litreat xavier's

  The Queerness of Silence: What Isn’t Said in Literature Silence has always surrounded queerness. At times it has been imposed, like a silence born of punishment and fear, and at other times it has been chosen to conceal love in a language that only some will recognise. In literature, queerness often lives between the words, where desire and intimacy exist but cannot always be expressed. To understand this silence is to understand both the pain of being erased and the strength to survive. The Renaissance highlights how queer desire was written in the shadows, being rarely permitted to step into the light. Shakespeare’s sonnets to the ‘Fair Youth’ brim with passion, admiration, and longing, and their intimacy exceeds the boundaries of mere poetic flattery. Was this simply the language of friendship, or was it Shakespeare’s carefully coded declaration of love? Christopher Marlowe’s homoerotic undertones suggest a world where desire slipped into verse even when the stage demanded dis...

  On Control Do you absolutely hate it when a new season of your favorite show comes out and you see a reel with spoilers? Or when you’re reading a popular murder mystery and your friend tells you who the killer is? Yeah - well, we’re not the same. It's an unpopular and slightly controversial opinion, but I do the exact opposite. I look up spoilers. I read up on the plot of the murder mystery before putting a film on. I google who the murderer is before I finish the book, I just really prefer…knowing everything. I like being aware and informed of every single thing ahead of time. For me, everything that I watch, read, and do is a puzzle that I need to know the answers to before I even begin. For the longest time, almost everyone who saw me do this would make fun of me, saying, “Where’s the fun in getting spoilers?” and I totally understand. I never had an explanation for this except that I would really not feel okay if I didn’t know everything that’s about to happen. I brought this...

  A Poet’s Visit to the Temple of Literature and War in Hong Kong And a tourist’s inability to distinguish between the Taoist gods of literature (Man) and war (Mo) and what it means to worship both  I’m sure you can imagine a writer’s (and English literature student’s) excitement at the mere thought of a temple dedicated to the God of Literature. I knew exactly what I would pray for - literary success, a substantial following of readers, being ‘known’ for my words. I had a lot of demands from Man specifically, and was determined to get them across. I didn’t have nearly as much to ask for from the God of War (Mo), of course.  Through all the looping coils of incense set against Man Mo Temple’s red and gold interiors and the many idols nestled in its wooden walls, the place was at once familiar and unfamiliar to my foreign eyes. Everything from inscriptions to prayers written on paper by worshippers, which were hanging on softly yellow lamps, were in a language that was ina...

  Jane’s Dream or Not…?   Who is Jane, you may ask? Even I don’t have the answer. She's nobody, or maybe, she’s somebody. It doesn't really matter. She lived in a house allegedly made of concrete, but deep down she knew its walls were made of sorrow. In this claustrophobic abode lived people, but I’d rather call them monsters — monsters with a body resembling that of a dark cloud, eyes gleaming like amethyst, their presence causing unease. They held her legs and dragged her into a miserable land. But our Jane wasn’t someone who’d want to be a victim, nor did she want to be a cliché.  Thus, she traversed through the obnoxious air and the ghastly waters, and she reached the Nether. She stole a scythe glowing violet and returned to her sorrowful abode, where she slashed the limbs of those pathetic monsters. The dull gloom vanquished. The walls are now illuminated. Soon, Jane opens her eyes, feeling the quilt of her bed underneath her, beads of perspiration rolling down her n...

Generation Infinite As usual, when I looked down from above the clouds, I found two youngsters walking to a school with bright shining eyes and enthusiastic body movements. One with a few thick books and another with just a small gadget. Both looked the same, with no difference either in face or in body, but the one with the tiny gadget seems to be far superior to the latter in regard to confidence.  Both entered their class, and the one with the gadget was relating and mingling with others, whereas the latter was absorbed in his book. Whether it was a break or drills, the latter was alone with his books, whereas the other guy was moving with the crowd—pulling them at times and leading them at times. Even during exciting school events, the latter preferred to just be with his darling books, while the gadget boy found comfort in being with the moment—capturing and modifying them with his little gadget. One boy, as the time passed, became brighter than all, whereas the other started ...

Stone Garden At the age of twelve, her best friend abandoned her in the middle of a storm — not the real kind, but one that leaves you shaking, eyes burning, trust splintered. When she was sixteen, a boy with warm eyes promised her forever - then walked away without a glance back.  Two betrayals. Two clean cuts. She didn’t wait for a third. Trust wasn’t something she could afford anymore.  Her mother was the exception. The one person she could still lean on, the only one whose presence felt like sunlight in a cold world. They shared late-night talks, secret smiles across crowded rooms, and an unspoken promise that they would never leave each other. Until the night her mother did. A fight too sharp, words too loud — and suddenly her mother was gone, leaving her alone in the middle of a dark street with nothing but the sound of her own breathing. Perhaps "forever" was woven into memories, That night, the final light flickered and died. Her parents became strangers with the same...

 The Forsaken Love I couldn’t believe how gorgeous she looked in the wedding lehenga! She’d always wanted to wear a maroon and beige embroidered piece.“I’ll be the most beautiful bride anyone has ever seen”, she’d say. And indeed, everyone was captivated by her charisma when she walked towards the mandap . Her brothers flanked her sides, with a canopy of flowers held above her head. In that moment, my memory pulled me back to the chilly November evening, when she’d spilled her hot coffee all over my white shirt. All those sweet moments we had shared since then rushed through as a fast forwarded movie in my mind.  A bittersweet smile touched my lips and a lonely tear slipped down my cheek, as I painfully witnessed her sit at the mandap—with someone who wasn’t me. And in that moment, I saw my star become someone else’s moon. Written by Navya Chopra  Edited by Harshada Viswanath