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everytime i settle down in my skin and start to feel safe, kolkata reminds me that women are never safe. ever. anywhere.

I have been staying in my place for four years now. it’s like 10 minutes of walk from Ranikuthi. a place i have felt relatively safer to navigate. i see other trans women and queer couples here in public, late night walks are serene and uneventful, often i finish my work and walk back home at around 1 am at night and never have i ever had to face any untoward behaviour except a few persistent offer for lifts from various men.

that changed this diwali. i didn’t get assaulted per se. but i didn’t feel safe. i didn’t feel carefree. i had to be alert and almost ran back to my apartment.

i got done with my work on 3rd at around 2 at night. i wasn’t worried about the time because these kinda times are normal for me. accounting for diwali i was expecting a little bit of life on the roads, and i wasn’t disappointed.

as i started walking back to my place, i started going through the learnings of the day and the task list for tomorrow. i was quite deep in thoughts so it took me a little while to realise two men on a sports bike had been circling me. they have been going in front of me, waiting for me to cross, and then slowly overtaking me and waiting patiently for me to come up and pass by again. i got more concerned once i started paying attention to what they were saying. it seemed the one driving was more excited and the pillion one was not. he had been busy texting. i could hear stuff like, “ki tight figure banra”, “mai gulo ki thatiye achhe, amaar haate fit hoye jaabe bol”, “oi pod ta ki dulchhe shala”, along with a little whistling, and making the bike growl and what not. last time they passed me before stopping their bike before a signal which was green, i heard one of them asked the other to ask me for a ride and i can sit in the middle of them two.

i missed having a cigarette in my hand. i’m not new to these comments. in most scenarios i pay no heed to them. but this is different, i’m alone, and i wouldn’t be able to do anything if they approached me. not like having a cigarette would solve the issue, but in my experience men prefers to not approach women who smoke openly for soliciting, they want us to smoke in the bedroom, not in public. i have previously made a habit of walking while smoking for precisely this reason.

before i could finish thinking what i would reply if they do become persistent about giving me a lift, one more bike with three more men came and joined them and an argument ensued. the bikers from the new bikes started hurling abuses to the driver of the first bike. “jekhani jabi sudhu magibaji”, “sobsomoye nongrami koraar dhanda”, “chup chaap onnoder disturb kora bondho kor, amader saathe chol.” the dude tried to say stuff like, “tora erokom keno korchhis? amar ta ami bujhe nebo”

at this point i crossed them, crossed the road, and was out of earshot. i couldn’t hear what they were talking about anymore. i know it was about me because i was the only woman in the road, there were a few more drunk uncles scattered around the road, minding their own business, drunk out of their mind. after i crossed the crossing, i have automatically started strutting, i couldn’t breathe, i couldn’t see anything around me anymore. i didn’t even realise when i started running, until the next day when a local neighbour asked me why i was running back home last night.

i wasn’t touched. i wasn’t slapped on my butt. i wasn’t dragged by my hand. i wasn’t felt up by groups of men. i wasn’t elbowed. which, in the four years i have been living in kolkata has happened multiple times except the year i shaved my head and became a shut in.

but i haven’t felt terror like this in years, since i got sexually assaulted in a taxi in last year february. i just couldn’t make it stop and get out. i felt helpless then as i felt utterly hopeless now. may be it is because of how things are right now. i think it’s kinda funny how if i die tomorrow on the road while sucking a dick or just because i chose to walk home at night, the people who would be in the forefront of the protests would be some of the people who had touched me up, or made me unwelcome in their space, or even actively tried to hamper my livelihood. i think it makes me lose hope in the world a bit. i think it makes me question all the work i am doing. and the absolute terror that i talk so much about this community, yet if something to happen to me at late night, almost no one would be available for help.

when i was doing the mental health workshop in chiang mai, i had a small breakdown in front of the facilitator as i was telling her how i am not built for the cities. when i got back to my home, all i could think about was how i can’t wait to run away from here. never to come back, never to talk to anyone i have known here, as i cried and cried and cried till it was almost morning.

you know, i tell myself it wasn’t as bad as some of the things i had to go through, they didn’t even touch me. it was just a possibility that thankfully didn’t come to pass. but for me and many like me, things like this will keep happening, and more often than not, more than we care to agree, or to accept ourselves, these possibilities will get realised and many of them will get escalated.

i’m tired. i’m honestly exhausted. i am at my wits end. i am lonely. i don’t got energy to write fun stuff. you all who are happy please go on write romantic stuff. i’m only gonna say what pops up in my head.

“অমর কাব্য তোমরা লিখিও বন্ধু যাহারা আছো সুখে”

The problem isn’t the name of the institution (school, college, company, non profit, home,...). It is how almost all spaces are structured hierarchically. With the power to oppress, to violate, to dominate being assigned to specific posts/status. We need to imagine new configurations for our lives, our work, workplaces. Where we are not dominated and bullied nor do we dominate and bully others. Bullying is not just commonplace amongst school/college students, grown ups in positions of power are bullying openly, harming people and careers, and preventing work because of their stupidity, arrogance, pettiness, and spite.

We need to learn to see how power operates. How it sustains and reproduces oppressive structures.

Of course, the colour, the plumpness, the pressure...the give. But beyond analysis, is a feeling of knowing. I just know. Or, at least, I feel that I just know. Sometimes I am wrong.

How do you?

I was going to the health camp organised by a community-based organisation on the Human Rights Day (Dec 10). I took the metro from Tollygunge to Dum Dum. The metro was already crowded when we boarded. I was standing near the door, holding an overhead grab-handle.

There was a woman standing by the door in front of me. I noticed that she was wearing a green kurti, pink sweater, and duppatta. I was wearing a green salwar-kurti with dupatta. Our eyes met and I passed a smile. She smiled back. But then she looked at me, puzzled. Then burst out in a laugh (not a boisterous laugh, no sounds, but a laugh that was mocking me). She looked away, then looked at me, and then laughed again. I asked her, in English, “Are you ok?” She said, “yes, I am OK.” I was annoyed. I stood more firmly, looking glassily straight ahead. Her eyes scanned my body and my chest. Then she laughed again. She started communicating with a similar-aged man standing across from her. They were traveling together. He was wearing brown slacks and a patterned deep blue button-up shirt. He looked a bit embarrassed. I had a bag slung over my shoulder and a water bottle in my hand. I clutched them tightly. She could see that I am uncomfortable. She laughed openly at me now.

I wondered what I should do? Doing nothing or moving away did not seem like an option. What happens if I protest? What's the chance that people might beat me up? Would I be able to handle it if this situation escalates? I felt alone.

The train was crowded. A couple of men standing beside me were noticing what is going on. I whispered loudly. “oshobho.” She scanned my genital regions with her eyes and laughed. “Rude.” I said more loudly, “Lajja kore na ei dhoron’er byabohar korte?” The man she was talking to called her to his side. She went and clung to his hand. She laughed again, and started talking to him about me. Everyone around could hear her talking about me. He wasn’t engaging, but she continued to try to get him to also make fun of me. It had been about 10 min since the journey started. It felt like an hour. I looked at the men beside me and said “ki dhoron er oshobhota, dekhuun” Their faces were like stone. But her boyfriend sternly told her to shut up. She complied but was angry at him. 

It felt a sort of victory, and I started smiling. She then started to quarrel with him about other things. Quarrelling with her companion was her way of registering protest. Seeing her cling to him and quarrel with him at the same time, I felt kinda sad. It felt like she was trapped in his protection. It felt so strange. We could have been friends, right? We could be collaborators on challenging patriarchy? And here we were, both protected by a man.

I'd love you a kind of love that goes unspoken Like a grave unnoticed By fox kits playing over them in bliss.

And those wild foxes bleed music from their veins As their feet graze Against the sweet hawthorns you planted for me When we found ourselves drenched in the soft summer rain That soon turned into a hailstorm of huge calamity. Without clarity, I lost you.

You were lost in my lies, While I wasn't there with you.

You should have been singing I should have been listening.

They search deep for a sweet Soulful sound that melts the ears, And years of time pass for them to meet The avalanche of emotions That sorrow brings into the threshold Of our skies where lies impatient Boreas and all the love that his mournful soul Has to offer to this willful ignorance of a childish heart.

Like a child I leap and scream your name into the heavens Where spark-birds fly limitless into the arms of Life

And you, among those rimless clouds, my love Smile back at me like I'm the treasure that you hunt And not me who searches a shelter by your irridescent feet

When my wounds are fresh enough to rise above the clouds of your empty vocal sounds, I'll know my chase for cowardice and its shadow began with the fool's halo. I need to know how cotton was made with my hair and alive was the forest inside your heart that was shrieked by the sounds of thunder and drum rolls outside the window.

Hysterically, the cadavers are cropping into your bones like stitches of woolen yarn, and you are smoking the snow smelling earth as if you are ashen by your winter. You don't know your name and not your blooming monstrosity, but it's rising flames into the loins of your empty bosom and as if you function as humane as nature you are puking bile.

I am not thinking about you but you are flashing in front of my eyes like faeries and nymphs on feast and inside the claustrophobic walls of my cosmopolitan house I find you the ghosts of English past. The fireplaces are so burnt with coal and wood painting the red on bricks and yet,

you flash like the sorcerer of my life, and yet, this is my monstrous cosmopolitan forests and the walls keep shrinking.

I fear that someday this hallucination of the past is all my today exists with truth. And when tomorrow I open my eyes it's a blank canvas so bright that even my shadow scares my soul to set a foot on earth. Maybe, I am thinking too much with nothing concrete but my city around me. But the cold shrine of winter moon on the swimming pool feels like slithering reptile scales, and I am soaked in all vile liquid and I am consuming it like a supple and galloping meat with a mouth and no air to fill vacuum space in me.

If someday you vanish from the throbbing cells of my antelope brain, and truth is not poison of my morning juice, and breakfast tastes like bakery in all its bloom, will I know my name and the sews I stitched on my gaping wounds, would seem like paper cuts of childhood games?

You have no mouth on your face now, and I don't remember you crook of nose but your spiraling eyes like the storm of the seas, resemble enough to the turbines of the laundry room, and I am staring too deep into the glass cages of whirlpooling fabrics as if you are looking at me, asking me tricks of your existence. And never when my spring break comes, once again, I set my eyes outside the door, hoping a drop of rain would fall on me and it would smell like the joy of soil, sorrows of the sky and ending all hopes of the sun to rise into the oblivion. Just like it used to when days were juvenile and trees were saplings. They needed sun. The sun couldn't face them because the skies wailed horribly.

I name you Michelangelo. You created me this pretty when I was soil and calcium of bones. But you are no artist and flawed like him. I call you so because in the history of my glory your existence will be mammoth. I am me, because you saw me then. But you'll be lost and barely remembered except your creation, the stapled scars of prude boyhood, and so lost will be your face, like so mouthless it is. Soon your eyes will be crawling with maggots and you will be consumed. Rotting the rotten, you'll be into the soil; in the calcium I came from, yet you'll be acid, and churning into the wheel of your eye; and I'll never look at the hullabaloo of soft fabrics in the laundry room. You'll be Michelangelo; forgotten and remembered; and I'll be the paintings of Rome, talking tales of mythology as if you built me in a day.

Attitudes of people in front of me They shape me They inherit me Behaviours of souls I observe Treatment I don't deserve They impact me Ideas of myself from far within Call out their name It's my name in their mouths And theirs in mine Their minds in mine They listen, I listen They talk, I talk I get tired of pretending They find comfort in projecting I become them And they become me Reflections of me in the clearest water surface Lost and lonely The need to belong The desire to be understood To be loved And cared for To be taken seriously I become me, thus A mirror of my own self

TW/CW: graphic mentions of rape, sexual abuse and death & mourning

The death of my mother’s daughter haunts the city park. Autopsy was done, she was lying by the curb Her womb was blood Cervix torn Later she was killed Emptying the cervix that labored for her. The death of my mother’s daughter made me question Why was I my mother’s daughter? Why was I killed?

The dead body of my mother’s daughter Lies beside my motionless mother Not a tear Not a life In those eyes, Eyes that once had rage A rage I once Used to share.

Where was my father? Why was he not here? For I was a corpse lying Not the princess Whose world he conquered.

The death of my mother’s daughter Pained me more, as I lurked Like the gust of air. My life was lost, What I left was despair.

No boy, no lover No crime, not any violence A kill had occurred And an act unfair Who would you blame? Who would you name? Who would you call out Label him insane, He who never was Bereft to make the claim?

The death of my mother’s daughter Killed a few more Alive they looked While only I was who burned. No rage was cooler than that pyre No screams were calmer than those flames No life was better than those ashes

The death of my mother’s daughter, Quicker than the rape of mine. Would you call it a crime? Would you sleep on my shine As my body was agile Voice seemed fine, Yet Night and day Body and mind, Ruins of toils Chafing my loins, Ruins of toils Calling me to spoils.

The death of my mother’s daughter Was an end I desired For my mother perished Why a daughter Why a maiden Why no omen Why no evil Why her cradle Left so barren Why her husband Sobbed no spoken Why her daughter A tragic token, She wept And mourned enraged, My mother’s daughter left no trace For all the perils To her devil entrails Burned with ashes Neither evils nor remains No just crime could ever pertain.

My father’s daughter had died in vain A conqueror so vague Loss beguiled the pain in might Not life, nor light No home of mine My father’s daughter had died, And in death I couldn’t even smile.

আমার একটা বাড়ি আছে। সেই বাড়িতে আছে, আমার বাবা; রোব্বারে সে কাগজ পড়ে, সারা সপ্তাহ সে হিসেব করে। বাড়ির রান্নাঘরে ভাসে মায়ের বানানো মশলার গন্ধ এবং তার ঝাঁজে বিরক্ত আমার মা। আমাদের এই ছোট্ট তিন কামরার ফ্ল্যাটে সুখ শান্তি, ঠাকুরের প্রসাদের মতই সাধারণ মনে হয়।

না না! প্রসাদ বলতে সন্দেশ, জিলিপি বা পায়েস না।

আমাদের সুখ হলো নকুলদানা ও মিছরির মত গৌন, এবং তাতে নতুনত্ব বলতে বাতাসা বা কিশমিশই মুখ বদল। সহজে পাওয়া যায়। চাহিদা কম তো তাই। হয়ত তাই জন্যেই প্রসাদের মিষ্টত্ব না রোচে মনে, না লাগে জিভে। ডাল ভাত ও খিচুড়ির মতো স্বল্প সুখে ভ্রূকুটি দেখিয়ে পিঁপড়ের বেগে জীবন কাটাই আমরা।

আমার ঘরের ভেতরটা একটা আস্ত জগৎ। রাত্রিবেলা সেটা অন্যরকম এক ব্রহ্মান্ড। সেখানে আমি একা; আছে ঠান্ডা হাওয়া, অগোছালো বিশৃঙ্খলতা, চুপচাপ এক মুখ, মৃদু একটা গানের আওয়াজ, সুনসান রাস্তার ব্যাস্ততা, ও অফুরন্ত নিস্তব্ধতা। ঘুম ও সকালের রোদের সেখানে বেশ বন্ধুত্ব। অনিয়ম, বেনিয়ম, ঠিক, ভুল; সবটাই সেখানে আড়ি-ভাব। ভূত-ভবিষ্যৎ সবটাই সেখানকার বর্তমান।

বিশেষ কিছু বলার থাকে না আমাদের এই বাড়িতে। অথচ সুখের নকুলদানা বিচিত্র কোন কারণে, কমে গেলেও, একেবারে নির্মূল কখোনই হয়না।

In my head I have imagined you laugh twenty different ways, yet I am confused, exactly which one fits your cheeks and the tint of your lips, the baritones of your voice, and the tingles of my stomach. Astonishingly I am thinking all these at an hour so busy but I, I... desperately need to think about you or my head would explode worse than a jackfruit in summer and putrid than its smell. And then I am in front of the mirror, and I see my tangled hair and my bright eyes; somehow, I feel you would call me sweet despite my disheveled state. You'd clasp me tight in your arms and I would be gasping; I'd like it too. Our hands are red and far; and it's fine as poetry ‘cause how they fit together when we would pretend lovers, as if it was real and all the eyes knew what we were. Together we would feed the cats and now, how they roam around my feet asking for the stains, tainted, painted, on my hands, the red from your veins.

Body so numb, as heat is only to receive for last, it held; those hands that held you. Yet, Tonight, I can see you pale and blue in the reflection, along with my dolled face, a bun up high; and hands unstained, manicured in French. And forgetting everything, I run towards you, witnessing your existence once again, despicably trying to haunt this fine afterlife. But... You are endless, and the ghost of everything I slouched away from; pulped it into arson and burned it all. Yet, you stand in front of me, mosaicked in the shades of every good byes I ever swore... Yet, You stand in front of me, and I can't think of you. True like a corpse, as I remember you, just as we danced, every stain like the mulberry spots; ugly freckles of horror; you are a ghost and a story. Which I buried, bare, and banned. Gone, are you! So, with the smoke of my fireplace, let me extinguish; all the soul that stands dead to me. And tomorrow when I wake up, I'll eat my cereal with bliss, and breathe my name, all over this abode; smiling in Lolita.

Deep beyond the wild blue yonder There is no over and there is no under The stars they shine like jellyfish at play And the sun rises beneath our feet by day The Sun rays filter through the gaps in our fingers And there is a gentleness thereafter that lingers Until the Moon takes her rightful place in the dark Whereby gently through a lullaby upon an adventure we hark

Two dead animals lie beside one another One inside a cage and the other out One loved once, Saw the day once, Kissed the clouds once. And the other never breathed, Never opened his eyes, Never even spoke. The one inside sleeps in eternal peace. He's calm, soft, cuddly. The one outside had seen better days. The one outside could have had it better. All she wanted was water. All she wanted was air. The one inside never was alive and never will be. And the one outside once was, but now it won't be. The one outside was killed By the makers of the one inside. They took away her air, Her water, Her flight, Her feathers. They tried giving all of that to the one inside. But no matter how much they tried, He wouldn't bark, He wouldn't sniff, He wouldn't love. He would be loved by the young ones of them to come And then one day he would wear and tear and gather dirt Out of neglect of the same creators that tried to give him life. He will never know the taste of freedom as he burns in the incinerator. When his time is long gone, When he has overdone his stay. And that's when the one outside will laugh From high above. She was alive once. She breathed once. She would laugh in agony and anger, And disdain and hunger. She would know the wrath of nature and how it treats those children Who have overdone their stay. She would know it because she was her one of her children She would know it, because she is her.

Turtle Shells

Note: I write in one flow that ends up with alot of different things. I find solace in my writing format which is scattered and unstructured. Its likely that everything will not be understood or communicated well (grammatical errors that i missed), i will be happy to share what i meant.

I named myself Ellgie for a reason; and I keep justifying its meaning for me, the impression I had. I am aware its too much to handle if i say an insta reel gave it more meaning. Some of you might have seen this diary i have with text I wrote, “Abhiti, Ellgie/Ell, I will get more names and still remain nameless”. I am not quoting whats in a name. But the name Ellgie for me, comes from fear that I wish to cherish fully at some point. Presently its questionable if I own it; I am on a spree of claiming it. I am in no hurry to reach there because the reel i mentioned, opened more ways to look at it. https://www.instagram.com/p/C5WFMsjOPSN/ – Read the caption. Sometimes its easy to decipher nature's way of looking at you. The most non-judgemental, warm and cosy, like home. Nature is alot of things for me and not just plants and animals; its everything that earth is providing, beleiving in human conciousness and ofcourse humans are proving them wrong. What it did for me! Its encouraging me to ask for support, to say i feel lonely some days, to cry out in front of people if i want, express my displeasure and so much more as it progresses. I think of community not as a unit; i remember we were taught whats community and its everywhere you belong. I wrote somewhere that community and social work doesn't function together because for one there are feelings involved and other is limitation on what can be offered. Ohh! and another way to look at is how 'I and us' is in community and 'they' in social work. For me Ellgie is Algae (unicellular, there is so much diversity that they can grow on land and water, there is no ancestor, doesn't need another set of chromosome to reproduce – Wikipedia). Little explanation to that is alone works for me, i will exist, no lineage to carry-anwerable to no human and i can have cats without me producing them but they are still my kids. Every possible thing where i am not attached to anything, anyone – alone is accepted. Althought, what a turtle shell does, baffled me to a point where I was almost questioning, how can just ask for some person to be present when i am in need and vice versa. I can offer help when asked and i can ask for help. It isn't easy but i am striving for it. And thats where community works, not sure if social work really offers the same support of love, empathy, you are annoying but i care for you, showing up, not bound by labels or relationships. Names speak alot for our identity, mine generating from queerness in me and that surrounds me. You don't always know, what brings meaning to your existence. And thats where i see myself being hopeful for microseconds.

my god what a journey it has been. Recently, second season of Lady Parts dropped, and OMG what an explosive season this has been.

from the brilliant mind of Nida Manzoor comes the desi diaspora representation I wish I had in my childhood. it is brilliant because it doesn’t claim to be a portmanteau of desi culture, but it focuses more on the identity of the second and maybe third generation of the diaspora. they ARE british, but their baggage of being brown without pandering to people living in global south has been superbly executed. it is also the experience of being muslim. and the diverse cast has been able to put up something heartfelt that tugs at your heartstring.

the first season has been mindblowing. I have discovered it because i keep looking for offbeat series, and then Nida debuted her feature film – Polite Society, and to see desi women doing action while donning anarkali has healed something in me i never thought needed healing.

But Lady Parts is something else altogether. Western studios suck at making musicals, let alone musical TV shows, Glee is kinda okay, but by no means that can be used as a standard. But Nida, with her understanding of bollywood brings something refreshing and fun to the genre that often stays underused.

Anjana Vasan has been making big splashes in the world of western multimedia world for some time.we saw her in small roles in Spiderman: Far From Home, and in Sex Education, and post the first season of Lady Parts, she had important and main roles in the last season of Killing Eve and Black Mirror respectively. and if you are coming here after watching her there, it would be very difficult to place her character Amina, but once you give it a bit of time, she fits the role of girl-next-door, goody-two-shoes, boy-crazy Amina perfectly. Her comedic timing is extraordinary, and not surprising given her theatre background. and her narration keeps the pace of Lady Parts very exciting.

I have couple issues with the second season of Lady Parts, one of them being Mumtaz’s growth, it felt Mumtaz records became a success overnight, and had no issues getting a space, which from the past narrative for season one and half of season two, makes no sense. it felt quite rushed and unrealistic. the other part being Amina going back to the obviously toxic brother of Ayesha, Ahsan. i hope there is vindication in season three, or I will throw hands.

season two perfectly depicts the struggle of indie groups and musicians, and how predatory mainstream record labels can be. It has been already established the record labels have been fuck all to say the least. multiple legendary musicians has died penniless and/or on the streets because of their predatory practice. Even though it was a short stint, those practices are clearly visible in the few episodes. the outcome was quite expected tbh, Lady Parts doing something similar like radiohead or arctic monkeys fit perfectly as a British alternative rock group. Despite that, it was extremely fulfilling to watch.

It has pretty amazing queer rep too. both Ayesha and Saira are queer, and it is clearly visible there. Ayesha’s very lesbian relationship has progressed quite a lot, and the interpersonal struggles have started to bubble up. I expect to see more of that in the coming seasons. i can’t help but feel that Saira would be trans masc adjacent, and i think that would be amazing avenue for Lady Parts to explore. a tboy from the diaspora would also be one of the first representations in western media.

i want more of Lady Parts, and i’m not satiated enough. i want more episodes too, and i want more shows featuring the struggles of diaspora in different formats, like Lady Parts, or Man Like Mobeen. tbh, kinda would love to see Guz Khan or Shazad Latif in Lady Parts hehe. would be pretty amazing.

Take me back to the time when you were just an alphabet

Its bizarre.

I had no idea a simple letter, a mere alphabet, would hold this much volume in my letters.

You have no idea either. Probably never will.

I miss back when L was just an alphabet. Now it occupies more than half of my notes, my patterns to the folders of you, the passwords to my door, my heart.

And while you're just a kilometre away from me, i can't help but think what will happen if I just go up to the office in my pyjamas and talk with you about what's kept you up there for so long.

You'll ask how I got to leave so early and I'll tell you all about my day. Even the anxiety attacks too.

We'll go to your favourite spot for dinner, mine for dessert. And I'll come back to my hostel in that horrid bike of yours, but enjoy the ride. My hands in your hair. Yours on my hips. Ah, I'm a hopeless romantic. And a tortured poet.

But if you asked, said come, let's go. I'll leave all my half burnt writings, my clothes with your thoughts woven in them, my books with your name on them, I'll leave it all and blindly follow you. For you're the fire, I'm just a stupid moth.

Seriously though, what would you do if I came right this instant to the office?

Hi, I am Alo.

I am a 20-something trans Bengali butch, living in Kolkata, India. We are an endangered species.

I ramble about books and media and representation and other seemingly ~asinine~ things that people have told me are frivolous pursuits. I use dating apps to talk about eco-feminism and intersectionality with other queer desi people, as there is no gay bar in my neighbourhood that caters to middle-class socially anxious trans sapphic folk like me. I also like writing love poetry and melancholic, slightly wistful romances about Bengali girls in love and Bengali trans queer kids in Catholic School.

I feel like I have been given a key to Pandora's box with this blog, and thus, my friend has unleashed a monster. You will be subject to my poetry, and you WILL read my opinions. I hope you will listen to what I have to say. Sometimes, my ramblings might even make sense.