Aditya Tiwari is a poet, writer, and queer activist from Jabalpur whose collection of profiles of queer people, Over the Rainbow: India’s Queer Heroes (Juggernaut) was published earlier this year, and he strongly believes that not all hope is lost for queer writing in India.
In the last 25 years, the country has seen great strides in its LGBTQ+ movements and it can be said with pride that queer writing is firmly out of the closet. However, greater acceptance and inclusivity remain missing in the publishing space, Tiwari noted. With two books published and more to come, the poet-writer-activist hopes to fill this vacuum and make South Asian queer literature a more vibrant genre. Excerpts from a conversation with Scroll:
Looking back at your literary journey, how would you say your writing has evolved? For instance, what were the motivations behind writing April is Lush and then Over the Rainbow? What do you hope its impact will be?
My journey into poetry started at the age of 19, almost accidentally. A year earlier, I had fled to New York with aspirations of studying. The experience gave me a taste of the brutal realities of the world and drastically altered my worldview. After six months in New York, I returned home [Jabalpur, Madhya Pradesh], uncertain about my path.
That uncertainty led me to writing, as poetry began to flow from my heart after months of extensive reading and I started writing all that I was carrying inside my heart. I used Tumblr to share my writings as it was extremely popular back in the day. I started receiving a lot of appreciation and a friend at that time encouraged me to publish a book and that is how April is Lush came to be.
In retrospect, the journey seems nearly impossible, considering my lack of background in writing or academia. However, a steadfast belief in myself remained constant. Navigating the publishing process, from understanding manuscripts to designing book covers, was a unique learning experience. The book is presented as a diary entry, which encapsulates the sentiments and assurance I wanted to hear as a young person in Jabalpur, which no one said to me.
Contrary to my initial expectations, April is Lush garnered considerable acclaim. Parmesh Shahani hailed it as a “brilliant new debut,” and it found acknowledgement in Lambda Literary. Today, it resides at the Centre for Studies in Gender and Sexuality at Ashoka University, surpassing my original dreams. Over the years, countless young people have written to me on social media to tell me how it has resonated with their experiences.
This year marked a shift from poetry to nonfiction with Over the Rainbow. Much credit is due to my commissioning editor, Chiki Sarkar, agent, Kanishka Gupta, and writer Sharif Rangnekar who envisioned it coming to life before I did.
Earlier this year, we experienced the loss of Anjana Hareesh, Avinshu Patel, Arvey Malhotra, and Pranshu among countless others that we may never know. It broke my heart and made me realise how we continue to fail queer kids – I wanted young kids to not feel like they are alone or do not belong in this world because growing up in Jabalpur I felt that way. I also wanted to encapsulate India’s dynamic and vivid queer history, which is so unique in its way.
Growing up in Jabalpur, how did you navigate and come to terms with your queer identity? What are some of the major milestones or challenges you faced in this process?
I attended St Aloysius Senior Secondary School, a historic Catholic school situated in the heart of Jabalpur and also among the oldest schools in India. While the school maintained strict standards in various aspects, it exhibited a lax attitude towards bullying and homophobia. Despite the awareness of these issues among teachers, proactive measures still needed to be taken.
During my school years, I faced much bullying from an early age, encountering homophobic language even before fully understanding its meaning. Fortunately, at the age of 13, I found solace in the underground homosexual community culture in my city. This period predates the decriminalisation of queer relationships (pre-Article 377, that is), and life for us in small towns unfolded in a parallel universe after dark. In the shadows, we could authentically be ourselves, shielded from the heteronormative world. These spaces provided salvation and a sense of community for a teenager who believed no one would understand him.
It’s safe to say that literature saved my life and writing gave me a purpose. Despite hearing discouraging messages throughout my upbringing, the success I achieved through writing bolstered my confidence and opened doors to significant opportunities. My encounters with celebrated writers like Parmesh Shahani, Akhil Katyal, Sharif Rangnekar, and Maya Sharma in Delhi and Mumbai made me realise that being both queer and successful is attainable – something I want more young people to know.
A pivotal moment occurred when I stood in front of the BBC headquarters in London last year. Securing two gigs with the BBC, one involving the production and hosting of a podcast series and the other involving working with the BBC Asian Network made me realise that I had reached a major milestone. This achievement was equally a responsibility.
From your perspective, how inclusive is the publishing world towards queer voices? In what ways do you believe the publishing world can further embrace and promote queer writing?
A few years ago, prowling the aisles of a local bookshop, you’d be hard-pressed to find titles by queer authors. Or at least openly queer authors. Luckily that has now changed. Credit where it’s due, though. Independent efforts at compiling resources have made a remarkable difference – the Bi Collective Library in New Delhi and Tilt in Ahmedabad, to name a few. And huge credit also goes to the Rainbow Literature Festival.
I feel a queer writer’s biggest concern is sensitivity to language as also in many cases the words and voices of queer Indians become like bits of Play-Doh in other people’s hands. Non-queer people, who don’t understand the community, when trying to tell our stories – end up being biased and misleading. In my case, however, I want to thank the wider team at Juggernaut. I was rest assured that extra care would be given to the language of the book. No misgendering, no deadnaming, etcetera.
There’s one major thing I would like to note here. We realised that some chapters in this book discuss emotional abuse from family members upon identifying as a member of the LGBTQ+ community, which may be difficult for some readers. It also contains information about violence, discrimination based on caste, class, and sexuality, gender dysphoria, and the complexity of LGBTQ+ lives. My immediate instinct was to include a “trigger warning” in the book and it was done. Which I think is a big step in regards to where inclusion is concerned and I believe Juggernaut is the first Indian publisher to do that, which is truly admirable.
In the future, queer writing, in my opinion, will gain more mainstream momentum within the publishing world. But for that to happen more queer voices across the length and breadth of this country should be given a space to come forward and tell their stories.
Are there specific themes or aspects of the future of a queer India that you feel are essential for people to be aware of, and how do you address them in your book?
While writing this book, the key audience in my mind was young LGBTQ+ people and heterosexual people as I want more and more people to learn about India’s vivid queer movement, and what better way than paying homage to the lives of those countless individuals who have paved the way for the next generation.
In the book itself, I’ve told these stories by picking up individuals who come from different identities, ages, regions, classes and caste backgrounds – which I hope in the future will serve as a reminder to young people that they are not alone but also tells a wider story that pride in India comes in diverse colours. This includes academics Ruth Vanita and Saleem Kidwai; the mayor of Raigarh, Chhattisgarh, Madhu Bai Kinnar; film director Rituparno Ghosh; and singer and matchmaker Reshma – all of whom contributed to asserting the demand for equal rights for LGBTQ people in India. I wanted the book to reflect the complexity of queer lives in India. All are equally important, and they are all heroes in their ways. To me, a hero is also a hijra on a train or a 70-year-old kothi who tells us tales of his life – lived so untamed. However, there are also countless people that I wanted to see in the book which we missed. Maybe in a second edition in the future, I’ll try to pay homage to them.
Looking ahead, what are the broader complexities you see surrounding the future of a queer India, based on your unique perspective? How do you envision your role in contributing to positive change or understanding within this context?
After the decriminalisation of same-sex relations in 2018, the queer community must be recognised and treated as equal citizens and I hope that our heterosexual counterparts take the onus upon themselves to protect their queer peers and amplify their voices as we exist within them. Our history and movement are the most diverse in the whole world. I want this history to be taught to young people in schools. I hope society at large will underline the simple fact that queer people exist within our society and we’re as diverse as our Indian society is – that I believe is a good way to look into the future.
Aditya Tiwari is a poet from Jabalpur. He attended the University of East Anglia and received a Master of Arts in Journalism. He is the author of April is Lush (2019) and Over the Rainbow: India’s Queer Heroes (2023). You can find him on Instagram and X.