If you met me today, you’d probably never guess there was a time I could barely get a few words out. I was painfully shy. If someone simply asked me, “How are you?”, I’d rehearse the answer in my head over and over before stumbling through the words, grasping at air for support. I was terrified of saying the wrong thing.

School felt like a hunting ground..
I was picked on constantly for having what people called a “gay voice.” My classmates mocked the way I walked, the sway of my hips, the softness in my voice. Some days, groups of boys would surround me in the hallway like a pack of wolves, laughing while I stood there wishing I could disappear from the world.
I had spent years wanting nothing more than to fly away.
Then, in one moment of vulnerability, someone mistook my silence for permission. They reached for something that was never theirs, and when they left, it felt as though they had stripped away the very feathers that made me whole.
They stole my voice.
I stopped trusting my body. I stopped trusting my instincts. I convinced myself that the safest way to move through the world was to be as small and invisible as possible.
Silence felt safer than speaking.

But there’s something curious about silence. If you sit with it long enough, it begins to make room for other voices.
For me, it happened to be the voices of my ancestors.

I remember it so vividly. It was half past 9pm and my mother and I were nestled in blankets sitting together with cups of adharak chai and nankhatai biscuits, watching youtube videos exploring ancient Indian temples. I wasn’t expecting my life to change that night.

But then a strange sculpture appeared on the screen. I remember leaning forward, perplexed.
One half was unmistakably Shiva—matted locks, a strong jaw, broad shoulders, a trident resting beside him.
The other half was Parvati—soft features, flowing jewellery, a graceful curve through the waist.
They weren’t standing beside each other.
They were one.
One body.
One face.
One divine form.
Ardhanarishvara.

I couldn’t stop looking. How had I never seen this before? This image had been carved into stone more than a thousand years ago, yet in that moment, I felt like it was waiting for me.

For years I’d believed I had to choose which parts of myself the world would find acceptable. To be more masculine. Speak differently. Walk differently. Tone myself down.

Yet here, in one of the most sacred images of my culture, masculinity and femininity weren’t in conflict.
They weren’t competing.
They were in harmony.
Neither half diminished the other.
They were whole.

That night became the beginning of a journey I never expected to take.
One story led to another. One temple led to another. And before I knew it, I wasn’t simply learning about history anymore.
I was seeking refuge in my ancestors.

I came across the ancient chronicles of Shikhandi, A transgender warrior who was a central figure in the Mahabharata, one of India’s greatest epics.
I saw carvings of queer love etched into the stone walls of Khajuraho temple.
Two women.
Two men.
Lovers in embrace.
These weren’t hidden away in some forgotten text.
They were carved into the walls of temples for the world to see.

For years, I tangled intimacy with shame.
Yet here were my ancestors telling a completely different story.
Not with words.
With stone.
Love wasn’t hidden.
It was celebrated, honored and part of Prakriti–nature.

One discovery led to another.
I learned about Bhagiratha, born from two mothers.
I read translations of the Kama Sutra. There was one specific passage that I could never forget. It was two male lovers exchanging flower garlands, petals embracing each other as their first shared touch.
I had never seen queer love described with such tenderness.
Maybe because it was the first time I saw intimacy without shame.

The more I searched, the more I realized something.
The world I thought had rejected me was much older—and much kinder—than I’d ever been taught.
I hadn’t just been learning about history.
I’d been finding my way home.
The stories my ancestors left behind weren’t asking me to become someone new.
They were reminding me of something I’d forgotten—that I belonged.

Today, I tell stories. Stories of my ancestors. Stories of queer south asians. Stories that remind us we’ve always belonged.

I often think about how badly sixteen-year-old me needed to see something like that.
Back then, I thought I was the only one.
Now I stand beside queer South Asians from different faiths, languages, cultures, and backgrounds. I listen to their stories. We laugh together. We cry together.
And every single time i think about that lonely kid who believed there wasn’t space in the world for him,
I tell him… he was never alone.

When people ask me what changed my world, I tell them it wasn’t one story, or one sculpture or one temple.
It was realizing my ancestors had already made room for me long before I was born.
I spent years searching the world for somewhere I belonged.
In the end, I found it by looking back.
I found it in my ancestors.
I found it in my community.

And somewhere along the way, I found refuge in myself.