The I Column
I am single and successful in the city. My general health is under control. I can still pull off an all-nighter maybe once a quarter. My sexuality and desire have evolved and matured with my age. Heck, in my eyes, I am Mrs. Robinson. But the eye candy at the bar sees me as Miss Havisham.
The circulation of our bodily energies potentially ushers queer futurities. A future that is yet to come, a future in which our bodies will not be imprinted with fear. A future in which newer creative economies of desire, love, and pleasure surround us like the blue waters of the Indian Ocean. I write this brief reflection in hopes of such futures.
I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia around July last year. For those of you who do not know what Fibromyalgia is, it is a condition characterised by chronic pain spread over some tender points across the entire body.
Many queer Indians who converse largely in their respective regional languages find it difficult to put a name to their queer identity in their ‘mother tongue’.
If not for these memories, my exploration of sexuality would perhaps have stopped a few years ago, when I was single for a long time and didn’t know if I could find someone like me.
In addition to healing from sexual trauma, which took a lot of work, the most joyful part of this journey has been a discovery of my own sexuality.
Coming back to finding a utopic home within the narratives from The Night Train at Deoli, the book wasn’t necessarily an escape from what constituted the material home, but rather an assurance that love can have plural possibilities, and so can what comes to be ‘home’.
In a way, Mrs Chatterjee’s worst fears had been confirmed. The hostel was indeed dangerous – not because of “raging hormones”, but because wewere constantly initiating discussions and circumstances which challenged the patriarchal status quo.
“Order me one too,” a friend said as I secretly purchased a vibrator online during a class so boring, I…
Her eyes are open now, she looks at him. There is sadness there. “What my love? What happened?” he asks….
“Mamma, look, that’s a boy giraffe, I can see his penis,” exclaims my four-year-old daughter in delight at her discovery…
Dear Dad, There are times when I find writing a largely unproductive and tiresome exercise. For much of what is…
Even negotiations related to the use of contraception or types of sexual acts in consensual relationships become difficult for a young girl because of her fear of displeasing her partner. But if one is fortunate, time helps us acquire some sets of skills and the language to speak up against violence and enforce decisions surrounding one’s sexual and social life.
I read The Failed Radical Possibilities of Queerness in India more than a year ago and it still makes me…
What is fiction? Is it born of reality? Or does it birth reality, reflecting it back at me until I see the things I do not see? Until I find the person that is me? Until I dance my horse dance under moon, under stars, in a room full of people who like horse dancing just as much as they like the swirly skirt and the pot-bellied person doing the Bhangra.