How several Indian queers are still isolated from public spaces

From being subjected to physical harassment by cops at security checkpoints to facing gendered rules while accessing civil spaces and government buildings, it’s an uphill battle for queer individuals

“Are you a half-woman?”

“Witches wear copper jewellery.”

“This is not a protest site.”

Ritvik moved to New Delhi in 2016 and these are some of the most common refrains they have heard from metro officials in the national capital. For starters, they don’t have the privilege of passing as a cis-gendered heterosexual man. Two, they are self-assured and wear their identity of a trans man on their sleeve.

“The metro ride is supposed to be the most mundane, easy routine in the life of any individual in Delhi,” they say. “But for me, every single day, it’s a site of great anxiety and triggers. I dread going to the security check.”

The idea of a queer-friendly public space is not new but certainly alien to India. There is ample literature and academic reviews about “gayborhoods”—queer-friendly enclaves in larger cities and geographies. There is even a dedicated non-profit organisation that works towards identifying and locating queer-friendly spaces.

But whether it’s Manchester’s Gay Village and London’s Soho, such enclaves only appeared in run-down, decrepit corners of otherwise posh cities—gradually populated by cishet white populations when conditions improved in a phenomenon widely understood as “gentrification”. Not surprisingly, London has lost more than 60 per cent of its gay venues since 2006, according to a survey quoted by the British government itself.

In India, the factors influencing lack of quuer-friendly spaces are multidimensional—caste and gender hierarchies colouring it all.

Against all odds

Sometimes, Ritvik wishes they had enough money to afford rides via Uber or Ola every single day. Their privileged cishet friends often chip in: It’s just rupees300, one-way, from Okhla to your office in Noida. Surely, that’s affordable?

In the case of Vrishka, a 29-year-old non-binary woman, access is the last thing on her mind when she is in a public space, regardless of the city, as she insists.

“I don’t have any complicated demands,” she says. “All I want is to come home alive with my mental and physical sanity intact. Increasingly, this is becoming difficult.”

Last week, Vrishka’s bag was almost stolen by a notorious chain-snatcher in Mumbai’s Goregaon area. It wasn’t the attempt on her bag that haunted her for the next few days but what the chain-snatcher said as he bolted away from her after passersby noticed. “Because I was dressed like a ‘tomboy,’ he smirked and said that modern chakkas like me must not fight back in such situations. Isn’t that something?”

Aniruddha Mahale, a writer based in Mumbai, says that even supposedly woke restaurants and cafés in urban spaces are not necessarily queer-friendly. Gendered rules—framed for the cishet gaze—don’t make things easy either.

“I remember visiting one of these hip restaurants with a friend and not being allowed because there was no stag entry,” he says. “Now, if you are gay and want to enter a restaurant alone or with your boyfriend, why must you need a girl as only cishet couples are allowed?”

He adds that irony died a thousand deaths when he saw the restaurant adorned with rainbow flags because Pride Month was just around the corner. “The marketing team might have their woke social media plans for queerbaiting but how sensitised is the ground staff?”

Queering spaces

How, then, does one go about queering a public space? Is there a common denominator that runs through it all—metros and ‘woke’ restaurants alike? And more importantly, what specific interventions might enable the idea of an ideal space that is truly inclusive?

In an extensive study conducted by the University of Westminster, it was suggested that attention to the scale and mass of buildings, lighting features, colours and facades and the addition of curvilinear aspects are amongst the design techniques to consider.

In simple terms: more spaces for privacy because even simple acts like two men holding hands can invite a barrage of hate; spaces that are adequately lit up; naming roads and adding memorials after leaders of the queer movement so that queer history percolates in the civic consciousness of the city; and always consulting the most marginalised queer groups in a particular area before designing spaces. As evident through the examples of Mahale and Ritvik, sensitising the ground staff, particularly in a country like India, is of paramount importance.

Vrishka adds that any systemic change can take place only if the government partakes in it. “So, the kind of pinkwashing that big corporations indulge in during Pride Month must be done by the government. At least that would be a good start.”

Another aspect to queering our spaces is accommodating older queer people who often live alone without any credible support system. Access to reliable health networks and a hotline to support groups must be made easy rather than hard. According to a 2018 survey conducted across five Indian states by Swasti Health Resource Centre, 52 per cent of gay men in India without peer support suffer violence. So one can only imagine the plight of older queen folks who are all by themselves in spaces that are clearly hostile to them.

“Imagine how you can change a queer person’s day by just smiling at them warmly at a security checkpoint,” Ritvik says. “But we seem to bask in hate; it almost nourishes us.”

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