It’s the fall that’s gonna kill you.


Polyamory is a difficult thing. It makes a sort of sense, in that it makes sense to me that it is possible to fall in love with multiple people. I have fallen in love with multiple people, but I can’t imagine being in multiple relationships.

My partner can, and is. And that can be hard. Because it’s all about balance.

I’m a jealous person. I can handle jealousy, within certain limits. She used to be a jealous person. She isn’t anymore. Which is to say, she has defeated jealousy almost completely. Not me. I can be jealous and then watch my jealousy and laugh at it. And then there’s a level of jealousy where I can be jealous, not see it and act really weird. And finally, there’s the jealousy that I can feel it, I can recognize but I cannot laugh off.

These days I’m oscillating between the funny jealousy and the gut removing jealousy. And the period of oscillation is quite short, making me really queasy through the whole process. What do you do when your tolerance is… no, actually, what do you do when your jealousy is really being held in by a well-used rubber band of tolerance, and sometimes it contracts and sometimes it expands, and you don’t know if you’re being squeezed or exploding?

We learn early that fidelity means monogamy, and it means particularly monogamy between married people, and it’s  based on the stars-in-your-eyes love that you fall into when you’re young and that’s supposed to carry you through to old age when you’re toothless and adorable. It means that you’ll never look at another, or look and think, “Ah, well,” and smile fondly at your partner, and that’ll be that.

But that’s not fidelity. That’s monogamy and romance, and it’s a bit of a dream. Which is not to say that monogamous couples don’t live lives of fidelity among themselves. But the whole picture is one of those white lies you get told as a child, like Santa, except no one disabuses you of it when you’re older. No one says, yes, that would be nice, but there’s a lot of cheating going on in the most peaceful-seeming marriages, and there’s a lot of lying, and spouses fart a great deal and sometimes, just sometimes, you get so annoyed with how your spouse pick his teeth or how she hums her songs that, for a split second, you do contemplate blunt-instrument murder.

Fidelity is this: I love you how you are. And I will stay with you for the rest of life, provided you stay honest with me, and I stay honest with you, and you tell me when you hate this, and I tell you when I hate this. And you don’t hurt me on purpose and you’re sorry when you hurt me on accident. And I don’t hurt you on purpose and I’m sorry when I do it on accident. You are first in my heart. And everything else is window-dressing, or negotiation, or outside expectations, or somewhat painful each-other-discovery.

Fidelity is that I chose you because of who you are as whole and who you might be, and no your happiness is first in my heart.


Calling All Desi Queers!

Having spent some time hanging out with the mostly US feministie group, I gotta say – they’re great but have nothing much to do with us. I don’t know who us is – Pakistan, South Asia, Muslim, some combo – but it’s not them. It’s just a different world out here.

So where are you guys? Girls, more specifically, but I’ll take the guys. What are we talking about? What does queer even mean? Does someone have a definition? Because to me it’s more than an alternative sexuality. It’s a lot more.

And there needs to be conversation. There is already conversation in India, I know that. And there’s conversation off the internet, I’ve heard it. But let’s bring it online.

OR if it’s already online, tell me where it is. I’m quite tired of feeling so fucking useless. And I like to talk. Don’t you like to talk?


Fuck Amy

I feel like ass. Not an ass – just ass. Complete ass.

I’m basically in Chasing Amy. That’s what my life is. Except instead of being Amy, I’m Amy’s girlfriend.

I love her. And when she’s stressed, I’m stressed. But the funny thing is that when I hear about her and him, particularly him, I empathize with both. I get upset about it, but not because I’m the other woman. I’m upset because we’re all in pain and it’s a stupid situation and I understand. I fucking understand.

I wish I could let go things I have no control over.  And I get so fucked up over it, I can’t do anything else.



My girlfriend is a married woman.

Yup, Lovely is now actually my girlfriend. And actually married. And I’m shopping around, looking for other people as well. The Boy is still in the picture, although he’s being annoying lately, so I’m less into him. I’m about to travel, go meet my ex-girlfriend and probably shag her as well. Life is… Life is odd.

I never thought, playing Legos when I was a kid, that I’d grow up to shag a married woman, shag my ex, moon after an evasive boy and blog about it. That was not in the master plan of how Summer grows up and become a real person. And yet here I am.

It’s stunning, really. It’s frightening and stunning and a lot of fun obviously and it’s giving me the kind of existential dyspepsia only experienced British drama’s like that one with Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson failing to consummate a mad passionate love because they live Below Stairs. Can’t remember what it’s called. But you know what I mean? I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore, in relation to what I wanted to be and whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing or what the fuck kind of thing it is and it may seem to you here that I’ve wandered off into hysteria, but I’ll tell you this, I’m about to go to a party dressed in a slinky sari so that I can snog my standard snog-buddy, Bi Boy.

I’m a slut. That’s what it is.

My ex-girlfriend was telling me on the phone a few days ago that “slut” is one of those re-appropriated terms now in queer land and it’s a great source of empowerment, being a slut. She called me a slug about forty times in forty minutes. I’m beginning to get used to it. Bi Boy’s been calling me “randi” for ages now – mostly he says, “you’re becoming a real randi now, baby, I’m so proud of you.” And “randi” means whore so that’s just like slut, only more Punjabi and more gender-neutral. Actually, perhaps only gay men can share the term with women. Or maybe I’m just being non-inclusive. For shame.

What an odd life. I’m in an open relationship. I’ve just fully realized it. And I’m feeling a little woozy about it. But it’s also fun. Because, when I think about it, right now I don’t feel like giving up any of these endeavours.

I would like to be in love though. It’s been ages since I was in love with someone who was also, coincidentally, in love with me, and at the same bloody time. I like the love feeling. It’s not something I’m willing to toss overboard for tons of sex.

I’m okay with the tons of sex though.

Who would have thought, man? I’m a randi. Woe is…