How Do We Say ‘Queer’ in Our Mother Tongues?
It was the 29th roza of Ramazan. I sat on my bed, scrolling through my gallery, while Ammi sat on the floor, slicing dry fruits for the Sheer Khurma she’d serve on Eid. The smell of dry fruits filled the room. As a child, I’d crouch next to her during this ritual, stealing pieces of cashew when she wasn’t looking. This used to be our softest space. I never thought it would one day hold a silence I didn’t know how to break.
“Your essay,” she began softly but firmly, “about being queer and Muslim—is it true?”
She told me how Abba couldn’t eat or sleep after reading it. He couldn’t bring himself to talk to anyone. Eventually, he told Ammi, and that’s why they came to Pune—to speak with me. But they never did. On their way back home, they met with an accident. Ammi was bedridden for weeks. I wonder how long they both carried those questions in silence, waiting for the right moment. But the moment never came, until that day.
I had imagined this conversation a thousand times. Yet when it finally happened, I had no words. I had spent years learning the vocabulary of queerness, believing that words would help me explain who I was. But at that moment, none of them made sense in the world I had built with Ammi and Abba.
“Tumhein kab ehsaas hua ke tum aise ho?” (When did you realize you were ‘like this’?), she asked.
“I’ve always known,” I replied.
“Kya tumhe kabhi mujhe batane ka man nahi hua?” (Did you never feel like telling me?)
I sank deeper into the bed. I didn’t shed a single tear. I looked at her and said, “Nahin, mujhe aapko batane ka man nahi hua.” (No, I never felt like telling you.) That wasn’t true. The truth was harder: I didn’t know how to say it. How to talk about all the battles I had to fight with no one by my side. How to give her a version of me she could accept. At that moment, the walls between us felt too tall to scale, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to let them crumble just yet.
“Tumhare aise hone ki baat sun kar mujhe tumhari behen ki shaadi se zyada tumhari fikar hui,” she said. “Phir maine Quran aur doosri deeni kitaben zyada padhna shuru ki. Usse hi mujhe aage badhne ki umeed aur himmat mili.” (When I learned about you being ‘like this’, I was worried about you more than your sister’s wedding. I started reading the Quran and other religious texts more deeply which gave me the hope and courage to move forward)
I almost laughed not because it was funny, but because it was ironic. It wasn’t the texts themselves, but how she read them this time. Somehow, she found mercy and courage, where she may have once found judgment.
She tried asking about my work and my queer friends. But she kept referring to them as “log jo is masle mein hain.” (People who have this issue or problem.) I felt the anger rise, but I knew it came from a place of confusion. But soon I snapped. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s not a problem. They’re just like everyone else.”
She fell silent. I ended the conversation with a blunt, “I’m sleepy.” And turned away.
What I didn’t realize at the moment was how much of our disconnect was shaped by language. Ammi spoke in Hindi, which I now struggled to respond in. I kept switching to English—the language I’d grown into, the one that felt safest. Even though my parents are educated, I hadn’t realized how far apart our understanding of English had become. Language has always been a battlefield for me. English, the language I’ve come to define myself by, feels both like a lifeline and a prison.
They read my essay but couldn’t grasp the vocabulary I used. I realized my reaction to Ammi’s words “masle,” “problem” was unfair. It had taken me nineteen years to learn this language of queerness. How could I expect her to learn it in such a short time? Her words, flawed as they were, were still a step forward from where we began.
This reminded me of a conversation I had with a trans friend, who shared a similar experience with their mother. Their mother told them in Telugu: “నేను నీకు ఉత్తరం రాద్దాం అనుకున్నాను కానీ నేను నీ భాష రాయలేను నువ్వు న భాష చదవలేవు”—“I would write you a letter, but I cannot write in your language, and you cannot read in mine.”
Ammi cried after reading my essay. Not because she was angry, but because she couldn’t understand. That broke my heart. I wanted to explain every word of it. I thought: maybe Ammi trying to understand me and my friends despite the words she uses is still a form of language. In her failed attempts to know, there is still a form of love and care. Maybe if we focused more on the emotions behind the words than the vocabulary itself, it could lead us somewhere.
I wonder if she remembers how, as a child, I would bombard her with endless questions about why the Earth is round or why things are the way they are. In many ways, I’m still that same curious child, searching for meaning, only now, in the space between us. How do I explain something as natural as breathing to me, yet so alien to her? How do I bridge this gap between our worlds without losing parts of myself or causing her more pain?
I don’t have all the answers. But I know this: my queerness doesn’t change who I am. It doesn’t diminish my love for Ammi, or our family, or our faith. It is simply another part of me, one I hope, with time she can learn to see. Not as a problem, but as something integral to the person I am becoming. Maybe the words to bridge this divide don’t exist yet. But love has always been a language of its own. Until we find the right words, I am here—waiting to be seen, and, hopefully, understood.
