An Open Letter To the people who know me, and to those who don’t yet

To the people who know me, and to those who don’t yet,
I am an unknown voice, a binary Bihari feminist living in Assam, shaped by a childhood that was different—not better or worse, but uniquely mine. No one’s story is comparable, for in our humanity, comparisons dissolve. We are all threads in the same tapestry, yet my journey has taught me that those who know me, or claim to, often treat me differently. Is it because of where I come from? My identity? Or simply because we struggle to truly see each other?

This difference in treatment isn’t always malicious. Sometimes it’s ignorance, sometimes annoyance, or perhaps a clash of unspoken expectations. But it raises a question: how do we navigate these divides? We talk about setting boundaries, but what does that mean? Do we declare them, enforce them, and if so, how do we ensure the other person understands? Without communication—open, honest, vulnerable—boundaries become walls, and understanding remains out of reach. How, then, can we ever find resolution?

I see this same struggle reflected in the world around us. Look at the crisis in Pakistan, where divisions deepen and solutions seem elusive. Or in the United States, where the Trump administration’s actions spark global debate. Closer to home, in Assam, our lush forests—our springtime beauty—are being shattered for economic gains. Deforestation isn’t just a loss of trees; it’s a wound to our collective soul. Who do we blame for these crises? Politicians? Systems? Ourselves? The cycle of blame is endless, and it traps us in a loop where solutions are drowned out by accusations.

I don’t claim to have all the answers, but I believe the path forward begins with knowing ourselves and letting others know us—not just our surface selves, but our fears, hopes, and truths. Imagine if we formed a human union, a collective where we support each other without bias. A world where no one is arrested for their identity, where women aren’t threatened, where men aren’t judged for embracing emotion, where patriotism doesn’t blind us to humanity. In such a union, we’d recognize that emotion is not weakness—it’s the pulse of our shared existence.

But the blaming cycle persists because it’s easier to point fingers than to listen. Criticism, when constructive, can spark growth. It can challenge us to rethink, rebuild, and renew. Yet too often, people shut their eyes, clinging to beliefs that suit their comfort. This selective blindness—whether about deforestation, political crises, or the way we treat each other—stifles progress. Criticism isn’t the enemy; ignorance is.

So, I ask you: what do we do when belief becomes a barrier? How do we break through when people choose what to see, hear, and accept? I propose we start small but bold. Speak your truth, even when it trembles. Listen, even when it’s uncomfortable. Question your biases, and invite others to question theirs. Let’s replace blame with dialogue, and fear with curiosity. Let’s build a human union, not of uniformity, but of understanding.

To those who know me, thank you for seeing parts of my story. To those who don’t, let’s begin the conversation. Together, we can move beyond the blaming cycle, beyond criticism for criticism’s sake, and toward solutions that honor our shared humanity. The world is fractured, but it’s not beyond repair. Let’s mend it, one connection at a time.

Yours Queerly,

Prasant K