This essay originally appeared in Vogue India.
Almost every other week since the start of November, I’ve come home to find a wedding invitation slid under my door. And I’ve RSVP’d ‘yes’ because it’s the right, polite thing to do. A college friend I haven’t seen in a decade, a friend’s cousin, a cousin’s friend, a work colleague…the combinations are endless. The only constant? You guessed it: man weds woman.
I’d banked on being somewhat buoyed this wedding season, coasting on a high after praying and wishing for a favorable Supreme Court decision granting equal rights to queer couples or, at the very least, some sort of civil unions in the same-sex marriage case in October 2023. But as we all saw, that did not happen. The judges in the case said that the right to marry is not a fundamental right, and argued that the ability to make such a decision and change a law rests with the legislature, not the judiciary. Hence they could not pass a judgement in favor of marriage equality. The many op-eds that followed talked about a missed opportunity, but it’s also more than just that: it’s heartbreaking. For the community, there was a lot riding on this verdict. Over two months later, we’re still processing what a tragic loss this has been.
As a queer person in India today, regardless of whether you wish to marry or not, consider, for a moment, those who were looking to this judgement to lend their existence legitimacy—because surely if the top court of the land says you are now equal to your cis-het counterparts, the collective narrative must change. Perhaps parents would no longer be able to shun their children or pressure them to clamp down on their gender and sexual expression, police would no longer force apart people in love and return them to homophobic natal families, and fewer queer people would feel invisible and unloved enough to take their own lives. That’s not to say things aren’t changing, but a favorable decision from the Supreme Court could have been the catalyst the community needed.
A month after the pronouncement, I attended a wedding. Around me, women in embroidered lehengas and men in gold-thread sherwanis swayed and twirled to the music, clinked crystal glasses and came together to celebrate the coming together of two families. Thankfully, I was not the only queer guest present. I found a friend and we stood together, sombre and glassy-eyed, as we sipped our drinks and watched guests on the dance floor. The band struck up “Yellow” by Coldplay: “Look at the stars/Look how they shine for you/And everything you do/Yeah, they were all yellow/I came along/I wrote a song for you/And all the things you do/And it was called Yellow.” As I watched the newlyweds slow dance to the guitar riffs and drums that form the bedrock of the song, I wondered: could I ever have this? Years of conditioning had prevented me from thinking we ever could.
Growing up queer in India, I grew a thick skin and came to terms with many truths from a young age. First, that a queer journey is largely solitary—I learned to look inwards and rely on myself far sooner because I felt as though no one really understood me or what I was going through. Next, that there’s no societal blueprint for me to follow—I'm likely not going to get married or have children and have the rest of my life flow the same way as my friends’ or family’s did. Then, that I'm going to attend many events where I’ll watch and clap from the sidelines as people celebrate milestones that are out of reach for me. So I slapped on my game face every day and went out into the world, where I struggled to take up space in a mould that was not meant for me as I navigated and negotiated heteronormativity.
But I’m growing exceedingly tired of celebrating a culture that actively excludes me from the mainstream, as are many other queer folks I know. I often joke to friends, “My life hasn’t changed much since college; I just have more money to spend now.” When I first offered up that bon mot, it was funny. Now, it becomes less so by the day. Many of my closest cis-het friends are married and have started families. They are investing in a life and a future together. As for most queer folks? We’re still swiping on dating apps and coasting on antidepressants.
As working, tax-paying citizens of a country, we shouldn’t have to debate our existence and the benefits—or rather, basic rights—that are due to us. Our Constitution enshrines the right to equality, but here we are still asking to be able to openly celebrate and marry those we love and have a family. Then there are other, more practical things such as holding joint bank accounts and being nominated as next of kin, to name just a few things that are denied to us.
My parents routinely tell me that they worry about me and I routinely assure them I’m fine—because I am. On most days, the isolation of queerness is not something I think about too much. But on other days, it can weigh on my mind. As a teenager, when this feeling was at its peak, I spent a lot of time playing The Sims. I would spend hours deeply immersed in the life-simulation game, a space where my slowly emerging queer self felt safe. The outside world at the time wasn’t welcoming or nurturing of my identity, but in The Sims and its ever-evolving universe of expansion packs, I could live out my queer dreams—create a character, fall in love with a fellow Sim, move in to a home together, and later, even have a family. At the time, I don’t think I fully understood why I kept doing it; it was more of a comfort, a compulsion. Now, looking back, I understand my actions more clearly—it was an attempt to establish a life that felt authentic and made sense to me inside a queer escapist utopia of my own making. And in it, I thrived.
Twenty years later, somehow, I’m still trying to recreate it. I may have swapped The Sims for RPGs, but with every date I go on, I wonder: could this be something? Could I build something with this person? A home? A life? A family? The revolving door of right swipes continues to turn.
At the end of November 2023, a review petition was submitted to the Supreme Court, challenging its October verdict. And while we wait to see what transpires (if anything even does), support came in from an unexpected source mid-December when Pope Francis decreed that priests may now bless same-sex couples. Although the Catholic church still does not support same-sex marriage, if the authority for 1.3 billion believers worldwide can step into the future one tentative foot at a time, can the governments of countries of 1.4 billion people not do the same? In the last year itself, we’ve seen India raise its global profile by accomplishing its first moon landing with Chandrayaan-3, hosting the G20 summit and aiding debt-ridden Sri Lanka—but you’re telling me we aren’t forward-thinking enough or global enough to move towards greater equality?
As I debate this and pen down my thoughts, it strikes me that I have two more weddings to attend this season. And while I wonder what their playlists will dish out, I know what I’m going to be doing, for the most part: observing the celebrations with my drink in hand and my game face on strong. And like Coldplay sang: “Nobody said it was easy/No one ever said it would be this hard.”
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