Issue #3
Hello again!
Things are going to be slightly different this month, and I’d like to take some time to speak openly before we resume our regularly scheduled content.
Issue 3 looks at what trying to occupy space could look like in our community while trying to navigate your identity. From my own experience, I’ve found it’s like treading a line between being exhilarated at your own discoveries about yourself while also being terrified of the same. Am I queer enough? Look at all of these people living their best queer lives. Did I get left behind? Am I too late to the party? You’re not too late, and never could be. The best part about being queer is even when you feel the loneliest you’ve ever felt, you’re never actually alone. Our experiences might never look the same, but they’re rooted in the same foundation of the culture we come from. This might be a slightly idealistic, more optimistic version of life and of our differences, but I’d just like to mention to anyone reading this that there is definitely someone else in the world also living something close to your truth.
At the very onset of this newsletter’s conception, I was adamant about creating a corner on the internet for young queer people. Somewhere they could have exposure to stories they could not only relate to, but also be able to envision a life they could aspire towards. A life where queer South Asian experiences come to thrive and where the weight of anxiety particularly regarding identity and coming out could be made slightly lighter.
You’re so much stronger than you think you are. Being queer means you have a lot more power and a lot more resilience in you than the world will ever let you know you have. I think what I’m really trying to say is, there’s a space for everyone. If you feel there isn’t, you might just end up creating one without realising it. The next thing you know, you’ll be the host for someone else stepping into the dinner party with the exact same craving you felt. These spaces can be daunting, and figuring out where you belong in them can be a process that could span your whole lifetime. I’m still figuring out where or if I belong. I’m constantly reevaluating what I think I know, sometimes only to be faced with many unpleasant as well as some welcome surprises. But if there’s one singular thing I’ve learnt through the admittedly not very long 5 years that I’ve been out, it’s that there isn’t a linear path to being who you are in a way that feels authentic. It comes with awkwardness, mistakes and struggle. But the community you so eagerly seek to be a part of has already embraced you with open arms. It’s expecting you to fall because it’s built on the back of every single emotion you’re feeling, and it’s walking right beside you to pick you up when you inevitably trip.
In a slight change of format, mush only has 2 essays in this issue. These pieces are written by two incredibly strong and powerful bisexual women, and beautifully illustrate the cocktail of adrenaline and anxiety that comes with consciously starting to live your life as a queer person.
One last thing, mush strives to publish narratives that are meant to be sat with and absorbed over time. So slow down and take as much time as you need, we’re not going anywhere, we promise.
x
Veer Misra (@v.eird)
Inconsequential Queer Love by Devyani Mahajan
I tend to draw a blank slate when I think of falling in love with someone from the community. There is intrepid disappointment walking around trying to catch the tigers of my confidence and on most days, it is still successful. After coming out, most of my thoughts would revolve around the staleness of my own identity. Months after finally gaining the courage to say it - I was already beating myself down for not validating this claim using love. The emotion got lost in the utility. On my happiest days of organising queer parties, marches and meet-ups, the well kneaded dough of professionalism that constructs my thick skin stuck around. It was always about missed opportunities and regrets for hours later - till a new day of affirming myself came again. Even having organised a speed dating event, I had to sit it out for professional reasons.
The truth of the matter is I was a late boomer, as compared to most of members in the Delhi circle nowadays, and being a late boomer meant there were so many threads to sew before I fit in. As much as I absolutely loved young queer parties, with all the loudness and unrealised sexual tension, I never felt at ease. Perhaps you feel the way I did. Perhaps you never did. But all of it seemed to boil down to a hand to hold, a shoulder to rest my head on and a perfume to fill my troubling days with nostalgia. However, there is a string of inconsequential romances here that I am about to deep dive into. If it gets monotonous, you’ll know what love can sometimes look like - it’s not just what the films show. One of the most wonderful women that come to mind is Nayani*. She caught me off guard and slightly off the charts annoyed with work. But her little laugh, the way shades of red would bounce around in her hair, and her songs - washed me over to land. Our conversations were littered with her bold sense of self and my newfound meekly voice. This hierarchy of the more and less experienced in the community clutched my body so tight it made me sweat and spew quite uninteresting things to her. After months of to and fro, encountering her at parties making out with others, sitting in the middle of circles drawing everyone in with the most beautiful melodies, I finally asked her out over a random text. But it was just the kind of gesture adults make for plans of meeting, when they never in fact do. I tried my best to be cool,calm and collected - but internally a small piece of me was shattered. Here I was, looking to find myself someone more driven by identity than by actual infatuation, and I had been rejected. It surprises me now that this surprised me then. Like breaking into a shoe, a few months into coming out I started breaking out of my closet little by little. Words came up easier than nervousness battling to go down, i felt my two halves finally amalgamating, but not perfectly well.
At this point, the love that enters your life probably feels more homely than before. So did she. Her hugs felt soft and firm, a playfulness in everything we did and an incomplete longing. I met her more than once, congratulations were due for me, and every time I did my body felt more powerful to break the closet. I was able to find words to talk her up, but that’s all there was to me. This impending inadequacy in queerness had me struggling for her attention. So while I felt happier than before, fully realising my emotions were separate from my actions, the bridge between the two is something I failed to build. As you can guess, sometimes this makes you seem incredibly boring and they pass on. So did she, to another woman. Extremely pretty, less armed with nervous sweats and not googly eyed when she looked at her.
Perhaps our most primitive, childlike emotions can be our biggest enemies. Grown ups require conversations of commitment and I basically naruto ran out of those. I do not know how relatable or quirky this is, all I am seeking here is an ear of understanding the silly yet saddening truth of not being single, but invalidating yourself quite frequently because you’re single. Learning to grow out of my anxiousness is my journey and I take complete responsibility for it, but sometimes the litmus test other queer individuals subject you to becomes a heartbreaking declaration of exclusion. Even at 21, openness of love is scary to me.My last words go to an ally who I couldn’t not fall for. Aimeen* had the most beautiful curls, the most contagious laughter and it was terrifyingly like the movies. I would catch myself gaping at her in class, all the thoughts inside my head the quietest they had ever been. I did not think I would ever meet a bollywood caricature of the girl-next-door, but I did and she was definitely very straight. I was desperately hoping for her to play the straight girl wanting to experiment bit but she seemed pretty clear after showing me pictures of her boyfriend. There was really not much to it because there wasn’t any scope for well, much. But I now felt completely realised. It sounds like I’m a Carl Rogers fangirl, but all I mean is, my head didn’t tangle worth with everything my heart felt. I think Aimeen* changed the way I thought love was supposed to feel like, she made me question why I thought I had to fit into a mould of queerness to label it that. Funny that I attribute so much to a straight woman, but I cannot deny my truth.
When someone asks me my preference today and I say queer, my heart still jumps nervously because they’ll ask my who I have been with, just to get some juicy content, organisations approaching me will ask me to talk about queer love and the struggles - but to be honest, all I have are tales without the happy endings. Queer love now exists in every hand I hold, shoulder I rest and word I exchange because that’s who I am and a string of inconsequential love stories have no power over that.
A Second First Love by Shruti Bhiwandiwala
This isn’t a love story. Well, it is about love, but not the kind that has a happy ending where the royal couple kisses on a flowery balcony as the town gathers below to celebrate (I was raised on Disney fairytales, cut me some slack). This love story has more wings than an actual fairytale to give flight to my many imaginary fancies.
My love story began and ended shortly after discovering the truth about my sexuality. See, I’d spent 25 years of my life being straight and ignoring ALL the signs, so being made to question the butterflies in my tummy and the growing pool of emotions at the sight of her was not something I had pencilled into my plans for the second half of my twenties.
Truth be told, this journey of discovering my sexuality didn’t begin with her, nor did it have a flowery beginning. It began after a night of forced passion and weeks of self-hate that followed. I was convinced something was wrong with me for not being able to enjoy unattached sex. I was convinced I was a coward for wanting to be able to connect with someone emotionally before rolling around in the hay with them. Then, thanks to the magic of YouTube and the collective internet, I stumbled upon the wondrous world of demisexuality, before accidentally opening the floodgates to the fantastical land of bisexuality. Weeks were spent throwing the thought around on the walls of my brain before I mustered up the courage to tell someone. While my “sexual awakening” didn’t begin with her, she was still the first person I told. At a corner table in Target one dreary Boston afternoon, I explained how I think I might be, sort of, potentially, not straight. The words “I’m not straight because I’m pretty sure I have mushy feelings for you” didn’t come tumbling out, but I secretly held on to a hope that she would, maybe, figure it out and profess her undying love for me.
She didn’t know I was in love with her. In fact, she still doesn’t. I don’t think she ever will. My love story with her is the kind we all live for: an adorably awkward friendship filled with inside jokes, shared interests, and an intense love for each other. The kind of friendship that first began with polite hellos but slowly zoomed headfirst into long hugs, shared lunches, and secret smiles. Except, little did I actually know at the time, that my love was tinted with a lot more than just wanting to adorably scream “YOU’RE THE BEST, FRIEND!” across hallways. It was filled with the kind of desire that made me want to let that hand linger on her back just a little longer and wished that the electricity I felt as our feet touched was more than just winter static.
Love was first introduced in the four walls of a red brick building on Commonwealth Avenue. She wore a soft blue sweater to match her bubbly personality. Her smile was bright and warm enough to thaw the cold front I had built up for my first day on the job. Love was kind and generous and a little awkward—the perfect combination that sets my heart a-flutter, if I’m being honest. To me, nothing is sexier than a person who is kind and generous and stumbles along either literally or metaphorically in the process. Confidence is great, but I’d choose a plate of nervous energy any day of the week. Love was a little hesitant with honesty at first, but love eventually thawed as well, despite the broken heating system of a fairly dated building.
Love grew in bleak grey hallways with white tungsten lights. Love grew over coffee breaks and shared eye-rolls. Love grew in our shared hatred for work and upper management and rigged government systems. Love grew in exchanging weird interests and fangirling over historical fiction and Lin Manuel Miranda. Love grew on the walls of my office, where she left notes of encouragement on difficult days. Love grew in the aisles of Trader Joes, between tubs of mint chocolate-chip ice cream and dark chocolate butter cookies. Love grew over gooey burgers, oversized milkshakes, and The Crown.
Love grew in emotional breakdowns and anxiety spirals. Love grew when she walked me to her secret space at work where she screamed about her frustrations. Love grew while we huddled together on the couch, sobbing over episodes of Queer Eye under soft blankets. Love grew in the comfort of home-cooked meals and fancy final dinner dates. Love grew when she held my hand and drank my sorrows with me the day my visa got rejected. Love grew as she watched me later stumble into Trader Joe’s, piss drunk, to purchase more alcohol than I could carry in my arms. Love later grew along with the number of oceans between us, but slowly, love found other bodies to mingle with. Love was still intense but love now continued to grow just as a friend.
She’s still in the dark about how my true intentions, but I want to keep my feelings out of the light. There’s a part of me that worries about what it might do to our friendship, because while my heart used to do several uncoordinated dance numbers at the sight of her two years ago, that flutter now belongs to someone else. And that’s okay. She’ll never know how grateful I am to her for helping me shape my story. For finding new plot twists and exploring new unchartered territories. But what matters the most to me, is that I get to keep my second first love, requited or otherwise.
Before you leave, we just wanted to mention that a platform like mush thrives simply on more and more people reading queer stories. If you like what you just read, it would be wonderful if you could share this newsletter with your friends, families, lovers, pets as well as any sociable gremlins that you might come across.
A new issue of mush is released on the 1st and 15th of every month. To stay updated, sign up to our mailing list and follow our Instagram page. If you’d like to submit a pitch for a future issue, please email us at mushstories@gmail.com.