As a queer Dalit person with undiagnosed ADHD, raised by parents shaped by post-Partition survival,

I learned early that love is something you earn through labour.

For a long time, I didn’t call it burnout. I thought I was just tired — that the gut issues, the forgetfulness, the hollowing inside were just side effects of trying to be useful. As a queer Dalit person with undiagnosed ADHD, raised by parents shaped by post-Partition survival, I learned early that love is something you earn through labour. So I worked hard — to fit in, to belong, to prove I mattered.

Growing up in a small village in West Bengal, I was effeminate and always a little “off.” I struggled in school — always distracted, always forgetful — and my teachers labelled me lazy or weird. There were no queer role models, no language for neurodivergence. Just shame. So I learned to perform — to act straight, date girls, do what was expected. I believed that if I could just be good enough, maybe I could stop feeling so alone.

Eventually, I moved to Bangalore, chasing escape — from the village, the closet, the masks. There, I found urban gay culture and dove headfirst into fashion, fitness, and queer slang. For a while, it gave me the validation I craved. But beneath the curated Instagram life, I felt hollow. I wasn’t sure who I was performing for anymore — or if I even remembered what it meant to just be.

The turning point came, unexpectedly, on a trek to Kumara Parvatha. In the wilderness, far from the expectations of city life, something shifted. Without mirrors, without apps, without performance, I met myself. Nature held me in a way people hadn’t. It didn’t need me to explain. It didn’t ask me to be calm, capable, or charming. I just had to breathe. For the first time, I felt truly seen — not by others, but by myself.

That trek changed everything.

I began hiking more often, bringing along friends who, like me, were tired of the noise and norms of queer city life. It started as a personal escape — weekend treks, small groups, honest conversations under open skies. But something beautiful happened: people kept coming back. Word spread. And what began as survival slowly became sanctuary.

That’s how Out and About was born — not as a business plan, but as a quiet rebellion. A space for queer folks — and others who never quite fit in — to feel free, safe, and whole. We weren’t just trekking. We were healing. Reconnecting. Remembering that we deserved joy beyond urban aesthetics or trauma bonding. That we could hold space for each other in silence, in laughter, in awe.

We’ve grown — over 3,000 queer folks have journeyed with us across mountains, forests, beaches, and borders. We’ve danced under bioluminescent skies in Konkan, kissed inside trembling tents at mountaintops, cried beside lakes too beautiful for words. I’ve watched friendships form, lovers meet, chosen families emerge — all from the raw honesty of shared stillness.

But even as OAA grew, so did the weight I carried. I was still unlearning a lifetime of equating worth with usefulness. I was still the person who said yes too much, held space too often, and forgot how to be held myself. Burnout came quietly — not with drama, but in disconnection. I felt distant from my own joy. My gut flared up. My body said no long before I could.

Therapy helped. So did nature. Slowly, I learned to set boundaries. To rest. To stop believing I needed to be the calmest, kindest person in every room to deserve belonging. I’ve started sharing leadership. Saying no. Taking breaks. Because queer joy doesn’t need a hero — it needs a constellation.

Around the same time, I quit my corporate tech job. My heart wasn’t in it, though tech still anchors me. I joined Pleqsus India Foundation, a community-based organisation led by transgender people with a dream to build lives of dignity and better access to mainstream spaces. As an empath, I felt naturally drawn to their vision. At Pleqsus, I got involved in building QTBharath — India’s first AI-powered resource app for queer and trans folks. The goal? To reach those the internet often forgets — rural trans and gender-diverse communities whose lives are shaped more by survival than by pronouns.

Over the past year, we’ve surveyed over 2,000 such individuals in West Bengal — many identifying as koti, not transgender. Their stories humbled us. In these spaces, gender is lived — performed in Jatra Pala, expressed through constrained marriages, fought for in everyday resistance. One 19-year-old I met now plays Radha on stage, supports his mother, and owns his femininity despite facing violence. Their womanhood, carved through folklore and grit, made us rethink queerness beyond urban frameworks.

It hasn’t been easy. I left a corporate job. Moved back to Kolkata. Left behind pets, a salary, a sense of structure. The financial and emotional toll was real. So when I received the IGLTA Foundation Fellowship, it felt like a lifeline — not just a few nights in a hotel or new connections, but a rare kind of affirmation: your work matters. Presenting Out and About publicly gave me both pride and clarity. It made me realize that passion alone wasn’t enough. I needed strategy, sustainability, and support.

Even now, there are days I question everything. Days I feel like I should return to the comfort of corporate life. But then I remember the lake in Sikkim, the rain-kissed stream in Sakleshpur, the barefoot dancing in an Arunachal village. I remember the moment someone wrote “Out and About” on a Pride flag in Bangalore and handed it to me — smiling, glowing, at home.

These aren’t just memories. They’re anchors. Proof that we have lived — unapologetically, together.

I’m still figuring it all out. Still learning to rest. Still dreaming.

But I have a compass now — built from community, clarity, and the kind of faith that doesn’t need to shout to be real.

Whether it’s through treks or tech, I’m here to keep building what I never had growing up — spaces where queer and trans folks feel seen, supported, and sovereign.

Spaces where we don’t just survive.

We soar.