issue one
கலவர
/kələʋəɾəm/ KALAVARAM noun. riot, revolt, disorder
issue one: queerness
@zinedabaad
cover art by Vaibhavi Garge [Inspired by Namdeo Dhasal's Speculations On A Shirt]
queer love saranya subramanian love me like you’re my father not my daddy but my father of whom i am a part enter me become part of me love me like crocodiles love humans like my blood is all you need to live drink up before they catch us love me through the air so we can make love with the surface of our skins as summer burns our bodies let my eyes penetrate your sockets and let the last two strands of your hair lick my knuckles caress my beard caress my breasts
love me in the most natural way you know how
art by Shubhshree Mathur
Queer Kavya Rajeev Queer. Could it be any less clear? Liking you. Liking me. Hers and hers. His and his. What is Sexuality? What is? Pan, I could be? Bi? Gay? This could be a discussion. But oops, we're forbidden. Girls! Stay in the kitchen. Mend yourselves. Wait for the men, they’ll normalise aggression “Boys will be boys” But we love them, no matter. Anything different? They'd say it's unnatural. You'd hear your grandmother, your neighbour from two doors down, wailing to the tune of the bhajan, Namo, Om Namo— Oh shit, we forgot. They'd asked for a definition. Trans. Pan. Bi. Gay. LGBTQABCDXYZ. Yay.
Here come the slurs. 'A phase: a distinct period or stage in a process of change or development.' Change? Development? You’d think. “When you’re older, you’ll see” I’m 23. My choice of women, Who are you to tell me? Here comes the drone of incoherent rambling, What will people think? Your cousins, the cashier at the store? Times of India? God forbid, no one more. He’s not telling me. No, He’s telling me, and I won’t let you. Let you, let me, let you, become a sin. Queer? What's that? I'll give you two slaps. Let me see you love a boy in good health. Get you a job. Lay out your life, those Jenga blocks, into a steady (straight) tower. That's when I'd be prouder than the pride you throw at me. Queer? Let me be clear. To be a daughter of mine, you cannot choose a love this insincere.
Art by Kriti Balwani
Untitled Isha Saxena Does covering up sometimes feel like dressing down? Does flying high sometimes feel like it's wrong? Does a glance at my reflection sometimes feel like you’ve been a stranger all along? When you say you knew me before Why do I scoff? I've only just met myself How could you have known me all along? Maybe we're crossing limits Lines that are not ours to step out of Maybe we're erasing ourselves Trying to fit inIn a colourblind world Eroding ourselves Trying to be who we're not When we try to break free of your moulds, Bathe in the colours we want to Why does it make you feel insecure? Why can’t we become who we want to be?
Why is everything only black and white for you? When it's a waving rainbow for me; Why is everything rigid as stone for you, when it's fluid and malleable for me? Are you looking for something as you read this? Are you looking for someone? An identity, a label? A sign from the past? Or a name you can call me now? Why? Why are you looking for me now? Now, When I just don't want to be found.
art by Ameya Menon
Change roshan royman The change sought should be that of a flower: a seed exuding readiness; a sprout unfurling towards the sun; a blossom thrusting its petals outwards, bursting into existence. A change fashioned without anyone else. Not for the birds that drink from it. Nor the butterflies that caress it. Or the gardener that admires it. Don't change for them. Ever. Let them be drawn to you, Let them root for you. Resemble the flower that knows only itself. That is your change.
purple paper flower it rests, tucked in my hair— Its stem, a coiled staff of green, its snug lavender infused within my soul, the crisp aroma of crepe suddenly suffocates. that is the advantage of purple paper flowers they relish in the spectacle of their sweet coarse callousness no need to spill out from a crack in the sidewalk, no urges to be blown, away— that is the advantage of flowers which just won't wither you trick yourself into thinking they are celibate maniacs, you trick yourself into thinking that they have a choice, and you choose to forget instead that fingers which probe the meticulous folds of purple paper flowers are prone to a lethal papercut.
Hetvi Jethwani
art by Abigail Ziesemann @abigatorart
Van gogh by numbers shaarvari shreenath I am painting a painting. And although it is my own hand an extension of me, holding firmly the wooden handle, running the soft bristles patiently, fastidiously over the page, the painting is not mine. But I bought it didn’t I? Do all paintings come with instructions? With rules? With numbers that inform how hands should move? I am told to pick blue, so I paint with blue. Darken all the evens, lighten all the odds. Colour within the lines— focus, don’t wander. A deadline. A ticking clock. Van Gogh by Numbers. Rs. 550. When did this stop being about me?
I’m half done, equal parts still un done, when it hits me. I feel like I am on the precipice of an irrational impulse— (can it be any other way?) —Is it what I’m meant to do? Or has my conscious mutiny been charted, already? “A masterpiece in hours” the box boldly proclaimed. I deliberately scoop a dollop of yellow. The voice in my head protests as I dabble the sky with sunshine. I depart from the lines that attempt to dictate the delicate strokes that I am to make. I think, that there is something fundamentally wrong when things come that easy. A wrongly numbered rebellious rainbow now stands proudly where prescribed pigments previously did. And I regret nothing.
art by aadhyaa udawat
poem of gentleness shivranjana rathore Gentle. Soft. Kind. (Love?) Gender is a strange construct. Even when you try, even if you believe, the binary s n e a k s its way into your life.
Gender norms speak about yin or yang, male or female. Much like the world’s understanding of good or bad, right or wrong. Like the caste and class division, it all boils down into a separation. Tell me first, why is gentle such a scary word?
Why is its imagination, the strength of its soft power, picked on? Why is gentle slotted as feminine, right after it's brushed off? You see how it splits us? strong weak stoic emotional detached warm male female I wanted to tell you stories of my father's softness. His deep, gorgeous eyes welling up one morning at the station, His sitting focused to peel mangoes on summery Sundays, his tranquillity. I wanted to tell you stories of my mother's courage. Her instinctive ability to think on her feet to protect, her will to never give up even as her kitchen caught on fire one afternoon, her strength.
I wanted to tell you stories of my brother's frail heart. His love for fashion, His awkwardness while ordering takeaway at McDonald's, his lightness. I wanted to tell you stories of my stoicism. My love for adventure, my unlearning the learnt fear of vulnerability that lived in my body as self-loathing. My ability to beat all odds. But instead, I think I want (you) to remember softness strength hope unease weakness bravery femininity masculinity gentle soft kind love exist beyond moral binaries of separation.
Art By Isabel Vaz
ﺟﯿﺴﮯﮨﯿﺮوں ﮐﮯزرزﯾﻮر ﻣﯿﮟ ،اﯾﮏ ﭼﺎﻧﺪی ﮐﺎ ﺟﮭﻤﮑﺎ وﻣﺎ ﺷﺎہ
ﺟﯿﺴﮯ ﮔﻼ ﺑﻮں ﮐﮯ ﺑﺎغ ﻣﯿﻦ ،اﯾﮏ ﺳﻮرﺟﻤﮑﮭﯽ ﻣﯿﮑﺪے ﮐﮯان ﺳﺎﮔﺮوں ﺟﺎم ﻣﯿﮟ اﯾﮏ ﮔﮭﻮﻧﭧ ﭘﺎﻧﯽ ﺟﯿﺴﮯ اﮐﺘﻮﺑﺮ ﮐﮯﻣہﯿﻨﮯ ﻣﯿﻦ ﺑﮯ ﻣﻮﺳﻢ ﺑﺮﺳﺎت رﻧﮕﻮں ﮐﮯڈﺑﻮں ﻣﯿﮟ ،اﯾﮏ ﻣﺮﻣﺮی ﺳﻔﯿﺪ رﻧﮓ ﺟﯿﺴﮯہﯿﺮوں ﮐﮯزرزﯾﻮر ﻣﯿﮟ ،اﯾﮏ ﭼﺎﻧﺪی ﮐﺎ ﺟﮭﻤﮑﺎ ﻣﺨﺘﻠﻒ ہﻮں ﺳﺎری رواﯾﺘﻮں ﺳﮯ ،ﺧﯿﺎﻟﺘﻮں ﺳﮯ ،اﻟﮓ ہﻮں آزﻣﺎ ﮐﺮ ﺗﻮاﯾﮏ ﺑﺎردﯾﮑﮭﻮ ﮐﻮﺋﯽ ﻏﯿﺮ ﺣﺎل ﺷﺪﮦ ﭘﮭﯿﻠﯽ ﻧہﯿﮟ ہﻮں زﺑﺎن ﺷﺎﯾﺪ اﻟﮓ ہﮯ ﮐہﺎﻧﯿﺎں ﺷﺎﯾﺪ اﻟﮓ ہﮯ دﻧﯿﺎ ﮐﻮ دﯾﮑﮭﻨﮯ ﮐﮯ ﻧﻈﺮﯾہ اﻟﮓ ہﮯ ﻣﮕﺮ ،اﯾﮏ ﺳﯽ ہﯽ ہﻮا ہﻤﺎری ﺳﺎﻧﺴﻮں ﻣﯿﮟ ہﮯ ﺗﻢ اور ﻣﯿﮟ ہﺮ ﺷﺐ اﺳﯽ ﭼﺎﻧﺪ ﮐﻮ درﯾﭽﮯ ﺳﮯ ﺗﺎﮐﺘﮯ ہﮯ ﻣﻮﺣﺒﺖ ﺑﮭﯽ اﺳﯽ ﮔہﺮاﺋﯽ ﺳﮯ ﮐﺮﺗﮯ ہﮯ ّ اور ﺟﺬﺑﺎﺗﻮں ﮐﮯ ﺳﯿﻼب ﺑﮭﯽ دل ﻣﯿﮟ ﭼﮭﭙﺎے ﺑﯿﭩﮭﮯ ہﮯ درد زﺧﻤﯽ ﺗﻤﮭﯿﮟ ﺑﮭﯽ ﮐﺮﺗﺎ ہﮯ ،ﻣﺠﮭﮯﺑﮭﯽ ﮐﺮﺗﺎ ہﮯ ﻣﮕﺮ ﺗﻮ ﺻﺮف زﻧﺪﮔﯽ ﮐﯽ دل آزاری ﮐﺎ ﻧﺸﺎﻧہ ہﮯ ﻣﯿﮟ اﯾﮏ زﻣﺎﻧﮯ ﮐﮯ اﺗﺎﺑﻮں ﮐﺎ ﺷﮑﺎر ہﻮں ﯾہ ﺣﻖ ہﯽ ﻟﮍاﺋﯽ ﺗﻮﻧﮯ ﺑﮭﯽ ﻟﮍی ہﮯ ،ﻣہﯿﻨﮯ ﺑﮭﯽ ﻟﮍی ہﮯ ﺑﺲ ﺗﯿﺮی آزادی ﮔﮭﻮڑوں ﭘﯽ ﺳﻮار آﺗﯽ ہﮯ ﻣﯿﺮی ،ﮐﭽﮭﻮے ﮐﯽ ﭼﺎل ﭼﻠﺘﯽ ہﮯ
ﻣﺨﺘﻠﻒ ہﻮں اﻟﮓ ہﻮں، ﺧﯿﺎﻟﺘﻮں ﺳﮯ،ﺳﺎری رواﯾﺘﻮں ﺳﮯ ﺳﻤﺠﮭﻨﮯ ﮐﺎ اﯾﮏ ﮐﺪم ﻟﯿﮑﺮ ﺗﻮ دﯾﮑﮭﻮ ﮐﻮﺋﯽ ﻣﺸﮑﻞ رﯾﺎﺿﯽ ﮐﺎ ﺳﻮال ﻧہﯿﮟ ہﻮں ﻣﺪاوا ﻧہ ڈﮬﻮﻧﮉو ﮐﻮﺋﯽ ﺑﯿﻤﺎری ﻧہﯿﮟ ﯾہ ﻣﯿﮟ ﺑﮭﯽ ﺧﺪا ﮐﮯ ہﺎﺗﮭﻮں ہﮯ ﺑﻨﺎ اﺳﮑﺎ ﺗﺨﻠﯿﻖ ہﻮں، ﺟﯿﺴﺎ ہﻮں،ﺟﻮ ہﻮں
Heeron ke zar-zevar mein, ek chandi ka jhumka. Vama Shah Jaise gulaabon ke baagh mein, ek surajmukhi, Maikade ke inn saagaron jaam mein, ek ghoont pani. Jaise October ke mahine mein be-mausam barsaat, Rangon ke dibbon mein, ek marmari safed rang. Jaise heeron ke zar-zevar mein, ek chandi ka jhumka. Like a sunflower in a field full of roses, A thirst-quenching sip of water among these glasses of wine. Like unexpected showers in October, A marble-like white crayon in a box full of colors, Like a silver earring among diamond jewelry.
Mukhtalif hoon. Saari riwaayaton se, khayaalaton se, alag hoon. Aazma kar toh ek baar dekho, Koi ghair-hal-shuda paheli nahi hoon. I am different .Distinct from all these traditions, from all these beliefs. But I am not an unsolvable riddle, try to understand me once. Zubaan shaayad alag hai, Kahaaniyan shaayad alag hai, Duniya ko dekhne ka nazariya alag hai. Magar, ek si hi hawaa hamari sanson mein hai, Tum aur main, Har shab ussi chand ko daareeche se taakte hai, Mohabbat bhi ussi gehrai se karte hai, Aur jazbaaton ke sailaab bhi dil mein chhupaaye baithe hai. Our languages may be different ,Our stories might be different, The way we look at this world is a bit different. But we breathe the same air. You and me, gaze every evening at the same moon, love with the same intensity .And we both hide in our hearts, a flood of emotions.
Dard zakhmi tumhein bhi karta hai, mujhe bhi karta hai. Magar tu sirf zindagi ki dil-aazaari ka nishaana hai, Mein ek zamaane ke itaabon ka shikaar hoon. Yeh haq ki ladaaii tune bhi ladii hai, maine bhi ladii hai. Bas teri azaadi ghodon pe savaar aati hai, Meri, kacchuye ki chaal chalti hai. We both have been wounded, but your pain stems from the cruelties of life and mine, from the anger of this society. We both have fought for our rights ,but your victory comes riding on a horse and mine, slowly walks like a tortoise. Mukhtalif hoon. Saari riwaayaton se, khayaalaton se, alag hoon. Samjhne ka ek kadam lekar toh dekho, Koi mushkil riyaazii ka sawaal nahi hoon. Mudaavaa na dundhon koi bimaari nahi yeh, Jo hoon, jaisa hoon, main bhi khuda ke haathon hi banaa uska ek takhliiq hoon. I am different, From all these traditions, from all these beliefs. I am not some complex mathematical equation, make an effort to learn me once. Don't try and find a cure, this unusualness is not a disease, This is who I am, how I am. The same God has molded me, For even I am one of his creations. (Urdu transliteration by Garima Rastogi)
art by Kritika Srivastava
hamein chahiye tha milna Parveen Shakir
hamein chahiye tha milna kisi ehd-e-meherbaan mein kisi khwab ke yaqueen mein kisi aur aasmaan par kisi aur sarzameen mein We ought to have met, in another time, in pursuit of attainable dreams, below a different sky, upon a different earth.
Art By Bhavya Sharma
[inspiration for the editors]
Pledge Amrita Pritam (1959; originally written in punjabi) Engraved with the lines of agony My palm enshrines a pledge: The line of faith outstrips The line of years. You enquire How long my love will live, Teach not love the habit of speech, For who has yet learnt how to hear? Love prospers without the wealth of words. My breath is at the mercy of my body And can any time cease. But the incription of our love On the breast of time Can never be erased. Hir is no imitation of Laila, Nor Majnu the model of a Ranjha. Love does not repeat its story— its every page is fresh and unparalleled. The arrow of anguish Pierces the palms and the tips of my fingers; But somewhere on the lacerated fringes A hope is awakening to life. I swear by the purple morning The waves of the Chenab are not my end. Engraved with the lines of agony My palm enshrines a pledge: The line of faith outstrips The line of years.
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