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While queer representation on screen still stumbles through stereotypes and tokenism, life behind the camera on Indian film sets is often refreshingly ordinary.
In a country where on-screen queer representation still swings between tragic tropes and simplified joy, a different story consistently unfolds behind the scenes. For many LGBTQIA+ professionals in India’s film industry, being queer on set isn’t a plot twist, it’s just another part of the day.
"I've been pretty comfortable," says Kush Patel, who has worked as a director's assistant on A Suitable Boy and Made in Heaven Season 2. "I don't really think I've had to hide myself or change the way I behave. Usually I find a community on every set — it's been pretty smooth for me." The projects he has worked on have had queer themes and teams, contributing to what he calls a built-in sense of safety. "There were queer folks across departments — even HODs. That made a huge difference."
The impression is not of a utopia, but something more radical in its everydayness: a set of working conditions in which queerness simply exists without spectacle or exoticisation. For subtitler Jahan Singh Bakshi, queerness at work is beautifully mundane. "It’s never really played any role, to be very honest," he says. "Personally, it's been pretty boring — and that is pretty incredible news, don't you think?"
That sentiment of ordinariness is echoed again and again. One bisexual woman who works closely with actors and requested anonymity, puts it succinctly: "Behind the scenes, queerness is normal. It takes up space. Nobody’s mulling over it. It’s so output-driven, nobody has time for your sexuality if you're getting the work done."
In describing her own experience, Bonita Rajpurohit — a trans woman who wrote and directed the indie film IYKYK, and acted in Dibakar Banerjee’s LSD 2 — recalls that on film sets she has largely been treated with respect. "I never had any bad experiences behaviour-wise. Everybody was chill," she says. But that sense of acceptance didn’t always translate into opportunity. "I passed my graduation, I started auditioning... but I didn't find my space within the industry," Rajpurohit says. "There were very few trans characters being written. And when they were, they lacked decency and humanity. It just looked like, 'here is a trans character' — with very little depth."

Rajpurohit reflects on the industry's casting habits: "I was never judged for the work I brought in — it was always about how much I 'passed' as a woman, or a man, or a trans person. It wasn’t about craft, it was about optics." Tired of waiting for the right parts, she decided to start creating her own. "For girls like me, I wanted to generate the visibility I craved growing up."
Patel, too, notes that although queerness is normalised within working spaces, it rarely shows up with the same ease on screen. "We're doing dated representation for heterosexual people too. It's all about clichéd portrayals trying to appeal to the masses." Bakshi puts it more bluntly. "Earlier it was just sad queer stories. Now it’s all about queer joy. And honestly, I’m kind of sick of that too. Why not queer boredom? Queer villainy? Queer complexity?"
It’s this hunger for multiplicity that defines the frustration of many queer creatives. For all the openness within the crews and departments, the final products often remain conservative. But hope lies in the fact that the people shaping those narratives are changing. "I think a lot of queer people are coming up with better stories — stories that are less glamorised or exoticised, more human," Rajpurohit says. "Especially Gen-Z filmmakers. I think it's just a stepping stone, but it's movement." She’s not under any illusions: "Other countries might be ahead, but we have our own journey. We have to undo a lot, and that change takes time — but it is changing."