Apr 21, 2018
This past weekend, I kissed a beautiful girl with freckles in the back of my car as we sweated off our clothes in the 97 degree heat. It was the closest thing to heaven I have known. By ZAHA CHEEMA Art by Opashona Ghosh
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This past weekend, I kissed a beautiful girl with freckles in the back of my car as we sweated off our clothes in the 97 degree heat. It was the closest thing to heaven I have known. By ZAHA CHEEMA Art by Opashona Ghosh
Delhi Celebrates Its 10th Pride Parade!
Queering Desi is a podcast that celebrates the unique experiences of South Asian LGBTQ+ people. Each week, a guest will chat with long-time community activist, writer, and long-time editor Brown Girl Priya Arora
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Today, I feel like celebrating love. In a world where immigration status dictates travel plans, salaries derail dream career paths and holding my partner’s hand on a subway elicits fear or retribution, I want to fiercely protect my partner. I want to hold her close, shield her from those who would harm her, and spend my days whispering words of encouragement in her ear.
Priya Arora
In this episode, Priya chats with artivist, actor, producer and writer, Fawzia Mirza. Fawzia shares how she's managed to infuse comedy into her art, breeding the "artivism" that fuels her. Later, the two chat about "Signature Move," Fawzia's first feature film.
Find Fawia Mirza here!!
By Shayxme
I give her the rose with unfurled petals. She smiles and crosses her legs. I give her the shell with the swollen lip. She laughs. I bite and nuzzle her breasts. I tell her, ―Feed me on flowers with wide open mouths, and slowly, she pulls down my head. I give her the rose
Suniti Namjoshi
I felt myself blooming. The tips of myself shivering. Wondering. If your mouth was a puzzle piece. If watercolor would dye silt. If I could pull you in with a skein of silk. I waited: and I promised the water that spilled from me was pure. My fault, I know. My hands open to the wrong light. Two fingers; opening, flapping, furling— turning convoluted inwards, intestines in the muck, mired in the thick deep place— I had to find my own roots. And even then. Only from below I dreamt you swaying. Vivid, languid, soft- burning. Skin warm to my touch.
Art by Opashona Ghosh Poem by SAGAREE JAIN