When I met Santanu Bhattacharya at the Kerala Literature Festival, I forgot to press the “record” button on my phone. He was answering my questions long before I’d asked him anything. (Even declaring, “Wow. I've started the interview, and it hasn’t even begun!”). He hadn’t yet seen a physical copy of his latest book’s Indian edition, so he wanted to go to the bookstore. I pulled out my copy of Deviants, watching him gleefully flip the pages, admitting without any fluster: “I’m never going to get used to this feeling.”
Bhattacharya’s first novel, One Small Voice, was an Observer best debut novel of 2023 and was shortlisted for the Authors’ Club Best First Novel Award and the Society of Authors’ Gordon Bowker Volcano Prize. One Small Voice is the story of a passive bystander heeding what’s expected of him, questioning his sense of normalcy at the rise of populist presumptions, and scuffling with what it means to ignore your past, individually and collectively. With Deviants, Santanu asks some of the same questions but in a sprawling, modern epic style. Through three queer characters from three different generations – grand uncle, uncle, and nephew – the novel queries our inherited histories, the legacies we leave behind, and the dynamic landscape of queer life.
Bhattacharya spoke with Scroll about the contention of pigeonholing some literature as “queer”, the rise of queer conservatism in India, and writing from the vastly dissimilar perspectives of his three characters who inhabit distinct socio-cultural contexts. Excerpts from the conversation:
Deviants is an intergenerational novel, of the same genre as novels that have found themselves in the canon. Is this an attempt at canonising queer characters who have often been left out of that fold?
I’ll be very honest with you: I don’t understand half the question because I’m the kind of writer who gets an idea and writes. I haven’t been a journalist, and I haven’t been in publishing very long. My association with publishing is only through my author persona. I didn’t study the arts at university. There are many classical texts that I still haven’t read – the things one typically reads when studying English literature. This is, in a way, very liberating because I don’t ask myself those questions at all. There’s a story I want to tell, and I find the most comfortable way to tell that story. I pick up the thread and follow it, letting it unspool from that book. It seemed like there was very little out there in terms of the canon. I have actually been corrected since because when I was writing, I thought there was nothing out there.
It’s also a matter of visibility, one could say.
Exactly! What are you exposed to? What do you know? Who around you is talking about it? Could you walk into a bookshop and find an LGBTQ section in the 1990s? The answer is no. It becomes a question about what literature was accessible to you. In the pre-internet era, you couldn’t search for LGBTQ literature in South Asia. There was no attempt to canonise those works, to suggest that these characters needed to stand for something greater. While these stories will naturally add to the canon, the intention was never for these characters to represent anything beyond themselves. They only needed to be themselves, with all their complexities – their desires, disappointments, glories, and flaws. There is no expectation for them to carry the burden of representing their time or generation.
The way I see it, when I was younger, the “queer” literature I've read is through fandom spaces, Archive of Our Own (AO3), and sites like Wattpad, FanFiction.Net. Now, of course, that’s beginning to change, with more queer writers, filmmakers, and musicians. The issue is that a writer on AO3 lacks the legitimacy awarded to a writer when you have a published book. Your writing in this particular format of a saga of three generations offers that kind of legitimacy that queer characters haven’t had in the mainstream.
That’s what’s important to me. But also, part of being a published author – even if you have twenty books – I hope I would never let it get to my head that I’m important, and therefore what I say will mean more than what the text will say. I will eventually die. If the text has to stand on its own two feet, then what’s in the book is its own thing. And if I have to say more, then it has to be in the text. If I’ve chosen not to put something in the text, it means that I didn’t want to talk about it.
I want to move away from the kinds of assumptions, and sometimes these burdens that we take on ourselves as marginalised people, to speak for everyone who is like us. The fact is no one is like me. There’s not a single other person. Similarly, there’s not a single other person who is like my characters. They are unique in their own way. If I’ve chosen to tell their stories, my job is to tell their stories with honesty and integrity. And they can be super flawed – they are. All three characters go really wrong at some point. Especially Sukumar; he was really struggling. And as part of that struggle, he’s doing all the wrong things. I felt no need to justify that. We don’t need to absolve that; it would be wrong. A wrong is a wrong. I think there is a line in the book that says, “…Our legacies can be judged by the present but our actions should only be judged in the past…” We’re the product of our times. And we’re trying to do our best by what we know, and what the world around us is enabling us to do.
In Deviants, Vivaan’s voice is very boisterous and ungrammatical, a pastiche of a Gen Z person. Sukumar's voice is third-person, reminiscent of a very quotidian style. And Mambro’s point of view is second-person, and sort of the crux of both these perspectives. I want to understand how you managed to fit all of these vastly different perspectives into a novel. And can you speak to what went into choosing these voices?
I’m very happy to say that after having written One Small Voice over a period of ten years, I definitely knew that I didn’t want to take that long to write another novel. It shouldn’t be that much effort. One Small Voice was my first, so there was a lot of trial and error, and a lot of learning on the job – especially because I didn’t study literature or take creative writing courses. Because I didn’t do a…MMA – what do you call them?
MFAs, I believe.
See, I don’t even know the name! This time around, one of my main goals was to channel the distinct voice I wanted for each character in the novel.
To me, these were three very different voices, and I didn’t want to waste time trying to force them into a single voice. I decided to start writing in those voices and then see how I could bring them together. I think I wrote Mambro’s story first, then Sukumar’s, and finally Vivaan’s. Once you see something, you can’t unsee it, and similarly, once you’ve written something that fits, you can’t unwrite it. I realised I couldn’t tell any of these stories in any other voice.
The rationale for these voices was: Sukumar’s story is told posthumously, in retrospect, as a third-person narration. I wanted to maintain that ethos, that quality and texture. There’s a lot of third-person classical realism in his story. Sukumar’s section also required the most cultural work from readers, to bridge that cultural gap. It’s not just deeply Bengali, but also steeped in a specific time that many readers might not know. Even Bengalis, depending on their background, might not know that time.
Mambro’s voice is that of my generation. We didn't have the tools or language back then to process or tell our stories, nor did we have mediums for them. But now, we’ve processed our experiences and are in a position to look back. All my peers are doing that – gay, straight, married, single, male, female – they’re all looking back and saying, “Remember that? Remember how it was? And why did I do that? My God, I wouldn’t have ever taken that then.” That’s where Mambro’s voice comes from. It’s like a memoir, where you’re retelling your past, with the wisdom that comes from age and experience.
And then Vivaan’s story had to be set in the present. He exists in the now, and his story is almost futuristic. The technology I explore – I’m not sure if all of it exists. Parts of it do. I was aware of things like online chats and curated sexual experiences, so I brought those elements together. His voice is first-person; he has the tools, the language, the information, the mediums.
And he seems so much more sure of himself than the other two characters.
Yes, even though he’s not, right? He’s struggling as much as the others, but he’s keeping it together in a way that the last two generations weren’t equipped to. He also has support. He can talk to his parents, his uncle – support the others didn’t have. Once I had these voices, I started layering them, thinking, “Let’s engineer the structure so I can keep this authentic voicing.”
With Deviants, you’re putting India and its history with queer people on trial. What kind of research went into that aspect of the novel?
One of this novel’s defining aspects is its deliberate avoidance of political movements. It doesn’t engage with them at all. I chose not to focus on movements, although I acknowledge the brave individuals in every generation who have taken action. I wanted these three characters to exist outside of any specific political movement. It seems that often, the voices we hear are those of activists; their narratives tend to be very movement-centric. They become activists discussing their work, their memoirs, their agendas, and their struggles. These are crucial texts that we need to read, even making them textbooks. However, there are also countless others – and I include myself – who, for various reasons, choose not to participate directly in those movements. Sometimes it’s due to personal vulnerability; sometimes you are not ready, and sometimes it is not the right approach for you.
There is a certain readiness required to take to the streets, and that isn’t for everyone. Activism takes many forms. Some write, others sing or create poetry. Some march, others argue cases in court. And some practice it in their own homes, like my mother. I wanted to pay tribute to these different forms of activism. So, regarding your question, I didn’t need to research specific movements on specific days. My research was primarily focused on deeply understanding these three characters. I hesitate to say this, because it might not be the best answer, but I didn’t do a lot of research. Instead, I was just trying to get under the skin of these three characters.
In the case of fiction, I suppose it’s really the writer’s imagination of the characters’ milieu that readers are more interested in.
I knew Sukumar’s world really well. My family, on both my mother’s and father’s sides, is from North Calcutta, from that kind of joint family home. So, I was really familiar with the environment, you know, how people lived day-to-day, how they ate, what they did for fun, and even the different stages of life – how things were in the 60s, then when they got their first TV, then their fridge, and all that. The most research I had to do was actually for Vivaan. I had to dive into this online world, which I generally avoid, exploring the apps, what’s on Google, and just watching a ton of stuff. I spent hours watching Gen Z videos just to pick up their lingo, frantically scribbling notes like, “This is what they say, this is what they say. Oh shit, what is this word?”. So, a lot of the research was just immersing myself in Gen Z culture. Because it’s all happening now, it didn’t really feel like research at the time, it was just there. But looking back, the most deliberate immersion I did was probably for Vivaan, more than the other two.
This book is marketed as speaking to the persecution that LGBTQ people have faced.
Is it? Oh god.
Isn’t it? I believe so. Because I also saw the word “persecution” in the promotional material.
Yeah, I think it’s used for Mambro’s persecution under Section 377.
The reason why I brought up that word is that this book is also a lot about joy, and what it means for your characters across three different generations. It’s not like there are no slivers of happiness.
Oh no, not at all. Those sorts of slivers slip into their lives. And that’s where nuance comes in, right? Not these straight-line narratives where “I am X. All these bad things were done to me. Therefore I feel a lot of anger. Therefore I’m writing this book. Now you have to read it.” There are storytellers like that. I’m not one of them. I really actively resist that sort of storytelling. For me, writing novels – and that’s why I write novels and I’m so bad at writing non-fiction – is that I can’t be agenda-driven.
A novel is not a place where you push an agenda; it’s a place where you make lives come true – imaginary lives come true. And lives are long and multifaceted. We inhabit many different identities. I’m an author, but I’m also a son, I’m a brother, I’m an uncle, I’m a friend, I’m a partner, I’m a full-time employee, and I’m myself. I’m a reader, I watch a lot of films. We have many, many different identities, and that make up a whole life, or a whole person. I wanted to expand that as much as possible within the scope of this novel. I didn’t want it to just be about sadness and trauma and persecution and – anyway, who wants to read that? I’m not interested.
Is it inadequate to read queer literature solely as “queer literature”? Many of the questions your characters contend with – Do I want to be with the person I love? Should I be true to myself? Is this the life I want? Do I want something beyond the prescribed path of marriage and a job? – are universal.
I think of myself as a post-label person. But I also think it’s important to have these lenses in the writing. A queer writer will always be a queer writer. Even if they’re writing something like One Small Voice, which was fairly heterosexual, the lens is always going to be that of a queer person – a queer author, a queer storyteller. They will see things that a heterosexual person won’t. Similarly, the lens of a woman, a Dalit person, an immigrant – they are important in the making of that art. But in the consumption of art, I think the labels need to be thrown out. Then you come to a piece of work for what it is. You don’t come to it because you are queer and you only want to read queer, or because you are a minority and you only want to read minority, or because you are a woman and you only want to read women.
I understand the desire to be an ally and support, but I would caution against going too far down that route. Art is supposed to connect, to promote inclusivity and understanding of different ways of life and thinking. If we silo ourselves and only reach people like us, there’s a huge danger in that. So, I wouldn’t market anything as “queer literature,” nor would I only speak to a queer readership.
Deviants acknowledged the possibility of how Section 377 could be criminalised again.
If there’s one thing this book does that’s completely new, it’s bringing to the fore what it felt like during that time. Because back then, the discourse was very legal. It was, “Okay, this has happened. What’s the way forward? Should we go to the Supreme Court again? Should we introduce this in the legislature?” Shashi Tharoor tried to introduce the bill in the legislature, but it was all a very official, pedantic conversation. I don’t think anyone has openly talked about what it felt like for four or five years to be a legal citizen, to have your desires legalised, and then have that threat of it being taken away. To suddenly feel like you could be plunged into the dark, and have all the risks you were taking suddenly feel like threats again.
Queer conservatives are a real phenomenon, including in India. Is it as ironic or counterintuitive as we think?
It’s not at all. For Sukumar’s character, I spoke with some queer men in their 60s and 70s to understand their perspective. Although I knew Sukumar well and could have told his story without those conversations, it proved to be a useful social experiment. Some of them expressed a strong dislike for the modern queer existence. They don’t agree with liberalisation, the use of apps, or the way we interact. They come from a generation where many of them felt, “Why do I need to make it public? This is my life. I don’t want my life to become a battle; I just want to enjoy it. That’s how we lived when we were young, before you came and complicated things. We were fine. We had our spaces. We went cruising.” And I have to admit, there’s a certain merit in that way of thinking.
I may not agree with their views, but I acknowledge that there is some validity to it. A life of visibility and constant struggle comes with its costs. To be openly out, with a partner, having disclosed everything to everyone, carries its own burdens that we face every day. Liberty is not an easy path; it has its own challenges. We are all aware of the bullying, and the forced marriages, but we shouldn’t fall into the trap of thinking everything is perfect now. This struggle isn’t over, and it still demands a price. It will take its toll. Therefore, I can see the perspective of queer conservatives who prefer a more low-key, behind-the-scenes lifestyle. If we’re talking about queer conservatives within the Indian political landscape, I agree that element exists, as well. In India, there’s a mistaken conflation of culture and religion.
