Foreword
I first saw Amy on a beach in Pondicherry, next to a rain-drenched statue of Gandhi. She had slid into my DMs on Twitter, and we had arranged the appointment over WhatsApp. A cyclone ravaged the
town the night before. In that muted early morning light, everything emitted pure vibes.
Amy – with her arresting facial structure, glistening eyeliner
and posh-girl drawl – fit into the frame perfectly. She was wearing a handknit cardigan and azure running shoes; massive Marc Jacobs
shades rested atop her messy hair. She assured me that she would not take up much of my time. She was in a hurry. ‘I do not want you
to think this meeting could have been an email. You know, I have thought this over for months, I do not want to get you into trouble.’
She clasped her hands, almost in prayer.
I told her not to worry. I wanted to treat the tiny little girl inside
this woman with all the tenderness I could muster. I knew her only
from the news cycle: she was a vociferous critic of the Modi regime
which had recently hit the headlines when her leaked pornos went
viral on Twitter.
‘I am going off grid,’ she announced. I nodded encouragingly
(I got her need for a social media detox). ‘But I need a favour. I’ve been
writing. I do not know if it amounts to anything. Let’s call it “a novel” given that everything is “sub judice”.’ She mimed a zipped mouth
and laughed. ‘It’s my story. It’s everything, really. I’m no good at summarising but please, please read it for my sake. And do not tell me what you think of it– it is extremely triggering.’ She pushed a memory stick in
my direction. I put it in the pocket of my Abercrombie & Fitch skinny jeans. ‘Do not lose it,’ she pleaded, almost in a panic. ‘I’ve not saved it anywhere else. This is the only copy.’
To ease the tension, I lit a cigarette and offered her the pack. ‘Yes please. I don’t know how long I’ll be allowed to keep smoking.’ We carried on with some mindless chatter. She asked me about my kids, if I believed in true love, and how to survive under fascism.
‘I’m fucking around and finding out,’ I told her, flicking open my Zippo lighter and staring at the flame. She smiled at me with the
charitable look of a child processing a lame joke.
I promised to read her manuscript. Amy held me with her
liquid gaze. Was she feeling sorry for me? Was she smitten? Was she struggling to say something more? I did not know her well enough to unriddle her back then. So, I wished her luck, and we went our separate ways.
This is the book she left behind.
Meena Kandasamy
Pondicherry, 2024
LOVERS, LOSERS, LONERS
An Intimate Study of the Indian Manosphere
Amrita Chaturvedi
‘Good looks do not matter to them, nor do they care about
youth. “A man!” they say, and enjoy sex with him, whether
he is good-looking or ugly. By running after men like whores, -
by their fickle minds, and by their natural lack of affection,
these women are unfaithful to their husbands even when
they are zealously guarded.’
—The Laws of Manu, Chapter 9, Verses 14–15
@realjuliasong
2 minutes of erection is enough to conclude the coitus and
fecundate the female. Anything beyond that is perversion,
degeneracy and socialism.
10.04 AM - 11/27/19 - Twitter for iPhone
a confessional
Is that really you in the clip?
What do you expect me to fucking answer?
No, it is a representation of me?
No, it is AI generated?
No, does my ass look that miserable?
Or: which of the many clips are you referring to?
there is always a first time
It comes to me like any other video on WhatsApp, from my best
friend Nimmi and with the words Forwarded many times italicised
at the top.
the random shit I woke up to, check it out babe.
Sorry to ruin your morning :/
07:32
Nimmi is the most chronically offline person I know, and now
she has sent me something that has clearly left a mark. Half-awake,
I open the link expecting to see some politically incorrect spoof or
stand-up comedy. Instead I am presented with a steamy video.
There is a young woman, and she is being fucked. The camera is
sideways, stashed away inside some closet. It looks like any standard
issue hotel room.
The video begins in media res – the woman, lying on her back at
the edge of the bed, her hair wild, legs in the air. I zoom in, stretching
the screen to see her face up close, but I cannot find any identifying
features. The man is out of the frame. He is represented only by
his cock. I fast-forward to where she is slowly turning towards the
camera. Even without zooming in further, I can see that it is my
fucking face.
I have made home movies with exes, lovers, random hook-ups,
always, almost always, only on my phone. I have a trademark pout. I
have a favourite filter. These angles are not mine. This video is wrong.
The man gestures for her to get on all fours and plants his left
foot on the bed, hiding her ass. She is undeniably perfect from this
angle– tiny, tender, all hourglass, all clear honey skin. She wears the
there is always a first time
It comes to me like any other video on WhatsApp, from my best
friend Nimmi and with the words Forwarded many times italicised
at the top.
the random shit I woke up to, check it out babe.
Sorry to ruin your morning :/
07:32
Nimmi is the most chronically offline person I know, and now
she has sent me something that has clearly left a mark. Half-awake,
I open the link expecting to see some politically incorrect spoof or
stand-up comedy. Instead I am presented with a steamy video.
There is a young woman, and she is being fucked. The camera is
sideways, stashed away inside some closet. It looks like any standard
issue hotel room.
The video begins in media res – the woman, lying on her back at
the edge of the bed, her hair wild, legs in the air. I zoom in, stretching
the screen to see her face up close, but I cannot find any identifying
features. The man is out of the frame. He is represented only by
his cock. I fast-forward to where she is slowly turning towards the
camera. Even without zooming in further, I can see that it is my
fucking face.
I have made home movies with exes, lovers, random hook-ups,
always, almost always, only on my phone. I have a trademark pout. I have a favourite filter. These angles are not mine. This video is wrong. The man gestures for her to get on all fours and plants his left foot on the bed, hiding her ass. She is undeniably perfect from this angle– tiny, tender, all hourglass, all clear honey skin. She wears the
generic layered balayage that is inflicted upon every young woman
who walks into a Looks Salon in Delhi. Could this be me, I wonder
for a brief second, on a very drunken night a very, very long time ago?
But the woman here is wearing a lacy two-toned brown bra, which
the man makes no attempt to remove– I am the kind of girl who sheds
all her clothes in the first five seconds – maybe he is an ass guy, after
all. On closer inspection, I must concede it is not my ass – unless my
personal trainer has secretly put me on steroids or a sugar daddy
financed a Brazilian butt lift without me knowing. At least she has
shaved her pussy. There is some consolation there.
He starts fucking harder. I’m worn out from just watching the
relentlessness. Now she is on her knees not giving him a blowjob
as much as responding to having a dick repeatedly shoved in her
face. At one point she tries to look up, maybe to say something, and
he pushes her head back down. They carry on like nothing has
happened. I am cringing just watching them. This woman gives
head with the singular focus of a surgeon performing some complex
procedure. She has deduced that what is required of her is to suck
with utmost reverence. In contrast, my blow job persona is absolutely
performative. When I go down on a man, I am playing the role of a
Pornhub director maxxing out the visual element. I briefly glimpse
the man’s profile as he lets out a soft moan. I still cannot identify him.
He remains faceless throughout the episode. He disappointingly
doesn’t come. He pulls out, and exits the scene.
This is where it ends. Thankfully.
She is still wearing that brown bra.
I download the video. I mute the audio before replaying it frame by
frame – in dread, in desperation. I watch it four times.
It is not me.
It is my fucking face.
cut, copy, paste
I do not want to open my laptop. I turn my phone back on and click
on Twitter.
My worst fears have come true. I have 8,000 new followers. I
cannot access my notifications but they are flooded because there is
no number, meaning even Twitter has given up counting.
A circle of keyboard trolls with usernames like @aryanalpha108,
jerking off to their saffron-coloured dreams of Hindu supremacy,
have already started making memes with me.
In one there is a car at a petrol station with four fuel nozzles
pumping a single tank. Another has a screengrab of the same woman
sucking dick and, instead of the random faceless dude of the video,
they have pasted photos of Rahul Gandhi, Sitaram Yechury, Umar
Khalid between his shoulders.
#AmritaChaturvediVideo#AmritaChaturvediNude
#AmritaChaturvediSex#AmyXXX
The hashtags of my name have reached the top ten in India. Soft
porn engagement farmers around the world are riding them to hike
up their follower counts, plugging obscure links to all sorts of steamy
content. The majority lead to Asian/black women with cum all over
their faces.
I am no longer a name. I am a trend.
notoriety as the wild-card entry
to celebrity
My exponential exposure is on WhatsApp, Twitter, random
YouTube channels – it is sheer craziness. I’d prepared for fame, not
infamy.
Is this what it’s like to be a celebrity?
No, celebrities have money and a PR team. Celebrities have
flattering photos to run with the most unsavoury stories. Celebrities
can force their mother father aunty cousin exes driver cook cleaner
to sign NDAs. Celebrities can wear oversized shades, flashing
peace signs to annoying paparazzi. Celebrities can outsource the
trouble-shooting to some dude-bro’s tech start-up who will trend a
face-saving hashtag. Celebrities emerge from their trials stronger,
every narrative hijacked and rearranged in their favour.
I am a nobody. I have fuck-all. My once-upon-a-time 15 minutes
of fame on reality TV count for nothing. The only thing handed
to me on a platter is instant recall. It is like being an early-career
Kardashian before the rebrand. It’s like being Mia Khalifa minus
the spectacular tits and comeback game (cit: ‘A soldier sells his body
to the government’). I’m just here, taking hit after hit.
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2026 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
