Being Gaysian Melbourne

Brown, Queer, and Nowhere to Belong: The Life of a Queer South Asian in the West

Do you ever feel like you’re too much and not enough at the same time? Yeah, that’s basically the experience of being a Queer South Asian in the West. We exist in this weird in-between where we’re never quite the right shade of brown or the right kind of Queer. Our families want us to be “good, respectable” South Asians who marry, procreate, and uphold Sanskari™ values, that were forced down our throats with films like K3G, DDLJ, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, and the list goes on, while Western Queers see us as some kind of exotic bonus round—only appealing when they want to tick ‘worldly’ off their bucket list.

And let’s talk about our cultures for a minute. Whether you’re from India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, or Nepal(I'm personally inclined to include Afghanistan, Mauritius, Seychelles, and The Maldives too, though some may disagree), we’re all dealing with a common theme: our histories have been stolen from us.

Pre-Colonial Queerness: The Lost Histories We Were Never Meant to Find

One of the greatest scams ever pulled on South Asians was the complete erasure of our pre-colonial Queer history.Because—surprise!—we weren’t always like this. Our cultures weren’t always so aggressively homophobic and transphobic. Colonialism did that.

Before the British came stomping in with their “civilised” ways, Queerness was part of our societies. Hijras (who now struggle for basic rights in many South Asian countries) were once revered as sacred. Ancient texts and temple carvings casually depicted same-sex relationships. Our mythology is full of gender-fluid deities (looking at you, Mohini) and love stories between men (Shikhandi’s entire storyline in the Mahabharata is proof we were on some gender-expansive sh*t before it was cool). Even our poets were Queering it up—Mirza Ghalib being a prominent one. But now? Now our Queerness is hidden, distorted, deleted. It was scrubbed out so thoroughly that even we started believing we were never there.

Fast forward to today, and we’ve got entire generations of Desi mothers and aunty jees clutching their kangans, convinced that Queerness is at best a "Western import" or, at worst, and we all know someone who believes this, that it's someone's nazar (evil eye) or kala jadoo (black magic). And the latter comes with exorcisms, which many of us have been put through. When in reality, homophobia was the actual import. They’ll tell you being Queer is unnatural, dirty, or sinful, while fully worshipping a god who turned into a woman and married another man (hello, Vishnu and Aravan). They'll tell you that being trans is a mental illness, whilst acknowledging that their prayers hold a higher place than other people's.

And don’t even get me started on the sheer hypocrisy of Bollywood, which loves to camp it up with flamboyant, gender-nonconforming ‘comic relief’ characters but turns deadly silent when it comes to actual LGBTQ+ representation. And yes, I'm aware of the handful of Queer films it has produced, but let's be honest, you can count them on one hand compared to the hundreds full of straight, cis love—despite Karan Johar being a prominent and openly Gay filmmaker and director.

Navigating Western Racism: Desexualised, Fetishised, or Just Plain Ignored

So, we already know we’re battling our own cultures’ attempts to erase us. But on top of that? We also have to deal with racism within Queer spaces. Because let’s be real—Western LGBTQ+ spaces are not the utopias they claim to be.

If you’re a Brown Queer guy, you’re either completely desexualised and emasculated (oh, you thought racism didn’t exist on Grindr? Bless your heart) or you’re hyper-fetishised by white men who think dating you makes them spiritually enlightened. It’s all Namaste Daddy until you tell them you don’t speak Hindi and are from Pakistan.

If you’re a Brown Queer woman, you get the opposite. You’re seen as hypersexual, exotic, and mysterious. Some white lesbians will act like dating you is an act of charity, while straight men assume you’re just waiting for the right d*ck to “fix” you.

And if you’re non-binary or trans? Forget it. The struggle is tenfold, because white Queers already struggle to respect gender diversity, so being brown and non-binary is basically like unlocking expert mode on oppression.

Queer Spaces: For Some, Not All

I grew up in Manchester, and let me tell you—being Brown in the Gay Village was an extreme sport. We’d try to go out in groups, just a few of us, hoping for a good night out. But bar after bar, club after club, we’d get turned away.

“Only members tonight, lads.”

Only members? What does that even mean? Who’s a member at G.A.Y? Who has ever had a G.A.Y membership card? What was the initiation?

It was the same at places like Via Fossa on Canal Street and Cruise 101 on a Friday or Saturday night. They’d look at our brown faces and just assume we were trouble. But when Pride rolled around? Suddenly, doors swung open for us, because, of course, they wanted our money. For one weekend a year, we were tolerated—only to be overcharged for watered-down drinks and ignored for the rest of the year.

Our Own Spaces: A Lifeline in the Storm

Thank God we had places like Club Zindagi in Manchester, Saathi in Birmingham, and Club Kali in London.

If you know, you know. These places were where Queer South Asians from all over the UK could finally exist without explanation. They were our lifelines.

Did they have drama? Absolutely. Was there bitchiness? Of course. But they were ours. For one night, we weren’t trying to fit into white Gay spaces that didn’t want us or Desi family gatherings that wished we didn’t exist.

We had a place. We had music that understood us, because I will always believe that nothing compares to Sheila Ki Jawani or Munni Badnaam Hui. We had people who got it—who understood the unique pain of being rejected by both your own culture and the Queer community at large.

So, Where Do We Belong?

We exist in a space that wasn’t made for us. We carve out our own worlds in between the cracks. We fight to reclaim our erased histories. We fight for our right to be seen.

And yeah, it’s exhausting. But it’s also kind of beautiful. Because in the midst of all this, we still find joy. We still find each other.

We still dance to Bollywood remixes at 3 AM in the middle of a club, screaming the lyrics at the top of our lungs. We still fall in love, despite the odds. We still make spaces for ourselves where no one else will.

And that? That is power. That is resilience. That is Queer South Asian joy.

P.S. Does anyone remember the Baby Doll remixes? GOLD!

Saquib Ahmad 04/02/25

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