When Your Voice Outs You

Over the years, I realised I have had a lot of talents.

I can roll my tongue, impersonate a pigeon (my head tut is phenomenal), fly a kite without help, and most importantly, lie my way through a resume even while asleep. It’s a lot for one person.

But faking a baritone is clearly not one of them.

I knew my voice was “soft” (read: too girly for the masses and the misinformed) when I was eight. And unlike algebra or the recorder, booming like a blue whale wasn’t taught in kindergarten. To avoid years of ridicule, I chose the only solution that seemed safe.

Silence.

I stopped yelling across playgrounds. Answered questions only when I had to. Played shy so I wouldn’t have to speak. It’s amazing what you can pass off when you say you’re an introvert.

But the cracks showed. My voice would squeak out, high and sharp, and with it came sniggers and snide remarks.

“Why do you sound so nasal?”

I’d respond with something vague and medical, enough to shut them up until I changed schools—and bullies.

Eventually, I adapted. I modulated my voice to fit the room. Gruff North Indian tones for male colleagues. Breathier Bombay lilt with female acquaintances. Only my closest friends heard the real me—high-pitched, excitable, unfiltered.

Still, the voice was a sore spot. Especially on the phone, where telemarketers insisted on calling me “ma’am.”

“Hello, madam? Can we interest you in a home loan?”

“Miss, would you like to try our new double cheese burst?”

I’d grumble something about being a man and hang up.

Voice ≠ Validity?

I hated the way my voice sounded. And I hated that I hated it. And I hated that society taught me that a voice like mine should be hated. It was a mess of shame, internalised homophobia, and soundwaves.

Ask any queer man: there's a delicate balance between sounding "gay enough" to be seen in the community and “not too gay” to stay safe in public. I’ve learned to read rooms, to lower my pitch with husbands, trainers, Uber drivers.

Generations of gay men have masked their voices to avoid being outed, mocked, or worse. It’s survival dressed up as performance. And I’ve done it too.

I called it self-preservation. Others call it toxic masculinity. Either way, I wore it like cologne.

The Brunch That Broke the Sound Barrier

Last year, everything shifted. It was a sunny, champagne-fuelled brunch with friends. Everyone was tipsy and loud. A kid tugged at my trousers mid-joke.

“Why does your voice sound like a girl?”

It was innocent. But it landed like a gut punch from 20 years ago. My defences kicked in.

“That’s my happy voice,” I snapped, “Your mum has one too.”

We laughed. The mother didn’t. I drowned the discomfort in three extra mimosas.

But later, it hit me: my voice is gay. Not slur-gay. But proudly, queerly, entirely mine.

Say It With Your Chest

We don’t shame people for having different noses, hands, or heights. Why shame them for how they sound?

Voices come in octaves. Some boom. Some sing. Some flutter. Some ache. Mine does all four, sometimes before breakfast.

If that outs me, so be it. I have too much to say. I won’t stop speaking just because it doesn’t sound like you expect.

And neither should you.

Aniruddha Mahale, Editor