except for coworkers but that is VERY different). Enter the option on dating apps to put ‘looking for friendship’ or switching to ‘friendship mode’, which is honestly and truly god-sent. It allows people to set their intention clearly, while also giving them an opportunity to learn things about people from the get-go. There is space for people to write their political inclinations as well, so there is no way that the new person that you approach in class will turn out to be a bhakt (unless they are lying, which is a risk with everything online).
After I completed my course in London, many of my queer friends moved away – either back to their home countries or to another part of the UK. While I had access to the community through LGBTQ+ venues and events, I wanted more queer friends. Specifically, more brown queer friends who get it. I wasn’t sure how to go about this, until one day while swiping through Her I saw that another brown, queer woman had mentioned that she was looking for friends. I decided to swipe on her and see how the communication might be (I have been bitten by enough profiles who claim to be something and turn out to be something else to be weary), and I was so pleasantly surprised! She loved crafts and reading too and recommended the phenomenal book The Jasmine Throneto me. We had some trouble with scheduling an in-person meeting, so we decided to try a ‘craft and talk’ video call where she crocheted, I embroidered, and we spoke about everything under the sun!
At some point in my dating journey, I also decided to add the ‘looking for friends’ filter on my profile on dating apps. I’m happy to report that I have loved every second of scrolling through the profiles on this side of the app (which was a HUGE shift from what I find when I swipe through dating profiles.) People seemed to be willing to let more of their personality show in their answers, and were a lot more honest about exactly what kind of energy they had – ‘I want friends to go clubbing with’ vs ‘looking to build my queer tribe to have a movie night in’. I knew who I was looking for – craft-loving nerds like me who would be up for a drink but look for depth in friendships. Of course, this is very specific, but hey, a girl can hope. I found another friend who I ended up inviting along with my bestie to a drag show after meeting up for preliminary drinks. She was in a long-term relationship and was looking for solo friends because she felt that she and her partner did everything together. We also eventually went to drag bingo and won shots for our dancing skills – it was so fun, and all because I put myself out there.
It was during this time that I experienced a weird disappointment. I had swiped right on someone on the dating section of an app and was ready to get my flirt on with her. Our first conversation was going well – we had a lot in common, but as soon as I said something flirty she told me, “I’m just looking for a friendship.” I immediately stopped. After a second passed I asked her, “okay but I’m just a bit confused – why didn’t you make a profile on the BFF part of the app?” She replied, “oh, I tried but there aren’t a lot of queer people there.” I digested this, and then asked again, “Then why didn’t you mention on this profile that you are looking for friendship?” She had no response for that. What was unsaid stood between us silently – she had obviously chosen to omit that in the hope of getting more swipes. The unfortunate thing is that she had seemed cool enough and if she had mentioned ANYWHERE that she was looking for friendship, I would have actually swiped right on her anyway. But actual friendship cannot begin with deception. This is undoubtedly the WRONG way to try to make friends with me on a dating app. So that conversation ended there.
But the conversations with people who were more honest about their intentions, whom I found on these apps continued. Of course it is vulnerable to be looking for friends – one could even argue that to some people it can feel more vulnerable than looking for a potential partner. But it is definitely worth it – because whether we are single or with someone, we need our friends around us. We are not islands, and life is so much better with community.
We’ve all heard of the heroes whose stories gave birth to epics like The Epic of Gilgamesh, Beowulf, Odyssey So today, I come with story of a brave queer soul That lived in the year 2024,
Where capitalism was the great enemy and Life was the victim to be rescued The reward was not glory But acceptance and happiness
But let me tell you, She did not defeat the demon But found her happiness regardless So this is a story
Of our brave hero who stole moments of victory for herself While she lived She was born on the ordinary moon When everything would only change for her world
When her parents garlanded and showered her with their pride They showered her with blessings and expectations Expectations she would probably never live to fulfill Because who knew she would spend two hours out of the 24, travelling
She wakes up at 5 am, To prepare for a battle, She trains and brushes her teeth Packs herself a breakfast that
She will forget to eat She defends herself against the army Of Mumbai locals Where she’s pushed and shoved till she
Reaches her destiny And behold she arrives At the cave of labour Where she is destined to battle
The goblins of small talk and the monster of deadlines She ventures in With a sword of smile on her face
She nods past the goblins Emerging in a victory as she seats herself As lunch time arrives She has been battling hunger
And has seen the horrors of being discredited By the evil warlord named Aryan The three sisters of fate If they exist like the greek legends said
They surely don’t seem too concerned with helping her, As she realized, she will have to work overtime But she emerges victorious When the moon is high and the city still buzzes
Our hero meets her cohort And she is at last finally happy Because as the wise saint of Therapy told her We live and breathe battles That are to be fought internally and eternally…
What started out as a chill weekend watch son turned into a frustration rant to my bestie over WhatsApp voice notes. The problem is I can’t categorize this film ,and while I love abstract films like any other film buff, I really don’t get what this film set out to say.
Is it a coming out tale? Nope
…a queer love story? Kinda?
or a queer indian narrative? Not really
It seems to me that the focus of this film is just–Shaadi.
It’s so obsessed with getting the leads married that it forgets to check in with its lead couple if they even know each other enough to commit?
What’s better than queer rights? Shaadi!
It does a decent job of touching on this trope in Indian families where everyone’s sexuality is HUSH HUSH🤫.
Amar → Punjabi baby queer, ventures to London to explore his sexuality free from his XL-size family.
Prem on the other hand→ an open and experienced queer left his closet behind eons ago.
There’s very little chance of chemistry besides initial excitement…
Just as I settled into their chemistry, they’re getting married…?
Error 401: Chemistry Not Found
All sorts of shaadi-related Kalesh happens & queerphobic relatives are not even the center of attention?
But you know what is? Miscommunication, casual casteism & boring jokes about who’s better the groom or the groom?
In the process of “normalizing” queerness, the creators forgot that they are supposed to be a non-cis-het couple👨❤️💋👨. Which requires much more nuance than just being attracted to each other!!!
And the most important thing that filmmakers need to remember, while creating queer narratives, is that normalization does not require them to fit into the already existing cis-het mold! It’s counterintuitive!
There’s no substance in this film that normalizes queer couples, because it’s so hell-bent on making queer couples fit-in.
It stereotypes queer spaces as unsafe, lustful & inherently sinful.
I love rom-coms, especially queer ones, but I also like my leads to show each other some compassion, romance and compatibility.
This movie said, “let’s be sanskaari-queers”. It’s not a light watch either, there’s no humorous punch besides the family rivalry and cool dadi trope. If I wanted to watch a tale of a Punjabi-Bengali couple, where one is a cute himbo and one is a classic black cat– I’d watch Rocky Rani Ki Prem Kahani. There’s a dire need of more queer narratives, but do we want narratives that are misleading? Sure we need diverse stories, but what good are those if they end up putting us in a box that we try so hard to escape.
Have you ever been on a date where everything is going well until it isn’t? Something changes, and suddenly, like a switch has been flipped, all the initial attraction fades away, leaving only a vague feeling of disgust in its wake. The famous ‘ick‘. If we all think back on why we turned down second dates or tried to weasel out of firsts as quickly as possible, we’d probably come up with quite a diverse list of reasons.
‘He chewed with his mouth open.’
‘Her nails were too long, and she kept picking at them.’
‘They wanted to split the bill…we ordered coffee…’
By all accounts, these are innocuous things, and yet they have devastating consequences for fledgling or even full-fledged relationships. And while reasons differ in their details, the essence of the ick is a feeling of revulsion and disgust tied inextricably to our latent preferences.
What happens, however, when the ick factor goes beyond the realm of the straight and enters the realm of queerness and queer politics? The 1998 paper titled, “The Ick Factor: Flesh, Fluids, and Cross-Gender Revulsion,” examines the cross-gender revulsion experienced by gay men and lesbian women about each other’s bodies as sexual entities. The author, Eric Rofes, a gay man, tries to explain and explore his experience of the ick as best as he can. Rofes is brutally honest in his expression, and his honesty begets an examination of why members of a community whose sexuality is often denied by society might internally reject each other as well. Of course, this is not a universal experience. Not all gay men or lesbian women experience the ick when confronted with the other’s sexual practices and cultures, but it is fascinating to think about why some might.
Now, one’s sexuality, by virtue of being selective (usually), is tied heavily to the concepts of preference or taste – affirming certain inevitable differences amongst individuals. These differences can also be defined as the negation of positive feelings towards something or someone i.e., tastes can also come through as feelings of visceral intolerance, along with strong preference(s).
What does this mean for cross-gender revulsion? Is it natural for people to look at each other’s bodies and not feel attraction, but instead experience a lack of attraction as disgust? I don’t think so, and neither does Rofes. While the paper itself is unable to come up with concrete reasons behind the feelings of revulsion experienced by both lesbian and gay people, it does a great job of acknowledging the internal thought process of individuals and their hypocrisy.
When it comes to women’s bodies specifically, both amongst queer and straight men, there is a tendency to de-sexualise and hyper-sexualise them, simultaneously. This is evident in the contradictory expectations governing what is considered acceptable behaviour by women and the language used to talk about it. Throughout his paper, Rofes highlights how his acceptance of lesbians was often concerning the feminist political culture and their display of non-sexual acts of intimacy like hugging, hand-holding, etc. The moment he was confronted with female promiscuity and overt displays of sexuality, Rofes was left scandalized and vaguely queasy. Incidents like this remain true even for some straight men today who, when faced with a labia, either refuse to engage or shame their partners.
Conversely, with regards to language, many queer men use terms like “pussy” and “cunt” while having sex and yet feel disgusted when confronted with the reality of one. Pierre Bourdieu, one of the leading thinkers on the subject of disgust, asserts that “disgust is the paradoxical experience of enjoyment extorted by violence, an enjoyment which arouses horror.” Bourdieu reframes disgust as a mask for forbidden pleasures or delights, which the acquisition of a certain identity has severed. In this context, it somewhat explains why gay men might use these terms even when it seems contradictory.
None of this, however, explains why one feels revulsion in the first place. Some lesbians, when asked, attributed their disgust with male genitalia, sperm, rimming, etc. to their experiences of childhood violence, rape, and incest. With regards to the gays, Rofes has two possible explanations. First, he draws on the historically proven power of disgust to create boundaries between populations. He suggests that the ick might be a way for gay men to build alliances, hierarchies, and communal classes based on gendered sexual orientation. The second is internalized misogyny. After all, just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you escaped the toxic narratives spun about women!
Regardless of the reason, this alternative take on the ick factor adds nuance to the conversation. While preferences and tastes are highly individual and should be respected, this paper challenges readers to question themselves and examine the hidden underbelly of said tastes. Moreover, in the modern context, it brings another dimension through which to view the innocent ick, which is often dismissed as nothing more than an innocuous rejection. So the next time you go on a date, watch a sexy movie or happen to walk past some couple lost in a passionate embrace, and you feel an inexplainable little something-something, queer and straight denizens of the world, take a second to think about why. Feel free to feel the ick, but don’t forget to question it too.
Frilly lace socks, burgundy mary janes, gingham placket blouse, box shoulder bag with ribbons, a slutty scarlet corset, bow shaped jewelry, siren core specs, morandi note tabs, Kuromi themed pen holder, hello kitty notepads, pastel highlighters, kanken bag and offo! Soooooo many things to own, to own your queerness through these materialistic markers.
If there’s one easy, foolproof way to show your queerness, it is through fashion and accessories. Want to take a peek in my cluttered wishlist? Ok, fine!
Sleeveless rib-knitted racer back
Photo credit: Pinterest
With a blend of 99% cotton and 100% slutty shoulders (I don’t know math!), this is a versatile option to pair with either baggy jorts or jeans. The hint of bra strap visible through the racerback is a way to assert the dominance of the gay girlie gaze 😉
Burgundy dual strap Mary Janes
Photo credit: Theatre.xyz
Giving the ballet flats a tough battle, the dual strap Mary Janes give me the chaotic bi panic energy of why do I have to pick? Block heels for stability and height to tower over short kings, queens and monarchs (in case they’re non-binary?). In the price range of a cozy outside date, I’m obsessed with the bold color and the gold detailing on the buckle.
And yet it stays on my wishlist because as a serial public transportation user in India, I need my comfy paragon slippers more than this, unfortunately.
Chunky Loafers
Photo credit: h&m
These loafers with golden accents have been on my wishlist for 3 years now. With a 4cm platform heel, it assures me functionality and fashion, which means I don’t have to deal with numbing my toes while I walk places. Pair it with trousers and it becomes my go-to himbo, ‘I’m just ken’ kind of outfit ; or pair it up with a dress, a pair of loose socks, and it could be alt and comfortable. Available in imitation leather (currently being branded as ‘vegan’), I want to buy it to live out my fluid dreams of going between femme and masc moods through the outfits I wear.
Set of Striped Front Button Vest or Blazer & Wide Leg Pants
Photo credit: Littlebox India
Advertised as workwear, in my head I already know, it’s going to come out looking like Kristen Stewart in a pixie cut when paired with a killer brown lip combo. Standing at a price point of grabbing everyone’s eyeballs, it has pockets and a price that requires me to solely take public transportation to save up on money. The wide leg pant gives my wide hips and thighs a break from being perceived, allowing me to a little wiggle-room in what I am going for. Do I want to be taken seriously or be seen as sexy? You tell me, or actually, hold that thought; don’t.
Quirky Jhola
Photo credit: Juhu Beach Studio
I don’t know who needs to hear this, but something everything about a bright neon blue and pink heart cut-out tote bag just screams GAY! to me. From the pointy silhouette to the solid color palette, everything feels funny and silly, much like how I cope with my identity on some hopeful days. I mean, the funkier the accessory, the more space for me to be camp and queer. And especially if it is from a sustainable, homegrown brand, the high price point I’d be paying in hope that it’s going to pay fair wages for the labour instead of simply linking the pockets of an Instagram influencer makes sense as a progressive liberal person. But then again, I remember that I also have a middle class lens and find myself growing into my mother when I say: ‘yeh toh apna tailor buss 250/- mei sil ke dega’ (translation: this would be easily stitched by our tailor for only ₹250/-)
Uniqlo built in bra tank top
Photo credit: Uniqlo
Be it Angelina Jolie in Lara Croft to Umang Singh in Four More Shots Please! Wherever you land on the spectrum with white vests, tank tops have always been very queer-coded. But styling it as a desi queer girlie is a headache because sleeveless tops = always adjusting the bra strap or else face the wrath of the aunty gaze. The trending built-in bra tank top solves this so effortlessly. This is what those menstrual companies think they’re doing when they show the women wearing their pads frolicking and cartwheeling in those ads (they are not even close).
Choker
Photo credit: Pexels
Queerness and kinky fashion have always coexisted, thanks to their subversive, non-normative approach. From goth to e-girl and even punk, chokers are an effective way to sneak in a quick nod to the gays and the theys and all the others, signalling that you’re one of them. As a desi queer, I find it difficult to incorporate it on the regular, but when you do queer fashion: the more out of place, the better!
Print shirts
Photo credit: The Souled Store
Flamboyant prints for the win! These loose airy shirts give the onlookers a very ‘do I have boobs or not’ kind of vibe and that’s very fun because it sends across chaotic ripples among the heteronormative. The wacky patterns also serve as a quick pick-me-up on a low day where body dysmorphia (or even dysphoria) has assumed the driver’s seat. It masks the silhouette that I possess.
On that note, everybody say thank you to Billie Eilish for bringing baggy in on our mobile screens!
Queer Pins
Photo credit: Reypin store
What’s better to set the gaydar off than showing off your queer side not so subtly. The cat makes it better, because technically, people can’t clock you if you’re a cat lover or a pride flag-haver, you decide. But as much as quirky of a callback it is to your identity, try taking your tote bag with this pin in desi public transportation packed with people. One dhakka (push) and your pin is nowhere to be found 🙁
Chunky Ceramic Jewelry
Photo credit: Pinterest
Revenge for Marie Kondo’s minimalism, these chunky ceramic handmade charms feel very queer coded to me, personally. While it is very fashion girlie energy, the mix-match customization and the DIY core says otherwise. The intricate designs with colorful beads and chunky gold chain scream camp, cluttered and queer. Since, ceramic is an expensive medium to keep up with, I find it too much of a drag (not the serving lewks kind) to bother buying. The jugaadu (DIY), brokie budget version of this, according to me, would be with air dry clay, trust me, tried and tested!
Eyeshadow
Photo credit: MARS Cosmetics
A blend of playful, personal and political, makeup can be a fun, exhilarating way to give the folks a sneak peak of what’s inside of you aka who you truly are. Like all makeup, its ephemeral nature allows you to take charge of when you want to step into the limelight and show off your fabulousness. Use a touch of eyeshadow to publicly profess and protest against the patriarchal rules.
Note: Best done if the patterns and the colors become more glitter-ier, more shinier
Tattoos
Photo credit: Pexels
Scrapbooking my body with important milestones or maybe a meaningless quirky artwork? Sign me up for it! Tattoos, be it hidden or out and loud, can be a quick wink to signal your queer rebel spirit. The process and its permanency makes the whole ordeal very intimate and vulnerable, making you overwhelmed. Plus, how good is it going to translate from the brain to an art piece? From vetting an artist to figuring out your budget, seems too heavy not just on the wallet but also on the mind. Guess, I’ll have to park that thought for another day!
Piercings
Photo credit: Pexels
With a history of body euphoria and signaling to other queer peeps, piercings go beyond just the aesthetics. Being queer comes with the realization that the ‘norm’ doesn’t make much sense, so why stop at labels? Just lean or rather jump and throw yourself into it, to piss more people off, to be truly your rebellious self! And that includes piercings! Especially, as a bi woman, if tomorrow you see me with a septum piercing, know that that’s my uniform and I’m simply marking my attendance.
Dyed Hair
Photo credit: Pexels
They say don’t judge a book by its cover but sometimes as a queer person you kinda want them to clock you as queer girlie. Dyed hair works wonders, add a mullet or undercut, and you’re ready to enter your baddie era. You get to control the narrative, a streak of your hair or the entirety of your head plus the eyebrows, you pick your intensity of identity. The quick fix is boxed hair dye ranging anywhere from a 100/- to 700/- depending on the rarity of colour. But a commitment to dyed hair is not just applying but maintaining the colour. This means an additional purchase of protective hair care which includes shampoo, conditioner, hair mask, oil, serum and don’t forget the count the number of times you wash your hair. All this seems a hassle and heavy on my pockets which is why the only colour I’ll be sporting is grey. Who is my hair stylist you ask? Late stage capitalism itself!
So Add To Cart? (Or Rot In The Cart?)
So, choice is yours… but also not really. With micro trends popping up every five seconds, fast fashion’s endless temptations, and big media corporations shoving ads in your face, it’s a wonder any of us have the energy left to practice our queerness. And let’s be real, trying to afford the stuff that truly helps you express your fabulous self? It’s like navigating a minefield of priorities—like, are we really supposed to choose between cabbage and concealer? In this economy, I’d say tamatar over top-shelf makeup any day. But here’s the twist: being queer means you’ve already got the jugaadu skills to recycle, repair, and reinvent like a pro. Who needs designer labels when your local tailor can make your shirt as masc as you want it? Or why book a fancy studio when your friend’s got a stick-and-poke kit? Swap out that Bobbi Brown for Blue Heaven and voilà—you’ve nailed the art of queer styling on a budget. After all, in queerness, everything is fair game—and the best looks are the ones you make your own!
Movies have often insisted that the most romantic moments in life occur when gazing into the eyes of ‘the one’ – but these last few months have taught me that being single does not have to be without romance. And I’m not even talking about romanticising all aspects of one’s own life – that is a given – I am specifically talking about forming core romantic memories when there is mutual attraction, but no pressure.
This is a lesson that I have been learning because dating as an adult is quite different from dating as a teen as I now have a lot more agency. Teenage dating was about sneaking around and trying not to get caught. Which meant that the stakes were so high that there already needed to be some inkling of emotions to take a risk to talk to or meet someone. Now, we can ask each other out on a date because there is interest and curiosity to see if there is potential – which makes me want to sigh in relief.
I have also quickly learnt that in the sapphic dating world having a 4-hour heart-to-heart conversation is the norm, not the outlier. Which means that just because there was strong chemistry and flirting does not mean that we will speak again. I am not talking about f*ckbois who string you along by staying in the ‘grey’ zone for months. I am specifically talking about initial no-strings-attached conversations where both parties are aware and in on the fact that there is no commitment yet, just curiosity about who the other person is.
Curiosity is an amazing zone to be in, as this is where you get to know people and yourself. Curiosity holds your hand, directing you away from infatuation-based attraction to information-based crushes. And these crushes are an amazing space for romance to blossom, even if that happens for a date or two.
Over the last few months, I have had swoon-worthy romantic moments on dates with interesting people. After matching and texting for a day or 3, I ask if they would like to jump on a phone call so that we can quickly go over the basics and see if we are on the same page about things and learn a bit more about each other. Once that is done, there is much less pressure on our dates which means that there is a lot more room for flirting and going into the deeper questions.
I always wanted to have a bookstore date and the first date that I went on through a dating app was just that! I had mentioned liking flowers and she was waiting outside the queer bookstore with a whole bouquet of them (damn!). She mentioned loving sunflowers in particular, so I was holding a huge stalk in my hand. We were already off to a good start, and it only got better as we got hot beverages and looked through the shelves of titles together. At some point, we found ourselves in the kids section and I asked her if she would like to read a poem together. This is something that I do with friends sometimes and it is really fun to see how each person reads their part. She was game and we went back and forth on reading an adorable poem from the children’s book. We spoke a lot, walked through nearby lanes, and ended up stumbling upon a candle-lit restaurant for lunch. It was the stuff of romantic dreams, and I am so glad we got to make that memory together – because romantic moments are not just about you getting to experience something, it is about the person that you end up doing it with as well.
Another thing that I always wanted to do was have a romantic kiss in front of the Tower Bridge. As someone who lived in that area for a year while in a long-distance relationship, I would often walk by adorable couples holding each other close and think ‘one day’. Yet when I was sitting and splitting a pizza on a Tower Bridge bench with a girl whom I had a crush on (and who I am pretty sure had a crush on me), I did not think that that moment would be ours. We were talking about everything under the sun and an emotional intimacy was building as we shared red wine. We saw some straight-looking couples come and have that moment, but I was not sure if we would be safe if we went for it. The truth is that just like with the bookstore date, it was not about ticking something off a list, it was having this magical moment with her specifically. So I shared this with her and after having a conversation about whether or not we both felt safe enough in that environment to try, we went for it. It was magical, and I loved every second of it.
To sum it up, I have had a Christmas market date and a museum date. I had a cocktail with a fun woman and walked through a gallery with a chill one. I have also laid in bed and listened to romantic retro songs with an adorable woman (who reintroduced me to ‘Kehna hai, Kehna Hai’ which now holds a place in my playlist). While experiencing all of these romantic moments, I was single- and yet, they were not any less special. Of course, in our case, the intention that my dates and I set is seeing if there is potential for whatever spark there is between us to go somewhere, but that does not mean that we can not enjoy where we are at, in that moment.
I am a hetero-oriented demi/grey-romantic asexual person.
It has taken me exactly 2.5 years to sit down and pen this essay. I first thought about writing it in August 2021. Despite my pitch being approved, I could not bring myself to write it. Am I lazy about putting in the work to write? Yes, absolutely. I did not feel motivated. But the actual reason that held me back was that it required me to be vulnerable about my deepest thoughts and feelings. This story requires me to disclose things that I do not talk about openly. Of course, there is no pressure and no one is asking me to write; it is entirely my own will. I wanted to write and share my story but doing that meant admitting to myself what I have been feeling for a long time. It required confronting myself to clear the confusion and get a better understanding of myself. It was a necessary process because once this experience is out there in the written word, there is no hiding from it anymore.
But I do not want to put my name on it. I am not ready for that bit and will never be. Anonymous feels safer.
I learnt about asexuality in 2020, at the age of 31. I knew what ‘A’ stands for in LGBTQIA+ but never gave much thought to it. Over two years of regular consultations with my psychologist enabled me to understand myself. It helped me to figure out what I want in a romantic relationship, what would be the nature of it, why I want one, and if I even wanted such a relationship. In this journey of working upon myself I discovered my own sexuality, which was always there inside me and with me but I did not have a name for it. I could not recognize it.
I always knew that my relation with sex is not what I see as the prevailing norm around me. I have been in love, more than once, but never felt the need or desire to even hug or kiss the person. So sex was a faraway concept of an experience that I didn’t feel the need for. I never felt that I needed physical intimacy of any level. My wish was to experience and express the love, the deep and intense emotions that I felt. All I wanted was to experience emotional intimacy. My feelings were never reciprocated so one may say that since I had never been in a committed relationship, I cannot be sure or maybe it is a case of “sour grapes”. But I know that in my body, mind, and heart, I have complete clarity on what I want right now and in future. While I was grieving the lack of-reciprocation of my romantic feelings, people have said that since there was no sex involved the damage is less, which means the intensity of pain would be lesser. I understand that it may be a well-intentioned concern, but the damage, if at all we use this word, was not any less than what a sexually-active person might go through.
Once I even manipulated my own self into thinking that maybe a relationship wasn’t happening for me because I am not ready for sex or any sort of physical intimacy. I misguidedly applied the ‘law of manifestation’ popularized by The Secret and thought that maybe I have not channeled my desires in the right direction. It put me in a great dilemma when I felt no physical attraction to the boy I was in love with. I somehow had this idea, or maybe it was conditioning, that once I am in a relationship then physical intimacy might happen eventually, as if it is a natural corollary that is bound to happen on autopilot. Couples get physically intimate and that was a truth I was aware of. I thought, maybe I would be ready if I channeled my desires into getting ready for it. However, it turned out to be not true.
At first I thought that I might be demi-sexual; in my head I assumed that when I get into a committed, emotionally-intimate relationship, then of course physical intimacy would follow and lead to sex, because if not this then what. The major gap here was the check-in with myself. I had to pause and ask myself if I wanted to have sex? The answer was a clear no. Sex was irrelevant and unnecessary for me. I revisited my journey from the time of adolescence till date, and it made me more certain that I have never wanted to have sex. Regardless of whether I was in love or found someone good-looking, I had never wanted to come close to them physically. I completely understood the act of sex at the age of 18. There was a complete absence of curiosity that might have otherwise propelled me to learn about it. Learning about the act, penetration in particular, made me extremely uncomfortable (physically). To me, it felt intrusive. I remember sharing this sentiment with a friend back then. Revisiting this 15-year-old conversation at the age of 31 did wonders. In that moment it became very clear to me that I am an asexual person; everything made sense. My first reaction was a sigh of relief, that said “oh now I don’t have to get physically intimate in a relationship or have sex. Phew!”
Besides being asexual, I also became aware that I do not experience romantic attraction the way I see it happening around me. I do not develop romantic interest unless there is a friendship or an already existing attachment/affection. Also, if I feel a certain attraction, I do not necessarily want to be in a relationship or act on it. I have been on a dating app, but deleted it in 2 months because I got bored. This straight-jump-to-romantic setup made me uncomfortable. I thought that maybe I am scared or its unknown terrain, but I really did not want to meet anyone. I did not like the flirting. It has always made me uncomfortable and I know that it is not the butterflies in my stomach. It feels as if someone is jumping into my very private/personal space. I am not sure how to label it, but it’s somewhere between grey and demi romantic.
Being an ace demiromantic person is not easy especially when sexual and romantic relationships are the norm. For me, it also reduces the possibility of being in a relationship or experiencing mutual attraction. It is not impossible but it has its challenges. The trickiest feeling is to grieve a loss of something you do not want in the first place. There are certain things I know I cannot experience in my life because my body does not want to and yet there are moments when I find myself in a whirlwind of sadness because of it. It’s been a complicated journey and continues to be so. But 3 years of therapy and a steady dialogue with myself has made me a firm believer that a romantic relationship is not the be-all and end-all of life. For me it’s not a pre-requisite to live a wholesome life.
Trigger warning: mentions of abuse/sexual harassment
“Does that mean you like to have threesomes?”, “Ooooh, can I watch when you make out with a girl?” “Oh shit, that’s so sexy, ya!” “Bisexual, huh? Is that just a stop before becoming a lesbian?” “Bisexual isn’t a real thing! It’ll pass don’t worry” “Why can’t you just stick to one? You want to play the field before deciding, is it?”… “Whatever it is, you’ll finally marry a man only, no?”…
I think I was in my prepubescent era when I had a small crush on a girl, and I never understood it. Just a few days later, I overheard a group of girls talking about someone being a “LESBIAN” in the most derogatory way possible! I panicked. Does that mean I am that??? But I also had a crush on this boy in my class? It was too much for my pre-teen brain to process, and so I buried it deep in the corners of my brain. Without realizing, I was internalizing shame and homophobia, and entering the ever-winding shame spiral.
Stepping into my teen years, came with the raging hormones and more instances and musings of having crushes on both boys and girls. I buried those feelings toward the latter, deeper and deeper until I believed that they didn’t exist. Then one day, I met my bisexual awakening in the form of someone who also became one of my closest friends. It seemed like she was exploring her identity too, or at least was a bit curious if anything. We talked openly about our feelings, and for the first time, I experienced my safe space. For the first time, I started to think about what it all means. We became closer friends and maybe more. Maybe it was love, maybe it was just the excitement of finding someone who felt the same way. But like a fragile soap bubble, it just popped one day. Maybe she felt she was not ready to explore that side of her, or she just didn’t want that kind of bond with me! A little heartbroken, I took those feelings once again and buried them even deeper than I did before. Although we made up later, and she is still one of my closest friends, she remains a bittersweet part of my journey to discovering and exploring my sexuality.
Just as most girls do at least once in college, I dated boys, ignored any feelings that I felt towards anyone of any other gender. I went along not knowing that I was building shame and resentment toward myself and my identity. Deeper and deeper I went into the shame spiral! You might notice that I have not used the word bisexual yet. That was because I didn’t know about it, nor did I want to explore further. The world of LGBTQ was met with whispers and judgement everywhere I turned and I did not want to look that way at myself! So of course, I believed I was straight… because obviously, I like boys. I am attracted to them physically, sexually, emotionally, and intellectually. There’s nothing more to it, right? WRONG!
My second awakening came in the form of a celebrity. It was 2013, I was watching the movie Queen and that’s where I saw her, the drop-dead, slap-in-the-face stunningly gorgeous Lisa Hayden. Oh my God! The things I felt that day… I still remember! How can I be straight and still feel this way towards a woman!? I felt both excited and ashamed. I knew something in me changed forever or rather something in me was awoken from a deep, deep slumber. After I came out of the cinema hall, (coupled with also coming out to myself, to be honest), I only felt dread. Yes, it was exciting to see a celebrity on the big screen and look at her adoringly (fine yes, the feelings were not all that innocent :D), but just like that, another bubble popped. The undeniable truth was upon me like a dark cloud. And just like that, I was very aware of all my shame and resentment I had so neatly wrapped up and buried deep in the recesses of my brain, thinking that I would never access them again. I was properly and silently spiralling all alone with these feelings, not knowing what to do!
I obviously never told anyone. I tried not to think about it myself. I mean, I still liked boys, so maybe it will pass. It probably is definitely ‘just a phase’ or something. But deep down, I knew it really wasn’t. Every so often, I would think about it and go further down the spiral of shame and resentment. So, I clung on to my relationships with boys. As long as I still liked boys, I was fine, I told myself. The shame got so much worse when in one very random conversation my father told me, “Bring any kind of boy and I may be able to accept, but just don’t come and stand here with a girl and tell me you want to marry them!” I cannot explain the anguish, and the pain that statement caused me. Further and further, I spiralled, and I still did not know what to do!
I spent all my teen years and early 20s this way, until I just couldn’t go on anymore. I did the only logical thing I could think of at that point. I started reading about it, learned what it meant to like more than one gender, explored the vast world of LGBTQ, and started seeing others who felt the same way that I did, in myriad other ways. Then I finally admitted to myself that, “I am BISEXUAL.” It wasn’t some big moment; on the contrary, it made me feel small and invisible. So, what’s the next logical step? I pushed myself to start coming out to people—my closest friends, some strangers in bars, some boys I met on dating apps. I started chatting with girls on there too, but never had the guts to actually go out with anyone (how could I while I was literally drowning in shame!). I was met with a variety of responses to my coming out. My closest friends were the most supportive, but many others sexualized me, some made me feel inadequate and indecisive, and by the time I was 25, I was so deep in the shame spiral that I didn’t think there was a way out.
But with more exposure and with the support of my best friends, I slowly understood that my identity was something I needed to embrace and accept. And until today, I am still on that journey. I may not have dated many women, or explored my sexuality that way, but conversations with friends, scrolling the depths of social media, and immersing myself in queer-affirmative pages, people, and groups (Gaysi’ editor, Tej being a huuuge part of my acceptance journey), and a brief stint with a queer-affirmative therapist later, I started making my way out of the spiral.
Interestingly, the thing that made my acceptance journey easier was actually my history of abuse and sexual harassment. I was in a whole other spiral due to that too and I was on a long, healing journey for that in therapy and did a lot of self-work. For some reason, that journey coincided with this one and it somehow made it easier to accept myself, and I became more welcome to accepting my identity as a bisexual person. I learnt to treat my newfound acceptance with grace and kindness, and I started nurturing it and growing with it.
Over the years, I fell in love with a man, dated him, married him, and now have a baby with him. But at the same time, I have been constantly and tirelessly working on coming out of my shame spiral, embracing my sexuality, and being proud of who I am. Today, I am happy and relieved that I have reached a space where I can confidently say that I am bi, queer, and proud! Allowing myself to constantly and subtly play with the waters of gender expression one day at a time! Of course, my family (except my husband and his sister) doesn’t know about this part of my identity, but it is a conscious choice I have made to not come out to them for now.
As a new queer mother of a wonderful baby boy, I am excited to go on this new journey with a better sense of who I am and still feeling open to the wide possibilities of change and transformation along the spectrum of sexuality and gender. Grateful that I can be a safe space for my baby if ever he needs to explore his own identity… So grateful for the safe spaces that I have the privilege of leaning on in my husband, my best friends, and the ever-welcoming queer community that exists online and off, that keep reminding me that I am queer enough, and valid, and seen, and every bit part of the rainbow as I wish to be!
The lights are dimmed. The crowd that was screaming its lungs out a few minutes ago is now silent. Slowly, a drag queen makes her way onto the stage. As she enters, a familiar Bollywood tune plays. In her orange dress, the drag queen on stage begins lip-syncing to songs from Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, a movie I grew up watching countless times. I don’t know if it was the four shots of tequila I’d had earlier or the sheer joy of watching someone perform beautifully, but during her performance I was hit with a roller coaster of emotions and tears began to stream down my face. Her performance stirred a deeply buried memory in me — of myself, draped in the shawls of the women in my family, dancing to the iconic Bollywood tunes of legendary divas.
This is how I remember attending my first drag show in March of 2023 in Chicago, a place I have called home for the past two years. Since then, I have been a regular at the Bollywood drag shows organized by Jai Ho. Every two months, I pull the shiniest outfits out of my closet and hit the dance floor, watching queens and kings perform to songs that evoke a sense of nostalgia. And when I dance, I dance like no one is watching. My inner Helen comes out and I dance for the crowd, delighting them with my seductive moves while I plot another plan to get one of the gay guys to buy me a drink.
Aside from the drag shows, I had many firsts in Chicago. It was the first place where I kissed a man in public. Before that, my displays of love and affection were limited to OYO hotels in Kathmandu. I don’t even remember holding a man’s hand in public in Kathmandu because neither I nor the people I slept with dared to do so. From a very young age, we were taught by people who governed us that love happens in private. Bedrooms are the only places where you can express your love and longing. And even though that love was limited to heterosexuals. Queers could not express that love because it was unacceptable.
But here in Chicago, I didn’t have those moral police to regulate my actions — or at least they didn’t know me or my family’s address. So I started kissing guys in public, and I liked it. And then I kissed more. And more. And more of them. When I am not kissing them, I am holding their hands — in parks, at concerts, in museums. Sometimes I wonder when I became so daring. Have I changed, or is it the freedom of not knowing anyone that makes me do all the things I used to see English-speaking white guys do in movies and TV shows?
I vividly remember how many family members gasped when I wore mascara because it made my eyes more beautiful. Their reaction was similar when I wore mehendi on my hands — they didn’t like it. They treated me as if I had committed a crime. Public disapproval was also evident when strangers on the streets looked down at me when I wore something or did something unconventional. And if the looks weren’t enough to make me feel uncomfortable, silencing was a tool used to suppress my true self with the argument that I was too loud.
Now, here in Chicago, those memories have become distant. I am surrounded by many queer friends who get me. They don’t laugh at me, they laugh with me. They know my pain, my longings, and my desires. When I casually hook up with someone, I don’t have to explain why I did it. My morals aren’t questioned, and queerness isn’t defined by who I sleep with, but by how I treat others with respect and dignity and my politics. Nor am I regularly exhausted by having to explain why I feel a certain way and why I make certain choices in life. They have been on my heels and walked the ramp with their crowns held high. They know that being queer still isn’t easy. Thrones are more common than roses in your path. But they fight and inspire each other.
I had many firsts in Chicago that I will cherish forever. This is the first city where I became best friends with a Nepali gay man. This is the first city where I had dozens of queer friends from different parts of the world. This is also the first city where I have been with more than 50 queer people in a room, meeting them casually — not just to protest or rally. I wasn’t that lucky in Nepal because we had very few spaces for queer folks to hang out. In a country with a population of over 30 million, there’s hardly one or two queer bars. While more cultural and social events are emerging in the city, it still fails to accommodate the larger and more diverse queer population of the country. So most of us are forced to seek refuge in silence. In spaces where we could wear the cloak of invisibility. Attracting attention can still be life-threatening for some of us. Our families can disown and disprove us by forcing us to live a life we don’t want to live.
Growing up as an openly queer person, I had many suffocating experiences in Kathmandu. I couldn’t go out in the clothes I wanted to wear. I had to walk, talk, and present in a certain way and protect myself from all the unwanted attention. It was also easy to single me out because most of the time the rooms were surrounded by straight people. We were outnumbered by the mass of heterosexuals who imposed their values and beliefs on us, and if anyone dared not follow the system, we were harassed, attacked and silenced.
Here in Chicago, many of those barriers have been broken for me. I wear clothes that make me feel happy. I ride public transportation with my nails painted. I do what I want to do without worrying about the consequences of my harmless actions. And for this reason, Chicago will always be special, close to my heart, because it presented me with a possible future where I can live a dignified life as a queer person. Thank you, Chicago, for healing my years of oppression, trauma, and unhealed wounds that I have never spoken of. You have made me happy and safe. You made me confident in my queer body. You taught me how to wear heels and rock a skirt. Because of you, I am no longer timid and shy. I can finally breathe and be who I want to be.
I know this is a privilege not many of us get to enjoy. Living under the same roof or being constantly surrounded with people who want to censor and invalidate your queerness is difficult. The constant fear and threat that so many of my queer friends who are living in their home countries go through makes me emotional at times. They deserve to be happy in this life, too. They deserve to be kissed in parks and weddings and in concerts and train stations. They deserve to enjoy every bit of happiness there is in the world and to live a life like any other human being, not like a living corpse.
I hope that every queer person in the city finds their Chicago.
What this city has done to me, not even my hometown Kathmandu did that — it healed my queer soul. Chicago taught me that it’s not me, it’s them, the ones who can’t see me happy who are weird. It taught me that it’s okay to paint your nails, lip-sync to the female vocals of Bollywood songs, and kiss your loved ones in public.
Having said that, the city isn’t safe for all queer folks. There are still spaces where black and brown queer and trans folks are discriminated against. Not every bar will welcome you with open arms. You can experience isolation. You can still be attacked for being queer. Fortunately, I’ve been protected and haven’t experienced violence. My queerness has thrived in Chicago. I was lucky to find a community that made me feel seen and heard. That took me seriously. And I hope everyone finds that. May we all find our Chicagos, homes where we can be our truest selves and live lives of dignity.
I always had a complicated relationship with my body. The weight scale has been a cruel indicator of how my fluctuating weight has made me an emotional wreck. There were times when the number on the scale defined my self-worth, and I would end up in a miserable state.
I was an obese child, all the people around me would make fun of my weight, and very rarely would a person show mercy on me. Whenever there were family events, most of the clan would make fun of my weight, worse than that I have seen how the female members who were plus size were treated much more horribly than I was treated, not just equally by male and female members of the family but by their mother and father. I was not just obese but a little bit feminine, this would make the bullying much worse. Even at school, I was called so many names by my classmates, this turned my whole school experience into a nightmare. I didn’t have any fond memories of my school, even the teachers were ignorantly horrible. I always got physically and mentally bullied in my school life. This started my lifelong journey of dealing with body dysmorphia.
After completing my schooling, I started my higher education journey. I have to say college was much better than school. There was no body shaming and no bullying, but school bullying had a profound effect on my mental health. I started eating less in my college days and walked miles to reduce my weight. By the second half of my college life, I went from obese kid to skinny kid. My skinny frame made people ask me how I lost so much weight. I told them stress and no eating helps a lot. They thought I was joking but that was the way I lost all that weight. Being skinny helped a lot, I was more active and started eating the right food.
But my body weight fluctuates a lot. Sometimes I would lose weight and sometimes I would have drastic weight gain. I still have a love-hate relationship with how my body looks. Sometimes I love my curves and sometimes I hate them. Taking pictures was another issue as I was highly self-critical of my appearance. I would always point out that something in the picture was looking bad when others told me I looked handsome in the picture. I would take hours before deciding to post the picture or not.
Dating also has been another battle for me, there have been so many dating apps, where I would put only one photo of myself because I would not like any pictures of mine or would overthink before I select the only picture I would look better than other pictures. Dating in the gay community is another issue I had to face because of my fluctuating weight. I have been rejected because of my skinny frame and I have also been rejected because of weight gain. There have been times when my curves have attracted someone, but shedding my clothes made me hesitate. Shedding my clothes in front of a person you are attracted to was nerve-wracking, but they were very patient with me. That made me feel that my body is attractive and desirable. That got me confident enough to post more pictures on my social media feed.
Whenever I used to sleep with someone, I would be uncomfortable getting undressed. I would mention that I would like to keep my t-shirt on during the act, they were perplexed by this. But I was in that mindset that I would not let anyone see me naked so I would tell them that I would like to keep some piece of cloth and tell them that it’s my kink rather than tell them the truth that I want to hide the upper part of my body. Now I am older and now I am very much comfortable with my skin. I don’t mind getting completely naked with strangers. I have to say when you get older you get more confident with everything.
Taking care of my physical and mental health has become a priority for me now. A regular workout routine has not only helped me get fitter but has also boosted my confidence. Exercise has become my therapy, a way to escape the noise and focus on myself. It’s about feeling strong and capable, rather than just chasing a number on the scale.
I’m still on this journey of self-love and acceptance. Yes, I am older than before but I am still learning and growing as It’s an ongoing process, but every day, I’m getting closer to embracing the incredible person I am, regardless of my size. Self-compassion has been my greatest ally. It’s okay to have bad days. What matters is getting back up, dusting yourself off, and continuing the journey.
To anyone reading this, remember, your body is amazing. It carries you through life, allowing you to experience joy, love, and growth. It deserves to be treated with kindness and respect. Let’s redefine beauty as something that comes from within, not from a number on a scale.
Carrying 8 Millions commuters each day, Mumbai locals are one of busiest places to be at. Students, office workers, laborers, senior citizens, the diversity and the quantity is astonishing to say the least. While it transports me, does it really transport and take my queerself too? There’s no space to look cute or queer and that’s the price I pay for comfort. So all aboard on my commute to queerness, or maybe comfort? We’ll cross the track when we get there.
Thane
Eyes? Full of hope, ambitions and gaydar to clock the queer girlies
Head? Completely filled with latest gay memes, two brain cells overworking and figuring out the logistics to reach destination with least armor damage
Clothes? An overpriced ill fitting, figure (un)flattering graphic shirt that makes a niche pop culture reference clearly hinting that I work in a creative field. I catch a starting train that in theory, guarantees me a seat but in real life rarely does and so my journey begins with me begging the aunties where they get off at, in hopes of someone leaving ideally at the next stop or realistically at Ghatkopar. One kind college student guarantees me a seat after six stops.
Mulund
A corporate lady bashes into me, her hands filled with a larger than life tote bag and a small lunch bag, my gay ass rainbow umbrella seems to poke her slightly, making her react as if I am the reason why she didn’t get her increment. So I stuff my gay ass umbrella inside my bag.
Nahur
Somehow men who sell trinkets and earrings are allowed in the women’s compartment which has never made sense to me just like the rule of men being able to enter ladies’ coaches until after 11 PM. It does pain my brain a bit when I think about it, but these vendors unfortunately sell some fun merchat a cost that puts the thrift stores to shame. Case in point, at Nahur, I bought animal crossing’s Isabelle earrings for a mere INR 20/- and the iconic lesbian (alleged of course) couple My Melody and Kuromi bracelet for literally INR 40/- and that makes me let go off my radical train of thought.
Bhandup
At Bhandup, a lady clad in Burqa enters and immediately gets yelled at by the corporate lady to prove whether she has a first class pass or not. The corporate lady then decides it is a good time for a monologue on how people like ‘these’ are the reason why first class has no space. I can’t focus on this Twitter thread I’m reading on my phone about climate change and class so I shut the app and tune into music that is of course gay asf.
Kanjurmarg
Kanjurmarg is a stop away from Ghatkopar which is notorious for an influx of rowdy crowds. Women gear up to fight their place to enter and exit. My carefully curated playlist filled with a weird ratio of hottest queer pop songs and confusingly misogynist yet earworm-y bollywood item songs gets immediately disrupted. A Kevin Abstract song makes a double entendre in my ears and my head spins, not because of the song but because the rush of women body-slamming into me abruptly. ‘So long gay playlist, you shall be missed’, I think to myself as I switch off my playlist abruptly and push into my bag.
Vikhroli
By Vikhroli, rain seems to be violent and my hair pinned with a cute butterfly clip starts sticking on mine and the lady in the back’sface. I aggressively grab my hair that I painstakingly straightened at 5 AM which now looks frizzy and not so cute. I end up pulling some of the strands and make a messy bun. The short bangs that I got to hint at my queerness and hide massive acne prone forehead, now blind my vision and give me sensory overload. I remove a bunch of bobby pins and stick the bangs up. My queerness takes a backseat while comfort becomes the driver.
Ghatkopar
Ghatkopar is ghastly, but I reap the benefits that six stations ago Nikitha made when she wisely decided to not be a social introvert and ask around for a seat to like ten different women with groggy voice, including waking up a poor lady from her deep slumber. I sit on an already warmed up seat, no rain droplets, a seat ready to rest my body for the next four stations. All the sleep lost, ready to be regained and relaxed.
Vidyavihar
*Zzzzz*
Kurla
*Snores and drools*
Sion
Sion always tricks me into thinking maybe I have missed getting down at Dadar. I plug in my reading playlist to relax my nerves that are about to be fried at Dadar and examine my nails. At one point of time, during my uni days, not so long ago, I used to paint my nails with expired acrylic colors of bright colors and seal it with an enamel coat to smoothen the texture. That way I didn’t waste my acrylic paints and my nails would look super cool too. Each nail would be of a different color painted with my expensive brush that was meant for oil paintings. These nails, now, were simply bare, not even a hint of chipped nail polish, it was trim, practical and no nonsense, no personality sort.
Matunga
At Matunga, I gear up for the mass exit of the crowd at Dadar. I stand up on my waterproof shoes that I carefully vetted online for reviews for its comfort, versatility on different shirt-pant combos for work, longevity and more importantly, the brand perception. The process took me a tiring 4 months to figure out which resulted in endless meltdowns because I wanted the perfect balance of comfort and design, it didn’t help that my advertising degree made me second guess any and every brand, ad, store and salesman selling me these shoes. The entire process made me paranoid which was so weird because prior to this I used to mindlessly buy heeled shoes, flats as cheap at 200/- that would look great with my fits. But now, since a seat is never guaranteed, trains get delayed regularly and the queues become longer, my feet don’t need accessories to tie up my outfit together, they simply need an easier surface to stand onto. Anyway, it’s time for battle (getting down at Dadar station).
Dadar
I stand at the entrance, feeling like a dystopian warrior princess set to avenge my father or something but really it’s just me calculating the recoil that I am about to face from aunties, their bags and their boobs. When I look down to straighten my clothes and hair before the eventual chaos, I can’t find any of my queer markers that I so painstakingly tried to carry with me. All of them are sitting in a corner of my big bag, as if waiting for me to realize that my queerness is not a relic, it exists with or without them.
And that was just my Central Railway Line journey on a daily basis. From Dadar, I have to switch trains to the Western Line and so the journey continues. My visibility as a queer woman is valid and empowering but it can also be vulnerable especially in public transportation. In the grand scheme of intersections of all the identities I have to, I pick and prioritize what helps me stay comfortable and connected to myself the most. My queerness is hidden in plain sight while I might not show it through a piercing or pride pin, you could take a sneak peak at my ‘for you page’ while I’m doom scrolling or make a mumbly rant about late stage capitalism that I might join you. Whatever be the case, at the end of the day, I make the rules and decide it, and that in itself is queer joy for me!
Over the past few weeks, I have learnt that a first date can be…a lot. Sometimes it can be a fun reminder of why you are choosing to be single. Other times it can be a happy and interesting event that won’t lead anywhere. And then there are those first dates that make you want to have a second, third, and fourth, immediately!
We met on a dating app and quickly realized that the ‘one train journey’ distance between our locations meant that it would take a bit of scheduling to meet up. In the meantime, we took to the phone to learn more about each other. Soon enough, our quick introduction calls turned into conversations that would last for hours. This meant that when I walked towards the Vagina Museum for our first date a few weeks later, I was not going to meet someone I did not know, but to see if our phone chemistry translated into in-person chemistry as well. But I mean, who am I kidding? I had a full-on crush on her at that point. My BestieTM had heard all about it at our sleepover earlier in the week. And then a thing happened that I had thought only happens in rom coms and Hindi songs – somehow, my crush was even more fun, interesting, and handsome in person! After an hour of chilling at the museum we ended up at my place to watch Red, White, and Royal Blue (I know the movie is cheesy, and we both LOVE cheese, so that was the point) and this is the story of how I really wanted to (and did) have sex on the first date.
It was absolutely amazing (like ‘DAMN!’ level amazing), and in this case it meant that we wanted to do it more. Unfortunately, train tickets are expensive and two people who work in different locations cannot rush into each other’s arms whenever they want to. So, we talked a lot over the next few days about what we would like to do the next time. That is when I mentioned how I had always wanted to try a strap-on. To be more specific, I had wanted to try it since I had seen Anne+ on Netflix, which, on a side note, I CANNOT recommend enough! She was into it too (yay!) and now it was time for the shopping to begin.
I offered to buy it on my own since we obviously did not have a label and were not exclusive yet (it had been one date, come on) but she said she would like to split it. And then we had an honest and open conversation about what we would do with it if we do not end up wanting to take this forward before/after the second date. One of the biphobic questions that our community often faces is ‘who is sex better with?’ and it is extremely, EXTREMELY annoying because the truth is that sex is better with whoever communicates more and whoever you end up having more chemistry with. This means not just communication during sex, but also before and after. The openness and understanding with which we both considered the possibilities – perhaps one of us could keep it and pay the other person their amount back? Perhaps we could see if there ends up being more than one purchase and come up with a division model based on that? Perhaps we could see which one of us wants it more in the end and take it from there?
Then there was the question of the actual shopping. We both had purple vibrators so at first, I was wondering if we should look for a dildo that is of a different colour. I started shortlisting some options and sending her pictures. She asked me in a confused and also kind of weirded-out tone, “Why does this have veins?”
“Dicks have veins”, I answered and then realized, “Wait, you have never seen a dick before, have you?”
She had not, and it was through looking up options that would work for my lesbian crush that I realised that there are non-phallic dildos on the market! ISN’T THAT AWESOME?! I love that there is an understanding that there are people who enjoy penetration (and the act of being on top of each other) without having to simulate a specific organ! My crush was happy with my discovery, and we both decided to opt for a fun colour (yes, it was a shade of purple!). We looked up sizes and decided on one that looked beginner friendly. Of course, she and I went for a combo because it was cheaper (though we did first do research to make sure that the material would be body-safe) and because we did not want to end up having to figure out whether the dildo and strap-on would fit in with one another. We also made sure to have a conversation about getting condoms and lube. The payment was made, the order was delivered, and that is how I ended up with a gorgeous lilac strap-on dildo in my room.
I sent her a picture as soon as I opened it – after all, we had bought it together. She loved how it looked, just like I had. And while it would be a few days before our next date, this was now another fun purple thing to potentially talk about while we waited!
“Brat” has made quite the splash this year, not just as a music album but as a full-blown branding sensation. Its infectious beats and provocative lyrics have spilled over from the airwaves into everything from political campaigns to fashion weeks, proving that “Brat” is more than just an album—it’s a cultural juggernaut.
Folx, are we witnessing yet another queer-pop renaissance? Absolutely! And I’m all here for it! The album, “Brat,” by Charli XCX, has been at the forefront of this very renaissance, and its release saved me from my usual monsoon blues this year. The eccentricity, the authentic yapper-specific lyrics, and the production genius of Charli makes me dance even when I want to cry, and is sheer perfection! It’s been 2.5 months since the album became the it-album, but there’s more to “Brat” than just music—it’s a cultural phenomenon in the making.
Some people are also calling this Recession-Core music, and we’re certainly getting there with the worsening of life-quality and everything collapsing. In such a time period, I did need to listen to something that gives me a glimmer of authenticity. And with Charli XCX declaring that “the city sewer slut’s the vibe”, it became official that this will also be the queerest season of music we’ve witnessed since the 70s.
When Troye Sivan’s single, Rush, came out, I remember thinking that he had brought EDM back from the grip of cis-het men and electro-pop house back home to its queer base. The trend swelled into a wave of promising for the music gays in 2024! The industry seems to have finally understood the assignment and con-queered the charts. I’ve been having an audibly gay time!
As much as I loved being the alt music girlie for a bit in 2020, I’ve been craving good pop music. And Charlie-Ben XCX, the half-gujju queer icon, has served it to me on a silver platter!
Maybe I’m nostalgic for the summer of 2013 when I was still a teen, not yet burdened by the responsibilities of adulthood, blasting Boom Clap in my earphones. It felt like I could finally enjoy pop music again? Not because it was more socially acceptable, but because it was actually well-made!
Brat as an album sounds so different from the releases we’ve seen in the last couple of years. With it’s obvious fun sound, and the lyrics that are girl-trend certified, it feels freeing to just be while listening to it. While adult responsibilities are my constant companion today, the times I listen to Brat allow me to remind myself of all the different ways I can still have fun.
Having fun is surely difficult as an adult, but it’s important that we remind ourselves that we’re only here for sometime, so might as well have fun from time to time!
I think what made Brat, as an album and phenomenon, feel inviting was its initiative to just have fun this season. But I needed to get to scratching this itch of a question: What makes Charli’s music queer, despite her purportedly not being queer?
Bad Economy = More Queer Music?
This led me to reflecting on the history of what is considered queer pop. What makes an artist worthy of the queer icon title? It’s certainly not necessary that queer music meet certain criteria or that only a particular group of artists be allowed to make queer music. There’s no particular sound either – just think about the diversity in Chappell Roan’s discography, for instance?
I am convinced that we are in a timewarp, returning to the 1970s when the economy was down, inflation was high and so were crimes against queer folx. Have you also noticed this pattern of dance music becoming popular during recessions, especially in the west? Disco and synth were especially popular during the 1970s and 1980s.
The 70s were also a good time for queer pop icons to emerge, leading to the wonderful music of Queen, Abba, David Bowie, George Micheal and Elton John. Their music was one of my first introductions to queer artists and music. While their music may be considered as classics today, they sure were not as widely loved back when they were still active.
The only fashion influencer I need Credit: Pinterest
Brat For “President”
Considering these past trends, in the present, with the endlessly bad economic woes, it makes sense that Charli xcx’s Brat summer is popular at a time when there’s literally no good news. There’s also Kamala Harris’ infamous Brat campaign that has made America’s otherwise dead-end elections this year marginally interesting to observe. Her entering the US presidential candidacy, being considered slightly “better news” than Trump didn’t really make me (a non-American, who is impacted nonetheless, thanks 2 globalization!) happy since all bi-partisan American politicians seem to be cut from the same cloth of settler-greed, racism, and bigotry.
Politics is a mess, the economy is down, unemployment rates are insanely high and so is the price of rent, healthcare, and basic groceries. What’s one to do but live through these days with the glimmer of good time that music and the arts offer?
That glimmer of hope has come to a disappointed end for me, over the recent collaboration news of fast fashion goon, H&M, and Charli xcx over an autumn collection. Brat as a phenomenon that was supposed to be a freeing, cheap-thrill vibe to summer has become a weapon of approval from not just politicians like Kamala Harris but also the ongoing genocide in Gaza.
The H&M collab was truly a nail in Brat Summer’s coffin because H&M, a fast-fashion company known to exploit its workers. The collection features multiple clothing items that are “faux fur” and “faux leather”, which is basically just plastic. I think we’re way past the need for more plastic in our closet.
Brat was meant to be a political shift in the way art (particularly music) is created, but can it be that Charli just sold Brat for a few more dimes?
Special mention: Even the NATO, recently tweeted this image, which further drives me away from this album that has been a constant support through my monotonous days.
With every evil late stage capitalist mechanism enabled, Brat summer was exactly the serotonin boost I needed. It’s been fantastic for my ears and brain. But I doubt I will be returning to this album anytime soon, simply because of what it’s developed into.
As a queer neurodivergent teen, I had always found it difficult to accept myself the way I was. From recognising my queer side, to accepting it and then identifying with it, it all has been a long, tedious, painstaking process. One that I am still going through, and will evidently still be, in the foreseeable future.
It starts with just being so uncomfortable in your own skin. Being distinctly different from the crowds, having preferences and tastes so obviously at odds with the norm, which don’t sit well with a young, developing mind. As a consequence, I isolated myself, dissociated from my true self, pushed it down deep and learnt to live with a mask instead.
Gender is so intrinsic, yet I have found it to be largely based on other people’s perceptions of me. Maybe because everything else about me has also been shaped by their opinions. We all learn to reciprocate emotions and internalise the opinions of those more experienced in the world, from an extremely young age. That is until we are forced to unlearn it, form our own identities, and grow into our own person. I have unfortunately always felt that I’ve been failing to do so: to grow up and have a mind of my own.
As a person assigned female at birth, we have always been told what we are supposed to be — put in a mould and expected to stay in it. If you stray from that supposed ideal of what a ‘woman’ is, you’re berated, put down, or at least reminded of it every waking moment. I had never felt woman enough, which partially, I attribute to all the romantic attention I never got from anyone when I was younger.
And when I did finally feel comfortable in my womanhood, it was when there was someone to appreciate it. I have always needed another set of eyes to see myself through, to really see myself. And that is also how I realised that it wasn’t enough, and that there is more to me than what I have been told, than what I have known myself to be.
I lived a couple years identifying as non-binary. I was happy letting go of my hair, contemplating getting top surgery, wearing sports bras, straightening up my curves, and finally feeling, not just okay, but grateful for the size of my small breasts. It felt like I had finally let myself be myself. Until I met someone I fell in love with, head over heels.
I have almost always been with straight cis-men. I don’t know if it’s the inherent fear in me of dating women, or if this was just the easiest option available, but that’s how it has been. Now, men who are into women will always see me as a woman. Even though I have multiple sides to myself, even when they do see the most authentic version of me, they still seem to prominently see a woman in me.
When society has treated you a certain way, and then someone comes along who really sees you the way you are, it is a different feeling altogether. And when this person likes to see you wearing sundresses, you like seeing yourself in sundresses too!
I suddenly found myself wanting to show more skin, looking for the hourglass shape when I looked at myself in the mirror. And it felt good, to look at myself unfiltered, unmade, and still loving the innate parts of me that this other person loves.
I don’t understand if it was the fear of losing him that was making me adapt to his preferences, and in the process moulding my own preferences about my own body and identity, or if he just made me see a side of myself that I had maybe shunned and kept aside, and fall in love with my whole self again. Either way, it changed the way I presented to the world.
This proved to be an extremely dangerous learning experience, because the relationship fell apart and I was left with all these conflicting feelings about myself. Was I just in love, ready to do whatever it takes to keep him in my life? Or was I actually in the process of discovering myself, learning to love all there is to me?
The one thing I know is that now whenever I go out with a straight man, I tend to present a certain way. I put on a skirt, I put on makeup, I flaunt my figure, and I feel comfortable doing that. Is it a choice? I really want it to be a choice, but I’m scared that it is just another mask that I put on to fit in, to be accepted, to be loved by someone who presumably only loves a certain specific kind of thing… but I don’t want to end up back where I started.
I am learning, or rather teaching myself to just let myself be my whole, authentic genderfluid self. If I do want to wear a sundress, it is not just a remnant of a man in my past, but also a part of my identity that was shaped during that time in my life. So I do wear them, and I bask in that feeling, without feeling any shame or guilt.
Ultimately, labels are just words. Language has evolved to convey and communicate, but it can never be enough to really understand someone else entirely. You can say things all you want, trying to make people understand you, but no one can ever know your vast internal world. I am getting comfortable with the idea that no words can define me completely, and that’s fine. I was me then, and I am me now, and I’ll still be myself in the future, no matter what that looks like.
In the chaos of modern life, it’s easy to get lost in a sea of emotions, relationships, and societal expectations. We often find ourselves caught between the desire to be genuine and the need to present a perfect facade. The lingering question is if faking it is easier than feeling it. Is it convenient to put on a mask of happiness, love, and confidence, rather than embracing our true emotions and vulnerabilities?
As I reflected on my experiences as part of the Queer movement in Assam, I realized that everyone is racing towards a finish line in the expectation that there’s only one winner. But why do we prioritize winning over authenticity? Why do we fake our emotions, relationships, and identities just to avoid feeling hurt or rejected? The irony is that we often end up feeling more hurt and isolated when we fake it.
My dear friend, a development sector worker, echoed this sentiment when she shared her thoughts on why people tend to fake it. She suggested that it might be due to psychological unawareness or a defense mechanism of sorts. I agreed that this could be true, but the question remains: Is faking easier than feeling?
We fake orgasms, love, lust, and friendships at the expense of not getting hurt, but still end up getting hurt. We preach about being vocal but hesitate to be genuine. Humans are incredible creatures, but we’ve mastered the art of faking it. We pretend to be interested in something or someone just to avoid rejection or discomfort. We even fake our job satisfaction, environmental concerns, and friendships.
However, some people are naturally more inclined to fake it because they feel secure and in control of their emotions. But for others, like me, faking it becomes obvious and transparent. It’s a game of perception. In this 21st century, hookup culture has normalized the art of faking it for some. Are men (including queer men) using this as a way to shape accountability or are they faking it because they don’t want to feel it? Are we too eager to settle for someone because we fear feeling hurt?
We’re wired to shape-shift on dating apps like Grindr, creating multiple personalities and identities. Is this faking or a natural extension of our multiple selves? My friend pointed out that we have more than 100 perceptions of a person, making reality subjective and contextual. So, what is reality? Is it one version or is it an averse decision to fake it and avoid feeling bad?
In this fast-paced world where everyone seems to be running (including me), I want to know what makes it easier to fake a smile, love, care, or gesture. Are we becoming the very thing we complain about – self-absorbed partners, abusers, systems, topics, realities, and myths? What stops us from feeling it? If not feeling hurt was the game, then why do people who fake it get hurt more than those who feel it?
My mother once said that she had to fake it to feel safe, but deep down she knew she wasn’t safe. Another friend shared that they used to fake it but got hurt anyway and couldn’t openly talk about it until they started feeling their true emotions.
It dawned on me that nobody was born with a manual on how and what to feel. The environment changed our reality. The system supported this delusion of faking it. Deep down, I still have one question: Do we fake it because we know we’re alone and it helps save relationships? If yes, why do we only try to save one kind of relationship and not all? Is faking also a matter of levels and gears – from 1 to 5?
In a world that encourages people to be real, can faking save your image of being arrogant and uptight? I suppose yes.
The answer lies within each individual’s psyche. Perhaps the key is not in faking it but in embracing our authentic selves and vulnerabilities. Maybe the journey is not about winning or losing but about embracing the messiness of human emotions and relationships.
As I conclude this introspection, I realize that the quest for authenticity is ongoing. We must confront our fears and insecurities head-on and stop pretending to be someone we’re not. Only then can we break free from the chains of faking and find true connection with ourselves and others.
The king knows that his enemies are strong, much stronger than his friends. He sends for his armies regardless. Archers and riders, spearmen and swordsmen. Infantry, artillery, cavalry. They assemble from all the regions he wishes to rule. They assemble from all the regions under his thumb. They descend the frozen hills. They sail the coast. They train in the fields and stand guard at the shores. He summons and they arrive, battalion after battalion, pouring through the narrow streets of the capital. He summons with threats of starvation, and they come, because an unknown threat beyond the battlelines is graver. Dignity. They fight to keep what little dignity they have left.
A battle rages outside while Jon is cloistered away in the secret passages of the palace. He is here, in this unlit chamber, one of countless princes deigned more worthy than commoners and peasants. He is worth more, the king says, than the poor and destitute whose blood gushes to the fore in every skirmish. A battle rages outside but Jon is too precious, too necessary. So they lock him here and leave him to his anguish.
“We will be victorious,” Min says with the nerve of a fortune teller. It is his habit to give away whatever one asks of him, even if he does not have it. Conviction, for instance.
Before the battle, tales of his generosity would glide through the streets and reach Jon’s ears, resting their heads on his pillow and pulling from him all the sighs he could grant. He’d think of Min and imagine saintly light pouring from the hands of a simple, commonplace man. He’d think of a creature so vast its heart must resemble the palace courtyard. He’d draw pictures with his mind, build dreams and fancies that could never be entertained should he ever think to voice them to his attendants.
Each story would smell of unparalleled generosity. Each story—often about the last coin in a purse, or the last cloth on a back, or the last arrow in a quiver—would convince Jon that Min must not be real. He must be a dream, strange and wonderful and mythological.
But he is real. And he is here. A battle rages outside, all chance of escape broken off by the desperate furore of a desperate horde. Yet Min stands guard at Jon’s door, willing to be run through by a sword to save one of countless princes.
“Why did you come?” Jon whispers.
“You wished for it.”
“… you are a fool!”
“As it pleases your highness.”
A battle rages outside. A grief billows inside. The kingdom will be lost. The throne will be stolen. The crown will be reforged. Soon, a new king will take the old king’s place. Soon, countless princes will supplant countless other princes. This unlit chamber will be filled with the sounds of slaughter, the music of killing and dying. The temples of his father will burn. The fortresses of his uncles will crumble to dust. The gardens of his youthful capers, the music halls of his secret desires, they will disappear with him. Time will continue its cruel pace, seizing from one and gifting another.
Jon cares little for these fates. Min is here, when he should be elsewhere.
“I never asked this of you!”
“You did, your highness,” Min corrects him. “Your voice is a torch. It lit my path to you.” He is too calm to be corporeal. He is too gentle to be a mortal. He must be more than human. He must be a home.
To be a home one must be kind. One must hold warmth and sweetness found only in the fire of a hearth. To be a home to another, one needn’t be small or large, ordinary or lavish. One can simply grant space between one’s breaths for another to settle into. One can be a deep-rooted tree and dance in the wind of another’s attention. Min is such a home. He is careful and delicate, like water in a clay pot. He is bright and welcoming, like flickering wicks of a lamp. He is cold and constant, like stars that gather around a shy moon. Min is a home Jon dearly wishes to live in.
“I wished for your happiness…” he mourns. “I wished for your charity to be answered tenfold. With joy. With… love. I wished for you to give me that and nothing else. Yet here I find you, fool that you are, a sun risen in bleeding skies. What happiness can you find in sacrifice?” he tightens his fists. “Be gone. Go to, I say! I will not see you perish in my name, be gone—!”
“Your highness,” Min’s hands arrive like a fragrance. Sudden, but soft. They touch Jon’s arms, his shoulders, the sides of his face. In the darkness of this forsaken prison the blind hands are remnants of spring. His touch settles like night on Jon’s cowering flesh: slow and comforting yet resolute in its path. “Your highness,” Min repeats, the pulse of his tongue as generous as the pulse in his chest.
And perhaps Jon had imagined other things in his sleep. Perhaps he had felt bands of silk loosen at an insistent tug. Perhaps he has heard the urgent rustle of sheets. Perhaps these same beautiful hands rested against him before tonight, holding him still lest he dive too deep into the nectar that billowed beneath his graceless weight. Perhaps he had clung to hair and sweat, to rags and robes, as Min spilled the words of a beggar and not a saint. Perhaps such stories had been woven on warm, restless nights until Jon could bury their shameful shadows in the light of day.
Perhaps Min knew.
“Somewhere, deep in your fear, there is solace, your highness. It is my gift to you.”
A battle rages outside. Jon’s heart rages with it.
A battle rages outside.
Trees have stopped to flower. Birds have ceased their song. The streets are awash with despair. The skies rain nothing but the promise of misery. Such is the fate of kingdoms great and small. Kings may change. Capitals may move. Battles may come to a momentary end. But a single bull will always be held in greater value than ten peasants. A battle rages outside, perhaps since yesterday. But the rages of famine have already touched the lives of so many… too many. Their battle is unending. Their suffering is unending. Its wings span the length of the nation, from barren mountains to ashen seas.
Min does not hope for change. He does not hope for deliverance from these tribulations. His birth has not earned him titles or respect. His poverty allows him no swords or knives of protection. So he smiles and bows, offering what little he can. A bowl of his rice, a bucket of his water, a bundle of his firewood. He may not know the remedy to what ails his ill fortune, so offers what comforts people may seek in the throes of anguish.
“We will be victorious,” he places his false promise in the prince’s lap. He wishes to offer more: you will live, you will flourish, your name will survive. But where other princes desperately seek such praise, this one does not.
Before the battle, Min spread the ashes of his love on a hill. He watched it swim with the wind and leave his side. For what love could survive beggary? It too starves on an empty stomach. Even so, the prince had watered the people with kindliness, and from it bloomed hope. He’d open his private stores and granaries to them like opening his heart, a heart not yet poisoned by thirst for power. Prince Jon, fourteenth in line for the throne, cared naught for his father’s ambitious madness. He was always composed of dreams and light.
In the darkness, he smells like serenity, even if his voice betrays him. “Why did you come?” he asks but his arms reach across the chamber, yearning to fold around Min’s frame. In the darkness, he glows like divinity.
But he is real. And he is here. A battle rages outside, all chance of escape broken off by the desperate furore of a desperate horde. Yet Min chooses to slink across Jon’s threshold, willing to gamble his life for a chance at survival.
“Why did you come?” Jon whispers.
“You wished for it.”
“… you are a fool!”
“As it pleases your highness.”
A battle rages outside. An ambition glimmers inside. The kingdom will be lost. The throne will be stolen. The crown will be reforged. Soon, a new king will take the old king’s place. Soon, countless princes will scramble for the seat left empty by war. But it needn’t be so. This unlit chamber needn’t be a prison. Their stomachs may be empty and their hearts may be heavy, but their dreams can thrive off of the smallest spark of bravery; of generosity. They don’t need a new king. They don’t need countless new princes. All they need is a Jon, the ripples of his benevolence touching everyone he seeks.
Min smiles and imagines himself as a pebble. He clasps a dithering hand in his own.
“I never asked this of you!”
“You did, your highness,” Min corrects. “Your voice is a torch. It lit my path to you.” He draws a rein on his tongue at this, knowing that fear must be erased with a slow and practiced hand.
What he leaves unspoken sits on the edges of the darkness, strolling the width of this chamber on padded feet. It is Min’s twin in shape and size, a ghost that shares in his eagerness. Sometimes it soars over his voice, sometimes it drowns in his guilt. Sometimes, in Jon’s presence, it shudders and weakens at its seams. It grips hard enough to break. He could summon it into the small circle of starlight that pools around Jon. He could bring its odd, somewhat unsightly form out into the open. But the prince is free to look in its direction of his own accord. Their trio can share a drink under the moon someday. One day. If they survive.
The prince is afraid—not for his own life but for Min’s. Even in the face of mortal threat he is so selfless that… that maybe Min must be imagining it. No man is so unfettered by parsimony to cherish a stranger over himself. No ordinary man is so sympathetic, so bountiful in his love that he forgets his own safety. Jon cannot be anything less than a god.
“I wish for your happiness.”
His palms are the lamps of a temple. His voice is the chime of a prayer bell. When he holds Min close, he smells of camphor and incense. When he releases kindness, it cascades from his lips like a sutra. When they walk through the darkness, pressing their fingers into wood and stone, seeking little breaches of light, Jon folds their hands in a promising bind. He is a deity made from unsung songs and unheard laughter. He is sacred, celestial.
And perhaps some of Min’s love still remains. Perhaps what he purged from his body was not permanently lost. Perhaps love, like dreams, can also grow from a spark. Perhaps all it needs is the flint of an unsaid confession, the kindling of a reassuring hold, the fuel of courage and respect. Perhaps he can fan the flames high enough, until they swallow him whole and leave him reforged. Renewed. Perhaps Min’s unsightly twin needn’t remain in hiding forever. Perhaps his generosity could turn its head to him and reward it with what it asks of him.
“I wish for your happiness…”
“I wish for yours.”
A battle rages outside. Min doesn’t let it touch him.
Hello and welcome to my new bi-monthly column where you are going to get to accompany me, a gorgeous and brilliant queer woman who is single for the first time at the age of 25 after a long-term relationship ended. Join me on my adventures in navigating the adult dating world. That doesn’t sound like a big deal until I tell you that the last time I was single was when I was in the 11th grade and demonetisation had not happened yet. Yes, it has been almost 8 years since that fateful day. And yes, we are all officially that old.
This is my fifth column entry.
TW: Experience of biphobia and racism, mention of transphobic remarks
I officially have dating app exhaustion. I recently sat down to re-download one after a short break, and found myself really, really not wanting to be on it. So, I decided to do something different by searching online for queer dating events in the city. The search engine happily informed me that there was a lesbian speed-dating event happening in just about an hour’s time and even though the ticket price was a bit steep, I decided to do something spontaneous and just went for it!
The first thing that I noticed when I walked into the room was that everyone else looked a bit older than me – which was generally okay because my upper limit for dating is 35 – but it made me wonder why people in their 20s weren’t there that evening. It was only afterwards that I found out that for every other event except the one that I had attended, the organisers had advertised the recommended age group as between 30-44 years. Oh, well!
The thing about speed dating is that you must compulsorily talk to every single person for the five-minute time slot, even though it might be very obvious to everyone involved in the situation that neither was interested or invested in it. Somehow, probability worked itself in a way that the first person I spoke to was also not in the recommended age bracket – she was 52! I decided to use the time to get advice from an older queer woman, but it ended up being the other way around. In this span of 5 minutes (and the extra 5 minutes that we chatted towards the end as I waited for my last date to be free) I ended up teaching her how to add filters to her online dating profile pictures and introduced her to Gen-Z slang. I would be lying though if I painted this as a wholesome interaction between an older queer person and a Gen-Z girlie (those 100% exist and are magical) because the truth is that it involved a lot of me asking her to NOT be transphobic and at one point she referred to not understanding one word because of my ‘accent’ (yes, she was white, and yes, she said it in ‘that’ tone)!
The other women looked like they could definitely be in the upper limit of my dating range, but as I heard them list impressive job titles (one of them was literally a partner in a law firm), my head was inundated with thoughts about what if they felt that I was looking for a sugar mommy? And honestly, my full support to anyone who is trying to do that – get that moolah – it is just not what I was looking for that evening, and I wouldn’t have known how to navigate the situation had someone directly asked me if I were. Overall, the dates were mildly pleasant, and if you are wondering why I did not leave mid-way, it’s because I felt adventurous and wanted to see it through. People asked me questions and were nice to interact with, even though I wasn’t into anyone except for one person.
Later, 4 of us from the event complained to each other about how messy it had been and that we should probably get refunds as we sat at the bar casually chatting. One of the other women was clearly interested in me – though there were 4 of us sitting around, she looked at me no matter who was speaking (in a non-creepy way) and asked me questions about myself aside from the group conversation. Then the 52-year-old got the biphobic ball rolling and everything went downhill. She told us about how a bi woman that she had dated had gone back to her children’s father and now she is only open to dating ‘full lesbians’. While one woman said that biphobia is a real problem, it was not met with unanimous agreement, which led me to delivering the whole ‘As a bi person…’ speech, because come on! Knowing that I was bi made something shift for the woman who had been into me thus far, and she turned away from me for the first time in the entire night and said, “You know I have been with many bi woman who have left me for men” (I pointed out that they could have left her for women as well) and then justified her decision to never date a bi person by saying, “We have a right to choose who we want to date just like bi people do.” Except, excluding an entire community based on a stereotype is not a dating ‘choice’, it is prejudice. But I was too drained by then to say anything more.
The question is: would I go to a speed dating event again? And the answer is: not unless I knew that there were going to be more people in my dating age-range there AND that the organisers had very clearly communicated a no-tolerance policy with respect to discrimination. This is why queer people should be running queer events – and I know that that is not what happened, because the MC told me that he was straight and that this event company organises these speed-dating night for cishet people as well, which I understood to mean that most of their events targeted cishet people primarily. If I had wanted a night where I would be forced to hear transphobic and biphobic statements sprinkled with racist remarks about my accent, I would have asked Seema Aunty from Netflix to organise it. Simply naming something an event for the community is not enough – you also have to make sure that you create a safe space that actually makes everyone feel welcome in it.
I’ve been thinking a lot about love, nature, the idea of how we make ourselves “loveable”, or more like desirable and digestible in order to be loved. In all honesty, I’m just not attracted to people. Is it because I might be aro-ace? Nope, pretty sure I’m not. I think I may have rationalised love a little too much. By rationalizing I mean, I like to love but from a proper, understandable distance. Every time one of my friends has cried to me about the things their ex has done, they are also apologizing for crying and “burdening” me in the first place – which makes no sense to me, because we’re here to love and rant to our heart’s fullest! What confuses me is the factors we resort to comfort them in this situation. The way we justify to our friends why someone is objectively the perfect person or a ‘bad’ person to date.
“You should totally date them, they’re financially stable and go to therapy! Bare minimum but it makes sense” – as we say.
I realize how much that makes me sound like an aunty trying to fix my friends up with a “nice girl/boy”. I may not have internalized the traditional values that make a good partner, but I surely have internalized the framework.
Unlucky Or Unlovable?
Back when I was a teenager, I used to think romance would be the final piece of the puzzle that was my teenage years. But behold, 5 years since the last of my teenage years, I have but a single heartbreaking situationship on my CV. Naturally, I began my 20s with the age old question: “am I unlovable?”
One can’t help but doubt their ability to be a good person? Credit: Pinterest
Having been in therapy for a while, I now know how my brain works. The rat in my brain loves to loathe me, saying, “yes you are inherently a horrible person”. However, after regular CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) sessions, the protective part of it now instinctively takes over to coddle the said rat by telling them that it’s just the way things are (and not who I am)! People are emotionally and physically unavailable because life sucks! After all, we have 24 hours in a day, and what do you mean I gotta work 9 hours out of them?
The rat, adjusting my brain’s vibes as I write this piece Credit: Pinterest
No one truly has time for love, or to pursue love. Does that mean love is now, only for the rich? No of course not, the rich themselves see love as merely transactional. Which also isn’t much different from what we’re taught too. Meanwhile, as much as I love economic stability, I really do want someone who has a life of their own, understands the political climate, empathizes with my queerness and neurodivergence. In return, I grace them with my presence in their life (totally a joke)! Rich folx on the other hand, I imagine, just want to get married so they can get rid of the black money that’s rotting away, and acquire a potential competition to join their own team!
I do want to blame the international film industry for selling me this capsule idea of love. It’s curated, unlike our lives, such that the two protagonists shall fall in love with each other. It takes my emotions and wraps them up in a dream-like sequence and sells it back to me to, possibly, distract me from the horrors of life under capitalism. I’m still debating if it’s okay to take an absurdist Camus-eque route and enjoy these movies while still keeping up with the news cycle.
The only takeaway I had in my education, nihilism and absurdism Credit: Pinterest
Essentially, romance has been the solidifying push that enabled gender roles. Consequently, queer romance and love have become a leading factor in breaking those roles. Romantic movies have clear tropes with certain traits associated with being loveable, and certain others that aren’t. Recognising this pattern was a cool move by feminist scholars, and queer folx have also been pushing back on how we see, understand and perform love.
Every time I have managed to like a cis-het man (can’t help it!), my queerness and neurodivergence have played a role in making me seem interesting to them. Yet, they all still want a woman who matches the cultural values that their family comes from. While my queerness and neurodivergence aren’t mere personality traits that make me cool, they’re parts of who I am that cannot be reduced to be digestible in order to be likable!
I be pan-icking at all times Credit: Pinterest
In my opinion, the “consequences” of liking someone these days include feeling vulnerable, being walked over, and the worst of all, feeling like your Uber driver just gave you 4 out of 5 stars for a super peaceful ride. I don’t think I would mind paying the price of being loved and changed, as long as it doesn’t change me to fit a specific mold. I’m not a commodity that was made to be liked, but a person to be loved.
Going forward, everytime I end up in a similar conversation with my queer-mates-in-hate, I’ll remind myself that neither person has to change our queerness, adjust our mental wellness or the emotions that come with it, or conceal our disabilities in order to present as a convenient partner. I’ll remember that neither of us need a stamp of approval from past friends, partners or even family members in order to be loveable today.
We Love Regardless
Finding partners has definitely gotten worse with time. Everyone seems to want something casual and while it’s nice, fun and freeing, I miss it when that was an option and not a norm. I’m somehow either expected to be this missing gap of new perspectives for a person who is not queer or neurotypical, or this “super chill” laid back person who doesn’t take anything seriously. Or still yet, this person who is irrationally ready to be the other half of a full-fledged relationship from the get-go. My pursuits of romance have not been fruitful, and that’s not because I’m unlucky or unlovable. It’s probably because I don’t fit into the molds that people want to fit me into.
But maybe in a few months, I’ll discover a completely new way to approach love and romance. And will I not love until then? Absolutely not!
All use of memes to make sense of my emotions and this article are intentional Credit: Pinterest
There is a video on YouTube from drag icons Trixie Mattel & Katya, where Trixie asks Katya, “Why do you think gay people love horror so much?”. Katya says: “Because we love seeing straight people get killed.” Yes, this is sarcasm, but many gays would probably agree with this statement *winks!*. All jokes aside, let’s face it, there is a certain love that folx from the LGBTQ+ community have for horror movies.
Every Halloween, our social media timelines are flooded with pictures of friends gathered for fright-filled movie nights. But this love affair with the macabre goes beyond a seasonal costume party or even just a single horror movie night. There’s a deeper connection between gays and horror that transcends the thrill of a jump scare. So, why are we drawn to the shadows? The answer, like a good horror villain, is layered. It’s a combination of the outrageous, the relatable, and the strangely purifying.
First, let’s not underestimate the gushing power of camp. Camp isn’t just a one-time thing in our community – it’s a whole aesthetic to aspire for. It’s about celebrating the over-the-top, the dazzling, and the delightfully artificial. And no other genre delivers camp quite like horror!
Take “Scream,” a cult classic that has remained a gay horror classic even after all these years. It is known for its clever use of campy elements in each of its instalments, but nothing can beat the original. The movie shows a teenage girl threatened by a masked killer a year after the murder of her mother. It serves as satire as well as a tribute to classic horror movies of the past. The movie uses self-aware humor and iconic kills in service of the campiness. It’s scary in its approach and funny when it goes campy, and a must-watch for anyone who loves campy horror.
The Final Girl Trope:
Well, camp is just the tip of the iceberg. There’s a deeper connection between the themes of horror and the LGBTQ+ experience. Many horror movies explore the identity of the outsider, the one who doesn’t fit in. This resonates deeply with a community that has historically faced marginalisation and societal rejection.
Then comes the classic “final girl” trope – the brave, resourceful character who survives the massacre at the end of the movie. Iconic characters such as Sidney Prescott in “Scream” or Laurie Strode in “Halloween” become symbols of strength and resilience in the face of overwhelming odds. In a world that often tries to silence or erase LGBTQ+ identities, these characters become powerful figures of resistance. We see ourselves in their fight for survival, cheering them on as they overcome the forces that seek to destroy them.
Facing our Fears:
Horror does more than scare us; it helps us face our biggest fears. This type of story allows us to explore our worries in a safe made-up world. For LGBTQ+ people, horror can show real fears of being attacked and pushed away.
Movies like “Get Out” (2017) that look at oppressive structures like racism, mirror how many marginalised folks feel removed from the world of others. Others like “Carrie” (1976) deal with worries about what society expects and what happens when you don’t fit in.
Another old-school scary movie with hints of queerness is “The Craft” (1996). This film digs into ideas about women gaining power and the dangers of trying to be like everyone else. It’s similar to how LGBTQ+ people may try to find friends who understand them in a world that often leaves them out.
The horror movie experience has a social aspect that resonates with the LGBTQ+ community. Friends gather, gasp, and scream together forming a special connection. These movie nights turn into rituals allowing people to bond over a shared love, whether secret or open.
Horror’s appeal goes beyond movie nights in LGBTQ+ culture. Drag queens create stunning horror-inspired looks, artists explore the genre, and Pride celebrations often include horror movie marathons. Horror becomes a common language in many ways helping to build connections and community within the broader LGBTQ+ world.
The Final Scare: A Celebration of the Different
When you see a bunch of LGBTQ+ people talking about a scary movie, don’t be surprised. We’re just having fun with our favourite genre, trying to find heroes, and maybe seeing bits of ourselves in the spooky parts of these tales. LGBTQ+ folks love horror for more than just the thrill; it’s about enjoying the over-the-top stuff, relating to the underdog, and letting out our fears. It shows how powerful stories can be and how a scary movie can bring us together even as it gives us goosebumps.
Our love for horror isn’t just about snacks and getting scared. It’s about seeing strength in characters who fight to live facing society’s fears through these movies, and feeling close to others who share the same experiences. From cheesy old movies to films that clearly show LGBTQ+ themes, horror gives us a chance to think about ourselves, feel strong, and cheer for those who aren’t afraid to be different. So, call your friends, turn the lights down, and don’t be scared of the dark. You might just see yourself – and a whole group of people like you – looking back at you.
On August 1, 2024, Indigo Airlines rolled out a new feature allowing women to choose seats next to other women during check-in. This initiative has received a wave of positive feedback from Indigo’s customers and even garnered global attention—though some suspect that paid media and PR campaigns might be playing a role in its widespread praise.
Concerns from the Queer-Feminist and Trans Ally Community
A primary concern raised by queer-feminist and trans allies is the accessibility of this feature for trans women who do not have gender-affirming IDs. How is Indigo ensuring that these individuals can also benefit from the women-only seating option?
When I attempted to use this feature during booking, I discovered it is only available at check-in. This raises an important question: What happens if the flight is fully booked? The crew, likely already overworked and dealing with difficult passengers, might face additional pressure to accommodate these seating preferences. While it is understandable to expect crew members to do their jobs, it’s crucial to consider how this policy might complicate their already challenging roles in a high-pressure environment.
Backlash and Broader Implications
The policy has also sparked backlash, particularly from men who claim it promotes misandry. This reaction, while contentious, prompts further questions:
Has Indigo considered the preferences of trans men and other genderqueer individuals?
Can these preferences be accommodated without requiring specific gender IDs?
Are ground staff trained to be sensitive to trans identities?
What protections are in place if trans women face harassment from cis women who may be transphobic?
While the crew may be available to assist, it’s worth questioning how equipped they are to handle such situations. My own experiences with air travel have rarely included queer-affirming treatment, which adds to these concerns.
Addressing the Needs of All Women
Another critical issue is the experience of fat women who may require XL seats. How is Indigo ensuring that these passengers can also benefit from this feature? The assumption that fat women don’t need special accommodations is a troubling one that airlines need to address.
Potential Solutions and Moving Forward
One potential solution is to implement protocol shifts that make seat shuffling easier for both passengers and crew, particularly in response to specific needs. If such protocols are already in place or under development, we look forward to seeing them in action.
In the post-COVID-19 era, air travel has become increasingly complex and exhausting. Airlines, eager to recover from the losses incurred during the pandemic, have been overbooking flights, leading to more frequent delays, cancellations, and rescheduling. Meanwhile, airline crews are often overworked and underpaid, adding to the strain of accommodating passengers’ needs.
Inclusive Recommendations for Airlines
To ensure passenger safety and comfort, here are some inclusive recommendations from Gaysi Family:
1.Zero Tolerance for Harassment: Any passenger found harassing another passenger or crew member—whether through unsolicited commentary or inappropriate touch—should be barred from flying with the airline in the future.
2. Crew and Staff Sensitization: Onboard crew and ground staff should receive training on the identities and issues faced by queer and disabled individuals. This training should specifically address the context of frisking and the need for certain accessibility aids or accommodations.
3. Avoiding Overbooking: Airlines should avoid overbooking flights and allow some flexibility for passengers who may need to be moved, or who might fall ill mid-flight.
By addressing these issues and implementing thoughtful solutions, airlines like Indigo can create a more inclusive and supportive environment for all passengers.
I am not a psychologist or a relationship expert, but I am a lesbian, which means I have some experience and perspective on love bombing. Love bombing is a term that describes a pattern of overwhelming someone with excessive affection and attention to manipulate and control them. It often starts with intense romantic gestures and rapidly escalates, which can make the relationship feel exhilarating but ultimately unsustainable, almost like romance on Redbull.
If you ask me, the world of lesbians and love bombing go hand in hand like peanut butter and jelly, except with more drama. The stereotypes alone are evidence enough. Take the U-Haul lesbian, for example. I mean, isn’t that the perfect definition of love bombing? You meet someone for one date, and suddenly you’re picking out furniture and deciding whose Netflix account you’ll share. It’s efficiency at its finest—or maybe just a plot twist waiting to happen.
Don’t believe me? Let’s look at another classic: saying “I love you” after the first date. I’m pretty sure it’s scientifically impossible to know you love someone after just one date, but hey, why not give it a try? And then there’s talking about a shared future on the second date. It’s adorable and all, but you just met me—how can you know you want to raise a child with me already? Please don’t boycott me, fellow lesbians. I’m just as guilty of fulfilling these stereotypes as anyone else. Still, maybe we should take a closer look at our dating patterns.
I get it—when everyone around you says it’s okay to fall in love in a day and move in with someone in a week, you can’t help but think it’s romantic. After all, when there’s no man in the relationship, these things might seem reasonable, like crashing and burning was part of the plan all along. Or maybe I’m just an imperfect lesbian who’s now a little skeptical about the whole Fast and the Furious: Relationship Edition.
Being queer, for all the fantastic things it brings, can also be inherently lonely. We crave a partner who understands our unique loneliness, someone who can make us feel like it’s us against the world instead of just you. We don’t fit into the cis-het standards of dating, where marriage is usually the end goal, and it’s not even an option in many places. We make our own rules, which can be liberating but also a privilege only some queer folks have.
Historically, lesbian relationships have been shaped by societal pressures and cultural dynamics. For decades, queer love had to be hidden, leading to an intense longing for connection and validation. This urgency can sometimes manifest in rapid relationship escalations, as there’s a shared understanding of loneliness and isolation.
And then there’s the fact that women are often more emotional creatures. We tend to feel things deeply and quickly. Those feelings aren’t always rational, and honestly, it’s not our fault. Women also have higher expectations of emotional intimacy, which isn’t a bad thing, but wanting that level of connection right off the bat can contribute to the crash-and-burn cycle in lesbian relationships. When intense emotional needs must be met at a young stage, you can’t help but see the world and your partner through rose-colored glasses. Believe me, I’ve been there. It’s like living in a romantic comedy directed by a caffeine-addicted teenager who just discovered Pinterest.
Your phone becomes a love shrine filled with memes, music, poems, and declarations of eternal devotion. All this attention can be flattering, but it’s important to remember that healthy relationships are built on mutual respect and understanding, not just the ability to send 100 text messages a minute (and not very consistently, I might add).
This whirlwind of emotions and instant connection can lead to disappointment when reality doesn’t match up to our fairytale expectations. As lesbians, we often bond quickly because we find comfort in each other’s shared experiences. But in doing so, we might forget that a solid relationship takes time to build.
So, what’s the takeaway? While love bombing might seem like a natural extension of our desire for connection, maybe it’s time to mix some rational thinking with those swirling emotions. Let’s laugh at the stereotypes but also learn from them. It’s not about avoiding those intense feelings; it’s about letting them develop naturally, ensuring our relationships have a foundation strong enough to weather any storm.
In the end, maybe the trick is finding that sweet spot between “I met you yesterday, but I’ve already booked our honeymoon” and “Maybe I’ll ask for your number next year.” So go ahead, enjoy the ride, laugh at the stereotypes, and cherish the moments that make your heart skip a beat. Who knows, maybe the U-Haul will come in handy someday—but keep it parked for now.
“Hair is everything,”, declares Phoebe Waller-Bridge in her iconic show ‘Fleabag’. In the scene, the character’s sister Claire had just gotten a ridiculous haircut that in her own words, made her “look like a pencil”. I laugh at how dramatic the scene is but then remember how my own relatives reacted when I, as a curly-haired girl, cut her hair a tad too short. I remember how for an entire month I got unsolicited opinions from people who thought that curly hair was elegant but not when it was as curly as mine, and that short hair was cute but not when it was as short as mine. Indian culture was never chill when it came to hair.
According to a popular Hindu legend, when Lord Vishnu was once meditating on a mountain, a cow used to go up the mountain to feed him milk. The cow’s shepherd noticed this and wasn’t happy. Out of rage, he hit Lord Vishnu on the head causing a bald spot. But when a Gandharva princess Neela Devi noticed this, she plucked some of her own hair to cover his head. When Lord Vishnu came back to consciousness from his meditation and found the princess’ hair on his head, he offered it back to her. She declined, despite bleeding from where her hair was torn off. Lord Vishnu was pleased with her sacrifice. After all, hair is the most divine part of a woman’s body. Today, in that spot atop the mountain of Neeladri lies the Tirupati Lord Venkateswara Temple, where pilgrims arrive every day to give up their hair to Lord Vishnu as their own way of submitting their ego in front of divinity.
In a country where donating hair to the Gods is a widely-revered practice, to say that the local culture and moral codes are intricately tied to hair would be an understatement. One of the 5 K’s of Sikh philosophy, ‘Kesh’, explains how uncut hair is proof of a man’s faith. In many religions, including Islam, covering one’s hair during prayer is thought to be a gesture of modesty. So what shifts when natural hair, often placed as a symbol of humility and virtue for Indians, gets altered?
For Shivisha (she/her), a college student from Pune, the length of her hair has led to horrifying encounters. She recounts how, as a child, she had been touched inappropriately by her male classmates, who justified it on accounts of her ‘looking like a guy’. Once, when she was entering the washroom, her teacher detained her outside, thinking that she was a boy and only let her go when another female student vouched for her. “I even started to wear bigger earrings so that people know I’m a girl. But even then they assumed I’m just a boy who wears earrings.”
For someone like Shivisha, who used to play sports, cutting her hair was a convenient way to maintain it. Unfortunately, in a culture where the primary beauty standard for girls is long, lustrous hair, there is very little space for those who cut their hair short, for whatever reason.
When the queer community comes into the picture, the story gets increasingly complicated.
In a scene from Lucian’s ‘Dialogue between Courtesans’, a book of Greek literature, a courtesan named Leaina describes her sexual encounter with Megilla, a person from the island of Lesbos. Leaina recounts being seduced by Megilla who revealed that under the wig they were bald, ‘like a warrior’. They also preferred to go by the name of Megillus, when they were without it. Megillus’ wig forms an integral part of his identity in the story.
Clearly, hair has played a crucial role in queer history and has especially helped those who want to express themselves beyond the cis-norm. Princess Seraphina, an 18th-century English drag queen, used to wear elaborate wigs and visit ‘mollies’, which were the 18th-century English equivalent of gay bars, where queer folx would go to socialize and commune. She was widely beloved by even those beyond the clandestine queer circles of England.
Then, of course, there were David Bowie and Lady Gaga, who created entire personas around their eccentric fashion, many of which, dare I say, revolved around their hairstyle. But in a country that associates beauty and virtue with how long and lustrous her hair is, women and queer folks’ self-expression doesn’t have a space to exist. Often hair becomes a way to enforce traditional gender roles, with anybody who deviates from it being considered as ‘the other’.
For Earth, (they/them) who identifies as non-binary, hair has played a central role in their gender identity. They used to sport longer hair as a child, mostly because they used to attend Bharatanatyam lessons. As they grew older, Earth began to feel increasingly out of touch with their assigned gender role. “Over the years, I didn’t realize but I grew more and more depressed about my looks. Gradually I started feeling disgust towards my gender expression altogether, but I didn’t know what to do to ease it.” When the pandemic hit, they were able to find online creators and communities that were outspoken about being trans. When Earth realized that they were non-binary, the first step to grow into their gender identity was to chop off their hair. “I cut my hair as the first step towards my transition journey. I still have a long way to go, but for now, cutting my hair has been my biggest sigh of relief and my proudest achievement.”
But choosing to go against the norm hasn’t been without challenges. Earth explains how their mother was worried about them choosing to forego their femininity by trimming their hair to a buzzcut and wearing clothes that weren’t cinched at the waist. Their sister, too, was worried about the threat of Earth being harmed or discriminated against because of their presentation.
Unlike Earth, 18-year-old N (they/them) wore shorter hair as a child. As they grew older, the length of their hair fluctuated depending on how they felt about their gender identity. “Sometimes I grow it long. Sometimes I cut it short. When I feel more feminine I grow it longer and when I’m more unsure, I keep it shorter.” They say that when they had longer hair it was easier to pass as straight, recounting a harrowing story about how one of their male friends once tried to ‘turn them straight’ despite knowing they were dating a girl at the time. But keeping short hair also means judgemental looks from relatives and burrowing remarks of how they ‘look like a boy’. But for N, whose gender identity is fluid, being called a boy feels more like a blessing than an insult. And thanks to their immediate family and friends being supportive of them, N feels like they have a community to rely on.
Skye (name changed – she/her), a 20-year-old from Bangalore, tells me that she experiments with her hair in lieu of coming out to her parents for now. “Breaking barriers one at a time.” she laughs. She describes her style as “femme grunge and tomboy femme”, adding, “I haven’t always been someone who experimented with anything—not clothing, not hair. But as I grew older, I became more curious about my identity. Initially, I loved cutting my hair and later progressed to colouring it.”
But ultimately Skye feels that her hair colour is, at best, adjacent to her sexuality. It does not concretely define who she is as a person.
If something seemingly at the surface, like hair, is only a part of and not the entirety of someone’s identity, why should hair be policed so stringently? Maybe sometime in the future, the religious and moral fervour surrounding hair could be married to more bolder forms of self-expression. After all, doesn’t the greatest form of respect for hair lie in the owner’s willingness to use it as a form of their truest expression?
On August 13, while hearing the bail petition of a man who was accused of sexually abusing and defrauding another, the Madurai bench of the Madras High Court observed that the dating app Grindr is being used for illegal activities. Justice D Bharatha Chakravethy urged the police to intimate the Union Ministry of Electronics and Information Technology about its misuse, and even consider blocking the app in consideration of user safety. And no, he clarified, it’s not because the app is used by homosexual men. It is also worth noting that the accused was booked under Section 377 of the IPC for his act of sexual misconduct committed against another man.
It gets more interesting as we dissect the information that is public about the case that led to this observation:
The accused had filed the bail petition under Section 483 of BNSS. The BNS and BNSS are the updated criminal code, replacing the Imperial colonial-era Indian Penal Code.
The victim claimed that his chain and credit card were stolen, and the attacker had also withdrawn a sum of Rs. 1,15,000. The accused was charged with offences under sections 294(b), 377, 387, 506(2) of the IPC.
In case you’re wondering why the accused was booked under IPC, while the bail petition invoked the BNS, Union Home Minister Amit Shah had said that crimes committed before July 1 will be tried under the old laws. Meanwhile the Allahabad High Court said that while FIRs will be lodged under IPC, the investigation will be done according to the BNSS.
Coming back to the case at hand, Maharaja was granted bail by the court on the condition that he would never use social media or the app ever again. What a strange expectation in the 21st century, where social media is one of the main media of communication (and misinformation) in this day and age! Maharaja also had to surrender his phone to the police, and needs to intimate the police if he purchases a device again. Shady, but not surprised that this is all that it took for an abuser to get bail.
Normalizing abuse somehow never ceases to be the expected outcome, even while technology that enables queer culture and society is called out. Villainising Grindr is not the solution we want nor is the government intervention on such apps, a welcome move. What needs action is that people be held accountable for the harm they perpetuate, instead of a schoolboy punishment like reprimanding them and asking them to surrender their phones. This is hardly congruent with the trauma endured by the survivor who is already marginalized in society for their sexual orientation and identity.
Last time we checked, an abuser never needed a phone to abuse. Sure it’s a medium, but not the only one. Laws fail to protect victims, laws fail to punish the attacker, and those responsible for carrying out the world of the law, continue to fail vulnerable citizens.
Hello and welcome to my new bi-monthly column ‘Quarter Life Single’ where you are going to get to accompany me, a gorgeous and brilliant queer woman who is single for the first time at the age of 25 after a long-term relationship ended. Join me on my adventures in navigating the adult dating world. That doesn’t sound like a big deal until I tell you that the last time I was single was when I was in the 11th grade and demonetisation had not happened yet. Yes, it has been almost 8 years since that fateful day. And yes, we are all officially that old.
Okay, first things first: am I desperately looking for a relationship? Honestly, (and genuinely) no. The truth is that I am open to a relationship and it is fun to try out different ways that people go about dating today. But to be very honest, I am not sure if any of these ways are for me. When I imagine the kind of love that I want, I often imagine it happening organically. Maybe we will meet at a bookstore (I did have a very flirty conversation with a very hot bookseller recently) or stumble across each other on vacation. And then I wonder if that is too passive an approach — the ‘going through life normally and when love happens, it happens’ way of thinking about companionship goes against my idea of doing things in life with purposefulness. I am not sure what the right answer is, but for now I find myself wondering: how do I send out a purposeful message into the universe that my heart is open to love?
I am not someone who posts a lot on social media, so nobody can slide into my DMs or reply to my story to flirt (or as I understand, people now also think of responding with an emoji to someone’s story as a ‘thing’ which is like…come on!) So I have made dating app profiles and met up with people — but the way that they seem to be navigating dating seems extremely different from the way I do. Most people around my age do not seem to have gotten the memos about healthy communication practices and the maxims of love. And I REFUSE to be another person’s queer Katrina Kaif from ZNMD — I really, REALLY do not want to be the manic pixie sapphic dream girl who makes you realise that love is the most important thing. I mean, they teach this to us in school assemblies in the second grade! And while I know that neither our parents nor any other adult around us embodies these ideas outside of that assembly, I am all out of emotional labour spoons and I refuse to try to get more for the purpose of your education. Please go to therapy, and please unlearn things independently?
As someone who has re-entered the singledom a few months ago, I now wonder if many adult dating rituals are not rituals at all, but ways to disguise the fact that neither of you is engaging with yourself. The ‘which one of us will call first’ game clearly stems from feeling insecure about coming across as wanting to talk more because you enjoy someone’s company (it is a GOOD thing to like people! It is a good thing to take initiative!!!) and the ‘answering questions in an ironic manner on dating apps’ is straight out of the ‘I need to pretend that I am too cool for this place because if it does not work out for me I do not want people to know that I wanted it to’ playbook. And don’t even get me started on the ‘we won’t flirt even though I asked you out on a date because we can’t appear to be actually interested in each other’, can it really get more nonsensical than that?
I have a question to ask: if we do not risk rejection, how do we open ourselves enough to accept love? Why are confusing signals still a thing on dating apps that have clear space allocated to describe what you are looking for? The one foot in and one foot out thing seems immature to me at this point to be honest — I mean, we are Sapphic People. We INVENTED the eye contact and yearning stage — but to reach that stage, we have to talk and sound interested. As for me, maybe I need to put out a three-line ad for a pen pal who will exchange books with me as we slowly start writing each other coded love letters in the margins until one of us finds the courage to speak up and take initiative right before dying at the age of 81 — not out of the fear of queerphobia, but out of the fear of coming across as the one who wants it more. It will be exactly like meeting on a dating app, except in this case I will also get to read.
As a happily married lesbian, I’ve learned that our deepest fantasies can both frighten and excite us. When my wife and I decided to pursue a polyamorous quad relationship, we had to confront a lot of vulnerabilities and doubts. But the rewards of loving authentically and pushing boundaries have been immensely transformative.
So, let’s talk about fantasies for a second. Sure, lingerie and role-playing get people going, but you know what really revs folks’ engines? Inviting some new playmates into the bedroom! Getting it on with another smoking-hot couple while keeping that rock-solid foundation with your long-term partner? Hello, ultimate hotness!
But look, going from that sexy fantasy to making it an actual reality can seriously stir up all kinds of insecurities and doubts. Will they find my partner way more attractive than me? Will they be turned off by my imperfect body? Those hesitations are 100% normal and valid. My wife and I definitely grappled with them hard when we started exploring the idea of having a foursome with another lesbian couple we were super into.
We had to get vulnerable quickly and have those brutally honest convos about our deepest fears – things like one of us developing crazy feelings for the new partners or feeling jealous as we all get out over sharing the person we love most. Putting every single worry and worst-case scenario out on the table helped us set clear boundaries and reaffirm that our marriage of 10 years comes first always, no matter what. With that strong security ground, we could charge into this new adventure united and mutually excited instead of holding anything back. As wedding photographers, we’re constantly on the lookout for awesome couples to potentially work with. That’s how we first locked eyes with this stunningly vibrant, magnetic pair at an LGBTQ wedding expo a couple of years back. We just clicked on like lighters from the first conversation. They booked us for their August wedding like 20 minutes later without even blinking!
Things started getting flirty a few months out when we connected for wedding planning over WhatsApp. The chemistry and spark were off the charts. One of them booked a wildly steamy boudoir shoot with us, just to kick things up another notch. We spent hours photographing them in intimate, powerful lingerie looks, getting wrapped up in the sultry, sexy vibe. A two-hour shoot stretched to four because nobody wanted the fire to end! We doubled down by popping a bottle of wine together afterward, and just like that, everything escalated in the hottest way.
Long story short, we started seriously dating and forming a committed relationship with this other couple. There were frequent intimate double dates, and mind-blowing long weekends away from home where we could truly be ourselves and explore every desire sans any restrictions or distractions. It was electric! We all felt like missing puzzle pieces just clicked into place.
But you know how it goes – times change, new dynamics emerge, feelings evolve. What started as just a crackling passion between the four of us grew more complicated when a couple of us developed deeper romantic feelings for certain people in the quad. A little ol’ monster named jealousy started creeping in. We had to pump the brakes, re-evaluate our boundaries, and remind ourselves that the path forward involved coming together as an equal foursome to make sure everything stayed fair, safe and consensual for everyone involved.
Look, has it been challenging to navigate at times? 100%. Have we had to do some serious soul-searching, self-work, and get really damn good at communicating through every up, down, twist and turn of this non-traditional relationship? Absolutely. But ultimately, taking this leap into the quad partnership has been one of the most beautiful, erotic, utterly transformative experiences of our lives so far.
We’ve learned so much about ourselves – facing insecurities we didn’t even know we had, pushing past antiquated programming, and just straight-up opening our hearts, minds and souls in ways we never could’ve imagined before this journey. Was it always a sexy, steamy walk in the park? Nah. Did we fight like hell to make the quad worth it at certain points? You betcha. There were times we wondered if we were in over our heads. But we persisted and grew together.
I’m not gonna lie, this kind of arrangement isn’t for everyone. Jealousy monsters and emotional land mines can lurk around every corner if you’re not prepared. But if you’ve got that ravenous curiosity, that itch to explore and push boundaries, if you’re willing to get naked emotionally and put in the hard work, this polyamorous journey is an incredibly rewarding one. It’s helped us become our most authentic, liberated selves and celebrate love, sexuality, and desire in radically new, empowering ways.
My advice? Don’t run away from those edgy fantasies that set your lust on fire – go after what you crave, but always with compassion leading the way. Be ruthlessly honest about your needs, boundaries, and expectations from the jump. Set clear rules and guidelines. Never stop communicating, even when it hurts. Lean into any challenges as opportunities to evolve together, become closer, and build more trust. Most of all, never lose sight of the love and profound respect that sparked this whole crazy beautiful adventure in the first place.
At the end of the day, our quad relationship has been messy as hell, totally magical, supremely erotic, challenging as f*ck at times, and above all, real – four people choosing to love bravely and authentically outside the lines society draws. It’s opened our minds to the infinite possibilities that can unfurl when you allow yourself to think outside the box, rip off repressive labels and just get a little unharnessed and comfortable in your skin. I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything.
During Pride Month this year, I witnessed several teenage queer folx actively participating to usher in a new era in creating spaces for queerness, both online and offline. When I attended the Queer Made Weekend in Mumbai, I noticed that some came out loud and proud, with outfits that looked straight out of a carefully curated Pinterest board, while others gathered shyly, simply happy to witness a community embracing queerness, even if just in pockets. It got me thinking about how a chunk of their young lives must be spent in academic spaces, which are historically known for imposing disciplinary rules and strict normative-uniformity, many times archaic. Ironically, at the same time they offer courses that educate us and are advertised as spaces that nurture intellectual thinking. However, the reality remains that when there is any kind of grassroot level activism and demand for systemic change in these spaces, they are often met with repression by these very institutions. Ironically, the same institutions that supposedly empower, don’t often encourage activism that challenges systems, including critique of the institution itself.
This is where student-run clubs and spaces within the campus that encourage communing, come into picture.
From sports, music, social service to nukkad natak and cinema, these college clubs are hubs of enthusiastic student activity. To these young adults, college clubs offer more than just an opportunity to spruce up that empty CV. It’s an attempt at turning their common interest into a conversation. Some hope for simply a familiar face to sit with at the canteen. Then there are others who desperately seek a chosen family to compensate for the lack of supportive ecosystems in their lives.
Having participated in college level clubs myself, my first taste of Pride month and the queer community was of course through…yup, you guessed it, an English Literature Association (ELA). While a queer collective would eventually be formed in my college post my own graduation, the ELA would put out queer narratives through plays, movie screenings or host trivia quizzes at college fests, during my time there.
I can’t help but wonder how the experience has been for queer folx who have had the opportunity to participate in ‘proper’ queer clubs on campus. I set out to interview four different queer collectives from four different states across India, asking them about the nitty-gritties of leading and participating in queer clubs.
On Getting Institutional Support
From organizing fests to seminars and even getting the requisite approval to use a room to conduct club activities, having the institution’s support is always beneficial for a college club. The support can go well beyond the administrative too and it can be essential to helping students set boundaries with agents of hate and neglect towards the club’s values, such as for a queer-affirming campus-community. The bullying that the members of such clubs receive ranges from alienating queer students on campus to actively harassing and making passive aggressive remarks at them, which is often perpetuated by their peers and even members of the faculty. While expecting all to be inclusive is the dream we dream of, even just having specific faculty/ staff members onboard as allies can also build a sense of deep safety and comfort, considering the lack of queer-affirming caregiving and mentorship that one experiences while growing up.
As Pride month becomes zeitgeist, many colleges are recognising the existence of the LGBTQIA+ community and needs of younger folx in navigating their queerness. They are doing so through their on-campus activities, which are slowly and steadily mushrooming in India. However, the reality is that many of these academic spaces try to curb this existence of queer joy in these spaces by watering it down.
Booshan (he/him), the founder of the PSG Queer Collective at PSG College of Technology, Coimbatore, recalls the dismissive feedback he got after pitching a short broadcast program on campus for Pride month. While partnering with the radio club on campus was deemed “fine”, the project itself was scrapped by the dean. The college’s support was limited to “letting them be” on campus, but there were restrictions imposed on how openly the collective’s activities and campaigns were conducted.
How are these clubs supposed to sensitize college folks when the opposition to their visibility comes from within the management? 10% of India’s population, which is about 135 million people, are estimated to be queer. Forget about the walk, why are we not even talking about it?
At IISER Tirupati, The Rainbow Collective is forced to function as an informal collective on-campus. Annada (he/ they), one of its coordinators explained that the management is in denial and has no proper idea about the club’s values and premise. Despite having a faculty member onboard as per the rules for on-campus clubs, the dismissal continues.
On a more positive note, Priyanka* (she/ her) who heads the queer collective of IIT Guwahati – Lambda, shares that they regularly receive materials and lectures from the faculty in terms of resource and guidance, despite it the club on campus itself not being officially recognized by the institution. They are also asked for updates and if support is required for the club and its activities.
Pasta (they/ he), the Student Junior Executive of Sophia College For Women in Mumbai, also feels supported as a queer person who runs the club on campus. There are the occasional hurdle of financial planning and operations, yet, at the end of the day, “everyone, including the staff is actually very accepting, the college is just very comfortable”, they say about Sophia College’s environment. In fact, they mentioned joining the college after learning of the existence of a queer club in college through the institution’s website!
The Curious Case of “Collectives”
As I interviewed these four members/organizers of queer-affirming clubs located at colleges from four states of India, I noticed a common pattern of getting corrected by my respondents about how their club was a collective. While the details as to why were fuzzy, they said that they were not allowed to call themselves a club for various technical reasons.
Pasta explained: “When people register to become official members of a college club, they have to pay a fee which is 100/-. However, since we are just a collective, we don’t collect this fee so that people can join us in this space for free.”
This also meant that all the activities and resources required for the collective’s activities needed to be funded by the members themselves. “Imagine we’re having a Pride pin-making event, then we would have to fund for all operational costs so that these pins could be taken home after making them. As a result more people are interested to join in, [which is great], but it also adds a strain to our budget!”, they said. It’s an added advantage that other clubs have. This is why queer collectives have to think twice regarding the feasibility of any event that they conduct, despite the entire college getting to enjoy the experience. The issue goes back to the registration process of setting up of the club, which can get confusing as it is, add to that issues of prejudice and discrimination and the task of creating a queer club becomes even more complicated.
Booshan shared a different perspective that despite having all the rights to have a club, it also comes down to the people who run the club and their identity. “When it comes to queerness or career, career comes first”, he highlighted about the baggage that comes with identifying as queer on campus.
Funds Or Not, The Show Must Go On
These clubs need funds to make themselves visible and be active, which are hard to do without explicit support and official recognition from the institution itself. The acceptance of queer folx on campus needs sensitization through outreach events and training seminars, which in turn require the active participation of all students, faculty, the administration, among others. The systemic cycle of isolation and the lack of access to resources has not stopped these queer college folks from putting in the work though.
Finding a middle ground to balance the fundraising issue and to provide a safe space for the queer folks on campus, the IISER’s rainbow collective hosts regular discussion sessions and movie nights. PSG’s queer collective also managed to organize the Coimbatore Pride in collaboration with Kovai Vaanavil Kootamaippu!
On the other hand, considering its relatively supportive environment, Sophia’s queer collective has impressively hosted a diverse range of events, from drag show to queer karaokes! As I pondered over the potential of these clubs if they were provided with some form of financial aid. I posed this question to them to understand their collective aspirations.
Imagining The Utopia With Unlimited Funds
While sports clubs might get funding for their tournament travels or an art club to conduct art contests, queer clubs fall behind in scaling not just due to lack of financial resources but simply due to lack of sensitization. As my respondents told about the continuous work that goes into maintaining the club and its activities, I asked each of them what they’d do if they had unlimited resources to allocate to the club. Other than Sophia’s queer collective, the remaining 3 respondents had different variations of the same answer: institutional sensitization.
IISER rainbow collective’s Annada wanted to conduct frequent sensitization activities, while PSG’s Booshan said he wanted to sensitize the people to make it easier and more welcoming for the closeted queer folks. “It’s not necessary they should come out but that option in their life should be available at least,” he adds.
Priyanka* echoed the same, “The problem that our club faces is that within the Institute itself, the space is so stigmatized that we have very limited people. I think more than financial, we’d like to have official recognition.”
Taking Up Space As Your Trueself
While it is easier to find a community of queer folks online and simply being content by going online to watch an episode or 2 of Heartstopper, taking up space offline offers a sense of joy and comfort in the most tangible, concrete sense possible. You get to reimagine a real world full of possibilities, where your first instinct is not to survive but hope to thrive. Many students admit to choosing a college that aligns itself with queer-affirming sensibilities. Pasta (they/ he) from Sophia Queer Collective who moved to Mumbai for further studies chose the unfamiliar city for similar reasons. While going through the college’s page to check their facilities and more, they had come across a section which mentioned about the presence of a queer collective. This convinced them as they felt that they’d be much more accepted in the community and wouldn’t have to hide their identity. This proved to be true since everyone in the college including the staff were already sensitized, making their student experience comfortable.
While some take great efforts in relocating to find a college that feels safe enough to be themselves, others have to make their own from scratch. Booshan, who is now a 20-something alumni, tiptoed out of the closet by sharing queer content online. Eventually, when he came out to his parents during the pandemic, the response was, unfortunately, not great. He relied on his seniors from the collective for moral support during those trying times. Through this collective, he gained access to a nationwide network of supportive communities, including NGOs and queer-led organizations. Through this network, he also received financial guidance, legal aid, and so much more that helped him become an adult with personal agency.
The disappointing representation of queer folx in our system, both internally and externally already makes the current climate bleak. We need more examples of queer folks getting to truly living as themselves and in the positions of decision-making. More folks like Booshan should be able to access financial and emotional support for their wellbeing during times of distress. It starts from spaces that are actively present in their daily lives, such as colleges and schools.
Formation of Clubs
TW: Mention of queerphobic abuse
Despite the backlash and absence of recognition, these queer students attempt to build and find their community in their own ways. Booshan, who previously had been part of his college’s NSS camp, opened up about how he had suffered abuse at the hands of one of his officers there. When he shared this experience with his friends, it led them to come together and make a support group for sexual abuse survivors and queer kids on-campus that eventually became the PSG queer collective. Frustrated with inadequate response to bullying and harassment, more and more students are taking matters into their own hands and are forming informal clubs across the campus to stand in solidarity regardless of the number of members willing to join.
The members of the collective at IIT-Guwahati’s share that although the club had been founded by two campus members, Priyanka* has since taken sole charge as a lot of students left campus during COVID and graduated during the lockdowns, leaving the club members with no training or staff since then. What began as an on-ground outreach to research for her PhD thesis on gender minorities, ended up with her realizing the immediate need for sensitization. Despite their collective Lambda not being known to most of the campus, Priyanka* continues to address the queerness with a small group of members.
Wholesome Queer Memories To Hold Onto
While the journey has been extremely tiring, when asked about what makes this process worth the work, the collective (no pun intended) answer were the wholesome memories created and the milestones accomplished. Sophia’s Queer collective was able to conduct the college’s queer-focused flagship event called “Quphoria” which celebrated the diversity and togetherness on campus. Pasta recollected their favorite moment: “I think it has to be the time a drag king that went to our very own college performed for the event. They did a really great job and it was special having them as a part of our main club event!”
PSG Queer Collective’s Booshan recalls his favorite memory as being finally able have an in-person meet up with all the club members from different departments of the college when it reopened after the lockdowns.
At IIT Guwahati, Priyanka* shares that the club was able to help a queer person get out of a dark phase. The club members were able to ensure a smooth coming out process for them to their family. “Knowing that there are people out there, it helps you gain confidence [in expressing your queerness]. This also affects other domains of your life so it is a crucial space” they add.
With the recent news of a trans student in Guwahati allegedly being stalked, policed and asked to leave the school upon the insistence of the school’s Principal, K Chand, more schools and colleges, as well their faculty members, should take initiative to create safe spaces and for young, queer folx. Policies of harassment and bullying need to cover more nuance, touching upon class, caste and gender identity. At the same time colleges shouldn’t always rely on the invisible labor that is expected out of these clubs, and should organize their own sensitization programs with the support and guidance of experienced and sensitized facilitators. Queer and neurodivergence-affirming counselors should be employed regardless of the perceived minority of queerness among students. After all, this would be a step towards suicide prevention on campus.
In our diverse culture with its varied cuisine, food preferences are often shaped by social background, beliefs, aesthetics, or health. The latter two are particularly prevalent in urban spaces such as Mumbai. We set out to explore how queer individuals from the city navigate their food habits. Some have different backgrounds and have recently moved away from the practices that they grew up with!
Religion/Autonomy
In India, a nation with a rich history of vegetarianism *coughs* propaganda *coughs*. The case of “food choices” is a little different. Many adults who move away from home have had complicated relationships with food especially due to religious restrictions. We spoke to Sneha (she/her) (name changed), who was raised in a Jain family, and would’ve had to follow the cardinal rule of Jainism, which doesn’t permit its followers to eat any bulb or underground growing veggies. But it’s been roughly a decade since she started eating meat and has also learnt how to cook it since then!
“I wasn’t particularly religious, I was always questioning things. Despite being a big foodie, I was hesitant to try meat. There was a psychological barrier, mostly due to the conditioning that meat is “impure” and you’re supposed to be disgusted by it.”
When we asked Grace (they/her), a 23-year-old who lives in Mumbai with their aunt, if they’d ever like to go vegan, since they grew up eating and loving meat: “I’ve never considered veganism. I’ve grown up loving non-vegetarian food, my animal-loving, environmentally-responsible self has never felt conflicted with the consumption of meat, nor do I deal with any religious compulsions. It may not be so much of a diet or nutrition requirement but more of a palette inclination, therefore I’ve considered substitutes for monitoring it and having only vegetarian meals on certain days of the week.”
Meat consumption in India is still not as heavily dependent on processed meat, most Indians still rely on butchers for meat, especially, Muslim folx who require Halal meat. Even with vegetables, local grocers and farmers have managed to adapt to the need for certain “exotic” produce.
“It’s been roughly 10 years since I first tried meat, and my parents still don’t know about it. I’ve been regularly told that eating meat is one of the worst things I can do, and I have seen their reactions to other meat-eating people. I think out of all the discriminatory beliefs they have, their dislike for meat consumption is the worst.” Sneha reflects.
Anurag (He/They) grew up not eating meat and depended heavily on milk to help him bulk-up and look more “masculine”. For him, even after incorporating meat (to unlearn casteist ideology of meat eating) in his diet, the bulking-up diet was a disaster in the making. The consequences included acne, IBS, and poor immunity. He says he also felt the stress of wanting to look a certain way, in addition to the stress of falling sick often.
“For 4 years [of college] I had all the meat that I possibly could have had until I started falling sick. I used to follow weird internet diets to gain weight and lose weight or to gain muscle. I was never really a gym ‘bulk-up’ person, but in college I used to work as a model a lot. So, there were days where I would just not eat at all so that I could look more ripped.”
Sneha, who had to deal with unlearning the guilt and disgust conditioned into her by her family’s beliefs, which is similar to many households, pointed out the aesthetics that often restrict people from learning more about meat-based cuisines.
“I still avoid going to the butcher, simply because the imagery is very jarring for me, but I do cook and eat meat quite frequently. I’ve also unlearnt a lot of the misinformation taught that meat is ‘impure’ or ‘unhygienic’; but now it feels the same as cooking vegetables.”
If you think about it, it’s very similar to how homophobia is conditioned into our minds from a young age. Queerness, like meat-consumption in strict vegetarian households (which are often tied closely to caste) is something to be hidden in the closet.
Back in the 1990s when India opened up its economy to globalisation, like many other developing countries of the time, it helped save and feed many people. Globalisation allowed many people to access native and international food for lower costs. Over time that has also led to cheapening of the quality of food that we have access to. With “organic” and “clean” foods now being in higher demand, the price of staples inevitably keeps rising too.
Grace says, “Food is fuel to me, I’ve realised that if I have a craving, I just reward my palette. My appetite gets picky/selective based on my moods and mental health, but else, food is fuel.”
Queerness in general comes from the space of wanting to be able to exist without any restrictions. It thrives in creating spaces for yourself with things you like to do, which becomes all the more important in a culture that promotes familial acceptance over individual identity. Especially for queer folx, this doubles as a tendency to suppress not just bits and pieces of ourselves, but sometimes all of ourselves for the sake of your family’s acceptance.
“I would like to experiment with nice vegan food if I’m in a fancy city. If I’m in a village or if I’m in my hometown I would rather make something at home. If I’m going out somewhere to eat I would love stuff, that I am lucky enough to be living in Bandra, that I have access to ingredients such as vegan butter and cheese and all kinds of plant milk.” Says Anurag.
Ankita (she/her) who started eating meat after moving away from her familial beliefs was still able to move past the commonality of eating meat and switching to a fish-based diet. She says,
“My food philosophy is mindful healthy eating but break the rules occasionally! Choosing what I eat helps me feel more in control & true to myself. I grew up not eating meat, but I did try it for a couple of years in college. I was always hesitant, but ended up giving it a go during that time. Going pescatarian now feels better for me. The focus is on getting enough nutrition by ensuring a mix of fish, veggies, and whole grains.”
We see how moving away from homes to safer spaces can change how people eat. There was a stereotype in the West that perpetuated that vegetarians/vegans were largely “radical” feminists and lesbians who didn’t like meat. We seem to be witnessing a different approach emerge, when it comes to understanding queerness in relationship with food, especially in urban India. Things are somehow worse and better off right now, with the array of ingredients available, but the scarcity of healthy food continues. Perhaps we’re in a spot that could make or break the way our civilization eats and thinks about food!
Growing up as a gay Indian in the Middle East was often about staying inside the closet. Many times, I had to hide my true self, and essentially wear a mask.
I grew up in Kuwait, a small oil-rich country in the Middle East. Not many people know much about this country, and it’s not their fault. Kuwait isn’t that well-known, perhaps outside of the history of the Gulf War that happened in 1990. Otherwise, it’s a nice place… if you’re straight, that is. Growing up gay with Indian parents in a homophobic country was truly challenging.
I came to the realization about my sexuality when I was 14; it took me a year to accept myself. I was in love with a boy in my class for 3 years; he always ended up in my section somehow. My innocent self would buy him Starbucks whenever I could and spend all my pocket money on it. I thought it was just a silly crush, but I started developing feelings for him and eventually fell in love with him. It took a lot of time and healing for me to realize that he didn’t reciprocate those feelings. It broke me completely on the inside. For months, I cried and listened to sad songs to get over him. I had no one to talk to about this; I was all alone.
The first person I came out to is this girl named Rebecca. I met her on Instagram and she was so accepting of me when I told her. I felt loved; I felt seen. I have lost touch with her since, but I want to thank her for accepting me the way I am. It truly meant a lot to this gay kid. When COVID hit and we were in lockdown, I slowly accepted myself for who I am. I watched a lot of gay/queer movies although I was still deeply in the closet. Soon after, I slowly began coming out to my close friends, and it went well. I came out to my dad last year, but he just couldn’t accept that I’m gay. I came out to my mother, and she told me she won’t talk to me if I bring up the fact that I’m gay again. It’s been a struggle.
It’s been a year since I moved to Mumbai from Kuwait for my college. I do still miss Kuwait, but that’s just life. At least here, I can be my true self without hiding any part of me.
P.S.: I would like to credit John Alex who helped me edit this article.
Hello and welcome to my new bi-monthly column ‘Quarter Life Single’ where you are going to get to accompany me, a gorgeous and brilliant queer woman who is single for the first time at the age of 25 after a long-term relationship ended. Join me on my adventures in navigating the adult dating world. That doesn’t sound like a big deal until I tell you that the last time I was single was when I was in the 11th grade and demonetisation had not happened yet. Yes, it has been almost 8 years since that fateful day. And yes, we are all officially that old.
When my best friend (S, who is also queer and fabulous) and I signed up for the Queer Salsa Classes that were going to be held at a venue that we frequent, I was hoping to do something fun on a weekday instead of following the whole ‘wake up-work-sleep’ routine. I always made time for my hobbies and interests even while I was in a relationship, but break-ups can be particularly hard. Even though I did not realise it then, I definitely needed to be around my community in an affirming and joyous space.
It was immediately a wholesome and welcoming environment, with the mirror-walled dance studio showcasing some fun queer posters and shelves with affirming books. Our dance instructor was phenomenal and kept checking in with us in terms of pace. S, who is a trained classical dancer, later told me that they had encountered many toxic dance environments before this. Along with a lot of rigidity and the glorification of being burnt out, there was a lot of focus on everyone looking and moving exactly the same, with absolutely no regard for accessibility or inclusivity of different bodies. Here, the instructor focused on helping us become comfortable with the movements first. I also learnt that everything that I thought I knew about Salsa was wrong. And the second thing that I learnt was how amazing it felt to not have someone assign dance steps to you based on your gender.
In the second class, we had to practise dancing in pairs, and our dance instructor prompted us by saying, “People who want to learn how to lead can form a line this side, and people who want to learn how to follow can be this side.” The best part was that there was absolutely no rigidity – you could learn one role in one class, and the other in the next. S and I both stood in the Followers’ line and waited for instructions. It was a lovely way to practise, with all of us moving in a circle and changing partners to practise the choreography with everyone who wanted to practise the Leader’s steps. Most of the people came by themselves or with a friend, though there was one adorable couple who made me kind of wish that this was date night for me too. Then I reminded myself that it is not a good idea to pause having new experiences until a romantic partner comes along and went right back to twirling.
At the end of the class I walked over to S and asked if they would practise with me before we left. They looked at me and said, “We could, but we are both bottoms.” “Being a Follower does not correspond to being a Bottom. And I am a Switch*”, I laughed and offered them my hand so we could dance together. And the thing about being best friends with someone is that this immediately became an inside joke that we have referred to again and again, ever since.
Our next class started with some new joinees, including a hot butch. This turned out to be a dangerous class because we were now informed that an important part of Salsa is making eye contact. As fate would have it, she was my first partner for the day. As the new hot butch attempted to lead us to the choreography, I learnt something interesting about myself – if I am even a tiny bit attracted to somebody, I find it tough to dance gracefully and simultaneously make uninterrupted eye contact with them. Turns out, I am only human and my human-ness led to us stepping on each other’s toes. This probably wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t single but I was! The dance instructor was very confused and her re-explanation was followed by a puzzled statement directed towards me, “You should know this…?” So, I decided to stare at our feet – my plan was flawless, I could pretend that I was confused about the footwork and get away from having to look into my dance partner’s eyes. “No looking down”, the instructor directed, “you have to look up and at each other.” Once we changed partners, I could dance perfectly again. S and I had a quick debrief during the water break, “The eye contact”, I whispered. “It’s very intimate”, they agreed.
All of us got over the awkwardness after a practice or two, and I quickly learnt in the following classes that my favourite dance partner was our instructor because it was while moving with her that I would actually learn which steps I needed to practise more. But that did not mean that I did not have fun with other people – with some I developed inside jokes and with others I learnt how to coordinate with a partner gracefully. We were all learning and teaching each other at the same time, and the sense of community was strong in the air. Our last class included a Salsa DJ and a free-for-all floor to practise, and there was laughter, conversation, and lots of twirling. The truth is that as queer people, the world so often forces us to come together to fight for our rights, that it feels like absolute magic when we are able to come together to dance.
*This is an oversimplification, in reality I do not experience sex through these labels.
Maximalism, wapas aa jao! Please return, I miss you…
It’s been a year of witnessing random fashion and beauty trends that don’t have staying power beyond a couple of months. The internet is saturated with content about new products and trends like they can cure cancer or something. Not complaining, because I do like having options, but I hate having the illusion of choice.
Let me explain.
Everything is the same?
Every makeup product being pushed out in the market by major brands and companies are ALL the damn same! They talk about having the same sheer coverage for a “natural finish”. For people not invested in skincare trends, sheer-coverage doesn’t cover anything at all, actually. It is simply meant to help your complexion look even. To actually cover pimples, spots etc., you will need anything between a medium (buildable) to full coverage product. Now the ‘clean girl’ trend that brought sheer coverage to the forefront of trends, started off with wanting to look nice without having to cake your whole face with makeup, while allowing your skin and you to breathe better.
While the origins of the trend is understandable, the name – clean girl makeup – itself has adjectives that are exclusionary in nature. It glamorises a very specific brand of ordinary and mediocre, in my opinion. The same chiselled cheekbones, pouty lips and thin, slicked-back hair – while these may be nice to look at, they are being commodified to become the aspirational norm that people are expected to conform to!
Although this trend has taken off, makeup brands continue to produce and sell all 3 types of foundations/concealers – sheer-coverage, medium (buildable), and full coverage products. Drag queens and professional makeup artists still use heavy-coverage base products, to achieve flamboyant and varied looks. To me, the problem lies in the way products are marketed. Yes, in the capitalist system, marketing has always been the source of evil in promoting products that no one actually needs. Allow me to clarify the paradox – no one “needs” makeup, it’s still a want. But the virtue-signalling tone of ‘clean girl’ as if every other way of being is not ‘clean’ is simply appalling. Being bare skin is not a sin nor is wanting to wear full-coverage foundations. Each way of presenting serves its purpose in a person’s life. Secondly, my gripe is also with pushing the need for elaborate makeup & skincare routines on everyone through content overload, making it look like a need rather than an option.
In my opinion, the “clean girl” aesthetic, the ever-so controversial beauty trend has not been criticised nearly enough. If we actually understood the weight of the cultural critique as to how the trend is inherently popularising something Latina, Black and even Indian makeup tricks that they were shamed for, then it would have been unpacked for the cultural appropriation that it is. Think using a dark lip-liner with light lip-gloss that’s now called ‘doughnut glazed lips” or wearing gold jewellery with slicked back hair. Women of colour were called “ghetto” and “oily” for doing these trends back in the 90s and early 2000s. Only for the same things to be applauded when the owner of Rhode Beauty does it?
Leave it to the professionals
People have been reminiscing about 2016’s makeup trends, which celebrated using makeup as a tool for expression. The makeup tricks that reigned supreme on the internet in 2016 were largely taught by queer and drag makeup artists like Nikkie Tutorials, Bretman Rock, Jefree Star, Gigi Gorgeous, and even RuPaul. Personally, I learnt most of my makeup tricks over the past decade from watching Nikkie Tutorials since I stumbled upon it in 2014. I still follow her tips and tricks to do a smokey eye (anybody else miss doing that? No? Just me then?).
2016 was a pivotal year for makeup, we had drag queens, cis-women and even teenagers on board with doing extremely elaborate makeup routines. Everyone was experimenting with makeup looks at 6am in the morning, everyone’s brows were on fleek, and matte lipsticks were the thing!
Grateful to the algorithm that has managed to recommend queer makeup artists/content creators like Frederic Chen and Stanzi Potenza to me, who are not only fellow non-binary theylies like yours truly, but also quite creative with their fashion and makeup! Stanzi, who is technically a comedy content-creator, has always shown up with elaborate and colourful makeup (think bold eyeliner, falsies and vibrant eyeshadow). She would take on the avatar of a sexist Chad (basic cis-white man) and mock it, making for hilarious skits!
Frederic Chen and Stanzi Potenza
Makes me also question, if queer content creators are the only ones pushing boundaries in terms of makeup? Think The Lipstick Lesbians’ Alexis Androulakis who explains makeup manufacturing like no other in the industry. Think Indian influencers like Shantanu Dhope, Rajkumari Coco, who have been creating original makeup content, pushing boundaries and absolutely not listening to haters!
Queer-led fashion and makeup creativity has always been a point of criticism, only to eventually be appropriated by the mainstream to profit from. I mean see the way Karan Johar is constantly criticised for his fashion choices. It’s a separate discussion that KJo’s sexuality is still widely speculated on the basis of his fashion choices, but the point is – are we perpetuating stereotypes that position queer folx as being good with makeup just by the virtue of being queer?
It’s a route we can’t escape, it’s a stereotype that both helps and suffocates. Surely makeup left in normie hands is ripe for capitalist exploitation through endless “trends”, but makeup left in queer (and professional MUA) hands immediately lends space for experimentation and creativity, it seems.
Why is this a problem?
Brands like Fenty, Rare Beauty and Rhode are able to market themselves as iconic, but their innovation stops at packaging and paying for their elaborate PR list of beauty creators who cater to their very-specific facial features and skin tone (wherever applicable).
As a consequence, Beauty and aesthetics have come to be perceived as 2 sides of the same coin, where beauty deals with trends, physical qualities and aesthetics is the larger picture that is a curation of things that are “beautiful”. Instagram filters and trends like the Clean Girl “aesthetic” have managed to alter our idea of beauty in that we see the same old types of faces and think, “yes that’s what is beautiful ”. Beauty standards do tend to fixate on one particular idealised feature(s), but what trends do is that they streamline one particular type of beauty, aesthetic, face and features as “it”!
What is a “clean” girl? Who is she? Why is she a ‘she’? Technically clean is just someone who has taken a bath, which also comes with a certain privilege in the present-day socio-political scenario. Does that mean we’re adding shame to the context of beauty? Why is it necessary to look “clean” (no, that does not mean that you start cosplaying as ‘working class’, looking at you, Jojo Siwa!)? Why is this a “beauty standard”? And why is it that “doing too much” is not considered fun anymore, but construed as a chore or a dread-worthy performance?
People do have the choice to do makeup as they like, but the second we start treating one choice as being better than the other, not because of the effort or personal preference but because of what looks better, then we are creating hierarchies. Can there really be levels to beauty? Can life be reduced to an aesthetic? Think about it.
If book-tok trends are anything to go by, the romance genre is currently experiencing a bit of a boom. Historical romances, romantic thrillers, romantasy (romance+fantasy)… you name it, and there’s a subgenre for it. But one subgenre, in particular, has been experiencing a remarkable rise in popularity – sports romances. This sudden surge in romances set within the backdrop of the sports world has taken the mainstream by surprise.
To fans of the genre, the connection between sports and romance makes perfect sense. After all, there’s a certain in-built tension to sports that adds spice to whatever romantic subplot the author creates within it. It should also come as no surprise that authors are expanding the focus of these books – moving beyond the heterosexual to explore queer narratives as well.
Now here is where things get interesting. The world of sports has traditionally served as a domain dominated by the masculine and, subsequently, has been treated as a site to maintain said masculinity. Organized sports are filled with rules and practices that emphasize maintaining certain acceptable forms of masculinity and the status quo. In this context, the lack of diversity in the sports world should come as no surprise – talk or representation of queerness is almost non-existent.
This holds especially true for sports like ice hockey and American football – two of the most popular sports featured in the sports romance subgenere, where the performance of masculinity is almost sacrosanct. The easiest and most overt proof of this is the language players use on the field to assert their dominance over one another. Homophobic and misogynistic slurs are used quite casually and frequently. And only recently are players being fined and called out for such behaviour. The reason I bring up language is because it is indicative of the underlying belief that to be perceived as either feminine or queer is an insult, especially in highly masculine spaces. Queerness is seen as transgressive and as a threat to the dominant culture of sports and society at large.
In today’s world, where sports is seen as a bastion of old-school masculinity and the culture that enables it, the desire for queer representation makes perfect sense. We all want to see ourselves represented, and from a purely statistical perspective, there are probably quite a few queer people hopping, skipping and jumping across our sports fields, but we are yet to acknowledge this reality.
And so we come back to the world of sports romances. The inclusion of queerness in these fictional sports teams, with players falling in love with either each other or other auxiliary characters, takes what we already love about the subgenre to the next level. The characters are attractive, virile, and popular (thanks to being athletes), which adds glamour to the premise of the romantic relationship. The bromances are often as strong as the romances and present male relationships of all sorts in a healthier, more supportive fashion (while also setting up the possibility of companion novels featuring each of the friends).
As mentioned earlier, sports inherently involve high stakes for emotional engagement. This is thanks to the constant grind of the competition and the possibility of debilitating injuries (especially in ice hockey and football), which add to the romantic tension. Moreover, the queer relationships featured in these romances are often wrapped up in the inherent fear of discovery and being outed. Both present an ever-looming source of external conflict and pressure – every author’s freaking dream! But more than that, the juxtaposition of the fear of being outed and the overwhelming fictionalized acceptance displayed by the extended cast of characters has the potential to give readers hope that this might be their reality.
Romantic stories touch our hearts because most of us know what it’s like to be in romantic love and be loved, and even the most cynical of us will admit that it’s powerful stuff. Sports romances of the queer variety do what any good story aims to do – examine our present reality and put a spin on it. Yes, these romances are funny, sexy, and more than a little steamy, but that’s not all they are. By existing, these queer sports romances highlight our reality, which still denies full acceptance of certain identities in certain spaces, forcing people to deny their authentic selves to preserve what they’ve worked for. While this might be a bit of a stretch for those who just want to read about sexy sportsmen being sexy together for the sheer sexiness of it all, it’s worth giving a second thought.
So, ultimately, are sports romances making sports queer? No more than they probably already are, but also… YES!
Debalina Majumder’s (she/her) documentary, Gay India Matrimony, which was released in 2019, was shot between the years 2013-2018. These are coincidentally the exact period between when section 377 was upheld as a homophobic law and later, in 2018, when it was read down. While the primary language of the film is Bengali and English, it manages to address exactly what it needs to. It’s about queer folx being shunned out of society, being kept at bay and away from love & community. But when have we ever paid heed to that?
Queering the Movement
Watching the documentary is a bitter-sweet experience that’s comical, awkward, sarcastic, eye-rolling, and honestly, a little sad. It takes us through the lives and romantic aspirations of Gourab Ghosh (he/him), Sayan (he/him), and Debalina, three queer adults looking for a marriage match for themselves. There’s a cameo from the folx at Sappho For Equality who humorously talk about important things that show how much we rely on hetero-patriarchal systems. It made me question the nature of the institution of marriage, which very much makes promises of being the ultimate safety net.
“The controversies surrounding Gay India Matrimony has made it even more popular than we could have imagined. Both the right wing and the left wing have stopped its screenings, which tells us that we must have asked some very fundamental questions that hit at the heart of the society we live in..” – Debalina
Gay India Matrimony was screened at festivals just before the lockdown in 2020 and had a couple of in-person screenings before everything shut down.
Taking us through the quest of finding partners for our 3 leads, the documentary shows them using all possible modern media available for matchmaking. Everything from advertisements in local newspapers, to matrimony websites and even Facebook!
Majumder takes us through 2 different weddings, where she interviews 2 queer people who are struggling to find a partner and acceptance within their family and peers, either for their queerness or for their political beliefs. One thing that struck me was Gourab’s attempt at finding love at the wedding of his comrade. Gourab laughs in the film, stating that the suitors that he could’ve possibly linked up with, immediately dispersed when they heard him chant the Communist Party’s “lal salaam” to their comrade. He went on to compare how love and the communist revolution both use the colour red, saying, “love is radical just like a revolution”.
What Type Of Couples Do We Prioritise?
When asked about her own criteria for finding a partner to marry, Majumder begins by listing different qualities and immediately realises that she might be asking too much of a single person. Sayan argues that if you want to commit to just one person for your whole life, why should you ask for anything less?
The documentary definitely made me question the monogamous structure of marriage, not just in patriarchal spaces but also within queer companionship. Especially the part where academic Ispsita(she/her) raises valid points on why marriage as a structure promotes patriarchy, queer marriage would then still play into that structure. Then I thought how would this documentary play out when polyamrous folx demand legal recognition for their partnerships as well? Afterall, our legal framework at the moment mainly supports monogamous relationships. But in a country that barely recognises interfaith and inter-caste marriages, queer and non-monogamous relationships feel like a distant dream.
It’s been some time since the documentary has come out and we reached out to Gourab who has some new insights on marriage now.
“My idea of marriage is largely shaped by Bollywood, so I obviously always wanted to have a Mehendi ceremony. But I think that in weddings each ceremony or ritual has some significance behind them. When queer couples perform them they are borrowing them from a heteronormative structure and using it very consciously. So, while I will probably want to put Mehendi or Haldi on my hand, I will also try to politicise the interaction, in my own ways. My understanding of same-sex marriage is that there has to be some sort of civil partnership rights. But in the film we think about whether it should be civil partnership rights for queer folx, while it remains marriage for cis-het people. This would mean putting these relationships on a hierarchy! So, we want marriage rights, even though it has its own problems, rituals, institutional stereotypes, and biases. Then the next step would be to abolish the institution of marriage from the inside.”
Debalina Majumder, Filmmaker with Gourab Ghosh & Professor Dr.Paromita Chakravarti
When did the idea for this project come into your mind? How do you think it ages with the current discourse on queer couples getting marriage rights?
As countries were legalizing same sex marriage, I myself was debating and engaging with the subject of marriage with many activist friends. They maintain that marriage is not on the agenda of the queer movement because it is inherently oppressive and patriarchal. Though not a believer of this institution, I found myself asking, can I reject a structure when my state doesn’t even sanction me the right to participate in it? But as I pondered over these questions, the Supreme Court ruling on Section 377 (in 2013) came, that recriminalized non-normative sexual orientations. The film has aged very well, it does not merely talk about queer marriage, but so much more. Hence the questions raised by ‘Gay India Matrimony’ resonate by opening up the issue of marriage itself — which we know, is constantly being redefined even in our status-quo state.
Do you think marriage rights will be a monumental change for the LGBTQ community? Given patriarchy is sustained by the institute of marriage, will this then change the way we look at legal partnership/companionship?
Within the queer movement itself, there is a sharp divide on the issue of marriage. As state after state in the US, some countries in Europe, our neighbors in Nepal, start accepting same-sex marriage, there are many queer activists who have said that the state is co-opting the subversive potential of the queer rights movement by giving them welfare benefits of the state if they marry. Do we not want welfare measures, legal recognition and sanction, insurance benefits, right to take medical decisions about loved ones? Of course, the queer movement does. But at the same time, rights, welfare measures, and partnership entitlements must not be limited only to people who marry. This way those who choose not to marry will be outside of the ambit of welfare. But, if all of us are equal in front of the state, then why not marriage equality? Marriage limits the partnership to two people, and is inherently patriarchal. The structure of family as we know it today, is also patriarchal. The challenge to patriarchy therefore can hardly come from within marriage. It should not be the sole responsibility of queer folx, but be carried out by all people. But for those who want to get married, the options must be made available.
Marriage promises a bouquet of rights. How can we ensure that queer people who are not married have access to those rights of community and partnership too?
Are heterosexual people who are outside of marriage, entitled to the same benefits, as the married ones are? From social welfare to employment entitlements, as well as societal approval, unmarried people are denied it all. It is not different for queer people. I am not a lawmaker. Neither am I very well versed in all kinds of partnerships that exist all over the world. But we can learn from community practices, where the community (imagined in the broadest sense) takes care of its own. Our imagination must be radical– friendship, not only partnership, queer kinship, not just blood ties, should show us the hope for future — we have already created models for radical togetherness, the rest of the society just needs to catch up with us.
How was this project initially meant to be executed? Did the technical vision change as you got more perspectives involved?
I always wanted to make a fun film, since much of queer life is filled with violence and unhappiness inflicted by society anyway. Initially, we planned on two interlocutors, Sayan and myself, but later Gourab came on board. So our interpersonal dynamics and our dynamics with our friends, colleagues, family shaped the narrative — something that could not be predicted — imparting a quality of aliveness to our film. We were lucky to be surrounded with so much wit, much of which is reflected in the film. At the same time, we couldn’t predict the sombre and sometimes downright homophobic reactions that we would encounter — which added shades to the film, and needed modification of the tone. The music was also necessary to set up the fun tone – Santajit Chatterjee was a gem. Abhro Banerjee has always been my go-to editor as he set the pace of the narrative and created a medium which could tackle serious questions without appearing serious.
Sappho For Equality, an LBT-organization based out of Kolkata, recently celebrated 25 years of its existence. They commemorated this milestone with a program called ‘Out For 25 years’ and ‘Paye Paye Ponchis’ in Bengali. It involved a 3-day celebration from the 18th of June to the 20th of June, 2024. The itinerary was packed with movie screenings, theater performances, and even a curatorial walk! The events were the result of a collective effort of their 5 teams that work in the spaces of Art, Film-making, Music, Dance and Theatre. Each team came up with an original production for the community at-large. To chronicle this moment, we got in touch with Koyel (they/them), Sappho’s Managing Trustee, and asked them about the organization’s milestones and future plans.
On The Paradoxical Safety Of Lockdown
The effectiveness of pandemic-induced lockdowns have been questioned in the years since they were imposed, considering that the effects of the COVID-19 virus still looms large. In addition, the lack of thought about the domestic safety of people belonging to marginalized genders and sexual orientations, put many lives at the risk of abuse.
“The escalation of natal family violence and homelessness during the pandemic were alarming. We took steps that we had never thought of executing before. On 11th September 2020 we established Temporary Residency (TR) – a temporary shelter space for queer-trans people in crisis. It’s been a refuge for nearly 60 individuals in crisis since then. We also strengthened our crisis intervention team over the years by involving the members in several peer support training programs.This collective experience of navigating through a crisis situation helped us develop deeper insights on lived queer and trans experiences in the state.”
Koyel also highlighted that Sappho has established a training center with a canteen and library facilities called Porshi last year in Julyfor the community. It’s a safe space to host livelihood training initiatives, community meetings, community gigs, performances, etc.
Sappho works with quite a few external organizations, government and government-aided spaces like schools and hospitals to raise awareness and find ways to support displaced queer folx. But what they have observed is that a lot of times, these institutions are interested in tokenistic representation of queer and trans folx only.
“We often notice jobs for queer folx are in an environment that’s not queer and trans affirmative. There have been reports of violence within workspaces. Due to lack of affirmative spaces and a space to stay, queer and trans individuals are forced to leave their jobs and migrate to other cities. Sensitizing the workspace is of prime importance. Housing is a common issue for queer and trans individuals. It’s difficult to get rented spaces to stay safely.”
These problems require collective awareness and efforts in order to address queer distress as homophobia and transphobia are deeply internalized in our social fabric. These are further exacerbated along the intersections of caste, class, ability/disability, geo-location, gender, sexuality, language, ethnicity, etc. Keeping all these in mind, Sappho came up with the following basic guide to inclusivity at the workplace:
1.Nurture an open mind and try to locate gaps in practices. 2.Don’t assume anyone’s gender, or frame policies without consulting them. 3. Focus on adding gender neutral toilets that are also accessible to disabled persons 4.Be mindful that pronouns play a big part in creating inclusive spaces 5.Set up an Internal Committee to prevent sexual harassment, and it’d be best to have people from the community in the committee. 6.Make provisions for paid leave for gender affirmative surgeries and related treatment. 7.Offer provisions that benefit an employee’s chosen family 8.Sessions on raising awareness must be held with queer and trans social workers to ensure dependable and authentic information sharing and to familiarize people with ground realities
Intersectional feminism helps us navigate and understand the realities with a certain nuance. It’s a common tool in not just research, but also for organizations working to support people to do it right! As Koyel puts it, “there are several fractures within the discourse of feminism that signals the presence of plurality of experiences. For instance, the voices of Dalit women activists have articulated how the brahmanical patriarchy generates oppression. It has also resonated in the case of queer-trans individuals who are collectivizing to [stand up to] the cos-heteronormativity of patriarchy.”
When asked about how does Sappho works to address structural oppression, Koyel said:
“We’ve realized that it can only be identified by observing the challenges of queer and trans lived experiences. Stories of homelessness, isolation, distress migration, challenges in accessing documents, natal family abuse, lack of access to life supporting resources are widely documented. It is evidence of the deep-rooted homophobia and transphobia in our society.”
Additionally they highlighted that there are ways to begin understanding, and while it can take time and effort, it’s all for a cause and for the overall community.
“It’s high time to acknowledge that we live in an ecology where our well being is interdependent on each other. It is this spirit that has propelled us during the pandemic to continue working together and address the crisis.”
Koyel adds an interesting thought on navigating autonomy and the way we currently understand harassment and abuse:
“Our understanding of bodies comes with the question of accessibility to health facilities that can only understand bodies through a binary lens. Understanding lived experiences as a spectrum is severely lacking in the medical discourse. In our experience, we witnessed child marriage as a common issue in the lives of queer and trans individuals assigned female at birth (AFAB). This results in early pregnancy and there are hardly any facilities that can deal with this complex situation at the intersection of gender identity and sexuality.”
We’re aware of how child marriages are still a prevalent issue in our country, but how often do we hear about queer minors being married off, not for their gender but sexuality?
Queering SRHR
Over several years, the organization has observed that the contemporary discourse of SRHR is dominated by heteronormative assumptions. Queer and trans-centric SRHR discourses are scarce to come across and it’s yet to reach a larger mass. Sappho has engaged on SRHR intensely with the community through workshops on understanding bodies and has published credible material derived from lived experiences.
“Insensitivity of health professionals leads to deprivation of services to the community. SRHR is already soaked in taboo and severe surveillance. And in this context addressing and articulating the needs of queer and trans community requires larger effort. Visibilising the narratives of queer and trans lived experiences focused on SRHR is what is needed to counter invisibilization,” – Koyel added.
It is worth noting that these insights were shared by a single organization that has been trying to document, vocalize, and visiblize queerness for the past 25 years in West Bengal. There is still a long way to go in addressing the needs of the larger community, and that is why it is essential to support community safe spaces like Sappho For Equality to ensure that we keep building a society around us that’s inclusive and safe!
Hello and welcome to my new bi-monthly column where you are going to get to accompany me, a gorgeous and brilliant queer woman who is single for the first time at the age of 25 after a long-term relationship ended. Join me on my adventures in navigating the adult dating world. That doesn’t sound like a big deal until I tell you that the last time I was single was when I was in the 11th grade and demonetisation had not happened yet. Yes, it has been almost 8 years since that fateful day. And yes, we are all officially that old.
This is my second column entry.
This is my first time being jealous in the context of you and me. Like actually, really jealous. And I understand now why the Hindi word for jealousy is ‘jalan’ (burning) because there is a hot prickly feeling all over my body and my head is hurting. A lot. All my life, I have prided myself in how secure I am. Since school I have preached: “Whoever wants to be with you will stay, and whoever doesn’t – well, what would be the point of them staying anyway?” We have been in a long-distance relationship for so long and never, not once, have I felt even the smallest inkling of the possibility of a flame. But with you, today, at this moment, this clarity evades me.
It was such a simple, stupid, trivial detail that you revealed – that someone whom you have matched with on a dating app is from Gurgaon. Such an irrelevant and ultimately inconsequential fact considering the fact that we have officially been broken up for a few months now. So why is it one that I instantly hated knowing about? Maybe because Gurgaon is a REAL place, and that makes this girl a little bit more real in my head. I don’t want her in there. Because do you know what else that makes true? The fact that, while in the present there might still be a part of both you and me that feels sad about our separation, in the future you will tuck a stray strand of hair behind some girl’s ear and pull her closer to you on your lap as you sigh sentimentally and say, “I never thought love would feel so magical again, but with you I didn’t even have you think! With you it was easy.” And you will mean it also, because you are not an asshole. Life would be so much easier for me if you were.
Even the idea of you one day kissing someone and calling them gorgeous while looking into their eyes makes my body feel like it is burning. Jalan, jalan, jalan. All over. We have loved each other for so many years, and I am twisting and turning in bed with the knowledge that someday the only thing left of this relationship that we built, will be memories. But along with them, will be the memory of this heartache. It will be the knowledge that this was not enough for you to try to help me in cementing the bricks that we were laying. If you put in that effort in your next relationship, I will probably ask myself why you did not care enough about us to do it. If you do not, then I will be left wondering if bidding adieu to us was not a big enough loss for you to try and replicate it. Of course, you have told me that this is not about me and it is about you being unable to do certain things because of the fear of doing them wrong. I ask you this though – how am I supposed to feel like your actions are completely disconnected from your thoughts about me?
I am sure that I am going to bring this up in therapy this week – it is for me to deal with, and that is why I won’t be sending this essay to you. In the meanwhile, I am going to try to process this red hot sensation, understand where it is coming from, and think about which boundaries to put up to not bring myself too close to this flame again. But those are things that I am only going to be able to do tomorrow morning.
When I burn my finger I immediately rush to put it under running water, but what is the first aid for this jalan? Maybe it is telling myself to go to sleep. Maybe it is allowing myself to feel it for a little longer just for tonight, with no judgment, and recognizing that the anger and sadness that are accompanying it do not need to be put in the “no no” box immediately. Maybe it is okay to feel the heat from the pyre of a relationship for one night, just like it is okay to grieve its loss for many more. But hopefully, by the time I am done writing this eulogy, it will have become just a little bit easier to look forward to the healing.
The British imperialist government introduced Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code in 1861. This made sexual activities that went ‘against the order of nature’ illegal in the eyes of the law. Over time, the interpretation of the kinds of sexual activities that went ‘against the order of nature’ included anything that fell outside of the cis-heteronormative.
During the 163 years since, India has witnessed vast changes. Especially since the Republic’s independence, there have been many movements pushing the country’s institutions to consider the cause of queer rights. This has become more pronounced in the past decade:
In 2014, the NALSA judgement by the Indian Supreme Court allowed people to self-identify as ‘male, female, or transgender.’
In 2018, consensual ‘same-sex’ intercourse was decriminalised in Navtej Johar vs. Union of India, which meant that Section 377 could no longer be used to demonise and punish queer love.
Now, in 2024, the Indian Penal Code (IPC), has been entirely replaced by the ‘Bharatiya Nyay Sanhita’ (BNS), while the Code of Criminal Procedure (CrPC), has been replaced by the ‘Bhartiya Nagrik Suraksha Sanhita’ (BNSS).
The mainstream narrative is that the ‘colonial’ yoke has finally been overthrown and that India will now be governed by its own laws. The 19th century moral code of British imperialism has finally been scrubbed clean from the country.
Sounds good, right?
Unfortunately, the reality is far darker.
Forgotten people
In October 2023, just a few days before the Supreme Court denied queer people the right to marriage equality, a 20-year-old Pune man was allegedly kidnapped, extorted, and then sexually assaulted by three men.
In 2020, only 236 transgender people were registered as victims of all crimes that were committed across the country. This number is a minute fraction when compared to the 2011 census, which noted that there were 4.8 million trans people living in India.
Apart from these, there are countless other horror stories that the queer community is deeply familiar with, and have been acknowledged through experiences shared online as well.
The idea of being openly queer is a privileged one, and only a fraction of the vast community have the liberty to do so.
Time and again, studies have shown that queer people not only face higher levels of online abuse, but also have a greater threat of sexual violence than cis-gendered heterosexual people.
The harsh reality is that queer people, including gay men and transgender people, are regularly sexually harassed, molested, raped, and then denied any sort of legal recourse.
A simple Google search for ‘Grindr experiences in India’ also reveals scores of stories about queer men being subjected to unimaginable ordeal and even being ‘outed’ to their natal families.
But shouldn’t the law work to protect all citizens from such incidents of violence, regardless of their gender identity?
Everyone is after all equal before the eyes of the law, according to the Indian Constitution.
Starting July 1, 2024, Indian men will not have a clear law protecting them from sexual assault and rape.
The BNS has completely removed the provisions of IPC’s Section 377, which continued to criminalise sexual offences against men, transgender individuals, and even animals.
This is a nod to the patriarchal mindset that ‘strong and brutish’ men cannot be sexually assaulted, and those who do have such experiences are somehow inferior in their masculinity.
To understand how the BNS and BNSS would affect queer people, this author caught up with Advocate Suraj Tomar (he/him), who practises at Delhi’s Karkardooma Court.
He echoed that there is no equivalent to Section 377 in the BNS, which can have a devastating effect on a survivor of sexual violence who may be a man or a trans-person.
He added: “We know that queer people are more susceptible to violence, especially in Tier-2 cities and remote districts of India. In 2016, a young man was abducted by a group of men and gang-raped on the campus of Banaras Hindu University. There are many news articles where the man recounts his experience of how the police mocked him about this when he went to file a complaint. In 2023, we heard of another case of a man ending his life in Gorakhpur (in UP) because a few men raped him, after which he was being blackmailed. A report by the National AIDS Control Organizaiton (NACO) in 2015 says that 1 out of every 5 transgender persons in India faces sexual violence. Queer people who are closeted or belong to financially unprivileged groups were hesitant to seek justice even when there were provisions for punishment for sexual violence. Now, when there are no clear provisions, they will be more susceptible to sexual violence as it isn’t seen as a crime.”
When it comes to the use of gendered language in BNS, Tomar added that “Chapter V of BNS deals with offences against children and women. Clause 63 is the equivalent to Sec. 373 of the IPC, which basically defines rape. It starts with “A man is said to commit rape …”. The question remains that if a man rapes a transgender person, a transgender person rapes a man or a woman, or if a woman rapes another woman, then the victim has no grounds to seek justice.”
Just like the requirement of a doctor’s approval to get a transgender card in India, the use of such language that reinforces the binary, will negatively impact people who do not conform to the ‘man-woman’ discourse.
According to news outlets, several petitions have already been put forward questioning the new laws, with calls for the use of gender-inclusive language in the BNS and BNSS.
Sharif Rangnekar (he/him), the writer of QueerSapien, has also spoken out on how 20 years ago he was assaulted and did not have any legal recourse owing to stigma and the threat of ostracisation.
In an Instagram video, he elucidates how the same may happen today, now that no legal recourse is even available. The combination of dogma and stigma can be deadly.
Even people outside the queer community have expressed their concerns. Supreme Court lawyer Indira Jaisingh has said that ‘India will wake up to Police Raj’ if the new criminal laws kick in.
Economist Amartya Sen is not considering the BNS as a ‘welcome change’ since they were ‘implemented without consultation.’
‘Lesser’ Evil for a Greater Good?
It is now clear that the queer community has gotten the short end of the stick. But this supposed ‘de-colonisation’ has other setbacks too.
Adv. Tomar elucidates how the term “‘terrorism’ has been defined in broad and unclear terms in the BNS as something that may ‘intimidate’ the general public.”
He added that “adultery has been omitted, and murder by a group of people having a common identity like religion, caste, etc. has a lower punishment now.”
One positive aspect of the new law is that electronic evidence is now ‘primary evidence’, addressing the growing threat of cybercrimes and the trail of criminality that exists online.
But what will these minor victories mean for gay or straight cis-men or transgenders who are assaulted and find the courage to go to court, only to find that the law, like the rest of society, isn’t built for them?
Way forward?
Across the board, many legal experts have agreed that the BNS and BNSS will deeply affect Indians’ daily lives negatively. But there remains confusion as to how exactly this will happen.
Shreya Gupta, a law student and queer person, elaborates on how the “implementation is fraught with confusion, exacerbated by the Indian judiciary’s existing backlog. This uncertainty is reflected in states like Karnataka, where opposition to the laws is prompting considerations for state-level amendments. Given the current circumstances, introducing these laws may not be the most prudent move.”
1.4 billion people are now governed by new criminal laws, and almost all of us have been in the dark about its effects. That is deeply unsettling.
Much more needs to be done to make the lives of Indian queer people easier. The recognition that assault can happen to anyone, irrespective of their sexual orientation, sex, and gender identity, is just the bare minimum.
Sadly, we have been failed by the very institutions expected to safeguard us.
In the kaleidoscope of Indian culture, ideals of male beauty have long been shaped by the silver screen’s fair-skinned heroes. Those days are now long gone. Within the tapestry of the country’s LGBTQ+ community, a fascinating shift is taking place. In this article, we are going to discuss the dynamic world of intergenerational body ideals in the community, where the traditional notions of attractiveness are confronting the rise of the obsession with gym culture and the ever-present pressures and influence of social media. We are going to discuss contrasting forces that are shaping perceptions of body ideals across generations, from the silver screen hunky men to the chiselled physiques dominating our social media feeds. Brace yourself as we discover a community where “bears” challenge stereotypes and a powerful body positivity movement redefines what it means to be attractive.
Traditionally, the media and society in India have fed us that having fair skin and a slender build is the epitome of body ideal standards. However, the rise of Western media has introduced a new ideal of the muscular, toned physique. This has created a big change in the gay community, which was influenced by this shift. The older generation, who were raised on big-screen body ideals, preferred the slender and delicate build. In contrast, the younger generation influenced by the images on social media of muscular chiselled torsos, prefer the more athletic gym-toned look.
Social media has become a powerful force in shaping body image in the gay community of India. Among these platforms, Instagram has the most influence as it shows a carefully curated feed of sculpted physiques and edited photos, thereby creating unrealistic expectations of body image in our minds. This relentless exposure can fuel your mind with similar expectations and make you follow certain unrealistic ways to achieve that fitness goal. This leads to body dissatisfaction among gay men who have seen that the muscular body is the only ideal body type to pursue.
However, social media is not all gloom and doom. It also shows us body-positive influencers who are working to make the platform more inclined towards accepting bodies of all kinds. Many communities promote body positivity actively on social media platforms. These spaces help people celebrate different body types, encourage self-acceptance, and challenge unrealistic beauty standards. Social media also allows visibility of niche subcultures within the community, which dismantles the singular notion of the muscular, chiselled body in the community.
As a result, it is a double-edged sword that necessitates a critical approach. It’s very crucial to be mindful of what we consume on social media and be intelligent in seeking out representations of diverse beauty. By doing this, our community can harness the power of social media to create a more inclusive and accepting space for everyone.
I spoke to some men belonging to the community about their body ideals and what they look for in a partner. One of them goes by the name Raj (he/him), 55, who said: “For me, a man with a kind smile and a gentle touch is more attractive than six-pack abs.” Akash (he/him), 28, said something different: “I work hard to maintain a muscular physique. It’s a way to express myself and feel confident.” Many have different body ideals in our community and it should be welcomed because it promotes diversity.
The conversation around body image within the Indian gay community extends far beyond the clash of the slender physique and gym-toned Instagram body. Two body-positive movements are changing the system, in my opinion. One is the bears, from the LGBTQ+ community, which are larger, hairier men. It is quite a refreshing counterpart to the often thin queer ideal heavily promoted by the media. This movement celebrates a different kind of masculinity, one that is of strength and maturity. This does embrace a broader spectrum of body attractiveness as it offers a sense of belonging and acceptance of men who might not fit the mainstream mould. And the other one is the body positive movement, which promotes self-acceptance and challenges unrealistic body and beauty standards among the LGBTQ+ community. It encourages the members of the community to celebrate their unique bodies, regardless of size, shape, disabilities etc. It encourages people to dismantle the pressure to conform and create an inclusive space for everyone.
The Indian gay community is a vibrant mosaic, whose perception is not confined to singular beauty ideals. Gone are the days when the fair, leading men dominated the silver screen and our cultural imaginations. Today, we have the “bears” and the body positivity movement aiming to dismantle that system. Younger generations might still gravitate toward athletic physiques and older generations might still retain a fondness for delicate build. Regardless of these preferences, people are slowly accepting and celebrating different body types. The evolving conversation within the community is a testament to its dynamism. In the end, the future of the body image within the gay community promises to be as diverse and vibrant as the community itself.
Before the King Princesses and Troye Sivans arrived on the queer-pop music scene, and prior to my shift from 9xM to VH1 India (because someone had told me that I could finally listen to Taylor Swift’s Love Story), there were Bollywood songs! Don’t be shy, let’s admit it – we all had a notebook to jot down all the latest lyrics, which may have eventually become a Word document upon discovering genius and gaana.com.
Amidst these changes and shifts, we’ve tried to find our own experiences from the pre-existing database of songs we have grown up with. While no one could understand why your 13-year-old self was intensely ruminating about Riya from C division instead of completing your english homework, somehow Atif Aslam in Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani’s Tu Jaane Na did. Even though you did a terrible job at keeping up with the English bits of it (it’s actually: <<shining in the shade in sun like; A pearl upon the ocean; Come on heal me>> you can thank me later!).
As I turned older and queer-er, I was forced to face the song that had zapped my baby bi brain: Crazy Kiya Re from Dhoom 2. I am 24 years old now and I have moved on from Dhoom 2 to depressingly comforting Mitski or even a Sabrina Carpenter for a quick shot (pun intended) of dopamine. Yet, I can’t help but come back to these Bollywood hits, which I now listen to with a newfound perspective. Let’s take a look at some of my fave lyrics revisited with a queer audio-filter!
1. Girls like to swing – Sunidhi Chauhan, Dil Dhadakne Do
Lyrics: Girls Like To Swing..Swing.. Zara Aage Nikal Ke..Swing.. Naye Rango Mein Dhal Ke..Swing.. Andaaz Badal Ke.. Yaani Hichkichana Nahi Hai..Swing..
In the video, we see Priyanka Chopra with slicked back hair, dressed in an all-black ensemble made up of straight pant – vest combo. She takes charge and dips Anushka Sharma who is sporting a frilly, pastel-coloured dress. While watching it, you can’t help but notice some queer undertones! It’s giving femme, fluid, and fruity, and we’re here for it.
Taking the movie’s plot into consideration, the lyrics obviously foreshadow these characters’ struggle with freedom from patriarchal practices that dictate marriage as the appropriate route to ‘settling down’, and the instant female-bonding feels like queer liberation as the lyrics emphasis on swinging! IYKWIM.
2. Thug Le – Shweta Pandit & Vishal Dadlani, Ladies Vs Ricky Bahl
Kudiyan nu thug le … hey Mundeya nu thug le … hey
An entire generation raised on 9XM and MTV India was busy learning the hook step to this song. As the track ends, there were bi babies coming into their own queer awakening.
The movie might have flopped (did it, though?) but the songs of Ladies Vs Ricky Bahl popped off and how! While the gen-Z kids were busy learning the hook step to the song, between Ricky’s (Ranveer Singh) hair swaying to the rhythm and Ishika (Anushka Sharma) grooving in her heels, there were queer babies like me experiencing bi-panic for the first time!
As the song ends on a strong note of bi agenda that’s been seared into my brain.
3. Kadam – Prateek Kuhad, Karwaan
Lyrics: Main ghadi ghadi; Bekhabar hi tha; Kya raaz mere; Dil mein hai chupaa; Hai naam kya mera?
From the film Karwaan, the story revolves around 3 misfits, some who keep chasing their goals and others who have given up. Yet, the feeling of being out of touch with your own body and mind is not so unfamiliar with queer & trans folks. From being in denial to having no choice but to face and accept the internal change, while questioning the past, the process is familiar to many of us. Coming out, figuring the labels, googling gender-affirming resources, and navigating the loss of the previous self, the lyrics highlight the battle of wanting to change but the hopelessness felt when failing to be able to do so.
4. Jaane Kyon – Udit Narayan, Alka Yagnik, Dil Chahta Hai
Lyrics: Jaane kyon log pyar karte hain Jaane kyon woh kisi pe marte hain
Bollywood is yet to have its own queer version of the coming-of-age trope, where a group of gay friends come together for a trip. But, Farhan Akhtar’s Dil Chahta Hai seeded the idea for millennials and gen-Z kids anyway! Aamir Khan’s character keeps bantering with Preity Zinta’s about hating on the concept of love. And, look, I agree that cynicism is the main trait of his character, but stepping out of the hetero-tinted glasses, not everyone is looking for their “one”, (or more than one, in case you’re polyamorous!).
The character may be singing it out of emotional immaturity, but when you revisit with an understanding of aro-ace-ness, it challenges the hetero-patriarchal idea that romantic partnerships are more fulfilling than other forms of love. You can’t blame him for questioning it, considering friendship is anyway used as an important plot tool in the movie as a solution to their interpersonal issues. So yes, don’t mind me asking Jaane Kyun Log Pyaar Karte Hain even after the movie ends.
Lyrics Nayi, nayi nahi yeh baatein, yeh baatein hai purani Kaisi paheli hai yeh kaisi paheli zindagani Thamma haan roka isko kisne, haan yeh toh behta pani Kaisi paheli hai yeh kaisi paheli zindagani
Okay, now that we have gotten that out of our way, Parineeta’s song starring Rekha as the oh-so-fabulous lead singer with a moulin rouge-esque backdrop, features lyrics that sync with the film’s plot. It follows the complicated lives that the characters in the movie lead. Keeping my unhealthy obsession with Rekha’s red saree in this song aside, the lyrics throw light on how these conversations were never new to begin with and that no one could stop its course.
Given the context of how certain peeps insist on brushing off queerness and our existence as something borrowed from the ‘West’, the lyrics “Nayi, nayi nahi yeh baatein, yeh baatein hai purani” can be interpreted as a response to them. These conversations that are often dismissed as “westernizing” have always existed and have historically been documented as well. As puzzling as it is to be on the receiving end of their rootless critique, true to the words, nobody can stop us from exercising our individual free will. Life moves on with or without bigotry.
6. Kukkad – Nisha Mascarenhas, Marianne D’cruz, Shahid Mallya, Vishal–Shekhar; Student of the Year
Lyrics: Oh seena 6 biscuit da Oh munda 6 foot da Oh dheere dheere karda dhamaal sa Oh munda kukkad kamaal da
Do I hate the fact that Rohan (Varun Dhawan) and Abhimanyu (Siddharth Malhotra) don’t end up together? Yes. Is my letterboxd review for this movie an elaborate think piece on this? Yes. On a different note, Student of the Year (SOTY) explores a love triangle between Rohan, Abhimanyu, and Shanaya (Alia Bhatt). The movie deals with themes of jealousy, ambition, and betrayal. Kukkad is the song that introduces Abhimanyu to the other two protagonists. Sung from a male POV, the lyrics describe everything from his physical attributes to his persona. I have nothing more to add except, why are you as a grown man describing another man’s abs in such detail? Or maybe SOTY walked so that The Challengers could run (I am being so unserious right now).
7. Isq Risk – Rahat Fateh Ali Khan; Mere Brother Ki Dulhan
Lyrics: Naina laage toh jaage Bina dori ya dhaage Bandhte hai do naina khwaab se Na ata ho, na pata ho Kore naino mein koi aa base Kaisa yeh isq hai, ajab sa risk hai
This Imran Khan, Ali Zafar, and Katrina Kaif starrer is yet another love triangle film that released in 2011. Back then, I was busy learning the choreography of Ra.one’s Chammak Challo instead of watching this film. The film managed to grab the attention thanks to its fun, spunky playlist, revealing the confusion, realization, and acceptance of Kush (Imran Khan) as he allows himself to fall in love with his brother ki dulhan, through music.
This is relatable because us queer folks go through such a non-linear journey of coming to terms with so many fundamental things about ourselves, including attraction. The lyrics echo this emotion of attraction being out of your control, which is oft-debated by the bigots. They think that [queer] attraction is a choice and not instinctive. Despite the lack of important laws safeguarding us and our privacy, and increased risk of hate crimes and isolation, queer folks continue to strive for the isq that comes with the risk. Awaiting the day where this part of our lives is not a canon event that everyone of us has to go through.
Oldie But Queer Goldie; An Honorable Mention
As I sit and listen to Mukesh’s lyrics from the movie Anand: “Meine tere liye hi saath rang ke sapne chune”, I cannot help but think that maybe it is queer. Maybe it is not, but growing in a pop culture space completely consumed with the concept of a cis-boy and cis-girl falling in love repeatedly, it doesn’t hurt a little to daydream about them from a completely queer perspective.
I adore Pride Month for its celebration of queerfolk all around the world. I celebrate alongside every queer voice, loudly and proudly, because nothing has ever been wrong with being queer. Still, a strange feeling of dread accompanies my excitement as June approaches.
Every year, like clockwork, the bigots come out in droves during Pride, spewing their vile rhetoric and hateful insults. Meanwhile, companies change their socials to rainbows, advocating for diversity and acceptance while continuing to invest money into child labor or politicians pushing for anti-LGBTQ+ policies.
June reinvigorates hate as much as it does Pride. And as you will soon learn, hate has always been a part of Pride’s complicated history.
Pride from Prejudice
In July 1969, humanity landed its first man on the moon. The monumental achievement is thanks to countless scientists who paved the road for Neil Armstrong’s first iconic step on that beautiful grey rock. Yet for all that humanity achieved among the stars, the situation back home remained significantly more primitive.
A month before NASA fired up the rockets for Apollo 11, the NYPD threatened to fire on a crowd of rioting queer folx in Greenwich Village. On June 28, 1969, undercover police officers began a raid on a nightclub named Stonewall Inn. The police arrested queer people for horrific crimes such as“wearing makeup as a man” or “wearing pants as a woman.” As nightsticks swung and people got pinned against the walls, a fire lit up in the hearts of every patron.
The police officers, armed with heavy nightsticks and an unfounded sense of security from the dozens of angry, marginalized people around them, pushed patrons around. They loaded liquor and lesbians alike onto police cars like cargo, and the injustice of the situation started to attract a crowd.
Eventually, the crowd began to heckle the police officers, who naturally responded to shouts of “Gay Power” with excessive force. Soon enough, bottles, bricks, and purses flew in retaliation, and a riot broke out. The Stonewall Riot sparked a series of LGBTQ+ movements that sprung up in various parts of the United States throughout 1969.
And why did the Stonewall Riot become the catalyst for an LGBTQ+ revolution? Because queerfolk won.
Even the NYPD, at the height of its bigotry, admitted the embarrassing loss of New York’s finest. The sobriquet of Pride wasn’t just earned from confidence in one’s identity. Queerfolk earned that pride for winning against an institution of bigotry. The NYPD didn’t expect to lose quite so spectacularly to men in dresses and women in pants.
Nowadays, countries celebrate June as Pride Month in remembrance of the Stonewall Riots. International groups from Serbia, Nicaragua, the Philippines, Brazil, Canada, and many others honored the event as a symbolic gesture of solidarity.
The Culture War
While queerfolk prepare for Pride Parades, homophobic grifters on social media ready a slate of the worst takes you’ve ever seen. The moment June 1 hits, feeds become rife with posts from bigots demonizing “Pri-DEMON-th.” Ironically, they seem as excited about Pride Month as queerfolk are, much as they deny it.
They’re a big part of why Pride Month stresses me out. The emotional whiplash of cute couples waving rainbow flags to conservative aunts sharing the vilest homophobic memes on social media is enough to rip my head off my body. In my heart of hearts, I know these are just the flailing of a dying breed. People are becoming more accepting, and history proves this to be the case.
And yet the hateful few grow louder and louder, not realizing the boat they’re on is slowly taking water. Unfortunately, some of those few have the means to set back queer rights for a couple more years through hateful policies. Of course, these politicians wouldn’t have such power if they didn’t have the money machines behind them.
Profitable Progress
Capitalist corporations didn’t just see progress in Pride parades. They also saw profits. Lots of it. About $4 trillion even, according to corporate analysts. The commodification of Pride showcases the unsettling manipulation of large corporations on unsuspecting queerfolk. After years of being unseen or outright mocked in advertisements, why shouldn’t they buy some Nike Shoes with rainbows on them?
Queer ads have become a win-win for many brands in the modern day. Social media becomes a light show of multicolored profile pics and Pride merch every June, with queer employees spotlighted and patted on their minimum-wage backs. The LGBTQ+ community shares these posts in praise, while bigots share these posts in outrage.
Either way, the brand got shared.
I don’t begrudge people for being happy about this. Hell, I am happy about this. The very notion of corporations pandering to queerfolk is, in itself, a cultural win. You won’t see me complaining about gay people getting that bag. However, the “win” has a ton of asterisks attached to it.
As soon as June ends, the rainbow lights turn off, and companies act like queerfolk don’t exist for the next eleven months. Some corporations who waved rainbow flags even bankrolled politicians with the power to halt LGBTQ+ rights. For the curious, the names include Amazon, Walmart, Verizon, Wells Fargo, Home Depot, AT&T, and many others.
Two steps forward, two steps back.
Stressful Celebrations
I’ve never been the best at handling my feelings. I have five emotions in my head, and they’re all different variations of Anxiety from Inside Out 2. I know I’m supposed to be happy, but it doesn’t help when my cynicism is backed by reality. Bigotry still exists. Corporations profit from marginalized groups.
Even so, I remember that faithful June night in 1969 when a crowd of angry queerfolk fought for their rights. I remember every Pride Parade since, every letter from the LGBTQ+ acronym making themselves seen by a society that once kept them out of sight. I remember the bracelet my girlfriend made for me, showcasing the red, purple, and blue of bisexuality.
Yeah, some things still suck. But there’s a hell of a lot more things to be happy about. And I will fight to keep things that way.
A community of transgender folx, many from Bahujan and Dalit backgrounds, reside in Sandeep Nagar (on the outskirts of Kovilpatti), Tamil Nadu, which is a society that has been set up under the leadership of Dalit transgender activist, Grace Banu. The society is a safe space for transgender folx to reside as a community and had been providing refuge to 2 queer teens: Roshni*(she/her), a 19-year-old queer cis-woman and her minor friend, who is trans (she/her). The safety of this community has been compromised as a result of death threats from Roshni’s caste-Hindu family who gathered around their society and “laid siege”.
*name changed to protect privacy
Who laid siege to the transgender community residing in Sandeep Nagar?
Prior to these events, on the 18th of June, 19 year-old Roshini was presented at the V.K Puram police station, where she was accompanied by some residents of Sandeep Nagar. According to a report by The New Indian Express (who have misgendered the trans minor throughout their report) she had refused to go with her biological family citing sexual and emotional harassment. These details are also spelt out in the petition filed by Grace Banu (copy pictured below) to the Chief Minister’s cell and the superintendent of the Thoothukudi police station. Due to these circumstances, Roshni took refuge at Sandeep Nagar. She eventually moved to a government-aided shelter.
Despite her having shifted out, Roshni’s frustrated relatives gathered around Sandeep Nagar, along with “casteist goons” who threatened the residents and Grace Banu outside their homes. As reported in The New Indian Express, one of the relatives told the residents: “who will question us? I will manage to come out of jail in seven years.”.
On the 12th of July, Banu submitted a petition to the Chief Minister’s cell and the Thoothukudi police station superintendent. In it, she sought protection and appealed to the policemen to ward off the goons who were causing ruckus in the neighborhood with an official warning. She had also asked for police patrol that could ensure the community’s safety. In her comment to Gaysi Family, Grace Banus said, “The local police took 4 days to respond. They visited Sandeep Nagar yesterday for patrolling and said they will keep an eye on the situation.”
The minor, a trans-girl and a friend of Roshni’s, was presented at the Kovilpatti All Women’s police station. Thereafter, she was was sent home with her parents on the condition that the parents should not torture her. On the 11th of July, the minor reported alleged harassment once again and had left home. Sources told The New Indian Express that she was taken to the Thalamuthu Nagar police station for further inquiry. As of now, there are no updates on the minor’s situation and where she is right now.
“Everyone needs to know that violent casteism and honour killings are very much alive in Southern Tamil Nadu and it needs to be strongly addressed. The casteist groups who threatened the transgender community must be apprehended and stopped from engaging in such transphobic and extra-judicial acts. There is no queer liberation without dalit liberation.” – Grace Banu
What is the history of the Sandeep Nagar neighborhood?
Sandeep Nagar was set up by Grace Banu with the support of their trans-friendly ally district collector Sandeep Nanduri, after whom the new village is named. It’s a residential and employment space for approximately 30 transgender women. The shocking part of this incident is that these 30 transgender folx, already alienated by mainstream society, were threatened right outside their homes in a neighborhood that was designated as a safe space for them. It’s essential to remind ourselves that trans or queer safety is not something that the system provides, but it’s something that the system has to continue to ensure.
How are we evolving as a culture and society if people feel comfortable with the idea of killing young people, while justifying their queerphobia?
When asked if there is anything that we, the larger Indian queer community and its allies, can do to extend our support besides amplifying this news, she said, “Dalit Trans people have risked their lives to support two rural queer teens. But the support from urban queer people for such cases is little to non-existent. We need queer people everywhere – corporate DEI leaders to NGO leaders, everyone to stand with us and fight this violent casteism [in addition to queerphobia].”
So far only a few news agencies or outlets have covered this news, which in itself is an issue. A lot of media coverage has been historically redirected from queer rights movement to celebrity culture, instead!
That aside, many reports that did cover the issue have used gendered pronouns that are not appropriate for the minor involved in the issue, who is trans. Many news platforms have also sensationalized the matter by referring to the 2 teenagers as a ‘couple’, despite Grace Banu’s petition’s wording, which refers to the 2 queer young persons as friends. This leads to the erasure of the nuance in this matter, which is not just about queerness but also about caste hierarchies that exist even in queer society.
Taylor Swift is the 34-year-old pop sensation of American origin, who has had the world in her grip, as a musician and performer, since 2006. Her reputation precedes her and she is known for her biographical songs, detail-oriented execution of album concepts, imagery in lyricism, and overall business acumen & marketing strategy. Even with all of the control that she exercises over her artistic production and the business of music, her work hasn’t been safe from criticism and controversy. Regardless of whether you hate or love Taylor Swift, her cultural impact has gone beyond petty celebrity gossip and expanded to discussions about her socio-economic-political & environmental impact. Her cultural currency has managed to keep her relevant and it’s a little hard to ignore it when there’s a billionaire with an undeniable stronghold over such a large, global demographic.
Taylor Swift: A Lyrical Genius or Viral Buzzwords?
To discuss this, we brought on-board four self-proclaimed Swifties (members of the Taylor Swift fandom), Kashvi (she/her), Surabhi (she/her), Diksha (she/her), and Anjali (she/her). All 4 Swifties are in their mid 20s, cis-queer women living in urban India. Surabhi (she//her) an avid listener began by expressing her disappointment about the latest release, The Tortured Poets Department:
“The Eras tour and simultaneously dropping a double-album doesn’t feel like she’s sat with any of her releases lately. It feels like she’s putting out half drafts and has become a money-making machine. She has zero social media presence and only shows up with her albums. Everything is basic, trendy, and catchy (not in a good way). There was a time when I would sit with her lyrics and engage with her poetry. Her music these days is so repetitive.”
While this is hard to disagree with, it also raises certain questions about artists’ relationship with social media and using it for marketing. If an artist can afford to not care about their social media, wouldn’t they immediately also abandon the external pressure to maintain a social media account? And what kind of artists are able to afford such luxury? Kashvi chimes in that it is not necessarily about being active or vocal on social media, but about being authentic. One would agree that if being authentic and relatable was your whole brand identity, then what Kashvi says does make sense.
Surabhi has another bone of contention with the latest album:
“She’s repeated so many metaphors, it’s almost like she’s romanticizing her bad mental health and stretching it to fit the idea of ‘the Taylor Swift journey’ . What’s a journey if you’re not even honestly putting in the effort to revolutionize the creative hold you have on the world right now? There was a time when her lyrics showed how isolated she was. Some think it’s genius of her to create parallels in her songs and albums, but anyone’s journal entry will draw such parallels.”
Many fans reportedly had similar gripes. When one takes out the time to listen to 30 songs based on the life experiences of a 34-year-old white woman during a genocide of Asian people, a failing world economy, and political turmoil at-large, and she only sing about her romantic pursuits in a rather vague way to make it relatable for the listener, it begs the question – what is the message that she’s putting out there?
“She announced the album with a caption where she said that ‘there is nothing to avenge, no scores to settle once wounds have healed’. But the album doesn’t represent that AT ALL. It’s so random. Feels like Instagram-able jargon put together. Like what is ‘I cry but I’m so productive’?” – Kashvi implores.
Socio-Economic Impact Of The ‘Eras’ Tour
A LinkedIn post recently highlighted what a blessing the Eras tour has been for the American economy, with Taylor Swift’s concerts not just creating jobs and paying hefty sums to everyone involved in the tour, but also boosting the local economy of towns in the neighborhood.
As highlighted by Surabhi, the experience didn’t exactly reflect what Miss Swift hoped to do;
“The Eras Tour was the most scammy concert that I have ever experienced on TV. Imagine how fooled I would feel if I actually spent money on this? Taylor has the same expressions while she sings. She’s singing the same mass-approved songs, and she frames a generic background story to make it special. What if she chose to sing ‘Ronan’or ‘Best Day’, which are basically the songs that make her the artist ‘Taylor Swift’!”
Not to mention the infamous topic about Swift harming the environment by having two private jets flying simultaneously between cities that are barely a state away. What ever happened to the tour bus culture? Time is money, but is the tour then worth experiencing? Does it remain one-of-a-kind? It makes a good case for anyone to question the motivation of the artist who seems to be out there to simply produce fast-music.
“Her tours are never ending, and while it improves the economy of the towns and cities she’s visiting, it adds to the air pollution so much more immensely, which she’s not even addressing.” Surabhi points out.
Taylor’s usage of private jets indicates her prioritization of her own comfort over all else. They are and will continue to be a status symbol. Investing in good security probably costs way less than maintaining private jets.
It’s not about pulling down a woman successful on her own terms, but white people who harm the entire world, justifying it as a requirement for success. People are annoyed with Taylor Swift because despite all the minimal good she does, people who are struggling worldover are carrying the burden of the issues that she creates.
“I’m a die hard Swiftie but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna support everything she does just because she is TAYLOR SWIFT.” announces Diksha.
A Feminist Icon
Let’s be real, when we think feminism, we do not think of Taylor Swift. Personally, when I think about feminist music, I associate it with Riot Girl music. Because that has made more impact on my life than Swift’s “The Man”. Even back in 2015, when Swift released the music video for ‘Bad Blood’ I felt more excited about the cameos and never really correlated it with feminism. Almost 10 years since the music video, I haven’t seen any of the celebrities featured interact with Taylor Swift in public (I almost forgot Zendaya was a part of it).
“It was super radical of her to re-release her albums, but it threw light on all the feuds she’s involved in the past. I love ‘All Too Well’ but I doubt people would have heard a 10-minute version of a song if it wasn’t associated with Gyllenhall. Taylor is not a feminist, she’s just a woman and there are certain experiences she sings about that are shared by all of us.” Kashvi says, expressing her frustration.
It’s so vague, that everyone relates to it!
“Taylor’s connection to feminism is limited to calling out male singers for writing songs about their lives and exes, while she is herself being criticized for the same thing and putting a blotch on her exes’ careers. It was because of the Scooter Braun controversy that her albums were able to get that angle, besides that we don’t really know her involvement in the movement,” Kashvi adds.
When I think of feminism in the context of famous, contemporary American singers, Halsey sets a better lyrical and production standard for me. And I do think that Swift was wrong to say “Charlie Puth is underrated” . His music is pretty good, but he’s rated as much as a cis-het white male artist.
But as Diksha points out, “Yes it was relatable back then, only back then”.
For Anjali who is in her mid-20s now, going through a sudden breakup, navigating expectations of adulthood and friends, the Tortured Poets Department album helped them process their sadness. There’s a universal feeling of betrayal that comes with being suddenly abandoned and questioning yourself about whether it is a fundamental flaw that you were born with.
“For me, the album is in different phases of heartbreak. It is not my place to dissect it for her, but I really hope she’s okay. I have more emotional attachment to the album as it coincides with my breakup. I related to the grief and confusion that came with the sudden breakup, and the desperation of trying to make someone love you.” [Anjali]
While I am well aware that discussing Taylor Swift probably adds to her celebrity, and it will likely not affect her public image on the scale that she currently exists, my point was to never to put down an artist. This piece was largely born after her new album dropped as a way to chronicle the moment. It has been over a month since the album came out, and we still get regular voice memos from Swift. By these memos, I mean her attempts to release new versions/draft recordings of her songs to remain at the top of the charts.
We doubt that with her marketing ploys and a loyal fanbase, her relevance will go away anytime. She has managed to cement her legacy such that her lore will likely be around for as long as our civilization continues business as usual. Should one person have this much power? That’s a discussion for another article. But, it’s not just about Taylor Swift and her individual ability to cultivate such influence on the media at a time when there are pressing humanitarian issues that need public attention. It goes both ways, newsrooms generate headlines about celebrities and celebrity culture because people love reading about it, but we are also fed media coverage strategically. Celebrity culture’s criticism has been reduced to mere criticism and requires more action from us – boycott and divest from celebrity culture now!
In today’s world, where conversations about gender identity, norms, and the dynamics of power are ever-evolving, examining historical precedents becomes crucial for understanding the roots and implications of these issues. The reign of Akbar, one of the most illustrious rulers of the Mughal Empire, provides a rich case study in the regulation of masculinity and gender norms. Akbar’s reign has been interpreted and studied by different scholars through myriad lens, focusing on the nature and composition of the ruling elite, institutions of governance, religious ideology, structures of revenue collection, the economy of the empire, networks of power sharing, and the role of normative texts, often taking references from Abul Fazl’s Akbarnama. However, only a few scholars have explored the notions of masculinity in the imperial court, which has the potential to broaden the propensity of the period. The norms of masculinity in the imperial court give us information about sexual disciplining of imperial servants, regulations concerning marriage, norms for male bodily comportment and ceremonial purification, and conflicts over the acceptability of homosexual love. Through a critical reading of courtly literature, historians draw out the ideals of manhood articulated through the person and body of the king. In this essay, we will attempt to comprehend and discuss the representation of imperial norms of masculinity in Abul Fazl’s Akbarnama.
In the imperial court of Akbar, a great deal of effort and justification were expended to establish the codes of masculinity and establish a setting where those norms could be regulated for imperial servants. Their constant pursuit of the qualities that both developed a man’s highest nature and qualified him for the highest form of worship, which is imperial service, went beyond just trying to defend their allegiance to the emperor.
Certain kinds of norms were to be followed by a man to get the opportunity to serve at the imperial court. In Abul Fazl’s language, elevation in the imperial service was itself a test and a training. He mentioned in the Akbarnama, ‘The emperor’s trust was like a draught of heady wine, which only strong men could drink’. The statement shows how the notion of strong man or masculinity decides the status and power of man in the court. Muzaffar Alam in his work, in the same context, mentioned the instructions one needed to follow to win the trust of the emperor. Imperial servants were urged to read Tusi’s work, work of Ghazali, the sufic poetry of Rumi; they should exercise moderation in all things, maintain constant vigilance, should hunt for military exercise, should exercise close supervision of the town and neighbourhoods under their authority and should take steps against wine-drinking except where it was for medical purposes and for intellectual stimulation.
Abul Fazl also identified some inner qualities of men that need to be within men who serve the court and these qualities are also mentioned in the description of particular offices. Such as a provincial viceroy should be a prudent, careful and discreet man, controlling his impulses to wrath and levity alike, carefully selecting honest and truthful servants, sleeping and eating in moderation and schooling himself in works of philosophy when the duties of his office allowed.
During his reign, in an effort to disseminate the norms of masculinity, Akbar also attempted to regulate the marriage, sexuality and body of a man. Bodily regulation drew on a long tradition of concern with bodily purification and bodily comportment that permeated the Mediterranean, west Asian and Indo Muslim worlds. This moral regulation which aimed to promote a new set of norms for elite male virtue was quite different in this period. Though the purpose was creative, it was repressive and prohibitive. Even new norms were formulated around the natural purity of the male body and conducted a very public campaign to discourage overt homosexual attachments which indicated the patriarchal and heteronormative attitude of the authority behind these norms of male virtue.
The institution of marriage was the primary instrument through which Akbar tried to regulate the body and sexual desires of men. The emperor promoted a model for ideal marriage in which mature men could realise the ethic of imperial service and women enjoyed peace and companionship. While validating the model, Abul Fazl stressed how important it is because it was preserving stability amongst men, promoting the “establishment of homes” and preventing the “outbreak of evil passions”. Along with it, Akbar also sought to regulate the extra-marital pleasures of his servants to curb and control sexual activity not channelled into the controls of marriage. Therefore, numerous prostitutes of the imperial capital were compelled to live outside the city in a special quarter.
Not only through marriage, the body and sexual desires of men were regulated in various other ways. In Badauni’s text we see how new meanings were attached to semen. It was discussed that the emission of semen produced a state of impurity requiring major ablution. Regulation of body hair was the other way where the importance of a beard to a pious Muslim was emphasised. At the same time, some ideas such as the beard drew its nourishment from semen were being introduced which built an association between the forms of regulations.
Here it would be interesting to understand how it has been projected in the new norms that homosexual love did not fit with the model of self-controlled masculinity. Akbar made attempts to restrain and punish male homosexuality. In the social scenario, homosexual love was not precluding love for women because love between men did not generate anything like a fixed, self-conscious homosexual identity like we know of it today. To understand Akbar’s stance on homosexual love, let us take an example of homosexual love of that period.
Ali Quli Khan Zaman, one of the military commanders, fell in love with Shaham Beg who was a member of Akbar’s special bodyguard. The two even engaged in monstrous distortions of imperial ritual where Khan used to bow down before Shaham Beg and call him his emperor and perform kornish or royal salutation. Akbar did warn them but they persisted in their attachments, at which Akbar was prepared to risk military confrontation. In this context, we also cannot oversee the political dimension of this opposition. In 1565 a wider Uzbeg revolt emerged against the young Akbar’s attempts to consolidate his authority, in which Ali Quli Khan Zaman played a leading role. Though Akbar’s forces had crushed the rebels, Akbar was shocked by the revolt and that is why when he came to know about the sexual taste of Khan, he emphasised it so that to highlight latter’s moral weakness and accentuate its origin in the disordered Uzbeg culture of Transoxiana (modern-day lower Central Asia).
Thus, sexual pleasure for Akbar was legitimate within the strict moral constraints of marriage, and that too only with women. Sexual intercourse among men, according to Abul Fazl, was ‘neither consuming nor melting, neither love nor friendship’.
So, we have seen how the imperial court of Akbar espoused these stringent and prohibitive norms of masculinity in order to constrain the male virtue. The manipulation and regulation demonstrate how Akbar’s patriarchal perspective sculpted men’s masculine traits and how this had an impact on the entire social context of that time. Even though it is the least talked about part of Akbar’s reign, Abul Fazl’s account of how these evocative norms were used to manipulate body and gender identity is intriguing. Therefore, it is important to pay attention to these codes as we study Akbar’s reign in order to fully comprehend its complexity and how it shaped the broader context of the time.
In contemporary discussions on gender and power, examining the norms of masculinity in Akbar’s court offers valuable insights into how historical precedents shape modern perceptions of male identity and authority. The regulation of masculinity in Akbar’s reign, as detailed by Abul Fazl, underscores how patriarchal and heteronormative values were systematically enforced to maintain social order and control. These historical norms resonate with ongoing debates about toxic masculinity, gender roles, and the suppression of sexual diversity in various cultural contexts today. Understanding Akbar’s efforts to regulate male behaviour, sexuality, and body image provides a historical framework for critiquing similar mechanisms of control in contemporary societies. It highlights the persistence of certain power structures and the importance of challenging restrictive gender norms to foster more inclusive and equitable communities. By drawing parallels between the past and present, we can better appreciate the complexities of gender dynamics and the continuous evolution of masculine ideals.
Is it possible for scent to touch skin to speak to it for words to breathe and linger and laugh in my hair
Do you see the way I look at you smile do you see how I count every giggle for how it caresses my heart like a bird’s feathers after a long flight
Do you not see the light and the longing in my eyes when you lift your fingers and pick up the lighter rubbing it against your shirt your sleeves rolled and earrings hanging loosely to your face
Words with you are scarce disgustingly insufficient
with you, only and only glances work and heartbeats buzz
My heart and you have conspired for me to love for me to loathe
loathe your eyes eyes with a tinge of brown slyness and a stroke of black audacity that incapacitate my soul and my heart flutters away
My heart is no longer blood or veins or bodily constituents it’s a repository of you and everything of you every gesture, every scream, every wail
My love for you is no love at all it is a concoction of contempt and misery and yearn and succulence it panics and consumes
Love helps you sleep and smile but I last slept only before I saw you smile sleep has gracefully abandoned my system leaving me at the mercy of your smiles the smile that the lilies envy the smile that breathes air into the dead and dingy
I must think of you for me to write of you I think of you in ways that are menacing and amusing
But why think when I can feel when I can feel the time we held hands and the heat generated within my palms and how my fingers trembled afterwards
Why think when I can feel your gaze tracing my hair Time gets stuck and the food burns rivers drain out and tears dangle beneath my eyes
How are you so bereft but also so rapturous with all that exquisiteness contained in you do you not feel it tickle every inch of your body when you sleep
You have of me as much as I have to give but I wonder if I could remanufacture me and produce never-ending amounts to be devoured by you consistently
My trysts and fantasies are bewitching but perhaps not so truthful and tactile for you to love me more than just some of me.
As someone who has moved to a different continent to pursue higher education, I think it is safe for me to state that it is tough to be an international student. Of course, I do have a certain amount of caste and class privilege that has allowed me to move and study abroad in the first place. Despite this, the movement across borders does come along with its own challenges and feelings of isolation. Upon moving to a country where the majority does not look like me, eat like me, or talk like me, it was already a struggle. But add to that the parts of my identity that are not immediately visible to others, and it becomes an even more complicated situation.
When I started living in a student hall in London, I found it to be a strange experience to see all the students coming together from different countries around the world to study in what was, for many of us, our first-choice school. I am sure that many wondered how their social lives would turn out – in fact I literally had a girl say to me, “You need to make friends now because otherwise everyone will be in groups and you will be left alone.” Consider it a testimony to how much I value quality over quantity in friendships that instead of alarming me, her words made me feel concerned for how insecure she must be about navigating social situations and building perceptions. But this did not mean that the situation ironed itself out for my comfort.
When searching for friendships with depth and quality, I need to feel like my whole self is seen, respected, and cherished in the space between us. How am I supposed to be able to open up with that kind of honesty, when I have no idea who might or might not react negatively to who I am? Many of us look for familiarity in new situations, and international students often find themselves turning to people from their own countries. This makes it a particularly taxing experience, when instead of finding comfort in hearing my mother tongue spoken in an alien land, I find myself hunting for clues in each sentence to make sure that the person in front of me is not a queerphobe. Being in a new country also means that I have no idea about the attitude that locals carry towards queer people. After all, progressive legislation does not automatically mean that every single citizen and community is progressive and accepting.If you are wondering why queer people don’t just assume that everyone is nice until proven otherwise, it is because the cost of accidentally coming out to somebody who hates your very existence can be extremely, definitely, totally not worth it.
What all this leads to, then, is a queer girl (me) meeting people, exchanging names, smiling, and feeling suffocated because of the lack of avenues to seek community. So where does she (still me) turn? To fictional queer women, of course. In this case it was the brilliant women of A League Of Their Own. After an exhausting day of masking – I would play an episode of the Prime Video series and feel seen in the way Carden’s Greta would own her femininity and queerness in the same breath. I would see Jacobson’s Abbi find community and learn about queer culture and get lost in how she was surrounded by brilliant people. Unlike other shows where there is a single tokenized queer woman, this one represented the diverse aspects of being queer because, well, there were so many of us on screen! And together, they were a team! Eventually I would find people who would feel like my own teammates, but for now I was wrapped up in a cozy blanket and safe for the running time of the show.
This is what queer media does for people like me – it gives us a chance to see what can be- sometimes even what should be- and makes us feel a little less alone in moments when we can’t access community in other ways. This is why A League of Their Own is important, and this is why it absolutely sucks that Amazon canceled the show. I am not saying, even for a second, that it was perfect. It had many faults, but none of them felt gaping enough for it to not deserve another season when trashy reality television returns season after season. What is even worse, is that Amazon blamed this on the strikes by the Writers Guild of America (WGA) and the Screen Actors Guild – American Federation of Television and Radio Artists (SAG-AFTRA), which is basically the company saying that the price that people pay for standing together as a community is to lose out on shows about standing together as a community. The irony is not lost on me.
Of course, my stuckness in this particular situation was temporary – I slowly discovered queer groups and spaces around me. But not everyone is that lucky, and not everyone has that privilege. We might all end up wrapped up in our blanket from time to time – some of us more than others – wondering if there is anybody else out there like us. It is for those moments that we need to keep creating and supporting queer media representation because sometimes that is the only thing that can reply, “there is, there will be, there always has been.”
Gender performance has been a hot topic and we caught up with Humhu (he/him), who like many of us is trying to understand gender identity and expression from a creative point of view. When handed the photobook, ‘Boys Will Be Toys”, they have designed it in a way that the reader notices its two divisions – Masc and Femme. There’s no formal starting point to the photobook; if you begin on the femme side, a set of glamorous shots catch your eye, radiating a certain risque. The softness comes through despite the makeup and fishnets that would generally be considered “badass”.
The masc side then grips you with a stunner element, the compulsory gore and tough-act. You can also get a peek at the softness that is concealed under stylish sunglasses. The pictures have been taken outdoors, leading us to the question of gender divisiveness of spaces, with the masc often being equated with the outside “real” world. It could be interpreted as representing how a person, assigned male at birth, is automatically expected to present themselves in a certain way outside domestic spheres.
It’s visible that Humhu (He/Him) and team (Ankit, Revant Dasgupta and Tito) wanted to portray an exaggerated and expressive way to poke questions about the gender binary and its compulsory nature. The styling of the subjects in this project has been done with meticulous thought and with a high regard for fashion.
Ankit & Humhu, Femme Side Of Boys Will Be Toys
What was the inspiration behind this photobook? Did it start as an idea for a photobook?
The 3 of us — Ankit, Tito, and I — are all close friends. About one and a half years ago, on an evening that [felt] high on creativity, we began brainstorming and having fun. It was all done in my studio. We shot the femme part inside my house and the masc shots outside, in my building. There was some sense of purpose in that we wanted to portray certain things, but the images we took were all very random. We discussed the idea of making a zine out of it, and after a lot of trials and discussions and test copies, we landed on it being a photobook with a hardcover.
You compared femme and masc to being two sides of the same coin, what does that “coin” represent for you?
Well, the coin represents ourselves for all three of us. The project has been a personal exploration for us as artists and human beings. We all do different yet similar kinds of work. The coin for me and Ankit as a performer was to see how far we could stretch ourselves. How much can we, as subjects, embody the masks of two polar “opposites”? It’s not just about being one and making a caricature of the other, because that’s how we have seen it represented in the mainstream media. We have these cis men playing these cross-dressing roles in Bollywood. They mostly end up making a mockery out of it like they are these well-built, muscular actors wearing dresses. And they are not embodying the femme but they are making a mockery of it. They’re doing it as cis-het men, they are not letting go of the cis-het masculinity and not letting a softer femme come in.
Masc Mask, Humhu & Ankit
How did it “feel” to do the two sides of masc and femme shoots?
It felt very wholesome, to do both sides on the same day; it felt transcendental, almost as if we had crossed the gender barrier and were not just “one” thing. And it’s also what the project aims to do as well: that boys will be toys and not what people often say, which is “boys will be boys”, boys shouldn’t just be boys! We want to say that boys will be toys instead. You know, just like how when we were kids, we would construct and deconstruct entire realities and re-mould our toys into whatever we wanted them to be, we wanted to do the same thing as adults!
There’s some level of harshness on both sides of the ideas, but one is more censored and the other more gory. How did you come up with this?
Honestly, it was quite organic, we hadn’t planned to the T, about what we wanted to say and represent. It was more of a feeling, of what should be or can be done next and we followed it without questioning. It’s also to do with the authenticity of both sides. So when we decided to do the femme side, we had a guy with tape as the nipple pasty. As for the gory side of masculinity, it was to show the fragility of masculinity and the “hurt” male ego. It was us covered in the wounds to the ego. We didn’t just want to show the glamorous or crude sides, but also embody it on both sides.
The Censored Femme, Humhu & Ankit
What’s that one thing about boyhood that you’d like people to take away from this?
One thing about boyhood is that it’s tangible, flexible and stretchable. It’s not limited, just like girlhood and non-binary hood aren’t limited to certain ideas. Boyhood is whatever you make it to be, it can be structured, individualist, soft, femme, raw, masculine. It is up to you how you define boyhood, it can be anything.
If the masculine/raw side of photos is blood, how do you think it translates to the glamorous side of femme? Aren’t we then restricting them?
This has to do with the storyline we’re presenting. They’re boys, out in the world, being their tough sleeves and they went out, got hurt and are all roughed up. But when they come home, in their private space they can choose to be their soft selves, that’s queer, feminine, without the elaborate props. All this glamour and self-expression is allowed in the comfort and safety of their house, come home and chill, take it easy. Indulge in selfies inspired by Kim Kardashian or Kylie Jenner, it’s sacred and protected. But we know that they’re both masks, neither of them is real, yet we wear them. They are contradictory and also complement each other like Yin and Yang, it’s both restricting and contradicting one another. There’s a bit of masc in femme and a bit of femme in masc.
The Wounded Ego, Ankit And Humhu
When does the femme and masc presentation come together for you?
They come together, whenever anyone creates a look that has elements of both, in a wholesome way. Even if the presentation is 99.9% of one and 0.01% of the opposing energy, you’re still consciously choosing to mix and match their energies and styles. There are small details that can be accounted as either masc or femme, but both are inherent in all of us, no matter who we are and how we identify, as it’s a spectrum. We all have it in us and we’re beyond the structure of the compulsory binary. We just have to realise that we don’t have to pick either side.
It is interesting to see how the early days of the shoot worked, but it is also noteworthy that as one goes through the photobook you realise that each image has a femme and masc side to it. Each pose has been recreated as a parallel to another. It is visible in the images that despite being posed and staged, they do not feel like a forced expression. The subjects are comfortable moulding into the roles that they are posing as. It’s a wholesome sight, and it reminds one about what Virginia Woold once said in her publication, “Room Of One’s Own”. She reminds that for any artist to be a “wholesome” or well-rounded artist, they need to be androgynous. They need to be in touch with their masculine and feminine energies.
“Why did no one tell me that breakups were this hard?” This was the question that I kept asking all of my friends after my first heartbreak. Even though I knew and have always known that love can be fleeting, my knowledge did not save me from the feelings of overwhelming sense of loss and grief that followed. The relationship, though short-lived, was intense. I had only read about heartbreak and seen my friends go through all the motions when they broke up with their partners. I had never really imagined it to hurt so damn bad. Most of my friends are straight, so I did not really have representation for the heartbreak that I was about to go through. In cis-het relationships, the very general and simple reason that cis-women give is that “men are not good”. I remember my friends being really excited to see me happy and in love. However, unknowingly, they also put a lot of pressure because according to just about everyone, I was lucky to not be dating a man and so there was nothing that could go wrong. Boy, were they wrong!
I am not going into the details about what happened because that is boring and not important; what is important is the fact that queer people, and especially queer women, do not really see relationships like theirs around them. We see happy and successful queer women in love but only on the internet, and those examples are also quite scarce. We do not have a concrete reference, so every little thing and every feeling seems so unique, but also quite isolating for that very reason. Fortunately, I had some queer friends, but I still felt very alone because the feeling of loss in itself is very isolating. And when you couple it with the fact that most of the people would not understand your feelings or dismiss it by saying that your ex was in the wrong, heartbreak for a queer person becomes almost like a burden that one has to carry all alone in this big cis-het world.
People cope very differently while going through heartbreak. I, like every other rational person, booked a hotel room for myself because I did not want to be at home with my parents. When I told my friend about this, like all reasonable people, she left everything and came over with whiskey for a “breakup party”. in her own words. Looking back, it hurt a lot and I did not know how to deal with it, but I am glad that I got to experience it because it made me realise that my friends care about me and will do everything in their power to make me feel better. Heartbreak also puts a lot of things in perspective because even though you feel just so horrible and alone, you see your friends actively choose you over everything just because you are sad. And even though they do not understand, they just want to be there for you. At the end of the day, breakups suck for everyone but just like queer love, queer heartbreak is vastly different from that of cis-het people.
I remember that I used to constantly remind myself that a big heartbreak meant a big love. But while we’re on the topic of heartbreak, I won’t dwell too much in cynicism, because love is truly remarkable. It’s a profound feeling that has the power to overshadow everything and everyone else in your life. It’s warm, homely, and almost magical when you have someone who wants to know every little detail about you and your life. You actively make space for another person in your life, not because you have to, but because it feels like the next logical step, especially when you’re deeply in love. However, in queer relationships, the act of making space becomes a task in itself. Unlike our heterosexual counterparts, we’re not always readily accepted, and we constantly have to pick and choose who we can share this happiness with. Despite this, self-preservation and safety remain the primary concerns of every queer person. Witnessing others talk freely and without considering these factors can evoke feelings of resentment and helplessness.
The helplessness and resentment felt by queer individuals when only cis-het love and heartbreak are accepted in society, runs deep. It’s a constant reminder of systemic biases and societal norms that marginalise the queer experience. Seeing predominantly cis-het relationships celebrated without question reinforces feelings of isolation and invisibility. Queer individuals often feel pressure to hide their love to avoid judgement or discrimination, amplifying their sense of helplessness and resentment. Constantly navigating spaces where queer love may not be welcomed is emotionally exhausting. Despite these challenges, it persists, defying societal norms and finding strength in shared experiences. It’s a reminder of the resilience of the human spirit in the face of adversity.
I can only hope that younger queer individuals get to experience queer love and even heartbreak in their lives, not just through the lens of the internet. Experiencing these emotions firsthand, navigating the complexities of relationships, and overcoming heartbreaks contribute to our growth and understanding of ourselves. It’s through these experiences that we learn resilience, empathy, and the true depth of our capacity to love.
Moreover, by witnessing real-life examples of queer love and heartbreak, younger generations can find solace and validation in their own experiences. They can see that their feelings are not isolated or abnormal, but rather part of a rich tapestry of human emotion shared by many within the community. So, as we navigate through the highs and lows of love and heartbreak, let us remember that our experiences are valid, our stories are worth sharing, and our capacity to love knows no bounds.
Thailand just became the first South-east Asian, and third Asian country to legalise queer marriage. Earlier on June 2nd, the Pride month-related celebrations in Bangkok were also attended by the country’s Prime Minister, Srettha Thavisin, who was spotted supporting citizens. He was also reported as saying that he was working to legalise same-sex marriage at the march – something that other Asian politicians can learn from in terms of allyship!
Thailand’s mainstream media is known globally for their progressive and creative plots in their queer romance dramas, specifically BL & GL (Boy Love and Girl Love). Their constitutional developments towards protecting the transgender community is also something worth taking note of. Showing us time and time again, just how easy it is to be inclusive when there is political will!
The Thai Cabinet had already introduced a civil-partnership bill in July 2020, which also enabled queer couples to adopt children and inherit property. Following that, on June 18th, 2024, we saw them continuing to lead the landscape of queer rights in Asian countries. They joined the league of Taiwan, the first Asian nation to legalise marriage rights, and Nepal, the second Asian nation and first South Asian nation to do the same.
I don’t know about you, but we are definitely thrilled to see 3 Asian countries making such big strides to be queer-inclusive. 2024 is looking up!
On the 14th of June, Indrani Chakraborty, mother to a trans kid wrote an open letter to the Chief Minister of Assam, Himanta Biswasaema. It was in response to the shaming and subsequent expulsion of her child, who had posted pictures of themself wearing a bathing suit on their private instagram account.
According to the letter that Indrani posted on her Instagram account, the picture in question was clicked at a family day at the pool, and was “a moment of innocent joy” that was twisted by the school’s authorities as something devious, ‘shameful” and “disgusting”, and so repulsive that it drove them to expel, and deny her ward the access to education.
Chakraborty wrote in her open letter: “The school, which should be a sanctuary for learning, became an arena of judgement. Her social media, her space for personal expression was scrutinised and slandered.”
It’s disheartening to watch any mother plead for something as basic as a fair chance at education. However, we see this happening time and again with those who are affirming and supportive of their queer children. It is worth noting that the comments under Indrani’s post were torn between defending the principal’s actions and supporting Chakraborty and her daughter.
K. Chanda, the principal of South Point School, Guwahati, which is the institution in question, when confronted by the parents on 11th June, told them that their child could continue in the school only if, “she deleted her social media account, left her community, and [complied with] ongoing counselling sessions [guided by] the school counsellor”, as reported in The Wire.
Going by this statement, it may be assumed that the principal is asking the parents to ensure regular counselling sessions facilitated by the school counsellor only. However, knowing the reality of mental health support in India, this may very well be conversion therapy in disguise.
She made it clear that the school has tried to support Indrani’s child through their transition after it was brought to their notice, but drew the line at “semi-nude” photos. But the pertinent question is how did the principal get access to the post?
Was it a student who shared it with a parent, and it started a chain reaction?
Let us clarify, the problem is not:
A child, wearing bathing suit around her family
A child, being trans
A child, being supported by her parents
The problem, precisely and clearly, is:
A principal, and a group of parents who felt comfortable to comment, complain and police a minor’s body on their private instagram account that they do not have explicit access to. And then go on to decide for the parents and child about limiting their access to education.
How can an educator, like K Chanda, whose job is to protect all children equally, deny this fundamental right?
Last time I checked, to access education, all you needed was a pen, paper, and most importantly, a supportive teacher who facilitates it! K.Chanda isn’t the one cut out for this job though. As far as we presently know, none of the parents who complained about the post have come forward, nor any details on if any classmates have come forward in support of Chakraborty’s child and who initially raised this “concern”.
My FIRST vote! I voted with empathy, I hope you did too.
My first vote! I voted on the 20th of May, 2024 – along with all of Mumbai and other parts of Maharashtra, finally reclaiming my right as India’s citizen. A citizen of the supreme, “Mother of Democracy”. Quick sidetrack, I really think that countries are best not referred to as feminine or masculine! Especially, with all that has been going down with the wonderful, crowd favorite social construct: Gender, don’t you think it’s best that we don’t see the nation through a gendered lens. To avoid the dire consequences? Just a thought; let’s get back into the main track.
The Ginormous Reality Show I get to be a part of
I voted in Phase 5 of this ginormous stage show we all participate in every five years. I am one of 18 million new voters to join the stage show this year. A stage show of the “largest democracy”. The production of this stage show is increasingly veering into becoming a satirical farce. Each phase, like the acts in a Gujarati stage play, comes with whole new twists, turns and dramatic reveals. But I digress again *facepalm* The picture of me below, next to SRK’s, just about sums up how I felt on election day. I finally get to be a part of the fabled democratic process! I felt euphoric, even more than the day I got my Voter’s ID that was marked Female! On that day I voted as a citizen of this country in newer ways. It made me feel like I belong and am part of the nation and its people. Since that day, I am less likely to passively accept comments asking me to “Go back to Pakistan”. As a transgender person, transitioning and living my authentic gender expression has helped me appreciate each milestone, helping me feel affirmed for my humanity.
I finally got the chance to exercise the power of my Ungli ☝🏻Image by Aniket Narawad
My “election journey” in certain ways is similar to others’, including Reshmi Biswas, a transgender voter from Kolkata who voted for the first time. Like her I spent countless hours poring over my voter identity card, its supporting documents, and application processes. It is worth noting that the Election Commission of India (ECI) first allowed transgender people to vote only in 1994 following a petition by transgender activist Shabnam Mausi. Yet in the 3 decades since, for countless transgender folks like Reshmi Biswas and others, getting to exercise the right has been an uphill battle.
Here, in an interesting way that reflects a different sort of privilege, my story differs from Reshmi’s and others. Yes, I did finally get #MyFirstVote, which is something most Indians get to take for granted – AND a right that has been denied to me twice before for seemingly no reason. I’ve been eligible to vote for the last two election cycles and simply wasn’t able to because my application, like so many other folks, wouldn’t go past the submission of documents to the Election Commission. So, for the 2014 and 2019 elections, I applied months in advance as a Heteronormative Muslim Man and never heard back beyond the acknowledgement of application. The way I am different from the others who didn’t get their voter ID this election, or disappeared from the voter list altogether, is that I applied as a transgender woman with my transgender ID. The history of transgender voting abilities seems to be changing – quite interestingly.
My Super Gender-Affirming Voter ID courtesy of ECI
Mr. Azhar on election day, My gender-affirming election officer from the Election Commission of India – Image by Aniket Narawad
Mr. Azhar was at the polling booth on election day and was beaming with a pleasant, wide smile. He is the officer from the Election Commission of India who managed my application. After submitting the application on the ECI website as I had done earlier, I forgot about the application, half expecting no reply. One day Mr. Azhar visited my address, verified it, sought the relevant documents, and collected them for submission. Most importantly, and this might be something he may not be aware of, under his guidance I was able to get marked as ‘female’ on the ID. I am grateful to him for all the work he did.
One of the first stories I ever did with the Gaysi Family is about traveling through the security check at an airport and the hurdles I faced involving IDs. This was back in October 2021, and was the first time that I had traveled while presenting as femme. This was a few weeks before I came out on my social media, and so my family, many friends, and others had no idea that I was expressing femme. I was in some ways incognito then, and had pulled off a weeklong Goa work-trip without anyone on my social media or in my family finding out I was now expressing femme even while traveling.
The caption that the editor wrote alongside was: My First Flight Travelling Femme Ft. @rayyanmonkey
All the things that cis-people take for granted – the way they move through spaces nonchalantly, the manner in which they expect to be accepted as they are, wherever they go, the freedom of their expression of unbridled joy online and otherwise, knowing that they won’t be chided or policed.@rayyanmonkey really do be reclaiming all that joy for trans-bodies 🤗🤗🤗🌈
In the story I also spoke about the intense anxiety I felt as I approached the first security check, and how inadvertently, the person checking my I.D often calls a senior or their colleague to consult on my validity as a person. This has happened so many times that I have stopped shooting it, recording audios and rage-posting about it on my stories. Multiple airports have done it at security and multiple airlines have done it at their check-in point. Eventually I just began to accept it as part of my travel routine.
This is the whole thing with expressing oneself as a transgender, non-binary, or gender expansive person. Many of us have ID cards that still show our pre-transition images and/or gender markers. This whole charade used to play out often to me: I’d hand my ID over, sweating nervously, and of course my hand shaking as I’d hand over the phone with the ticket. All the while hoping that the one Youtube video I watched titled, “Makeup for airport for transgender woman tutorial.” is going to deliver on this interaction.
As soon as I hand over the ticket and the ID and checker looks up, I take the phone gently and swiftly swipe over to my Transgender ID card, while also handing over my PAN card to them. Always the PAN card never the Aadhar or any other. PAN does not have a gender marker. But PAN card doesn’t always work. Sometimes they ask me for Aadhar. Now I’m trembling for sure, and also know that I am holding up the line; the people-pleaser in me is likely feeling attacked. I am sweating profusely. I hand over the Aadhar, and if the ID checker feels fine, they will wave me by, with the same bewildered face they have had on since being handed my ID. But if the ID checker expresses doubt, then I go into emergency panic and awkwardness mode. Usually, the next step is that the ID checker calls over their manager/ supervisor, and now the situation has so many more ways it will move towards, before resolution. I can feel absolutely every eye at the airport piercing right through me. Even if maybe all of 10 folks were looking at me, it feels like a thousand eyeballs. No one asks me to, but I move over to one side, so at least the line can continue moving.
These days though, all I do is whip out my Super Gender-Affirming Voter ID, courtesy of the ECI and hand it over to the ID checker as they begin to make that familiar grimace of gender-inspired confusion. That’s it. Just the Voter ID, and the checker is floored. No reaching for the phone to swipe over for the transgender ID or the genderless PAN Card, or trying to avoid the Aadhar. Just the all-powerful Voter ID and their hand waves me past the imaginary barrier into gender euphoria.
How to get a Female, Male or Transgender Marker on your Voter I.D as a Transgender and/or Non-binary, Hijra or Kinner identifying person?
A while ago, a handful of you who see my instagram stories and read my articles, saw that I went to the Aadhar office and applied for a change to the gender marker and photograph on the card. I ecstatically shared that the Aadhar office accepted my application and took my picture – looking all femme. Also, and most importantly, they handed me an acknowledgement form stating that they had accepted my application for a gender marker change to ‘female’.
This acknowledgement form is what Mr. Azhar asked me to acquire, when I applied for my Election ID card. Especially, if I wanted a ‘Female; gender marker on my Voter ID as my Aadhar card still had my pre-transition pictures and gender marker, as did all my other IDs. Which is why I had applied; thankfully it was accepted and I was handed the all-important acknowledgement form. I sent Mr. Azhar a copy and he submitted it. And that’s the story of how, less than a month after the submission of my Aadhar gender change acknowledgement on the 25th of January, I got my spanking new, all-powerful Voter ID.
Yet, it would maybe not surprise some of our transgender readers to know that it has been six months since I applied for it, and have yet to receive my updated Aadhar card with the femme picture they clicked, and the gender marker updated to ‘female’. When I had put those updates up on my stories, I recall that a transgender sister asked me if I got my Aadhar card, and to let her know if I did. Because she too applied and got the coveted acknowledgement form, but has not seen that updated card yet. However, I did vote as a transgender registered voter, and travel with relatively more ease everywhere, whipping out my all powerful Voter I.D.
India is not for beginners.
Just Wondering: How I finally got a Voter I.D on the third attempt, which was also the first time I applied as a Transgender person? And also in just two months of application?
The main reason that the election commission accepted my application is likely because of my valid Transgender ID Card. At the voting booth Mr. Azhar informed me that I am the only registered Transgender Voter in my polling booth area, which has a total number of 1100 folks. Wiki states, “Generally, fewer than 1% of the worldwide population are transgender, with figures ranging from <0.1% to 0.6%.” So is the math mathing?
I think not; when we have a total of 812 transgender registered voters in a city of 21,673,000 hoomans, that’s only about 0.003%. Yet even that number is freaking unprecedented in all of the city’s history. Never has there ever been an Indian election with as many registered transgender voters – 48,000. This is in fact the first election cycle since the Transgender ID cards began being handed out three years ago.
The thing is like Vinnie, a transgender person who is also living in my sub-district said, “Unfortunately I had to vote on my deadname. But I did vote.” Many transgender identifying folks may vote under deadname or using pre-transition gender identity cards. A good portion of the community just doesn’t register to vote, since they feel disenfranchised from the democracy and the party manifestos. In addition to this, there are a whole host of other factors affecting how these numbers play out on the map of Mumbai. Factors like income groups, class, caste and communal factors are also in effect.
Malad West tops the list of number of transgender voters in the city. The constituency accounts for 33% of transgender voters in Mumbai with a whopping 339 voters, making it the most number of transgender registered voters in a district. Like Prasun Choudhari reports for Mid-Day, “In a significant revelation ahead of elections, the Malad West Assembly constituency has emerged as a beacon of inclusivity, boasting the highest concentration of registered transgender voters”
An official from the Mumbai suburban district collector’s office observed, “The statistics shed light on the evolving landscape of political participation, particularly among marginalized communities. Malad West stands out as a symbol of progress and acceptance, showcasing a commendable commitment to ensuring that every voice is heard in the democratic process…with 79 per cent of the registered transgender voters in Mumbai calling this district their home.”
What this official and also to some extent the Mid-Day reporter ignore are education, income, class, caste, communal and other factors that are in effect as well. Which is why a district like Byculla, with a large concentration of Muslim occupants and a known large concentration of different Hijra communities shows only 7 registered transgender voters. While Ghatkopar and Malad show such high numbers of registered voters.
The reason we finally have even this number of registered voters is because parties are trying to deliver on election promises made almost two cycles ago and the election commission has finally tried to deliver as per the Supreme Court’s directives basis the Transgender Persons Act 2019. One of the most essential demands from the community for almost as long as the movement has existed is the right to vote. In fact the National Portal of Transgender persons exists in part to ensure this constitutional right. As the ruling party scrambled to deliver on its promises, it also simultaneously made it seem like they aren’t doing these very things yet and will do it for the transgender community if they are elected?!
This article from just before the election after the release of the BJP Manifesto reports that “In a landmark move, Prime Minister Narendra Modi said on Sunday that the Bharatiya Janata Party has decided to bring the transgender community and senior citizens above 70 years of age, whether poor, middle class or upper middle class, under the ambit of Ayushman Bharat scheme.” Except this was already part of the Protection of Transgender Persons Act 2019, and was supposed to be put into immediate effect. Not only that but the center already used it as an electoral promise before the last state legislative election cycle. Which is why in 2022 YesWeExist and I did this collaborative piece. Where we elaborated that after our own investigation and contact with the National Portal of Transgender Persons, we realized that the erstwhile news stories about transgender persons being bought under the ambit of the Ayushman Bharat Scheme was an election ploy. Our investigation revealed that it was far from an initiation at that time. They were yet to set up the committee that would then deliberate about how to go about it.
This election is vital for the Indian LGBTQIA+ community!
A dark time we live in, where sectarian politics, communal hate, corrupt politicians and a biased media have seemingly not only thought of the electorate as ignorant, but also to a large extent been able to make us ignorant of the truth, while convincing us that to hate is patriotic. It’s why even within the transgender community, communalism is rearing its ugly head ever so frequently.
Laxmi Narayan Tripathi once said “My community has become too Islamic. I am bringing back Hinduism in such pomp and splendour,” in an interview with SCMP. Tripathi, enjoys a powerful influence within the community and in government policy circles. Her endorsement of the Ayodhya Ram temple where religion will once again serve as a tool for mobilizing voters – has long since sealed her position in the right to left binary of the political spectrum.
This Hindutva narrative that has been winning for the last decade is the reason there are queer “activists” like Ankit Bhuptani stating half truths like: “I know of a total of four surveys conducted on the LGBT community in India, with a focus on the election. All of them showed overwhelming support for the BJP by the community, with the most popular one being from @PlanetRomeo Yet, no LGBT news handles or portals covered it. I wonder why?”
In case youare confused by that let Ashish @mysticboy24 provide context and truth, “It is because LGBTQIA+ community doesn’t mean only gay cis-gendered people or mobile app-using population. 2 out of 4 surveys you are talking about had negligible or close to no representation of women and transgender folx. It’s important acknowledging the lacunae and not to saffron wash the rainbow.”
It’s why there are reports that at the Official Mumbai Queer Pride March folks were told to not allowed to chant, “Jai Bhim”, because Dr. Ambedkar and all of his teachings go against the hindutva narrative. This is where we are at today, there is a powerful and large portion of the Indian queer community that supports an authoritarian party, that actively restrains the remaining community’s pursuit of being recognised as full citizens. Ironically, it is this political right of the LGBTQIA+ community that I ought to thank for my swift voter ID.
I am both glad to be “A” transgender person on the list and sad to know there weren’t any other registered as transgender voters in my area. For my entire district, you can fit all of the registered transgender voters into just an omni van! Higher income, upper caste and class-concentration are some of the factors leading to this low number of registered transgender voters in the “affluent” part of Mumbai that I reside in. Similarly, the upper caste and high income concentration is probably why Vile Parle has 0 registered transgender voters.
While I took in the hot heatwave air, sweating it out with all other citizens voting this cycle, my intrusive thought for the day reared its head: ‘What if I hit the wrong symbol after all the memorizing?’ I waited in the same line as all the other 1100 voters of my polling booth would have to. My inclusion on the list was no “symbol of progress and acceptance“ for my area. All the other voters and persons present sure did let me know through their looks and whispers that my inclusion was no “beacon of inclusivity”, as most behaved as though they hadn’t seen someone like me at a polling booth ever. Through their behavior and reactions, they showed just how much of a milestone even 812 registered transgender voters in this city is. I actually overheard someone saying “yeh laug bhi vote karte?” (do these people also vote?)
When I did make it to the polling booth, as is still customary for any ID check, I was nervous AF. Sweating profusely (heatwave plus anxiety of being rejected) and a generally meek and confused demeanor, because it was the first time ever that I was to vote. I had used this ID to travel frequently and even flipped it out when a flattering bouncer asked for my ID. Yet I was nervous in the polling booth line, even more so after listening to the family behind me whispering about my dress. For their part, the polling booth officials also did the customary double-checking of my ID and consulting with their superior to ensure that my ID checks out.
She then gave me that wave that I had been craving for. I didn’t move and just froze for a bit. She waved again and the person she had consulted with reached out with the brush. I got that deep blue nail polish that I had been craving for since I was a child and learnt democracy in civic studies. I went into the booth. Trying to remember Faye D’souza’s instagram VVPAT voting guide. I pushed the button observing how my finger shivered. Glad the intrusive thought didn’t win that day. I stepped out of the polling booth and swaggered with the realization, re-entering the sunlight – that I am the first transgender person to vote from here. grateful to be a part of the democratic process finally and extremely grateful for my all powerful Voter ID card.
Last step after #MyFirstVote ?
Sitting on the couch silently wondering what my vote tells me about who I am today.
Actually, the real final last step after #MyFirstVote ?
Lying in bed, wondering silently about all that you have heard or read about the electoral manipulation, the EC’s silence, beaten voters, missing voters, delayed lists of voters and hijacked voting boothswhile the EC sleeps. After all the videos you have seen of people committing voter fraud while – and this entirely flummoxed me – shooting the evidence themselves and making it public all by themselves. Thinking about how the stage show metaphor this article uses no longer works. The Indian Election this edition was more like a Reality TV Show than a stage show. Complete with candidates that you can vote for. And then wondering whether your vote means anything at all or like all other reality shows the awareness is all too scripted. Right before falling asleep, just like the EC.
About a month ago, a friend shared a viral video with me. It showed a parent promoting an adhesive named Girlie Glue, proclaiming it to be a natural-made adhesive for kids and pets. Founder Katie Hydrick, says she got the inspiration from being “tired of slippery and uncomfortable headbands” (so relatable) and her kids not having “enough hair” for a clip. It’s so true, because how else are people supposed to understand that your child is a girl? Hydrick said she wanted something easy and so, she did what most entrepreneurs do: find a solution to a self-created problem! To be frank, personally, it seems wrong to accessorize babies of any gender. They are just fresh out of the womb, give them a breather; besides, they are already experiencing so many new things.
“About Us” on Girlie Glue’s Website
One can’t even imagine the toll this might take on kids who are tagged fussy when they’re just overwhelmed by people fidgeting with them. People’s criticism of this product in the comments almost made the world look sensible for a second. They make a good point by talking about harmful gender roles and feminized beauty ideals being pushed onto the scalps of wee babies! Considering how sensitive kids are to any sensorial stimuli, imagine having a sticky bow stuck to your scalp every day. Yikes.
The tweet below actually brought up a great point about piercings or as the Western world calls it, ‘mutilating’. It is often observed that American and predominantly white parents are against piercings. Unless the parent is desperate to present their child as a girl.
Everyone has their reasons Emily, but we get your concern!
One memorable time we encountered this “logic” was in the show F.R.I.E.N.D.S when Rachel Green’s sister pierced Emma’s ears to make her look more “feminine” by making her “nose look small”. Rachel, though rightly pissed at her sister for not taking her consent before piercing her child’s ears, missed one more reason to be exasperated; why did Emma have to “look” like a girl at all? Emma probably didn’t care about gender expression just yet!
Green Sisters and their curse of hating their noses
But it’s never as simple as just gender roles or its performance. Gender performance that we learn is also dependent on what gender around us looks like, and how it is represented in isolation but in regards to our social context.
The problem is not making young girls wear dresses to make them look pretty. It begins with picking a dress for the child so that they represent your specific gender values. We learn to perform gender from our parents and other caretakers, who have learnt it from theirs and so on. But it’s never just limited to that, the concept is also encouraged and developed within the cultural community we are living in. We are taught to pick out clothing designs’ based on our social positions and what they represent. For example, a frock is mainly designed to look pretty, and is not a practical choice to go hiking in. It has frills and lace, and is made of uncomfortable tulle material that holds its shape. It’s seen as“too” pretty to be destroyed while playing in the park. So kids in this attire will usually be found sitting next to their parents or playing in a manner that is very conscious of their clothes and restricting their movements so as to avoid ruining it. Their posture at every step is to ensure they don’t flash themselves.
Maybe you didn’t mind the elmer glue, but maybe don’t treat your child as a doll?
The tweet above, highlights another great concern, how far can parents take their pursuit of fun? For many parents, it is thought to be originating from their own unfulfilled dreams and aspirations that they project onto their kids. But we have to ask ourselves, where do these aspirations come from? We should question how much pressure our parents, or we as parents, put on the child to fit into this purported idea of gender. The act of sticking a bow on your kids’ heads is not as harmful as the reasoning behind it, which seems to stem from your fear of your child being accidentally misgendered. Bows could be fun for you but it could translate into something that children will feel the pressure to adhere to as they grow older.
For kids assigned female at birth and raised as girls based on this, such pressures begin to show up as early as when they are toddlers. There’s always pressure to remain “gender-appropriate” and look “cute”. Things are slowly becoming more relaxed (thanks to the evolving feminist movement) since there are more practical clothing options for all kids. Also, it is possible that many parents who have been subjected to the same treatment, now try to protect their children from this (unless you’re Mommy Girlie Glue).
In a community setting like schools, which can often have standardized and gendered rules of dressing, it is hard for children to express themselves, especially in India where gendered uniforms are the norm. When I was growing up, I remember being subjected to strict school dress codes, right from the select few hairstyles I was allowed to the shine of my Mary Jane.
Glad to note that things have relaxed for younger Gen Z and older Gen Alpha young folx, who are the current school population. Sue (name changed) (she/her), who used to teach in private and alternative schools in Tamizh Nadu mentioned how her previous workspace didn’t follow a traditional uniform. The children were allowed to dress in casual wear, as long as they followed a few ground rules like not wearing branded or logo-heavy attire, a way to ensure an equitable student community.
According to her, the only hiccup was that “long hair, was something restricted to girls. [Girl students] could grow their hair out and wear ponytails, and braids or even leave it loose if it’s not too long. But, boys had to always maintain a certain length when it came to their hair. Why do these kinds of things have to be gendered if they are accepted for one gender? When it’s acceptable for one gender, why is it not acceptable for another gender?”
Meghna (she/her), also an educator who works at a school with a similar philosophy, observed that the female students in her school preferred to keep their hair long. Despite the short hair rule, male students experimented more with cuts and colour, she observed.
The same relaxed rules for girl students’ hair being “free to style”, received a different response in the school she teaches at. It would be easy to say that children have agency to express themselves, but children are often, if not always, perceived as representing their parents. It is worth noting that young students are still forming their opinions and figuring out who they are. Considering the power dynamic between children and systemic rule-setting by adults, it is understandable that they often accept and submit, instead of critically engaging or rebelling back. That’s when adults around them are expected to facilitate and make space for them to express themselves.
One such instance occurred in Meghna’s school: “So we have a [student] who is non-binary and they dress depending on how they feel. They have supportive parents, but issues often arise between peers. Some boys who consume a lot of ‘alpha masculine’ content online, often make fun of kids who present in ways that are [they’re taught to see as] ‘feminine’. As teachers, we have had conversations with them, but the problem is that so much of this doesn’t happen in school; it happens online and in spaces where we don’t have any visibility [as teachers].”
Parents also have trouble navigating/restricting content that children see online, as it is a vast new territory. Understandably so, as the older generations weren’t bombarded with overwhelming content like younger folx may be exposed to today. In a way, it’s a good thing that we’re encouraging more conversations about this and questioning how children are being subjected to some sort of policing around their gender expression. Girlie Glue, at first, seems like a sweet moment a mother may be sharing with her child. However, broadcasting this moment exposes the mother and child to much more fundamental discussions online.
We live in a paradoxical time where kids have never had so many resources at their fingertips and they have more flexibility with self-expression than the previous generation, and yet we find them under more pressure than ever to perform their gender and identity.
If you think it’s a nightmare to hunt for apartments *in this economy*, it becomes doubly harder to do so as a transgender person. The marginalisation is amplified by caste, class and social locations, as well as age. With inclusive welfare policies (like this one) being a distant dream, problems with housing are impossible to ignore — now more than ever. But for the transgender community in India, the lack of safe housing is only one aspect of the access gap.
Trans lives are constantly shaped by the spatial anxieties of accessing gate-kept spaces like hospitals, schools, workplaces and safe housing, made worse by anxieties of belonging, once you’ve got a foot in the door. Global north data shows that nearly half of the world’s unhoused population are queer/trans youth. 1 in 5 transgender people in the U.S. have experienced homelessness at some point in their lives; more than 1 in 10 trans women have been evicted because of their gender identity. In India, data further shows us that over 95% transgender individuals are denied jobs across the board and are often forced into informal, unregulated, and systemically stigmatised labour such as begging and sex work. Trans people are also more likely to face barriers while accessing safe and stable housing, due to lack of financial stability or rental history.
While problems of homelessness and poverty are urgent, seeking help is often stigmatised and always tedious. So when the Garima Grehs, envisaged as a safe temporary housing solution for transgender folks in India, were provisioned for in the Transgender Persons Act 2020 and piloted in 2021, the community reacted with a lot of hope. Despite initial misgivings, they were generally regarded as a policy step in the right direction. Why? Because safe housing is more than just a matter of shelter.
Housing: A pivotal determinant of trans health
For Kaveri (name changed), having a Garima Greh to turn to meant that she had a place to recover and rehabilitate in. Situated right above the healthcare center run by Mitr Trust in Delhi where she was undergoing HRT therapy/gender affirming care, the Delhi Garima Greh is one of 12, instituted across 9 states under the SMILE (Support for Marginalised Individuals for Livelihood & Enterprise) scheme in 2020.
For Bella Sharma, former project manager at the Delhi Garima Greh, the home was a celebration of queer resourcefulness and the community’s commitment to the cause. She herself had been a Resident at the Greh, and is grateful for the safe haven it provided her after a brutal altercation with the police. It was also a place where she re-discovered herself.
But after months of not drawing a salary alongside growing family responsibilities, Bella had to step down from her role last December. And she was not the only one.
A 2022 report on the Delhi Greh by The Quint put things in perspective: due to an indefinite funding pause, the home’s mental health counselor was compelled to also take charge of cooking everyone’s meals. For Bella and many of her former colleagues, working overtime was the only option for the longest time. “Lots of residents were dependent on us so we were all trying to do our best to make ends meet, mostly banking on private donations and mutual aid, while waiting for the funds to arrive,” Bella adds, as she recalls watching the Delhi Greh get stripped of resources. “The community was trying its best not to let all this hard work go to waste,” she said referring, of course, to the decades of activism and advocacy that led up to the Transgender Persons Act, 2019, which with all its flaws, did result in the first tranche of shelter homes, albeit few and far between. But the irregular funding disbursal is an affront even to that progress.
Earlier this year, the funds meant for 2023 eventually arrived. But this untimely and unplanned disbursal without any explanation or clarity regarding the same, has led to unnecessary crises and avoidable drop-outs at all the Garima Grehs. This has disastrous consequences for residents who are preparing to transition into permanent housing while working towards financial autonomy, with disruptions in high school classes, vocational training and career counselling services, and life-threatening situations for those who may need timely suicide intervention, case management and mental health services, HIV treatment, gender-affirming care and other critical health services.
During her time at the Delhi Greh, Bella herself observed the critical conditions under which some of her friends wound up there: trans women who were outed to their family by “marriage proposals from impatient lovers and family friends”, folks who found themselves pulling the chord and packing their bags after being called a “unspeakable slur” by their mother. “Most people who come here are drained, burned out, some even suicidal, and it takes 3 months for them to stabilise”, Bella claims.
Course-correction no longer enough, we need a fresh vision
Even when they were up and running, the Garima Grehs were not without their flaws. Reports of lapse in security, with families of trans people and sometimes even the police storming the Garima Grehs and physically assaulting residents were making news. A few of the homes also don’t accept transgender couples who have fled together, stipulating that the space is only aimed at catering to trans individuals.
Filmmaker Jaishree Kumar, whose upcoming documentary on the Delhi Garima Greh, Basera, offers an even-handed glimpse into the state of these shelter homes, confirms this, saying, “The security guards at the Delhi home have quit, and the place is rife with hygiene and molding issues, poor quality of food (and even that was courtesy private benefactors). Now due to funding cuts, the trans women and trans men’s dormitories have also been merged.”
In order for these shelter homes to become autonomous and sustainable one-stop wellness centers, there is a serious need to re-engage with the vision and reimagine it at a policy level, so that residents and employees continue to have access to safe housing and ancillary services at their most vulnerable.
To begin with, a total of 12 homes for a country-wide trans population of 4.88lakh (as per the 2011 Census) is not suggestive of an inclusive and representative policy as it completely dismisses and decenters the needs of unhoused trans people in smaller cities and peri-urban areas. Many trans youth who run away from their natal homes are compelled to cross state lines in order to reach the Grehs, like Diya (name changed) who left her home in Assam and arrived at the Delhi Greh.
Ari Roy Chowdhuri who co-leads Nadia-Ranaghat Sompriti, a trans-kothi-hijra rights collective in West Bengal, does not hold back when asked about the lack of Garima Grehs outside prominent cities like Kolkata, citing that the unique needs of trans people in semi-urban areas are often removed from mainstream funding circles. “There is no acknowledgement of the resource-starved environments we operate in,” she adds.
Similarly, Jasmine (name changed), a trans priestess from Bilaspur exiled by her community, discovered a safe space only in Himachal Queer Foundation’s Self-Care and Catharsis workshop in Palampur (HP). At the time, she was dealing with the compounded trauma of being ostracised by her faith-based community and family. “She stayed with us for a few days while we helped her retrieve her belongings which had been confiscated,” Don Hasar, who co-founded Himachal Queer Foundation, tells Gaysi, adding that this was a completely self-funded effort and that HQF receives no grant or resources to set up and systematically offer safe shelter. “Keeping her safe was our priority, as was making sure that she safely reached a new space, where she could resume her work as priestess, which gave her a sense of identity,” they add, citing the interventions they made with the Police and Village Panchayat officials to ensure this.
Beyond housing, Centering access
That’s perhaps why the concept of safe housing needs a broader definition, to especially account for the diverse needs and experiences of trans people across the country. After all, safe temporary housing solution is only as good as its ability to provide holistic and comprehensive care.
For Don, therefore, it is not enough to build Garima Grehs which one cannot access without a transgender identity card. HQF, which works on sensitizing municipal and local law enforcement authorities, routinely impresses upon them the need to hasten the ID registration processes and remove harassment and prejudices from these spaces, heavily underscoring the importance of engaging and involving institutional actors and structures in effective implementation of such policies.
Like Ari, Don also complains of the lack of recognition for organizations who work in semi-rural settings and “work against templates generalizing trans experiences”, like making community interventions, working to create safe spaces in natal family spaces for queer youth, and offering legal and career counseling that centers the individual’s interests, among others. “Rural realities cannot be ignored, and local challenges (related to harsh climate, terrain and mobility) in the pahari regions must be factored in,” they tell Gaysi, also advocating strongly for “one-stop community centers for trans people at risk, modeled after the Telangana crisis centers for cis-women who fall victim to domestic violence.”
Even those of us who have had challenging experiences with coming out while still being financially dependent on our natal caregivers, know the utter loss of security that comes with housing instability at some point in life. The crisis in safe temporary housing, especially for those at a high risk for displacement from their neighborhoods and homes, then poses larger questions: How can we direct some of our privilege and efforts to protecting marginalized LGBTQ folx from housing discrimination? How can we ensure that the rights of transgender students at Indian campuses are not violated or threatened with eviction? Do we need to think about community building specifically for trans elders? Are we able to think of shelter homes as all-encompassing spaces with 12-step programs, behavioral and sexual health services and the works?
When we look back at queer history, especially that of ballroom dance houses or hijra kothi communities closer home, we may remember how these spaces also offered trans artists and performers (a large segment of whom were unhoused) a refuge from the streets at night. In Aravani Art project’s ethos, we see something to that effect, with many of the graffiti artists in the community discovering a sense of belonging at a moment in their lives when they’re experiencing some form of an access gap, where an unexpected foray into queer art gradually transforms into a project of reclamation – of space, security, and identity, a coming into one’s own. And what is a home, if not that?
The LGBTQIA community had its presence in my home, however tiny it was. I have my elder sister to credit for that; she came out as bisexual while she was in 12th class. I was lucky enough that the road was cleared for me. It’s been three years since I came out to my parents. From my father, I learnt not to let casteism stop me. From my mother, I learnt how to fight back against the stomping rage of patriarchy. And yet, I found both of my parents unable to accept my queerness. Sure, they didn’t outright disown me but the disregard stings as well. My university is far from home, a melting pot of various cultures. The weather can be unpredictable here, and the grind of college kept wearing me down. Until I found my people among members of the queer club it was a rush of feelings and consumed much of my waking thoughts. The liberating feeling of finally being understood and the freedom to take up space felt like a semblance of solidarity. Being close to my mother, the mentions of the club, and everything queer globally from the legalization of queer marriage, queer celebrities to transphobic legislation began to permeate our conversations over call.
Back home, my father remarked, “Ruhi oi shob L– G- B-T jinish matha theke nemeche?” (Ruhi have you gotten over all of that LGBT things?). The disdain in his voice was enough to finally push me over the edge.
“It’s not a temporary thing to get over”, I began. And over the next half hour, I debated with him about the biological, social “rationale” of being queer.
It finally ended when it was time for dinner. He was finally quiet, but not convinced. I was tired, but not defeated either. Recounting this to my friends later, many of them advised me to let it go and keep my peace.
“It’s no use dear, they won’t understand.”
“Don’t waste your time on them, just be happy they haven’t thrown you out yet.”
There was just one part of his argument that stuck with me.
“Why do you want to stand out by being queer?”
“Why do you want to invite more trouble and ostracization into your life?”
I had been born with enough oppression on my plate. Assigned female at birth, a middle-class family, dark-skinned and Dalit. This rhetoric comes up everytime I talk about the struggles against oppression of any kind. Especially, if it’s with someone from a privileged position concerning the topic of conversation.
“It’s going to take a lot of time, calm down.”
And even the outright pessimistic view, “Why bother, these things will never work and sort out by the time you grow old and die.”
I am appalled by this notion. The freedom I have today as a woman, my education, and my rights as a Dalit person have been ensured by Savitribai Phule, Dr B.R Ambedkar and many more. They dedicated their entire lives to pushing back against – oppression so that we, the future generations, could have better lives. How far down the capitalist self-centered mindset does one have to be, to not care about things which don’t concern us? The bare minimum we can do is pass on this knowledge, and these core beliefs to ensure that systems of oppression cannot lead to imposter syndrome within us. With this determination fueling my actions, I became the head of the queer club on campus. It was a space for discussion, but the gaps remained. Being the only openly Dalit queer in the club, the rest of them being savarnas, I dared not awaken the elephant in the room, for fear of it trampling down my few strong connections on campus.
With the last few years as the saffron and orange flags are ubiquitous and the superiority complex of -religion swells, every moment feels like the nation will boil over. In the garb of “de-colonization and national pride” these movements label queerness, women’s rights, and Dalit, Adivasi’s and other marginalised castes progress and rights as sacrilege. Laws to ensure – live-in relationships are notified to the court (enacted in Uttarakhand), archaic orders for women’s nighttime curfew in women hostels across all universities in Odisha (which was revoked fortunately) and the operationalization of the CAA act signal a bleak future where all pretences of democracy are dropped. Innumerable atrocities against the oppressed communities in India are left out of news reports, continuing the rose-tinted view of the current political climate.
I cannot rest easy with this uncertainty. Feeling torn between enjoying my freedoms while they last and working against oppression has taken up most of my waking thoughts now. There is no easy escape either; the so-called developed countries of the USA, and UK thought of as queer people’s havens are regressing toward fascism and religious conservatism as well. The recent upsurge of the 75-year oppression of Palestinians by Israel was what triggered me to look deeper into history and politics. I still have much to learn and understand; how the US has been influencing politics globally, the economic crisis and even Brexit and the “refugee crisis “. We will not keep running and hiding only to be hunted and killed.
My priorities have now changed and I strive to work for the real liberation and emancipation of people, not just of queerness but their material conditions. by taking part and building organisations that fight against oppression using a three-pronged approach with students and sympathetic groups- Educate, Agitate and Organise.
[This article is part of a special series at Gaysi highlighting the work of Dalit creatives, artists and writers curated and edited by BRC (positionality: Dalit queer non binary neurodivergent). If you would like to be a part of this series, please write to gaysifamily@gmail.com with subject line “working with BRC” along with a pitch or proposal. All published articles are paid.]
Major political parties have been releasing their manifesto for the 2024 Lok Sabha elections as late in the game as a fortnight before elections, and sometimes even after a phase of voting has concluded. Election manifestos may not be taken very seriously by some voters and even by some politicians themselves. Unsurprising, considering election manifestos are not legally binding in India, and thus, neither political parties nor their candidates can be legally held accountable. Nevertheless, they are a strategic set of promises by parties to the electorate.
Irrespective of intentionality, manifestos in the past couple elections have had some mentions of queer rights. However, with the passage of the Transgender Persons Act in 2019 (hereafter, TP Act 2019) and the recent judgement in the Marriage Equality case in October 2023, the ball is now in Parliament’s court to recognize a whole host of rights and protections due for LGBTQIA+ persons in India. It has become a legislative matter, putting onus on parties and their MPs, whom we must engage with now.
In the 2024 elections, marriage equality is yet to grace any party’s manifesto; however, the phrases ‘civil union’ and ‘same-sex partnership’ have stood in for it in some manner. Garima Grehs (shelter houses), amendment of the TP Act, and gender-affirming healthcare are among the handful of promises in party manifestos.
Personally, the inclusion of at least some advances toward LGBTQIA+ rights in party manifestos was a welcome surprise. However, reactions on social media and in many opinion pieces were wrought with cynicism – people questioning parties for not speaking up earlier, or declaring the promises as election gimmicks. The scepticism has been rather disheartening. Meanwhile, atrocities against queer persons, especially trans persons, have become frequent occurrences – bullying in schools, forced marriages, and confinement, to name a few. Rights and protections enshrined in law will go a long way in helping us secure the safety and dignity of queer persons.
Rome was not built in a day, and neither will we build the Queerdom. Keeping some of that cynicism aside, it’s time we pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and rise to build the foundations of our Roman empire. To give us a head start, here’s a list of promises from some prominent parties’ manifestos.
BJP’s manifesto mentions the expansion of the Garima Greh network to ‘cater to the needs of transgender individuals’. Identity cards have also been promised to transgender individuals for ‘their nationwide recognition’, but hints at gatekeeping access to Ayushman Bharatha, a national public health insurance scheme, for ‘all eligible transgender individuals’. No promises toward other LGBQIA+ persons, and keeping in line with the updated rules of Transgender Persons Act, 2019, right to self-identification will be in jeopardy.
Congress (INC) has promised expansion of Articles 15 and 16 of the Constitution, which prohibit discrimination on various grounds, to include the words ‘disability’, ‘impairment’, or ‘sexual orientation’. Promises have also been made to ‘bring a law to recognise civil unions between couples belonging to the LGBTQIA+ community’ following ‘wide consultations’. Notably, it is the only manifesto among those including LGBTQIA+ rights, to not have anything specifically focused on trans persons’ rights.
CPI(M) has widened the ambit of promises notably to include anti-discriminatory laws, amendment to the TP Act 2019, ‘legal recognition and protection to same sex couples similar to marriage’, reservation in education, measures to address ‘bullying, violence, and harassment’ in educational institutions, and treatment of crimes against LGBTQ+ persons on par with those against ‘non-LGBTQ+’ persons.
Latest in line is NCP-SP, promising legal recognition, including marriage and adoption rights. Inclusive education with training for educators, gender-affirming care, hate crime legislation, policies preventing workplace discrimination, harassment, and bullying, opening of youth centres and counselling and support groups, and public awareness campaigns are other notable promises.
Now, armed with this information, vote wisely, and hold parties accountable to their promises.
Many queer people are wary of participating in political campaigns fearing their safety, and rightly so. Strength, however, lies in numbers and diversifying tactics. Here are few ways we can demand accountability while minimising individual exposure:
Understand major and regional political parties’ promises for LGBTQIA+ rights. You can find other parties’ manifesto by googling them.
Educate, educate, educate! Find out the stances of various MPs – both for and against LGBTQIA+ rights. Pink List India has a formidable archive of statements made by various politicians in public or in Parliament with media clippings. If your local MP is amenable, be our ground deploy and engage in-person, if you can.
Pick battles with the best odds. It’s easiest to bring around the most amenable. So, engage with politicians and parties most likely to support our cause. With timelines for legislating on LGBTQIA+ issues unspecified, Parliament is under little pressure to act. However, harnessing social media as a powerful advocacy tool, campaigns targetting social media handles of these MPs would help. Target these MPs and their political allies, be like the Duolingo owl!
Land in their inbox. Contact details of MPs are public information. Participate in mass campaigns mailing/posting our demands to MPs and party offices.
Contribute information. Maintaining repositories like Pink List India and coverage of elections from a queer feminist lens such as by Gaysi Family and Behan Box is hard work. Send them statements you come across made by your local politician on LGBTQIA+ rights, so they can be documented. Volunteer your time with repositories. Expand the reach of resources/ information shared by platforms by helping translate them into regional languages.
Create engagement. Invite MPs to LGBTQIA+ events. Organise town-hall or sabha-like setups where they get to interact with LGBTQIA+ persons. Ask them for responses and statements to our challenges. They can resist and claim ‘packed schedules’ at the start, but eventually, we are citizens – their electorate, and they must make time for us.
Remind them of their promises. Refer to promises in their manifestos in all correspondence – letters, social media, meetings. Let them not forget and know that we have not forgotten. Borrowing from the adage “tell a lie often enough…”, let us instead, repeat a promise often enough till it is brought to reality.
As activist and artist Zanele Muholi says, “If I wait for someone else to validate my existence, it will mean that I’m shortchanging myself.” Resilience is no guest to us, and as a community advocating for its rights we have come this far; we must strategise to use this momentum to move forward. Let us persevere towards improving political will.
Happy and wise voting, and let the good fight continue.
This IDAHOBIT, as a queer teacher, I hope for a day when we can be out there and free and happy, on our own terms, without much to fear for.
IDAHOBIT – The International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia, and Transphobia was on May 17. As serendipity would have it, a group of students from the school where I worked earlier, recently texted me about how they encouraged the boys of their school to sport mehndi and nail polish. They even got them to cook, while some of the girls enrolled in robotics for their school fest. Some of their seniors whom I had taught global perspectives discussed different communities around the globe who bent binary gender norms. I was in hosepipe mode, touched beyond the ability to articulate my feelings. This is my journey to earn acceptance.
In the year 2021, I was assigned the role of a Humanities and Global Perspective Teacher in a renowned International school in my city. I was offered the role keeping in mind my Masters’ degree in PR, a paper Presentation in Epistemology – Theory of knowledge and the role of AI in Education, and my 4-year experience of working with an NGO started for the indigenous Hijra-Aravani community.
I was – still am – someone with a lot of facial hair and peach fuzz, a trait proudly attributed to congenitally high androgen levels. It never felt daunting, but enhanced my gender euphoria, much to the chagrin of every conservative person around. My gait, demeanor and pretty much every other trait, added layers to my masculinity.
What acted as a speed-breaker to my blissfully happy non-binary life was the day a student blatantly asked me why “I had the same facial hair men have”. I had myriad ways to handle this situation, realistically speaking. I could divert the topic, I could just smile, or I could just say “it’s just the way it is” and sound apologetic about something I look at with great deal of self-esteem. It could also have irked me on a particularly dysphoric day, and gotten me riled up. I realized, that ALL my responses in that moment would reflect not just my personality, but form a lasting opinion that would be cemented in the child’s mind. About the LGBTQ community. About every queer person out there. This was an opportunity in my life to instill kindness in the child’s mind towards LGBTQ people.
This was during the same time as when the “MAGA boys” and their queerphobic content was gaining traction among children of around this particular student’s age. MAGA to the politically unacquainted is an acronym of “Make America Great Again”. It refers to mostly-white, conservative American men who believe cis het white men made America great thanks to their “non-woke” ideology (read as “regressive”) and want those dark ages to return.
Many “motivation” pages have also been doing the rounds on Instagram, and they engage solely with discourse thar belittles trans*, intersex and non-binary people. It wasn’t long before such conversation entered the classroom. On one hand, the boys who engaged with such content had begun equating trans people to right-wingers and paid internet trolls who proclaimed that they identified as wolves. On the other, my facial hair – followed by my mannerisms and gait were being pointed out as unexpectedly “masculine”. I had to intervene. This was my only chance to educate these students on the need for diversity.
I started looking for ways to teach children about LGBTQ people and their rights from a human-rights lens. ONE question that would link the two parallel quandaries I faced – my “masculine” features vs the growing queerphobia in kids, was all that was needed, and bam! It was to debunk the idea of a binary gender. It started with educating kids that people assigned female with XY chromosomes and male-assigned folks with XX exist, thereby making them aware of alternate X & Y Chromosomal variations in humans – XXY, XYY and many more. It was encouraging to see the surprise and enlightenment they displayed, and merely reinforced the fact that humans are taught bigotry, not born bigoted. There definitely exists inherent inclusion in children which has to be fostered and the need for diversity in society needs to be be informed and queer-affirmative. It was wholesome when the kid who asked me about my facial hair drew me a card with a sorry on it and said it’s “valid for me to be me”. The rest of the room seemed to blur as my eyes welled up.
I soon followed this lesson with another on the existence of indigenous trans* and gender variant communities around the world, using a lesson plan that was Google-maps enabled, curated by pbs.org, with each community marked on a location that is hyperlinked to details about that community. We then went on to discuss the impact of both colonization and the orthodoxy displayed by caste-privileged people, that led to the creation and maintenance of the Criminal Tribes Act, which was passed by the British in 1971. The Hijra community in particular was targeted under the Act. This was also an excellent moment to educate them about cis heteronormative caste patriarchy, and why casteism and queerphobia work together. Queerness has the potential to dismantle caste hierarchy, provided that privileged queer people and allies are sensitized about caste.
This act passed by the British created the category of “eunuch” to refer to the many, often unrelated gender non-conforming communities in India, including hijras, khwajasarais, and kothis, and many of them are seen as suspicious due to their gender non-conformity by the law.
The Indian phenomenon was paralleled to similar colonial and post-colonial situations around the globe, in a poignant, heart-wrenching documentary by the BBC titled “Gender identity:How colonialism killed my culture’s gender fluidity”. It included voices of Francis Geronimo, a two-spirit individual, Leher, a trans woman from the Hijra community who uses the label “third gender” and Kai, who identifies as a “Brotherboy” from Sydney, who collectively described the historical massacre carried out by imperialists on indigenous gender variant communities.
I would up the lesson by showing the students two objects – a blue house T-shirt and a blue crayon, which largely fell on the “blue spectrum”, albeit possessing different wavelengths. This was used as an analogy to grasp that cis women and trans women are both women, but they experience womanhood differently in some ways. Trans women and Non-Binary trans femme people may also experience their femme identities differently. The words “man” and “woman” are themselves social constructs, which the first bipedal homosapiens are unlikely to have used.
The children were asked to recall how many primary, secondary and tertiary colours exist. They chimed in “three! three! six!”, in that order. They were further probed if those were the only colours on the planet. They gave me a long stare. Voila!! I had delicately managed to pull off a holistic session on empathy and respect for the need of diversity. This was done without sounding dogmatic, as right-aligned people fear, but by encouraging the children’s curiosity about the world around them.
Sadly, there were loopholes and challenges. Now the catch here is, the school was in a conservative locality of my city. To them, even the well-intentioned act of teaching children to treat LGBTQ people with dignity was the beginning of a slippery water slide that would lead to queer children, according to them, which was ridiculous. Nevertheless, this was a long-overdue challenge that had to be met. Down the lane, it would probably help with ensuring someone’s psychological safety in knowing that their queerness is not an abnormality, but a way of the world. We needed kindness in children sure, but we need them in adults as well.
On the national level, queer sensitization efforts are already facing both tacit and blatant resistance. The same year, a teacher sensitization manual prepared by a trans activist in India for gender variant LGBTQ children that was presented to the Central Secondary Education Board had been widely criticized by the conservative masses and had to be revoked. This manual had been created for merely helping students survive because it included details on gender neutral restrooms and ways to help students explore their gender and navigate gender dysphoria. It became national news and the said trans person was also doxed.
This irrational transphobia has been relentless and seems to have percolated all parts of our society, including my own environs. I would overhear large groups of parents in whatsapp groups of my apartment or known circles. murmur in hushed undertones, referring to trans activists using dehumanizing pronouns like “it”. It was humiliating. The heart yearned for just some warmth among the next gen, nothing more or less.
The following year, Arvey Malhotra, a 15-year-old childended his life because of the relentless bullying he faced in his school, Delhi Public School Faridabad. A queer-sensitization was long overdue to reinforce kindness among children and their parents. While his mother bravely fights tooth and nail to deliver her child justice, both she and other such affirming parents realize that this is a systemic issue.
Unfortunately, the next manual was presented to teachers by a cisgender heterosexual representative of the current government named Jyotsna Tiwari. Luckily that manual was pulled down owing to queer outrage. It reduced trans individuals to caricatures, only meant to be found in public spaces as people begging for alms or blessing new borns. It was condescending. And on the other hand, we were encouraging the idea of trans folx in all parts of society, even as doctors and lawyers. What an irony!
While this manual was struck down, a similar such manual was created and adopted in ANOTHER right-wing school that I worked at. It was worse than the cancelled NCERT Manual. It did not have a word on gender dysphoria or mental health support. It had no roadmap of any action plan. The word “kind” was mentioned two dozen times without a quantifiable example of what “kind” meant. I was also asked not to name any oppressor community, be it in the systems of colonization or casteism, which was ridiculous. Marginalization doesn’t happen in the passive voice. There exist extremists who subject us to it, systemically. I was also asked to rewrite my work in the passive voice and make queerphobia sound more like an allegation than an everyday lived experience.
Let’s just say, the end wasn’t as rosy, and I changed jobs to teach my core subject – English. I now work with adults, training them to write exams like GRE and IELTS that help them go abroad. I wondered how I would ever spread awareness and empathy in children towards the LGBTQ community – as a queer student and a victim of sexual abuse and bullying at school, myself. The last thing I wanted to ever see is a reflection of my own trauma in front of me. I fought it out alone perhaps so that my students wouldn’t have to.
One fine day, a student reached out to me out of the blue to tell me that she wished a trans woman for woman’s day. I teared up instantly, in the middle of a staff meeting. Imagine how good the woman would have felt to be acknowledged. They further went to the extent of educating a teacher who said all males have XX chromosomes and all females have XY chromosomes, and told her that a small percentage of people exist outside these binaries. This was ALL I wanted!! A world that wasn’t divided into two rigid boxes – blue and pink – but had possibilities for more. Where children could be who they wanted, without being shamed for it.
The good thing that happened to me was that I learnt to value minor changes. Children – and adults – grow at their own individual pace. We’ve just got to trust the process and enjoy the journey more than the destination sometimes. It is very unfortunate to have to do it on the terms and conditions of fragile cis het ego. LGBTQ people who aim to have even the most basic, informed conversation on queerness have a lot to lose – including their lives. Hurting cis het sentiments is the lowest end of the totem-pole, the higher ends include an organized witch hunt against us.
I follow a leader named Dr. Ambedkar. He taught millions of people around the world that “Lost rights are never regained by appeals to the conscience of the usurpers, but by relentless struggle…”. As someone with immense self-esteem in me, I refuse to settle for scraps of tokenism that I sordidly call “sloppy-seconds” tongue in cheek. I will speak up, take space and vocalize my anguish at how dispensable queer lives are looked at, and I already do so actively – at events, at pride, in blogs and in protests. I want to instill values of inclusion, diversity and equity in children at all costs regardless of what it takes. I want them to respect all forms of life around them.
This is too obvious to even be said, but for the last time, We DO NOT want cis het kids to be queer – as ridiculous and impossible as we know it is. We wanted queer kids to study and graduate high school ALIVE. This IDAHOBIT, as a queer teacher, I hope for a day that we can be out there and free and happy, on our own terms and conditions, without much to fear for.
Dating as a gay man in a city like Bombay is quite messy. Some are looking for love and some are looking for friendship, and there are others looking for other things. Finding someone who is looking for the same things as you is next to impossible. Personally, I found that my dating scenario was somehow the same as everyone and yet, different. Dating for me only began in my late 20s, as I was focused on being independent and didn’t want someone invading my space. I was quite against beginning a relationship in my teens and early 20s, but when you are growing old, you realize that you do need someone in your life. That feeling made me enter the dating scene in my late 20s.
I started using dating apps and found lots of people who were looking for genuine relationships. I spoke with a few of them, dated some and met them once or twice, but few stood out. Let’s start with a guy I met at Lower Parel at a gay party; there was an instant connection as we danced together and made out on the dance floor. Everything was going well and he was a tall, good-looking guy, and I was excited! So you can imagine my shock when I got to know that he was already in a relationship and was just looking for a random makeout session. It was probably just my second gay party and I didn’t get a memo about the random hookups and open relationships that occur in the community. It was an eye-opening moment for me. After all, I was naive and got to learn my lessons.
Moving on to another person who messed with my mind: he was a cute, tall, and handsome guy from Himachal Pradesh trying to make his mark in the film industry. I knew of the pahadi-folx as a soft-spoken, sweet people, but damn! He truly was such a gem of a person, always well-behaved and respectful. The first time we met was at one of my favorite places in town i.e. Marine Drive. We ended up talking for a long time, enjoying the cool breeze in the evening, the sun going down, the beautiful moon, the stars, and the waves thrashing against the shore. It felt like the most romantic place for me and we kissed too. We met a few more times, but he didn’t feel what I felt for him, and texted me one day that he didn’t feel love for me. In the end, we decided that it was better to move on and keep minimal contact with each other. It didn’t break my heart, but I was surely feeling down afterwards.
There were some people in-between whom I met once only. They only liked going on dates, and wanted people to spend money on them. They want their dates to take them out to expensive restaurants, buy gifts for them, and take them on vacations. They wanted me to be their sugar daddy, which I was quite shocked to learn, but also found quite hilarious. To be honest, when you get old, you know what kind of people you are dealing with, and you can sense it from the first meeting. I am glad that I started dating later than the norm, because it helped me understand what kind of person I am and also how other people are.
Now, let’s move on to another person who I felt might be my future husband (LOL). Goes without saying, but he was a cute, good-looking guy working in the media. We met through a mutual friend and hit it off immediately. There was an instant connection. We met many times and I even went to his place, but we didn’t do anything other than kiss each other. He was quite funny and sang too. There was only one weird thing about him, he would not reply for days, and out of nowhere he would suddenly text me or call me. I wanted to take it slowly with him, but I was wrong. One day, he messaged me and said he was dating someone and they were going out together for a vacation. I was hurt but I said that I was happy for him.
My dating scene has taken a break for the time being, as I want to focus on other things. But, I am still trying to find my man. I know my man is out there who like me, is dating the wrong individuals. As a hopeless romantic who daydreams about romantic adventures, I’m confident that it will surely become a reality.
We are not unfamiliar with the concept of star-crossed-lovers, it has existed as long as storytelling, and we all love a good romantic tragedy. However, before Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet got mainstream, our lands had their own lore and tales in the form of Heer-Ranjha and Laila-Majnu. These stories have been adapted by mainstream Indian cinema for as long as we can remember. The thing about adaptations is that they show us just how universal love and rebellion is. Where there is love, there are obstacles and yearning.
And who knows obstacles in love and yearning better than queer folx? Which is what seems to have inspired Kamya Nair to bring out an adaption of Laila Majnu but this time, it’s queer and our Majnu is a woman named Manju.
Set against the backdrop of the COVID lockdowns in Mumbai, India, “Lailaa Manju” follows the journey of its titular characters, Lailaa and Manju, two young women navigating the complexities of their relationship amidst societal prejudices and familial expectations. Played with remarkable depth and authenticity by the talented ensemble cast, the characters come alive on-screen and resonate with the audience in a fresh way.
Kamya Nair’s directorial prowess shines throughout the film, as she skillfully balances moments of intimacy with anxiety around being “different”. The cinematography, done by DOP Archana Ghangrekar, captures the essence of landscapes, creating a visually striking tapestry that mirrors the emotional landscape of the leads. Contrasting the bustling streets of Mumbai to the newfound, yet ominous serenity of life during the pandemic-induced lockdowns, each frame is imbued with a sense of purpose.
“Since Manju is a graphic designer, the colour of the walls in her bedroom was consciously created as a canvas to reflect her mood. Blue can be many things: but mostly my interpretation is blue is a dark reflective pool…a sort of unconscious space, when the right light hits, it can be dark and sort of amniotic. So the color blue creates a womb-like state inside Manju’s room. The eggshell blue of Ajji’s room is also a take on this to represent her fading consciousness,” Kamya reflects, in an interview with Gaysi Family.
Still from Lailaa Manju
Kamya’s Lailaa Manju sets itself apart with its nuanced take on depicting queer relationships and related complexities on the Indian screen. She portrays the tightrope walk that is being your authentic self and managing family expectations, with finesse. Familial expectations and the guilt that comes with unmet obligations are a near-universal experience in this part of the world. Through the lens of Lailaa and Manju’s relationship, the film confronts deep-rooted prejudices and societal norms, challenging viewers to confront their own biases and misconceptions.
Kamya Nair, Director & Writer of Lailaa Manju
Mansi, who plays Lailaa, spoke to Gaysi about her working association with Kamya. “The story is very close to Kamya, and everything I did for prep was sourced around her, rather than the text/script being the primary material. For every word, and every line in the script, I would ask about the character’s intention and their context to understand what we were working with. There are certain things that exist as context outside the screen and script, to develop it and then create layers surrounding it.”
With its subtle depiction of internalized hetero-patriarchal traditions: from restricting women from visiting the shamshan-ghat to eventually letting go of their identity for the sake of fitting in. The story brings out a sense of empathy and a sense of relatability through the little things we do.
“We wanted to tell a multigenerational story about women [and queerness] in various spaces. Ajji and Devi’s story is a proto-queer relationship. If they probably had a chance to understand their friendship better, it’s possible that they would have had a queer relationship.[..] What might have been if Ajji had not been married off? Ajji’s dementia brings her back to this unexplored, unresolved territory.” says Kamya, when asked about the ailing grandmother’s character.
Whether it’s our hearts aching for all the long-lost loves, and Lailaa-Manjus or Lalit-Majnus (another adaptation?) who existed before us. Kamya’s depiction of homophobic parents was not just limited to their problems with homophobia, but also fleshing them out as real people who have reasons for behaving the way they do. Not in any way excusing the behavior, but rather adding layers to the dynamic.
The film depicts a form of vulnerability that does not shy away from being authentic. The passion for storytelling translates on screen such that the audience too understands the context that the characters come from. Who they were, how their relationship matured and what led to their current mind space.
Our Lailaa And Manju
Mansi expands on how safe she and Tanvi, who plays our Manju, felt on the set. With behind-the-scenes being not just physically, but emotionally safe space. “With Lailaa Manju, the safety I felt around the set, the safety to be emotionally vulnerable, [was] a prerequisite for playing this character. [As an actor, I] expose [myself] to the vulnerabilities of the character and the world they come from. There was a kind of security in doing that, in the process of not just making the film but even [in terms of collaborative storytelling].”
“Lailaa Manju” is a triumph for indie cinema—a poignant and thought-provoking exploration of queer identity in contemporary India. With its compelling narrative, stellar performances, and exquisite cinematography, Kamya Nair has crafted a film that demands to be seen and celebrated. It is a testament to the power of storytelling to challenge perceptions, spark conversation, and inspire change.
In this past week, we saw yet another controversy ranking high enough on the weirdness and angry-rich-man scale for mainstream media to care about queer people and their lived realities.
Bhavish Aggarwal, the co-founder and CEO of Ola, an Indian cab-hailing giant, worth almost $2 billion, lashed out about pronouns. And where do entitled people who dispense opinions like candy, do so? The hellscape we all lovingly used to call Twitter. In a series of Tweets and later a LinkedIn post by Mr. Aggarwal (yes, I used Mr., you’ll soon see why) ranted about what he described as the ‘pronouns illness that most Indians had no clue about’ earlier.
His tweets quickly went viral, as expected. He even went so far as to claim that some MNCs were promoting this culture of pronouns in the country ‘without us Indians even realising it’.
Gasp!
A secret disease was spreading within Indian society like wildfire and it wasn’t low-paying jobs, hunger, or hate. It was the use of pronouns which according to this tech-bro, even many ‘big city schools’ were teaching to our kids. Aggarwal went on to lament that the CVs he receives also have the shame of pronouns attached to them, with job-seekers including he/him, she/her, or they/them, after their names. One wonders if Mr. Aggarwal ignores the CVs with pronouns more than he ignores the CVs with no pronouns.
All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others, right?
Then came the usual tirade that we queer people have heard for years if not all our lives. The ‘need to draw the line in following the West blindly’.
The need for urgent policy reforms? No. The need to pay employees a living wage? Absolutely not! The need to make sure that the unemployed youth of our nation do not fall into the sick ways of sharing their pronouns openly? Bingo!
What prompted this sudden rant on social media from a CEO no one really knew about? Mr Aggarwal asked the AI chatbot of LinkedIn, a professional community-building network, the question that we all have on our minds- ‘Who is Bhavish Aggarwal?’
The chatbot responded dutifully that Aggarwal was the co-founder and CEO of Olacabs.com. A former Research Assistant and Intern at Microsoft Research India who had graduated from the prestigious (if not infamous for its casteism) IIT Bombay. Rather than focusing on the accuracy of the bot or revelling that someone outside the tech circle knew him (albeit a soulless software), Aggarwal quickly took a screenshot, painstakingly circled all the uses of ‘they’ in reference to ‘him’ in the copy, and then proceeded to post it promptly on Twitter with his long rant about the pronouns and its attack on Indian culture.
One wonders if Aggarwal’s English teacher met with a similar rant when pronouns were being taught in school. Was Wren and Martin his sworn enemy? Was Shakespeare the nightmarish demon of his dreams because even ‘thee, thou, and thy’ were akin to pronouns right? Several questions remain to be answered. Only some will eventually be. How deep does this ‘pronouns illness’ go?
The crusader answered in an X post on May 11. In a lengthy lament, Aggarwal has gone on to slam ‘Western companies’ like LinkedIn and Microsoft for their ‘wokeness’. A point to note is that he uses the word ‘wokeness’ as if it were another illness and something to be weary about.
Aggarwal goes on to say India does not need “lectures” from such companies, ignoring the fact that no one needs lectures from him as well. “On a personal front” he says that upon visiting Ayodhya last year, he “learnt about how [transgender persons] had been accorded special respect in our culture since ancient times.” Did he miss out on the fact that trans people are also forced to beg, live and work on the streets and often die of exhaustion (this relentless heatwave!) and exclusion? Perhaps not.
As if this was not enough, he goes on to slam this “western DEI system” calling it an “entitlement mindset” and vowing to “fight it.” Diversity, equality, and inclusion? Surely, we need to fight them, tooth and nail.
Finally, Aggarwal says that he will put his “money where his mouth is” and invest in an Indian ‘Digital Public Infrastructure’ or DPI that would be governed only by Indian law and not by Western-made “community guidelines”. He also announced that Ola would be moving away from Microsoft’s Azure cloud to the Indian-made Krutrim.
While make-in-India is welcome, the motivations for his shift are suspect at best.
Looks like, in addition to ‘putting his money where his mouth is’ he is also finding room for his foot in there.
Putting aside all jest and sarcasm (with a heavy heart), incidents like these reveal a dangerous trend that is quickly becoming a newfound social currency. The degrading and belittling of queer people or for that matter any person who does not fit into the category of a rich, English-speaking, urban male, has become a mark of respect amongst the communities that people like Aggarwal embody.
The Ola CEO has 487,500 followers on X and 187,000 on LinkedIn. Considering that his reach does not transcend his followers, which it certainly does, this is a community of close to 6.7 lakh people who follow and read what Mr Aggarwal thinks and shares. One can safely assume that many also aspire to be like the man. He has after all cracked the great Indian dream of studying in an IIT, working in some of the world’s biggest tech firms, and founding a billion-dollar startup, whose services millions use every day.
This sets a very dangerous precedent.
What India has just witnessed is what the West has already done and continues to do so since the rise of the techiest tech bro of all tech bros – Elon Musk.
Musk, one of the richest people on the planet, is known for his transphobic comments that he frequently shares on X. This is despite him having an openly trans daughter, who incidentally, has said that she no longer wishes to be related to him in ‘any shape or form.’
Aggarwal has just taken a leaf out of Musk’s book of spreading hate and shovelling one’s opinions down the throats of other people, without the self-awareness that comes with money and power in society.
Unfortunately, such men have become gatekeepers to our online lives. They determine what we see, what we consume, and in turn what we believe. One would think that these people with the power to influence millions of young minds would think before they speak. Aggarwal while tweeting should have thought about a closeted trans person working in Ola who will now not even think about coming out at work, for fear of their colleagues following the path their boss has clearly laid out for them- one of bigotry and queerphobia.
The shattering of the gender binary and the insistence of people to show their true selves are somehow slaps on the faces of successful cis-het men and they sure are fighting back.
The controversy has passed and Bhavish Aggarwal will continue to revel in his cathartic post-rant relief. He surely has learnt nothing, considering how a day after launching his war against pronouns, he re-tweeted a post about a woman ranting about how she was a ‘pregnant woman’ and not a ‘pregnant person’. This came on the heels of the Supreme Court noting that genders other than women can also bear children and thus ‘pregnant person’ is a more inclusive term. Bhavish Aggarwal has a problem with the apex court too.
But his words are now out there for thousands if not millions of young people to read and wonder- ‘Is he right? Should I remove my pronouns before applying for a job?’
Responsible dissemination of one’s views is what is required, but it remains an elusive dream while open hate speech against queer people and the usage of terms like ‘illness’ to describe them has become all the more real.
It is time for the ones in power to reconsider what they say and post because we, and most importantly, the keepers of history (or is it time we announced it as their-story) are watching.
Oh, and if you’re a new recruit at Ola Cabs, be sure not to reveal your pronouns lest you be branded as having caught the much dreaded ‘pronouns illness’.
Domestic spaces are often divided up between the custodians of the house, usually your parents or grandparents. Depending on the environment you were raised in, it is likely that different spaces in the home can invoke different emotions in you. This experience can be rooted in how you see/have witnessed your parents cultivating and interacting with these spaces, even if it were along the lines of gendered roles.
Credits: Jo (they/him)
The kitchen has been one such gendered space in many homes. While it might not be true for everyone, patriarchy demarcates the kitchen as a predominantly “feminine” space. Gendered spaces at home often become an enabler of the hetero-norm that goes on to further reproduce gender roles.
The problem with enforcing gender roles, especially on skills like cooking and navigating domestic work in the kitchen, is that we take away the opportunity from people to grow and develop interests in holistic ways. For example, if a person is raised as a boy and conditioned to express their masculinity (often assigned male at birth – AMAB) shows interest in cooking, it is often discouraged or they’re held back from taking active interest in these activities. But for a person who is raised a girl and conditioned to be feminine (often assigned female at birth – AFAB) being forced into learning cooking for the sake of their potential husband, it takes away their autonomy and excitement of trying something new for their own selves.
Speaking to young queer folx raised as girls, especially some who grew up in environments that encourage experimentation in the kitchen and promote cooking as a skill that would enable them to conduct their lives with a sense of agency, one speculated about the possibilities of fully degendering kitchen spaces.
MAKING SPACE:
For Subeksha (she/her) who grew up in Darjeeling, cooking was always a space that was dominated by her parents, making her see it as a parental space where adults would take charge and would only let her help with peeling rather than actual cooking. Even then, she had no particular interest in learning how to cook as she had other hobbies and academic interests to explore.
As for Jay (she/they), they did not like cooking for the simple reason that their kitchen was a small space and could not hold more than 2 people at a time. However, she enjoyed helping their grandmother cook in her spacious kitchen.
Sasha (name changed) (she/her) talked about how the kitchen space was more of an activity area for her. Even in a physically smaller house in Mumbai, she would be seated and playing with her own kitchen set next to her mom, who would spare some atta flour to make her kitchen set seem more legitimate.
ARE YOU A SURVIVOR CHEF OR EXPERIMENTING CHEF?
As many do in a rite of passage to adulthood, Subeksha moved out for college and was surrounded by roommates who eased her into cooking. She initially helped them by chopping, peeling and handing out things, and eventually learned her way to “survival cooking”. The pandemic was a time when she would spend time in her family kitchen experimenting “like a mad scientist” to recreate foods and satisfy her cravings. Jay, who has a similar philosophy, also learnt how to prepare recipes that they crave just to save money and make it whenever they want it.
Nikita (she/her) spoke to us about how her mom never taught her to cook, mainly since her mother also learnt how to cook after having kids. Also because her mom believes that she can learn it later in life if she needs it or just find a partner who can feed her. Nikita’s mom wanted to make sure that she is always focused on her academics and career rather than the domestic space. However, Nikita says that has always wanted to learn cooking as a basic skill and be able to survive on her own, but one of the obstacles she faces is finding a good teacher. Being neurodivergent, she needs a teacher who can supervise and teach recipes with detailed instructions.
Nikita Making Do With Packet Food Skills
On the other hand, there is Avi (name changed) (she/her), who works 12-16 hours at a cancer research lab in Navi Mumbai, has the option to purchase decent meals from her work cafe. For her, food is still just for survival and cooking is for emergencies, because it’s “too time & energy-consuming”. Avi adds that the only cooking related “lecture” she got from her parents was, “Pati ko rakh side pe, khud ko kya khilayegi?” (translates to: leave cooking for your husband aside, what will you feed yourself?).
FOOD FOR ME & YOU
Jo (they/him) shared how their PCOD (Poly-Cystic Ovarian Disorder) motivated him to learn cooking beyond just as a mere means for survival, and as a way to deal with cravings in a healthier way. They say that, going from living in a chawl and then with a joint family, one does not need to enter the kitchen much, as someone is always who can cook for you. But as an adult, making homely versions of their favorite foods not only helped them begin to enjoy cooking but also enabled them to start taking better care of their health.
Credits: Jo (they/him)
Sasha, talked about the ups and downs she experiences with respect to her body image and weight, and how it led to her starting a diet last year. But after getting tired of just eating bad food, she decided to work on cooking and eating what she likes, and fill in the nutritional gaps with newer recipes. But what mainly sparked her interest in the kitchen was coffee and her journey with experimenting with different brewing styles. Soon she also learnt to cook middle eastern food via Khayali Pulav’s YouTube videos, and started to have more fun with cooking. Sasha also thinks hosting is a big reason for why she loves cooking now.
A coincidental common thread between all of these strangers who have never interacted with one another, could be that their parents fostered a degendered space around cooking in the kitchen. Either allowing them to pursue it from a young age or allowing them to not take interest in it even as adults. Promoting a degendered environment for food, kitchen and cooking as a skill paves the way for many young adults to explore their lives outside of their gendered expectations.
On 7th of May, I went to the central school along with my family members to vote in the Lok Sabha elections for the first time ever. The voting booth happens to be about 10-15 minutes away from our apartment. I was eagerly looking forward to this day, not because I felt hopeful about being able to change our current regimen, but because of the possibility of people starting to look at me as an actual adult instead of endlessly infantilizing me. I thought it would make them realize that I, in fact, am old enough to participate in the decision-making process of this country.
I was allowed to directly go inside the polling room without having to stand in the line, since I’m physically disabled, and was accompanied by my parents who are both senior citizens. However, the presiding officer told us that they can not allow me to vote because we had not taken my PAN card, Aadhar card or any other legal documents for identity proof in lieu of my voter card, which itself has not arrived even though months have passed since we have applied for it. We were told that the paper tickets featuring our voter ID numbers from the election commission should be enough and that I would be allowed to vote even before the voter card arrives, because my name is already registered in the voter list.
I started feeling sensorially overwhelmed upon being told that I would not be allowed to vote. Even a tiny piece of thread sticking out of my skirt, tickling my leg felt overwhelming to me and I just wanted to sit down somewhere and take the thread out. So when the polling officers told my parents to go ahead cast their own votes, I asked the police officer if I could just sit down on one of the empty chairs in the room, but the officer didn’t even try to listen to what I was trying to say and forcefully grabbed my arm and told me to wait for my parents. And since I’ve always hated being held like that, my temper shot up and I angrily took my arm out of her hand and stomped to the empty chairs and sat down to take the thread out and calm myself down.
My mother walked towards me and asked if I had a pictures of any kind of photo-identity document on me, which they could use as identity proof. I offered to help search for it on her phone, but when I finally did find something, the presiding officer said that we can not use it because people aren’t even allowed to bring phones inside the polling room, another rule that no one bothered to tell us before because no one actually checked for phones anyway.
After both of my parents were done casting their votes, they told us to leave the room immediately, because the line was getting longer and we had to go sit in the waiting area since my sisters were still in the line. Refusing to give up, my mom decided to go find a Xerox shop to get the legal documents printed out from her phone, asking me to wait there with my dad.
While we were waiting, a man in an army uniform approached us and asked my dad if I was his daughter and if I could even read and write as if I was not sitting right next to my dad. Frustrated with being misgendered and disrespected like that, I tried to tell that man that I could do much more than just reading and writing, but the man just shrugged me off because he couldn’t understand what I was saying, or more like he didn’t even try to.
After a while, my mother came back to the waiting area with a worn-out look because all the shops were closed in the whole neighbourhood owing to the elections. Right when I was about to give up on my hopes completely, my dad got up and said that he would just go home and bring my aadhar card, while my sisters were still in the queue to vote.
As we were waiting for my dad to return, I vented to my mom about how they ought to explain the rules more carefully and my mom told me about how some of the people who were done casting their votes said that they were not even asked to show any type of identity proof, unlike me, which left me feeling insecure about my appearance and how much trouble my whole existence was causing to my parents. As I was just falling down the downward spiral, I started crying without even realising it. My mom noticed this and told me that I shouldn’t be crying about it because people were staring at which, I just snapped and said, “Let them think whatever they want.”
Oh no! You feel uncomfortable seeing a disabled person crying in a public place?? Think about what exactly pushed me to that point! Why should I care about the society when it doesn’t care about me?
Fortunately, I calmed down a bit after having a brief meltdown and got to cast my vote after my dad brought my aadhar card from home. Although I can undoubtedly say that I would not be able to forget about this day anytime soon, because of the emotional turmoil I had experienced on this day, I also learnt to completely disregard my anxieties regarding how I’m perceived in public.
As much as I am tired of being discriminated against for just being different from most people, I certainly am proud of myself for being able to toughen up and keep growing as a person.
I am an autistic grey aro ace masc lesbian. To me, my identities are like layer cakes with the foundation being rooted in my lesbianism. I had to make the cake reference; aces would know!* I’ve only been out of the closet for 3 years now and the reality is that I did not feel as alienated when I was in the closet. The belonging that I have felt in lesbian memes has been the biggest validation so far. However, I’ve also internalized the ‘date or hangout’ and ‘flirting or being nice’ culture so much that I have told myself I am supposed to be lost and not have clarity. Ironically, in most other circumstances, I see myself as someone who usually has a lot of clarity, but it does not work too well when that lesbian panic hits! Once I do find this clarity, I struggle to decide if I should continue wearing the ‘chaotic unclear lesbian’ mask or not? I turned 37 this month and being born in April the month of – autism acceptance, International ace day and lesbian visibility day – makes it all the more validating, am I right? Hell, no .. all I am acing at is that impostor syndrome!
For my polyamorous heart, intimacy and commitments do not mirror the social blueprints of allosexuality and amatonormativity. I approach relationships from a place of abundance – excited about the endless possibilities. To me, kink and eroticism is not (merely) sexual but a form of intimacy and I seek intimacy in all equations, especially platonic attractions. It was validating to read about Audre Lorde talking about erotic as the power as part of an aro-ace support group I went to. As much as there is the narrative of U-hauling in lesbian spaces, it feels unrelatable to me because I don’t even know If there are spaces that are accessible to me, which understand the way I seek out intimacy. Oftentimes I feel let down by those close to me, who have misunderstood me or my identity. I did not know that I would have to defend my identities as if it were a PhD thesis. I mean it is a disservice to not let an ace lesbian enjoy her layer cake in peace!
People often think that my being aro-ace means that I don’t feel anything at all or that I completely lack the experience of feeling attractions. This leads to them making unhelpful assumptions about me. A woman once assumed that I was unable to access and enjoy sexual pleasure due to internalised misogyny, clearly missed the brief that I am, in fact, a lesbian who is pleasure positive. Another acquaintance, who probably felt attracted to me, assumed that I might not feel the same way simply because I identify as aro ace. These assumptions are rather harmful to me and invisibilize my lesbian identity; let me do my lesbianism in peace, please! Despite the imposter syndrome that constantly whispers in my ear that I shouldn’t feel anything, I choose to be honest about my emotions when I know what I feel. The outcomes are not always fun and I am currently mourning the loss of a friendship where my ex-friend possibly thinks that I’ve betrayed her, but all I did was express emotions from wanting to feel loved by multiple people without having to centre someone else’s narrative.
There is so much pain in losing a sapphic equation that has been a deep friendship, filled with love and intimacy in a manner that I cherish. Would masking my feelings have saved me from this grief? Should I not shield myself from feeling anything for women and even expect reciprocation in non-mononormative terms? When, all I want is to be stepped on by them? In such instances I tell myself that all Sappho wrote was ‘love, attraction and desire for women’ and not whether said desire attraction and love was limited to romance or sexuality or something else entirely!
Since watching Carol last year, I have proclaimed myself to be Carol and Therese’s Child as in the movie, they end up reuniting on the 17th of April, the day I was born!
Masking feels familiar but it is also exhausting and soul-breaking when all you want is to find people who see you and want you for all that you are, in my case the soft sensitive butch snaccc hoe that I am!
*Editor’s Note: The Asexual Visibility and Education Network (AVEN) made cake the unofficial symbol of asexuality, because ace folx love to talk about how cake is better than sex! Not untrue!
Ola’s founder Bhavish Aggarwal, the wannabe Elon Musk (not a role model), recently posted his frustrations with pronouns on X. With the upcoming elections, the unrelenting heatwave, the ominous threat of nuclear war, widening wealth inequality and soaring food insecurity, you’d think this Indian startup stalwart and widely-renowned innovation dudebro would have more relevant concerns to share about the world, but this is what he chose to publicly throw a fit about.
We do wonder what it’s like to work alongside him every day of the week at Ola HQ (tip-offs welcome!). His tantrums were rooted in being referred to as “they” by an AI app and he denounced it as the “pronoun illness”, imported from the West. Earnest question: Is ride-hailing on smartphones indigenous to India? A quick search on Ola reveals pressing matters that Bhavish would do well to focus on.
Ola’s promising invention missing the mark:
The Mint reviews Ola’s Electic Scooter – Following the West too blindly, are we?
Forbes highlights how Bhavish’s aggressive marketing of the vehicle did not translate well when he sold the most number of shares in OFS.
Forbes on Aggarwal’s Astounding Confidence
Your eDgY hot takes are doing nothing to solve issues with your products or the culture at the workplace you’re building.
Aggarwal is expressive on X, but what goes on behind Ola doors?
5paisa, on “Why Ola Is Failing?”
For all the woke-averse startup bros speaking out in support of Bhavish, thanks for outing yourself as bigots. We’ll see you in June!
PS: check out Ola’s “celebration” of the LGBTQ community in past Pride Months, it doesn’t get more mechanical than this:
Let’s Celebrate “pronoun illness”Ola’s Pride Post on the Decriminalisation of 377, 2018
We hope you well soon, Jhanvi (on behalf of Gaysi Family)
He does it, right there in the hook section of the now globally-trending OTT release of “Heeramandi”; Sanjay Leela Bhansali announces that he is sticking to his own typical Bhansali Productions walla Gender politics on the screen. In the first episode, within the very opening scene is a transphobic dialogue exchange, they couldn’t even wait for the hook section to be complete. Following this is another in which Sonakshi Sinha’s character uses the derogatory word Khusra, complete with clapping to indicate that to be Khusra is the worst.
The hook section lets you know SLB is going to tell you a 20th century patriarchal story with Gender portrayed through a limited 21st century, Savarna male-gaze that by now we are all too painfully familiar with. Remember Padmavat and the glorification of Sati (custom of a Hindu widow burning herself to death or being burned to death on the funeral pyre of her husband) we doing that – now on OTT with Tawaifs. The final closing scenes of both films are thematically and, to an extent, visually similar in their glorification of feminine sacrifice for love and for the land.
I managed to binge through the entire show this past weekend. I happen to have a keen interest in the subject matter and the time period this film was set in, as I am currently researching it for another project. I have done a fair amount of research on the subject and firstly I am here to tell you that Heeramandi, does not actually get it entirely wrong all that much. In my opinion it does do some justice in showcasing the part that The Tawaif played within the freedom struggle.
It was honestly shocking and refreshing to see the acknowledgement of Muslims within the freedom struggle and also the incredible scene where Bibojaan (Aditi Rao Hydari) shoots a British Officer with a pistol while wearing a Burqa. In another scene, the Kalma is read out loud on screen upon the death of a Muslim freedom fighter. While, on the whole, the effect of the typical over-the-top feels will end up only playing into the otherization (and orientalisation) of Muslims, there seems to be some real efforts made here to incorporate a general Muslimness into the story and the freedom struggle.
The Blatant Transphobia and Homophobia and Heeramandi:
For me, like Vinay Nirmala said, the queer portrayal of it made me want to “abuse so f#$#ing much.” It was the same old done-to-death bollywood portrayal of queer characters. Geet observed that the whole Ustaad character is just problematic. Ustaad is either intersex, transgender or a cisgender gay man, none of which is clarified, and also I think the difference between the three is entirely lost on the filmmakers. Ustaad is a sort of pimp in this world, I say sort of, because pimps were seen quite differently during this time period. They are shown as duplicitous, snake-like and untrustworthy.
Meera Singhania put it very eloquently, “It’s a very “oriental”, colonial trope to look at queer characters.” It portrays it’s queer characters and also queer love, through the colonists lens of victorian morality. The British are the ones who passed the Criminal Tribes Act and pushed this idea that transgender folks are horrible, disgusting and criminal. And today folks like Sanjay Leela Bhansali continue to portray us as seen through that colonized portrayals on screen.
In two instances Sanjay Leela Bhansali uses Queer sex on screen to build a certain character profile. The way he does it ends up stigmatizing queer love within the existing stereotypes. As somehow unnatural. In one scene SLB needs us to begin to dislike this British officer, Cartwright, who is to be one of our main antagonists going forth. How does he do it? By showing this british officer to seemingly rape Ustaad. We never see any other intimate scene in the entire show with the character Ustaad. In this scene the queer sex is used as a device to build negative associations. In another scene we see Fareedan (Played brilliantly by Sonakshi Sinha) about to sleep with a woman, and here this scene is shown to build both Fareedans’s duplicitous nature, and sort of “femme fatale” like character.
And with Sanjay Leela Bhansali this is something of a habit, we’ve seen him present transphobic transgender characters before like Razia Bai in Gangubai Kathiawadi and Malik Kafur (a real historical figure) in Padmavaat.
The Whole Memoirs of a Geisha of it all
Besides the homophobia and transphobia, what is also annoyingly frustrating for me, is just how shallow and male gaze-y it gets with gender politics. It’s the whole Memoirs of a Geisha of it all it it’s treatment of The Tawaif culture.
Sampada Sharma wrote for Indianexpress, “It may appear as though these women are being celebrated but they are treated like sacrificial lambs who are made to believe that their sacrifices have some kind of meaning.
Bhansali makes the idea of ‘sacrifice’ appear noble, without actually inspecting how these women are being tortured over and over again, and never reaching any point of salvation. There was a time in Indian cinema, when female characters were portrayed as bechari abhla naaris’. The female characters in the alpha-male movies existed as wives or sisters or mothers, and were there only to serve the men of the story. They were repeatedly taught to sacrifice themselves for their family, and society but then we moved forward. Female characters started getting independent, having more agency and were not just seen from the lens of the male characters of the story, and as audience, we loved that change. Much like the women, men too started evolving in the movies but now it’s starting to feel like the clock is turning back.”
When you read about the Tawaif through Sabah Dewans’ gaze in ‘Tawaifnama’ (a Muslim women), or Ruth Vanita’s gaze in ‘Dancing with the Nation’ (a transgender woman) there is so much more to it. The truths, the joys, the pain, the struggle and most importantly the empathy. Their works seem to always come back to bringing focus to THE PATRIARCHY THE PATRIARCHY THE PATRIARCHY.
Sabah Dewan is a Documentary film-maker. Her documentaries and books have focused on issues of gender, sexuality and culture. The Mint said of her book, ‘As a historical text, it is a feat. Dewan bridges generations of private memories with public archives to compile a thorough and tender account of tawaif life. Most significantly she approaches –and pay attention to this – a 20th century culture with the nuance of 21st culture gender politis.’ – Mint
Somehow when you read Madhur Gupta (leading odissi dance Maestro) Courting Hindustan, or for that matter my much beloved Umrao Jaan Ada by Ruswa (male poet, born in the year that Kingdom of avadh collapsed) or its onscreen Indian or Pakistani renditions (yes two exists and I’ve watched em both) – Much like Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s brand new Heeramandi – they all almost never seem to call out the Patriarchy or even gender as a social construct as these other feminine and feminist gazes.
That’s my fascination with the subject in case you were wondering. The Tawaif, the Hijra and The Khawaja Sira all existed at the same time in our collective South Asian history.
They all inhabited gender in a very interesting way, and really a way that we have not seen since in our lands. The Tawaif like The Geisha existed within patriarchal societies where their entire reason to be seems to be to inhabit GENDER in a generationally learned and intentional manner publicly. To socially perform the construct GENDER. They had involvement with spirituality and religious festivals, culture and performance arts, and education. Some of them were cultural stalwarts of their time, and for various reasons were known by a lot of folks. Albeit I would gather given class and caste differences within the larger population that inhabited these lands, you would be surprised to know that you didn’t have to know too many to be famous. I mean I’m sure these days just the Instagram followers of Shaikh Khushi would quadrupole or more, idk, I suck at math – the number of “followers” that Begum Hazrat Mahal ever had in the time that she was alive for instance.
The issue for me, and also annoyance, is It is unlikely that Sanjal Leela Bhansali or Muzaffar Ali (Umrao Jaan) in their renditions of Tawaif cultures ever intend to bringing your attention to oppressiveness nature of performative gender in Patriarchal systems. On contraire SLB seems to want to continue to celebrate the sacrificial women.
There are films that do justice, where we have seen women who we can relate to and aspire to be. More often than not, like Dahaad, Lipstick under my Burkha, Bhakshak and Lapataa Ladies writers are mostly women or co-written by women. Now I’m not saying that men can’t inhabit the feminine gaze, there are surely some examples for that like Anubhav Sinha for Thappad. But more often than not like Sampada Sharma points out these days it’s starting to feel like the clock is turning back – The Pushpas, KGFs and the Animals of the last few years have brought back the alpha-man and Heeramandi has brought back the sacrificing woman, which isn’t a cause for celebration.
I have to ask:
Answer me honestly, would you say after watching Heeramandi, that Sanjay Leela Bhasali – Music, Direction, Screenplay – approached a 20th century complex patriarchal culture with the nuance of 21st culture gender politics.’
Just move over and make some space please, why thank you very much.
I write this article with a lot of trepidation because, firstly I do not want to hijack a space that isn’t mine and secondly because I am myself work in progress, and call myself a “savarna in rehab”.
Much like the handful of people born in an oppressor caste-community, who are unlearning their caste biases and taking a massive U-turn from the values handed to them at birth, I too have had to cultivate a completely different set of values for myself. This included reading and learning to become self-aware, and taking everything said by most people in the community that I was born into, with a pinch of salt.
Nobody was born politically correct and neither am I. I do not want to sound “Holier than Thou” because I’ve had my share of brazen mistakes. I am writing this article because there’s only one thought in my head. If not now, when?
To the uninitiated, Rohith Vemula was a hard working and intelligent Dalit student who cracked the entrance exams conducted by the University of Hyderabad in the first attempt. He studied there under a rightful scholarship. He had witnessed the casteism faced by his mother (and he would face it too) right from his childhood, and this made him stand up to the barbaric caste system.
Rohith raised issues related to caste apartheid on campus under the banner of the Ambedkar Students Association (ASA). During his tenure as a PhD scholar at the University of Hyderabad, the university stopped paying him his stipend of Rs 25,000 because of his protests against the caste system and this later escalated into a suspension; all a casteist charade organized by oppressor caste students who could not appreciate his efforts to end the inhuman caste system.
His suicide note reads, “The value of a man was reduced to his immediate identity and nearest possibility. To a vote. To a number. To a thing. Never was a man treated as a mind. As a glorious thing made up of stardust. In every field, in studies, in streets, in politics, and in dying and living…” Rohith’s poignantly worded letter was also alluded to in the title of the movie, “Natchathiram Nagargiradhu” (translates to: The Stars are Aligning) directed by Pa Ranjith.
A few days ago, there was an another casteist attempt to butcher Rohith’s legacy as cops who attempted to close the case related to his institutionalized murder by claiming that Rohith lied about his caste and committed suicide to hide it. This was blatantly ignorant of the trauma that Rohith and scores of other Dalit-Bahujan-Adivasi (DBA) students continue to face in educational institutions. After facing the wrath of public outrage, the case has been reopened by Telangana’s Director General of Police and reinvestigation is underway. If anything, these events highlight that attempts are on to reduce Rohith “to his nearest identity…” even in his death.
If this case of institutional murder does NOTHING to wake us Savarna queers up, then it is time for an ugly reminder or two,
1. LGBTQIAP+ people, especially from caste Oppressed backgrounds, from the Hijra community, Aravani and Kothi communities and more are systemically restricted from educational institutions, and face institutionalized violence that goes unchecked in these spaces.
2. Many of us LGBTQIAP+ people are yet to be sensitized on the matter of caste, and acknowledge our privilege within the community when we come from Savarna natal families.
WILL WE EVER DISCUSS RAINBOW CASTEISM?
The Mumbai Pride march this year that happened in February recorded a shameful turn of events when members of the Humsafar Trust – a part of the Mumbai Queer Pride Collective, that organized pride – were called out for disallowing Ambedkarite Queers from sloganeering the name of the visionary Dr. Ambedkar. There were attempts to seize the posters of Dr. Ambedkar that Ambedkarite queers carried along.
To the uninitiated, Babasaheb Ambedkar as he is fondly known as, wasn’t just an anti-caste activist, but an ardent feminist and a queer rights ally. YES, THAT’S RIGHT. He represented Dr. Karve in court when the latter was tried for writing affirmingly about non-heteronormative relationships. He referred to Havelock Ellis’s research & literature to defend his argument and stated that homosexuality is an absolutely human experience. It can never be denied that he upheld our rights before pride was even a thing in India.
When I shared a story on my Instagram, asking *interested* respondents to narrate incidents of discrimination within the LGBTQ+ community, many people willingly reached out to me stating that they had faced casteism. This article is to point out jarring discrepancies within the community, biases that could even have been my own.
Srishti, a non-binary person belonging to a marginalized caste, mentioned incidents of overlapping oppression – queerphobia and casteism. They gave an in-depth feedback on how strongly “rainbow casteism” has impacted them. In their own words, “there is not much difference between cisgender straight Savarna (oppressor caste) people and queer oppressor caste people. The groupism and exclusion of caste marginalized people is just given a rainbow tint. Queerness gives no one miraculous brownie points to be a better person. Like cis het people don’t acknowledge straight cisgender privilege, in the same token, Savarna LGBTQ people are yet to acknowledge their caste privilege. This results in disagreements such as on reparative action and reservation, which made me ultimately stay away from pride events.”
INTER-TRANS* NUANCES
Recently, a well-known trans content creator posted a reel on their gram with another queer friend, shot on a local train in Mumbai. The initial caption read, “tum katora leke aao, hum camera leke aayenge…” (you bring the begging bowl, we will bring the camera). The reel drew a lot of flak for using the marginalization of the Hijra community for the purposes of clout-chasing and garnering social media views. Many trans women called out the content creator for their lack of class awareness and understanding of the lives of the Hijra community. One comment by Vinnie read out, “I feel ashamed…if you celebrate your queerness by flashing your UC privilege in the eyes of the ones without privilege, your queerness is of no use…”. Vinnie also had a lot to bring to the table in terms of elitism – “It is funny to see people at bourgeois venues talk of acceptance when they themselves don’t acknowledge their privilege. I’ve been to events where my makeup was judged by a highly successful make-up artist without even realizing that I don’t have the privilege to buy expensive makeup…”
Kalvi, an Aravani Kothi trans woman, had similar experiences. “When I left home, I pinched one of my mother’s sari for sentimental value and wore it at pride, only to get judged and mocked. The condescending attitude borne for socio-cultural identities who don’t speak English is appalling…”
UNDERSTANDING THE OVERLAP OF LGBTQ+ AND CASTEISM
The other day, a close family member was dissing reservations in educational institutions teaching medicine. This personally hit me, because all the doctors who put me through unethical medical treatment and queerphobia belonged to oppressor caste, who may not have gotten in through affirmative action, but had considerable generational privilege that held them up instead. The reason they could put me and many others through queerphobia is because their caste location teaches them to do this.
It is this same caste that allowed the rapists at Hathras, the rapists of Bilkis Banno, and many others to never face accountability for their actions. It’s because of this casteism that a person can change her name, age and identity and lie about having a deadly disease like cancer to fleece money from other queer persons.
On the question of reservations, horizontal reservations are the pressing need of the hour to guarantee trans people equal opportunity in arenas they currently have little access to. This includes the field of medicine. What is now a casteist statement will tomorrow be a Transphobic statement, if horizontal reservations are indeed created for trans* and intersex people belonging to the DBA community. Savarna LGBTQ+ people need to wake up and smell the coffee. We need to analyze the similarities that exist between casteist marginalization faced by caste oppressed people and those that happen against marginalized sections within the trans community.
Recently, I went through the twitter account of plenty of Oppressor caste doctors who announced themselves as “unreserved” proudly. I saw their views regarding the LGBTQ community and it was putrid to say the least.
Plenty of times in life, we have been presented with evidence of how Casteism and queerphobia intersect. These are different forms of oppression, definitely, but there exist people who face both, and many a time, at the hands of a common oppressor.
Think of all the LGBTQ+ victims of violence. Has any one of them got justice? Arvey Malhotra’s mother still runs pillar to post seeking justice for her late child. Pranshu was bullied by 4000+ people on social media. Not one of them is in jail. And as if that’s not enough, the dastardly Trans “Protection” Act of 2019 has mentioned that the punishment for the assault of a trans person is imprisonment of “not less than six months, but which may extend to two years with a fine.” This is much less than the punishment for rape under the Indian Penal Code (IPC), which is imprisonment of “not less than seven years but which may be for life or for a term which may extend to ten years and shall also be liable for fine.”
This reflects a systemic lack of accountability. The brunt of such blatant transphobia is borne most brazenly by those who are homeless and face additional forms of discrimination, like casteism.
According to a report by the Centre for Law and Policy Research, statistically,
1. It was Dalit trans people who underwent most amount of violence in educational institutions and were especially susceptible to sexual harassment at work, as it has been attested to by 33 % reporting various brutal forms of sexual assault and harassment at work.
2. 23 % of Dalit transgender persons have faced invasive, inhumane forms of abuse when seeking help from the police, including but not limited to denuding and stripping.
3. The most limitations in terms of accessing public transportation facilities have also been made faced by Dalit trans people, and this has also included vital public spaces – parks (50 per cent), police stations (46 per cent) and government hospitals (43 per cent).
Erasure is an intersectional form of prejudice which ruins the existence of multiple identities in its wake.
Rohit Vemula, and every other anti caste activist was, is and will always be relevant to the LGBTQ+ Community as well. Pride and LGBTQ+ rights can never be solely along the lines of “love is love”. It has to widen the scope of discussion to include discourse around Casteism, led by caste marginalized individuals.
I understand and completely admit to the irony that I, an Oppressor caste queer person, am speaking about this. My inner feeling of graveness, my inability to process the caste-apathy in the community, and my own need to take accountability for myself and use my limited reach to make more people aware of Rohit Vemula made me pen this article. There is this crushing embarrassment of the acknowledgement that this same article may not have received the same reaction had it been penned by an Ambedkarite queer, or even cis het individual. As a lay person, I observe the abuse on social media when an Ambedkarite individual discusses their lived experiences. When a Savarna person talks of casteism they get praised for wokeness, but when the same discussion is led by an Ambedkarite individual, it is led by admonishment. That’s the very difference (that right aligned queers don’t get) between Ramanuja discussing caste and Babasaheb doing it. Only one of them got brownie points, no prizes for guessing who. And only one of their legacy lives on in the LGBTQ community – again, no prizes for guessing who – it’s only Babasaheb Ambedkar.
I’m not a card-carrying member of the community. I’ve never been to Pride (the horror), I don’t run rainbow marathons, and I simply don’t talk about my queerness as an Indian man on the internet. While I’m perfectly happy to pay due deference to the dick, I’ve come to realize that I struggle with the “pride” part of the concept.
At the very end of my date with a lovely gay bespectacled man, an activist in every sense of that word, he leaned in for a kiss and asked me if I had come out to my parents already.
Do I tell him the truth, hoping with all my heart that he agrees to a second date, or do I go the easier route? Make a joke about my parents being progressive— barring the routine Islamaphobia— and how they’re hoping that this is merely a phase in the life of their left-leaning, liberal son. With time, your political leanings will change, and so will your lack of interest in marriage. With time, you will change.
He laughs, and I do too. I don’t know why I lied. I just knew that I had to. Luckily for both of us, he was forced to give me a quick kiss, saved by the incessant rings from a helpful Uber driver. Thank you, Manjunath.
I have a second date this Sunday and a tonne of guilt.
My queer journey isn’t a surprising one. I have always known that my interest in the cover picture of Jockey Boxers was unusual, and I was convinced that the right girl would be able to change this. It is probably why I asked the same girl out twice in school, varying strategies, choices of medium, and different wardrobes. For the readers wondering, she said no twice. However, asking her out, and the failed attempts were necessary for the role I was auditioning for. It’s far easier for boys to relate to rejection versus a perceived lack of interest in the “opposite sex”. To be one of the boys is all about mathematics, really. You calculate how many seconds you held someone’s hand, the number of Mississippis a hug lasts for, the acceptable number of shots of cheap Old Monk you down before you express how hot you found Akshay Khanna, the number of jokes you make objectifying women, and the excruciating detail of the porn you watch. It’s funny, now that I think about it, but cishet boys spend so much time discussing each other’s sex lives, that there is a veneer of homoeroticism to the whole conversation. But, to get back to my point, it’s a performance. There is a script to follow. One misspoken line, one touch too long, one glance in the wrong direction, and you’re out. It’s Survivor in a high school in a small town in Tamilnadu. For those unfamiliar with this staple of American television, Survivor is a reality TV show in the US that pits a bunch of great-looking strangers against each other, because the only way to win is to prevent yourself from being voted out by the group. Just like in Survivor, I felt compelled to pretend, even when I was being unbearable, to never lose the costume. Just like in Survivor, while everyone seems so different in the beginning, homogeneity seemed to be the goal. Just like in Survivor, I focused on building alliances, with people who would have my back, faking authenticity and vulnerability. Slowly, the disguise merged with my skin.
Fortunately, I’ve always been good at games and never did lose. At least, it felt like I won.
Recently, I’ve been wondering if I’ve been wrong about the rules of the game.
What my experience growing up taught me is that my queerness did not have to be a big deal, so I chose to consciously minimize it. Even when I came out to my sister, it was over text. I sent her a message, with little to no context. “Btw. I’m bi. I just thought you should know”. For someone who’s chronically online, she took some time to respond. When she did reply, she said, “Please tell me you meant bipolar? At least, we have drugs to deal with that”.
We share a history of mental illness, and in any moment of heaviness to do with my queerness, I laugh when I think about coming out to my sister. It was easy, it was comforting, and it gave me the courage to tell more people. I have now repeated the story quite a few times, but I spare them the details; a superficial declaration of my sexuality tossed into the conversation like an unnecessary garnish. I have a fulfilling career, a tightly-knit circle of friends, strong political opinions, and sufficient familial drama to make for a great conversation. We could talk about everything under the sun. Except for my queerness, of course.
And, if I’m being very honest, there are perks to this indifference. Marginalization is not something you leave in a small town. If you’re not a rich, well-educated, well-networked queer man, Bangalore is not easy to navigate. I know of many people who’ve been attacked on Grindr dates, men impersonating police officers to ‘catch’ gay couples, and queer folks who’ve been at the harm of physical violence merely for walking on the roads. Let me make this clear: I’m not one of these people. I come from privilege, speaking with certain fluency in English and Kannada that is comforting to police officials and boring corporate gays alike. However, the fear is so persistent, of both violence and of rejection. Not of my body, but my humanity. I know better than to be openly queer. I know better than to wear a gorgeous Kalamkari print and walk on my streets. I know better than to kiss a man on the roads, even if it is just the right moment to make a move. I know better than to even look a man in the eye for too long.
I sometimes wish I didn’t know better.
When I moved to Bangalore, I had my heart broken by multiple women, and engaged in multiple clandestine, sexually intimate relationships with men. Everywhere I turned, dating a man was often done in secrecy, if not, you were a queer activist. There is no in-between. So, I did what I thought was best. I would often go on dates with young and old men, have a lovely time, and on the third date, tell them I’m moving cities. My friends often joke that my unofficial policy is to only date men outside state lines. I wanted my queerness to be a party trick, purely for the entertainment of straight people, a palatable form of expression that excluded the visibility of love, heartbreak, pain, anger, and the sheer confusion of loving a man. It’s one thing to try and convince people of a delusion you want them to share with you, to buy into your schtick. It is quite another thing to let yourself be taken in, shaping your personality through these small lies. I have got to the point where the lines are blurred, and I’m worried that I won’t be able to find my way out.
I think I’m ashamed.
Shame is not a feeling that I strongly resonate with. I’m fairly confident, very extroverted, so loud, annoyingly energetic, and perpetually in love with my job and my friends. But it’s impossible to deny shame when it rears its head every single time I think about leading a life with a man.
In the past, I have always given myself permission to fall in love with unavailable people. Women who’ve never had crushes before, women whose only allegiance was to the Lord Jesus Christ, men who were straight (never doing that again), and queer partnered men who lived 10,000 miles across the Atlantic ocean. You can see the pattern. I’ve made it a practice to fall for people whose absolute lack of interest would always cushion my fall.
I recently messaged the lovely gay activist who made me blush and cooked me dinner. I told him that things simply weren’t working out for me and that we’ll have to take a break. He was kind and understanding, making this message so much harder to send. I’ve been thinking a lot about what put me off exploring this relationship:
He has a dog that was fairly clingy and fought for his attention more than I did.
He didn’t ask me enough questions about myself. Am I not interesting enough?
He’s an elder queer, with far more experience dating, with far more experience in bed.
He’s an activist
He’s an activist
He seemed to be able to pierce through a fairly well-put-together story of why I don’t date. He quickly pieced together a naivety that made me feel so seen. So juvenile. So inexperienced. So defensive. So ashamed.
When I broke things off with him, I reached out to friends with the list. I knew I wasn’t looking for opinions and suggestions. I had already made up my mind. I wanted validation that this was not a high-stakes decision to make, that it didn’t matter. I did not want to regret missing out on an incredibly fulfilling relationship with a gorgeous man and his lovely poodle just because I was afraid that I was being seen, in all the glory of my shame.
What is the price of searching for love while finding it harder to love yourself?
I’ve spent so much time denying this humanity in me, that shame has started to room in the same place as my heart, hidden, being stowed away in the dark. Shame isolates. Shame makes you feel so alone in your experience that it becomes necessary to rationalize its survival. Otherwise, the loneliness is all-consuming. My story is not unique, it isn’t even so tragic, but I’ve always felt this incredible loneliness in my body, in my being, and in my love. I was convinced that I had tricked every single person in my life, and I had done it well enough to find so much support and community that I wanted to continue doing this forever.
To give credit to a younger me, I think I’ve played a decent game, having survived this far with my self-esteem and self-worth intact. However, I cannot help but wonder if there is an alternate universe I could have explored, an opportunity to grow into the person I am today without having to hide such an integral part of my being. I don’t just like dicks, I also love the men who come with them. I want to be with a man who is kind, loves public transport, can read Tamil fluently, and is willing to listen to me drone about the importance of sunscreen. Being in love openly is a public declaration of my humanity and I am disappointed that I struggle to do this and that for twenty-five years, I have never been brave enough to try.
I have a date this Sunday with an anarcho-communist I met on a dating app, and I’ve only been talking about him.
Will he be kind?
Will my friends like him? He says “Yeeee”, instead of “Yes”
Will he hate that I like pretty expensive things?
He lives 25 kilometers away. In Bangalore terms, isn’t that a long-distance relationship?
The Artificial Reproductive Technology act was passed by the Indian Parliament in December 2021. It effectively banned commercial surrogacy and promote altruistic surrogacy. The act defines altruistic surrogacy as a process where the intending couple doesn’t pay for anything apart from the surrogate’s expenses and her insurance.
As per the law, an intending couple is defined as – a married, heterosexual, infertile couple of 5 years (the husband is to be between 26 to 55 years of age, and the wife between 23 to 50) with no prior children.
“The surrogacy bill as it now stands needs to be repealed. I’m not saying that it should not be regulated, but in its current form the bill does nothing more than impose a Victorian morality on the people by excluding not only queer folks but also single parents. By removing the commercial component, the exploitation won’t stop. Rather the risk of exploitation will increase. When a bill that is supposed to protect reproductive liberty and autonomy does everything but that, including criminalising it” says Rohin Bhatt, a queer rights activist and a legal bioethics scholar at Harvard.
The bill also has several arbitrary tests for infertility and necessary certifications that are at odds with the WHO definition of infertility.
This definition not just leaves out the queer community and limits the possibility of couples from conceiving, but also works on a bigoted assumption that exploitation of reproductive labour through commercial surrogacy is a practice limited to only queer people and single parents.
Operating on such an assumption is not only exclusionary in nature but also prevents the law from providing protection to surrogates from exploitation they may face. It also sets dangerous precedents for different laws regarding adoption.
There has been a long history of governments trying to bar queer couples from surrogacy. Russia, Nigeria are amongst some countries that not only banned surrogacy for same sex couples but also banned foreign same sex couples from adopting from their countries.
Apart from this, the bill also increases the danger of underground surrogacy clinics popping up by criminalising commercial surrogacy. As has been observed in countries worldwide, banning surrogacy has never led to a decline in exploitation, but has actually increased surrogate deaths by creating a huge underground, unregulated market instead. Viewing surrogacy as altruistic instead of as reproductive labour is also short-sighted and displays a clear lack of understanding of it on the government’s part.
The surrogacy bill seems to be yet another puritanical and moralistic bill that uses social good as a shield to cover its more insidious agenda.
In the blurb to “Queering the Countryside: New Frontiers in Rural Queer Studies”, there is a sentence which, despite talking about rural queerness in America, applies just as much to the UK.
“Rural queer experience is often hidden or ignored, and presumed to be alienating, lacking, and incomplete without connections to a gay culture that exists in an urban elsewhere.”
The book, an intriguing read that shares the perspective of rural queerness in other countries, caught my attention and given my experience, is likely going to be on my To-Be-Read for the future.
This sentiment, while not the experience of everyone on the LGBTQIA+ spectrum who lives rurally, sums up the main issues with being queer in rural areas. Add to that the extra element of disability, and you get the perfect cocktail of inaccessibility to queer spaces, with people in this demographic feeling locked out of their own community.
So, what would you count as rural? Yes, a lack of infrastructure and facilities but also rurality relates to the little villages in the countryside, often forgotten about by administrative bodies and councils, as they focus on towns and cities.
The problem surrounding queer spaces in rural areas is twofold; firstly, while they may exist, they are often inaccessible for people with disabilities by public transport. Secondly, due to this lack of attendance, it’s particularly hard to sustain.
Several studies, including those from the University of Cambridge and the Office for National Statistics, have found a clear link between neurodivergent conditions and queerness. With such a strong link between neurodivergence and queerness, so much so that 40% of the queer community has some sort of disability, it is shocking to me that there is still not a single fully accessible queer space in the UK.
Reports into this intersection and the problems they face note a number of issues, which, despite provisions within the Equality Act 2010, persist without enthusiasm for change. For those not in the UK, the Equality Act is a piece of legislation which, in theory, makes it illegal to discriminate on the basis of protected characteristics, i.e. disability, sexuality and gender identity. This results in a lack of facilities like step-free access, and in queer bars and clubs, accessible spaces are being used for storage without a shred of consideration. Where there aren’t facilities, it is often because buildings were built before legislation regarding disability-based discrimination was introduced in 1995; however, not always.
As someone with epilepsy, I feel for others in queer spaces with my condition, whose seizures are often triggered in these spaces by the consistent use of strobe lights for ‘atmosphere’. Not a problem I face myself; however, unlike in other contexts, such as cinemas and eating places, there is no appetite to provide regular provision of disability-friendly events, where sensory stimulus, often the heart of queer spaces, is reduced.
Throw into the mix the complication of living rurally, and you might as well give up on having permanent, accessible queer spaces at all. Along with the stereotypes of being one of the only queer people in the village (thanks to Little Britain), independence and mobility in these areas are lacking, meaning that even if there is the smallest amount of provision for disabled people who fall under the LGBTQ+ umbrella, the likelihood of being able to access it without arranging support, often posing another challenge, is slim.
For the average disabled person who is also queer in rural areas of the UK, this adds up to a number of additional steps to take: finding out if it is at all possible to get there and back by public transport, relying on family or friends, who may have conflicting and packed schedules, or arranging potentially costly support to take you to such events and venues. From my own experience, I am reliant on family or, if I’m lucky with timings, the bus that passes through my neighborhood only four or five times a day. If it’s on Sunday, although unlikely, public transport does not exist to get into town at all.
Some of the common stereotypes perpetuated are like the one around being the ‘village gay’ (or bi or pan or whatever). I, myself, am the village pan, and yes, often they are, at least, somewhat realistic. There is also a certain amount of erasure when it comes to rural queerness – a belief that we simply do not exist. Furthermore, much of the sensitized media currently in existence about rural queerness focuses on the US, leaving the UK without an example of what is accurate, perpetuating stereotypes.
Furthermore, it is argued that much of queer identity is entrenched in urban culture, complicating “dominant models of queer identity”, perhaps the root of the lack of acceptance and consideration in rural areas, cutting out the voice of disabled queerness apart from in exceptionally rare circumstances.
In 2021, the Museum of English Rural Life aimed to challenge the persistent connection of urbanness to queerness; however, it found that while there were attempts to normalise rural queer narratives, urban spaces are much more compatible with the community and, too, the disabled community. It is often the case that the challenges with accessing queer spaces as a person with disabilities fade, to an extent, in urban spaces, due to the concentration of funding for access being focused on cities. Because the rural, disabled queer doesn’t exist, right?
This is the attitude taken by many decision-makers because the typical tropes of queer identity are intrinsically linked to urbanity. Further, while based on American statistics, the likelihood of disability is higher in rural areas, where the further disabling effect of rurality leads to decreased mobility and travel. Looking at this through a social model lens, there is a real need for a flip in thinking about accessibility to queer spaces.
Paul Ruiz of the University of Delaware, proposes that starting in the mid-twentieth century, queer spaces were created by the community in spaces where their apparently deviant lifestyles were sheltered from the rest of the city; a sort of anonymity which was enshrined in queer culture, hence the urban link. Nevertheless, this left the narratives of those who are queer in rural or countryside spaces with little voice or opportunity, despite which there was no intention to exclude them intentionally.
Aside from queer spaces, there is the unfortunate effect that having Disability Pride Month (July) right after LGBT Pride Month (June) has, although not in relation to rurality. As someone who fits into both, I hold both with equal importance, even if others do not; however, the perception is that Disability Pride Month must take a back seat. Perhaps this is because LGBT Pride Month is more established than Disability Pride Month; the former was founded in 1994, and the latter in 2015. While there was, for many years, a Disability Pride Day on the anniversary of the passing of the Americans with Disabilities Act being passed into law, it did not have the global reach it needed.
The problem with one after the other is that particularly for those who fall into both minorities, although arguably this applies to everyone, that after LGBT Pride Month, everyone is ‘prided out’, so to speak. With little energy left, it is no wonder that Disability Pride Month does not receive the attention it deserves.
The intersection of the two, a place where I fall, is a tricky balancing act. It is, in the end, a fight between the Pink and the Purple Pound. While the Purple Pound, the spending power of people with disabilities in the UK, is worth more (£249 billion a year to the UK economy), it also costs more to rural businesses and venues to make their premises fully accessible to the disabled market. The Pink Pound (worth £6 billion a year to the UK economy – the estimated spending power of queer folx in the UK) requires little adaptation, and as such, it is far easier, particularly in rural businesses with lesser footfall, to cater for a market that requires little investment and is easier to attract.
That’s what it comes down to in rural areas; a matter of funding and footfall and, to an extent, fanfare due to the niche space being disabled and queer takes up, attracting little mainstream attention. . The queer community attracts more business, while being both disabled and queer is, perhaps, seen as being too complicated for many rural venues and business owners to cater to.
Trigger warning – mentions of ableism, fatphobia, neurodivergent shaming
Do you believe the saying that all oppression is connected? I’d like to share a personal story that validates the fact that oppression and bigotry doesn’t happen selectively in silos. There was this gay friend from Pune whom I have known for many years as a family friend since childhood, and even before he came out as gay. He was recently attending Pune Pride.
Now in Pune, there are not one but two Pride marches. One of them is organized by Bindu Queer Rights Foundation (BQRF) and Yutak, and the theme is traditional, prescribing Indian “family-friendly” attire. The other march is organized by Qutcast and Mist LGBTQ, and is liberal and allows for a healthy display of consensual kink and drag.
The differences don’t end there. The pride organizers at BQRF encourage marchers to discuss only topics related to LGBTQ rights whereas Qutcast and Mist LGBTQ recognize the intersectional nature of queer rights and makes space for marchers showing solidarity with Palestine and those affected by religion and caste-based atrocities, while carrying placards prompting the smashing of Brahmnical patriarchy and more.
My gay friend is a proud gay man inclined towards right-wing politics. He also engaged in some “both-sidism” between TERFS and Trans* people, which found him a special place on all my blocklists – I’ve blocked him even on Pinterest.
However, this story is from before I blocked him in 2021. He had attended the Pride march organized by BRQF wearing a dhoti and kurta, after having gained an ENORMOUS amount of weight – in his own words – upon returning home to Pune. He was marching with his “Love is Love ” placard when someone behind him called him a “saand” (buffalo in Hindi) and asked him to move out of their way. He also had a hard time maneuvering the dhoti along with the placard and that affected his gait. Two other gay guys were like, “Abe langde dhoti pehenke chalna nahi aata to pehenke kyun aata hai…” (“If you don’t know how to walk wearing a dhoti, then why did you wear one…?” Also Langda is an ableist slur for a mobility-challenged person).
My (ex)-friend who wanted a “pronoun-free, non-woke” Pride march ranted to me for 20 minutes nonstop about what he faced. I just gave a long pause and was like, “I wonder how you don’t get the irony here….” That’s all I said. And then I hung up. He didn’t get it even after that Pride, which is why he received a grand, red carpet entry into my block list.
Pride marches and events that aren’t for everyone are a façade. They are just dress-up parties that do not serve the purpose of liberation that Pride marches began with. People who attend and support such mockeries of pride are not only doing the spirit of pride a disservice, but also to their own selves.
THIS is what privileged queer people don’t understand. If they cut the branch that Dalit and Adivasi queer people, Muslim queer people, Trans, non-binary and gender variant people are sitting on, they will also fall in the process. Nothing can sum it up better than the meme below.
I have had my own share of undesirable moments at Pride as well. As a neurodivergent trans*-person who experiences both gender dysphoria and dysmorphia, Pride marches sometimes let me down. My journey to self-acceptance has been like doing the cha-cha-cha. One step front and god knows how many steps back. Till date I can’t look at a full length mirror without cribbing about how fucked up my gendered and flawed body is. It has taken a lot of breaking down, therapy and self-recorded pep talks to get to where I am today. Of course, discovering that I’m autosexual also helped.
My neurodivergence adds to body language that is considered publicly awkward. As an autistic ADHD person, I stim a lot. I do repetitive actions that help me manage anxiety. I randomly flap my hands when I talk, I keep twirling as I talk, I flick my fingers a lot, I crack my knuckles like crazy. I am very fidgety. If something gets my attention, I randomly stare at it for long periods of time. I’m told my stares are very harsh and intense, which make people feel creeped out. I understand that, but I wish I could tell you that’s not in my control either. I try my level best to be mindful about it and mask my traits, and I don’t even know why I sound so apologetic about it here.
I have been given very rude, judgmental, “what on earth are they doing…” kinda glares at Pride for my body language. It just makes me very hyper vigilant – the same uncomfortable feeling I have when I travel home alone at night. I feel like I’m always on guard. It feels ironic that Pride is called a safe space then. I have had my share of body-shaming as well – I’ve been told that I need a whole liter of lotion for my body surface area (YEP). I am prone to dust allergies, where exposure to fine dust and traffic emission makes me get hives and my face swells up. I even got shamed for that once or twice. For Christ’s sake, I’ve been shamed for not removing my upper lip and chin hair. WOW. AT PRIDE!
That was my “had it enough, give me a break” moment. I’ll admit all this is still on the lower end of the totem pole. I am sure a handful of people are capable of being far more vicious and the brunt of that is faced much more by those at other precarious intersections of the community.
As a non-binary person whose gender dysphoria is limited to my breasts, hips and the hourglassy curvature above my hips, it pinches when well-known activists say things like there is a new “trend” of being non-binary. I am not going to use this article to name and shame anyone, but you can imagine the harm it causes.
I have also noticed that it is inherently easier for anybody, queer or not, to misgender trans masculine people and use she/her, maybe because masculinity in people clocked as female, has been somewhat normalized over the years? Somehow people on the trans masc spectrum are never perceived in the manner they wish to be. Trans men are always spoken to and gazed at as “men-lite” versions. It is so condescending when we are told, “let’s have a group picture with all the ladies together…”. The amusing part is the pronouns used are correct, but other terms like man, woman and person are messed up.
In addition to all this, I have heard many people – both cis and genderqueer – say that non-binary people “take up a lot of space within the trans community without having dysphoria…”. This is a very harmful statement that is also patently untrue, especially when it is said on a dais at a Pride event by conservative gay/lesbian people. Many enby folks do experience dysphoria and many other intend to medically transition, including yours truly. In addition, the NALSA judgement in 2014 gives trans people the right to self-identify. Moreover, the trope of “real and fake” trans people perpetuates the same biological essentialism that cis-het normativity propagates, When the same binary-upholding, cis-heteronormative traits are furthered within the LGBTQ community, many of us feel it’s better to Netflix and chill at home (pun intended? Maybe, maybe not).
I have spent years unlearning identity politics only to realize that the person who can aggravate discomfort in you can be anyone – cis het or queer. Rainbow queerphobia is no better than cis het queerphobia; I mean it isn’t supposed to feel miraculously better because a queer person does it, right? The pinch sadly feels the same in both cases, and in fact it feels worse when someone you hope for a safe space from, does it.
I can’t think of a better way of ending this article than by quoting Marsha P Johnson – “There is no Pride for some without liberation for all”. It succinctly summarizes my whole rant in the paragraphs above. Let’s do more than getting Marsha’s pictures on placards, let’s try espousing her quote for once? Thenk yew.
TW: mention of sexual assault; 3rd episode has repeated sexual assault
In a pit of hopelessness, looking at the world around us, art and media is oftentimes our only respite—a place for us to feel seen, held, and comfort amongst all the injustice.
I’ve been rather uninspired by the content being put out for a while now. So imagine my surprise when I opened my Netflix account and saw a new series that piqued my interest—Baby Reindeer. It’s a 2024, 7-episode miniseries by queer British playwright Richard Gadd, based on his one-man play.
The synopsis was simple enough: a struggling comedian meets a lonely woman while working at a bar, who soon becomes obsessed with him and starts stalking him. Turns out, the story is based on harrowing real-life events experienced by the creator.
I took the synopsis at face value and went in with little context—I think that made the experience that much more thrilling.
The show follows the story of Donny, an insecure, down-on-himself creative who’s moved to the big city to follow his dreams, only to be met with the harsh reality that his dreams might just be out of reach. But this story isn’t just about Donny. It brings to life a bunch of characters who are complex, relatable, and at times hold a mirror up to our deepest shadow(s).
At first, when I saw the character of Martha (played by Jessica Gunning), a bubbly, chatty, dishevelled fat woman, who I thought was going to be an “antagonist” on the show, alarm bells started to ring in my head. Was this going to be another fatphobic, misogynistic show that paints an isolated plump woman as a “psycho stalker” and uses her as a punchline?
Well… I’m glad I stuck with it and gave it a chance. And I was pleasantly surprised by how the show treated each of its characters.
While the series of events shown are definitely dramatic, outrageous, and at times, traumatic, the treatment of these themes is through an utterly human lens. It’s horrifying, it’s painful, it’s healing, and boy is it hilarious!
Never before have I seen the psyche and inner workings of a sexual abuse survivor portrayed so beautifully onscreen. There’s no pity. No dramatisation. It happens to be direct and matter of fact, which is what makes it all the more compelling. Donny’s inner monologue, his relaying of his intense feelings of shame, were so cathartic to watch on screen. It’s as if someone was in my head, saying the things we are all too often so afraid to say. But it is in the sharing of these experiences that true healing happens.
Rather than being over-the-top, judgemental, or even self righteous, Baby Reindeer isn’t afraid to get down and dirty and wrestle in the murky mud that is human emotions, traumas, and relational dynamics and how these shape our identity and self-perception.
As a survivor of sexual abuse, diagnosed with BPD and CPTSD, I could see myself in both Danny and Martha. And there lies the beauty of this moving series. There are no “bad guys and good guys”, just human beings full of nuance and complexity.
At its core, Baby Reindeer is a show that portrays the cycle of trauma and its long-term, all-encompassing impact in an empathetic way. It highlights the tendency of trauma survivors to get sucked into unhealthy, codependent relational patterns as a desperate attempt to get our needs met. The ending, where Donny is seen mirroring Martha from the beginning of the show, poignantly alludes to this.
The show also doesn’t go as far as to show a clear cut “upward” healing journey for Donny. He’s seen learning, overcoming some fears, but still succumbing to others, which aptly mirrors the life of a person living with complex trauma.
Another standout character is Terry,a transwoman, who plays Donny’s love interest. She’s confident, beautiful, and sweeps Donny off his feet. Her trans identity just happens to be a fact about her, not all of who she is. At a certain point in the show, she is faced with aggressive transphobia at the hands of Martha, and the incident is addressed in a gentle, delicate manner. It’s not patronising, but rather is explored through patient conversations between the characters. The show even addresses delicate subjects such as sexual assault of children within the Catholic Church (through the character of Donny’s dad.)
A part that stood out to me is that even after Donny has a heart-to-heart with his parents about all that he’s been through—his parents respond to their son’s confession in a gentle and accepting manner—he still ends up reconnecting with his abuser and continues to make a deal with him for a shot at fame. Donny’s honest confessions of “I wish I could say I left right then, but I stayed”—highlights the reality for so many of us, who are at some level really trying to be better for ourselves, but fall through the spiral of nonlinear healing. One step forward, two steps back.
Most importantly though, the show doesn’t shy away from delving into the grey. In an internet culture that is obsessed with moral policing, cancelling, and just over all binary thinking, the dynamic between Martha and Donny is truly refreshing and heartwarming. Yes, I bet a 100 folks on X would jump to call it “toxic”… and they’re not wrong, it kind of is. But in actuality, the life of trauma survivors cannot be put into neat little boxes.
We are not great judges of character. Sometimes, we empathize with the people who are bad for us a bit too much. We make ‘questionable’ decisions. We do things that seem counterproductive to those who don’t understand. We hurt ourselves in attempts to “heal”. It takes us trial and error, support, and most importantly time to find our way, find ourselves and learn to live with the experiences we will carry with us forever.
While this may be a heavy, uneasy watch for some, this 7 episode series flies by in no-time, neatly packaged with no loose ends, telling us everything it wants to say, with an open-ended close. Whether you’re someone who relates to the experiences described, or you’re desperately looking for traces of real, raw humanity, Baby Reindeer has something to take away for everyone.
We can all agree that gender and sexuality are both spectrums. But alas – not every identity on the spectrum is treated equally. And oftentimes, things are shrouded in a fog of misguided misinformation.
“Bisexuality” is already quite a contested orientation. And we all probably know someone who thinks ‘nonbinary’ just isn’t a real thing (psssst looking at you “just pick a team!” people). So imagine the reaction I get from people when I tell them I am in fact… both those things! You and I both know that nonbinary bisexuals are obviously real and valid. The haters just kinda lack… imagination.
Jokes aside, the rampant misrepresentation, existing stigma, and spreading of myths can actually have a lot of negative consequences. Especially for impressionable youngsters who are just beginning to learn about the spectrums while trying to find themselves. And the worst part? These myths are deeply entrenched in our culture, society, and media, specifically pornography.
Porn is the first brush for a lot of people when it comes to exploring one’s sexuality and orientation. And impressionable people may even go as far as considering porn as a legitimate source of sex education , and may not be able to discern fact from fiction. This is because much like the rest of the world (boo), the porn industry is dominated by cis-het men. That leaves so much room for myths, misconceptions, and downright b*llshit that can range from factually innacurate to downright *offensive*. And we NEED to talk about them.
I’m going to take you through some of the most common porn-peddled myths about nonbinary bisexual folx. If you’re in for a laugh, an eye roll, or a good old rage out, keep on reading!
We don’t exist/ It’s an oxymoron
Finding nonbinary representation in porn… much like trying to find it in the rest of the media world, is an impossible task. Traditional porn execs aren’t going out of their way to prioritize marginalized identities – they want views with the same old tricks and problematic stereotypes that have existed for decades. So yeah, they don’t really have an incentive to showcase non-binary bisexual people.
Another point worth mentioning here is the common misconception that the term “nonbinary bisexual” is contradictory and doesn’t make sense. Nonbinary bisexuals have existed throughout history, and while the ‘bi’ might be perceived as implying a binary, in real life, it is just used as a term to describe that bisexuals can have preferences at different levels for the genders they are attracted to. It has also been interpreted as meaning attraction to 2 or more genders, similar to bi in bi-weekly (is that twice a week or once in two weeks?)!
We’re HORNY and ready to go at it anywhere, anytime
You’ve heard it before – bisexuals are of course bisexual, because we are horndogs who want to have loads of sex with every gender possible. Don’t get me wrong – there’s nothing problematic about having loads of sex, if that’s what you want. But making such sweeping generalisations for every person belonging to a sexual orientation can be incredibly damaging.
While the term ‘bisexuality’ refers to the number of genders a person is attracted to, it has no bearing whatsoever on a person’s libido, or frequency of desire to have sex. And it sure as HELL doesn’t mean we’re ready to have sex with any random person of any gender we come across!
Attraction is something deeply personal and subjective to each individual who experiences it. A gender preference absolutely does NOT imply attraction to every person of that gender. And society at large better be taking notes!
Probably the biggest myth spread about bisexuals – a spilling over of the previous point – is that we frequently participate in group sex. Specifically, threesomes. If I had a buck for the number of times I have been propositioned to be a “unicorn” in a threesome with couples looking to spice up their sex lives on dating apps, I’m sure I’d be a billionaire right now. Now I’m sure there are plenty of bisexuals out there who love having threesomes, while some may like an inanimate third partner in the mix (that’s code for getting kinky with sex toys!). The point is, it’s their choice! And not some innate ‘trait’ that’s set in stone.
That’s because there is a specific niche of pornography that fetishizes bisexuals, most commonly bisexuals who also happen to have a vagina, showing them in a threesome with a cis-man. Now clearly, this is some hypermasculine sex fantasy absolutely soaked in the male gaze. In reality, a person’s desire to participate in group sex is entirely their business, and doesn’t have to do with their sexual orientation. And besides, we all know a nonbinary bisexual with severe social anxiety who wouldn’t dare join a threesome. 😛 Hell… some of us don’t even want to have sex with a partner. Partnered sex can seem intimidating, overwhelming, or even unsafe to a lot of us. Exploring pleasure – whether you’re bisexual or not – isn’t just restricted to partnered sex! Sex toys for queers exist and often times offer a much safer feeling option for individuals to discover what they like and don’t like in the bedroom… before even involving another person in the mix.
We’re all directly or indirectly impacted by the media we consume, sometimes without us even realizing it. And even though jerking off is a time when our rationality goes completely offline, a little critical thinking – even while watching porn – never hurt anyone. That’s exactly why open conversations about sex and sexuality are important. So people can explore, discover, and express themselves in a way that’s authentic and safe. Whether it’s being open about your sexual orientation or talking about experimenting with sex toys, every one of us can add to the wave of sexual liberation. After all, there’s no room for shame in matters of pleasure. So go forth, be besharam, bust bisexual myths, and have fun while you’re at it!
Now that the major parties’ election manifestos are out, CPI (M) has an impressive road plan for the LGBTQ community. They have promised on horizontal reservations, amendment of the Transgender Protection Act 2019 to include equal punishments for crimes done against trans people, strengthening mechanisms to curb bullying, and refurbished anti-discrimination laws.
Congress on the other hand, has promised to modify articles 15 and 16 of the constitution to prohibit discrimination based on sexual orientation. It has also promised a legalization of civil unions for queer couples.
BJP meanwhile, seems to have only included 2 lines of cursory content regarding the transgender community. The word “Transgender” is mentioned as a noun as opposed to an adjective, which is dehumanizing. Furthermore, the government has promised to include transgender people under the Ayushman Bharat Yojna. The major question to ask is, how will a rural transgender person from a South Indian village understand an act which has entirely been conceptualized and even christened in Hindi?
Have the legal nitty gritties and provisions of the scheme been effectively communicated to all transgender people?
And the catch – the government has also promised to create Garimah Greh Shelter homes for trans people. It is infuriating for four reasons – in 2022, it was this same government that had for some reason – blocked the funds for many shelters that were already operating. No clear reason was provided. Without the requisite revenue stream for a year almost, these shelter houses were forced to shut down, throwing dependent trans lives into jeopardy. The other reasons why this gets our goat is – there is no effort made on sensitizing natal family about trans acceptance. Even the first NCERT teacher sensitization manual drafted by queer activist Vqueeram was rejected with vile harassment thrown at Vqueeram, and the second manual drafted by an Oppressor caste cis het woman named Jyotsana Tiwari had been withdrawn because of sheer misinformation. Both these teacher sensitization manuals could well be extended to parents as well, but no. BJP isn’t known for proactive stances in favour of the LGBTQ+ community.
By promising beneficial schemes only for the trans community, while ignoring all the other queer identities, the BJP seeks to drive a schism between members of the LGBTQ community. It reeks of ignorance about intersecting identities or perhaps it is a strategic move to divide and rule. Trans, intersex and non binary people who are also LGBA+ exist. Besides, there seems to be no on-ground research of how many trans people, particularly trans femme people would want to use the Garimah Greh. Statistically, through 5-6 years of experience as a trans activist with various organizations, a considerable section of trans femme people choose to live in closed trans communities such as Gharanas or the jamaath system under a Nayak or a Guru. The reasons for this could be manifold – lingual familiarity, caste oppression, complete lack of natal support, the feeling that trans/queer people would be safer than cis het people, healthcare advantages, and more. In such a case, shelter homes would be rendered pointless, especially if they don’t receive enough funds to operate well. Besides LGBTQ-run organizations like Periferry also provide LGBTQ people accommodations at affordable rates.
The BJP has not only been tokenistic, but have also chosen a very low-commitment zone as a promise in their manifesto. Regardless of whether they keep their promise or not, the long-term impact of this move is questionable. The queer community will continue to thrive regardless of whether this move is made or not.
To conclude, the election manifesto of BJP comes off as a damp squib, and does nothing to support the LGBTQ+ community or even specifically the trans* community. It’s not surprising either, given the majoritarianism that the party espouses. If queer folx voting don’t wake up and smell the coffee, they will take hundreds of us to drown along with themselves. The damage done by the BJP is enough – passing the poorly drafted Trans Act 2019, refusing us rights to marriage and more. Vote wisely, and I’d say vote left.
After a four-year hiatus, the JNUSU election was held in March 2024. Students eagerly celebrate this festival of sorts in JNU, which has been denied to them by the administration for the past 4 years citing COVID. JNUSU 2024 turned out to be historical with a 74% voter turnout (one of the highest in the recent decade), however, the prominent winner which captivated everyone’s attention has been BAPSA. The recent election held in JNU, BAPSA- Birsa Ambedkar Phule Students’ Association for the first time made its way into the Central panel – an apex body in JNUSU, winning the covetous and important position of general secretary and councilors in the School of International Studies and Center for the Study of Law and Governance. Priyanshi Arya, a first-year PhD student in the Department of Philosophy is elected General Secretary. Megha Kumari and Ramnivas Gurjar have been elected for the post of councilors in the School of International Studies (SIS) and the Centre for the Studies of Law and Governance (CSLG). Priyanshi comes from Kumaon, Uttarakhand and belongs to Shilpkar caste (SC) traditionally associated with the profession of craftsman and sculptors. Ramnivas comes from the Gurjar community (OBC) of Chambal, and Megha comes from the Mallah community (OBC) of Vaishali, Bihar, which is associated with the fishing business and is renowned for their prowess in making boats. It’s a great achievement for BAPSA to bring forward students from marginalised communities to the forefront to represent the student body.
Prevalence of systematic caste based oppression that Dalit, Adivasi and other backward class families face in their everyday life is known and widely talked about. However academic spaces, these islands of excellence – renowned to carry forth the spirit of universality, liberal ethos and ideas of égalité remain confined to the clutches of upper castes and marginalised caste communities find themselves in the same vicious cycle of caste discrimination, which they seek to overcome in these spaces. University spaces are turning into Agraharas, where students coming from specific communities are covertly targeted and discriminated against because of their caste denominations. The marginalised caste students are dehumanized and often frowned upon by Brahminical/Manuwadi professors and administrators alike. When there is an ever increasing number of suicides of Dalit students in university spaces, when there’s a systemic discrimination to marginalised students in PhD vivas, an organisation like BAPSA becomes indispensable providing them space and solidarity to all the oppressed communities. They feel a sense of belongingness in the organization where together they can raise their voices against injustice. This is possible only due to the non-Brahmanical structure that BAPSA follows. Other parties within JNU like the Left organization use marginalised caste students as their foot soldiers and rob them off of their representation, further taking away their space and their voices. However, BAPSA unlike other organizations, doesn’t have a parent party or affiliation with any party which regulates or dictates their decisions, but it’s totally up to the rationale and consciousness of members of BAPSA to take any decision which is debated before introduction, making BAPSA a unique organization and most democratic in JNU. Where other organisations of Left and Right have their position holding posts occupied by Savarnas, they rarely talk about the issues of caste marginalisation. BAPSA voices inviograntly for the demands of marginalized and oppressed communities. BAPSA is an autonomous structure, free from external control by a parent organization, fosters a strong sense of belonging among marginalized students, empowering them to find their voices.
Q. What are your views on the victory of BAPSA in the JNUSU elections? And how do you see the Ambedkarite politics navigating in the university spaces?
The recent victory of the BAPSA in the JNUSU elections marks a significant milestone after ten years of their establishment in 2014, Priyanshi highlights. The presence of BAPSA in JNU, a traditionally entrenched institution, signifies a growing resistance movement. Priyanshi observes that the celebratory atmosphere extends beyond mere festivity. The jubilant drumming (Daflis) reflects a deeper sense of anger and a long-fought struggle for representation. BAPSA’s win grants a stronger voice to marginalized sections within the university. Even before this electoral victory, BAPSA actively championed Ambedkarite ideals through various movements, including opposing fee hikes, the 13-point roster system, and advocating for fair hostel allocation.
News of BAPSA’s triumph has resonated with the global Ambedkarite community, sparking celebrations worldwide. Priyanshi highlights the vast network of supporters, indicating a broader movement for social justice. Ramnivas emphasizes the win’s significance for marginalized students. They now have a support system to address potential discrimination from supervisors or colleagues based on social background. This victory empowers students to assert the principles of oppressed unity and the teachings of iconic figures like Ambedkar, Phule, Birsa Munda, Periyar, Savitribai, Kanshiram, Mandal, and Phoolan.Megha, a BAPSA member, describes her first-ever win in the School of International Studies (SIS) as a transformative experience. The ideologies of Babasaheb Ambedkar, Phule, and other leaders have paved the way for students like her to access prestigious institutions like JNU.
Q. What was the turning point that led you to this movement?
Priyanshi is from a Dalit family and is no stranger to discrimination, both subtle and overt. Everyday casteism manifests in actions like serving food on separate plates, and inquiries about surnames or fathers’ names. The incident that shook Priyanshi’s life was her father losing his job due to caste discrimination and later the realization that she is not as safe as her Savarna friends in this Brahminical structure society. Consequently, Priyanshi’s family gradually transitioned away from Hinduism, embracing the Ambedkarite movement and actively engaging with its literature. At JNU, weekly reading sessions with like-minded friends fostered a sense of belonging and provided a new space for her identity. Ramnivas’ journey towards Ambedkarism began with the powerful image of Kanshiram Sahab in his hometown. Professor Dara Sir from Jamia, who teaches Ambedkar studies, played a pivotal role in shaping his views. Additionally, witnessing the fearless activism of his Ambedkarite friends in class further fueled his own commitment to the movement.
Megha, a new student on campus, readily identified the three dominant political forces: Left, Right, and BAPSA (Birsa Ambedkar Phule Students’ Association). BAPSA particularly resonated with her, offering a space where she could express herself freely. Her prior experiences of witnessing discrimination against Dalits by Savarnas had instilled a strong determination to fight against such injustices.
Q. How do you feel when you do this work?
The founding members of BAPSA entrusted their legacy, their vision and dedication to the organization and it passed down to each new generation of students. BAPSA entrusts every new batch of students with an emotional responsibility to carry forward the ideals, while refraining from imposing rigid ideologies. Priyanshi describes the energy generated during the protests as “transcendental” which is the effect of collective actions, evident in the persistent chanting of “Jai Bhim.” Given the great response from people of JNU and across the country, it shows how much people can trust a Dalit woman who is struggling to create a change. Ramnivas on the other hand expresses his gratitude for being part of this larger movement. Megha is a new member of BAPSA, and is eager to contribute more to the organization. She appreciates the influence of Ambedkarite politics within the university campus as a positive development.
Q. What keeps you going?
Priyanshi draws inspiration from a defining moment within BAPSA. She recalled the pre-election meeting of BAPSA where the Presidential candidate Biswajit Minji opened his speech with a powerful statement, “Right now I am giving a speech here but my father is working on a field.” This poignant reminder of the struggles faced by people and their will to struggle against all odds gives inspiration to Priyanshi. It reinforces her commitment, prompting her to ask: “If I don’t do this work, then who will?”
Ramnivas finds his inspiration in the power of all the first generation learners who come to institutions like JNU. As he says “We are the first generation, and not the last generation.” BAPSA provides a vital space for these oppressed communities. After facing language based discrimination in the class, Megha struggled initially but later this incident furled her desire to support others from marginalized backgrounds who face the same struggles. BAPSA’s unwavering stance in advocating for student rights even in the face of faculty opposition, inspires Megha. It provides her with a sense of purpose and motivation.
Q. What are the core principles and ideologies that BAPSA stands for, particularly in relation to the struggles against caste oppression and social inequalities?
The idea of the unity of the oppressed was asserted by Priyanshi, which encompasses SC, ST, OBC, religious minorities like Muslims, persons with disability, the LGBTQIA+ community and women. BAPSA believes that through this collective front, marginalized groups can effectively challenge the Brahminical hegemony and Manuwadi ideology. Ramnivas, another BAPSA member, emphasises the organisation’s commitment to fight all forms of oppression, regardless of caste, religion, sexuality, or any other discriminatory factor. Beyond this they also believe in the trinity of principle, that is equality, liberty and fraternity. Megha openly acknowledges her eagerness to delve deeper into BAPSA’s literature and work, demonstrating her commitment to learning and contributing to the movement.
Q. How do you plan to address the issue of caste discrimination and promote social justice within the university campus?
Priyanshi outlined BAPSA’s handling of key issues like advocating for a caste census within JNU, similar to the protest going on at Ashoka University. It is important for any university to know the dynamics of the operation of the structure, and it’s not just for the students but also the faculty and workers. This will reveal who is sitting in the AC rooms and who is cleaning up the mess. In the academic sphere, BAPSA proposes reducing the weightage of viva-voce examinations in PhD entrance exams since it is a trend in JNU to give 0-2 marks in the interview to the students coming from SC, ST background. Additionally, BAPSA calls for increased scholarship amount to better support students. Their agenda extends beyond these immediate demands, as BAPSA advocates for the reinstatement of discontinued GS CASH, promoting gender sensitisation and ensuring LGBTQIA+ inclusion on campus. Ramnivas expands on the issue of representation, emphasising the need for hostel allotment as per the reservation policy. He further highlights the importance of streamlining the process of changing PhD supervisors, particularly for the students from marginalized communities who are very easy targets in the biased system. According to Megha it is easy to prejudice a person from their attire and language and that’s how minorities suffer in the campus. She assures that any kind of act of discrimination has to be fought through BAPSA first.
Q. How does BAPSA view the intersectionality of caste with other forms of oppression, such as gender, sexuality, class and religion, and how does it address these intersections in its political agenda?
Dr Ambedkar first talked about the Brahminical patriarchy,in his work “Revolution and Counter-Revolution in Ancient India.” In this system the caste status and caste purity is maintained by controlling the sexuality of women. And all kinds of caste atrocities come lurking in. Beyond the subjugation of women, LGBTQIA+ communities also face alienation due to the emphasis on bloodline and procreation within this framework. Women and queer individuals are challenging the very foundations of Manuwadi Hinduism (a discriminatory legal system) by adopting a more equal and socially just model of lifestyle, by breaking away from shackles of traditions and imposition within our society, demanding their rights which they have been long denied. BAPSA raises voice for Dalits tribals, women, queer, religious minority, disabled, and people from backward caste. It was only BAPSA that had their agenda printed in braille for visually impaired individuals.
Q. In what ways does BAPSA seek to challenge and dismantle the existing power structures and hierarchies within academic institutions like JNU?
BAPSA’s agenda prioritises an increase in the student representation in JNU’s decision-making bodies. Recently it was noticed that JNUSU was not invited to the Academic Council meeting. BAPSA’s presence in the union will ensure stronger support towards the inclusion of students in such forums. Priyanshi mentions about the need for better infrastructure in the campus for disabled persons, where at one side students romanticise Ganga dhaba and Sabarmati dhaba, on the other side it becomes inaccessible for some students. BAPSA had always had that ideological understanding, has been connected in ground with all the oppressed minorities and can now concretely raise these issues that more members of BAPSA are in positions. Ramnivas emphasizes the need for inclusivity that extends to university workers. BAPSA aims to dismantle systemic inequalities, including the “caste capital” within academia, where publishing opportunities often favour established networks. To bridge academic gaps, BAPSA plans to establish study support groups to assist students with various needs, including exam preparation, PhD applications, proposal writing, and research methodology. Megha pointed out the lack of representation among the faculty members which also needs to be addressed. Many opportunist students join parties like ABVP to access the large network for jobs and promotions, but BAPSA sticks to its ideology because it’s the only thing that will bring a change in the existing structure.
Q. What is your approach to dissent and protest, and how do you navigate challenges such as state repression and institutional backlash?
Coming from a not-so-privileged background, these backlashes can be harsh on them, yet BAPSA members recognise the importance of protest as a means of addressing critical issues. As Priyanshi argued protesting is urgent because the issues are grave. Priyanshi expressed gratitude for the nationwide Ambedkarite community’s support, encompassing legal aid and financial assistance during these struggles. However, engaging in protest can carry significant risks, ranging from disciplinary inquiries to potential expulsion, jeopardizing their academic careers. BAPSA prioritizes mobilizing large numbers of students during protests to mitigate these risks. Additionally, they find a sense of empowerment in the recognition that their commitment to constitutional values and willingness to defend themselves deters baseless accusations. According to Ramnivas, as JNU is becoming more controlling there is a trend of multiple unfair and unjust notices from the side of administration. Examples include imposing hefty fines based on wardens’ judgments and limiting PhD hostel allocation to four years.
Q. What are your demands? And what are the future endeavours your organization wishes to achieve in the coming term?
The fight for dignity is central to the agenda of BAPSA. As previously outlined, their demands encompass a reduction in the weightage of viva voce examinations for PhD admissions. Additionally, they advocate for increased fellowship stipends, alongside initiatives promoting disability, gender, and LGBTQIA+ sensitivity on campus. Notably, BAPSA calls for the inclusion of gender-neutral pronouns within the JNU constitution and a women’s reservation policy across various university communities and organizations. Ultimately, their vision entails fostering a more equitable and socially just campus environment.
This article is part of a special series at Gaysi highlighting the work of Dalit creatives, artists and writers curated and edited by BRC (positionality: Dalit queer trans neurodivergent). If you would like to be a part of this series, please write to gaysifamily@gmail.com with subject line “working with BRC” along with a pitch or proposal. All articles published are paid.
I am proud of the strides made towards queer acceptance in the Philippines. Although we still have a long way to go, the fact that queerfolk can even hold pride parades without fear of censorship means so much to me. But even then, you would never catch me going to these events. Obviously, not because I’m homophobic. Any reason I have to be afraid of myself gets settled in therapy. I simply can’t connect with the type of queer Filipinos who have the confidence to join these parades. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I’m sure there are so many accepting queerfolk in these parades that I’m simply too insecure to talk to.
I also have issues with my country’s desire, both queer and straights alike, to paint queerness with one technicolor brush. Although my friends support my non-binary self, I know so many old-school gays and lesbians who don’t understand it. God forbid I have to explain to my parents that on top of being bisexual, I’m not even 100% on the whole “boy” thing.
Being Queer Sucked For A Long Time In The Philippines
Before colonists spread the gospel to the so-called faithless pagans, the native population of what would eventually become the Philippines had a deeply empathetic perspective on queerfolk. Gender did exist, but the bigotry commonly associated with the social construct did not. Pre-colonial society gave feminine and masculine roles equal importance.
Unfortunately, the spread of organized religions like Christianity and Islam brought along ideals of homophobia and misogyny. I am not saying that all Christians or Muslims are bigots. However, there is no denying that the spiritual leaders of the time, and frankly, leaders of today, hold harmful views of the LGBTQ community.
Once the EDSA People’s Revolution in 1986 dealt a fatal blow to the Marcos regime, LGBTQ people who fled the country returned and brought with them progressive ideals of queer identity. The 90s saw the rise of several LGBTQ groups that worked towards gaining legitimate political power.
Nowadays, queerfolk still face discrimination from the predominantly conservative Philippines, but they finally have a community that backs them when nobody else can. From notable queer icons in entertainment to senators openly calling for the acceptance of gay marriage, there’s no better time in post-colonial Filipino history to be queer than right now.
So Why Do I Hide?
“Acceptance” in the Philippines is complicated. Notable figures in the gay community are openly transphobic, believing transwomen are simply “confused” and just need to accept their biological origins as “fact.” There’s also the unfortunate association of queerfolk as “comedians,” accepted for the entertainment they provide. The funny hair stylist might give conservative grandmothers a chuckle, but the moment they bring up gay rights, these women will preach about fire and brimstone.
I am non-binary. I realized that fact in 2021, and I am much happier for it. As someone who’s always struggled with queer identity throughout my teen years, realizing there was a label that perfectly described how I felt was liberating. I liked being in my body, but I didn’t like people locking me into male or female roles. I’m me, and that’s what I want people to focus on more than anything else.
Honestly, my favorite reactions are people who go “Oh, cool” then just move on and use my preferred pronouns of ‘they/them’ moving forward. Discovering my non-binary identity is a big deal. Being non-binary is not. I am simply one of the thousands of nonbinary folks out there. I’m proud of who I am, but I also don’t make a show of it. I also know that for some people, making a show of it is part of their process.
I admire all the flashy rainbow gowns and public declarations of love. I also value the societal impact that these loud and proud queerfolk have for hidden LGBTQ people everywhere. The knowledge that you are not alone in your struggle means the world. But that’s just not me. I don’t think the presence of an awkward non-binary nerd shrinking away from the spotlight adds much to the experience. Maybe it does, but my natural inclination to avoid conflict tends to override my ambitions of becoming a queer icon.
There’s also the fact that my non-binary status is a massive pain to explain. Whether queer or hetero, many Filipinos still view gender as a strict binary. “Love has no labels” might be a catchy slogan, but in practice, it’s often not the case. People will label you however they want. For the most bigoted conservatives, all gay people are effeminate perverts. For old-fashioned gays and lesbians, the dynamic still needs to be “the manly one” and the “feminine one.”
I’m fortunate to have friends and family supportive of my identity. Still, I’ve also met some folks who scoff at the idea of non-binary. “It’s too complicated” they say through fake smiles, and honestly, that hurts just as much as any slur. The idea that who I am is “too complicated” to bother understanding. If they won’t bother understanding me, I don’t see a point in giving them the chance to laugh.
At the core of it, I’m still not “open-open”. I recognize the amusing irony of attaching my name to a public article titled “quietly queer.” I doubt anybody I’m hiding my queerness from reads articles about the queer experience anyway. Even if they do, I don’t care. I just won’t go out of my way to share something important to me when I know apathy or bigotry will follow.
I wrote this just to let shy queerfolk like me know that there’s nothing wrong about not joining pride parades in the Philippines. Everybody has personal reasons for doing so. Donating to charities, voting for LGBTQ-supportive politicians, and even sharing the love on social media are valid ways of showing support. After all, pride parades are just one way of celebrating queer identity. It might not be for me, but I’m so happy to live in a country where queer people can express their love so openly. Maybe one day, I’ll join them.
Recall your wildest encounter ever. It could be a one-on-one interaction, a threesome, foursome or a manysome. It could be the wildest orgy of your life. Everyone’s doing various things to drive you past the finish line. Every erogenous zone of yours is being “sex-plored”; every sensory organ of yours is on overdrive. AND YET, you feel like you’re not entirely satisfied. Not in the same way as when you get off of yourself. When you’re alone in your locked room with the blinders shut, touching or fingering yourself.
Auto sexuality or autoeroticism is a part of queerness that has mostly been invisible, given that there are scant resources about it. It is basically being attracted to yourself, being able to pleasure yourself better than others could, and the ability to turn your own self on. You may still enjoy physical relationships with another person or people but you’d be aroused more by masturbating in front of the other person or showing yourself off, as opposed to actively engaging with the other person(s). You could also be turned on by your own nudes or that of others, your videos of going solo on yourself or that of someone else masturbating, or of you having sex with someone. Your eroticism and relationship making you go randy is what it is largely about.
Imagine if you were your only admirer, critique and audience alike, had enough time to absorb the entire silhouette of your body and weren’t answerable to ANYONE ELSE. That’s autosexuality to you. For those who’ve not had a great relationship with your body from the get go – due to having faced body/appearance-shaming, carrying internalized fatphobia, having a history of self-harm just to name a few (been here, felt that) – discovering one’s autosexuality can be a vulnerable, yet liberating experience.
There are many reasons why people are not aware of the term even within the LGBTQ community and/or they are averse to exploring it:
a) People tend to pigeonhole their chosen sexual labels into one of the few labels that are already a part of the acronym LGBTQIA (this is the reason there is a ‘+’ at the end)
b) Going by observation, the focus is always on the people you are attracted to, when one talks of sexual orientation. However, the focus is seldom on the frequency, intensity, nature and other attributes of one’s sexuality, which makes autosexuality invisible (just like demisexuality)
c) Autosexuality or autoeroticism, has often been closely linked to NPD – Narcissistic Personality Disorder. This causes so much stigma and harm, both against those who identify as autosexual as well as those who fall under the cluster B Personality Type.
d) There is poor or a complete lack of understanding from partners of autosexual people as to how to approach the situation, which causes a lot of autosexual people to huddle back into the closet. Not all autosexual people are averse to another person stimulating them. There is no one way of being autosexual, just like there are myriad ways of being bisexual, asexual or gay. You need to communicate without judgment with your partner and ascertain their needs before you jump into the sack.
As a gender-diverse person myself, (I’m non-binary), as someone who has both physical and social gender dysphoria, I get by most days just trying to not loathe my body. My entire life has become a ticking countdown to the day I get my top surgery.
However, discovering my autosexuality since 2018 helped me assemble a lot of the puzzle pieces toward decoding myself:
a) I took a lot of selfies of mine in 2018 and 2019 when I lost truckloads of weight. I felt better because I could pass as a flat-chested person in loose clothes then, and simultaneously felt worse because I have an hourglass physique. As conflicted as I felt, I noticed that I see my masc pictures as a “version of me that I wish to look like” and “present as”, while I see the effeminate pictures of mine as doppelgangers or clones who would turn me on a lot if they actually existed. So there’s that contrast.
b) It made me realize that dressing up masculine makes me feel self-assured and confident and I’d want to present masc about 95% times, but dressing up as femme gets me horny instantly (provided it’s not a daily affair but just a rare instance of dressing up). I’d not mind reserving the last 5% of the time for indulging in my femme appearances.
c) It made me embrace the tiny possibility that my gender expression could be fluid. Before this I was very rigid about being masculine all the time. All my Pinterest boards for formal, ethnic events and pride-march wear were filled with pictures of “masculine” attires. Trousers, shirts, dhoti-kurta, harnesses, and more. But now I have pinned 1-2 ideas for gender-bending, euphoria-inducing ways of wearing saris. In fact, my partner looked stunning in a sari once, so in some sense, I mirror what I like to see in my partner, I guess?
d) It made me fit seamlessly into the role of a butch lesbian in same-gender relationships. And I realized that even when I’m dating, I enjoy role plays and fantasies that involve me getting off in front of my partner. It’s such a powerful role reversal from the heteronormative stuff I’ve read, where it’s often the cis woman pleasuring herself in front of the cis man. Although I’m dominant in most same gender relationships, I also like being watched. I’m glad I’ve been in a couple of healthy, understanding relationships that have allowed me to explore and articulate. In many cases I realized that I enjoy getting off by myself far more than when the other person is doing me.
e) As a person who has grown hating their body thanks to dysphoria and dysmorphia, self-pleasuring and using sex toys made me heal and see my body in a different light. I minimized reducing my physique to an effeminate Point-Of-Sale and started exploring neutral/euphoria-inducing parts instead. My muscular legs give me euphoria. The dimple on my left cheek does too. My upper lip hair as well. My fingers and hairy arms do so much to turn me on. I don’t wanna make my pre-transition life insufferable, so I’ve started jotting down ways to find pride in my body even before I land on the Operation Table.
f)Something I wish I was told long back – seeking pride in your body and getting turned on by yourself isn’t selfish and investing in a healthy sex life isn’t a waste of money. These are healthy ways of finding yourself. Don’t let boomers gaslight you. I am meticulously saving money to get myself an ergonomic thrusting rabbit vibrator and a clitoral suction device with lube from a queer-person-owned venture, so that I can take time and derive some bottom euphoria by playing around and figuring out what I like best.
g) Being with cis-het-men in the past opened my eyes to what I was missing out on. One of my exes ACTUALLY – not even kidding – used his phone torchlight to look for the clitoris. This was in 2019. That was the tipping point in my life. In addition to being unaware, he was sloppy too and didn’t cut his nails, tried some mainstream hardcore trashy moves on me and expected moans when all that came out were groans. I was so done with him that the experience made me steer clear of other cis-man in the future as well. That was when it hit me, that there’s no point in entirely blaming cis-het men, because many cis-het women and queer people in India haven’t been encouraged to sleuth out what turns them on. This made me spend some quality me-time. What moves feel best on the clit? Do I like direct pressure around it? What hits the G-spot the hardest? Am I limiting my erogenous zones to just two of these? I also realized I HATE hardcore porn and founding myself feeling vulnerable and withdrawn after watching it once. It felt emotionless and mechanical. I am your highly-mushy, coffee-chugging Mills-n-Boons reader. We don’t do the “wham-bam-thank you-ma’am” drill here, we stay in and cuddle. This later led me to label myself as demisexual.
There was this scary moment in my life which now looks funny in retrospect – my mom walked into my bathroom and found one of my older vibrators that I got over five years ago, with a damp cloth beside it. She picked it up and she gave me a puzzled look. I told her it’s a vibe and I told her to put it back because it was inside me about ten minutes ago. She freaked out and asked me what nonsense I was to. I was like, “I’ve burnt my hands with terrible people in the past, so now I’m in self-service mode…” She gave me a long stare and then left my room while I wondered how smoothly this went without me having to get kicked out of my house. I’m glad I didn’t say “aatmanirbhar” else I might have squashed the Modi bhakth in her.
For those who think they’re autosexual but don’t want to get walked in on by mummy, papa, chaachi, maasi and the whole boomer brigade –
a) Try to order the toys or any accessories you want to the address of friends who live alone or have enough privacy to receive packages at their home – with their prior consent, of course. That’s what I did! I put a friend’s address for delivery in 2019. If I shared this article with her she’d have aneurysms laughing. You can even have it delivered to a night club you regularly visit.
b) Explore when you’re most at your most private – under the shower. Use aloe vera gel as an alternative to lube. No one would suspect anything. Just do a skin test to ensure you’re not allergic. Use your own saliva only after you’ve brushed and flossed your teeth.
c) If your job is something that requires travel, well and good. If you’re studying, use combined study as an excuse to go to the house of any friend whose home lets you get off safely.
d) For those who like the thrill of doing it outdoors. Try basements, night clubs and other dingy places that you’re sure don’t have any cameras.
e) Many cheap hotel rooms are not quite as safe as you wish to believe they are. But if that’s the only option, and if you can afford it, inspect the room for hidden cameras, especially behind the mirror right after you check in. You do not want people blackmailing you later.
To those who live independently, experiment with things like attire, lighting, kink wear, mirrors, curtains and more. What do you like to wear? Do you find yourself or parts of you attractive? How do you like to present yourself? Do harnesses, strap ons, ropes, and collars turn you on? Do you like company when you’re at it? Do you like being accidently watched? Have you ever left the curtains slightly open so someone could voyeuristically see you touch yourself? Are mirrors fun or overwhelming? Does running water under the shower enhance your mood like waterfalls do in Bollywood? (Think Main Hoon Na). Does darkness help calm your nerves or does having lights on help you clean up better? Does the thrill of being caught excite you? What parts of you turn you on? What fictional characters do you manifest yourself as?
These are just some starter questions that will help you break the ice with your own self. You see, it’s a myth that all queer people are very comfortable with ourselves or with partnered sex. Many of us still fight internalized queerphobia. Added to that, sex and sexuality are still taboo in a nation with the highest population count. Despite being the land that birthed the Kamasutra, masturbation is taboo and added to it, we Indians have very warped beauty standards that are barriers to self-acceptance.
However, I do believe that there is always a first time to everything and one can always take baby steps. It might take you years or even your whole life, to figure out that you are autosexual, but the journey is actually real fun. No pun even intended.
I haven’t always known that law was my calling, but grappling with the integration of my identity as a queer individual within the legal field has been a constant struggle. While there are successful and openly queer lawyers, they predominantly operate at the apex court, leaving those of us at the foundational levels—such as trial and district courts—feeling somewhat adrift.
Fortunately, I’ve been blessed to find incredible queer friends in college who’ve helped me navigate the complexities of staying true to myself while pursuing a legal career. Law school and internships expose you to an all-encompassing world of legal intricacies. Delving into the legal intricacies concerning queer individuals entails navigating and dealing with the complex dynamics of various state institutions. This includes, but is not limited to the police, the judiciary (a.k.a. the courts), civil society, and the individuals who find themselves failed by these entities. It involves a nuanced examination of the legal environment in the country, which sheds light on the challenges and inadequacies of these institutions that directly impact the rights and existence of queer individuals. For me, dealing with these institutions meant a significant level of masking who I am, in presentation as well as stances and opinions. Failing to reconcile my queerness with my legal pursuits would mean compromising a significant part of who I am as well as leaving myself vulnerable to the overt and implied consequences that being “out” in the workplace brings.
In my first year in law school, I began interning under a progressive advocate at a district court in Delhi. While I was there, it became pivotal for me to explore how my queerness would be perceived in those surroundings. While we worked on socially significant issues of domestic violence and labour disputes, discussions on queer issues were notably absent or simply not considered important enough to warrant serious conversations. However, being part of a circle that embraced diversity provided a semblance of comfort about being out in an environment like that.
A friend’s comment on how only specific queer organisations address queer issues was eye-opening. Even within ostensibly progressive organisations, the indifference to queer concerns is glaring. Nevertheless, the response from senior members, acknowledging the need for inclusivity, fueled my optimism that being an openly queer lawyer was a tangible prospect.
In my second year, I embarked on a new internship with an organisation’s LGBT program, a decision driven by my uncertainties regarding a career in litigation, ultimately leading me to opt for a supportive organisational setting over my individual advocacy. There, I joined the legal aid department, where the dedicated team worked tirelessly to support queer individuals facing legal challenges. Apart from that, the team provided valuable mental health resources to help individuals cope with the emotional aftermath of these incidents. This experience not only broadened my understanding of legal assistance but also exposed me to the critical intersection of legal and mental health support within the LGBTQ+ community.
It has been an exhilarating rollercoaster ride, where my identity as a queer law student seamlessly integrates into the fabric of the organisation. At an organisation where you work mostly with queer individuals, my queerness is just one facet of who I am; it doesn’t overshadow or burden me. Working here has been a healing experience, surrounded by like-minded individuals and interacting with various members of the queer community. Of course, I acknowledge that the organisation wasn’t flawless and had its imperfections like any other workplace, such as conflicts between different departments, lack of trained human resources, misunderstandings between the staff, and more. Despite these, my identity as a queer person was always acknowledged and affirmed. Being in that familiar space, surrounded by other queer individuals, provided a sense of safety and comfort.
In contrast, even progressive organisations lack ample space for queer individuals due to their predominant composition of cis-het men and also the inherent power structures in place that prevent queer people, especially queer women, to hold positions of power.The scarcity of diverse identities in such spaces underscores the stark difference between existing as a queer law student in larger progressive organisations and the inclusive environment of queer organisations. This is not to say that all the queer organisations are fully inclusive or understand how to navigate biases stemming from casteism, elitism, or even a lack of reflection on ‘the political’ altogether.
We urgently need more spaces where queer individuals can exist without having to constantly explain their identities to those who don’t understand them. The legal field, dominated by cis-het men, demands our presence and activism. In a country where basic rights like marriage equality, civil union rights, anti-discrimination policies, and even basic dignity remain elusive, we, as queer individuals, must be the trailblazers on the ground, fighting for ourselves, as no one else will.
Like most South Asian names, mine also holds meaning, but unlike most others, my name—Sakhi—is a unique one. It is almost on the threshold of peculiar, because while a lot of Hindi speakers have heard it as a word that means friend, they are often unable to digest it as a name in itself. And so, for as long as I’m capable of remembering, most people mess it up. It’s mispronounced, misspelled, or just avoided altogether. Till day, whenever I hear the name Sakshi (a more common name in India than Sakhi) out loud, I still turn to check if it’s me the person is talking to, because more often than not, I have been called Sakshi, especially by those who do not know me closely.
I had no problem correcting peers, teachers, relatives, and acquaintances, but I would get irritated when the same people would still resort to some new annoying pronunciation of my name, which was quite common during my teenage years. Life was irritating enough as it is, and it felt like no one understood me most of the time. The least they could do is get my name right, right? After all, no disrespect to Shakespeare’s “What’s in a name?” but we all relish the sound of our own names—nothing grabs our attention like it. Perhaps those who have a fairly common name cannot in the slightest fathom the joy that surges within me when, on a first encounter, someone calls me Sakhi right away.
As a child, I used to constantly pick fights with my parents over this, complaining about it so much that sometimes, I could feel them almost regret their choice. It was my dad’s idea and he had put in so much thought behind it. When he was a kid, he heard the name in a Bollywood movie called Bemisal, starring the legendary actor, Amitabh Bachchan. He adored it ever since and cherished the way it sounded. Even though I was aware I was being a jerk with my incessant whining, I would still despise my name because being bullied and teased about it in school (where Sakhi, which is supposed to be pronounced s-uh-kh-ee, deliberately became sucky often) was no fun.
Only after starting college and studying literature though did I come to recognize the mischievous and queer layer that my name was marinated in, all while I’d been obnoxiously complaining. In Hindi, the word sakhi refers, on the surface level, to a friend. Not just any friend though, it is a gendered word and is only used for women. The word’s intimacy grew exponentially for me when I learnt that the first openly lesbian organization in India was also named Sakhi. It was started in 1991 by Giti Thadani, a prominent figure in Indian lesbian activism. Lesbians in the 90s wrote letters to the organization expressing their loneliness, asking for guidance, and blatantly expressing their desires. As excited as the fact was that I shared a name with such a subversive organization, it also left me utterly curious and clueless. Why, sakhi?
The answer to that was one that I discovered in Thadani’s book titled Sakhiyani: Lesbian Desire in Ancient and Modern India. One of the most interesting elements of the text for me remains the manner in which Thadani excavates the socio-cultural layers behind the term sakhi. By closely analyzing ancient Hindu mythological writings, she substantiates the word’s erotic and sensual dimensions that dominant homophobic discourse suppressed, reducing it to a simple designation of friendship that could be contained within “acceptable” hetero-social dynamics. Naming her lesbian space Sakhi then was Thadani’s act of resistance and reclamation—beyond its mainstream curtailment—as a “female companion, friend, and lover.”
Cultivating a safe sphere for lesbians networking prior to smartphones and apps, the daring responses that the Sakhi collective received from across India transformed it into an archive of subverted shame and silences. The letters poured in and were proof that even in the most ostensibly heteronormative spaces, queerness did, and will continue to, nestle in chinks and crevices till equity was achieved.
As someone who is still questioning and curious about their sexuality, I found such comfort in learning about Thadani’s Sakhi. The loneliness of being queer receded with knowing that, by sheer coincidence, my name is etched in the memories and legacy of delightful, delicious, and deviant intimacies, even if they weren’t what I was named after. The word’s crisp and intricate enunciation will always unspool echoes of sapphic tales that slipped beneath the seemingly ‘innocent’ and ‘neat’ designations of friendship between women in India.
Comprehending all of this, I have started to relish a newfound coziness in my name. Sure, a lot of people still mess it up, but it doesn’t bother me anymore. I strive to be just as unusual as this name is and hold up its worth. I understand now—fitting into the norm is in no way a prerequisite to belong with people, and such a fixation could gnaw not just me but anyone hollow.
Bapu Bazaar on Christmas was so crowded that there was barely any network on my phone. It is crowded on most days. It took me around 45 minutes to find him. I was meeting him for the very first time after knowing him for two years. Donning a Christmas red hoodie and letting my hair down was my contrast against his all black, sober look even though we both somehow knew that inside my skeleton, I stood no chance against him.
I am not a hug person. I rarely initiate hugs and when people hug me, I am always worried about hugging them tighter or looser than they do. On one of our monthly calls, he had told me his height and how I might have something called the Napoleon complex. This was the man I had platonically liked for two long years, yet our hug did not feel scandalous. It felt warm and comforting and most of all, accepting. In that hug I found both justification and validation for liking him.
Old Jaipur at night is a thing of beauty. The shops and the Hawa Mahal, exquisitely lit against their pink walls is what aesthetics are made of. On our way to his Airbnb in an e-rickshaw, we talked about how his name attracts women on dating apps and how he was looking forward to Shakun Batra’s Gehraiyaan. He was most probably disappointed beyond repair. He stopped the rickshaw to buy a cigarette. The guy I had befriended two years ago did not smoke and took a lot of pride in it. Not that I did not. These are things of the past. As most things and people do, we too have evolved.
I have often struggled to feel safe and secure when I am with people. Very few people have been able to make me escape from the insecurities and obnoxious gazes I prepare myself to face every time I step outside. Was it the four year age gap between us? Did I see an elder brother in him?
I had never smoked until he offered me his Marlboro Advance and all my abstinence from things that can trigger my asthma vanished. Passive smoking used to repulse me and there I was, smoking the same cigarette that touched his lips, the closest I will get to them. I wonder if his smell was stronger than the cigarette. For a moment, we were Sahir Ludhianvi and Amrita Pritam: Amrita would smoke Sahir’s leftover cigarettes after he had left to taste his mouth. He taught me how to smoke and that one puff from this really strong cigarette felt like a spark flying through my being. He told me about the date he had gone on with a trans woman and I did not know whether to feel proud or envious. We told each other about our love lives but only one of us was trying to feel better about themself.
We parted our ways with a hug—I had become a hug person for one day. Through the cab window, I could see him take his right hand near his ear and signal me to call him once I get home. I did not merely like this man. I loved him. I have, for the last three years.
In a cafe that flexed a magnificent view of the Hawa Mahal and the Aravalis, he had asked a stranger to click our picture. He never sent me that picture. The lack of it in his Jaipur highlight on Instagram has since stopped me from asking him for that picture.
I have enjoyed telling and creating stories visually from a very young age. The characters I conjured up were always inspired by the people around me—my friends, my family, teachers, and just about anyone I met. I made sure, however, to give them different names, keeping in line with the idea I had of storytelling (all characters must be fictional).
I remember sometime around the age of 7, my parents had started watching a lot of English films such as Gone with the Wind, The Sound of Music, and other classics. I didn’t understand or speak English at the time, but I would still insist on watching the films along with them.
Later on, I would incorporate the names from these films into my own stories. Characters like Rhett, John, and Paul would become my companions and together we would go on many adventures. Sometimes I would name my own character as well, to fit in with the rest. Looking back on these stories, I wonder why I was so fascinated and particular about the use of these names, especially those assigned to male characters and therefore my male friends.
Recently, while going through a pile of art that I had made as a child, my friend asked me, “Why is the main character in all your drawings or stories a boy?” That had never occurred to me! The idea that in some ways or the other, I was always drawing or conjuring up a version of myself. Coming out as a trans man now, it all finally falls into place.
Growing up, while I was always aware of the discomfort and disassociation I felt with my body, I never had the words to validate it. The films and stories I was exposed to all involved cis-het characters and heterosexual relationships. I found myself identifying with all the cis-men I saw on screen, and my desire to be one grew ceaselessly, yet all I could do was imagine.
Words like dysphoria, transgender and gender-affirming care did not exist when one is brought up in a cis-gendered, heteronormative household. I grew up believing there was absolutely no way to become who I really was.
So sometimes I do feel like I had to create that character or role model for myself. It is also very fascinating that today, I look a lot like the characters I used to draw as a child. It is almost like I was making myself come to life!
2 years back, as a part of my final year thesis at college, I got the opportunity to create a full-length comic book. I created yet another story, the main character uncannily similar to me in both personality and behaviour. This was around the time I had come out to most of my friends but was still going by my dead name, a name that had always felt alien.
My character was a trans man. Naming him was not difficult. I did an arbitrary Google search and picked one up randomly, giving myself the freedom to change it later if I felt like it. The name, however, really stayed with me, and over time I started to see myself as the character I had created —someone a lot like me, with a life more similar to mine than I had planned. I was unable to finish the comic book and ended up only submitting pre-production research and character sketches. The project persevered nonetheless; it grew into the identity I was always running after, and a name I could finally find solace in.
The lack of queer and trans characters in mainstream media robs the queer community of seeing themselves on public platforms. As a trans writer and illustrator, I feel like I have a responsibility to create more stories about people like me, stories that are easily accessible. I want to create and write characters that young queer children can look up to, something I did not have the opportunity to experience while growing up.
I do sometimes wonder; what if I had the words and resources to understand my identity at a younger age, would I have had the freedom to start my transition much earlier? And to understand myself much earlier?
We are always looking for ourselves, in the books we read, in the films we watch or even in the music that we listen to. There is always a need to relate—that something which is produced by another can validate our feelings because it confirms that we are not alone in the way we feel. The basic nature of relatability is to banish the idea of ‘otherness’, a feeling those from my community are, more often than not, immensely familiar with.
I never liked my dead name. My parents regularly applauded themselves for the amount of time and effort that went into finding the right name for me. Something that would draw people’s attention (it didn’t work, people forgot it the moment they heard it) and a name that would rhyme with my sister’s name.
My mother is Bengali, so it was only mandatory for my sister and me to have a daak naam – a name only used by the family. My daak naam is very gender-neutral and I believe it fits me better than my dead name. So as much as my parents tried to persuade me to not tell anyone about it, very soon I was only called by my pet name, and the traces of my dead name only remained in my legal documents and transcripts.
I have never felt any kind of familiarity with that name. It was given to me but it was never mine. When I began my transition, my parents tried to persuade me to have some part of my dead name in my newly chosen name, but it felt too alien. And in some way that is a relief.
I do like my pet name and initially, I did wonder if I could just go by that. But when I was creating the character for my thesis, it felt familiar and also fresh and new at the same time.
It truly is a wonderful and liberating experience to name oneself.
Robert LeRoy Parker, an icon of the ‘Wild West’ era, was the leader of a gang of outlaws known as the ‘Wild Bunch’ in the Old West in the USA. His life and death have been the inspiration for many films, television and literature, but his most popular contribution might just be to modern lesbian vocabulary. He was colloquially known as Butch Cassidy.
Through his name the American slang word ‘Butcher’ became common in the early 20th century, meaning ‘tough kid’. The abbreviation of this gave us the word ‘Butch’, which according to the Oxford dictionary means a lesbian of masculine appearance or behavior. But as always, there is more to it than meets the eye.
What was once a way to describe a woman with short hair, no makeup, and men’s clothes is now more of an aesthetic fueled by an attitude and sense of confidence in yourself. It is an umbrella term that includes multiple identities like soft butch, hard butch, stone butch, chapstick lesbian, studs and more. It is also not just women who identify under the banner but also non-binary peeps and trans-persons!
The word was first popularized in the 1940s, alongside what is widely accepted as its counterpart, ‘femme’, which has come to be a reference to a queer person of feminine appearance or behavior, in the working class bars in places like Manhattan and San Francisco. These spaces provided a safe haven for sapphic women to explore their gender presentation away from judgemental eyes. Even though it was a space that middle and upper class lesbians of the time avoided, the butches at these bars could be spotted in “men’s” clothing and short hairstyles, while displaying suave, chivalrous manners when interacting with their femme counterparts.
This was prevalent well up to the 60s and 70s, but it wasn’t until the 90’s that till butch women became a topic of conversation in the USA again. This was at the height of second wave feminism in America when the conversation around butches, but in particular the dynamics between between butch and femme women, was gaining prominence. In short, the feminists were just not here for the butches! They pilloried butchness as inextricably misogynist and butch-femme relationships as dangerous replications of heteronormative roles.
From its emergence among working-class lesbian bar culture in the 1940s to its resurgence in the 1990s, this subculture has an interesting and rich hidden history in American sapphic culture, but there are prominent butch women in histories all over the world.
In their book ‘Butch Heroes’ author Ria Brodell sets out to find people like them. “I was looking for people in history with whom I can personally identify — people who were assigned female at birth, had documented relationships with women, and whose gender presentation was more masculine than feminine,” Brodell explains in the book’s introduction. The language around queer identities has largely evolved since some of these butches strutted their boots. Today some of them could have been identified as lesbian, bi, pan, trans, nonbinary, genderqueer or intersex. But at the time the language wasn’t so nuanced, so Brodell choses to identify them as butch.
In Brodell’s work we meet D. Catalina “Antonio” de Erauso (1592 – 1650) who was born in Spain to an aristocratic family. She was raised in the convent, but before taking her vows she fled dressed as a man to sail and fight in the Spanish army. Once she was caught she was popularly called the Lieutenant Nun. She famously petitioned King Philip IV for a military pension citing her 15 years of service and even sought permission from Pope Urban VIII to dress as a man due to her ‘virgin status’. Both of which she successfully received!
The book also brings to us the story of Okuhara Seiko (1837-1913), an artist of the late Edo period of Japan. Her birth name was Setsuko, but she changed it from a feminine sounding name to one with no indication of gender. She is described as masculine and chose to wear men’s clothes and keep her hair short. During her time, women were not permitted to study painting so she arranged to be adopted by an aunt to move to Edo (now Tokyo) to pursue her artistry. Seiko was the first female artist to have an audience with the Empress of Japan!
The book sheds light on how butchness has always existed in women’s history (or should we say, her-story) all over the world, even if it wasn’t called that at the time. Today butch women are a regular part of pop culture. We had the iconic singer K.D. Lang who plagued women’s sexual confusion in the early 90’s with her haunting mezzo-soprano voice. Her 1993 August Vanity Fair cover shoot with Cindy Crawford remains iconic to pop culture enthusiasts even today.
The second coming of straight women questioning their sexuality came with Ruby Rose, who rose to stardom in 2015 after appearing on Orange is the New Black as everyone’s favorite prisoner Stella Carlin. Since then, Butch women have been a part of Western pop culture regularly, especially in film and television. Granted most of the time it has been in the form of secondary characters with trope-y story lines, but they are there, rocking the pixie cut and sporting a pair of flannels.
But the most popular butch of all time, one most people think of when asked who the first butch women they ever saw was, is Ellen Degenres. Her fall from grace is well documented and frankly well-deserved, but her impact on the LGBTQIA+ community, in creating a space for queer people and in particular butch women, cannot be ignored.
To this author though, and to lots of other Hindi-speaking queer women as well, the first time we saw a butch woman on-screen was Komal Chautala in Chak De India! She has long been part of the discourse on queer-coded characters in Bollywood, largely due to her abrasive push back in conforming to the gender binary during a conversation with her father as shown in the movie.
In an article for Vogue India titled “How Bollywood’s LGBTQ+ agenda studiously ignores transmen” we hear about Omar’s story of how they as a transman felt seen by Komal’s character. Back in the day, in 2007 when the movie was released, Komal was seen more as a “tomboy” rather than butch. The difference between the two changes depending on who you ask. Some say tomboy is more of a phase while butch is a lifestyle, some say tomboy is more about material things like clothing choices, hairstyles and other personal preferences, while butch is more of an attitude about who you are and your identity. The biggest difference between the two, when colloquially addressed, remains that tomboys are straight women and butches are queer.
Since Komal, we have had more robust and out there butch women in Indian film and television. In the popular Amazon Prime TV show, “Four More Shots Please!” we have Umang, a bisexual fitness trainer. Her muscular built, tattooed arms and IDGAF attitude is the best example of butchness we have for brown women. Netflix’s Ajeeb Dastaans is an anthology series that gave us the short story titled Geeli Puchhi. Here we meet Bharti, who’s butch physical appearance paired with vulnerability in her storyline as a Dalit woman and a sexual abuse survivor, helps bring a more nuanced approach to queer butch women on the screen.
While these characters embrace their butchness they are played by women who are neither queer nor butch. A problem that exists in entertainment industries everywhere. Social media then becomes a place for more authentic butch representation. Through social media we have had the identity of butch further classified, think of butchness as a scale where on one end we have the soft butch, someone with more softer features, long hair, likes minimal makeup, rocks the white tee and denim look. Maybe someone like Kristen Stewart. On the other end is the hard butch, definitely more muscular in built but not necessarily, someone whose wardrobe is filled with flannels, wears their hair in a pixie or buzz cut, and dons lots of leather! Maybe someone like Sara Ramirez.
Even the gym girlies trend on social media, not something only queer women have embraced but all women who enjoy looking muscular have, is a trend that owes its existence to butch culture. Feminine masculinity presents itself in various forms. And yes, queer women dominate this conversation and butchness is an extension of the same.
Within the butch label we have soft butch and hard butch but other trends have emerged regularly like the chapstick lesbian or the hey mama lesbains or even studs, a word prominently used by butch women of color in the western world. Butch can mean anything and everything to the people identifying with it, if they want it to! It is feminine masculinity in all its glory and this women’s day we are embracing it!
The theme of International Women’s Day 2024 is Inspire Inclusion, and I hope this piece has inspired you to include our lovely butches in the conversation! The fact remains that we need more in your face butch representation! And all kinds of butch representation, really. So what are we waiting for? Women’s Day?
“Isn’t everything we do in life a way to be loved a little more?” this quote from the movie Before Sunrise(1995) reminds me of how we as humans seek love in everything we do. We seek warmth, recognition and understanding in all of our gestures. Whether in cooking a meal for someone, or remembering someone’s Subway order, there’s a hint of love even when you’re mad at someone. Our childhood is shaped by the love our family and parents give us, and our teenage years are dominated by the platonic love that our friends surround us with (or don’t), and by the time we reach the frontiers of young adulthood, there seems to be a collective urge to find romantic love. If we think meticulously, love dominates the majority of our spheres of life, specifically romantic love.
I am twenty-two and I have never experienced romantic love. It wasn’t something which bothered me too much up until I was 18. I found myself all grown up with and surrounded by a splendid bunch of friends who surpassed all standards that any romantic partner may aspire to, through their gestures towards me. But, no matter what is said and done, platonic love and romantic cannot take the place of one another. Oftentimes, I am told to focus on giving the love I have in me to myself, instead of waiting around for another human to do that for me. However, I feel that as hyped as romantic love may seem, it is irreplaceable for me. The kind of comfort it would bring, cannot be compared to platonic or self-love and vice versa; all of them are equally meaningful but in their own respective ways. Being an individual with the personality of a giver and a hopeless romantic, not having ever experienced romantic love at my age, is not fun and believe you me when I say this. I constantly yearn for a connection like that, even more so when I see other people around me who have it. I am someone who desires an organic connection, so meeting people through platforms like dating apps does not feel real. Additionally my analogy about all of this isn’t layered with a strategy – if it comes along then I will take it as it is, is more of what I believe in.
However, after a certain point in time, romantic love feels more like a need than a want, I suppose, which is exactly where I am at, and yet nowhere near it. The lack of it has caused much turmoil within me but it has also taught me more about who I am as a person, and it has led me to figure out and understand the little things that I enjoy about life. It has helped me discover the passions that I like to pursue, it has taught me to be comfortable with sitting alone in my room and still not feel lonely. When I say all of this, it might seem like I am trying to replace romance with the notion of self-love, rather, what I intend to indicate is that as much as we as humans desire to be loved, seen, understood and recognised by another human being, as much as we may derive meaning from the idea of romantic love, it perhaps, does not come along, and it may never come along, so instead of awaiting it like a hopeless romantic fool, I have ended up teaching myself to seek pleasure in my own company. Sounds horribly depressing right? It does feel awful on some days, but in the fullness of time, I believe, it is only yourself that remains with you, to seek company from. Ofcourse, it is rather exhausting and dreadful to do that when the entire universe is comprised of grand gestures of romantic love in a manner where all forms of love seem to fall short. On top of that, being a hardcore Hindi cinema fan, I have umpteen fantasies and dreams about falling in love, but it has always been one-sided (Oops, did not mean to overshare!)
In the end, I’d just like to urge whoever reads this article to stop waiting around for love and stop putting yourself through inorganic relationships just for the high of it, because if at all it would do anything, that would be ruining the essence of how pure the emotion of romantic love can be. Instead, maybe just go make yourself a cup of hot chocolate topped with marshmallows, put on your favourite pyjamas and watch some dull-witted rom-com, you never know when one of those plotlines ends up unfolding in real life!
Ah, there comes in my hopeless romantic self, yet again!
Being gay in this world is not easy! In fact, the experience is not universal either. Ask any gay person in this world and the answer will differ from person to person everywhere. Some might be happy living as openly gay individuals with few worries, some might be cautious with whom they share info about their sexuality with, and some are downright in denial about their sexuality. I am one of those people who is cautious to share with the world. I try to keep a wall around me because I am that way. There is always a chip on my shoulder.
So one day, I had to come out to my family members because it was becoming unbearable to hide. But the reaction to my coming out was not quite what I imagined. Well, if you have a supportive family, chances are they will support you and vice versa. For me, I did have a supportive family, but a conservative one. My coming out was not the same as what I had imagined it to be. So, let me tell you who my family consists of: my parents, two elder siblings, and me. My elder sister is married with a kid and my elder brother is divorced without kids. We live in Bombay and we are not a rich family, we are just a normal lower middle-class family, but we are a happy family! But one day tragedy stuck when my mom expired, leaving us heartbroken. It was one of the most tragic times of my life and a nightmare that had come real. We were all mourning, but the situation was that we were left without a woman in the house. So, no one was cooking in the house, and we were just about eating anything for some time. But, the issue was that there was no woman at home. Patriarchal families in India are very much obsessed with women cooking at home. They just want a woman in the kitchen to cook for them, and it’s a pretty oppressive approach. Every person who came to our house to give condolences said that the sons should get married as soon as possible so the kitchen would continue to operate. So, my extended family started telling us to get married, to any cis-woman, so the house would be neat and clean. My elder brother was the first target for the relatives. My brother is a very lazy and irresponsible guy, and that’s one of the reasons his marriage didn’t survive. So, he started putting pressure on me to get married, so everyone would leave him in peace. He said that between us two, it should be me. I thought we were a family, but for him, I was the person who needed to be sacrificed to save the family’s pride in society. From that point onwards, I stopped considering him my brother or my family, because I would never do that to him when he tried to throw me under the bus as if my life were an afterthought.
But, this is my coming out story, not about how I don’t like my brother anymore. So, my elder sister was also putting pressure on me to get married, but not with the same intent as my brother did. One day, fed up with it, I told her on a phone call that I was not straight. I told her that I was a homosexual. I expected her to be somewhat sympathetic and understanding, because we shared a great relationship. But, I was wrong, the reaction I got from her is something that I would never forget. She started panicking, telling me not to tell anyone about this, and that she was really scared when talking. But, you know what she was scared of, her reputation in society. She thought her relatives and her friends would make fun of her, and we would become the butt of all jokes. She listed some names and said don’t tell them, and was worrying about what would happen if anyone knew that I was gay. I didn’t argue with her, and just said okay! She started panicking again about what would happen to our father if he knew that I was gay! She started saying that he might die if anyone came to know about it, and everyone would make fun of him. He wouldn’t be able to bear the embarrassment that my identity, and by extension, I, would bring to my family. After that the conversation ended, and I was only thinking about how I thought my sister would be very supportive of me when I told her about my sexual orientation. What a fool I was. She didn’t care about me, she only cared about her reputation! I thought that my coming out would be accepted by my family, but I got a reality check that day. Right now, my relationship with my sister is back to normal, but the worst part is that we never talk about me being gay, and she acts like that conversation never happened. That day doesn’t exist in her mind. I maintain my distance from her.
This has made me very much opposed to the idea of coming out, and I hope the people who read this have a much better support system than I have. Coming out is a very personal choice, but be prepared for any outcome.
All you need to know about GLAAD’s report on queer representation in video games and 7 LGBTQ+ video games coming out (literally) in 2024 that we think you should watch out for!
When you think of the quintessential gamer, your mind goes to a white boy sitting in the basement of his parents’ house, crouched in front of a screen, away from all of society. That’s just not true anymore. This may have been the key demographic of gamers a few years ago but not today. With the ‘gamer girl’ culture taking over the socials, strides have been made to make the space more inclusive, but is it enough?
Due to its interactive nature and opportunity to build community, gaming, like any other form of media, can be a great escape from reality for its users. Especially for its queer users, it can be a way for those who don’t feel comfortable or safe enough to explore their gender identity or sexuality in the real world, to indulge in the same in the digital world. This makes it an important outlet for self-expression.
There are a few relatable queer characters in the gaming space, like that of Lev from Last of Us (Part 2) and Ellie from the original game, who rose to prominence after the HBO adaptation of the same starring non-binary star Bella Ramsey and our favorite trans ally, Pedro Pascal. Nonetheless, most video games claim brownie points for representation only by adding optional or secondary characters that are queer.
Don’t get me wrong, having this option is great, allowing players to decide if they want their character to romance queer non-player characters is a way of adding a layer of diversity. These kinds of character customizations are certainly a step in the right direction. But, they have been stand-ins for a more robust and impactful LGBTQ representation in the world of video game for decades!
We need more out-there, in-your-face, queer representation!
Till we don’t have that, let’s celebrate the ones we do have. Here are 7 LGBTQ+ video games coming out (literally) in 2024!
Hades 2
The Hades video game series is a rogue-like dungeon crawler in which you battle to break free from the Underworld (as described in Greek mythology) using dark sorcery to take on the sinister Titan of Time. Probably one of the most anticipated games by queer gamers, the first edition followed Zagreus, the bisexual son of Hades, whose equal parts loveable and frustrating nature helps him hack and slash his way out of the underworld!
In the second edition we follow the star goddess, Melinoë as she takes on her turn to battle the Titan of Time in the Greek Underworld. Even though little is known about this version of the game yet, the original one offered two distinct romance options and more than a handful of LGBTQ+ characters, all inspired by Greek mythology. No doubt this one will do the same!
Release Date – Q2 2024
Dragon’s Dogma
One of the most iconic action role-playing games. This high-fantasy adventure takes players in the role of Arisen, the hero of the story driven by his desire to challenge the dragon, who recruits allies to take on giant monsters. Even though no information is given by Capcom about the changes in prospective character relationships, we do hope that the sequel continues with allowing players to befriend and romance any character they wish just like in the original.
Release Date – 22nd March, 2024
Beloved Rapture
The developers of this OG Nintendo style role-playing game have shared how LGBT themes and friendship are integral to the story of the game!
The game is an indie jRPG that blends modern themes with classic gameplay. It follows Johan, an introverted man from the countryside, as he is forced to abandon his carefree existence when he comes up against a religious faction. He is joined by Aiden, a mysterious son of a shrine caretaker, and Crystal, a noblewoman who has run away from her family.
Release Date – Q1 2024
They Speak from the Abyss
If you’re a fan of classic dungeon crawling-style role-playing games that explore themes of psychological horror while solving puzzles then this is the game for you!
Step into the shoes of Vanessa Rivers, a queer woman who moves to a new city to be closer to her partner, but her fresh start turns into something sinister as she’s thrown into a nightmarish world.
Set in a lush, narrative-driven world of witchy demons, the game lets its players bond with witches and demons and even smooch adorable characters!
Release Date – 2024
Read Only Memories : NEURODIVER
ES88 is an esper tasked with capturing Golden Butterfly, a psychic entity hiding in the memories of others. Set within Read Only Memories’ Neo-San Francisco, colorful, vibrant cyberpunk city, players will get to play as ES88 as they work to uncover the memories stolen by the Golden Butterfly in this psy-fi adventure.
Like the original, this one too is set to feature multiple LGBTQ+ characters that players can take on!
Release Date – 2024
AfterLove EP
This slice-of-life game is a blend of narrative adventure, rhythm game, and dating simulator that allows players to experience urban life in Jakarta, Indonesia through the eyes of the musician Rama, a young-man working through the death of his girlfriend, Cinta.
Through this role-playing game, we explore the decision Rama makes about the path he wishes to take and his relationships!
