Love in All Its Colours: Queer Representation in Hindi Cinema

Badnaam Basti: Based on Hindi novelist Kamleshwar's work of the same name, this movie is known to be Hindi Cinema's first representation of longing and desire between two men. Director: Prem Kapoor

Once upon a time in Indian cinema, long before rainbow flags found space in mainstream stories, there was a quiet little film called Badnaam Basti (1971). It came and went almost unnoticed. But for those paying attention, it was historic: two men, falling in love, in a Hindi film. No loud announcements, no scandalous twists. Just tenderness and longing, captured in a way that felt both radical and quietly human.

Of course, society wasn’t quite ready to see itself in that mirror. The film disappeared, almost like it had never existed. Yet Badnaam Basti planted a seed. Over time, Indian cinema began to look at love, identity, and queerness with new eyes.

Sholay. Director: Ramesh Sippy

Although first, in the years that followed Badnaam Basti, films didn’t always name queerness explicitly. But it was often there, between the lines. Think Sholay (1975). Jai and Veeru weren’t written as a couple, sure, but their bond? Unshakable, physical, affectionate. They rode off into the sunset, literally, with arms slung across their shoulders and loyalty stronger than any romance subplot. It was the bromance that launched a thousand fan theories and gave a generation of men permission to be tender with each other on screen. That legacy lived on in films like Dil Chahta Hai, 3 Idiots, and Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara; stories of male friendship that weren’t afraid of softness. And thankfully, it also opened space for stories about female friendships, like Dor, Veere Di Wedding, Pink, and Crew, proving that emotional intimacy between women deserves just as much screen time and celebration.

In the late ’80s and ’90s, however, queerness was mostly played for laughs. Queer-coded characters weren’t written to be understood; they were inserted for punchlines. A telling example is Hum Hain Rahi Pyar Ke (1993), where Juhi Chawla’s character is engaged to a classical dancer (Veeru Krishnan), who is clearly effeminate, exaggerated for strictly comic effect. The film was marketed as a children’s movie, which in hindsight feels especially harmful. It taught young audiences that anyone outside the rigid norms of masculinity or femininity was laughable; something to point at, not empathise with.

Sadashiv Amrapukar as Maharani in Sadak. Director: Mahesh Bhatt

Paresh Rawal as Tikku in Tamanna. Director: Mahesh Bhatt

Similarly, when it came to representations of the eunuch community, films often veered into extremes. Sadashiv Amrapurkar’s chilling role as Maharani, the brothel-running eunuch villain in Sadak (1991), remains infamous. But contrast that with Tamanna (1996), also by Mahesh Bhatt, where Paresh Rawal plays Tikku, a eunuch who finds a baby girl in a dustbin and raises her with the tenderness of a mother. Same filmmaker, wildly different portrayals. One steeped in fear, the other in compassion.

The real shift came with fire. Literally. Fire (1996), Deepa Mehta’s groundbreaking film about two women finding love in the confines of a patriarchal household, sparked public outrage but also, crucially, public support. For every protester on the street, there was someone buying a ticket, standing up for freedom of expression, or quietly seeing themselves reflected for the first time.

Dharma Prodcutions' Kal Ho Na Ho and Dostana turned secretly-told queer stories into dinner table conversation

Then came the early 2000s. Enter Kal Ho Naa Ho (2003) and Dostana (2008). They weren’t queer love stories, not really, but they did something important. They cracked open the door to conversations. Through jokes, misunderstandings, and plenty of Dharma-level charm, these films brought the idea of queerness out of the shadows and into the drawing room. Families laughed, squirmed, debated. And just like that, queer identity stopped being a taboo topic and started being a talking point. It was imperfect, yes, but essential.

Then came Onir’s My Brother… Nikhil (2005), one of the first mainstream Indian films to feature a gay protagonist with empathy and realism. Set against the backdrop of Goa’s music scene and the early HIV/AIDS epidemic, it was tender, brave, and years ahead of its time. I Am (2010), also by Onir, a four-part anthology, gave voice to multiple identities, including a gay man navigating blackmail and social prejudice, with honesty and urgency. There was also Honeymoon Travels Pvt. Ltd. (2007), by Reema Kagti, which had two gay men, among an ensemble cast, in different heterosexual marriages, who feel a strong attraction towards each other and struggle to keep it secret from their new spouses.

Later, Margarita with a Straw (2014) brought a queer, disabled woman to the centre of a love story. Kalki Koechlin’s performance was both raw and radiant. For many, it was the first time a queer woman with a disability was not just visible, but dignified and desired. Then came Loev (2015), a quiet, intimate film about two men, friends maybe more, taking a road trip that turns into an emotional reckoning. It didn’t shout. It simply showed love.

The last decade decade has seen both mainstream and non-mainstream Hindi film writers and directors humanise queer characters from all walks of life. From L to R: Margarita With a Straw, Director: Shonali Bose; Loev, Director: Sudhanshu Saria; Shubh Mangal Zyada Savdhan, Director: Hitesh Kewalya; Ek Ladki Ko Dekha To Aisa Laga, Director: Shelly Chopra Dhar

At the other end of the tone spectrum, Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020) tackled homophobia with humour, making the coming-out story a colourful, Bollywood-sized spectacle. Ayushmann Khurrana danced, kissed, and fought for love, not in secret, but in front of the whole mohalla. Around the same time, Ek Ladki Ko Dekha Toh Aisa Laga (2019) was a lesbian coming-out story wrapped in the familiar fabric of a family drama, complete with songs, misunderstandings, and redemption.

Films like Kapoor & Sons (2016) slipped queerness in almost quietly, revealing a character’s sexuality late into the story but doing it without fanfare or shame. It isn’t even the central plot of the story. Bombay Talkies (2013), especially the segments by Karan Johar and Zoya Akhtar, made it clear that sexually non-binary characters weren’t just part of alternative cinema anymore. They were part of the conversation.

Meanwhile, Angry Indian Goddesses (2015) broke multiple stereotypes in one go. It celebrated female friendships, freedom, and sexuality, including a beautifully handled queer romance. Unfreedom (2015), though banned in India, was bold in its portrayal of same-sex love and religious extremism, showing just how far censorship still had to go.

Aligarh. Director: Hansal Mehta

Then came Aligarh (2016). Quiet, heartbreaking, and devastatingly real, it told the story of Professor Siras, a gay man persecuted for his private life. It was a tender exploration of his loneliness, dignity and desire in the face of harsh persecution by his coworkers at Aligarh Muslim University. Manoj Bajpayee’s performance was restrained, dignified, and haunting. It wasn’t just a film. It was a demand for empathy.

And yet, time and again, many of these films have been met with unwarranted anger. Public protests, moral policing, bans, vandalism. Not because the films were vulgar or sensational, but because they dared to do something deeply radical: they humanised queer people. They showed them not as caricatures or cautionary tales, but as friends, lovers, siblings, neighbours. Everyday humans with everyday joys, struggles, and love stories. And for some, that was the real threat. Not queerness, but the normalcy of it. The quiet suggestion that queer people are not other. They are us.

The irony is hard to miss. The more sensitively queer characters are portrayed, the more fragile the bigots seem to become. As if empathy were a weapon. As if dignity were too much to ask.

Geeli Puchchi (2021), part of the Ajeeb Daastaans anthology, gave us something even more layered. A queer Dalit woman navigating caste, class, desire, and power within the same breath. It was intersectional storytelling at its sharpest.And Chandigarh Kare Aashiqui (2021) finally brought a trans woman into a mainstream romantic lead. Not as a twist or secret, but as a full human being. While not without flaws, it was a crucial milestone. For once, a love story between a cis man and a trans woman wasn’t buried under shame, but driven by growth and empathy.

And let’s not forget Badhaai Do (2022), which offered a nuanced take on lavender marriages and chosen families. Bhumi Pednekar and Rajkummar Rao played two closeted individuals who marry each other, not to hide, but to create a space where both could live freely in their own truths.

By showing us everyday stories of queer folk, Hindi Cinema has humanised them and allowed audiences to become more aware and accepting.

Are we done? Not even close. Queer characters are still rare, often stereotyped, and very often limited to side plots. But there’s something undeniably powerful happening. Today’s films aren’t just reflecting queer lives. They’re helping shape how society sees and understands them. They’re helping parents find the words to accept their children. They’re giving people the courage to come out. They’re reminding everyone that love is love, in all its messy, magical, deeply human forms.

And yes, people still protest. Still claim queerness is “against culture” or “against nature.” But here’s the thing. If culture can hold everything from the Mahabharata to item numbers to space missions, it can hold queerness too. And nature? Nature’s been queer since the beginning.

So the next time you see a same-sex love story on screen, remember how far we've come from that little train station in Badnaam Basti. And maybe, just maybe, celebrate the quiet revolution unfolding one scene, one song, one honest story at a time.

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A Note from the Authors

We have written this article as allies of the queer community, with care, curiosity, and deep respect. While our intention has never been to hurt or misrepresent, we acknowledge that we do not speak from lived experience. We may have missed nuances, made errors, or fallen short in our understanding. 

If there’s something we can do better, a perspective we’ve overlooked, or a story that deserves more attention, we welcome the chance to listen, learn, and grow. Our hearts are in the right place, and so is our commitment: to tell stories with empathy, responsibility, and the willingness to do better.

Thank you for reading. We’re grateful you’re here.