Gender ink- Beyond the Spectrum

About Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, and rest of the spectrum fits right in on Earth. As the young minds of this world grow older, they are also growing up in a world full of possibilities- a world where ‘gender’ means far more than male and female, more than the roles they are expected to occupy, more than the strict binary of one or another.

Gender Ink is an exploration into this world and all it has to offer. Here, we throw off everything we think we know, and relearn what it means to be human.

Welcome.

This week we look into sexuality, gender expression, and a community that stands Proud even in the face of adversity.

And we stand with them!

on the house notes from our classmates

lit AF!

carefully picked literature by the literary Gods

much ado news at its best!

editorial

a small note by our editors

ink recommends handpicked recommendations of the best plays and movies ever!

On The House -Kavya Vashista

Pride And No Prejudice

Edited By: Tanisha Mehta

I walked into the pride march like I have for the past three years anticipating something different and providing support to all those people who are brave enough to be different. So, I painted myself with the happy colours of the rainbow and wished everyone “Happy Pride”.

The dhol played as loud as the voices of people as the colourful crowd marched through the roads dancing and cheering, making people roll down their car window and fish out their phones, to get a glimpse of the unusual.

After all, it was the most fashionable protest that anyone had ever seen in Mumbai. The unique bright costumes were calling for attention, “NOTICE US, WE EXIST”.

One of my favourite Banners read ‘’Being straight was my phase’’.

This year there were more than 14,500+ supporters marching for the liberation of the rights of their fellow citizens openly challenging the law that is clearly unjust.

It was heart-warming to see so much love, acceptance and support in one place. For once, it seemed like all of the violence and hatred had been put to a halt, and everyone remembered the importance of love and freedom. You could hear people chant “Kaunsa law hai sabse badtar? Teen sau satattar, teen sau satattar” As I marched through the roads alongside such wonderful people, II thought about my queer sister whose tremendous contribution to the community has made a big difference. I couldn’t be anything but proud of her.

I definitely did not expect it be so emotionally overwhelming. All I hope is for more people to come and support the community for there to be a community at all. #ItGetsBetter

Lit AF! -Saumya Kaulgud & Suraj Subramanian

Whom You Love –Joseph O. Legaspi

“Tell me whom you love, and I’ll tell you who you are.”

– Creole Proverb The man whose throat blossoms with spicy chocolates Tempers my ways of flurrying Is my inner recesses surfacing Paints the bedroom blue because he wants to carry me to the skies Pear eater in the orchard Possesses Whitmanesque urge & urgency Boo Bear, the room turns orchestral Crooked grin of ice cream persuasion When I speak he bursts into seeds & religion Poetry housed in a harmonica Line dances with his awkward flair Rare steaks, onion rings, Maker’s on the rocks Once-a-boy pilfering grenadine Nebraska, Nebraska, Nebraska Wicked at the door of happiness At a longed-for distance remains sharply crystalline Fragments, but by day’s end assembled into joint narrative Does not make me who I am, entirely Heart like a fig, sliced Peonies in a clear round vase, singing A wisp, a gasp, sonorous stutter Tuning fork deep in my belly, which is also a bell Evening where there is no church but fire Sparks, particles, chrysalis into memory Moth, pod of enormous pleasure, fluttering about on a train He knows I don’t need saving & rescues me anyhow Our often-misunderstood kind of love is dangerous Darling, fill my cup; the bird has come to roost.

Lihaaf [The Quilt] -Ismat Chughtai

Translated from Urdu by M. Asaduddin In winter when I put a quilt over myself its other possessions and promptly forgot shadows on the wall seem to sway like an her. The frail, beautiful Begum wasted elephant. That sets my mind racing into the away in anguished loneliness. One did labyrinth of times past. Memories come not know when Begum Jaan’s life becrowding in. Sorry. I’m not going to regale gan— whether it was when she commityou with any romantic tale about my own ted the mistake of being born or when she quilt. It’s hardly a subject for romance. It came to the Nawab’s house as his bride, seems to me that the blanket, though less climbed the four-poster bed and started comfortable, does not cast shadows as counting her days. Or was it when she terrifying as the quilt, dancing on the wall. watched through the drawing room door I was then a small girl and fought all day the increasing number of firm-calved, with my brothers and their friends. Often supplewaisted boys and delicacies begin I wondered why the hell I was so aggres- to come for them from the kitchen! Besive. At my age my other sisters were busy gum Jaan would have glimpses of them in drawing admirers while I fought with any their perfumed, flimsy shirts and feel as boy or girl I ran into! This was why when though she was being raked over burning my mother went to Agra she left me with embers! Or did it start when she gave up an adopted sister of hers for about a week. on amulets, talismans, black magic and She knew well that there was no one in other ways of retaining the love of her that house, not even a mouse, with which straying husband? She arranged for night I could get into a fight. It was severe pun- long reading of the scripture but in vain. ishment for me! So Amma left me with One cannot draw blood from a stone. The Begum Jaan, the same lady whose quilt Nawab didn’t budge an inch. Begum Jaan is etched in my memory like the scar left was heartbroken and turned to books. by a blacksmith’s brand. Her poor parents But she didn’t get relief. Romantic novagreed to marry her off to the Nawab who els and sentimental verse depressed her was of ‘ripe years’ because he was very even more. She began to pass sleepless virtuous. No one had ever seen a nautch nights yearning for a love that had never girl or prostitute in his house. He had per- been. She felt like throwing all her clothes formed Haj and helped several others to into the oven. One dresses up to impress do it. He, however, had a strange hobby. people. Now, the Nawab didn’t have a Some people are crazy enough to cultivate moment to spare. He was too busy chasinterests like breeding pigeons and watch- ing the gossamer shirts, nor did he allow ing cockfghts. Nawab Saheb had contempt her to go out. Relatives, however, would for such disgusting sports. He kept an open come for visits and would stay for months house for students—young, fair and slen- while she remained a prisoner in the der-waisted boys whose expenses were house. These relatives, free-loaders all, borne by him. Having married Begum Jaan made her blood boil. They helped themselves to rich food and got warm stuff he tucked her away in the house with his

for themselves while she stiffened with cold despite the new cotton in her quilt.

As she tossed and turned, her quilt made newer shapes on the wall but none of them held promise of life for her. Then why must one live? ...such a life as Begum Jaan was destined to live. But then she started living and lived her life to the full. It was Rabbu who rescued her from the fall.

Soon her thin body began to fill out. Her cheeks began to glow and she blossomed in beauty. It was a special oil massage that brought life back to the half-dead Begum Jaan. Sorry, you won’t find the recipe for this oil even in the most exclusive magazines. When I first saw Begum Jaan she was around forty. She looked a picture of grandeur, reclining on the couch. Rabbu sat against her back, massaging her waist.

A purple shawl covered her feet as she sat in regal splendour, a veritable Maharani.

I was fascinated by her looks and felt like sitting by her for hours, just adoring her.

Her complexion was marble white without a speck of ruddiness. Her hair was black and always bathed in oil. I had never seen the parting of her hair crooked, nor a single hair out of place. Her eyes were black and the elegantly-plucked eyebrows seemed like two bows spreading over the demure eyes. Her eyelids were heavy and eyelashes dense. However, the most fascinating part of her face were her lips— usually dyed in lipstick and with a mere trace of down on her upper lip. Long hair covered her temples. Sometimes her face seemed to change shape under my gaze and looked as though it were the face of a young boy... Her skin was also white and smooth and seemed as though someone had stitched it tightly over her body.

When she stretched her legs for the

massage I stole a glance at their sheen, enraptured. She was very tall and the ample flesh on her body made her look stately and magnificent. Her hands were large and smooth, her waist exquisitely formed. Rabbu used to massage her back for hours together. It was as though getting the massage was one of the basic necessities of life. Rather—more important than life’s necessities. Rabbu had no other household duties. Perched on the couch she was always massaging some part of her body or the other. At times I could hardly bear it— the sight of Rabbu massaging or rubbing at all hours. Speaking for myself, if anyone were to touch my body so often I would certainly rot to death. Even this daily massaging was not enough. On the days she took a bath, she would massage the Begum’s body with a variety of oils and pastes for two hours.

And she would massage with such vigour that even imagining it made me sick. The doors would be closed, the braziers would be lit and then the session began. Usually Rabbu was the only person allowed to remain inside on such occasions. Other maids handed over the necessary things at the door, muttering disapproval. In fact—Begum Jaan was afflicted with a persistent itch. Despite using all the oils and balms the itch remained stubbornly there. Doctors and hakims pronounced that nothing was wrong, the skin was unblemished. It could be an infection under the skin. “These doctors are crazy...

There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s just the heat of the body,” Rabbu would say, smiling while she gazed at Begum Jaan dreamily. Rabbu! She was as dark as Begum Jaan was fair, as purple as the other one was white. She seemed to glow like

heat iron. Her face was scarred by smallpox.She was short, stocky and had a small paunch. Her hands were small but agile, her large, swollen lips were always wet.

A strange, sickening stench exuded from her body. And her tiny, puffy hands moved dexterously over Begum Jaan’s body— now at her waist, now at her hips, then sliding down her thighs and dashing to her ankles. Whenever I sat by Begum Jaan my eyes would remain glued to those roving hands. All through the year Begum Jaan would wear Hyderbadi jaali karga kurtas, white and billowing, and brightly coloured pyjamas. And even if it was warm and the fan was on, she would cover herself with a light shawl. She loved winter. I, too, liked to be at her house in that season. She rarely moved out. Lying on the carpet she would munch dry fruits as Rabbu rubbed her back. The other maids were jealous of Rabbu. The witch! She ate, sat and even slept with Begum Jaan! Rabbu and Begum Jaan were the subject of their gossip during leisure hours. Someone would mention their name and the whole group would burst into loud guffaws. What juicy stories they made up about them! Begum Jaan was oblivious to all this, cut off as she was from the world outside. Her existence was centred on herself and her itch.

I have already mentioned that I was very young at that time and was in love with Begum Jaan. She, too, was fond of me.

When Amma decided to go to Agra, she left me with Begum Jaan for a week. She knew that left alone in the house I would fight with my brothers or roam around.

The arrangement pleased both Begum Jaan and me. Afterall she was Amma’s adopted sister! Now the question waswhere would I sleep? In Begum Jaan’s room, naturally. A small bed was placed

alongside hers. Till ten or eleven at night we chatted and played “Chance.” Then I went to bed. Rabbu was still rubbing her back as I fell asleep. “Ugly woman!”

I thought. I woke up at night and was scared. It was pitch dark and Begum Jaan’s quilt was shaking vigorously as though an elephant was struggling inside. “Begum Jaan...,” I could barely form the words out of fear. The elephant stopped shaking and the quilt came down. “What’s it?

Get back to sleep.” Begum Jaan’s voice seemed to come from somewhere. “I’m scared,” I whimpered. “Get back to sleep.

What’s there to be scared of? Recite the Ayatul kursi.”* “All right...” I began to recite the prayer but each time I reached ya lamu ma bain... I forgot the lines though I knew the entire ayat by heart. “May I come to you, Begum Jaan?” “No, child...

Get back to sleep.” Her tone was rather abrupt. Then I heard two people whispering. Oh God, who was this other person? I was really afraid. “Begum Jaan...

I think there’s a thief in the room.” “Go to sleep, child... There’s no thief,” this was Rabbu’s voice. I drew the quilt over my face and fell asleep. By morning I had totally forgotten the terrifying scene enacted at night. I have always been superstitious—night fears, sleepwalking and sleep-talking were daily occurrences in my childhood. Everyone used to say that I was possessed by evil spirits. So the incident slipped from my memory. The quilt looked perfectly innocent in the morning.

But the following night I woke up again and heard Begum Jaan and Rabbu arguing in a subdued tone. I could not hear what they were saying and what was the upshot of the tiff but I heard Rabbu crying. Then came the slurping sound of a cat licking a plate... I was scared and got

back to sleep. The next day Rabbu went to see her son, an irascible young man.

Begum Jaan had done a lot to help him out—bought him a shop, got him a job in the village. But nothing really pleased him. He stayed with Nawab Saheb for some time, who got him new clothes and other gifts; but he ran away for no good reason and never came back, even to see Rabbu... Rabbu had gone to a relative’s house to see him. Begum Jaan was reluctant to let her go but realised that Rabbu was helpless. So she didn’t prevent her from going. All through the day Begum Jaan was out of her element. Her body ached at every joint, but she couldn’t bear anyone’s touch. She didn’t eat anything and kept moping in the bed the whole day. “Shall I rub your back, Begum Jaan...?” I asked zestfully as I shuffled the deck of cards. She began to peer at me.

“Shall I, really?” I put away the cards and began to rub her back while Begum Jaan lay there quietly. Rabbu was due to return the next day... but she didn’t. Begum Jaan grew more and more irritable. She drank cup after cup of tea and her head began to ache. I again began rubbing her back which was smooth as the top of a table.

I rubbed gently and was happy to be of some use to her. “A little harder... open the straps,” Begum Jaan said. “Here... a little below the shoulder... that’s right...

Ah! what pleasure...” She expressed her satisfaction between sensuous breaths.

“A little further...,” Begum Jaan instructed though her hands could easily reach that spot. But she wanted me to stroke it. How proud I felt! “Here... oh, oh, you’re tickling me... Ah!” She smiled. I chatted away as I continued to massage her. “I’ll send you to the market tomorrow... What do you want? ...A doll that sleeps or wakes up as you want?” “No, Begum Jaan... I don’t

want dolls... Do you think I’m still a child?” “So you’re an old woman then,” she laughed. “If not a doll I’ll get you a babua*... Dress it up yourself. I’ll give you a lot of rags. Okay?” “Okay,” I answered.

“Here,” She would take my hand and place it where it itched and I, lost in the thought of the babua, kept on scratching her listlessly while she talked. “Listen... you need some more frocks. I’ll send for the tailor tomorrow and ask him to make new ones for you. Your mother has left some dress material.” “I don’t want that red material... It looks so cheap,” I was chattering, oblivious of where my hands travelled.

Begum Jaan lay still... Oh God! I jerked my hand away. “Hey girl, watch where your hands are... You hurt my ribs.” Begum Jaan smiled mischievously. I was embarrassed.

“Come here and lie down beside me...”

She made me lie down with my head on her arm “How skinny you are... your ribs are coming out.” She began counting my ribs. I tried to protest. “Come on, I’m not going to eat you up. How tight this sweater is! And you don’t have a warm vest on.”

I felt very uncomfortable. “How many ribs does one have?” She changed the topic.

“Nine on one side, ten on the other,” I blurted out my school hygiene, rather incoherently. “Take away your hand... Let’s see... one, two, three...” I wanted to run away, but she held me tightly. I tried to wriggle out and Begum Jaan began to laugh loudly. To this day whenever I am reminded of her face at that moment I feel jittery. Her eyelids had drooped, her upper lip showed a black shadow and tiny beads of sweat sparkled on her lips and nose despite the cold. Her hands were cold like ice but clammy as though the skin had been stripped off. She had put away the shawl and in the fine karga kurta

Her body shone like a ball of dough. The heavy gold buttons of the kurta were open and swinging to one side. It was evening and the room was getting enveloped in darkness. A strange fright overwhelmed me. Begum Jaan’s deep-set eyes focused on me and I felt like crying. She was pressing me as though I were a clay doll and the odour of her warm body made me almost throw up. But shewas like one possessed. I could neither scream nor cry. After some time she stopped and lay back exhausted. She was breathing heavily and her face looked pale and dull. I thought she was going to die and rushed out of the room... Thank God Rabbu returned that night. Scared, I went to bed rather early and pulled the quilt over me. But sleep evaded me for hours. Amma was taking so long to return from Agra! I had got so terrified of Begum Jaan that I spent the whole day in the company of maids.

I felt too nervous to step into her room.

What could I have said to anyone? That I was afraid of Begum Jaan? Begum Jaan who was so attached to me? That day Rabbu and Begum Jaan had a tiff again.

This did not augur well for me because Begum Jaan’s thoughts were immediately directed towards me. She realised that I was wandering outdoors in the cold and might die of pneumonia! “Child, do you want to put me to shame in public? If something should happen to you, it’ll be a disaster.” She made me sit beside her as she washed her face and hands in the water basin. Tea was set on a tripod next to her. “Make tea, please... and give me a cup,” she said as she wiped her face with a towel. Okay?” “Okay,” I answered.

“I’ll change in the meanwhile.” I took tea while she dressed. During her body

massage she sent for me repeatedly.

I went in, keeping my face turned away and ran out after doing the errand. When she changed her dress I began to feel jittery. Turning my face away from her I sipped my tea. My heart yearned in anguish for Amma. This punishment was much more severe than I deserved for fighting with my brothers. Amma always disliked my playing with boys. Now tell me, are they man-eaters that they would eat up her darling? And who are the boys?

My own brothers and their puny, little friends! She was a believer in strict segregation for women. And Begum Jaan here was more terrifying than all the loafers of the world. Left to myself, I would have run out to the street— even further away! But I was helpless and had to stay there much against my wish. Begum Jaan had decked herself up elaborately and perfumed herself with the warm scent of attars. Then she began to shower me with affection.

“I want to go home,” was my answer to all her suggestions. Then I started crying.

“There, there... come near me... I’ll take you to the market today. Okay?” But I kept up the refrain of going home. All the toys and sweets of the world had no interest for me. “Your brothers will bash you up, you witch,” She tapped me affectionately on my cheek. “Let them.” “Raw mangoes are sour to taste, Begum Jaan,” hissed Rabbu, burning with jealousy. Then Begum Jaan had a fit. The gold necklace she had offered me moments ago flew into pieces. The muslin net dupatta was torn to shreds. And her hair- parting which was never crooked was a tangled mess. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” She screamed between spasms.

I ran out. Begum Jaan regained her senses after much fuss and ministrations. When I

peered into the room on tiptoe, I saw Rabbu rubbing her body, nestling against her waist. “Take off your shoes,” Rabbu said while stroking Begum Jaan’s ribs. Mouse-like, I snuggled into my quilt. There was a peculiar noise again. In the dark Begum Jaan’s quilt was once again swaying like an elephant “Allah! Ah!...” I moaned in a feeble voice.

The elephant inside the quilt heaved up and then sat down. I was mute. The elephant started to sway again. I was scared stiff. However, I had resolved to switch on the light that night, come what may. The elephant started fluttering once again and it seemed as though it was trying to squat. There was sound of someone smacking her lips, as though savouring a tasty pickle. Now I understood! Begum Jaan had not eaten anything the whole day. And Rabbu, the witch, was a notorious glutton. She must be polishing off some goodies. Flaring my nostrils I scented the air. There was only the smell of attar, sandalwood and henna, nothing else. Once again the quilt started swinging. I tried to lie down still but the quilt began to assume such grotesque shapes that I was thoroughly shaken. It seemed as though a large frog was inflating itself noisily and was about to leap on me. “Aa... Ammi...” I whimpered courageously. No one paid any heed.

The quilt crept into my brain and began to grow larger. I stretched my leg nervously to the other side of the bed to grope for the switch and turned it on. The elephant somersaulted inside the quilt which deflated immediately. During the somersault the corner of the quilt rose by almost a foot... Good God! I gasped and plunged into my bed.

Ismat Chughtai

Much Ado -Rifat Syed

Kashish 2017 The Mumbai Queer Film Festival

The Kashish Mumbai International Queer Film Festival was held from May 24th to 28th this year. It was India’s first LGBT festival. In the festival, over 147 films from 45 countries, were screened. They covered the diversity of global LGBTQ lives and their experiences.

Discussions on asexuality, LGBT parenting, polygamy and disability were also planned.

The venue for the fest was the Liberty cinema, Alliance de Francaise and Max Mueller Bhavan.

It was inaugurated by Hollywood actor Ian McKellen and Sonam Kapoor. Sir Ian was the chief guest at the inaugural ceremony.

When asked about his experience in Mumbai, Sir Ian said, “It was five years ago when my best friend asked me to come to India because his husband is Indian. We came with an ex-boyfriend of mine from New Zealand and we went to Rajasthan. We looked for gay population everywhere. We couldn’t find you because you were hiding in Mumbai.”

Kashish struggled for support from sponsors.

Many people were still not open to idea of the festival as same-sex relationships are still frowned upon or considered to be a taboo in the society.

The festival director Sridhar Rangayan said,“ Every year we bite our nails hoping we’ll pull it off”.

In this edition of the festival, the ‘country in focus’ was Brazil with the festival screening 11 films from the country. The competition section showcased 41 films that were judged by an international jury panel which comprised National Award-winning actress Rajeshwari Sachdev, television actor Manav Gohil, filmmaker Parvathi Balagopalan, theatre director Kaizaad Kotwal and Andrea Kuhn.

The closing night of the Kashish Mumbai International Queer Film Festival had Asif Ali Beg, the celebrated and supremely talented theater actor, playing the role of a perfect drag queen with a performance that left the audience spell bound. Swara Bhaskar who was also present spoke eloquently about the need to integrate the civil rights movements of all those who are suppressed.

The American film Those People closed the festival. The festival proved to be a major success and achieved its goal of empowering and spreading awareness about the LGBTQ community.

Editorial -Suraj Subramanian

How This Adorable Little Gay Family Made My Day Every Halloween.

When we look at the U.S that once was and the U.S that exists now, we see that the nation has gone from an overwhelming majority of people who were against same sex marriage to a gradually increasing majority supporting same sex marriage. In 2015, same sex marriage became the law of the land, which means that all 50 states in the U.S have finally recognized the rights of people to marry anyone they want to without their sex being a condition.

What changed their minds, though?

Will & Grace, Modern family and B.D Wong, Matt Bomer & Simon Halls, to name a few. It was watching multiple people who were gay on television and in real life and being able to relate to them as people who face problems in their everyday lives, just as we do. Looking at people as humans.

Stories have the power to break through the walls of hate and ignorance that divide us into different ethnicities, cultures, races and nationalities because of the simple fact that they hit us at the human level.

So, when Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka post this adorable picture in costumes of pop culture caricatures on social media during Halloween, they are probably just having fun, minding their own business. But to me, they are showing this world of men that they too, get to choose each and every member of their own family and live a happy life.

There is hope, because our country too will soon see gay people as just people - Humans. Humans who could be their friends, colleagues, neighbours and family sharing the same past and the same culture as they do!

Ink

Recommends Living in these dark times, it has become of paramount importance for us to voice ourselves openly and against what clearly seems inequitable. And besides, what better a way could there be than to do this through theatre?

“The theatre was created to tell people about the truth of this world life and social situations.”

-Stella Adler

Diverse as a rainbow, it is enormously difficult to recommend plays about the LGBTQ community, making it nearly impossible to represent every single kind. And it doesn’t even end there! When you begin to consider the cornet socio political scenario in India, you realise that was just the start of the intricate kaleidoscope that the community really is.

And so, here is my best attempt at handpicking works of playwrights from different parts of the world through the eyes of time.

Cock (2009)

Yes. You read it right. But it is not exactly what you think, and is far from being a sensational erotic live action version of a Mills and Boons novel. The play is a sharp, witty study of a man helplessly torn between his longtime male partner and a loving woman. As if his new-found bisexuality wasn’t scary enough, he is now called upon to choose one or the other.

Can he have both?

Actors (Prabhal Panjabi) and (Manish Ganhi) in an Indian Production of the play that performed at Thespo13 (2011)

Hedwig And The Angry Inch (1998)

It’s been 20 years since this play was conceived but nothing about this play has lost it’s relevance.

The play is a is a rock musical about a fictional rock and roll band fronted by a transgender East German singer, Hedwig Robinson who narrates a story about how she met a certain guy named Tommy Gnosis.

If you are privileged enough to watch this play, sit on the first row.

You don’t want to miss a lap dance by Darren Criss!

Neil Patrick Harris as (Hedwig) from the Broadway performance of the play in 2014

Bent (1979)

The rumours about the concentration camp for Gay men in Chechnya makes this play even more relevant today than ever before.

Bent is a play about the persecution of gays in Nazi Germany. The story revolves around this man who tries to do everything in his power to avoid getting a pink triangle, the worst nightmare for any Gay male living in Nazi occupied Europe.

Martin Sherman (Playwright), Paul Rhys (Rudy), Sean Mathias (Director), Ian McKellen (Max), Michael Cashman (Horst) from the 1990 production of the play.

Suraj Subramanian (Editor) Saumya Kaulgud (Editor) Tanvi Jani (Designer)

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