More often than not, we tend to fall in love with a depiction of how we feel about our selves.
This article aims to be for everyone and thus not something someone can dismiss because they already “covered it” in their graduation women studies’ course.
You could say I get anxious when I feel people looking at me. Strangers sizing me up and down with their gaze. Desi aunties staring at me with slitted eyes, as if they know it is I that ravished the neighbour's boy.
Vincent and I met in person in the first week after I had moved to Paris. We met twice in that week and my heart was already lost to him.
The goal of the 'therapy’ is vulgarly clear - to change one's sexual orientation, gender identity, and gender expressions to societally normative identities. In the processes, people may be subjected to psychoanalysis, religious faith healing, exorcism, aversion behavioral conditioning, electroshock, surgical interventions, and even corrective rape.
The song is strikingly genuine, and it is hard not to get caught up in the emotions it expresses, and feel just as lost as the singer themselves. It is clear how much this relationship meant to Somaya, and it is easy to understand every emotion expressed in the song.
If I could, I promise I would shower her with everything she ever asked for.
Hold her hand when the woman from across the street stared at us,
hold her face when she shivered in my arms.
I am out to most people in my life – sister, cousins, friends, friends of friends, professors, coworkers – except my parents. That’s a tricky one.
Self love? How can I force my mind into loving a body that it cannot relate to. A mind that fails to find space in its vessel. It’s a terrible and violent act.
“I’m not a refugee. I am an immigrant,” you tell them but it doesn’t matter because you’re still different, and different is all they care about.
I always say that before I met Spoorthy, I did not understand what love was. Her love changed me, my anger, Casanova-nature, rudeness, and my all-time decision of not marrying anyone. I never used to believe in any relationships and always said that money could buy anything and everything. Her love taught me to smile, care for everyone, listen to others, and give other chances too.
In her live video, she recalled incidents of solitary confinement at a mental health centre because her family believed that they could "cure bisexuality." She had been a subject to domestic abuse and mental torture resulting in depression and suicidal thoughts.
We’ve come a long way, but our struggle isn’t over yet. We have miles to go before we find peace. Miles to go before we find justice – buried under rotting piles of debris, faeces and skeletons.
There is an inherent problem in assuming we can only talk about our personal lives and nothing else, that we are somehow remote from, say the migrant crisis and Islamophobia during COVID-19. By foregrounding one aspect of ourselves at the expense of other equally important concerns, inclusivity efforts in their present restrict rather than expand our civic engagement.
Carryminati, or Ajey Nagar, roasted TikTok content creators in his deleted videos. “Pussy” and “meetha” were used to ridicule the content, while defending YouTube. Queer people have been subjected to the term “meetha” when being bullied for their identity. It is the equivalent of “fa***t”. “Mithai ki dukaan pe le jaaunga toh 200 rupay me bik jaaega” (If I take you to a sweet shop, you will be sold for a price of 200) was a popular “roasting comment” used in the video.
Can we be cautiously optimistic that this unprecedented and once-in-a-lifetime crisis will change the gay narrative, particularly in India?
It isn’t enough to merely consume art which offers representation to oppressed communities – but as artists and writers, it is also our duty to create art which unites, which builds empathy, which upholds communities.
Our first date was a dinner that lasted 3.5 hours; we were both amazed by how easily the conversation flowed and that our interests, values, and humour aligned so well.
Monsoon had just begun and it only added to the city’s woes. And mine. I hated the rain. I just didn’t enjoy getting wet in the rain. That first week of June saw incessant downpour after the sunset. And the rain would start precisely at the moment I’d step out of the office to go home.
She ignores my remark and continues to dream about her second daughter marrying an upper caste boy and raise sons. The last time I let the truth slip out, she laughed it off as a cruel joke.