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Bandya caught watching porn aka Hum Aapke Hain Porn- Slideshow
My Body Has Become An Open Wound
Chemo saved her from cancer, but took away the ability to enjoy sex and intimacy. In an interview with Agents of Ishq, Amulya*, cancer survivor, unpacks her emotions of life post treatment
Edited by Gitanjali Chandrasekharan
Q: What was your relationship with your body before being diagnosed with cancer?
A: Right from my teenage years, I’ve been more tomboyish than girly. I look petite and dainty, but mentally I’m more one of the guys. Makeup, skirts. . . all of that was never something that I was interested in. But I was happy with my body in the sense that I wasn’t overweight, I wasn’t unhealthy, I was fit, I was running around, I looked okay. I never needed to use any products.
Q: The treatment lasted a couple of years. How did that change your body in terms of your energy levels, the things that you could do? How did it affect other things about your body that you like?
A: Cancer is hereditary in my family. At the age of 37—I am 45 years old now—I tested positive for the BRCa gene. While it was a shock, I also knew that lots of people have it and that I would be fine. So, it wasn’t earth shattering. My kids were three and six years old at the time, so I also didn’t have the luxury of being devastated.
With the treatment, the first thing that happened immediately was the surgery. They took the left breast out completely. Within about six to eight months of the mastectomy, we realised that the only sure way of dealing with this was to completely neutralise every single risk of getting cancer. Because of the genetic propensity, I was in the 85% bracket where it could go into my right breast, my uterus, ovaries. It could spread anywhere, and it would just mean that I would have to keep going for surgery and getting chemo, every few years.
I got my right breast, my uterus, ovaries, and everything else removed too. The doctor kept saying that while having them did pose a health risk, these were healthy body parts. I told him, “sure, they may be healthy now, but not healthy three months down the line. I don’t want to finish 36 sessions of chemo and then realise that now I have to do this all over again.”
It wasn’t even so much a discussion, but more about me marching into the doctor’s office and saying, “I have thought about this long and hard. I have read up what I can and I need you to do this. If you’re not going to do this, I’m just going to go to the next available surgeon and get it done.”
So, for the first year, it was more about doing the chemo, doing the radiation. It was about eating healthy, getting my strength back, keeping your mind occupied. Life kept me busy and the pain was being managed. I was on really high steroids. I was a patient.
Intimacy and sex with my husband obviously took a backseat. There were a couple of times when we attempted it, but I was not comfortable in the sense that it was painful. I was also just not ready. He was fine with it too. We put it on the back burner and went on with life.
Q: Did you discuss the surgeries and the effects of the therapy on your body and intimacy with your partner?
A: To be honest, it wasn’t done simply because it wasn’t something that I may have read about it in passing when I was taking off your fallopian tubes and your ovary that affects your hormones. I knew that my hormones would be affected whatever I do. The doctors told me that it would put me in a forced menopause where I would never have my periods at all and that kind of has a cascading effect on hormones again.
I did realise that hormones will be affected. I didn't realise to what extent and how much. I'm only finding that out now.
For me, the surgeries meant that I would atleast be alive, as opposed to being tied to a hospital bed and having to keep doing rounds and rounds of chemo and watching each body part being taken off every few years.
And so, at that time we (my husband and I) weren’t in the headspace to talk about intimacy or sex. It wasn’t a priority.
Q What do you mean when you say you’re only now understanding how much your hormones would be affected?
A: The radiation, for example, blew up my thyroid gland. Now I have thyroid on top of everything else.
The thyroid gland has complicated the whole hormonal imbalance. Now, the sex drive is at a bare minimum. There is no desire left anymore, there is no energy left anymore. There are body image issues.
At the time of the surgery, I didn’t have medical insurance. So, I thought “it’s all cosmetic, who cares, I’ll live without my boobs”. Now, every time I look at myself, I wish I had gone ahead and got my reconstruction surgery done because I don't like it now. Now, I actively really don't like my body. I don't want it anymore.
I wear a prosthetic. It's annoying, heavy and it’s giving me a bad posture. I can never wear loose tops any more.
Yesterday, for the first time in my life, I used a toner because my skin has lost all elasticity. It’s just become so dull. I'm very careful about the kind of clothes I buy now because nothing that has a V-shaped neck can happen.
The worst part is when I need to go do a facial, I can no longer go for a massage. Because they put their hands near my chest. There is no flesh there to massage and it hurts. I don't like anyone touching me there. I still can’t feel my armpits. There is no sensation anymore. So, the body has just become an open wound, a war zone.
The other thing is the mind fog. No one ever tells you about that. But the chemo really gives you brain fog. The thyroid is not helping either. There are vast spaces in your mind that are now completely blank. As a journalist, words used to be my forte. And now I just struggle with simple things. Just remembering. The good thing is that now I have pens everywhere and I have chits of paper all over the house like okay- remember this, remember this, remember this, do this, do this.
So, mentally it's kind of slowed me down. Physically it's definitely slowed me down in terms of emotionally connecting and having a healthy relationship with my husband.
And I feel sorry for the guy because it's been years since he's had a good round of sex and I'm sorry that I just don't know what to do. Because, one, it’s super painful. Secondly, I just can't be bothered. I don't feel good. I don't want to have anything to do with anything. And it's just difficult. It's a struggle. The couple of times we managed to have sex it was hugely painful afterwards. And I just don't think I want to do this again. He says it’s okay, that we don’t need to, but it's not fair to him. So, the guilt is also there. Everything that I have gone through, he's been on the sidelines. He may not have carried the scars, but he is feeling the same shit. He's carrying the burden as well.
There is painful vaginal dryness because mentally, you're not really stimulated, because your hormones just don't exist anymore. The few pleasure points that used to be there have also been screwed up.
Q: What are the moments of tenderness or love, that can come in a relationship at times like this, then?
A: I can’t take squeezes anymore. Even if my husband has to put his leg over mine it’s fine for three seconds. After that I tell him it’s too heavy.
Earlier we used to have really good fun in bed like playing, kicking, and laughing, it used to be fun. And now he attempts even one little thing out of all those crazy things that we used to do. It’s just hurting, hurting all over because the bones have lost the capacity to take the weight.
So, for moments of tenderness, yes there are a lot of hugs. For the longest time, it’s been this one thing that he started doing ever since I got my stitches removed and recovery has been happening. The last four, or five years, it’s been a massage. He’s the only person who can give you a back massage without any flinching, so legs, back, he will sit.
But I can’t bear him coming to the front of me. I also refuse to let my husband see the surgery scars. I refuse to let him get close.
It’s completely off-limits. The chest, the stomach, the front part of my body. I just can’t bear touching. It’s something that I’m uncomfortable with. So, that is where tenderness comes in right now. For us, it has become just that massage. Like head to toe, the back, the head, the legs. And I’ll sit there and massage him as well of course. It’s nowhere close to a massage but that’s about it.
Q: What were the things that your partner did or things in general that made you feel supported or made you feel loved in those situations where everything was falling apart and scary?
A: The one thing that really helped was no matter how tired he was or I was, he would just sit and press my legs every day. It started with that because at that time I couldn’t even sit straight after surgeries and all, even my back or, I couldn’t sleep on one side.
Things like making sure my water bottle is filled so I don’t have to get up in the night. He’s taken over the kitchen sort of space, he’ll do the cooking now. For a while, it was just him switching to coffee.
In that sense, I think I have kind of won the lottery in terms of support and a caring and loving partner. But there are days when I just want to fling a pillow at him—especially now, as time has gone by and slowly, slowly things have kind of become normal.
Every once in a while, he’ll ask why can’t we have sex.
I’ve thrown some literature at him; I’ve told him how I feel and he says all that doesn’t matter to him. “It doesn’t matter if you have your breasts or not”. But it’s not the cosmetic part of it. He doesn’t understand hormones.
So, we’re okay as we are in every other aspect of life but in terms of a sexual relationship, it’s just not there. That’s what cancer took away.
Q: You mentioned reading some literature, etc. all in. Are there other books, or other people that you’ve spoken to who sort of helped you perhaps understand this experience a little bit more?
A: I've had a lot of conversations with people and read a lot of stuff on cancer in general. But now five years down the line, why isn't anyone discussing how this leaves you?
The fact is that the chemo drugs are crazy and they take years to get out of your system. Why is it that nobody tells you that simple radiation well it's not simple really but radiation can literally throw up in your thyroid? I've never had thyroid in my life and now suddenly it's hypothyroidism.
I know a lot of people who've been through similar breast cancer experiences who have had hysterectomies and they're all in a slightly older age group or in a slightly different place in life. There were women who said that they wanted the breast reconstruction done there and then. This is something that I found, especially abroad.
I remember, the doctor didn't even ask me once if I would like to go in for breast reconstruction. It wasn't even an option on the table and at that point again it wasn't something that occurred to me really, but I remember that when I went again for something else to another doctor and he asked, “But why would you not consider a reconstruction surgery at the same time? That's a decision you should make in advance.”
How come nobody told me? Why would they not counsel women when they are diagnosed and say these are your options? It’s as simple as that. Why is this not made part of the treatment process? Why are you leaving women to deal with this on their own?
Q: It’s terrible to have to go through it so blind not knowing yeah what you're going to encounter next.
A: One of the side effects of the hormone replacement drug that I was supposed to take for five years, was that you could just die of heart failure. And the doctor said, “No, no, that’s a very extreme 0.01%.” I corrected him. It’s like 4%. And, considering the odds of me getting cancer at 36, I think I would have liked to know the odds, even if they were 4% and not 44%. So, I refused to take it.
I just stopped that medication. The doctor said he couldn’t continue my treatment if I behaved like this. I told him that I took the chemo, I completed the radiation, I’d taken two years of hormone therapy by then. But it was making me sick, I cannot do this.
There was no alternative therapy. So, I thought, considering I’ve gone into all of this so blind, I might as well just stop this and I’ll deal with the consequences as and when they come up.
Q: Post-treatment, were you able to find a new meaning or discover new ways to love yourself?
A: This is where the struggle for now is that the treatment part is over. This is the next bit of the struggle that I'm realising I'm in the middle of—coming to terms with the body that I am now left with, the limitations of this body and how to make it work for me. And so, this is something that I am slowly making my way through. I don’t have answers. I don't know.
So, there might be a good day when I might walk from my house to the station and then there might be a day when walking from my bed to the kitchen is a lot.
In terms of body image, it is at its lowest. I don't think I have ever felt this bad. So again, because of the thyroid, because of the hormones, it is now overweight. So, the day that I walked into the hospital for my diagnosis and the nurse weighed me before my surgery, I was at a very cool 52. And, it was comfortable. I was happy.
I’d be picking up jeans off the rack. I would fit into a small. I now fit into a large or an XL. I have never even been through the medium stage. I just kind of bypassed it completely.
I used to love swimming. I used to love being at the beach. I used to love being in the water. Now I’m just constantly worried if my fake boobs falling down.
I don’t want to put on my prosthetics. I want my body back for God's sake. And I’m not even talking about the strength . . . at least make it look normal. I can't wear certain clothes. I can't go in the water until I'm prepared five levels down where I have a second bra at home, which has the inserts. I have waterproofs. I have a swimsuit that basically is up to my neck. And even then, I'm extremely conscious of them sagging. I am wondering if they are hanging down? Are they moving to my waist? I mean, where is my little so-called boob? It’s not fun anymore. It’s not happy. I can’t just pick up a whim and go travel anywhere. I have to really be careful.
That is where I'm stuck at because I don't like this thing I have become and cancer treatment, while it may have given me my life, it has taken a collateral that was just too much and it wasn't with my knowledge or my permission. But take the hand you get.
*Amulya is the pseudonym of a cancer survivor who shared her journey with Agents of Ishq in an interview with Div Rodricks
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I Thought I'd Be Too Cool For Vanity. But, It Was A Struggle.
Author Shormistha Mukherjee on struggling with self-image and reconnecting with intimacy during and post her breast cancer treatment
Q: When were you diagnosed with cancer?
SM: I am 50. I was diagnosed when I was 45 in March 2018. I had breast cancer. I had a mastectomy and reconstruction at the same time. And then, I had around 16 rounds of chemo, and 20 rounds of radiation. And I think I finished my treatment at the beginning of December.
Q: What were the physical and emotional changes before and after the treatment? What was your relationship with your body before the diagnosis. What did the diagnosis change?
SM: I never expected to feel so strongly about the way I looked. I always thought I’ll be fine even if my hair falls off. Those were the least of my concerns, really. When it did happen, and when I buzzed my hair, I was fine. I thought I looked so GI Jane.
But, between the chemo sessions, the hair would grow back and then I would go in for a round of chemo and then it would fall again and I kind of looked like a porcupine most of the time. You have patches. In the movies, they show people ekdum bald, but that’s not true. I think it was very eye opening for me that vanity is, I guess, part of all of us. I thought I was above vanity but I wasn’t. I think it was a very big realisation for me.
Also, the way I looked started to change because of the steroids and the medicines. My face really puffed up. I got this hump in my neck, because of the steroids and big dark circles and stuff like that. And I just started looking like a very different person.
I didn’t even know who I am anymore. For 45 years you see yourself every day and you have a way you look in your own head. Now suddenly what you look like in your head, and what you see in the mirror is so different. It was an awful struggle. And I’ve always thought that that would not be the struggle. I’m just way too cool for this. But no, it is a very big struggle.
Q: Did you feel disconnected or like you lost a part of yourself in a way?
SM: In 2018, I had just about started getting my act together about working out. When I felt sick, I had thick long hair. I was very fit. When I went to the doctor, before my surgery, they needed to take tissue to do the reconstruction. They said there was no fat in my body. I was that fit. I was lean and it looked really good. I think it became very hard to suddenly realise that it’s gone one day.
I didn’t know who I was in terms of all the things that were happening to me. I’ve always been friends with my body. I asked myself how to reestablish this friendship with my body. With cancer, with medication, every day is different. Some days you’re feeling nauseous, some days your stomach is not good. Every day is different.
Chemo medicine gives you constipation. It’s killing all your gut cells and everything. It’s very difficult for the body to process that medicine, which is why they keep checking on your kidneys and stuff like that. The medicine is obviously toxic for all your organs, so constipation is a very big part of it. I would go to the loo and would strain. Then I got an anal fissure. I didn’t know what it was but it was so difficult I would have tears in my eyes and I found it so difficult to tell my family because it’s just robbed me of all my dignity. It’s robbed me of everything.
Q: What were your concerns and fears when it came to intimacy?
SM: I had a mastectomy and so they had to remove my breast and they had to reconstruct the breast and they had to take away my nipple. The funny thing is that even after my treatment got over, I was talking to somebody. . . and they told me how being handicapped is not always visually handicapped the way we see it. You know, not having a nipple is also being handicapped. I do feel like sometimes that I am a freak. I’m very strange in that when my hair fell, I could have worn a wig but I never did. I thought it’s too hot I’ll be sweating. I just went through all this trauma. Now that I think about it, I should have just worn a wig instead of being so traumatised by it.
Similarly, when they did my surgery, I had stitches everywhere. When they reconstruct your breast, they use tissue from your back and it’s just like a lump. It could have been a lump of clay, plastic, or anything. It doesn’t feel like anything. It was just like this thing that’s stuck there. It’s very weird and you have like one OG breast, and one this guy. And it’s strange and then you don’t have a nipple.
Even now sometimes, I like not to wear clothes and sit in the house. I’m fine with it. I’m married, so I’m okay with my husband seeing it, but I don’t think I’m okay with anyone else seeing it.
Q: You mentioned that you were comfortable with your partner seeing your body, but were also afraid of how your partner would perceive you.
SM: I don’t think it’ll go away. You’re always thinking, “Hey, what does it feel like to him? Does it feel different to have this person now who has one breast that doesn’t have any sensation? That you have to be very careful around, that doesn’t have a nipple?”
What does it feel in his head? I’ve never asked him because I know he’ll say, “are you mad?” and stuff like that.
Q: Are there things he does that make you feel supported and loved and a little bit better in all of those heavy emotions?
SM: He was my primary caregiver when I was sick. When they let me out of the hospital, I had a band-aid on my breast. What they do is they take out all the tissue from inside your breast, like, like think of it like a coconut scraper, they just scrape everything out. And then they stuff it with this tissue. When they scrape everything out, they really scrape everything out. It’s just your skin there. It’s like the flap of your breast is still there and then they can stuff it back and stitch it up. So, the skin is just very thin, it’s been scraped so much. And so, when they send you back home, because you have bandages and you have to take out the bandage every morning and then you have to put this ointment and then you have to put the bandage back.
It was traumatizing for me. I would always be scared that if it bleeds, I would have to go back to hospital. I could not do that myself. I would be so scared of it. He would do it. He would take the bandages out. He would put the ointment. I couldn’t have a bath. I used to have a sponge bath for almost a week because you can’t wet that side and your back. He was the only person who could give me that bath. He was he was basically my rock through it all.
Q: Did you notice changes in how you experience or perceive your gender? Did you sense of femininity get affected?
SM: Anytime you tell anyone, I have breast cancer, they look at your boobs. Okay, they can’t help themselves.
A friend of mine said “Oh my God, anyway, your boobs are so small. Nobody will even notice that it has gone”.
That is not what you’re supposed to be telling me. I told them that it did not feel funny when they said this, right? And I hope that they introspect and realise it. I learned that not everybody has the capacity and the capability to understand what you’re going through.
I guess, somewhere, the way you look and having hair on your head and all those things are tied with your own self-image, with your own feeling of being feminine. And, while I never felt less of a woman in my head or less feminine, I felt I just looked strange.
Initially, with my hair gone, I would wear these big bindis. Whenever I went for my chemos, I would wear all my lipsticks and everything and go for it. And I don’t think I felt less feminine, but I felt like others perceived me as looking strange, less feminine, less of what I used to look like. Sometimes you could see it in their eyes.
Q: Did you have a support group that you could talking to about what you are facing?
SM: I was vocal about having cancer. And, I have a strong circle of family and friends. I think they all just took me through. I had two female friends who were with me all the time.
But support groups in terms of groups with other people, no.
There was one group because I met somebody who had been through breast cancer and she had just recovered, a year and a half, two years before me. She became like a sort of guide for me. Then somebody else who had it and then she also, we made a little group- five, six of us, that’s it.
Q: How did you meet them?
SM: One day, I felt that I should do something, may be yoga, to be friends with my body. It’s not like my body has turned against me. It’s me and my body together on this journey. So, I need to feel that connection with my body a lot more.
So, this friend I used to go for yoga with before, said she had a student who had been through breast cancer two years back. But it was fabulous because that girl was like, just the most calm person, who did a lot of research. And then another girl whose sister lived in my building, we went to the same doctor, same hospital. So, then we got friendly. That’s how I met these 2-3 people and then we just connected.
I felt like it was a bus and everybody was on this bus with me. And now I’m going to ride through this very rough territory together. But I was very lucky to have a very strong support system. I always feel like people who don’t have that, that is very rough. That way I always felt I was lucky. You always think like when you die, that’s when you really realize how much you’re loved. But it was quite something to feel how much you’re loved when you’re alive.
Q: During the treatment and now, did you experience a loss of desire for intimacy? And if you did, how did you find ways to regain that joy for intimacy? And maybe in different, newer ways than before?
SM: I definitely did lose the desire. I feel more sexy with my clothes on than with my clothes off now, which is definitely strange. I mean, I had no issues with my body ever. I think I just grew up in this way of being very not self-conscious. But now, I do feel like I’m different, physically. And breasts are such a big part of being a woman.
I don’t know what I wanted to do about the intimacy. I think I still struggle with it, honestly. I don’t have an answer. I’m still struggling with it.
I’m very conflicted about it. I feel okay and then not okay. I think I’ve gone past a lot of stuff, but this yeah I’m struggling with.
Q: You mentioned that you like this character of the supportive husband in the book, Bangalore Detective Club. Is it also because of the support you got from your husband during the nine months of the treatment?
SM: I think I’m very lucky to be married to the man that I married to. I got married very young at 23. Weve grown up together and it’s just been the two of us through everything. It’s also hard being married because it’s difficult. I don’t think human beings are made for marriage actually. You know, it’s hard not to be attracted to other people. It’s hard not to sometimes feel like I’m done with this person, So we’ve had all sorts of things between us where we thought that oh we’re never going to be able to live together anymore, but we’ve always made our way back to each other.
Shormistha Mukherjee is the author of the book ‘Cancer, You Picked The Wrong Girl’. She spoke to Agents of Ishq in an interview with Div Rodricks
Iss compliment ko main kya naam doon?
Yes, I am Ms Something Else. I wish the men I met were too!
Written by Sweta Mantri
Illustrations by Anshumaan Sathe
When was the last time that someone gave you a compliment that you remember? Mine was from a guy I matched with on Tinder. Seven years, three heartbreaks, and one relationship later, nothing comes close to it.
His display picture on Tinder stood out because it was taken in a rural setting—which spoke of his longing to stay connected to his roots—but his bio reeked of the Metro vibes, saying that he was someone who had the zeal to conquer the world. It was a beautiful paradox, or maybe, it was me romanticizing yet another guy who was going to disappoint me.

We met on a rainy day. He—tall, extremely handsome, keeping it together. Me—short, gorgeous (of course), unable to keep it together. It’s not like I was nervous or something. It was a rainy day—which meant that the floors were more slippery than usual which could make my crutches slip and make me fall—only after falling head over heels for my date.
He knew about my disability, but it wasn’t the first thing that he got to know about me. I kept asking myself if that was the reason why he felt attracted to me. That evening was about good coffee and great conversations. I remember we spoke about our work, the weather, Pune traffic—the usual small talk—before moving on to talk about how we’re all stuck in a cycle that we don’t want to break, and how easy it would be once we find the right person to be with and yet how difficult it is to find the same. What?! Was that a hint for me to take?

Anyway, it was time to leave and time for reality to spill some water over my fantasies. I had managed to fracture my other functional leg a month back. It had been a couple of days since my cast was removed. And, it was raining. This meant that I needed two times more the support that I would usually need in a public setting. Was I not aware that all of this would make me appear more disabled in this ableist world? I was. Did I believe that it wouldn't matter? I did.
You can’t blame me for thinking that it wouldn’t matter. Soon after we had matched, we were glued to our phones for three whole days without a break. It was at that point that he said those words that still make me smile, “You're something else, you know?”

Yes, maybe, I was really something else... And maybe, I'll always be something else—in this ableist world. No wonder our conversations faded out a few days after we met. I knew it from the time he saw me off in a rickshaw that this wasn’t going to last long—no pun intended. After a few hi-hellos from my end and a few formal responses from his end, it was time to stop hoping that it would be him who would be ‘Mr Something Else’ for a change. And maybe, I can’t blame him either. However, what I can do is trip him over my crutches, the next time I spot him in public. I mean, a girl can dream, right?
Sweta Mantrii is an MBA turned writer, disability rights activist and stand-up comic. She has been advocating for the rights of people with disabilities through blogs and features, documentaries, awareness campaigns, interactive art mediums, and stand-up comedy for over a decade.
Some Sundays
Over copious cups, I waited for a romance to brew, and found myself left with nothing but green tea!
Written by Kavi Hriday
Illustrated by Shirish Ghatge
English Translation by Neha
I’m never alone. My body is always with me. Sick disabled body. That gets upset at almost everything. Some days are spent just trying to create some equilibrium with it. That exhausts me, deeply, and sleep cannot drive the exhaustion away. A gnawing, an uneasiness. The desire to run away from all this. But how will the running help? Wherever I go, my annoyingly talkative body will tag along. I’ve never felt as lonely as a talkative body has left me feeling, when I’m alone with it. Then I wish someone was with me so that I could divert my mind from these body matters. And that is how, one after the other, the dating apps start getting installed on my phone.
Love is what I search for. Sex is what I search for. Intimacy is what I long for. I know how the world sees my body. And so what...why can't I have my desires?
It’s not so shocking that I matched with some of them. This has happened before when I was living in small towns. Someone would bump into me online... full of hope! Overwhelmed with desire. What are you looking for? Nothing, just timepass. When the outside world oppresses you, then the body sitting inside the room gets restless, anxious. Then it would just be a matter of a few weeks. Knowing that the matter was not going to go ahead anywhere, either she would get bored, or I. It’s not that I'm not serious about coming close to someone. But the way people look at my body, I know that nothing is going to happen. One says, you are very brave for opening up in front of everyone. Brave? Can anyone think of having a physical relationship with a disabled person after calling him brave? I do not think so.
Meeting that girl was definitely a nice change. A tired body, a lonely mind was getting a small thrill. "I live nearby. Should I come today?" How brave she is. Meeting a stranger in this unknown city is not an easy thing. It can be dangerous! "Yes, yes, come". That evening, the doorbell rang. Simple clothes. Like she’s come down for a walk. She is holding a book. Murakami's. Explaining what running means in his life. I have read this. In fact I have read everything Murakami has written, a long time ago. That was a phase.
She hesitates in giving me the book. What happened? Actually I don't know if it's a good idea to give you a book on running. I began to laugh.
So can't a disabled person read a book about running? I understood her dilemma. This is the age of political correctness. Anything can offend.

Should I make tea? No, I don't drink tea. Green Tea? Ok. I brought two cups and started heating water, comfortably lying on the bed. She sat on a chair across the room and started smoking. The disease has long taken away my cigarettes and alcohol. Now my kingdom is limited to my bed. Work, read books, and make green tea. While sipping tea, we dived into the ocean of conversation. Exploring each other's past. My stories often take me back to the time when I used to think of myself as able. This love of the past often fills me with guilt. But hearing about her dreams and struggles, I was also moved. I didn't have anything special for the coming tomorrow, but this unknown person sitting in my room, sharing things, opening up to me... had instilled new hope in me.
Now, she would message every weekend: Should I come? Yes, come. She must also be getting bored. She had lived in big cities. Now Covid had brought people like us back to our hometowns.
So it was the same routine every time. She would come. We would talk. About art, artists, painters. Share favourite music with each other. Talk about Murakami, or Kafka. Drink green tea. Everything was quite romantic. But as the days passed by, dark clouds began to darken the room, asking us “Where are we heading?”
Her family was searching for a groom. My loneliness started creeping back. I had many people with whom I could talk and pass my time. I was not at that stage where merely talking to someone from the other gender was going to balance my life. I was on dating sites because I wanted love, I wanted sex, I wanted intimacy. I needed someone to look at my body differently. I needed to believe that there were people who would find my disabled body desirable. Who would want to possess it, love it.
With each passing day, the questions added up. Am I stuck in the same trap again where people just want to take emotional advantage of me, without touching my body? The gravity that pulls people towards me, will it never reach my body? What was the meaning of such a relationship? We were not friends. There is a balance in friendship. There was nothing like that here. Inside me, everything was in turmoil.
Next time when she came, I asked. Does this relationship even have a meaning? Maybe she knew this question was about to come. She kept mum. I told her what I wanted and why I couldn't meet her anymore. For some time the room was filled with silence. I felt the door was closing now. But then I heard her soft voice. “You can try whatever you want. I don't mind.”

She opened a new door. Layer after layer, new things kept getting revealed. Wishes. Excitement. Fantasy. Hers and mine. Could she really accept and love my body? Looking into her eyes, I started day-dreaming. And then she said something which washed away all my visions.
“I just have one problem. Would you feel bad if I got disgusted by your body?”
Disgust? How did this word wander in here? After so many weeks of conversation. Such an emotional connection. How did this word land here? Is my disabled body so powerful that just thinking about it in a sexual way fills someone's mind with such a deep emotion.
Disgust.
I am disgusted by genocide. I am disgusted by hypocrisy. I am disgusted by barbarity.
I never thought that thinking about my body could bring disgust in someone's mind. And if you feel disgusted, then why do you come and talk to me for hours? My body is not separate from me. At least not for the outside world.
Maybe I should have done something that day. I should have expressed my anger. But by the time I got agitated, everything was over. She had deactivated her social media account. She did not have the strength to play with this disgusting body. Or maybe she didn't want to break me by repeatedly calling me disgusting. I also blocked her. But it was of no use. That word has become a part of my body. How can someone accept oneself completely, knowing that a part of them is disgusting for others? How does one find pride in one's disability, knowing how society still sees their bodies?
I will take time to recover from this. Don't know how long this is going to take. At a certain point of my life I used to give a lot of importance to platonic relationships. Maybe the ghost of that time is coming back to haunt me. I need to think afresh. Until then, I will stay away from both- dating sites and green tea.
Kavi Hriday is a person with locomotor disability.
The Rasas of Intimacy: A Memoir
Intimate Rasas and the secret juice of life
Written by Sanskaari Nari’s Cat Loving Alter Ego
Illustrated by Manimanjari Sengupta
What kind of girl do you take me for?
– Promiscuous, Nelly Furtado
Vira
You might have heard of me. You might have read an article, or googled me, or glimpsed my face on the back cover of my book, or in the pages of a newspaper or magazine. Once, I was somewhat famous. Not so much now, thankfully. There’s a folder in a locked godrej cupboard in my parents’ home, filled with yellowing newspaper articles about my child prodigy debut into the world of writing, my New York Times bestselling graphic novel, my appearances at literature festival. Etcetera, etcetera.
If you’ve read one of these, you may have seen my face – slightly strained, self-conscious, bespectacled. You’ll notice the traces of acne, faint scars and slightly protruding teeth, not quite pretty enough; someone who has to get by on intelligence and diligence. Writes on epics and myths and all that. Must be a good girl, you think.
And for years, I have been. A good girl to please others.
That child prodigy stuff was over half a lifetime ago. Now I feel like a washed-up writer, menopause on the horizon, my crone-self growing day by day; like a bit of a failure too sometimes, when I see newer, younger writers flash to fame. I envy them. Sometimes, admittedly, they are better than me. They’ve honed their craft, they’ve worked their sentences, they've gone at it. They’ve stayed at it, persistent.
Whereas sometimes I think to myself - you just dined off reputation of being a child prodigy for far too long.
Not such a good girl after all. Flitting in and out of writing, never consistent with my output and routine, and I’ve kept my publisher waiting for my book far too long.
I really wanted to be a good girl.
There’s a voice in my brain, the Sanskaari Naari, telling me if I said what I’ve really been upto, what I’m really thinking, naturally everything will be taken away from me. My myth-inspired books will languish in bookstores, untouched. You will not let your children, and nieces and nephews read my children’s books– I’m just too disturbing for that. Not a good role model. That was fun while it lasted, keeping everyone happy.
Perhaps that's why I haven't written for years. If I can’t be honest, real, truthful, I’ll have to be silent.
If I choose to be intimate with you – to show the ugly places, the vulnerable places, the places of shame, it may cost me.
This comes with a price then.
Bhayanaka
There was a time, as a child…I don’t want to write about it again.
There was that time, on a lonely beach in Goa, when I felt terror, as two men chased me.
There was that time, in my apartment, when a neighbour tried to break down the door to rape me.
Sometimes terror is not just an act, or rape.
Sometimes it comes in small doses. A slap, a word.
Sometimes it is vaginismus or pain during a consensual act, when the body tightens, involuntarily, and I fight against myself as I spasm, and pretend to my partner that everything is fine, okay. I fake it. That is another fear. If I reveal the pain, that I will be rejected. I will be alone.
He leaves me anyway.
Sometimes it is the flare of fear in my gut, on a dark lonely street, when I spy a motorcycle and two young men, hurtling towards me, headlights on, and feel trapped.
Sometimes it is a proposition made in an office, or a place of power, and the belief that no one will believe me. (Is that what he really meant? You’re just imagining it all – that’s what Sanskaari Nari’s mother says in my mind.)
I refuse to remember more.
Adhbuta
The plastic that sheaths your lover, that barricades and protects your womb against the assault of sperm, is born out of death. Death that is hundreds of millions of years old, the decaying remains of organisms and plants, pressed and compressed together, turned into something invaluable in your hand.
When you make love, the piece of plastic that your lover throws so casually away afterwards – that took 300 million years to make.
The ghosts of the past, dead matter, poking into our wombs. Past present, organic, inorganic, human and non-human. All mixing together.
Promiscuous. Pro-miscere. Miscere. To mix.
Bibhatsa
Once there was a young man who – I realize this only in retrospect – was slightly infatuated with me.
I was at that time probably quite attractive, but in my head I still saw myself as an acne prone, bespectacled nerd even though I was thin and tended to have a wardrobe that featured (cheaply purchased) outfits of diaphanous fabrics in cleavage forward styles. This produced a kind of cognitive dissonance that, now, is a source of income to psychotherapists. At that time it cordoned me into a sex-deprived lifestyle.
This young man, after taking me on a couple of (very cheap) dates (neither of us had much money) revealed a truth about intimacy that completely scuppered our chances at achieving precisely that kind of intimacy.
Sex, he told me, was messy, because of the various body fluids involved.
At that time, I was not completely inexperienced, but I could count my sexual experiences on one hand. I suffered from a problematic belief, not uncommon, that sex is something shameful, and that to get past the shame one must drink, find another willing body, search for dark place to mate and avoid all discussions of feelings, and never speak to each other again:
In my head I associated shameless, ideal sex with perfectly manicured, bodypolished men and women. Bodily fluids – although certainly involved – were transferred from one anatomy to the other with the least amount of spillage, the way society ladies poured tea into one beautiful, ceramic, gold-patterned tea cup without a splattering drop.
In my mind I imagined good, well-mannered, properly-done sex with this sort of precision and behavior. In rougher moments – moments of passion perhaps – it would be like the way the chai-seller down the road would raise his glass on high and perfect, furious flow from one grimy glass to the other, without a single drop spilling. That strong, smooth, perfect gush of tea.
No mess whatsoever.
But now this young man had planted thoughts of stains on pillow cases {which provoked other anxieties--at the time I resided with a dainty, society-lady grandmother (for saving-on-rent purposes) completely opposed to spillage of any kind}. My housewifely mind became busy: how does one remove these?
I know how hard I have scrubbed to rub out menstrual blood stains from sparkling white bed sheets in this house. Would Ariel be best? Or comfort stain remover? Or Vanish?.
Would this necessitate tissues? A dustbin as a convenience receptacle for post-sex-tissue deposits?
These thoughts chased each other around my cluttered, disorganized sex-deprived brain.
How did other people manage this?
I spoke to a more sexually experienced friend who, when bodily fluids were mentioned, screwed up her nose and exclaimed “ew!”
Another told me to book a hotel (which I could not afford) for then stain removal etc would be the problem of the hotel staff to deal with, and they probably had secret manuals to deal with sexual stain removal. I imagined a coven of house-keeping staff at a hotel, conducting a strange ritual in robes to dissolve stains in a golden cauldron of Vanish! Liquid.
When I explained that neither of us had much money, she said “This in fact is your problem. You need to date a better class of men.” (Aka richer men, or men who had the money to spend on sexual escapades. Not the penurious poets and writers I tended to meet).
Money can resolve some matters pertaining to sex stain / body fluid removal, but it does not mean that the man in question is generous in bed. Or in other places.
But I did not know this then.
So we never had sex.
Hasya
In my fantasies of perfect sex, conditioned by anatomically perfect Hollywood people, bodies are smooth, unblemished and hairless and perfectly moisturized.
I have a condition called ichthyosis, (dry scaly skin on my legs) (on some days I think it makes me a descendent of the famous Melusine, the mermaid, who must have had dry scaly skin on her legs, and apparently spent every sunday sequestered in a bathtub, but was nonetheless enchantingly beautiful and married a french aristocrat, and thus is ancestress to all the royal houses of Europe, and most of its aristocrats, which in my imagination, makes her ancestress of Princess Diana and Sarah Ferguson, the latter a woman who apparently likes her feet sucked, and this may in fact be a desire brought about by the dry itchiness of ichthyosis.)
(Maybe this is a confession on par with the balding confession of my former admirer, but I do not know you, dear reader, so in real life, we are unlikely to have sex.)
So I spend Sundays in homage to Melusine sequestered in the bathroom, rubbing all kinds of moisturizers and petroleum jellies before I shave my skin. But – I wear glasses, and in the bath, like Melusine, as I try to render my skin perfect, the hot water steams on my spectacles and so I can not quite shave my legs perfectly. So horror manifests, sometimes, in the throes of romance, I catch sight of a patch of hair skin behind my knees, on my calf, and the choir of house-wife ancestresses scream like Furies, and the sex is spoilt, and turns into some sort of clumsy weird farce, where in I try to hide the hairy patch from discovery from my lover.
Once in an attempt to hide this, I attempted to place my cat (the nearest object at hand, as he was prowling around the bed, jealous of my attentions to male lover) strategically across the back of calf muscles, but this did not work, especially when cat revealed claws and resisted. I replaced the cat with a pillow, and then exchanged the pillow for a towel.
At which point my lover, in exasperation, asked me “What the hell is going on?”
And then I had to confess the secret of the hairy patch missed during shaving on my calf,
We began a conversation about various kinds of hair removal, how gender roles play a role in hair removal methods, and I began telling him the story about the time I had to have a pedicure and because of ichthyosis etc, the pedicurist had to shave the soles of my feet with a razor, in an unisex salon. I remember feeling shamed, fas a vast line of young men were witnessing this as they waited in turn, to get their backs waxed.
There is other clumsiness in sex. No one speaks of urine-scented genitalia.
During my younger, hormone raging days there was certainly some sort of instinct or feel for sex, but now what I remember is the hilariousness of it.
I do remember a young man who worried if I might need an iron to iron out creases on a dress post-sex, and his iron was not working, and this troubled him, as when I left his house, the creases would be some sort of scandalous signal that sex had happened.
Karuna
There have been other hair-related issues. I remember another encounter with a young man who preferred hairless genitalia.
When I tried to account for this, I initially shaved, but I could sense a slight disappointment. Eager to please him, I experimented with a Brazilian wax, which was an experience that I now remember more clearly than the sexual encounter: hours spent with a patient, waxing woman who described her experiences waxing the vaginas of other women. In this I felt a sense of community and sisterhood with the other women, who had endured hot wax being applied and yanked off their privates, in an attempt to meet sexual standards. As she applied and removed wax she told me about her life, her two daughters, one of who was disabled, the fights that she had with her husband, and her fear and worry for her daughters during the pandemic, as their schooling stopped.
We spoke the word brazilian wax, were both Indian women, in a sweltering Indian summer – what was Brazilian about this, or about our hair or our private parts? I didn’t get it. She confessed to me that she did the Brazilian wax on herself as well.
I remember a sticky bit ripping off, and wincing with pain. I tried to hide this, but she noticed, I remember her apology, her gentleness with me, the soft cooling pressure she applied with a wet cloth.
In this, weirdly, I felt greater intimacy, and human connection, more gentleness and compassion, more care than I experienced with many a lover.
Maybe it was about that rare camaraderie and friendship, that experience of shared and witnessed suffering bringing waxing woman and woman-to-be-waxed together, bridging socio-economic divides and lifestyles, bringing women together in shared mutual experience. The waxing woman, who gently attended to me, is most likely not of the same caste. I suspect this, but I do not ask. I try to forget caste, but sometimes I wonder if that blindness, that forgetting is worse.
to think, in another time, place, it would have been a crime for her to touch me, that too, so intimately.
Marxism in a capitalist, classist, casteist society.
Raudra, or the List of Anger
1. I’m angry at the times I’ve been told that what I did wasn’t exactly sex (then, young man, what the f**k was it?) and didn’t ‘mean’ anything.
2. I’m angry at the pain I put myself through, physically and emotionally.
3. I’m angry at the time that I was told that I wasn’t good enough, or didn’t live up to someone’s else’s expectations of a lover.
4. Sometimes exhaustion is just repressed anger. I am tired of the hypocrisy of being a good girl. I am tired of the fact that a good girl upholds the establishment, the patriarchy, the caste-ism, and unconsciously, never examines her part or takes responsibility for how these structures are upheld.
5. I am angry at having to play by rules set up generations ago, embodied in texts that also tell one where one can be touched, and by whom, and prescribe punishments if you touch out of assigned categories. The rules can not be separated from standards of beauty. (The Sanskaari Naari herself is light-skinned, upper caste, appears caste blind in her dealings with the world, but this secretly hides an instinct, repressed into her unconsciousness which can tell caste apart. The sanskaari Nari is body positive to others, but careful about what she eats, lest she gains weight, and tweezes herself into incoherence. She is a hypocrite.)
6. I’m angry at my shame.
7. I’m angry that I felt the need to wax my vagina to please a callous, selfish and insensitive lover.
8. I am tired at the Sanskaari Nari within who wants things perfect, clean, sanitised, who can never critique her culture or its ancient inequities. Who can not live with complexity or mess, who is too scared, within herself, to break boundaries, to examine the aeons of prejudice and privilege that have made her, shaped her desires.
9. I’m angry at the idea that we must pursue passion, in our careers and in our love lives. Not everyone can.
10. I’m angry at the men who said they felt love for me, but no passion. Here, I express what I never could do to them – that to me, passion feels so close to anger; that it is anger, in another form.
11. When I experience anger in another, my response is fear. How is that safe? How is that loving? Can safe pleasure coexist easily with anger and fear? It takes an artist to manage this.
12. I am angry at myself.
Shantam
As I grow older I like to linger on the memories of the hilariousness of it, the endearing awkwardness and imperfection of intimacy.
I’ve realized that the people who enjoy and have the most fun with sex are those who account for, and revel in the clumsy weird strangeness of sex, to see it as human, to be human. To not attempt to be a doll, an idol, a statue in the throes of sex.
What does sexual experience mean?
Is it a vast amount of lovers?
Is the ecstatic transcendental experience of orgasm (which I’ve had with myself courtesy of a vibrator, thank you online shopping)?
Or is everything all together, the absurdity of desire, the awkwardness of passion, the bewildering places where one finds compassion and intimacy – and the tranquility of having experienced it – and also let it go?
Is this tranquility, this “seen that, done that” attitude, peace, born of self-realization?
Or is this peace a peri-menopausal plunge of hormones and loss of libido which I’m mistaking for the detachment born of disillusionment?
I don’t know.
Shringar
“The erotic is a measure between the beginnings of our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings.”
– Audrey Lorde
I know this: my sexuality is for myself.
Sometimes, I don’t wish to share it. It is just for me. I imagine it to be a tropical island surrounded by azure waters, a treasure. Sometimes, it shifts form – an oasis in the midst of a parched dessert, or a gem, a brilliant, multifaceted diamond for me to enjoy. Something that sparkles, alone, in my room, when I’ve curtains drawn against the light, a gem I take out only, when far away from the prying eyes of my neighbours.
In that dim darkness, by myself, with myself, the diamond shimmers into a snake, I feel the coiling, tightening, the movement within me, the urge, the tightening squeezing, shooting up my spine, moving me, touching me within, the essence of me.
As it rises, as I feel close and more intimate with myself, as I feel moved, tender, vulnerable, I feel that this beauty. Beauty is not something seen, but it is felt, in the aligning of the self, in the touching of that innermost part of self, in the tenderness, in the feeling, it is beauty. There is no other word for it.
I melt.
Girls, women – those of you who read this, do not give your beauty away.
It is not true that you can not feel this on your own.
At times, in the presence of a lover, it may be a touch, a moment, or even the touch of skin on skin, you will feel this in their company, fleetingly.
The world will ask you to give away this part of yourself. In the name of duty, family, love. To share it with others and to give their pleasure more importance than your own, or to give it up.
Don’t.
THE RASAS
What does it mean to use the Rasas as a framework for feelings? It’s classical aesthetic standard, where emotions and feelings are made distinct, categorised — a clinical aestheticization of the messiness of life, of generations past and present moving together, of the past breeding in the present, of emotional experience. I am wary of the term classical, I am wary of classical ideas of narrative and literature, that attempt to sanitize, categorize, and in doing so leave out the blurred boundaries, the things that are not this nor that.
I am wary of categories that turn into rules. I am wary of rules, particularly in our cultural, civilization context, that attempt to separate, that do not allow for mixing, and in the end these rigid categories create hierarchies. Is Vira superior to Bibhatsa? Karuna to Adbhuta?
Like caste, do emotions have a hierarchy?
I am wary of what is left out, I am wary of what can be and what can’t be together. But in life, all the shades of experience are mixed in, unsightly and complicated yet deliciously messy, juicy.
That’s the truth, isn’t it?
Sanskaari Naari’s Cat Loving Alter Ego is a writer in real life, best known for her retellings of mythology for children. She hopes that if you like this piece, her books for adult audiences -- The Prince and The Missing Queen --may appeal to you. She lives in Bangalore with two cats.
Could I Have Been Misogynist Even Though I Was a Woman? Why?
Today, I feel to an utmost certainty that I am not pretty, and even slightly indulging in dressing up makes me feel like a fraud.
By Tame Shewolf
Illustrations by Titash Sen and Samidha Gunjal
When I read Grunthus Grumpus’ article on Unfuckable Me on this site, it triggered a cascade of thoughts for me. Looking back I see now, it was my own misogyny that very early on, I had decided that I am not going to be pretty.
I was not an ugly kid, but I still decided that I won’t be pretty. Today, I feel to an utmost certainty that I am not pretty, and even slightly indulging in dressing up makes me feel like a fraud. I disrespected femininity. I saw it as shallow. I saw it as an act, playing up the damsel role to impress perhaps to get the approval of men, and so, definitely inauthentic. I also disrespected the kind of guys who fell for that display of femininity. At times I would think I want to be a boy so I can show boys how to be better at using their privilege to create something positive, instead of just jockeying for supremacy. I wanted to access the power that even young boys seemed to possess- of being the last word in a discussion with friends, of everybody in your family pandering to you, of that automatic respect and partiality that teachers bestow on guys for being rebellious.
The sexualised self of myself adopted stifling masculine notions of sex. In my teens, I ended up discussing sex with only guys, and I have inherited this shitty competitive framework that men are conditioned with when it comes to sex. Sex has actually become a list of to-dos for me. Have I done that? Have I experienced this? Next time I need to try that. How many times I have done it? This was so detrimental and toxic for me. I was so frustrated to not be able to masturbate as easily as a guy, not reach orgasm as quickly as the guy; just imitating this twisted focus on the sex and not the eroticism to reach the head space for sex. How many sex-ed videos and columns and books created by women have I watched/read to decode how my own body works and how my own desire manifests itself. Despite that, there is a sense of the male gaze transfixed at the back of my head.
There is this struggle when I don’t know if I am playing into it, or this expression of desire and sexiness is mine alone. Even the suspicion that I am catering to men can shut me down. Because my reality seems like an ironic dorky ugliness in the face of a singular type of beauty, my fantastical desire requires utter narcissism. In my real life, I may appear unconfident, hesitant and overthinking my awkwardness. In my fantasies, that is definitely not me. I imagine a space where I am assertive and I know what I want and can ask for it and have it. Also, everything is about me! There is no performance to please anyone other than me. But I can no more bridge the two in my erotic life. I also can’t bridge my intellectual belief of equality with men and my reality that teaches me to be suspicious of men, and that woman men.
These internal and external conflicts have no positive effect on my personal life. There is so much more that Gruthus Grumpus talks about, which I relate to in some way. I get her angst.
Yet, I am hopeful about overcoming my own thought-police, and bridging that gap between what I want and what is. Being aware of where all this stems from, and reading about gender helps me place my experience in context. I can externalize the problem, and work to be closer to an authentic me. I’m getting there, bit by bit by bit.
Tame Shewolf has been reluctantly blogging since 2009. She has always been interested in talking about sex and sexuality, but only recently mustered the courage to write about it.
Kids and adults would point to me and say ‘Look at him with the swollen face’
At birth, the doctors found that the umbilical cord had wrapped itself around my head. They rescued my life, but the deformity this caused has left me feeling without friends and love
By Mr. Ben
I was born on July 12, 1984. My birth story is nothing less than amazing. My mother survived the tedious, 12-hour labour and, contrary to how other babies are born, with the back of their heads descending from the womb and out the birth canal, I was born from my mother’s birth canal face first.
Also, mysteriously, the umbilical cord was tied to my face. That became the genesis of my facial deformity. The obstetrician had to maneuver my positioning in order to avoid contact of the umbilical cord fluids with my eyes, and prevent the fluids from concentrating and tightening around my head—both of which could have had a devastating effect on me. It would have left me with either a permanent disability in vision (blindness) or some terrible head disorder.
Instead, I have a facial deformity that has left one side of my face swollen.
Since the beginning, I have had many consultations with both traditional and modern approaches to medicine. My peculiar birth story somehow made the traditional stories more convincing. Visiting mediums became my parents’ routine.
In Africa, whenever such a situation arises, the need for ‘seeing’ or ‘checking’, as it is called, becomes imperative. A traditional doctor—referred to as the ‘native doctor’—is saddled with the task of ‘checking’ or spiritually diagnosing the cause of the ailment and consequently prepares herbal medicines and gives instructions on usage.
My Christian background led my parents to visit several churches for prayers too for what was called ‘deliverance’. At the time, I was about three or four years old. From one native doctor to the other, one specialist health facility to another, one faith healer to another, I moved around to many places with my parents. All manner of substances as prescribed by the specialists were administered. I was three years old when I first had major facial surgery.
After the successful completion of the first surgical operation, that is, coming out of the theater alive, there was a need for a second major operation. I spent six months at the The Lagos Teaching Hospital (LUTH), where the first operation took place. I remember how my bed space was arranged. There was something like white Plaster of Paris tied all over my body, except for my eyes and nose. During that time, I was being fed through inserted pipes that passed through my nostrils. Not the best experience of my life! [how do you remember this?]
At the same hospital, I experienced my second surgical operation and the correction of the initial bandages and other healing elements—it was asserted that I eat fluid foods and live on the prescribed drugs for six months for the recuperation. According to what my father told me, years later, the management wanted to carry out subsequent minor operations. However, Dad refused, as he feared losing his son. The medical professionals assured my parents I would get better as I grew older. That the swollen side of my left cheek would witness a drastic ‘return to normal’. But that was not to be.
In the meanwhile, I would be at the receiving end of comments from the children in the neighbourhood. Some neigbours, kids and even adults, on seeing me come back to school after the surgery, would say, “Look at him with the big cheek, very swollen!’’
At six this felt humiliating and I felt isolated.
Though I was given the education my parents thought I deserved, care (with the help of house-help, as they were busy) and other material support, my experiences with peers, even school teachers and neighbors, left indelible marks on me—consciously and sub-consciously.
My childhood years were characterized by the bad and the ugly. I still remember a classmate in secondary school calling me ‘the big mouth guy’, right in the presence of a 20- pupil class. She made these remarks in the presence of our class teacher who did not seem to mind what she had said. The moment felt earth shattering to me and I swallowed my feelings of insult quietly.
I had no one to turn to for support. I had no friends to share my pains with. My parents were usually the busy type. I was raised partly under the tutelage of over 14 housemaids who didn’t understand what I was going through. They were all about business: doing all house duties as mandated and getting paid afterwards.
My mother later confessed to me that she and my dad thought I would grow up to be a dullard. All through my elementary school education, I struggled; the best I ever attained was a slightly-below average position. My promotion was like that of a camel passing through the eye of a needle!
The feat would always be achieved through consistent home coaching and after-school lessons—all arranged by my parents. To be candid, I didn’t take my schooling seriously throughout my elementary education.
The psychological effects of living with a facial deformity were ever present. Staying alone, being unnecessarily shy and moody became my habits. My confidence dwindled over the years as my personality witnessed a plateau, compared to the mountains of my peers.
Sharing with the adults around me that I was insulted at the school wouldn’t help either. Their reply would be: “Don’t disturb me! The burden I am carrying is heavier than yours!”
It was terrible, and very disheartening. These repeated responses engendered a sense of aloneness. I had no one to confide in! And yet, being the first child, I had younger siblings looking up to me for inspiration…
My post-primary education saw me go through another phase of enduring the shame, degradation and humiliation of being around facially handsome and beautiful colleagues. Again, my parents, having the financial resources, sent me to what they thought was the best secondary school in Lagos, Nigeria. It was a privately-owned post-primary education outfit, There, I met students from diverse cultural and religious backgrounds. There, Idecided to take the bull by the horns and make friends (or at least talk mates. I eventually met two guys—Quadri and Emeka. They were quite understanding teenage men. They knew how to relate with me the best way they could, though they were far behind the brightest of students who couldn’t afford to talk to a facially deformed and an academically non-serious serious person like me.
Unfortunately, my friendship with Quadri and Emeka was shortlived. They both withdrew and left school at the second and third junior years respectively, due to family circumstances. They told me long before they left. And then I was in a world of my own. Interestingly, I started showing interest in my academics in my second junior year of secondary school. Till this day, I can’t fathom what caused this change or how I was able to transcend academic mediocrity to attain excellence in my studies. At that point, my academic skills attracted the company of handsome boys and beautiful girls—a dream-come-true experience.
But, they weren’t the friends I thought they ought to be; they actually ‘feasted’ on what I could offer—insight into the subject areas they found difficult to comprehend. To me, all I desired was company. After all, I believed it was better to be in the company of others than to be a loner. That became a way of coping with my deformity.
Meanwhile, I was finding it difficult to relate to my family on my facial deformity issue.
“Your swollen cheek will be a thing of the past as you grow older,” I had been assured.
This was when I was 14 years old.
I waited patiently for a time in my life when I could behold my face in the mirror and say, “the handsome me is here and has come to stay”.
“At what age do you think I’ll be facially alright?” I would ask curiously.
“Before long. I promise your face will be way better than it is now”.
But I needed a precise answer. “But what age do you think this will be?”
That’s when I received the biggest shock of my life!
“I don’t know! I’m not God” my Mother responded. It was a harsh one. I still remember.
“Okay.” I decided never to ask again.
As secondary school continued, I had more company come to me for assistance, not friendship. Yet, I was not perturbed; I was encouraged to do more for them. I was kept at arms length by girls I liked.
Mary was one who refused my relationship proposal We stood alone and had the following conversation.
Me: I’ve been looking forward to asking you something
Mary (curious): What do you mean?
Me (my heart beating faster): You know…I’ve been thinking about you.
Mary: Why think about me?
Me: I really want you.
Mary (chuckles): For what?
Me: A relationship (My hands holding hers).
Mary: I’m so sorry I can’t. I thought you wanted to call me for some kind of important chat (She looks at my face. I understand the body language).
Me: Okay. I’m sorry (shaking my head in utter disappointment).
Mary: I have to go (she lets go of my hand and walks away).
Me: Alright
I leave a disappointed man.
She was one of those beautiful girls who would come to me from time to time to help her with her Mathematics, a subject she was not good at. This continued until I completed my secondary schooling. Sadly, I couldn’t establish any form of intimate connection with her, all throughout my secondary school years. Until I was done with school, there were no other communication I had with her.
This was the first and last time I chased romance. There was no romance really after it. There was no conversation with Mary either.afterwards
In Nigeria, between 2001 and 2003, it was difficult to gain admission directly into university or even the polytechnic. After secondary school, unless parents or guardians knew ‘short-cuts’ to expedite the admission process, students were likely to spend years at home seeking admission into tertiary institutions. I finished secondary school in 2001, having excelled in my Senior studies.
I waited for two years before I sat for the Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board to gain admission into university.
During this period at home, I joined my mother in her local business.
She traded in staple food items—rice, beans, cassava flakes, locally known as ‘garri’ and other things. It was yet another school of hard knocks. Customers would take a thorough look at my facial deformity and express compassion (audibly or in gestures). That didn’t help me at all, though I understood they meant well. I just had to learn to how to cope!
My parents’ financial resources were dwindling. Sixteen at the time, I knew things were not the way they used to be. Our standard of living had drastically declined. While at home during this period, I wondered if going overseas was the answer to my problems. Maybe other doctors or specialists could help with my facial deformity. Again, and against my inclination, I had to ‘open’ another conversation.
‘Do you know of anyone who would be able to handle my case? My left cheek is still swollen.” I asked my mother.
“I really have no idea!’ Was the reply. ‘And please, don’t ask me those questions! When you get into university and graduate, you can get a job and save your own money for treatment,” she answered. Bitterness was written over her face. My mother answered, more hasher than I’d have expected.
It was obvious that I was on my own. I approached various non-government organizations but my requests for help proved futile. I was never attended to!
I had to learn to be practical and cope with my deformity by tuning out from the negative things people would say, both to my face and behind my back. I have been on my own, in my childhood, youth and young adulthood. The scars remain.
I am trying to ensure that I remain healthy by taking more of organic foods, and ensuring I don’t over-think my current swollen-cheek predicament. I live with the moment as I press on, while taking my body just the way it is. After all, “such is life’’, they say.
Mr Ben, as he is fondly called, is a represented and published poet, playwright, essayist, children's author, novelist, lyricist, and voice over artiste. Based in Lagos, Nigeria, he delights in traveling, reading and meeting people.
‘Not just a tampon, even a swab of my vagina would leave me in tears’
One day I woke up with vulvar pain, and realised that it wasn’t just me, even the docs weren’t ready to handle it
Written by Ishta
Illustrated by Anuradha Rudrapriya
Before I start, I’d like to point out that I’m French born and raised of Indian origin. My name is Ishta, and this is my story.
It started in 2016. I was 23 years old then and was working in the family business. I woke up one day with severe pain in my vulvar area and inside my vagina. The pain had been around for a while, but it just kept getting worse until that day. I woke up feeling like my private parts were on fire. A few weeks after this pain started, I went to see my gynecologist.
I was a virgin at that time (still am, technically), and my only sexual encounter was a chaste kiss on the lips with this very cute guy whilst playing spin the bottle. I am definitely an extrovert, but I was extremely shy too. Anything that came close to flirting or getting intimate with someone was scary to me.
The gynecologist was extremely rude to me, and screamed at me more than once for refusing to let her insert the speculum as I was in too much pain.
I’d gone alone as it’s customary to consult your gynecologist on your own, especially when you’re above 18.
She also didn’t believe me when I told her that I was a virgin. She wanted me to get tested for STDs such as chlamydia. Anyway, when I went to the lab to get tested, the nurse was very kind and decided not to use a speculum. She simply rubbed the swab inside my vagina.
But the simple contact between the swab and my skin was so painful that I was in tears.
The nurse was confused but understanding about the whole situation. She told me that my private parts were red, which was quite unusual.
When I got the results, I learned that I had a fungal infection and my gynecologist prescribed vaginal tablets. After inserting them I would roll in the bed from the pain and wouldn’t be able to move for at least half an hour.
I’d be prescribed vaginal tablets and/or antibiotics once every two weeks. This was just the beginning of six months of being prescribed antibiotics and antifungal medicines continuously even though I had no symptoms of any sort of infection.
I was in India on a holiday and the gynaecologists there didn’t try to do any exam on me because I was unmarried and therefore a virgin (I found it quite funny and endearing to be honest, but truth be told, I actually was a virgin).
When I came back to Paris, we found out I had severe anemia—I’d had severe hair loss and felt extremely tired 24x7. so I got a blood test done. I got a few other tests done and was diagnosed with endometriosis. I was given a list of gynaecologists who specialise in endometriosis a gynecological condition where there are growths inside and outside the uterus, and the symptoms are painful periods and heavy bleeding. I went to see a bunch of them. Basically, when I would see them for the first time, they wouldn’t try to do any gynaecological exam, but would mention that they would do it at the next appointment. Obviously, I was so scared and traumatised that I would switch to another doctor every time. By then, I had understood that my pain had nothing to do with endometriosis. The thing is, I have learnt now that endometriosis can sometimes cause pain during penetration, if there are growths near the vagina. However, in my case, the pain was mostly located in the vulvar area. I would like to point out that in some cases, the inflammation caused by endometriosis can also play a role in chronic vulvar pain.
In 2017, I had an appointment with another gynaecologist specialised in endometriosis. When I told her about my chronic pain in the vulvar area and vagina, she asked me, in an almost brutal way, if I had been sexually abused or raped in my childhood.
I literally broke down in tears and admitted I had been sexually abused by a man in his mid-forties when I was 12 years old. It had taken me a few years to tell anyone else about it.
Truth is, I had forgotten about it for many years, and I only remembered it when the #MeToo movement started.
She then asked me if I had heard of “vulvodynia”. So, I did look it up on Google a few months before meeting her but there was very little information about it on the Internet. She told me to go see a therapist and work on my trauma to get rid of the pain.
That night, I was having drinks with a friend, and when I went to pee the pain was so intense I couldn’t move for a few minutes. I realised my pain was definitely linked to my trauma, but I also thought I made it up in my head. Basically, I thought my pain was only mental, not physical. Little did I know that I would meet, a few months later, a doctor who would change my life forever.
I was talking to my friend’s girlfriend who has endometriosis as well, and she told me she goes to an algologist (a doctor who is basically a pain specialist) for her period pain. I had little to no hope but my mom forced me to go see the algologist. I was almost in tears as I told her about my symptoms and my suffering and she was so incredibly patient and kind as she listened to me and told me I was not crazy.
The diagnosis was vulvodynia, which simply means, chronic pain in the vulva. She explained that my trauma must have played a role but there are various causes to vulvodynia. There are two types of treatment usually prescribed for vulvodynia: antiepileptics and antidepressants.
Vulvodynia has nothing to do with epilepsy or depression, but it’s a form of neuropathic pain, and certain types of antiepileptic meds or antidepressants are very effective for this kind of pain. Since I kept saying that the pain was in my head, the algologist put me on an antiepileptic medicine as she was afraid that prescribing me antidepressants could make me believe further that I was making it all up.
It was such a relief to finally know that my feelings were valid and that there was an explanation for my pain! As soon as I started taking this medicine, my pain reduced. Within two years, the pain completely went away!
My algologist had sent me to a physiotherapist who specialises in pelvic pain, for perineal rehabilitation, as vulvodynia is often linked to a contracted perineum. So the first physiotherapist I went to, asked me to take off my clothes on our first session, and tried to insert her finger in my vagina, to no avail. She then told me I also had vaginismus. My first reaction was: what the f*** is that ?
So the definition is: painful spasmodic contraction of the vagina in response to physical contact or pressure, especially during sexual intercourse. To be fair, it can make any form of penetration difficult, even inserting a finger, a toy, or a simple tampon. So what is the consequence of this spasmodic contraction of the vagina? Basically, the vagina tightens because of the contraction, so penetration is partially or completely impossible to do.
As you can imagine, this brand new diagnosis really pissed me off. I kept wondering: when will it all stop? The pain relief made me feel like I was finally moving forward, but the diagnosis made me feel like a huge step back. Since my pain would vary, depending on my stress levels, sometimes I’d be able to work for an entire day at office, and sometimes I needed to lie down at home whilst working.
Since the first physiotherapist I went to asked me to take off my clothes on the first session and inserted her finger without informing me beforehand, I decided to go see someone else. I started working on it with another physiotherapist, who was extremely nice and very particular about consent, but unfortunately, she was terrible at her job. She would insert her finger and start applying pressure everywhere and I would be in so much pain after the session that I had to take a very strong pain killer before every session. Plus, my perineum was even more contracted because of the pain (which is the opposite of what we were aiming for) and I started having trouble peeing. Sometimes, I wouldn’t be able to pee for 20 hours.
When COVID happened, I left a job that wasn’t making me happy. Plus the fact that I didn’t have to sit all day, combined with my treatment helped me heal faster. I decided to stop going for physiotherapy sessions.
So I set up my own Instagram pages in French (2019) and English (2021) where I talk about all these gynaecological problems.
Last year, around February, I asked my followers for help. I was still suffering from vaginismus, and I didn’t know what to do… A physiotherapist who specialised in pelvic pain and based in Paris, responded to my Insta story and told me she would love to help. I happily accepted her offer, and man, I wasn’t disappointed at all. So she and her colleague both work at the same place and they are both experts in pelvic pain.
They are extremely empathetic, and they have a lot of experience in that area, so they always take time out to talk to you, to analyse your story, your trauma, your experiences. They also have the latest machines to help cure vulvodynia and/or vaginismus. Unfortunately, those machines are very costly and from what I remember, only three health professionals have them in France.
The first one is a specific luminotherapy machine with LED tubes that are inserted in the vagina for tissue repair, and the second one is a focus shockwave machine that helps relax the muscles. Of course, we first started with breathing exercises and my physiotherapist would insert her finger and apply pressure… without hurting me! Then slowly, as my vagina dilated more and more, she started using the luminotherapy machine. We also used vaginal dilators at times.
A vaginal dilator simply is tube shaped device, that comes in different sizes, to help dilate, or rather stretch the vagina. It’s also a very effective technique to get rid of vaginismus.
I have been doing these physiotherapy sessions for a year now, and guess what… I don’t have vaginismus anymore! However, I still feel pain when a dilator or tube from that luminotherapy machine is inserted in my vagina.
According to both my physiotherapists, I’m still not ready to do penetration, but once I find someone I love and who loves me back, I should be able to do penetration like anybody else. In fact, they told me cute stories about some of her patients; for example, there was this girl who wasn’t able to do penetration until her boyfriend confessed his love for her!
I’d like to add that you can find a partner, even if you’re suffering from a similar condition, many people will love and accept you for who you are. In my case, since I was suffering from PTSD, plus all these gynecological conditions, my psychiatrist sent me to another psychiatrist to do this special therapy that was specifically designed for PTSD, called EMDR. Basically, the doc asked me to think about a traumatic event. Then, she moved her finger left and right and I had to follow the movement with my eyes. We did about 7 sessions, and it was really effective. I At the age of 28, I finally started going on dates, with men and women!
Reminder: I had only kissed one guy in my entire life, until I turned 28! Strangely, after doing EMDR, I really wanted to “experience” with a woman at least once. Before that, I had always thought I was only attracted to men, except for Megan Fox (but I mean, who isn’t?). Coincidentally, a few weeks after thinking about it, I had my first sort-of sexual encounter, and it was with a woman! I had met her at a party, and developed a huge crush on her, which made me realize that I was attracted to women as well as men. Even though I have a huge preference for men, I still identify as queer.
From the age of 28 to 31, I wasn’t looking for something serious, and I’ve had my fair share of dates and sexual encounters. I had always been honest about my condition (perhaps a little too much) with the people I went on dates with, and most of the time, they didn’t have an issue with it. I had been blocked a few times, and some people did suspect I was lying about my condition, but overall, I met very open-minded and caring people. Now, you must be wondering, how to have sex, when you have this condition?
First of all, I’d like to point out that sex shouldn’t be all about penetration. Oral sex is sex. Women who have sex with other women don’t do penetration with a penis, but that’s still sex. So for a year, after I turned 28, I would only do oral sex. To this day, fingering is still painful, so I don’t let anyone do it to me. Then, in 2022, I started seeing a friend who became my friend with benefits, for a year and a half. He introduced me to anal sex, and personally, I really liked it, but you shouldn’t feel compelled to do it just because you can’t do penetration. Then, until 2023, I would still only do oral sex with the other people I met through apps, and anal sex with my friend with benefits. Beginning of 2023, I started doing anal sex with other people as well, not only my partner. By end of year 2023, I realised I was looking for something more serious. I’d like to love, to be loved, to experience that feeling at least one my life, so that’s my current mood.
Anyway, until I meet someone I feel comfortable with, I’ll continue doing the physiotherapy sessions once in three weeks. Fingers crossed!
Ishta is French born and raised of Indian origin. She is currently working on starting her own jewellery business. She talks about her journey on @pelvicpain.in and @douleursfeminines (French version)
Not Feeling ‘Queer Enough’ Helped Me Become My Most Radiant Queer Self
Mumbai’s queer scene was self-assured and flamboyant. I was newly bisexual and scared. But being uncertain about where I fit in helped me discover spaces where I could be confidently queer in whatever way I wanted to be.
Written By Niyati
Edited By Gitanjali Chandrasekharan
Illlustrated By Shikha Sreenivas
The afternoon light streamed into my hostel room. It was a golden summer in Manipal—ripe mangoes and gulmohar in bloom. Inside, The Half of It played on my laptop. Ellie and Aster swam, backs submerged, faces upturned, in a cliffside pool. There was something cinematic and erotic about their almost-temples-touching, circling silence.
I looked at them with narrowed eyes; my thoughts spinning out of control. Was there even a 1% chance that I could imagine myself as one of the characters?
I prayed that I wouldn’t be able to.
*
This was the first queer movie I had watched at J’s insistence. It had only been about six weeks since I’d moved away from home for the first time to the campus town of Manipal. The first one and a half years of our course had been online. Now, in our fourth semester, we had arrived with boriya-bistar to a foreign land amidst older students for whom Manipal was already home. It felt strange to be thrust into this space-time continuum where I was technically supposed to know everything, but felt as clueless as I had been during my first Zoom class.
Amidst all the quarantining chaos and my social anxiety, I became close friends with J and A, who were roommates and lived in the same hostel block. Living away from my parents for the first time and suddenly having to become an ‘adult’ felt daunting and lonely—the people around me spoke in an unfamiliar tongue and I got lost in the labyrinthine routes of campus. But it felt easier when I knew I had another room to go to, people to stress over assignments with, giggle and have deep conversations late into the night.
Amongst these midnight confession sessions and trauma-bonding circles, J talked about her queer awakening—how she had fallen for her straight (of course) best friend, how the unrequitedness had crippled her, and her journey with her identity.
I listened. This was the first time I was encountering queerness in flesh and blood, but there was nothing unfamiliar about her. To me, J was just another person. Brilliant, funny, kind and reliable. J talked about a growing distance between A and herself, how it was irritating to share the same space all the time, and how she was glad to have me. We grew close with a terrifying intensity, and exchanged secrets and joys and insecurities.
Having grown up in four different cities and schools, I’d never had a stable and sustained group of friends. What was the point of investing in someone when I would be uprooted again? To them, I was just a change in variable, they would forget me. For me, it was the upstaging of my entire equation.
I had never known friendship could feel like this.
And then, I felt something more.
Suddenly, I was finding excuses to talk more to J, and secretly glad that there was trouble brewing between the roommates. My assumptions of needing a specific kind of “beauty” to feel attracted to someone, dissolved. I fantasized about holding hands and walking around campus and shopping for movie nights in the aisles of the campus store.
My fantasies—although innocently intimate and not-sexual—were definitely not platonic. My giddy butterflies were soon accompanied by the gut-wrenching sensation of starting to “question”.
I had always liked boys—real and fictional. I had drooled over Season 2 Chandler. Gushed over Milo Ventimiglia in Gilmore Girls and This is Us. I had dreamed up scenarios where I was Annabeth Chase to Percy Jackson, Amy Santiago to Jake Peralta. I liked boys with silliness, heart and a sense of humour. My first relationship with a boy in my late teens had been healthy and safe, unlike everything I had heard about peoples’ firsts.
And so this infatuation for J was shocking. It felt like I had been straight all my life, and, out of nowhere turned gay.
Listening to queer peoples’ stories made me feel like their journey began only once they “came out”. I tried to remember what I had been like before this. It was only in my first semester of college, when my classmate had proudly proclaimed herself as bisexual during an online class, that I’d started learning about what queerness was. I was taking complex courses—gender studies, film, history, classical and cultural sociology—all at the intersections of minority identities. I was meeting many new kinds of people, all at once. I felt the need and pressure to keep up, to expand my understanding of the world and to become “politically correct”. Being a “good ally” felt like an intrinsic part of my aspirations to becoming a writer, journalist and committing myself to the cause of social justice. Through the pandemic, I read endlessly about queer terminology and queer histories. To “perfect” the theory, even though (and perhaps, especially because) I didn’t know any real queer people.
Was I suddenly supposed to accept that I was now a “real queer person” myself? One was the more common fear that all queer kids experience—”Fuck, what am I going to tell my parents?” “Am I going to be this ‘other’ in society?” The other was tied to my internalized homophobia. How could I not be okay with being part of a community I had so actively tried to understand and be in solidarity of?
I held it in until I couldn’t anymore. I ‘officially’ came out to—surprise, surprise, J herself. I don’t remember much of that night on the hostel balcony, overlooking the ridges of hills, shrouded in the night. I just remember that I sobbed for three hours, asking the same garbled questions again and again. I remember there were lots of mosquitoes. I remember that J was the first person who ever saw me cry. That she held my wrist and didn’t let go.
I confessed my feelings for J a few days later , only to be gently let down. We promised to take space but honour and rebuild the friendship in the long run. She didn’t hear me sliding down and sobbing as the door closed behind her—I knew that things would never be the same again.
I returned to Pune for summer break in these throes of heartbreak. Soon after, I had a fallout with A (with whom my friendship had always been rocky). I was confident that J would either choose me or at least try to put in a sane word. Instead, she severed ties with me.
I felt like my queerness had been trampled over. I was too devastated to explore the possibilities of this universe that J had opened. I wanted to forget that I had been abandoned by the person in whom I confided a terrifying and intimate part of myself.
How was I going to survive? Friend groups had already been formed and it felt like life in Manipal had ended for me. I was bitter. My queer realization was the beginning of everything that had gone wrong. If I hadn’t fallen for J, we would still be the closest of friends. If I had taken more time, not been hasty, or not confessed, maybe things would have been okay. Why had I figured things out so quickly?
I met K in the next few weeks. Under shared umbrellas in Manipal’s torrential rain, identical plates of food in the mess, a perfectly complementary taste in music – something blossomed between us. I knew she liked me. I wasn’t sure whether I liked her back. And even if I did – I had finally managed to make one goddamn friend after the Semester 4 disaster. I didn’t want to put everything I had at stake again. My lovers became my best friends, my best friends became my lovers – Niyati, when would you learn your lesson?
K and I started dating. It was strange – I had barely come out a few months ago, repressed my feelings for J during the summer break, and convinced myself that my queerness had just been a phase. I hadn’t been in any relationship for over a year and a half. But my journey with K made me feel like I had been queer all along. I had thought it would feel unnatural to kiss a woman. It didn’t. (It just scared the fuck out of me). We took long walks, nerded out over history, science and politics and knew how to comfort each other. She was goofy, I grounded her. I was anxious, she always made me laugh. It was easier to share anything and everything with a woman. A part of me instinctively sensed kinship and embraced her presence.
All year long, I had grappled with coming to terms with my identity privately. I didn’t feel the need to proclaim it in a grand announcement to the world or even to many of my friends back home. After all, I was still the same old me – and my being queer was just a natural extension of my world expanding.
My department had many other queer people. But their tattooed bodies and coloured hair; their fierce opinions and seemingly perfect understanding of intersectionality intimidated me. Even though I was terribly lonely after the loss of my friends, it never occurred to me that I might reach out to them, and bond over our journeys. I was newly queer, what did I know anything about queer politics or even what being queer was? What if I overstepped or misspoke? Even before I became friends with them, I imagined a second ostracization – one that would shatter my queerness. In that sense, K was my one tenuous connection to the visible queer world. I was happy to be in a healthy relationship and it felt like I had fulfilled what I thought was the bare minimum required to be a queer person.
After graduating, I moved to Mumbai. Everybody was hustling, and seemed to know exactly what they wanted and how to get it. Again, I was scared to be a misfit here – a person who wanted to belong to a new city and call it home, but didn’t know how to.
K and I had broken up by this time. With my one tenuous connection to the queer universe gone, was I even queer? Even though I had spent over a year getting intimate with my queer self, it once again felt like I was a novice to Mumbai’s gay scene. I felt more lonely than ever. I saw stories of parties organized by queer organizations, like Gaysi on Instagram. Everyone had brightly painted faces and dressed in sheer fabric and glitter. They seemed to drink, smoke and dance the night away. Queer people in this big city put their voice on display, while I was still a teetotaller bisexual woman who was easily mistaken for straight. Nobody would have been able to single me out in a crowd and say that I was queer. I, with my unchanged teenage wardrobe with solid colour t-shirts, jeans and unflattering pants and no sense of personal style. I, who seemed to not be aware of any queer pop culture references, I, who had never engaged with the politics of queerness because of the fear of being wrong. At that time, this felt ‘lesser’ than being loud and proud about my queerness.
Then, I joined an organization with primarily queer employees. I had the same insecurities – was I going to awkwardly suspend between being straight and being gay? My first day at the office was when everybody had just returned from the annual Christmas break. I remember how person after person walked in through the doors, hugged each other tightly and exchanged gifts. They had piercings and shades of rainbow in their hair. They confidently wore bold coloured eyeliner with salwar kameezes and kurti-pants, confidently pulled off bright pieces of printed fabric and silk. They wore baggy pants and shorts and laughed about how ironic it was that a sex-ed space was filled with many people who identified on the asexual spectrum. They knew the ins and outs of popular queers in the city and every event that was happening in town. They sat on either side of me during lunch and played games with me. One person with shiny pink eye stickers noticed that I felt awkward and shyly slipped me a rabbit shaped scrunchie saying, “This is your Christmas gift”.
I was struck by the warmth and everyday-ness of this space. It didn’t feel like they were deliberately putting any part of their identity on display. We had incredible discussions on gender, sexuality, feminism and queerness every day. My queerness had just been my own until then. But in the steadiness of this space, which allowed me to be queer in whatever way I wanted to be. I could be straight-passing and just be as queer and feel as celebrated, I found that I wanted to finally engage with the wider community at large.
Labels felt peculiar. Straight, biromantic, heterosexual, bisexual, demisexual – I had swum my way through these to make some sense of who I was. I had believed that if I didn’t define myself fully, I was giving the world another chance to not acknowledge my existence. I had been surrounded by queer people before and had been scared of ‘getting it wrong’. Now in Mumbai, I was introduced to hundreds of these labels – with many people using lots of them all at once. These people had many different identities and self-expression. On the one hand, watching them inhabit this in-between space of fluidity felt freeing and expansive. On the other hand, I felt more intimidated and scared than ever before.
How was I supposed to dress, look and talk my way into this underground queer circuit? What should I put on my Hinge profile? What were these secret codes and words I wasn’t privy to? What was the use of coming out, I wondered, if I felt othered and intimidated by people supposed to be my own?
I initially struggled to understand the people behind the labels. These were words and phrases that queer people had invented to ‘break free’ from how society perceived them. Words that more correctly described a way of being in the world that a heteronormative world could not imagine. When I first came out, ‘queer’ had felt too scary, too big of a word. The word ‘bisexual,’ – being attracted to two or more genders (I ignored the ‘or more’ at the time – two was terrifying enough) – felt like an anchor.
But surely labels couldn’t be the cumulative of who a queer person was? If we had invented labels to ‘break free’ and then used multiple labels for ourselves…would we escape one set of norms only to enter another box? Surely queerness was to be strange and unpredictable in the most delightful ways, because those ways were all yours. Surely, queerness did not look like any one thing. Did queerness even look like anything at all?
In the middle of all these questions, I was lucky to be initiated into the space of my queer colleagues – who soon became close friends. There was time to think, time to become, time to be unsure. My friends embodied the ‘cool’ queerness that I had hesitated to approach till now. They hop across events in the city with casual ease, put on makeup, dressed in the wildest, most beautiful ways that I felt I wasn’t brave enough to do, and talked passionately about social injustice.
I slowly started to experiment with myself in the wake of this steadiness that still allowed me to stumble sometimes. I wanted to experience how far my queerness could go. How boundless I could be as a person. Experience the spacious and incredible freedom that came with accepting that we stood out from the world.
I chopped off my hair and got a tattoo. Had I done this earlier, I think I would have just done it to try and forcibly fit into the queer scene. Being uncertain and being allowed to feel like I was allowed to take my own journey, on my own terms, allowed me to experiment with my body and my assumptions. It felt more easy to imagine a world where I could be not just a straight-passing bisexual woman, but an uninhibited, queer person – but ONLY if I wanted to be. I could be one or the other, I could be somewhere in between, I could oscillate between the two, or find a completely different third thing. Nothing was lesser, nothing was inferior. I was just as queer in all my avatars.
Being encircled in this warm jhund of friends also taught me so much about horizontal relationships. Until now, my partners were my best friends, the people I invested everything into. My queerness helped me imagine a world where there were no hierarchies between friendships and romance.
These days, I head over to their place on weekends. We cook pancakes. We read out poems to each other – heads on laps, limbs entangled. Sometimes, we dress up in campy outfits and go party. All of these can co-exist. We are a group of queer but ordinary friends – sharing our dreams, desires and grief.
On my ‘coming out anniversary’ every year, I wear the Pride shirt that K gave me. In a world that revels in being ‘loud and proud’, I speak my silences.
Today, I don’t feel the pressure to come out all at once to anybody. No such thing exists. I can come out in different ways and intensities to different people in my life. I feel more excited than scared to immerse myself into queerness now. To keep sliding down the rainbow. To keep coming out, again and again, and again.
Niyati is a reader and a writer. She is curious, loves to walk along beaches and believes that kindness can change the world.
Unhooked and Unapologetic
How I found strength and liberation beyond bra expectations
By Fizapreet
Illustrated by Anshumaan Sathe
I vividly remember being 10 years old when my mom’s older sister paid us a visit from America and surprised me with some training bras among other gifts. Just like the rest of her presents, she picked out the bras with a nonchalant air. But, before she could even present them, my mom’s reaction was a sight to behold—a mix of astonishment and embarrassment that prompted her to whisk my aunt away for a private chat.
From my vantage point, I could overhear their conversation. My mom, clearly flustered, attempted to explain to my aunt, in a somewhat agitated manner, that I had no need for training bras. Despite my aunt’s earnest efforts to extol their benefits, my mom remained resolute. It was evident that her discomfort wasn’t just about the bras; it was about the unspoken territory of “womanhood” that she had yet to navigate with her daughter.
My mom had plenty of opinions on everything else under the sun, but conversations like these seemed to bring out a palpable discomfort, quickly followed by a hushed end. Finally, my mom decided to take the bras away and hide them deep within the confines of her cupboard.
Little did she know, her daughter was always one step ahead, particularly when it came to matters that made adults squirm in embarrassment around their kids. I found myself captivated by those bras, and I couldn’t help but feel frustrated that my mom had hidden them away before I could even get a proper look. I made a mental note to wait for our guest to leave and for my mom to forget about this episode entirely before making my move to retrieve them.
I managed to acquire all of them and took them into the washroom, examining each piece with excitement. There were five to six bras, each a different colour—grey, cream, black, blue, and white. They felt soft as summer cotton with delicate elastic at the ends. It was an enthralling realization that these bras symbolized my impending journey into womanhood.
Thus began my first act of pre-teen rebellion. I hid the set of training bras in my toy cupboard, the one place my mom was sure not to check. On days when I would be at home, likely without supervision, I would sneakily retrieve one and wear it for a few hours before my mom noticed. I resolved not to tell anyone about my little bra endeavours, not even my friends, fearing they wouldn’t understand my eagerness to embrace puberty.
There was something about that act that brought me closer to womanhood and adult femininity, as if I were undergoing a transformation, if only for a short time. Designed for my yet-to-sprout chest, the bras offered a subtle support, hinting at the breasts that would soon emerge. A training bra, unlike a regular bra, lacks heavy padding and broad straps. Training bras are often made of lightweight cotton with a touch of elastic for flexibility. The colors and designs are more playful and less intricate, tailored to a young girl’s developing body rather than the fuller support and more complex designs of adult bras. It felt like I was trading in a piece of childhood innocence for a glimpse of adolescence, and I was ready to make that trade.
On a lazy Sunday afternoon, I slipped into my favourite from the bunch. It stood out as the only colourful option, featuring a pale blue body with narrow, rainbow-coloured straps sprouting from it. However, I was soon caught by my mom who had noticed what I was wearing underneath. Cue the interrogation and disbelieve! How dare I sneak them out? According to her, my physique wasn’t ready for such things yet. She promptly instructed me to hand over all the remaining bras, promising that she’d decide when the time was right for me to wear them.
I found myself sulking, longing for some overnight miracle that would magically return my stash. But the thought of puberty creeping closer and the prospect of wearing them to school in the near future kept me eagerly waiting.
I did start wearing them two years later, although I was a late bloomer when it came to experiencing the full effects of puberty, constantly disappointed by my less-than-mature breasts. It felt like I entered high school without truly needing regular bras, a training bra seemed to suffice. During that period, there were times when I yearned for fuller breasts, as if their presence indicated something about being desired, exuding sensuality. Everywhere I looked, it seemed I found myself admiring women with fuller breasts. At the same time, I was navigating my desire for women long before I even learned about other possible sexualities.
I indulged my desires and overcompensated for my earlier thwarted wishes by purchasing all sorts of bras throughout high-school and initial semesters of college (even if I didn’t need them)—cute and colourful bow bras, padded bras, lacy bralettes, and fussy sports bras. However, I soon realised that having fuller breasts was fine, but tucking them into a bra could be incredibly uncomfortable. Wearing a bra became a disappointing and painful endeavour, and the more my breasts grew, the more I longed to free them from the confines of bras.
When I enrolled at an all-girls’ college for my undergrad, I found myself not only physically surrounded by women but also immersed in vast theories and discussions on gender and sexuality. There I observed women who were confident in their sexuality and how they chose to express or not express their femininity.
The young woman within me finally found a voice within and outside that space. I began to realize that my relationship with my breasts and sexuality didn’t have to be dictated by a garment that brought me discomfort.
They might work for myriad others and losing bras might be a terrifying prospect for some, however, for me, bras came with a heavy load of expectations. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I never resembled those fuller models advertising bras, and that was one of the reasons I often felt disappointed by my own body and its development. I also realized that sometimes bras unnecessarily sexualized my breasts when I didn't want to be sexualized. The more I concealed something that was a part of me, the more it became an object of curiosity to be peeked at, and this frustrated me. The rebel pre-teen inside me longed to control my own sexualization, to exercise my own authority, with consent, and by those I wished to be intimate with.
Thus, I began to toy with the idea of renouncing the bra altogether and understand how I wanted to display my gender. I started experimenting by attending classes without a bra, wearing a scarf, and investing in thick cotton kurtis instead of flimsy synthetic blouses to avoid any visible traces.
And eventually, I grew accustomed to the idea of my nipples sometimes showing underneath my clothing. Gradually, it seemed like the world also grew accustomed to how I carried myself. Now, I feel more confident embracing the natural movement and shape of my breasts, and I am comfortable sexualizing them when I am with my intimate partners. This confidence helps me navigate my day-to-day life without constantly worrying about being objectified by default.
Although at times, I can't help but think it offers peepers an even better view. But that is a trade I am willing to make now.”
Fizapreet is a counseling psychologist based in Bangalore. She is queer and polyamorous, and is on a mission to squeeze in more time for poetry, writing, and creating art.
Love Has Come Into My Life. But It Has Also Left My Life As Quickly
I am a trans woman. I wonder now if I will ever find love
By Arina Alam
Illustrated by Anuradha Rudrapriya
I am contemplating whether I will ever find a love that is not fleeting. I complete 30 years in just two months. I am curious if it’s doable to find love for a girl like me who sometimes feels like she’s not even capable of loving herself.
Greetings, I am Arina, a woman transitioning to womanhood. My gender is of utmost importance here.
We say that love is supposed to transcend gender, but if that’s the case, why have I had such pathetic experiences in love?
The first love affair I had was with a boy from my class. I was 14 years old and trying to explore my gender identity while living in a small village in West Bengal in a Muslim community.
This love was comforting. Growing up in a small village as an effeminate boy, I found hatred and bullying a daily occurrence. When everyone in my family told me that something was wrong with me and I was the subject of mockery, this boy took me seriously. He would take on the bullies who tried to tease me for being feminine.
He always remained my support. During my sister’s wedding, my in-law’s drunken brother tried to parade me naked to show whether I had male or female genitals. This boy took me out of the wedding hall, rescued me from the humiliation, and provided me with his shoulder to cry on. When my parents told me that I was so haram that they would never go to Jannat because of me, this boy’s love felt like it came straight from heaven.
Even as I was trying to comprehend the difference between the physical anatomy of a transgender and a cisgender person, love made me feel like a complete girl. Growing up as a queer person in a very conservative Muslim neighbourhood was a traumatic experience. This boy’s arms were the only thing I could find solace in.
But little did I know that the love that made me so full would break me down, give me a reality check, and burst my balloons of fantasy.
He got a job in the army at the age of 17. He was ecstatic. He came to meet me before leaving the village. We made out and he kissed my forehead. He whispered in a low hummed voice, “Please wait for me!”
That day was perfect. I was just expecting him to sing the “Toh Challe” song from Border for me. It would have made the parting more special.
In his initial days of army training, he would call me regularly, telling me every tiny detail of the training. Gradually, the calls decreased. I needed him so much at that point. I made numerous attempts to call him. Sometimes the call was answered, but only for a very few seconds.
My family was mentally forcing me to act “normal”, to fit into the society-imposed gender norms for cis males. I was indulging in self-destructive methods to overcome my pain—cutting myself, banging my head, using psychoactive drugs, and overdosing on glue were among the things I did. But he never called or attempted to meet me after his training.
I steadfastly believed that he would come to meet me. I used to keep track of his arrival from his army camp, but was too timid to go and meet him, because the sudden change in his behaviour confused me.
One day, I gained a sense of courage. I visited his house. He seemed embarrassed at seeing me.
He took my hand and led me outside. I asked what had gone wrong, tears in my eyes. Why could he not meet me for nine months? Why could he not answer my calls? He seemed calm but cruel. He spoke the word “Sin”. I asked him to explain. He said sodomy was a “sinful act”. He said had committed a sin with me, and could not continue doing it. I don’t know how he became so radically transformed in the army camp. Who was educating him to hate?
His words pierced my heart, breaking it apart. I stumbled onto a road to find my way home. I rushed to my bathroom and grabbed a phenyl bottle to drink from. I was rescued by my transphobic family, those who sometimes prayed for my death.
Despite this event, I remained hopeful about love.
I was eagerly waiting for my prince to make my queer existence bearable and endearing. But it was challenging for me to find love in that orthodox Muslim area because I struggled to open up to people.
It took me eight years to go on my second date. When I moved to Chandigarh, it was so much easier to find people who wanted to date queer people secretly.
You could find someone even within a 100-meter radius. Their objective was simply to have fun, without any intention of getting into anything serious. I don’t blame those who are straightforward about this. But the ones I hate are those who arouse the feelings of love just to sleep with me.
They were so eloquent in their talk that I started believing that to find love for a queer person, was not difficult. The relationships were fleeting and short-lived, and I found myself begging them to stay with me.
But they left, leaving a dagger in my heart, creating a wound that was deeper than before. They left me with my existential crisis and left me with so many questions.
Could love ever find a queer person like me? Would I ever find a love that won’t be ashamed of accepting me in public? I was looking for someone’s acceptance to validate my self-worth. I was at the mercy of other’s love.
In the midst of constant heartbreak, I attempted to find love within my community. Though it was not intentional, it was rather destined. I had never met a transman before joining a corporate training programme organised by PeriFerry in Bangalore. (If you don't want to, don't name the organization.) I stayed in Belandur, Bangalore, for almost two months in a co-ed living space named Istara.
This guy was well built and tall. When he took my luggage and showed me my room, I got butterflies in my stomach. He started helping me with the training program and talked to me in a very flirtatious way.
Everyone in the program was noticing that something was brewing between us. One day, he placed his hand on mine. It was soft and brimming with compassion. We kissed and his hand was struggling to press my bosom. He laughed and took his hands off me.
I asked what happened. He said, “Your face looks so broad and manly when closely examined”. My face was a reflection of my heartbreak. Realising this, he said he was only joking. But, I was aware that he was not. And it proved itself later. Soon, he began to make unnecessary comments about my appearance, even as he continued being in a physical relationship with me.
He said his friend made fun of our relationship. “They think we don’t look good together as a couple”.
These later words caused me a great deal of pain.
He told me he was just passing time so he wouldn’t get bored. He said he would marry a normal girl anyway. I demanded an explanation of what normal meant to him. He remained silent and departed. I’d thought he would understand.
I had thought that in him I’d found the love of my life. We had similar set of struggles and journey. Being transgender, would not have been a breeze for him either. He had faced similar struggles, including not being accepted by his family and being homeless. He had gone through all that I had, so I believed he would not break me.
That’s why the lie he was telling me was so easy to accept. My expectation was that this time it would be significant, not like the fleeting and meaningless dates of the past.
I crave hands that are not afraid to hold my hands in public. I always wanted someone who is proud and not making me a side chick for their entertainment.
And, when every wish of mine has been shattered, how can I direct my loveless life to do something meaningful for me? I no longer believe in love.
Arina Alam is an author whose work is inspired by the prejudices present in our society towards transgender individuals. She shares insights based on her personal journey as a transgender individual and has been featured in numerous online platforms and newspapers.
The Bullying I Faced In School, And How It Shaped What I Do Today
From the time I started speaking, I used feminine pronouns. And it made me the target of my classmates, teachers and even my father
By Shashank
Whenever Teacher’s Day is celebrated on the 5th of September, everyone shares nostalgic memories of their teachers, schools and colleges on social media.
But that whole day, my insides are in turmoil. I keep remembering my school days, wondering why I silently endured so much, for so many years.
My classmates would call me ‘Chhakka’, ‘Ladki’, ‘Hijra’ and give me all sorts of other names.
I was disgusted with my life. I wondered why God cast me in this strange mold.
I am my parents’ first born. My mother spun many dreams for me. After all, the first child is said to be somewhat special. So yes, perhaps, I was special to my parents.
My mother had a photo project. She’d take a photo with me every month, in my growing years. Then, on a corner of that photo, she would add a piece of paper where she would write my age, measured in months. This was her way of preserving our memories.
When I started speaking, I was one and a half years old. I would use “feminine pronouns” in Hindi, to talk about myself, like khaaungi, jaaungi, naachungi etc.
I would think I was a girl, but society had deemed me a boy. Initially my parents found my contrariness cute, but as I grew older, I became a source of shame for my father and family.
Whenever my father was out, I would dance and play with my mother’s sarees. He caught me at this play several times and beat me badly each time. He would tell me to become a “boy”.
What would a four/five-year-old child know about what a boy is supposed to be like, or a girl?
School and college experiences are often bitter for queer trans* kids like us. I faced a lot of violence and teasing in my school. If society labels you as a boy but your habits are those it deems “girlish”, you are mercilessly bullied in school. Similarly, if society labels you as a girl and your behavior is what is attributed to boys, that merciless meanness will follow.
I still have nightmares about my school, and wake up scared. The difference is that now, whenever I do wake up, I look around, feel reassured and remind myself that life is good now. I wonder why I didn’t have then, the courage that I have today.
Today I stand on my own two feet, no longer dependent on my parents for a home, for money or a secure life. And so, today, when I see the kids going to schools and colleges, similar to those I went to, I wish that what happened to me doesn’t happen to any other child.
Trans* kids suffer in school and this impacts our education. Our childhood, our education is ravaged because of this violence and discrimination. We are weighed down with stress. I spent several years, traumatized. I could never go on to college, after school. I was scared of boys and men.
Those who are bullied in school often drop out. They either leave education entirely and do something else, or study via distance learning. I opted for the latter.
While pursuing further studies through distance learning did help me gradually regain confidence, there were some negatives.
I had no friends, no social circle. The college life of guppe marna, attending classes was something I never got to enjoy. Plus, IGNOU (from where I got my degree) has very little value on the ground. It doesn’t help get you a job.
It’s to ensure that the reality can change for other kids that I and my partner Don Hasar–when we got together we realized that many of our life journeys and struggles had been similar–decided to start the Satrangi Sathi (multi-hued companion) program.
Since 2021, we have been going to schools and colleges in the Kangra district of Himachal Pradesh., We talk to students and teachers about gender equality, sexuality, patriarchy and queer trans* lives and laws.
Children/people, who do not follow the gender norms given by the society, are harassed in various ways. As they grow up, most of these children either commit suicide, become mentally ill or leave their natal families. Family or parents refuse to love and accept children/people like us.
We say that during the years of our schooling, there weren't any laws for our safety. But in 2009 the Right to Education Act came into force. It says that every child should have equal rights to study. The U.G.C Anti-Bullying and Harassment Regulations 2009, i.e. the law against bullying and harassing a child, was implemented for the safety of children/individuals. And in 2019, the Transgender Person Protection and of Rights Act was also enacted.
According to this act, it is very important to discuss gender with students and teachers in every educational institution. These laws have provisions for the protection of queer trans* and other vulnerable children. There is also a provision for punishment and fine for those who harass and exploit children like us.
Going to schools and discussing gender has been healing to me personally. By telling people about my experience I acknowledge that this happened to me. When I speak, I can see in the eyes and hearts of the students and teachers that they won’t bully anyone.
Bullying happens for so many reasons. It could be your height, that you are not good in studies, that you are Dalit, your skin is dark.
So, when you think about it, the only people whose school experiences have been good are mostly those who are privileged, and are gender conforming. If you are marginalised in any way, you will face some amount of bullying.
We ask the students, “How are you responsible to the person sitting next to you?”
We do not get direct permission to talk about gender in this manner in schools and colleges. We take permission from the principals of these institutions by saying that our purpose is to talk about gender equality and mental health. Most of the principals and teachers see gender equality as a topic related to women empowerment.
Often after an hour and a half to two hours of talking, teachers and students become quite emotional. They realise how several times, despite their privileges, they have knowingly or unknowingly subjected queer trans* children/people to violence and abuse. They realize that a person’s not following societal gender norms is not that person's fault, it is their nature, given by nature.
This is how they give us permission. But when we then talk about queer trans* lives and rights, we fear that the school authorities might throw us out.
In one college, I was telling my story when a principal walked in and listened for two mins. The students were happy listening to me, but the principal shut down the session, saying that the time was over. Another teacher also asked us to wrap it.
It wasn’t direct, but the discomfort was obvious.
We didn’t argue, I wrapped up my story in five minutes. But it’s unfortunate when teachers are so insensitive.
After gender training in a government engineering college, a conversation was held with the principal of the college. The principal was very impressed with the issues raised by us. We encouraged him to build separate toilets for queer trans* people in their college.
Through this initiative of making a toilet, he would be able to raise this issue of gender repeatedly in his college and create a safe space for queer trans* people. The principal listened to us very carefully, and he did get toilets constructed for non-binary people.
During the training of Asha workers in Kullu, a woman suggested that we should focus on sensitizing men and boys. She reasoned that most of the violence is done by men and still, whenever there is a talk of gender sensitization, the boys/men tend to easily walk out of rooms, as if gender were only a women's issue.
Taking this suggestion into account and also learning from our experiences, we felt that there is a need for long and deep discussions with men and boys.
Our initiatives have felt like a huge victory for the queer trans* movement in the small towns and villages of Himachal.
After the sessions, kids often message us on Instagram and WhatsApp, thanking us and write: “I thought I am the only queer person in this region, but I have a community now.”
Many youngsters ask us how to share their identity with their parents.
We advise them not to do it immediately. To get some education and financial backing first. We also offer mental health support, fees for which are paid by our organisation.
This work we hope will help ensure that no child ever becomes a victim of violence and exploitation in their school-college on the basis of their less understood gender identity.
Shashank is a transgender person and the co-founder of Himachal Queer Foundation. They love sipping chai, chit-chatting gossiping, singing-dancing and cooking. Shashank is a feminist and now talks about the rights of LGBTQI+ people in Himachal through pahadi songs and stories.
One day I was wearing shirts and whistling in class. And the next, I was told I was a girl and had to act like one.
The responsibilities of being a girl and an older sibling meant I had to wear shalwar kurtas and keep my legs neatly tucked.
Edited by Gitanjali Chandrasekharan

Text on the card reads:
“I used to be a Tomboy"
When I told someone this, they said that they found it difficult to believe.I seemed so shy, they'd said. I don't think I was ever shy. Misanthropic yes, but not shy, I think.
Text on the card reads:
Growing up, my house was full of young male relatives. Spending so much time with them made me dress like them. I wore their shirts. Even if they felt like dresses on my tiny frame.
My hair was regularly cut short (to avoid lice).
I picked up some Bollywood mannerisms as well.
I learnt to whistle like a professional catcaller.
And, I wore my little girl handkerchief around my neck.
Text on the card reads:
Photographs suggest the phase started when I was 2-3 years old.
I don't think tomboy was part of my lexicon at the time or even for a few years later. I use the term in retrospect.
At the time, I remember people saying girls didn't do such things when reacting to some of my mannerisms.
Text on the card reads:
When puberty hit so much changed. The instructions to be less rough and tumble (with me) and be more modest extended to all males, my father included. For me, there were no more handkerchiefs around the neck anymore.
I had to sit with legs neatly tucked together. Shalwar kurtas took over from loose floppy shirts.
I remembered feeling bewildered by the physical and other changes
But I agreed to everything that was asked of me. I wasn't a difficult kid!

Text on the card reads:
Our house also emptied of all these male relatives. They set up homes of their own, or left in pursuit of work.
And I acquired a sibling, so I was no longer the focus of everyone's attention. The logic was two-fold: "You are the elder one, so you must set a good example" and, "you are a woman now, not a girl anymore, so you must watch how you behave."
Text on the card reads:
The parental dictums of those times have coloured all my interactions with the Lorem Ipsum opposite sex to this day.
I am most comfortable with women but I am still not sure about my femininity-how to define it or even express it.
I am attracted to men, but am fascinated by feminine women because they seem to have something I don't, or can't, access within myself.
Text on the card reads:
I still don't know what my personal style is. I used to be bothered by this, but I think age and self acceptance is helping.
My hair, long and falling down my back, is the site of my vanity now. I have discovered earrings and dresses.
But I still prefer comfortable shoes that don't necessarily match my outfits. I toyed with makeup for a bit and then decided it was too much of a bother.
Text on the card reads:
Getting a job brought in financial independence. It was truly liberating, allowing me to make my own decisions about what to wear, how to live my life and where to live it.
It bestowed me with the privilege to be me without having to pander too much to stereotypes and expectations.

Text on the card reads:
I don't think I thought then or think now of gender,
But in retrospect I do wish that my choice of how to be was more organic and less forced.

Text on the card reads:
And even now, I have a very special place in my heart for the pre-teen with a Hankerchief around her neck and whistling in an all girls classroom.
That image seems unsullied by expectations and remains innocent.
Read the full essay by Anonymous in the link in our bio!
I was prepared to sulk, until I saw a tiny girl with a hockey stick
A serendipitous meeting with a movie character changed everything I had so far been told girls could be
Written By Div Rodricks
Illustrated by Riya Nagendra
“D, who's your childhood fictional crush?” a friend asked one evening two-three years ago. I was about to blurt out Megamind but stopped to think more…
OMG! The memories and feelings I had forgotten the existence of, flowed back, into my veins and into my fingers. And now, I am writing this piece as an ode to her.
Let me tell you about the day I “met” her, quite unexpectedly.
I was 7 years old when my family and I went to the theatres to watch Ta Ra Rum Pum. To me, it sounded like the most exciting thing. It looked like one of those fun family movies with teddy bears and a magical world (judging by its movie poster). I was khushi mein waiting outside the theatre while my parents went in to get movie tickets. Going to the movies was a rare treat, so in my mind, it was reserved for special, entertaining films .
I was excited until I overheard my parents saying they hadn’t got the tickets, because the movie was housefull, and so we’d be watching Chak De! India instead.
Standing in front of the big Chak De! India poster, I took a deep breath. I considered it for a moment, and then groaned, “Noooo…” I threw a tantrum about how I did not want to watch a “serious” sports film. That poster looked BORING. I wanted the fun Rani Mukherji film. I also really hated sudden change of plans. But my parents insisted. We had travelled, spending precious time and money, for this. “Nothing-doing, we are watching Chak De! India,” they said.
I had been taught to swallow my feelings. So, I held back my tears, stomped into the theatre and sat down with my hands folded, pouting. I was ready to be miserable for the next three hours.
But, 10 minutes into the film entered someone who was about to change 7-year-old me’s life!
She was running through the busy streets with her hockey stick, dribbling the ball and finally shooting it at a car window, shattering it . “Komal” her dad yelled. “Laundo ke saath khelne aayi kya?” “Aadmi roti mangega toh kya degi?” her mom asked. “Jeh,”' she says, holding up her hockey stick.
From the minute she entered the screen, Komal spoke fiercely. She took up space. She was assertive. She wasn't afraid of pissing people off. She stood her ground about what belonged to her, be it her bunk bed spot or her position on the field.
She was the polar opposite to me.
I was taught to never speak up, to always please elders, to smile even when I felt angry or mistreated… to, well, bottle my feelings up tightly, and make sure other people's needs were always put before mine. So, watching Komal on screen, being unapologetically herself and fighting for what she wanted, made me feel seen, even understood, for the first time.
Along with being a complete badass, Komal was also witty, playful, mischievous, and such a menace when she would tease or challenge Preeti, her rival, in the movie.
I had planned on sulking for three hours, but I LOVED IT.
I was drawn into the movie because of Komal. There was this kind of spark or joy or something that opened up inside me that day sitting in that theatre, that is hard to put into words. She instantly became someone I would look up to, even years later.
Even her choice of clothes was freeing.
Komal had that cool school boy look with buttoned-up shirts, hoodies and comfy pants. (Wait, girls could dress like that? It was allowed?!) She was vocal about her dislike for sarees - which I related to.
Growing up, I didn't have access to masculine clothes. I spent a lot of my years trying hard to be more girly- wear dresses, earrings, grow my hair. I did it to make my family, neighbour aunties and cis boy crushes happy. I cared a lot about what others thought of me and how they saw me. And would push myself to fit that person they desired. “I like you but I wish you grew your hair, you looked so pretty,” my ex would say. “Tu asa kapde ghalnaar tujhyashi koni lagna karnaar nahi,? (if you wear such clothes, no one will marry you) some aunty would say. “I found you cute but too tomboyish”. I was constantly reminded that everything likeable about me was “not being a tomboy”.
Even today as a masc queer person who is into other masculine people, I find myself trying to be more feminine. I feel like I have to like my chest and be less boyish, to feel desired by them. To feel liked at least for once. So I’d tell myself, “Don't be who you are.”
But Komal, she was carefree and didn't worry about what others thought of her. Getting married or impressing men wasn't important to her. She simply wanted to play the way neighbourhood boys got to. This resonated with me a lot.
It reminded me of when boys in my area wouldn't let me play with them because I was a girl. Even if they did, I was the kaccha limbu. I remember thinking being made goalkeeper was the highest honour, till I realised they did that to keep me out of games and never passed the ball to me. Neither did my school allow sports for girls. All I wanted was the opportunity to play.
I had never in real life or on-screen seen a lovable character like Komal represented. It didn't seem like she was hard to love. Not only was she the top scorer, but also extremely hot, cute and had qualities I wished I had.
I admired how she put her ego aside and passed the ball to Preeti, at the end of the movie. It showed how she cared for her team; and for a goal that was bigger than her. It showed how she could be a good friend – even to someone she considered a rival. (Side note: I like to imagine Komal and Preeti are in love, in an enemies to lovers way. I desperately need someone to make a spin off romance series with Komal and Preeti, ‘pretti’ please. )
As someone who struggled with understanding my identity and took years to realise that I am transmasc, having a character I could resonate with–someone that was Indian, dusky skinned like me, and also from a small town–helped me know that there were others like me. I never understood the obsession I had for her, but it makes sense now.
Komal provided me with an outlet to express my masculine self, especially since I didn't have any masculine figures around me while growing up.
For years, I was an obsessive fanboi. Whenever I’d see Komal’s (Chitrashi Rawat) pictures in the newspaper, I'd cut and stick them on my cupboard or notebook. I attempted to play pretend hockey with a stick and bottle cap. I was struck with the eternal gay dilemma —do I want to be her, or do I want to be with her? Even today, though the actress is quite femme, watching Chak De! India is a sort of escape/guilty pleasure.
Komal, I wish you were real. We'd be friends. You'd teach me hockey, we'd go out to play. I can imagine us climbing mango trees, where you would be the strong fearless one , climbing high up, and I would be the scaredy cat neeche ready to catch the mangoes, looking at your strength and bravery in awe.

Div Rodricks loves telling stories through their comics, illustrations and five-hour long voice notes.
I was called a tomboy
A girl with short hair and playing sports? Must be a tomboy. Some liked it. Some didn’t. Four people who grew up being called a tomboy share their journey with the word.
Edited by Gitanjali Chandrasekharan

I was called a tomboy
A girl with short hair and playing sports? Must be a tomboy. Some liked it. Some didn’t. Four people who grew up being called a tomboy share their journey with the word.

Amruta Patil , 44
Writer and Graphic Novelist
– As Told to Paromita Vohra
Growing up, is “tomboy” a label that you identified for yourself? Or was it something that other people called you?
For lack of any other terminology, I went in the direction of calling myself a tomboy, even though I didn’t particularly like the sound of it. We didn’t have words like andro(gynous), butch etc. until later. Andro might have been closer to what I felt like.
In retrospect, it was just one way one could have the freedoms that were associated with boys and not allowed to girls – I realised this when I began interacting more with girls from Afghanistan and Iran, where we had a certain shared generational experience.
It comes to a closure when you start menstruating. But till that point, you get the chance to play in a much more ‘out of control’ way than you were allowed as a ‘girly little girl’.
So I wonder if it had more to do with actually demanding a certain freedom of movement and activity than anything else.
Do you think being this way inaugurated a different life journey for you?
It did. I’m beginning to realise now that my parents were progressive, even though they didn’t intend on raising me as a gender neutral child.
But my mother was just not that invested in visually making me a ‘girly girl.’ The lack of any impositions set me free to dress in other ways and to do things I wanted. They’re appalling now when you look at the photographic record – bicycling shorts, bum bags and four-sizes too large FIFA T-shirts. But essentially, I was never reprimanded for any of those choices.
However, when you usurp these freedoms, others also see you as being one of the boys, which has its setbacks. During the tweenage years and teenage years, the problem is that you’re never considered in the dating game at all – which was my experience because I’d done such a convincing job of assuming that role.
It resulted in several unrequited crushes. Even though I didn’t always see myself like that, I was received like that by others until I was older.
Briefly, around the age of 14-15, I had a more feminine interlude. But I think the tedium of that was too much. So I reverted to being like my previous self, at around 17/18. I was short-haired till I was about 22.
Did you feel like adopting more feminine ways when you experienced unrequited emotions? Also, that you were not seen as a person in the dating pool could be for diverse reasons. But could it also be the unsaid reason that actually – you enter that path for the possibility of fulfilling whichever capacity you wish – and then that itself becomes such a romantic part of life.
Absolutely. I think I became such a missile-focused person because I was not squandering my energy so much in my teenage years. I really wanted to write, and the trade-off was not exciting enough.
My brother has always been shockingly beautiful. The message that I always got from everybody was, “You're interesting, and he is really handsome.”
But that made me more self-confident about how awesome I was. These semi-shade comparison comments actually helped bolster the inner feeling that "Yes, I actually am quite interesting, compared to the other people in that limited pool I was part of.’ And yes, it absolutely does help to cultivate an inner life.
I had an opposite journey of not being considered woman or girl-like, not because I was a tomboy, but because I was too nerdy, bossy, opinionated, I wanted to ‘be present.’ I wanted to be taken seriously.
Yes, there was some of that going on too. Even my physical development began very late, so I was kind of a bust-less boyish entity till I was about 19-20. So, that was a natural ally in some sort of physical presentation. But also, I was very smart in class, very opinionated - so there were all of these things.
You said you wanted to align the masculine/feminine inside you. What was that journey about?
I think it has components that are emotional, there are others that are visual. Internally, I think it was just asserting, ‘owning it,’ not caring what other people think. Coming into my own professionally also helped reconcile a lot of these things. I had always been things on my own terms, but now I could do that even more so.
I actually feel a bit gender-less in many ways. I don’t know how exactly to put it, but now I just play with it, whatever works with the form, with this particular body at this time. I’m not overly invested in how it’s turning up.
If there is a map of a journey of engagement with genders, where you kind of started off as a tomboy, where do you think you were in the middle, and where would you say you are now?
My body is changing, so there’s that partially. Initially, I was reading different kinds of things–I wanted to be like George from Famous Five, Jo from Little Women. For starters, they are the most interesting people in the story. So partially, it was a desire to ally with those ‘spirit animals.’ Once the qualities that marked those spirit animals were entrenched on the inside, it didn't matter how I manifested on the outside. Now the manifestation is more aligned with what aesthetic/form I want at the age that I am right now.
It allows me more colour and embellishments, many components to play with. I’m questioning my choice of words—maybe more than being genderless, it’s like being a hermaphrodite in a lovely way—both those things have come together more confidently.

Anjana Sharma, 58
Co-Founder, The Good Life Goa
Interviewed by Vijayalakshmi
Growing up, is “tomboy” a label that you identified for yourself? Or was it something that other people called you?
It started with somebody addressing me as a tomboy and then me quickly accepting it. My mom would dress me up in shorts and a little patka. So nobody ever said anything because they just thought I was one of the little boys.
It just became seamless from there. At no point of time did I identify as being a boy. But I just used it to my advantage to get away with things that I wanted to do.
Was there something that you uniquely understood about being a tomboy?
I found that you were perceived to be a little more progressive. You were allowed to push the boundaries of what was acceptable behavior of a girl. Sometimes you could have been disrespectful, just a little more loud and a little more aggressive etc.
I was a very sporty person. My hobbies were swimming, playing cricket, playing football, and kick the can. As a tomboy, you're allowed to physically exert yourself also.
What was your style? What was your signature kind of clothing at that point of time?
You didn't have many choices. You wore hand-me-downs, which was fine. But if I had my way, even my skirts were divided skirts. Otherwise, you had to wear bloomers. So my mom would make me bloomers for everything.
So it was nice to have a supportive parent that way?
Oh, completely. My father was very strict, and conservative, but never discriminated between me and a boy. He had two daughters. He was extremely proud and he pushed us to do whatever we wanted.
I remember coming home really scared one day because I had really gotten expelled from school. And I overheard my parents having a conversation. My mother was saying, “you are the one who spoiled her. She does all this rubbish.” And my father turned around and said, “Well, if I had a boy, I would have been proud of him. So why not her?”
How would you say that being a tomboy shaped the rest of your life? Is there a connection between that and who you are today?
It made me fearless. I'm single. I never settled. I've lived alone practically all my adult life. I have an older sister who's utterly and gorgeously feminine. She was a Miss India. People compared me to her all the time. But I just think I had very thick skin at a very young age.
I'm not a conventional dresser.
I have my own style. I'm recognized for it. It's part of my business now. So I think that it allowed me to shape my own individual expression. I hate being part of buckets. I want to be myself.
What is your style now?
It's very feminine. I don't dress like a man. But for example, over the period of my life, I've shaved my hair three times. And the strength to do that also comes from the fact that you don't identify with the conventional norms of beauty.
The best and the hottest men hit on me when I was bald. I've had the most glorious relationships. I've had the hottest men. I don't think being a tomboy has anything to do with a lack of femininity. I think it's a question of accepting yourself. The minute you are comfortable in your own skin, you send out the correct aura and vibrations. And that's what being attractive is about.
Would you say that the word tomboy has relevance today? In this day and age where women can do a lot of things, unlike a lot of things that said girls were not allowed to do when you were a child.
It was another label at that time. If you were a marriageable age and a tomboy, it was a negative, right? It was a bad label. But if you were smart enough to twist it to your advantage, that's great. These are labels that society creates. Now, you have to, as an individual, have enough strength of character to understand what is negative and what is not.

Aryan Somaiya, 36
Psychotherapist, Gender and Sexuality Trainer and DEI Consultant
Interviewed by Harshita Kale
Growing up, is “tomboy” a label that you identified for yourself? Or was it something that other people called you?
The word ‘tomboy’ was always about how others perceived me – I never identified as one. Any woman who ‘acted like a man’ growing up in the ‘80s and ‘90s was either a Kajal Bhai from the TV show Hum Paanch or a Falguni Pathak, the iconic Garba Queen. Kajal Bhai was my favourite character, my first place to live in.
Could you give me a little glimpse of your relationship with Kajal Bhai?
Kajal Bhai was the only person who asserted ‘I am a man’. Everybody thought that ‘she was just a tomboy.’ I think it was much more than that, that she was queer, at the very least, even though they weren’t explicit about it.
She was portrayed as somewhat unworthy of love because she was ‘like a man.’ The guy says, ‘Tum toh ladke jaise ho, tumse kaun pyaar karega?’ (You are like a man, who will love you?)
But then, she didn’t give a damn about how people perceived her. And that is something I loved and looked up to.
Did you have a certain vibe that other people recognized in the character of Kajal Bhai as well?
I always wore boy’s/men’s clothing, and had short hair. I was also extremely athletic. I had long hair till about Class 4 or Class 5, when it was compulsory to wear plaits to school. But as soon as I came home, I tucked my hair into a cap, just like Kajal Bhai. I also always had male friends.
People believed that I was a tomboy, that it was a phase that would go away. But it definitely wasn’t. I think people were also more accepting of the word tomboy than calling it any other name.
Yes, it was less scary than perhaps being something ‘more.’
Yeah, it was less scary and also more acceptable – that there is hope that it will go away eventually.
And then when I got older, when I was about 15-18 years old, they started calling me Falguni Pathak.
How did you react to people calling you a tomboy? And did being boxed into that label counter-intuitively strengthen your self-image/identification as a boy instead?
People around me perceived visual markers, such as the way I dressed, my speech mannerisms and my gait, and immediately concluded that I was a ‘tomboy.’ Usually, I tried to be patient with them – who could fight every battle and tell them that I identify as a boy, that I was trans? In fact, I didn’t have the vocabulary myself to articulate my identity at the time – I only started understanding myself better in my early 20s.
The word tomboy was somewhat of a blessing for me – there was at least some acceptance, some visibility of ‘masculinity.’ I made my peace with the word a little because of this.
While there was some acceptance, did you face any backlash for not being ‘womanly’? If pop culture figures like Kajal Bhai and Falguni Pathak didn't exist, do you think reactions would have been a little different?
I cannot recount the many times that that has happened - and which happens even now. There was pushback even from the boys I was friends with. Often while playing sports like cricket and football, they would say, “You are a girl, you better stay that way, zyaada mard mat ban.” Others would say, “You act like a boy, lekin hai toh ladki hi na?” The more I tried transgressing boundaries, the more they would try to box me in.
A lot of people came up to my mother and told her ‘Make her wear girls’ clothes.’
Since other people who resembled me existed in mainstream spaces, the word ‘tomboy’ felt very safe in some ways– at least there was an identity where people couldn’t force me to change.
I am so glad that Kajal Bhai existed. ‘Tomboy’ was a very good exit point for me from fights and from discussions about why I was a certain way. People did say that, and still do - but then somebody would come along and say - ‘Are, she is a tomboy, like Falguni and Kajal Bhai.’
But there was still the connotation that it’s ‘curable’ – after marriage, it will be the husband’s problem - and automatically, ‘it’ll get better/okay’. And then the other lines of thought - ‘we’ll find an effeminate man for her!’ If she is a boy-like girl, then we’ll find a girl-like boy for marriage.
The fact that it was perceived as being a temporary phase was also why it was allowed, rather than accepted.
Did you find other tomboys growing up? Did you ever feel lonely?
I had this one person in school who is now also trans. We knew internally, ‘ki hum ‘vohi’ hai (trans)’. The only solace was having that person.
But finding others like me was very rare. I think this was the only person I met. Since I was in a girls’ school, there were a lot of stereotypically ‘masculine’ girls who were sporty, but also became conventionally feminine by the time they came to the 9th or 10th grade.
It was very lonely, that you don’t feel like a woman, the way your cousins or mother might have. I did question why I had the body I had, because I was not a woman. But characters like Kajal Bhai temporarily alleviated that despair, and gave me reasons to keep living.

Kalpana Cardoso, 55
Cricketer (Selector, Women’s Senior Cricket Team, MCA)
Interviewed by Vijayalakshmi
Did you call yourself a tomboy when you were younger or is that something that others called you?
It was definitely what other people called me because when we were that young, we did not know the meaning of tomboy.
When I used to wear my brother’s clothes and go to play, I used to think, “Oh, my God, it's so much easier.” I didn't find people saying, “Are tu ek hi ladki hai jo khel rahi hai yeh ladke lok ke saath.” So I decided, “Oh, this is an easy way” because my aim was to play; no matter what I wanted to play.
Was there something that you uniquely understood about being a tomboy?
For me, it was the easiest way to get into sports. I was interested in cricket. So I could play cricket with the boys team only if I wore shorts and a t-shirt.
When I used to travel by train, to go for cricket practice, I had to travel by train in the ladies compartment, right? Whenever we used to enter the train with those big bags and our cricketing gear, they used to always say, “Nahi, nahi, ye ladies hai. Gents mein jao.”
There were a couple of times we got into these kinds of fights on the train.
What was your style? What was your signature kind of clothing at that point of time?
When we joined professional cricket, we had to wear pants and t-shirts. To pack jeans and a t-shirt was easier than to pack a dress and then shoes according to the dress etc. It became easier to just throw on jeans and a t-shirt and you can wear those sports shoes the whole day.
I had long hair till the 10th standard, but it became easier to cut your hair.
Every time I was forced to wear a dress, for family occasions or weddings, I felt very uncomfortable.
I felt like I could be who I am in those clothes (jeans and t-shirts). I don't know whether I can say who I am, but I was very comfortable in those clothes.
How would you say that being a tomboy shaped the rest of your life? Is there a connection between that and who you are today?
I felt throughout my life that I was comfortable to do everything and anything without people actually pinpointing that, oh, this is a girl doing something like that, you know?
If there was anything I would say I'm happier. There were these small instances when the rickshaw would stop for a prettier girl. Or if a prettier girl would be granted a request, but we’d be sent back.
These were the only few instances, where we were treated differently. But otherwise, it was all good. And I never felt that problem. I always felt that whatever I had, I could make the best out of it.
I joined my job at the age of 18. In my Western Railway office also, most of our cricketers and most of our sports staff were all tomboys. We did not know anything different actually. We had a very good rapport. Nobody ever tried to change us.
What has the personal side of your life been like?
My full family has always been supportive in what I do. They never forced me to get married.
I knew that right from the beginning. The thing of leaving my home, my comfortable space and going to somebody else's house, just totally put me off. I was always comfortable on my own. And so I was never, ever interested in marriage. I mean, that's my happy place, being single.
Would you say that the word tomboy has relevance today? In this day and age where women can do a lot of things, unlike a lot of things that said girls were not allowed to do when you were a child.
I don't think so now. I don't think that girls want to grow up in that mold or they want to be branded as tomboy. In those days, we did not feel shy to be a tomboy. Now the girls feel like if they are more feminine, it is better because you're getting equal opportunities. And with so much peer pressure, they don't want to be different.
Why do I need to cover up when your friend comes home?
It took me a while to realise that I had been abused, and some probing to understand why I never told my parents about it
By C J
Recently, I have been thinking about how some people have to realise they have been abused. They don’t always know it. It’s a fact made known to them months or years after it has already happened. Maybe it takes a movie, or a friend sharing their story that makes them go “that’s what I went through too”.
It took me years to start looking at my own experience as possible abuse too. Not sure if I completely believe it now.
During my first year of undergraduate degree, a professor said to the class “I’m sure some of you in this class have been through abuse” and shared how as a counsellor and a professor, she sees many students who open up about abuse in counselling and in classrooms. I remember looking around the class and trying to play a guessing game about who it could be, quite sure that I wasn’t the only one in class.
The story I’m about to write is one we’re all familiar with. A child is abused in their own home for years before the parents learn about it and are shocked. Except in many cases, children can never share it with their family.
As parents to young children, they make it their personal mission to teach kids everything they know about safe/unsafe touch (or good touch/bad touch as it’s known) as soon as the kids are able to understand language. Ofcourse, it includes made-up names for private parts. Recently on reelstagram, a video went popular where the father is using hand gestures to educate his infant daughter about safe touch. The video shows that one does not have to wait till the children grow up to teach these “essential skills”. Basically, by the time you are in school, you are given everything short of a PowerPoint presentation on stranger danger, while the abuser is walking around the house freely.

When I moved out to Bangalore to start a new life, I used to think I didn’t have “trauma” that I carried around from those times. For some reason, I believed that all women at some point go through some form of sexual violence, whether it’s from an uncle in the family, a stranger in the bus flashing or boyfriend demanding sex in exchange for getting married. Having seen some of these in real-life as a child, there was nothing to complain about with regards to my own experiences because I considered it normal at the time.
There was no violence or any physical force involved in it when it happened to me. I recall the times where it was as if we were in it together, where I didn’t feel like I was a victim. Even though he was only 14 or 15 years old at the time, he knew all the right things to say. At times I had to do something for him if I wanted to use his phone. Whenever he saw me, he would say that I was his favourite cousin and that’s why he did those things to me. At times, it felt nice to be wanted (which I’m realising has to do something with my tendency to seek validation in the wrong places). So, I would think I am not allowed to have any negative feelings because it wasn’t assault. It couldn’t be. Later, I would feel guilty for not having any feelings that people who went through such an experience were supposed to have. It’s a lot of feelings for a child to handle, so I just found it easier to accept what was done to me, each time it happened.
It happened so long ago that it feels like when I moved from that house and left behind some toys and clothes that didn’t fit in my suitcase, I left these memories too there. Maybe that’s what happens when you move from any place. You choose what memories you want to take or when you can’t, your mind does it for you, and it shapes how you view that time in your life.
I remember the first time I said “no” to him. I was 9. By that time, it had been going on for at least three years. I don’t know if it happened earlier than that, my memory can't dig up an answer. I remember him getting up from his bed and lying next to me. He tried to pull my t-shirt and put his hand in. When I said no, he listened. But a few minutes later, he did it anyway.

I had thought about telling it to my family many times. At age 8, I did not know what victim blaming was. But I had already seen what it looked like in families. Indian families are good at blaming everything on women. Telling my experience to my family would have been the end to my already limited freedom. I had seen many instances of it before. I visited a relative’s house in Tamil Nadu when I was seven years old. There were two children aged 3 and 6. A distant uncle of mine had taken the youngest with him, removed her clothes and had taken pictures of her on the phone. When the story came out, everyone asked “why didn’t she stay with the women in the house?”
One theory in psychology says that children aren’t born with a blue-print to navigate the world.
So, they learn from observing others in their life, particularly their parents. Knowing this is important, because children are actively picking up how elders handle situations and eventually they also come to follow it.
Like every parent in our culture, my dad used to ask me to cover up whenever there were men coming to the house. And like every good daughter, I would do it, no questions asked. But my exposure to feminism and a newfound sense of freedom that came with it allowed me to present myself the way I wanted. So once when I was in college, when my dad told me to cover up because some old fellow was coming to the house, I asked him “why are you bringing such men into the house?”. He never said that to me again.

He used to tell me that I taught him a lot about many things in life. While my reaction was because I didn’t want to go through the experience of feeling like a victim in my own house, it made my dad think about who we are placing the responsibility on while trying to protect our children. Engaging in this line of thinking is very important to let go of unhelpful things in our belief system. If home is really a safe space, what are we willing to change in the way we currently do things to really make it one.
Bio: C J is a teacher, counsellor and wannabe writer. When she’s not busy reading, she'll be walking around Rajajinagar wearing a helmet.
My bisexual panic
Of course, there were some guys I thought looked good. Who’d turn away from Wesley Snipes, Ryan Reynolds? But would I date a guy if I could?
Written by Yash
I was scrolling through Instagram when I came across an NRI who was around my age, and an influencer on Musically (then TikTok) and Instagram. He was a product of the love marriage of a handsome Indian man and a stunning German woman(I’d followed him on social media for weeks). At first, I thought that my appreciation was just about his good looks.
Guys appreciate other guys who they think look good. Look up to them, want to be like them. For me, however, it was far more than just that. In my not-so-adolescent day dreaming sessions, I would think of adventures the characters I used to make up for my stories could have. Sometimes some characters would share an intimate moment or two, and sometimes those characters looked like me and Mr Hot NRI.
A few months after I discovered Mr Hot NRI, I had my first girl crush. I’d met her around in 2016. We don’t even talk anymore. We have not talked in years. For me she used to be a major part of my life and just a year later, we had zero contact. After her, I had a hard time finding my bearings, mentally. I was distraught. It took me years to regain some semblance of stability.
The all-boys’ schooling environment was not of help either. I couldn’t relate to anyone or even open up because I thought no one understood. Sixteen-year-old boys are idiots, I was too. Life was fun for a while but bottling up emotions has never worked for anybody. Alienation after a transition from the new up-and-coming extrovert who was chill with everybody, to a guy who would rather keep to himself, and was sometimes “not good for the vibes”, was fated.
There was self-hatred involved which went on for years till I finally came face to face with the reality of my sexual orientation.
Slowly I got used to it, thought that it was just friendly flirting with a cute dude and friends because I am a major flirt. It was all completely harmless. Looking back, I guess I thought that I was in my own way just appreciating everyone that I thought looked good.
Mr Hot NRI started the journey. Over the years, there have been many but everyone remembers their “firsts”.
Watching superhero movies such as Blade, I could not stop looking at the glistening six pack abs, the pecks and the cute behind that Wesley Snipes was packing. Ryan Reynolds as Hannibal King was not lacking in the eye candy section either, I was not far behind in noticing the gorgeous Jessica Biel and the super-hot Dominic Purcell. Even Bollywood hero movies with dashing stars like Ayushman Khurana or Adiya Roy Kapoor used to make me feel some type of way.

I could only watch topless scenes of men and stars boldly in front of others because it was normal, which is one norm I’m thankful for. When it came to women in bikinis I missed out in public(don’t tell my family I said any of this).
I used to be so confused. I knew I was attracted to women, but there were some specific men I used to find attractive that it used to make me feel weird about being me. Men like Ryan Reynolds, Bruno Mars. Pornography did not help. The sound of men moaning in heterosexual settings was arousing, which made me panic.
I finally surprised myself with my reality when I was wasting away, scrolling on Instagram last year. I saw this video of this gorgeous European woman, not much older than I, cosplaying a female character. Impressed by her cosplay, I checked out her profile only to find out that it wasn’t woman but a man.

For some reason I was not surprised. Even though he had done a fabulous job of hiding his Adam’s apple in the video, and misleading not only me but thousands online, into believing that it was a woman in that video. I found myself saying, “He’s handsome and beautiful, I’d totally date him”.
As soon as I said that out loud, I found myself dumbfounded and relieved. As if a huge burden had been taken off my chest.
Did I panic? Very much. I later found out that may have been bisexual panic because was I was a little aroused by this man’s cosplays.
I came to terms with this reality and slowly started accepting it. I have not yet completely assimilated in this reality and struggle with it still.
That intimacy with a guy is still very far away from me, I do battle with it. Do I fantasise about boys regardless? Yes, I do. Though the farthest I’ve gotten is a kiss.
Yash studied at St. Joseph's University, Bangalore. He loves to read and write, even though he should write a lot more than he does. He is creative and a geek, though he refuses to identify as one. He is a major flirt.
I wanted love and found it. It just wasn’t reciprocated
After each encounter, I promised myself I’d talk about my needs, be vulnerable in a smart way. Next time, I’d win
Written by Yana Roy
I was only 18 years old when I came to Delhi for the first time. (That is a lie, I also visited Delhi as a 15-year-old to surprise my then, undergrad brother for his birthday. Needless to say, that does not count). And, as any 18-year-old almost 1,000 miles away from her parents would, I, too, wanted love (yes, a fulfilling career as well, but this essay is not about that). And so, I did what any sensible person seeking love in the 21st century is expected to do—I downloaded a dating app.
I remember seeking love. I remember, in Richard Siken’s words, wanting to be wanted. All these desires, however, merely culminated in a series of hookups.
I remember the first time I slept with someone. It transpired in Delhi.
I’d desperately wanted to “not be like other girls” who deem reciprocated love as a prerequisite for sleeping with someone for the first time in their lives. Thereby, the best course of action was to sleep with a stranger I had met on a random dating app. And, oh, memory, truly, is such a funny thing! How biased it is! For my memory little heeds to how the aforementioned stranger never called or even texted me after sleeping with me, little heeds to how he acted as a tattletale in reference to our sexual lore, little heeds to the deleterious aspects of the experience. What it does remember is how terribly I fell in love with a strange man.
I was having a rather debilitating day, so when someone proposed plans to meet, it seemed the best way out of the labyrinth of pain I was in.
Thus, I ended up making a plan to meet the very day we matched on Hinge. I reached his house at 2 am and he took no time to make me feel oddly comfortable in his shared apartment. After initial discontentment, when we started speaking, the conversation became engaging. It was not that I had not gone out on dates before (I had), it was not that I’d not had extremely, perhaps even “tediously”, long conversations with strangers whom I clicked with instantaneously (I had). But there was something about sitting on his roommate’s couch and simply talking to him, on the 8th of March, 2023, i.e., International Women’s Day, while holding hands and drinking the cold coffee we’d made together, that made me susceptible to Cupid’s love arrow.
It appeared as though we had discussed everything under the sun, from Albert Camus’ absurdism to the widows of Vrindavan. We had been talking for so long that I thought that he must have invited me over to his place, just for conversation.
Finally, there came a moment when I realised that a segue was about to erupt. I could not help but instantly give in to his charms.
I had grown up in a house wherein physical affection had not been institutionalised. All these years, my existence had been confined to four pink walls and all I had yearned for was to be seen. So, to finally be bestowed with the chance of feeling seen, wanted, and desired, I could not help but leap at the chance, without second thought.
Before I realised it, he was whispering sweet nothings into my ear and running his hand through my hair. Soon enough, he got me to oblige to all his sexual whims and fancies. When we were in the missionary position, I could only think of the following lines from ‘Little Beast’, “[...] he was very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving. You could drown in those eyes, I said, so it’s summer, so it’s suicide, so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.” (As a matter of fact, I even left a screenshot of this part of the poem on his phone after we were done, in the hopes that he would come across it someday, and consequently text me. Spoiler alert: He did not.)
Perhaps, all his purported romantic gestures and words were merely a part of his standard procedure in order to ensure that he would get laid. However, that did not perturb me at all. In that moment, all I cared about was being seen, feeling real—and his touch provided me with the requisite warmth to experience the aforementioned. It was enough. It was good. It was love. There was something about orgasming for the very first time in my otherwise touch-starved life, that felt like the pinnacle of love; I met God each time I got to kiss him. I could physically feel the tangible attachments materialising in my heart.
This, most definitely, could never lead to any good. Yet, I found myself unable to stop. I was falling in love with a stranger and there was nothing I could do about it.
After the climax scene though, the energy in the room shifted. The sweet nothings quickly changed to nothing-at-alls as he substituted conversation with me for swiping on Hinge.

It was amply clear to me that I should leave. Now, it’s not that he had proscribed me from using Hinge, or any other dating app for that matter, I just did not want to. When I was with him, it was difficult to remember that other things still existed, that too, at the very same time.
While leaving, I could not help but make pleading eyes at him, to give him a hint about the current contents of my brain. I pretended, however, as if I did not care a bit.
Yet, I wanted him to ask me to stay.
I wanted to ask, “Will there be a second time?”
Maybe, I did not care whether he said yes or no. All I wanted was a confirmation. An answer. Some solid ground to stand upon. But I reserved my silence, and walked away, without any declaration of love or anything else.
I wished I could have been “cool, casual, and chill” about it. I dearly wished to have the ability not to make a big deal of it.
Unfortunately, no avail.
It was made abundantly clear to me that I was, in fact, like other girls, like other people. I could never extricate sex from its concomitant feelings.
I tried reaching out to him later, but he never got back. It was bittersweet. The bitter part is rather evident, it was sweet, however, because it meant I could alter his memory, as and how I pleased. I could be as delusionally romantic about him as I wished. However, I decided that the next time, I would be better. I would have my wants and needs on the tip of my tongue. I would be vulnerable, but in a smart way. The next time, I would not hesitate. The next time, I would not get hurt. The next time, I would win. You see, it is quite easy to promise yourself a number of things, as long as you precede such promises with a, ‘next time’.
There was a next time, but with a different man, but with the same result. The same longing from my side, the same thirst camouflaged as affection from their end, the same dissatisfaction as the outcome.
Frankly, I was exasperated with being stuck in this rut of sleeping with people in the hope that it would lead to something more (spoiler alert: it never did). I had known that there exists no one-dimensional formula to cracking life or even dating. It is all trial and error. But in my case, it felt as though it was all, cent percent, most definitely an error.
However, I found immense solace when I was made aware of the fact that I was not alone in this disconcerting experience. A plethora of people I knew, both online as well as offline, denounced dating apps. Thanks to another love story which failed to take off, I took it upon myself to activate the self-defence of “intellectualisation”, and deep dived into the world of dating apps.
Soon, I was made cognisant of why dating apps “fail” to work, as so many claim during conversations and, ironically enough, even on their bios. Dating applications endeavour to fast-track and institutionalise the, typically long-standing, intimate process of finding love and romantic/sexual relationships in order to gain profits for the companies behind them. They are not there to really help us “find love” as they so lovingly claim.

As much as you would despise hearing it, it all really does boil down to capitalism. This is what is known as, “the gamification of dating”. This is why you, and the rest of us, feel forced to “stick to a script” in order to “win” the dating game in the 21st century. We have a few select pictures which we use on dating applications because we think it reveals our “best selves”. We answer the prompts in the same tired manner in order to impress the abstract other. We treat each other as commodities, who are immanently disposable, especially so when the next “newer, more attractive, more interesting” match comes along.
This also serves to explain why so many people do not even bother to actually start a conversation with a significant number of matches. People liken matches collected on a dating application to the number of “points” scored in the validation/dating game. To put even my dating application experience, in gaming terms, the result, as of yet, has been:
Dates: 78
Makeouts: 28
Love and relationships: 0
Thus, inadvertently, even I became a supposed happy participant in a unbridled hookup culture, even though I never quite had a predilection for hookups. Initially, it didn’t occur to me I could opt out of it. I had taken it as a given—one must do this for love.
Yet, without fail, each hookup left me feeling unsatiated. Physically as well as existentially. I did not want this, I could not even make myself want this. However, I was petrified of acknowledging such a thought. For could someone ever love me if my body was not part of the deal? Could love ever be non-corporeal?
Nonetheless, it would be rather blasphemous of me to draw a thoroughly negative picture of my time on dating applications, especially taking into consideration the fact that I am still on Hinge.
As conspicuously evident, I did find love, although unreciprocated, and it cannot be discounted.
A myriad of love stories would disappear from this world if reciprocation was the cardinal basis for a “real” love story. I also found unparalleled confidence and spontaneity. Turns out, if nothing, going on 78 dates with absolute strangers, prepares you for a lifetime of walk-in interviews; it also provides you with ceaseless anecdotes as well as content for articles. Also, honourable mention goes out to my interminable list of ill-defined relationships, aka situationships.
As of now, I act as the “love/dating application guru” because I have gone out with 78 people through dating applications. I maintain a long list of learnings in my head that I never fail to preach to the novices. Notwithstanding, to be honest, I have learnt nothing. For a potential chance at love, I am positive that I would, once again, happily let all these “learnings” go for a toss and chase love, as though I were an 18-year-old, away from home for the very first time.
Perhaps, then, when it comes to love, we are always 18-year-olds. We are always new and utterly inexperienced, dying to taste that first drop of tumultuous affection. Who knows?
Yana Roy is a queer, final-year undergraduate student of Sociology at Lady Shri Ram College (University of Delhi, India). She has a predilection for existing in liminal spaces and writing accessibly about as well as working for realms related to the conflation of human relationships and capitalism, artificial intelligence, media studies, and performativity.
Me, My M.I.L and My Abortion
Based on Ibis Reproductive Health's qualitative research with 43 medication abortion users in rural and urban India
Written by Paromita Vohra & Debasmita Das
Illustrated by Riya
PART 1

Text on the card reads:
Me, My M.I.L And My Abortion
PART 1
KYUNKI....SOMETIMES SUPPORT COMES FROM UNEXPECTED PLACES.
BASED ON IBIS'S QUALITATIVE RESEARCH WITH 43 MEDICATION ABORTION USERS IN RURAL + URBAN INDIA.

Text on the card reads:
I'M KUSUM. IN THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIAGE ONLY, SANJU AND I WERE BLESSED WITH OUR CUTIE PEHLI.
ALMOST TWO YEARS I'M PART OF THIS FAMILY BUT SOMETIMES I STILL FEEL LIKE THE NEW, AWKWARD BAHU. REASON? MY SAAS GAYATRI GOSSIPY DEVI AKA GAPPOJI!

Text on the card reads:
SANJAY AND I ARE VERY CLEAR SECOND BABY AFTER 4 YEARS ONLY SO CONDOMS ALWAYS IN STOCK! ONE DAY PEHLI FOUND THE CONDOMS AND IT WAS SO EMBARRASSING!
SANJAY COMES JUST ONCE IN A FEW MONTHS, SO SOMETIMES I DON'T GET TIME TO BUY CONDOMS. SO I TAKE THE I-PILL.
BUT I DO IT OUTSIDE SOMEHOW I - STILL FEEL VERY EMBARRASSED. SO I PRETEND I'M GOING FOR GOLGAPPAS

Text on the card reads:
HE LEFT YESTERDAY NA. MIYA BIWI WERE FIGHTING TILL LATE NIGHT.
"YOU COME FROM MUSCAT AND GO HERE & THERE, BUT DON'T SPEND TIME WITH ΜΕ."
2 SAAL EK BABY BUT MADAM KI PASSION KI GAADI FIFTH GEAR MEIN!

Text on the card reads:
TODAY SANJAY GAVE ME A ROMANTIC SURPRISE BY SUDDENLY COMING FROM MUSCAT.
MERE BIRTHDAY KE LIYE SIRF WHATSAPP CARD. BIWI KE B'DAY PE PERSONAL CARD HAAN?
SO EVEN EVEN M-I-L KA JALWA COULDN'T GET TO ME!

Text on the card reads:
SANJAY LEFT AFTER TWO RUSHED DAYS.
I DIDN'T REALISE HE HAD LEFT ANOTHER SURPRISE BEHIND.

Text on the card reads:
IN THE RUSH I MISSED TAKING THE I-PILL AND REMEMBERED IT TOO LATE. I THOUGHT I'LL WAIT FOR MY PERIOD. BUT IT DIDN'T COME.
BH...BHAIYYA, EK PREGNANCY KIT CHAHIYE
KHUSH KHABRI HI HOGA BETA, I'M SURE!

Text on the card reads:
I WAS PREGNANT AGAIN.
IF I TELL GAPPOJI, SHE'LL BE EXCITED ABOUT A SECOND KID. SHE'LL WASTE NO TIME TELLING HER FRIENDS.
IF I SAY I WANT AN ABORTION, WILL THEY FEEL I AM BAD?
SANJAY WILL SAY "DON'T WORRY, I'LL EARN ENOUGH FOR THEM!" BUT HOW WILL I MANAGE 2 TINY KIDS AT ONCE? EVEN ONE WITHOUT HIM IS HARD.

Text on the card reads:
I WHATSAPPED MY FRIEND FROM MY COLLEGE. SHE'S A DOCTOR. SHE TOLD ME I SHOULD THINK OF MY WELL BEING AND GET ABORTION PILLS.
WHEN WILL EVERYONE LEAVE? WHY IS THERE A CROWD AT 3 IN THE AFTERNOON?
I HAD NO CLUE HOW I WOULD MANAGE THE BLEEDING ON MY OWN AT HOME AND HIDE IT. I WOULD HAVE TO FIGURE IT OUT.

Text on the card reads:
FINALLY THE CROWD CLEARED...
SIR YE ABORTION PILLS CHAHIYE. PRESCRIPTION HAI...
BAHU ii
OH NO!
WHAT NOW?
PART 2

Text on the card reads:
Me, My M.I.L And My Abortion
PART 2
KYUNKI....SOMETIMES SUPPORT COMES FROM UNEXPECTED PLACES.
BASED ON IBIS'S QUALITATIVE RESEARCH WITH 43 MEDICATION ABORTION USERS IN RURAL + URBAN INDIA.

Text on the card reads:
JUST MY LUCK MY M-I-L WAS AT THE SHOPS WHEN I WAS BUYING THE ABORTION PILLS! A BAD SITUATION BECAME WORSE.
KUSUM, BETA! YE KYA KHAREED RAHE HO!?
I'M SORRY MUMMYJI...I...I...I

BETA. LET'S GO HAVE JUICE. LET'S TALK ABOUT THIS OUTSIDE THE HOUSE SO PAPAJI DOES NOT HAVE TO GET INTO LADIES MATTERS.
MY HEART WAS IN MY MOUTH!

Text on the card reads:
SANJAY AND I DECIDED TO HAVE ANOTHER KID ONLY AFTER 4 YEARS. BUT BEECH MEIN GALTI HO GAYI
PASSION KO GALTI NAI BOLTE BETA. YOU KNOW NA, SANJAY AND SAMEERA ARE ONLY 2 YEARS APART. MY MIND AND BODY SUFFERED. ONLY I KNOW HOW I MANAGED, SOMEHOW.
SO, I SHOULD JUST HAVE THE BABY?
SHE IS SAYING SHE MANAGED, WHY CAN'T I?
SOCH LO. YOU HAVE A SMALL DAUGHTER. YOU HAVE TO THINK ABOUT YOUR BODY ALSO. HOW WILL YOU MANAGE? IF I ASK YOU TO CONTINUE OR NOT, YOU WILL SAY THAT MY MOTHER-IN-LAW MADE ME DO THIS. SO, THINK OVER IT AND DECIDE...
IT IS YOUR LIFE. HOW CAN WE FORCE YOU?

Text on the card reads:
WHAT WILL SANJAY & PAPA JI SAY? WHAT IF OTHERS IN THE FAMILY COME TO KNOW?
WE CAN TELL SANJAY TOGETHER, IF YOU'D LIKE! AND SANJAY'S FATHER IS TOO OLD FASHIONED AND CLUELESS. LET'S LEAVE HIM OUT. I'LL MANAGE HIM AND TELL HIM YOU'RE HAVING PERIOD PROBLEMS.
WHAT WAS I HEARING? I COULDN'T BELIEVE GAPPOJI WAS BEING SO KIND!

BETA, I'M TELLING YOU THIS IS FOR THE BETTER. YOU DON'T KNOW HOW HARD IT WAS FOR ME. YOU WON'T NEED TO LEAVE YOUR JOB EARLIER. PEHLI WILL BE BIGGER. BACCHE BAAD MEIN HO JAYENGE-SEEING YOU PEOPLE'S HIT RATE. I'LL TAKE CARE OF BAHU.
LEKIN 2ND KE BAAD TU VASECTOMY KARWAYEGA, PROMISE KAR. TUM LOGO KA HONEYMOON KABHI KHATAM NAHIN HOGA, LAGTA HAIL

Text on the card reads:
I'LL SLEEP HERE TONIGHT. I'M HERE, DON'T WORRY!
MUMMY!!! GARDEN!!!
PEHLI BETA, MUMMY KO SONE DO. I'LL TAKE YOU. DOODH FINISH?
I FELT HAPPY AND LUCKY TO HAVE A FRIEND-MOTHER- IN-LAW.
FEELING FINE, BETA? SHALL WE GO FOR GOL GAPPAS?

Text on the card reads:
FEW MONTHS LATER
ARRE WOH PREGNANT HO GAYI HAI. KYA HOGA USKA?
PUCHO USE, AGAR ABORTION KARANA HAI YA NAHIN. GOLIYON SE HO JATA HAI AAJ KAL BHAI. KUSUM KI EK DOCTOR DOST NE BATAYA THA EK BAAR!

Text on the card reads:
MUMMYJI, THANK YOU, AAPNE NE ITNE PYAAR SE SAATH DIYA.
TUMHEIN LAGA MAIN BAHUT BAATEIN BATAOONGI AUR SUNAOONGI NA? I KNOW HOW IT FEELS: KYUNKI SAAS BHI KABHI BAHU THI.

Text on the card reads:
SANJAY RETURNS!
KYA SOCH RAHI HO, BAHU?
CONDOMS KHAREEDNA PADEGA
FACING THE FEARS AND TENSION OF UNWANTED PREGNANCY ALONE IS HARD, BUT ABORTION HAS BEEN A PART OF MORE PEOPLE'S LIVES THAN WE EXРЕСТ. WE DON'T HAVE TO BE ALONE!
SEEK HELP WHERE YOU CAN, AND BE THE UNEXPECTED HELPING HAND -
WHETHER YOU'RE SAAS, BAHU, PARTNER, FRIEND OR STRANGER AT THE CHEMIST
Ayye! The rebellion I staged to save my “dirty” Sidney Sheldons
Amma shamed me in front of my crush, and so I had to have my revenge too, publicly!
Written by Deepti
Illustrated by Div Rodricks
I was 12 when I planned my first rebellion. Against Amma who had confiscated my school library books, ripped off the cover of my Sheldon, to scream into my ears: Ayye. Is this why you wake up early? To read dirty books?

At home, dirt was the mud my father’s feet carried in when he came home after work. As a construction site supervisor, who faced the drilling machine every day, Pappa collected dust and compliments in his hair and ears. The engineers and the site managers were envious of how relentless my father was. He could finish work caked in dust and smile in the heat knowing that he has saved one more real estate developer from falling behind his deadline.
But when my father returned home, the dust mixed with water and his poor attempts at being clean, was azhukku for Amma. When azhukku found its way into the corners of the sofa, the nooks of my sheets and finally to the ends of my mother’s searching broom, Amma would yell a guttural Ayye. Her throat would convulse in the scream and in her haste to sweep off the dirt, she would bang the walls with the broomstick as if everything needed a quick beating. Years later, I would know that my mother borrowed this cry from her beloved friend Lakshmi Subramanian, who refused to cross our gates, for fear that the beach smell and poor hygiene would give her an ookanam. At the end of the story, Amma would say that the gag reflex was a reminder to not “be azhukku pennugal” (dirty women).
So, when my Amma screamed Ayye and pushed me off the stoop I was reading on, I was seething inside. If I had to hold someone responsible for bringing dirty books into my life, I would have dragged my chechi by hair. It was on my sister’s bed that I discovered the first bound copy of Sidney Sheldon, wrapped in her old pink churidhar, hidden from my mother’s razor-sharp button-shaped eyes.
That afternoon, when I discovered the book under my sister’s embroidered white pillow, I traced my hand through the bold lettering of the title, Tell Me Your Dreams and wondered how pretty Sidney was. Was she blonde like the woman on the cover? Did she write a book to defeat her sister’s pettiness? At that age when I started reading the Sheldons and the Steels, I had firmly believed that Danielle Steel was a man and Sheldon a woman. Only women’s heads could produce pages of thrill that would make you sit upright and devour books. If Amma could make six puttus in one hour along with chickpea curry and run off to catch a bus to her school, women could do everything.
But, an hour later, I was cursing Sidney and her ancestors, ruing the day my sister goaded me into reading this dirty book with dirtier words. With my insides stuck to my panties and my stomach cradling a stone, I walked towards the bedroom my parents slept in. “Is this how you made me?,” I mimed. “You dirty monsters.”
Tell Me Your Dreams had all the smells of a thriller. A lonely woman fleeing from the gaze of an unknown stalker. The Nancy Drews I read had a quieter start where Nancy kissed Ned, chilled with her girls and discovered a mystery.
Until that moment, before I had run to the bed and found Sheldon, I had an asexual reliable woman narrator in my head who kissed (perhaps?) and solved a mystery. When the book ended, she would eat scones or drive her Mustang into the sunset. But Sheldon’s Ashley Patterson? Ashley was unreliable, scared and sexually charged. Every kiss with Ashley was a full-blown tongue to tongue atrocity where men would “dip” into her mouth and mix saliva. And then, just when I was making sense of what is now known as French kiss, words like tumescent penis would stick on me, reminding me of the day I dipped my hand into the sticky gooey atta amma made only to shriek at the stubborn mavu that went into my fingernails. Take it off, Take it off, I had screamed.
In The Getaway Car, Ann Patchett says she found her first adult novel, Humboldt’s Gift at fifteen. Although she admits to not understanding much of the book, Patchett says with certainty that she still remembers the imagery and emotion to this day. But how to live with the image that sex involves the dirty job of putting one susu producing organ into another? Everyone says your first is special. Amma said first children like my sister are special. But what if the first book that introduced sex was also a first book of French kiss, incest, castration, blow-job? How to feel romancham that erotica promises when the first experience of fantasy is soaked in dirt?

Remember, I was 12. It had only been a few months since that biology class when Naina Miss left us with “the sperm and the ova met to create the zygote” and asked us to quickly flip the page to sexually transmitted diseases without solving the original question: But how does the sperm meet the ova? After a year and a half of head beating around sex, I had thought that I knew the answer when I saw Mohanlal and Urvashi disappear into a bedroom for their first night on TV.
“The sperm flies into the air, meets the ova and becomes the baby!” I declared to my gang of girls. The declaration followed by a detailed demonstration where I taught biology to the entire class far better than Naina Miss. At the end of it, even with the rapid Q and A, I had scored a spectacular win among friends.
“But what about the vayaru squeezing? Why do they play with the belly button?”
“It is the hole for the sperm to enter.”
“Why do they drink milk?”
“Do you expect birthing a baby to be an easy process? Milk is necessary.”
I still remember that day with fondness. The sight of Nimisha looking up to me. The squeezes on my arm for solving the mystery that had haunted us night after night. Even when Anjitha, the eternal samshayam rogi, suggested the physical insertion of urinating organs as the way forward, I had asked her to urgently revisit her understanding of hygiene.
It is not that I was a good girl before Sheldon. By 6, I had written my first love letter to the silver-toothed Robin and asked him to kiss me during PT period. At 11, another love letter to a boy called Ranjith. But these fantasies were so clean that Amma would have said nalla vrithiyulla manassu (very clean mind) if she saw the white rooms adorned with white curtains, where I loved Roby or Ranjith, under the scent of Lizol and Surf.
Even when the other girls carried napkins into bathrooms, I was the sentry at the doors covering them from surveying boys. When they learned to sit with blood, I revelled in the protection that I offered to the girls in class. In this flat chest-no periods phase, I was flying through corridors, jumping over short boys, throwing my dupatta and climbing over perayka trees to catch red ants that attacked Nimisha. So, what will Patchett say when a fantasy breaks and the dirt of your first imagery seeps in?
But the body responds fast. This I learned after I took membership in the local library to find Sheldons. After knowing that my insides felt a strange gooey sticky feeling when Ashley had sex, I knew that I had always wanted a bit of that azhukku feeling. Yes, the dough that stuck to my fingernails was awful but the addictive one minute when I dipped into the dough, kneaded it with my fists and pressed it into shapes; how did I miss the sensuousness of it? How did I forget the love I gave to the cake batter bowl when I administered careful licks to pick chocolate and collect them all in my tiny mouth?
My story after this is like the fizz that pours out of the coca cola bottle. Whenever the week ended, I would hurry to the Sanmargadarshini library, ironically translated as the library that shows the virtuous path, to find a Sheldon and get dirty. Sometimes, dirty thoughts would leak into my schoolwork and make me destroy notebooks. Other times, they would find their way into my head when I saw my crush Moinuddhin walking towards me.
All of this felt good until Amma yelled Ayye at me before Moinuddhin who had come to borrow my Maths notes. In her Ayye, I felt her friend Lakshmi’s disgust, Amma’s shame and Moinuddhin’s embarrassment at seeing me squirm under my mother's humiliating Ayye. The secret joy of reading Sheldon and fantasising about Moinuddhin was now mixed with many unbearable historic layers of humiliations that my mother gifted.
I had not thought revenge against Amma until I noticed how my mother shied away from saying sex out loud. Once, when Amma was narrating the story of a movie, which had a rape scene, Amma said: And then …something bad happened. Whenever Amma said something bad, chechi and I would ask what again and again. But she would never say what that bad was. Like she would never say why she did not let us watch the song in Devaraagam where a moaning Sridevi was lying on the grass while a perspiring Arvinda Swami watched from above.
Yet I have seen her share covert glances with Pappa when they remembered their letter writing days. In their first meeting, Papa had fallen for Amma when she had come in with a saree that was threatening to fall off her waist. “Your Amma had the flattest stomach,” my father said with a guffaw when we asked why they married each other. But these conversations were a minute long and punctuated by throat clearings. When Amma once proceeded to explain how Papa had written a five-page long letter when they were newly married, there was a throat clearing frenzy and a quick teasing back and forth that did not give information. “Your papa is a romantic man.” With that Amma had ended that conversation with a smile and a nod.

Even Pappa who had happily given us a teaser to their romantic times, had the most kalla (shifty) look when we sat before the TV. Once, when the channel stopped at the song Kehdona Kehdona, You Are My Soniya, Papa saw Kareena Kapoor’s strap threatening to fall off from her shoulder while she was dancing with Hrithik. When I made a pointed remark on the strap’s flimsiness, my father had dived for the remote and changed the channel to Asianet news.
The plan was to stage a similar if not bigger humiliation where Amma would get a collective ayye from everyone around. So on the day when our uncles arrived from Gulf, when my father was seated at the table eating meen curry, I asked: Amma, you married Papa in 1981 but you had chechi in 1985. Why did you and Pappa have no babies for four years?
Like any good detective, I had noticed how my mother could not take unexpected questions before a public audience. Quizzing her on sex inside the kitchen would lead to a careful answer where she would say daivam thannila (gods did not bless us) or athinoke athintethaya samayam und (there is always a time for this).
But before my uncles, Amma and Pappa were caught off-guard.

“Athu pinne (That is..)”
“You could not have kids.”
“No, that is not it,” Pappa muttered with emphasis on it.
“You did not want kids.”
“No, no,” my mother says looking at my uncles.
“You did not …”
“No, stop. We, I mean we... Pappa was in Gulf no, soon after marriage. And he came for leave after four years...”
As my mother’s voice trailed off, the room had gone quiet. My uncles were now eating rice ferociously while my father was looking at the staircase with purpose.
“So, Pappa came in 1985 and chechi was born and then he came in 1987, I was born..”
“Kunji.,” my father began cautioning me as soon as he realised the ball was dropping.
“Ayye! You are saying Pappa and you had sex during summer vacay..,” the last of what I wanted to say drowned under my sister’s fingers and my uncles’s collective throat clearing. When I looked up, Amma had a hand on her throat and Papa had begun to inspect his plate.
Days later, when I woke up, the Sheldon was back on my shelf with better binding and a tiny inscription from my mother: Don’t read this when you have exams.
Deepti is an aspiring writer and a surviving PhD student.
Smoothing The Rough Corners Of Kink And Pain
My journey towards finding pleasure through pain in BDSM was rough. But I’ve learnt how to make it pleasurable.
Written By Reshma Anil Kumar
Original Illustration created by
Manasi Patankar @zoner_stoner07
I got into BDSM to satisfy my self-harm urges when I couldn’t hold back or keep my emotional pain, from decades of bullying, ostracizing and loneliness; in anymore after coming to India five years ago from the United Arab Emirates (UAE), when I was 17.

The self-harm itself started with simple acts of fisting my hand and beating myself up in places where the bruises, if any, couldn’t be seen by others—out of guilt for being emotionally weak. For about a year, I scoured the Internet for anything that would explain my feelings to me. The physical pain I was inflicting on myself felt like chains that kept my emotional pain from wrecking the whole of me. It gave me relief from its weight, helping me to leave it all behind, even if momentarily.
That’s how I came across the possibility of how my desire for physical pain could be linked to BDSM. It allowed me to give up all that control involved in my efforts to keep down my emotional pain and get some warmth (if not love) from someone.
That made me curious about various BDSM toys: riding crops, different kinds of whips, the Wartenburg pinwheel, wax play, blindfolds, bondage, etc. Some of them, especially the crop, were already sounding interesting to me.
As I entered my 20s, I found myself exploring and enjoying different kinds of physical pain such as spanking, nipple clamps (made then of repurposed clothespins) and fantasising about whips and wax play. I felt them sexually arousing me, even when I wasn’t in emotional pain. Of course, I was still doubting myself, “What if it’s just about me and my emotional traumas?”. So, like any other person, I consulted the only known free consultation service around me: Google.
I read a multitude of articles, journals, web comics, erotica and more. Other than those common blog posts which top the Google search results, I found a novel series called the Special Agent by C. P. Mandara. It was incredibly enjoyable and arousing and gave me the insight that though I might not enjoy the extreme kind of portrayal in the series, I definitely enjoyed BDSM/kink. Further, I discovered a site called Mangago where I found comics featuring dom/sub arrangements, which opened my eyes to my underlying interest in queer relationships and their representation in media.
Of course, I wouldn’t advocate these as educational resources but these were the only options I had back then, about three years ago. Things haven’t improved much since then. But when it comes to providing accredited sex education with a balanced pleasure and risk-based focus, I have discovered a lot of experienced and/or licensed sex therapists, sexologists and people who lead the kink lifestyle and are providing better information on social media which is an impressive improvement.
It was this period of research that taught me about sadomasochism, i.e., about how one can be both sadistic and masochistic, at same or different times, just like how I’m a switch. Though I started out on this journey fantasizing about receiving pain and pleasure, as I slowly dealt with my traumas, I could see how I also wanted to pleasure my partner and even torture them, consensually, with ‘too much’ pleasure and sensory deprivation. All these realizations taught me how those two sides of me don't need to be equal in amounts, or always stay the same way. It need not be the same kinks either when one is a sadist or a masochist. Further, I understood that an interest in BDSM isn’t always triggered by past traumas as shown in Fifty Shades of Grey or in my case. It taught me that trauma being the start of an interest in pain, impact play or kink doesn’t invalidate your interest in it, as long as you perform it consensually without permanent or lasting damage.
Through this process of self-discovery, once I had such understanding in place to give me assurance that I’m not doing something wrong, I got more interested in finding people with similar urges and interests. Of course, again, I didn’t know where to do that as I couldn’t go right into it with the people I met in real life, considering the social taboos surrounding sex and anything slightly far from the “seemingly normal” standards.
So, I turned to my online consultant, Google, which guided me into the virtual world of BDSM Tests at bdsmtest.org and kinky dating apps such as Fetlife.com, OKCupid.com, etc. From those apps/sites, I started to find people at different stages of their kink life—beginners, explorers, experienced kinksters.
After much trial and error, online communication (chatting) and some help from the long list of kinks and percentages thanks to bdsmtest.org (100% Switch, 95% Masochist, 94% Rope bunny, 87% Submissive, 75% Experimentalist, 42% Vanilla, 83% Sadist, 76% Dominant, etc.), I started on my BDSM journey, through Telegram, with a straight and mostly vanilla person with whom the only thing I shared was my mother tongue. He was into slightly integrating kink with vanilla sex rather than full-on dominance and submission. This online set-up of Friends with Benefits (FwB) went on for some time before that person suddenly ghosted me because of “academic purposes and relocation”, as informed later.
That made it the right time to restart my journey of exploration of full-on dominance and submission. After some time of repeating the same process as before, I was back to Telegram with a new dominant/sadistic (Dom) partner.
Finding someone offline wasn’t an option at that point, especially in Kerala culture. To add to it, I didn’t know where in my district would I even be able explore these things. Moreover, my first FwB was in a different district. My second FwB was in a different state altogether. Thus, making physical proximity with the right people, an in-person reality, a practical challenge.
The only similarities I shared with this new online dom was that we lived in the same country and our overlapping interests in BDSM. Other than that, we had miles between us. Some time of detailed communication about kinks, fetishes, consent, limits, safewords, aftercare and more, as detailed as it can be between FwBs, slowly progressed to late night sessions through video/audio calls, disappearing photos and end-to-end encrypted chats. Those rendezvous helped us discover more about each other, our tastes, wants and likes such as anal, being addressed as ‘sir’, etc., though I wasn’t fully capable/confident yet to voice it all.
As enjoyable as it all was, I was at an exploratory stage of discovering my desires, interests and what bodily autonomy meant to me. Simultaneously, I could also feel something uncomfortable piling up after each of our late-night sessions but I didn’t know what exactly yet, especially since master wasn’t doing anything beyond what I consented to and neither did he force me to do anything, which meant that I didn’t talk about that to my master yet.
Back then, I chose to ignore this unclear inner voice of mine and agree to master’s prompt to try out neglect play, without humiliation/degradation or pet play, since those are absolute NOs to me. Though I hung on till that session ended, I absolutely broke down after that.
“But why? Everything seemed to be going well.” Well, in those hours of me crying alone from the breakdown, I realized that the structured setups of BDSM, combined with the limitations online chatting/calls put on the whole experience was bringing the pain from years and years of loneliness, and lack of warmth, back up. The neglect play seemed to be the nail in the coffin, triggering childhood traumas. It brought back memories from my childhood when I wanted to share my feelings of sadness due to being ostracised by the same classmates I studied with for 13 years, repeatedly. Contrary to my hope, it was a long and hard journey to navigate before and sometimes even after I had someone to share all those feelings with before becoming numb in some ways and taking advantage of it in other ways. It brought back the extreme loneliness that threatened to break me, thanks to my mom working hard to make me independent as I’m now and dad being unavailable, and if available, invalidating. It left me a crying mess which caused me to withdraw from my master and end things between us because back then, I still didn’t know how to handle such matters or situations, other than escaping. Now that I look back, I can see how wrong it was both to me and my master.
Taking some time off from the BDSM world and sexual/physical exploration gave me some insights on what that “uncomfortable” thing that had been piling up was and how that might have subconsciously contributed to the unfortunate but very much needed ending.
Be it due to the influence of my traumas or because I’m a writer focused on words and communication, the aftercare I needed, be it the time, amount and/or kind, was different from that of my partner's, just like how people’s love languages or learning methods might be different. My partner was more focused on the physical aspects of aftercare while it was more about the emotional aspects of it for me. Further, I also understood that as much as I enjoy the main BDSM session, aftercare is a heavily important part of the process and has added importance for people like me with emotional scars. Moreover, it signified how a lot of the aftercare part meant ‘detailed’ communication to me, no matter how long it takes and how later it is after the play session.
Additionally, it brought to me the significance of aftercare even in vanilla relationships and how I might prefer integration of kink/sadomasochism into vanilla relationships rather than full-on sir/ma’am/madam/master, i.e., structured dominance and submission (D/S dynamics). Another insight was how my first experience with the ghosting guy might have been a bit too softcore for me like how the second one was slightly too hardcore for me which was both funny to know and enlightening.
Today, physical pain during sex/foreplay, in certain amounts in certain body parts while not in others, is a fetish of mine that I indulge in with my partners in-person and rope play, wax play, blindfolding, edging, polyamory, etc., are more kinks to me. Of course, even among these and beyond, there's a lot more for me to explore and understand my likes and preferences. But one thing I definitely understand is how important detailed communication and honesty towards myself and my partner before, after and later is to me and after the implementation of those insights into my ongoing relationships, be it sexual, romantic or platonic, I can see how positively it impacts them and lasts longer with transparency and practicality, if it works for all those involved. It taught me how honest communication can be a tool or sometimes a weapon that I can leverage, in my work, to diplomatically create problems which are the catalysts for change, to create a better tomorrow.
Reshma Anil Kumar (they/them) is a queer neurodivergent Gender Equity, LGBTQ+ Rights and Sexual and Reproductive Health and Rights (SRHR) Activist, Speaker and Writer from Kerala. They are also a Youth Policy Champion at the Youth Ke Bol collective, while doing their postgraduation in Gender and Development Studies.
‘Every month I’d be lying in the principal’s room, waiting to die’
Pavitra was told that experiencing period pain was to be expected, even when the pain she was experiencing was debilitating. Why did it take so long for someone to take her pain seriously, she wonders.
Written by Pavithra Natarajan
Illustrated by Antara Gupta
“Kalyanam ana yellam seri aagirum” (if you get married everything will be okay). Dr Sharadhama told me this. Not once, but every time I crawled into the clinic with pain looking like a bent dosa karandi (ladle).
At school, my age-attained friends would see me struggle every month with as sad a face as possible. They couldn’t do anything to relieve me of the pain and they couldn’t ask me what I was going through either, or even offer sympathy. Apparently their paatis and ammas told them that if they asked me what happened, even if it was a mere “are you okay?”, the pain would shift to them. So, they would convey their feelings through facial expressions. If we had had texts back then, they would have just sent a sad face emoji and not even look at me because my pain might travel through the eyes and infect them.
I remember the very first time I got my periods. I barely had any pain then. Like every other girl, my stomach was filled with ulunthu (black gram) ladoos and raw eggs. Everyone told me that I was supposed to feel a normal amount of pain. My Amma told it would feel slightah like an ant bite in the stomach.
It was after the first regular period, that I understood that staying conscious was not as easy as lying unconscious in the thittu (small elevated seating area) near our bathroom. Nothing was more painful than my amma sitting near me and saying that this was all because of my grandma’s genes.
“The only solution is to close your eyes and eat the meat I cooked,” Amma said. “Only I know the struggle of gatekeeping that one tumbler of tea or juice inside my stomach,” I replied.
Sometimes, I would feel like my stomach was screaming at me for still listening to Amma. So, I would fold my hands and dramatically fall on the bathroom floor to divert Amma. The tips she gave were simple and from her own life experience: “Take bath, eat nicely and roll on the floor”.
I couldn’t follow her because I hated the smell of my wet hair and puked twice in the name of karthiga shampoo. I ate one idly and puked yesterday’s tomato rice, our bathroom was only spacious enough to stretch my legs while sitting.
After banging my body and head continuously against the bathroom door for three to four hours, I would slowly stop moving my legs and the pain would go away completely. Till date I don’t know when the exact moment of relief comes. How to witness? Even if the pain gives me a short break, my Amma would start talking about how abnormal I was compared to all other girls. Anything opposite to normal pain is abnormal according to Amma.
This did not stop only at home. Whenever I got my periods at school, I would be down in the principal’s room lying down with the help of two chairs waiting to meet my parents before I died. All the boys in my class knew about my condition. No one discussed it loudly, but repetition had helped them understand the situation. I was no longer able to flaunt my regular period cycle to anyone.

What made my pain look abnormal was that no one else around me ever talked about period pain. All they said was that their pain was just a small uneasiness, but I had dying-on-the-floor pain. My amma and I couldn’t find any other girl suffering from period pain the way I did. All my class girls used to flaunt that they had nothing but some kashaya water at home, after which and their uneasiness faded away. My amma and I were tired of trying every possible method.
I had to go through this every month until one day.
Amma was shouting from behind, “Ayy iru vandi vitutu vara” (I’ll come after parking my vehicle) in a very loud voice that has enough panic in it to alarm the whole clinic. But, I felt nothing but pain. At that point of time my stomach was playing against all my body parts. My stomach was more like a cricket match ground, very heavy and packed.
Neither the sound of the nurse, nor the visual of the queue bothered me. I was my own ambulance. I rushed to the resting bed and started to cry. Sharadhama rushed to see me. I screamed “ayyo valikuthu”. The nurse said “periods”. She asked me “first day?” I shouted “mmm”.

One injection. I cried. She left. My hands and legs became cold. Nurse said, “okay you can go”. I refused and cried more. Amma went to get the bedsheet from home. I slept for half an hour.
WHAT?
I couldn’t believe it. My body was completely silent. I regretted all the times when I believed my amma’s lecture about how every woman goes through this pain and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.
Sharadhama called Amma and me for a small health tip session. She spoke in a normal tone. Loud enough that even the men in the room (if there were any) could also definitely hear her. She said the only solution for my pain was to eat healthy food for strength.
But is it normal? My amma asked. Sharadhama said, “Once she gets married it will eventually go away. There is no solution until then.” She recommended a few tests and it showed that I had no medical abnormality.
From that time, the injection was in my usuals list for a long time and eventually I shifted to tablets for convenience. They even had my file saved in their computer.
Now that my only problem about my periods was solved, Amma felt that I had nothing less but an uninterrupted femininity.
I don’t know if the pain will go completely after I get married or after few years, but I know that I don’t have to worry two weeks before my periods anymore. I flaunted how I lasted for the whole day in school without crying, even though that was my first day of periods.
The pain they called abnormal which was usual to me has its own cycle now. It comes and goes. I use tablets when it reaches the peak or, sometimes, I drink inji (ginger) tea and tackle the pain. Among all the superstitions, unworked remedies, actively working stereotypes, the one thing I did was understand my body.
I pity those aunties calling this method of taking painkiller as artificial and dangerous. From my view at least, I will share remedies that actually work.
Pavithra is a BA graduate, currently trying to write as much as possible. If in a room, you hear a laugh that sounds like kickstarting a bike then it's probably her, laughing at her own jokes.
‘Could I share food with others? Could I have a relationship?’
A diagnosis of herpes can be terrifying. But, here’s what I learnt after being told I have herpes
Written by Anonymous
Illustrated by Div Rodricks
A little while ago, I went to the gynaecologist about a rash on my privates that I’d had for about half a week. It was so itchy and odd, I toh just thought it was a yeast infection jo thoda zyada khujli karke rash ban gaya, that it would be okay with some simple medication.
My aunt came along with me, quite a normal phenomenon in my family–being accompanied to visit the doctor. My maasi explained that this was one of the best gynaecologists in Gurgaon, and her clinic was near by, so off we went. I spoke to the doctor for a few minutes, explained to her what the problem was, then went to the examination room next door. She put on her gloves and mask, then glanced at my coochie, and back at me. She then asked if I was sexually active, nice enough to ask me away from my maasi.
I told her that I was, though the last time I partook in any sexual activity was a few weeks ago, and never usually continuously with the same partner. Single as a pringle wale din chal rahe the. She looked down again, then at my face, looked right into my eyes and said the words, “This is looking like herpes to me.”

There was an instant dhol banging in my head and a hundred thoughts conducting a fast-forward march past from my brain to my face in the moments after she said that. The only word that could come out of my mouth was, “Wh- wh- what?” and I think she could see the panic that had settled between my eyebrows, crinkling my nose, disallowing the words to come out of my mouth.
She said, “This is most definitely herpes, this is usually how herpes lesions look,” and then she asked about the two pimples (or pimple-seeming bumps) on my upper lip. The coochie rash and the upper lip pimple had actually started to come up around the same time, now that I thought about it, and that’s what I told her.
I had to calm down because, well, I was sitting there with my pants down with a likely look of abject horror on my face, wondering where it came from and who gave it to me. I think these are the first questions a person asks themselves when they find out something like this.
We went back to sit in her cabin, and she wrote down on my prescription, “herpes genitalia & herpes labialis” above the short list of medicines she wrote down. My maasi read as she wrote the diagnosis and the name of the antiviral tablet (Acyclovir), the antiviral ointment I was to use (called “Herpex 5%”), and the two blood tests I was to take to figure out the type of herpes I had (IgG and IgM HSV) but she didn’t say anything to me then.
I wanted to get out of there and back home as quickly as I could, so I could be angry, sad, and ashamed alone with my own tears, and my maasi seemed to understand that, too.
Walking to the market to buy the meds before heading home, she said to me, “Tuk herpes hoise?” which is Assamese for “You’ve got herpes?” I told her, yes, seeming like it. She told me, “It’s okay, babu, it will be fine. It’s not a big deal. What can you do now?”
I was grateful that she was not angry at me, because an STD diagnosis would be enough to anger any member of an Indian family, but this gratitude and relief was overpowered by my inability to speak at that moment. All I could say was, and I said it a few times, “I can’t believe this has happened. How could this have happened?”
I couldn’t sleep that night, because every time I would try to shut my eyes, my hands would go back to my phone, to incognito mode on my phone to read more and more about HSV (herpes simplex virus). That night, ridden with panic and guilt and shame, I learnt about the different types of herpes in terms of HSV1 and HSV2, and how that’s different from the typology of genital herpes and cold sores.

Both types are prevalent, but can be differentiated by how frequent the flare-ups are and where the flare-ups occur. Type 1 (HSV-1) usually spreads by oral contact and causes infections in or around the mouth (oral herpes or cold sores). It can also cause genital herpes. Type 2 (HSV-2) spreads by sexual contact and causes genital herpes. HSV-2 usually sees multiple flare-ups a year, but HSV-1 is less frequent. Of course, this differs for each person.
I learnt about herpes transmission: that it can take between 10 days to 10 years to manifest after you have been exposed to it. I also learnt that the flare-ups, or the cold sores, lesions, whatever you want to call them–it all comes and goes, but that the disease is lifelong, that it cannot be cured but it can be managed and treated when flare-ups happen. Flare-ups usually last about 7-10 days, but it’s safer to take it as 15 days. Giving it a few days after the lesions have disappeared before doing any sexy things with someone is a good idea. Your partner and you can then both be more comfortable being fully sure it’s not passed on.
I spent some time on my haunches in my loo, staring at my own vagina with a small mirror and the flashlight of my phone to examine what exactly it was that was happening to me. What are these stupid little lesions that have my mental health and sleep cycle all over the place? I freaked myself out reading up about it late into the night, until I stumbled upon three things I found incredibly helpful:
1. A handbook on the disease to understand how to cope and live a normal life once you have it.
2. Statistics on how prevalent it is (and it is very prevalent, mind you), and,
3. The last, but most helpful, a Buzzfeed list of celebs that have been spotted with cold sores at some or another point in time. That list included Brad Pitt, Lady Gaga, Victoria Beckham, and so many others.
Oh, this felt especially good, to know that famous people struggle with something like this, too, and so I am truly not alone.
And then I could finally go to sleep... that night.
Some of the thoughts that were consuming me the consequent sleepless nights were about the stigma associated with STDs, about whether or not I could share food and drinks and ciggies with my friends and family anymore, about if anyone would ever want to sleep with me or date me again knowing that I have this disease (even though it is not necessarily transmissible if there isn’t an active flare up).
What angered me greatly during the first few weeks was not knowing where it came from. I speculated that it may have been the last guy I was with, and it killed me a little bit every time I thought about his face. It was more the inability to remember whether or not there was anything on his lip that I should’ve noticed, it is this blank space in my memory where his mouth was that added lines to my forehead on most nights.
I was also trying very hard to figure out how I was going to tell anyone about it, until one fine day I called up a friend crying amidst a terrible bout of anxiety about it in the middle of the day. She listened to me and then told me that I was not even the first person to tell her that they have herpes, that it’s super common and nothing to break my head over, but that she understood why I was freaking out in the first place.
When I asked her how I was supposed to break this to men I intend to get jiggy with, she said these words to me that I will never forget: “You have never given a f*ck what people think of you and that is who you are. Why do you give a f*ck now?” and to tell you the truth, I think that’s the kind of tough love I needed at that point, because it jolted me back to who I am instead of the timid shell that I had become for that little while.
I began to tell my close friends soon after that conversation, the ones that I usually share my food with at college, that I have this problem and that we have to be a little careful about it. I was worried at first, but it was a futile concern at that point because I have found out that the people I have surrounded myself with now are the most wonderful and the most loving friends I could ask for. I thought, for some reason, that it would be funny to them, or that they would think I’m gross and would want to stay away from me, but the love they threw my way when I told them about it was absent of judgement, ridicule, and pity, and it made me feel ever so grateful and relieved, once again.
The difficult one was when I had to tell a boy that I had met multiple times before that I have been diagnosed with herpes. It was a phone conversation and it took a lot out of me to even dial his number to have that conversation.
I felt heavy and sad about it afterward because, of course, he wanted nothing to do with me after that. I asked him to get himself tested, too, just in case. This was the experience that had filled my mind with these obtuse thoughts that nobody is going to want to be with me anymore. It was so difficult to come to terms with this, and I understand why now – because it simply isn’t true.
I got into a relationship with someone who knew about my condition; he was a friend first. He told me he loved me, we had wonderful and very safe sex, until I had a flare-up on my upper lip again and then I couldn’t come close to him for two weeks, though I saw him every day. The day it was safe to kiss him after those two weeks, well, you know what happened then.
More than that, I was petrified of my mother finding out, not because she would be angry at me or that she would find out I’m sexually active—she already knows that. More because I don’t want to answer the follow-up questions that come with it.
This is more of a personal experience because of my relationship with my mother, but she did find out because she saw my prescription by chance, but when I told her I didn’t want to talk about it, she let it go. All she asked was, “but are you okay??” on a text message. and it only showed me how much love I am surrounded with.
Today, I am a lot more comfortable talking about herpes because I am now able to recognise that it is common and not such a big deal, even though it seemed catastrophically life-changing at first. Of course, I’m not comfortable enough to put this out there with my name on it—they’re called baby steps. But I have had multiple flare-ups and I am learning to manage it better. I’ll tell you this—as someone who has herpes, if you have it, if you develop it at some point, it’s your responsibility to keep your loved ones safe, as hard as that is to accept. My friends happily offer me drags from their cigarettes or a bite of their food, and I have to remind them that they’re not supposed to do that for a few days.
What I’m arriving at is that having an STD isn’t the end of the world. It feels as though you will be shunned by the people around you and it is something for which we must feel great shame, because it is sexually transmitted and anything to do with sex and pleasure is generally frowned upon by society. But it is not the end of the world. At first, things come crashing down, but know that there is an end to that misery stemming from the shame associated with STDs, and we call it acceptance and vigilance.
Can you believe that I can laugh about it now?
If you are someone who has recently been diagnosed with a lifelong STD like herpes, please know that almost 45% of the world is like you, and it’s only a very small proportion of that 45% that even know they have it. You are not alone, and you are not dirty. Let nobody else in the world convince you otherwise.
Here’s the handbook that helped me: http://herpeshandbook.com/. I hope it can help someone else cope, too.
He Had Sex With Me. Then Told Me I Wasn't Man Enough
A train journey and a sexual encounter with a closeted man makes Vibhu Vasudev ask why men hold rigid ideas about masculinity.
Written by Vibhu Vasudev
Illustrated by Rohit Bhasi
The train was reaching Ernakulam Town station around evening, but late as usual. Going back to work after weekend breaks at the parents’ place by train is indeed an overwhelming trip. My father was closer to my elder brother while we were in school. He had more hopes and aspirations for my brother. I didn’t talk much as a child and was mostly by myself. But I remember the time when my father would—as he continues to—advise my brother.

He told my brother to warn those who were trying to use force against him. “When people don’t listen and try to invade your space, then you too use force to make them stop and even hit them, if the situation demands.” I guess even I had taken that advice to heart even though no one had aimed to hit me till now.
Memories of watching movies on Sunday evenings with parents, when we had cable connections, are still fresh. All kinds of movies from mostly Malayalam and Tamil to some rare cases of English and Hindi films that my brother or I would want to watch.
Back then I was a fan of Bollywood as I badly wanted to leave Kerala and wanted to be cosmopolitan, at least within India. I wanted to pick up Hindi more than English. I couldn’t understand English movies without subtitles then and it’s only recently, as I started teaching canonical texts, that I have discovered more Hollywood and western literature. It was not an easy or natural inclination for me, as I thought it was because I was closer to my mother while growing up.
My mother doesn’t speak English often. She gets anxious, like Mrs Shashi Godbole from English Vinglish. But she is an awesome conversationalist and storyteller in her mother tongue, Malayalam.
I remember watching “Avvai Shanmughi” as my first big screen experience. I also remember my mother laughing a lot then. My brother used to be a Rajni fan and still continues to be, I guess.
My father believes that he preaches what he practices. I don’t intend to prove him wrong or hurt him anymore. But he was mostly involved in building a house during his prime. So, responsibility of the children fell on my mother mostly within the home.
As an upper-middle class Nair household, discussions pertinent to manliness and manhood were often matters to joke about. Female sardonic humour, which is delivered with sweetly melting voices, often offer some deeply hard-hitting and propositional dialogues that could not be contained in a lifetime of retrospection. Those words resonate and linger in most of us while growing up to be a category of men that doesn’t really want to be like the first remembered action hero of Malayalam films, Jayan. That is to say, who don’t value the ideal performance of being a stereotypically heteronormative and patriarchally wired man. Nor were we entertained to be like the outspoken Mohanlal or Mammooty characters. Forget the roles of Suresh Gopi. Even though, allegedly, we were allowed to be anyone’s fan.
Nair women unanimously loved the evergreen hero, Prem Nazir. They blush upon discussing his demeanour and genteelness. At least in my family and other ‘Mallu aunty’ circles. Since Tamil ties were also active in these family circles, the similar fondness was also found towards MGR and Kamal Hassan. A lot of these aunties loved sharing the ‘charming men stories’.
I met a very distant family friend, probably in her late 60s or early 70s, at a wedding a few years ago in Kannur. She then asked this other aunt of mine if her sons aren’t getting married anytime soon. My aunt replied; “wedding will be there. Only doubt is if you’ll be around then.” This form of active give and take was a normal way of being affable and even intimate for many, especially amongst older Malayalis.
Malayalis speak more sarcasm than Malayalam, always I have felt.
I get treated as a man as I have a lot of facial hair and I have a stereotypically manly voice. I liked giving voice overs for theatre productions and documentaries. One of my income supplementing ideas was to become a voiceover artist for soft porn movies. Even if they are being dubbed from other languages. Dubbed versions of popular movies in other regional languages are a laugh riot from what I remember.
I enjoyed being Caliban in “The Tempest” a lot. There was a line in the play in Act II, scene 1, where Sebastian calls Gonzalo an “old cock”. To keep a deadpan face without being able to blush in front of a class of almost 40-50 teenage girls in their first semester of British literature classes, was one of the toughest exercises in acting I had undertaken till date. Girls in the last three rows were specifically amused and sniggering away to glory, while most of the other girls in the class had their heads deeply planted inside their texts.
The movies and their characters were my true friends while growing up. I wanted to slap the face of the first old man I loved, like Sridevi in “Chaalbaaz” slapped Anupam Kher after getting intoxicated in the movements of her tandav nritya.
It’s these movie characters and literature that got me my clan as well. Most of my friends, at least by spirit, identify as loners. Hence, literature plays a great role in our lives. Literature is the companion to pain, rather a brotherhood that embalms the process of developing kindness and compassion.
Baldwin and Lorde have been my favourite companions for some time now. As much as they helped me practice kindness with strangers, it also helped me forget the hurt and disappointments with people in general as well. Giovanni’s Room examines the subtle beauty of sexual healing over sexual pleasure. “To feel in myself now a faint, a dreadful stirring of what so overwhelmingly stirred in me then, great thirsty heat, and trembling, and tenderness so painful I thought my heart would burst. Out of this astounding, intolerable pain came joy; we gave each other joy that night. It seemed, then, that a lifetime would not be long enough for me to act with Joey the act of love.”
I don’t see myself as a family person but I don’t understand what kind of companionship or purpose might keep me going. Isn’t the purpose of life to live it? And what essentially does living entail if there is no love or no sense of direction on what to achieve when the waves seem to be forming concentric loops?
That’s what I guess becomes the process of finding oneself and finding love. Leaving the home of parents and all its inconclusiveness is always a difficult ordeal. The mind and heart rush with thoughts about everyone part of this home. Can there be a home without love?
I got inside the Kochuveli Express. As usual, I was blessed with the berth next to the urinal and bath to be further serenaded with a trip of ever-changing synesthesia, born from the innumerable scatological endeavours—each new scent a fresh anatomy to demystify and a thāli to keep turning and ponder about.
For some strange reason, the scent of pee always reminds me of the urine and fart infused stench that his boxers had, coupled with the scent of his Nivea moisturizer that he applied amply. He was my hot senior from college who lived in the same block. Nivea should seriously consider making him their brand ambassador for the sheer number of bottles he had collected and placed in his room to create a sea of navy-blue Nivea bottles. Is this dark blue a symbol of masculinity as well? I’ve often wondered. Slight artistic eccentricities of a small artist in the making, I thought. He couldn’t be the big artist, as he had his family business awaiting him. He must be still using Nivea though, as it still hasn’t gone out of trend with the men of the world.
A guy was sitting on the opposite upper berth, with his huge backpack next to him. He had a slim outline with sleeky curls and tiny glasses. We looked at each other and locked eyes for a moment. We didn’t smile or suggest anything, but then I looked outside the window. Evening musk or murky yellow and purplish orange had slowly started making way for the darkness to get through. Later, as I raced my eyes against him, he was still looking at me. I was kind of titillated, rather than excited as these moments are usual in these track lines, while travelling or cruising.
To cruise on the railway tracks next to the temple pond close to my friend’s place in our suburban village of a neighbourhood was a clandestine affair that everyone knew but was revulsed about and hence considered it blasphemous to even talk about it. The boys coming after an evening drench in the temple pond often smelt of Cinthol and Lifebuoy soap behind the ears and of Ponds or Cuticura talc in their armpits and chest. The wet powder sticking to dark bodies in the late evening mist wafting with burnt gingelly oil, agarbatti and sandal from the temple, was somewhat subtle and even tender on nights when the moon was fully out or when the temple had shut after every majestic utsavam.
This boy came down to the berth I was sitting on, and this time he smiled, and I immediately smiled back as I was waiting to smile since I saw him. We started talking. He was very pally and touchy as well. I too made some touchy advances and later rested my head on his shoulder. He too rested his head on my head, which made it easier for him to touch me genitally.

Suddenly he started asking me about whether I have other kunnanmar (dicks/dickheads; slur for gay boys in Malayalam around Kottayam) in Bangalore that I meet often. I didn’t really acknowledge that question.
Then he started asking if I’d continue living this way because we spoke a bit about marriage and family.
I said marriage to a girl was out of question for me.
He just couldn’t accept that. He said I am fooling around, and he is asking a very serious question. But I did say I’m giving a serious answer with a smiling face which I guess was triggering him more. His feelings of maybe having had to bury a part of himself or not wanting to acknowledge the reality or gravity of this phase that we know exists but might not be a phase after all.
He might have even seen me as a threatening force. Living on my own terms and conditions. The never-ending solitude of being a man. In this lost sojourn, every one becomes queer, and very few realise it, even fewer people accept it. Guess he wanted to belong to none of these categories and always be a man. He studied philosophy for his graduation. We spoke about Kierkegaard’s spheres of existence, and I was asking whether if it is not a very reductive way of approaching or observing life. But he was emphasizing on the importance of an ethical standpoint and outlook in life. He solely believed in the value of blood and family ties. Upsetting or distancing from family was also out of question for our boy.
We were about to lie down after arranging the berths. He then asked me to come up to his berth. I went and then he started enlightening me about orienting myself into a normal and decent human again. I was wearing my crimson jute cotton short kurta with long wooden buttons I got from Commercial Street, Masjid Road. Simultaneously, he was also continuing to touch me genitally and kept saying how I need to make use of my masculinity more effectively and not wear these printed colourful boxers and stop using eyeliners.
He saw my eye pencil fall out from my bag as well while we were trying to arrange bags under our berths. Then he said I had a huge dick. Most of the gay boys’ marvel over my dick and most of those who have come back to me have also done so for my dick and most often my dick becomes the mystery for most of them who have been around as well. Attracting mad dancers like Shiva or a spear of destiny up the arch of St John’s. Some even profess Sufi love and still continue to aim for the same age-old Mecca. The constant after it all is me and now, I see how being well endowed with a loaded lifestyle is mostly what matters when it comes to being together with someone even for short term.
He then said that he now understands how all my “actual” work must be quite dick-centric. Everything I said about work and alike must be lies. The institutions I mentioned must not be crazy to hire me, he said.
Then I was kind of switched-off for a bit and came down and resigned to my berth. Not really sleepy as these berths often keep me awake. The light opposite my berth and above the entryway was hitting my face directly, which kept me wide awake for most of the night.
Then I thought to myself as to how most of this phobia or insecurity around masculinity is not caused by anyone but by men with strong homosexual tendencies. They live in denial, and they end up projecting their misery and insecurity onto others who have maybe accepted or at least started accepting themselves for who they are and what they like and what they want to identify as. This makes it troublesome for everyone involved in the equation with these men. These are some reasons that make me ashamed to acknowledge and discuss my gay relationships or rather situationships or even better will be to just say sexcapades to sound patronisingly simple and these sexcapades are what we mostly get in the growing jungles of city loneliness.
His name is Jenson. He is from Kottayam but working a job that he doesn’t like in Bangalore. Before the night ended, he called me up to his berth again. I went up again as I wasn’t particularly sleepy and his body was quite warm, so maybe ignore what he is trying to say and focus only on the bodily warmth was my intention.
He then told me that he earned Rs 10,000 a month. He asked if I could help him. I smiled and said I’m trying to help myself. Then he got annoyed and told me to stop doing the shit I am doing and make myself worthy of what I have. He said, “life ordained you for greater things and why do you choose to invest in your costumes and make-up?” I didn’t know what to answer him then and even now.
The time spent with Jenson was special. He is a fan of tough love. The kind that I am used to as well. Our love language back home was to explode and create dramatic outbursts when there are matters of hurt feelings to convey. He would have indirectly yelled at me at least more than twice until that point. It was also intimate and lovely to begin with when he asked me what I did for a living. When he wanted to know more about Kalidasa and Bhasa. But he became rock solid too soon as he saw the eye pencil. Touch and feeling up the crotch is friendship for him. The queer friendship that only seeks to satiate the skin’s hunger or lust.
He is a straight boy who hadn’t had a good release in so long. His pre-cum itself came out in loads. I wanted to lick it and lip lock him with it, but he was already highly resistant to my gentle kisses or any fondling I attempted. My flamboyant subtlety and fragile advances were too much for his manly streak to tolerate. We were soon welcomed by the tearing cold winds of the early Bangalore mornings.
I was wondering if he would be willing to exchange numbers with me but by the time everyone was up, he didn’t want to look at me and didn’t raise his head from his phone. Obviously, I expected too much too soon as always. But it was good when it lasted as everything else that comes and goes.
When I went back the second time to his upper birth, we exchanged body warmth as I hoped but he also kept taking out some agitation on my dick by twisting my ball sac and pulling my foreskin. I tried to tame him with kisses and gentle touches. But that made him bitter and more passive aggressive. Later, he continued to talk about being respectable for the kind of profession I’m in as a teacher and how I need to always have a formal, manly and respectable persona to command attention and reverence and not play such roles as I am playing now that will only make me a butt of ridicule everywhere I go.
I told him that I play different characters from films and other stories to feel more in sync with where I am in life. I told him I am currently Mrs Sulochana Thankappan from Thalayana Manthram. He said I am crazy then and he didn’t want to talk afterwards.
I had to get down at K.R Puram station and he wanted to get down at Cantonment as he stayed closer to M.G Road. Before I got down, I took out my eye pencil and darkened my eyes that had smudged in the morning mist. I then smiled at him, held his hand and said, “kaanam” (see you).
Next time when I was in the same K.R Puram railway station, I searched for him on Instagram and found his profile that seemed quite inactive then. I sent him a follow request and a message asking if he is fine. It’s been years and he still hasn’t seen my message even though he approved my follow request. He posts pretty much every week with pics of his naughty new-born, Joe. He also has the same curls like Jenson.
Vibhu is a teacher of literature, poetry, film and writing. Hoping to be a full-time writer someday.
Tinder And The Saga Of “Blind” Dates
I dipped my toes in the world of online dating with care and caution. But I got swept away anyway.
Written by Payal Kapoor
Illustrated by Purnata
Edited by Abhishek Anicca & Gitanjali Chandrasekharan
Dating on Tinder… Yes… you heard that one right! Cautious, careful me knows what Tinder and online dating is. Since I have always been a sucker for sop and inhale romances like the oxygen I breathe, this whole concept has intrigued me. Coming from a century ago, I must be among the dinosaurs of the online dating world.
My first doubt, of course, was about being a blind woman on the much maligned space; followed by the bane of all our existences—accessibility of the app.
I tried to navigate it and understand how it works, but reached nowhere. The layout was strange, and who knew what needed to be tapped to get going.
There were accessibility horrors around every corner—like trying to upload a picture, write a bio. . . all of which was filled with unlabeled buttons that gave me no clue about what would happen if I clicked them. With such a daunting process to set up, both on Tinder and the other app I used: Aisle, one could only imagine what the journey would be like. I remember trying the famous app Bumble, promoted in India by Priyanka Chopra, which was the worst of its kind. There was no indication of how to get beyond the first screen using a screen reader. Many rants on the feedback page later, and no help coming my way, I turned to my seeing friend who has always been my set of spare eyes.

She looked at it and explained the layout to me and together we were sort of able to make some method of the madness. We sat giggling like school girls engaged in some nefarious activities—what with there being hearts and all that on the page. My friend’s 15-year-old daughter, intrigued by this activity, peeked over our shoulders and let an ear-splitting shriek… “Tinder!!! Do you both even know what this is? It is a dating app… what do you want with this?” Such a reaction just ended up in more fits of uncontrollable laughter and earned us a teenage eye roll. She simply could’t imagine what her mom and aunt, at their age, would want to do with a dating app. Little did she know, there was a whole adventure waiting for her aunt there.
After exploring it for one whole day, we finally decided to give it a go. in about an hour, only because my seeing friend was handling things, I was now all set up and had some idea of how to go about liking, super liking and passing a profile. This, after all the basic settings of age and distance were fulfilled.
You must be wonderin how I made my choice of persons to interact with? Don’t laugh yet… I looked at the name and age. If the name sounded interesting enough, I tapped the icon expressing my interest. What did I have to do with faces anyway? If I could’t have a conversation with the person, his fabulous face and personality was of no use to me.
To have to wait for a seeing pair of eyes to tell me if the face was good enough to go with, would have left me standing with my phone in my hand forever, with no action.
Now this whole concept of a match was also so new; and when I heard a strange sounding alert on my phone, I jumped. Looking at it, I found a message from Tinder. Was I shocked? You bet I was. Of course, since I’d mentioned my blindness after extolling all my other virtues, nobody really paid attention. Those who did, did’t believe that I meant what I’d said. Did I say strange are the ways of Tinder? Like I’d mention being blind for the fun of it or, to make myself sound mysterious or something? Sigh!
So, there was the first person ready to speak with me on the chat window, beginning with the regular introduction and pleasantries. I sometimes think it is at that point itself one figures if the conversation will even go further. Some are simply so boring with ho-humming and playing 20 questions. That is exactly what happened in the first couple of conversations. Just no vibe. Didn't crawl beyond the most basic questions on both sides. After letting it go, the super housekeeper in me, quickly got rid of them. Why keep unnecessary occupied space after all?
So far, nobody had touched upon my disability and I was almost waiting for the other shoe to drop in every subsequent conversation. One might say it did’t matter to them; I say they didn’t pay attention to the profile.
Then the shoe did drop. . . I began speaking with this guy who did pay attention and went into sleuth mode right away. I was waiting for this since this was familiar ground and educating the ignorant was my forte. All the regular queries about how I was typing and answering questions on the phone to how I managed to live life without being able to see… none of it was new. Then came the expected pause that went on for a bit too long…and then, came the not-so-subtle let down… “You are an amazing lady. So gutsy and inspirational”. Can you hear me roll my eyes?
Although, I have to give it to him. He tried very hard to continue the chat for another couple of days, but just couldn’t get beyond my disability. He was the first among many others who, hearing of my disability, felt safe in putting me high up on the proverbial pedestal, from where I couldn’t be reached or brought down.

Beside her is a man wearing a T-shirt that says , "nice guy." He is holding a board that says, "You are amazing."
I have to be honest and say I was quite disappointed and wondered just how a capable blind woman such as myself was ever going to find a date. I know, I wasn’t one to simply jump at the chance to go out. I was being careful and cautious me, who had been warned about how slippery this slope was, filled with all the slime and creepy crawlies present there.
Then, there came a phase of married men who were there to have “mature conversations”. What on earth was that?
Some who said they were in boring and redundant marriages, were looking for companions, while others simply thought it was okay to chat since I was there as well. While intellectually I understood all of what they said, and shrugged it off as it being their choice, I was quite outraged on behalf of all womankind. After many such stories, I did come across some good people, whom I met with and ended up becoming good friends with, no dates, though.
After finishing my stint on Tinder, having tired of all the meaningless conversations, I decided to embark on to Aisle, another inaccessible dating app. Here too, I did interact with a few, most of whom were not even worth a second conversation. That is, until I met someone who was interesting.
Here was this guy who spoke my language, had much in common with me, and instantly wanted to speak with me. I panicked, wondering how I got here so quickly. Contrary, I know, but I was skeptical about someone knowing I was blind, and still wanting to go on. It reminded me of a male friend who once told me, a man didn’t care if the woman he wanted to hook-up with was blind or anything else. Not the most encouraging thing, since I was not the hooking-up kind, and was looking for at least someone who wanted to explore something long term.
I had been through a bad marriage, and spent years healing. It had not deterred me against giving a relationship another shot. Disability had left me lonely and not having to share all of me was slowly taking away my zest for life. Seeing people around me in relationships, being part of a twosome and together, made me sad all the time.
Maybe this consideration pushed me to speak with this guy, and it felt like an instant click. He wanted to talk all the time, every moment that he and I were not working. It felt exhilarating and rekindled that little spark of hope within me. It wasn’t without my customary caution, but I did allow myself to get sucked into the thrill of it all. He flew down to see me, wanting to spend time and explore things.
Since I live in a conventional home set-up, where my parents did have some say in things, I had to at least run it by them. Only, they did not have a say in my going to see him. Assuring them that I would ensure my safety, I went to meet him.
I felt so rusty and out of my depth for a while, but he made me feel comfortable. I had come prepared for anything, having given myself the permission to do whatever felt safe, and my heart desired. To think a sighted guy had flown across the country to spend time with me, a blind woman, seemed like such a big deal at the time. It was a great two days—of getting to know each other, some physical intimacy, and promises of many more meetings to come. Cautious me had already told him that I wasn’t having sex on the first meeting. I laugh at myself now, at all those disclaimers, since that was exactly what he must have come for. A long way to travel for that, but I believe there must have been something about me that appealed to him. We had both said we were not interested in marriage, but looking for committed relationships. Through the phase with him, I did so much psychology reading about relationships and so much more. Somewhere deep within me was that lurking doubt of it being too good to be true. It didn’t take too long for the other for that realization to come true. He went from someone who wanted to move to where I stayed, to slowly moving away. I found myself getting frantic with worry, all the insecurities resurfacing. This wasn’t my first rodeo, but being ghosted still stung.
He went from someone who called me from an international holiday location with buddies at all hours, insisted I make time to speak with him, to someone who began phasing it all out. The calls became few and farther apart, and when he finally spoke, said he was busy. I remember reading about all the red flags in those psychology reading I’ve mentioned earlier, and this was heading towards an eventual ghosting. That is exactly what happened, and I can’t say I was surprised; also quite distraught.
It came back to the fact that I wasn’t good enough. My disability had once again come in the way of what might have been a relationship. It hurt for a long time, since we had been in each other’s orbit constantly for about four months. Was I wrong in opening myself to another disappointment? It was encouraging there was no self-recrimination at all, since I was sure of why I had embarked on the journey, and that was progress. I was a finally done.
Uninstalling all the dating apps I had on my phone, I deleted all my subscriptions and decided I did’t want to look for any more online suitors. It was like snapping a tether that had me bound to an expectation of finding happiness, where there was none to be had.

Over the years, I have begun relying on my own company (not always what I want), find happiness in my romance books, living vicariously through those. It has not taken away my desire for a companion, but has me resigned to the fact that there may be nobody.
After all, where else can I go to find someone? With inaccessible spaces, little to no company to hang out with, the road ahead is rather lonely. When I read how folks are shocked that someone can go without physical intimacy for a few months, let alone years, I smile to myself- in the knowledge that is mine alone. This led me on to another path—that of discovering self-pleasure. Not that it was a foreign concept, but I always held on to the hope that I would share it with someone. A hug, the warmth radiating off someone else, and knowing it was shared. I set off on the hunt for sex toys, which at the time were not available easily enough. It was hilarious to ask someone travelling from abroad to look for one of those for you. I was met with embarrassed denials, and a little surprise, I’vet had a great time with it as well. I did find someone brave enough to slip some through in their baggage under the guise of something or the other.
Once I learned these are available online locally, I have added many to my repertoire, and have found my own joy. It is not worth the angst and sense of loss and disappointment to go looking for someone to accept you for who you are, a person living with a disability; something that does not stop you from functioning just like anyone else. But then, I am not going to be the one to tell them that living with my expectations limited to myself, I can definitely say: I’vet been there, done that and learned from it all.
A disability consultant and speaker, Payal writes narratives on living life with disability. Creator of award winning podcast - Rasoi ke Rahasya, she loves to read, experiment in her kitchen and travel to new destinations.
I Was Happy To Give Them My (W)hole Heart, But They Wanted Kids And A Desi Bahu
I’ve had a heart defect since childhood. So, how do I find love in a world that’s obsessed with the body?
Written by Roshni C
Illustrated by Exoticdirtbag
“So why don’t you want kids”
I stare blankly at the chat notification on my phone screen. How do people have the audacity to start a conversation on a dating app like this? Yes, sure, I’ve mentioned it on my profile, but at least say “hi” first. I reply with something about how it’s a personal choice.
“But why?” comes the next question. At this point, I wonder if I should unmatch or admit to this person that I have had a serious heart and lung condition since childhood, in which pregnancy will most definitely be fatal.

But then if I do mention the latter, am I prepared for the “sympathies” that will follow and then the questions on “what about surrogacy or adoption?”
Now, how to explain to this person that my life is pretty expensive as it is, because I live with an incurable condition that requires life-long medication and treatment (unless it gets really bad and then the only option left is transplant, which costs minimum Rs 80-90 lakhs). How would I also pay for surrogacy or handle a child’s expenses? And the hormones you have to inject yourself with to extract eggs for surrogacy aren’t exactly safe for someone living with my condition. Plus, I wouldn’t even want to. What if I pass on something to the child? To add to that, I don’t have that kind of energy to run around after a kid or even take care of them. How will I afford a nanny?
How would I afford the child’s healthcare and education (have you seen how expensive decent schools are these days?) On top of that, I would feel terrible not being able to give enough time and attention to this child.
So obviously, after having this long conversation in my head with myself, I finally clicked “unmatch”.
Then, there’s the other category of men who will speak to you long enough and then drop the bomb that they intend to convince you to change your mind about having kids. Now, these naïve beings are completely unaware of my chronic disability, because it sadly is invisible most of the time.
Unfortunately, I can’t show you how my lungs and heart are struggling all the time without carrying my reports and oximeter everywhere.
I can’t help giggling at how cute these men can be. Their lives are so privileged and comfortable, the thought doesn’t even cross their minds that a woman could actually have serious health issues that could make it difficult to tolerate and sustain a pregnancy. Forget that, it’s hard for them to comprehend that women can have minds of their own and choose not to have children, whether they have a health complication or not. No such thing as choice, bro!
It’s scary, yet hilarious at the same time when they talk about how you’ll move into their house after marriage and live with their parents and pop out babies and everyone will just be so happy! This is another issue for me—I will never be the perfect “bahu” because I can barely do any house work. My lungs don’t allow it, and neither do my parents. And to be honest, I don’t want to go into someone’s house and take care of their family. It’s more than enough if I can manage to take care of myself.
My parents have always made sure that I have a comfortable life, so I can focus on education and work. Plus, having to live with a chronic illness is a full-time job. I have to make sure I get enough sleep so I don’t have trouble breathing the next day, take my medicines on time, do pulmonary-cardio rehab so my body can manage to do at least an average job on the low levels of oxygen I live on, be careful about what I eat so I don’t send my whole immune system into a tizzy, and then also make sure I’m not exerting myself too much while trying to work and have some semblance of a social life (which by the way has to be intricately planned so that I’m not doing anything else that tires me out the same day I’m planning to meet a friend for lunch).

Now, you tell me, how will I have the energy or the time to be a typical Indian bahu in the midst of all of this?
It became pretty clear to me early on in life that a traditional marriage could never be an option for me. And I’ve heard enough stories from fellow chronic illness survivors, women in particular, who were dumped by their husbands simply because they couldn’t do enough around the house for their in-laws or be baby-making machines.
Yeah, I’m good without all that drama, thanks.
Let’s move on to the body shaming now. As I live with a heart defect that cannot be operated upon, I have always been very thin, even as a child. It’s quite difficult to put on much weight when your oxygen levels have always been below 90. I dealt with my fair share of bullying all through school and college, being told I would never be attractive enough and no one would ever date me because men like meat, dogs like bones—some nonsense quote that was popular back in 2007.
So, when I got out into the dating world, I was already living with social anxiety as I always thought every one I’d meet would only make comments about my weight. I always prepared myself before a date for the man to pass some derogatory remark about how I’m so skinny. Some of them were quick to do it, some were nice enough to never bring it up, but then there were those special creatures who waited to get intimate with me.
And, right at that moment, when things would start to get hot and heavy, he would softly whisper something along the lines of “you should really gain some weight”.
Boys, nothing kills a lady boner like a critique about her weight when she is in such a vulnerable state with you! Hey, but you gotta love how he was only concerned about my weight and not the fact that I was obviously out of breath pretty quickly—an obvious symptom of my chronic disease people just don’t happen to see.
I also don’t know how to explain my health issues to these men because I have come across a few specimens who panic the second you say “heart condition”. It’s hard to believe that these are grown men when they cower away at the mere mention of a chronic illness! So now I’ve just added it to my social media handle profiles and created dedicated posts about my health, so guys can prepare themselves beforehand. I know, I’m very thoughtful like that.
Anyway, I’m still keeping myself open to the possibility of love entering my life, because I know I have so much to offer (other than children, lol). But in the meantime, I’ll continue to rant about how most men are hypocrites who act like they’re very broad minded and mature, but only want a (healthy) slave/child-bearer to take home to their family.
Roshni C, 31, has been living with a Congenital Heart Disease (VSD), Eisenmenger’s Syndrome and Severe Pulmonary Hypertension since childhood.
Juvenile Arthritis Meant That I Couldn’t Touch My Penis. Then, I Discovered Mindgasms
Naveen shares how he discovered the power of fantasy after being bedridden at the age of 13
Written by Naveen Daniel
Illustrations by Remya
Being born in a Christian family in India, masturbation and sex have been taboo topics since childhood. It was only after technology became affordable to me, that I could start exploring things related to sex—such as porn—on my mobile phone. Before that, masturbation was something that I discovered on my own. It started by touching the genitals. It felt so good, but I couldn’t figure out why it gave me pleasure.
At the age of 10, I was diagnosed with Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis (JRA), an auto-immune disease that causes persistent join pain, swelling and stiffness. As the disease progressed, I became bedridden. By the age of 13, I was unable to go to school.

And so, the exposure I got to the external world started decreasing. I could not be with any of my friends. There was no access to sex education either. I was not on social media back then. Hence, there was no space for me to learn about masturbation, sex, or any such things from the outer environment.
I was left alone most of the time, and so I was pretty much engulfed with loneliness.
I had a crush on a girl who was in my neighborhood at that time.
At that time, I had very few friends. Even with them, there was no conversation about sex or masturbation.
It was when I became active on social media, that I was exposed to various disabled activists. It was here that I came to know about the concept of mindgasm, through the social media handle of disability activist Andrew Gurza.
Mindgasm is a method where one can reach an orgasm without touching the genitals, by simply thinking or fantasizing sensual thoughts. Through social media I realised that many people with severe disabilities masturbate using this method to reach an orgasm. I also realised that I had been using this method even before knowing about its name.
As the rheumatoid arthritis progressed, my hands became disabled. This made masturbating difficult, because reaching my penis has not been possible since then. Then, I started to try mindgasm. While watching porn or any sensual scenes in movies or songs, I would fantasize and the thoughts helped me derive pleasure which led to an orgasm.

Reaching an orgasm by simply using the mind is far more difficult that Reaching an orgasm through this method is difficult when compared the usual method of masturbation. Since it has to be done without touching the genitals, it requires a lot of focus and energy. Yet, it felt different to me.
Mostly I was alone at home during the day time since everyone would leave home in the morning for work. So, privacy was available during the day, and I had people around me at night.
Apart from mindgasm, I try to masturbate by touching my penis using available objects such as a comb, TV remote, book, backscratcher, etc. The backscratcher is comparatively better than the other objects as it’s easier to reach the penis using it. But it is not as pleasurable as masturbation done by using the hands.
I have to use these objects as there is no space at home for me to ask for suitable objects or sex toys. Also, most sex toys available in the market are not easy to use. The design of sex toys should be inclusive, making them accessible for disabled people as everyone has the right to experience sensual pleasure and satisfy their sexual needs.
There are a lot of stigma around the dating life of a disabled person, making it difficult for them to date.
Most dating apps are not accessible. For example, the verification process in dating apps such as Bumble and Tinder are not accessible to me. This is because I had to pose with my hands in a way that they asked me to, in order to get my profile verified. Since my hands are disabled, I couldn’t use these apps. Dating in Indian society for a person from a Dalit family is highly difficult and inaccessible when compared with others who have an elite background.
I haven’t seen any representations about the dating life of a disabled person.
Exposure I got from social media and some disability activists made me understand the politics behind disabled people and their relationships. Gradually I understood various social issues and how much ableism there is in society, making the life of disabled people highly difficult to live in such an inaccessible society.
Since then, these two things changed in me: suffering and fighting.
No, the suffering did not end.
But, at least now I suffer with the clarity that the problem is not with my disability but with the inaccessible society.
No, the fighting did not stop.
But, at least now I know I must fight with the stereotypes and stigmas created by ableist, non-disabled people and not with myself.’
Naveen Daniel, pronouns: he/him, is a Dalit disabled activist. He actively fights against all systems of oppression with his words and art in whichever place possible and accessible
Dreams, Fears and Friendship: A Story about Abortion-and Love
A comic created by Agents of Ishq in collaboration with Ibis Reproductive Health, building on their research on self-managed abortions.
Written by Paromita Vohra
Illustrated by Anshumaan Sathe
Dreams, Fears and Friendship: An Abortion-and Love Story is a comic that we at Agents of Ishq have created in collaboration with Ibis Reproductive Health, building on their research on self-managed abortions (SMA).

Read the comic in English or Hindi !
Written by Paromita Vohra and illustrated by Anshumaan Sathe, the comic follows the story of Sapna, who is just starting out in the world when she finds herself pregnant, but not ready to become a mother.
Set in a small town, amid the lives of young people striking out on their own, sharing simple pleasures—from K-drama to gol gappas—the comic traces Sapna’s journey from fear, shame, ignorance and isolation to working out dilemmas and making choices with the support of her partner and friends. Using vibrant art and light, contemporary language, the comic destigmatizes abortion, provides information on self-managed abortions and most of all, shares the deep value of friendship and community in dissolving that stigma, so that abortion is not a lonely journey. Reflecting their lives with warmth and humour, the comic is something young people will be able to make their own.
The Ibis Reproductive Health research, conducted in partnership with RUWSEC, SHRI and FPAI on SMA experiences in India between January and August 2022, found that when people are provided high-quality information and support, self-managed abortion is safe and effective. (This echoes the WHO recommendation that people can self-administer abortion medication without direct supervision of a healthcare provider at up to 12-weeks of gestation).
The comic, in English and Hindi can be downloaded for free for a limited time.
Scroll below to read the comic here!
You can also check out our earlier materials on abortion here. They include comics, data narratives and explainers.
Tere Jaisa Yaar Kahan! 10 Tales on AOI about Friendship that Get Us in Our Feels!
#HappyFriendshipsDay with some of Agents of Ishq's best writings on friendship-wala love.
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Read it here.
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Gut Feelings - IBS, Body Image and the Bowels Of Desire
How do you feel desirable and attractive in a body that does not listen to you.
Written by Darsana Mohan
Illustrated by Titash Sen
I find myself sitting outside the gastroenterologist’s office every couple of months. It’s either that or outside the ultrasound scan area with a lot of pregnant people as we all chug water, waiting to be called in and have our bladders deemed worthy of scanning.
The first time that I was diagnosed by a specialist, I had taken with me months of test results and health records, and given him a thorough run down of what I was going through plus observations from my GP. There was a physical file and a Google Doc and everything. The doctor took less than two minutes to browse through the scans.
Looking annoyed, he stated that I had Irritable Bowel Syndrome and why was I taking things so seriously anyway!
I sat there for a good minute, stunned and feeling dismissed. Here was someone telling me that the reason for all this trouble, the suffering I’d gone through for months on end, was me. All of the pills I’d been taking were useless because of my inability to take that final boss of medications - the chill pill.
And now here I am again, bloated, nauseous, and ready to be told to keep taking my medications and try meditation (I have been doing both for three years now). I am worried that I will throw up in the middle of this waiting room. I call a friend to distract myself and cry a little near the hospital water cooler.
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Irritable Bowel Syndrome or IBS is a chronic illness that affects digestive functions and is exacerbated by stress and anxiety. When I am in the middle of a flare-up, I experience a multitude of symptoms with varying intensities such as erratic and painful bowel movements, acid reflux, abdominal pain, nausea, and a lot of discomfort. The very unpredictable nature of IBS makes it hard to prepare for. ‘trigger foods they are called. One day, you’re fine and the next, you’re in bed, trying to do the mental gymnastics of what brought on this flare-up.
IBS also brings with it a lot of shame because it is associated with bodily functions that are usually considered ‘gross’ This shame can become its own vicious cycle that makes a flare-up worse. When I have to deal with my symptoms, I find myself thinking that my body is the enemy. How do you reconcile with a body that does not behave the way you want it to? How do you feel desirable and attractive in it?
Some people might wonder ‘Why do you need to feel desirable when you’re sick? Isn’t that vain’?
Yes, I am vain but also, the question of ‘when I’m sick’ is a tricky one because being unwell is sometimes a huge slice in the pie chart of my time. Like many other humans, I want to feel confident and desired but desire is hard to feel and reciprocate when a good part of my energy is spent either handling the symptoms or worrying about when they’ll show up next. It’s not like IBS brought forth insecurities in a vacuum. It simply added to a pile of existing ailments and anxieties. An IBS flare-up refuses to be left as an afterthought. ‘I AM HERE’, it screams loudly, amidst a cacophony of fart noises.
Like, when it comes to intimacy, here are some of the thoughts that flood my brain: Does my partner find me sexy when I’m bloated? Is the constant burping rendering me unattractive?
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Is the athleticism I’m showing when running to the bathroom impressing them?
I’m also constantly in fear of the next flare-up so when I go out on a date and want to have a good time, a part of my brain is calculating what the ‘safest’ item on the menu might be. When you’re in a body that does not listen to you, socialising, intimacy and partnered sex can become overwhelming experiences as you’re wanting to be in tune with your body but cannot. I have to battle the self-disgust that I sometimes feel because I become convinced that other people cannot love this body. I have to love it because I am in it.
One time, I had a flare up the day before my partner’s birthday and during the midnight celebrations, I could barely eat anything. I felt so guilty at not being happy enough and not being able to even have cake to celebrate my partner. I retreated to bed early because I was so tired, though I’d have loved to continue partying.
A date night that should have ended with some good times in the bedroom ended with me in the bathroom, sobbing over the toilet bowl because the food that I had eaten that day was not sitting well in my stomach but I could not get it to come out from either side!
Right now, my partner and I are doing long distance. We are planning a trip together to meet after two years and I am terrified of my gut playing spoilsport to our joyous reunion. I might be paying more attention to getting my medication kit ready than my luggage. Adventure awaits but only if there is a restroom nearby!
The guilt of not being able to meet someone’s needs when you are not in the best of health is a constant undercurrent. Sometimes, I do not have the energy to focus on anything but work (because money=healthcare) and sustenance. My sex drive had also drastically reduced when I initially fell sick as well as after I received the diagnoses post months of medication and testing. I no longer felt the need to do anything but wallow in my own misery. My partner was very supportive through it all but I imagine it was difficult to watch as I ran around the apartment after dinner, trying to find relief, one way or another.
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As a lot of people with chronic illnesses and disabled persons will tell you, the difficult part is that there is no ‘getting better’. There is only management and taking risks where you need to. I am still in the process of coming to terms with my body but I’m not always successful. I am often cruel to myself because every time I take a step forward in my life, it feels like IBS makes me take two steps back. I’m trying to work with the status quo while also being terrified that it’ll worsen as time goes on. The goalposts of loving my body keep changing. So a lot of the effort of self-love goes towards unlearning the very capitalist criteria that are used to judge if my body can be considered valuable or ‘useful’.
It also helps to read and listen to public figures who struggle with similar issues. Samantha Irby and Hannah Witton are my current favourites - I love the humor and punch-in-the gut (no pun intended) honesty through which they view their bodies. Now, I often find myself impressed rather than annoyed by my body in embarrassing situations such as having to deploy Olympic-level flexibility to take a stool test in a tiny hospital bathroom.
Moving my body the way it wants and trying not to set standards for consistent performance has been a game changer as has making the conscious decision to sometimes eat what I want to, knowing that the next day I’m going to feel terrible. It’s the game of life baby!
What I’m trying to say to myself and what I’m trying to live by is the idea that I am powerful and beautiful when I do the things I want to do, while tending to my body and my needs. I have to remind myself that the setbacks are not punishments- they are just signals that my body and mind are sending me when I need to stop and tend to myself. Now, is that not a body worth loving?
Bio:
Darsana Mohan was born in 1990 and is a poet and writer from Kochi, Kerala. Her writing has been featured in The Alipore Post, Feminism in India, YourStory, Four Seasons Magazine, Women’s Web, Tint Journal and Bengaluru Review. In her spare time, she enjoys reading books and scrapbooking.
Love was a stereotype. Friendship was radical. And then, I met her.
If witnessing a relationship slowly die out like a star collapsing into itself were a color, it would be tangerine.
Written by Nam
Illustrated by Anuradha Rudrapriya
A year ago, exactly, as Christmas neared, we met for the first time after speaking over text for over six months. She came to visit me. We walked around, sat on swings in a park and spoke in measured tones - the awkwardness of our first meeting melting away like the remaining specks of sunshine on a December evening. As she was leaving, and I followed her down the stairs, she turned and tried to kiss me on the cheek. Shocked, I tumbled down the stairs. As she apologised while picking me up - my spiralling anxiety about a potential covid infection stood suspended. In a split second my mask was off, and I exclaimed impatiently - “Fuck it, kiss me!!” Six months of pent-up desire culminated in us kissing on a precarious staircase and awkwardly groping each other as we tried to make the best of those thirty seconds.
It’s been a year, and it’s Christmas, and we don’t talk anymore. Two days ago, I sent her a text, ending things. The sky was tangerine. The sun sinking into the pits of despair as a cold winter evening descended on me.
With the Fags, It Always Starts with Instagram
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I returned home from New York at the beginning of the pandemic. Little did I know that the year-and-half I would be at home would end up being one of the most hellish periods of my life. People I loved died. People I loved shrank. And my girlfriend of four years and I decided to finally call it quits.
Amidst the grief, I lost myself, and spent hours on the internet. I also joined a queer writing group – the one thing that saved me from myself. I first came across her on a queer Instagram page where she had written about her identity. From there I followed her on her personal page. And then began what would be, for the longest time, a one-sided longing - thirsty, filthy, escapist. I was shockingly horny and throbbing for her. Breathing in and out during yoga classes, I imagined her eating me out on my mat.
One desperate day, I crawled into her DMs, responding to her tirade about bottoms. “Power bottom here” I texted, in a moment of rare courage and she responded. I made pathetic attempts to catch her attention, and she didn’t particularly reciprocate. And that was the reason for our first, albeit one-sided fight. I resented her for the lack of attention. At the same time, I memorised her Instagram page by treating it like night-time reading. “All desire is heterosexual” she stated in one. “Punish me like a straight girl” I pined. Soon enough I found myself talking about her during our weekly queer writing group meetings. After all, us city queers are defined by six degrees of separation. And in a moment of euphoria, Z, a friend from my writing group told me that she had recently broken up with her ex and was probably single.
Fuck yeah!
With Fags, Hinge is Lord and Saviour
Sitting in my room in a city far from hers, I hedged my bets. She was recently single. Single people go on dating apps, right? So, I changed my location to where she was - a city I would not step foot in for several months. She showed up almost immediately. I stayed glued to her profile, refusing to budge but also refusing to initiate.
“Oh hello, look who’s here” - came her message. And over the next several days we exchanged streams of words. “You’re the most interesting person I have met here in a while.”- her. “I won’t be in (your city) for another few months.” – me. “It’s okay.” - her. “I don’t date.” – me. “I am good with that; I am not looking to date either” - her.
Our texts continued for around five months. One day she slipped in a sext. I resisted, given the virginal sexter I was, but finally gave in. And that night I sent her a picture of me shirtless, my dark hair cascading down my shoulders. Desire is a relentless thirst.
Over the next few months, we spoke every-day. From aggressive sexting we moved to tender check-ins, narratives about our histories and anecdotes about our lives. I told her I was polyamorous, and my idea of intimacy involved not distinguishing between romantic and non-romantic relationships. She said that this idea was new to her. Monogamy was all that she had known, and she drew a clear distinction between partners and friends. But then neither of us were out to date, right? So, our ideological mismatches would not matter, right?
As the days passed, we became a daily presence in each other’s lives. We would occasionally chat about our pandemic days, but mostly we would work together in silence over video calls. Slipping glances and smiling at each other across 1500 kms.
Only blue skies, no tangerine.
Fags are doomed to be lonely
I was moving to the middle of nowhere for a new job, and she was moving too. It was meant to be. And so, I arrived in her city, excited about my newfound freedom. We spent a night at an Airbnb on our first “date”. She gave me a book by Akwaeke Emezi. I was the favourite thing to happen to her in 2021, her note said. As she stood semi-naked freezing after her bath, I wrapped her with a towel and held her till she stopped shivering. She finally felt happy, she said. Same, man, same.
Our first day at my new place in the middle of nowhere we cleaned the house and fucked the night away. We got defrauded of a shit load of money on our second. Spent our third at the police station lodging a useless criminal complaint. And as she left, I awaited her return. Longing is an instrument played till your fingers bleed.
Soon, she moved to the middle of nowhere. She would come over, and we would speak about gender, our exes, our work, our friends, things that broke us and made us. We spoke a lot about our conflicting ideas of intimacy. She identified as a hopeless romantic. I, as an eyerolling cynic. She used the word love even before we had met. For me, the word carried weight. It meant commitment, work, a learning curve. I used the word too, though much later. We talked about bodies, her transness, and my newfound transness. And we kissed and fucked a lot. We also told each other we loved each other, a lot, a lot.
But as time passed, and work overtook our lives, we texted less and her visits became sporadic. No one was to blame, but it didn’t matter. It bothered me. I texted her often. When she found the time, she would respond. “Hey, can you come over this Thursday evening?”- me. “Hey, no, I am stretched really thin and have a lot of work.” - she. “Okay”. Okay? This was not a part of the plan - my new life was supposed to mirror perfection. And as I sat alone on my balcony overlooking naked fields, the sky was tangerine.
By the end of the first month, I started growing disillusioned with my job, the middle of nowhere, and the slow metamorphosis of our relationship. I missed my friends and everything the big city offered. My days consisted of working alone in a dilapidated apartment that overlooked endless dark fields, catching a sad bus to my workplace, and returning home to sit on my pot and smoke a cigarette. One cigarette turned to two. Two to three. Three to as many as I needed to fill the empty pockets of my daily life.
Olivia Lang, in her book, Lonely City, writes that loneliness feels like being hungry, when everyone around you is readying for a feast. I was starving. And as much as I tried exorcising the ghost of loneliness, I found myself mutating into an unrecognisable.
And so, I turned to her for solace. Insisting she come meet me, more often. She did her best. But something had changed. She’d come, we’d hang and fuck, and then she would fall off the face of the earth. I would text her every day, only to be met with delayed sporadic responses. It was only when we sexted, that her responses flooded my phone. Suddenly our relationship felt like a transaction that would repeat itself with her arrival and departure.
I realised I was trying to flee my loneliness, and that she was my destination. I wrote her a measured email - “I love our time together” it said. “But I also feel like once you leave, you leave”. And so, I asked her for space, such that I could work myself out of the habit of an oppressive dependence on her. “I also think perhaps we should stop sleeping with each other. Because honestly, it makes me feel a little used at times,” I added.
She wrote back the same night, apologised, and acknowledged her shortcomings. She was stretched thin and had a lot going on, she wrote. Her email was kind, an honest acknowledgement of what she could and couldn’t offer. “'I’m also sorry that the sex made you feel used. It was out of sheer love and desire” she added.
We decided to not text for the next few months, so I could unlearn my unhealthy dependence on her. Everything I despised about romantic love and mandatory monogamy, I now imbibed. My politics on intimacy dripped away like a leaking faucet. But after a day of silence, came her text. She had spent her day trying her best to distract herself but soon she found herself returning to me. And in that moment, my fragile will was broken. “I love you”. “I love you too”.
Where are all my lesbians?
In the book Thirteen Ways to Love, there is a story called “Where are all my lesbians?”
The author writes about her break up and uses the phrase “queer fragility” to describe the precarity of lesbian relationships. The first time I read it, I despised it. The second time, I was lonely in the middle of a brutal New York winter, and my trysts with queer dating hadn’t really led anywhere. I still found her pining annoying, but I was more empathetic. Today, I am terrified of reading it. Fucking queer fragility.
And what kind of lesbian was I anyway? Being lesbian is a political identity, as poet and essayist Adrienne Rich argued in Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence. In pop culture, lesbians are unhinged, co-dependent, hopeless romantics and honestly sort of pathetic. Anyway, I was sort of an Adrienne Rich lesbian, or so I believed.
“Not all feelings are valid” I exclaimed to her. “I don’t get this lesbian obsession with coupling up in the bat of an eyelid, why are we such stereotypes?”. “Friendships are radical, I don’t do well with hierarchizing intimacies. I despise romantic love - it is so shallow and vacuous. I intellectually disagree with it.” I would tell her animatedly.
How the tables turn - I am a pop culture lesbian now.
On the right to rage
I am a lawyer by training and so are most of my friends. We read and discuss critical legal theory which rightfully calls out the law for all its pitfalls. The most popular discourse is a critique of rights.
“Is there a right to sex?” ponders philosopher Amia Srinivasan in a famous essay. Ratna Kapur in her book Gender, Alterity and Human Rights, argues, “On some level, our rights-related liberal projects are on life support and further palliation is pointless”. Denying a right to marriage to the queers (largely cis-gay savarnas) violates the equality code, argues petitions in our courts.
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But fuck all that, is there a right to rage? I mean of course there is - rage is political and powerful and can overthrow oppressive empires. But I wonder whether we have a right to rage against lovers. Rage that seeks to shock the lover’s system into acknowledging (and meeting) one’s needs as opposed to measured conversations and therapy speak. Is that right to rage (vis-a-vis our lovers) accompanied by the right to be verbally cruel, mean, and hurtful? Most crucially, is that right accompanied by a guarantee to be forgiven by the lover once the storm calms?
One baffled night, in the pits of despair, I exercise my assumed right to rage. I never addressed the principal question - Was she my lover? Was I hers? After all, we weren’t dating. Didn’t matter. I gave into my base impulse, and without warning, sent her paragraph after paragraph of accusatory angry texts.
Everything is on your terms. Everything. When we talk, how we talk, how often we talk, when I can see you, when we fuck. You only respond consistently when we sext. My needs and expectations never matter. You disappear on me all the time.
Weapons drawn; I ambushed her, and silently accused her of breaking my heart.
So, is there a right to rage at the lover? Depends on who you ask. A friend read my texts and responded with a measured “Hmmm. “So, what do you think you will get out of this?” She added, “She is immediately going to go into defensive mode. Did you really achieve anything?”
Another friend firmly believes that there is a right to rage at the lover. “Of course!” she exclaims. “Get mad, be cruel, be angry, say those nasty words out loud.” After all, what is a lover but a receptacle for our grief?
And so, I exercised my right to rage, and she exercised her right to retreat. She shut down. Shut me out. And the brutal silence hung between us like a thick fog. Tangerine.
The vanishing self
After weeks of silence, as the anger settled and desperation crept in, I wrote to her. I apologised profusely and begged for another chance. “Intimacy is the only thing I value.” I said, “And it’s the only thing I am willing to fight for”. She took her time, but eventually we started speaking. In a week I was headed back to my hometown for over a month, and so we agreed to meet.
We met in a restaurant designed for heady first dates, rather than heavy post fall-out conversations. I apologised and promised to do better. After our meal, I went home with her, and we fucked all night long. As she lay on top of me, she paused, looked bewildered and said - “Fuck I am in love with you”.
“I am in love with you too.” I responded. “But I am also often in love with my friends.” I added. And she sat silently with that, before she ate me out. All desire is political, but sometimes, when people tell you that they are in love with you, one must resist the urge to reduce that moment to a political project. “I am in love with you too” is all that was necessary. And in a few days, I flew out, 1500 kms separating us once again, her teeth marks all over my collarbones, memories that I desperately clung onto as they slowly faded away.
Does the label make it taste better?
Still with me? Well then, let’s skip the mundane details of a month and a half of distance. Suffice to say, we broke each other, in ways I could not fathom possible. We argued and hurt and misunderstood - an endless cycle of disappointment, anger and exhaustion repeating itself. One day, after a charged exchange, I blocked her on Instagram and unfollowed her. At this point, I unabashedly acknowledge my role in sabotaging the relationship. I didn’t want to date her as an antidote for my loneliness. But then why do people date, if not to avoid being alone in this world meant for two?
She wanted to speak in person about what had ensued. When I returned, she wasn’t ready. And so, I drove to the middle of nowhere, and for over a month and half, there was complete silence from her end. Every day I shrank a little more - consumed by her loss. By now, there was very little keeping me motivated at work. I hated the middle of nowhere and my health gave way. My depression and anxiety had returned with a vengeance. I once rejoiced in my singlehood, but now I longed, hesitantly though, for the comfort of coupledom. “I am in love with you, and I am ready to do the work of repair” is what I longed to say to her. I woke up every morning and vomited into my toilet before catching my sad yellow bus to work. And I came home and smoked, and repeatedly checked her WhatsApp. Online. Offline. Online. Offline. Silence.
One day, I erased all our WhatsApp messages from my phone. But I emailed myself a copy. Thus, in my email somewhere lies an archive - over 100 pages of texts between two fags exchanged over a period of a year or so – falling and failing.
And then, one day she broke her silence - with the terms of a relationship that could be possible between us. A checklist of things she could offer and could not. An essay about all the ways I’d hurt her. I apologised and agreed to her checklist, without caveat. I wanted her back, and I acknowledged my faults, but in this process, I disappeared - my hurt no longer mattered. My grievances, locked away, gathering dust.
Finally, she came to see me and spent the night at my place. She behaved as if nothing had happened between us. I resisted the muscle memory to kiss her. She kept hugging me, took my hand and kissed it, and touched me some more, and so I gave in, and old patterns repeated themselves.
Except something was different. It was like a part of her had checked out. But I, who had no right to rage and had made the mistake of saying out loud “but sometimes I am also in love with my friends”, must make amends. So, I walked on eggshells around her, agreed to all her terms - caveating every text I sent to her with “you don’t have to respond”/ “only if you have bandwidth and want to”/ “prioritise yourself”.
The desire was gone. The hunger - gone. The intimacy - gone. The effort - unrequited. The nudes - met with polite responses. Blocks of text from my end, met with a line or two. The sex - followed, once again, by a disappearing act.
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In the song, We Ain’t Together, King Princess asks “We say, "I love you", but we ain't together; Do you think labels make it taste much better?”.
She tells me she wished I hadn’t followed my confession of being in love with her with the addendum that I am also in love with my friends. “It’s not the same for me.” she said. “I love my friends but it’s not the same as being in love”. “But why does it matter, that sometimes I am in love with my friends,” I ask her. “If I give you everything you need from a partnership, should that fact matter?”. “It does.” she says. But then what’s the point of being queer, I wondered. Aren’t we supposed to do better than the straights? Isn’t queerness more about how we arrange our intimacies? “Gender is not a binary,” the queers scream, but love is?
“I don’t think we’d be good if we dated. I feel like you don’t see me,” she said in response to one of my texts about us exploring dating. Over another conversation she claimed, “I don’t think I can meet your needs.” Another night, “I think you see me better than you did before.” Of course, I did. Because for three months, it was all I worked towards. Loving her in ways she wanted to be loved. Texting her, on her terms. Meeting her, on her terms. I did everything possible to “see” her - till I vanished.
“I am so confused, you’re so contradictory” I told her one day. “I am not saying we should date; but I am not sure what the reason is. Is it that I don’t “see” you? Is it because I am sometimes in love with my friends? Is it because you think you can’t meet my needs?” WHAT THE FUCK IS IT? I scream internally. “All these things can be true at the same time.” she says.
One night, the last time we met each other, she came over and told me about how she and a gorgeous queer (‘T’) have developed romantic feelings for each other. They discussed it, she says, but decided not to date because they didn’t want to risk the friendship and were not mentally in the headspace to be romantically entangled. A part of me died - “pick me, choose me” I wanted to beg, but I only listened as she pottered around the kitchen talking about T. “I feel threatened.” I told her. But I stopped there.
And as we lay next to each other, I said, “I need to let you go - but before that I need to know that you’re no longer in love with me - are you?”
“I fell in love with you, but not in that way, I always held back because you were so clear about not wanting to date” she said.
“Okay, so just to make this clear, you are no longer in love with me, right?”. “I love you, but I am not in love with you.”
We fell silent. “I guess I am still grieving you, you know,” she says. I have no fucking idea what that means so I press her a bit more. She gives me vague responses, punctured by even more vague silences. And so, I give myself permission to cry in front of her. “Why are you still sleeping with me?” I ask her. “Because I like you, and I am attracted to you.” she says.
“Because I like you, and I am attracted to you”.
And these words would come back to shatter me, irreparable. Make me feel disposable, replaceable, forgettable. Despite this, I rode her hard that night. She never really let me top, and despite me being a vers, we always had sex with her exclusively topping. But I didn’t give a fuck that night, and so I instructed her to sit up, topped her, and rode her till she gasped, breathless.
She left and her Instagram was flooded with posts about T. I followed them both. And boy were they at it - public declarations of love and admiration. “This is my favourite picture” T commented on one of her posts about them. “Arrey, you are my fav!” she replied. After all, it's no longer 2021, and she never promised I’d still be her favourite in 2022.
One aching night she posted a picture of T sitting on her desk at 1 am. I had a meltdown, called my ex-girlfriend and sobbed away. “How did she move on so fast?” I sobbed. “Am I that forgettable, that difficult?” Is this our legacy - a war-torn landscape of haggard emotions.
Endnotes
Oh, by the way, I quit my job and decided to move back home.
WhatsApp; 12th December, 2022
Me: “Give me a yes or no answer, okay. When I come back to (your city), is there any chance for us to give us a shot?”
Her: “..I really don't know, and I think I really don't want to be romantically entangled for a significant while and recuperate. That's the honest answer.”
Tangerine.
WhatsApp; 14th December, 2022
Me: “At the cost of sounding annoying, if you and T are heading somewhere, do let me know… very hard for me to witness you moving on … given I am still grieving you”
Her: “As far as T is concerned, she is a dear friend more than anything.”
More than anything….
Tangerine.
WhatsApp; 23rd December, 2022; 12:09 pm.
Her (in response to a text about meeting before I leave): “I can't do earlier to be entirely honest. I still have (work) to finish and I'm coming down with a fever from exhaustion.”
Me: “Do you wanna take a rain check?”
Tangerine.
WhatsApp; 23rd December, 2022; 1:51 pm
Me: “I am calling … quits. Having reflected on the past year, I don't think there is any future for us, even in the realm of friendship. So, I am out.”
Her: “Alright. I'm not going to argue with that.”
Tangerine.
27th December, 8:00 pm, Airport
Flight Announcement: “Flight xxx to (city) will now be boarding. Passengers with seat numbers…
WhatsApp; 23rd December - 27th December, 8 pm.
Me:
Her:
Tangerine.
Epilogue
This is my story. It is not our story. Neither is it hers.
Bio: Nam is a non-binary queer lawyer, academic and cat parent. Outside the world of law, she ponders, reads and writes about loneliness, intimacy and queerness.
My Post-Baby Boobs - A Comic
Short tales about a pair of boobs living the postpartum life #WorldBreastfeedingWeek
Written & Illustrated by Priya Dali
The comic was made as a part of Kadak Collective for Gender Bender 2018
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Priya Dali is a work-in-progress human, an illustrator and the Creative Director of Gaysi Family, a media platform and a safe space for queer desis that was formed in 2008.
She is a maker of many, very queer things. Through her work, she conversations about gender, sex and sexuality and strives to make them accessible through comics, zines and other creative mediums. She is the illustrator of the children’s books; ‘Grace: One engineer's fight to make science education accessible for all’ published by Pratham Books and ‘The Boy in the Cupboard’ published by Gaysi Family and Lettori Press.
In her free time, she likes drawing bad jokes!
It Took Me Two Years To Realize I Had Been Raped
A male Dalit queer person on acknowledging the many shades of sexual assault.
Written by Vijay
Illustrated by Sanika Dhakephalkar
CW - Rape
It was a hot summer day in April 2019, which I felt was going to be like any other exam day. I woke up, got ready quickly, asked Appa to drop me off at the Metro. My routine was as usual. En route, I sneakily admired my co-commuters with whom I’d sometimes imagine elaborate fantasies—walking up to them, talking, exchanging IDs or numbers, going on dates and what not. Then, freak out with my friends in class before the exam, breakdown internally and scratch my head with a pen during the exam, let out a sigh, catch up with friends and head home. Until I decided that day at the end of the exam to say, “F**k it! Let’s go for it!”
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I texted my match because he had invited me over to his place a month ago, and today was going to be “D-Day”. I was going to meet him at a public spot. So, if I didn’t feel comfortable enough about him taking me to his place, I could just walk away.
He was free and ready. Perfect!
My heart was pounding so hard I needed a moment to catch my breath. We had been texting on and off for the last few months. He was sweet, appreciative of my skinny brown body and, whenever I felt unsure or anxious, assured me that we’d only be doing whatever I was comfortable with. He was only a few years older than me, and healthily skinny and definitely had many funny bones.
My first date with a cis man had been not too long ago. We had walked around MG Road, Church Street, held hands in the gaps of racks at the bookstores, took a sniff off each other’s necks just shy of a kiss. We visited the exhibits at the Rangoli Metro Art Center, sat for a while under the shade of bright dark pink bougainvillea where he made the move to kiss; a revolutionary moment. So, it was all very new and exciting.
Yet, there was some anxiety. It felt like being in Bangalore for the first time, but enjoying a very different experience altogether; reclaiming a largely Savarna, cis-het-occupied and ruled space. And, to make it my own and his for those few moments was exhilarating.
I feel he probably felt that I was getting too attached too quickly, did not reply to my texts for a while, so I let go. Then, I had met another guy—a lovely fellow with whom I’m friends now, and we kissed at a house party recently because we hadn’t kissed when we saw each other briefly. And then, there was this guy. The one I was so excited to meet that day.
It was around 1 or 2 pm, the sun was right above my head. I was in my usual grey hoodie, formal shirt and trousers trying to book an auto to the common meeting spot. Boarded one, soaked in all the excited-anxious fantasies. The backache-causing roads and honks of others that usually make me curse humanity for its impatience and haste seemed to have fallen silent. As the auto zoomed past Residency, Brigade, Trinity, Ulsoor, Banaswadi and finally our area, Ramamurthy Nagar, my mind went all over the place like a kid full of anticipation about going to the gaming area of the mall.
“What would we do? What would I do? How would he look and be like in person? What does he want? Does he like me? Does he really want me? Would we be doing this or that? This way or that way? Am I ready? Do I smell fine? How would it be? Should I get any tests done after this?”
I got off, waited at our meeting spot, and called him. He was on his way and would take a few more minutes. He arrived on a scooter, took off his helmet and his cute face smiled wide. It put an instant smile on mine. We spoke for a bit, I felt okay enough to go with him. It was a basic date on wheels, we got to know each other better then. We reached in 10 minutes. His home welcomed my nostrils with the stinging smell of paint, and then his cold pastel floors. We sat on the black leather couch, spoke for a while and he invited me to his bedroom.
I told him I needed a moment, grabbed my local anesthetic and mouthwash, and headed to the bathroom. I suffer from chronic anal fissures, so if we reached the point of anal sex, I wanted to feel as little pain and as much pleasure as I could, hence the local anesthetic. I did my thing and joined him in bed.
We faced each other and kissed for a few minutes as we felt each other’s bodies up, took off our clothes, until he said, “For how long are we going to just kiss?”. At that point I was on top of him. His eyes pointed south, his tongue licked his upper lip. “Hmmm. Sure, why not? Let’s try,” said my brain after a few seconds. I went down on him for a while, but his wiener went soft and he complained that I wasn’t doing it well enough. So, he got on top of me and got near my face to feed me. I let it in, until I was actually choking on it. Yay! Gag reflex! And then he stopped.
He asked if I wanted to try penetrative sex. I was hesitant and kept saying, “I’m not sure. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want the pain.” He was so persistent that at one point he held me down, kissed me and said something like, “Chill. You’ll be fine. I’ve done this before with virgins.”
I replied something on the lines of, “Umm sure, but if it hurts, stop please.” He smiled, “Finally!” and nodded. I was at once excited and anxious, but more anxious this time. He put on his condom, lubed himself and me up, and tried pushing himself inside me. I resisted because as his glans was fully in, it hurt like hell. I asked him to not continue anymore, he told me to hold on a bit longer, that it was almost in. “One more push”, “breathe”. Then I’ll be okay. I continued trying to get my arms free, get up, but at one point, I just gave up, gave in, and he was in and out of me in two minutes. Local anesthesia clearly wasn’t strong enough, nor was I. He dropped me off at a street I claimed to be mine.
Fast forward nearly two years. I have no idea why this memory decided to strike back in a whole new way. Oh wait, I do have an idea.
My idea of consent, assertiveness, feminism was way more evolved and stronger, at least strong enough to declare what and how I want, need. I don’t know what brought the memory back out of nowhere, but I sat with the memory, reflected, processed, analysed it.
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At one point, my mind said, “Isn’t this sexual assault, rape?” This was being processed in the back of my head as I went on as usual, until one cozy Bangalore winter morning I asked a friend to offer their view on it. They agreed that this was sexual assault and rape. They shared their experience of facing several similar moments with their partner when he’d just impose himself on them, not ask, just assume and do what he wanted with their body; which they resisted, of course.
The conversation broke me, but even today I am glad I had it and that my friend opened up to me about their experience of violence by another cis man whom they trusted. And, when they shared this, it took me a few moments to register, for their partner was a guy whom I had met and spent some quality time with. And, this is a close friend who, if not for this conversation, may not have shared this with me or anyone else anytime soon.
In one class we were learning about the Gestalt theory on humans. A whole/complete gestalt experience is one in which you not only are able to acknowledge and process it cognitively, logically, and share it with others, but also accept it emotionally, feel it completely. I shared my experience with as little detail in that class and asked my professor, “Have I had or am I having a gestalt experience now?” She pondered for a minute and replied, “No. I don’t think so because I am not entirely sure that you’ve processed it emotionally completely. Maybe sit with it longer, see how your body feels when you think of that moment of violation, assault, and see what comes up.”
I don’t know if I’m ever going to have that experience or maybe writing about it is my version of experiencing a complete gestalt.
As I write this, a tear rolls down my cheek, my chest feels empty, my breath relieved. For a few months after I asked myself constantly, “How did I let this happen?”
The question was a two-fold one. One, how could I as a feminist, aware of consent, let this happen to me, not acknowledge the violent act for what it was? Two, how could I as a feminist, even more aware of consent after that, forget about it (because whenever people asked me about my first, the details had always been blurry), not see it and accept it for what it was, and even when the memory was back in one clear piece, why was it hard for me to accept it?
Why indeed did all my learnings leave me? Because I am human.
Recently, in a different context, a friend told me that “it’s okay not to label everything in terms of psychopathology”. Different context but it makes sense to me even for this one. I am human, why beat myself up and guilt trip and resent myself for not having done the right thing at that moment?
Yes, I was sexually assaulted, but well, perhaps that’s how my body and mind decided to deal with it, protect me, and that’s fine by me. I explored it with a therapist. He asked if I wanted to file a complaint. I replied, “Nah. One, it’s too much red tape. Two, I am a male Dalit queer person who was raped by another cis man. In a world where Sarvarna cis women’s cases of violence in any form aren’t taken as seriously as they should be, where am I going to fit in? What hopes of justice do I have? What is the assessment or the process for a male body that was assaulted to prove that it was indeed assaulted? Now, it’s nearly two years. So, no. I just want to share it, deal with it now, and be done with it. Let go for myself, for I am more than that moment of vulnerability.”
I have realised that saying no and ensuring that your partner respects it, or learning to deal with moments and people who refuse to take our ‘no’s is complicated and challenging, and needs to be taught. And, even with practise, we may not be successful and always safe in all contexts, spaces. Shame-free, open, comprehensive, inclusive sex-education along with assertiveness communication training and how to be there for someone following such violent moments need to be taught not just to kids, but everyone because violence by another, by oneself or both—hey it’s the unfortunate reality one can face at any point in life in any form. Hence, we are better off preparing ourselves and others to face it as best as we can at that moment.
Time to rip apart this violent system that doesn’t easily let anyone learn to respect, feel safe, at ease, thrive in their own and others’ bodies, minds and spaces, and build one that is for all. Maybe I will carry a pepper spray, learn to hold my ground as much as I can and pick myself up with support from others in my own time. And I am gonna continue to let myself experience pleasure the way me and my partner/s need/want. That’s how I feel as I go, as I grow.
Vijay is a Dalit queer person and a trainee psychologist who reads, writes and tries to live life their way as much as possible, and hopes the same for all.
Talking To My Daughter About Sex, And The Body, Changed Me As a Parent and a Person
I wanted to be the kind of parent who could respond honestly to my daughter's questions about sex.
Written by Sripriya Ravi Kumar
Illustrated by Div Rodricks
“Amma, how was I born? Where did I come from?”
“We waited a long time before starting a family, and when we were finally ready, I wished for a girl child, and you were the gift God gave us.”
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My daughter asked me this when she was five years old. My response was automatic - the same old platitude passed down through generations. I wasn’t satisfied with the conversation, though. I wanted more. I wanted my daughter to learn more and ask more questions, and I wanted to be the kind of parent who could listen, and respond warmly and honestly.
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I sought guidance. I read anything I could lay my hands on. I attended sessions, where I developed an openness to discuss puberty, sex, and bodies with my daughter in their true form, without hiding the details partially or entirely.
I was with a group of parents and a facilitator during one such session. Everyone had a story to share about their hesitations and openness.
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One mom said her teen son loves animals and has seen them mate several times. He also refers to books and websites to learn more about breeding seasons and other things. “I feel there is a certain suspense and innocence to the whole act of intimacy and I do not want to take away the thrill out of him by talking about it,” she lamented.
A dad spoke about always being shamed for looking at his naked body as a child.
Another mom said that her family of five all slept naked sometimes, just to get comfortable with each other and their bodies. (I admit, I was a little flustered by this one; I didn’t think my household was ready to sleep naked together.)
The facilitator then shared her own story about how and when she talked about sex with her four and half year old child.
She said, “Talking openly with children about their bodies, the changes that occur, and the various hormones that play with their emotions will help them become more confident and less confused.
By communicating freely with our children, a parent gives up the single narrative they believe in and begins to look at the subject from other angles. In reality, it is the parents that benefit more from this than the child.”
She was also clear that every parent has to work around their specific reservations and find ways of discussing sex with their children and that there was no fixed recipe to follow.
Later, I thought about my own childhood and adolescence. The many bodily and emotional transformations I went through, the crushes, infatuations, and so-called first love I experienced. I hadn’t had a lot of information about these changes at the time, and I conformed to the many stigmas and taboos attached with them. But, this ignorance wasn’t something I wanted to pass on to my daughter.
Thankfully, I now have access to resources and people I can reach out for guidance. The networks I am a part of already have families who have crossed the threshold of secrecy around sexuality and sensuality. And, I know I can always knock at their doors for advice.
I count Agents of Ishq (AOI) as one such map of sex and sensuality. I like to call it a both dictionary and textbook, giving sensitive subjects a fun and warm space to flourish. Most importantly, AOI doesn’t shy away from feelings and their complexity - it brings everything from discomfort to straightforwardness, from incompleteness to fulfillment - to the fore.
And so, as I learn how to talk to my daughter more freely about sex and the body, I’d like to think I’m learning how to shed my own deeply-buried shame and prejudice as well.
There’s no perfect way to have these talks - but here’s how I went about them, topic by topic.
Childbirth and Breastfeeding
(Age: 6)
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I figured out the conversation's starting point, which was to talk about childbirth. I’d already told my daughter several stories about her time in my womb.
I told her how glad I was to become pregnant and how thrilled I was to learn that I was carrying a baby girl.
I described how she remained confident and at ease during all of the travels on trains and buses while the world outside feared for her safety inside my womb.
What I did not tell her, though, was the story of how she entered and exited my womb. I wanted to tell her how we prepared for the final lovely journey of a normal birth.
As an introduction, I went online and showed her many videos of animals giving birth. We spoke briefly about the intelligence that all life forms are born with and how the universe/nature facilitates this intelligence's emergence into the world.
"Amma, did I come out on my own as well?"
"Yes and no, not every woman knows how to assist her own childbirth, but we are blessed with doctors and midwives that support us in this process. And, of course, I was quite lucky to have found an obstetrician who was extremely supportive of my decision to have a normal delivery."
Following this conversation, I played a video that showed a natural human childbirth in a hospital setting. This was the first time my daughter heard the terms vaginal delivery and C-section.
With her mouth wide open in amusement , "Tell me what the pain was like for ten hours?"
"Sweet pain :) During parturition, the doctor helped ease me through the contractions and it wasn’t very painful as I know you were also working on it. My next wish was to nurse you for at least a year. That was another experience that was both difficult and joyful."
Breastfeeding continued for a year-and-a half after she was born, another topic we discussed over time. I told her about the benefits of breast milk, immunity, breast enlargement during pregnancy, and their sagging after months of frequent feeding.
One time, we had a new mom (a dear friend) visit us for a few days. My daughter was captivated by the beauty of the child clinging to his mother, suckling her breasts and eventually falling asleep.
She also saw the toll it took on the mother who fed her child at regular intervals, the strain it put on her back, and the pain she frequently felt around her breasts.
I recalled those tough times I experienced myself and suggested using hot packs to release the soreness and pain around her breasts. Hearing this, my daughter was quick in acting and made several rounds of hot packs with cabbage leaves to help my friend. .
I marvelled at this love being shown to a tired new mother and her baby. At how an upfront, thoughtful conversation had brought out the best in my daughter. Any discomfort I’d had about discussing childbirth and breastfeeding was laid to rest.
Bodies and Private Parts
(Age: Between 3 -7)
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Like many of us here, I grew up associating a "chhee factor" with private parts and nudity. It took great deal of time to unlearn before I could stop feeling ashamed about bodily parts.
A friend first introduced the term "private parts" to me roughly a decade ago, explaining how she taught her son about private parts.
So, while talking to her about the body we spoke about how important it is to cover her private parts and not expose them to everyone. This went perfectly smooth with her practicing to dress her dolls well after she finished playing and not leave them around with no clothes.
Now, I raised my daughter in much the same way that I was raised, except that I never used the word "shame."
"Remember the bedridden grandpa we met in that city?"
"Yes"
"Do you remember her daughter and the female assistant who helped him on a daily basis?"
"Yes"
"Apart from feeding him food and juice, they also empty his catheter bag, which contains his urine, and wipe him after potty. Every day, they give him a sponge bath and change his clothes. If the person assisting develops aversion and disgust, he or she will never be able to do full justice to their service."
"Oh, amma, will you be able to do such work?"
"I am not sure, it's difficult to say, but I hope I attain that level of free will if I ever need to be of such help to someone."
Such conversations about nudity and private parts helped me recognise my own lack of acceptance for my body. I've always had a protruding belly no matter how much I exercised or how many sports I played.
According to what I've read online, there are numerous reasons for this, including posture issues, digestion disorders, fat accumulation, postpartum belly, and many others. When people question or see my belly, I tell them that it loves me so much that it doesn't want to leave me! :-)
My daughter observes that I take the steps necessary to feel good about my physical appearance. And there have even been moments when she would make things easier for me when I felt self-conscious about my appearance. I remember times when I looked in the mirror and didn't like how I looked, but she would come in, be herself, and give me tips about certain outfits, put on some light makeup, or do my hair in a way that made a difference. Moments like these let me recognize how judgmental I can be and how difficult it is for me to make little changes to my dressing sense. It's incredible to be around children who are so pure, non-judgemental and haven't been messed up by the media's fixed ideas of beauty.
Menstruation
(Age: 5-6 years)
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"Amma, will you show me your pad when you get periods?"
"I no longer use pads. I use a menstrual cup. If menstrual blood is what you want to see, I can show you."
"Yes, please show me."
I thought it was necessary to discuss menstruation with my daughter before we discussed sex. I had ordered the Menstrupedia Comic before I even mentioned childbirth to her.
The book is divided into four chapters: puberty's physical and emotional changes, as well as the biology of menstruation.
I was 8 or 9 years old and I remember the "carefree" sanitary pad that was introduced in India. We had guests come over one time, and the ad appeared on TV. I asked my mother about the blue liquid they were showing. She felt so embarrassed that she changed the subject right away.
I grew up in a conservative, orthodox family, and there were so many taboos attached to menstruation. For a long time, I also conformed to the notions of impure, not to be touched, and to be locked up in a separate room during the periods, among other things.
I was glad that my daughter saw this as something that happens naturally and found beauty in it. I was also glad that she saw the blood on the napkin drawn in red and not blue.
Clothing
(Age: 7 years)
At age 7, my daughter was quite traditional; she preferred traditionally feminine clothing, such as lehengas and kurtis, and disliked shorts/pants and T-shirts.
Coming from a conservative background, I was at ease with her choices, but also concerned lest she should build her identity only around this one kind of clothing and become trapped in the ideology she creates for herself.
I wanted her to see that different people expressed themselves through different kinds of clothing. We sat and looked at pictures of my friends on Facebook who were comfortable wearing all kinds of clothes.
"So, what do you think?"
"I like them all, but I didn't like it when they put pictures of themselves that showed too much skin."
"Hmm, I don't always feel at ease, but I'm learning to be more accepting of other people's choices. Their clothes don't really matter to me; what matters is why they're wearing them. Is it to make an impression or a statement? Are they comfortable with their body and positive about themselves? I just want you to know that if you want to try on different clothing, go ahead, but keep your motivations under check.”
"Have you ever worn shorts and tank tops, Amma?"
"Yes I did, a few years ago, when appa and I were in California and Toronto. I sometimes wore them for myself and sometimes for appa. It felt nice to be in frocks and skirts, I felt so much younger and free."
"Why don’t you wear them now?"
"I like the simplicity and the elegance I find in kurtis, salwars and long skirts. Moreover, my choices are also influenced by my surroundings. Having said that, I allow myself the freedom to experiment with western clothing again if I so desire."
"I don't like it when people stare at my arms or legs, therefore I wear full clothing."
"Yes, it is necessary to assess your surroundings. Whether you feel safe or not around certain people, I believe that is the best approach to take."
For many years, I believed that my long hair and conservative clothing defined my character, but with time, I realized that the length of hair and clothing said nothing about me. In fact, my hair and clothing choices helped with deconditioning my beliefs. I like to be mindful of my decisions, as well as why and for whom I make them.
Sex
(Age: 5-7 years)
For me, this was a very challenging subject. Regardless of how often I talk to her, she and by extension all children, are exposed to the incomplete idea of intimacy - love, kiss, assault - through the media.
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When I was eventually ready to discuss it, I went online and found the sex education video "Main Aur Meri Body" on AOI. The video explains:
All of this and more with a lightheartedness that made my job so much easier.
"Do you want to know why people say you look like a mix of appa and me? or Why do we think your nose resembles my grandmother's?"
"No, amma"
"I would like to show you a video. If you feel awkward at any moment, please let me know so that we can discuss it later."
"Ok"
After watching the video (she loved it btw).
"Listen, I know you are excited learning all this but remember some people feel uncomfortable discussing these."
"Ok. But why is that?"
"This is a private affair, and not everyone is at ease discussing it. And not all children your age are aware of this unless their parents or teachers at school inform them."
"Can I watch this with appa?"
"Sure, if he feels comfortable. It will be nice for him to also know that we spoke about this."
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She did watch it with her father, but beyond nodding and saying the video was good, they didn’t engage in a lot of conversation about it.
She and I also briefly discussed gay, lesbian, and transgender relationships. And, to be honest, I know very little about their lives and world. I am learning alongside her.
It is true that discussing difficult topics with our children elevates our relationship to a new level. There is more openness and less secrecy, more bonding and less disconnection.
We also had lengthy conversations about abuse (molestation/rape), human trafficking, and prostitution.
I hope to write about them separately in the near future.
In the meantime, I’m enjoying being a mom-in-progress!
Sripriya Ravi Kumar (known to most as Priya Ravi) is a homeschooling parent based in Hyderabad. Together with her daughter Deeksha, now 10, she explores natural learning. She also holds the position of Marketing Executive at an Ed-Tech company, where she shares her expertise and continually learns about the latest trends and developments in the educational sector.
With Polyamory, I Grew Into The Person (And Lover) I Was Meant To Be
For years, I questioned if I could expand the definition of a loving relationship. And then, I did.
Written by Anon
Illustrated by Gayatri
In collaboration with Bangalore Polycules
This story is an edited version of one of the many personal narratives of polyamory collected by Bangalore Polycules.
Ten years ago, I had already given thought to and discussed non-monogamy in my mono relationship with my partner at the time. I used to work very long hours in a bank, and he was a student who gave massages for a living and was often propositioned. It seemed unfair to hold him to an exclusively sexual relationship with me, young as we were. He’d never actually acted on any of the propositions, since he worried that I would not be able to handle it when it happened for real, and he didn't want to risk our relationship.
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When our relationship turned long-distance I started to have trouble with my end of monogamy. I was meeting interesting people in interesting contexts and I wanted to explore things further. I ended up cheating on him and felt so miserable for breaking the rules of our partnership. Yet, the act itself did not seem wrong. It came from a place of love,how could that be wrong?
Traditional relationship knowledge had taught me that if I truly loved him, I would not want to cheat on him. However, here I was cheating, and yet I was perfectly sure of my deep and true love of him. Could traditional relationship advice be wrong then?
That relationship ended, but I had realised something that I could not unsee. There was more to relationships than what I saw around me: people who stayed together, often lying to their partners and themselves, denying their natural feelings, and yet they were considered to be a ‘relationship success’. That's not the kind of relationship success I wanted. I wanted real intimacy, real depth, complete honesty!
Polyamory to me is the right to be myself. The right to explore my full human potential, in love and in life. Polyamory has taught me not to take myself for granted, nor my partners. I have never been shy of doing hard work to invest in my loved ones. In polyamory, the effort pays off with multiple strong, honest, loving relationships I can count on, just like family. It holds each of us accountable for ourselves and our actions.
I feel blessed and lucky to have found partners who also envision and believe in the kind of life and love I seek. I absolutely love it when my partners enjoy each other's company. That is my favorite feeling in polyamory... to see two people I love sharing and coming together.
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My monogamous friends don't understand it. They keep asking me: How do you do it? How do you take a vacation with two partners and an ex? How do you host a party where three of your partners are cracking jokes with each other? How do you do a date night at home while your live-in sweetie joins you both for a drink?
Equal credit goes to my partners who have done the work with me - building and fortifying our relationship, talking and staying through the hard times, trusting that it is worth it at the end. Polyamory has made me far more individualistic and collaborative, both at the same time. Funnily enough. I am less dependent on my partners, less prone to blame games and rigidity, more honest, more open to closeness. What I have learned: Poly is not easy. It is not for the lazy or change averse.
Polyamory has made me far more individualistic and collaborative, both at the same time. Funnily enough. I am less dependent on my partners, less prone to blame games and rigidity, more honest, more open to closeness. What I have learned: Poly is not easy. It is not for the lazy or change averse.
Insecurity triggers can be super random or unreasonable. When you invest well though and stay honest, the payoff can be immense.
Anon identifies as a liberal bisexual Indian woman.
I Want To Feel Cared For Even When I’m Having Casual Sex
The ‘no strings attached,’ nature of casual sex meant that I was left feeling dissatisfied and dehumanized. But being open about my need to be nurtured opened up a whole new world.
Written by Shatakshi Whorra
Illustrations by Sharanya Ravi
When I moved back to Delhi after graduate school, I finally wanted to pay attention to the parts of my adult life that had taken a backseat during the pandemic. I felt sure of the two things I needed the most—an inviting home and a colourful sex life. My hope for my new house was that if I had spent enough time in my kitchen brewing coffee and on my walls plastering it with dried-up flowers, bought as spontaneous gestures of love, my home would begin to smell of familiarity. I carefully curated corners of my house with unironic art and bought a sprawling lilac couch for my living room. Whatever adequately represented who I was made it through the cut, and I let it sediment in my bare apartment. In contrast to the warmth in my home, not a lot of serious thought went into setting up my Hinge profile. After gaining the quick approval of a couple of girlfriends, I began dating exhaustively.
There were midnight walks and bike rides, followed by catchy names that could spark an instant connection in case any of these men had to be recounted at a moment’s notice amongst girlfriends. There was the two-second boy, the lizard guy, the tired lawyer dude, the could-have-fucked-a-pillow-and-not-known-the-difference-boy — I tried to be innovative; evidently, I sometimes failed. These casual dates would often lead to casual sex. The following morning, I would leave the houses of my partners mostly feeling drained and dissatisfied. For the most part, this was not for the lack of sexual chemistry but for how often my sexual partners had been completely out of tune with my body. Despite being physically present, they always somehow felt emotionally absent. Most of my partners would stay the night, but that barely made any difference. Perhaps it would have been easier had they left in the middle of the night; at least the hope for a shift in intimacy would not have hovered over my naked body.

Through conversations with friends who had felt similarly, I knew I could not make peace with what the casual dating scene had to offer. The two seconds fuck and leave, the sparseness of conversations around sexual satisfaction and the ghosting felt like the raw end of a deal I had never consented to. I quickly found myself in a place in life where I neither wanted to jump into a long-term monogamous relationship nor did I want meaningless “casual sex” anymore. When I think of casual relationships, I heavily borrow from the cultural parlance that surrounds them. These relationships are non-committal and evade a deep sense of responsibility to the other. Casual relationships, by definition, in their “casualness”, involve little to no strings attached. From one-night stands, fuck buddies, friends with benefits, and booty calls, the arrangements of casual sex are as vibrant as sex itself. At the time, casual sex had felt liberating because it had given me the space to experiment with the voraciousness of my sexual appetite. However, the few times that I did receive care in them, I realised it had totally caught me off guard. It had almost felt jarring because of how unfamiliar it was in my former sexual encounters.
A friend had shared Ella Dawson’s essay, “Stop Calling It ‘Casual Sex” which perfectly articulated what I was feeling in this phase of my life. Dawson questions the foundation of casual sex which is had with the intention that “it is not supposed to matter.” Care which is a given in committed relationships has always felt like a lot to ask for in a casual relationship. It made me wonder if non-committal relationships like situationships and my need for nurture were mutually exclusive concepts.
Whenever my romantic relationships have fallen short, I have always turned to my friendships with the women in my life for answers. These friendships have always refused to fall within conventional labels — they have been overtly erotic, exquisitely romantic, and often sexual. Care, which has been sparse in my sexual encounters with men, has been the overwhelming theme of my friendships. The women in my life have nurtured me in ways that I can only dream of and hope for in a potential sexual partner. My friends have made sure that I reach home safely after a night out, check in with me regularly and even more so when I don’t seem like myself. They have had unwavering faith in my ability to get my shit together even when I thought I couldn’t. Their care is not a placeholder but has set the standard of the ways in which I expect my partners to show up just as my girlfriends had. It made care seem like a very real and reasonable possibility in the glow of which I had truly felt nourished.
I also look to my roommate and the relationship that she shares with her plants to understand the ordinary nature of care. She adores them— she rubs oil on them gently with a washcloth in a motion delicate and soft that not a spot is left untouched by her care. She thinks that this will protect them from unwanted pests. I’ve even caught her speaking to them in hushed tones because she believes it will lead to their longevity. She is uncompromising in her acts of care, even if they might be slightly whacky, unheard of, or might not even lead to the results she hopes for. But, in that moment she truly believes with her whole heart that is what they need. Similarly, in casual relationships, acts of care allow us to fulfill each other’s needs so that a trusting meaningful relationship can be built outside of the willingness to commit. The undefined nature of casual relationships itself offers redeeming possibilities to build healthy relationships outside of the structure of monogamy. This elasticity gives us the room to tailor care to our and our partner’s needs which can look radically different for each of us. It allows us to be loved in as many ways as possible without having to make a choice between our need for sex or emotional intimacy.
A couple of months ago, my then-partner and I tried the Shibari knot — an ancient Japanese technique often used in bondage. As my partner interlaced this crimson velvety rope trailing it around my thighs and calves, he paused and explained with almost scientific objectivity, “Do you feel how tight it is?”, I nodded. Pointing at the small piece of rope that lay abandoned on my right ankle, he said, “The knot is supposed to unravel the moment you pull at this loose end.” Knowing that this quick release was at my disposal made me instantly feel at ease. The accessibility of opting out that I knew I had is ingrained into the fabric of BDSM. Through clear conversations and safe words, kinky sex prioritises communication in ways that not a lot of other types of relationships know how to. Situationships, friends with benefits, one-night stands and hook-ups do not exist on the fringes of the modern dating world but are equally or if not dominant modes of dating.
Often, questionable behaviour like ghosting, being dishonest or unclear about intentions or slow-fading leads to hurting people and loathing bodies in its wake.
To value care as essential to casual sex isn’t to homogenise it but what it can potentially do is make it acceptable to talk without hesitation with our sexual partners, about what works for us and what doesn’t. Conversations around casual sex and casual relationships are important because they allow us to create sustainable practices of fucking, where no strings attached sex doesn’t necessarily also have to mean sex that leaves us feeling dehumanized, spent, and worn out.
BDSM in this regard pushes the boundaries in a normative society and prioritizes consent and transparent conversations above everything else. Care in casual relationships can exist on a spectrum ranging from truthful communication to tender gestures — there is no one-size that fits all. I know some of my friends prefer that their partners spend the night, another friend likes to spend quality time with her partner outside of the hot sex they have, and some of my friends have a breakfast ritual with their booty call. I, too, have found myself similarly placed with respect to my casual dates. I like spending time with them, getting to know them and occasionally going out, all in the service of intimate, passionate, and sometimes kinky sex.
Another catastrophe of lack of care is how easily it can slip into the territory of sexual transgression. There is a fine line between sex devoid of care and sex that is unpleasant. My point in talking about this is any sex where performance takes precedence resulting in a partner being treated as an object, is sex that is being had on an extremely slippery slope. In sexual encounters where care and consent are absent, there is often a shared custody of dehumanisation. In a lot of ways, care and consent can not only work in collaboration but care can also act in the service of consent. There is nothing sexier than a partner willing to understand and talk about your kinks, is tuned into your body to ensure that you are truly present and is interested in offering aftercare. Care under no circumstances replaces consent but works towards creating intimate and safe spaces where these conversations can be had with ease.
Communicating our innermost desires and our needs in casual sex can demystify our ideas about how sex can be casual and caring at the same time. Lack of care in casual relationships often stems from the anxiety of making sure that one foot is out of the door permanently. It comes from the pressure to abide by the constructs of a casual encounter, lest you get called out for seeming too attached in this who-cares-less-Russian-roulette. I have been determined to be on the losing end of this bargain and in the process, I have met some wonderful people. I have been able to talk openly with potential partners about care being one of my non-negotiables. I want good sex as much as I want to be cuddled — maybe even make breakfast together, if that means we would be treating each other as people with full lives and even fuller hearts.
When I have been vulnerable with my kind partners about my needs, I have mostly been thanked for my openness. I have sensed a palpable ease in my sex buddies being able to express this desire for care in return. This realization that care was important to me even if I was seeing people casually, also helped wean away potential partners who were unwilling to offer anything other than a quick fuck. My partners and I have subsequently been able to hold space for the ways in which we want to be loved and supported. Whether it was for my partners to call me more frequently, or be gentler during sex, the underlying security of being cared for has led to greater sexual comfort. Being able to admit hurt or articulating when we wanted different things created the space to negotiate our sexy arrangement without either of us feeling like we were being too much. We could ask for more oral sex, less penetrative sex or more time outside the bedroom if that’s what we needed. These honest conversations created a space to assume accountability to each other, not out of guilt but with a common understanding that as people our sexual appetite was as important as our deep-seated desire to be cared for.
Shatakshi has been chipping away at her New Year resolution to write more, read more! Her writing critically analyses all things gender and culture. She has been previously published in Gulmohar Quarterly, Jaggery Lit, Alipore Post and Feminism in India.
My Period Turns Me On, In Ways You Can't Image (As Told To A Lover)
It smells like a deeply ferrous tang, seductive like flowers or the night air, but richer, funkier.
Written by Shubha
Illustrated by Anshumaan Sathe
You like to discover little details about me, no? Here’s one. I wash my crotch twice when I’m on my period. I’ve been doing this for so long that it’s automatic now, no thinking required. The lather is always pink on the first rinse, and a little rotten-smelling (yes of course I sniff at it, I’m a sniffer — thought you knew that detail by now). Anyway, I soap again, the lather is creamy white the second time around, I wash it away and get on with the rest of my bath.
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And now (lucky you) a bonus detail — for some months, not long ago, something splendid wedged itself between rinse one and rinse two. I was lathering vigorously today when the memory of that other, short-lived habit rose up through the suds.
I would do the first rinse as usual, cleaning away the oxidized maroon gunk from in between my thighs. Then I would take a deep breath and slide a finger into my vagina for some of the fresh stuff, the bright red sauce my finger would come back out coated in. And then I would bring that up to my face and take another breath. The deepest breath of all time. The first inhale of the day hits the hardest, the first inhale of the month doubly so. That same briney wallop of a sea breeze, only less salty, more rusty, ah how do I say it —
— wait, let me run to the bathroom to sniff at the primary source — no it’s too late, my sixth day, only a sour hint of pee now — reaching back into memory then —
— a deeply ferrous tang, I guess you could call it. Seductive like flowers or the night air, but think richer, funkier — like sweat-drenched silk or too much attar. I would breathe that in, over and over and over, and it would fill me with a pleasure that is proving visceral to remember but impossible to describe.
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Perhaps this would be easier to convey if you were living as I was at that time. Imagine: you spend all your time in what can be called a colourless, odourless apartment. You may interact with another human for around sixty seconds this week, and if you do, it’ll be with two masks on. All you smell is the freshness of laundry, and the dull creaminess of bottled curry paste (in which you cook vegetables that smell of nothing). The only produce with any bouquet is a bunch of mint. You stuff your face into it, and immediately regret doing that because it hasn’t been double-sanitized and left out to disinfect overnight. This is the sort of spare scent-scape in which you stand a heightened chance of observing and appreciating the twang of your own menstrual blood.
It amuses me that I plunge into my vagina for this delight. You know I don’t otherwise go there in pursuit of pleasure. My lips have been gloriously sufficient for as long as I can recall, for longer than I’ve been menstruating, and up until now, my periods were only a dampener when it came to my rich finger life. If I ever did play around during that time of the month, it was in spite of my period, because a daydream or a conversation with you snowballed into something luscious and unrefusable. I would likely pause long enough to spread a towel out below me, and would certainly run to the sink and wash up afterwards, holding the bloody fingers aloft until I did.
But now I find myself here, in this white-tiled bathroom lit with slant rays of mild spring sunshine, reaching inside time and again for one last hit, no, one more final hit, of this bottomless ruby glory that presses me up against the wall, that arches my back, that undoes every knot of tension and boredom in my belly. It is a full release and a reliable one, and I find I can plumb its depths for a good deal more. I tell myself to only ride the magic wave, not question it — but of course I will question, because I want this, this pleasure that I have discovered all on my own, that I pursued without anyone telling me that it is something I might or must like, I want it to explain something intrinsic and virtuous about me.
There surely isn’t any virtue involved here, but at least there isn’t any murkiness either — a kink for me to treasure, it seems, one so untethered from any sense I have of myself that it comes with no connotation, positive or negative. Someone else may tangle this up with desires to birth, to mother, to nurture, but I know enough of myself to understand that isn’t it — it’s an alive-and-kicking-ness for sure, but one that’s all mine. If anything, it conjures visions of some deity, Kali dancing atop the world.
Now many moons later, I roam the scent-ient world with a mask stuffed into my back pocket, and my period is once again a minor nuisance instead of a major sensation. I luxuriate instead in the silky salty note of your skin after a game of badminton, or (sincere apologies for the juxtaposition) in the ripe bouquet of pig’s blood before I slurp from my bowl of boat noodles. For now I lean back, my pleasure powering past the discomfort of the cold hard tile wall, and soak in the scent for a little bit, before I start the second rinse.
How To Get Naked In Front Of Another Person And Be Cool With It
Taking your clothes off in front of someone can be scary, exciting, uncertain, sexy and even funny. Read below to find out what some Agents felt when they got naked for the first time!
Illustrated by Ramu
People Said I Should Drop Some Kilos, Instead I Shed My Shame
I want to marvel at fat women with fat minds and I want to marvel at myself.
By Nikita Rakhra
Illustrated by Shrobontika Dasgupta
The first time I bought something that was smaller for me, I was ten years old. Well, it wasn’t I who did the shopping but Mumma. We went shopping for a wedding and in a store right next to home. I found the prettiest purple lehenga. It was the outfit of my dreams and Mumma loved it too. I tried it on in the small wooden dressing room that was on the third floor, away from the hustle-bustle of the store. The only problem was that the skirt was just a little too tight. It went over my big thunder thighs, but the zip refused to close. I felt like crying when it didn’t fit, I wanted to use my nails to claw out parts of my fat so that I could fit into the lehenga. After a few more tugs, a few more commands to suck my stomach in, Mumma looked at me with such disappointment. Her ten-year-old daughter couldn’t even fit in clothes meant for a twelve-year-old.
In that tiny little dressing room, Mumma told me she was buying the lehenga for me and I had a week to lose weight and fit into it.
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That was the first time I tried going on a diet and it was the first time I ever exercised. For a whole week before the wedding, I started using the treadmill. I used to walk on it for 20 minutes just before dinner. I remember that I could never feel my legs after these 20 minutes and I would always need to steady myself before going to the living room for dinner.
My dinner for that one week was fairly simple – a glass of milk and a banana. I don’t remember anything else from that week, only that the lehenga was slightly loose for me and that Mumma was so proud.
* * *
I don’t know what to think of the word fat. I tell myself that it isn’t a bad word, just an adjective used to describe a physical attribute. And yet, no matter how many times I repeat these words to myself, I don’t really believe them. I call myself fat and I feel bad, because some part of my brain says ‘you shouldn’t be fat.’ Being fat just means that clothes fit you awkwardly and that doctors don’t really ever diagnose you but instead blame your weight for whatever problem you’re going through.
To me, fat is more a weapon than a word. I think of people that I don’t like as fat, sometimes comparing them to myself on the scale of fatness and deeming them just slightly fatter than I am.
Every time I do this, I also think, “This is not how it should be. Not how I, or anyone, should look at or think about fat people.” But then, is there really a ‘should?’ Is there any one lens through which fat people must be gazed at?
In a 2017 essay, author Carmen Maria Machado writes:
Whenever I see a fat woman with a fat mind who is excellent in that fat way that I love, I want to be her handmaiden. I want to kiss her feet and the hem of her dress. To rub her aching shoulders. To follow after her on my knees with a dish of milk in my unworthy hands.
I want to see fatness the same way Machado sees it. I want to marvel at fat women with fat minds and I want to marvel at myself.
Was I actually fat, back then? I certainly thought so, but looking at photos years later—when I am actually, clinically obese, the kind that makes you bad at doctor’s appointments and great at online shopping—I look ordinary.
Machado mentions how she thought she was fat when she actually really wasn’t and when I read this part, I just let out a tired “oh same.”
There are rarely days when I have been happy with how I look, with how my body is shaped. I look at old pictures sometimes, from when I was around 12 and I wonder why I don’t weigh that much now. I know, I know, a 20-year-old should never weigh the same as a 12-year-old, but sometimes I wonder why I didn’t focus on the body I wanted.
***
Her body split through her wedding gown, unmoored; a dam that could no longer contain the river of her.
I rewatched The Little Mermaid after reading Machado’s essay and this time, I paid attention to Ursula, the sea-witch, instead of Prince Eric.
It took me 20 years and reading Machado to finally realise how absolutely wonderful Ursula actually is. She was the smartest character in the whole movie. She didn’t fall in love after seeing a man once and she wasn’t stupid enough to change herself because of that man. Ursula capitalised on how naïve Ariel was, and stole the show in all her red-lipsticked glory. She had a personality that seemed too big to fit in one frame and I feel like that is why her giant tentacles made sense to me. Her body seemed never ending because that much brilliant-ness (for lack of a better word), cannot possibly be contained.
Machado describes Ursula as lascivious and vulgar, ambitious and arrogant. This description was my absolute favourite part of the entire piece. In photos, my shoulders are always curved and drawn in, to try and make myself look smaller. I want to reach a point where someone uses the words lascivious and arrogant to describe me.
Perhaps that’s the body I want.
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***
In 2021, I was alone on most days. I could do absolutely anything I wanted and I decided to stretch my body a little further than I should have.
It was nice being alone. I could exercise for hours and no one would stop me. I would put on a video on my laptop, with my pink yoga mat under my feet and move till I couldn’t anymore. I usually ended these hours not being able to move anymore, laying on my mat, a layer of sweat painted on both of us. Lying there, I could feel every inch of my body, I could sense even the smallest difference in my body, my stomach was flatter than before, my arms felt stronger. I thought I was getting healthier.
Exercise wasn’t enough though, so I stopped eating. Not completely of course, but I made sure that I never ate more than one or two meals a day. It was quite easy to follow my own workout routine and diet because no one was around to check me. I never felt like I was doing something wrong, I knew I was pushing my body, but it felt right.
I was working hard to get what I always wanted – a thin body and I was so close.
Being thin doesn’t make everything magical and Disney movie-esque, that happens no matter what size you are but I didn’t know that. I thought everything would be easier, I would do better with exams, I would be less anxious, I would be better with people, and I would finally be attractive enough for a guy. That really wasn’t true though and while some things have changed, it isn’t because I am thin or because I am fat.
***
I met Aryan on a random day in a random month, but I remember our first conversation. I remember how we became friends and I remember the first time I cried because of him.
He and I got too close too fast. I felt like I could tell him everything about myself and it would be alright, because it was him and he understood me. He saw me have multiple panic attacks, he helped me when I couldn’t eat, and I thought he was what I needed in my life.
Something changed and I don’t know if he noticed. I don’t know if he ever meant to hurt me but I hoped that he would worry about me, worry that he was losing me and that everything around us wasn’t as happy and light anymore.
“I am attracted to you, just not enough.”
Liking him was never a problem, I think I liked him a bit too much. The problem was that I stopped liking myself after I met him. I don’t know if he actually liked me or if he was just bored and I happened to be around. It is scary to think that it could be the latter, but it makes sense. He wasn’t the type of person to care about anyone but himself.
I don’t know if my mind or the alcohol I had that night is responsible for me not remembering the first time we kissed. The only thing I remember is his hands on my waist and my tears after he left. I do know this is when everything changed, I didn’t know what to think of my relationship with him anymore because we weren’t really friends anymore, just two people who shared a secret.
“You toh only know how to do one thing – not eat.”
“Your face is too big for your body I think.”
I stopped being friends with him a while before we actually stopped talking, I was holding onto the memory of a friendship that I thought was important. I didn’t feel like I was a friend to him anymore, I felt like I was a chore at times and useful only when he needed something from me.
When I did tell him I liked him, all I got was a thank you. The tears started and couldn’t stop because I really did fall in love with a man who didn’t deserve a second of my time. Most of our time together, I found myself apologising to him, but I probably should have apologised to myself.
It was suffocating being around him but I thought this was what liking someone felt like. When I was younger, I accidently stepped on an ant hill and all the ants started climbing over my foot in revenge. That feeling of an army of ants swarming over me is how I felt when I spent time with Aryan.
***
Clothes come in different sizes, but for some reason people think it’s better to change their own size instead of going for a larger size that already exists.
Little hypocritical of me because I still buy clothes that are smaller for me. I think it is easier to comment when other people are involved, but whenever someone tells me that I should probably buy clothes my own size, I get defensive. This isn’t just with clothes though, if anyone ever comments on my weight or my food habits, I feel weird. It feels like a very thin layer of shame is covering me, like that thin layer of sweat after a workout. I always look for ways out, reasons to explain why I am wearing that particular dress or why I am eating two slices of bread instead of one.
When I go shopping with Mumma now, she picks clothes that are too big for me. I cannot pinpoint when this change happened but I know it was a slow one. I was told that I need to wear clothes that do not touch my skin, that do not stick to my rolls and bulges. I was expected to cover myself, to wear a disguise, so that no one can actually tell if I am fat or not.
Mumma and I were shopping for my birthday and I found myself a pair of blue linen pants. They fit perfectly but Mumma thought that they showed too much of me. When we were at the billing counter, she asked for the same pair of pants, but two sizes up. She thought it would fit perfectly, and cover just what needed to be covered. I have never actually worn those pants because they never stay on my hips and I need to constantly hold onto them, worrying about accidentally flashing someone.
I grew up trying to fit into something that was far too small for me and now I am told to always pick a bigger size, to hide myself. It’s being constantly told ‘You don’t fit’ and ‘You don’t fit in’.
For a long time, I thought I should be a Disney princess. Then, I fell in love with Ursula and her muchness. But I wonder, what happens if I get to be a little of both. If my body has the pleasure and ease of expanding and contracting and changing. Who says my body has to be an either/or. Maybe it’s actually everything.
***
Nikita is a third-year student currently preparing for a law degree. She loves sports, and would sell a few family members to see Lewis Hamilton.
Somewhere Between Mills & Boon, Assault and A Dutiful Husband - I Discovered That Sex Is Power
It was only during my honeymoon that I realised that sex could be painful.
Written by Midas
Illustrated by Maitri Dore
We moved to our hometown, a not-so-small place in Uttar Pradesh, when I was just a little girl. My father thought this was the right decision after his early retirement from a government job with the Defence Services in Mumbai. Moving from that buzzing metropolis to this conservative town in Uttar Pradesh was a huge cultural shock for me and the other kids. It was like we went straight from the freedom and confidence of Mumbai to a place that suffocated us with its supremely judgemental atmosphere. I felt like a fish out of water there.
I did not know that wearing a skirt on Holi would turn out to be a deadly invitation for sexual assault in that town. A bunch of 8-10 boys attacked me from behind. I walked home with silver handprints on my shirt and my skirt. Those stains clearly screamed ‘assault’ louder than my suppressed sobs. It was all painful and ghastly, and not only have I hated Holi since then, but also hated those who enjoy it!
[[https://agentsofishq.com/uploads/2023/03-March/04-Sat/Midas%201.jpg]]
And yet, amidst all this, somehow my sexual awareness began. All that I encountered outside was at odds with what surged inside me.
I remember stealthily reading erotic literature that elders in my family had. Especially my Mom’s ‘Manohar Kahaniyan’ and her Bengali magazines with arousing pictures and graphic advertisements of I-still-don’t-know-what! I also graduated to Uncle’s novels like ‘The Day of the Jackal’ and the ones by Harold Robbins. It took me many years to unearth my Dad’s ‘The Sensuous Woman,’ though. Finding Mills and Boon novels made things even better – those sensuous, sentimental novels supplied by a tiny second-hand bookstore in our town became my staple diet.
These books gave me many ‘unholy desires’ which I continued to satisfy locked up in the smouldering heat of our tiny washroom, lost in the imaginary world of romance and sensual self-stimulation. I would also daydream about my then teenage crush tenderly merging into my being, of course, in typical Mills and Boon style.
Meanwhile, my mother told my father that she was concerned about my new voracious reading appetite. My father dutifully tried to give me a sermon about how different the real world was from the rosy romances glorified by Mills and Boon and immortalised by Barbara Cartland. He also subtly advised me to preserve the jewel between my thighs for the one-deserving-man who would be my husband. Little did he know that the jewel between my thighs had been giving me plenty of pleasure already. I mean, my mother must have wondered why my poor teddy stank of pee when I was just in grade 1! Umm!
All this self-exploration did not come easy to me though. There was always a whirlpool of guilt because of the many incidents of sexual abuse. In fact, a certain sense of suffocating in shame and guilt remained with me whenever I felt the normal stirrings of sexual longing.
I was sexually abused multiple times in that town, and also in Mumbai, as a kid, barely in primary school. This one time, I was singing and running down the stairs to go to the grocery store for toffees when I bumped into our Driver Uncle. He often used to bundle all the kids into a jeep for a ride around the housing complex before starting his official duties for my father’s colleague.
But that day, he hurt me both physically and emotionally. There was another incident when I was travelling with my family on a train. I was assaulted by a moustachioed man when I stepped out of the lavatory into the cramped space of the compartment corridor. I was only in Grade 7 then and have been extremely suspicious of day-time travellers boarding and travelling in reserved compartments ever since. Pleasurable sex seemed like a distant dream, a possibility so remote, I couldn’t even envision it.
But, after a point even a darpok like me decided to take control and fight back. When an insolent fellow groped me in a crowded marketplace, I chased him and delivered a solid whack to his butt. But, he was dressed as such a decent gentleman that outraged bystanders tried to hide him from my ‘unjustified-wild-attacks’!
Over time, I grew to be cautious. I wore baggy clothes and glasses firmly perched on my nose - like a dowdy schoolmarm. I judged people who could casually flirt and maintain friendships with boys. I couldn’t trust boys. So, I convinced myself that I was too ugly, unsmart, uninteresting and unexciting to ever get any attention from them.
That was a rather confusing phase of life. On one hand, I felt inadequate and conscious of my body image because I was tall and broad-shouldered with hardly enough breasts to be considered feminine. On the other hand, I was getting molested almost every time I stepped outside. Was I pretty and attractive or not? Or, did I have some evil X-factor marking me as easily ‘molestable’?
And yet, somehow, I was still a stupid romantic fool at heart. I believed that someday I too would get married and fall in love or learn to love.
When I think of my earliest imaginations of marriage, I remember how my dear father suggested that I preserve the jewel between my thighs for my future husband. When I showed that ‘loving letter’ to my closest friend, she was aghast by this bold and candid advice. I think my father might have tried to sensitise me about marriage and real-life, later in life, but he died in a dreadful accident at sea. And, I was left with this jewel-saving advice, the memories of harassment, and the secret thrills of erotica I had read.
None of this prepared me for the physical reality of marriage. No amount of research on stealthily stolen books or magazines, biology classes on the reproductive system, curious surreptitious study of my fully aroused Doberman’s anatomy, nothing was actually real enough. It was only during my honeymoon that I realised that sex could be painful.
[[https://agentsofishq.com/uploads/2023/03-March/04-Sat/Midas%202.jpg]]
I was upset and angry about not being warned about this pain. But, well-meaning relatives and even medical professionals in those days were usually so tight-lipped about so many important concepts like vaginismus and dyspareunia anyway.
Thankfully, my honeymoon was not a total disaster. My equally virgin husband acted on good advice and served me a gin-spiked-Coke. That actually helped me relax at least a little though it didn’t stop me from gabbling nonsense all night. But while I talked easily enough, my tense muscles refused to cooperate.
It was much later that I discovered my own reasons for freezing up. My experiences with sexual assault, humiliation, and more, were weighing down on me and had brought me to this point. I have tears in my eyes even as I write this, thinking about the sensitive heart of my hubby, who never has ever forced himself on me, and bears all my sexual eccentricities with gentle compassion. My tangled journey has been decades in the making, and this writing is my attempt to unravel it now.
As if the honeymoon experience was not enough, I had yet another rocky start to my married life. My well meaning Mom had thought it was necessary to find a way for me to avoid the trouble of periods during the wedding rituals, and thus I was dutifully prescribed some pills to shift the dates of my chums. That threw my regular monthly schedule into total disarray, combined with the nausea and side effects of the pills. Meanwhile some friends from our progressive girls’ college had given me an advertisement for a new product that promised a hassle-free, liberating experience - the ‘Today’ pessary.
This was supposed to act as a shield against unwanted ‘accidents’ in case other forms of protection failed or weren’t used.
‘Today’ had just been launched in the Indian market and was available only through mail order. I must have been one of their pioneering customers, I think.
The consequence of using that pessary was dreadful. By the time I moved to my husband’s place of posting in a remote town in Himachal, I had already started feeling discomfort in my private parts. I kept quiet about it, believing it to be a usual occurrence due to all of the disturbances in routine and the travel. I also thought maybe I was just sensitive to synthetics - in this case, rubber from the condoms we used.
My hubby dearest had to go on field duty two days after he got me home. For the next fortnight, I was all alone in an alien environment where I knew only my landlady and the neighbour on the ground floor. I still remember the agony of my first UTI - I thought I was dying and had no clue how or whom to describe my plight. When my hubby returned, we travelled on a rickety, borrowed scooter for two, long, agonising hours, up and down the bumpy hill roads, to consult the only lady doctor in that district. We found she was on unofficial leave for some puja at her house.
We still waited for a couple of hours before we headed back to consult the only (male) doctor in that remote hill hamlet. He sat in a tin-shed near the bus stand, and had at least twenty patients waiting to consult him at any hour. But, oh my god, the effect of the medicines he prescribed was immediate and just magical. That humble unassuming doctor was my saviour.
A few months later when I went to my hometown for my brother’s wedding, I heard many of my friends had used the ‘Today’ pessary and had similar painful experiences. Since then, I made it a mission to caution women on the threshold of marriage about the basics of hygiene before intercourse, and also about using pessaries and recognising and addressing symptoms of urinary tract infections.
Honestly, when it came to my marriage, I just wanted to live by my mother’s well-meaning advice: Be an ideal daughter-in-law, a truly sanskari bahu so that no one could blame my widowed mother for not “bringing me up with the appropriate family values.” Besides, in a stereotypical Indian marriage, you are supposedly blessed to be married to a compatible and suitably-earning man from a respectable family where they can provide you with all the basic necessities of life. The woman should just learn to adjust to the expectations and demands of her man after that. I truly never expected or believed I deserved much more that that.
Sex or satisfaction simply don’t count, at least not for the woman in a marriage. While my husband did try his best to be an enlightened partner, studiously trying out all that the forbidden XXX journals prescribed, I don’t really remember ever experiencing a high during the act with him.
One day, while I was dutifully trying to ‘make myself learn to love’ my hubby, he was staring at the wall-calendar like a zombie. He was in the throes of peak excitement when I realised he was actually fantasising about a rather silly-looking girl on that wall-calendar. I was devastated, scandalised, outraged, but most of all, vulnerable in my bitter hurt. I thought I was definitely prettier than that cheaply-dressed twig wearing a mini skirt. Besides, she just happened to be on the calendar of a local bartan-wala’s shop. It was I who was partnering him in that intimate act, and yet I was far from his mind.
It hit me hard. I thought to myself: Men don’t need a loving woman to turn them on. Their turn-ons can be anyone in any form at any goddamn time. Friends, relatives, neighbours, strangers, film stars or porn stars. So, ironically, I finally learnt the meaning of ‘a pole in the hole’ being the ideal description of the sexual act! (Had giggled over it in school!) There was no place for love in sex, I felt.
All this time I had never once experienced an orgasm with him.
I remember one time when I did experience an ‘O’, though . I was a mother of two by then. I was travelling in a rattling ambassador cab to a hill station and feeling extremely exhausted and angry at my in-laws. They had arrived at our tiny flat in a group of five, and expected the royal treatment from their bahu who was already drained by an excessively breastfeeding infant. While fuming at the brutal injustice of this, I actually fantasized about the uncouth cab driver. And, I experienced a mind blowing O! No one detected my ‘crime.’ but I felt repulsed by that incident. ’ Love and sex are not always the same indeed.
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Over the years, I began to use sex as a privilege to exercise some control in my marriage. I cannot pinpoint exactly how this started. But, perhaps it was when I grew far too overwhelmed with domestic chores and the physically exhausting demands of mothering my two little darling daughters. I felt relentlessly judged by a patriarchal family and society. I discovered that the only weapon I had was to hold out or refuse some forms of sex. It was a painfully slow growth of self-confidence but I did begin to learn to assert myself in my relationship!
I was a fiercely protective mother to my daughters. I wanted to make my daughters understand the difference between good touch and bad touch. I could not let them have horrid experiences like me. But, I also worry that I may have soured my kids on pleasure and trust permanently? I often wonder to myself, ‘Is it because of me that neither of them have any long-lasting relationships?’
Life may be an endless discovery of disillusionment but companionship is what matters the most. Physical intimacy might be far from entirely satisfying but it does provide some sustaining moments of pleasure. Fat bellies, incongruent sleep patterns, physical exhaustion and poor libido notwithstanding, one does derive some sexual pleasure at regular intervals to remain sane. Of course you need to add on a couple of absolutely essential body massage experiences too! You finally discover that in all probability, the Prince didn’t go riding into the sunset with his beloved Princess, but rather realistically, they both fell asleep under a shady tree, with the gentle sound of a rippling stream amidst the intoxicating fragrance of water lilies! That would be a truly satisfying fairy tale ending!
I hope my daughters have a different life, perhaps not a fairy tale, but one that involves a more fulfilling idea of companionship and trust in their romantic and sexual lives.
Midas spent a lot of time in a cocoon, before metamorphosing into a not-too-flamboyant but certainly more confident, bad-ass butterfly, touching lives, hoping to sprinkle some gold, just like her namesake!
Hyenas, Orangatuns And Discovering My (A) Sexuality
Questions, questions, and I had no answers. Until a Reddit meme showed me "Asexuals are…"
By Lonav Ojha
Illustrated by Anshumaan Sathe
"Look at her tits, bro," said my well-meaning classmate once in the social science hour.
"Eh," I replied. "They were much sexier before she decided to take her clothes off."
He looked at me like I had violated the twelve sacred commandments of porn consumption, all at once. "Kela, why would you say that? Look!"
I looked, and I looked more, and I'm sure even the teacher looked, but it wasn't until half a decade later that I understood what I should have much earlier.
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I started my schooling by making everyone believe that Power Rangers were real. "Listen to me, the Yellow Ranger stays here, at our school," I told them. All they had to do was sneak into this vacant room on the third floor with the questionably concrete stairs and he would be happy to hand out morphing gadgets. My classmates would begin arguing about which colour they get to be and then I would feel super important and cool. Thankfully, nobody would be brave enough to creep into that room, and we would never find out who lived there, possibly the watchmen, or possibly the sisters (nuns) with their stern and soft and tired faces.
Once they’d grown some pubic hair, though, my classmates forgot my scam but would no longer be part of my bullshit. They ostracised me from dhora-dhori, a game where kids chased each other like Timon and Pumba. But I didn't think anyone in my class was cute enough to be called Timon and Pumba. I thought of them as the hyenas from Lion King instead — secondary antagonists.
The hyenas in class used to laugh with their stupid teeth when they were happy and cry with their stupid teeth when they were whacked by the fat stick that the teacher used to make himself feel like a gangsta. Years later, just before matriculation, two hyenas would elope to another state after having steamy sex on Teacher's Day, manifesting some kind of post-traumatic daddy disorder that definitely goes back to the caning.
I thought I was the same as the hyenas — I wouldn't mind running off from school with my partner — but something was off. This became more and more obvious with each passing grade.
The hyenas invested their energy in riding my face through the mud fields of Assam, stealing tiffins and peeking over the urinal walls to check out the size of my dick, and then proceeded to swat me in the balls the next hour like some Spartan general testing out the limits of his army — only to lead the discussion towards girls and their pussies. I was still very preoccupied with jump-dancing in my room, slaying dragons, making pacts with wizards and charting landscapes quivering with adventures, all while imagining someone I'd share my life and my adventures with.
Clearly, I wasn't partaking in the same erotic fantasies as the hyenas, even after growing older, even after starting to find power rangers boring (the CGI had stopped looking realistic) and even after after picking up emoboy stoic philosophy and self-help books that tend to fascinate emoboys of that age. Even as I thought that was a sign of growing up, the hyenas seemed to have skipped many levels and were more enthu about Mia Khalifa and Johnny Sins. Most of them already planned to pursue science, expecting a fat salary and a hot wife who would keep them super happy like Yo Yo Honey Singh whose songs were all the rage before Ed Sheeran came and made everyone fall in love with an anonymous person's body.
Degenerates like me took humanities. I expected a different crowd here, one filled with similar degenerates. Yet half a country away, far from home, nothing changed. Everyone still had a thing for everyone else. But it was here in Bangalore that I learned the world isn’t only filled with hyenas, that there is in fact a rather strong fauna diversity to gawk at.
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Iguana, a self-established hopeless romantic in college, kept asking if I liked anyone. I kept saying no, but then she wouldn’t believe me. "How's it possible, bro?"
Cat would offer help. "What if we set you up with someone? It will be like that Community episode where they try to get Abed a girlfriend until they realise Abed could get any hot girl he wants on his own."
Raccoon, dating a guy named after a popular character from a popular Nintendo game, said she knew someone in college with a crush on me. "Nice," I replied with a straight face.
"I used to fall in love every other second," the Orangutan said. "I had once fallen in with a Cat. I later learnt that she was in love with me also. She wrote this poem and published it in the school magazine under my name. But it was too late."
In between cab rides and canteen food, Llama, who wouldn’t date anyone shorter than her, asked, "Are you sure you're straight?"
Questions, questions, and I had no answers. Until a Reddit meme showed me an incomplete keyword "Asexuals are…" and Google suggested "invading Denmark", "gods" and "coming for the iron throne."
Like some of my friends who were allies before they figured out they were queer themselves, I didn’t realise I was asexual until I began relating a little too hard with the memes. It led me to places such as r/aaaaaaacccccccce and the AVEN Wiki. The friendly spectrum-based nature of this new identity and its individually negotiated vocabulary not only gave me the dignity I deserved, but also the freedom to think outside compulsory sexuality – the assumption that all people are sexual – tattooed on the body of our society as well as its institutions and its people.
I have been in relationships before. The last one nurtured me, propelled me and seemed four years too short. I did also eventually like someone in Bangalore — a close friend of mine, an Iguana — but it wasn't until I was head over heels for her that I felt attracted to her in any other way.
It's a funny time to be on the a-spectrum in India. As a country that refuses to talk about sex, and only beginning to accept romance, I'm surrounded by old people who will celebrate my "celibacy" (provided I'm not of marriageable age yet) and sex-positive young people who will break their heads wondering how I can exhibit sexual inclinations despite being asexual.
It's also a funny time to be in the LGBTQ. A bisexual friend of mine recently said, "If you're asexual, how do you know you're not attracted to men?" He had a crush on me for years, and suggested that I try going out with men to see if it worked. Or I could kiss him and find out. This is no different from what straight people tell gay people — how will you know you're not into girls if you haven't kissed them?
The ace community parachutes in with their memes. "I think of attractive people like beautiful sunsets. I don't want to fuck a sunset."
Maslow in his triangular hierarchy of needs, very popular among psychology and business enthusiasts, had put sex at the base, along with food, shelter, air, food — the very things that keep us alive. In other words, sex must be an inextricable part of the human experience, and nothing could be more normal than wanting it bad and all the time.
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The converse must also be true. When fans asked the showrunner of Sherlock Holmes if Sherlock is asexual, he said “there’s no fun in that.” Predictably, most asexual characters on TV are aliens, robots, or psychopaths. The few characters that are human end up implied and not canonically confirmed. This reminds us of the way heteronormative studios in the 20th century coded gay characters by their dressing sense and mannerism to avoid referring to them as gay. The result being that the knowledge of asexuality and its agentic nature remains out of the mainstream and people like me wouldn’t find out that it’s a thing until much later in their lives. Over the past decade, canonical gay and lesbian characters have multiplied incessantly, with western studios trampling on each other to pursue their shiny and golden tokenism, but we await a film to explicitly mention asexuality.
It’s no wonder then that I wanted to feel visible. I wanted someone - anyone to relate to. It used to make me sad. Koisenu Futari comes to mind. The plot is basic — what if two asexual-aromantic people start living together and call it a family? (And yes, they use the terms asexual and aromantic). Watching that one Japanese drama made me feel more seen and more heard than I had in my whole life, even though I'm not aromantic, even though I inhabit the opposite end of the a-spectrum. There was something odd and crippling about the loneliness of not fitting in, especially among people already fighting from the margins. The show and the online community made me realise that there are people like me everywhere, not as visible, maybe because it's not safe to come out, maybe because there aren’t enough stories telling them what happens after, maybe because they don’t know what it means. Maybe I could do something about it.
Growing up different in every way, asexual and autistic, fantasy bridged the divide between me and the reality that be, as my power ranger stories inspired, but it also did something else. It’s given me purpose, hope and something to like about the world. It’s given me enough, until I could see the world as more than hyenas, as sparkling, funny, compassionate people who dance and love and have sex in the most brilliant and weird ways, even if I’m not into it all the time or experience it differently.
It’s given me the courage to question the essentialist assumptions of sexuality - that it’s something inherent, unchanging and meant to be quantified and fit into neatly drawn boxes, like a sorting hat that assumes you’re either one of the Four - heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, asexual - or you’re nothing at all.
Most importantly, it’s given me stories to write about, and people who might read them.
Lonav is a self-proclaimed zebra, although friends argue he’s an ostrich. He loves writing, raccoons, music, and neuroqueer conversations, among other things.
A French Fling And My Epic Romance With Masturbation
How old were you when you had your first “libido lightbulb” aka when you first got curious about sex and your body?
By Meemaw
Illustrated by Sharanya Ravi
I was ten years old when I discovered Nancy Friday’s My Secret Garden, carefully hidden under my mother’s scented saris on the topmost shelf of our Godrej almirah. The sensuous and erotic writing just blew me away. And, Nancy Friday immediately became my secret goddess.
Before reading her, I had no idea that people made love aka had sex naked. I had only watched steamy scenes in Bollywood films - so, I thought sex just involved rubbing the bodies against each other, kissing the stomach, and caressing the thighs.
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Nancy Friday taught me otherwise. So, over the next few months, I took to sneaking out the book from the almirah and relishing the juicy details of lovemaking. I also learned that I could use my pulsating thighs, my mouth, my ears and even my thick black long hair for pleasure. I was so exhilarated to be on this secret journey of pleasure and titillation that I had started doodling all this imagery on paper.
Hell broke loose the day my father discovered these doodles. My drawers and shelves were checked, and the book was confiscated. I don’t remember seeing the book after.
But Nancy Friday and the accounts of pleasure remained in my mind. At night, I would fish through my mind as I tried to remember what I had read. I remembered things like how a silk scarf can be used between the thighs to arouse oneself and one’s partner, how one could do this with their long hair, and how one’s partner could cup your breasts from the back and lick your ears as you sat on your heels. Perhaps that’s all that my juvenile mind could absorb, but that was the beginning of my sexual exploration. I was quite mind-blown by the sensation of inserting my finger into my vagina. I masturbated actively, my fertile imagination conjuring up threesomes and fivesomes.
I did not have an orgasm in my many intense masturbation sessions then though. Possibly because I had not known enough about where that elusive spot was - the G-spot or even the clitoris.
I was 17 when I first kissed a guy. Though I did have a physically intimate relationship with a senior from school and we spent some beautiful afternoons in his bedroom kissing and caressing each other's bodies, penetration never happened as this boy also had a reputation of being a flirt and had already had an affair with my best friend. I felt I could not trust him and I was not ready for the ‘next step’.
Then, I went to a girl’s college - so, there was not much scope of meeting guys.
Later when I started working, I just poured all my energy into work. I did like two men but both of them had girlfriends, so again I was not too comfortable being intimate with either of them. In many of my intimate encounters, no matter the surging feelings inside me, I also felt I had to be alert all the time to something…maybe to avoid the hurt of being ‘used’ by men, as we were told.
Finally though, when I turned 24, I had my first orgasm. With myself.
This was soon after reading not erotica but actually this novel 11 minutes by Paolo Coelho. At the age of 15, Maria - the protagonist of that story - had discovered orgasm on a fine afternoon when no one was at home. She says: Orgasm!
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It was like floating up to heaven and then parachuting slowly down to earth again. Her body was drenched in sweat, but she felt complete, fulfilled and full of energy. If that was what sex was! How wonderful! Not like in erotic magazines in which everyone talked about pleasure, but seemed to be grimacing in pain. And no need for a man who liked a woman's body, but had no time for her feelings. She could do it on her own! She did it again, this time imagining that a famous movie star was touching her, and once more she floated up to paradise and parachuted down again, feeling even more energised. Just as she was about to do it for a third time, her mother came home.
After reading this, I felt these lines were about another realm of sex that I had not known before. Until then, all I felt was that sexual depictions in media and films were just mechanical and women were just objectified in them. I simply wanted to experience an orgasm of my own. I was desperate but I just did not know how.
Then, I remembered there was an old massager lying around at home. It was a gift from a family-friend after their foreign trip. Among its several fittings was one which looked like a penis and now I understand why. I got it out of the storage, fixed the ‘penis’ fitting, plugged it in and held it down under.
Within a few seconds I was in paradise like Maria, I could see rainbows floating under my closed eyes as I screamed in pleasure on the floor. From then on, the massager was my best friend, hidden under the bed. I would sneak it out in the night, plug it in and just go all the way to heaven in one go.
It was only during a work trip that I finally learnt to relax and use my hands. I was turned on by a Mills & Boons novel that I was reading and I wanted to bring myself to pleasure. I was thrilled to realise that I could stimulate myself to such heights of pleasure with my own hands. It was like one part of my body was talking to another! So natural!
But, I liked using my hands to pleasure myself when it was entirely on my terms only. I remember the time my then fiancée and I tried to have phone sex. He instructed me to touch my vagina and pleasure myself. But, somehow, that just failed badly. I couldn’t deal with a man telling me what to do with my pleasure spots. And, he blamed my ‘frigidity’ on my escapades with my vibrator - that innocent machine!
I still ended up marrying this man though. I knew we were not very compatible but there was a considerable social pressure for marriage. And, when I had ‘real’ sex with him, things were not that great either. I found the experience of ‘real’ sex to be extremely painful and traumatic. I suspect I was suffering from vaginismus then, and my vaginal muscles could not relax enough for sex to be pleasant.
Things didn't quite work for us in the marriage. We separated within a year, and I moved to Europe for higher education.
And then I met a man in France. A charming man, much older than me, and he was going through a separation at that time. We hit it off immediately. I don’t know if it was the French air or his way of talking or what it was exactly. We ended up having sex the very first time we met and we kept having sex for months after that.
For the first time in my life, I felt like the sex was intimate. And, I had full-blown multiple orgasms!
I have never felt the same things with any other man. I have explored many relationships after that but that sort of intimacy and multiple orgams has been evasive so far.
But thankfully, over the years, I have mastered the art of bringing myself to an orgasm. Having read quite a bit about G-spot, labia, and vulva and the clitoris, I have used all that info in my many self-exploration and self-pleasure sessions. Today, I can proudly say that on a lonely night (or day) I can guide myself to paradise and beyond.
Meemaw is a bookworm and a language nerd. She has travelled across ten countries, only to realise that the secret to pleasure lies within the self.
Could I Feel Sexual Pleasure Again After Sexual Assault?
After sexual violence conflates sex with violence, is there a road back to pleasure?
Written by Suvanshkriti
Illustrated by Anarya
The night of my rape coincided with a drunken admission of attraction. Not, of course, to my assailant — different man, very different equation. But the difference ultimately meant little.
It is only the second time I am out past midnight with a man on whom I have been harbouring a crush. The last time was a lot more pleasurable. That first time, the desire had been mutual, had led to gloriously clumsy congress. Tonight, we walk arm-in-arm, we banter, I think we flirt, I try to kiss him, I am rebuffed. “It is not right,” I am told, “We’re colleagues.” And then, “It’s time you went home.”
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I’d like to think I take the dismissal with grace. I am still unreservedly happy, in the way only an illegally inebriated 21-year-old unsuspecting of the dangers of her insobriety can be.
A different colleague, seemingly the picture of chivalry, is to drop me home. The journey that ought to take half an hour takes three. Violence follows so close on the heels of failed romance that it leaves me unable to conceive of desire and sex in the same breath. Unable, also, to conceive of sex and joy together, or sex and pleasure — and least of all, pleasure through sex, this last fallout being an ongoing struggle.
This story, however, does have a happy ending (pun only reluctantly not intended), and so I shan’t delve into the darkness of the two-plus years that I sometimes call my dry years. Suffice it to say that the most distressing aftermath of sexual assault — self loathing, depression, suicidal thoughts, paranoia, emotional dissociation, self-harm, body dysmorphia, post-traumatic stress — is only an incomplete truth, filtered for comprehensibility.
Currently, my great regret in the whole matter is that there is no objective way of knowing how much sex I could have had in those years, or of what quality. There are no counterfactual scenarios to resort to, and no way, therefore, to make up the deficit now.
There is only the nostalgic splendour of the past with which to dye hopes for the future. Like that time I slept in the closest embrace I had ever known because the pizza occupied half the bed. Or the time I fell off the bed in ecstasy, an inevitable minor accident incurred in the course of drunken sex. There was the breakfast S made me, B’s magic pianist’s fingers, and the blush-inducing smut that A could elicit from me.
If it isn’t already obvious, before my brain got its wiring crossed and cut my body entirely out of the circuitry, I was a lover of sex. I delighted in the messy, intimate business of giving and receiving pleasure. A necessarily speculative exercise, perhaps, and without any real guarantee of a satisfying climax — at least for some of us — but exciting nonetheless, virtually limitless in its potential for self-expression and exploration.
All of a sudden, however, I found myself having to conceptualise anew a sexual relationship with myself. Where I once used to be libidinous, even aspirationally promiscuous, I longed now for the legitimacy of traditional monogamy to redeem shame I didn't want to admit I was carrying, to prove that I was not damaged goods, that I still held currency in the meat market. This was my inheritance from a single night. Banal misogyny worn as second skin.
Cut to a hitherto uneventful Sunday in a city of eventful weekends. I am sitting across from this ridiculously attractive person who insists on looking at me with such single-minded, leisurely attention, such unconcealed admiration, that the generosity of their gaze amazes me. I fail to hold eye contact — it’s been a while since I had the confidence to acknowledge desire. But the chemistry is maddeningly inescapable. The edge of my skin is electrified in a way that my mind has forgotten how to make sense of, but which makes my body certain of how this evening will end, without even knowing how to begin.
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We fucked like a couple of feminists, all urgent tenderness and unfiltered, subversive lust.
Then, all the same old cliches. Sex changed everything and nothing. Dawn would still come too early, eager for a glimpse of the wild, shimmering world of our two bodies, catching instead only sloppy kisses: a weak resistance to its herald of departure. Goodbyes would have to be said. Hopes of encores would rise in our chests and die before they could become promises leaping off the tongue.
But, by the time the sun would rise on our decadence, I would know again, bodily, what desire felt like. I would know that pleasure resided at the nape of my neck, and joy in the massaging of my toes. Just like that, this event of a few hours would have remade me.
Or, perhaps, it wasn’t just like that. Perhaps, those hours spent exploring, on a therapist’s orders, the naked body staring back at me from the mirror had a part to play. Perhaps in tracing its curves, in taking stock of the rolls of its stomach, of those asymmetrical breasts, the darkness of its thighs, the stretch marks on its hips, perhaps in cataloguing, over and over, the blemishes that I saw, I forged a familiarity that pulled me back into my body. An intimacy that could grow into love. I suspect I owe something also to my many failed, frustrating, and eventually fun experiments with sex toys, to the rituals enacted in honour of Pleasure.
I do not credit my partner for revealing to me some sort of a second coming of sexual gratification — although I was certainly gratified, and more than once. I do, however, credit them for a visceral reminder of the expansiveness of the experience of sex, and not its performance. More importantly important, I am grateful to them for lending me that attentive, admiring, generous gaze with which I am learning to view myself.
“That’s the dream of sex, isn’t it?,” writes essayist Olivia Laing in The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone, “That you will be liberated from the prison of the body by the body itself, at long last desired, its strange tongue understood.” To me, this liberation looked a lot like healing. I do not yet aspire to promiscuity, and although I am shedding that second skin, I cannot yet claim to love the shape of the scars it reveals. But I am glad for what they represent — the closing of wounds. And, I am learning to respect the inflections they have bequeathed upon my body.
Suvanshkriti studies political science and cultural studies. She is interested in the intersection of literature and politics, especially questions of identity, multiculturalism, and liberal rights.
My P.O.P (Pending Orgasm Project) : A Bloody Tale
By Moora
Illustrated by Exotic Dirtbag
I don’t know how to masturbate. I don’t know how to pleasure myself. It just did not occur to me at any age growing up. Never. Nobody talked about it either. Our rebellion was limited to buying cigarettes and smoking them in hidden corners of the small towns I grew up in. Touching the self part - just didn’t have that ‘natural’ urge for it.
I never felt like watching porn either. But, I was shown porn by men who just got thrills out of making teenagers watch naked bodies doing weird things. Like dude, at least ask me! This one dude had called me home to play Ludo. So not fair! His guts to show me porn when we would have played Ludo instead! The second time when this other dude showed me porn, he was at least honest. He told me with enough hard work he had landed one of those blue film CDs and that I should watch with him. I watched all of it till the end. The kisses, the sucking, the spanking, the thrusting, the sweat, saliva and the semen. I got deeply terrified and the very next day I got my first ever period.
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I was packed with information from friends who had got their periods and were already bleeding-wise. But, my mother just fixed a pad in my panty and handed it to me. Really Mum, don’t you think the information is, you know, just slightly inadequate? I don’t blame her so much. I do, however, blame that porn exposure - it was such a shock for me, an unaware kid, that I got so scared and started bleeding through my vagina instantly. Or so it felt to me.
Anyway, I only felt like masturbating when I heard my friends talk about it and how much they enjoyed it. The curiosity was not so much about pleasure, but just to know first hand ‘Hai kya ye cheez?’ It was also a curiosity about why some say you won’t need a man if you can pleasure yourself. Lol. Isn’t the greater purpose of masturbation emancipation of self, then?
I won’t deny that I had a lot of fun when my friends talked about orgasms and how they would please themselves. Someone used to lick ice to soften the edges and then insert the chill melting ice inside their vagina. Someone wanted to know how it felt, so her friend volunteered to help her masturbate. Someone found spit very erotic. Someone was turned on with an image of a person sucking their own cock. To each their own, I guess.
But, I did not feel a thing. So much so that I can sleep while watching porn. Boring!
I have tried inserting a finger in my butthole. I have tried to suck my own nipples. I have tried to insert a max of three fingers together in my vagina. I once chatted online with a certain ‘married man looking for young girl’(username) on an anonymous website. He was there to jerk off to a young girl. When he realized that I am not game, he started talking casually and told me that life is tougher in 20s and gets better in 30s. And, I want to believe you, ‘married man looking for young girl’.
For the longest, I thought the urethra was the clitoris. But, thanks to all the sudden and frequent female pleasure positive content online - the stand ups, the memes and whatnot that would come on my screen during mindless scrolling - the quest for the clitoris had made a place in my subconscious. Now, I had to find it. (Not that clitoris and I are besties or even know each other well even after I know its address.)
So, orgasm has been a pending project for a very long time now. Next to maybe, learn to swim, get over your fear of riding a scooty, wear a bikini, idk. An important reason perhaps for this is that I have never had a private space. And in all my attempts, I realized that sitting on the floor of the washroom won’t help me.
I did have a private space on rare occasions. This happened when I was in fancy hotel rooms - once for a youth training and once for someone’s wedding. The full-length mirrors there always tempted me to take nudes and admire them. And, I would do that. These rooms also had bathtubs. While the photographer, model, and the ‘art’ admirer in me had a good time, I forgot my oldass orgasm project.
So, later I made elaborate plans to book a hotel room somewhere outside my hometown and do it in a bathtub while drinking beer or wine and/or smoking. This fantasy of mine also featured a silk robe that I don’t own. But, this plan has not been put to action yet.
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A few months ago, my parents had to urgently head to another state because of a relative’s death. I was all alone in the house, had my me-time, and binge-watched OTT content. Soon, I realized I had all the time and space to do whatever I wanted to. I thought it was time for my orgasm project now.
It was not difficult. I started old school and my queer ass searched lesbian porn first. I touched and kissed myself wherever I could reach. I was really wet and I was feeling something very different, very hot, very pleasurable. I threw my phone away (cuz porns are boring. Period.) and I was visualizing a threesome with two of my almost-lovers: both super-hot, one was a femme bi, and the other was a soft cis-het guy who had once kissed another guy but was sure he was straight.
I was wondering if I had finally discovered an orgasm at 26 years of age. But then, I started getting bored of the hot almost-lovers. I thought I could stay focused if I saw myself in the act of pleasuring myself. Remember the photographer, model and ‘art’ admirer? So, I turned on the lights. And, I saw blood on my hands and on the bed sheet. I realised that what I had taken to be an orgasm was essentially period blood!
I took a bath, switched off all the lights, changed the bedsheet and went to sleep.
PS – I still haven’t been able to hack it. Or, I have just stopped caring about it.
Moorie is busy thinking about the answers to questions like what even gender is, what does rest and resistance mean for the mentally ill, or if medicine is a propaganda.
Ammuma’s Haircut and Her Romantic Past
If Ammuma's hair was one to divulge, what would it reveal about her life?
Written by Hari
Illustrated by Rohit Bhasi
My Mom ran the unforgiving blades of scissors through my grandmother’s hair. Locks of hair floated to the ground. Ammuma’s expression was nonchalant.
Parkinsonism had taken over my grandmother’s health and she was finding it increasingly difficult to take care of herself; a lifetime spent taking care of those around her coming full circle. It was decided that the first order of business after the diagnosis was to get her hair cut to manageable proportions, an attempt at a fashionable 20s flapper bob on her spring curls.
Watching her hair being cut, I remembered her elaborate yet simple hair care routine. It was almost an unspoken and unwritten ritual. And, it never ceased to pique my childish curiosity in the many summer vacations we spent at my grandparents’ place in Kottayam.
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Ammuma made her own concoction with copious amounts of coconut oil with sauteed onions and squashed hibiscus leaves from the yard. She would run her fingers vigorously through her charcoal-black curls, massage her roots, and douse her hair with this concoction. She did this before her bath every morning, humming a broken tune all along. And, she was committed to this ritual without leave.
As she stared aimlessly into the air while vast amounts of her precious hair were chopped off, I wondered how that woman from my memories would react to the scene unfolding before me.
Ammuma’s hair had a life of its own. It has been the dutiful confidante for all her secrets. Her only constant that bore witness to every passing moment in her life of over seventy years. Ammuma had never cut her hair, but her hair fell of its own accord as if the secrets got too heavy for it to hold.
As she grew older, her voluminous curls started to shed more profusely. She worried about bequeathing pathological hair-fall genes to her daughters. So, she would ritualistically apply another concoction of bhringaraj leaves on their hair as a preemptive measure. These recipes now exist in my mother’s recollections, a tacit heirloom that must have traversed centuries within the women of this family.
Ammuma does not talk much about glorious triumphs or lived experiences that usually comes with age. She had a diffident and calm demeanor that would always be an obstacle to her getting her way in things. She strove to not be the least wanted person in any room she was in. She led a life expended in servitude, from the only girl child in her family, to her marriage, to motherhood, and later grandmotherhood, before the onset of this disease, and she did it all with only the veins in the back of her hands to show for it.
Maybe it is my self-indulgence that makes me believe she stole away moments from her day for herself, moments where it was just her and her hair in a clandestine friendship, a bond shared by them in isolation, in their own little spiritual world filled with scented oils and scalp massages.
To trace my grandmother back to the woman she was before she became my Ammuma is inconceivable to me. She was not from an era that would lend itself to pictures either. There is a solitary black and white photograph of her: a tall figure in a floral sari, her hair loosely pulled back. I don’t ever remember seeing her stand as tall.
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Ammuma is from an era where it was considered that the longer your plait grew, the more your charm would be. It was this same charm that enamored my grandfather. Ammuma was often compared to the actress Sheela, but in my Mom’s opinion Ammuma stood in her own league.
My Mom would talk of how Ammuma’s long luscious curls were her biggest asset. Even over the years of increasing personal neglect, Ammuma oiled and washed her hair every morning without break. I think it is the beauty of Ammuma’s hair and her relationship with her hair that makes for a fascinating story of this otherwise demure woman.
If her hair was one to divulge, it would talk about how she engaged in her own sorcery with food in her sanctum of a kitchen, how she took pleasure in playing cards so much so that she taught her grandchildren all the tactics of rummy, and how skillful she was when it came to needles and threads and the old timey sewing machine rusting away in the attic of my mother’s home. Her hair would harp about how a little schoolgirl used to tie it into pigtails with matching ribbons every morning as she made her way to her convent school, how her grandmother used to comb her all the clots of her thick curls back then. And, just like my mother does frequently, it would recite the story of my grandfather waiting outside my grandmother’s college to catch sight of her in a davani sari with her hair braided long when he was courting her. It would say all those things that people rarely ever talked about her, like how she sang along to that one folk song whenever it came on the radio, how she is a closeted chocolate aficionado who loves Cadbury’s and how she used to dedicatedly enjoy the novel spreads in the weekly lifestyle magazines. Her hair would applaud her for doing the best job at raising two generations, for holding our family together in a way no one else did, and it would do so proudly, for having been on that journey with her.
If my grandmother’s hair could talk, it would have also begged to not get cut.
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Now as each tuft of hair fell against the air, victims one after the other of the sharp blades, I saw in them the lore of a life lived, never to be heard by another. It is not a look of helplessness that clouded my grandmother now, but one of resignation. I could not unsee the unfairness of this whole act. It is cruel and ungrateful of the universe to demand her hair - something that is so divine to my kind and selfless Ammuma.
I don’t get to see her often now, as I live in Delhi far-away from the comfort of the weather and food at home. Returning home after six months, where I grew out my hair for a new look, I was met with all sorts of welcomes: comments on how much weight I had lost, enquiries about the flight journey, and even remarks on the political climate over there now.
My grandmother, however, held my hands, pulled me close, put both of her palms over my head and felt through my hair with a wide grin all along. I marveled at how a five-year old me could never have pictured having longer hair than Ammuma one day.
Hari is in an on again off again relationship with writing, whilst juggling his bachelor's studies in social sciences. When he's not busy on his quest to visit every monument in Delhi, you can find him obsessing over old Hollywood and rajma chawal.
The Women Who Bathed Together
Arya for the first time has seen her aunt's breasts and wished to never have boobs. Read Arya's essay about bodies and bathing!
Written by Arya J
Illustrated by Praveen Kumar
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The first breasts I ever saw were my Aunt’s. We were bathing in the pond and walking out of the water to soap ourselves. She carefully undraped the mundu that she was wearing to re-tie it tighter before she could go for her swim. I looked at my flaccid chest and wondered about things I still could not decipher, no longer flaccid.
I still believe Amma got married to Acha to enjoy swimming in the ponds surrounding my grandmother’s place. That was a small house isolated from the world but surrounded by mango trees and three ponds. No wonder my grandfather moved there after marriage. And, when all his three sons were married off to swimming wives, the women followed a tradition - they would all go for a swim together, laugh and play in the water, and then leave with red eyes to the temple to pray.
The green pond used to scare me. When I was at an age where Amma bathed me, I would accompany these women including my Chechi - who was six years older than me - and watch them bathe. The gushing of the water and the occasional slithering of a water snake scared me. I would dip my feet in the green water and watch the fishes come to sniff my feet. But I envied Chechi. She could dive in and pop up at another end of the pond with water flowing out of her face holes.
And, then there was A. A and I grew up together, she was just a month younger than me. She was the prodigal daughter of the whole family and the one everyone wanted me to be. She would sit beside me to watch this show and all I wanted to do was push her into the pond. I always found her to be the annoying sibling but I still loved her like my own. We loved each other in spaces where we did not exist together.
One summer when Amma and Acha left me in Kerala for their sanity, my mischievous Aunt decided to torture me. She pulled me onto her lap, massaged my hair with oil, and carried me to the pond. There, she dropped me into the water as she removed her clothes. I was struggling to find space to stand even though it was summer and the water would reach my chest if I stood. She yelled “Aryu, just beat your legs and you’ll be fine” I somehow did beat my legs hard enough to be able to float, but the pain of water lodged in my nostrils made me give up. My Aunt lovingly took me in her arms and caressed my face until I came back to life. That did not stop me from joining these daily baths.
Summer mornings are the best time to immerse yourself in the water. A and I would strip ourselves naked and plunge into the water. She would swim around in circles while I dove to tickle her underwater. Chechi would be washing her clothes next to my aunt. Aunt told us that she was a big girl now and she needed to wash her own clothes. Chechi couldn’t strip herself naked, she would wrap herself in a white towel before she went for her swim. I always wondered why this happened only to realise that Chechi had grown what my Aunt did too - breasts.
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I remember that one instance when Amma called Chechi to her room and locked the door. Amma held a packet with a half-naked lady on it and asked her to start wearing this new thing. Chechi would complain about feeling suffocated like some plastic hands holding her chest. I never quite understood the reason until the day I saw her mundu fall. My Aunt told her to tie that thing even tighter. At that point, I realised I did not want boobs at all. I just wanted to swim free without it.
Chechi would slowly dip herself, go for a swim and leave. It was just my Aunt and us. As we grew up, my aunt would talk to us more. She would recite O.N.V Kurupu’s poems or even play Anthakshari with my sister as we bathed. Once, she joined us for the bath, dove to the bed, and found a chapati rock. She held it between her two fingers and threw it onto the surface. The rock skipped five times and plopped back below. I thought she was a magician but soon she taught us to skip stones. Chechi, A and I would collect rocks before going for a bath so we could skip them until I threw one right at A’s eye while trying to skip it.
The pond was never quiet. When we would leave after our bath, the snake would come out with his head popped up for his swim. The turtle would walk up the shore to eat the moss and kingfishers would slowly dive to grab fishes that once ate my feet. It was their home that we women enjoyed the most.
As summers grew hotter, the pond grew smaller. Once, before my Aunt could shake the water to let its owners know that we were visiting, the snake crept its way around the pond. He wasn’t scared. He was swimming in circles and would stop and look at us women. What a pervy snake! The snake always had to greet us. He would wait for the women to oil their hair and walk towards the steps of the pond. As we removed our clothes, he would stick his head out. Our naked bodies excited him and his tongue would slither out of his mouth. He kept doing that every time we showed up.
A month later, the pond was cleaned and the pervy snake was taken somewhere else. By then, I was growing in places I thought never grew up. I could no longer dip my naked body into the water and my Aunt gave me my first mundu. She tore a piece from her husband’s red mundu and wrapped it around my body. She would tuck the end at the top so it stayed but after two minutes of jumping and swimming the mundu reached the shore. She would tie it again and it would glide off my body and wander off onto the water's surface. She always insisted on it being tied. I always felt like the mundu never belonged to my body. It was holding me in places I never thought needed to be held and covered.
The mundu was always considered to be the rite of passage for every woman in my family. But I never wanted my breasts to be held by my uncle’s old mundu. It slipped away from my body the second I dove into the pond. It took away the power my legs had as I beat them to swim. I was never allowed to be naked anymore.
It seemed as if women were scared to be naked around each other. Perhaps it was difficult to accept that breasts are more than just instruments that convert blood to milk, or beyond the cleavage that men stare at from distances unknown. I loved that my body was growing in places. My chests jiggled and my bum had more roundness but the mundu never allowed me to embrace the wetness of it. And, the pond grew into a distant place every time I bled.
Every time my periods started, I was shunned from everything the house held, I was no longer a woman or a family member. These practices made me hate being a woman so much that I never understood how beautiful the experience of being a woman truly is.
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Until, one day I was on the second day of my period and wanted the comfort of the water over my stomach. When my Aunt was away, I dove into the pond without anything over my body and felt every pulsating whoosh of the water. It gushed over all parts of my body that were aching and I immediately felt all sorts of oohs and aahs. When the old blood tissues escaped my vagina, fishes would gather, trying to eat the small bits and pieces that floated around. The pond was my resurrection to womanhood.
But, I felt alone. The snake, the turtles, and the fishes made noises of their own but they weren’t like the sounds of other women that echoed in my ears. I felt lonely and unwanted.
We all grew up and grew older. New bathrooms were fitted by the side of the house and the water level rose. The women never went together to the pond. The stones were left unattended by unwashed chaddis and the pervy snake died a tragic death. Even if we decided to go for a swim, we never went there together.
I stand on the gravel steps looking at the green pond that changes colour every time you scoop the water. I don’t have anyone to tie my mundu and so I take the longest one and wrap myself as tightly as possible. I float on my back and watch the blue kingfisher look at my teasing breasts. ‘Perverted animals’ I think as I turn my back to swim. The mundu unties itself and winds around my legs. It ties my ankles like weighted anklets. There is no ground for me to hold and I can hear the snake laugh from its hole. I breathe in and breathe out water. I hear the water breathe into my ears. The sunlight fades as my head drops further below. The green water is black now but from a distance, I hear “Aryu, beat your legs and you’ll be fine” and so I did. I moved closer and closer to the sound and reached the surface. I open my watered eyes to no one as I breathe the pond out.
നാകാൊ നേലിെിെന േകാനാരായണൻ കോു േപായ് (4 legged Nangeli woman was kidnapped by Kolu Narayanan)
(The four legged Nangeli frog (Nangeli is often referred to as Nangeli who belonged to the Ezhava community) was kidnapped by Narayanan Snake)
Asexuality And Shah Rukh Khan: Ek Prem Kahaani
But the older Abhramika grew, the more she realised that her idea of romance was probably not the same as that of others around her.
Written by Abhramika
Illustrated by Riya Nagendra
Thanks to Bollywood, I grew up a hopeless romantic in Oman. In fact, I would still say I am one. Cute romances can make me melt like an ice-cream on a hot summer day. I was a sucker for Bollywood movies with unrealistic but adorable romances. But the older I grew, the more I realised that my idea of romance was probably not the same as that of others around me.
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I remember being 13 and sitting at my best friend’s house along with our sisters, talking about dating and boys. They were discussing sexual expectations from relationships. Who engaged in what acts of sexual intimacy, what more would they want to do, and at what stages in their relationship would they be comfortable doing ‘it’. I did not understand half the things they were talking about, I was not even very familiar with that vocabulary. I also felt strange for another reason. Sexual expectations had never come in my list of expectations in a relationship. I wondered if it meant that I was quite ‘vanilla.’
On our way back that day, I told my friend, “I somehow feel like we all grew up together but I ended up somewhere different.”
The more conversations I had about sexual intimacy with my best friend and my sister, the more I was reminded that something was missing. My sister would laugh and reassure me that I was just ‘a late bloomer.’ She would say that when it’s time, I would experience everything that everyone else was talking about.
The world around tells us that all love ends up in passionate love making, and that romance without sex is a romance that is dying. I remember waiting to feel the rush of sexual hormones that my biology textbook and peers talk about. I thought I’d wake up one day and the need for sex would fill me. But nothing like that ever happened.
So, I felt like I should push myself to be in a relationship. If I didn’t feel the rush of hormones expected out of me, then I would force it. If I didn’t feel any sexual needs, I would fake it. I would push boundaries in my relationships and violate my body’s needs for trust. Only then, I could feel differently. And, I could experience the pleasure that books and TV shows and movies spoke about. The one that came automatically with being in love. Otherwise, who would love me?
I lost a relationship as a result of my lack of sexual giving. This was after I had stretched myself so thin, I thought I would snap in half. I got sexually abused in a different relationship and convinced myself that this is how I would be loved. I thought if I could just push harder, moan a little louder, and lie a little better, I could feel differently. This was love after all, this should have been the next logical progression in feelings, right? But, I just continued to feel disgusted, sick, and a heavy sense of self-loathing in the pit of my stomach.
At some point when I tried to understand myself with compassion instead of judgement, I stumbled across the word demi-sexual. My then partner told me it was absolutely ridiculous. What was the point of all these labels? Everyone wanted emotional connections in their sexual relations, that is how sexual relations worked. A different person in my life who was hitting on me, told me that this distinction between romantic attraction and sexual attraction was all in my head. Everyone experienced them more or less together, that is what was normal. I wondered if that is how it was, how did people hook-up and do one-night stands? But, I was 19 and didn’t know better. I kept my questions to myself and pushed my boundaries some more.
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All of my conversations only led to me feeling more alienated and lonely. They all ended with me staring into the night, wondering how I could ‘fix’ my ‘broken’ self. All of my questions always ended with the same answer, try harder. It was apparently possible to want sex without love in a world of hook-ups – but not love without sex.
When I was 6 years old, I wanted to marry Shah Rukh Khan - the king of romance. Most people around me wanted to marry him. He sold romance in his movies like no one could. But I wanted to marry him after seeing him in Chak de India - a film with barely any romance from his end.
At 13, I went on a spree and watched as many of Shah Rukh’s romantic movies from the 90s as I could. I desperately wanted someone to look at me the way he looked at his on-screen partners. His romances made sense to me, even though they are the peak of unrealistic Bollywood masala. He would look at his partners, and spread his arms wide open and I would melt into my seat.
I was so in love with him that I made my parents suffer through DDLJ in the theatre when it was re-released. I don’t think my father could understand how Shah Rukh Khan in the middle of a mustard field was anything but stupid. But I knew better. In fact, I knew the words to every single song in the movie, and nothing said love to me like SRK singing Tujhe Dekha Toh.
Recently, as I stress about my Master’s program ending, in the middle of trying to unravel my multiple queer identities better, I have started to re-watch his films. My ADHD brain has happily hyper-fixated on him and I am lost in the world of the King of Romance all over again. Some things do seem ridiculous now, but I’d still happily watch DDLJ again, completely unironically. I’d sit through the melodrama of Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham just to see the way Shah Rukh Khan looks at Kajol on-screen. I feel 13 all over again, sitting and hoping someone looks at me that way.
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In my hyper-fixation, I recently found out that Shah Rukh Khan had some ‘no-kissing’ contract when he signed films. I have a brain that reads into this too much.
To me, his romances were hardly ever sexually tense. I just recall intense gazes, romantic dialogues, and of course, Shah Rukh Khan spreading his arms wide open for his lover. They consisted of intimacy and physical affection, hardly ever leading to the bedroom.
Even as a sex-repulsed asexual, I often express love through physical touch. I dream of partners who will kiss me on my neck and my forehead. None of these dreams are sexual in nature. They are sensual and intimate and ways to say ‘I love you’ without saying the words. SRK would kiss his on-screen partner on their forehead and I would feel butterflies in my stomach.
Somehow, Shah Rukh Khan’s romance brought sensuality to my screen without insisting on sex as one thing. Suddenly, it makes sense. Shah Rukh Khan was the only actor who sold romances to my asexual identity. Even before I knew how to label it, the romance in his films didn’t make me feel broken. Didn’t make me feel like I had a ‘still loading sign’ attached on top of my head.
This was opposed to a lot of rom-coms I saw, where romantic scenes made me question what was happening. What was something that everyone knew that I didn’t?
I guess people do know something that I don’t, and I won’t ever know it either. For the most part now, I don’t want to know. I’ll keep my dreams of a partner who will open their arms to me and sing Tujhe Dekha Toh in the middle of a mustard field, and the rest will hopefully fall in place.
Abhramika is a recently graduated Master's student in Work and Organisational Psychology. She is deeply passionate about mental health advocacy, and aspires to help create more inclusive and empathetic workspaces in her future.
Queer-Ratri: How Dandiya Queen Falguni Pathak Liberated Me
Here's some reasons why we just love Falguni - it's not just her music, it's her effortless queer ishtyle too!
By Sonal Giani
My Clients Celebrate Relationships With Me That They Can’t Even Mention Outside The Therapy Room: A Therapist’s Diary
A therapist wonders if we can relook how we approach 'problematic' relationships
By Sadaf Vidha and Aryan Somaiya (Founders, Guftagu Therapy) with inputs from team members; Illustration by Shikha Sreenivas
“We have this great mental chemistry,” my client – let’s call her A – said, as she described how someone she was seeing had started this new thing where they sent very emotional songs and messages to each other. They are both in the creative field and while she has known him for a long time, they re-connected at a recent work event and became close. The evocative words of the emotional messages is just one of the many ways in which my client and this person in her life witness each other in moving, intense ways which is about their artistic personhood and mental life, not so much about physicality or intimacy. They send messages to each other if they read a striking line or passage from a book, and spend hours dissecting what a phrase in a poem could mean.
The following week, however, my client isn’t feeling so excited. She says her friend has suddenly disappeared, and she doesn’t want to ask him where he is and why he isn’t speaking to her. He has shared in the past that being a good father to his children is very important to him, and she doesn’t want to come in the way if there’s an emergency with his kids, or perhaps even his wife.
Ordinarily, she would be judged and cast as the vamp or ‘the other woman’ just for being involved with a married man. Professionals (therapists included) might not be so blunt. But perhaps they would point to how her childhood attachment problems are making her choose a man who can “never be hers” – as if marriage is the only thing that comes in the way of men’s emotional availability. I too took this position once, with a client who came to me around five years ago. At the time I was relatively new to the field, and it took me some time to understand the judgement beneath my jargon. My veiled attempts to steer my client away from the person didn’t go anywhere, and I had to admit that my strategy wasn’t working. Then, I was propelled to take a different tack: to focus on what it was about this relationship that was cherished by this older client. When I took this road, the client opened up and shared what worked about that relationship and why they wanted to preserve it. To the heart, it doesn’t matter if a relationship has social approval. I was able to learn so much about how relationships work. That relationships have a pull because they hold both the reminder of our old wounds as well as the promise of their healing, and also that human beings are wired to be around each other, to love deeply, even if those relationships or feelings don’t fit into our personal or social categories.
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Besides, my (present day) client A, is quite happy with the way the relationship is. She has no desire to marry him. Yes, there is discomfort at times, because she remembers that he has a conventional, normative family to go back to while she doesn’t. Does she want to leave her current life and marry him? Probably not. What matters to her is that he makes her feel like her thoughts and ideas have value, and she has value. He’s never been cruel to her. In fact, he would have gladly continued an intense friendship and not even named this a romance if my client had not. In one of our earlier sessions when she had just met him, she said, “I don’t feel like I need to possess him, keep him around. I feel so free. I feel like this is how I am accessing my queerness, because I don’t need him to marry me. I am loving him in such a free way. I am just glad for the way we reinforce each other’s creativity”.
Perhaps my client’s relationship is questioning what we were all born with – that there is only one right way to do relationships. Her relationship often questions the idea of “What does the right thing to do mean?”, and by default also turns the question to us, as therapists – what is therapy? Is it about making people conform? Is it about creating new rules of right and wrong which may not be like the old oppressive rules, but are still oppressive and normative in their own ways?
Another client, who is a devoted teacher, absolutely loves her students and is very interested in helping them develop a critical thinking even if they use it to question her. She was very troubled by a fantasy she began to have about one of her older students – of them Latin dancing together. This had startled her and she explained to herself that maybe it's because a lot of 12th grade boys tend to look like adults, thought legally they aren’t. But even while giving herself this explanation, she felt extremely guilty. “Do such thoughts make me a paedophile?” she asked. As a professional, it would’ve have been very easy for me to start moralizing and confirm her fears or start working with her to “control these urges”. To be honest, a part of my mind did go there and think of the politically correct thing to do. But something held me back. It was a feeling of “Wait, let’s explore what this could be…”
And so, what she and I did instead, was try to understand what her fantasy could mean. Did it tell us something about her loneliness? About her relationship with desire which had become fraught after she called off her marriage and had had no dating prospects that worked out since? Or perhaps, as she herself said, “The male gaze of these boys, I don’t return it. And as a feminist I even find it odd. But still, my 16-year-old self who thought she was ugly, that girl, finally feels vindicated”.
A conversation ensued on how, her college-time feminism was both a response to being bullied in school for being ugly, a way to say “I don’t need beauty, I have the power to fight for my rights, and that is what will anchor me”, and also a way to have another currency (intelligence, activism, seeing through the world’s illusions) apart from looks, in which to dwell and find self-worth and relational worth. The hurt of rejection could be processed by creating an inner circle of one’s own, which cares about different things. However, in the process, some ideas had become rigid, like what qualifies as toxic or abusive behaviour in relationships. The client told me that she actually liked it when her ex-partner would get slightly possessive and jealous. However, she could not allow herself to even say she liked it because of the strict interpretation of feminism she had picked up in college – and perhaps often vocalised. Could something we seek as a refuge or a response to a tough situation, be over-defined and become rigid in itself, trapping us? And if yes, can we redefine some of these ideas?
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If her college feminism and other mental health professionals also inculcate shame in her, for her feelings towards the students, instead of looking at her as an imperfect human who can change, then how is this new shame any different from the older shame imposed on women for not being good enough?
When we reflected on this together, it helped us realise the bind of certainties, binaries and neat boxes. While life is messy, knowing the shortfalls of these imposed ideas (new or old) also helped us to feel a certain sense of freedom and compassion for her position and from that place, we were able to think of ways to bring desire back to her life and let go of, or at least hold lightly, some of the ideas that were feeling claustrophobic to her.
And as for me, as a therapist, as I let go of these fixed frames, and tried to make sense of the client’s experiences, a new understanding of what is ‘empowerment’ emerged. After all, how can something be empowering (ergo feminist), if it falls prey to rigid rules? Isn’t empowerment a term for the freedom to make new choices as situations change?
My colleague and co-founder of Guftagu, Aryan, shared a similar experience from his time working at a helpline that also had an option of email. “The client sent the helpline an email, where he spoke about his sexual experience with his brother. But, the point of distress he shared was about the brother moving to a new city, losing touch and not giving him that importance any more. The counsellor who attended to the email before me, responded with ideas of consent and abuse, hinging on incest. But when I read the email, I could also see the feelings of loss and grief and betrayal. He was missing the brother’s touch, the intimacy and the emotional closeness. In his eyes, he was in a relationship with the brother, he was madly in love with him, and was his ‘wife’. He felt accepted and loved. In his mind, it was a legitimate relationship and one where he thought, even at a distance, the brother would miss him. But unfortunately, none of that happened. He felt used, ignored, unwanted. He was grieving the loss – perhaps also at not being seen by his brother, the way he saw his brother.
“It was quite painful to read – his first love, first sexual experience, first access to his own queerness - and his feeling abandoned. I tried to respond to the email with acceptance of these emotions, talking about how this relationship helped him recognise his queerness and therefore, how the feelings of loss are quite valid. No matter how it happened, in this first experience, there was also a way to share that queer loneliness about being ‘abnormal’ or different, before it hit that this was a bubble. That doesn’t mean the bubble was not unique or lovable, a fairy tale for him, that naturally, he was grieving. When someone breaks this fantasy (a reality of queerness in itself), moves away and tells you to forget all this, you suddenly see the ugly unaccepting world – imagine the shock! This is what I tried to respond to.
“However,” Aryan said. “I wasn’t allowed to respond that way. The organization and my senior told me that I had to label the relationship as incest/abuse and write on the lines of safety and harm reduction and not ‘promote’ a problematic relationship. They said this has nothing to do with queerness, and I am normalizing abuse”.
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Helplines can get into binaries and solution-focused modes because of the nature of the work - which tends to be crisis oriented. However, a solution focus can quickly turn into judgement, black and white thinking, and taking away a client’s agency and discard lived experience in the belief of educating them and being helpful.
Unfortunately, this sort of a stance, in professionals and organisations, is quite common. We grow up learning what is socially okay or not okay (e.g., incest is not okay, extra-marital relationships are not okay) and most of our training does not help us unlearn it, but rather teaches us to focus more on studying why people may not be falling in line and what can be done to get them to conform. A “moral panic” is induced. We feel like the order of society is shaken and it is our responsibility to bring it back and that this will protect the client/patient. However, most clients/patients need us to listen to their complex realities, not fix them. So, the lines get blurred – are we here to enforce morality or to promote the well-being of the person in question?
Does this mean the lens of harm has to be done away with completely? Of course not. Because in many cases, actual harm may be happening in relationships. For example, in India it is quite common that my clients had mothers who had been ill-treated by their husbands or in-laws. The clients are acutely aware of this. This often translates to them not wanting to see if, for instance, their mothers resent their children’s happiness and individual identity; that they might create guilt and shame if their child wants to do something the mothers don’t approve of. This is hurtful and, in many cases, harmful too. A trans client of mine was made to feel this way by his mother. She would say if he did gender-affirming transitions, he would be responsible if she had a heart attack or an upshoot in her diabetes, due to the shame of this upsetting news. She would often tell him, “Why don’t you do this process after I die? Just a few years more… At least then I will not have to be humiliated by people.” It was tough to untangle the love and care from these difficult, harmful behaviours.
Some harm, some hurt is part of every relationship, as our jagged edges collide. We won’t always agree on things and sometimes the disappointment can hurt quite deeply as it brings up our older, stronger unmet needs. However, the key lies in identifying where we are on the hurt/harm continuum. Hurt/harm is hardly ever a yes/no question. We need to figure the intensity, the intention and most importantly – our capacity to change. Most of us grow up seeing unhealthy behaviours in our families and without realising, model them in our own relationships. But if made conscious, do we work on them? Do we give our relationship what our parents did not get from each other and the society around us? If not, perhaps that situation could be harmful for one/both/all the people involved in that relationship.
Doctors, psychiatrists, therapists, lawyers and many such professionals often frown upon, make fun of or judge extra-dyadic relationships like relationships outside of marriage, polyamorous relationships, relationships with age gaps, with authority figures, with family members, open marriages and so on. The team members of Guftagu resonate that many clients have shared with them stories about their relationships which they cannot share with anyone else – family, friends or even other professionals. They feel they will be shamed. Perhaps shaming is the impact of the professional community’s default way of dealing with the inherent “messiness” of situations which have no existing social script, like there is for institutions like marriage. And often the rationale that results in shaming is that, as professionals we should help our clients make the right choices and not get into a soup, or lead to problems vis-à-vis society at large.
However, who are we to decide harm absolutely? How do we know if our idea of harm is not coming from our own social location?
For example, before homosexuality was removed from DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) diagnosis, professionals would provide conversion therapy or make their displeasure of gay relationships full of the belief of “helping” people. Even if we feel one or the other person in that relationship is being harmed or abused, will passing judgement help? Conversations on what power means, what the age gap or power differential could mean, how consent can be better negotiated, care, respect and so on, are more likely to be helpful, as they help us reflect on the extent of hurt/harm, if any, and also allow for a multiplicity of ideas beyond just harm or abuse, arrived at together with the client. It can help us see enlivens the person about the relationship in question. Understanding where their pleasure lies, will help us help them far more than deciding what harm has been done to them from our fixed position.
We all bring our past, its unmet needs, patterns, defences and wounds into newer relationships. If the new relationship was not a fertile ground to grieve the losses of older ones, perhaps it would not have the kind of pull it does. As we are engaged by films or novels, that mirror our personal dilemmas and tough experiences, so too we are often attracted to people who have the potential to make us reach older wounds and unknown parts of ourselves. It is this sense of intrigue and mystery which is the hot spring of desire. And this inexorable mix of attractions and mystery, comfort and safety which can help us understand ourselves better, is un-served if it is simply categorised according to a binary of bad or abusive, without complexity.
Are we really being progressive if we cancel people, relationships or relationship practices? Or do we simply replace old rules with a new form of normative control, which outcasts people emotionally and socially, as we decide if their relationships, lives, feelings are “real” or “valid” or “not problematic”.
The answer to such a complicated question seems to be in more than one place, as it should be. Our brains are wired to think in two ways - fast and slow. The fast one helps us survive – but it also relies on shortcuts for efficiency. Categories and enforcement soothe that part of our brain and also favour larger systems like marriage, capitalism, patriarchy, parenting that depend on these binaries to control us. Woke positions can sometimes become similar controls, if they aren’t interested in nuance and curiosity -- the two elements that breathe life and love into relationships.
Our emotional and relational lives are quite complex and rich. As therapists, if we can resist quick binaries of harm and health and enter into a deeply curious relationship with the clients we serve, we may be led down unmarked paths, to a different, perhaps more joyous world.
Sadaf is a therapist with 7 years of experience working with individuals, couples and families using a nuanced, depth-oriented approach. In her free time, she likes to engage her curiosity in writing, reading, baking, art and chilling with her cats.
Forbidden Cookies Taste Sweet - Falling In Love With My Older Married Aunt
It didn't bother me that she was married because I just wanted to be with her for whatever time I could.
As told by Jason D’ Cunha to GunmasterG9; Illustrated by Anshumaan Sathe
I used to call her Cookie. She was very beautiful. I had a crush on her since I was very young even though she was 15 years older than me, and my distant aunt too. She used to live in Pune with her husband and two kids. I lived in Mumbai.
We met or spoke very rarely yet I used to feel strongly for her. I used to feel so much lust towards her. I wanted to be in bed with her. But as I grew older, around 20, my feelings for Cookie began to change. I really wanted to get to know her better as a person. Over the years, for me, I had developed some kind of bond with her but I still felt like she saw me as a small child.
Then, suddenly, everything changed.
I was chilling at home one day, and out of the blue, Cookie called me. She said she needed to talk to someone. She didn’t sound okay and I was worried that something was wrong. She asked for a video call and I immediately said yes. I didn’t even realise that I wasn’t wearing a shirt at that time. When she called, the sight of her terrified me. She had a black eye, her face was swollen. She told me that her husband was abusive towards her, and had been like that since they got married. He would get drunk, hit her and sexually assault her. I suggested she should call the cops, but she didn’t do it out of fear. Plus, her parents didn’t support her and had said that after her marriage, it wasn’t their concern how she got treated. I was 23 at the time and didn’t know how to react. I said I wish I could do something to help and she replied that she just wanted to be heard. She just needed someone to talk to. So, for about an hour, I listened to all her struggles on that call. At the end of it, she thanked me for listening.
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That call was the beginning of a friendship you could say. We never really put a name to it or discussed it. It was just a new version of our relationship. More intimate, warmer. I was working at a call centre back then so my work hours were a little erratic. But we texted every day. Very routine, mundane, monotonous texts about our daily routines. As far as I knew, I was a shoulder for her to cry on when she was very vulnerable and didn’t have anyone else to talk to. Although from my end, there was a lot of infatuation. For me, she was this perfect person and I just wanted to be with her.
Compared to the girls around my age, my conversations with Cookie were very different. We would talk about anything and everything. I was very vulnerable and open with her. I would share things about my past, my family – things I hadn’t shared even with my closest friends. I never had to filter my thoughts. She just listened instead of telling me what to do all the time. That was very amazing for me.
The texts slowly became calls. One morning, I had just woken up when she called me. I told her I wanted to use the washroom and she started teasing me about having a boner! I was blushing full on. I didn’t know what to say. I panicked and just hung up on her. She then called me every morning and teased me the same way. She’d say that she was okay with it and that we could talk about it. Once, during a call, she asked me to show her my boner. For a quick moment, I actually turned the camera around and did so. Her face turned red, her jaw dropped. That was my first time ever of phone sex over video! I don’t even know what to call it. She asked me to masturbate on video. I remember, my phone was so horrible. It had just a 2-megapixel camera. But when I did what she asked, she just stared at the screen the whole time, her eyes wide open and her face blushing. Through that call I kept thinking, is this a dream? Am I really awake? I was feeling really shy, because this had never happened to me before. I was getting excited wondering what she was thinking on the other side. I really wanted to look below her face. Was she playing with herself? Deep inside, I was also really happy. In Dhoom, the way the character of Uday Chopra imagines any girl he sees with a car, and two children – that was me. Only in my case, it would be four kids because she already had two of her own! We would video call each other all the time and spend the whole day together virtually.
In the meantime, her relationship with her husband kept worsening by the day. He kicked her out of the house at one point and she came to Mumbai with her kids. Her parents lived in South Bombay and I lived in the suburbs which was far from there. But luckily, my grandmother used to send food to her parents’ house every Sunday. I was more than happy to deliver it, because I could see Cookie more often. I asked her to attend this function at a Bandra church every Wednesday evening so we could now meet twice a week.
The day I turned 24, I asked her to meet me. We hung out for a while, went to a club, drank together, danced together. That was the first time I held her so close to me. My hand was around her waist. I still remember how good she smelled. We had such a fun time! After I went back home, I couldn't stop thinking about her. Maybe it was the alcohol, I took out my phone and texted her saying I really liked her. She replied saying she felt the same way too. My heart began racing! I was just filled with joy! We began to meet more often. She would come to my office and we’d hang out after I finished work. My colleagues also met her many times. They seemed unbothered that she was older than me. Maybe because she didn’t look much older.
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Once when we went out, we got very drunk. She suggested that we take a cab instead of my bike so we got one. We sat in the backseat. She leaned on my shoulders and said that she really liked being with me and how I took care of her. I looked at her, and we kissed. Our first ever kiss. We started passionately making out in the cab itself. 45 minutes of kissing each other, on the neck, on the lips, biting each other, putting my hand inside her t-shirt, I loved it all.
When we reached her house, she said let’s go to the terrace. Sadly, I didn’t have a condom on me, so we didn’t have sex that night. The first thing I did after dropping her back home was to buy 10 packets of condoms! Finally, when we did have sex, I was over the moon! I had always wanted to be in bed with her and I was really, really happy. It was like the typical puppy love that all couples initially have.
Whenever Cookie and I had sex, there was a lot of foreplay. It seemed really adventurous. This didn’t happen with the girls closer to my age. As in, the foreplay was not as intense and they were also afraid of PDA (Public Display of Affection). I really like foreplay because it builds the tension between both people. Cookie was bindass! She and I would tease each other a lot in bed, have a lot of fun. There was no pressure to do anything because she knew her way around me. Initially, she would show me what part of her vagina to lick, how to fondle her breasts, what things she enjoyed. She had had so much more sex than me so she had a lot of clarity in thought. I always knew I would be good in bed because she herself had told me how I could make her feel pleasure and she was patient while I got better.
All of this was happening in secret, of course. My mom suspected I was dating someone. She would frequently ask if I was seeing anyone. I would simply deny and move on. My mother is like the CID so I was scared. Very scared. But the family knew Cookie and I had a good bond and that we got along well, so no one suspected us. We would act very casual in front of them.
Only two of my closest friends knew what was happening. I’ve known them since we were six and I share everything with them. They did warn me initially not to take things further with Cookie because the situation was so complicated. But once I told them I was dating her, they never judged me. They were very supportive but advised me not to keep high hopes, that everything could spiral down anytime.
Until I met Cookie, I’d never care what anyone else thought and just said whatever I wanted to. Maybe I was harsh and rude at times. But she would sit me down and make me think about my behaviour and my words. I slowly became more thoughtful towards others, thought about them a little more. If I wanted to be treated with respect, I had to treat others the same way. It’s always a give and take. That’s something I definitely learnt from her.
For six months I was in my La La Land with Cookie and then one day, I heard the husband had come back. He wanted her and the kids back in his life. Apparently, he had realised his mistake and become a better man or something. I didn’t buy any of it, it was all lies to me. I guess I had hoped somewhere along the line that she would divorce him. But that never happened. She told me one day that she was going to meet her husband - she wanted to give him another chance. I asked her what about us? She seemed very unaffected by that question and just said yes, we can still be in touch. I said if she went back to Pune, I couldn’t travel there often. She just replied: then let’s meet only some times, what were you expecting. That she was after all a married woman. I was just shattered…so disappointed. I met her a few times after that. She would always say she missed me, she missed having a conversation. So, I guess she was not as unaffected. There was something.
Honestly, through our entire time together, I was never unaware of reality. That she was married, she was my relative and that I couldn’t be with her forever. Even her kids and I knew each other well. But none of it bothered me because I just wanted to be with her for whatever time I could. But the ending was so abrupt, which is why it really hit me hard.
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Then, life went on. I got busy with work and avoided going to family functions altogether. We didn’t meet or talk for very long. But some years later, I met Cookie again at some event. It hurt seeing someone whom I’d shared such an intimate experience with. I wondered, what was all that effort and time for? Was it all a waste? We spoke that day. I remember, I was smoking outside the venue and she joined me. She asked for a smoke and I offered. She told me what we had was really beautiful, that she had never had such an experience and that she will always cherish it. It was nice and sweet of her to say that but I had moved on. It didn’t really matter to me. The truth is we could’ve been really good friends and figured something out if things had ended differently.
Much later in my life I heard that Cookie went out with many younger guys. I heard it was because she wanted to have lots and lots of sex and her husband didn’t give her enough affection and time. Looking back, I realised that for me, being with her was a dream come true. But I never knew her side of the story. Maybe she was looking for sex and not a relationship. I could be wrong, I could be right; I really don’t know.
People have this stereotype that it’s easy to impress an older woman and date her. I feel it’s not true at all. Older women have seen younger guys and know how they think even if the guys don’t spell out their thoughts. But it’s not about ‘older women’ and all that really. I’m not at all saying don’t date an older woman. I mean, what’s the harm in it? People are okay with a younger woman dating an older man. Look at Milind Soman and his girlfriend. But when Priyanka Chopra married Nick Jonas, she got so much flak for it. For me, compatibility matters. Age is in our mindset, really. A woman older than me, if we are on the same page? I would be happy to date her.
But the one thing I’ll always stick to is that I’m never going to be with someone who hasn’t fully ended their previous relationship. Even on dating apps or when I ask out someone I meet, I ask them if they are currently with someone or still in the process of ending things. If they are, I immediately back off. I don’t want to get involved in any way. I’ll wait till they have ended things, settled down and moved on. Because if not, they can be vulnerable and I don’t want to just be a shoulder to cry on or a dick to ride on. I’m not very into casual sex. I’ll only be with someone who’s as madly in love with me as I am with them. It has to be a two-way street.
I once met a woman online and asked her what she expected if we got into a relationship. She said nothing yet, because if she had any expectations and they weren’t met, she’d be hurt. She’s right in a way. But I feel if you set your expectations openly, make it clear that you’re looking for something, that will bring stability. I don’t feel it’s asking for too much. There may be mess-ups, people may break their promises, or cheat, or lie – it’s human. But that doesn’t mean you don’t set any expectations. For me, if I don’t have any expectations, I don’t think I can have a future in that relationship.
Jason D’Cunha is a 28-year-old guy wanting to know what love really is, and is still in search of his Miss Perfect. He is often found sitting and admiring couples around the city. (He is still friends with Cookie and hopes she tells him why she did whatever she did.)
GunmasterG9 is a 24-year-old guy, who is an amalgamation of someone who's perpetually confused but constantly ambitious at the same time. Disaster is a natural part of his evolution toward tragedy and dissolution. A passion for music, a love for art and a wish to be a Pablo Neruda in a world full of Chetan Bhagats!
Healing, Not The Law, Gave Me My Justice - This is My Survivor Story
M tells us a complex story about violence, justice and ideal victims!
By M; Illustrations by Shikha Sreenivas
CW - Contains descriptions of rape.
In early September 2015, I moved from India to a different continent. I was partnered the moment before the plane took off and single the moment it landed. I had been in a committed – and monogamous- relationship, but since I was moving for work with no real return date, we decided to be ‘mature’ and split (little thinking that romantic feelings aren’t simply switched off).
After a few months of getting used to a different life, in a new country, I felt ready, even excited, to date again. Dating apps were new. Late one December evening, my flat-mates convinced me to make a Tinder profile. The possibility felt thrilling.
A few weeks later, I came across A’s profile on Tinder - a seemingly tall and attractive white man. I can’t remember what his bio said, but something about it must have appealed to me. I swiped right. We matched. My bio included the fact that I was (still relatively) new to town and looking for people to show me around. His opening gambit capitalized on this, and even went so far as to claim he could show me the best secret bar in town; I fell, hook, line, and sinker. After some back and forth banter that I thoroughly enjoyed, on Monday we fixed a date for Friday. But, Friday seemed an eternity away. I found him very charming and he was on my mind a lot. I texted him again. Eventually he dropped his number and we moved to WhatsApp.
[[https://agentsofishq.com/uploads/2022/07-July/18-Mon/M%20-%20Illo%201.jpg]]
On Thursday, a day before our scheduled date, he asked, close to midnight, whether I would be up for a walk. As a woman raised in Delhi whose gut instinct was to be cautious (or paranoid, depending on where your line lies) at every little thing, this made me uneasy. But I also liked him a lot. I immediately texted a close friend asking for advice. He said to meet outside so that everything stays above board. But the outside scared me even more – anything can happen in the night, I reasoned. So, I ignored my friend’s sage advice and instead invited A home, thinking that if something were to happen at least my flat mates were around (although both were fast asleep by then).
As soon as A entered, it was clear that he had had a fair amount to drink – something about a disappointing work event. I poured us both a glass of wine. We sat on the couch, talking – what felt like a very natural extension of our in-app banter. It didn’t take very long for him to put his fingers on the nape of my neck and bring me in for a kiss. I remember liking this gesture a lot – it felt like he was taking charge but not in an overtly aggressive way. We made out for a bit, after which he suggested heading upstairs to my bedroom. I agreed, excited.
Once in my room, the first thing he noticed were the political posters on my walls, all vocally professing my leftist leanings. I remember him saying something about how this made him even more attracted to me. As a young woman starved of validation, this was intoxicating. We collapsed into my bed together. He was quick to undress me, commenting on how ‘fit’ I was, making me feel incredibly desired. I didn’t want to have penetrative sex with him, and almost as if to make up for it, I felt compelled to give him a blowjob (this is something I often feel even now, despite being purportedly older and wiser. Something about the assumed male expectation of penetrative sex makes me apologetic, almost sheepish, about declining it, and I try to assuage the unfulfilled expectation with oral sex; I’m not sure that I have gotten any better at not feeling this strange guilt). I obligingly put his penis in my mouth and started to suck on it. I could see he was enjoying this, and I enjoyed that he was enjoying it. It made me feel powerful, that I could make a man feel so pleasured and so vulnerable in such a short time. I kept going. A few moments later, he put his hand on the back of my head and thrust his penis deeper inside my mouth, causing me to almost gag. With a few more thrusts, holding my head with his hand to make sure I was enveloping his member whole, he ejaculated inside my mouth. We lay back on the bed afterward, talking for a while. I enjoyed this conversation too, and remember feeling happy, satisfied, almost giddy, as I fell asleep. He slept over and left the next morning.
On the day of our scheduled “date”, I wasn’t sure if the plan was still on. I texted him sneakily saying that I’d still like to see that much acclaimed secret bar. I didn’t hear back. I was disappointed, but I knew better than to text him again. I carried that disappointment with me for weeks afterward. In the first few days, it was a furiously burning flame of unreciprocated desire, almost tortuous. Gradually, it died down, to be replaced by a dull throbbing sense of despondency for a while.
Two months later, he messaged on Tinder just out of the blue. When I said that I had WhatsApped him the day after our first encounter, he said he hadn’t seen it. He seemed keen to meet. I could sense that this was only a bullshit excuse, he wasn’t really looking for any sort of emotional connection (despite my recollection of our conversation both before and after sex being, to me, amazing). He just wanted sex.
Some of you might say I shouldn’t have expected to find anything more than sex on Tinder anyway, although subsequent events have proven the inaccuracy of that statement for me. While it was a bit disappointing that he wasn’t interested in anything more than sex, I could roll with it. I was in my early 20s, and I thought that being a modern, liberated woman meant being “sex-positive”, which I misunderstood as being ready for sex, even at the cost of one’s own desires or wishes for a different kind of relationship (I’m glad to say I’ve learned not to ignore what I want, and to say yes to sex if I want it but also to say no when I don’t want it in a particular way or context). And anyway, I was no longer as interested in him as I was when we first met two months ago. However, our schedules just did not match and we ended up not meeting then.
We did meet a few times in my two odd years in that city though. Each time, the experience was pretty similar to that first time. Each time, I gave him a blowjob. Each time, he put his hand on the back of my head and I almost gagged. In return, he would always make an effort to pleasure me orally, but it wasn’t ever particularly satisfactory. I remember complaining to a friend that it felt a bit like a race to some sort of imaginary finish. Perhaps I should have communicated what I wanted, but I don’t remember dwelling on my own pleasure in those encounters. I had internalized heteronormative ideas about sex to such an extent that to be desired by a man was the primary goal. I was concerned about his orgasm, with little consideration for mine.
In those two years between 2016 and 2018, the #MeToo movement happened. But more importantly, and closer to home, my own politics grew. I had always identified as a feminist, and always recognized that the personal is political, but that meaning revealed itself in new and intriguing ways (of course, this process has no endpoint; I am still learning and evolving and growing every day in the way I think about and practice my feminism).
Whenever I recollected my experiences with A, they didn’t feel unpleasant. I didn’t feel violated or exploited. Yet, over the years, I realized that I had essentially been forced to keep his penis inside my mouth, that he had shoved it deeper by force. And I also gradually realized that in legal parlance, that is rape. It took me time to process that A had violated me: not in the sense of how we usually think of violation (premeditated and/or aggressive), but more that this kind of violation is, well, the norm. And me somehow being inside this definition of sex, not being used to thinking about my own desires, made me go along.
[[https://agentsofishq.com/uploads/2022/07-July/18-Mon/M%20-%20Illo%202.jpg]]
I expected to feel sad, angry, or hurt about that realization. But I didn’t. Then I felt guilty for not feeling them. Why was I - a self-professed, vocal feminist, described by a colleague as a ‘militant’ feminist even - feeling this way? Every time I remembered A, it was with fondness, almost a wry wistfulness for the youth of my experiences with him, a certain strange nostalgia for the young and still-forming me, and this me’s relationship with A. These did not take away from the rational realization that I had been raped, not at all. They simply…coexisted.
In fact, even after my realization that all of these experiences were rape, before moving back to India, I messaged him to let him know I was leaving, and whether he’d like to meet “one last time”. And, it was just as every other time. I think I wanted to recreate my experiences with him – that feeling of finding someone so very attractive and appealing, that giving over of myself to someone else without cautiously considering every angle and potential consequence of the interaction, that recklessness of youth.
After I moved back to India, I have been working almost exclusively at the intersections of law with gender and sexuality, on issues such as reproductive rights, sexual violence, and consent. I take these issues incredibly personally, and my work is very close to my heart. Amidst all this, the more I thought about it, the more certain I was that A raped me (or at least, as certain as a woman can be in an environment where women are repeatedly questioned and maligned as soon as an allegation of rape is made – I found myself questioning myself even as I wrote this piece). Yet, once again, those feelings of hurt or anger or sadness or shame or guilt never came. I have never wanted A to face any sort of punishment, legal or social. Emotionally, I do not feel the need for justice, or revenge, or really any action at all. When #MeToo happened, I did not feel the need to out him as a rapist on social media (or the need to out any of my other abusers, although I did make a general post expressing solidarity with the movement and acknowledging myself as a survivor). I supported the women who did want to speak about their violation. You might wonder why, and I have thought about it a lot.
A violated my boundaries and I do believe that A’s acts are unjustified. I do not forgive A for what he did to me. But, I hold that rational, logical belief along with an absence of negative feeling. In fact, I hold it alongside a presence of positive feeling – not for A’s acts, but for everything else (I’ve even been smiling while writing this piece), for the kind of person A was – immensely smart, funny, attractive, and excellent company and conversation. I feel even grateful to him for being a significant part of my own sexual journey, for helping me to realize what I find attractive and what I don’t, and how often there is such a thin line between those two categories, a line that wavers based on my own position in life, my mental health at a particular moment, and myriad other factors. It’s not either, that I am blaming myself for not recognizing the experience for what it was. Quite the contrary. Most of all, I am trying to be kind to myself – to not blame myself for not immediately knowing it was rape, or for not feeling guilt or anger now that I do. I am grateful to myself—for being able to carry this lived experience, and the memories of how it made me feel, and all the accompanying confusion, with me. My relationship with A helped me understand what kind of relationships I want: conscious, intentional, and mutual. My own emancipation has been so much more important to me than A’s punishment, as a (perhaps unconventional) feminist response to the violation itself. I can say I’m much older and wiser now, and that perhaps something like this wouldn’t happen to me again (which is not the same as saying it was my fault).
[[https://agentsofishq.com/uploads/2022/07-July/18-Mon/M%20-%20Illo%203.jpg]]
Last year, I was back in that city for a few months. One evening, while walking to my primary partner’s place, the thought of A popped back into my head out of nowhere; I think I had seen someone on the street who looked like him.
In a very spooky coincidence, the next morning I checked my Tinder, and there was a message from him. We had not spoken since I moved out of the city about three years ago, and I hadn’t told him that I had moved back. He asked if I would like to meet. I said yes but didn’t really commit to a time. Once again, due to busy schedules, we didn’t meet – but he messaged a few times and even dropped his number (forgetting perhaps that I already had it from two years ago).
I couldn’t meet him before leaving the city because of how much I had on my plate. But every time I did ponder meeting him, there was no strong opposition. There was merely… ambivalence, undecidedness. Eventually I let time take its course, and it didn’t happen. But again, I was surprised by my lack of negative memories of him. I’m pretty certain that were I in a position to be able to meet him tomorrow, I would not immediately say no. I may not say yes, but I would not immediately say no.
“Rape” is always a negative word. But we are also told what kind of negative we are all supposed to see it as. We’re told that rape is a “deathless shame”, a fate worse than death. And that our reaction to violation should match this feeling. In progressive conversations we might agree, that there is no such thing as an ideal rape victim. Yet we tend to portray the experience of rape and the feelings of survivors in black and white . This might be the pressure of how legal and social systems think about rape victims – without asking rape victims what they think. Our need to punish rape often translates into an insistence that the survivor of rape conform to our expectation of what they are feeling. But in lived life, this black and white does not always hold true. For example, there are those who continue to be in love with their rapists, or those who love them because they are family, or people they have grown up with. Our unwillingness to accommodate that feeling creates a double shame for such people. The fact that they feel these things does not cancel out the truth of violation and violence. The insistence that they should want the same thing the law mandates, sometimes is very far from the justice that might make them feel better.
As a lawyer I say this with some unease. We live in a landscape inundated by the logic and rationality of the discourse of law. But we need to equally consider the logic and truths of emotion. When we think that way we would root our responses in what makes the rape survivor feel better, rather than what makes society feel better, in accordance with what it deems the story of rape or assault should be. Is it the law we serve, or the needs of victims?
In all my personal experiences and professional work, I have learned that the word “justice” means different things to different people. In my own case here, much of my “justice” came from my own feminist grappling with my experience. It came from my understanding how much patriarchy played a role in it all, the personal growth that emerged from this understanding, and my gradual (work-in-progress) liberation from sexual norms in which women’s desires really aren’t important. For another woman, the sense of justice could come from the rapist acknowledging their wrongdoing. Yet another person might want their rapist to apologize or be held accountable, or seek therapy. Others still, might want the rapist to be legally punished.
I write this not to deny any experience, but to make more space for more experiences in this dialogue, and hope for a more diverse and meaningful journey of justice. Rape is abhorrent and often a horrible thing to survive. At the same time, can there be room for survivors who don’t feel shame or guilt or sorrow, like me?
M is a lawyer who is originally from Delhi but is still figuring out where in the world she belongs. Her only skill is ranting about feminism, but for fun she likes to read, dance, and travel by herself.
Bodies in Pain: Reclaim, not Shame
Angel's journey of accepting that her period pain was real, not imaginary or inconsequential.
Written by Angel Maria
Illustrated by Harini Rajagopalan


QUESTIONS. RUMINATION. CONVERSATION Or What is he doing right now?
Written by Carol D'souza
Illustrated by Nikhita Thomas


Love Paranoia
After every rejection I ask, is it my disability?
Written by Abhishek Anicca
Illustrated by Shikha Sreenivas

Do You Dare Confess Your One Sided Love?
He loves someone else, but he doesn't mind me loving him in this one-sided fashion.
Written by Kashish
Illustrated by Shikha Sreenivas
Translated by Prachir Kumar

Breaking My Heart And Finding Myself
Imran on why queer break-ups are hard, but you can't lose yourself entirely in love.
Written by Imran Khan
Illustrated by Anshumaan Sathe

One day it was raining heavily and I had taken my scooty out for a ride. I was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and shorts. I saw some kids playing in the rain and joined them. After a few moments I saw Gaurav. He was wearing a capri and a t-shirt. He directly approached me. I asked him what was he doing there and he replied that his house was just around the corner and invited me home. I readily accepted his invitation. When I reached there I found out that his family had gone to their village. My heart was racing. He asked me whether I wanted to have water and I politely declined. Then, he sat beside me and said, “You’re my teacher just for 2 hours and after that, a friend”. I smiled and said, “Done!”
After that, he started to come closer to me. I was in the same trance as he was. My body and lips were trembling in excitement. I suddenly leapt forward and took him in my arms. My heartbeat was off the charts and we were both breathing rapidly. He tilted my head upwards and started kissing me on my lips. This was my first experience of actually kissing anyone. As we slowly made our way to the bed, it seemed my soul was more hungry than my body and I believe we were both feeling the same thing. In that moment we were just one body with two souls inhabiting it. He covered me like a sheet and his arms gave me solace. He looked closely and admired my body, and took me under his control.
it’s a chill breeze and we walk amidst it
the body desires a body to wrap itself in
the wild cold kiss of dew upon the skin
let’s wrap something for the souls to join in
Our lives then took off. After completing his boards he joined a graduation course from IGNOU and in the meantime I made it to the merit list for a regular course of B.Ed at a prestigious college. But this impacted Gaurav negatively and I dropped that course to be with him. He used to stay with me all day and went to his house just to sleep. His parents never objected to him staying at my place. My brother-in-law used to work in Australia, so my sister lived with us. Whenever we wanted to have some private moments, I used to take him to my sister’s empty home instead. We would watch movies, have a bath together and then I would cook for both of us. Three blissful years went by like this and then one day he told me that we will shift to Chandigarh, where he would work and I would stay with him. We were already living like a married couple when I got a call for a scholarship that I had applied for, from an NGO. I wanted the money to apply for a B.Ed course from a private university. After a lot of thought, I decided that I would let Gaurav take the scholarship instead as he was economically weaker and was interested in pursuing a course in graphic designing. He needed 1.32 lakhs for it, out of which he got 1 lakh through the scholarship. I borrowed ₹32,000 from my sister and helped him get into the 1 year diploma course of graphic designing, from a renowned institute. The course went on from 2016 to October 2017 and he became very skilled at his work.

It was the day before New Year’s Eve of 2017. When he didn’t visit me, which was unusual, I tried calling him but his phone was switched off. I panicked and rushed to his house where I found a lock at the door. In desperation I tried his mother’s number as well but that was in vain. After almost an hour, I got a WhatsApp message which had a handwritten letter which said,
“Sorry Imran. I can’t live with you as I have a lot of compulsions. Please consider making Sunny (a friend of ours) your life partner. And please don’t try to contact me again or else I’ll have to kill myself.”

For a long time after Gaurav, I believed that I wouldn’t fall in love. It’s already quite difficult for queer people to find love and express it freely. Maybe that’s why I was so happy when I was with him. After the breakup, I concentrated on my career and today, I’m happy that I’m finally self-dependent. As my anger and pain slowly subsided, I realized that there isn’t any harm in falling in love once more or wanting to make someone else happy. But it’s equally important to keep in mind that the effort needs to be put in by both individuals in the relationship else it isn’t an equal relationship. When there’s a setback in the general life of a person i.e. job, education, etc. one can get some help from their family or friends but when it comes to falling out of a queer relationship, then it’s quite possible that family or friends wouldn’t even come to know about it. To be honest, I’m afraid someone will break my heart again but the hidden lesson after Gaurav was that even in love, we should seek equality. I shouldn’t lose my individuality so much that another person becomes my whole world. I must take care of myself as much as I would take care of them. Today I work as a writer and would like to thank Gaurav as his exit made me a self-reliant person filled with confidence.
Imran Khan is a qualified post graduate. He is teaching as a youth animator with professional experience for an NGO working with women empowerment and mental health. He is also a researcher, content creator (print and audio) and translator.
My Wobbly Bits: Making Friends with My New-Old Body
In my 50's, I'm rearing a kid by myself and greeting new body parts ever so frequently.
Written by Lalita Iyer
Illustrated by Anshumaan Sathe





Bad Habits, Good Women: My Conversations with Nuns
Unmarried, celibate, religious – is every nun the same kind of woman? Nikhita finds out!
Written and illustrated by Nikhita Thomas












The Case Of The Missing Butterflies In My Tummy
I thought if I gave myself a push, I’d fall into the hormone pool everyone was swimming in.
Written by Tinaz
Illustrated by Nikhita Thomas



See-Saw Sexual Confidence Ka!
What people said brought their sexual confidence up or down!
Written by: Debasmita Das and Niranjana S
Illustrated by: Anshumaan Sathe

Things people said brought their sexual confidence down!
People bragging about their sex skills: Rajan, a 29-year-old Delhi-based media professional, says that when he was 14, he heard the cool dudes in his class boast about how they had sex with their 20-centimetre-long penises and came 6 times in half an hour. “I hadn’t had sex myself yet, but I did have a girlfriend, and I thought that I would have to perform like that too if I wanted to impress her. It bothered me, because I knew I wouldn’t ever be able to do that. I realised only much later that they were lying.” Many men point out how the bizarre expectations set by porn and friends create a false impression about what sex should be like. And when it doesn’t match up to those expectations, that can affect them. Hearing others rate the sex they had: Some people think sex is all about the ratings, proficiency and positions, and less about actual intimacy, sharing and feeling good. These people are all about trying the hottest new positions, or have ranked each of their ex-lovers on a numerical hierarchy (“Oh he was so good, a total 10!”). Unfortunately, this also leads to a culture that makes you worry about hitting checklists rather than enjoying yourself. Feeling unpopular or undesirable: Danny, a 28-year-old screenwriter, says he feels people who are asked out by others often must be sexually confident, and remarks that this popularity can make the less sought-after people around them feel under-confident. “I was interested in two girls one after the other, both of them ended up flirting with my friend instead of me. The second time, I thought I would never ever get my confidence back in my life.” Your sexual preferences being seen as weird: For some people, discovering fetishes that go against societal norms could deplete their sexual confidence. Some men, for example, like playing submissive roles in bed (or being physically dominated by their partners), while society generally tells men that they’re supposed to be more dominant. If you feel society looks down on your sexual preferences or fetishes, it can make you less confident. An uncommunicative partner: Lots of people report feeling under-confident with partners who are unwilling to discuss the specifics of what they really want in bed. They say it’s frustrating because they would feel much more confident if they were doing what they knew their partners liked. A partner faking orgasms: The knowledge that your partner isn’t being fully honest with you about their enjoyment, or that they’ve been faking orgasms, can be even worse for your confidence than not talking about it at all. “I had been with a girl for two years, and in our last fight, she said she had never had an orgasm with me,” says Dinakaran, a 30-year-old lawyer, “If she could fool me for so long, how will I ever know if anybody is telling the truth [about their enjoyment of a sexual encounter]? It destroyed my confidence in a lot of ways.” Faking orgasms is also a sure-fire way to ensure that your partner will never know what actually works for you. General confidence: In the documentary Ask the Sexpert, there’s a scene where a patient is describing his symptoms to the 91-year-old Bombay-based sexologist Dr Mahender Watsa. While he’s supposed to be explaining his biological problem of erectile dysfunction, he starts explaining that he’s also facing financial problems, which is affecting his self-esteem. Dr Watsa points out that the patient has already identified that there’s a link between his general confidence and his sexual performance. Many men report that they feel much less sexually confident when they aren’t feeling good about themselves in life.Be kind, don’t rewind: A lot of people mentioned finding it frustrating and depleting to be compared to their partner’s previous lovers. The general consensus seems to be that nobody enjoys picturing their partner with someone else, especially when it comes to sex. Insensitive partner/s: Priyanka, a 27-year-old artist from Bangalore, recalls that her ex had difficulty maintaining an erection. He told her it was because she wasn’t attractive enough, and this affected her severely. She later found out from a mutual friend that he had had the same problem with another woman they both knew, and was merely shifting the blame onto her. It’s not uncommon to find people trying to offload their own problems and make them the responsibility of others, and it can be particularly hurtful and depleting. Other person going starfish during sex: “Having a girl go starfish on you is the worst thing that can ever happen,” says Sunish, a Calcutta-based lawyer. By “going starfish”, he’s referring to when the person you’re with goes absolutely still and unresponsive, like an immobile starfish or “dead fish”. He says it leaves him completely unsure of what to do next. (Maybe the best thing to do is stop and ask your partner how they’d like to proceed.) Losing your erection: Purab, 34, says, “My erection is directly tied to my confidence. If I feel ki kuch theekh nahi ho raha hai, it affects my confidence in that moment, and then I lose my erection. Losing your erection is again embarrassing in itself, so that makes me lose confidence even more.” He’s learnt to back off and make a joke or pause for a bit when this happens.Things people said brought their sexual confidence up!
Knowing you fit beauty standards: Nina, a public policy student in Mumbai, draws her sexual confidence from having “conventionally attractive” features as defined by pop culture. “I’ve always been thin, and we’re told that’s beautiful. I know it’s wrong to believe it, but it’s what society believes, and you internalise it too.” She says she would find her own confidence depleting if she looked the opposite of prevailing standards of beauty, and is aware of how such norms can hurt people whose looks don’t fit within it. Compliments: Compliments boost everybody’s confidence! Siddhra, a Bangalore-based fashion designer in her twenties, says she feels confident when people compliment her lips or butt, while Manush recalls his fourth girlfriend telling him he had a big penis, which was a compliment he hadn’t received until then. He says it was a nice surprise. Having more sex and getting better at it: “When I started having sex, I was extremely confident in my own abilities. I watched all the porn there was, and if my penis went inside the vagina, I thought I had done everything. Then I started to have sex with a few more people, and the more I learnt about the real female anatomy, I realised I was awful at it. The more sex you have, the more you understand that there are different things that work for different people. Your own sexual knowledge and repertoire of tricks grows, and you learn to read cues better. This makes you better at sex, and, in turn, increases your sexual confidence.” Manush, a civil servant in his thirties, says building experience with a partner is a great way to boost your confidence. “You’re both learning and unlearning each other’s bodies together, there’s no pressure, so you have the room to learn what works without feeling embarrassed.” Feeling comfy in your body: Barney, a 28-year-old lawyer, says, “I took a martial arts class, and some other courses that made me feel in tune with my body. This made me comfortable in my own skin, but it also made me more comfortable touching other people, sexually and non-sexually: I was aware of my own touch and its strength, and less worried about whether my touch was threatening.” Discovering your kinks : Some people say that discovering their own preferences actually gave them a boost, if they weren’t considered embarrassing or shameful. Disha, a student, says she discovered that she liked being “spanked” a few months into her relationship, and that knowledge made her feel like a more adventurous being, which made her feel more sexually confident too. Hearing a partner moan: “For me, my sexual confidence is tied entirely to my partner’s reactions,” says 30-year-old Vipreet, a web analyst, “So smiles, moving her head from side to side and jerky movements are all good signs, moans are great and nothing like an orgasm. There’s no other metric [to measure your sexual skill], is there? If I see that my partner is enjoying herself, my confidence shoots up, and vice versa.” Signs that someone is into you: Many people derive pleasure from their partners appreciating them, or other signs that they find them attractive. Mridula, a 20-year-old student, says that she feels more confident when the guy she’s with seems visibly enamoured by her, which she notices through facial expressions (like widened eyes), bodily indicators (rapid breathing), or moans and groans. “I feel more in power, like I can have more fun, toy with them and tease a bit,” she says. Both of these feel like rather healthy and positive things to base your sexual confidence on: after all, feeling good about yourself, and feeling that your partner had a good time having sex with you, are two of the most important aspects of sex, and are actually great ways to know you’re doing it right. Vanity metrics: And then finally, there are those false flags that give you misplaced confidence you shouldn't have. Vipreet, who believes that a woman’s visible or audible cues are the only real metrics that matter, points out that some people look to what he calls “vanity metrics” for their sexual confidence. He says that these are useless indicators, like the “number of thrusts per minute”, which may build confidence in your prowess at sex as a competitive sport, but only if you know nothing about sexual pleasure. Manush points to another “vanity metric” he used in his youth. “I was having sex with a much younger woman. Really bad sex, in hindsight. Unprotected, with me coming on her belly and thighs. I kind of was “proud" in a strange chauvinistic way that I could control my ejaculation without protection. It was strange and stupid.” While such vanity metrics may boost some people’s confidence, it’s important to derive your sexual confidence from the things that actually give you and your partner mutual pleasure.Stars In My Eyes ft. Meena Kumari
6 people tell us why the Tragedy Queen mattered to them on her birthday!
Cinema icons have an effect on our lives and cultures far beyond their screen presence. What truly makes them ‘icons’ and not just ‘stars’ is how they somehow forge an intimate relationship with us. They bring alive our fantasies and open a world of possibilities for us. Through them, we find a language for our many emotions and experiences - dreams, love, friendship, heartbreak, conflict, queerness, and expression of our most private selves.
One such icon from the legacy of Hindi cinema is Meena Kumari whose birthday falls on August 1.
[[https://agentsofishq.com/uploads/2022/08-August/01-Mon/meena%20bday%201%20-%20Copy.jpg]]
She continues to be remembered for her iconic performances, songs, and her poetry. Her poignant portrayal of loneliness, desire, and melancholia in films like Sahib, Bibi aur Ghulam (1962) and Pakeezah (1972) earned her the title of ‘Tragedy Queen’
In a song from Benazir (1964), she sings,
Hum mein apna ilaaj-e-dard-e-dil karna bhi aata hai ...
hum aaise jeene waale hai jinhe marna bhi aata hai
(I know how to heal my broken heart,
I live knowing how to die as well)
It was said that her life was not very different from her on-screen persona.
She also became a queer icon between the 60s-80s. Her songs, films, and even her poetry offered many queer people a language to express their love, desire and pain that was often rejected by the world.
We asked some people what Meena Kumari meant to them. Here’s what they told us:
[[https://agentsofishq.com/uploads/2022/08-August/01-Mon/meena%20bday%203.jpg]]
Aditya, 24, Queer, Gay
I think tragedy is an overarching theme in Meena Kumari’s public image – her films and her personal life. For me, I was most drawn to how she performed this tragedy.
When I was young, I didn’t have the language to identify as queer or to frame my own experiences. Still, I had this connection with Meena Kumari. I felt like her body was expressing what I was feeling. She gave me, like, a surrogate language to perform my own grief.
As I grew older and discovered her poetry, I felt I was discovering Meena Kumari as a person, beyond an actress on screen. That’s when I realised, wow that’s why she’s so good [on screen]. That feeling on screen came from her whole persona.
There is an amazing song which she has sung and written called Chaand Tanha. I’m obsessed with it! It’s about loneliness. Not just of one person but of other people too, of couples who may be together but still feel lonely. It’s like a collection of all the loneliness in the world. So huge and grand!
Chand Tanha - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_L8eFA5a6c
Just like how you look, how you sit and how you lie down, how you grieve is also a language. Letting out grief doesn’t mean you can’t give it a form. By giving your vulnerability a form, you’re honouring it. It’s not disrespectful or fake. Someone like Meena Kumari helps you open up a little more and think about your emotions or vulnerability differently.
[[https://agentsofishq.com/uploads/2022/08-August/01-Mon/meena%20bday%205.jpg]]
Maanik Mahna, 57, Gay
I was six and a half years old on March 31st, 1972 when she passed away. I still remember that day’s front-page article in the Hindustan Times. It said “Meena Kumari Dead” and there was a picture of her from Pakeezah running away from the nikah (marriage) that Raj Kumar had proposed to her. There was a connection I felt instantly. I’m almost 57 now but I still remember it. I wonder, sometimes, is it like a past life connection?
If Meena-ji and I were in the same generation, I wouldn’t mind being her lover. There would be nobody else I would turn heterosexual for.
At 14, when I listened to a record of Meena-ji’s poetry “I write, I recite”, I was completely mesmerised by her voice. It was also the beginning of my tryst with Urdu shayari. I would attribute my poetic sensibilities to her.
If you look at Pakeezah, the film is, of course, pure poetry. But it’s also the tale of a woman who desperately wants to love and be loved, and cannot achieve it because she’s a tawaif (courtesan). Her personal life was also an eternal quest of finding love and fulfilment. I think a lot of gay men identify with the tragedy of that. It’s said she wanted it to be engraved on her grave that she ended life with a broken song with a broken heart, but not a single regret.
I don’t really have a favourite memory of Meena-ji. I think she lives with me. My partner who lives with me sometimes says he feels a presence in the room all the time. And I say, yeah it very well could be Meena-ji. There's not a day when I don’t remember her, watch a YouTube video about her, or read something about her.
Even with the film I’m making on her life, I just want to thank her because I feel that her spirit, her rooh, is making this possible. On June 3rd, 2022, I finally got an appointment with her niece and elder sister in Amristar. Even with her sister I feel like I am surrounded by connections of a lifetime.
[[https://agentsofishq.com/uploads/2022/08-August/01-Mon/meena%20bday%204.jpg]]
Inderjit Negi, 41, Queer Male
I saw her first in the film called Chitralekha on DD National. It’s a period film where she plays the role of the prostitute, a sex worker. And, opposite her is Ashok Kumar, who is a sadhu, a rishi, a saint, somebody who has renounced the world. The film has the song Sansaar se bhaage phirte ho. It’s about accepting yourself, your queerness, your body, its needs and its hunger. Hunger for food and hunger for other physical needs. I am not really a die-hard Meena Kumari fan, but these multiple layers in her songs are why I feel connected to her.
Sansaar Se Bhaage…: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=17kq4TkpeUE
She got some of the most tragic and poignant lyrics. There’s another song Hum tere pyaar mein sara aalam kho baithe hai. She says that I have completely lost myself, because I am so devotedly in love with you. She says love is like a cage and that you put me in it, but I have started loving being in this cage because it is with you. It’s very much like that teenage love when you’re unable to express it because you’re already dealing with your sexuality and all that. That’s the relatedness, I feel.
Hum tere pyaar mein: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onb3sBz3xV4
If you watch Pakeezah, she has a dual identity where she dresses up one way for the world and differently when she is alone. That again draws a lot of parallels with the queer community. You dress up in drag, you’re laughing, you’re entertaining, but your soul is hurting, you are unable to truly embrace yourself in front of the world because the world is judgemental. For queer people, the only way to express yourself was mostly by depending on films, film songs and film characters. The relatability with her tragedy, the films where she united with a lover – what she truly sort of gave the queer community was hope.
Vivek Anand, 60, Gay, CEO of The Humsafar Trust
In Sahib, Bibi aur Ghulam, her introduction scene is pretty late. When Guru Dutt first sees her, he starts at her feet and slowly the camera moves upwards and there’s a long shot of her – regal, royal, draped in a sari. And that expression on Guru Dutt’s face is probably the same as the millions of people who watched this scene and went “Wow! Who is this woman?” This was my introduction to Meena Kumari too.
In that film and in Pakeezah, she plays women who are yearning for love and respect. That, I feel, resonated strongly with us as gay men. But on the other side, she’s also flamboyant, very high-camp. Just look at her costumes in Pakeezah! She displays her best self. She was not a size 0, or a sex symbol in your so-called "defined parameters", but just look at her!
Her roles were not of a queer icon, she became one. She was an icon to queer people through the 60s, 70s and 80s. I just look at her and say, "If she can, so can I".
This song Chalte Chalte Yun Hi… from Pakeezah was a gay anthem. Because that’s how we were meeting our partners – on trains, in parks, in railway stations. There were no dating apps. Way back in the 90s there was a documentary made on gay culture in London. And you saw a bunch of drag queens in a party there and they're all dancing to Chalte Chalte… She cut across barriers of caste, class, culture – she was global.
I just want to tell her: “It's been 50 years since you passed away but there's not a single day that I don't miss you. You have been a part of my existence, my life.”
Chalte Chalte: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fH73z7rVDqs
[[https://agentsofishq.com/uploads/2022/08-August/01-Mon/meena%20bday%206.jpg]]
Umang Sabarwal, 30, Cis-het Woman
I've not seen Meena Kumari’s whole body of work to interpret her persona, so it was always this suna-kaha, hearsay version of her as ‘the tragedy queen’ not just in terms of her roles but also what I heard about and read of her life. I found that very endearing. I felt like she was a cultural icon of sadness.
But just a few years ago, I read excerpts of her poem on Agents Of Ishq and then my Spotify shuffle landed me on recordings of her poetry. I began listening to these recordings – of the ghazals she had written, in her own voice, and that was the moment I fell in love with her. It was the poetry, her voice and just the sadness in it.
There's a line in this Meena kumari poem called Chand Tanha Hai. She says Humsafar koi mile bhi toh kya, dono chalte rahe yahaan tanha (So what if there is a companion, they walk alone together). Unlike the popular version of sadness, a Guru Dutt kind of sadness, which was about relinquishing the world, her pain was more private and deeply poetic. This line is so beautiful. There's a lack of bitterness to it and a greater sort of beauty in accepting the sorrow that she faces. And she makes it feel like part of our lives' experience. I think she's special for different people for different reasons but this is my connection to her.
I just want to tell her you are beautiful and maybe go easy on the drinks this time! “Write more” is also something I would tell her.
[[https://agentsofishq.com/uploads/2022/08-August/01-Mon/meena%20bday%208%20%281%29.jpg]]
Nithin
The most common narrative in films trains us to find pleasure in union, right? But with Meena Kumari, her films are about the pleasure of being in exile in love. It’s about the love for the one who dies, the one you lose in some way.
Feminist responses – especially second wave feminist responses – to films usually talk about why women who don’t conform to society’s rules are punished. But, in an article I wrote about Meena Kumari, I suggest that as one of those women, she is actually offering that there is a pleasure tied to that punishment.
If you look at Hindi songs around her time itself, they worked a lot with that emotion or bhaava. It followed a tradition of ghazals which were about separation and pining and yearning. I think it’s also her training, a creative force, almost. She performed songs that had that bhaava and, as a poet, wrote ghazals in turn with that bhaava also. So, this melancholia was really something she had internalised.
Seen Zoned, IRL
It turned ‘seen’ instantly, like never before. Bundles of crackers went off in my heart.
Written by Purvi
Illustrated by Shikha Sreenivas

Stories From A Survey: Manju's Story
Illustrated by Ruchi Shah










Stories From A Survey: Mohan's Story
Illustrated by Shikha Sreenivas










Fan : Why I Love Shah Rukh Khan
If you love him, you love him the way he loves his heroines – unabashedly, inexplicably, and forever.
Written by Tara Bhattacharjya Gupta
Illustrated by Shikha Sreenivas


Where is my Education? A Transman’s Story
The everyday struggles of a trans man attending university.
By Chitraksh
Illustrated by Anshumaan Saathe


Friendship: The Movie featuring Uncertain Love
Shocking - Queer people confused if their flirting is romantic or platonic!
Written by Ami Bhansali
Illustrated by Shikha Sreenivas



Discovering My Sexual Self Through Therapy
Now that I have been living by myself, the quietness has given me time to take off these masks.
Written by Tara
Illustrated by Debarati Sarkar



My Body, My Confusion
My idea of the feminine was intrinsic to the experience of heterosexuality.
Written by Aishwarya Sunil
Illustrated by Purvai Aranya


Kabhi Alvida Kehna! How I Said Ta-Ta Bye-Bye to Gender Norms and Became Beautiful
It was not easy to dress like a girl outside; only in the secrecy of my room.
Written by Roshan Pinto








My Best Friend, My Wedding and Other Breakup Stories
Can BFF's getting coupled up throw your dosti into crisis?
Written by Ashwini D
Illustrated by Yogee Chandrasekharan



My Mother’s Lost Friendships
How can marriage and family expectations slowly bleach friendship out of a woman's life?
Written by Runi
Illustrated by Shikha Sreenivas




I Have Erotic Friendships And It's Not Complicated
Aditya writes to reveal new definitions of friendship - and sex!
Written by Aditya Vikram
Illustrated by Shikha Sreenivas



I Have Erotic Friendships And It’s Not Complicated
Aditya Vikram spends mornings writing poems in a windowless room and evenings dancing on the terrace. Most of their work revolves around the aftermath of loss, negotiations of filial love, and the freedoms of queerness. They are currently pursuing a Master’s in English at Ashoka University.
You Are My Di!
What keeps an intense friendship alive in a world that defines love & friendship separately?
Written by Praveena Shivram
Illustrated by Rishita Loitongbam



Good Friends, Bad Boys And Friendship Betrayals
Do you remember your first friendship break-up? Pranav does!
Written by Pranav V S
Illustrated by Anshumaan Sathe




Some of us need to be understood differently: Breaking Up and Mental Illness
Rukmini writes about her relationship and break-up, and how as a person with mental-illness, she wishes it could have been done differently.
By Rukmini Banerjee
Illustration by Diya Ullas


Can Your Vulnerability Make You Mean? Mine Did.
What memories can a unexpected apology from a childhood bully bring up?
Written by Anshumaan Sathe
Illustrated by Ayesha Punjabi



The Vicious Ability of Ableism: What do you do when you're explicitly told that you're unlovable, over and over again?
By Srishti Pandey


If Love is A Rose, Mine is Rather Grotesque
Once bitten, twice shy – Can one learn to trust again?
By Sagrika
I Will Not Write About The Boy I Like
The world is imploding. I should not be writing about the boy I like, who recently told me he likes me too.
Written by Tanvi
Illustration by Shikha Sreenivas


Of Desire, Sex and Size
“Oh, are you wearing a sleeveless top? Have you looked at your size?”
Written by S



Of Simps, Sluts and Societal Pressure - My Time in a 'Boys Club'
Nayana talks about conditioning, internalized misogyny and self-hate through her experiences in a “boys club” in school.
By Nayana



This Was My Adolescence! 7 People Tell Us How Their Youth Shaped their Adult Lives







Oh Boy! That's a Sex Toy (For Penis Owners)
Toys to please your P's - Penis and Prostate!
By Kaushik B; Illustration by Debasmita Das

- Let’s start with an innocuous one: lubricants. They’re not only for penises, but essential for same or cross-gender play. My advice: don’t just go ahead and buy fancy ones. Simple surgical lubes from standard medical stores might be quite enough. I also say this because some lubes are incompatible (especially oil-based ones) with rubber toys and condoms, so if skin-on-skin play is your thing, stick with water-based, or if you go the ‘less is more’ route, go for silicone-based formulas. They are pricey but well worth it (as they repel water, they are also great for the occasional shower-shag). The rule of thumb is, “there is no such thing as too much lube”, so don’t hold back, use generously!
- Another popular toy is the cock ring. It’s a ring-shaped sex toy that goes around the penis and helps erections last longer. If you decide to spend some money on it, do buy a vibrating one because they are great fun to play with. Also check for size (I'm not pornstar sized and unless you are, some of them will flatter-to-deceive) and buy a rechargeable one. Before shelling out cash on your joytoy, estimate if the bulbous head is going to actually touch your partner's privates or not. Also, I don’t want to scare you, but you should know that cock rings can be quite dangerous in case of a persistent erection. A doctor friend recently told me of a patient with that very unusual syndrome and his cock ring had to be cut through in a very delicate operation. So, if you have that particular issue, be careful.
- Prostate massager: If stimulating the P-spot does it for you, a good prostate massager might be just the thing. And why not? Word is that P-spot orgasms can be approximately 33% stronger than penile orgasms. So go and explore. But a word of caution — the technique calls for some knack and experience, otherwise it can be awkward and distracting. So, my advice is to trawl the blogs and YouTube before forking out moolah for the forqan.
- Fleshlights are revolutionary, especially if you believe, “practice makes perfect” in the bedroom as elsewhere. If you are single, consider buying a shower mount with a suction base to increase your dominion. (More pleasure to you!) The blurbs say, it increases stamina and improves performance, but well, check that out for yourself. And who’s complaining if you find net practice to be as pleasurable as a real match?

- Blowjob simulator: Although they are similar to pocket pussies or fleshlights in construction, these miraculous devices simulate oral sex. They’re especially handy in case your loved one finds tickling their tonsils a bit gag-reflex-inducing or simply isn’t into fellation. If you have extra cash lying in the drawer, spend it on the one that says “based on 6,000 hours of blowjob research and controlled by advanced AI algo” and if that’s not cutting edge enough for you, pair the experience with some VR porn. Just kidding, who do you think you are, C3PO?


Name | Description | Buy Link |
Lubricants | A fluid used during sexual acts to reduce friction and ease penetration. It can be used for vagina, penis, or on sex toys. Lubes are water-based, gel-based, or silicone-based. | IMBesharam , Amazon , Durex (Rs. 200 – Rs. 500) |
Cock Ring | Also known as a penis ring, constriction band, or tension ring. It’s ring-shaped and goes around the penis and/or scrotum, slowing blood flow and can help erections stay hard for longer. | IMBesharam, Snapdeal (Rs. 1,500 – Rs. 4,000) |
Prostate massagers | Also called prostate vibrators, it is a sex toy for people with a penis to massage or stimulate the prostate. The massager comes in different sizes and multiple speeds and pulses to achieve better orgasms. | IMBesharam, Snapdeal (Rs. 5,000 – Rs. 15,000) |
Fleshlight masturbators | An artificial vagina that can be used by inserting the penis into its opening. The erect penis goes into one end and you stroke the penis inside of the sleeve. Should be used with water-based lubricant. | IMBesharam, Snapdeal (Rs. 3,000 – Rs. 4,000) |
Blowjob simulator | An alternative to the fleshlight, the sex toy simulates oral sex for people with penises | IMBesharam, Snapdeal (Rs. 3,000 – Rs. 30,000) |
Love Was Not A Cure For My Masculine Anxieties
“Pyaar ka sitam means love comes to us with great promise, to fill our lives, but the truth is it can only fill very little of us,” says Anand Yadav, battling with the pressure that the idea of ‘love’ brings with it.
By Anand Yadav



“Rubbing, rubbing, nothing is happening!”
What can a quest to find out about the mythical ‘orgasm’ look like?
By Orgasming Hermione



Platonic Pyaar in the Time of Corona
By Sneha Annavarapu



What Does Queerness Care About Productivity? A Poem
The mind was kept busy while the body craved attention. The more it craved, the more I got busy.
Written by By Geetanjali Gurlhosur
Illustrated by by Tapasvi Patel

All my adult life was invested in being productive
For a cause I had made up
At the time when I was told to be productive.
Productive body and mind are valued body and mind.
What I want 'to become' and what I want 'to accomplish'
were decided in order to be productive
in a body that does not care for productivity
but only desire and love.
The mind was kept busy
while the body craved attention.
The more it craved, the more I got busy.
The body sent signs to the mind
That I deleted at times and again
To focus on the pile of work I was rebuilding.
Productivity is what I learnt to live with
not desire and love.
Along with this, only heterosexuality could fit
Like an easy jigsaw puzzle to ease the mind
And keep it happy and satisfied.
The idea of me in the arms of a man
Is one I have in the spare minutes of free time
I curse myself for having it--the free time, not the idea.
Free time begs to be filled with socially accepted
Heterosexual desire and love.
I had my moments of fantasy with men.
Oh, it is like knowing how to eat when hungry—
It does not slow you down
Unlike hurriedly replaced guilty pleasures
Of fleeting images of a woman's bare body.
Funny how I even felt guilty going back to examine
The (queer) thoughts of what I did not want to label
Desire and/or love and/or anything else.
She's my friend
I will only upset and repulse her
I told an upset and repulsed me
And went back to work
and my long hours of productivity.
Capitalist production kills the queer, they say.
As in my case, it took up all space and left none
For desire and love.
The mind is still not guilt-free today.
It is a process, queerness, not necessarily time-taking.
Even if it is, I am free now.
POETRY / QUEERNESS
Strange that you ask for evidence
Even though it exists
In the deepest of my desires.
The more you dig, the more it settles in
Subconsciously and comfortably.
I wear the identity, a name to call it by,
Consciously and uncomfortably
I wish it had no name.
Am I 'bi' only because
I cling also to heteronormative desire
Like you cling to a toxic relationship?
Or am I 'pan' – because desire must be standardized?
I say, desire, love and queerness
Can't be named or tamed
Much like poetry
which I like to leave unnamed,
Or call whatever I like:
Thighs that speak of the places they've sat,
Or the smell of a long day on someone's shoulders
Or the curve of someone's back and the way they rest on it,
Or fingers that age with the kindness they share.
These are are the only ways I can describe
And make sense of.
Better than a label or a name
To what and who I desire and wish to tame.
Only if desiring and talking about desire would
Be given credit without affidavit.
Yes, a queer life is as poetic
As words can be queer.
Twisted and put together
The way I want, not the way you want them to sound.
So, I would like to live
The way I want, not the way you want me to be bound.
If my poetry can escape your meaning,
Be raveled and named other things,
So can my queerness
Be unraveled, unnamed and named many-a-things,
Whether you like my poetry/queerness or not.
Geetanjali Gurlhosur is a freelance writer, researcher and storyteller. At times, she writes poetry for her own selfish purposes. She is keen on writing about culture, sexuality, gender and justice.
Uncle’s Fault : What I Understand Now About Grooming
How do cultural norms rooted in respect for seniority enable grooming
Written by Anika Eliz Baby
Illustrated by Anarya



The Story of My “Diagnosis”: What if Nothing is Wrong With Me?
How is absence of shaadi or coupledom an 'abnormality' for the society and for oneself?
By Purnima Raghawan



WHY MEN DON'T TALK ABOUT MASTURBATORS - AND OTHER QUESTIONS YOU NEVER THOUGHT TO ASK
How restricting sex to peno-vaginal intercourse hinders possibilities of self-pleasure
By Abhishek Anicca
Illustrations by Exoticdirtbag


To Think Of All the Bisexual Love I’ve Missed!
I’m 28 and I recently realized I’m bisexual.
Written by Pragati Kulkarni
Illustrated by Krupali


How to Muse a Man
Why are always men finding muse in women in books and films?
By Vani

Image Source
The first time I read Kamala Das’s The Looking Glass in my empty college library I knew someday I wanted a muse; someone on whom I could shamelessly project my desires despite knowing its futility. That was the first year of my graduation. Kamala Das’s slim book of poetry made me realize that a muse can certainly unlock a person’s creativity. I kept Das’s poetry carefully written on a piece of handmade paper for years with me. “…Admit your Admiration. Notice the perfection Of his limbs, his eyes reddening under The shower, the shy walk across the bathroom floor, Dropping towels, and the jerky way he Urinates. All the fond details that make Him male and your only man…” Das’s lines had opened a new way of viewing men for me. Perhaps a softer one. In my final year of graduation I read Rosallyn D’mello’s A Handbook for my Lover. It was a memoir of a decade long love affair with a man. This time again it taught me something. It taught me how to own the dissection of your muse. At 21 I was questioning the institution of marriage and what happens to the lover as muse when he becomes your husband. Around the same time I came across Anne Carson’s work “The Beauty of a Husband in 29 Tangos”. The poet here muses her husband in a rare and brutal manner. “Loyal to nothing my husband. So why did I love him from early girlhood to late middle age and the divorce decree came in the mail? Beauty. No great secret. Not ashamed to say I loved him for his beauty. As I would again if he came near. Beauty convinces. You if anyone grasp this-hush, let’s pass to natural situations.” Two years later I came across Chris Kraus’s 1997 part fiction part auto-biographical novel ‘I love Dick’. For me, it was a most pioneering work that had so unapologetically crafted the idea of musing a man. Dick, in the novel, is a character through which the protagonist, Chris’s desires are portrayed. I Love Dick taught me the possible extents of obsession--for a woman. The writer of its television adaptation, Sarah Gubbins says in one of her interviews with Vanity Fair (May, 2017) “I don’t know why you would get up in the morning if you didn’t have a Dick.” Dick, the character in the book is based on a cultural critic and theorist - Dick Hebdige. But Dick, for us readers is a metaphor of the ever so unattainable and hence enigmatic objet de désir on whom we project our obsessions and fantasies upon. But before we move ahead, we keep in mind that the muse is essentially a fantastical creature. The muse’s personal story, his/her childhood days, his/her affair, education, qualification none of it matters. A muse is essentially a blank canvas for you to imagine what you want them to be. In fact, the lesser you know about know them, the better. You need the blindness with a tincture of delusion. It’s not really about the muse, but about you, your swirling desires.

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The tables have been turned at times and someone has periodically recorded all the quirks of a man, counted his reflexes, his qualms, the body part where it aches the most and laid it out to the world. But female desire or obsession is still mocked. How can a woman put herself through such debasement? A female writer is made to doubt her desire and questioned on why she centred a creative piece on a man. Aren’t these too-intimate details of your life? Why would you want to share them with the world? Why would we want to read about them? Why such obsession? Women have had muses since long; only without record for the most part. Rosalyn D’mello writes in her book, “…Yes, men made for good muses. Sometimes I couldn’t tell if my writing depended on adventure, or if the adventure was incumbent in order for me to write.” Three years back, when I wrote a piece on paradox of choice in modern love based on a conversation I had with a man-friend, he read the piece within ten minutes of its publication and wanted to me to meet him for a coffee the same evening. Over coffee, he said he felt misunderstood and offered further notes on what he actually felt on the same. This time I didn’t keep a mental note of words but rather of his heightened emotional/intellectual reaction. The question isn’t whether a man is the ideal object of female fantasy. The more appropriate question is when will we start reading and watching more of female fantasy? Female desire expressed in any form of artistic expression gets categorized under feminist culture whereas male desire forms the mass culture. When we categorize a work of fiction strictly under feminist literature, we are already channelling our fear and burdening it under the weight of gender politics, not the wild and untamed land of popular culture. The truth is I am still waiting to write about my muse. The jittery prance in the kitchen when he cooks for you the first time, the nervous confessions of familial burdens, the ashen face when faced flooded by unknown emotions, the peeling away of masculinity. Why haven’t I already written it you ask when I’m putting these fragments before you? I’m still waiting, to abandon guilt, to find a man that I can make my muse Jahnabi Mitra is a psychologist and an independent researcher, currently residing in Guwahati, Assam. She is currently working as a faculty member of the Department of Psychology, Royal Global University.The Curious Case of Absent Serenading Heroines in My Life
Where to find those Bollywood heroines who serenade the hero?
Written by Neha Yadav



How the Internet Changed the Way We Make Friends
What does it mean to form bonds in the world of digital connections?
Illustrated by Nandini Moitra
Illustrations by Nandini Moitra
Remember the days of Orkut and the excitement that came with uploading your first picture? Or your pehla virtual chat-room experience? A space of anonymity, play, new conversations and perspectives, and above all, new friendships – social media was the jagah for all of this, and more. It helped so many of us find companions, build communities and establish connections across the globe and navigate the criss-cross of digital and physical, yaniki phygital! Some of these communities exist even today, while others have changed – and the internet certainly has! But, Agents, we hope these stories remind you of the pros of phygital relationships, in a world where the cons tend to take over, and perhaps also help us think of what kind of digital world we really want…
“In a sense, we’d known each other much longer”
– YSK, 25, They/Them
I was 18, I came from a small town, I’d moved cities and left my family for the first time to start college. It was a very ‘straight’ world for me; 7 years ago, people around me weren’t talking about polyamory, caste or desire in college. These weren’t conversations my batchmates or friends were having, and I could not possibly have articulated my body as queer, or a body that perhaps needs to have conversations about mental health. These were concepts the Internet introduced to me.
It wasn’t a community that was named. I knew these conversations were happening because they were coming on my Facebook feed, and somehow from one conversation to another – I was in it. At that time, they helped in acknowledging and articulating what was happening with my body. It made me feel like it was okay for me to think about these things, and introduced me to perspectives that were otherwise lacking around me.
What I experienced was the early internet. Social media was new for a lot of people my age, many of us were being vulnerable online. Now there are therapists and trained people talking about mental health online. But back then, it was just independent, personal voices. The internet didn’t have so much morality in it. It was vulnerable. It allowed more room to explore identities, rather than fixing them into set templates and tropes. I wasn’t pointedly reaching out to somebody to discuss queerness or mental health, but it was always there…in undertones and implied. I didn’t know we were making a community when it was getting formed.
I can’t really tell if I made friends or am I still friends with somebody, because these are people in the last 6-7 years I’ve known of, lost touch with, seen elsewhere, then met them again, only to forget once more. So many people that I knew digitally, would happen to meet in person because of somebody else. But in a sense, we’d known each other longer. It’s a process – this feeling of belongingness. But I think this kind of a digital community builds you. These people were the building blocks for who I became and am now. Maybe they don’t know of me and I don’t know of them, but it was and is still a community because we shared something meaningful together and there was care and labour involved.
“It didn’t matter if we met or not. We were all going through that same emo phase and wanted to express ourselves” – Artemisia D, 29, She/Her
I was in 11th/12th grade when I started my Blogspot journey. The blogs had very funny emo- names like The Crimson Orchid, Hyperventilating What What, My Thoughts, My Feelings, etc etc. Initially everyone was only writing daily journals. Then people started doing image based posts, like this is what I wore today, this is the song I’m listening to, short stories, fashion/food reviews, and such. It was a bit weird that people were reading everything about you and you about them. And the next day, you’d see them in school. It was the first time that an online offline clash was happening. But because everyone was on it, it was all accepted.
That was the time that online relationships and making friends in different cities was common. It was a mixed bag community with no way to formalize it, because on Blogspot, you can’t chat. You could only engage through the comments. If you wanted to talk to them, you had to add them as a friend on Facebook. If someone was in the same city as you and got along with you, you could meet them. Everyone had online friends, and so did I.
There was a girl from the North East living by herself in Bombay. I was interested in her writing and lifestyle. I lost touch with her but I know she got into fashion and events as a career. Even back then, she had a peculiar sense of style and a passion for it, which she wrote about. One blogger, she was younger than me and was writing poetry. Right now she lives in New York and is working as a writer. Another girl used to write a blog which was very pop and Bollywood, and now she writes film reviews and reviews of bollywood movies on big entertainment portals. Over the years, you could see the direction they were heading towards. I guess blogging helped us understand what our passions were and we supported each other’s work, in a way, in those comments sections.
It didn’t matter if we met or not. We were all going through that emo phase; we were at that age where we really wanted to express ourselves. Some cool guys from school had given me their sneakers to paint, and I had put it up on the blog to see people’s reactions. Now when I see it, I know where my illustration style started from.
I was getting better and better at blogging and at the peak, my sister and mother found the blog, which made me get off it. Suddenly I was very conscious that I was putting out something that was so personal. I just went private, and after a while stopped completely because no one read it much anymore. And without any validation, you just stop doing things.
“We would talk everyday, so maybe it was that. There was never a minute you felt like you were on your own” – Aylis Emek (23, She/Her, Harlow – UK) and Demi Hudson (25, She/Her, Hull – UK)
The online world is great for friendships. We’re a generation full of anxiety and mental health conditions so there’s a good majority of us that are introverts. It doesn’t take the effort of getting ready and going out, it’s easier to open up about stuff with someone that way because I already feel like I know them. It meant I could get comfortable chatting to people before meeting them in person.
It happened when we first joined the FB page for Potterheads. I was in college, just started…it was a nervous time. My health wasn’t great, and I needed that group of friends I didn’t have. The admins and the friends I still have today were my lifeline. We joined the group thinking it would be fun to host quizzes and stuff, post about things we were anyway reading on…and it was. Sharing this part of our lives with each other, on this FB community–a part we didn’t get to share with others, started off the bond. We could talk about what we loved.
The online platform I think made everyone comfortable with opening up. Noone was shy to talk about anything. There was no line really, haha. And I really liked that. It made it a safe space, and I needed that in my life at that time. Everybody on the group would talk everyday, so perhaps it was that. There was always something being discussed. Always a conversation to jump in on. And whenever anyone was bored, there was a game or something started. So it was a space we started to turn to and count on. There was never a minute you felt like you were on your own.
We started talking about everything, boys, life, and I even introduced Demi to someone I was then talking to. It was a massive step for me. She would always be the first person to go to. We also started a tradition of calling each other every Christmas morning, and opening presents together. These are just fond memories of my teenage years, some of the only ones I have. We just got it, we got each other.
Basically, it was one of the best experiences of my life. I have found friends for life and I know that I can come to any one of them for anything and Aylis has been a massive part of my life, and part of me. There have been bonds made on that group that would be really really hard to break. I have gone through a lot in the past 7 years and Aylis has been a part of that every single step of the way. Every single part of it. Every high, every low.
“I learnt quite early-on how to be a dil-fek fool in love no matter how ‘out of my league’ my interests seemed”
– Hamsi, 28, She/Her, Ichalkaranji – Maharashtra
At 14, I was getting really good at badminton, turning into a sports buff, and getting the hang of Orkut. At the time Saina Nehwal was known only to devoted badminton players – and I created a ‘community’ (Orkut equivalent of a facebook group) for Saina Nehwal fans.. It garnered a lot of members – badminton players, coaches, fans like me, whom I befriended and in whose company I started taking the sport more seriously (and through that, I now realise, taking myself more seriously). One of them trained in close quarters with Saina Nehwal and claimed to have access to her phone number. Our friendship grew over time and after a lot of insistence, on perhaps my 15th birthday, he finally shared with me her phone number! The number was legit and I got to have a conversation about making it big professionally at badminton with Saina Nehwal before she became the Saina Nehwal!
It was also around the same time that I came to know of a ‘butterfly’ swimmer from Kolhapur, not very far from my town, who had qualified for the Olympics at baali umar of 16! It was Virdhwal Khade, for those curious to know. So of course I created a community for his fans too, the first and only on Orkut. And just the next day, guess what happened? Virdhawal Khade himself discovered it and joined in! Dil toh went full dhak dhak at this. I got talking to him and a few of his friends, who had nothing short of press mentions of their own talents at different strokes (ahem- at swimming). And so began my first ever stint at flirting with teenage celeb boys with hot jaw-lines and tan mid-riffs! From falling asleep to text-exchanges under the blanket risked on a mobile-phone borrowed from mum, to graduating to phone calls, to concocting how to actually meet without small-town eyes taking too much notice, to eventually being dumped quite arrogantly for being a non-celeb, I learnt quite early-on how to be a dil-fek fool in love no matter how ‘out of my league’ my interests seemed.
With all this knowledge of professional training for swimmers and badminton players from these communities, I found a badminton center away from home to enroll myself into. That was the first time I stepped away to a big city from my hometown. I got a taste of having uncommon ambitions and grew more fond of dreaming big without thinking of ‘big’ as success and money. I never made it as a badminton professional either, but boy, did I learn to flirt under the pretext of sports!
Boudoir art helped me feel safe about myself
– Abel, 20, Bisexual, She/Her
I have body image issues which led me to share boudoir pictures on my anonymous social media accounts. The fact that it’s taboo gave me the kick to do it more and more. Being anonymous meant I didn’t have to worry about who might know my real identity and reveal it to my family, friends etc. I coud segregate this part of my life completely from my personal one. Some people did suspect I was into this field, but did not have any evidence; others didn’t know at all. The anonymity of the digital world gives me this power over people because they are not aware of who I am–this makes me mysterious.
I have always wanted to explore different things and art forms, boudoir was just a part of it. I have severe anxiety, but somewhere, the appreciation, criticism and validation of boudoir photography gave me confidence. I started taking self portraits in 2019 and began working on my boudoir art with an amazing photographer in 2020. He helped me find other photographers, through his instagram networks, who are safe and respectful towards individuals in this art field. This changed my life completely. My thinking regarding nudity changed and it helped me grow as a person, because nudity is not something to be sexualised or objectified. It is about exploring, trusting yourself and as I am growing from within, it has only made me feel more powerful, safe and close to myself.
I felt like I finally had power over myself, my decisions and the ability to do what I want. I wanted to explore myself via this art form and it did excite me because I was the youngest individual in the community to grow so fast. People noticed me, my vulnerability; they appreciated me, and criticised me, but that only made me feel important and determined to become better. The excitement is still there and it will never fade away.
I build a lot of friendships and connections due to this field. I have met with people who give me positive criticism, encourage me and love my art. I have friends who support me, give me advice and help me grow in this field, and I am so thankful to the digital medium due to which I could connect to them. I have learned how I can improve myself and see different worlds to learn more. It has been an amazing journey to know them, learn more about their perceptions and build connections which make me feel safe about myself and my art.
“It gave people a way to be together in a more open-ended way”
– Sumit Kumar, gay man (he/him), 29, Co-founder The QKnit
My queer connections started offline actually, because there weren’t any phone apps when I was really young. Without apps, I met other queer men through cruising points. You’d hear of Maheshwari Udyan and you’d go and connect with someone. You’d talk and they might connect you to others, or tell you that Andheri MacDonald’s is also a meeting point, for example. And through these encounters, I also began to go for queer community events and meetups.
For me, those conversations felt more ‘real’; you could sense feelings, emotions and intentions. Because you know, even if someone is faking it, they are in front of you and you can make your own understanding. Even a simple world like ‘hi’ carries unspoken meaning. You see the whole person.
Connecting purely in online spaces changed things. I feel that online, there is a lot more ego, a lot more assumptions about a person based on looks, or English, or class, etc. People are impatient – they feel if it’s not an instant match, they’d rather move on to another choice. You don’t wait to understand anything about a person. It’s thak – you don’t fit my categories, so blocked. So rejection has become a big and painful experience, among many young queer people I know. Of course each of us has a preference of whom we are attracted to, but online it becomes very hard and categorical and the environment is very derogatory and can make you feel bad. People say things like ‘no pansies’, ‘no sissies’, ‘ no fat’. Rejection feels very personal and harsh, like there is nothing else to you. So that creates a lot of violent feeling. People feel hurt then they feel vengeful. People fake your profiles using your photos, creating negative impressions of you, blackmailing you with your nudes.
There was a time when Facebook groups were a warm place where we could talk openly. But in many queer online spaces it started to become increasingly polarized, with political views discussed divisively. And you could see all kinds of prejudice; biphobia, especially, was very prevalent. So it is supposed to be a way to connect but sometimes it rather feels very hostile and unwelcoming also.
In 2015, we started the QKnit to just create greater awareness about LGBT issues. It was supposed to be a YouTube channel about queer events. It was difficult to sustain so we started doing other events which were more ‘ordinary’ or regular – just casual where you could come and talk, not a big scene where everyone has to dress up well and be cool. But then we began to feel, we also want to be having the conversation with other people, with allies – addressing the LGBT community was not feeling enough at that point — like we want to be part of the whole of society, from our perspective, right?
We started to do other types of activities – like beach clean up, or sports. So we were meeting to do something together, and feel connected in a different way, not just through sexuality. It was organised by LGBT people but it was open to others as well and some straight people would also come with their friends.
Then we began to hold public events – like a discussion in a public space – which we called Queer Katta. LIke talking about HIV or gender, the elections and important issues in that, or sometimes just talking about our past relationships and what they meant for us. We would do it in say a public space like Bandstand. Once some older ladies who were passing by came and sat with us, and they also got involved in the discussion. So that way, many times, in that public space, people who we may not connect with online, would become curious and join in for some time and you felt you are not just in your own world and here, interacting, we are accepting each other.
In a discussion, face to face, you might argue, but it’s not a straight negation, like online. Rather, it was more open-ended.
That’s how the idea of a physical space grew in our minds, which is created by LGBTQ people, giving a space that is friendly for them, but which also is open and inclusive to everyone. So we found a space in Mira Road, and started Cafe Gugtagu.It had books and games and we did talks and events.
But soon after we started, the lockdown happened. We didn’t want the space to fizzle out. Meanwhile we realised that there were many people in the area that were not getting food, like other schemes and help were not reaching them.We decided then that we will convert the cafe into a community kitchen. That felt good. We were connecting together to do something that would help people around us but which was also keeping the Guftagu space alive.
The online space is a good space to communicate, to connect and network. But for me, for us, creation of community has really been more meaningful offline. And in that, the relationships in the community and of the community with society keeps growing in different ways. You could say it is more fluid!
Looking For Love on a Dating App…And What It Taught Me
How experiences of dishonesty sour dating in the digital world
By Ruby



The One My Mother Warned Me About AKA Chais With Guys
Can breaking rules make our own choices and chai sweeter?
Written by Sevali
Illustrated by Rohit Bhasi



Self-love, And Other Jarring Tasks I Am Forced To Perform During Lockdown
What if lockdown loneliness found you new love?
By Maithilee Sagara
Illustrated by Debasmita Das

PROSTATE AND PATRIARCHY
Why does prostate pleasure scare conventional masculinity?
By Vijay C
Illustations by Exoticdirtbag
The small p challenges the bigger P, and pleasure is not just about the pepe. One would have come across it in biology class in ‘that’ barely taught chapter, on the human reproductive system. My teacher would thrust past all the sensual details with a poker face scanning all ours, which were often either explicitly grinning, or trying hard not to. The prostate gland’s function is to produce the seminal fluid that mixes with sperms to create semen. This English teacher of mine from high school once went to an interview with an MNC. This English teacher of mine from high school once went to an interview with an MNC. He claimed he was rejected because he pronounced it ‘Siemens’ wrongly. In retrospect, I think that joke was his way of connecting with his new students. Cum, milkshake, curd, paal, kanji, etc., semen is known by so many names in various languages, I could easily write a story on it. The prostate is also the one responsible for shooting semen across body, tissue, toilet, bed, undies, panties,…wherever. Tenth grade was also the time I first heard the term erogenous zones; but, if my memory serves me right, the prostate found no mention. Paavam prostate, even it is oppressed. I learnt that it is ‘The Male G Spot!’ through articles with similar titles about two years later. It was fascinating, but also in a fairly difficult spot. The only way to access it is via the anus. I did nothing with the fascination for a while, just like many other cis hetero men. A few years ago I started exploring my queerness on a dating app that I was on (Kik, if you must know). Some men there would ask me to finger my anus on a video call or recording. I would refuse, often out of disgust. The word douching flashed across my screen much later than the dicks. On rare occasions, if I was desperate enough to not lose the other person’s attention, I would do it. It wouldn’t go in much—it was like drilling through a mountain with primitive tools. Takes a lot of patience, openness and precaution to open it up for exploration and experimentation. Haven’t reached that state yet…it hurts. The chronic anal fissure doesn’t help the cause either. If only the prostate was easier to access for exploitation--like the mines of the so-called Third World.
I have only hit it a couple of times, and it feels, mhmmm, quite nice. It feels as good as the glans being stimulated. The perineum, the region between the anus and penis, is also something one could stimulate. There are many such sweet spots. A few cis men, some hetero and others bi/pan-curious have approached me for ways to quench their curiosity about stimulating their prostate. Sometimes even queer folk ask me. I’m glad men are at least open to the idea and/or talking about it. There are some men who are afraid to let their finger/s wander down there, even if it is just to wash the ass. Others are afraid—“What if I like it?” I am not sure if I felt that way when I first thought about it, or even when I first tried it. I vaguely recall one of the guys saying something along the lines of, “Bro keep this a secret...just wanna try it once” The idea of being the penetrated, and not the penetrator, goes against society’s conception of masculinity. I can imagine some Victorian writer saying, “Although it feels heavenly, O Lord, wash me of my sins!” Maybe God wanted males to have some fun too, who knows? The prostate must exist for a reason, no? But why is it tucked away? Is God also repressing and sublimating like a lot of us humans, because God doesn’t want PR diarrhea? There are cases of males walking into the ER with vegetables, and God knows what else, up their asses. Guys, it’s okay to give yourself pleasure in unconventional ways. Some women like playing with the prostate too, if their partner/s also want to. It is your body after all. Not that I am some free Dr. Mahinder Watsa. But, pleasures can and do exist outside of the norms, rules and power structures that are pushed down upon us. Sex can be like cooking, you can always spice it up, however you want, and come up with new recipes. Vijay is a Dalit Queer student from Bengaluru whose existential crisis is incessant. He writes because he likes to, although he is insecure about it. For some more fundas and reviews of anal sex, this primer has a 'butt-load' of useful information!
Kahin pe Nishana, Kahin Pe Nigahein
A party, flirtation, class, and a romantic twist.
By Aparna Kalra
Abhishek wasn’t too happy when the doorbell rang. It was only seven, and he had his hands full, getting things ready for the party. He hated early guests; they spoilt the mood, they flapped around while you made last-minute preparations, they poked their noses into what didn’t concern them. Chetan stood at the door — in full uniform. "I'm here to help," he said with a smile, saluting dramatically. “Can’t leave you alone to cope”.
Abhishek hadn’t always been solitary. Chetan must know that, he felt. He was the first to get a girlfriend in school, at a time when Chetan got excited just sitting next to a girl. Girls defined success — and Abhishek had been successful. He was quick, witty, outgoing. Jobs arrived, or work as it was called these days. Both qualified as chemical engineers, or unwilling engineers, as all engineers are wont to be in the country. Their first assignment meant interaction with ‘labour’. Anyone out of their social strata necessitated placing themselves above or below. So did the factory hierarchy: as shift engineers they had to shout at workers to get a move on so production targets got met.
“This is unclassy. We will never make an impact on society,” Chetan had said in dismay on the factory floor. “I wasn’t born to make Bournvita.” Abhishek didn’t see anything wrong with making something. But “making an impact” sounded cooler.
He and Chetan weren’t average engineers any more. Abhishek was a journalist; Chetan had been one. He soon got disenchanted with waiting in leaky and creaky antechambers of powerful people — for that one quote, one newsbreak. “I want to be powerful myself,” he declared.
“How many times will you keep changing professions?” Abhishek had asked peevishly.
Chetan had his wish. Abhishek couldn’t even request Chetan to lay food out on the table, he would smile condescendingly and say “Of course. I do everything ordinary people do”, and then proceed smoothly to ask his general factotum — how long would common people of India subsidize these Maharajah lifestyles — to “do everything.”
Had he begun to dislike his friend? The thought surprised Abhishek. An emotion, not
quite dislike, unnamed, unrecognized, had festered in him, he realized.
He glanced at the single red rose Chetan had deposited after filling out a jug with water.
It looked silly.
A familiar tread on the stairs, a knock. Abhishek opened the door to Yayati.
She filled the room, as usual.
She was looking good, as usual.
She ignored her impact on Abhishek, as usual.
Yayati was encountering Chetan-in-uniform for the first time. He had lost weight during training and acquired an unheard-of leanness. “OMG,” she said. Chetan blushed; Abhishek grimaced. Blush and grimace met each other in the middle of the room, avoided eye contact and continued pretending to like each other.
It had taken Abhishek time to figure out Yayati. “I know I am beautiful, it is impossible not to know. I do have mirrors at home. But I am impatient with my impact on men, or women for that matter. The pleasure or pain when they see me is weird! There is a complicated person beneath this face. How many will care for that?” Yayati said after they first met, hanging out at an ‘offsite’ of their company.
Except for Yayati, the offsite had been boring as hell. She had evaded being the sexual conquest of Abhishek and Chetan, who each tried their wares. “Engineers, not my cup of tea,” she explained politely. Abhishek and Chetan didn’t become Yayati’s cups of tea as journalists either. She remained their cup of coffee even as she branched off, launched a start-up, become successful, got cheated by her partners, and re-joined the original company all three had worked in. Abhishek never really got the juicy dirt on her start-up journey cut short.
Now would not be a good time to ask.
“Where are the starters?” asked Chetan. “C’mon, host, do your hosting.”
“I didn’t order starters. I thought we will move straight to dinner,” said Abhishek, getting flustered. It was the first party he had arranged; he thought he had taken care of a lot of details.
Chetan sighed. “Let my man get a few things,” he said.
“There is beer in the fridge,” said a now petulant Abhishek.
Yayati peeked into the refrigerator and counted aloud a total of eight beer bottles.
“How many guests?” she asked.
“Two couples...so four...three more from my office. Two friends of theirs. I don’t know exactly,” said Abhishek.
“Oh fuck it, Abhi,” Yayati smiled, her face alight. “Should have just got a crate.”
“Let me,” said Chetan. He dialed a number and gave out instructions: chicken szechwan, chicken lollipops, chili chicken, chili paneer, dahi kebabs, shish kebabs, crates of beer.
So. Much. Food.
Abhishek realized he sucked as a host. He had flashback images of himself tucking in starters, guzzling wine and beer at other people’s parties. He had actually passed out at Yayati’s once after throwing up on her sofa. Saint Chetan, who had arrived late because he was studying, and their journalist friends, cleaned the sofa and carried Abhishek to an Uber.
Yayati and her women friends had run into the kitchen, pretending to be busy, making it clear this was not “their mess” to clean up. Indian women had become strange of late.
The couples arrived. His office pals were suddenly here. Abhishek finally felt like a host. One of his colleagues had brought along a friend: a JNU professor, young, neat beard, gender studies. What was not to like?
Yayati and the professor chatted. Abhishek passed them a couple of times, catching snatches of conversation: “I went looking for that book of essays, Trick Mirror, by a New Yorker writer at the World Book Fair. I loved what she wrote on women and optimization that is forced on us.”
“Yes, optimizing, these days teachers also have to optimize, we are forever writing reports for babus on how we are optimizing ourselves.”
Yayati giggled. Abhishek had never made her giggle, although she had laughed at him sometimes when he griped about low pay in his profession. “...a king’s name, a man, if I remember correctly”. “No, could be a woman, just the desire for eternal youth”.
Aromas broke out in the third-storey flat.
Chetan’s man entered with the starters. He piled up the boxes, looking absurd in khaki uniform with a pistol in holster on his hip. He seemed in his mid-30s, or was it late 30s, and sported a fierce face — burnt deep brown in the sun — on a stocky body. He brought in another smell, along with the food, the smell of male sweat.
“He is an assistant sub-inspector, he will never reach anywhere. I will be made SHO during my training and some poor man who has worked for years to be made SHO will be shunted out,” Chetan told Abhishek and Yayati once they stood in the balcony together.
Yayati went “shh....”, glancing aghast at the flunkey, who could well have been within earshot.
“That beast of an air cooler is a good idea, Abhishek. Where did you get it from?” she said, smoothly turning the conversation.
“Local tentwallah,” Abhishek replied.
Chetan took pains to point out to guests that though he had a high-enough rank in the exam to qualify for bureaucracy, the police service had been his choice.
“It is a more on-field profession, it will allow me to serve the country better,” said Chetan to whoever cared to listen.
The assistant sub-inspector was the one doing the serving right now — opening beer bottles expertly and handing them out. Yayati smiled at him, grabbing them from his hand, and buttonholed the guests with the alcohol. She even ran down the stairs swiftly to help him haul up a second crate of beer.
“Is she a Leftist?” Chetan joked to Abhishek.
Abhishek hadn’t met Chetan since he had completed his training in Mussoorie and Hyderabad, miffed at Chetan not inviting him to the elite academy in the hills despite the dropping of several hints. “Friends are not allowed there. Only family. I can put you up in a guest house.” So much for friendship, which in Chetan’s five unsuccessful attempts at the exam, had often covered his bill when the two met. The exam in the first year; the exam in the rest.
Yayati had let the friendship with Abhishek and Chetan slide, of late. Maybe she felt the monotony of the job after the excitement of a start-up.
“Janaab, tell them about your bravery last night,” said Chetan, addressing his flunkey. “My man here, and a constable, got shot at by two robbers scaling a wall. They fired right back. One of the goons ran away but the other got three bullets inside him — three effing bullets — and collapsed. Our guy here took him to hospital, then donated blood to save his life.”
Chetan paused, and gave the room an eyeful. “This is how police functions,” Chetan looked around, again. “But people say we only beat up students at Jamia.”
The junior-rank cop’s face did not change expression.
“Sir, can I go down now?” he asked Chetan.
Yayati turned to the cop who wouldn’t‘reach far’ in the police hierarchy, and asked: “Why did you give blood to a criminal?”
“It was not like that, a big sacrifice or something like that. If someone needs blood to live, you give. I wasn’t thinking so much,” replied the junior-ranked policeman, his fierce eyes, for the first time, settling on Yayati. He seemed to frown to recollect why he had done what he did, struggling to answer while registering that this woman just lent physical help with a crate to him, a man used to doing physical work.
Chetan began explaining to Yayati the various WhatsApp groups his batchmates had formed: “We threw the IRS out, even the IFS we are re-considering. I want the
WhatsApp group to be only IAS and IPS.” He swigged from his beer bottle. “I am clear who is in, who is out.”
“Chetan, you are not in school, you know,” Yayati said, and laughed an uneasy laugh — perplexed, perturbed.
The assistant sub-inspector’s eyes crinkled as he watched the exchange.
“Who you associate with can make or break your reputation at this stage,” Chetan answered, grabbing a plateful of peanuts. “Thank god, Abhishek has at least arranged peanuts. One boy of 22, junior to me in exam rank, called me yaar whenever we met. We were in an IAS batchmate’s house in Jaipur for the weekend when I took hold of him. It is a beautiful house, very big. Even she, whose house it was, is junior to me in exam rank. I said to this boy, this 22-year-old — yaar kisko bol raha hai, bay? Now he calls me sir.”
Chetan was unstoppable: “From the rank and file you learn because they know much more about policing, and then you control them.”
Abhishek tried to throw in a tough question on police brutality against students, against Muslims in the protests. “They shouldn’t have thrown stones on police. All I know is there is a line which they can’t cross,” Chetan replied, actually drawing a line with a finger on the balcony parapet. He had been a ‘liberal’ journalist once.
A pilot dropped in — someone’s friend — and the JNU professor collared him. “I love pilots,” he said, almost drunk now. The air cooler and beer crates had worked their magic.
“In Indigo, we actually used to speed up the aircraft, yes, you can actually speed up a plane just like a car. Air India, where I am now, things are chill. Lots of overtime money. I actually waved at a Pakistan Airlines pilot from the cockpit at Heathrow.
And she waved back,” said the pilot.
Abhishek heaved a sigh, glad Chetan had competition in holding the floor.
Abhishek heard Yayati telling Chetan’s man: “Please stay. You are a guest now — and you’ve been on your toes since an hour here — and it seems were on duty through the night.”
“I don’t know,” the cop replied, hesitantly, looking out for Chetan, who was not be spotted. “We don’t mix up with officers.”
Yayati moved a dismissive shoulder, smiling at him.
“Madam, what do you do?” he asked, hesitant but making direct eye contact.
“She is a Leftist who makes Bournvita,” said Chetan, coming in from the balcony.
Abhishek laughed, despite himself. Yayati winced.
“I drink Bournvita. It is tasty,” murmured the assistant sub-inspector. He adjusted his pistol, and slid into a quiet place near the table, refusing the offer of a seat.
“Well, I did try, very hard, to be a businesswoman.” Yayati said to him, her constant brightness replaced by a flash of sincerity. “I have an MBA but not the dishonesty it takes to be one.”
“Its ok. Not every dream come true,” said Chetan’s man, wincing, his eyes faraway.
Yayati watched him as Chetan watched her.
“Mine did. If you work hard, they do. You have to believe,” said Chetan.
“For five years, when your bills are covered by other people,” shot back Yayati.
Yayati made Abhishek pull out his Bluetooth speaker. “I was going to, anyway...”, protested Abhishek. “No, you weren’t...,” said Chetan.
She dimmed the lights, bathing the drawing room in yellow glow, and twirled around in the breeze created by the gigantic air cooler. Abhishek noticed she was wearing the irritating rose that Chetan had brought in her hair. How clichéd. She had rarely looked this happy. Didn’t she mention once that she dug uniforms? Chetan had a man Friday, status, power. Journalism, in contrast, was so uncertain a profession — always in recession, always firing people. Abhishek wasn’t even on TV: visible, mike in hand, jogging after people for answers.
Yayati was dancing with the JNU professor, his colleagues, the husbands — and the wives. She pulled the assistant sub-inspector to the center of the room.
“Madam, I dance only pahalwan-style,” he said.
Yayati giggled: “C’mon, ASI, your boss isn’t even looking this way.”
“Madam, I have a request. Don’t call a child in police force my boss,” the cop said.
Yayati almost tripped. Abhishek, leaning against the wall, gasped. Both looked at Chetan, but he hadn’t heard.
“Tell me about policing,” Yayati said after she had recovered. Her silver eyeliner glinted in the dark.
“Policing according to public, I can tell you madam. Public calls police when bulb on street in front of their house isn’t working. Or sewer has too much water. Every problem is problem for police,” said the cop, his broad back moving, indeed, pahalwan style.
“Really? No wow moments?”
“A case comes sometimes. A maid got raped in a park; three thanas worked on it for months. I came up with idea of decoy because rapists repeat crime when not caught.
We caught them with help of lady police.”
“Any accolades? Meaning, any praise?”
“No, credit goes to seniors. I got two thousand rupees and special mention”.
“It is a princely sum, ASI – my sari cost less than that. Can’t expect more from the government.”
Yayati took his hand and actually twirled the sturdy sunburnt man around, sliding her hand on his belt as his body pivoted. He laughed quietly.
A smell of tobacco drifted into the room where hands met hands, fingers touched. Someone had lit a cigarette.
“I put everything in my business, it was online medical advice, purchasing health supplements online. We tracked gyms, put our stuff in there, brought doctors online. Then my partner got caught importing stuff without paying duties, without telling us. We lost everything in that one legal case,” said Yayati.
“hmm,” His eyes narrowed. “You should have shot him, madam”,
“Do you make toxic jokes about shooting people?”
“Why so? What is meaning of toxic?”
“I mean dangerous.”
“Every policeman want to shoot a few people. Seniors, netas who don’t give us promotion, who make us do double duty. All thanas run on one-fourth staff. You were cheated by a partner, madam, we are cheated by a system.”
“Yes, sometimes I do. Sometimes I feel like shooting people,” said Yayati, taken aback by her words. She had always thought of herself as easygoing; where had this anger been dammed?
Abhishek broke into the dancing with a round of clapping and announcement of dinner. “Biryani by the bowl, with raita” he barked out. At least he had got dinner right, he thought as guests dug in, collecting by the table.
“Oh, yes. The Calicut crash: what do you think about it?” asked the professor.
The pilots filled his plate, occupied centre stage, and said: “Boss, totally pilot’s fault. We really respect the Indian monsoon. You don’t land in that weather, especially after two turnarounds. The SOP is don’t attempt a third time, get the hell out of there. And your Kochi airport is just two hundred kilometers away. Land there, na.”
Everyone was all ears. Abhishek wondered if he could make a switch to the airlines
beat, a sexy and powerful beat. Chetan explained the stars on the epaulette of his uniform to the pilot: “I can’t understand how people can confuse a DCP and DSP.”
The party wound up at three in the night. As one Uber after another pinged its arrival on phones, Abhishek’s eyes darted around for Yayati. He felt the same festering emotion towards Chetan — sitting atop the Indian hierarchy with his lal batti and government machinery. All Abhishek had was limited, market forces-battered, penmanship.
Abhishek was made to get busy with the goodbyes and thankyous and lovely party, see you soons.
“Where’s Yayati?” Chetan asked himself looking around.
“The lady with the rose in her hair, who I talked to?” the JNU professor asked. “She left with the cop. The man helping you with the party, the junior-ranked policeman. Didn’t you notice they had hit it off?”
The sound of ‘bella ciao, bella ciao’ hit Abhishek as Netflix’s irritating and successful version of his favourite song began playing.
Indian women had become strange of late.
Aparna Kalra enjoyed poha, and telling and writing stories in school. Every girl grows up with boundaries, she feels, but every woman must learn to break and re-set them. She has a post-graduate degree from Delhi School of Economics, and has worked both as a journalist and editor in newsrooms.
A Live-In In Lockdown
What does lockdown mean for a couple living-in in a big city?
By Toonika
Illustrations by Anna Dasgupta



I am Big and Beautiful
A fat woman rises to own her sexuality, desire and desirability
By Aritri Dutta
Illustrations by Parul Dang
I was 16 years old when a senior boy dumped my ass because I was overweight. The pursuit of slenderness has been a major life goal for me since then (and for a lot of other women, known and unknown), constantly worrying if I can strike the right balance between calories I eat and calories I burn. No one told me such victories are unnecessary. However, it has been particularly difficult and draining for me to be my own sexually demanding unapologetic self because I felt like I carry a lot of baggage as a big, fat woman and was undeserving of any kind of sexual autonomy- fat bodies like mine are unwanted and unloved. It’s always been a struggle because I feel like men who sleep with me do it either because I’m a fetish or out of pity and I don’t know which is worse. I am saying ‘men’ very consciously, mind you, as more often than not in my experience, they are the ones pushing me to approximate idealized images of thinness and beauty.


A Prostitute and A Saviour: A Diary
A trans-person's journey through sex-work and back
By Arina Alam
Illustrated by Amrapali Das



BOSOMS - A Poem
A poem about a little girl's desire to have big breasts
By Eshwari R
Illustrations by Shreya Shivakumar
She laughs till her gut pangs
and till her breasts sprang
She assured me someday it will grow
and that's when the community affirms
me to wear bras for them to suit an art
that day I won't be a girl, perhaps a woman
I was hinted of her breasts every day
for she wore dawn-tinted bras so pretty
she proclaims with unending sighs
it is required to attract men;
it is required to be called a woman
dear vagina endures a space
it is planted sincerely inside
but the breasts are like hearts
they are open and obvious
open to be touched
open to be felt
open to be embraced
Your breasts are supposed
to be frozen and fleshy
plump orbs very like attractive butts
Mumma said I became a woman
when thick blood flowered between my thighs
No Mumma! I oppose, the cousin said
it is when my boobs turn round and full
Crack was the sound of a tight slap
chah! was the sound of aunties watching
but my breasts, nevermore grown
while some taunt yours are lemons
while others taunt yours are gooseberry
tuck in any socks to cheat, trick it's substantial
still they say I own petty change, and it's dull
but the cousins' cuddled in warmth
she can confer on her deep cleavage
miss nosy stays to examine me
does it even weigh a gram girl?
she scoffs concerning mine, saying
discern, gentlemen will never desire you
for they will neither express echoes
nor draw the intricate biology of sex
I scream with no sound by dusk
to the breasts through thoughts
Reaching up amidst noisome cousins
I remember short and scarce
to enjoy my wholesome self
I nap with blurs and perceive
little, loud, or lavish as you receive
Never worry facing a mirror
some may swing you permit
some may sing you permit
some may stand still you permit
cry for those who talk to you
not for those who talk to breasts
let it be itty rather bitty
let it never choke you
don't ever regret
simply fall asleep, serene.
Eshwari is figuring out writing and loves discovering stories in people. On some nights she writes, on some days she tells stories. A 20-year-old student of Bengaluru who enjoys stalking people in government buses. She blogs here.Why Does Guilt Follow Pleasure - An Investigative Documentary About Me
Moving from guilt to satisfaction in sex!
By Anithya Balachandran
Illustration by Yogee Chandrasekaran


“If He Does 'This', Girl You Need To Let Go Of Him!”
How the Discussion on 'Toxic' stuff can become toxic to live with
By Lakshmi
Illustrations by Nandita Ratan



How Masturbation Helped Me Cope With Heartbreak
Masturbation and other remedies for rejection.
By LesbiPataka
Illustrations by Bhoomi



TWO OR THREE THINGS I LEARNED FROM BEING ALONE
How living alone during a pandemic changes how we think of our wellness.
By Navdeep
Illustrations by Sukh Mehak Kaur







My Body In Bed Isn’t Any Kind of Map To Pleasure
What is intimacy like when it’s traumatic to live in your body/head?
Written by Karishma
Illustrations by Anjali Kamat


My Struggle To Live and Love With Vaginismus
How does trauma manifest in our bodies and our intimacies
By Tara
Illustrations by Debashree Turel



It Was ‘Twilight’. I Woke Up Bisexual.
How one can stumble upon one's (bi)sexuality with the help of fiction / fan-fiction
By Anusha Bhat
Illustrations by Maitri Dore


Sex Sure Doesn't Need #PeriodLeaves
What's so special about the flow period sex can take?
By Ananya
Illustration by Debasmita Das


Being A Sub Made Me Bloom And Widened My Perspective
What sharing intimacy with strangers online may reveal about your kinky self.
Written by Silk Smitha
Illustrated by Diya Sengupta




Dear Girls Who Sent Nudes, Thank You
What leaking of nude pictures says about betrayal of consent and privacy.
Written by Anika Eliz Baby
Illustrated by Riya Nagendra



Romantic Sensual Asexual - That’s Me
Can one be asexual and terribly romantic too?
Illustrated and written by Rosa


Rosa (pseudonym) is an environmental researcher who likes to eat, sleep and doodle. For a conversation about asexuality, trees, food or weather, you can email her on rosa.abyss@gmail.com
The Adorable Boys Who Love ‘Papa Bear’
Who decided that desire is only for the young?
Written by Ankur Mehta
Illustrated by Purnata



Ankur Mehta (name changed) is a planning-to-retire IT consultant who lives in Bengaluru mostly but prefers Mysuru, and is often found in the beaches of Bali.
I Ghosted Him. Then I Got A Second Chance.
Caught between shame and surprise, will a ghost-er make a different choice?
Written By Sneha Annavarapu
Graphics By Debasmita Das



To All the Boys I Couldn't Love Before
What fleeting connections with many interesting men tell you about having the hots for none of them.
By Veronica Oberoi
Illustrated by Riya Nagendra



Memories of Touch- Poem In A Pandemic
In the protected rooms where people are intubated there are no last hugs and the only thing to touch may be the glass of the window through which you can look at them
Written by Bhumika
Art by Purnata
I have touched a broken arm
to wrap it in a brace that may heal it
My feet have touched the wet and freshly trimmed grass
and gathered specks of the earth between my toes
I have touched some kneaded dough
some dusty books
and a dog’s tails and ears
I have wrapped myself
in a thin sheet each night
so that the mosquitoes can’t touch me
My hands in gloves
touched the powdery plastic a bit much
such that the skin on my finger tips
feels confused
when my mask touches my nose and mouth
beads of sweat emerge
and touch the space between my nose and lips
such that the steam builds and touches my glasses
I hate the nurse’s touch
each time I have been on a hospital bed
I hate the prickly touch of a needle
or the cold touch of a probing instrument
I hate the hot touch of hot leather
In gloomy buses
and I do not like touching the thick rexene
on train berths
I love touching my mother’s hair when I comb it
and my brother’s when he rubs my feet
My friend, when she laughs and pats my back
and touches me, I laugh too
My landlady cries when she talks about her illness
and I touch her face gingerly
Trying to hold back my tears
When they didn’t touch me
for the five days I bled
My thighs touched each other tight
Shielding the pain in my abdomen
All sorts of things touching each other inside
In the small town I live
on the coast of a land
where too many newcomers
pushed those people away
who touched too many things for their liking
no one touches much
save for those living in the same homes
wanted and unwanted
They hold hands
with whom they love
and may be an arm around them
But they don’t touch without anxiety
if the shade of their skin doesn’t match closely
In the small town I live
in a land that claims eternal time
a few decide the boundaries of touch
the touching of a meal
of water, women and land
of the skin of humans and animals
of waste and thresholds
Those who should not be touched
bear upon them
the touching of the earth
that makes life possible
When I don’t want to be touched
I retreat into the corner of the room
with the softest light
such that only its glow can touch me
I like the touch of a pulpy fruit
Of a dried nut
and of the last layer of oil on my dinner plate
When I wipe it clean with my fingers
In a crowd
I do not mind the touch
of shoulders rushing against each other
or of a child tugging at my sleeve
I do not like however
the touch of someone pushing me from behind
touching my waist and my back
When I dance alone
I like the touch of my fingers through my hair
Posing like the glass window is a theatre
with bright lights
while dancing with others however
I do not like to be touched
Except through their eyes
They are not touching the dead
Covered in plastic shrouds
Mourning faces covered in
Masks and helmets
lifting and dropping the dead
with sanitized hands and writhing souls
when my grandfather died many years ago
my little cousin asked
if we could let him stand tall
in the corner of the room
so that he could keep watching us
and we could keep touching and hugging him
whenever we wanted
In the protected rooms
where people are intubated
there are no last hugs
and the only thing to touch
may be the glass of the window
through which you can look at them
I see my father has grown a beard
But I haven’t touched it
He has never had a beard
for me to touch
Labour on foot
Have touched the hot concrete
of our highways and roads
Their children’s bottoms
Touching their heads as they walk
Because the things they touch
to make in floor shops and workshops
are not touching their neat plastic bags
and sealed foil covers
to touch our hands
Those who build our homes
And touched it all over
Places that we haven’t
are touching the bottom of their tins
Like air, dust touches everything
It floats in through the windows
And doors, and crevices and holes
and accumulates over surfaces
I long to touch
the face of the one I love
As I think the need to wipe the dust off his face
For I haven’t seen him in a long time
And distances are not only
aerial, physical or as the crow flies
they are social
The dust settling on all our faces
That can only be wiped away
By the hands of those we love
S.W.A.G (Secretly We Are Gay) 2: Till We Meet Again
Revisiting an old lover with new realisations and self-admission.
Written by Prachir Kumar
Illustrated by Praveen Kumar T

I Took A Nude Selfie. It Changed My Life.
After years of hiding, can a nude selfie get Ini to see her body in a new light?
Written by Ini
Illustrated by Harjyot Khalsa



Can I Open The Window And Let Go Of The Past?
A journey back to a room full of a traumatic memory to seek reconciliation.
Written by Sharon Varghese
Illustrated by Jyotsna Ramesh
TW : Sexual Assault


Tell Me Tarot, Will He Ever Come Back?
After Manjari is ghosted, all search for closure leads to herself.
Written by Manjari Singh
Illustrated by ExoticDirtbag



June Rewind - #WhenWomenLoveWomen, All In One Place
Stories, histories and resources for queer women - ek dhamakedar package!
Agents, this past month we brought you experiences, stories and histories of queer women. Despite the growing visibility of queer representation, LGBTQ narratives tend to be dominated by representations of gay cis men - perhaps mirroring the larger gender dynamics of society. Toh humne socha, why not tilt the balance a little - and create some resources that would widen the representation. The material for this month's theme shone light on three areas: Personal experiences - We went beyond stories of coming out to explore a conversation about queer life as it is lived. This month the narratives we carried are a range of experiences about women loving women, bringing along voices from diverse backgrounds - urban, rural, peri-urban, younger and older - to help us see romance and desire for the non-linear experiences they are. Narratives of tingling sensations when in lust, falling for close friends, hurting from love's cruelty, writing letters about it to somebody who would understand- all help open up the discussion about queer loving and living in their fuller forms. Histories - For as long as homophobia and prejudice have existed, they have been countered by queer lives, loves, activism and creativity. The work of gathering these histories is an ongoing one and we did our bit this month by gathering some histories of queer women's work: a reading list of queer romances and writings in different languages, an interview with writer Suniti Namjoshi about her fervent politics of art and caring, conversations about queer desire in rural and small-town India with writer Maya Sharma, Urdu poetry about lesbian loving from 18th-19th Century, a conversation with Ruth Vanita about her new novel and tracing the journey of the word Lesbian, over time and space, through inventing new words, to slurs and reclamations. Guides - With illustrated, super-clear infographics on safe sex practices for women having sex with women, to suave and well-vouched-for dating tips from queer folks who have been-there-done-that, AOI put together handy helpers to clear your doubts and confusions about queer love and sex. All this good stuff is as always, in English and Hindi - and here it is in one place for you to use as an easy reference. We hope you use it in your work, conversations, and thinking as you make the world more loving, livelier and smarter!
PERSONAL EXPERIENCES
I Kissed A Girl And I Liked It – 7 Queer Women Tell Us About Their First Kiss With A Girl
With scintillating first kiss stories from queer women of different ages and locations, and Amruta Patil's gorgeous brush strokes, these stories are sure to leave you with those dreamy, heady feelings.
“So Many Women, But It’s Her I Love”
First of the two edited excerpts from Maya Sharma’s book, Loving Women: Being Lesbian in Unprivileged India, shows the messy, stubborn love between two women in a small town even as it faces pressures of marital expectations from families and the society at large.
Shiela Ki Jawaani Ki Anokhi Kahaani
Second edited excerpt from Maya Sharma’s book, Loving Women: Being Lesbian in Unprivileged India that we published this month was the story of the mysterious heartthrob, Shiela, whose many romantic escapades are nothing short of an adventure ride, dwarfing a traumatic past.
What Falling For My Friend As A Lesbian Taught Me About How We Express Friendship
The common experience of the unreturned desire for best friend becomes sharply hurtful when it comes with the added pangs of subtle homophobia from near and dear ones . Read how Ritu dealt with it when she faced this, more than once.
You’ve Got Mail! Letters Between An Older and A Younger Lesbian
Discussions of coming out, loving, dating and futures in these letters exchanged between lesbians of different generations reveal the relationship between political activism and our personal lives, one story of change at a time.
Secret Loves And Broken Hearts: A Comic
Read Vimlesh and Kanak's secret-yet-obvious messy, stubborn love affair in the comic form. Reformatted excerpt from Maya Sharma's book Loving Women: Being Lesbian In Unprivileged India.
Satrangi Ladki, Atrangi Khiladi: A Comic About Shiela
Read about the dashing, lesbian player, Shiela, and her many romantic exploits, in the comic form. Reformatted excerpt from Maya Sharma's book Loving Women: Being Lesbian In Unprivileged India.
HISTORIES
‘Not because I have wisdom, but because I care’: An Interview with Suniti Namjoshi
Full of sharp wisdoms and quotable views, the poet, fabulist, lesbian, feminist writer shows the caring way to practice art, politics and love.
L Se Lesbian, L Se Love, L Se Library – A READING LIST!
Desi narratives of queer desiring, loving, and living- this reading list makes the hunt for a diverse collection of books just a little bit easier.
#WhenWomenLoveWomen in Unprivileged India- A Conversation With Maya Sharma
A Conversation With Ruth Vanita About Her Latest Novel 'Memory of Light'
Steamy Shayari Alert! #WhenWomenLoveWomen in 19th Century Awadh
For all our basking in the glory of Indian erotic heritage, there’s very little khullam-khulla dedication to women in love and lust with women. But the late 18th- 19th century Urdu genre of Rekthi poetry brings us some steamy, juicy poetry-romances between women, a few of which we have put together here, based on the research and translation by Ruth Vanita and Saleem Kidwai.
THE L WORD – Konjum History, Zara Geography, Thoda Politics
Slurs, slangs, reclamations- a journey of through ways to say the word ‘Lesbian’ around the world and across time is also political articulation about desire in the face of discrimination and homophobia.
GUIDES
Safe Sex for Queer Women? Yes, Yes, Yes!
Sex between women may not get them pregnant but safety in sex is not about pregnancy prevention, na? This super sophisticated, myth-busting infographic explainer sets right the perception about safe-sex, with special attention for sex between queer women!
Pehle App! Online Dating Tips for Queer Ladies from Queer Ladies
App recommendations, manners & etiquettes, safety settings, conversations starters- tried and tested hacks and advices for a clearer way to connect.
Satrangi Ladki, Atrangi Khiladi: A Comic About Shiela
The many romances and realities of this dashing woman!










Secret Loves And Broken Hearts: A Comic
A comic about queer desire, love, and loss.
Illustrated by Vidya Gopal















You've Got Mail! Letters Between An Older and A Younger Lesbian - Plain Text Version
Written by Sameera Iyengar and Sarathy
You’ve Got Mail! Letters Between An Older and A Younger Lesbian
How much has changed for women who love women in urban India?
How much has changed for urban women who love women in India? Sameera Iyengar, 49, a lesbian woman who grew up in 1980s India and Sarathy, 24, a queer woman growing up in the 2010s, write letters to each other about growing up queer, figuring out love, relationships, dating, community, family, self-knowledge. In their exchange we glimpse a history of being, a history of change, personal and social. You can read the plain text version of the post here.
Image Source - Crime City Rollers FB
Image Source for Scripts - a zine by LABIA (A Queer Feminist Collective)
What Falling For My Friend As A Lesbian Taught Me About How We Express Friendship
Does queerness complicate the experience of falling for a friend?
Written by Ritu
Illustrated by Kripa Bhatia


Shiela Ki Jawaani Ki Anokhi Kahaani
An excerpt from Maya Sharma's Loving Women: Being Lesbian in Unprivileged India



"So Many Women, But It's Her I Love"
An excerpt from Maya Sharma's Loving Women: Being Lesbian in Unprivileged India
Illustrated by Vidya Gopal



I Kissed A Girl And I Liked It - 7 Queer Women Tell Us About Their First Kiss With A Girl
Stories of people's first taste of pleasure and tenderness
Illustrated by Amruta Patil

“My lips were sore and I blushed the entire next day”
Salima, 22, Lesbian
She was the first person I’d matched with on Tinder. We met a few times, were comfortable as friends, but also used to flirt with each other. I didn’t know if we were going out because we never discussed ki kya chal raha tha, bas chal raha tha. One day she called me over when no one was home. I wasn’t expecting anything as I didn’t want to get hurt, but somewhere in my head there was hope. We spent the whole day together and then in the middle of the afternoon, we got drunk. At some point, we were sitting across each other on the dining table just staring at each other, smiling, blushing and what not. I was anxious, looking at the time constantly and I did the weirdest thing - I removed my watch, it was a subconscious move. Then, she finally said: “Can I kiss you?” “Yes” “I’m warning you, I’m a bit scared” “I’m not scared. But yeah, I’m conscious” I should have made the effort to at least go up to her, because she walked across the table and kissed me. It was my first kiss so it was...intense. I had never kissed anyone before, let alone a girl. I felt very accepted ki okay, so she does have feelings for me. I was also thinking - Am I doing this right? Is this fine? She’d kissed others before so I was obviously a little insecure. The most unexpected thing - I thought it would end there, but it didn't. We wound up in her bedroom, kissing all evening and by the end of it my lips were very sore. I was blushing the entire next day. I had to tell my friends what happened the second I entered class because they could see it on my face ki kuch toh hua hai - my face was glowing that much.
“My heart was heavy, but I felt I could fly. That kiss was my first definition of pleasure”
Aditi, 37, Cis Woman
The story of my first kiss goes back to 8th grade. At that time I didn’t have the vocabulary for what I was feeling but I was sure about the feeling itself. I knew I was attracted to girls. I had just joined this new Marathi medium school and there was a person I liked from day one. It was very organic for me. I was sure what I felt for this girl and made sure my intentions were clear, but she wasn’t receptive. She was maybe going through her own confusions because it was a never-heard kind of situation in that town and it took me almost 5-6 months to woo her. In a small town, finding space to express anything was a challenge. We had the freedom to go over at each other's houses to play, but were always surrounded by family, either hers or mine. Even though I barely had any vocabulary for love, thanks to what I felt about her I managed to write her a letter. She was prickly when I gave it, saying she’ll tear it up and wants nothing to do with me. I was heartbroken. But I still felt there was something as I had caught her staring at me, making excuses to sit near me and of course accidentally brushing against me. Two weeks of torture later, one evening I was playing in her neighbourhood and she’d made up her mind by then. She said she hadn’t torn up my letter, had read it multiple times and felt the same way but didn't know what all this means. I sat there, almost sweating, not knowing where this was leading and a tiny voice in my head was asking - how will this end? We had a small talk and she told me (in Marathi) that one thing she knew is that love is limitless. Now that I think about that moment, what she meant was that love was beyond the binaries, beyond the boundaries of gender. And when we finished talking, it led to our kiss - my first kiss. I made the first move. As for the kiss itself (this sounds weird, but it was the 90's) - I was very very attracted to the talcum powder she used. There’s always these other senses involved in attraction right? That smell used to make my heart race so fast even if she was meters away from me. My heart felt heavy, but at the same time, I felt very light like I could fly. My skin felt like it was shining. I basically felt like Jesus. And that kiss was my first definition of pleasure because I finally felt my desire being fulfilled. I was with her for a long time - twelve years, and it was much later on that she told me something that had been a puzzle for me all these years... why torture me for two weeks when the attraction was mutual? And she said "I’ve always known you’re a womanizer and it would have been too easy for you if I said yes right away!”
“Compared to that kiss, everything is ordinary now.”
Parmita, 24, Sexual Identity - Constantly Fluctuating
We were neighbors. Every day after junior college, we’d get on the same bus and go to her house first. Without saying anything, all subliminal in-the-air cues, which I'm not sure if I'm imagining, we’d just be together in her room. And then I’d go home. The day of the asking out, I went home & texted her "Will you go out with me?" The phone tinged, she’d said yes and I screamed for half an hour in my room. The next day I was so scared to go to college. When we saw each other, we were all awkward and I was thinking ki ab toh kiss hoga. Lekin kab? I don't know. When we went to her house as usual, she told me that all day she wanted to take me to the bathrooms and kiss me. Turning deep purple red, I said nothing. I was the shyest girl in the world. After that, she shut up and so did I. Everyday it was like this - minimum talking, only smiles. She was too beautiful for me. She’d kissed before but I had not. So I was not even going to try making a move. It was one of these days just as I was leaving, she's like "Paro" and I'm like "Ha?" and somehow I know it. I'm dying inside and she asks "Can I kiss you?" and I say yes. We got closer and something weird happened. It was like a vacuum, lasted 1/5th of a second and we broke apart. She said "Let's try it again?" and we did. Mostly I could just hear my beating heart but didn’t know what happened with our mouths. Again we shot apart, I went home and that's it. The next day, it felt more comfortable. We were lying down together, my head below her hair. The light was yellowish reddish in the room and somehow being so close to her, I turned my head round and so did she. And in the most easy manner, we kissed each other. Slowly slowly slowly feeling her, I don't know how long we went on... it could have been an hour. It was unbelievable and it was a kind of intensity which nothing has ever matched up to afterwards in my life. Compared to that kiss, everything is ordinary now.
“With boys, I felt disgusted. But you can say I liked her saliva since I was in love with her!”
Shakti, 24, Transwoman Lesbian
Unfortunately my first kiss was a boy, but once I figured out my comfort zone is with women, my first kiss with a woman was a great story. I’ve been part of every color of the LGBT rainbow. Assigned male at birth, had some homosexual romance in school which didn’t work out, realized I wasn’t comfortable with my body - so I transitioned, had a bisexual phase too. But after my first experience with a woman, I settled down. I already identified as a lesbian when I met her. She was from Peru and had a thing for Indian women. We spoke on dating apps & FB, and though it was risky, I was convinced she’s real. And then one winter, she came to India. She said ‘I know no one in India except you, so I’d like you to help me out.’ She traveled all around India, but I was her guide in Mumbai. I’ve been almost everywhere in Mumbai but when you accompany a person, you see things anew. And yes - my first kiss was with her. We kissed in a hotel room. I was nervous that what if this person is taking advantage of me? As a transwoman, I make it clear: are you falling in love with a person, or their body parts? I need a deep connection to trust someone with my body, so I don’t regret it later. We were lying down and she must have been very eager because she said “You know what would be better if we do right now?” I said “What?” She said “Let’s make out” and I said yes. She immediately jumped on top of me and kissed me. And for the first time I felt I wasn’t pretending or just letting it happen. It was soft, warm and real, you know? You feel like you’re dreaming, that time has just stopped. It was very sacred to me and then... it went way more ahead than kisses. I learnt a lot about kissing from her. With lesbians it’s very wet. It’s just not limited to the lips. It’s everywhere. With boys, I felt disgusted by how the saliva spills all over you, it felt like they’re only lusting over me, but if you’re in love with a person, all these things become like gold for you, you enjoy that. So I can say that I liked her saliva since I was in love with her! And when she left from India na, she said I’m saying ‘goodbye’ only to say ‘hello’ again and that she’ll come back someday.
“The sense of comfort and togetherness we shared helped her get through a difficult time too. Some months after I left, she worked up the courage to leave too.”
Harshita, 50, Woman, No labels. I am what I am
I was just shy of 16. I had been sent to the US for high school, and was living with an American family. I became close to K, the wife, because she not only looked after me functionally, but was also very kind to me, very caring. They didn’t have a good marriage and led separate lives, in separate corners of the house more or less. He worked the night shift and wasn’t around in the evenings. And because we were together in the house so much, she would also confide in me – I mean, to the extent you can to a 16 year old. Those evenings, her favourite thing to do, once dinner was eaten, the washing up done, kids asleep, was to open up a bottle of wine and listen to her amazing collection of Motown records. I would listen with her and we would talk. One time she said, oh that’s my favourite song, and I don’t know how...I just asked her to dance to it with me. And then, somehow, we just, quite naturally, kissed. It wasn’t my first kiss. I had kissed a few boys. But my first with a woman. And it felt like I had not kissed before. It wasn’t a long kiss, or heavy in any sense. It was a very gentle, tender kiss. And it blew my mind. There was no awkwardness after - we flowed back into our usual rhythm. But it sowed some sort of a seed – that this is a possibility. I had no language for this kind of love-attraction before. I came to the US at 15 from a very typical, conventional middle-class family. Sex and sexuality aren’t exactly a discussion there, queer love toh door ki baat. I was clueless and naïve even with boys. But, there was a sense that this isn’t fun, there’s something missing. Now the thought filled my head and I began looking at women in class around me differently and wondering. The moment also opened the door to more experiences with her. Just, sometimes, in the nights, after the wine and music, intimacy would happen, though looking back now I realize how chaste it was, really. It was complicated of course, but it was never painful. Our relationship remained kind and caring. By the time I felt ready to suggest we do something more, it was time for me to leave. Very filmi – pehle haath pakda, phir nazdeek aaye aur phir bicchad gaye! But it shaped my intimate journey completely. Where there is a pre-existing notion of sex, there is a kind of fast-forward behaviour. Things like tenderness, gentleness, simple attraction and small gestures don’t acquire as much meaning, but they matter. This was an eye opener that physicality can have loving-ness, sympathy, sensitivity, that I can take my time. It’s not just about power and getting or taking. There is no race, there is no necessary outcome, that passion and aggression are not inevitably the same, which is what I had known with boys. It gave me time to understand myself, a lot. I had a history of sexual abuse - the Indian relatives I stayed with when first I came to the US. It was like a sore on my skin, I was always picking at. But that corner of time became a refuge - for both of us – a space for rebuilding the possibility of love. I am still in touch with K. About two years ago she said to me, the sense of comfort and togetherness we shared helped her get through a difficult time too. It gave her an oasis of calm, and an awareness that her reality of emotional violence and unhappiness was not inevitable. And some months after I left, she worked up the courage to leave too. I was very moved when she told me that. That we could be that to each other.
“Usually I'd be awkward about no music playing in the back because I'm like ew all these sounds can be heard. But in this case I didn’t mind it at all.”
Anonymous, 24, Queer Woman
I had kissed many girls before, just pecked friends on their lips - all of them were damn stupid, like ahahahaha we're drunk, it was absolutely stupid, but they didn't matter. And then it happened with someone whom I actually liked which was a completely different experience. My first real kiss was an “Oh my God” kind of moment because there was a whole build-up to it. She was much older than me, 6-7 years almost and was my colleague. I’d stay late at work, chilling with her, and it was nice - we were friends, even though I knew I had a crush on her. This one time at an office party, I got drunk and I told her I liked her. And she told me she liked me too. But she was leaving and moving back to her hometown for good. Start of every intense queer story ever coz everything is always long distance, right? I decided to have a farewell party for her. But the whole time, we were trying to get some alone time, which almost didn't happen at all. We were losing it a little bit as we wanted to act on things, so we ended up going to her house. It happened very fast - we were tipsy and she probably initiated it because I was too nervous. In my head I was going “Oh my god! This is what it feels like kissing someone you like!” Then I went “Oh my god, our faces ARE touching, what do I do? I don't know if I'm doing this right!” but because I was drunk, it was all fine. It was just genuinely really nice. It was my first time ever with someone I actually liked and my first partner ever, so I was surprised that someone likes me back. Usually I'd be awkward about no music playing in the background because I'm like ew all the sounds can be heard like *gagging sound*. But in this case, I didn’t mind it at all. It feels weird talking about this because I absolutely cannot stand this person anymore. Now that I'm with someone who’s been my favourite person to be with so far, when I look back at it I’m like “Oh my God” I was with a not-so-nice person so long. So yeah, fun! But you can’t know at the start, can you!
“I said “No! This is only the second time I am meeting you, I had no idea.” And then we made out.”
Krishna PS, 25, People say she’s probably asexual, she says she’s probably lesbian
I was 24 years old. It was a friend of a friend. I’d met her on Tinder though. We were enjoying the calm sunset, there was no agenda. I was on her lap lying down, she was telling me some story about Gandhi. I honestly had no intentions but it’s true that I started the whole shit. I was absent-mindedly kissing her hand and she took it to be a sign of interest. I went back to the room saying I want to lie down and she joined me. At that point I still didn’t suspect anything. Then she just kissed me and I was like “What the hell is happening?” She said “I had a crush on you for the longest time, didn’t you know?” I said “No! This is only the second time I am meeting you, I had no idea.” And then we made out. She was super-experienced, so it was really pleasant. I was taken aback, like I’ve been avoiding this my entire life and now you’re just giving it to me. But within a few minutes I went from “Holy shit holy shit, no” to “This looks like fun, so okay!” I had never fantasised kissing a girl, never had a crush before, any celebrity crush either. I liked my project mate a year ago and felt like going out with her for a coffee but beyond it, nothing. I’m a very boring person. But atleast I was hoping it was on a holiday or something similar, definitely not someone I met on Tinder. I was hoping it would be somebody I knew. Even if it was a friend I wouldn’t mind it, but this was someone I barely knew. I wasn’t even drunk when it happened.Lockdown Diaries: There's A Naked Woman In My Mirror! F*** It's ME!
When there is nobody to call us beautiful, what might we discover while binge-watching ourselves?
Written by Roopal Kewalya
Illustrated by Debasmita Das


I Have a Disability. Why Does Everyone Keep Saying That Love is Not For Me?
It took me way too long to realise that I, too, was allowed to love. That I, too, was worthy of it.
Written by Srishti Pandey
Illustrations by Jyotsna Ramesh


S.W.A.G. Secretly We Are Gay
Two closeted gay men, who are married to women, fall in love with each other.
Written by Secret Writings
Illustration by Sanika Dhakephalkar

From Saat Khoon Maaf to Khoon-Kharaba : Ways People React To Cheating!
Stories from people who discovered their lovers’ infidelity, what happened next and what they think about it now.
Illustrations by Mayur Khadse



The (Secret) Porn That Turns Me On
Must our fantasies mirror our real-life sexual preferences?
Written by Ryna
Illustrations by Prathiksha Bhat


Does Size Matter? A True Story
For a man with a small penis, porn and condoms can unite in a nightmare.
Written by Fact Finder
Illustrated by Poorva Goel



A Mudblood Child of a Love Marriage
From my parents’ inter-caste marriage, I learned that love was worth hardship
By Vi
Illustrations by Labonie Roy



As A Man Am I Condemned To Choose Violence Over Love? Maybe Not.
I hit her. The realisation of what I did, and the guilt it brought is unbearable even now.
Written by Atulya
Illustrations by Vidya Gopal

* * *
When you think about touch within families, do you think of it as being comforting? Do hugs and caresses come to mind? They certainly do for me – my parents were sometimes affectionate with me as a child. At the same time I would often see my brother being beaten excessively by my parents for small mistakes that were more often than not blown out of proportion in their heads. It would upset me. Even so, I had internalised the fact that hitting someone was a natural and an okay response. I had also been told, “What kind of elder brother are you if you don’t keep your younger brother in control?” If I look back, I can clearly see how my behaviour changed towards my brother. From initially opposing my parents’ mistreatment of him, to hitting him myself when he was not able to understand a maths sum even after repeated explanations, my actions had shifted, even though on some level I knew what I was doing was not correct. I don’t think I can ever justify my aggression, but sometimes I felt like I had no choice. It was expected of me. And it was how I learned to express frustration and try to gain control of a situation. I know of other people, college students like me, for whom violence was a large part of childhood. Abhijit, a 21-year-old communications student, tells me he had been beaten a lot by his father, and used to feel aggression and hatred towards him. Gita*, a 21-year-old student of fashion design, also has a fractured relationship with her parents. The youngest of three siblings, she would see her brother and sister being beaten as punishment – though she never experienced it herself. However she says a consequence of witnessing this has been that she is not close to her parents, and she has severed ties to her father and to a certain extent, with her mother. My own parents’ actions seemed too harsh to me and I didn’t understand why it had to be so. I’m sure every family has their way of scolding and disciplining children, but my family’s way affected me quite a lot. I knew that their beatings – and my own participation in it – was wrong. But I still did it … and that left me very confused and anguished for a long time. I too had a rocky relationship with my parents as I was growing up. In the cases of Abhijit, Gita and me, our parents probably did what they thought was best for their children. All the same, even though not all of us were beaten by them directly, and violence wasn’t our only experience of childhood, simply witnessing their violence in our growing up years damaged our relationships with them. That was perhaps the opposite of what our parents intended, but it was a sad reality for us, at least while we were young. The shortage of loving touch created a rift in our families that hasn’t fully healed. But feeling the absence of loving touch from one’s family isn’t only for those of us who grew up with beatings. Radhika*, 22, pursuing an MA, lost her parents when she was very young. She lives with her guardians, whom she calls her father and mother. Although she has been living with them for quite some time, and they do care for her, the element of touch – that experience of someone affectionately running their fingers through your hair, or a warm tight hug – was missing. She feels she didn’t have the privilege of experiencing the affection one gets from one’s parents while growing up. And so, she is keen to experience it. She talks about how important touch and affection is in one’s childhood, and how the absence of it has taught her to value it more. Radhika also tells me about about how an older man touched her inappropriately when she was a child. Though at that age she was not aware about “good touch” and “bad touch”, she knew that she was uncomfortable with it. Even though it remains an unpleasant memory, it hasn’t made her averse to being touched – but rather increased her desire for a more caring, warm, affectionate touch. Does coming from a loving home where the only kind of touch you’ve experienced involves hugs and caresses, automatically mean having a healthy sense of touch as a grown-up? I have wondered about this sometimes. Meenu, who has just turned 21, and is in her final year of studying journalism, comes from a stable, happy family. (When I asked her about her family, she told me something that made me feel more guilt and pain for the way I treated her: “There has never really been any violence in my household, and so I’m not really used to it. I am used to being treated very nicely.”) Meenu has always been comfortable with experiencing and expressing physical affection to her mother and other women in the house. She is more reserved with the male members of her family when it comes to physical affection, but the love remains. Going to college has put her in situations where it is more common to touch others and be touched – bonding with friends by hugging, putting an arm around someone, pulling and pushing them playfully. And she feels that in all these situations she has been able to be a stable, open person, who knows as well as firmly asserts her boundaries in a healthy way. To me, she is one example of how when parents are loving and gentle, their children grow up to be confident and comfortable with themselves.
* * *
Speaking to different people about their early years has made me realise that for many of us, adolescence was a tough time. My formative years left me with scars that are yet to heal, and issues with low self-esteem, that spilled over into my relationships with other people – and perhaps this is the case for others as well. Some of us, as a friend of mine puts it, have been victims of victims, growing up with our parents’ violence. And whether we know it or not, we often absorb these behaviours – I see people around me who mirror their parents’ opinions and actions, and I know it’s the same for me too. But in diving back into my childhood looking for answers to the question of why I hit Meenu, my aim hasn’t been to dump blame for my actions on my parents, or to claim that that’s the only way I know how to be. With time, things have changed – I have cried before them, spoke to them about everything I had felt, and they too have responded with introspection and compassion. I understand now the intent behind their actions – they wanted to make sure my brother and I did everything right, to keep us safe from society’s comments and disapproval – though I do think there were better ways of expressing that concern. They could have let us know why they were disciplining us, and reassured us that we were still loved. Their love was something I was never sure of, growing up. And unlike the director of the film Kabir Singh, Sandeep Reddy Vanga, I don’t see violence as an expression of love. Sometimes we forget where love ends and possessiveness begins, and I think violence is a form of that possessiveness, used to control others. I felt traumatised by the violence in my childhood, but I think I need to move beyond it – others have before me.
Is ‘Good Touch’ and ‘Bad Touch’ an Unhelpful Shortcut to Teaching Kids about Consent?
Is focusing all our energy only on preventing abuse, instead of building autonomy, missing the woods for the trees?
Written by: Srinidhi Raghavan
Illustrated by: Kruthika NS @the workplacedoodler



The Shame Around My Friend's Abortion Scarred Us All - A Comic
A comic about Akhil's memory of a school friend who needed help.












How My Girlfriend's Abortion Made Me A Better Man: A Comic
M's story about a life-changing incident.
Written by: Sharon Varghese













What Emraan Hashmi Couldn’t Teach Me About Dhichak Dhichak
I thought sex meant lying next to someone under a blanket and smooching. I was so, so wrong
By Ankita Salian
Illustrations by Maitri Dore


I Believe in the Promises Made by Passing Strangers: Cruising and the City
Leaving behind the threshold of our homes, what other boundaries do we cross?
By Anindya Shankar Das
Illustrations by Anjali Kamat

* * *
At 5.30 pm Palash leaves office as usual after a long, sweaty day of work. An affable bhadrolok a year away from retirement, he says a polite goodbye to his colleagues. Putting distance between himself and them, Palash walks off the road that leads to the metro station and takes a detour. Just a block away from Dalhousie, a bustling business district in Kolkata, is an old public toilet adjacent to a mostly empty park. The ancient toilet attendant outside gives him a customary nod – Palash has been visiting this loo once or twice a week for the last thirty-odd years. “As someone in my fifties now, I never could ‘come out’ the way people do today, though I’ve known I’m attracted to men my whole life. In the early eighties, one day soon after starting work, I got talking to a man at a bus stop. He took me to this toilet which I had crossed but never entered.” “Inside was another world. Two men were kissing and people were peeping over the cubicles at each other. I left that day but ended up returning – it became a haven for me after work, a small break that let me be myself before I caught the bus back to my wife and child. It took time, but I grew confidant enough to make eye contact with men and take them to the park nearby. And now, though so much has changed, I can’t stop going back there once in a while,” says Palash as we sit talking on a roadside bench, drinking chai.
* * *
If not for cruising spaces, where else would so many members of the queer community, many living in the closet and distanced from a ‘gay’ identity, find sexual release? Many with no privacy at home. Many without a conventional home. (Surprising as it may be to some younger readers, many people in India don't have access to the Internet, let alone smartphones.) When “old timers” like Palash talk, it reveals not just the thrill of cruising, but also the diversity within the queer community. They speak of how class, caste, language and body types would not be as segregated as they are now on apps with all their filters and raging body trends. Often profiles proudly advertise – only English, no femme, no dark, no Asians, no fat, no uncles. No this, no that. A far cry from a scenario where a civil servant would be standing beside a daily wage labourer in a park, while a student checked both of them out from a distance. Rejection has always been a part of cruising – but that rejection is at least a conscious one – momentarily bittersweet, tangible. Like smartphones themselves, their users are subject to the copy-paste virus, leaving something as powerful as rejection to the vagaries of consumerism. Those born into smartphones might view cruising as a desperate act, sometimes forgetting that public spaces could be safer and more measured than, or at least as risky as, inviting a complete stranger into one’s bedroom. There is a growing restlessness, a feeling that app driven dating/hooking up forces people to be less authentic versions of themselves. So many of my friends are fed up of Grindr or Tinder – an endless cycle of deleting and reinstalling. Drowning the user in a deluge of profiles, all the app seeks is your attention; a desire that belongs to a lover is devoted to an algorithm. A body, made up of so many things, is reduced to an identity. When out cruising, the ‘feeling’ of another person matters when it comes to attraction and safety – and it matters a lot. What really is anonymity? Does a profile photo held in your palm make the person more known than a stranger you have been exchanging glances with on a train? Your body senses things it needs to know. As Pankaj, a gay trans-man living in Mumbai said to me, “I prefer cruising because I can feel the vibe of another human in the way that I never can in a photograph or a few words. You can communicate everything through your eyes – body language really means a lot to me. I get attracted to different kinds of men when I am out there. Maybe if I saw those same people on a profile, I wouldn’t feel the same.” Pankaj says he has quit online dating and chooses to meet his partners through cruising. I ask him if cruising spots are still active in Mumbai. He gives me a wide, naughty smile. You know all those romantic songs about when eyes meet across a crowded place? Jaane kya tune kahi! Jaane kya maine suni! Baat kuch ban he gayi... (Who knows what you said, who knows what I heard, things came together anyway…) That’s it really, isn’t it? Eyes are meeting all around you, constantly – and sometimes magic happens.* * *
Karim drives an autorickshaw in Bangalore. In his early twenties, he hails from a village in Uttar Pradesh and tells me he has never heard of any of the dating apps – Grindr, PR (Planet Romeo) or Tinder. The only gay pages he knows are on Facebook but he has never used them as he doesn’t have a smartphone yet. He wants one though so that he can use GPS. How then does he manage to meet men? Shyly, he tells me that there are men all around if you only know how to look. “The eyes are most important. And touch. You can tell by touch. A few casual words maybe. But the eyes are the most important. Once in a while I will catch a passenger staring at me. But I never do anything during business time!” As our ride gets over I ask him if he is aware that cruising can be a source of STDs due to risky, unsafe sex. “Yes”, he says, “though I have not always been careful in the past. When I first came to the city I did not even know of STDs. Now I do. I plan to have a blood test soon.” “Check out that man standing across the street. Look at the way he has been staring at us the whole time. Wanna go say hi?” jokes Karim.
* * *
Arnab shifted to Kolkata from a small town in West Bengal to pursue a college diploma. At over 6 feet tall, he is an imposing figure. Yet, he tells me that in his second visit to a soft porn theater with a balcony famed for encounters that would put the screen to shame, he was almost forced into a sexual act by someone stronger than him. “I had hardly ever even met anyone who is gay before. In my town, the nearest match on Grindr is 150 km away! And even though that guy tried to force me, I held my ground and people around made him leave me. I dealt with it." "I returned because this space felt like I belonged here, amidst these men. I feel lonely in the hostel. I feel like myself here. I feel like I will meet someone.” Arnab is still a visitor to the hall, though much more confident and intimidating himself after a year of being a regular. Consent in cruising is tricky. Without consent, cruising is not possible in public spaces. How does one respond to a look in a tea stall? Or a gentle touch on the elbow in a train? Do they stop to ask for the time even though they are clearly carrying a phone? Is a smile returned? Or a lighter? These little things can go a long way in safely approaching a partner in a sea of people with different sexualities. It is part of the thrill – being right sometimes, being wrong at others. But cross the hazy line and cruising can become something else entirely. Something ugly. It is in either very crowded places like local trains or queer-dominated spaces like the cinema balcony mentioned earlier, where consent becomes unimportant for some. Like most humans, many in the queer community too have a lot to understand about yes, no and maybe.* * *
Some of the most visible members of a cruising space and often with exclusive spots of their own are members of the trans* community, mostly trans-women. They have been trailblazers in claiming and defending queer public spaces, many a time being at a much greater risk of violence. NGOs and trans individuals have filed a number of ongoing cases of extortion, physical and sexual abuse against perpetrators of violence in public spaces but a huge number of cases go unreported. Sujatha, a trans-woman from Chennai, says, “Many of the members of our community are from working classes with no access to these dating apps. They are definitely not comfortable with English. For them, cruising is not just a thrill or kink…it is the only way to meet partners.” And lesbian/bisexual women are almost invisible when it comes to cruising in India. Tales of meeting strangers in bars, sport centres, malls, nightclubs or other spaces are common but there are hardly any specific cruising spaces for lesbians the way they are for gay men. Public spaces are designed, both morally and physically, for cis gendered men. But in spite of this love persists, for cruising is not only about sex. Leaving behind the threshold of our homes, what other boundaries do we cross? Why is there an urge to risk it all for a seemingly anonymous encounter? At the heart of this dance is belonging. Of belonging to a community, to a moment, maybe even to another being. I have seen strangers touch each other like old lovers, I have met couples who have lived their entire lives together after a smile exchanged on a park bench.* * *
There is no real way of classifying or simplifying the phenomenon of cruising. As cities change and policing becomes stronger and tech-based, old, much-loved cruising spots die and new ones take their place. Is there a space for private queer love at home? Are all queer people supposed to leave their families or come out forcibly? Some of the most open expanses available to people are and will be public spaces. And they will always be used for the full spectrum of human expression. As the smartphone market grows and the world becomes even more technologically controlled, it will be interesting to see the new turns that offline cruising takes. The primal drive to seek out partners that is such a basic foundation of us as humans will be impossible to wipe out, as much as any agency tries. We now live in a world where queer folk who grew up without the Internet live with those who have never been without it. Information is passed on forums, through films and articles. Many straddle both the worlds of offline and online cruising. Young queer people (even with smartphones) now seek out cruising spots, seek out the history of their community. There is a power in these meetings, an ode to a spirit of community. As important as pride, as necessary as reading down Section 377. The search for our true sexual selves is an elusive one, existing in some unclassifiable, intangible space, that apps and matrimonials can’t get to, that we ourselves spend a lifetime seeking to understand. As far as I am concerned, the search has always led me to push a little outside my boundaries of class, language, geography, identity. For where does home, or even my body, begin... and end? Why should I be conditioned into whom to like. Or where. I believe in the promises made by passing strangers. Falling asleep in a train, watching crows squabble in a park, holding my nose as I cross a garbage vat, wolfing down street food that I know will punish me soon, weaving through a market and soaking it all in a quiet bar. For me, cruising is all this and more. Lights and locks. Love and looking. As we finish our chai, Palash sums up cruising for him. And indeed for so many of us in cities, suburbs and towns, packed into our boxed lives in a society that is far from accepting of sexuality in general and queer sexuality in particular. “Desire and loneliness”, he smiles as he gets up, glancing at his watch. “Achcha, I’ll leave now. I have to get back home to my family.” I decided to stay back. After all, the cruising spot that Palash mentioned was right around the corner. Anindya Shankar Das is an independent filmmaker, cook, traveler and writer based in Mumbai. He is always on the lookout for interesting work!Maybe Fighting with a Friend isn't Such a Bad Thing
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To be Truly Sex Positive, I Think We Need to Step Back From Sex
Between being strictly platonic and having sex is a sea of sensuality. Are we ready to see that yet?
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Illustrated by Anjali Kamat
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Consider first, an eighth grade classroom. It was still a better school than most in India – that is, the toilets did not stink permanently, and the fee was high enough for everyone to ensure we had a teacher guarding us all the time. The class was on biology and the lesson on that woeful subject, “Sexual Reproduction and Health”. Our teacher was trying very hard to limit her frowns and keep a straight face while saying the word “sexual”.
Could you blame her, with us on the other side? I cannot remember exactly how I felt about what was going on. Mostly because all the space to feel and talk about anything seemed to have been occupied by a bunch of my classmates (primarily boys) laughing their eyes out. For the first time it seemed we had a lot of questions, and did our best to frame them in the most awkward ways possible. No wonder our teacher struggled, having imposed on herself the additional burden of omitting readily available scientific speech – words such as “penis” and “vagina”, which seemed to throw everyone into peals of laughter, making her doubly self-conscious.
To most of us it seemed a futile exercise, for we had already versed ourselves in this knowledge, albeit in a very different kind of vocabulary – through needlessly detailed slurs and abuses, which were not restricted to locker room banter, but cropped up everywhere, from the playing field to the school canteen.
I vaguely remember another attempt – this time a specialised children’s counsellor who came to talk to us about “something special”. These sessions were conducted separately for boys and girls and the counsellor had this to say: that it was only “natural” for us to feel certain emotions at our age. Predictably, my friends burst out laughing, dissecting and repeating each of these words. I on the other hand, sat baffled. I found myself increasingly incompetent at understanding exactly what “feelings”, “emotions” and “thoughts” this woman was referring to, why my friends found them so funny, but also, why they were supposed to descend on me so naturally? Perhaps it was because she was a “specialised” counsellor and hence never felt the need to clearly state exactly what was so “natural” about it. The only thing that seemed “natural” at that moment was hunger. I recall earnestly waiting for the bell to ring, so I could grab my lunch-box and get out of there.
My ‘Girlfriend’
Consider another scene, sometime in those “charged” years we spent in “high school”. I knew someone whom I called my “girlfriend” – at least all my friends wanted me to call her that even before I began to think about it. I remember conversations which lasted for hours and the things we cared about, talked about and fought about: why don’t you pick up when I call? Why can’t I bunk classes for her sake? Why can’t we make grand gestures for each other’s birthdays? But my most vivid memory was feeling the question that lingered at the back of every room we entered: “Had we done it?!”
For the longest time of course, I tried figuring out the “it”. Don’t worry, I wasn’t so oblivious even then, that I didn’t know what “it” meant – I had seen A-rated films. But, I still had many questions about the “it”. As evident, biology classes had been no help.
My friends preferred to leave such wisdom to the darker underbelly of the Internet, or responded to any genuine curiosity with graphic humour that often involved some degree of violence for either sex. And even if you had a fair idea about “it”, there were all these logistics nobody wished to talk about. Do I make a move? Do I meet her halfway? When do I know she is halfway? What after the first brush? The first touch? The first kiss? The answer I found most acceptable came from Yahoo Answers: “Relax. It’ll just happen when it has to.” (“Natural”, right?)
So one fine day, we have been hanging out as usual. There is… a moment, between the fourth and the fifth period at recess. We’re locking eyes, we’re blocking out all the commotion in the room – most importantly, we’re safe from the view of the world (primarily, any teachers who might mistakenly think that coming for class on time would be a good idea). Pop culture tells me this is my chance and I should go for it. Cue in violins and other rosy image filters, and look carefully at the soft golden sunlight falling on our brown skins.
In my head although: Okay, so are we there yet? Does my breath smell of the parantha I just ate? Do my teeth have any of that chocolate cookie we shared? Won’t we look funny pouting at each other? Are my lips too dry? Is my tongue too wet? Are my palms too sweaty? Are her palms too sweaty? What if her hair gets in my way? And… Well, the bell rang and nothing happened. Or, I like to blame the bell in my version of the story anyway. We didn’t last for too long after that.
I’m sure we had ample opportunity to do something, but we didn’t. And I’m not so sure that it was because neither of us wanted to. I just told myself that a moral police force of teachers and parents, a strictly enforced regime of time-tables and exams, of “everything else” going on in our worlds – meant I would never be in a mood to do “it” so long as High School lasted. I was, as it turns out, wrong. Not about my chances of doing something in high school. Instead I think I was lying to myself about what hindered me from doing the things I thought I was ‘meant’ to do.
A Different Kind of Love
Consider now, the college campus. For a person who was anxious enough to be rid of the anxiety of making love, I sure enough ended up in the most ironic situation possible – our hub for bunking classes, the college canteen, was colloquially called “LP”, an acronym which stood for “Lover’s Point”. No pressure. I would keep assuring myself that it will come when it has to. It will come to me when I am with “someone special”, when we’re both in the right headspace and on the same page. We would just “know” what to do.
And I guess I did find many special people in my life at the “LP”.
We loved each other while sharing plates of chowmein. While warming hands holding cups of cheap coffee to counter the chill of the much romanticised Dilli ki sardi. While being there for one another through thick and thin, amounting to friendship goals, as much as Jai and Veeru do from Sholay. But I like to believe there was a different kind of love as well. One I expressed to someone while the sun set on Connaught Place, and we sat next to a Subway on the same block as one of my favourite bookstores. This love built on a spark was slow to brew – it came through WhatsApp conversations which lasted for hours, sharing books and essays, ranting and bitching about things and people we didn’t like, appreciating poetry and paintings alike.
It was a chronicle that came into being text by text, mixed with hurt and lots of speculation. It was a relationship slow to mouth itself in the terms demanded by that precious four letter word – for again, I knew what else lingered in the air. What was it to love someone if you did not wish to touch them or hold them sexually? If I were to call it “love” anyway, would it be fair to keep them waiting for me to cross that last lap?
There were neither clear answers to these questions around me – nor any precedents to show the way. I wondered (still do) if this was not indeed a necessary experience? How would I know otherwise that the longing to “be” with someone sexually is not intrinsic in me? If I loved someone with all the passion I could muster, all the care I did (and did not) put in, and could still be wary of holding their hand, caressing their lips, lying next to them… then surely I lacked the urge for physical intimacy in a very conventional sense. Surely, it was just not going to “happen” for me – no matter how right a person was and no matter how right the time was. And the most honest way I could have confronted this was to speak about it with this person.
This person, who had known me at my worst and my best; who for over a year, had inspired me and sought comfort in me, was the only person I could honestly rely on. But even then our words fumbled when we broached the subject. Even then we struggled to look the other in the eye, to talk about our sexual (dis)comforts openly. It did not seem right, whether sharing burgers or walking through a university campus, to seek out a candid conversation on what bothered both of us. We had been trained to think that talking aloud about such things, to converse about our sexual pleasures and discomforts with each other was not appropriate – and largely, we stuck to the script. Mumbling a few words here and there, and not looking each other in the eye. It fell apart eventually. Like all love, ours was an asymmetry, but not one that we could easily fit into. I felt lonely. I felt that I needed to pine after her company and our texts – as if attacked by a Shakespearean flu, I wrote verse after verse describing what we couldn’t be. Time and again, I reminded myself that it was okay. It was better not staying together, and looking for mutuality elsewhere, rather than staying together all the time and evading conversations regularly.
Asexual?
I have been told that I am probably an “asexual”. At one point I tried making a profile on a dating app for “Ace Folks” and was bombarded with a bunch of options to identify against (twelve in all – everything from “aromantic asexual” to “lithoromantic asexual”). I thanked heavens for option thirteen – “confused” – and moved on.
But there are moments when I feel that I am most probably, maybe not an asexual – and everyone should be free to play in this ambiguity, without having to affix ourselves in the scientific certitude of labelled attraction. “Love is love is love”: the chant many of my well-meaning left-liberal (even liberal) acquaintances have thrown my way. I am sorry to disappoint them, but love is almost never held at the same plane of passionate significance in our lives. They also say you just “know” what you’re attracted or not attracted to, much the same way straight and gay folk know what they find sexually appealing. It is a seemingly sound and a politically correct argument to make, one which allows for an apt rebuttal every time “straight” folk suggest: “But how can you know, if you don’t try?” In this procession of certainty, it might make us all a bit uneasy to accept the ambiguity of my sexual half-existence.
I suppose between being strictly platonic and “having sex” is a sea of sensuality – the intimacy of a friend hugging you, the snuggly sensation of surety in resting your head on a shoulder, the absolute pleasure in waking up next to “somebody special” with your clothes still on – and it should be possible to enjoy all of these sensations without privileging one over the other, without calling any one of these ‘the real thing’. I think it is this possibility of a non-hierarchy that can make loving truly radical.
A friend once hugged me unexpectedly, leaving behind a lingering memory that made me grin foolishly at multiple points in the coming weeks. Another time, the same person left me a text – replying to something I had sent months ago – making me gush uncontrollably in the middle of work. At some point I think, I even fantasised about us kissing each other in a silly daydream. It felt like all the irrationality of a Bollywood romance would plague me for days. But it stopped sooner than that. At some point I was quite comfortable letting it all go, perhaps to revisit the prospect again someday… who knows? I could be love-sick, I realised. But I could also heal myself more easily from a madness that wasn’t as all-consuming as folks made it out to be. More importantly, I think, this knowledge wasn’t naturally there for me to grab, but came as a mixed surprise.
Love it seemed, could be a fond memory, almost as delightful as eating a donut, and pass me by just as quickly. It could also be a poetic tragedy – sometimes maybe, to be forgotten completely.
Strings attached
Why these events stick out in my memory is not necessarily because I know better now, or want to go back and course correct. But rather, because while my lack of enthusiasm for sex has persisted, I am also aghast at our immaturity in talking about sexual desire.
My closest friends are often baffled at my surplus desire to comment on sex, love and all that jazz, given my non-existent ‘dating’ life. I can only scoff because, firstly, it would be very un-Indian of me not to comment on other people’s business and look at my own, and secondly, as oppositional as it may sound, it will only be in a truly sex-positive environment that I can speak openly about my lack of interest in the sexual. It will only be once the uneasiness is out that I can easily talk about what makes me uneasy. This holds true for all of us, from victims of harassment, to ones who proudly claim the “asexual” badge.
It would help a great deal if we can find a way, as a society, to bring in a sexual revolution that normalises talking about boundaries and desires, and possibly move on. And yes, I do want to move on, for there is a lot left in love to explore other than the sexual. I have had – relationships – for lack of a better word (but do they need a better word?), that have given me hope and support (emotional and physical); men and women who have uplifted me from zones of terror-stricken anxiety to feeling at ease with myself and my body.
At some moments, we have a tendency to be more intense with each other, to act like jealous lovers and spurned partners. At other moments I have been able to pull back and given them space to be with whom they want. Or taken some space for myself, without worrying too much about how the other person might feel hurt or dejected. But we could stand to be careful though, in not letting the pendulum swing over too much. Sometimes, the only ways in which the sexual is dealt with, within rigidly masculine circles, is through the grotesque: where the only way to deal with rejection is to lash out; and the only means to seek any intimate connection is to be purely physical.
Increasingly, it seems that being “cool” about sex means replicating such tendencies: jumping from body to body, not being curious at all, but acting so chill that you eliminate completely the will to pause and think – making it more a kind of violence than an act of hedonism. It’s almost funny how, in such cases, the only way to be sex-positive is to dial back a little, and consider the possibility of thinking about people as people, and not just as bodies.
This is not to rule out the possibility of sexual pleasure for pleasure’s sake, but rather to say that “meaningless” hook-ups and romantic encounters are not necessarily binary opposites. Between the two, pleasure may be discovered in many different ways of being with one another. It might, for instance, exist in knowing someone intimately, without ever having to sexually embrace them – finding pleasure that does not shape into any physical form or expression.
In a world where we’re increasingly told that to be radical you have to be okay with embracing the physical with no strings attached, we might be even more radical in straying a bit from the sexual. It might be radical, for instance, to cuddle and just that – to not cut all strings, but to look for other types of strings to attach.
While for some of us, straying from the sexual is not exactly an “option”, but rather a comfortable way of existence, for others it might prove an opportunity to think/fantasise more ethically and caringly about the ways in which we exercise our sexuality.
Ishan is 22 and currently works at the Centre for Studies in Gender and Sexuality, Ashoka University.
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My First Time Taught Me How Not to Have Sex
By Jasmin
As part of our #SexActually series, we asked people to write to us about their real-life experiences of sex. This author, 22 years old now and 20 at the time of the incident, tells us about her first sexual encounter with a boy, and how she moved on from it.
I was 20 years old and I hadn't had my first kiss.
This was a source of great embarrassment for me. And I worried that as time went by, and I grew older it would only become stranger and stranger. Most of my close friends were already having sex on a regular basis, and here I was with no experience except for a few drunk kisses shared with female friends.
But then came a wave of Tinder in friends’ groups.
All of us were on it, and so was I. It was a bit terrifying for me to venture out there with no experience. Here were people who were “down to fuck” while I honestly would like to say “let’s talk a little and take it as slow as high school kids”.
But I finally met R.
We met somewhere in Bangalore. After eating we sat beside each other under a tree, and I could sense the conversation was just a farce, he was leading up to kissing me. I didn’t even feel connected to him yet. But that was okay, by this point I just wanted to “get done” with my first kiss.
He then led me out of the restaurant and as we walked down the street, he asked me to come to a hotel room several times, each time I said no.
Then he spotted a park, and I was also eager for more making out so we went there. And as we made out his hands went right for my crotch. I stopped him.
They went up my shirt. I let that happen. But I didn’t like it.
He was roughly grabbing my breasts like he wanted to just tear them off of me. It hurt, not in a sexy way. Again his hands went for my crotch, I stopped him. And again, and again, and again, in spite of even telling him verbally to stop.
For 22-year-old me now, this would be a red flag: a partner not able to understand smaller moments of consent. Forget about even the politics of it. What disturbs me about all these moments when consent is breached is I imagine myself in the same position.
If a partner shows any discomfort, even the smallest sign, I pick up on it. I stop. I would find no pleasure in continuing something my partner doesn’t enjoy. This should've been a red flag, but I was none the wiser then, and so I met him again.
And I did like him a little.
He was funny. I was done with my first kiss. I had met a few other men on Tinder with whom things didn’t go very far, apart from kisses. And I thought I was ready for more.
But I must admit, the attitude behind it was still “Let’s just get done with it, let’s see how it all works so I’m prepared when the real things comes.”
I don’t find this entirely foolish. It’s alright. Sometimes you want to wait and sometimes you just want to go for test runs. It depends on you. But I didn’t feel like I was completely comfortable or in control with how the test run would go.
Honestly, even though I was eager to just try out the things that come after you take shirts and pants off, I wished for something slower, gentler, something revelling in the discovery of touch and another person’s body. When we entered the hotel room, he had my shirt and bra off in minutes. It was a passion I did not mirror. He was new to me. This all was new to me. I had told him several times that I wanted to take it slow. He had held my hand and said alright.
Then a few minutes into making out, he was pulling my pants off. I said, no. He looked away and frowned, saying, “Oh, I must be so ugly, that's why you don't want it anymore.” I feel a degree of embarrassment for not calling him out on his bullshit whining right then and there. But I don't know, in the moment I was so nervous and so tense that I used an age-old line which was true enough to me – it isn’t because of you, it’s me! But he continued his drama, and I gave in, my pants came off. With the same routine my panties came off. He would ask me why I wasn't getting wet.
By this time I was so confused and dazed by how things were going that I didn't know. It's obvious now that none of it was sexy for me. And that it should've been obvious to him too. And that his teasing lines about how it is because he is ugly or not good enough were ridiculously emotionally manipulative.
I still feel embarrassed for giving in to them so easily. But over time I have also tried to forgive myself for not knowing what I know only because of that encounter. When I read the story a girl recently wrote about having her worst date with Aziz Ansari, I cried.
I cried when she described him pushing her hand down to his dick. I cried about how she just gave him a blowjob even though she didn’t want to. I cried when she wrote about the “I hate men” text she sent to her friend immediately after. Because that’s what it felt like with R. I was into it, to an extent.
But it felt like for him, sex was for him. He had no sense of how I was feeling through it all, and couldn’t care less. He would through the night keep pulling my hand to his dick even when I didn’t want to touch him. He would push my head down even when I didn’t want to go there. He would use lube because I just wasn’t getting wet.
He would eventually penetrate me and ignore me when I said it was paining too much. After this night I did not want to be with men for a long time. I was left with this image of sex as something I couldn’t like. I was much better off with my own imagination and fingers. I should admit I felt disgusted with myself for a while.
As I realised the ways he forced me to do things that he should have had the sensitivity and ethics to never do, and as I realised my naivety in not recognising them. I felt like my friends would’ve called him out the first time he whined, “Oh, you don’t want to go further because I’m ugly.” But I have also forgiven myself.
It took that encounter for me to learn that it’s okay to be pedantically clear with how much you want. If you don’t want to touch any penises – you don’t fucking have to. (If he acts hurt or thinks you’re a prude, well, what-fucking-ever.) If you don’t want something in your mouth – don’t put it in your mouth.
In the age of online dating there’s a certain pressure to be open to “casual” relationships. I feel like my problem with the definition of casual that most men I have met on Tinder understand is almost emotionless. Showing any sign of affection is terrifying. But you know, I realised I can’t do this kind of casual.
It’s not that I want someone to be my “boyfriend” but I want care and affection. And I’m not shy to admit that openly anymore. Here’s a positive shorter story I’d like to end this on: it would take me two years to meet someone else.
In that time I would have brief stints with people that I never would want to take to bed. But with this person, the physicality feels spiritual. It’s in a way that leaves me at a loss for words, like I have no language for it. I want to touch him everywhere, with my hands and my mouth. I want him sometimes to take all my clothes off within minutes of the door being closed.
I love touching his penis and giving him blowjobs – for the two years after R I thought I would always hate it. And I love the way my he touches me everywhere. Everything in bed feels like an exploration, a learning and discovery of each other’s bodies – where someone is ticklish, where they have moles and birthmarks, the parts of their neck that can send them wild with sucking.
I feel like this is what I had always been looking for and will continue looking for in bed. This is what sex means to me now: a co-discovery, revelling in the discoveries of what their touch can do and what your own touch can do. I don’t regret “getting done with it” when I was with R.
I have learnt a lot from that encounter. Most importantly I’ve learnt to know what I want much better. I’ve learnt that it isn’t really sex that I care for if the other person is treating you like a blow-up. More than the moment of orgasm, this has become what turns me on the most, learning each other, responding to each other, sensing each other.
How I Grew Out of My Turbulent Teens
Life as a schoolgirl was about trying to fit in; to be seen and not seen; self-hate and self-harm. Talking about it to other people was the first step in a new direction
Written by Shru
Illustrations by Ayesha Punjabi



My Male Friends and I Talked About Sex Constantly, But Not How We Really Felt About It
I’m trying to unlearn everything I’d absorbed in predominantly male spaces. It’s making me a better person.
By Sudhamshu Mitra
Illustrations by Alia Sinha



When a Workshop about Love and Desire Turned into a Raucous Party
By Umang Sabarwal
A few weeks ago, we travelled from Mumbai to Titwala, a small village about two hours from the city, to talk to a group of young women about love, desire, relationships and heartbreak. When we arrived, we had a challenge ahead of us: the post lunch challenge! The workshop was being conducted in a large room, with a screen on one side and gaddas placed against all the walls. The girls, sleepy after lunch and the day’s activities and reluctant to participate, were sitting scattered against the walls, using the gaddas as backrests. We knew that capturing their attention was going to be tough! The participants comprised of around 200 students aged between 18 and 21 from the National Service Scheme (NSS) unit of Smt PN Doshi Women’s College. They were on a week-long service camp. They had been painting the local government school walls and planting trees along the riverbank nearby, and were camped at a local school. The classrooms where sessions were held during the day became the dorms where the students slept at night. With all the activities they were involved in, including cooking their own meals, we suspected our workshop would be quite a departure from what they had to do so far. Even so, when we got there it was evident that most of the girls were intent on napping. We later found out that this was because through most of their afternoon sessions, they rarely got the opportunity to speak about things that really mattered to them. The girls told us that more often than not, they were preached to rather than spoken with. “Most people come and give us lectures on this and that, and we get really bored, this is the first time someone has come and spoken to us about all these things,” one of the participants told us later. But despite their initial reluctance, the room was soon crackling with laughter, song, dance, and pure energy, transforming us all. Because when it comes to discussing love, sex and desire honestly, without judgement, without easy conclusions, who doesn’t wake up? Shaadi shenanigans We began the workshop with a question every young Indian has to confront and has a lot to say about: “Do you plan to get married?” And if so, would they choose a love marriage or an arranged marriage? Some girls just smiled coyly and didn’t respond, some jumped up enthusiastically to say they would pick a love marriage, while a few preferred an arranged one. Why love marriage, we asked. “Well, getting married without love is just for material purposes,” was one answer. “[In an arranged marriage] you see how well off that person is, what their job is and what their caste is, and pick them based only on that,” was another answer from a girl to whom love marriage seemed a way to combat such parochial practices. Another view was that love marriages ensure compatibility. Some of the girls said there was stability and security in arranged marriages. A few said that people in love ended up eloping, and that just created a lot of problems for everyone. We decided to get a little personal. Have you ever been in love, we asked. The air warmed up. The room changed. Tentative smiles and furtive glances to gauge each other’s reactions went round the room. Those slouched in the corner trying to nap were peeking through one eye, interested in what the others would say. A few hands went up, then more. Some nudged their friends to raise their hands, some raised their hands for their friends. We, the facilitators, first raised one hand, then both, then raised alternate hands again and again. We were all laughing. So if everyone had been in love, they must have thought about sex, no? we asked. So what did they think? Was it ok to have sex? There was giggling and hesitation, they looked at each other, waiting for someone else to be the first to answer. They said that sex was something that gives a person pleasure. We observed a general lack of judgement in terms of how and with whom and when people had sex (as in, before marriage or only after) when it came to others, but also noticed that the girls tended to speak of others in broad generalisations – what should be and what shouldn’t be. When it came to themselves, they seemed more prim. There was a great deal of distance when talking about themselves, and some did express a clear sense of what they were personally were okay with when it came to their own values and boundaries that differed from what they felt was okay for others. One participant went on to share her feelings about one of the protagonists in the movie they had watched the previous night, Lipstick Under My Burkha. She felt that although the woman in the film was having sex, it was not something that involved her willingness or pleasure – the husband was using her for his own pleasure – and that was wrong. The students firmly believed that communication was a very important part of physical intimacy, and that rape and sex were two very different things. Biology se pehle, Biology ke baad One of the things we’ve seen in so many classes and workshops and conferences and projects about sexuality is that no one discusses sex, actually. It’s as if we criticise the unrealistic sex of mainstream porn, but don’t really touch the topic of sex – the mechanics of sex – ourselves! But I guess we aren’t Agents of Ishq for nothing. So we asked them about sex directly. At first, the answers we got from the students were very brief. Some girls in the front of the class gave us basic answers, probably out of a sense of dutifulness, to represent their group and make sure that the class responded to our questions. But since they all sat spread out, we tried walking around to gather responses, and heard more interesting things when we leaned in to listen to the shy and the hesitant who wouldn’t speak loudly. We found that the students were mostly aware of the basics of heterosexual penis-in-vagina sex. Some who may have been studying biology were able to describe it more clearly, using terms like “fallopian tubes” and “cervix”. Some admitted to not being entirely sure about the exact process of sex and making babies. So we played “Mai Aur Meri Body” – a full blast Bambaiya ishtyle video made by Agents of Ishq in collaboration with SNEHA about how bodies are made, how babies are made, how gender is formed, how attraction happens, and what puberty is about. The fun music and animation completely changed the energy of the room. The girls were laughing and trying to sing along. The video mentioned pheromones, and we tried to expand on the idea of pheromones and attraction. We asked if any of them had been in relationships – and received a whole range of responses! Some people said yes, some no, and one participant went on to vehemently say that she had never felt love or been in a relationship. We then talked about asexuality, as also being a part of the spectrum of desire. As we talked about the idea of attraction being a normal part of life, just like the feelings that we experience when we like someone, the girls nodded knowingly. “She keeps talking on the phone for hours,” said one, pointing to her friend. That started a chain of more girls pointing at their friends and teasing them. Some were embarrassed and tried to shush their friends, while some simply laughed. Pyaar hurdles Until Main aur Meri Body, everyone participated just fine, but our discussion was still in traditional sex-ed territory. Then everything changed when we played the first Agents of Ishq podcast – suddenly all the girls were wide awake, intent, interested. Why? In the podcast “Lovezone Friendzone”, a 19-year-old called Lubna talks about how she fell in love with a boy who was dating another girl. She talks about regretting kissing him, about how she thought she loved him more than even her mom, and how he left her because she was not Marathi. Lubna talks about how much she cried over him, how she missed him whenever she heard an emotional song – and then, how she now likes another boy, one who gives her “waise wale feelings”. The girls, who until then had been constantly chatting among themselves, listened to the podcast with complete attention and even sang along! When we asked them if they thought this story was possible in real life, they said “Yes” in unison. Many of them associated relationships across caste and community with complications and trouble, and were supportive of the fact that Lubna had moved on and found someone else. At this point, the girls started sharing their personal experiences, about previous and current relationships, that were similar or related to what they’d heard in the podcast, such as, “One boy did the same to me, but now I like someone else.” For me, it was deeply encouraging to to hear them share things once the initial inhibitions were gone. Perhaps it was listening to other people’s stories and personal experiences that flipped that switch for the girls – the session became way more interactive with more girls eager to talk about their own lives once they’d heard something that felt relevant to them and that they identified with. Their interest (and energy) seemed to come from hearing about the lived experiences of people like them – young girls from traditional families. We also found that it helped to be vulnerable ourselves, and share our own experiences. When we told them our stories of love or heartbreak, they would chime in protectively with advice such as “Dump that person!” or “Forget about them! It’s not worth it!” and got invested in what we were talking about. When we moved on to talking about heartbreak, more hands went up than they did when we talked about love – the videos and podcasts had gone a long way towards drawing the girls’ attention and setting them at ease. Even though the workshop was very interactive, and involved conversation rather than instruction, it took these additional tools to act as opening points for these conversations.
One participant added that her relationship had broken up because her partner belonged to a different caste, and although she was able to convince her parents to let her marry him, she would have been expected to wear a ghunghat, and wouldn’t have been allowed to work or have any freedom while living with his family. She tried to negotiate these terms with the boy and his family, but they did not budge, so she decided to break up with him although she loved him very much. Breakups because of caste or differences in financial status seemed to be a common experience among the girls. Most of the participants felt that if the person you love makes you feel small, then they’re not worth it. Another popular sentiment was that if your love requires you to do something that hurts your family, then you must not do that. Not everyone agreed about putting your family first, but one thing everyone seemed to agree with was that it is great to love someone, but you should always love yourself a little more. The girl who had shared her story about leaving the boy whose family expected her to wear a ghunghat was a great example of this – when she spoke, it was wonderful to hear her discuss her dreams and ambitions for herself, and see her recognition of the fact that the boy’s family would require her to give those dreams, and her very sense of self, up. Hearing someone talk about choosing her dreams over her lover’s unfair expectations was a great learning moment for us all. This was an important moment in the workshop – after this girl opened up about her experience, more felt encouraged to share their stories with the group. We also talked about heartbreak, and how if it happens, you should give yourself time to process it – talk about it, cry it out, stalk your ex a little if you have to. But if months go by and it doesn't get better, then take help. Slumber party to Dance pardy After the Lovezone Friendzone podcast, there was an electricity in the air. It felt as if our session had gone from workshop to raucous party. We played Qayanat Ka Romancenama – a podcast in which Qayanat, a young girl, tells of her amazing story that doesn’t end with her being with her lover. She talks about how her lover ultimately got married to someone else, but she is still happy to have experienced that love. Everyone was totally involved, singing (and some even managing some vigorous dancing) along to the opening song of the podcast so enthusiastically that they didn’t want to stop, and drowned out the beginning of the new podcast. When the closing song began, they started up the dancing and singing again and kept going for a few minutes! When they eventually quieted down, we asked them what the podcast made them feel. Many said that they felt what Qayanat did was right, that she did care for her parents and also that she chose herself. We spoke a little more about rejection and introduced the idea that one can move on from rejection in relationships just like we move on from the non-materialisation of other dreams or expectations. We then asked the girls if they had been in a situation where they were not sure of their feelings – had they ever said yes to something they didn’t fully want to say yes to, or said no but they didn't mean not ever? Many said they had. That gave us the opportunity to play a video called “The Amorous Adventures of Shakku and Megha in the Valley of Consent” – Agents of Ishq’s popular music video in which two lavni dancers wonder about the nuances of consent. Given that the language of the video was Marathi, we felt that had greatly helped get its point across. They all cheered loudly when Shakku’s response to a man’s overtures in the video is a “maybe” rather than a yes or a no, and he says, “Of course! I can wait for you, baby.” With the girls still in party mode, we could see a clear shift from the beginning of the workshop when people’s participation and interest in talking about love, sex and romance veered from somewhat lukewarm to a fun-filled atmosphere by the end – one that was embracing and joyous.
Afterwards, some of the girls sought us out, wanting to share the dilemmas they were facing, one-on-one. Most of the girls who spoke to us saw themselves getting married within a few years, if not immediately after college. Still, they gave importance to their education and their own careers and ambitions. Many talked about barriers to relationships such as caste and financial status, and some girls came up to say that they were glad to have the opportunity to speak about such things, instead of being lectured about things that didn’t interest them or weren’t relevant to them. At the workshop, they had been able to talk about matters that were so deeply a part of their everyday lives, but are not usually raised in everyday conversation. It wasn’t just the girls who may have had lightbulb moments that day! For us, the workshop was an unforgettable experience and we learned a lot ourselves. As we headed home discussing the day, we realised a key thing: frequently we all tend to think about desire, love and heartbreak as being very low in the hierarchy of things that are considered important to learn and talk about, while they are in fact very pertinent to young people’s lives, and the desire for sex is mixed up with the desire for validation, love, affections and intimacy. We need to accept that these feelings and experiences are valid, and perhaps even common. Removing the aspect of shame from the girls’ experiences allowed them to engage more openly with the issues that were talked about at the workshop. And the significant change in energy that the podcasts brought confirmed for us the importance of personal stories in helping one feel a connection to the subject being discussed. Perhaps we could receive no greater validation that day than to be given an enthusiastic and warm send-off, and to be told that it was the first time the girls had gotten through an afternoon session without falling asleep! We hope to have more sessions as fruitful and eye-opening for both sides. Particularly ones that involve dance parties!
Sex Actually: It Was My First Time, and I Had Gotten My Period!
As part of our #SexActually series, we asked people to write to us about their real-life experiences of sex. This 23-year-old author tells us about her recent experience of putting theory into practice and why it will always be special to her. (23 then, 23 now)
By Hopeless Romantic


Sex Actually: Memories of Mid-Afternoon Sex, and Losing Friends





What I Learned from Reading Erotica at Twelve
Is erotica a good intro into the world of sex?
Written by KR
Illustrations by Maitri Dore


a historic day
A short poem for September 6, 2018
By ‘Fig Notaro’
Illustration : Debasmita Das

Different Personas In Bed
Perhaps we adopt sexual personas to make ourselves feel more confident, or to make our lovers feel more confident. Some people adopt different personas as a temporary holiday from their real lives.




You Should Wear Maroon For Your Skin" and Other Advice I've Ignored as a Non-Fair Woman
Why hide under drab colours? Bold lip art – bright colours, filigree designs, polka dots – are my jam
By Ramya Pandyan [IdeaSmith]


I Thought Dye-ing Young Would Make Me More Desirable. Twenty-Three Years Later, I’m Ready to Stop
Trying to hide white hair now seems like an avoidable agony
By Sumita Bhattacharyya
Illustrations: Debasmita Das


What My Live-In Relationship Taught Me About Consent
She wanted to say no, but felt compelled to say yes. She would signal how she truly felt, but he would pretend not to understand. Consent proved tricky and elusive, until she developed the muscle she needed to say 'no'.
By Anonymous
Illustrations: Mayur Khadse



My Exes Live in a Sexy Nexus. I Love them All
We need our exes like we need our brothers and sisters and favourite cousins to remember who we were
By Anna Kini
Illustrations: Debasmita Das



'I Hope that My Art Replaces Judgement with Acceptance'
I express queerness through my art, then it exists with all the politics and the complexities that surround it, whether it’s social or it’s personal.
Text and art by Karishma Dorai




Isn't A Whatsapp Love Story A Real Love Story?
Could you fall crazily in love with someone you've never met IRL?
By Sai Krishna
Illustrations by Upasana Aggarwal



Sex Actually: Ecstasy, Anxiety and the Fear of Being Judged
Sex, as it actually is.





How Dancing Helped Me Fix My Broken Heart
There is no gender in dance. Pick your gender for today and tomorrow if I ask you to switch you should be able to do it .
By Deepika Sharma
Photos by Reshma Pritam Singh





Thoughts You Can't Avoid When Your Long-Distance Relationship is Doomed
I suppose one of the perks of being in a long-distance relationship is that you can foster a few pimples which pixelate into the rest your skin on Skype.
By Nagavalli
Illustrations by Maitri Dore


Sex Actually: Of Broken Vaginas and Negotiating Consent
New stories of women's unforgettable sexual encounters.
Graphics by Debasmita Das
The stories came in a steady stream - and we published a two-part series in March. But the stories haven't stopped. So we are back with more accounts - this time in a 4 part series. “We quickly undressed each other and that's when I remembered my broken vagina” Sharanya (27 then, 27 now) I was convinced that I had a broken vagina. How else do you explain the fact that while I had had sex with a couple of boyfriends and a couple of non-boyfriends over 10 years, only three of those encounters had resulted in penetration (once by a boyfriend, twice by a non-boyfriend and never with the others) and I had orgasmed a grand total of two times (and not through penetrative sex)? I wanted to have lots more sex and lots more orgasms but my vagina wasn't cooperating. I kept comparing myself to other women's sexual experiences. How come everyone else seemed to be able to have sex so easily? What was wrong with me? I had almost resigned myself to my broken-vagina fate (Yes, I realise how ridiculous that sounds. I was neither very sexually experienced nor very sexually liberated. I have a long way to go on this path to being woke, as the cool kids say). Cut to: I met a boy online, we spoke on WhatsApp for two weeks (I wasn't really looking for anything romantic having just broken up with a boyfriend; he was happy to go along with that), met in person and realised that despite our (my?) platonic intentions, we were intellectually, emotionally and physically very attracted to each other. The next time we met was two days later. I went over to his flat where we binge-watched an excellent TV show and ordered some food. I was going to catch a train back home after dinner but thought I'd watch one more episode. All the while I was there, he had made absolutely no move. We were even sitting on separate sofas! Had I imagined the sexual tension? Was this actually a platonic date, despite our previous WhatsApp based confessions that we had a crush on each other? I needed to know. I also needed to get the kissing out of the way so that we could get to the being comfortable part of this dating thing. If it was a date. I don't usually make the first move because I'm usually semi-convinced it's all just platonic. But he wasn't making one either so something needed to be done. After dinner, we finally sat on the same sofa, and continued to watch the excellent show. He then asked me if I wanted to cuddle. I did. So we did. Might still be platonic, I thought. Friends could cuddle, I suppose. So I kissed him. He didn't seem aghast so I thought okay, not platonic. We cuddled some more, kissed some more, and he realised it was getting late. He asked me whether I wanted to stay over or if he should drive me to the train station so I could catch the last train home (later he told me that he prefers to let the girl make the first move so that he's sure she's completely comfortable and not pressured into doing anything. He's much more woke than me, this boy). Staying over wasn't in the plan. But the show was good as was the cuddling and kissing. I said I'd stay and we finished watching the show. Then, what began as a very enthu make-out session ended with him carrying me from the living room sofa into his bedroom (it felt so absurdly filmy that I couldn't stop giggling). I had inadvertently stumbled into one of the cool kids these days situations with the "Netflix and chill"ing. We quickly undressed each other and that's when I remembered. My broken vagina. Maybe it'll behave itself this time, I hoped. I was very into this boy and really needed it to cooperate. Reader, it did not cooperate. We tried having sex and failed. I had to tell the boy about my (to me) shameful secret. He didn't think it was a big deal. He whipped out some lube, but even that didn't work. So we kissed each other goodnight and went to sleep. The next week, he came over to my house. There was no lube, but some penetration happened and I was very excited. It wasn't wholly successful but it was a start! My vagina seemed to be coming around. The time after that, disaster struck. My vagina was on strike. Oral sex, lube, different positions – we tried it all. But my legs involuntarily stiffened and penetration wasn't working out. I really wanted to have sex with him and I really wanted a normal vagina. I suddenly became so upset that I couldn't even make eye contact with the boy. Even though it had only been two weeks since we first met and four weeks since we first started talking, we had both realised that we were falling for each other way too hard. I'd never felt that way about anyone before and I was convinced he would never want to have sex with my difficult vagina again. Even I didn't want to have sex with my difficult vagina! As I continued to refuse eye contact and hid under a blanket, he forced me to emerge, hugged me hard and told me in no uncertain terms that I was being a silly fool. It still wasn't a big deal, we had only just started having sex, and we had a long time ahead of us to try and get it right. I didn't need to freak out, he didn't see it as a problem, and he was definitely willing to wait and keep trying. And now would I please stop hiding and not go to sleep upset because he couldn't stand seeing me so dispirited. And that's when I knew for sure what I had only suspected for several days. Not only was I the sort of girl who accidentally Netflixed and chilled, but I was also the sort of girl who, despite all her reservations, had accidentally found herself in whirlwind romance territory. I had fallen madly in love with this kind, woke boy. And if he was willing to be patient with my vagina, so was I. I stopped mentally hurling curses at it, kissed the boy, and went to sleep. The next night, my vagina decided to work like it has never worked before. No lube, no oral sex, no fancy positions required. I was so surprised and delighted that I couldn't stop laughing during our first properly successful time, cheered loudly at the end, and couldn't wipe the big stupid grin off my face. The boy was also startled by how quickly my vagina had cooperated but was more delighted at my unadulterated happiness. Apparently, all my vagina needs to work is for me to be emotionally close to (and possibly in love with) the penis owner. So not exactly broken, just possessing very high standards. Which is still bullshit because it makes any one-night stands or more casual hookups nearly impossible. But I think this boy makes up for it. We've had lots of successful sex since then. I myself haven't been quite so successful in the orgasm department, but like the boy once told me, we have a long time ahead of us to try and get it right. (In case you were wondering, the show was called Glow. Great for Netflix binge-watching and great for Netflix and chilling). “She whispered into my ear that she loved me. All I could say was, ‘I know’” Lisa (37 then, 38 now) I walked out of an dispassionate and manipulative 12-year marriage and found myself right in the middle of a bitter divorce. Fuelled by long-standing craving for all things intimate and maybe some love, I led myself, eyes wide open, into a functional relationship, where the driving function is sex and a partnership to explore its different forms. The relationship filled the void of several years of absent sex, but it did nothing to help experience the feeling of being loved. Three years I struggled to keep the emotion of love at bay and to not wait for reciprocation. I worked at understanding the concept of compartmentalising emotions though I feared I wasn’t capable of it. Last year, our explorations led us to begin swinging as a couple. I had opened up enough to talk to my partner about being bi-curious. The first couple we met, the girl and I hit it off pretty well. We connected within the first few minutes of us meeting and I found that I was a natural at flirting with a woman. On the way back home we couldn't keep our hands off each other and by the time we got home the men were ignored. That night we had sex with each other’s partners and as a group and eventually just the both of us. When she and I made love, she whispered into my ear that she loves me and she asked me if I felt same. That has remained etched in my memory, for I could not say it back to her, ‘cause that night I had realised I had just compartmentalised an emotion. All I could say was, “I know”.
“I was on my period. We had sex and I felt disgusted by it but he did not” Amiya (21 then, 27 now) We were both 21, in college and really close friends. I secretly desired him, he told me later he did too. But we never admitted it until one day when we were alone in my parents’ house, and discovered how our lips and our bodies felt on each other. A few days later he fingered me, it was the first time someone did that with consent, and god! The pleasure. We both had never had sex before, but he was reluctant to have sex right away and wanted to wait. So we did everything else, he fingered me, went down on me, and I went down on him. Then the one day we felt that we had to do it, but I was on my period. He said he did not care and we had sex despite the fact that I was bleeding. He said it was a part of me being a woman and he cherished all of it. I felt disgusted by it but he did not. It was good but frankly I was traumatised by the sight of the blood and for some reason he was not. A couple of days later when my period got over I went over to his place again. We had sex again. We did it on the corner of the bed, the study table and the floor. And I can’t forget the way he looked at me. Like magic, after 10 years of being together, he still looks at me like that and I still go back to that day when we bunked classes to end up on the floor, being loved like everyone ought to be once.
“Negotiating consent in a long-term relationship like a marriage is something nobody wants to talk about” Mandakini (27 then, 32 now) Post the Ansari case I have been trying to make sense of much of this conversation. I initially read it with significant disappointment. I have been a huge fan of his work – his comedy, writing and his show. I have liked his goofy takes on life and have gushed at having this wokeboi on our team. So when I read about it, my first instinct was to find loopholes. To say hey, come on. It wasn’t that bad. Thankfully that passed instantly. I still breathed a tiny sigh of relief when I read his apology. And then I got sucked into the chatter of social media and buzzing WhatsApp groups. The overwhelming verdict there was to say that it was just a bad sexual experience and not a case of assault. And that if she didn’t like it she should have just left. Much joking about how we will now need contracts before sex lest we be accused of rape. And much table thumping and woohooing with viewpoints which said that #MeToo had gone too far. I hated it. I hated everything about these conversations. But it was through these conversations that I unpacked and carefully examined consent in my own life. I think negotiating consent in a long-term relationship like a marriage is something nobody wants to talk about. While consent in hook-ups and short-term relationships has much written about it, the only conversation about sex within marriage is about marital rape or bad 'not tonight darling, I have a headache’ jokes. So through my marriage (which has now ended), sex was a prickly issue. Differing libidos and differing needs. I think the fault here is more with the idea of monogamy. But that is a different conversation. So whenever I said no, I don't feel like having sex, there would be sulking and grumpiness. No violence in what we normatively understand as violence. But there was this whole emotional manipulation which I had to deal with, and which often made me just have sex even when I didn't want to. The incident I really remember is one where we hadn't had sex for a few days and I had to go meet some friends at a house party. And just the idea of negotiating that was stressing me out. Because the discussion would absolutely be about how we haven't had sex for so many days and how there would be no sex today and how we would probably have no sex the next day because I would be hungover. So I did it. I had sex. Sex was my gate pass. There was absolutely no pleasure for either one of us. I mechanically did the deed and got out of the house. I do not yet call myself a survivor of sexual assault in marriage because it is painful to go there. Painful to even think of oneself in those terms and acknowledge that. So yeah, more conversations about everyday consent, please?
“This torture only stopped when I threatened to go to the police and his parents with the email he had written to me” Ahenbla (16 then, 25 now) I was 16 when I got into a relationship with a boy I liked, from my school in Delhi. I felt like I was in love, and that he loved me too. Soon after, not yet 18, he persuaded me to have sex with him. I agreed. It was consensual. What followed for the next five years, however, was not. Essentially in a long distance relationship, he came to visit once every few months. During those times, he forced himself on me, forced me to indulge in sexual activities in public, forced himself on me on the street, commented on the kind of clothes I wore, got angry when I said, “No, I do not want to have sex,” went off his rocker when I interacted with other men, ridiculed me saying I had no male friends, and introduced me to his mother, who body-shamed me. One of the times we had sex, he clicked pictures of me WITHOUT my consent, filmed me WITHOUT my consent. He told me about this only when five years later, I broke up with him. He threatened to misuse the pictures and videos, threatened to come down, and/or send people to Chennai (where I was studying that time) to fix me, wrote me a nasty email comparing me to rotten fish, whores, sluts, and accusing me of being a terrible daughter who had no sense of “compromising for the family”. This torture only stopped when I threatened to go to the police and his parents with the email he had written to me. For years, I lived in fear, blaming myself for not speaking out, speaking to my friends or family, for not exiting such a toxic relationship. I opened up about this abuse to my best friends only last year. When he and I broke up, all our mutual friends from school, by default, questioned me, persuaded me to get back with him, blamed me for not understanding him and letting go of such a great guy. The most ridiculous bit was that I felt the need to explain myself. Not a day passes when I don't shudder thinking about everything he subjected me to, while he saunters about in his circle of friends, pretending to be the good guy. We don't talk now. We're not in touch. But I deserve to live my life peacefully, without being afraid of sexual intimacy, with men who respect me. And this is my closure.
“I was both excited and curious. That first time we made out was the most awkward thing I have ever done” Zena (33 then, 33 now) My partner and I were quite turned on by each other from the very beginning and had great chemistry. The first time we made out was very early into our relationship. It was also the first time for me. I was both excited and curious. That first time we made out was the most awkward thing I have ever done. It was at a fairly isolated place. We were sitting on his two-wheeler. We started exploring each other, and one thing led to the other. And in no time we were down on each other. The fact that it happened so fast and so early into our relationship still gives me goosebumps, though we are not dating each other any more.
The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Girlfriend
There is only so much that can be romanticised about a long-distance relationship and the magical reunion that'll fix everything.
By Amrita Paul
Illustrations by Bhavya Kumar


I Stopped a Man From Harassing a Young Boy on a Bus, Because it's Happened to Me Too
Think about all the hotel rooms, offices, malls, streets, building blocks and so many other places all over the world where similar things might be happening at this very moment.
By Samira Kidman
Illustrations by Debasmita Dasgupta


What Is It Like To Have Sex and Love With Both Men and Women
Sex with men and with women is actually very different but it’s difficult to articulate the difference in sensation.
By Aatish Basu
Illustrations by Akhila Krishnan



I Dreamed of Having a Suhaag Raat Straight Out of the Movie Kama Sutra. My Actual Experience Was Nothing Like It
It’s been a decade since I had sex with a man.
By Rimli Bhattacharya Illustrations by Tejashree Ingawale


Why Flirting Without Agenda Matters: Lessons from the Caribbean
There is a way to verbally and non-verbally gauge another person’s interest without harassing them. It’s called flirting
By Aliyah Khan
Illustrations by Ramya



Why I Believe Love is Like Quantum Physics (But in a Good Way)
The strange similarities between love and the theory of quantum entaglement.
By Salik Khan

Credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech
Whatever happens to one particle can have an impact on the second, even if those particles are billions of light years apart. It’s like two particles in love—like soulmates, defying the “till death do us part” rationale; a love story at the smallest scales imaginable. Einstein was uncertain about this uncertainty and he initially dismissed this theory, calling such “impossible” and famously derided quantum entanglement as "Spukhafte Fernwirkung" or "spooky action at a distance." He also refused quantum ideas, because “God”, he said, “does not play dice”. Scientists have proven beyond just about all doubt that it works, and now we are very certain about the uncertainties of the quantum world. Your GPS, lasers, smartphone, or the computer you are using to read this couldn’t exist without quantum physics. Almost every modern electronic device is a consequence of this bizarre theory. The newest technological innovations today were made possible by the study, all those years ago, of two particles in “love”. A Euphoric Entanglement Called Love Love and quantum physics are completely unrelated subjects, yet strangely parallel. For starters, they both are mysterious. Two people can fall in love, much like two entangled subatomic particles, even if they’re nowhere near each other. Catching each other’s eyes for the first time across a busy metro station, or in a crowded room of strangers, or on social media, when they are thousands of miles away from each other. That’s the thing with love and quantum entanglement—age, distance and the value of Pi seem nothing more than just numbers. Long-held beliefs, what society approves of, the notion of right and wrong, logic, and rational ideas don’t seem to hold any ground when it comes to love or the quantum world. Spooky? I say not. Quantum entanglement is perhaps the purest form of love—it’s quantum romance. If you think of two lovers living at the opposite ends of this planet, the shared emotions, the sense of belonging, the way they perceive each other despite several thousand miles of distance, is nothing short of entanglement. Distance means so little when someone means so much. Breaking Einstein's cosmic speed limit barrier, our thoughts and memories span a thousand miles in a fraction of a second. The poetic equivalent of “spooky action at a distance”. You can’t define an entangled particle on its own; both exist in a continuum, much like in a relationship where neither of the two lovers is complete on their own. They complete each other—like non-separable halves of the same entangled entity.
Credit: Shocking Science / The Daily Galaxy
That one person in the world who knows you better than anyone else. Someone who makes you a better person... actually, they don't make you a better person—you do that yourself because they inspire you. Theirs is a force so powerful that it motivates you and leads you to the path of self-discovery and awakening. It’s like a reflection of yourself, a custom and tailor-made soul for you. It doesn't matter if you are in the same city, country, Universe or in fact, in the same dimension—you'll always find one another. As if the bond between these distant souls is pre-celestial, older than the Big Bang and stronger than any ionic bond chemistry has ever contemplated. Love is an utterly complex concept, yet so beautifully simple, just like quantum physics. The uncertainty, the chaos, the randomness, the lack of any predefined ‘plan’ is what makes love so beautiful. Maybe it's much more interesting to live with the willingness to embrace uncertainty, to live with mystery, and make peace with ambiguity. The kind of love I seek—and what I think everyone else seeks—is beyond the reach of right and wrong, it pushes and pulls you, at the same time. My idea of love carries a scientific undertone, and I subscribe to the many worlds interpretation which posits the existence of an infinite number of “You and I” continuum in an infinite number of universes, and at least in one of those universes, we are together as a whole. Quantum physics also suggests that we are made of particles that have existed since the universe began. It also suggests the most poetic thing I know about physics: we are all stardust. We couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t died. Don’t know about Jesus, a star in the backyard of the cosmos died for our sins. You see, those particles traveled 13.7 billion years through time and space so that we could be together. If not in this universe, maybe in some other universe, on a bright sunny day in February (Farvari ki sardiyon ki dhoop mein), I am reading Mir, or perhaps Carl Sagan, to you. Are you even listening to me? Salik heads the Social Media Communications (aka Ghalib-in-Chief) at Talk Journalism and he can be found tweeting about Poetry, Physics and Ghalib @baawramanSex Actually 2.0 :
Stories of women's sexual experiences and thoughts... continued.
Illustrated by: Debasmita Das
A note from us
Over the last few months, we’ve been discussing the violence that happens as sex, the violence that happens in sex. If we want to change the interactions inside sex, especially heterosexual sex, we believe we have to talk more about sex actually – not only the concepts around sex. We have to be able to say what works for us and what doesn’t and make that a normal part of the world. Diverse women’s diverse experience of sex and their diverse interpretations and responses of their sexual experience should inform discussions and understandings about sex. This is why we started the campaign Sex Actually in collaboration with The Ladies Finger – to get that conversation started. We asked people to contribute a story about a sexual experience they couldn’t forget – awful or awesome or ho-hum – in this anonymous form. This is the second edition of the stories that we received. Half the stories are here – half are here at The Ladies Finger. These stories are published under pseudonyms. We will publish more as they come (all puns are intended because like the clitoris they have no purpose except fun), as you send us more.
The Stories So Far
I froze when the shopkeeper asked me what size. How was I supposed to know my boyfriend’s condom size? NAME: Priyanka AGE THEN: 18 AGE NOW: 22 My first (and as of today, the only) boyfriend and I have been together for four years. And it has been a wild ride from confusion to contentment. Both of us had never had sex before we got together, and when the moment arrived one hot, sweaty February afternoon, as luck would have it, the only condom we had came out of a condom piñata at a birthday party. And it most certainly tore from our desire to try this thing called sex. So we took a break and walked some distance to a medical shop where we stood about a 100 feet away from the shop, arguing about who should buy the condoms. It was very frustrating, we were very embarrassed and it did not help that we were standing in public giggling furiously and debating all at once. Eventually, I decided enough was enough, and marched up to the shop. And then stood there for ten more minutes to escape the crowd which had gathered. I managed to choke out the word "condom" at the shopkeeper, who proceeded to laugh and ask me what size. I freaked out. What size? I didn't know my boyfriend's condom size. We hadn't researched that much. The shopkeeper then said "Size, matlab three ka pack ya ten ka pack". I almost fainted from relief, mumbled three (rookie mistake - never buy three the first time you're having sex - you will ALWAYS make a mistake and waste at least one condom), grabbed the packet and ran back to my boyfriend as the shopkeeper laughed at me...







Sex Actually: The Sexual Encounter Women Say They Can't Forget
Women make sense of their diverse sexual experiences.
Illustrated by: Debasmita Das
A note from us
Over the last few months, we’ve been discussing the violence that happens as sex, the violence that happens in sex. If we want to change the interactions inside sex, especially heterosexual sex, we believe we have to talk more about sex actually – not only the concepts around sex. We have to be able to say what works for us and what doesn’t and make that a normal part of the world. Diverse women’s diverse experience of sex and their diverse interpretations and responses of their sexual experience should inform discussions and understandings about sex.
This is why we started the campaign Sex Actually in collaboration with The Ladies Finger – to get that conversation started. We asked people to contribute a story about a sexual experience they couldn’t forget – awful or awesome or ho-hum – in this anonymous form. Here are the stories people sent in the first week. Half the stories are here – half are here at The Ladies Finger. These stories are published under pseudonyms. We will publish more as they come (all puns are intended because like the clitoris they have no purpose except fun), as you send us more.
The Stories So Far
Graphics by Debasmita DasIn his dirty talk, he said he was an awesome sex machine. Now here was the moment.
NAME: Chitra








People Call Me 'Pervert' Because I Like Sex
They can laugh and shame me all they want, but it's through sexual relationships that I learned how to build trust, seek consent, and stop judging
By Arpit Chhikara
Illustrations by: Sayalee Karkare


Dating an Older Woman Made Me Take Myself and Relationships More Seriously
It made me do a lot of prioritizing and reorganizing. It was stabilizing.
By Barnath Chatterjee
Illustrated by: Shawn D'Souza



Curious Cat or Sleeping Dragon: What's your position on positions?
Is the definition of good sex many-positions wala sex?



Meri “Baingan” Wali Story
My bainganwali story took place in Delhi, declared one of the unsafest cities in general, but for women in particular.
Written by Henna Vaid
Illustrated by Maitri Dore



LOVE, SEX AND KHICHDI
I just wanted to hold him tight and never let go. I wanted to make sure he would come back and I wanted to scream at him for untangling the ‘not’s in my chest.
Written by Prerana
Graphics by Debasmita Das


LONGING IS THE SPICE THAT MAKES A MEAL OF SEX FOR ME
Longing is a spice. Its essence pulls you close, teases the appetite at the slightest taste. What is love without longing?
Written by Poornima Laxmeshwar
Illustrations by Doodlenomics



Mard, Mann Aur Jealousy: 5 Men Talk about Dealing With Unusual Jealousies
Unusual jealousies men experience and how it affects the way they look at themselves as sexual beings.
Illustrated by Somdutt Sarkar




WE MET ON GRINDR. NOW THE INTIMACY OF THE SEX WE HAD MAKES IT HARD FOR ME TO FORGET HIM
Some loves are sexual, where emotion, body and connection become powerfully joined in the intimacy of sex more than anything else. It is an intoxication, a nasha that’s hard to forget, because it runs deep.
Written by Complex Character
Illustrated by Shawn D'Souza



Are We Together or Broken Up? The Agony of Ambiguity.
I was afraid to straight up ask him for an answer and he didn’t have the decency to be a bit clearer.
Written by Karishma Shetty
Illustrated by Christopher Jacobs




My First Break-Up Was Nothing Like The Movies
We just sat down, wringing our hands. I said, “We have to confront reality. I don’t think we should be together anymore.”
By Nandini
Illustrated By Tejashree Ingawale



I was the Abusive One In My Relationship. My Break-up Taught Me To Change.
I’ve realised that there is no purpose to just feeling perpetually guilty. What I can do now is never treat anyone else the way I treated her.
By Vishal
Illustrations by Ayangbe Mannen



Dil Google Google ho gaya AKA how I internet stalked my way through a break up
I’d scroll down from post to post, to find semblance of a love lost. As though trying to relive our time together by scrolling down will undo everything that happened to us.
By Anuradha D’Souza
Graphics by Debasmita Das



my mother does not know i am wearing her sari. how long must I hide?
poetry and poetic prose by soz
Written by Soz
Illustrated by Sohini Sengupta









A Thousand and One Stories of Coming Out
I learnt that people are always jockeying for power and invariably looking for that one thing to pick on you about. In my case, it is my sexual orientation
Written by Roshan Kokane
Graphics By Debasmita Das




Why I'll Never Stop Masturbating
I accidentally discovered orgasms at 14, and began a thrilling solo trip
By Vasundhara
Illustrations By Bhavya Kumar


How Gujrati Porn Made Me Realise I Was Asexual
The way I was not feeling anything while watching porn, I did not feel any kind of attraction and sexual desire for anyone either.
By Qaju




My Year of Flings
In retrospect, it seems to me that my ‘hooking-up’ was not so much about seeking temporary partners, it was more about establishing power. To make myself needed, yet always be out of reach.
Written by Ila
Graphics by Debasmita Das


When Pets Walk In On Sex
Let’s face it, pets do become like family for most people. While we may all have worked out ways of getting away from our families in the pursuit of ishq, animal children have a sneaky way of sticking around and refusing to be shooed out of the room.

Scene #1 When they watch but are not impressed by the movie
They say you should let sleeping dogs lie, and that’s exactly what our friend Simran chooses to do with her spaniel who won’t be dethroned from his napping spot at the edge of the bed. It’s not ideal but a lot easier than the Herculean effort it takes to get him to leave when he is in Kumbhakaran mode. “We’d do it and he would sleep on the other side of the bed or near our feet. Wouldn’t wake him even when movements became vigorous.” One time though, he woke up. “I didn’t want him to see so I closed his eyes,” says Simran. Luckily for Simran’s feelings, he went back to sleep. Some people don’t have a problem with the pet lying peacefully at one side of the room. Cats especially, seem to be wise enough to park themselves sedately at the edge of the scene. “We forget she’s even there,” says Chirag. “One time I did look up to see her watching us with big contemptuous eyes. I swear she winked.” Simran and Chirag are among a lucky group whose pets are pretty relaxed. They’re not exactly disinterested in what’s going on, but they do their own thing. It’s like they are watching those movies that are played on the bus. “It happens to us all the time that he’s around. One time he licked his bum,” says Neha, talking about her very hyper dog. “But he’s either an engaged spectator or he’s like 'God get a room'." What happens if the ustaads actually try to be part of the action?
Scene #2 When they would like a role
“My Doberman is not really a Doberman by nature. She’s very happy and always has to be the centre of every event, whether it’s cake cutting or sex. It’s a big problem because once we thought we had locked the door but she came bounding in and jumped on the bed and licked us both in the face and scratched our arms. Cute, but she massacred the mood,” says Meena, who now does the logical thing and checks that she’s really locked the door. Another friend, Rekha, talks about the mood kill factor that is her mad little puppy. “He once happily got very curious about my nipple when things were getting heated up and started sniffing it so we had to throw him out.” It can be worse. Piyush feels a jolt of panic, even remembering that horrible evening when his possessive dog bit his girlfriend. From the dog’s POV Piyush looked like he was being attacked. The girlfriend didn’t need anti-rabies injections but she didn’t agree to come over for a very long time after. The lesson to be learnt is pretty simple. If your pet is given to mood swings, it’s much much safer to tell them tata bye bye. Lock the door. You can resume your animal mummygiri once your lover has departed or after closing ceremony.
Scene # 3: When they get freaked out by the movie
Suresh has a funny problem. He’s worried that he has psychologically scarred his pet (unlike in Piyush’s case). “My dog watched us once and didn’t move, but started howling. He usually howls like that only if it’s Diwali and patakas are bursting. He didn’t stop howling for a long time and it got me really worried that I had upset him somehow.” Again, it might have been an idea to have asked the bal brahmachari to leave before proceedings began.
Scene # 4: When there is an 80's style comedy track
What if your pet has a slightly unruly bladder? “My dog farts a lot. One time, he was lying at the edge of the bed and farted on my boyfriend’s face as he reached over for his bag. We hadn’t gotten too far, but it completely ruined the moment,” said Anahita. Again, bigger disasters are possible too. Like Amit, who took a long time to get over the fact that he kicked over his own fish bowl while in the heart of things. The fish died. This is a little extreme, but another reminder of why it is a good idea to look around you and see if your pets are anywhere in the vicinity. If you have the option, make sure they’re outside, and deal with the whining, yelping or door-scratching. If, like Amit’s poor fish, they are immovable and fragile, then find another spot.
Scene # 5: When your co-star gets freaked out
So far we’ve dealt with cats and dogs, but what if you are nervous of being around animals? Have some childhood-wala fears or just can’t stand them? You need to be able to talk to your co-star about feeling uncomfortable, because nahi chalega if you’re only half involved, and half your head is worried about what the fur-ball is going to do next. Or you might even end up like those people who are scared but have been told some gyaan like 'oh the dog will sense your fear', and have to smile through clenched teeth. There’s nothing to win by creating extra complications for yourself by trying to be brave. And your lover will, in all likelihood, understand that you’d rather do the movie without the extras around. If you are the pet owner, as hard as it might be to digest, your other half might not feel the same love for your animal child, and you have to respect that. (Their lukewarm feelings or animosity towards your pet might make you do katti eventually, but that’s a different story altogether.)
How I Helped My Mother Watch Porn and Other Stories
Can a young woman learn to accept her mother too is a sexual being?
By Nimisha
Drawings by: Sayalee Karkare



I Came Out To My Mom And Now I Think She's Fomosexual
A mother's totally unexpected response to her daughter's coming out!
By Sandhya Y
Illustrations by Maitri Dore


I LEARNT HOW TO EXPRESS AFFECTION AND LOVE IN FRIENDSHIP THE HARD WAY
Sometimes I think that friendship and hugging are oddly co-related. Both exist in a place of love which is somewhere between sexual love and cordial acquaintance.
By Shreya
Image Courtesy: Alberto Ruggieri



Dosti is Pyaar: Being Lost and Finding Friends
If pyaar is dosti, it took me a while to understand that that dosti is also pyaar, but more forgiving.
By Geeta





I Felt Humiliated for Contracting an STI But I Know I'm Touchable, Lovable and More-Than-Sexable
Getting an STI is surrounded by shame and shaming, even at times, by doctors.
By Trishya Ghosh



Diary of An Indian Sex Educator
It was a co-ed school. But the boys were not going to learn about the body.
By Srinidhi Raghavan
Illustrations by Sumidha Gunjal



Making Sense of An Ending
By Henna Vaid
Illustrations by Arunima Bose


WHAT 'NO STRINGS ATTACHED' TAUGHT ME ABOUT LOVE AND SEX
A young woman asks some 'un-cool' questions about NSA relationships
By Nitya Pawar
Illustrations by Ayangbe Mannen



- “Be very clear what you expect from the relationship.”
- “Choose people who match your thinking.”
- “If you feel guilty or shameful in NSA, don’t do it.”
- “Handle the situation maturely.”
- “Be really straightforward – don’t play games. If your feelings change, bring it up.”
- "If the other person’s feelings change, don’t shame them, but talk it over and see if it’s time move on or not."
For 25 Years I've Stayed Faithful To A Husband Who Refused Me Sex
Do I need sex? Well not really but I’d definitely like some.
By Anamika M





How I Taught Myself To Have Orgasms
I wasn’t fucking anorgasmic, I’d just been doing it wrong my whole life.
By Anushka Radha Sen
Illustration By Aparna Jain



Watch Me As I Fall In Love: 5 Trans Persons Talk About Dating
Love is supposed to be the simplest thing, but it isn’t.

WATCHING MYSELF
I was scared that I’d fall in love with him, and he wouldn’t actually be open to dating a transwoman.
Antara, 25 years, transwoman, bisexual
Some years ago, when I was 21 and not yet in love, I would spend hours trying to take selfies for my Tinder profile. I was desperate to look like a woman. I wanted to look like who I felt. It’s when I started experimenting with bindis — big round red ones that matched my lipstick — with fake silver jhumkas. I’d take the photo from the top, my chin out and slanted at an angle that ensured you couldn’t see my whole face. My second Tinder date was with a boy who finished his beer so quickly that he started drinking mine. I’d just moved to Delhi, and met him at his house. Yes, yes, everyone has asked me 20 times why I met a stranger in his house on our first date. I don’t have an answer to that. He’s the only person I’ve connected with wildly and instantly. He made me laugh madly, and we stayed up talking on his terrace until early in the morning. But we never met or spoke again. I was scared that I’d fall in love with him, and he wouldn’t actually be open to dating a transwoman. A small part of my fear that night came from how I look. Would he ever consider dating someone who didn’t look as feminine as all his friends? But he never called me either, so that was that. But it took me a while to let it go and say that love is like that only… sometimes yes, sometimes no, half yes, half no. Back then I’d been torn between trying everything I saw women around me doing, and finding a way to be myself. Today I giggle about male friends who love women in stilettos and bright lipstick. I’d wanted to meet people who’d find me attractive even if I met them in my purane cotton pants and talked non-stop about movies in the same animated way that they talked about things they were interested in. Abhi, four years later, I’ve met a woman like this. We’ve been together a year. I care less about my appearance with her. She first told me she loved me much before I said it to her. For two months I just liked the power that gave me. I’d heard enough about how I’d never find true love, so maybe this was my safety net. The day I told my girlfriend I loved her too, we were sitting at a Domino’s Pizza parlour fighting over whether to order a chicken or vegetarian pizza. “I love you and all,” I told her, “but that doesn’t mean you can convince me to order vegetarian!”
WATCHING HIM
I’ve never really approached a person I like first. I like the idea of them approaching me. But I stalk them on Facebook instead.
Shilok, 21 years, transgender woman, heterosexual
I usually meet men for coffee, or for a walk down random lanes. If he’s handsome and hot, I don’t talk at all. I’m always trying to ask them about their past relationships and how and why they broke up with their exes, because sometimes men are just not serious about relationships, you know? Plus, I studied psychology in college, so I use all of what I learnt on the guys I meet. You know, body language, how he’s responding, that kind of thing. In college, I watched my classmates get into relationships. Love was intense, quick and purposeful, the kind that gave you a head rush. Maybe you can call it peer pressure, but I just wanted to know what it was like to be in a relationship. That’s when I began to use dating apps to meet new people, but nothing much came from them. Once I even went to a “love meet” organised by my friend for people from the LGBT community. We sat in Cubbon Park — everyone from Bangalore has heard countless love stories beginning or ending here. We talked to each other and, at the end of the meeting, wrote down the name of a person in the group we might like to meet again. If that person had written down your name, then you were set. But nothing came of that either. When I was younger (and more innocent), I believed I was a girl who would grow up, study, fall in love, get married and have a child. Back then I was certain I’d find someone, someone who understood me, who treated me well, who was kind. Now my mother is worried that I’ll never get married, because transpeople’s love stories are often unsuccessful, and some of this comes from the guilt that we can’t have children. But I’ve realised it’s much harder to talk about marriage so easily, because it’s not easy to find someone who suits you and wants to be with you.
PEOPLE ARE WATCHING
Love is supposed to be the simplest thing, but it isn’t.
Atul, 23 years, transman, heterosexual
I’m used to questions about me, but I wouldn’t have liked to hear people say things about her just because she was seeing a transman. She left me 23 missed calls the day after the party. I never called her back. When I was 19, na, I met a woman at a bookshop in Bombay. She was skimming through Hemmingway, and I was reading Carver. She wrote down my number on her hand — aaj kal yeh sab kaun karta hai? Anyway one day she invited me to a party at her friend’s house. I wasn’t one for parties, but the moment she said she hoped to see me there, mujhe jaana hi tha. At the party I gifted her two books; you know, because we met at a bookshop. All her friends began to nudge each other the moment I did that. Then one of the men turned to her and muttered something. The woman gave that nosey friend a dirty look and walked away with me. I didn’t ask her what the man said. That’s when I realised. Love is supposed to be the simplest thing, but it isn’t. A lot of women I’ve dated have described their ‘ideal’ man to me. Some, much to my surprise, described macho, tattooed men I could never be. Others described skinny, nerdy men who listened more than they spoke. Not that I wanted to be them, but when I transitioned medically, I remained plump, no beard, no broad shoulders. I hated the idea of going to a gym because a lot of men have just laughed at me. So what was I to do?PEOPLE NEED TO WATCH THEMSELVES
I can’t deal with someone suddenly telling me, ‘Oh I love you, I want to marry you.’
Priyanka, 32 years, transsexual woman, heterosexual
I don’t like the idea of love and relationships. Today I think people just find it fashionable to say they’re in a relationship. There must be one or two people who’ll love you truly. Love has become all about money and sex. There is nothing else. Usually I talk to men over the phone. Some of them tell me to meet them at a park, or for coffee, and some say they’ll take me for a movie. Instead, I tell them, park, movie, idu yella nanige ishta illa, I don’t like all this. So we meet at a temple. It’s quieter there, calmer, more peaceful, and a good place for conversation. It also means fewer glances and smirking men watching me walk down the road with another man. Truthfully, I believed that love existed when I was younger. But it was never intense, or consuming and like a need. It only meant that the person you loved would never cheat on you — it meant that they would understand me, what I wanted, who I am.
WATCH ME AS I FALL IN LOVE
Ours is a cute love story… I’d told my friend the moment I saw this woman that she would become her bhabi, and now it’s coming true.
Sarthak, 28 years, male, heterosexual
The first thing my father asked me when I came out to him as a transman was, “Will you ever have your own family?” My father only wanted that I find someone who would look after me, and whom I could look after. I just told him I didn’t know. I said instead that I would have a house for sure, and that I’d try to have a family. His worry made sense, because a woman I’d been seeing in college had told her parents about me. Until then I hadn’t really thought about marriage and family. Her mother called me up furiously, and she asked me why I was ruining her daughter’s life — somehow, this gave me the strength to come out to my parents. Of course, that seems like another age now. I’m getting married to my girlfriend early next year, and both our families are happy. Ours is a cute love story. I fell in love with a woman three years older than me. We became friends quickly and easily, and she would tell me every time her parents had set up a meeting for her with a potential husband. I’d tell her to go meet him, but for that hour in which she was away, I’d be extremely worked up. Finally, she was the one who first said she wanted to marry me, but I’ve still always been worried about what people say about her because she’s with a transman. When I was in hospital for my surgery, she was the only one I allowed in the hospital. She worried about everything during this time — if I made sounds in my sleep she would always ask me if I needed anything. When my hormone shots made me angry as a side effect, she let things be. My girlfriend is a friend of a friend — I’d told my friend the moment I saw this woman that she would become her bhabi, and now it’s coming true. Illustrations By Amruta Patil Amruta Patil, writer and painter, is the author of the beloved graphic novels Kari (2008), Adi Parva: Churning Of the Ocean (2012) and Sauptik: Blood and Flowers (2016). http://amrutapatil.blogspot.comHot Mama: Or How I Went from Comfortably Numb to Shape of You
By Pooja Pande





Publication details
Name: “IF MOM’S HAPPY - STORIES OF EROTIC MOTHERS”
Editor: BRANDY FOX
Publisher: Cwtch Press
Publication Date: May 1, 2017
Where to Buy:
https://www.amazon.com/If-
https://www.amazon.com/If-
Could I Have Been Misogynist Even Though I Was a Woman? Why?
Today, I feel to an utmost certainty that I am not pretty, and even slightly indulging in dressing up makes me feel like a fraud.
By Tame Shewolf
Illustrations by Titash Sen
I thought it was a bad thing to be feminine. Here's how that changed.
Fantasy Mein Kya Sharmana: My Secret Crushes
By Sripriya Ravi Kumar
Crush, infatuation or love? Nowadays, it feels as if these words have no heated meaning for me. It wasn’t always so. We often think of a crush as something to do with silly teenage feelings. Society tells us “once you get married everything will become sorted”. But, in fact, these desires and emotions are a part of our lives, returning from time to time. They can be painful — sometimes you feel the pain and anger of wanting something you cannot have, sometimes you feel guilty and confused about the feelings you are not permitted to have. Yet, these experiences have been crucial to my growing up. When I was in my teens, I had a lot of negative feelings towards men and movies or any talk related to the connection between man and woman. I remember writing in my school-friend’s autograph book "I LOVE - talking to you on the phone" and "I HATE - friendship with boys". When I was in class nine, reciting the pledge during the school assembly once gave me a weird idea. “All Indians are my brothers and sisters," I said aloud and then it hit me. I promptly bought rakhis for all the boys in my class. It was an interesting day, to see all the boys sport the same coloured rakhi on their wrists, teachers appreciating me for my initiative and so on. Just imagine how it would have been if I had ended up marrying one of them later in life! God, what a character I was then :-) Back then, I used to actually pray to God that I should never feel those love-kind of feelings. Venkatesh Let me qualify that. I didn’t want feelings like that for REAL people. REEL people were ok. I have had crushes and infatuations on actors all my life. The Telugu actor 'Victory Venkatesh' was my all-time favourite for over 10 years. From age nine to nineteen, I don't remember a single day that went without me talking about him. This was when Doordarshan was the only channel. Every Friday morning I’d wake up with lots of hope that the gods sitting in Doordarshan office would hear my prayers and play his songs during Chitralahari (the 30 minute Telugu movie song programme). If they did, it would be a day of celebration for me. Next morning, in school or college, my first topic of discussion would be about his song. As a child, I imagined him as my father figure/guardian — protecting, caring and loving me all the time. After class 10 and the end of school uniforms, I could no longer fantasise him being my father. He still was a father-like personality, but my fantasies took new a turn. I saw him more as a dashing hero who was capable of making any actress happy. I didn’t quite fantasise him being my lover, but I strongly believed him to be the most romantic actor ever and indulged in a lot of listening to his songs and replaying some of his most romantic scenes in my head over and over. When did this end? When I was in college, I watched a shoot of his new film for three whole days. The crush vanished. For years I’d been thinking of him, hoping to meet him someday and that’s it. The craze left me the moment I saw him. A real-life crush was around the corner though I didn’t know it at the time. I always smile when I think of what a great companion Venkatesh had been to me for the major part of my childhood. He was always available, any moment I wanted, just sitting inside my head waiting for me to turn on my fantasy channel. Piyush My 20s were harder than my childhood. My family had strong views on how young women should be, all tied to ‘status’ and ‘prestige’. And I did things that fell in line with my family’s beliefs. There was a deep confusion in me about “how I was” and “how I wanted to be”. I always thought it was important to dress up super simple — in other words a little unattractive. I never went to college without my chipkoo hair plaited tight. I never wore fancy footwear, I can still feel my feet covered with beige lace-up shoes. At a shoe store, my friend once joked, “Priya, men’s section is upstairs, you will probably find some good shoes for college.” I succeeded in making myself look as unattractive as I could. I was convinced that my unattractive appearance would strengthen my practice of "I-must-hate-friendship-with-boys" and save me from any sin associated with "love-like-feelings". After three years in an all-women’s college, I registered for higher studies. This time it was a co-ed. The first few months I didn’t talk to boys in my class. They would crack jokes behind my back and seriously plan on how to make me commit the sin of talking to them. One day when I was feeling good about the determination I had in my “mounvrat" [complete silence], one of the boys decided to break the ice and asked me, "will you turn to ashes if you talked to us?" Very casually he said, "we are normal people, do not fear us." And it’s true, I’d grown up with severe conditioning to avoid boys. I knew I was considered good-looking and in many ways I was bold and confident. I was deeply afraid of ‘eve-teasing’ and anxious on hearing others gossip about me.
Though I was pretending that I do not like to interact with boys, it seemed like that’s what I wanted to do — talk to them and become friends. Thank god, I dropped the self-imposed rules. I made very good friends and enjoyed years there. One of those boys was Piyush. He and I shared a very special friendship. Those who didn’t know us must have thought we were serious. But it was never a full-blown desire. We never held hands or greeted each other with a hug. There was some possessiveness. I don’t think I’d have liked if someone replaced me or took that position of a special friend in his life during those years, and I am sure it was the same for him. All this sounds like an intense love affair but it wasn’t. Here were the two things I liked about Piyush.
- I trusted that Piyush would never insult our friendship. Talking to boys was so new to me and almost everyone knew what a huge mental barrier I had to cross to get there. I was still afraid of getting cheated or defamed. Part of my fear of being judged was probably linked to the fact that I was somewhat judgmental. I’d talk about other people when hanging out with friends – “you know what, the other day I saw Smitha go on the bike with Ram" or "near the school I saw some xyz spend too much time with abc, she must be what hardly eleven years, does she need all of this at this age?” So I was afraid of others unnecessarily talk about me similarly. But all this was submerged somewhat in the new found joy of making friends with boys. And in Piyush's friendship with me, I could always sense some genuineness.
- Piyush was such a great flirt. When I was with him, I’d laugh, I’d smile, I’d blush all the time. He’d flirt with me to ease my fear and panic.
Of course, Piyush didn’t know that I knew about his relationship with Parol (who is his wonderful life partner today). In our last week together, Piyush and I longed to meet at Lumbini Park every day. We were the only two weird people who paid to get in, find a good lake view, open our books and actually study for our exams. Most pairs were looking for either secret spots behind the bushes or corner seats at the refreshment stalls. We were not looking for either. But our tiffin boxes helped. Piyush loved the dosas and coconut chutney that my mother made, he would eat it all, and affectionately give me some of the stuffed parathas in his tiffin box. Months later, when I was invited for our convocation, none of my family members could join me. But I did insist that Piyush come from Agra to Delhi. What could be better than celebrating this moment with a special friend, without whom, without whose vegetable parathas I may not have got that certificate? In our last weeks in college, Piyush told me, "I don't know when we'll meet again but I don't think it is all over. Mere bete ko khoob patana sikhavoonga (I'll train my son well in the art of flirting) — to get your daughter." And just before we said our final good-byes, he said, “Priya, your future husband will be very lucky to get you.” Friendship with Piyush and a few others in my class ended inhibitions and misconceptions I had about boys/men. I left open my long hair un-oiled, tried waxing my arms and occasionally got my hair trimmed and bought myself a few pairs of good looking footwear. The intensity of internal conflict on “how I was” and “how I wanted to be” reduced. I have cherished moments like these. The Neighbour During the same years when I was doing my graduation, something else was happening in my life, “chorichori-chupkechupke”. We had a new neighbour next door who was all the way from eastern India. I first noticed him when I realised he was making prolonged eye contact each time we crossed paths. For almost two years we never spoke but our eyes did. Some silent conversations included:
- Whose scooter sparkled more from a good cleaning?
- Is your scooter parked next to mine?
- Were we timing our departures from home in the morning around the same time?
- Did he hang about a coffee shop to time his return home with my getting off the bus?
I made sure I left home at the same time and took the same bus back every day. I liked the feeling of being noticed, valued and pursued. I’d eagerly wait for my next eye contact with him, I was very curious to know his name but never even dared to go look at the name on the door. I had an immense urge to share my joy with someone. Fortunately, I was gifted with wonderful friends who shared my happiness. He remained a stranger until the day he met with an accident and broke his leg. I told my mother and she asked me to go check on him. I was super happy to know that I was going to talk to him for the first time, introduce myself and ask for his name. I was nervous but became excited after I saw him just five feet away from me. This was the beginning of our friendship. College-studies-home-and my so-called love became a routine of my life for sometime. When I found out he was a computer science graduate from a university, I was thrilled. God had sent me a private tutor plus life partner next door. I asked my parents if I could go and take his help with my studies. My mother didn’t like the idea completely as she could clearly sense my teenaged excitement. But she trusted that I would not let her down, and said yes. We began our sessions after he recovered from the accident. It was during these times that the feelings became more intense and flowed through my body. I was convinced it was love. All the conversation, little touches and intimate moments seeped in to my being. We spoke at length about childhood, family, friends, work and college. As long as our caste (I come from an orthodox Brahmin family and he didn’t), wasn’t the topic of discussion everything seemed lovely. My strong feelings for him changed my attitude towards my grandmother, parents and relatives. They all became secondary and unknowingly I got trapped into his possessiveness. My cousin could sense the tension in me when we met. After much contemplation, I told him what was going on in my life. He said, “You are confusing infatuation for love. Love should make you free and not so tense.” My ears shut off automatically when anyone said, “he isn’t the right person for you”. This story had a sad ending. He went to his hometown assuring me that he’d convince his parents about our wedding. But he called me to say that he got engaged to someone else. I had conjured up many dreams for myself and they had ended cruelly. I had sleepless nights and uncontrollable tears. I felt stupid, foolish, disappointed, sad, afraid, and powerless. First, I reacted in ways to restore a more pleasant equilibrium, but there was no way I could avoid the feelings of disappointment or fear that was alarming me. I was lucky to have people around me who heard me and showed me that this wasn’t the end of the world. I was reminded of my favourite slogan, “ All that happens is for good”. And what seemed like failure and rejection actually made me free - my relationship with my family improved. I never wanted love at the cost of everything else. I didn’t want to live as if “he is everything and everything else takes a back seat.” We maintained contact with each other until we made sure we recovered from this emotional experience and were good to move on in life. Nevertheless, it was quite painful to let go of the attachment I developed. I put my faith in god so I knew the pain wouldn’t last. I sincerely wished him a successful marriage and moved on. But how was I to survive the void I was feeling after the farewell? I was happy to have found my freedom, but I was craving similar intense feelings of love and intimacy, to receive that special importance from someone. Fantasies took over my empty brain and I was once again happy, feeling loved by some imaginary boyfriend (can’t remember who, but it must have been some actor I liked then). By then I’d developed confidence to be more open to my grandmother and parents who were looking for matches for me. I wasn’t afraid to say NO if I did not like any marriage proposal. Three or four years after the above episode, I got married to Ravi. By then, memories of the neighbour hardly ever bothered me.
Ravi Ours was an arranged marriage, and it all happened at rapid speed. A week after we met for the first time we were married. Before we were engaged, Ravi and I spoke for a total of four hours only. He told me that he had just broken up with a woman. The break-up was hardly five or six days old. She was a match his parents had found for him a couple of months ago. He and the other woman got along well and fell in love with each other. They couldn’t wait any longer to get married. He’d actually arrived in India to marry her but he ended up marrying me instead. I liked his openness in sharing something so personal with a new acquaintance. He assured me that none of his past experiences would interfere with our marriage. I surrendered to the wishes of the universe and went with the flow. We began our journey like every other newly-wedded couple. I did not feel love or crush-like feelings for him. For a very long time we did not experience any strong love or physical attraction towards each other, yet there was some connection. We became busy learning how to build our relationship, manage funds, keep the house and develop common interests. We enjoyed each other’s company. We liked our long walks and drives and conversations. We’ve been married for 12 years and in these 12 years we have made major changes in our life together: work, home, pastimes. Lot of uncertainty but we rode those waves. Within a year or two after our marriage, I again fell into the trap of “he is my everything”. It must be childhood conditioning. I began to believe that “Ravi is everything in my life, all other things are secondary.” I could feel discomfort rising in me each time I compromised and adjusted to his needs. But I couldn’t act on the discomfort. It seemed more important to support his career change decisions and join him in his journey and deal with the uncertainties that the changes created. When you are not the person doing the hero’s journey, but assisting someone else in his, then going from the known to the unknown is not very easy. It calls for quite a bit of compromises in life — which I made. As always, in such moments of emotional crises my fantasies floated in front of my eyes. I imagined living with a friend and a father. I had fantasies about actors again. Sometimes it was Chiranjeevi (as father), Tom Cruise (friend) and later I think there was Madhavan (again friend). I imagined being in a safe world where nothing but only care and love existed all the time. Part of me always (24/7) spent hours fantasising on having intimate moments with that friend in the secret romantic world inside my head. I couldn’t quite understand why these visuals were so strong. I could never accept that I was missing something. I had so much guilt for not being true to Ravi and for fantasising about a rosy life with someone else. My fantasies made me guilty for almost five years and I fought the fantasy world.
Luckily, I felt safe in sharing my issues and struggles with Ravi. Not because he had solutions for everything. In sharing this turmoil with him, I learnt that vulnerability does not equal weakness. Ravi tried to help me see how much I was conditioned by my grandmother to believe that following the husband’s path is best for the family. It was evident to him that the turmoil is a result of all the compromises I was making to make his journey easy.He’d often encourage me to find my passion and pursue that interest seriously. He liked the fact that I was supporting him with his pursuits, to advise even his picking a difficult path away from the mainstream. There was always a possibility that my new-found interests could take us both in different directions. I could be gone from his life forever. But despite that he encouraged me to meet people, learn things that helped me sort out my issues by myself. Dheeraj Five years ago I had a crush again. I was in my early 30s. I’d been married seven years. I was in a week-long workshop and once again I felt the same very intense feelings of crush and love for another man, let’s call him Dheeraj. The objective of the workshop was to recognise and be honest with our feelings. I felt a connection with a man and I expressed it to him on the last day of the workshop. Those five days involved a familiar extended eye contact, compliments, appreciation, a sense of ownership of the other person. Those wonderful feelings of being noticed, loved and valued reappeared. This experience followed me like a shadow for months after it was over. It still does sometimes when my mind is bright open for flashbacks. I wish I had asked him how he’d cope after he went home. I felt pain and disappointment in losing him and the feelings of love in my life again. The climax to our simple story was no different from the climax of the movie Mr and Mrs Iyer. Sometimes I would get worried about him and desperately want to know how he was doing, but no, I didn't pick up my cell phone and dial his number. Once again I had questions. Why did I invite such situations, if not to live in a constant state of internal conflict? Time has done some healing. And as I’ve grown more mature and seen more of life I’ve begun to accept some of these feelings. It is truly a gift to have Ravi in my life. He is the one person I share everything so private to me. He has known when and how to be my friend and not a husband. Of course, he has felt bad when I told him I felt a connection with someone else. But soon after, one of us begins to examine it more. What was it about that person that was so attractive? Was there something that we needed to change to make our marriage better for us?
I know it’s comparing apples and oranges to compare Ravi to someone I’ve a crush on. I don't expect Ravi to become that person but I generally share with him what attracts me and what doesn't. If Ravi feels that some change in his behaviour can make life better for me, he does make that change, else he gives me all the time in the world to get back to reality and life. ☺ So what do I think about crushes? This has been my understanding so far. A crush tells us things about who we are, our likes and who we think we can get along well with. It also creates an illusion that we are safe, loved and secured all the time. As if we don't have to worry about ourselves anymore and that it is the headache of the person we are in love with. These feelings make us believe that we are beautiful, unique and perfect. The illusion (in some cases) might last a little longer, but sooner or later, reality does come into the picture, which is when things begin to get harder. It can get hard if we do not address the situation with maturity and detachment.
My fantasies, my friends, my marriage, and the many people I met in workshops and my teachers in Vipassana who helped me talk about these things — they have given me many intangible gifts. The truth is, these experiences helped me get in touch with myself, my strengths and weaknesses, taught me how to respect my needs, interests and people who are important to me. I learnt how to be honest and fearless in life when it comes to owning my space in this universe. It made me a better person – capable of feeling true joy because I had allowed myself to feel real sadness; they made me strong because I had faced rejection, instead of denying and repressing my feelings. In disappointment, I learnt to feel vulnerable and even embrace vulnerability. I learned to survive, to respect life and all its emotions instead of being locked up in society’s ideas of good and bad. Whatever the kind of relationships one has in life — from the monogamous to the polyamorous — life is a series of experiences that ultimately unshackles us from a narrow existence. It is up to us to take on this adventure and come out of it as a free spirit. Sripriya Ravi Kumar (known to most as Priya Ravi) is based in Hyderabad. She has worked in e-learning sector for several years with expertise in Visual Communications. Currently, she is homeschooling her five-year-old daughter Deeksha. Together they explore the world of natural learning.
Savita Bhabhi and I: A True Love Story
Here is something you should know about me. I wrote three stories for Savita Bhabhi.
By Sumit Kumar







To All The (Straight) Men I've Loved Before
Let loose, this rise of the body and soul caused me to constantly fall in love with many a lissom lad
By Pat
“Kisko dekh raha hai, bey? Kaunsi ladki hai?” And so it began, again, this Ram-kahaani of half-lies and full diversions. “Arre no, yaar, no one. Does she look like someone I will go out with?” No one picked up on the illogic of that statement to ask, “why not? You are as smart as Raju, no? Tere liye to woh sahi hai.” More on that word -- ‘smart’ – later. But Raju was Venkatapathy Raju, then newly inducted in the cricket team and like me, small, dark and slim. Like him, I bowled left-arm spin (but, badly) and batted right-handed (slowly, like a sleepy Anshuman Gaikwad on dope). So too did that pin-up, all rounder Ravi Shastri. But comparing oneself to him was not on since he was too tall, too good-looking (in a hungry, feral way) - and found getting women all too easy. Since my friends and I spoke mostly in cricketing terms as young men, even this back-handed compliment would’ve been way off the mark. I would have loved to not be like Shastri, but be with him, sensually stroking his incredible cheekbones (feather, optional). Par kaise batayen is raaz ko? And ‘Smart.’ That’s the annoying euphemism in the straight person’s world for male good looks. The word also has synonyms that are pure ugh like the Bengali “ki shupuroosh!” (My Mum’s favourite description of Soumitra Chatterji, Uttam Kumar, and Lord save us all, Pradeep Kumar!!!). If you ask me my favourite expression of manly beauty it is the Hindi romanch kahaniyon wala “sundar, sudaul, gabru naujawan.”
First of all, among men there exists this coyness with male beauty. For instance, it is impossible to blurt out, “Uff, Dhoni is so sexy, man!” No sooner were I to say that, than some neighbourhood idiot was sure to pipe up: “You mean the way he ran out Mushfiqur?” No, no, no! I meant his mischievous triangular grin that slowly spreads to his eyes and the way his arched narrow back flares into the perfectly luscious bubble butt. By now you’ve caught my drift surely – that it is tricky to make sexy, lustful remarks about men amongst straight people, and downright impossible to make romantic ones. So in the opening scene of this piece, I was definitely looking at a beautiful guy but did I say, “abey chodu, main us sundar, sudaul, gabru naujawan ko dekh raha hun”? Sigh.
When I reached the quarter-century mark, I finally realised I was gay. Everything in the universe pointed to it. Red roses reminded me of Ethan Hawke’s wet pouty lips; the buzzing of bees reminded me of Bruce Lee whistling tunelessly, fixing his nunchaku while flashing his abs; VVS’s divine whip outside off to the midwicket boundary reminded me, well, reminded me of VVS; the first rains ki saundhi khushbu reminded me of the whiff when I ran into a sweaty Panjo, merey hostel-wala dream-boy; and the thundering clouds reminded me of my heart when I thought of my crush, Tushi at night. So, like a proper scientific chap, I welcomed Occam’s Razor and proclaimed that a comely lad causing my eyes to dart, my nose to whiff and the chest to thud had to be my body and soul rising up to its gayness, like cream from whey, like a skimpy Daniel Craig from the sea. You get the idea, now?
Let loose, this rise of the body and soul caused me to constantly fall in love with many a lissom lad. My haalat was dire. Imagine for a moment not a straight, but a bent Bingo Little, rushing up to Bertie Wooster croaking, “I say, old chap, I’m in a frightful pickle. There’s this rum boy I’ve met at the workmen’s Ball and he has this thing against spiffy gentlemen. You wouldn’t mind asking Jeeves to send up a good word for me through Oofy’s cook, who is his aunt, would you? ” To which Bertie would of course have raised his perplexed brow to ask, “Jeeves has an aunt?” Bairhaal, I had no Bertie or Jeeves to turn to. So I would make googly eyes, pant and sigh and gulp lumps of self-pity flavoured saliva. Most times the humdrum days at work would dissolve the pangs. But sometimes, especially when working together, thrown constantly into excruciating proximity, the sum total of each touch of the shoulders and brush of the arms, the fragrance of the exhalations, the repeated meeting of the eyes would slam me in a place where it was: To love unasked to speak with eyes unarmed with arms wrapped in words unuttered. Then, one day, in walked Jadoo, a friend of a colleague, for an interview. To this day, I do not know why I fell in love, but I did, gradually but surely. No, he did not qualify the rounds, but he still gave me what I thought were adoring smiles every time I went in and out of the interview rooms and even when I told him he didn’t make the cut. Perhaps foolishly I blurted, “Come home for dinner?” He did and within a week I was constantly replaying the image of holding his slim waist against mine while we discussed his career that night. I guess I learnt another meaning of the term ‘Strategic HR’. Jadoo wasn’t gay, but he was amenable to my request for a kiss then, and much more, as weeks passed. Perhaps he was curious. Perhaps my gaydar spotted a kashmakash in his heart. Perhaps he was being kind. He gifted me an intimacy that I yearned for. For six months, I would travel to Pune, his new workplace, to stay the weekend with him, sharing his narrow bed, while his four flatmates pretended that such things happened all the time. We had holidays together in a southern hill station. I was in love, but slowly also realised that he was not. As the haze of this love cleared it appeared that Jadoo might not even enjoy our intimacy anymore. And just as suddenly it ended.
It hurt. I have this predictable trait of striking out when hurt. To make the break-up even more memorable, I was less than generous and patient with this much younger lad; and now when his memories poke me in the eye, I crawl into a sombre place where: Darkness stoops into my room A companion for another lonely evening by the window I have seduced some straight men, and some straight men have flirted with me. Mazey ki baat - ki I remember those who kissed me. I tell myself I’m a romantic. Perhaps I do not have enough testosterone that would have me remember all those rides like a stallion. The incontrovertible proof of these low levels because my hair is only now receding from the temples. This wisdom I acquired many years ago, at fourteen, when our neighbour, RaniMaasi had strewn her pearls before me, “Golu ke Papa bahut energetic hain. Dekho unka kapaal (forehead) kitna ooncha ho gaya hai. (Golu’s father is so energetic. See what a high forhead he has?)” And there was I thinking he was going bald!
For some years I have wondered about my trysts with straight men. In my thirties I followed Nida Fazli sa’ab’s advise: Faasla nazron ka dhokha bhi toh ho sakta hai, Wo mile ya na mile haath badhaakar dekho. (The eyes may miscalculate the distance across which they meet Why not hold out your hand to see, if a hand is within reach?) It worked a surprising number of times. I have some memories of feeling triumphant after bedding straight men, some memories of having a great time before and after, swapping tales, reliving favourite cricket moments, talking politics and film music. I remember them appreciating the food I cooked for them, and particularly one coming back for more, kyunki my ghee-rajma-rice was like Mummyji’s. Thus affronted, I wanted to strike terror in his bowels by some inappropriate manly method. But all I remember giving was a sickly smile and asking if he wanted more. A couple of these liaisons were disasters because they wanted, not in words but in intent, to be macho, to show this homo what a man really ought to be. Perhaps I could have squealed in delight, got on with the task at hand and let this devil take the hindmost. But then as in life, and just as Darwin discovered that there are all kinds of finches in Galapagos, likewise, there are all kinds of homos in Mumbai. Mann toh yeh bhi kiya ki bataun, ki abey ghonchu, even the smallest things known to us are not so straight and narrow. You can be like the Top and Bottom Quarks, and do it like the Up and Down Quarks, but see, dekho, wahin Strange and Charm Quarks bhi toh hai! Jo ajeeb lagta hai kisi-kisi ko, who bhi Standard Model ka hi hissa hai. With none of these men could I talk being in love with a man, about desiring a man, about sharing why I loved his body, and why I loved his kisses even more. I don’t want to undermine these times; they provided me warmth, pleasure and even some moments to savour. Most of these boy-men were sweet lads, capable of being affectionate and caring. But their heart was not in it; their founding assumptions about the sexual partner were a little different. One of the chaps, now a goodish friend, told me that it was not the problem of the short leg fielding between the two long legs. He too had one and was most sincerely in love with it, and he was okay with all such short legs. No, the ickyness that he felt was because my body was hard and unyielding, and that it was a beastly thing to spring on him. He urged me to try and become soft and pliable like his girl, though he also felt it was utterly illogical of me to find guys sexy when all I had to do was to look at girls.
I tried telling him and some of the others that I revel in their hardness, in their stringy musculature, in the muskiness of their pits, their treasure-trail, their five-o-clock, the bony edges of their hips, their…. Most often the faces would go from grim to grimmer, probably horrified at being objectified, but not by a woman; and scared, not wanting to hear the words that made it all too real. So following the bro-code, I learnt to zip up and push the emotions down to non-drama levels. To go unheard and silenced added to the all-too-familiar experience of gay men at that time, forcing me to accept that: Our fate is Ruse. To cry in the rain, strike bold and sulk tears Since then, I have discovered more. There are two sundar, sudaul, not-so-gabru, naujawan who flit in and out of my life. While I partake of their beauty, sometimes make love, sometimes simply open my heart to flood them with the sneh that oozes from my being, I wonder what they get out of this strange arrangement beyond the orgasm? Why do they keep flitting in? Why does one of them appear like a chiselled dream at my door, and as soon as he is in the flat, wrap me in a hug so warm that the chocolate starts melting in the fridge. He nuzzles splendidly, giving the best bruising kisses ever, giggling like a satyr while giving a hickey, and then just as suddenly he stops to saunter to the fridge to root out something to eat. I want to tell him, hey, you hellion: I tremble when your warmth touches me. Blue-points of ice that set me afire. Then I find myself smiling at these six impossible explanations before any breakfast. Humming, I go to the kitchen and make him what he wants to eat that evening. Pat is a consultant, an academic and a mentor. You can read his other writing for Agents of Ishq here.
A Craving For French Fries
Have you ever had this sudden, urgent, mad craving for french fries? Like I did, on rainy days when petrichor can drive you to delirium.
By Manzibarr
By Manzibarr
Have you ever had this sudden, urgent, mad craving for french fries? Like I did, on rainy days when petrichor can drive you to delirium. So when it washed over me that day near the Gare Cornavin, I wasn’t surprised. I was 24. I knew I could do nothing but enter McD and surrender. So I did, coming out with steaming, salty fries and grabbing a chair near the eaves where water had collected off the drizzle.
The tables were very close to one another. Something that bothered me about Europe. A beefy young man sat at the next table eating a burger. I knew he’d been watching me. Most people did in mostly-white Geneva.
“Hi, what’s the time?” he asked. I answered him before realizing he had spoken in English. That was unusual.
We started talking. Marco was from Colombia. “Oh, one of my housemates is from Colombia” I said. Marco wanted to practice his English. It was hard to do that in Geneva he said.
Marco and I met five times over the next two months. Mostly in a group. I invited him to meet my room mates and friends. He said he was lonely. He didn’t know too many people in Geneva. He was a translator he said. Did odd jobs sometimes.
We almost kissed at a bus stop once. It was very close. I couldn’t tell if I really did desire him or was just so starved for physical contact because of the long distance relationship I was in. Come with me to a party he said. Was it Halloween? Some Swiss fete? I don’t remember. I only remember that for some reason, I dressed as a cat in a velvet mini skirt, black tights, cat ears and boots. We went in a big group. Liz, Charley, I, Marco. Others around Marco I had never met before.
The party was on a cruise ship. We took a boat out to the Lac Leman where a gleaming white ship pulsated to the vibration of hip hop music. Marco was wearing a hoodie jacket and a thick gold chain. I noticed what bushy eyebrows he had. There was punch in plastic cups. We had a few.
Marco kept disappearing into the levels of the ship like in a video game. I thought I saw his hoodie on the first level surrounded by heads leaning over him. I called out. Liz and Charley pulled me with them into the area where people were smoking. We smoked some pot Charley had brought with him. It was alright.
Marco returned suddenly. Where were you I asked. Oh just here, he said. Whose party is this? I wondered out loud. A friend’s, said Marco. Shouldn’t we at least meet this friend, I thought? Which friend, I asked. He disappeared again leaving me to ward off some strangers trying to stroke my velvet skirt.
When I saw him next, Marco had a packet of little white pills with him. He offered one each to Liz and Charley. Ooh e’s they said. I declined his offer. Why not, he asked me. Try it, it’s a happy pill. No I said. I don’t do chemicals. Organic is okay. Come on, Marco said, pressing his large hand into the small of my back. I realized how big he was next to me. I’m half his size, I thought. I have started to feel uncomfortable. How would Marco know a friend who parties on an expensive cruise liner? Where is he disappearing to? Marco is a political refugee who has no friends. He translates things from Spanish to French. He can’t be earning much, I always paid for his burgers when we met. But he’s just bought? got? happy pills that he is generously sharing around with us.
Marco is gone again. We can’t find him in the crowd. Where’s Narco Marco now, Charley giggles. Liz, Charley and I leave on a small boat going ashore. What do you mean Narco Marco I ask Charley. Liz and Charley shrug. They’re not bothered, they say. Many people deal in drugs. Marco doesn’t deal in drugs, I say. Just because he’s Colombian, I start, doesn’t mean…
I stop.
I never see Marco again. He never calls. Neither do I.
My Konark Summer
Written By Alaspriya
Graphics by Mili Sethia
My libido always kicks up several notches whenever I visit home, aka India. I live in the US, and something about being there doesn’t sit well with my insides. A vital part of me goes into hibernation while in pardes and invariably comes fizzing, roaring back into life when I land in the vibrant mess I still call home, despite having lived outside it for almost a decade now. People are usually surprised when I confess that most of my (online) dating has been in India. Yeah, the US offers more convenience in terms of hosting partners and flings alike. I will admit that less judgmental aunties and uncles all around is a blessing. And of course, the fact that I have my own place where people may come and go as they please without interference is rather fabulous. Nevertheless, the fact remains that most of my amorous adventures tend to occur during the short and long visits home. The summer of 2016 was no exception. I was visiting home for 2 months. I had been dreaming of this for months--of the pleasures of flaneuring all over my beloved city streets, digging into the incomparable Kolkata biryani and chilly pork from hole-in-the-wall restaurants, meeting friends and family, going to say hello to the Ganga, all of it. As part of my Cal sojourn, I also re-activated my OkCupid and Tinder accounts. I was coming out of a dating hiatus, wondering who or what lay ahead. Recruiting New Agents of Ishq I don’t care overmuch about age differences, as long as there is a genuine connection, so when a 19 year old from Bokaro messaged me with a snarky one-liner, I responded in a friendly enough fashion. Soon though, it was apparent that the 12 years between us were a lot. The kid was brash and bright and sparkling with wit, but he reminded me of the undergrad students I teach and I told him so. This produced instant indignation: ”Kids? Come on I'm not a kid. I'm over 18 and an adult.” Made me chuckle. Not surprisingly, while he was huffing and puffing, defending his adulthood and shyly asking me awkward sex questions, he confessed that he was a virgin. And more, that he was “sex-obsessed,” had had an erotic encounter once with a girl who then backed off and left him confused and heartbroken. That mixture of defiance and sheer loneliness--I remembered it so well from my own past. So I made friends with him, chatted back and forth about sex and desire and the joys of masturbation, and why we don’t talk about any of these things out loud in India. And of course, I directed him to the Agents of Ishq website, and yup, he was a convert :) We still chat over email occasionally. “Did you know ancient Indians were very bold?” A was one of the guys I went on a few dates with. An Oriya dude, he is a techie working for one of the big IT companies in Calcutta. I remember that he was intensely focused on bodybuilding. He used to be skinny, he said, but once his boss had mocked his weight in front of senior colleagues, and out of that sense of hurt and shame, he started working out. His diet was astonishing--primarily a Hindu vegetarian, he ate 12 eggs daily to build up his muscles! I’m no paragon of fitness (just ask my doctors about their Thoughts On My BMI), but that didn’t seem to faze A. While all this was great, we stumbled when it came to conversation, because the guy was the silent type, and there is only so much even a chatterbox like me can do when entirely unaided on the conversational front. The one time he opened up was memorable, however. I was planning a trip to Konark and Puri with my family, and he hails from nearby Cuttack. This was the third date, and he had been a perfect gentleman so far, never even broaching any topic relating to sex. But when I mentioned visiting Konark, he blushed visibly, and then said in a hushed tone, “Did you know ancient Indians were very bold? I had no idea until I visited Konark a couple years back and saw some of the sculptures! Maybe you shouldn’t visit there with family.” I … stared at him, nonplussed. He was from Odisha, for Chrissake! He took my silence as encouragement, and personal questions he had evidently been bursting to ask me came pouring forth. Top of the list was wondering how two women can actually have sex with each other, since “the main thing is missing” (My OKC profile clearly indicates that I am pansexual). So in the middle of my third date with a clueless man, I found myself on an unexpected, impromptu soapbox, talking about the politics of desire, about heteronormativity, and how you don’t need a penis for sex to happen. At the end of it, his only response was, “You seem to know a lot about sex. Will you please teach me?” I burst out laughing. I hadn’t intended to be mean, but this was the (unintentionally) funniest proposition I had ever gotten. Suffice it to say, there wasn’t a fourth date. Condom, please D was a suave Delhi dude, visiting Cal on business for a few days. He was tall and handsome--the very stereotype of a virile Punjabi munda. We got along great from the start--a couple messages back and forth online, meeting for coffee and an extended conversation after it, sharing a pack of cloves and a joint on my balcony. We talked far and wide, about politics and religion and dating preferences, and he seemed right up my alley. I shared that I get tested every year for STDs, and how I had dragged my very reluctant brother along to get tested with me the week before. (My brother had been terrified of the results and made me read them out to him, heh.) D squirmed slightly at the story and said he understood how my brother must have felt. That should’ve been my first warning, really. At the time though, this wasn’t enough of a red flag. I was attracted to him and didn’t hide it. We were both comfortable with casual sex and couple-nights-stands, and rented a room for the night when we met the next time. We had great chemistry, and the sex was extremely fun and playful to begin with. I was half out of my mind with desire...but not enough NOT to notice that he hadn’t put on a condom, and was still trying to get inside me. Just before he could do so, I stiffened and rolled out from beneath him, cursing loudly. To my “Dude, where’s your condom?” he gave a sheepish grin and admitted he hadn’t brought any. Classic. I had some condoms on me though (I always do!), and retrieved them from my purse, only to see him frowning. Long story short, he refused to put one on. Frankly, I wasn’t even interested in his feeble reasons why. I flatly refused to have intercourse. In my years of having sex, casual or otherwise, I’ve never encountered a male partner who has refused to put on a condom, though I’ve met men who’ve grumbled about it. To be honest, I was kinda stunned. This was a guy who was swapping casual sex stories with me just the other day! He was a thirty-year old guy from a metropolitan city! It was inconceivable to me that not only did he have regular unprotected sex, but that he fully expected me to acquiesce as well. I made it clear that as long as he wasn’t putting on a condom, there would be NO penetration: “I sleep with women too, dude. I do not need the ‘D’. Maybe today is when you find out what it is like to have sex without intercourse, hmm?” It was an absurd, surreal impasse. He tried arguing, coaxing, sulking and then seducing me into changing my mind. But I wasn’t gonna deal with a whiny, irresponsible man-child compromising my health and safety. And I was stuck in a hotel room with him in the middle of the night. He finally seemed to give in, and agreed to put on a condom--except, when it came right down to it, I found him again trying to slip inside me unsheathed. It’s a good thing I have a sizable body. Although he was a hefty guy, I was able to physically shove him off me, get dressed and leave, middle of the night be damned. That’s when Ubers come most in handy, no? Yeah, dating is tricky, no matter which part of the world you are in. Online dating even more so, because you usually don’t have mutual circles of friends and acquaintances acting as a buffer, for safety or otherwise. My misadventures in Kolkata that summer were educational though, and even fun in parts.
But, you win some I eventually did find two others (one online, one an old friend) who turned out to be generous, wonderful lovers, and those memories are very, very precious. OKC delivered finally, and how! Just as I was about to give up on the site, I came across a profile with a 99% match with me, and messaged them. That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, as they say. This person is non-binary (though assigned male at birth, and still using he/him/his pronouns), a writer, and just as startled as I was to have found someone who felt so familiar. Like me, he is also polyamorous, and I happily spent the rest of the summer in his arms, getting to know his family as well. My story would be incomplete if I didn’t mention an unexpected series of encounters with an old friend, someone I’ve known for the last 13 years. There had never ever been any romantic/sexual frisson between us, so his proposition to me one night after an epic drinking spree came right out of the blue. Even more surprisingly, I said yes. (Still not sure why, exactly.) Turns out we are electric together sexually—he’s one of the rare ones who set me alight from top to bottom. My, my, Cal, but you held some of the best surprises last summer! I like to think of Summer 2016 as my Konark summer, with a heady selection of people and experiences over the two months I was back home. So who says only ancient Indians are “bold”? :) Alaspriya is still torn between two continents, and needs to write like she is running out of time. Which she is, eek. You can read her other writings for Agents Of Ishq here. This is the song she listened to on loop while writing this piece. [embed]https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=11&v=YFYiTS46x-8[/embed]
UNFUCKABLE ME (OR, “YOU’RE NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS”)
By Grunthus Grumpus
GIFs by Jugal Mody







The Bhabhi Next Door
"I like talking to a Bhabhi in the neighbourhood because of her outspoken and frank opinions on sex" says Saurabh "but I feel nervous too because she is so bold." The conversations excite him and Bhabhi extends an invitation. WiIl Saurabh take her up on it? Listen to this podcast about a young man's fantasies and anxieties about sex.
George Michael, The Sex-Ed Teacher We Never Had
And all this while dear George, hot-sexy-smooth George Michael in his snug denims kept telling us, ‘Sex is natural, sex is good, sex is fun, sex is chemical’.

- [embed]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_9hfHvQSNo[/embed]
"I've slowly learnt to keep the lights on." Body, Images and Sex: A Storified Conversation
Body, Images and Sex: A Storified Conversation with Kripa Joshi, Rani Dhaschainey and Ratna Devi Manokaran
My First Vibrator
When household chores turn into the discovery of an orgasm. Listen to Meera's story of her first ever vibrator!
TELEPHONE PYAAR
When Rohit's crush writers her cell number on a form he quickly memorises it. Then it's love in full gear. They act like strangers in the coaching class and spend hours on the phone. And then, one day, there's a cross-connection and the line goes dead. Did love have to turn into hate? Listen to this podcast and see what you think.
EK LADKI BHOLI BHALI SI
There is a boy who likes Kajal. He follows her around. She quite likes it. But when it's all indications and no declarations, what is a girl to do? And what if her parents find out? A story of innocence and wisdom from Ranikhet, Uttarakhand.
Language: Hindi
Duration: 4 minutes 11 seconds
This podcast was created in collaboration with Khabar Lahariya.
Every Navratri Falguni Made Me Feel That Queer Is Ekdum Cool
A song of ishq for Falguni Pathak!
By Sonal Giani


I CALL HER MOSAMBI
BAS EK KISS...
ISHQ KE AAM, KHAANE KE AUR, DIKHANE KE AUR
Sweety, growing into a beautiful young woman in a small town, admired herself in the mirror, longed for love. But did she dare taste this forbidden fruit? A bittersweet story of longing and regret from Muzaffarpur, Bihar.
NOT A HAIR IN PLACE: SEX, WAXING AND THE BODY IN MY MIND
Body hair and sex - that complicated relationship!
Text and Images by Faint Perhapses







ISHQ VISHQ SEX VEX
EXPLORING TOUCH TO EXPLOSIVE TOUCH Let Manu take you on his journey of touch from naive bodily explorations with his male friends to the electric, experiences with the opposite sex, and along the way understandings about consent, mutuality and the simple pleasures of pleasure!
I DIDN’T BELIEVE IN LOVE – THEN I FOUND POLYAMORY
Well. Polyamory done right, as it turns out, is a lot of work!
By Alaspriya








A LOVE SUPREME
Is it better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all? Gudiya's story of love ending in tragedy is both unbearably tender and painful - but it will make you believe in the idea of a love supreme.
Qayanat Ka Romancenama
“A board was flashing a sign: Qayanat*, I love you. It was like a film. I could not believe this was all happening for me, to me.” Qayanat’s romance, begins like a film, proceeds like a film, complete with shayris, desperation, twists and turns, 100 free sms a day, ice-cream in the mall, and her reflection in her boyfriend’s eyes. How does this filmi Romance-nama culminate? Not at all as you would expect – listen here to this podcast full of fizz and glitter: Qayanat ka Romancenama.
JEEP MEIN BEEP, DIL MEIN DHAK DHAK
“He winked at me in the rear-view mirror and I was overcome with shyness.” Once Chandni meets this jeep driver and their love story gathers speed, it’s heart-in-the-mouth romantic twists and turns and the speedbreaker of respectability cannot slow it down. A story of passionate romance from Banda, UP.
In A Gay Bar You Can See Forever
An Indian man at 31, in a gay bar for the first time, experiencing male erotic tenderness for the first time.
By Pat

(Image: Couple hug, Artist: Raphael Perez)
“And this is our local digs”, said Stephen, turning inside a glass fronted shop, narrow and long, with a profusion of potted plants, “This is where us homos come to cheer our favourite Footie players”. Stephen was being butch, referring to the hyper masculine game of Australian Rules football where hunky and drop-dead-gorgeous players wear a sexy and scant ensemble. I had cycled straight from the Uni, all the way to that den of inequity, Fortitude Valley, for my second official date, my first with an Australian. I think it was one of those places on Brunswick Street, but can’t remember the name. I was thirty-one and like a babe in the gay woods, felt lost. I had had my first ever date the week before, with Yasushi, whom I had thought to be an extraordinarily beautiful man . I had burst into tears after being kissed and embraced by him in his home. The evening before this day, Yasushi had asked me to meet him outside the main post-office, so that we could check each other out. I remember him, sitting on a bench, reading a book, in a tee and shorts. He was probably the only Japanese guy around, so it was not difficult to spot him. Two things I noticed, and remember: cascades of glossy hair and bee-stung red lips. He was tall, toned and had that glorious golden hue that many Japanese people have. “Come in the afternoon, my flatmate will be away”. So I had taken the ferry and walked the rest of the way. And then we were alone in the hall and all I could do was stare at Yasushi, drinking him in from afar. “Is this your first time?” I remember shaking. Not the shivering we get when we are cold, but a deeper, painful tremor of tiny pulses in the abdomen and the hams. I did not have a straight answer to the question. It was my first date, sure, but it was not the first time I was going to have sex with a guy. I had lived in a hostel for four years and we would have sex very frequently indeed, sometimes with my roommate in the next bed, sometimes with the lad in the next room. Sometimes boys would pop in for room service. All for a lark, and raging hormones, of course. This was pre-internet so one didn’t really know the mechanics of gay sex. I doubt if we even knew the word gay. None of us connected the sex with being gay. I didn’t. But I knew I liked looking at boys, I liked imagining being held by a boy. I discovered that I liked kissing and nuzzling into my bed-mate after our orgasmic highs. But did not have the vocabulary to slot it. That came four years later. But that’s another story. I don’t think we were anything more than rank amateurs at lovemaking. We tried, fumbled, failed and learnt. It was in Australia that I realized how much I had fumbled and how little I had learnt. Since I was 21, I had imagined about loving men and had told myself that it was idiotic to expect another man to feel likewise. Sex, yes, but to feel all this roiling in the stomach, needle pricks in the heart? The emotions that I felt disturbed me. I had not yet figured out that gayness was a way of being; getting hardons was not the problem; adolescents get used to it, right from the ritual of the morning wood to the stiffening at every whiff, sight, touch and thought of the sensuous. My problem was the thudding of the heart on seeing Tushi smile at me in the hostel staircase with his gold-flecked green eyes; or dissolving into a puddle when shaggy-haired, manga-faced Panjo crept stealthily from behind and folded me in his arms and gave a loud kiss just below the ear – his delightful habit. Or, on realizing that when I closed my eyes, I could remember Vinod Khanna’s dimpled chin and Tom Alter’s spare body and nothing of Parveen Babi or Abha Dhulia. I could not explain all this. And for a very long time I thought I was possibly the only person who was created thus- a man who not only desired other men sexually but who also dreamt of being romantically involved with some of them, living together perhaps; cooking together, playing badminton and cricket, going trekking and cycling and long walks, and….and maybe keeping two Labradors… And now here was I, all of thirty-one, already one year over-the-hill from the moment Brian Kinney first felt himself to be mortal - here was I experiencing male erotic tenderness for the first time. And I told myself, O what a wonderful world!
(Image: Two Men Hugging, Artist Raphael Perez)
Yasushi had pulled me gently, and embraced my shaking body and kissed me. And it had felt wonderful. I had realized for the first time since adolescence what it meant to hold a man, to feel his body, to savour his fragrance. And to realize Yasushi’s willingness - he wanted to hold me, he wanted to crush his lips on mine; he wanted to be tender, he savoured my being the man I was, just the way I was. That is when I had started sobbing. I shall remember that till Alzheimer’s claims me, and if I had to share the experience with you all, a good approximation would be this YouTube of that little girl Lily, who is told that they were all going to Disneyland. I had cried that day in Yasushi’s arms out of happiness - sharp pangs of happiness; and out of relief that it was possible for me to feel tenderness and yet not feel my shoulders weigh down in heaviness. The bar had a few people. Stephen and I had a beer each and promised to return later in the evening. I had been to a few bars in India. They were raucous and had bad music. I preferred going to restaurants instead back home. When we returned I was perhaps in an odd frame of mind – several times within a week I had experienced intimacy that was somehow different from the nocturnal hostel romps. I had already had one moment of epiphany when I realised that it was not just I who felt loved and cared-for in another man’s arms; the other guy too felt the same. I was not alone to feel this kind of love. This time the bar was busy and I remember sitting at one end of the very long island inside which were the bartenders, being rude and jokey, all at once, like any Aussie male between the ages 18 and 40. I sat for hours, Stephen had gone home, he had an early lecture, but I sat nursing my intermittent VB, looking at the boys and men, eyes roaming in wonderment at all the beauty of limbs and face, of carriage and voice. But my eyes would mostly linger at couples kissing; at pairs, all arms and legs, entwined, lost to the world around, and no one gave a damn. There was serious fondling too if one looked carefully. Yet no one looked, no one seemed to be all worked up over this re-enactment of Sodom and Gomorrah. There was laughter and good cheer. Shouts came from the groups bunched around large TV screens showing different things – horse racing, footie, gay TV shows and news. Random men would ‘how.are.ya.mate’ me, and typically, not linger to hear my reply. Some would pat and brush my shoulders. I cry at the drop of a hat, sometimes even before it touches the floor. That night too, I wept, to myself, within myself. I had never experienced something so beautiful, so liberating. Yet I wept acid tears and a sense of deep loss overwhelmed me. Why had I not experienced this back home? Could I not have been like that lad, kissing and laughing with my boyfriend, hands clasped, pissing smartass at the bartender? Could I not have been that young man, sitting on the floor between the legs of his lover, playing checkers with his friends?
(Image: Sauna Bar, Artis: Touko Laaksonen aka Tom of Finland)
Since all those years, life has taken me traveling, far from the small town I called home till I was 15. I have been to the Christopher Street bars in New York's gay quarter a number of times. And to Minneapolis’ gay bars, and to San Francisco’s gay streets, to Chicago and Boston. Some places I have felt welcomed, other places, ignored. One place even glowered at. I guess not all gay bars are like home to every gay man. But I can imagine that those that are like home must be precious islands to that community. Perhaps Pulse, the gay nightclub in Orlando was also home to some gay men. Some of whom would have died that night, their haven destroyed forever by hate. There are bars in Mumbai that serve gay clientele on certain days. The last time I went to one was in 2006. Perhaps some of these are havens too. What is certain though is that life of a gay lad in Mumbai is qualitatively different now. A thriving community exists where gay men and women seek all manner of sustenance, from the instant to the long-term, from the vanilla to the kinky. YouTube abounds with gay-themed films, with coming-out sagas, documentaries of abandonment and violence, celebrations of marriages and adoptions. In a roomful of students and trainees, I am reminded that despite the utter invalidation that Section 377 imposes on gay men, despite the perfunctory debates on sexuality in the media, despite the vaudevillesque depiction of gay men in the mainstream films, one is yet to hear of gay-bashing in high schools and colleges in India. That is remarkable. Often, looking at the heads bowed in concentration over their projects, I try my gaydar and imagine which of them has questions like I had at their age? Which of them is out to their friends? Looking at the youngsters nowadays, one wouldn’t be surprised if their friends rib them good-naturedly over distractingly handsome jocks. For those who still secretly worry and burn, I wish I could reach their hearts and tell them it will all be alright. Pat is a consultant, an academic and a mentor.My First Boyfriend
Rutuja's first boyfriend began to do an unexpected sexual thing with oranges. Did she like it? Listen to Rutuja's podcast about what she learned from her first relationship.
You, Me (Aur STD)
A pertinent but unexpected question asked on a random dating app led Luna to get tested for STDs. Just using condoms is not enough!
By Luna
It started on one of those hook-up apps 😁
THIS IS WHO I AM: A YOUNG MAN’S JOURNEY OF FINDING HIMSELF THROUGH KINK
A young man who discovers his submissive nature and learns to be himself through BDSM and kink.
By Kevin

***
In my teens, I discovered a world with no borders, no discrimination, one that didn't cost much to travel in – the internet. I'd heard from all my hormonal guy friends about the porn they'd watched and how it was so erotic that they masturbated just thinking about it. I wanted to give it a try. It didn't so much as arouse me but I was ready to explore more. I watched more erotic movies recommended by friends and classmates just to see how it felt first hand. But each time I tried to masturbate, I grew tired and gave up.For a while I wondered if there was something wrong with me. But I was still hoping that if I pretended I was just an average guy, then maybe everything would be alright. I had begun to explore my own sexuality (even if I didn't know that was what I was doing).When I was 16 I got friendly with a guy in my class and I ended up sleeping with him. It was the first ever relationship in my life. Over the next 5 years whenever we slept together, I never wanted to be the top one. I was really content being the bottom half of the relationship, the more submissive partner in every sense, not only physical. Afterwards, I would find myself imagining myself in the same situation but with a woman on top of me, fucking me with a phallus. Just the thought meant I went to sleep with a rock hard erection. I still hadn't learnt the art of masturbating. At that time, I was absolutely ignorant about BDSM. When I was 18 years old I became very good friends with a girl. I had my first sense of how different a girl's life is from a boy's. I was mostly ignorant on the feelings of love and care for a girl. If I try to define my feelings for her now, it was love but I didn't realize it at that time. I just knew I was very happy whenever she was part of my day. In many ways she was the 'one' for me as I couldn't imagine what my life would have been like if I hadn't met her. When we used to talk, there were quite a few instances where she made me say or do things I really didn't want to, or wouldn't have had the courage to do if she hadn't have told me to do. Like once I 'let slip' I liked a girl but was too scared to ask her out - which I really was. She instructed me ask her out. This gave me a surge of energy – and also the courage to ask the girl in question out. Or once, I was depressed and she commanded me to cheer up or she would break all ties with me. This immediately gave me a rush of energy. It stimulated me both erotically and emotionally. So much so that I tried (purposefully but covertly) to land myself in helpless or embarrassing situations in front of her. The sense of power she had over me turned me on immensely. She had no idea of my feelings, I think. After all, I also believed my feelings were brotherly for a while. When we were a little older, and she became interested in other guys, I disliked it. But I didn't question anything. I was addicted to the miniscule adrenaline rush I got from our relationship.

The adrenaline, the skipped heartbeat and tears of joy that almost escaped my eyes all said the same thing to me: "This is how I am made. This is who I am. This is what I am meant to be."These lines went through my head and my heart and got imprinted there. I'd no idea why it made me feel like that or why it took me till this moment to realize this, but once I did, there was no turning back. I took a break after my turn and went to the balcony. My heart was far away, flying through the night sky. I had finally identified my self.
***
One day, I stumbled across Literotica.com, where authors post erotic stories in many categories and genres. In the BDSM category, I clicked on a story by an author who called himself/herself Rita (name changed). It was a turning point in my life. Rita's story, opened up so many new possibilities. It was about a couple who wanted a 24/7 female submissive, written in such a beautiful yet accessible manner, that even a novice could grasp the difference between a healthy, mutual, BDSM Dynamic relationship and an unhealthy one. I read all her stories one by one. Could it be that people who like to surrender really existed? Or was it just the stuff of fiction? I'd always thought that people who get pleasure from having their will taken away, who enjoy being hurt physically by others belonged in one place: a mental asylum. I read Rita's stories again and wrote a line of appreciation underneath each. Soon, she replied thanking me for my compliments. That was my first doorway into the world of kink. At first our interaction was purely writer-and-fan, but later we exchanged personal emails. Ever since that day I'd played Dumb Charades and realized my submissive nature, I'd been afraid to discuss with anyone. Talking with an author from the other side of the world seemed like the safest way to get my questions answered. She seemed nice, patient and knowledgeable. Later I mustered the courage to ask her my questions. She answered with more questions that pushed me to think and also gave me a peek into her 24/7 BDSM lifestyle that she had with her husband/Master. BDSM now seemed like a deep, blue ocean and not a tiny, shallow stream. I was really blessed to have a friend like her.***
"Can you please move to your berth?" the middle aged guy again pulled me out of my memories and asked me to move as he was getting sleepy. I climbed up to my berth to lie down for the night. I turned to my side, immediately winced and lay on my back instead. I smiled; the pain was such a sweet reminder of my magical weekend. I couldn't wait to look at the marks. I remember then what was it like for me when I didn't know this feeling.***
One day Miss Rita and I thought it might be fun to have an online dom-sub play session. She sent me a lot of questions in advance – what I looked like, what I was looking for from the power play. I had to Google several terms – like "OTK" and "collared" before I could answer her questions honestly. As she was a writer and me being an aspiring one, our playing quickly escalated into a totally different world with no boundaries and where all our dreams came true. There were some things in the play that I loved, something that I liked and some things that I disliked but every scenario taught me something new. I constantly wished that this world was real.Miss Rita introduced me to a kinky social network. When I joined it I was transfixed by the sheer number of sub men in there! Almost too many to count!I found an Indian kinky group within the site and at once felt that this was a place where I won't be judged or thought of as a weirdo. This feeling itself was like a treasure to me, where I could finally open up the big box of secrets locked inside my heart that I only had shared with Miss Rita. As I followed the discussions on the group boards avidly, I realized I didn't know anything about BDSM in real life. I was a silent but keen observer. When I first saw a thread about real life meetings in various Indian cities, I was really tempted. However the threads didn't reveal what actually happened at the meetings and I couldn't find one in my city so I let fear take over. My biggest apprehension was whether these meetings with real life kinksters were safe. One day I saw a post on the group by a guy who was looking for a mentor in the BDSM world. I posted a comment wishing him luck in his search. He thanked me via a private message. His name was Ashok (name changed). I found that he had attended a few meetings in Kolkata. One day when I was at work Ashok sent me a message saying he was going to be near my town the next day. We could meet if I wanted to. I became very nervous. I didn't know whether I wanted to meet a total stranger I knew from a kinky website, (of course, not considering that I was also a stranger from a kinky site). Then I found a thread on the site on meeting a new person for the first time in the real world. I read it and decided to follow the instructions to the letter. I called Ashok and he told me to come to a hotel but I declined as the rules said to meet a new person always in a public place. I suggested an overbridge near his hotel. I laugh now on my choice of a 'public place'. I was indeed very nervous. Ashok turned out to be a calm and knowledgeable person with a soothing voice. I asked him all my questions and told him that I'd once had a relationship with a man -- something I'd never shared with anyone. He was nonchalant and understanding. He applauded my courage to think about my own nature as a submissive. He said he was new to the kinky life style but he knew people who were experienced. I asked him about the meetings and he said it was no different than getting coffee with a group of 'regular' friends . And in fact, a month or so after I met Ashok, I had the chance to go to Kolkata to attend my very first real group meeting. As I sat there, watching other people at the same table, talking about kink as lightly and enthusiastically as though they were talking about cricket, I felt amazed. I was overjoyed by their attitude and zeal towards the kinky lifestyle.
At the meetings I learnt men can be submissive, women can be dominant, some can be both. Being kinky is not an illness or a disease and neither a mental instability nor a result of an improper childhood. It was simply a choice for some, a way of life for others and for some it was just a thing to spice up their bedroom life.I listened and interrupted from time to time. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was doing something for me. The desire to learn more brought me back to the group for more. Later, I pitched in organising events in Kolkata that the group organised, as much as I could given that I had to commute from my town. I made some wonderful friends. I had finally found people I identified with, who loved me for who I am and not what I can pretend to be. It had been incredibly hard to find.

***
I can't remember when I had drifted off to sleep in this rocking train. I open my eyes and think. My own past self would hardly recognise me now. I learnt that being submissive by nature doesn't mean that I had to be a pushover in everyday life. I can be fierce at my job, be affirmative at home and loud with my friends! I live a 'normal life'. Most people around me have not a clue how extraordinary my life is! I end my story with a favourite quote, "It is not just who you are, what matters most is how you live it." Kevin, is a 29-year old man identifies as submissive. He became aware of his kinky side in 2008 and has never looked back since. He is a member of The Kinky Collective which shares his vision to make Kink a friendly word in the Indian Community. Ayangbe Mannen is an illustrator. For more, visit her website www.ayangbe.com.How Posing in the Nude Changed My Life
A young gay man who hates being touched, is awkward about having sex. Then, an ex-flame asks him if he'll pose for some photographs - in the nude. Listen to Arindam's podcast on how the experience made him bloom into a sexual being. And how an act that mixed intimacy and creativity, began a new journey of confidence and exuberance.
Mamma Ka Dilemma
One day you discover your 7 year old has been watching porn? What do you do? Freak out? Cut your internet connection? Blame yourself? Or maybe, you do what Anu Singh Choudhary did. Listen to her podcast Mamma Ka Dilemma.
Anu Singh Choudhary is a communications consultant, documentary filmmaker, writer, editor, translator and blogger.
The Reluctant Voyeur
Your best friend and her boy friend get it on in front you. Should you be made a voyeur without your consent? Young Andrea's podcast about an awkward night.
We're Not Serious and Other Non-Promises
"What is sex sex I want to scream? Is what we’ve been having un-sex sex? Is one superior to the other? Is this one inferior to that one?" Alia questions the boundaries between love, lust, sex and long-term relationships.
Written and Illustrated by Alia
I Kissed A Boy (Plus Several More) And I Liked It: My Slutty Life
The thrill of being with a stranger, the joy of kissing several more - and liking it! Read as Glitch embraces her 'slutty' course of life, making it HER choice.
Written and Illustrated by Glitch











Amma, It's Time We Had THE TALK
Discuss sex with your parents? Tell them that you are sexually active? Nope, not happening. But Srinidhi managed to do so. Read to find out how THE TALK took place between Srinidhi and her mother!
Written by Srinidhi Raghavan
Recently, a dear friend sent me the lovely illustrated book 'Embroideries' by the Iranian writer Marjane Satrapi. I had read it before but didn’t own a copy. I was excited to reread it. I rushed through it in a couple of hours. (If you haven’t read this yet, I can’t recommend it enough.) The first time I read it, which was several years ago, I wouldn’t have dared give the book to Amma to read. Things have changed these past few years. I handed it over to her and said, “It is lovely. Lots of Iranian women talking about sex and their lives. Let me know what you think.”
This wasn’t the first time we were presented with opportunities to have the crucial discussion about sex. A good five years ago, Amma found a condom in my bag’s side pocket. An opened one without its cover. Yes, it felt like disaster in slow motion. I knew she had found it when she told me she was looking in my bag for something and couldn’t make eye contact two full days after. She hesitated bringing up the topic, perhaps terrified of finding out her youngest daughter had been sexually active. I was tempted to ask her about it so we could finally discard the shroud of secrecy around my sexual life. But I panicked and turned into an ostrich instead. I conferenced my sisters in to find out what I should do. They couldn't find words through the loud laughter. When she couldn't handle not knowing anymore, she brought it up. “I found an…,” she paused and continued, “open condom in your side pocket.” I turned to stone while I looked for words and tried my hand at a poker face. I am miserable at lying but it was my only go-to in a state of panic. “It was from a water balloon experiment A and I were trying,” I said. She squinted her eyes like she does when she suspects I am fibbing. Fortunately, she didn't ask further questions but the awkward air didn't leave us for days.
Growing up in a sort-of conventional household, sex was not taboo but nobody broached the subject. We are a family of four women, dad and the doggess. We never really had ‘the talk’ though. We joked a lot about the doggess's libido yet the topic never reached humans having sex. Occasionally, the topic would slip into conversation but we managed to circumvent anyone in the house actually having sex. Sometimes we spoke with reference to rape, otherwise mostly how it was portrayed in the movies or in books. The conversations were usually with Amma and always in whispers in the privacy of our home. A while ago she accompanied me to the gynecologist. She joked about how women from her generation never went to the doctor until they conceived. I responded with things are different now and it is good that we come to ensure we are healthy. She nodded along. She insisted on waiting with me and talking to the doctor about all the tests she had conducted. I, on the other hand, frantically messaged a friend from the waiting room, freaked out about how to inform the doctor that I am sexually active without Amma noticing. Why couldn't there be a secret wink code? Or one with a specific number of taps to convey - “I am sexually active but Amma doesn't know.” After we came out of the doctor's, I began to think about why I hadn't told Amma yet. What was holding me back? Why couldn't we have this conversation like we had the other conversations? I do think it is essential to have conversations with your children about sex. But as adults how do we talk to our parents about it. I have been negotiating this complex conversation with Amma for over a year now and I find myself falling short of words each time. How can two of us speak about it honestly? Without any lies or euphemisms. How can we have conversations about safety, pleasure and the act itself? Some days I do believe we make progress. But I sense the tone of the conversation would change once I am married to one which was less coloured by fear and concern. Even Amma is more comfortable talking about this with my sisters. Since I wanted to be open with her, I kept looking for new ways to talk about it.
Books were not the only entry point for Amma and I. Nearly a year ago, while working with a feminist organisation in Hyderabad, we organised a two-day film festival. I was very excited by the wide range of movies we were screening. My eldest sister, who was in town, was keen on watching a documentary called Accsex. Accsex is a spectacular movie on disability and sexuality. It has women with different kinds of disabilities speaking about love, sex and life. My sister and I agreed that Amma should come to the screening. She sat through 52 minutes of women talking freely about their experiences. The movie explicitly deals with sex and women's experiences with pleasure. The illustrations and poetry enmeshed with the women’s narratives question our own prejudices and ideas of normal. The movie celebrates the body in its varied forms after taking out the pity glasses. Then, the group which had gathered to watch had a short discussion about the silence around the sexuality of persons with disabilities. Amma did not speak. She seemed to be reflecting what she had just witnessed. Many from the audience spoke about their own prejudices and how they had perceived persons with disabilities before the documentary. Amma, like me, is an introvert. Taking some time to process the movie, Amma asked us later, “How do lesbians have sex?” My sister tried to explain to her immediately. A few days after reflecting on how best I could bring it up again, I brought Amma the laptop and told her jokingly, “The internet holds the answer to your question. You should read.” I am aware that the question is often asked and not in a nice way. But we were presented with a window to talk to her about sex beyond its often limited framing of penile-vaginal penetration.
Jewels like Flowers: About Men's Bodies and Women's Desires
We are always made aware of the beauty of the feminine, but what about the masculine figures? Read this essay by Elisa Brune to know a woman’s love for the opposite sex.
By Elisa Brune
The Flower of My Secret Sex Life
A young woman's candid and joyful account of her search for a relationship with her sexual self.
By Rogue Hasina
A young woman's quest for a sexual self.
‘Hello, mera naam Tina hai aur mein apne aap ko chhooti hu’.
Talking about my sexuality makes me feel as if I’m attending a weird version of my first AA meeting. Nervous and excited. But...as long as it’s out there…so, here goes!
My first encounter with explicit sex was through a dirty joke. My friend was giggling and whispering about some pencil and sharpener metaphor which I didn’t fully comprehend, but I laughed along with her anyway. That’s what you do when you’re 12 and want to show that you’re cool.
It was a gradual process for me – I happened to come across tiny descriptions of sex in fiction novels between the protagonists, then later in Mills and Boons (a handful), then full-fledged erotic romance/erotic novels and then…well, novels in which sex was the plot.
It was only after I turned 21 that I desired to masturbate (yes, I said it) and actively sought content to fuel my imagination. Before that, when I tried it a few times, it felt hurried and awkward. I was less informed (aka clueless fumbling) and not very motivated (aka lack of privacy).
I remember feeling short-changed after reading romance novels that didn’t have explicit descriptions of sex. I thought 'Man, that book sucked! Sam and Jane didn’t do it in the whole second half. What was THAT all about?'
I realized that I was kidding myself when I reasoned that I picked those books for their plot. I love to read. So, I decided to be honest with myself and made two mental categories during book selection – one for intellectual stimulation and the other for, well…self-stimulation (cue in erotica).
I quickly realized that pornography didn’t arouse me much (not that I didn’t try with it for a bit). It was too bland – not much depth and creativity in scenes (including revoltingly clichéd dialogues). And it seemed to be primarily for male titillation (Why is the dude always more eager to receive than minister?).
Then I discovered other things. Like, ever seen animated sex? Welcome to the world of hentai. Which is mostly, unfortunately, not female friendly (and Japanese). But, for my time and feelings, better than regular porn. Why? More build-up, more foreplay but mostly, more intensity. I realized I got that from erotic novels and began to explore them at length – and continue to do so. Different folks, different strokes, right?
***
Unlike pornography, erotic novels (the better ones) aren’t just about two people trying to get each other off. It’s descriptive, creative and reels you in. It has the ability to arouse you, make your body more sensitive and you may even find yourself floating through the stages of sex. ‘Increasingly hot and sweaty’ is always better than a typical ‘wham bam thank you ma’am!’
It made me realize that sex isn’t just a bedroom activity involving a man panting above a woman. It’s about people dissolving themselves in mutual pleasure and enjoying each other (and in turn, themselves) in an intimate way – in fact, a variety of intimate ways.
Initially, I was unsure about masturbation – or as they say, “indulging in masturbation.” Ever seen a kid push another down? As soon as he sees you looking, he becomes defensive and insists that he didn’t do it. Well, that was me – doing the deed and then going like ‘Hey, it wasn’t me!’
Except, I wasn’t doing anything wrong, no one was judging me and I was defending myself against – well, me! And that was absurd because I like me! Also, I noticed that the more uncertain I was, the less satisfactory the experience turned out to be.
Speaking of strokes, after overcoming the initial hesitations, sexual self-exploration was always a pleasurable experience. I realized how my body was capable of producing pleasure that was so fleeting yet so profound. Any remaining reservations I had about my actions dissolved after I experienced my first orgasm (hell yeah!).
Setting a rhythm and getting comfortable with a technique is the hard part. After that, it’s smooth sailing. Reading informative articles online helped in understanding genital anatomy, how and why certain methods worked for me and why others didn’t. Also, reading such articles made me more confident about what I was doing.
***
You can’t explore erotica and not come across taboo erotica (pseudo-incest, dubious consent, etc.), gay/lesbian/transgender erotica, BDSM, threesomes, orgies, etc. (yeah, there’s more). I remember the first time I read about a threesome and found it arousing. I was so appalled that I liked it.
Till then, the idea of sex, for me, was an intimate act between two people. I was afraid I was falling into the land of debauchery with no hope of coming out. It was a friend who put some perspective on that. She pointed out that it’s only a fantasy and that I was freaking out unnecessarily. It could also be looked at as not one but two men loving you…okay, I was down with that!
On a serious note, it made me question my preferences, what I liked and what was my limit. More importantly, I realized that any unconventional or scandalizing piece of literature was pleasurable for me not because of the act itself but the feelings it brought out in the protagonist (remember I mentioned intensity before?)
***
And if you’ve explored masturbation, it’s not long before you end up thinking about sex toys (oh c’mon, at this point, you would too!). I don’t know why but whenever I think of sex toys, the image of a blow up doll pops in my head (go figure). Anyway, sex toys are devices designed to arouse you.
The first time I fully understood the use of a dildo was through an erotic novel in which the couple explored light sexual domination and submission. After that, I learned about the variety of instruments designed for pleasure (and the extent of pleasure you wish to experience). Although I currently don’t own any, it’s something I would like experimenting with.
***
I was never shy about talking to my friends about sex. I found I was as knowledgeable or more so about that topic. But I was shy about exploring my own body. To the extent that lingerie shopping embarrassed me. Now, I enjoy picking out bras and wonder why I don’t have enough thongs. Somehow I feel sexier knowing what I’m wearing under my clothes.
And well, speaking of under the clothes, I got my first Brazilian wax done recently. Ever since I read about it, I’ve wanted to try it. Never been nude in front of anyone, always waxed myself at home and I went ahead and bared my crotch to a stranger. Yep, that’s me.
The experience was Bloody Painful and Super Thrilling. And totally worth it. And the rumors were true for me — I found it did give me a higher sense of pleasure during my ‘happy time’. Whether for real, or whether because it was such an anticipated thing in my head, it doesn't matter – I loved it!
I read a woman’s comment somewhere that she felt more confident being naked in front of her lover after getting a Brazilian wax. I completely understood what she meant.
***
I haven’t had sex yet and intend to do so only after marriage (gasp! I know!). It’s not because I come from a religious or conservative family (though I do). After a point, you realize that it’s your choice whether you want to continue following what’s taught to you, or not.
The thing is, I like my faith and its suggestions and guidelines for life and I’m comfortable with choosing to follow the suggestion of sex after marriage. Yep, it’s a choice I’ve made. But my choice of self-exploration makes me feel confident about my sexuality.
There are people I know who are having sex but that are either too preoccupied with the man’s response during sex or consider sex as just an act that needs to get done. In both cases, there is such a strong disconnect from your own body. This kind of hesitancy in your own sexuality makes you forget the important fact that it’s your body that makes you aware of how pleasurable the act is.
This is a different kind of freedom – to understand myself in this manner. I know that this kind of confidence will encourage sexual compatibility with my partner after marriage.
All the things I’ve tried so far, the extent of my exploration – has made me feel so good about myself and my body. And I think that’s what it means to be sexual – to realize what stimulates you mentally and see its connection to your body, to explore and enjoy your body in the most intimate way possible.
Rogue Hasina is 23, an avid reader (comics included), partial to music, movies and felines (in that order) and trying to strike a balance between ‘Masturbation? Oh no! I don’t even think about it’ and ‘Tentacle sex is my jam!’
I Thought It Was A Dream Date. But I Am Bipolar, So Was It Just A Dream?
This date wasn’t supposed to be a rebound, but still hit me in the face, and everywhere else
Written By Shreya Bansal
Illustrated by Div Rodricks
It was exciting to meet a guy at a bar almost three months after my two-year-long relationship (my longest). I dressed in my favourite “I don’t care” outfit and wore my no-makeup makeup look, inspired by the camaraderie between YouTube and Pinterest. My no-prep routine made me run 40 minutes late from the decided time of our meeting (a respectable time for me). So, he texted to check in on our Bumble chat, the only place we had connected.
“Am I going to get stood up tonight?” his message read.
I thought that was funny and charming, still don’t know why. Now the possibility of what this date night could be got more exciting for me. Date night at a cool bar with a fun cutie??? AaaaAAAaaaa.
What is way less thrilling though? Meeting someone you have already developed an involuntary crush on, and sliding into your first conversation that you have been diagnosed with BIPOLAR disorder, Obsessive Compulsion Disorder (OCD) and ADHD, and you have been living with it for two years.

It is even less romantic to tell someone on your first date that the charming and happy being they see today is a reflection of what doctors (four in total) have called my manic phase.
You surely don’t want to tell this adorable guy that when this manic phase ends, that there will be a depressive phase. It will not be charming. It will wipe out smiles. Both mine and of the people around me. More importantly, how do you communicate that there is no blueprint to tell an innocent, nice boy that these phases don’t define me? I want him to be on a date with me, not my mental health, a very small aspect of my personality.
I reached outside our date spot in South Delhi. I shrugged at him apologetically, he shrugged back, as if saying, “I could have waited 20 minutes more.” Shit. He is sweeter than I imagined. We shared a cigarette, went inside, sat at the bar, and ordered half a litre of beer each. Ten minutes into the conversation, people around us were looking at us like they could tell we were two people on a very successful first date. We laughed to the point where I thought we could only be platonic buddies. This much comfort in a first-time romantic encounter? Every romantic comedy I have ever seen was disagreeing. We drank till the bar closed, moved out of the place, sat outside on the footpath, shared another cigarette, laughed a little more, and Googled places that would serve us more alcohol at 1 a.m. On the way to Bar No.2, we cuddled, and moved our hands onto each other’s bodies, wherever our drunk bodies and conscience would allow. It was embarrassing for the cab driver, but delightful for us. The date ended with more Long Island Ice Teas, Esse lights, and walking back tipsy for 15 minutes to my house on the abandoned streets of Delhi.
Everything still seems so perfect.
All my mental illnesses have teamed up to tell me this was all in my head. I am imagining things. People like me, with three diagnoses, don’t get dates like these. We only get temporary stimulation. Ones that end in “What was I thinking,” while I cry myself to sleep, swiping away on Bumble, looking for more normalcy as a 25-year-old. But I know all this happened to me. I have a crowd and servers in two bars, one cab driver, and my roommate and her boyfriend from when we reached home, to back me up on it.
There is also a possibility that there are other things that happened, but I think are my imagination. Like the time he drew me in his notebook from the photos in my room or from when he changed into a printed shirt to match my kurta just so “We are twinning.” I am still hazy about the night we danced for hours in the middle of a crowded dance floor, and unsure if he got jealous when I kissed another guy as a way of protecting myself for “keeping things casual.” Was I depressed and everything felt like an anchor to stop me from sinking, or he did really kiss me on the head, bite me on the arm, and hug me by the waist in a way that still makes me giddy, anywhere, anywhere, when those memories hit me without my permission?
When your medicines control your body and brain, when your notes from therapy pave the way for your life when you compartmentalise everything, to deal with it later because you have so little trust in your impulses, when you are scared your pangs of anger, and when you have no one to share these feeling with, you never know the truth from the “crazy thoughts in your head.” I don’t know if I deserve to be loved, hugged, kissed or drawn.
As anticipated, the manic phase ended and the depressive one hit.

In just a matter of days, the charming, happy, being, I was on the first date diminished into a ball of crying mess, rocking back and forth on the floor of my room. The self-harm increased, and the will to live decreased. As I swung faster, I saw this cute guy move further away from me.
What happened,” I asked finally, from my hospital bed after being admitted to the ICU, after a panic attack followed by an incident of over-dosage of medicine (As it read on my hospital prescription). This was two weeks after that first magical date.
“Hey, I am not used to seeing someone (especially someone I have fun being with) go through so much internal turmoil and it was starting to feel very unfamiliar to me. I’m sorry…I didn’t want you to feel this way… but maybe I just started to feel like I might drown with you sometimes,” he replied. Now this seems real, there is no haze. “Understandable,” I texted in response and turned over to sleep with the beeping sounds of monitors and other patients coughing in the ICU. I don’t need anyone to back me up on this explanation. People with three diagnoses, like me, live with this reality. Who am I to change it? Who am I to doubt it?
Shreya is a queer, disabled reporter based in Delhi. My interests lie in writing social justice features and long-form stories with a gender lens. I am an empathetic writer who gives the utmost importance to journalistic ethics and data.