Queer masculinity in India is being shaped by soft boys, drag kings, and binders

The notion of masculinity in Indian society is mired in a complicated script. Its lines are whispered by family, instructed by institutions, and echo across schoolyards, WhatsApp forwards, and filmy blockbusters alike. It rewards control, stoicism, dominance, and heterosexual conquest while punishing softness, deviation, and perceived ambiguity. What we call "manhood" is more often than not, a performance; less of self, more a survival strategy.

But what happens when that script doesn’t fit?

Across India, trans men, transmasculine identity, and queer masculine and non-binary expressions of manhood are refusing as well as reimagining masculinity on their own terms, pushing back against the rigid binaries of “man” and “woman”. They are stepping into masculinities that hold complexity, sometimes quietly, sometimes flamboyantly, but always with intention. 

This is not just about gender identity, but the possibility of what the discourse around masculinity in India stands to become. It is about how these redefinitions hold space for softness, visibility, creativity, and chosen kinship.

“When I dress in a way that feels aligned with me, I feel at peace,” says Deon (he/him), a 26-year-old singer-songwriter and actor in Mumbai. “It’s like, this is how I’ve always wanted to be.” For Deon, masculinity isn’t something he reaches for, but something that flows through his femme, fluid, expressive self. “I don’t look at things and say, ‘This is masc’ or ‘That’s femme’ anymore,” he says. “Those are external constructs. For me, masc and femme coexist. One lives in the other. There’s no clear bifurcation, and I like it that way.”

Deon’s refusal to compartmentalise his identity is echoed by Mx. Siaan (he/they), a 23-year-old artist whose drag persona, Mx. Stallion is known for their flamboyant and emotionally rich performances. “Even as a transmasc person, I don’t want a very gendered or fixed understanding of manhood to play out in my life,” they share. “I want to show a version of masculinity that’s tender, expansive, playful too.”

What both Deon and Siaan are alluding to is a masculinity that doesn’t erase softness, flamboyance or emotion. It’s not masculinity in opposition to femininity, but one that is born of freedom to explore, express, and embody.

Unlearning the inheritance of the idea of masculinity in India

Siaan talks about growing up in a strict household where masculinity was synonymous with control, dominance, and emotional silence. “Even the boys I dated early on carried that toxic energy: emotionally repressed, performatively dominant,” he reflects. “But I knew I didn’t want to become that person.”

For many queer and trans masculine individuals, masculinity is less about becoming and more about unlearning. Nishita (they/them), a 40-year-old transmasc entrepreneur from Bengaluru, remembers the gender confusion of childhood not as drama, but as silence. “I always knew I wasn’t a girl. But no one gave me the words for it. There was just this silence, like… you’re supposed to grow into something you can’t name,” they say. “When puberty hit, my body started betraying me and I didn’t even know how to ask for help.”

This idea of masculinity as alignment instead of performance or conquest threads through all their narratives. Delhi-based M (he/him), a singer-songwriter in his 30s, echoes a similar shift that happened during his transition. “Masculinity still means the same things to me: being protective, grounded, present,” he says. “But now, I feel like I own it more because I’m finally comfortable in my body. It’s not performative, it’s embodied.”

Why softness matters in queer masculinity and gender identity in India

Visibility isn’t always met with safety. Femmephobia, even within queer and trans communities, remains real and insidious. “People don’t take us seriously,” says Deon, “especially femme boys. We’re often assumed to be submissive, or that we are automatically bottoms, as if that’s the only way femme can exist. But femme doesn’t mean passive.”

He recounts coming across “no sissies, no femmes” in dating bios online, with the language often framed as preference, but rooted in internalised homophobia and misogyny. “I think some masc-presenting people haven’t come to terms with their own identities. So, they mock the parts they’ve buried,” he adds. “They project shame onto you when they see you living freely.”

But to live visibly, softly, and queerly, isn’t just about fashion or flair. “It’s knowing you don’t have to puff your chest to be seen. Every time I show up with softness, with care,” says Nishita, “that’s me refusing to be shaped by a world that tried to erase me.”

How transmasculine identity shapes body and voice transitions
Masculinity is often portrayed as a destination—a fixed state to be attained or performed. But for many transmasculine and queer masculine folks, it’s more about navigating an ongoing process of becoming. The terrain of this journey is often marked by shifting relationships to one’s body, voice and how one inhabits the world.

For M, this unfolding was inseparable from the physical and sonic transformations of his vocal transition. “The hardest part was that the voice in my head and the voice coming out of my mouth stopped matching. Every week, my voice would shift and the notes I could sing earlier disappeared, my breathing changed… I couldn’t sing the songs I’d written. I’d write something, and two weeks later I couldn’t perform it anymore.”

This wasn’t just about changing vocal cords; it was an upheaval of identity itself. “I’d rehearse a song the night before and wake up the next day unable to reach the same notes. That disconnection—between voice, body, identity—was terrifying,” says M. 

Masculinity, for M, was not about mimicking an external ideal, but forging alignment, which is deeply internal and grounded in feeling. Yet, even as his internal confidence grows, external perceptions complicate the experience. “At the same time, I literally look like a teenage boy right now, making it hard to be taken seriously in certain rooms. I’m still transitioning. Internally, I feel stronger in my masculinity. Externally, it’s a mixed bag.”

M’s process of rebuilding is deliberate and layered—starting with the voice, then the body, then the stage—each step a reclamation of self and artistry. Meanwhile, Siaan’s experience leans into the fluidity and playfulness of gender expression as performance and lived art. “Even as a transmasc person, I don’t want a very gendered or fixed understanding of manhood to play out in my life. I feel grateful to be fluid, because honestly, I don’t even know what ‘stepping into masculinity full-on’ would look like for me. What I do know is that I wouldn’t want to become a version of masculinity that mirrors toxic characters or traditional norms.” 

Siaan’s introduction to this expansive masculinity came through a spontaneous act of self-affirmation—drawing a moustache on their face and feeling euphoric over a picture that their friend clicked of them in that moment. This blossomed into a rejection of gender boxes, embracing instead a multifaceted, evolving masculinity. “I started out trying to ‘be’ a drag king in the traditional sense, ticking boxes, imitating certain mannerisms. But, over time, I realised I didn’t have to be boxed in. I didn’t need to bind or hide my chest. My body is part of my story, and I want to honour that, not erase it.” 

The vulnerability Siaan brings to the stage challenges narrow ideas about masculine strength. “For me, vulnerability is not a feminine trait; it’s just human. It’s part of my masculinity. Some of my most meaningful performances as Stallion have been moments where I was openly heartbroken, or in love, or unsure…”

And yet, Siaan is determined to avoid drag becoming a restrictive mold: “People assume that drag kings are just about performing masculinity—macho, dominant, cold. But that’s never been what I wanted to embody. I consider myself a drag artist before a drag king. And as an artist, I want freedom.”

How care is central to transmasculine identity and community-building for queer individuals

Across every conversation, a singular thread pulled taut beneath the surface: care was not incidental but foundational to these masculinities. 

For Nishita, this reframing of masculinity as care that is tactile, bodily, and intentional, found expression in the creation of Black Eagle Binders, one of the first affirming, trans-led binder companies based in India. They didn’t begin as a businessperson; they began as a friend, someone helping someone else feel at home in their body. “It’s never just a binder,” they say. “It’s a second skin that lets you breathe. That’s not just comfort. That’s power. Especially in a place like India, where access, language, and safety are never guaranteed.”

Nishita’s voice takes on a quiet intensity when they describe the weight, both emotional and material, of putting something on your chest that lets you walk out the door with a little less fear. “When someone messages me and says they wore their binder to their college fest, or for a passport photo, or just to go have chai and sit in a park… that’s masculinity. Not that they passed. But they felt like they could exhale.”

M speaks of care in a different register as he talks about the support he’s received from family and his workplace. “My parents didn’t always have the right words,” he says. “But they stayed—that patience was everything. That’s care, right? Not having to understand every detail but still showing up.” That showing up is extended to his employer as well. When M needed time off for gender-affirming surgery, his employer granted leave and was flexible throughout the recovery period.

“They didn’t parade it like some big inclusive policy,” says M. “They just let me take what I needed. That care made it possible for me to keep growing professionally, even while my body and voice were in flux.” Care, here, is not charity that tries to erase the struggle, but it is capacity-building that scaffolds possibility.

Deon speaks of a more emotional economy of care that is rooted in friendship, friction, and queer proximity. The way he talks about chosen family carries the weight of something salvaged, rebuilt, and cherished. “When I’m away from my queer friends for too long, the older version of myself starts creeping back in: The one who tries to code-switch all the time. The one who apologises for being too much,” he admits.

The future of queer masculinity in India: Fluid, tender, bold

What these stories of queering masculinity offer is multiplicity. A masculinity that can be flamboyant, brokenhearted, trans, desi, drag, tender, or quiet. It doesn’t obscure vulnerability, but makes space for it.

In a world that equates softness with sin and visibility with provocation, queering masculinity becomes an act of care for the self, and for others yet to come. As Siaan puts it simply: “That’s the dream—to be seen as a person first.” And perhaps, that’s the most radical masculinity of all.