#NoGoingBack: Queer voices on the new Transgender Bill

On 30 March, Droupadi Murmu, the President of India, gave her assent to the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Bill, 2026, thereby legitimising a law that has caused widespread concern and protest among members of the queer community.

Tabled by Union social justice and empowerment minister Virendra Kumar on 13 March in the Lok Sabha, the bill was drafted without consultation with the queer community, especially its trans members, whose lives are likely to be most affected by its ramifications. The 2026 law departs from the Supreme Court’s judgement in the NALSA case (2014), which allowed for self-determination as the basis of identity, as well as the 2019 Act, which medicalised identity while still granting self-determination.

Under the 2019 Act, a transgender person is one “whose gender does not match with the gender assigned to that person at birth and includes transman or trans-woman (whether or not such person has undergone Sex Reassignment Surgery or hormone therapy or laser therapy or such other therapy), person with intersex variations, genderqueer and person having such socio-cultural identities as kinner, hijra, aravani and jogta.”

The new definition articulated by the 2026 amendment says transgender persons are people “having such socio-cultural identities as kinner, hijra, aravani, and jogta, or eunuch”, those with intersex variations, and others who have “congenital variations” compared to the “male or female development” in their “primary sexual characteristics, external genitalia, chromosomal patterns, gonadal development, endogenous hormone production or response or such other medical conditions”.

These modifications have caused outrage among the community as well as allies. “Reintroducing clinical gatekeeping doesn’t just dehumanise individuals; it creates systemic barriers to jobs and safety. We are legislating away dignity, further marginalising the trans community and pushing them back into the shadows,” says Bengaluru-based Srini Ramaswamy, inclusion and wellbeing expert and entrepreneur. His views are echoed by a range of others, from different walks of life, who share their hopes, fears and anger with Lounge.

AYESHA SOOD, FILMMAKER, DELHI

I happened to be with a bunch of queer lawyers, policymakers and activists when the news of the bill being tabled in Parliament broke. Everyone was shattered by it. Initially, there was a flurry of questions: Where did it come from? What was the motivation behind it? Once we read the text of the bill, we were alarmed and disturbed because the lawmakers didn’t seem to have at all understood the ground realities of the trans experience. This bill opens them up to so much abuse, invasion of privacy, and lack of basic rights. It’s a scary moment.

When we began researching In Transit (a four-part docuseries directed by Sood and produced by Zoya Akhtar and Reema Kagti in 2025), we spent over a year-and-a-half with a team of academics, activists, journalists and educators. We set out to first educate ourselves: What are the key issues? What are the mythologies? Where does the law stand on trans rights and gender fluidity?

It soon became clear that in India, public perception of trans identity mostly revolves around the third gender—communities like hijras and kinnars—and that’s where it ends. But the reality is very different and cannot be contained within binaries. So we wanted to present the trans community from outside this third gender category. Talking about identity publicly in India also comes from a space of privilege. Our initial longlist had people who are big on social media and the culture scene. But we wanted to go further and find people who are not so public or from dominant classes and castes.

The fact is trans people are everywhere. You may have family members who are trans but not out yet. Someone sitting next to you on a bus may be trans. If you sit across someone and really try to understand them, the idea of binary, non-binary or queer quickly becomes secondary, especially in India. I wanted my characters to be relatable so that, at a human level, you become open to hearing their stories. Instead, if you talk down to or try to teach your audience, you end up creating a wall.

In the series, we have a character called Aryan, who talks about the barriers between parents and social acceptance. At one point he says, forget your gender for a moment, be vulnerable instead. Tell your friend, parent or lover, whoever it is, that you need them to engage with you as a person—that’s when the barriers will begin to disappear. When I called cut at the end of this long interview, the entire crew seemed to have been holding their breath. At that moment it felt as though each one of us wanted to call our loved ones—to feel a sense of empathy and assurance.

—As told to Somak Ghoshal

MOHUL SHARMA, A PROUD TRANS MAN, NCR

As a trans man, when I heard about this bill for the first time, it felt as if someone had suddenly snatched away my dignity and identity. Instead of doing something favourable for the community—help us get jobs and better health benefits—the government has decided that a piece of paper now has the power to define my identity. Why am I expected to take off my clothes and stand before a medical committee so that they can tell me whether I am trans or not?

I fought with the Central Board of Secondary Education (CBSE) for two years to get my name changed in my school-leaving examination marksheet so that it could appear on my passport and other documents. The government itself issued me a TG card. Are these records no longer valid then? I, for one, am certainly not going to get these documents changed again.

What shocks me even more is that this bill erases the definition of trans men entirely. We are already a minority in the queer community and it was only recently that we were becoming visible. We were slowly coming out to our families, making them aware of and sensitive to trans issues. I myself had spoken to a lot of people about our community because the NALSA judgement of 2014 had given me dignity and recognition. But now, all that work has been diluted. This bill also undermines the notion of a “chosen family”, which is crucial for queer people like me who don’t have parents or choose not to live with them.

Last but not least, the bill also makes the trans community vulnerable to harassment. If someone bullies me, I have to first prove that I am a trans person and even then the offender may escape with a much lighter sentence of two years.

Those who are feeling anxious today, afraid of coming out as trans, to them I want to say this one thing: It took a long fight to get Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code read down by the Supreme Court. Trust the lawyers and activists, they will stand up for you—for all of us—again. One piece of paper cannot decide our identity or dignity.

—As told to Somak Ghoshal

ZAINAB PATEL, DIVERSITY, EQUITY AND INCLUSION SPECIALIST AND TRANS RIGHTS ACTIVIST, MUMBAI

When I first heard about the bill being tabled in Parliament on 13 March, I thought it must be fake news. But it shook the living daylights out of me once I realised it was true. This bill resets the entire movement for trans rights, placing trans people at par with the Criminal Tribes Act of 1871. Instead of helping the marginalised, this draconian bill threatens to change the lives of the members of the queer community without consulting them.

Sadly, so far I have seen a lot of silence in the corporate world about this bill. There was much noise last year when Donald Trump signed the anti-DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion) order in the US. At any workplace, identity is a risk variable for the human resources department. The Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019 allowed for self-determination of gender identity, which made it easier to integrate Employee Resource Groups (ERGs) into onboarding.

Under the 2026 amendment, HR may feel pressured to verify identification papers, especially for the sake of legal compliance, and go back to outdated gender binaries. If this happens, it will kill all psychological safety in the workplace.

The hiring pipeline will shrink, especially when there is no incentivisation from the government. Recruiters will steer clear of “complex” profiles, ERGs will not be able to challenge the documentation process, and insurance agents may start demanding proof beyond self-identification.

Also, the government has not given any direction on how PoSH—The Sexual Harassment of Women at Workplace (Prevention, Prohibition and Redressal), 2013 Act—will apply. So, in a nutshell, humiliation will become part of the hiring process and workplace culture.

My advice to corporates, at this time, will be to broaden the scope of their internal hiring process to include self-determination as a valid form of gender identity. The government has not stopped companies from extending this definition and every ethical organisation must understand that the gains from DEI initiatives over the years cannot be rolled back.

At this moment, there is so much anxiety floating around regarding the implications of the new law. The least that organisations can do right now is to provide income security to help mitigate the crisis on humanitarian grounds.

—As told to Somak Ghoshal

NIN KALA, MODEL & DESIGNER, MUMBAI

As a child, I used to love dressing up as a woman. My parents encouraged it too; they thought their boy was playing pretend. But for me, it meant something else.

Growing up in Dharavi, my understanding of transgender lives was shaped by what I saw around me—beggars, escorts, or performers asking for money on trains I thought that was my future if I chose to be “different” like them. I didn’t know I could be anything more. So I continued acting like a boy. Things changed when I left for college (at age 18). The exposure gave me the vocabulary to articulate what I felt. I started identifying as fem-gay; it was easier for people to understand. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t the full truth.

A family tragedy in 2018 became a turning point. I moved out, distancing myself to figure out how I wanted to live. That experience made me realise that no matter who you are—man, woman, rich or poor—people will always talk. I couldn’t live my life based on that anymore. I took up odd jobs, slowly building an independent life. Modelling helped; fashion became a language of self-expression.

Seven years ago, on Diwali, I invited my parents over and told them I identified as non-binary. They didn’t understand what I meant. They even took me to a doctor to “treat” me. They’re still coming to terms with it.

While the proposed law may not directly impact my modelling career, given that the industry is relatively more open, it worries me for a different reason. I’m privileged today. I have a trans ID card. My Aadhaar and passport recognise my identity. But there are so many people who don’t even know these options exist… that they can access food rations, shelter, even scholarships.

When I first heard about the bill, it didn’t feel like policy, it felt personal. It felt like once again, someone else was trying to define who I am. It (the bill) puts identity back into the hands of authorities, making something deeply personal subject to validation and scrutiny. It is not just about documentation, it is about being constantly questioned, reduced or invalidated. When your identity is not fully recognised or is made conditional, it affects how you move through professional spaces. It reinforces the idea that our identities are not valid unless approved, that we are not enough as we are. This does real damage, especially to young trans people who are already struggling to accept themselves.

—As told to Pooja Singh

NISHANT TAYDE, MEMBER OF PUNK BAND INSHALLAH BABES, MUMBAI

The proposed bill directly threatens the informal systems of care. For the past couple of years, I along with friends have worked to support a couple of vulnerable members of the community, helping them find alternatives to forced sex work and the often rigid structures of gharanas.

Earlier this year, a friend, a trans woman, passed away. She had escaped from gharana violence and returned home, but her brother abused and beat her for her identity. She was also battling AIDS-precipitated tuberculosis. When she died, her brother blamed it on AIDS. But she wouldn’t have died if he had supported her instead of subjecting her to violence. He blamed her AIDS and her friends who were supporting and caring for her.

Under this act, his blame could find legal legitimacy. He could evade responsibility for his sister’s death and outsource and clear his conscience in the court of law. If a trans person escapes an unsafe situation at home, they could be forced back under the pretext of being “kidnapped”.

Another friend, who escaped forced sex work last year, found some refuge. But while she was out on a walk in her neighbourhood, she was traced and kidnapped.... and pushed into sex work again. She somehow managed to escape a second time.

Growing up, a lot of my own gender expression—my gait, my femme gestures—were policed by remarks. It has been a long journey to unpack the police in my own head, and arrive more completely into myself. All thanks to the loving queer friends in my life and my band.

—As told to Pooja Singh

RAYYAN 'MONKEY' SHAIKH, FILMMAKER, MUMBAI

I grew up in a Muslim family that followed a more conservative practice. There was no space for anything beyond the gender binary. And yet, Islam has a long, complex history of making space for the trans community. My earliest encounter with that identity was shaped by contradiction.

The first time I heard the word hijra, it was in a Bollywood film, used as an insult. Around the same time, I had read a magazine article about trans women who had transitioned through surgery. It confused me. On one hand, there were stories of transformation. On the other hand, I saw “hijra” being used as an abuse. So I internalised that it was a bad thing to be trans.

For years, I pretended to be straight. Beneath that performance, I struggled with alcohol and drug addiction, something I later understood was linked to depression.

My world began to shift around 2016, when I co-founded a creative agency and started working as a writer-filmmaker. The job brought me into new spaces such as fashion events and creative circles, where I met more people from the queer community. It also gave me the freedom to express myself more openly through clothing.

This was the post-NALSA v. Union of India period (referring to the 2014 Supreme Court’s ruling that legally recognised transgender individuals as a third gender). There were conversations everywhere, from Pride marches, media visibility, cultural shifts. Through law, culture, history and lived experience, I could see India beginning to acknowledge us.

By 2021, I felt ready to come out. It felt safe. Most of my family stopped speaking to me. Now with the passing of the bill, that fragile sense of safety has eroded. One of the biggest crises within the community is mental health. And for those of us who also belong to minority communities, it becomes even harder. When the law itself feels uncertain, it doesn’t just take away rights—it takes away the sense that you can live without fear.

—As told to Pooja Singh

GRACE BANU, SENIOR ANTI-CASTE AND TRANSGENDER ACTIVIST, FOUNDER OF TRANS RIGHTS NOW COLLECTIVE, THOOTHUKUDI DISTRICT, TAMIL NADU

I have been working for reservation rights for the transgender population for more than 20 years. Our campaign started with Tamil Nadu but has expanded to other parts of India. I find it disheartening that while we continue to fight for our rights, we are faced with bills that question our very identity. Does the bill ask critical questions: What is the kind of everyday living we seek? Do we have equal rights to livelihood? Why are some members of the community forced into sex work? A group of humans wants its basic human rights—to be recognised for their gender identity.

For me, every day is so hard. As an activist, I have gone through caste-based and gender-based discrimination for 20 years, and even earlier since my school days. (In class VIII she began to experience gender dysphoria, leading her family to reject her. She eventually became the first transgender person to be admitted to an engineering college in Tamil Nadu. Banu has since then worked actively on campaigns to give legal process to the trans community, while also starting The Thirunangai Press.)

In 2008, the Tamil Nadu government formed the transgender welfare board, after which I got my trans ID card. It was a good step. But then the government went ahead and formed a screening committee to determine identity. We protested against this move, and this committee was disbanded 2014 onwards. Transgender self-identification was recognised, and ID cards were issued on that basis.

This latest bill is pushing us back by decades. While we have moved ahead to talk about horizontal reservations—or separate reservations for transgenders within categories of Scheduled Castes, Scheduled Tribes, Other Backward Classes, and more—members of the community still have to prove their identity.

In such a scenario, the role of senior activists such as myself becomes very important—especially when it comes to giving psychological and emotional support. I want to tell the youngsters not to lose hope. We will fight with means enshrined within the Constitution.

—As told to Avantika Bhuyan

AROH AKUNTH, DALIT QUEER WRITER-ARTIST-CURATOR, FOUNDER OF THE DALIT QUEER PROJECT AND DALIT ART ARCHIVE, GERMANY AND INDIA

I was born into a family that was part of the organised Left in India. I would say that was my first political education. Later, I pursued a bachelor’s degree from Dr. B.R. Ambedkar University, Delhi. That’s where I got involved in student politics. It was a time of flux. Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code (that criminalised same-sex relationships) was around, and then it was repealed. Older queer people had lived in its shadow far longer than I had. During that time, I entered conversations around caste and queerness and started realising how fraught our movements are.

There always was and continues to be a tension within the queer movement, like many other social movements. We are constantly bunched up as a society even when there is nothing in common apart from sexual/gender identities. When we talk about Dalit queer, there is a certain fashioning of language.

Most people think of Dalit queer only in terms of identity, but it is ideologically intersectional as well. I have taken this understanding to my work in critically examining artistic, urban, queer and anti-caste spaces as sites of exclusion and inequality.

The Dalit Queer Project emerged in 2019 as a living archive of community knowledge and stories accidentally. The purpose was to show that the community doesn’t just comprise some caricatured managerial class but goes far beyond it. The project offered legal aid and a resource pool of therapists. Even today, it is one of the few organisations fully embodied by Dalit queer people. It is difficult to sustain initiatives for Dalit and by the Dalit community. I am now 28 years old, and I started this work at 17. It has been a considerable investment of time and energy.

Some years ago, I moved to Germany. I keep coming back to India to care for my family, and am a citizen of the country. Diasporic voices can play a crucial role in holding a mirror to the conscience of the nation. They have certain freedoms and are at a certain distance to evaluate the cultural nuances. It is unfortunate that many of them choose to invest in self-orientalising tropes such as ‘missing chai and mango’ in pop culture. My practice is trying to figure out how my people could benefit through my writing.

This moment is not very different from many earlier ones. This is not the first time such attempts have been made. Earlier also, there were protests against versions of the Transgender Persons Bill. I was part of a students’ union in 2018 at the Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Mumbai, when a number of queer collectives from various universities and cities had come together to resist. But the question remains—how do you take on something so big at the systemic level? How does one resist the pathologising of bodies? The bigger issue still is the criminalisation of support systems. The bill is touted as something that will prevent serious crimes. But the de facto criminal in all of this seems to be the trans person.

As an Indian national based in the diaspora, I want to be in a more supportive role for people more adversely affected by this bill. I will continue to do that through my writing and critical practice. There is a need for a broader movement, going beyond the expectation from the trans community to organise. If you are a citizen, and you believe in Constitutional rights, then you should care about this bill.

—As told to Avantika Bhuyan