In Indian metros today, being queer often looks suspiciously like a well-edited episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race. There’s flawless contour, biting sarcasm, and references to American pop culture tossed around like confetti. Words like “shade,” “slay,” and “sickening” have replaced nuanced conversation, while “reading” someone—once a tool of resistance and wit in Black and Brown American ballroom culture—has been reduced to mimicry by young, upper-caste, urban Indian queers who often forget where these terms come from, or worse, who they’re speaking over.
But let’s start with the honest truth: most of us first met our queerness through American TV. Be it Queer As Folk, Will & Grace, or the high-drama allure of Drag Race, these cultural exports shaped the way we understood identity, pride, and even community. For a generation starved of representation, this visibility was oxygen.
Yet now that we’ve inhaled deeply, we must ask: Are we ready to exhale something of our own?
The American Blueprint vs. the Indian Reality
When young Indian queer folks “read” each other—throwing clever, biting insults laced with performative sass—it’s often more alienating than empowering. Instead of forging solidarity, it ends up reinforcing caste, class, and beauty hierarchies. The adored archetype becomes the thin, fair-skinned, English-speaking, gym-toned gay man with disposable income and an Instagram-ready birthday outfit. He is the Desi RuPaul fantasy, polished to perfection, yet detached from grassroots realities.
Why does Indian queerness feel like cosplay? Why do we mourn Drag Bans in the U.S. while staying quiet about the lack of horizontal reservations for queer and trans communities here in India? Why does the Stonewall Uprising inspire solidarity hashtags, while the AIDS Bhedbhav Virodhi Andolan (ABVA)—one of India’s earliest queer rights movements—remains unmentioned and unknown?
We wear Marsha P. Johnson on our tees, but can’t recall Mona Ahmed, the iconic hijra who defied stereotypes and commanded respect in Delhi’s graveyards and salons. We learn queerness through a borrowed lens, but refuse to adjust the focus to see ourselves clearly.
Can We Indianise Queerness?
Absolutely. But it will require discomfort, detachment, and decolonisation.
We have rich traditions of gender diversity and queerness within the subcontinent: the hijra, kothi, aravani, jogti, and shiv-shaktis—identities far older and more rooted in this soil than any Netflix series. These communities don’t need Western vocabulary to explain who they are. Their queerness is lived, embodied, and spiritual. Yet, they are rarely invited into mainstream conversations—unless it’s for token inclusion, or worse, a photo-op.
Urban queer elites, often from savarna backgrounds, enjoy visibility, voice, and platforms. They attend drag nights in five-star venues like Kitty Su and speak on panels about intersectionality. But for many, this “intersectionality” is a talking point, not a practice. Ask them about caste, reservation, or rural queer experiences, and the silence is telling.
If we truly want to build a desi queer culture, we need to step away from the western limelight and look inward—not as an act of rejection, but of reimagining.
Culture Cannot Exist Without Community
Queer identity in India cannot be built solely through aesthetics and imported slang. It must be grounded in the lived experiences of the most marginalised within our rainbow. This means acknowledging that not all queer lives are glamorous, Instagrammable, or welcome in elite spaces. It means recognising that queerness in India has always existed in pluralities—from Sufi poetry to temple traditions, from Bollywood subtexts to folklore—and that these need to be archived, amplified, and celebrated on our terms.
Building an authentic queer Indian culture means:
Reading Ambedkar and Phule as much as we do Judith Butler and Audre Lorde. Elevating voices from Dalit, Bahujan, Adivasi, and trans communities, not just as “diverse” perspectives but as central to the narrative. Creating spaces where drag isn’t a luxury behind velvet ropes but an accessible form of protest and expression across classes. Valuing community care over online clout, and lived truths over performative pride.
The Work Ahead
There is an Indian way to be queer—but it’s not singular. It’s not about replacing western symbols with samosas or mangoes and calling it localisation. That’s lazy. Real queerness in India is already thriving in the margins, in rural villages, in train stations, in hostels, in protest songs, in temple courtyards, and in families that choose love over shame.
If urban queers truly want to honour their identity, they must stop being cultural tourists in their own country. They must sit with discomfort, unlearn elite bias, and rebuild community that isn’t curated through algorithms, but forged through genuine engagement and solidarity.
Because queerness is not just about expressing yourself loudly. It’s about listening deeply—especially to those who’ve never had the mic.
And only when we step off the imported stage can we begin to write our own script.
