Queer spaces in India and the politics of engineered safety

The first time 30-year-old Raa (he/they) felt unsafe in a queer space, it was in the last place they expected. Raa, who has been involved in putting together queer events since 2017, primarily supporting Namma Pride, was surrounded by rainbow flags, celebration, and community. "I was sexually harassed at Pride in Bengaluru, and I handled it by speaking to the organising team. There were dedicated people to take care of harassment, and they ensured that the person who did it had to leave."

Such moments are instructive, not cautionary; a reminder that queer spaces in India are joyful yet still vulnerable. What made the difference wasn't the absence of harm, but the presence of a plan of action by the organisers. Someone listened, and action was duly taken. The space held.

This is the paradox of most queer spaces across India today: they are vital, joyful, necessary—and they are also deeply human. They are not inherently unsafe, but neither can safety be taken for granted. Like the people who create and inhabit them, these spaces are works in progress, shaped by intention, tested by reality, and strengthened through collective care. Safe queer spaces, whether online or offline, are not just about visibility or rainbow markers. They are community environments built over a period of time with clear boundaries, conscious consent practices, attention to privacy, and organisers who respond to harm with accountability and care.

Building safe queer spaces with intent

In Chandigarh's tricity area, Anant (he/they) and Akanksha have spent three years quietly building a queer-centred book club that meets in public parks and hosts film screenings with queer filmmakers. "The stimulus to start this was an absence of queer-friendly spaces that provided quiet, grounded social settings for people to interact. We welcome non-readers with the same enthusiasm as readers, because the need for such a space wasn't always about books," shares Anant. 

The structure of the book club is intentional: meetings are free, open-air, and deliberately accessible. No one joins the WhatsApp group until they've shown up for a meeting in-person at least once. "When a member joins, we ask them to introduce themselves with their pronouns and remind them to respect others'. It helps set the tone for the meetings as well as the space," adds Anant. 

What Anant and his co-organiser understand is something many across the country are still learning: Queer spaces thrive not because they're perfect, but because they're purposefully designed. Boundaries need to be made clear and privacy must be protected. When people are navigating their queerness at different stages—some out for years, others attending their first gathering—ground rules become the scaffolding that holds everyone.

"Thankfully, we haven't had any major breach of privacy or harassment in our group. People feel comfortable enough to reach out to us for help with mental health issues. For such requests, we have a psychiatrist in the group, and sometimes we raise money among ourselves to support individuals—for example, for someone to access gender-affirming care." 

That gratitude isn't naïve, but an acknowledgment that safety is earned by being attentive and empathetic, and cannot be assumed simply by virtue of a member’s queer identity.

Why safety in queer spaces in India needs intention

Across India, queer parties, film screenings, meet-ups, and community drives pulse with energy and possibility. They are spaces of becoming, and are therefore rare, experimental, exhilarating. They are also spaces where mistakes could happen, where alcohol flows freely (often sponsored by brand partners looking to tap into queer audiences), and where the heady mix of liberation and intoxication can blur lines that need to stay clear.

Sudhanshu (he/him), known as Sudo, has been organising events—from support groups and speed dating events to HIV and STI awareness drives—for the past nine years, starting out since he was hardly 18. Now, he reflects on what many queer organisers face: "I'm a Gen Z queer person trying to bring change, but also just figuring things out myself." There's neither a manual for this, nor a generation of mentors passing down best practices. These spaces are being invented through trial and error, by people who are themselves still learning.

Sudo's first event as an organiser taught him a hard lesson. "I was barely 18 or 19, and a significantly older person crossed my personal boundary. When I tried to pull back, I was made to look uptight and unfriendly. It fell into place later when the full details came to light, but in the moment, I was made to feel like I was ruining the vibe."

The story Sudo tells is one many queer people, especially younger ones, will resonate with. The importance of consent, he says, is often invisibilised in queer spaces, and predation can masquerade as mentorship or 'protection'. "There's often a layer of ‘I'll protect you, but you owe me sex in return.’ Or ‘let me introduce you to people and you stay anchored to me.’ There's an expectation behind it. These spaces can be messy, but I also found my chosen family through it—you need strong boundaries to navigate it safely."

Queer spaces in India can be both messy and magical, sites of harm and healing. The key isn't to avoid them, but to enter them with eyes open, to build associations slowly, and to remember that personal responsibility and communal care do not operate in silos, but are partners.

The risks don't end when the party does. Privacy, Sudo notes, is fragile in the age of social media: "Almost all queer parties have their Instagram pages flooded with pictures from the night—no prior consent is taken. The individuals’ privacy is a major issue that gets overlooked."

Additionally, there are digital threats that have nothing to do with celebration.  As Sudo points out, queer spaces in India extend to digital environments where privacy and consent can be just as fragile.  "The biggest thing right now is Grindr scams. People show up, strip, threaten to run out naked (startling neighbours), or plant drugs. Then they demand money. Cis-men who are new to queerness often don't know how to take rejection, because it is seen as emasculating in the larger society. So, when they face rejection, they take to creating fake profiles, impersonation, leaking numbers, and something called SMS bombing, wherein the rejected person inputs someone's number into sites that generate 20 random OTPs and bombards them with it. It can be terrifying to be on the receiving end," says Sudo. 

The picture Sudo paints isn't meant to scare people away from queer spaces, but urges them to be prepared and not be naive. His advice is practical, and almost elemental:

For Sudo, these aren't rules born out of paranoia. It is wisdom earned from experience, both his own and by others in the community.

Navigating queer spaces safely as a newcomer

Raa's work exists in the space between crisis and connection. "The biggest concern people reach out with is that they want community, but they aren’t sure how to find it. Sometimes it's during situations of crisis—leaving your birth family that feels unsafe, struggling with addiction, things like that."

The support Raa offers is both formal and deeply personal. "I try to support by giving a listening ear, offering solutions if they want them. Sometimes, with the support of other volunteers, we try to organise spaces where they can get away and stay if needed, like safe houses." But the most important work, Raa suggests, takes place before a crisis hits. It's the slow, unglamorous role of building networks, establishing trust, and creating systems of mutual aid. "One boundary that helps is to not let relative strangers know where you live. Make sure your trusted friends know where you are going, at the very least. The buddy system is the best option in any situation."

For those just beginning to explore queer spaces in India, this means resisting the temptation to dive headfirst into nightlife or anonymous hookups. Start smaller—find a book club, attend a screening, or go to a community gathering where conversation precedes drinking. Build relationships with people who know your name, not just your social media handle. Let trust accumulate slowly, the way it does in any close friendship. 

Even when a space calls itself queer-affirming, that doesn't always guarantee safety, particularly in a country where laws around queerness remain uncertain. Recent changes under the Bharatiya Nyay Sanhita (BNS) and related criminal statutes have raised fresh questions about legal protection for queer people. Being affirming isn't enough. The real questions are: Do organisers acknowledge that things can go wrong? Are they prepared to handle it when they do? Are participants willing to meet them halfway—to offer feedback, forgive human error, and take ownership of their own safety?

Organisers must acknowledge to themselves that these spaces, vibrant as they are, are also experiments in progress. Clear policies need to exist and plans of action for untoward situations need to be in place. And crucially, there needs to be an understanding that people show up at vastly different stages of their queer journey. Add alcohol into the mix—often through brand partnerships that make these events possible—and the potential for things to go awry increases. This isn't about banning alcohol or shaming sponsors, but about being honest that intoxication can make already-blurry boundaries even hazier, and organisers need to plan for such contingencies.

At the same time, participants need to understand that organisers are human. They will make mistakes, respond imperfectly, or struggle with an unforeseen situation. What matters is whether they're willing to have uncomfortable conversations, admit missteps, and evolve. Safe queer spaces  thrive when responsibility is shared, feedback is welcomed, and safety is treated as an ongoing practice, not a checkbox.

That one decision by the organisers at Pride in Bengaluru when responding to Raa’s request for support—asking someone to leave—may not seem radical. But in queer spaces, boundaries rarely assert themselves unless someone names the harm. Safety isn’t created by accident; it is created because people choose it even when it's uncomfortable.

Helplines and support networks for queer people in India

When things do go wrong, or when someone needs help before they reach crisis, verified helplines exist:

• Rahi Helpline at +91-9739780319
  Offers general counseling support, community-based referrals for mental health service providers, and safe spaces.

• Queer India Collective Helpline can be contacted via their Instagram page, queer_collective_india, by queer folks dealing with addiction or substance-related crises.

• Trained peer support service providers who speak various Indian languages alongside English, can be found via Safe Access. 

These services are reminders that building a community-led safety infrastructure matters. Seeking help is an act of strength and courage, not weakness. This isn't a signal to fear queer spaces, but a call to build them better–to enter them with intention, to stay with curiosity and caution in equal measure. 

Queerness is as much about collective liberation as it is about individual freedom. This means showing up for each other, identifying harm when we see it, extending grace when others stumble, and never losing sight of the fact that these spaces belong to all of us. They are ours to shape, ours to protect, and ours to pass on—stronger, safer, and more intentional than we found them.

Curated by Gaysi Family