6 queer creators pen moving notes to the ones who stood by them

Coming out is rarely ever a one-time thing. It’s a layered, often complicated journey—one that’s shaped by the people who meet you with love and softness when you need it the most. For many queer individuals, the first person who truly sees them, accepts them, and stays is unforgettable.

In this intimate collection of letters, six creators from India’s LGBTQIA+ community write to their very first allies. These are the people who showed up quietly and consistently—be it with a hug in a college corridor, a saved seat in class, or a borrowed sari stitched with love. There are no dramatic declarations here, just real, raw moments of connection—the kind that become your emotional blueprint for what love and allyship should look like.

Veer Misra - Artist

Dear Arunima,

I spent the majority of my school life aggressively avoiding boys and developing what I’d call a lifelong allergy to sports. As I maintained what I consider a very healthy and practical distance from dried grass and sweaty teenagers, I hid in the art room instead (The fully functioning AC may or may not have influenced this). That’s where I found you—Aru—almost always hunched in a corner, drawing something in your notebook, your hair doing an excellent job of hiding your face. We were both these weird little creatures with giant, chaotic internal worlds we didn’t yet know how to translate into words or even socially acceptable behaviour.

There was no dramatic friendship moment. Just a quiet, mutual noticing. You left school before I did, and I spent two more years lurking around art supplies and sulking. What followed was years of slow-burn friendship, mostly made up of oddly intense, peripheral chats—often about nothing but carrying the emotional weight of everything. Somewhere in that mess, we discovered we both had secret blogs and private Tumblrs where we unleashed our angst in poetic fonts. It was the early 2010s—writing like we’d invented sadness. Just a pair of Joan Didion, really.

When you went to college, I watched you grow into yourself from afar with admiration. You were doing it—you were a living Pinterest board of how to be a person. Comically, obviously, and to your great delight, I ended up there too. I remember walking in on my first day and you charging at me like an excited puppy, hugging me before I could even process the moment. You immediately adopted me into your group of intimidatingly cool friends, who I have come to realise are all lallus (dumb) I love dearly. We navigated that chaos together—particularly the crises that felt earthshattering at 19 and are now mostly just funny footnotes. But in the middle of all that drama, there was this consistent, undramatic love—reliable, low-maintenance, and very much real. I think we both helped each other unearth our voices, awkwardly and then with growing certainty.

I’d known I was queer since I was 15. Maybe earlier. But we’re going to politely ignore that and go with 15 because this is my story and I’m allowed to edit history as I see fit. Still, I was in full emotional chaos mode in my first year of college. Over winter break, I started really reckoning with it. And by “reckoning,” I mean spiralling and watching an embarrassing amount of coming out videos on YouTube when I wasn’t melodramatically staring into the void. The fear wasn’t really ever about being queer—it was about what it would mean to say it out loud, to not carry a secret so heavy, it would change the way people looked at me.

Around that time, you and I were encouraging each other to write more. So I did what any emotionally repressed gay teenager with access to the internet would do: I started another secret blog. Poured all my messy feelings into one long, dramatic post, hit publish, and flung my phone across the room like it had personally betrayed me. It was out there now. Too bad, catharsis didn’t arrive in an Amazon parcel.

A few days later, you saw me at college and told me I looked like I was about to cry. I laughed, lied (badly), and said it was just stress. It wasn’t. That night, in a rare burst of courage—or maybe just desperation—I found the blog post and sent it to you. Then hovered over the power button on my phone like I was about to detonate something.

You responded almost immediately. Not with gentle reassurance, but with exasperated yelling. “DON’T TURN YOUR PHONE OFF!” you texted. Then came the nice stuff—how proud you were, how brave I was, how honoured you felt to be trusted with this. But the thing I remember the most? You always kept a seat empty next to you, in case I needed to just exist. Not talk or explain, but just sit there like a weird little frog and be left alone. You gave me space, and in doing that, you gave me safety. That was the blueprint. From there, I found the courage to tell more people.

Ten years later, I’m much gayer and a lot more unbothered about how my queerness is perceived. We’ve lived a lot of life since then—some of it together, some of it apart in different cities and wildly different lives. We’ve been through break-ups, nervous breakdowns, and a series of increasingly questionable dating choices (including men with even more questionable Instagram stories). We don’t talk every day. We went nearly five years without seeing each other, and then last year, picked up like nothing had changed.

There’s never been performance with us, instead an undying and unsaid feeling, that we’ll always leave the light on in our respective houses for each other to come home.

Love, Veer

Sanat Chadha - Content creator 

To my twin - my mumma,

I still remember the day I came out to you as gay and you said “Tu trans to nahi hai na (You are not a transperson, right)?” Many would see this as transphobia, but I always knew this question came out of care and fear that your child will be treated like what you had seen transpeople being treated like in this country. Five years later, here we are. HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) made me look like you. You’re possibly the only person I know who never let her fears stop her from loving unconditionally.

Not only that, you stood up for me against every nosey relative and told them in your famous words, “If you can’t understand it, just shut up.” With these words you not only became an amazing mother to me but a mother figure to every trans/queer person in India. You are the type of parent every child in this world deserves—one who never let her conditioning stop her from fighting for her child. One who gave her saris and beloved kurtis to alter them to her trans daughter’s size without a single thought. One who went against everything she feared to let her trans daughter go on hormones and transition into the woman she is today.

You are on BBC, on Google, on leading newspapers for the amazing mother you are. Many people tell me that I will never be a mother, but you have made me realise that being a mother is about behaviour and not biology. Thousands of women around the world lack the resilience and unconditional support you possess for your children. Many abandon their kids whereas you make the conscious decision every single day to stand by your child. Looking like you is probably the greatest pleasures of my transition, but maybe one day I will be lucky enough to be a mother like you. I would choose you as my mom in every single lifetime, thank you for being my rock, mumma.

Love, Sanat

Ella D’ Verma - Model and content creator

To my mummy,

As I’m beginning to write this letter to you, my first ally, I’m remembering everything as it played out and it struck me that there hasn’t been a moment when you hadn’t been an ally. One would think my story is full of suffering and pain, which I admit was an undeniable part of it, but I remember not a fleeting moment where you were the source of it.

It’s magical, mummy, that you have not only supported me when I decided to live as my authentic self but also been the one who inspired me to even have the courage to do it in the first place. I remember you let me play with Barbies while knowing how others frowned at your “little boy’s” toys; I know you went to war with the family to let me go to a school that was far from home. I chuckle at the thrashing you gave that pados ki aunty (neighbour) when she tried to lay a hand on me; not caring about her ‘powerful’ family.

You have always held your ground fearlessly and oh so gracefully; so it was only a matter of time before I followed in your footsteps. I remember when I had realised I was transgender—or more so, learnt that “transgender” was the term that most accurately described who I was—I wanted to tell you but I couldn’t muster up the courage to come clean. Even then, in all that anxiety, I feared not the abandonment that is the reality of many transgender kids when they come out to their family, but hurting you with my truth. Looking back now, what a blessing it is that I always knew you wouldn’t turn your back on me.

I know you were confused, in denial, heartbroken, afraid, but you were never harsh or hateful. Even when you were lost, you gave only love; even when you had no comprehension, you offered only compassion. You feared not the “shame” that’ll come from society but only how it would hurt me.

You were willing to learn, unlearn, and relearn every step of the way—you were and always will be my first and fiercest ally.

There isn’t a letter elaborate enough to tell you how grateful I am, no words deep enough to express my love for you, no gift I can give you that is more valuable than the gift of your unwavering love and support; and if there is a girl happier in her fortunes, I know her not.

Your Ella

Atulan Purohit - Content creator and fitness instructor

Dear Aungu,

Ever since we were young, we’ve always shared the kind of bond some siblings could only dream of. From walking to school together every morning to running around in our garden in the rain, we’ve always gone through the ups and downs hand in hand.

I vividly remember the day I came out to you. We were walking back from school, and I’d had a tough day because a bunch of guys bullied me during lunchtime. You knew something was wrong. You looked at me and said nothing, but something about that look made me feel safe. The words just fell out of my mouth: “Aungu, you know I like guys, right?” And you just said, “Yes, I don’t care.” And that was it— but I don’t know if you realise how much that meant to me. Saying it out loud for the first time was both liberating and comforting. I always used to say that I would only come out to our parents when I was financially independent because I was so scared of them abandoning me. But during Covid, when mom and dad found my YouTube channel, HoneyImmHome—specifically the video “How We Met” that I made with Divesh—it started a whole new journey of acceptance that I had kept delaying. You stood up for me the entire time. In fact, I feel you did the hard work for me. I was in Mumbai, and you were home in Delhi with them—and even though we’ve never fully discussed that time, I know for a fact you must have fought with them every day for me. If you hadn’t been there, I genuinely believe it would have taken them ages to come to terms with the fact that their eldest son is gay.

I never fully thanked you for that—but take this as my most sincere and loving gratitude for standing up for me. We both grew up in an environment where anything different or out of line from the path chosen for us was seen as undoable. But I’m so glad we grew up to be independent individuals who prioritise love above all. I hate that we’re adults now! We live in different cities, we have our own lives—but every time my screen lights up with your text, or I hear your voice on the phone saying “Dadduu...,” I feel that same warmth I felt walking home from school with you.

Love, Daddu (Atulan)

Divesh Tolani - Content creator

Dear Aashiqui,

Oh the years, I’m about to recall, all scary but now somehow reassuring. I may have expressed how grateful I was to have you in different ways but maybe not in so many words, but today I will try. Three best friends— Aashika, Vinnie, and Divesh—in those horrendous red uniforms, styling them to look slightly butch, classic, and slightly feminine in that specific order. Little did we know what that meant for us. Or maybe, you already did? As I search for images to revisit the morning it happened, and try to remember all those blocked memories, I couldn’t help but notice how I already looked so gay and how I’m sure you already knew, but kept it in for all those years only to make me feel good when I do speak those words out. I remember it was another stressful morning in that classroom, not knowing that we were both fighting with our identities—imagine how much easier it would have been to figure it out with each other! Of all the highs and lows, this day was particularly “a high”! This prepubescent boy right here (me) was getting signals from a senior who used to come and make some serious eye contact during MUN orientations. You and I, being the queer-backbenchers we were, giggled every time he smiled at me. I never had a crush before or even felt this way, but every time you looked at me with those proud eyes and smiled, knowing that it’s finally unfolding for me, made me feel confident. And mind you, I hadn’t felt the tiniest bit of confidence in life until then, so that feeling mattered. That confidence was my strength to come to school that year. “Divesh, are you okay?” You asked me on one of those many low days. And again in the third lecture. And again in the fifth. Finally, I blurted it out, “I think I’m gay”. And you said, “I KNOW.” I hate you till date for that response, but well that’s the same response I got from everyone. I went back home that day feeling strong in the school bus, only to know that I’ll feel weird in the closet back home. But, it made me excited for school the next day. Thank you Aashiqui! You never questioned my identity, but of course questioned my choices in men/boys. And I do wish you stopped me from making all those bad decisions, but that’s for a different letter :) Whilst the “MUN boy” and Divesh “relationship” lasted four days, we lasted forever. Because meri “Aashiqui”, tumse hee.

Xoxo, Gossip girl, Divu

Anwesh Sahoo - Artist

Dearest Nana,

I still remember that night like it was yesterday. The room was pitch dark, we were lying side by side on our bed, and I was crying quietly, but uncontrollably. I couldn’t say much at first—I didn’t know how to begin or what words to use. But you knew—somehow, you always knew. And you didn’t ask for an explanation. You just stayed, listened, and let me fall apart in peace. That was the first time I allowed myself to say out loud what I had been too afraid to admit, even to myself. I was scared, scared you wouldn’t understand, that I would somehow disappoint, or worse, lose you. But instead, you pulled me closer and made me feel safe in a way I didn’t think was possible.

You didn’t have all the answers that night, and honestly, neither did I. But what you gave me was something far greater—acceptance without condition, love without hesitation. You didn’t try to fix me or even fully understand what I was going through at that moment. You just held space for me to be—and that was everything.

In the days that followed, you never made me feel that I had to hide or apologise for who I am. You stood by me quietly, consistently, and lovingly. You defended me when others didn’t know better. You made sure I never had to go through anything alone. Even when I couldn’t accept myself, you did. Again and again.

I often think how lucky I am that my very first ally was my sister. You’ve never let the world harden your heart. You’ve held mine so gently, even when it was bruised and unsure. That kind of love is rare. I hope you know that. And I hope I’ve been able to reflect even a part of that back to you.

You were the first person to show me what true allyship looks like, not with grand gestures, but with gentle presence. And that’s what made it so powerful. You were just there, through every tear, every fear, and every step of the way.

I wouldn’t be who I am today without you. Thank you for being my sister, my safe place, my first ally. Thank you for seeing me, even in the dark.

Love, Anwesh Your lil Annu

Cosmo reader, Sougata

Didi,

When Dev sahab sang “phoolon ka taaron sabka kehna hai, ek hazaaro mein meri behna hai” (from Hare Rama Hare Krishna, 1971) he perhaps was stating one of the most beautiful facts of our life. Indeed, lucky are the brothers who are blessed with sisters.

Growing up in the small town of Jamshedpur in the late '80s with this “Oh I am so different from others” feeling deep down in my heart was never easy. I was fighting with my self for acceptance while struggling hard to fit into the heteronormative world around me. Every day was difficult and every day was a challenge but it was important to hide it all and be “regular” all the time. The only solace I derived was from spending time with you, chatting, playing, and fighting, all at the same time. I could be myself when I was with you and would forget about the burden I was carrying inside me. You made me believe that I was a perfect brother, no flaws whatsoever. You breathed into me the confidence I needed to believe in myself and just be me! But there always was something that stopped me from baring my heart out to you. It was never about you but it was I who failed to do it then. I don’t know if I am sorry about that, but today when I look back I feel I surely could have done better, much better. Your brother isn’t perfect, perhaps never was.

Cut to 2017 after being in a relationship with Mayank for five years when I finally decided to come out, not for a second did I think of anyone else. I rehearsed how and what exactly will I say. What worried me was not your anger but perhaps your heartbreak. Somewhere there was an apprehension too—will you understand me? When I look back today, I feel bad for feeling that way. Your perfect brother wasn’t perfect again. I still remember how comfortable you made me feel when you said, “If you guys are happy, I am happy.” I know it wasn’t easy for you either, but you just didn’t show it. Because a few years down, didi, you did share how difficult it was for you when your friends slyly commented about your brother’s sexuality and you cried, alone. You needed time to process this reality, you needed me then to support your “acceptance journey”. I am sorry I wasn’t there for you. Your perfect brother wasn’t perfect, yet again. Through this letter, I express my heartfelt apology for being imperfect but also promise that with you by my side I will keep getting better every day and make you proud of who I am and who I will become. Thank you didi for everything you did for me and everything that you continue to do. I love you.

Bhai

Cosmo reader, Mayank

Hi Rinki,

I remember the night of March 2017 when I woke you up from sleep to share with you the biggest part of my life, something I had kept a secret for years. Growing up in a joint Punjabi business family in the small town of Modinagar, I was always scared to share my sexual orientation with anyone. I knew that no one would understand me and the fear of being ostracised and disowned always had the better of me. From the time I realised that I was “different” from others, I kept looking for references of people like me and I found none. What I found were only exaggerated caricatures, which further pushed me into my closet. I kept putting up with the expectations of everyone around me, trying hard to be “normal” and fitting into the straight world. It was difficult, it was a challenge yet there was nothing that I could do differently.

As life happened, I moved to Bangalore for my first job and there I found Sougie—the love of my life—with whom I built a beautiful life. But deep inside, I felt something was incomplete. My inability to be able to share my identity with the ones who matter the most to me was a feeling oh so heavy! Five years into my relationship I gathered the courage (and also wanted to be respectful towards my relationship) to share this part of me with someone. All I could think of was you, Rinki. I recollected how during our growing up years you would guard me from everything—be it mom’s thrashings, or unsolicited remarks by relatives. You were the one who always understood me way more than anyone else. So when I decided to finally come out, I could only take this bet with you. Somewhere deep down I did know that you would understand, but there was always that fear of what if!

The said night, as we lay on the bed on bed and kept talking about things, my heart pounded hard as I was readying to come out to you. You had gone off to sleep and I woke you up to say: “Rinki, I am gay.” While you took some time to fathom things, you immediately said, “Ok, so you and Sougie are together?” Sisters know it all and you proved this yet again. Of course, you did mention that it will be difficult to share this with mom and dad but you also reassured me of your unconditional support. I can never forget that moment as tears of joy rolled down my cheeks and all I could do was hug you tight. The feeling of letting go of this big boulder off my chest was so relieving that I don’t think I thanked you enough that night or ever after. Today, my life is so different, so complete. Sougie and I are socially married, we are accepted by both our parents, our parents are living with us and we are also fathers to a lovely daughter and son. Many say that we are an inspiration for the community but for me, you are the true inspiration—my first ally. Through this letter I want to express my love to you and say a big thank you too. Every day of my beautiful life I thank the stars that I have been blessed with you—my sister, the pillar of my life!

Love you lots and love you forever, Mannu 

Illustration by Anwesh Sahoo; Layout by Shradha Swaminathan

The article originally appeared Cosmopolitan May-June 2025 print issue

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