As the Brahmaputra catches the last light of Guwahati’s twilight, I stand by the banks, where the river’s steady flow mirrors my quest for belonging. I am Prasant Meera, A Bihari non-binary social doer, born into a city that is both home and a battleground. My family’s story, like the river’s current, carries echoes of displacement – hopeful migrants who arrived more than a century ago. My grandfather was in the theater group in All India Radio wove our roots into this vibrant Assamese tapestry, yet I inherited a different struggle: navigating the intersections of ethnicity, queerness and identity in a land that often sees me as an outsider.
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In school, my voice betrayed me. My Bhojpuri-laced Assamese pronunciation of “xopun” (dream) sparked giggles from classmates. “Aye Bihari,” they’d call, not Prasant, their laughter a reminder that my roots marked me as different. My father, educated in an Assamese medium school near Guwahati Railway Station, taught us to speak Assamese at home, hoping to shield us from those taunts. Yet, even as I excelled academically, my achievements were met with skepticism, as if a Bihari’s success could not match an Assamese peer’s. This subtle bias, rooted in Assam’s complex history, stung deeper than words.
The Assam Movement of the 1970s and 80s led to a surge of regional pride to protect the Assamese identity. However, it cast long shadows. Biharis, among with other migrants, were often branded as outsiders caught in a web of ethnic tension. As a queer non-binary person, I faced another layer of exclusion. When I began organizing for Queer Pride, I was often the only Bihari in a room filled with Assamese, Bengali and Nepali activists, some from elite and Brahmin background. In one incident, questioning the death of transgender person, my Facebook post was shared in a 200-person group chat. The backlash was not about transparency or accountability but because a Bihari dared challenge the status quo. “Why are you reacting so much?” They sneered, diminishing my voice as disruptive and radical.
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Similar instances have occurred with friends of a different age group. Older friends and those from highly influential families have repeatedly done the same. Even if there is a debate, as soon as I enter with my counter argument, somehow everyone gets affected and they start making me understand of rights and wrongs, as if they are the only people entitled to knowledge.The name-calling, hating kurta, hating chappals, hating oil, hating masala and calling me ‘Litti Choka’ was not fun but were insults, which started piling inside me.
The 2024 Dighali Pukhuri protest, where we railed against tree-felling for a flyover, echoed this exclusion. My suggestion on inclusive planning were ignored, while an Assamese friend’s similar critiques were heard. The silence I faced echoed loud and clear, serving as a reminder that my Bihari identity amplified my otherness, even in shared cause. Yet, these rejections fueled my resolve. Each “Aye Bihari” taunt sparked my advocacy further.
Amid the struggle, I have found my allies; friends and activists who weave their voices with mine. Together, we challenge bias through dialogue, art, and education, celebrating the labour of Bihari migrants who built Assam’s road and railways, their stories entwined with its growth. My queerness and heritage are not anomalies, but threads in a shared human tapestry. Through platforms like Spotify podcast, Judge Me Not, which won Silver at the 2023 NewYorkRadio festival, I amplify these narratives, hoping to bridge gaps.
I stand proudly as a Bihari queer in Guwahati, who is born and raised to be an equal to this society. My identity is a bridge between Bhojpuri prayers and Bihu dances. My fight mirrors countless others navigating culture, sexuality and heritage. I dream of an Assam where no one is shadowed by their identity. Where we gather by the Brahmaputra, Bihari and Assamese, queers and straights to co-create a future of solidarity. We are, after all, only a matter of time—until the day we’re gone, and a new generation breathes freely, unburdened by the weight of skin, gender, caste, or place.
