We at Orinam express our strong condemnation of the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Bill, 2026, was introduced in the Lok Sabha on March 13, 2026, by the Union Minister of Social Justice and Empowerment, Government of India. Protests have erupted across India due to concerns from trans and ally communities over the erosion of rights.

The Bill narrows the definition of “transgender person” to socio-cultural identities (kinner, hijra, jogta, aravani)), intersex variations, eunuchs, and those forced into transgender identity via mutilation or procedures. It explicitly excludes self-perceived identities, trans men and trans women without surgery, and people who are genderqueer, who were included in the Trans Act (2019). See here for details of the Act, Rules, as well as Bills introduced post-NALSA.

Since March 13, 2026, community members, lawyers, healthcare providers and other allies have been discussing the Bill and formulating position statements and critiques. Some of the resources generated so far, and coverage in mainstream and queer media, are listed on our website at

https://orinam.net/resources-for/law-and-enforcement/trans-bill-2026/

The post Outrage over Trans Bill 2026 appeared first on orinam.

Eventually, I came to identify as a lesbian.
After many interactions and dates
One day I asked myself:
Am I lesbian enough?

Over the next few years, through different encounters,
the labels I used for myself shifted.

I identified as an asexual.
Then I thought I identified as Bisexual.
But then, “I like the wine more than the bottle” —
So… I identified as a pansexual?

Somewhere, I was none of these identities,
yet I resonated with all of them.
These were some confusing years!

Each time though,
I had the same question:
Am I ace enough?
Bi enough?
Pan enough?

I didn’t know what I was.
Because every label came with terms and conditions:
Of what the identity is
How I should love,
Whom I need to prioritize,
What kind of relationships I was supposed to have.

I had to perform someone whom I was not.
Constantly.
No wonder I always came up short.

These questions made me re-look at the relationships I have had.
Sure, some were straightforward:
Platonic, romantic, or sexual.
But most were layered and complex
Not necessarily complicated.

For instance
I felt care and love toward someone —
Yes, it was platonic.
But it also had something more that was
Not romantic.
Not sexual.
Intimacy was a part of it.
It wasn’t lust —
Yet it was carnal.

Other time, it was deeply platonic —
I felt everything that great romantic song ever told me to feel
And the bond?
Was not romantic.

Clearly, my feelings did not fit neatly into any label.
I confused others,
Because I was confused myself.
And I felt like I was never… enough.

But then I started wondering:

What is sex, romance, or relationships anyway?
What if I treated labels not as boxes, but as guiding lights?
What if I could show up as I am — unapologetically?

What if “I” got to define what desire, love, sex, and connection mean for me?

What if I claimed my space — as I am?

What if I present my authentic self —
The messy,
I don’t know what the fuck I am doing,
But I’m ready to figure it out — with myself… and with you?

What if I embraced the word queer —
Not as something that is perfect or performative
But as something gloriously incomplete?

What if I took all the shaming, and rejection —
And said:
Yes. This is who I am.
And your response?
Does. Not. Define. Me.

And that’s what I’m trying to be:

Incomplete,
Imperfect,
irregular,
Messy-as-fuck,
Healing my broken heart,
and building my bruised spirit.

Now, when I ask:

Am I queer enough?

I say:
No.

And I’m grateful —
Every. Goddamn. Second —
That I’m not.Because it allows me to be…
me.

The post [poem] Am I queer enough? appeared first on orinam.

On August 15th, 2021, transgender activist Grace Banu was awarded ‘Best Third Gender’ by the Government of Tamil Nadu. She was honored for her contributions to her community and the society at large, but the ceremony included a telling incident. She protested on stage with the higher officials while receiving the award for the use of the term ‘third gender’ in it, and this was an assertion by her that the transgender community needs to be addressed on our own terms. 

In 2006, the usage of the word “thirunangai” was born in official records, a term introduced by dancer-scholar Narthaki Nataraj, and subsequently popularized by former Chief Minister Kalaignar M. Karunanidhi, which was welcomed by several trans women and the society at large. The previous word in usage was ‘aravani,’ , which had been offered as a non-pejorative term in 1997 by Mr. Ravi, then District Superintendent of Police of Villupuram, the district where the Aravan temple, site of an annual community festival, is located. The replacement of ‘aravani’ by ‘thirunangai’ could perhaps be attributed to the respect accorded by the community to Kalaignar, and to the dignity associated with the term nangai.

Fast forward to 2019: the then government issued a press release to replace “thirunangai” with “third gender”—or “moondram paalinathavar” (belonging to the third gender). This was largely to dissociate from the word ‘thirunangai’ associated with the previous Chief Minister, who was from a rival political party. The word for the Transgender Welfare Board, the first of its kind in the country, had also been changed to reflect the Third Gender Welfare Board. This made several transgender activists wonder about who the first and second genders were in this hierarchical and inherently patriarchal language usage, and what the ranking system would be for the inclusion of further gender categories in the official parlance. 

The current controversies around the Tamil Nadu Welfare Board being renamed “Thirunangai Nala Vaariyam”  and recently released policy being named “Thirunangai Kolgai” to the exclusion of Thirunambis (trans men) and Idai-paalinatthavar (intersex persons) illustrate that evolution of defining inclusive and dignified terms for the transgender community is the one embroiled in political and social conflicts. This also provides us a prime example of how language is a stellar medium for queer expression and the need for us in the community to reclaim and democratize this process.  

Lavender linguistics 

Lavender linguistics, or queer linguistics, is the use of language practices, both spoken and written, to encompass a wide range of the LGBTIQ+ communities. This involves everything from the nuances to the ways we express our identities within the community and the larger society and vice versa, as the language the larger population uses for us also impacts our expression in several contexts. For example, multiple studies have indicated that male American English speakers are recognized as gay by their speech at rates above chance which could be attributed to what is popularly known as ‘a gay lisp’: the articulation of /s/ and /z/ with a higher frequency and longer duration than average speakers. 

Our pitch also plays a role between communities. Few studies say that among lesbians the use of lower pitch and more direct communication styles is found and there is also an increased usage of more backed variants of back vowels. These studies could also have their own faults, as several linguists argue that these analyses have been too simplistic and that these theories are constructed through the combination of sometimes-conflicting stylistic tropes. Nevertheless, we can ascribe from our daily experiences that our lexicons and phonetics impact our lived experiences and our expression.  

Gender performativity

Adolescent males often perform their gender through language. Slur terms like ‘fag’ and ‘ombodhu’ used by peers to police gender boundaries. This reinforces the misogyny inherent in the assertion of masculinity by these adolescents. 

We try to toe their gendered rules in our slang, pronunciation, and articulation. Our yearning for expressing our queer identities faces its first challenge here, and many of us are silenced. We rather learn as we age how to express ourselves, not only imbuing the existing vocabulary that helps us in expression but also creating new lexicons and grammar as we learn better self-expression. 

To announce oneself as queer to another person for the very first time or to a room full of an audience is a liberation on its own, and this involves a two-way understanding of the language we use, how we perceive the term, and how the others do. 

Language as queer performance

Queer people also use language as a performance, albeit in different ways. The stylistic innovative usage of terms (e.g., “slay,” “you go girl,” and “yaas queen”) among queer communities can be relatively higher. This form of usage can strengthen our bonds through shared language use. Slogans and chants (We’re here, we’re queer/Out and proud) have helped us organize ourselves politically. Our political language has evolved to include race, class, caste, and disability. 

We are continuously forming new lexicons for better self-expression. We use our language to challenge the binaries surrounding us, from using “they/them” pronouns to challenge the norm of gendered pronouns to rejecting “husband” or “wife” in favor of “partner” or “spouse”, destabilizing heteronormative assumptions.

Code-switching 

Code-switching is the act of switching languages or language styles within a sentence or conversation. Our choice of slang depends on who our audience is and also the context. We make our shift depending on our situational needs, such as the need to demonstrate or conceal our identity in a particular environment.

“Exploratory switching” is when we use our language slang or style to determine whether an interlocutor shares our identity. For example, a gay man might use certain keywords and mannerisms generally known by the community as a test to see whether they are recognized by the interlocutor. This allows the gay man to establish solidarity with a community member previously unknown to him without having to disclose his orientation to a heterosexual person and potentially hostile person. 

A fine example would be the popular code word question ‘Are you a friend of Dorothy?’ used within Anglo-American gay male communities in the mid-twentieth century, with the equivalent being ‘friend of Meena Kumari/ Rekha/ Sridevi’ in the Indian gay male communities and their diasporic brethren in the 1990s and 2000s. Therefore, our community speech has a relationship with our community of practice. We may have a shared interest and respond to a mutual situation, and through communicating regularly, we may develop certain speech norms. 

Our language also shows our other biases and reinforces them. Queer casteist people have developed such speech norms that uses casteist slurs are often prefixed or suffixed while describing marginalized queer people.

Conclusion

Lavender linguistics can also be subject to high generalization. Just because two individuals are both self-identified queer women does not necessarily mean that they must engage in the same linguistic patterns and social styles. We have our multiple social identities, and all these play a role in our language, and the purpose of this essay is to acknowledge the role of our queer identity in our language usage. It is imperative to understand this because our social identities are not static, speech styles are actively subject to change, and one’s speech styles have different social meanings across time.  

We and the larger society still perform language in a non-inclusive manner, and this has to change. The fight should not just be against the slurs but also towards a more inclusive language that respects our personhood and provides a space of dignity in our and their lexicons. The Tamil glossary of LGBTQIA+ issued in the Tamil Nadu Government Gazette in 2022 is a prime example of how communities strive towards reclaiming language for ourselves by ourselves. The government might have reverted to the usage of ‘Thirunangai’ for transpeople again, but we have to strive for an inclusive ‘Thirunar.’  

The way we talk is a part of identity formation, which is fluid and highly dynamic in nature. So, our languages should evolve accordingly, and we cannot do this without inclusivity.

Further reading 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gay_male_speech

https://www.thenewsminute.com/tamil-nadu/trans-activists-slam-tn-govt-dropping-thirunangai-and-using-third-gender-112855

https://www.newindianexpress.com/cities/chennai/2022/Mar/30/for-the-dawn-of-dignity-2435611.html

https://orinam.net/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/Glossary_LGBTIQA_Jan2022.pdf

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LGBTQ_linguistics#cite_note-11

https://folklife.si.edu/talkstory/2016/are-you-a-friend-of-dorothy-folk-speech-of-the-lgbt-community

https://indianexpress.com/article/entertainment/bollywood/the-queer-phenomena-called-meera-kumari-8062958

https://www.thequint.com/entertainment/celebrities/sridevi-remembered-by-queer-community-in-india

https://www.jgnt.co/rekha-bollywood-queer-icon

Image credits: Gemini AI.

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PALLAVI:
May we spread love in all creation
making it our very nature to be kind..

ANUPALLAVI:
May we step beyond the definitions of ‘man’, ‘woman’, and find our own definitions of ‘who I am’
May we nip the habit of harbouring needless hate within ourselves; it is no flaw to be ashamed of
Awaiting a glorious day free of insult, disrespect, teasing and mockery…

CHARANAM:
May we realise that, transcending the genders, love is an exchange between two hearts
May we know it neither as a ‘type’ of one’s choosing nor a quality imbibed by practice; it is one’s nature that blossoms within
May we cast off impressions from dictates which say that in behaviour, apparel and adornment, these are proper and those, wrongful
May we be unanimous that people, whomever they come together with, are all equal children of the earth

May we, at least henceforth, be done with the arguments, ‘that is the way’, ‘this is tradition’
May we bestow fearlessness upon hearts, fond and tender
May we aid by sowing the seeds of understanding to yield wellness in the world.
On the wealth of feeling, it thrives and so…

The post Pride Anthem, Carnatic appeared first on orinam.

Other Readings

https://www.thehindu.com/news/national/tamil-nadu/thirumavalavan-expresses-regret-over-his-anti-lgbtq-comment/article69780333.ece

https://www.thehindu.com/news/national/tamil-nadu/congress-vck-question-stalins-stand-that-special-law-to-deal-with-honour-killing-is-not-required/article69870122.ece

https://www.thehindu.com/news/national/tamil-nadu/dmk-should-ignore-opposition-to-separate-law-against-honour-based-crimes-from-caste-outfits-thirumavalavan/article69902287.ece

https://www.thenewsminute.com/tamil-nadu/draft-bill-against-honour-killing-submitted-stalin-tn-can-set-precedent-activists-say-168353

https://www.thenewsminute.com/tamil-nadu/trans-girl-murdered-tn-why-india-s-preference-birth-families-dangerous-154974

https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/madurai/attacked-dalit-transwoman-awaits-justice/articleshow/90865566.cms

https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/chennai/harassed-lesbian-couple-ends-life/articleshow/3049896.cms

https://www.newindianexpress.com/states/tamil-nadu/2020/May/18/fearing-separation-two-women-from-tamil-nadus-namakkal-end-lives-2145058.html

https://www.dtnext.in/news/city/family-opposes-relationship-with-gay-partner-youth-kills-self-724399

The post From Kavin to Samantha: Expanding the Scope of Understanding and Tackling Honour Crimes appeared first on orinam.

Some men lie to women they marry,
Hide their truths, the weight they carry.
Not out of love — but fear and shame,
And still, they step into the flame.

They may say,
“It’s just a phase, I’ll get over it,”
“I’ll change with time, I’ll play it true.”
But time can’t heal what isn’t real,
Lies don’t bend — they always peel.

He laughs with friends, returns late at night,
Never holds her heart quite right.
She hopes, she waits, she tries her best,
While he looks elsewhere for his rest.

Not someone’s daughter made to pay,
For love you promised but took away.
If you not sure, don’t go through —
She is not a trophy, not a cure.

None of it feels true,
Still, you walk her down the aisle.
Clutching secrets, wearing a smile,
Your parents clap, the photos shine.

You say you’re doing what’s expected,
But love should never feel neglected.
If courage makes a man stand tall,
Then silence isn’t strength at all.

Don’t call it pride if truth is missing,
Don’t pledge a life while still resisting.
To fake a bond, to please your clan,
Is not the mark of any man.

And all to prove that you’re “a man”
Within a script you didn’t plan?
She could have chosen someone true,
But her whole world now crumbles because of you.

If marriage means respect and grace,
Then lies have no place in that space.
Before you vow, before you wed —
Let truth be heard, not left unsaid.

Because —
She’s not someone to use or cast aside.
She deserves more than a life in disguise,
More than a loveless bed and a man of lies.
She is also among those worthy of love, respect, and pride!

___________________________________________________________

Acknowledgement:s
i. Thanks to Dr. Poovitha M (She/Her) for valuable edits.
ii. The image was generated using Gemini AI.

The post [poem] She Was Never Told appeared first on orinam.

என் சிங்கார சென்னைக்கு…

I first met you in whispers – stories traded like contraband in anonymous forums and late-night Yahoo! chats, careful words exchanged between strangers. Chennai, beyond the streets, the salt-slick air, hurried auto rickshaws and long-winded conversations, is a city where people like me could belong, or at least belong more than where I was. That’s how I got introduced to you as the city of possibility.

In 2009, I stood near the Triumph of Labour Statue at the Marina beach to witness the first Self-Respect Pride march, just a bystander. I was 19, defiant in name, unsure in heart. You, 370 years old, had held generations before me – queer folk, sex workers, people on the margins who still claimed their space. I was too scared, too uncertain, too naïve to understand what was unfolding in front of me. But I watched. I watched people who looked like me walk the roads, hold their banners high, and hold each other even higher. The next year, I walked too. The mask they handed me wasn’t just a shield; it was a bridge, between who I was and who I could become. You did not ask me to be brave before I was ready. You simply held me, and a lot of others. You still do. I went back home with a heart full of hope. Thus, you became a City of hope.

My hope, for a future. My hope was a future with him – where love could be lived, not just whispered into the dark. But when love disappeared, so did you from my dreams. I swore I wouldn’t return. But life had other plans. I came back, not for love, but because I had nowhere else to go. You were no longer an idea, no longer a city of hope – I arrived when I had lost all of it.

Pride is loud. But queerness in Chennai is quieter, stitched into the everyday. It’s in the way the pookaara akka at Besant Nagar beach smiles and says, ‘Un kondaiku Poo vecha Innum azhaga irupa’. In the way a coworker acknowledges the people I bring into my world – other queer friends, lovers, kin – not with curiosity or discomfort, but with an ease that asks no justification. In the small cafés where I linger, reading, watching, knowing I am safe. These moments are not grand, not loud, but they matter. They build the foundations of what home means.

You are a contradiction – history tangled with progress, caution woven into care. You hold us, yes, but sometimes at arm’s length, with unspoken conditions pressing between us. You are a city that not just welcomes but lets people thrive – vandhaarai vaazha vaikkum Chennai – but only if we learn how to navigate you, how to create our own shelter within your vastness. You are not perfect. You offer space, but not always safety. You welcome with warmth, but with conditions. For some of us, home is shaped by privilege. I know this because I have been lucky. I have walked your streets with the comfort of knowing I am not alone. Knowing how your streets can turn, how safety is a fragile thing, dependent on luck, on privilege, on the company we keep.

I have worn my queerness in ways that invite admiration instead of threat. I have stepped into rooms where my presence was not questioned. And yet, I know others who have not been as fortunate, whose safety is not a given, but a wager. I know what it is to hold safety in my hands and wonder how easily it could slip away. I learnt that even in a city that claims us, belonging is still something we must negotiate.

I see you in the quiet acceptance of strangers, in tea shops where a cup of tea is just that, no questions, no conditions. In the way trans people move through your streets, not just clapping for money at traffic signals and public transport. They travel through the same signals, waiting like everyone else, heading to work. I see them in offices, on buses, laughing in cafés. I see them buying things, sitting by the shore with their own, breathing in the sea air. I see them in temple festivals and church pews, not as spectacles, but as believers. The way your festivals do not always demand explanations before offering belonging. I see them because you allow them. You do not brandish your inclusivity like a medal, nor do you drown in rainbow capitalism. You simply let us exist. And somehow, without promise, without spectacle, you became a city I now call home.

I see how you have your wicked ways of teaching us patience and resilience – to survive our queer and trans parents and siblings being beaten up and burnt in police stations, their names swallowed by bureaucracy. How your media feasts on our existence, turning trans women into spectacle, framing interviews as curiosity, not conversation. How it invokes violence as comedy, applause as absolution. Queer couples turned into viral content, not for their love, but for the outrage they provoke. How your cinema still casts cis men in trans roles, applauding their “National Award-winning performances” while Negha Shahin had to go to Kerala to be recognized with a state award, and still struggles to find work in Tamil cinema.

I also see your persistence. The way your history bends towards change, even if slowly. The way your religious spaces do not always push us away, but instead, sometimes, make room. In the way your government, flawed as it is, was the first to create a Transgender Welfare Board, in the way you are now on the brink of an inclusive queer policy, the first of its kind in the country, an attempt at recognizing what has always been here.

I see you in the red hearts of your traffic signals, glowing above the waiting city. It is easy to miss them, but they are always there, part of the same streets that carry us home.

So I have hope. Hope that even when people fail us, you will not. That you will continue to hold us, like a hen gathering its chicks beneath its wings, not always gentle, not always soft, but protective nonetheless.

I arrived untethered, uncertain. You held me before I even knew how to hold myself. For every queer person who steps onto your platforms, hesitant and searching, I hope you do the same. You have never been the flashiest, never been the easiest, but you have been steady.

For those of us who call you home, we carry your warmth. We move forward, but never without you.

Anbudan,
Vaanavil Thozhar

The post To My Beloved Chennai… appeared first on orinam.

It’s tangible like an ocean, yet weighs like a shadow.

Sometimes, in a world of monotone,

Queer joy brings me rainbows.

I carry it everywhere I go, always in my tote.

It’s an elixir that lights up my world—

And also my fantasies.

Sometimes, it is to be seen and heard,

And sometimes it’s to be cuddled and caressed.

It’s like a sanitizer to the germ of phobia,

An invisible armour that slays so gay.

Even when worlds fall apart,

Even when dreams are torn apart,

It’s always my queer joy

That holds my tears without flooding the floor.

And in a world full of people where warmth is gone,

It’s me and my queer joy—always born. 

The post Queer Joy appeared first on orinam.

Thirukkural is part of the later Sangam texts that can be dated from 300 BCE to the 5th century CE. This seminal Tamil work hosts 1330 short couplets and has been the flag-bearer of Tamil literature,  celebrated for its timeless wisdom and universality. These couplets are divided into three sections: Morality, Materialism, and Desire. Of these three sections, Desire is often overlooked sister by the scholars and educationists of the Tamil populace. Why? Is it because Valluvar speaks of something that might not be considered a Tamilian value in the current ethos, or because people are uncomfortable reading or listening about desire from a text better known for its take on ethics, governance, love, and social con­duct? This particular purist Tamilian populace cannot, after all, dismiss the Desire section as misinterpretation or ‘modern’ in nature, for desire is an essential part of Tamil life and is inseverable from Agam (interior life), ergo an integral part of Thirukkural. Mind you, Valluvar doesn’t deal with desire in a superficial manner:  he delves into the depths of this emotion, ranging from the pleasure derived from sex to the subtleties of sulking with the lover. 

So, why a queer interpretation of the couples from Valluvar’s Desire section? Historically, the Thirukkural has been used as a powerful tool to assert a cultural identity for various purposes, such as its use in the Dravidian movement to promote an indigenous and ancient Tamil ethical value system. More recently, modern feminist poets such as Meena Kandasamy have also reclaimed the Kural, interpreting it through a lens of gender equality and women empowerment. Inspired by this work, and keeping with the spirit of reclamation, I feel it is also imperative for our queer community to reclaim certain aspects of Thirukkural; the Desire section (Kaamatthuppaal) in particular discusses the beauty of desiring—to desire and be desired—themes that our queer community finds resonance with. While much of this part of the Kural explicitly references a ‘he’ or a ‘she,’ many couplets transcend the gender and sexuality of the desirer, creating space for queer interpretations.  

Finally, as a Tamil queer man and someone who is no stranger to desire, I feel I have a rightful claim to the universality of Valluvar’s vision of love. If a man from the 1st century BCE could embody such fluid perspectives in his poetry, what stops us from interpreting  his gaze through a queer lens today? So, below, I explore a selection of Kurals that I have found, that appeal to a queer sensibility in their celebration of sensuality, desire, and love.  

Shame is taught to us from childhood, and this society doesn’t let us forget even for a second to feel shameful of our desires and to guilt-trip the self. But Valluvar essentially put these ‘fools’ in their place in Renouncing Shame (நாணுத்துறவுரைத்தல்), as he says,

Kural 1138:
நிறையரியர் மன்அளியர் என்னாது காமம்
மறையிறந்து மன்று படும்.

‘This person lacks self-control,’
‘This person lacks great love,
Desire does not weigh such thoughts.
Even when hidden, it manifests publicly.

Kural 1140:
யாம்கண்ணின் காண நகுப அறிவில்லார்
யாம்பட்ட தாம்படா ஆறு.

They mock me to my face:
the fools who have never undergone what I have 

And for those who conquer this shame, Valluvar’s couplets also capture the desire for sex. In Longing for Sex (புணர்ச்சிவிதும்பல்), he says,

Kural 1281:
உள்ளக் களித்தலும் காண மகிழ்தலும்
கள்ளுக்கில் காமத்திற் குண்டு.

Not wine
but it is sex that gives
sheer delight at the thought
and such pleasure at sight. 

Valluvar also has some advice for us when it comes to sex. In The Pleasure of Sex (புணர்ச்சிமகிழ்தல்), he says,

Kural 1109:
ஊடல் உணர்தல் புணர்தல் இவைகாமம்
கூடியார் பெற்ற பயன்.

Quarrel. Make love. Reconcile.
These are the lovers’ rewards.

Even wet dreams find a place in Valluvar’s The Solace of Dreams (கனவுநிலையுரைத்தல்)

Kural 1214:
கனவினான் உண்டாகும் காமம் நனவினான்
நல்காரை நாடித் தரற்கு.

The sex taking place in my dreams, fetches me
the lover I miss when I’m awake 

One couplet from Yearning (அவர்வயின்விதும்பல்) talks about the intense waiting to rejoin the loved one in bed

Kural 1266:
வருகமன் கொண்கன் ஒருநாள் பருகுவன்
பைதல்நோய் எல்லாம் கெட.

One day, my man will return—I shall drink,
I shall devour and enjoy him, until all my lovesickness is destroyed.

While another couplet in Inability to Bear Separation (பிரிவாற்றாமை) voices the anguish of those who found love and are unable to bear the separation from their lover,

Kural 1156:
பிரிவுரைக்கும் வன்கண்ணர் ஆயின் அரிதவர்
நல்குவர் என்னும் நசை.

He is so cruel,
he tells me he is leaving.
And yet, I feel special
that he is in love with me.

We also hear of the anguish that heartbreak brings upon us. In A Lament for My Eyes (கண்விதுப்பழிதல்),

Kural 1174:
பெயலாற்றா நீருலந்த உண்கண் உயலாற்றா
உய்வில்நோய் என்கண் நிறுத்து.

My eyes have dried up,
they no longer shed tears,
there is no escape for me,
from this incurable disease 

Are these not the same emotions and vulnerabilities that we share amongst us all? Does this not speak of a secular love that transcends gender and sexuality? We can clearly see that for Valluvar, desire is an intrinsic part of being human. His couplets implore us to explore, comprehend, and embrace our emotions without guilt or shame. Valluvar therefore provides us with something that can go beyond the binary perspectives of gender, and his celebration of desire in its abstract but very real form makes these couplets a rich source for queer interpretations. By queering the Thirukkural, we not only reclaim our right to exist and love within its universal truths but also find a place for ourselves among the Kural’s timeless legacy.

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Notes:
1. We acknowledge with gratitude the English translations from Meena Kandasamy’s Tirukkural: The Book of Desire (India Hamish Hamilton) ISBN: 9780670097081. Published: Jan/2023

2. Excerpts from this piece were shared by the author at Orinam’s Quilt (Pride edition) on June 14, 2025, at the Goethe-Institut, Chennai.

3. The thumbnail was generated using Gemini AI.

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My gayest dream! Without a doubt, it’s the dream of getting married to the king of my heart. I acknowledge the fact that it’s the kind of dream many queer people don’t dare to see, but that doesn’t make it impossible or invalid.

I truly believe that love is not an act we perform, it’s certainly the highest energy in this universe. When we’re in the state of love, we attract love. To attract love, we must become love. This starts with sitting with our own selves, finding out what we truly want, loving ourselves a bit more with each passing day, and ridding the negativity around us. I hope every queer person realises that our dreams are valid and we are absolutely worthy of love, no matter what!

Aditya Kumar Sahu

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