Why the representation of intersectionality in media is important

Words by Siona / Graphics by Levi LoCascio-Seward / Edited by Charis Caraballo

Every few months, my mom and I would curl up on the couch, wrapped in a shared blanket with a bowl of maggi for me and chai with sev for her. We’d press play on Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge and I would be swept away, not only by Simran’s courage but also by the warmth of my mom humming the music alongside me. From the heart-tugging Tujhe Dekha Toh to the upbeat dance number Mehndi Laga Ke Rakhna, the songs evoked such genuine emotion in me that I couldn’t help but listen to them over and over. Another one of my favorites was Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani; even now, I think it has one of the best Bollywood soundtracks of all time.

I often found myself looking up a particular scene in these movies to rewatch—the wedding scene. The one that leads to the happy ending for a bride and groom. The one where there’s vibrant colors, passionate dancing, and seemingly endless platters of food. The one which radiates pure joy. These scenes put me in a trance as I dreamed about all the details of my future wedding.

When I was six, I got to attend my first ever Indian wedding and it was magical. I flew to Nashville with my mom and we stayed in a grand hotel with signage celebrating Ria and Rohan, the bride and groom. I feasted on puri and kofta and biryani and raita. I danced with the shamelessness of a kindergartener, not worrying about whether I’d embarrass myself. I admired all the women adorned in intricate saris paired with delicate gold jewelry.

The next wedding I attended was particularly special. I was ten years old when my immediate cousin Sonali got married. This was my first wedding in India, and because the bride was such close family, we were directly involved in many of the festivities. We flew to India a few weeks ahead of time to learn the choreographed Sangeet dances we would be a part of. I went shopping with my aunts to find the perfect lehengas and even had one outfit made specifically for me.

During the wedding itself, I got to walk behind Sonali as she entered her Mehndi. As the Baarat approached, the street erupted into a blur of color, sound, and smell. Men in jewel-studded kurtas, women in shimmering lehengas, as the rhythmic beat of the drums reverberated in my chest. The strong herbal and spicy scent of marigolds mixed with sweat and echoing laughter. I felt a connection, not just to my family standing before me, but to something more powerful, more ancient than just a few generations. I also got my first introduction to Joota Chupai, the tradition in which the bride’s side of the family steals the groom’s shoes and hides them. (The groom’s family must pay a ransom to get the shoes back.) Before the reception, the makeup artist assigned to all of Sonali's cousins did up my face and I enjoyed the special treatment. I remember my cousin, Shreya, excitedly telling me “you look like a princess!” before going on a rant about how excited she was for my own wedding in the far future. “You’re going to be the perfect bride,” she said.

I wasn’t so sure. A few years earlier I began to notice a pattern in the Bollywood rom-coms I loved: every single one featured a man and woman as the love interests. And in school, when we learned about same-sex couples, Indians or Indian Americans were never represented. At the same time, my friends had started talking about the crushes they had on boys in our class. When they described the constant stream of thoughts about their crushes, the chest flutters when around them, and how everything that came out of their mouths was funny, the feeling was familiar to me. But instead of feeling it around Oliver, I felt it around Olivia. I knew same-sex couples existed and that many were happy, but I only ever heard about them at school, a predominantly white setting. At home, my parents had never once acknowledged the existence of families that looked different than our own. In both Indian and American media, I had never seen two Indian women or two Indian men in a relationship. So even though I knew I wanted to marry a woman in the future, I didn’t think that was possible for someone like me.

Still, my parents had only shown me love and never said anything negative about gay people. I had no reason to believe they wouldn’t accept me for who I was. However, I must have had some sense I wasn’t going to get an entirely positive reaction, so when I first came out to my parents at ten, I told them I was bisexual. I figured leaving open the possibility of still marrying a man would be more palatable than the truth.. I rehearsed what I’d say in the mirror for days, hoping to unlock the perfect combination of words that would cue understanding in my parents’ eyes. When I finally told them, I didn’t expect rainbow socks, but I also didn’t expect brief, deafening silence. When they finally spoke, I heard “Everyone has crushes on girls at your age, it doesn’t mean anything” from my mom, “You’re too young to be thinking about stuff like this” from my dad, and “Don’t tell your brother” from them both. To my parents’ credit, nothing changed in how they treated and loved me. At least not on their end. To me, the damage was done. I was craving the affirmation of unconditional love and acceptance rather than them brushing off my identity as a phase. Before coming out, I trusted my parents with absolutely everything, but after, everything felt tainted by their dismissal of my sexual orientation. I retreated into a shell because I was having trouble socially at school, and now I couldn’t trust my family either.

So when Shreya told me I was going to be the “perfect bride” about a month after I came out to my parents, it took all my strength to not burst into tears. If my parents, who had been living in the United States for over twenty years and interacted with gay people at work, couldn't accept me for me, how was my extended family from India going to be okay with it? Was I ever going to have the large, bustling Indian wedding I’d always dreamed of?

Over the next few years, my family attended multiple Indian weddings and despite the festivity and joy, I always felt a little isolated. I couldn't see myself in the future I once thought was inevitable, and I had no one to confide in nor a shoulder to lean on.

In 2019, the Bollywood movie “Ek Ladki Ko Dekha Toh Aisa Laga” came out on Netflix and threw me a lifeline. This movie mirrored the style of the Bollywood romantic comedies I’d grown up with, but there was one key difference: the main character, Sweety, was a lesbian just like me. I heard about the movie through Instagram and snuck the family iPad to school for a couple days to watch it between classes in secret. The movie had a happy ending—Sweety’s family struggled to accept her as a lesbian but eventually came around, and the movie’s final scene showed Sweety and her love interest, Kuhu, walking off the screen holding hands. I remember sobbing in the school bathroom while watching the film, because of Sweety’s devastation regarding her feelings of isolation, because of the relatability to her resignation to the fate of an arranged marriage to a man, but ultimately because the love Sweety and Kuhu received from their families gave me genuine hope. I paused and rewatched the montage of a happy Sweety and Kuhu over and over just to convince myself it was real, that a girl like Sweety could exist in a world like mine and still be loved.

Watching “Ek Ladki Ko Dekha Toh Aisa Laga” was the first time I no longer had to separate my intersecting identities. Beforehand, I could find Indian representation in Bollywood and lesbian representation in Hollywood. But I have never existed as just one or the other; I am always both lesbian and Indian. For the first time, I could imagine having the wedding of my dreams.

Since then, my parents have made long strides in accepting me for who I am. They now know I am a lesbian, were supportive of my high school relationship with my girlfriend, and have committed to being by my side when we eventually navigate coming out to my extended family. I’ve even watched “Ek Ladki Ko Dekha Toh Aisa Laga” with my mom, this time relishing in the joy and comfort I felt as she enveloped me in a tight hug. I don’t know exactly what my wedding will look like and whether everyone I love will show up, but I’ve stopped trying to fit it into someone else’s mold. I picture marigolds and mehndi, drums and dancing, but I also picture my future wife. Whoever she is, wherever she is, I know we can build something beautiful together. And I know our wedding will be a show of color, joy, and love—unapologetically Indian and unapologetically Queer.