What I’ve Been Reading
Scion of Ikshvaku by Amish
Much better than I expected!
What I’ve been saying recently
What I’ve Said
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I should – I mean, I really should, it is obviously an awesome fantastic supercallifragilisticexpeallidocious idea – found a city. And call it Roh-ville. Rohville? Rohnagar? Rohland?
Okay. I am no longer slacking off because Vinay has given me work to do. And he is completely unhelpful about how I am supposed to do it. How am I supposed to know things? Why am I supposed to have knowledge inside my head? He is mostly sitting here and playing with his dog.
When the revolution comes, he and his ilk will be the first against the wall.
She’s a cute dog, even though she is incontinent. (Puppies are. She’ll grow out of it.)
I am dying – it feels very nearly literal – for a palya bun. Is there a palya bun anywhere? No.
Life is sorrow.
My friend over here: Inky, otherwise identified here as J – did this new header for me.
Obviously, she is awesome. 😀
Otherwise: Alack, Alas and WOE BABY.
Clip Art delivers, slowly and ponderously (SO ponderously,one gathers it has been moonlighting in between packages as a corporate business minion thing, but I suppose even Clip Art must make a living), a sad header to stand in for my real header, whatsoever that might be, whensoever it is ready, by whosoever is free and loves me very much and can do artsy things.
K, please note: there are ribbons, pearls, girls, notebooks AND extra shiny bonus stars.
Everyone else: look, this is the best I can do without a lobotomy that magically makes me visually creative. If you have issues, make me one that’s better. Otherwise, say OOOOOH and AAAAAAH like you mean it!
Not necessarily in that order.
What with Pride, Good As You and other things, I’ve been meeting loads of people lately – it’s an active social life, with the disconcerting realisation that there are people here (not all of them, obviously, but an unexpectedly large number) whom I actively like. Friends!
Every so often one of them would say, You’re coming to the Pride Eval(uation) meeting, right? And after a point (when I figured out when and where it was) I’d say Maybe, Why Not and finally: Sure! Because, what the hell, it’s not like I have anything else to do.
Leave aside the issue of finding the goddamn ALF, which resides quietly and busily on Infantry road; I made my way there merrily enough, and then woke up to the realisation that most of the people there were, in fact, organisers, either officially or unofficially, and what the hell was I doing there?
Either because they remembered they’d invited me, or because they were too polite to throw me out, or because I’M SO AWESOME, they didn’t throw me out.
It was interesting – in fact, fascinating. I’ve known some of these people a while now, but always in a more social, non–meeting-with-agenda setting. The general air was pleased, but also somewhat brisk. Let’s wrap up this thing, it’s been going on for months now, and we’ve done well but we’re done.
The 2010 Bengaluru Pride was funded entirely through donations, with no corporate or institutional sponsorship. I’m not going into numbers, but they did well, especially considering how thankless a process collecting donations can be. Suffice it to say that Pride 2010 is safely in the black. Hooray for budgeting!
They went over the initial planning meetings. Was decision-making inclusive, egalitarian and inclusive? Apparently, (and with some surprise from unnamed people) yes. Were we to worry that the hijra presence seemed less obvious than the last two year’s? Yes, but also no: they’re currently in the middle of negotiation certain issues amongst themselves (not entirely sure, but it involves identity and identification); they’ve had some grief recently and needed to heal and deal; hey, they were there, whole-heartedly, for the things they wanted to be part of. But also yes, just because.
S (there were so many S’s, so this is S1) noted that there were more women and transgender persons in this Pride, making this the least patriarchal event so far. (Hah!)
Media coverage was another thing. The media coverage for 2010’s Pride was pretty shit. The discussion that went on here was long and rambling, but the final consensus seemed to be that
S2 noted that while Pride may not have received the coverage we wanted, we weren’t sensationalised either, which is all to the good. R noted that sensationalism and coverage are the only ways we reach the people who’re still at home, closeted, hiding, or just feeling alone. On which stalemated note, we moved on!
(I’ve shifted pronouns from “them” to “us”. I shall continue, because I’m self-involved enough to feel like it’s correct, but in all honesty I did feel a fraud to be there at all.)
Of overlapping concern was the website. It seemed obvious that the Media Team would have to be in close contact with the Website Team (and there needed to be a Website Team!). Whoever worked on the website would need to put things there in Kannada as well as English, right from the start. (Apparently uploading stuff in Kannada is a real hassle on the current site design, I dunno how that works.)
Every report needs to be in both English and Kannada – which lead on a tangent to the issue of translation. S2 spoke about the need to generate our own discourse in Kannada, lifting from English for terminology where convenient, or whatever. (There was talk of compiling a glossary of terms, which is geeky and adorable.) If necessary, the next time around we shall hunt up professional translators to do the job.
Next year’s Pride is likely to be in July, coinciding with the Naz judgement anniversary. July is a nicer time of year, if overly warm. (Planning would start in, like, April or so. That’s barely any time!)
G suggested that a week of concentrated events was silly. Why not stretch it out, with breaks, over a month? D added that this would be useful in making it a larger event, with some focus on Karnatakan queer persons (blanket-terming here, sorry) and not just the urban set.
(I’m not sure whether that’s a GREAT FUCKING AWESOME IDEA or a tiresome waste of an entire month where our lives will revolve around our statements of our sexualities whether we’re out or not. Or both at once, which is what most of my life feels like at the moment.)
S3 (3?) noted that the next Pride needs to be at least big as this event, and if possible, bigger. I am so fucking sorry for the poor sods who volunteer for the next Pride, really I am. Good luck, you, whoever you are!
I’m skipping over the individual events for the most part, except to make note:
And the leftover cash? Hand it over to the next Pride group? Invest in merchandise? Fund the Film-maker and theatre enthusiasts? Keep it for themselves? (I still sort of think they should have!) Use it to start a Crisis Fund?
Finally, they decided to fund the follow-up events – such as the film-making etc. – and the rest goes to the next Pride.
There is a fascinating in watching these people – some of whom I am going to get to know very well, I hope – in a working scenario, however informal. In seeing the maneuverings of several trains of persistent thought and the negotiations between them – in three languages no less.
I’ll be in Bangalore still next July, and I hope I’m in contact with the cooks making Pride broth, just to see how they work together, how they make decisions and get things done. It seems so WEIRD, a bunch of random people working towards a common goal from their hearts as opposed to their wallets or need to serve a formal authority.
After which, we ate! And then I went home.
My mum, well, has been suspecting that I was hiding something for a while. And she pushed, a bit. Amongst other gems she asked:
So I told her I was “bi”. (It’s a rather limiting term really, especially in these days of fluid genders and sexualities, but it’s also convenient.) It didn’t go badly. Just not well.
In the conversation that followed, my mum decided to tell me that I am immature. In context, it sounded like she meant that with reference to my sexuality. In retrospect, I realise she meant it about all of me. She is perfectly okay with whom I may or may not love, may or may not marry.
Hooray for openness, unyay for self-respect, I guess.
Fortunately, the next day we hugged and made up. My mum is always more sensible in daylight. She hasn’t taken it back, about my immaturity, and of course I still fucking resent that. But it’s better than being thrown out of the house or told that my attractions aren’t valid or – well, whatever else people come up with.
(It turns out: I was invited to the Eval meet because I was there. No more, no less. The world does not revolve around you, Roh!)
(I was supposed to post this last Friday. When all of this actually happened. But I am lazy, and this is my blog so I can do what I like! Mwuhahahahaha, etc.)
It’s been three whole years since I was gone, almost a year since I came back. Bangalore (Bengaluru, gods, I am not sure how to spell it unless I check online, and I cannot be bothered. I like it Anglicised, I’ve always liked it Anglicised, a little unpatriotic betrayal I cling to, sometimes, because rebellion is fun [!]) is a warm blanket against my skin (on show because my Tesco-bought shirt, lovely as it is, is cut a bit deep for India, I’m going to be assaulted on the street and my mother will say I told you so dammit) as I walk into BKF, now renamed NU.
NU has been given a ruthless makeover, and if I ignore the tidy rows of seats for waiting patients (I don’t, I never do, they can’t see it but I’m just like them, only it’s me, not my kidneys) it’s like I’m walking into an office, for a job, maybe, that I’m definitely unqualified for professionally, academically and socially. The receptionist is seated behind thick glass that matches, in spirit if not in colour, the shiny antiseptic grey floors.
Six months, heavy sunlight, sleeping pills, a wedding, a psychiatrist, a therapist, a grandmother and a healthy diet have brought my weight up to forty-six kilograms. In Britain I would still be unable to donate blood (the only reason I would not go back to Britain, rebuild my life there), but here I am just about allowed.
The receptionist (so pretty, so adorably pretty and oh look she’s married, that mangal sutra looks shiny new against her smooth skin) smiles at me. “We’ve closed our blood bank,” she says.
What? “What?” I must look as stupid as I sound – the crippling humiliation of it! – because she smiles at me kindly, repeats, “We’ve closed our blood bank.”
“But why?” Surely a hospital that specialises in organ transplants should have a blood bank readily to hand? The receptionist doesn’t know, and why should she.
I walk back out into NU’s sketchy garden, walk out onto the street, staring somewhat gormlessly (I can see me, staring gormlessly while ignoring the hopeful auto-rickshaw driver who’s waiting for me to ask him to take me somewhere) at the shops opposite. They have nothing I want. The heavy meal I ate two hours earlier sits unhappily in my stomach.
Five, four, three years ago BKF’s blood bank, staffed by my dad’s colleagues, would fuss over me, make sure I was heavy enough to donate, bleed me, feed me excellent coffee and send me away with a few extra smiles and a certificate that said I was a noble person.
When I went abroad in 2006, I was, oh, around 48 kg. I’m five-three, and not at all muscular, so while I was definitely out of the running in the Fitness Olympics (or any Olympics!), I didn’t care much either way so long as someone somewhere still loved me. Lots.
While I was there, in foreign climes, far from home, the cold penetrating to my very soul, the clouds sinking closer to my unprotected head etc. et all, yaddi yadda – while I was there, I began a carefully unplanned campaign of avoiding people, falling ill every so often, being late to class, and trying to find out how I could donate blood.
Unfortunately, these specific Foreign People were built on a larger scale than the average Indian, and had a correspondingly higher minimum weight requirement. To Donate Blood Abroad, I would need to weigh more than fifty kg.
Fifty fucking kilograms? How was I supposed to gain that much weight without going through a light regimen of muscle building? Obviously, I was doomed to bleed only from naturally-constructed orifices for the rest of my natural life. Woe! Alack!
More seriously, I had been donating blood for around two to three years, and I had become accustomed to the idea that I was doing something useful, something valuable, something anonymous for society. I had spent the last two or so years not dieting, realising that I liked my body as-is, and most importantly, I had learned that sometimes good deeds were investment-light. Giving blood took somewhere around half an hour (it’s been a while, so give or take ten). I lay down for most of the procedure. I ate good food an hour or two beforehand, and the donation centre fed me coffee and biscuits after. They would also give me – I kid you not, it was awesome – a certificate, thanking me for my “Noble Gesture”. I might be a raving bitch most hours of the day and night, but for that half an hour, I was a Noble Girl, who made Noble Gestures.
Suddenly deprived of the quick fix-it to my many insecurities, I felt a bit adrift. I’m making neither correlation nor causation here, but two years passed, and then I went back home and was diagnosed with clinical depression.
This is not a post about clinical depression, so suffice it to say: while I was ill and as-yet undiagnosed, I lost a lot of weight. I looked terrible (yes, it matters) and I felt worse. I was way below the 45 kg minimum requirement for donating blood in India. Fortunately, my mum, dad and grandma made up an elite feeding force, and in time I was pushing 45 kg, give or take a kg depending on whatever it is that makes weight swing like that. While I found it difficult to eat in anything approximating to a schedule, or in amounts that would do anything but keep me alive at safe nutrition levels, I did fantasise about giving blood again. I thought: hey, it’ll be a good deed. I’ll be a good person if I bleed for strangers. I’ll get a certificate! And since only healthy people donate blood, if I donate blood, obviously I’ll be healthy!
That’s when I discovered that my old centre had closed.
My weight seems to swing around 44 kg these days, and I’ve not yet found a centre I feel quite comfortable with (yes, this matters too), so currently I’m somewhat like Lancelot on the quest for the Grail – no one, including myself, will let me in.
But I was thinking about it today, in a park of some description, instead of reading The Trotter-Nama like I’d planned. Over the next few months, I decided, I would:
The longish quote at the start of this post is an extract from a much longer (and much whinier) piece, written somewhere in 2009.
[So I deserve cookies today too, but since I am stuffed with garlic bread and cheese I shall forgo my demands of the universe and just ask for this post to be finished before midnight.
Edited before posting to add: It wasn’t. It’s 12:40 a.m. Next time, I’ll start earlier.]
I’ve never Marched for Pride before – it’s embarrassing to admit it, but I spent two whole years in Bangalore not even knowing they were happening. Where was my head? What was I doing? It’s a mystery. If I hadn’t been accidentally linked to Good As You, I’d never have even really believed there were LGBT people in Bangalore. And let’s not even start on what might have happened if I hadn’t screwed up the courage to go to a meeting – there’d be nothing to start with.
Anyway. I woke up this morning an hour earlier than I intended to because we had visitors. I watched Numb3rs. (Charlie Epps is so cute, etc.) I made careful purchases to ensure I wouldn’t collapse of deprivation while I walked – coke, granola bars, chocolate. (I learned today that granola bars are a dyke thing. Who knew?)
Then I wended my auto’d, expensive way to Majestic, and walked around until I saw a rainbow-coloured umbrella. And then another. Aha, my inner Sherlock said. This might be My People! And they were!
I was a few minutes early, and the actual walking didn’t start for nearly an hour. This was an hour spent socialising and making note of the people I’d met over the past few days and figuring out which ones I absolutely must talk to again because I actively like them. (Yeah, I’m talking about you. Of course I’m talking about you, babe, I love you! and so on.) I find it a little odd, how many people I recognise. It’s not a HUGE community, but I guess certain people show up everywhere – because they’re active, they’re supportive, they’re gutsy, they’re proud, it’s either be seen or roll over and die – what have you. People were putting on the hats and masks and picking out posters and getting their faces painted.
I’d located KRI today, learned I could write about him as s/he if I pleased, watched as he got half a green moustache painted on hir face, and finally decided I too must be painted. There were, as far as I could make out, three people doing the painting. Pallavi, the only person I knew, was busy, so a tiny woman (it is very nice to be in Bangalore, where so many people are shorter than I am) called Francesca dabbled away at my left cheek. I couldn’t see the damn thing, though I had asked for Not Pink, and Whatever You Like, so I assumed it was pretty. Staring forbiddingly at my phone, daring her to think I was falling for her technological allure, I managed to take a photo of it. A small triumph for Machine, a Giant Victory over Roh-kind! (Over the course of the day, loads of people took photographs of said cheek. I shall hunt up a few and maybe put them here.)
So. At some point, when the crowd size and assorted noises (people, auto, loudspeaker, various percussion instruments, horn) reached critical mass – We Marched!
I must admit, I was a bit iffy about this whole marching business. I could ramble on and on about why I was ambiguous, but I shall make a tidy list instead.
To answer some of these questions: I may not be proud of me, but I fucking well am proud of us. I’m not “like” all of these people, but that’s okay, I’m with them anyway. I don’t need the label, but it’s not technically inaccurate, and if it is, I’ll sort it out when I need to, and until then I’ll take a fucking chill pill. I’m not strange, but hey, why not, I’m queer and I’m here. I need to get over it. And oh heavenly gods, a three-hour walk, my feet felt like they’d fall off. (But no worries! They’re still here!)
I moved from the front to the back to the middle and sallied here and there. At one point, I wore a green wig.
I didn’t dance – I did wiggle my hips. Twice. Someone, I forget who, told me I needed to loosen up, but I kept things tight. I took a few photographs. I found most of the people I’ve met over the past few weeks. I held up posters now and again. I hugged. I shared the coke, which was nice of me.
I don’t think I stopped smiling the entire time. Don’t ask me why I was so happy. Why I’m still so happy. We were all fucking high on ourselves, and I swear even the policemen making sure we marched in a somewhat orderly manner cracked a smile every so often.
The Pride website tells me we marched from Tulsi Park (near Majestic bus station) through Anand Rao Circle, Freedom Park and Corporation Circle to Banappa Park. I wouldn’t know – that entire side of town is like the past and another country for me. (Also, I travel a lot by bus, which means I don’t always pay attention to how I’m going where I’m going.)
Well. Well. We got there. By now, even the most hardcore jumpy dancers were flagging. Akkai (Padmashali?) welcomed us all there – dudes, if we go by type alone, there were loads of us! Queer Trangendered F-to-M M-to-F Hijra Kothi Jogappa Gay Bi Lesbian Straight and I dunno what all. At that moment it just felt like there were masses and masses of us, and we were one big mushily loving family. (It is now past midnight on the 29th, and I am back to my charming, cynical, pessimistic self. But at that moment…)
Sumathi from Sangama, Ramesh Babu from the Janatha Dal Secular party, someone from the CSI (?) not sure about this last. Topics of interest were, of course, the Naz judgement, the appeal at the Supreme Court, Karnatakan government decisions to provide more assstance to the transgender community (loans, employment, the lot); and of course the stuff we’re still asking for free Sexual Reassignment Surgery, lower costs for Anti Retroviral Treatments, the right to education and employment, the right to adopt… Sumathi mentioned, and for some reason I remembered this very clearly, more than anything else, that it was imperative that forced marriages be done away with – to force someone to be that miserable is kinda sucky. (She was more heartfelt than this, but I am being briefer than brief.) At some point, Akkai called some of the individual organisers (Tanvi, Siddharth, Amritha, Niruj, Sumathi, the other Siddharth[?]) up on to the stage and garlanded them, which was adorable.
Two friends of mine, J and A, showed up at around this point, not more than mildly shamefaced at having missed the actual walking. But they took me out for food and coffee after, so I forgive them. I was proud enough for all three of us, anyway.
(You will note that today’s post (if you are in fact the sort to note such things) is neither tagged not categorised regarding my various social handicaps. I did very well today, and deserve a cookie. Two cookies! The whole damn box!)
I spent the last two days at home, recharging batteries I didn’t know were drained, which is code for “I stayed in bed and read books and watched Star Trek: The Original Series while dreaming of being girl!Spock and marrying Kirk.” (Shhhh! Don’t tell anyone.) This is what I missed:
a. Queer Words – In essence, poetry. I am not a poetry person. When I am, it’s emo poetry. You know the type, you probably wrote some yourself back when you were thirteen years old. I was thinking of attending a TFA meeting instead, but decided that I could not risk the potential poetry of the event. Someone is going to have to tell me if I missed anything good.
b. LGBT experiences in Karnataka – LGBT activists from smaller cities in Karnataka, as well as rural areas we in Bangalore can sometimes overlook in our urban perspectives, led ‘a discussion on state-wide LGBT activism and possibilites of collaboration’. TN tells me it was a really good discussion, very informative. Also, there was dancing. I’m sorry I missed it, and I guess next time I’ll keep it in mind that I can’t afford to be lazy and hide behind my social nervousness to get out of doing stuff.
But today! Today I put on my Functional Literacy Hat. I ate my vegetables. I girded my loins to go to the Book Readings! Yay!
I got there the teensiest bit early and Helped by sitting at the t-shirts and stickers table for five minutes, selling five t-shirts and one sticker during my monopolistic reign of consumerist terror.
Vivek Shraya was our first writer today, reading out excerpts from his autobiographical collection, God Loves Hair. Shraya details life and love as he grew up, son of immigrant parents in Canada. His reading style was very clear – he’s obviously done this before. I gathered the sense of a bittersweet collection, rooted in a mature nostalgic perspective. I would have bought it if I’d had the cash for it. (500 ruppees! Fat chance.)
Shraya is also an alternative musician of some sort (sorry, Mr. Shraya, I’ll do better next time I blog about you!) and had one very enthused fan in the audience. (He has a lovely voice.) N was jumpily pleased to have met Shraya and got his autographed, and we jumped together to express her excitement. It was fun. Hi, N! I’m hoping I see you tomorrow!
Mahesh Natarajan is a very different sort of writer (for one thing, he has a lot less hair). His voice is, unfortunately, less clear (I always think it a pity when one speaker has a clearer voice than the other. I don’t think I’d notice if it weren’t for the comparison.) For all that, Natarajan’s stories hit a bit closer to home, if only because they’re set a bit closer to home. Natarajan now works as a counsellor (for Swabhava? I think he works for Swabhava).
This was Natarajan’s first reading – I did pick up his book, since the domestic publisher (Gyaana books) priced it at a very comfortable Rs. 165/-. Natarajan’s parents haven’t read the book yet, but his mum says she will. Slowly. The official book launch in Bangalore is happening on the 8th of December, at one of the Oxford bookstores. Apparently Dr. Sekhar Seshadri from NIMHANS will be presiding as guest of honour, which is quite a coup for a book release, it seems to me. 🙂
After which, we broke for tea; I bought a pride tshirt (with the lovely mango logo on it) and I made sure I had pens to spare. (I also did other stuff, but since I didn’t write it down I don’t remember it. Oooh I talked to N for a bit. And I think someone told me he needed to speak to me. Who was that? Damn.)
Part two of this event has no pictures! 😦
Sumathi from Sangama and Swathi from – I dunno where. Damn. I shall find out when Niruj puts up the report tomorrow. Anyway. Swathi and Sumathi chaired the open forum that followed. I took notes sporadically, but I shall type up a basic summary/list of the nearly-three hour multi-pronged conversation that followed:
There was quite a lot more – remind me to talk about the desecration of dead here sometime, since that’s a fun topic of conversation, but these are the bits that stay with me.
After which, I was interviewed by someone doing research on queer women in urban spaces – they bought me dinner! (I’m not sure I should blither their name all over this post, so I shall not.) I felt very important and coherent, though really the interview just reestablished that I am very ambiguous and have no set opinions of my very own.
There’s some sort of Pride Benefit party happening right now – as I type! – set to go on till 2 a.m. T, Niruj, S and co. told me I should come along, but I pooh-poohed and otherwise poured scorn on the idea of partying, and came home.
Tomorrow is the March! I’ll bring my party wrist bands, and see you all at Tulsi Park!
Drama Baazi, the Bangalore Pride website told me, needed me to bring my stories, scripts, ideas, body and voice. Packing these items untidily into my Big Bag For Laptops (I packed my laptop in there, too, as well as books and sundry other items, freaking thing weighed more than I do), I showed up at 1. Shanthi road as close to six as possible. This is not because I was neurotically determined to be punctual, but because I was certain I would mostly meet the same people today I met yesterday. Surely all possible avenues of interesting conversation were broached yesterday? My conversational quiver was empty! Oh noes!
As it happened, there were new things to talk about: S and I exchanged books. I now hold hostage his copy of The City and the City, while he has his claws sunk deep into my Perdido Street Station. We are now officially Book Buddies, which sort of makes up for every social blunder I made today.
An ex-classmate was there. I vaguely remember Thangamma making jewelery in college, but she’s been doing this seriously for over a year now. Thangamma makes jewelery from stuff (technical term) – discarded coins, broken earrings, bottle caps, the lot. The result is casual chic, at nice, friendly rates. I sat and watched her for a bit.
T (ref: last post, where I refer to her as ‘tiny’ a lot) showed up, looking snazzy. She’d read the blog! She objected to being called “Tiny T”, which I didn’t! (I swear. It’s like “Elementary, my dear Watson!” Canonically never happened.) It is her birthday today, by the way, so: Happy Birthday, T! Hope you had a good one, and don’t see this post till late tomorrow morning. 🙂
The actual event took place in the exhibition room. We all dutifully congregated on the chaapes – my padamasana has done yeoman’s service lately – noisy until someone called out “kill the lights! kill the white lights!” which seemed unnecessarily violent to me. S was forcibly reminded of the medieval English custom of drawing and quartering, which must have been very unpleasant for the poor horses. Not to be outdone, I told him that the labourers who died toiling over the Great Wall of China were mixed into the foundations to strengthen them –
– at which bloodthirsty point, the show began.
LesBiT is an offshoot of Sangama, fighting for the advancement of human rights for this particularly invisible community. Musical Chairs is a compilation of various true stories LesBiT has come across over the years. Unfortunately, the skit – it was short, very emotional – was multilingual and had no English. I wasn’t able to follow all of it. In fact, I only really understood the last, Kannada narrative. Two I could not understand at all – so I’ve lost something here. An F-to-M transgendered person, I gathered, was the protagonist/narrator of the third part; he spoke of (again, I am speculating) his discomfort in traditionla female wear, the disrespect he was shown in the streets for not behaving or looking like a “proper” “woman”, the more intimate and mundane issue of going to a public toilet in a bigendered public world… The fourth narrator spoke in Kannada, andreaffirmed my belief that the Kannada word “preethi” is somehow one of the loveliest words for “love”. She loved a girl. The parents didn’t approve. She was forcibly married. She was forced to be a mother. She was forced out of her homes. She turned to sex work. She remembered her first love.
The second play was, again, interlinked short pieces alternating in English and Kannada narratives. Sumathi (from Sangama), Kauveri (she wasn’t here, but I suspect this is KRI in the last post) and Gee wrote the entire set and put it together. We revisted Dr. Srinivas Siras’ suicide, and the collective washing of hands that occured after – I think this section reminded me that the personal might be political, but it is still, most intensely, personal. The next narrative took us into a hijra’s family as they beat her, drugged her, cut her hair off – because she wasn’t being a man. Because. The third narrator is the sister of a victim of honour killing. Such as that is. She describes her sister’s budding, chaste romantic relationship, contrasted with its insanely dangerous risk. The murderers were her own brothers. The last narrative was voiced by Sumathi, with Chitra performing (Chitra was in the first play as well – she and Sumathi have fantastic voices, and Chitra is a strong, dramatic performer). Chitra enacted the strengths and vulnerabilities of a woman who didn’t want to be “her” but “he”. Parted from the woman he loves, scorned by society, beaten, hurt…
All the plays, all the narrators, whether I understood them or not, remind me that confession can be strong, it can be cleansing; it can also be a very lonely thing, a great deal to bear until it is done. And there are so many of us out there who are lonely, or hurt, unhappy. I wish we had some happier confessions today. Just for the reminder.
Fuck this, I’m changing the subject. The venue for the past two days has been 1 Shanthi road. It’s a studio gallery that provides living space and a gathering space for artists. It’s all for creativity and cutting edge art, and it has a very laid-back, calm feel to the place. If I were an artist, I’d want to drop by. (They have a swing on the veranda! Baby, I’m sold!)
I forgot to talk about Queer Ink yesterday! Queer Ink is an online bookstore and publisher, specialising in us highly unusual people, or whatever we multitudinally want to call ourselves. There’s been a table of books from QI for sale the past two days, and I think there will be for the next few events as well. There’s a nice-ish selection, meant to tease, to make you go to the website and browse for fuller fare. My personal favourite sort of marketing.
I hung out with Thangamma for a bit, watching her make an anklet – it’s soothing, really, those quick, repititive motions making this complicated-looking shiny thing – and then I left when she got inundated with potential customers. (Go, Thangamma, go! Do that capitalist thing! [I need to learn to cheer. And swear. And slang.])
A good day, all in all.