By Anjanavya Jalli
Language is how we make sense of the world; it’s not just vocabulary. Language carries power. It conveys our thoughts, memories, and experiences. Language carries generations; it’s how we tell stories. Language is how we share parts of ourselves with the world. It has the ability to radiate pure emotional intimacy and vulnerability.
Language is how we communicate our souls, yet mine was lost in translation.
Despite being of Indian origin, my queerness was something I had to understand in English first. In Telugu–the language I speak at home –I was never taught how to say the word “Queer”. I know the Telugu word for my identity exists in some form, but growing up in my household, it was absent. The Telugu words to describe same-sex desire were never said, never explained, and I was never given the language to understand.
I distinctly remember my first-ever crush – Kajal Aggarwal, in the South Indian film Magadheera. I recall watching her with childlike curiosity and feeling a giddy mix of excitement and admiration. As a child, I didn’t know what being gay was. I just knew that I enjoyed watching Kajal dance in that movie much more than my sister ever did.
My sexual orientation was first named and learnt in English. At around thirteen years old, I learned to identify who I was through Western Queer media, and the internet became my safety net. I found pieces of myself in Webtoon comics, fanart and novels. Characters like Cheryl and Toni from Riverdale helped me see queer love in mainstream media for the first time. And, just like many other queer people, I went through the canon event of doing an “Am I Gay?” quiz on the shared family laptop. And, of course, I made sure to clear my search history afterwards. Thank you, little me.
In English, I learnt words like “sapphic”, “pansexual”, and “lesbian”. I relied on these words to express myself, and English quickly became my language of self-discovery.
But that was not the way I wanted it.
My mother tongue was where my heart lay. Telugu was the cradle of my first words, the language of whispered prayers and the language of the songs that filled my home.
As I grew older, living between these two languages became a greater struggle. It created an internal divide. I had thoughts like:
If I could only describe my sexuality in English, does that mean that liking girls wasn’t in my culture?
Is this a white people thing?
How am I to know how my parents view homosexuality when it’s never spoken about at home?
The internet, which was initially my refuge, quickly became the opposite as I never saw Queer South Asians represented in the media. I felt out of place. I felt like I couldn’t ever truly be myself, as I thought I’d always have to keep my queerness hidden from my Telugu-speaking world. I thought I had to devalue my Indian background to fit into English-speaking queer spaces.
I do not at all blame my culture for all of this. I have come to know that South Asia has always had a fluid understanding of homosexual identities and relationships. Queerness and gender diversity have been long present in ancient Indian poetry, sculptures and folk tales. I take pride in the fact that Hindu scriptures depict love as a spiritual union beyond gender. Colonisation attempted to remove the presence of my ancestor’s identities by imposing legislation that erased Queer voices and vocabulary.
Educating myself on South Asia’s extensive queer history was a changing point for me. I didn’t grow up hearing about Manvendra Singh Gohil, India’s first openly gay royal, or Laxmi Narayan Tripathi, the first transgender person to represent the Asia-Pacific at the United Nations. I was never taught the legacies of people like Ashok Row Kavi, Shakuntala Devi, and Mir Taqi Mir. The list goes on.
The colonial oppression of South Asian queer people contributes to the false stereotype that being queer is a Western ideology. The imposed homophobic legislation led to queerness becoming taboo within South Asia. But even though I lack the words to describe it–Queerness has always existed within my community, and it always will.
Now, I am reconnecting with my roots and learning the history that was previously missing from the narratives I grew up with. I dream of a life where my colourful bangles can coexist with a rainbow pride flag. I love every part of my heritage. From the Indian lullabies that crafted my childhood, to the aroma of afternoon chai brewing in the kitchen, and the vibrant festivals. I long for my sexuality to have a place in the language of my people. I want to exist entirely as one. I want to be Indian and Queer without having to switch between them.
So, I’m on a search for the right words to express who I am. I’m teaching myself how to state my queerness in Telugu. Whether that means blending phrases that I’ve learnt along the way or creating new terms myself. Because I am Queer always–not just when I’m speaking in English.
Being denied the vocabulary that I was meant to inherit took an evident toll on me. I was always a firm believer in the power of the written world. After all, I have always been a reader and writer. I find peace in words and their ability to bring shape to reality. So, lacking the words to communicate my identity feels like a betrayal of who I am.
I hope that one day I will find the courage to say, “Amma, naku ammayilu ante istam” (Translation: Mum, I like girls). But first, I hope that the words that I am looking for will find me.
And when it does, I will say it loud and clear – in all capital letters.
