Solace. Identity. Resistance. Literature offers far-reaching possibilities. In being able to render a situation with all its raw emotion, it is far more relatable than a dry book of sociology or history or political science, says Niladri R Chatterjee.
Literature also forces language to do more than just go through the motions of daily expression, said Chatterjee, a professor at the department of English at West Bengal’s University of Kalyani. “In literature, ‘I die in your arms’ expands the meaning of ‘death’.”
For queer identity and resistance, too, literature can be a powerful and subversive force. If a trans man wishes to self-identify as a ‘man’, they expand the definition of ‘man’ to include those born without a penis, said Chatterjee in an interview. “This expansion of meaning is good because it pumps up the muscle in the word ‘man’, making the word hold more than just one meaning,” he said.
In this way, literature helps reevaluate identities from being fixed to expanding continuously, said Chatterjee.
Literature can also be a space from which to resist and push back against stereotypes of queerness and queer identity, according to Chatterjee, who has co-edited The Muffled Heart: Stories of the Disempowered Male and Naribhav: Androgyny and Female Impersonation in India.
But given what Chatterjee feels is an eagerness for queer narratives in English-language publishing, there is a great need for translations from regional languages. This, he says, is a challenge to the notions that queerness is a Western import and that homosexuality or bisexuality is against “Indian culture”.
“There is a stereotype of the gay man or lesbian being a wine-drinking, cigarette-smoking, English-speaking, club-frequenting, upper-class, upper-caste entity,” he said. “Regional queer writing goes a long way towards countering that stereotype.”
Chatterjee’s latest book is an endeavour in this direction. Entering the Maze: Queer Fiction of Krishnagopal Mallick, is a translation of the queer narratives of the Bengali writer Krishnagopal Mallick.
The circulation of regional queer literature can go a long way in enhancing national coalition of a diverse literary culture and that can only happen through translation.
For new writers, Chatterjee has only a few words of advice: to write honestly, what they feel in their hearts, minds and body, but to also beware of the patriarchy. “It can slip into your writing when you least expect it.”
Excerpts:
People like [historian and activist] Saleem Kidwai have suggested that there has been a “homophobia project” which led to the erasure and absence of queer literature. With no reference, the community has had no reference point, leaving it/us with no roots as such. Do you see this argument as true?
I absolutely agree with it. It is statistically impossible that, in the whole history of this nation, men never fell in love men or women with women, and yet we had to wait till the work of Giti Thadani, Ruth Vanita, Ashwini Sukhthankar, and Saleem Kidwai to know that history.
It is important for us to know about the history of homophobia in this country too, because homophobia at least acknowledges the presence of homosexuality. I am particularly interested in literature that is ostensibly homophobic but covertly homoerotic, such as the short stories of Pandey Bechan Sharma and the novel by Shibram Chakraborty (all published in the 1920s), at least a hundred years old.
How important do you see literature to a community such as ours in terms of a movement?
Literature performs two functions: it renders a situation emotionally available to us, and therefore much more relatable instead of a dry book of sociology or history or political science. Literature also forces language to do more than just go through the motions of daily expression.
In literature “I die in your arms” expands the meaning of “death”, to give one example. This expansion of meaning also happens in the case of gender and sexuality, because if a trans man wishes to self-identity as “man”, nobody should have a problem. And yet, by using the term for himself, the trans man expands the definition of “man” to include those who didn't have a penis at birth.
This expansion of meaning is good because it pumps up the muscle in the word “man”, making the word hold more than just one meaning [that of “adult human who had a penis at birth as a body part”].
So, literature teaches us to regard our identities as continually expanding, making us more generous and accepting of all kinds of identities [straight or fluid and more]. Literature also brings much-needed solace to a boy or girl when they see lives much like their own, at least a life that is in terms of sexuality like their own.
Do you think there is a similarity in the journeys of queer and women folks in that the male gaze dominated our history and literature, that women have only in recent years occupied more and more space in the literary world?
Yes, certainly. Only that the real explosion of women’s writing happened in the West in the 19th century and in India, in the 20th.
Also, initial women’s writing was cautious about asserting its challenge to the patriarchal status quo, just as early homoerotic writing expanded more on the idea of friendship between men rather than sex between men. Just as women's writing became more sex positive, gay male writing became more courageous in its treatment of sex. Lesbian and trans writing can be said to be following similar trajectories.
In all of these various kinds of identitarian writing, what remains common is the awareness that it is political to assert an identity that defies social expectations.
With the NALSA order of 2014 [recognising transgenders as the third gender] and then the reading down of Section 377, have you seen a significant positive impact in the literary and education space? Has the publishing world responded sufficiently?
At my university, I proposed my queer-affirming gender studies course months before homosexuality was first decriminalised in July 2009. The Queer Theory course at Jadavpur University was being taught from 2004 or 2005, a few years before mine began.
Firdaus Kanga’s novel Trying to Grow came out in 1990, I guess, and Same-Sex Love in India, in 2000. However, I seem to detect greater eagerness to publish queer material since 2009, but I am speaking only of English-language publishing in India.
My guess would be that not enough queer-affirmative publishing is happening in the regional languages. Which is why I intend to publish more queer literature from Bengali in the future.
There has been a great deal of debate on queerness and the cultural diversity of what is queer and how it is interpreted in different regions. Do you see debates and influence over policy mostly in the English language resulting in a loss of representation and diversity?
Contrary to what others may think, I find “queer” a term most amenable to contain the various non-heteronormative cultures in this country. Regional terms should, of course, exist alongside “queer”, but “queer” is conceptualised in such a way that it is generous enough to embrace an infinite diversity of lifestyles, object choices, self-expressions, lived realities.
I had no qualms about subtitling my book Queer Fiction of Krishnagopal Mallick, because I felt that “homosexual”, the term he used for himself, didn’t quite contain his lived reality as a reproductive, heterosexually married man.
About this translation that you did which also won the Best Fiction Award at the Rainbow Awards for Literature & Journalism, 2023, how important do you see translations in an evolving queer literary landscape?
The one major need for translations from regional languages in India is as a challenge to the commonly held notion that queerness is a Western import and that homosexuality or bisexuality is against “Indian culture”.
There is a stereotype of the gay man or lesbian being a wine-drinking, cigarette-smoking, English-speaking, club-frequenting, upper-class, upper-caste entity.
Regional queer writing goes a long way towards countering that stereotype. And these regional queer literatures absolutely need to circulate within the country towards enhancing a national coalition of a diverse queer literary culture. That nationwide circulation can only happen through translation.
If Jerry Pinto's translation of Sachin Kundalkar can bring a Marathi novel to a national readership and Ruth Vanita's translation of Pandey Bechan Sharma can bring Hindi stories to a reader sitting in Kerala, why can’t such journeys happen from all the states of India and spread across the country?
As a professor at the University of Kalyani, what would you tell young, aspiring writers, particularly queer folks, to keep in mind if they wish to embark on telling a story?
I would request them not to fall into the easy mould of “I'm queer and nobody loves me”, or “I am too pure for sex; I only want love”. Surely our lives are a little more complex than those simplified narratives.
I would request new writers to write honestly about exactly what they feel in the heart, in the mind, and crucially, in the body. Beware of patriarchy! It can slip into your writing when you least expect it.
But if one identifies patriarchy in oneself, then it should be acknowledged. Because nobody is 100% feminist. We feminists are all works-in-progress.
Sharif Rangnekar is the author of Straight to Normal and Queersapien. He is also the director of the Rainbow Literature Festival.
This article is part of the Queer & Inclusive series.
