For over seven decades, Indian cinema has mirrored the country’s social anxieties, moral conflicts, and gradual evolution. Few subjects have tested this relationship as fiercely as films dealing with LGBTQ+ identities. From the early days of parallel cinema to contemporary mainstream releases, Indian filmmakers who dared to depict queer lives often found themselves battling censorship boards, violent protests, political outrage, and societal discomfort. These films did not merely entertain; they disrupted deeply ingrained norms around sexuality, gender, family, and morality. The backlash they faced reveals as much about Indian society as the films themselves, making them crucial cultural documents in the nation’s ongoing conversation about equality and human dignity.
In the 1970s, when homosexuality was rarely spoken of in public, let alone portrayed on screen, Prem Kapoor’s Badnam Basti emerged as a startling outlier. Released in 1971, the Hindi parallel cinema film explored queer desire and transgender identity with a sensitivity far ahead of its time. At a moment when Indian cinema was just beginning to experiment with realism and social critique, Badnam Basti challenged rigid gender roles and heteronormativity without sensationalism. Unsurprisingly, the film faced severe resistance in a deeply conservative society and gradually disappeared from circulation, believed to be lost for decades. Its rediscovery years later transformed it into a landmark, highlighting how early Indian cinema had already begun asking questions that society was unwilling to confront.
By the mid-1980s, Malayalam cinema, known for its literary depth and psychological realism, offered another quiet but powerful intervention. Padmarajan’s Deshadanakili Karayarilla did not explicitly label its two female protagonists as lesbians, yet the emotional intimacy between the teenage girls unsettled audiences. At a time when homosexuality was neither named nor acknowledged in public discourse, the film’s subtext was enough to provoke shock and discomfort. Unlike later films that faced organized protests, Deshadanakili Karayarilla encountered a more subdued but equally telling backlash in the form of critical unease and audience confusion. Its reception reflected how deeply taboo same-sex desire remained, even when portrayed with subtlety and poetic restraint.
The 1990s marked a turning point, both politically and culturally, as economic liberalization coincided with greater exposure to global conversations around gender and sexuality. Yet this decade also witnessed some of the fiercest reactions to queer representation. Deepa Mehta’s Fire in 1996 became a flashpoint in Indian cinema history. The film portrayed a romantic relationship between two sisters-in-law trapped in loveless marriages, using lesbian love as both emotional refuge and quiet rebellion. What followed was unprecedented: violent protests by right-wing groups, vandalized theaters, and demands for bans across multiple cities. Protesters claimed the film attacked Indian culture and family values, revealing how homosexuality was framed not as an individual identity but as a threat to tradition itself. Despite eventually being cleared for release, Fire exposed the fragile space available for queer stories in mainstream Hindi cinema at the time.
The same year, Khalid Mohammed’s Darmiyaan attempted a more mainstream approach by focusing on the life of a eunuch character navigating love, rejection, and social invisibility. While less overtly confrontational than Fire, the film still stirred controversy for humanizing intersex and queer experiences during the era of Section 377, when homosexuality was criminalized. Audiences and critics were divided between sympathy and discomfort, reflecting a society struggling to reconcile empathy with entrenched prejudice. Darmiyaan remains significant for centering marginalized identities without mockery, even as it faced resistance simply for asking viewers to see queer lives as fully human.
If Fire ignited public protest, Sridhar Rangayan’s Gulabi Aaina faced institutional silencing. Completed in 1997, the film embraced camp, satire, and Bollywood melodrama to tell a love triangle involving gay and transgender characters. Rather than inciting street violence, it was met with an outright ban by the Central Board of Film Certification. The censor board deemed it unsuitable for Indian audiences, underscoring how queerness itself was considered unfit for public viewing. Ironically, the ban elevated Gulabi Aaina to cult status internationally, where it screened at festivals and became a symbol of resistance against censorship. Its journey illustrates how Indian queer cinema often found validation abroad long before gaining acceptance at home.
The new millennium did not immediately bring relief. Even as global conversations around LGBTQ+ rights intensified, Indian cinema continued to face structural and ideological barriers. Jayan Cherian’s Ka Bodyscapes in 2016 exemplifies this tension. The Malayalam film portrayed male intimacy, queer desire, and the impact of right-wing aggression on personal freedoms. Despite its artistic merit, the film was denied certification for nearly two years due to objections over nudity, sexuality, and political content. The delay highlighted how censorship in India often conflates morality with control, especially when films question dominant narratives of nationalism, religion, and masculinity.
Similarly, Faraz Arif Ansari’s short film Sisak in 2017 made history by featuring India’s first on-screen queer kiss between two men. Silent and tender, the film avoided explicit dialogue, relying instead on glances and shared vulnerability in a Mumbai local train. Yet even this restrained portrayal triggered online outrage and resistance from conservative viewers. While Sisak found appreciation at international festivals, its reception in India demonstrated how even the smallest gestures of queer intimacy could provoke disproportionate backlash.
Regional cinema continued to push boundaries in more nuanced ways. Kaushik Ganguly’s Bengali film Nagarkirtan in 2017 offered a deeply empathetic portrayal of a trans woman in love, grappling with societal rejection, economic precarity, and barriers to gender-affirming healthcare. Despite critical acclaim, the film faced censorship delays and social resistance for its unflinching realism. Unlike earlier films that hinted or symbolized queer desire, Nagarkirtan insisted on visibility, refusing to sanitize the hardships faced by transgender individuals. Its struggles underscore how realism itself becomes controversial when it challenges comfortable illusions.
One of the most emotionally charged confrontations between cinema and society came with Hansal Mehta’s Aligarh in 2015. Based on the real-life story of Professor Ramchandra Siras, who was suspended after being filmed in a consensual same-sex encounter, the film arrived at a time when debates around Section 377 were reaching a critical mass. Despite its restrained tone and powerful performances, Aligarh faced backlash from conservative groups who accused it of promoting immorality. The irony was stark: a film advocating privacy, dignity, and compassion was attacked for merely acknowledging queer existence. Today, Aligarh is widely regarded as a turning point in Hindi cinema’s engagement with LGBTQ+ themes.
Mainstream acceptance, however, came cautiously and often wrapped in humor. Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan in 2020 represented a significant shift by presenting a same-sex love story within the familiar framework of a Bollywood romantic comedy. Starring Ayushmann Khurrana, the film normalized gay relationships through laughter and family drama, making queerness accessible to wider audiences. Yet even this light-hearted approach faced protests from conservative groups and political leaders who objected to its portrayal of same-sex romance. The backlash revealed that while legal progress had been made with the decriminalization of homosexuality in 2018, social acceptance lagged behind.
When viewed together, these films trace a complex arc of resistance, resilience, and gradual change. Early works like Badnam Basti and Deshadanakili Karayarilla relied on subtext and ambiguity to survive. Films of the 1990s confronted society more directly and paid the price through bans and violence. Contemporary cinema, while benefiting from legal shifts and global exposure, still encounters resistance whenever it demands empathy instead of silence. The backlash faced by LGBTQ+ films is not merely about content; it reflects deeper anxieties around power, tradition, and control over narratives of identity.
Indian cinema’s engagement with queer lives has never been linear or easy. Each generation of filmmakers has expanded the conversation slightly, often at great personal and professional risk. What remains clear is that these films, controversial as they were, played a vital role in pushing society toward reflection and dialogue. They forced audiences to confront realities long ignored, proving that cinema, even when met with outrage, can be a powerful catalyst for change.