‘Tell My Mother I Like Boys’: Suvir Saran’s lessons on the art of growing into oneself
Saran manages to answer the one question his younger self struggled with the most: ‘What am I?’ The answer is: ‘I am loved. I am becoming. And that is enough’
Tell My Mother I Like Boys by Suvir Saran. (Source: Penguin/AI) “What am I? Why am I who I am? How will people treat me?” These fundamental questions are inescapable for most people. The author of Tell My Mother I Like Boys, Suvir Saran is no exception. His latest book chronicles his life and his journey to discovering himself, in his own words. And the words and lenses he chooses to narrate his life with reveal as much about it as the gritty details.
At its heart, Tell My Mother is only partly about Saran. It is an ode, a love letter to his family, friends, lovers past and present, to India — to the boy he was and the man he is still becoming. “Because they believed [in me], I became. This book is theirs before it is mine.”: With this dedication, Saran sets the tone. The work itself is a chronological account of Saran’s life and all those who shaped it. Bracketed by grief and loss, filled with the highest ups right alongside the lowest lows, and notes on how he survived it all, the book highlights the people who held Saran up.
Suvir Saran is the author of Tell My Mother I Like Boys. (Source: Instagram/@suvirsaran)
Follow love, follow passion
Through the work, the price of individuality and the strength of community are evident — and the importance of both. For Saran, grief and joy are parts of a bigger whole; they are not opposites, they are neighbours. This lesson, taught to him by his loved ones early on, defines the book and the direction his life takes.
The ability to appreciate the duality of life ensures he remains a cautious optimist as he goes through periods of grief, growth, discrimination, success; it is his anchor. It is also what helped a young Saran reconcile his identity with his place in his community. Realising, as a child, that he is gay and that that means many who he thinks of as home will other him, is devastating and, for many in the LGBTQ+ community, a familiar story. Saran lays bare the violence of growing up different, fighting the mirror, the shame, and those who plant it in your mind. He also offers a mantra for growing into yourself despite it all — follow love, follow passion.
What am I?
But Saran’s optimism has a silent enabler — one that receives little mention in the book — privilege. The tone conveys a modest life, but the details reveal a childhood spent with the stars of many industries today and the freedom to explore life on one’s own terms. He goes to Mumbai “to learn” and to New York for “love”. While many of his experiences and sentiments can be universalised, the book stops short, and Saran seems to be a bit out of touch. The book is also, in parts, repetitive and needlessly winding.
But ultimately, Saran manages to answer the one question his younger self struggled with the most: “What am I?” The answer is: “I am loved. I am becoming. And that is enough.” For anyone trying to find a note of similarity, some evidence of survival despite difference, that is an affirming message.
Penguin Random House
220 pages
Rs 699
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