Queer-trans artists in India tread through erasure and prejudice, using their art, music, and poetry to challenge norms, inspire solidarity, and assert identity
Art often carries the weight of the world, especially for those navigating it from the margins. For queer and trans artists, creating is both a lifeline and a battle cry—a means to carve out space for themselves in a world that often erases them. Their work—across music, poetry, painting, and performance—becomes more than just artistic expression; it transforms into acts of survival, defiance, and connection, tethering them to communities and histories. These creators challenge norms, inspire solidarity, and reflect the complexity of their identities, while asserting their right to exist and thrive.
In India, where heteronormative narratives have largely dominated art history, queer artistry has long been present, even if relegated to the shadows. In the mid- to late-20th century, Bhupen Khakhar was one of India’s most prominent names as a queer artist. He used his paintings to express his homosexuality subtly yet openly, during a time when it was considered taboo. His artistic exploration paved the way for queerness in modern Indian art. Today, while decriminalisation of homosexuality post-2018 has allowed for more open queer expression in the country, LGBTQIA+ artists face a different kind of marginalisation—commercial gatekeeping through demands to conform to normative, capitalist aesthetics.
Not just a matter of survival for queer artists
Within this evolving landscape, artists like Ma Faiza have emerged as powerful voices of resistance. Known as the "Mother of Electronica," Ma Faiza began DJing in the late 1990s, using her mastery of progressive trance, house, and ambient grooves not just to electrify dance floors but to elevate queer visibility among those with a discerning ear for music.She went on to participate in events like Vh1’s Virtual Pride Parade in 2020, using her art to find strength in shared identity.
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For queer and trans artists, creating is both a lifeline and a battle cry—a means to carve out space for themselves in a world that often erases them. Image: Instagram.com/ma_faiza
Queer and trans artists in India today balance inherited cultural traditions with struggles for visibility and equity. As platforms like Kolkata Queer Arts Month and digital spaces like Gaysi Family amplify their voices, we are witnessing a cultural shift where self-expression and activism intertwine more meaningfully. Queer art in India is no longer just a matter of survival or rebellion—it is a testament to living and expressing one’s truth.
“My musical journey is accidental; I don’t know how it happened,” says Sherry Soni (she/her), an Indore-based music producer, DJ, and composer. Growing up, her world was filled with Hindi and English hits—from Baba Sehgal to Vengaboys and Michael Jackson. “I loved playing songs for friends and relatives at weddings and festivals like Makar Sankranti,” she recalls. Inspired, she started composing music, though those early creations never made it out of her personal archive.
It wasn’t until she discovered electronic music through Afrojack and Skrillex in 2011 that what she thought was a fleeting interest turned into a real passion. “Their sounds were so new to me. I read that they used FL Studio, so I downloaded the demo and taught myself music production through YouTube and online courses.” For Sherry, music became a playground for experimentation and a form of emotional expression. “Music is therapeutic and a powerful way to express emotions. I’m always trying to develop my own style and create opportunities for myself by working on original music and connecting with people who understand my vision.”
"MY ART ISN’T A COMMODITY; IT’S MY POLITICS, MY BEING. AND THE NICHE AUDIENCE I HAVE, CHOOSES TO HEAR ME BECAUSE MY WORK RESONATES WITH THEIR POLITICS AND EXISTENCE"
Doel
However, turning that vision into a sustainable career is a challenge. Sherry acknowledges the importance of having a solid management team, which is something she finds hard to access. “It’s difficult to navigate the industry without good management. They’re crucial to be able to create a lasting brand and to ensure that your work reaches the right audiences.”
A clamp on identity
The struggle for autonomy and connection is a thread that runs through the experiences of many queer artistes. “Performing music and spoken word poetry aren’t my primary sources of income,” says Doel (she/her), a Mumbai-based writer, vocalist, and spoken-word poet. “So I get to say this out loud: I have my audience, but they don’t own my art.” Her work is unapologetically political, reflecting her identity as a trans, neuroqueer, anti-caste, anti-capitalist woman. “In a capitalist system, performing artists don’t get audiences—they get consumers. My art isn’t a commodity; it’s my politics, my being. And the niche audience I have, chooses to hear me because my work resonates with their politics and existence.” This sentiment is a departure from the survival tactics of most queer artists in the past. Invisibility and subtlety were once shields against societal backlash; today, visibility comes with its own hurdles, from tokenisation to performative allyship.
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Artwork created by Sunny (they/he)
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Sculptor and fibre artist Li (they/them) finds meaning in telling stories that challenge binaries
Doel’s art embodies her defiance of a system that seeks to commodify everything, including identity. She recalls an early gig in Mumbai where she was hired to voice a gender-fluid character in an animated video. Despite being a trans-woman and a perfect fit for the role, she was replaced by a cishet male actor because the director wanted a voice that sounded “more manly.” “Can you imagine?” she asks, incredulously. “A trans-woman, on her coming-out journey, giving voice to a gender-fluid character, being told she wasn’t manly enough. They paid me for my time, but it was clear that my identity was unwelcome.”
For Krishna K. (he/they), an indie musician based in Philadelphia, these challenges take a different form but carry a similar emotional weight. “I love my voice, but it doesn’t always align with how I see myself,” he admits. “That tension fuels my music. There’s this pressure to be polished, but I’ve found power in showing up as unfinished—as someone still in progress. There’s honesty in that messiness, and I think that resonates with people who feel like they’re not allowed to be a work in progress.”
“MY SEXUALITY AND DISABILITY HAVE ALWAYS PLAYED A MAJOR ROLE IN THE WAY I PERCEIVE, CREATE, AND PRESENT ANY KIND OF ART. I TEND TO VIEW THE WORLD FROM A DIFFERENT LENS THAN A LOT OF PEOPLE”
Revathi
Similar tensions are explored by Goa-based mixed-media painter Sunny (they/he) through their art. “A lot of my work has to do with my body and queerness,” they share. “I draw bodies like mine—fat, hairy, lumpy—because they’re never seen in mainstream narratives. This is something queer to me. It’s also a way to fight dysphoria and dysmorphia, which have always been with me. People connect with it because, at the end of the day, a lot of people have bodies like mine.” Sunny’s unapologetic exploration of such bodies builds upon earlier feminist art movements, such as those by Nalini Malani, who sought to reclaim the female body from the grasp of the patriarchal gaze. For queer artists today, this reclamation now includes intersectional challenges of queerness, caste, and disability.
Their work flows beyond the rigid boundaries of the mainstream art world, finding its home in spaces where it can truly resonate. “I don’t think I’ve penetrated the mainstream art world in any way,” says Sunny. Yet, their story is one of growing and creating despite limited recognition, and thriving through connections with those who actively seek out meaningful art rather than simply consuming what is handed to them by gatekeepers.
A quiet rebellion against compromise
Sunny finds fulfillment in sharing their work with children and collaborating on projects that align with their values. One such project is a graphic narrative made possible by a grant from an international civil society organisation. It revolves around Daina Dias—a trans activist and the founder of Wajood, a Goa-based nonprofit that supported transgender, hijra, gender non-conforming, and intersex communities—who passed away earlier this year. While the process of telling such stories involves deep emotional labour to the extent of purging, it is eventually rewarding. For Sunny, simply continuing to exist and create in such intentional, authentic spaces is powerful—engendering resistance, growth, and connection.
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“I get to say this out loud: I have my audience, but they don’t own my art,” says Doel (she/her). Image: Instagram.com/doel_riotgrrrl
Credits: Aditya Ranga
Sculptor and fiber artist Li (they/them)—who will be an artist-in-residence at the forthcoming edition of the India Art Fair in 2025—creates tactile works that challenge binaries and reimagine queer futures. “As a queer-identifying person, everything I make is inherently queer—it’s embedded with my queerness. I don’t actively queer something; it just is,” they share. Li’s work, with its inviting colors and softness, often tempts viewers to break gallery norms and touch the pieces. “I hope that by sharing more ecologically centered future visions, I can inspire new ideas for what a future can be. Through creating these possibilities, we can shape the world in a queerer and softer direction.”
Tactile art, similar to what Li creates, carries historical weight. Their focus on softness and fluidity counters the rigidity of mainstream art, echoing earlier queer movements that used craft as a form of resistance. For instance, in the 1980s, the AIDS Memorial Quilt was a monumental example of art that demanded to be seen and felt, ridging the gap between public mourning and private grief. Li’s work carries this legacy forward, subverting the idea that art is meant to be admired from an emotional distance.
Meanwhile, for Doel, that spirit of rebellion spills onto the stage, having found a sense of belonging in the punk, hardcore, and metal scenes. “It took me a while to feel safe in these spaces,” she shares. “There’s a nauseating dominance of cis-het, ableist ‘bro’ culture. But Debarati, my band’s drummer, never let me lose hope. They helped me channel my rage, despair, and complex emotions into music that refuses to censor itself or compromise its politics.”
Holding on to hope in the face of resistance
Queer musician and multidisciplinary artist Revathi (she/her)—who performs as Rev—is pursuing a music degree in Edinburgh. For her, art is unapologetically tied to her identity. “I have been grabbing opportunities that came my way since I was in school, and took the initiative to put myself out there and build a vast network that just keeps growing by the year,” she explains. This network isn’t just professional—it’s personal, a community that has affirmed her growth and collaborated with her.
“I DRAW BODIES LIKE MINE—FAT, HAIRY, LUMPY—BECAUSE THEY’RE NEVER SEEN IN MAINSTREAM NARRATIVES. THIS IS SOMETHING QUEER TO ME. PEOPLE CONNECT WITH IT BECAUSE, AT THE END OF THE DAY, A LOT OF PEOPLE HAVE BODIES LIKE MINE”
Sunny
Revathi’s work is a layered, sensitive expression of her queerness and disability. “My sexuality and disability have always played a major role in the way I perceive, create, and present any kind of art. I tend to view the world from a different lens than a lot of people,” she says. This perspective is woven into her choice of songs and lyrics and how she connects with her audience while on stage. “The influence my mental illness(es) and queerness have on my art and music are fairly obvious, especially to people who know me as a person,” she adds. “They impact my stagecraft, the way I write, the way I present myself and my art, even my interpretations of art, music, and artists.”
But Revathi is also keenly aware of the systemic challenges: the expense of pursuing music professionally, the difficulty of finding gigs that pay decently, and the challenges of accessing diverse networks. “I wish there was more acceptance of queerness in all its beautiful shapes and forms,” she says. “A lot of artists, including myself, are working towards improving the scene for everybody, but obviously, these things still remain distant dreams.” Despite this, she is hopeful.
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“My musical journey is accidental; I don’t know how it happened,” says Sherry Soni (she/her), an Indore-based music producer, DJ, and composer. Image: Instagram.com/sherrysoni.wav
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In the mid- to late-20th century, Bhupen Khakhar was one of India’s most prominent names as a queer artist. Image: www.sothebys.com
All of these artists have a shared belief in the transformative power of art—not just for themselves, but for the communities they engage with. For Sunny, teaching art is as integral to their practice as creating it. “I’ve facilitated sessions on non-binary identities, caste, and Palestine; watching kids engage with these ideas is incredibly rewarding,” they share.
Doel echoes this sentiment when describing her approach to songwriting and poetry. “Poetry and songs come to me at bizarre hours in bizarre formats,” she says. “Sometimes, it appears as a visual first, sometimes as a phrase, and sometimes as an idea when I’m high. It’s chaotic, but it’s real.”
The chaos and authenticity of the process reflects the larger journey of queer trans artists: traversing a world that often misunderstands or dismisses them while creating work that insists on being seen and felt. After all, queer art isn’t just about visibility, it’s about building a legacy. When queer artists create, there is a tendency to think about the voices that came before them and the ones that will follow. From the coded expressions of the past to the bold declarations of the present, these artists remind us that to make art is to make history—a history that refuses to be silenced.
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