Why exploring queerness in Indian horror films could challenge normative binaries

The intersection of queerness and horror in Indian cinema not only challenges societal norms but also brings the ‘monstrous feminine’ to life, inviting us to explore the complexities of identity and belonging

Queerness and horror have long shared an intimate relationship—both existing on the fringes of societal norms, unsettling dominant narratives, and challenging the status quo. In India, where queerness remains marginalised, horror cinema offers a unique lens to explore identity, fear, and rebellion. From the eerie atmospheres crafted by the Ramsay Brothers’ in the cult films they made in the 1970s and 1980s to the supernatural spectacle of Amman films in Tamizh cinema, horror has historically been a space where the 'other' is feared, desired, or misunderstood.

The Monstrous Feminine in Films and Queer Invisibility

Indian horror films, especially through the portrayal of the 'monstrous feminine,' often tap into societal anxieties around women who deviate from expected norms. For instance, in Ram Gopal Varma's Kaun? (1999), the character of a single woman living by herself becomes a symbol of mystery and danger, reflecting society’s discomfort with women who step outside long upheld traditional frameworks. This trope of the 'other' woman, beyond the realm of societal understanding or acceptance, mirrors the queer experience—where individuals living outside normative gender and sexual structures are seen as unnatural, almost mythical figures.

S* (she/her), a 27-year-old queer person, comments on how horror engages with the idea of the “other” by tapping into queer experiences of feeling out of place or unsafe. “Horror has always been a subversive genre, addressing topics of taboo and making social commentary subtly but effectively,” shares S. "As a queer person, I can relate to the experience of being 'othered'—of feeling fear and insecurity in environments that might seem safe to others."

An underrepresentation of Queerness in Horror movies in India

One of the most glaring gaps in Indian horror cinema is the lack of visible, well-rounded queer characters. According to S, queer identities are either invisible or depicted as vengeful spirits or the butt of jokes. "Queer people are either invisible or present as vengeful spirits or jokes in Indian horror cinema."

Shakti (she/her), a queer woman who enjoys attending the horror-themed parties hosted by Gaysi Family—held in Mumbai, Delhi and Bengaluru so far—shares her frustration about the lack of connection between queerness and horror in Indian cinema: “I can’t recall any Indian horror films with any queer connection. I think filmmakers don’t want to gamble with mixing these two subjects. A deleted scene from Stree 2 (2024) portrayed actor Rajkummar Rao’s character dressing as a trans-coded person, referencing 'Ardhanarishvara'—a form that is neither man nor woman. It was a bold narrative choice but ended up being edited out with strange VFX. It sucked! Cringe.”

This absence of meaningful representation is in stark contrast to queer representation in Hollywood. S points out examples like Jennifer’s Body (2009) and Black Swan (2010), which subtly explore desire and fear through queer characters. “In Jennifer’s Body, the bisexual character's fear of her best friend is mixed with her fear of acknowledging attraction. Similarly, Huesera (The Bone Woman) (2022) depicts a woman haunted not only by something supernatural but also by her discomfort with her past queer relationship and her fear of settling into a heterosexual marriage.”

However, these powerful images have often been sanitised and censored through a Brahminical lens, and, in the process, lose their raw, fierce nature when represented in mainstream narratives. For those on the fringes, including queer individuals, reclaiming these deities can become a form of empowerment, as they challenge societal expectations and present a counter-narrative to patriarchy-pleasing femininity. For instance, the Jogappas are a community of trans women mainly living in north Karnataka, as well as parts of Andhra Pradesh and Maharashtra. They believe they are chosen as the daughters of the goddess Yellamma (also known as Ellai Amman). This spiritual connection lends their identity a sense of legitimacy and rootedness.

This reclamation also mirrors the complexities of feminine anger and wildness explored in the naagin genre, alongside the societal need to control it. In these films, a woman shapeshifts into a naagin, a mythical serpent, often depicted as needing to be tamed by a cisgender male counterpart, the sapera, reinforcing the societal expectation that women’s wildness is undesirable and must be controlled into submission. The chudail trope, extensively explored in horror shows of the 1990s like Aap Beeti on Doordarshan as well as cable TV shows like Aahat, further exemplifies this. It suggests that women who live free lives, perceived as blasphemous by society, deserve brutalisation. For instance, in many narratives, the chudail’s feet are symbolically broken to restrict her freedom, reflecting the desire to tie her down. However, as seen in recent films like Bulbul (2020), the free woman continues to roam in the afterlife, representing an indomitable spirit. This writer wonders what queerness is, if it isn’t living outside the agreeability of social mores?

Reethee, a 24-year-old queer artist, sees the "monstrous feminine" in two ways. “One is the typical siren or succubus vibe, like in Jennifer’s Body or the naagin genre in India, where women straddle the line between fear and desire,” they explain. The other form, according to Reethee, is the "godified female saviour," as seen in Bulbbul, where a woman’s suffering transforms her into a divine force of empowerment and fear. Yet, they also note a depersonalised version of the monstrous feminine— “stripped of sex appeal, masculinised to the point where her monstrousness stems from some kind of unachieved desire”. This binary portrayal spans both empowerment and horror, highlighting the ways women’s rage is deified yet feared.

Halloween as a Queer Celebration

Halloween, originally a Celtic pagan tradition marking the beginning of winter, has been co-opted across the world as a celebration that blends elements of the macabre with festivity. For many queer individuals, it represents a kind of ‘queer Christmas’—a time when societal norms can be subverted through costume, role-playing, and the embracing of the uncanny. Shakti finds power in reclaiming horror through festive queer spaces, such as Halloween-themed parties hosted by Gaysi Family. “Dressing up as dead or scary characters gives me the freedom to embody desi horror tropes, like the lady in white saree or witches,” she says. For her, Halloween parties serve as a space for queer people to rewrite narratives of fear and otherness, transforming them into stories of resistance and pride.

Moreover, Shakti reflects on the depiction of monsters in horror films—that they prey on everyone, regardless of identity. She recalls a scene from IT Chapter 2 (2019), where a gay couple is killed: “It shows that monsters don’t care about your gender or identity—they prey on everyone. Queer people have always existed, and there are likely many queer horror stories erased from the mainstream.”

Queerness and the Uncanny

The connection between queerness and the uncanny is deeply embedded in horror cinema. Often, the uncanny is depicted through disfiguring and fetishizing the "horrifying figure," emphasising their otherness to evoke fear. These figures are made monstrous not just by their appearance, but by how they challenge societal norms, often reducing them to objects of terror. However, queering this narrative offers an opportunity to delve deeper into the shadow side of these figures, embracing their complexities rather than simply casting them as grotesque. By doing so, horror can explore the very things that make these figures "other" with more nuance and empathy, pushing beyond fear to highlight themes like body dysmorphia and queer identity.

Reethee expresses their desire to see body horror that focuses on feelings like body dysmorphia, especially in the context of queerness. “As a fat, queer person dealing with body dysmorphia, it's not a feeling I’ve seen represented in the horror I’ve watched. And I think there’s serious horror in that feeling,” they explain. This type of representation could challenge the sensationalisation of marginalised bodies and instead focus on the lived experiences of those who are othered, offering a richer, more empathetic take on horror's potential.

For them, films like Kanchana (2011), which depicted a transgender-woman ghost, weaponise transphobia in problematic ways. Although it attempts to generate empathy, the film ultimately reinforces harmful stereotypes, especially by casting a cis man to play the role of a trans woman. “It’s odd that the film uses trans identity in such a reductive way,” explains Reethee, noting how Indian horror often sensationalises queer identities instead of offering nuanced representations.

Horror as a Tool for Queer Survival

As Indian filmmakers continue to experiment with genre and themes, the potential for horror to explore queerness remains largely untapped. “Talking to Indian queer folk who can share how they’ve survived real-life scary situations is important for creating characters that resonate with audiences,” shares S.

At the intersection of horror and queerness lies a powerful critique of societal norms, fear, and the unknown. Horror cinema’s focus on the uncanny and the monstrous provides a unique platform to challenge binary thinking around gender, sexuality, and identity. For queer people in India, horror can be more than a genre—it can be a tool of survival, resistance, and subversive storytelling that can shine light on the marginalised, making the invisible visible once more.

Curated by Gaysi Family | Illustration by: Anjali Nair

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