How Indian artists are using zines to explore their freedom of expression

“I’m not comfortable posting it online because my profile is public, and I have no control over who sees my posts and what they do with it. But I have copies of the zine and it to show to my friends. This is art I made because I just had to express something and share it with my friends; it’s not for making money,” says the 30-year-old artist, who’s in town for the Bombay Zine Fest in Bandra that concludes today.

Nikhil Poddar

A zine is a self-published, non-commercial booklet that’s made to share art, stories, or ideas. Historically, they have always been a tool of political expression, a space where the young and alienated can come together to dream of a world where they aren’t misfits. From the suffragette movement to AIDS activism to anti-war campaigns, zines have allowed people to voice what mainstream media or the powers would rather stay mum on. Over the past couple of decades, social media slowly took over this space, taking counterculture to the masses for the first time. But as Poddar points out, the Internet is not as safe or affirming as we’d like it to be.

Palestinian artist Leila Abdul Razzaq’s zine on the BDS movement is a call to action to stop buying from companies linked to the conflict in Gaza

Any unflattering mentions of political leaders land social media users behind bars. With X, it’s not just its erstwhile name Twitter that’s become history, but also its identity as a haven for the outspoken liberal. On Meta platforms, racist and transphobic slurs are now allowed on the pretext of “free speech”. Posting about politically charged subjects such as the Gaza strife is just as likely to get one blocked or shadow-banned as an image with uncovered nipples. All this, even as the government explores more ways to surveil our use of social media.

Priyanka Paul’s most beloved zine among her creations is titled My Body Is Not A Temple, and is about trans bodies

And so, there’s a new wave of Millennials and Gen Z youth who are  now discovering the power of uninhibited expression through zines. “I am in charge of what is being said from beginning to end. No one’s going to edit or censor my thoughts,” says Priyanka Paul, a 27-year-old artist-activist who has been making zines since she was 17.

Technically, a carousel post and a folded zine are not too different in format, admits the Gen Z artist who “grew up on the Internet, built an audience and has been doing activism there for a decade”. But the experience and freedom is entirely different. “Social media is not made for us or for social movements; it is an advertising medium, made to help brands advertise. I still have to post my art there because that’s where I find work, but I’ve been trying to move away from that model and towards self-publishing,” she says, adding that this is the only way to circumvent the censorship that happens via gatekeeping who gets to publish.

Zines don’t always have to be about activism, they’re also just fun, like Nikhil Poddar’s booklet, Akela, on what else — a banana!

As a queer Dalit activist, a lot of her art speaks about the minorities she hails from. Her work also uses “humour to talk about political themes, personal stories, caste and feminism”. Among her creations, her most beloved zine is This Body Is Not A Temple. “It’s a 10-page zine about juxtaposing trans bodies against the common idea of ‘my body is a temple’. Just as Dalit / marginalised caste people aren’t allowed inside the temple due to untouchability, trans bodies find themselves ousted out of the temples of cis hetero normativity,” she says, “We are living, breathing, thinking people. We don’t need problematic narratives from the past to validate our lives today.”

While her usual practice is to publish her art in zines and social media, both, this particular title has not appeared much on her profile, she says. Perhaps because the subject requires her to be explicit about human bodies and religion, and neither are welcomed as much on Instagram.

“With zines, it’s great that I don’t have to deal with bigots and casteist people,” says the artist, who will also be setting up a table at the fest today. “I know that only people who want to read my material will come up to my table. These fests are safe spaces, they’re a great way to meet like-minded people,” she adds, “But the work of art is to touch people. And there’s also less chance of changing the mind of someone with an ideology opposite to mine.” 

Zines have historically also been a tool for calls to action, such as a booklet that Blaft Publications is distributing on the Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions (BDS) movement against Israeli occupation of Gaza. “While Blaft publishes a lot of political work, this is a zine that was shared online by Palestinian artist Leila Abdul Razzaq with an open call to everyone to distribute it widely,” says Rakesh Khanna, editor in chief at Blaft Publications.

Naba Usmani’s work examines heritage and nostalgia, such as old Best bus tickets. It also touches upon her personal heritage with Urdu calligraphy

As for how he believes distributing the zine will help: “Doing this feels a lot more concrete than just reposting a reel. I grew up amid the punk zines of the ’80s, when a similar boycott was called against the apartheid in South Africa. It worked — the minute people stopped buying cola, the powers that be were more invested in ending the apartheid.”   

Zines don’t always have to be serious, sometimes they’re also just fun, like Poddar’s booklet, Akela, on what else — a banana! Although, for him, just the act of making and reading a zine feels political. “Social media is constantly trying to sell something to us, constantly harvesting our attention — it’s called the attention economy. Zines started as a way of rebelling, a way of being punk. We have come full circle to the point where we are now rebelling for our own attention. When we create zines, we’re saying we have autonomy and agency over our time,” he says.

Priyanka Paul and Deesha Jadhav

“When I’m making a zine, I take my time with it, I’m not thinking about the likes,” he explains. Poddar also hosts zine-making workshops, and participants are mostly young, he says. “We don’t want to stare at a screen all day; it’s overwhelming. We’re losing creativity because we never allow ourselves to pause or get bored. With zines, it’s tactile, slow, and intentional. It charges creative muscles that have atrophied with brainrot.” There’s also something to be said about posterity, says design student Deesha Jadhav. “If the Internet were to be wiped out tomorrow, we’d be left with nothing,” says the 21-year-old who makes zines about the dark side of nursery rhymes.

For interior designer and heritage conservationist Naba Usmani, 26, zines are a way for her to reclaim parts of her heritage, with some of her work featuring Urdu calligraphy. “My grandfather, Dr Abul Faiz Usmani, studied Urdu and had a PhD in it. He worked all his life to revive the language. I lost touch with it during my childhood, and this is a way of reconnecting with it,” says Usmani, who also makes zines centered on heritage and memory. 

The most fulfilling bit, though, is seeing the expression on a reader’s face. “I made a zine, Turning To The Sun, about travelling and being one with nature. A corporate executive read it at a zine fest and quit his job on the spot. It changed his life in a tangible way,” recalls Poddar. Sure, this could have happened on Instagram too. “But then I wouldn’t have been around to see it happen. He’d have probably read it while he was scrolling on the toilet.”

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