Subscribe to our newsletter and be the first to access exclusive content and expert insights.

subscribe now subscribe cover image
Tejaswi Subramanian profile imageTejaswi Subramanian

Queer dating in India is shaped by caste, secrecy, and survival. From closeted love to emotional safety, how LGBTQ+ individuals navigate relationships

Who gets to be loved openly? The caste and class divides in queer relationships

Invisibility in queer relationships is often the norm, compromising emotional safety and intimacy, self-worth, and feelings of suspicion and distrust

The club in Jaipur was one of the most renowned in the city—an establishment that thrived on exclusivity. Krey (they/he) had been there before.

One evening, the owner, a man, offered to host a Pride Night, leaning forward while talking, with the air of someone granting a favour. “Yeah yeah, let’s do it. But I don’t want a drag queen.”

Krey didn’t flinch. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t like it,” he replied, as if it were a reasonable stance.

It wasn’t the first time Krey had encountered people who wanted queerness as an aesthetic—something to merely package and profit from, not something that demanded understanding or a commitment to the community. “You want a queer night, but not a drag queen?” Krey asked, knowing it was the end of the conversation. Queerness, identity, and relationships are often seen as transactional—something that adds flair, makes a space look ‘cool,’ but are rarely given the respect they deserve. Dating, too, is shaped by this dynamic.

Queer Dating, Caste, and Who Gets to Belong in India

Growing up in a society where homophobia was rampant, Krey quickly learned that love wasn’t just about connection—it was deeply impacted by caste, societal expectations, and who was allowed to love. “When I started dating at 15, all my cousins were dating people outside their own caste, but their partners refused to marry them because of it,” says Krey.

 Being closeted, or dating someone who is, can create an uneven power dynamic where one partner dictates how the relationship is acknowledged in public. Image: Unsplash

Being closeted, or dating someone who is, can create an uneven power dynamic where one partner dictates how the relationship is acknowledged in public. Image: Unsplash

For many queer people, secrecy and invisibilisation in relationships isn't just an exception but the norm that’s rarely questioned or resisted. Image: Pexels

For many queer people, secrecy and invisibilisation in relationships isn't just an exception but the norm that’s rarely questioned or resisted. Image: Pexels

When Krey started dating someone, his parents came to his house to break them up. “They claimed it was because he wasn’t doing well in school, but it was really about caste. Had I been a Kashmiri Pandit, there would have been no issue.”

Today, Krey also refuses to date closeted people. “It’s a horrible experience, especially with men,” they say.

Queer Dating and the Need for Acceptance

For many queer people, secrecy and invisibilisation in relationships isn't just an exception but the norm that’s rarely questioned or resisted. Being closeted, or dating someone who is, can create an uneven power dynamic where one partner dictates how the relationship is acknowledged in public, compartmentalising queerness to maintain a version of their life that feels safer. In such situations, one or both partners end up suppressing  emotions, minimising the relationship, or erasing their queerness entirely. Secrecy becomes a way to survive, but at what  cost?  

At first, this secrecy might seem like a necessary trade-off—a way to maintain peace, avoid conflict, or protect one’s safety. But over time, the cost reveals itself. Emotional suppression becomes second nature, and expressing one’s needs starts to feel like a risk rather than a right. Relationship therapist Kasturi M (she/her) explains that for someone closeted, dating a partner who is out can bring both liberation as well as deep discomfort. While it opens doors to self-expression, it also stirs up insecurity, jealousy, and resentment too.

“SUPPORT ISN’T SOMETHING WE’RE JUST GIVEN. IT’S SOMETHING WE CREATE”

Kasturi

In many cases, this internal conflict shows up in ways that aren’t immediately obvious. A closeted person might develop habits of dishonesty—not out of malice, but as a way to avoid difficult conversations. People-pleasing can become a default mode of survival, as does ‘going with the flow’ to keep the peace. Anger might simmer beneath the surface, only to flare up over something seemingly small. For some, secrecy creates a slow disconnect—from their partner, from their queerness, even from themselves. As Kasturi puts it, “These aren’t personal failures. They’re survival responses—fight, flight, freeze, or fawn—shaped by shame, societal conditioning, and self-imposed pressures.”

But survival isn’t the same as living. The shift from secrecy to safety doesn’t happen overnight; it begins with small acts of self-trust. Seeking support—through chosen family, therapy, or queer community—can be the first step toward breaking old patterns. “Support isn’t something we’re just given,” Kasturi reminds us, “it’s something we create.” And while not every connection will stick, the ones that do can provide the validation and security needed to unlearn secrecy and step into something more honest, allowing queerness, and love, to exist fully, without apology.

For Krey, however, resisting this erasure has become a priority. Their dating boundaries come after years of being forced to negotiate their existence in a world that constantly tries to redefine them. “I’m non-binary, trans-masc, and many men just fail to understand how to be attracted to me unless they see me as a woman. This conflict is exhausting.” 

 A closeted person might develop habits of dishonesty—not out of malice, but as a way to avoid difficult conversations. People-pleasing can become a default mode of survival, as does ‘going with the flow’ to keep the peace. Anger might simmer beneath the surface, only to flare up over something seemingly small. Image: Unsplash

A closeted person might develop habits of dishonesty—not out of malice, but as a way to avoid difficult conversations. People-pleasing can become a default mode of survival, as does ‘going with the flow’ to keep the peace. Anger might simmer beneath the surface, only to flare up over something seemingly small. Image: Unsplash

Their frustration stems from an exhausting pattern—being treated as someone who is only temporary. “I’ve always felt like they’re dating me, but they’re going to marry a woman. That’s happened to me many times,” they say. 

For Sudarshan (she/they), a 43-year-old bisexual crossdresser from Bengaluru, this dynamic is all too real. As someone who identifies as submissive and is closeted in their homeland, Sudarshan’s experiences reflect the complexity of dating as a queer person who lives in the shadows of both societal expectations and personal fears.Unlike Krey, who refuses to date those in the closet, Sudarshan lives within it. “Since I am closeted, I have not faced any discrimination,” she says, a statement that reveals the paradox of queer invisibility as protection. 

While secrecy can feel like a form of safety, it often comes as the cost of emotional connection. “I am now unable to open up to anyone [in the land I call home] because of it,” says Sudarshan. 

“I AM NOW UNABLE TO OPEN UP TO ANYONE [AT HOME] BECAUSE OF IT [SECRECY AROUND THEIR SEXUALITY]"

Sudarshan

The need to keep one’s queerness hidden often results in relationships that exist only in fragments—whispered phone calls, stolen moments, a love defined by limitation rather than expansion. Being closeted while in a relationship often comes with invisibilisation, alienation, and even the fear of facing violence. An unspoken tension means one or both partners may have to downplay their existence in each other’s lives so as to preserve a public image.  

Sudarshan’s experience of dating abroad paints a stark contrast. While working overseas, they had the opportunity to date a poly transgender person—someone who was open and affirming of their queer identity. This relationship, built on mutual understanding and acceptance, offered a glimpse into a world where love wasn’t tied to secrecy or fear. However, the lack of such affirming spaces within  their own community makes it difficult to replicate that  sense of safety at home.

For both Krey and Sudarshan, emotional safety is a priority—but their paths to finding it differ. Sudarshan is still searching for a space where they can feel fully seen and accepted. “I am looking for a support system or friends to provide me the care, which I need desperately.”

Over time, the emotional suppression of keeping one's sexuality secret becomes second nature, and expressing needs feel like a risk rather than a right. Image: Unsplash

Over time, the emotional suppression of keeping one's sexuality secret becomes second nature, and expressing needs feel like a risk rather than a right. Image: Unsplash

For some, secrecy creates a slow disconnect—from their partner, from their queerness, even from themselves.

For some, secrecy creates a slow disconnect—from their partner, from their queerness, even from themselves.

Their experiences reflect a broader reality for many queer individuals navigating love and relationships. Cycles of invisibility, secrecy, and internalised shame make it difficult to build a strong sense of self-worth and secure attachment. The struggle to be seen isn’t just about romantic relationships—it’s about finding a community that doesn’t demand erasure as the cost  of belonging.

Queer Identity, Dating, and Emotional Safety: Navigating Visibility and Belonging

Meanwhile, K (they/them)’s experience, though rooted in a different cultural context, mirrors many of the same struggles. “Homophobia and racism were present. In many places, being perceived as effeminate automatically lowered your value, regardless of your achievements.” 

Visibility, much like secrecy, has its own consequences. In India, K faced louder and more overt homophobia. “I don’t disclose that I’m non-binary or pansexual because people assume I’m just a cishet male. It’s easier to avoid questions and potential trouble.”

Racism also shaped K’s experience with dating. Back home, they had been taught that dating someone darker-skinned was unacceptable—a belief deeply embedded in casteism and colourism. Yet in their current environment, they were fetishised for their skin tone. “People would take photos of me without permission, simply because I’m lighter-skinned or a foreigner. It’s a weird form of objectification.”

“DATING, ESPECIALLY IN THE GAY COMMUNITY, CAN OFTEN BE ABOUT LOOKS, BODY SHAPE AND SEX. IT’S FRUSTRATING AND SUPERFICIAL”

K (they/them)

Despite these external pressures, people like Krey and K have found solace in their chosen support systems. “My family has been supportive of my queerness since I came out. They’ve had to readjust their understanding of me, but there’s no rejection, just a shift in their perception of who I am and my future,” says Krey.

For K, friendships became a form of emotional intimacy that didn’t demand explanation or compromise. “I love my friends so much that sometimes I don’t even feel the need for a romantic partner—the love I get from them is enough.”

Queer Dating and Emotional Safety: Navigating Trauma, Trust, and Love

For many queer folx who have examined their dating patterns and attachment styles, emotional safety in relationships is a top priority. Krey explains, “Emotional safety means understanding where I’m coming from—understanding the nuance of caste, queerness, sexuality, neurodivergence, and how those layers intersect.”

K, on the other hand, views emotional safety as a way to avoid the more superficial aspects of dating. “Dating, especially in the gay community, can often be about looks, body shape, and sex. It’s frustrating and superficial. It’s hard to change that.”

The shift from secrecy to safety doesn’t happen overnight; it begins with small acts of self-trust. Seeking support—through chosen family, therapy, or queer community—can be the first step toward breaking old patterns. Image: Unsplash

The shift from secrecy to safety doesn’t happen overnight; it begins with small acts of self-trust. Seeking support—through chosen family, therapy, or queer community—can be the first step toward breaking old patterns. Image: Unsplash

Cycles of invisibility, secrecy, and internalised shame make it difficult to build a strong sense of self-worth and secure attachment. The struggle to be seen is about finding a community that doesn’t demand erasure as the cost  of belonging. Image: Pexels

Cycles of invisibility, secrecy, and internalised shame make it difficult to build a strong sense of self-worth and secure attachment. The struggle to be seen is about finding a community that doesn’t demand erasure as the cost of belonging. Image: Pexels

For Krey, emotional safety isn’t just about comfort, it’s about how conflict is handled in a relationship. “Even in conflict, we need to see and hear each other, and that is how we make each other feel safe.”

But in many queer spaces, emotional safety and availability are scarce, shaped by long-term repression, identity erasure, and lack of emotional validation. Many queer individuals grow up without having their emotions acknowledged or mirrored, making it difficult for them to fully engage with  their own feelings, let alone those of a partner. When no one has ever witnessed or affirmed your emotional reality, the experience of being truly seen can feel destabilising rather than comforting.

This emotional alienation often results in complex trauma, where even otherwise safe relationships can feel unsafe. Trauma therapist Devin Brooks, in their post 5 Reasons Why Feeling ‘Safe’ Might Feel Unsafe, explains how symptoms of complex trauma—such as hypervigilance—can make the world feel dangerous and relationships seem like spaces of inevitable betrayal. If past experiences have conditioned someone to expect rejection, abandonment or deceit, a genuinely safe and affirming relationship can trigger cognitive dissonance. Instead of feeling like a refuge, it can provoke suspicion or discomfort, as if safety itself is an illusion waiting to be shattered.

For those accustomed to chaos—whether through unstable family environments, internalised queerphobia or past relationships marked by secrecy and conditional acceptance—a stable and emotionally safe connection can feel foreign. It lacks the familiar markers of tension and unpredictability, leading to a subconscious fear that something is ‘off’. This internal conflict can manifest in self-sabotage, emotional withdrawal or seeking out relationships that replicate past patterns. For those accustomed to chaos—whether through unstable family environments, internalized queerphobia, or past relationships marked by secrecy and conditional acceptance—a stable and emotionally safe connection can feel foreign. It lacks the familiar markers of tension and unpredictability, leading to a subconscious fear that something is “off.” This internal conflict can manifest in self-sabotage, emotional withdrawal, or a tendency to seek out relationships that replicate past patterns.

“I’M NON-BINARY, TRANS-MASC. MANY MEN FAIL TO UNDERSTAND HOW TO BE ATTRACTED TO ME UNLESS THEY SEE ME AS A WOMAN”

Krey

According to Kasturi, the profound gift of a safe relationship is "the freedom to voice and express oneself. After years of suppression, simply reclaiming your voice—to share your identity, fears, joys, and achievements—becomes a transformative act. This openness paves the way for honesty, authenticity, and self-discovery, shaping not just your relationships but also your personal growth." A relationship that nurtures truth rather than conditional acceptance allows individuals to break free from harmful cycles, make intentional choices, and develop holistically.

Beyond open communication, key markers of safety in a relationship include:

  • Mutual Respect for Identity – There is no pressure to "perform" queerness a certain way or rush any part of your journey.

  • Respect for Boundaries – Your limits—whether emotional, physical, or social—are honored without guilt-tripping or coercion.

  • No Fear of Judgment – You feel safe sharing experiences, past traumas, and evolving feelings without fear of invalidation.

In contrast to relationships that thrive on unpredictability and emotional highs and lows, stability does not mean dullness—it is the foundation upon which trust, autonomy, and deep intimacy are built.

Recognising this is crucial, especially within queer communities where emotional resilience is often built in isolation rather than through consistent support. To fully experience emotional safety, one must first unlearn the idea that love is something to be survived rather than received. It requires not just finding safe relationships but rewiring one’s ability to trust them.

For those accustomed to chaos—whether through unstable family environments or internalised queerphobia—a stable and emotionally safe connection can feel foreign. Image: Unsplash

For those accustomed to chaos—whether through unstable family environments or internalised queerphobia—a stable and emotionally safe connection can feel foreign. Image: Unsplash

To fully experience emotional safety, one must first unlearn the idea that love is something to be survived rather than received. It requires not just finding safe relationships but rewiring one’s ability to trust them. Image: Unsplash

To fully experience emotional safety, one must first unlearn the idea that love is something to be survived rather than received. It requires not just finding safe relationships but rewiring one’s ability to trust them. Image: Unsplash

For Krey, safety isn’t just about the absence of harm—it’s about being able to show up fully, without the fear of being erased. For others still navigating these complexities, the journey begins with understanding that discomfort in safe relationships doesn’t mean they’re wrong—it means they’re different from what’s been previously known. And sometimes, different is exactly what’s needed.

Queer Love, Autonomy, and Emotional Safety in Relationships

For both Krey and K, the idea of love shifted over time. Krey’s experience with  commodified queerness had reinforced their belief in the importance of autonomy over assimilation. “After an abusive relationship, I’ve become wary of dating. I love love, but I’m not sure when I’ll be ready to fall in love again. Right now, my focus is on personal growth and freedom.”

K’s past relationship, marked by abuse and a lack of support, pushed them to prioritise their own well-being. “I’m tired, I’m broke, but I can take the next bus to the next city and meet people. I love love too much to fall in love right now.”

For many queer individuals, love has always been political. But perhaps the real act of defiance is imagining a world where it doesn’t have to be so. True love is not transactional—it’s about finding those who understand and accept you despite all your complexities.

Curated by Gaysi Family | Illustration by Anjali Nair

Also Read: Is India ready for queer-affirmative mental health?

Also Read: Unlearning bias: Parents on raising queer children

Also Read: Trinetra Haldar on claiming femininity in a world that polices it


Subscribe for More

Subscribe to our newsletter and be the first to access exclusive content and expert insights.

subscribe now