Children who come from homes that don't fit traditional social stereotypes (i.e. nuclear families) can find their families in these stories, and children who don't fit traditional stereotypes of gender or self-expression can find an example for themselves.
The title ‘Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know’ makes no attempt to conceal it’s YA (Young Adult) genre, and also leaves a few clues in the text just to make sure (for eg: the use of ‘deadpan’ as a verb). As Khayyam sleuths her way through the book to uncover Leila’s story and amplify her voice, it is ironic that the book title ‘Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know’, is a reference to Lord Byron’s reputation amongst women.
Naming one book after the other Saikat’s celebratory tone about the fact that much gay fiction and nonfiction is getting published he misses one more point: diversity. How many fictions, nonfictions by trans writer, Saikat? Or for that matter by any gender nonconforming person? Or anyone under the sun except gay man or woman?
The hope through education is to consistently allow each child the opportunity to be free to learn about and make space for identity markers that speak to one’s authentic truth. This is where I really appreciate how simply these two books with Ms Kuriyan’s playful illustrations drive home the need to see and accept oneself and other children (and everyone!) as unique individuals.
‘When I Grow Up’ shows us how we may challenge gender-related stereotypes in books that we make and choose for young readers. In listing different kinds of engineers that Papori wants to be, the book mindfully challenges the stereotypical associations between gender and occupation.
I had read a lot of Urdu poetry and prose from this time for my 2012 book Gender, Sex and the City, and had discovered that several major writers from Lucknow, Agra and Delhi (but also one from Hyderabad) wrote in the same range of tones and with equal ease about female-female, female-male, and male-male erotic relationships, as well as about all kinds of friendships, including female-male non-sexual friendships.
Lovely is a hijra who works at traffic signals for a living. She lives in a slum in Kolkata and dreams of becoming an actor. Not only that she dreams it, but is working toward it. The setting is a breath of fresh air as most of the novels, when describing the movie world, are obsessed with the tinseltown, Mumbai.
McQuiston unfolds the love story remarkably well, giving us time to get to know and love the two young men, along with the supporting characters, their irresistible friends and families.
Based in the sixties, in the small town of Pipalnagar where nothing ever happens, the story is told from the point of view of Arun, an aspiring writer, who aims to one day live in Delhi. While the town of Pipalnagar is almost a character of the story in itself, Arun is only living there because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.
I always wished there could be as many books by queer authors or books on subjects concerning queer lives, but after reading The Other Guy (Leadstart Publishing, 2017) by Aakash Mehrotra I don’t know if this book, and its likes, help us achieve the function of literature.
While the trans community is the one she is actively discriminating against, other LGBTQ+ individuals, Trans allies, and members of the Harry Potter fandom are also speaking up about the disappointing and dangerous way that the author is deciding to use the influence that she has because of the global community that has loved her work.
The spirit of small towns is perfectly captured in the balance and negotiation of intimacy and secrecy between characters, and the racism against and politicization of immigrants is explored without the writing style getting too preachy.
What began as a thesis while pursuing his masters in Comparative Media Studies in MIT became the first ethnography of gay life in contemporary India. It to help gay men explore their sexuality and accept their identities. It charts the growth and trajectories these offline-online communities as a result of globalisation and the subsequent changes.
Yesterday, I finished reading this in an hour, and basis my current political understanding of the feminist and queer discourse, I thought to again indulge in a conversation with this book and assess the magnitude of its contents.
When I finished browsing through this heavy pink-covered hardcover book that has Paolo Sergio de Castro’s image on the front – who died of AIDS and the book is dedicated to him – with “wish you were here” in golden color, I was overwhelmed with emotions. These 128 pages, cover to cover, carries the making of someone; multiple landscapes that change as abruptly as does the subjects of assessment of Sunil.
Being a collection of vignettes doesn’t mean that this book doesn’t have a structure. It does. Divided in three part — bucketing several private events that happened between 1968–1997, 1997–2006, and after 2006, and juxtaposing them with the social reality in France — this memoir takes us through the author’s internal dilemmas and struggles.
There’s a way in which nation works. And some nations believe in their “greatness.” They believe in their masculinity, their powerfulness, their unbreakability, their purity.
The panel stood apart from all others at JLF because it has everything from deep moments of self-reflection and instances of recounting trauma to voguing and cracking jokes about the queer experience.
Although this book is a recommended read for anyone interested in sex research, it’s important to remember that the nature of sex research differs depending on disciplinary focus.
While Ruth Vanita makes it clear that the book is not an exhaustive history book of same-sex unions, she belabours the point that same-sex unions are not (and never were) an exclusively modern phenomenon.