From hidden subtexts to revolutionary narratives, Indian queer cinema chronicles a defiant evolution—resisting erasure, embracing complexity, and reshaping cultural norms through powerful portrayals of gender, identity, and human desire. Shantanu Ray Chaudhiri writes… 

Explore the rich legacy of queer films in India, from early hidden depictions to bold, intersectional narratives that redefine LGBTQ+ representation in Indian cinema. This in-depth analysis traces groundbreaking films like Fire, Aligarh, Nagarkirtan, and Geeli Pucchi, highlighting their cultural impact, political resistance, and evolving portrayal of gender and sexuality. Ideal for cinephiles, and advocates, this overview of LGBTQ+ Indian cinema showcases how filmmakers have challenged stereotypes and inspired social change through art and storytelling.  

Cinema, with its wide reach and emotive power, has often reflected, refracted, and resisted social norms. In India, queer representation in films has had a complex and layered journey—from invisibilization and caricature to sensitive, powerful storytelling.

For the longest time, queer identities in cinema were either absent or caricatured. Remember the jail inmate in Sholay (1975), played by Raj Kishore? Or Anupam Kher’s Pinku in Mast Kalandar (1991), directed and written by no less than Rahul Rawail and Salim Khan respectively? In recent times, the homophobic content of Kal Ho Na Ho (2003) – Kanta Ben’s disgust at even the thought that the Saif Ali Khan character might be homosexual – was as problematic (also given that this particular track had no relation whatsoever to the film’s narrative and was played just for a few cheap laughs) as that of Dostana (2008), which played up some of the most offensive and derogatory stereotypes that straight guys tend to have about gay folks.

In recent times, with films starring mainstream actors like Ayushmann Khurrana (Chandigarh Karey Aashiqui, a film that actually gets transgender right) and Rajkummar Rao (Badhai Do), the portrayal of queer identities, especially transsexual and gender non-conforming individuals, has grown in both nuance and cultural resonance over the decades.

Hidden Queerness and Bold Firsts

The 1971 film Badnam Basti, directed by Prem Kapoor, is often cited as India’s first gay-themed film. Based on a Hindi novel by Kamleshwar, the film centres around a love triangle involving two men and a woman. While it wasn’t explicit in its portrayal by modern standards, its subtextual intimacy and homoerotic undertones were daring for its time, leading to problems with censorship. Unfortunately, the film was buried in obscurity for decades, symptomatic of how India’s mainstream industry avoided or diluted queer narratives.

It was not until Deepa Mehta’s Fire (1996) that queer love was openly and confrontationally presented on screen. Depicting a romantic and sexual relationship between two sisters-in-law trapped in unhappy marriages, Fire sparked protests from right-wing groups (because of the protagonists being named Sita and Radha) but also initiated national conversations about female desire, same-sex love, and patriarchy. The characters of Radha and Sita, played by Shabana Azmi and Nandita Das, became symbols of defiance, challenging the assumption that queerness was alien to Indian culture. Fire marked a watershed moment by giving visibility to lesbian relationships on screen, paving the way for more stories.  

Personal Is Political: Lives Lived and Lost

In the nineties, a number of films began to humanize queer characters by telling their stories with empathy and emotional depth. My Brother Nikhil (2005), directed by Onir, was one such landmark. Based on the life of AIDS activist Dominic D’Souza, it tells the story of a gay swimming champion in Goa whose life unravels after he tests positive for HIV. The film not only sensitively portrayed a gay protagonist but also tackled the stigma around AIDS and queer identity. Its significance lies in portraying a gay man not as a stereotype, but as a layered human being facing injustice.

Another poignant film is Memories in March (2010), which follows a mother’s journey of discovering her deceased son’s sexuality after his sudden death. Directed by Sanjoy Nag and starring Deepti Naval and Rituparno Ghosh, the film gently unpacks grief, denial, and understanding. Ghosh, a pioneer when it comes to bringing queer content onscreen and an icon of the community in India, plays the son’s gay partner, who, in the words of The British Film Institute (9 March 2023), challenges the mother’s ‘socially determined perceptions of love and companionship, leading to a tersely demarcated critique of the hypocrisies of middle-class Bengali society.’ What makes it stand out is the everyday normalcy with which queerness is presented. It isn’t sensationalized, but quietly powerful.  

The Rituparno Ghosh Legacy  

Rituparno Ghosh remains one of the most significant voices in Indian queer cinema. Openly gender non-conforming in his later years, Ghosh brought rare insight and sensitivity to queer storytelling. In Arekti Premer Golpo (2010), directed by Kaushik Ganguly, Ghosh plays a documentary filmmaker exploring the life of a real-life jatra actor, Chapal Bhaduri or Chapal Rani, known for playing female roles in jatras, who was persecuted for his sexual orientation. The film cleverly uses parallel narratives – the present and the past. Rituparno Ghosh plays the dual roles of Abhiroop Sen, a filmmaker, and Chapal Bhaduri. Indraneil Sengupta plays his cinematographer and love interest who is married to Rani (Churni Ganguly), as well as Kumar (Chapal Bhaduri’s love interest, also married to Churni’s Gopa). The intricacies of the parallel narrative blur the lines between the storyteller and the subject.

Ghosh’s own film Chitrangada: The Crowning Wish (2012) is even more introspective. Loosely inspired by Tagore’s play Chitra (the bard’s take on the character of Chitrangada from the Mahabharata), it tells the story of a choreographer, male by birth but woman by choice, who wants gender-reassignment surgery to align with his male partner’s desire to adopt a child together (since same-sex couples are not permitted to adopt). The film courageously explores gender identity, performance, societal judgement, and self-assertion, making it a deeply personal and political work.

Regional Cinema and Expanding Narratives

Regional cinema has been at the forefront of more daring queer storytelling, often with more freedom than Bollywood allows. Kaushik Ganguly’s Nagarkirtan (2019) is a Bengali film that tells the heartrending story of a transwoman (essayed with stunning precision by Riddhi Sen) and her lover. It portrays the struggles of the community, the marginalization they face, and the pursuit of love against systemic odds. The film’s visual language and storytelling delicately balance beauty and brutality, offering one of the most authentic portrayals of a trans character in Indian cinema. What also works brilliantly is the unsentimental tone of the love story between Puti (the transwoman, who seeks a sex reassignment surgery) and Madhu (Ritwick Chakraborty), a flute player, and the almost matter-of-fact way in which the economic aspects of the said surgery are presented, before exploding in a climax of shocking brutality that lays bare society’s attitude to the community.

In Malayalam cinema, Moothon (2019), directed by Geetu Mohandas, adds another dimension to queer narratives. The film follows a teenager searching for their lost brother who turns out to be a gay gangster in Mumbai.

Interestingly, the gangster film in India thrives on masculinity, and that the film places a queer relationship at its core is a major break from the past. Also important is the casting of Nivin Pauly, a major star of cinema in South India, as the protagonist. His portrayal of Akbar – a hardened criminal with a deeply buried past – is both gritty and vulnerable. The film is bold in its depiction of same-sex desire and violence, and it navigates gender, identity, and trauma with unflinching intensity. 

Likewise, Samantaral (2017), a Bengali psychological drama, subtly incorporates themes of gender non-conformity and societal repression. The film, through the character of Sujan (played by Parambrata Chatterjee in what is probably his finest performance), critiques the treatment of gender-divergent individuals in traditional families, where the lack of understanding often leads to institutionalization and emotional exile.

Intersectionality and New Voices 

Recent films have shown a shift towards intersectional representation—where queerness intersects with caste, class, and ability. Neeraj Ghaywan’s Geeli Pucchi, part of the Netflix anthology Ajeeb Dastaans (2021), is a masterclass in layered storytelling that invokes the aspect of caste and Dalit identity, the subject of Ghaywan’s much-feted debut feature Masaan, in dealing with the issue of one’s sexual orientation, and how these cannot be separated. Bharti, a Dalit queer woman (portrayed magnificently by Konkona Sen Sharma), navigates not only the limitations of her sexuality in a heteronormative world but also the structural oppression of caste. The story presents queerness not in isolation, but in dialogue with other systemic barriers.

Shonali Bose’s Margarita with a Straw (2014) is another path-breaking film that intersects disability and bisexuality. Kalki Koechlin plays Laila, a young woman with cerebral palsy exploring her identity, desire, and independence. The film’s greatest achievement is its refusal to victimize its protagonist. Laila is vibrant, flawed, and fully human – her disability and queerness do not define her; they are part of her. 

Aligarh (2015), directed by Hansal Mehta, dramatizes the real-life case of Srinivas Ramchandra Siras, a professor suspended from Aligarh Muslim University for his sexual orientation. Manoj Bajpayee’s haunting portrayal of Dr. Siras, a lonely man who seeks love and privacy, captures the violence of forced outing and institutional cruelty. The film forces viewers to confront the deeply ingrained homophobia of institutions, cloaked in morality and tradition. The professor was sacked on moral grounds after he was filmed having sex with a rickshaw-puller. It is possible to see the film as more a social critique, but given the contours of the debate around Section 377 of the IPC, this is as much a political film. Possibly the most trenchant take on how we as a society treat homosexuality – the BFI called Aligarh ‘Probably the best film yet on the Indian gay male experience’ – the film and the arguments it makes continue to be as relevant today with the state’s inflexible approach to the subject and its run-ins with the court.  

The Way Forward: Visibility, Respect, Complexity

Across these films, what becomes evident is the transformation of queer characters from caricatures and tragic figures to protagonists with agency, love, humour, anger, and hope. The trajectory has not been linear. Many films still avoid portraying queer intimacy openly or resort to stereotypes. But the legacy being built is one of courage – by filmmakers, actors, and producers who are increasingly willing to tell honest, complex stories despite social resistance.

The legacy of queer films in India is a testament to the resilience of storytelling as a mode of resistance. From the understated subtexts of Badnam Basti to the outspoken declarations of Chitrangada, and from the emotional rawness of Aligarh to the brutality of Nagarkirtan, and the intersectional brilliance of Geeli Pucchi, Indian cinema is slowly embracing the rich spectrum of queer lives.

These films do more than provide visibility – they invite empathy, challenge norms, and force society to re-evaluate its notions of gender, love, and identity. While many battles remain to be fought, queer cinema in India continues to expand, not just in numbers but in depth, daring to imagine a world where every identity has the right to love, live, and be seen.