I start the decade in Vellore, a small, warm, chaotic city in Tamil Nadu as an undergraduate student. I am new to photography then and take pictures with rickety point-and-shoots and cheap mobile phones cameras because the idea of preserving images forever is strangely appealing to me and I am hooked.
Sometimes, I photograph alone; other times, I venture out onto the streets with anyone who will accompany me. My degree is in engineering, but making images reminds me of how much I enjoy story-telling. …
“Silenced by men first and now trans women, will women ever not feel silenced?” she wrote. She was angry about having her voice ‘policed’ for the benefit of trans women, who she thinks are not truly women. She was bewildered that she’s been called a transphobe after saying things like, “my being born with a vagina matters in the conversation around the rights of trans women”.
Her anger also stems from the fact that trans women are pushing for a more inclusive vocabulary: ‘chestfeeding’ instead of ‘breastfeeding’, for instance*. …
The first drops feel like cold water. Then they hiss through the first layer of the dermis, the acid combining with the skin on your face and arms and chest, sizzling their way onto tissues underneath. Tissues with nerve endings and blood. Less than a second since it started, your brain registers your screaming nerves.
Depending on how much acid your attacker had thought of shopping for, the acid continues its binge, gurgling its way downwards into softer tissues that hold your body in shape, carry your blood, regulate your perception of the world.
Your assailant speeds away.