A new anthology of writings from south Asia celebrates marginalised voices

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The political notion of being queer, Ali goes on to explain, refers to the umbrella of identities and genders that belong to the LGBTQ+ community, including people who are questioning, curious and non-binary. Speaking for himself, Ali says, "I am 'queer' for two reasons -- because I am gay and because my body -- a half-Pakistani body by law if not by blood or ancestry -- lies outside the mainstream of what the mother country now considers acceptable."

By radically extending the definition of queer beyond its familiar connotations of sexual and gender identities, Ali sets the tone for the diverse voices that feature in this anthology.

The contributors come from India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Nepal and Pakistan, along with writers from other parts of the world who mentored them in workshops organised by The Queer Muslim Project (TQMP) in 2023-24. Founded in 2017, TQMP celebrates the power of queer storytellers from underrepresented communities in South Asia.

The intersection of religion, politics and identity in their lives adds layers of complexity to their writing, bringing out nuances that aren't always visible in the mainstream. Even as the pieces deal with questions of faith and sexuality, they aren't just psychological triggers. Rather, these themes allow for eclectic experiments with form and style.

The first anthology of queer writing in India, Yaarana, edited by Hoshang Merchant, came out in 2011. The fact that it was subtitled Gay Writing from India and mostly had men from privileged backgrounds acting as representatives of an inherently heterogenous community of people should give us a sense of the many miles LGBTQ+ activism in South Asia has travelled in the realm of arts and culture in the last two decades.

Thanks to the efforts of entities like TQMP, as also encouraged by the decriminalisation of LGBTQ+ people in India, we have a generation of writers who are speaking out loudly and proudly about the uniqueness of their lived experiences. The best part is that their stories don't dwell solely on the trials of their sexual and gender identities (though there are several of those, too). Rather, they grapple with the quotidian realities of being in love, or pursuing a love interest, the heartbreak that comes from rejection or at the end of a relationship -- feelings that can affect any human being, queer or not.

In Birat Bijay Ojha's story, Darjeeling and Desires, the protagonist Nabin sets out on an impromptu trip to Darjeeling with Bikash, a stranger he meets on a dating app. The two men indulge their mutual attraction with gleeful abandon. "Body mine, and body his, as fate would have it found faith in each other," Nabin says, the pun on fate-faith deliciously capturing the wicked freedom of being who they are.

In a darker piece, How to Start a Romance Novel, Darius Stewart describes a betrayal, as imagined by the protagonist in aching detail. Sorrow Letters by Rukman Ragas is presented as a break-up email, cleverly punctuated with scholarly commentary.

Some of the best pieces in the collection are by Amama Bashir -- subtle, angular, yet also delicately humane. In Nissa, a mother-daughter relationship is pitched against the gendered norms of the society they live in. Hassan Bhai, told from two contrasting perspectives, is a sharp insight into what it means to be gay and working class, especially when your religion considers it a sin. In Darling, Kiran Kumar gives us a glimpse into another moment of parental reckoning as a father is faced with a lesbian couple playing professional cricket on TV.

While most of the pieces bring with them maturity and gravitas, a couple of entries sit somewhat uncomfortably. Adnan Sheikh's The Beauty and Complexity of Being Queer and Muslim, earnest and heartfelt as it is, reads like a college application essay rather than a fully marinated piece of creative writing. The poetic experiments by Knecho, a Bangladeshi writer, don't always land, either in terms of form or content. Be that as it may, the weaker pieces are more than compensated by the queer brilliance of the best ones, such as Maggie Millner's beautifully melancholic poems.