Bollywood, India’s Hindi film industry, has long been a barometer of social attitudes, and its journey with LGBTQ+ themes reflects a broader evolution in society. For decades, queer characters on the big screen oscillated between being punchlines and pariahs. Only recently have they stepped into the spotlight as protagonists of their own stories. This article traces the depiction of queer characters in Bollywood from times of mockery to their emergence in mainstream narratives. It explores how portrayals have shifted from stereotypical caricatures to more nuanced characters in films like Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan, Badhaai Do, and the web series Made in Heaven. Along the way, we see how Bollywood’s bold strides forward are sometimes still boxed-in by old habits and cultural expectations.
Contents
- Early Depictions: Caricatures, Villains and Comic Relief
- Breaking the Silence: Pioneering Queer Narratives in the 1990s and 2000s
- Winds of Change: Legal Landmarks and 2010s Shifts
- Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020) – Comedy as a Coming-Out Vehicle
- Badhaai Do (2022) – Family, Frauds and the Fight to Come Out
- Made in Heaven (2019) – Streaming into New Territory
- Beyond the Token: The Road Ahead for Queer Representation in Bollywood
Early Depictions: Caricatures, Villains and Comic Relief
Bollywood’s early treatment of LGBTQ+ individuals was largely confined to crude stereotypes and fleeting comic or villainous roles. In the 1980s and 1990s especially, queer-coded characters were portrayed in a negative light, often as either objects of ridicule or as sinister figures. A rare early example of queer representation came as far back as 1971 with Badnam Basti (Ill Reputed Neighborhood), a Hindi art film that depicted a bisexual love triangle. This film, considered India’s first to explore queer relationships, briefly appeared at festivals before disappearing from public view for decades. Its nuanced portrayal of same-sex attraction was far ahead of its time, but Badnam Basti was virtually erased from mainstream cinema history, a telling sign of how unwelcome such themes were in that era.
More commonly, queer (or queer-coded) characters in older Bollywood films were used to provoke laughter or fear rather than empathy. Transgender and hijra characters, in particular, fared poorly. They were frequently cast as “terrifying villains or ridiculous comic relief”. For example, the cult classic Sadak (1991) featured a trans woman villain, Maharani, depicted as an evil brothel-keeper who kidnaps and tortures women. In the horror-thriller Sangharsh (1999), Ashutosh Rana played a trans-coded child murderer, a portrayal so monstrous that it gave young viewers nightmares. These extreme depictions reinforced harmful myths of transgender people as predatory or degenerate. In comedy films, meanwhile, effeminate men and hijra characters were used as cheap comedic devices – often shown aggressively flirting with straight heroes or tricking them, only for the hero to react with exaggerated disgust once their gender or sexuality was “revealed”. Such scenes, found in movies like Kya Kool Hain Hum (2005), Partner (2007), and Masti (2004), made LGBTQ+ individuals the butt of jokes, implying their very existence was an “anomaly” or a “betrayal” of normalcy.
In older Bollywood comedies, queer-coded characters were often played for laughs. For instance, in the 2008 film Dostana, two straight men pretend to be gay roommates, adopting flamboyant mannerisms to comic effect. While the film was a box-office success and brought gay themes into mainstream discussion, it leaned heavily on caricature – reinforcing the stereotype of the “effeminate, loudly dressed” gay man as a figure of amusement.
Even gay men, when they appeared in earlier films, were usually portrayed in broad strokes. They were commonly shown as effeminate fashion designers, nosy hairdressers, or predatory deviants, anything but ordinary people. An illustrative example is the character Pinkoo in Mast Kalandar (1991), who is depicted as an exaggeratedly effeminate homosexual man inserted purely for comic relief. Such portrayals normalized homophobia by presenting queer characters as “illogical and odd” figures meant to amuse the audience. A recurring trope was the “horny gay man” relentlessly hitting on straight men, as seen with side characters in films like Kal Ho Naa Ho (2003) and the aforementioned Dostana.
These characters donned flamboyant clothes and invited crude jokes about their sexuality. Meanwhile, lesbian characters were almost invisible on-screen, and when they did appear it was often in a sensational or titillating context aimed at the male gaze. For instance, the film Girlfriend (2004) infamously portrayed a lesbian woman as a violent, obsessive lover, even suggesting her sexuality was the result of childhood abuse. In short, until the early 2000s, Bollywood’s queer figures were largely one-dimensional, objects of ridicule, fear, or moral panic rather than fully human characters.
Breaking the Silence: Pioneering Queer Narratives in the 1990s and 2000s
By the mid-1990s, cracks began to appear in this wall of misrepresentation. A few bold filmmakers tried to portray queer characters with empathy and realism, challenging the industry’s longstanding taboos. One watershed moment was Fire (1996), director Deepa Mehta’s poignant drama about two neglected sisters-in-law who fall in love. Fire was the first Indian film to explicitly depict a lesbian relationship, and it treated the subject seriously rather than as perversion. The film “undertook the challenge” of deconstructing norms around women’s sexuality. However, its release in India met with fierce backlash. Conservative groups, notably the Hindu nationalist Shiv Sena, staged protests, vandalized theaters, and attempted to have the film banned. This hostile reaction underscored how provocative it was at the time to show queer love, especially between women, in a sympathetic light. Fire nonetheless opened the door for conversations about same-sex love in India, even as it remained an outlier in an industry still uncomfortable with such stories.
In the early 2000s, a handful of films continued this gradual shift towards respectful representation. These films were few and far between, but they became milestones for queer visibility. Onir’s My Brother… Nikhil (2005) was one such pioneering work. It featured a gay protagonist – a young swimmer in Goa who is alienated by his family and community after being diagnosed with HIV. The film depicted the character with nuance and dignity, focusing on his loving relationship with his sister and his personal struggle rather than reducing him to a stereotype. Critics lauded My Brother… Nikhil as a sensitive portrayal that humanized a gay man’s experience. Around the same time, Bollywood audiences saw Mango Soufflé (2002), an independent film revolving around gay friends, and Page 3 (2005), which included a closeted gay fashion designer character. These films were modest in reach but signaled a slow change in attitudes.
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Mainstream commercial cinema, however, was slower to evolve. In 2008, director Karan Johar, often called Bollywood’s “golden boy”, produced Dostana, a glossy comedy that became one of the first Hindi hits to revolve around homosexuality (albeit with a twist). In Dostana, two male protagonists (played by Abhishek Bachchan and John Abraham) pretend to be gay in order to rent an apartment, leading to all manner of comic misunderstandings. The movie broke some ground by making gay identity a central plot point in a big-budget film. It also gave audiences an image they’d never seen in a mainstream Hindi movie: two male leads sharing a friendly kiss and embracing, even if in a jokey context. Yet Dostana was hardly the mature representation queer communities had hoped for. The humor often relied on “caricatured portrayal” and camp stereotypes – effectively using homosexuality as a punchline. As one commentator noted, the film offered only a “shallow perspective” that presented gay men as flamboyant figures, the butt of jokes for straight viewers. Dostana was a commercial success and perhaps a conversation-starter, but it ultimately reinforced as many stereotypes as it challenged, prompting mixed feelings among LGBTQ+ advocates.
Still, the late 2000s brought incremental progress. Films like Fashion (2008) handled gay characters in side plots with some realism. In Fashion, a supporting character (a closeted gay designer) enters a marriage of convenience to satisfy his mother’s wishes, reflecting real societal pressures on queer individuals to maintain a façade of heterosexuality. Director Onir’s anthology film I Am (2010) included a segment titled “Omar” about gay men facing harassment and police abuse, directly alluding to the oppression of Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code (the colonial-era law criminalizing same-sex relations). And in the 2013 anthology Bombay Talkies, Karan Johar directed a short film (Ajeeb Dastaan Hai Yeh) which offered a “sensitive portrayal” of a complex gay love triangle, examining the inner lives of its characters rather than reducing them to gags. These examples were part of a small “new wave” of LGBTQ-themed narratives that treated queer characters as people with inner conflicts and emotions.
Yet, throughout the 2000s, these progressive stories coexisted with continuing problematic portrayals in other films. Even as late as 2012, a blockbuster student romance (Student of the Year) threw in a stereotypically camp gay dean (played by Rishi Kapoor) for comic effect, a character whose mincing behavior and crush on a male coach were sources of humor. Such instances showed that Bollywood was not fully done with its old habits of mockery. Overall, the 1990s and 2000s were a period of slow transition: the silence around LGBTQ+ lives was beginning to break, with a few bold filmmakers pushing boundaries, but mainstream acceptance was still on the distant horizon. These tentative steps set the stage for more significant changes in the next decade.
Winds of Change: Legal Landmarks and 2010s Shifts
A significant backdrop to Bollywood’s evolving queer narratives has been the legal and social climate in India. The struggle against Section 377, which labeled same-sex intercourse an “unnatural offence” punishable by imprisonment, cast a long shadow. Many LGBTQ-themed films in the 2000s and early 2010s implicitly or explicitly grappled with this reality of criminalization. For instance, Aligarh (2016), a biographical drama by Hansal Mehta, powerfully depicted the true story of Professor Siras, a Marathi literature professor who was suspended from his university and hounded by authorities after being outed for his sexuality. The film immerses the audience in Siras’s loneliness and dignity, highlighting how the law and society treated homosexuals as “outlaws” and virtually drove this man to tragedy.
Aligarh was notable for featuring a gay man as the central character (portrayed with subtlety by Manoj Bajpayee) and for openly discussing the law, including the fact that Delhi’s High Court had briefly decriminalized homosexuality in 2009 before the Supreme Court reinstated the ban in 2013. The movie had no happy ending, reflecting the grim reality of its time, but it earned critical acclaim for its humanity and helped spur dialogue about LGBTQ+ rights.
Around the same time, other films continued to inch toward more normalized depictions. Kapoor & Sons (2016), a popular family drama, presented a gay protagonist (played by Fawad Khan) who is a successful writer. Remarkably, the film avoided any “humiliating stereotypes” in his characterization, Rahul in Kapoor & Sons is portrayed as an ordinary, likable son and brother, whose sexuality is just one aspect of his identity. The movie does not reveal Rahul’s secret (that he is gay) until the climax, treating it with a matter-of-fact touch rather than sensationalism. While Kapoor & Sons ended somewhat ambiguously, without delving deeply into Rahul’s romantic life, it was praised for placing “personhood before sexual preferences”. This represented a quiet but significant shift: a mainstream Bollywood film integrated a gay character into a family story without making him a caricature or a victim to be “fixed.” It indicated that audiences could empathize with a gay character as a “normal” human being.
By the late 2010s, India’s legal landscape underwent a historic change. In September 2018, the Supreme Court of India struck down Section 377, effectively decriminalizing consensual gay sex and affirming that LGBTQ+ citizens are entitled to equal rights and dignity. This landmark verdict was a morale boost to storytellers and a signal that societal winds were truly changing. As one Bollywood screenwriter observed, “we’re surely living in very exciting times as far as queer representation in mainstream media is concerned”. Indeed, in the year following the judgment, Hindi cinema saw one of its first major studio films centered on a lesbian romance: Ek Ladki Ko Dekha Toh Aisa Laga (2019). Starring Sonam Kapoor (an A-list actress) as a closeted Punjabi lesbian and featuring her father Anil Kapoor in a supporting role, the film dealt with a young woman’s anxiety about her family’s acceptance of her relationship.
Ek Ladki Ko Dekha… touched audiences by highlighting the generation gap and the prejudice faced by queer women, all within the framework of a family drama. The fact that a top actress portrayed a lesbian character and the film was marketed as a family entertainer was itself a breakthrough. To make its message more palatable, the story portrayed Sonam Kapoor’s character, Sweety, as the “quintessential good Indian daughter”, dutiful and kind, whose goodness ultimately “sanitises and disciplines her queerness” in the eyes of her family. In other words, the film bent over backwards to show that being gay did not make Sweety any less a part of her culture or family. This approach of wrapping queerness in tradition was a strategic choice that became common in late-2010s Bollywood.
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Researchers have noted that recent films often demonstrate “the compatibility of queerness with culture, with the nation, and with the family” in order to ease queer representation into the mainstream. Movies like Ek Ladki Ko Dekha Toh Aisa Laga, Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan, and Badhaai Do all strive to normalize same-sex love in a way that is non-threatening to the heterosexual status quo. For example, they emphasize that queer characters can respect their elders, cherish family values, and even participate in (or simulate) traditional marriage ceremonies. This trend reflects a double-edged strategy: on one hand, it has opened space for LGBTQ+ protagonists in commercial cinema; on the other hand, it “boxes in” these narratives to fit a heteronormative template of acceptability. By the end of the 2010s, Bollywood was producing brave new content featuring queer stories, yet doing so with careful calibration, balancing bold themes with familiar, family-friendly storytelling. This delicate dance is evident in the high-profile examples we examine next.
Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020) – Comedy as a Coming-Out Vehicle
When Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (SMZS) hit theatres in early 2020, it was touted as Bollywood’s first full-fledged gay romantic comedy. The very idea of a same-sex love story headlined by a bankable star (Ayushmann Khurrana) in a commercial film signaled how far the industry had come. Director Hitesh Kewalya chose humor and family drama as the medium to deliver a message of acceptance. The plot centers on Kartik (Khurrana) and Aman (Jitendra Kumar), a gay couple, as they attempt to win over Aman’s orthodox family in small-town India. This journey is replete with farcical situations, witty one-liners, and the typical chaos of a Bollywood wedding, except the expected bride never appears, and one of the grooms must come out to his parents.
SMZS was a bold experiment, leveraging comedy to “normalise gay relationships on the big screen”. It even featured what was widely publicized as India’s first onscreen gay kiss between two lead actors in a mainstream film. In one memorable scene, Aman impulsively kisses Kartik in front of his extended family during a wedding, causing shock. The relatives scramble to explain away the sight – hilariously claiming that “boys kissing is part of a ritual” for good luck. Moments like this elicited laughs, but they also carried a subversive undercurrent: the film was showing audiences that two men in love is nothing to be horrified about. As a reviewer noted, “the defiant act of showing affection already validates the characters’ sexuality and shows that being gay is normal”. By packaging such moments in laughter, SMZS aimed to disarm viewers’ prejudice.
However, the reliance on comedy as a vehicle for a serious subject received mixed reactions. Many appreciated the film’s intentions and entertainment value. It was a “game-changer” in that it put a gay romance front and center in a mass-market movie, thereby reaching audiences who might never watch a niche art film. The characters of Kartik and Aman were portrayed as ordinary, lovable young men with “real concerns and hurts, not the ridiculous gay characters of yore”. The mere casting of a popular hero like Khurrana in a gay role signified progress, something that, as the actor himself pointed out, might have been unthinkable for a mainstream star a decade prior.
On the other hand, some critics felt that SMZS stayed too safe and simplistic in its approach. The film did not deeply explore the emotional complexities of being gay in India, relying instead on formulaic comedy and a tidy happy ending. There was concern that audiences might dismiss the subject as just a joke. One commentator questioned whether “a comedy film is the right kind of tool to normalise [this] sensitive topic,” noting that Bollywood has historically “clung to formula” and often used LGBTQ+ characters merely as comic relief.
Indeed, SMZS uses many familiar Bollywood tropes, from over-the-top relatives to slapstick situations, which, while funny, sometimes dilute the gravity of the protagonists’ struggle. For example, rather than showing a realistically difficult coming-out confrontation, the film has Aman’s family concoct absurd excuses for his behavior, avoiding an explosive clash. As one Vogue India article observed, the story sidestepped believability at times; when the family witnesses the two men kissing, they don’t react with the expected outrage, but instead with almost cartoonish denial, which “stretches plausibility for the sake of humor”.
Nonetheless, Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan succeeded in sparking a conversation and doing so in an accessible manner. It delivered the message that “love is love” without turning off the mainstream crowd. The movie’s final act, where the conservative father, after much comic ado, finally comes around to support his son, left audiences with a hopeful image of acceptance. It proved that a same-sex love story could play out on a big Hindi film stage and draw crowds, and that parents in the audience might even shed a tear or two of empathy by the end. In retrospect, SMZS was a milestone: it broke a barrier by placing a gay couple in a standard Bollywood template (a family rom-com), which in itself sent a powerful signal that queer stories belong in the heart of Indian pop culture. Yet, the film’s heavy dose of levity also underscored a pattern, a tendency to couch LGBTQ+ themes in humor to make them “acceptable,” a pattern whose pros and cons Bollywood is still grappling with.
Badhaai Do (2022) – Family, Frauds and the Fight to Come Out
If SMZS was about a gay couple fighting for acceptance, Badhaai Do expanded the canvas, portraying both a gay man and a lesbian woman navigating heteronormative family pressures. Released in 2022, Badhaai Do took a fresh angle: it centered on a lavender marriage, a marriage of convenience between two queer individuals, Shardul and Sumi, who decide to wed each other to appease their families while each continues to date their respective partners in secret. This premise was novel for Bollywood and allowed the film to explore the double lives many LGBTQ+ people are compelled to lead in a conservative society. Rajkummar Rao played Shardul, a policeman who is gay but so deep in the closet that he prefers a fake marriage over coming out; Bhumi Pednekar played Sumi, a lesbian physical education teacher who is more comfortable with her identity but also agrees to the charade in order to live “peacefully” without constant pressure to marry a man.
Badhaai Do balanced humor with heartfelt moments, and its characters were drawn with a nuance rarely seen before in Hindi cinema’s queer repertoire. Notably, the film did not make fun of Shardul or Sumi’s sexuality; rather, it found situational comedy in the lies and tangles their fake marriage creates. The extended family – nosy parents, uncles and aunts – generate laughs by pestering the couple about having children, or by unwittingly creating situations where Shardul and Sumi must cover up their truths. Yet, under the comedy, Badhaai Do addresses the “suffocation of being queer in a homophobic society” head-on. Through Shardul and Sumi’s personal struggles, the film makes it clear that the closet is a suffocating space to live in.
One of the most praised aspects of Badhaai Do was its characterization. The two leads are depicted as ordinary, flawed, and relatable individuals – not saints, not sinners, just human. “They were neither vilified and mocked nor idealised… Instead, they were allowed to be human, a luxury often not afforded to queer characters in Hindi cinema,” one reviewer observed appreciatively. Indeed, Shardul and Sumi have moments of selfishness, fear, courage, and tenderness that make them well-rounded. Shardul, for instance, is outwardly a macho cop; at one point he flexes his biceps in the mirror and jokingly calls himself “HomoCop”. This light moment actually reveals a deeper truth, he performs hyper-masculinity to compensate for the insecurity he feels about being gay in a macho profession.
Sumi, on the other hand, is more self-assured in her sexuality, yet she agrees to the fake marriage because it gives her a chance to live life on her own terms without her parents constantly meddling. The film allows us to see their internal conflicts: Shardul’s internalized homophobia (he feels relieved when he suspects his young nephew isn’t queer, reflecting his own fears), and Sumi’s compromise of living a lie as the price for personal freedom. These nuances were largely celebrated as a step forward for representation.
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Unlike earlier films that shied away from queer intimacy, Badhaai Do portrayed same-sex relationships with sensitivity. In this scene, Sumi (Bhumi Pednekar, right) shares a tender moment with her girlfriend (Chum Darang, left). Such depictions of lesbian affection are rare in Bollywood – the film was praised for “allowing its queer characters to be human” and showing their private moments of love without sensationalism.
Despite its comic façade, Badhaai Do does not entirely escape the critique of playing things safe. Much like SMZS, it ultimately wraps up in a feel-good manner, after some emotional upheavals, both Sumi and Shardul come out to their families, who eventually (if a bit magically) accept them. The climax jumps to a future where the two live openly with their respective partners and even adopt a child, with the formerly disapproving family members now doting grandparents. This happy ending, while heartwarming, tied things in a neat bow that real-life coming-out stories often lack. Some commentators argued that Badhaai Do, in trying to cover many issues (coming out, marriage pressure, adoption rights, etc.), sometimes lost focus on the core issue of the characters’ sexuality, turning instead into a broader commentary on Indian family expectations. In one scene, for comedic effect, Shardul and Sumi even go as far as faking a sperm count test result to stop their parents’ baby questions, a plot detour that, while funny, indicated how the narrative at times prioritized the family drama over the protagonists’ queer identity struggles.
Nonetheless, the overall reception of Badhaai Do was positive, especially among LGBTQ+ viewers who found the film refreshingly authentic in parts. It was lauded for depicting a “never-seen-before sense of community and friendship” among queer characters in a Bollywood film. The supporting cast included other gay and lesbian characters who form a supportive circle around Shardul and Sumi, subtly showing that queer people often create their own chosen families. Also notable was the casting of LGBTQ actors in small roles (for example, a brief but memorable appearance by out gay actor Gulshan Devaiah as a lawyer), a practice still far too rare in the industry.
Ultimately, Badhaai Do stands out for its empathetic portrayal of the mental and emotional toll of living a lie. When Shardul finally breaks down and admits to his family that he is gay, the film shifts tone from comedy to an emotional register, illustrating the courage it takes to speak one’s truth. In that powerful coming-out scene, Rajkummar Rao’s character delivers a line that encapsulates the film’s message: “Humari life ka hissa hai, puri life thodi na hai” – “It’s a part of our life, not our whole life”. By asserting that their sexuality does not define their entire being, Shardul and Sumi ultimately demand to be seen as the multifaceted individuals they are. Badhaai Do made a convincing case that a Hindi film could tackle these complexities and still be an entertaining “family film.” It pushed the envelope further towards normalizing queer leads, even as it operated within the familiar, and thus “boxed-in”, comforts of Bollywood family drama.
Made in Heaven (2019) – Streaming into New Territory
Parallel to the developments in film, the rise of streaming platforms in India opened another frontier for LGBTQ+ storytelling. Amazon Prime’s original series Made in Heaven debuted in 2019 and immediately set a new benchmark for queer representation in Indian content. Created by Zoya Akhtar and Reema Kagti, this web series about high-end wedding planners in Delhi featured a gay man as one of its two lead characters – and treated his story with a candor and depth seldom seen on Indian screens before. The character, Karan Mehra (played by Arjun Mathur), is a Delhi guy juggling the demanding business of planning big fat Indian weddings while also grappling with secrets in his personal life. What made Karan revolutionary was how fully realized he was: he was neither a comic sidekick nor a tragic token; he was portrayed as a complex individual with dreams, flaws, and a rich backstory.
Critics and audiences alike commended Made in Heaven for its “dignified treatment of queer characters outside of the stereotypes we’re so used to seeing”. Karan is depicted from the outset as a regular part of modern Delhi society – he has close friends, a career, and supportive allies, even as he remains closeted to some and faces the prejudice of others. The show does not shy away from showing Karan’s romantic and sexual relationships. In fact, Made in Heaven broke new ground by including intimate scenes between men and by not sanitizing the realities of gay life. For example, Karan’s character is shown using a dating app, bringing home partners, and also experiencing the loneliness of heartbreak. This unfiltered portrayal was a far cry from Bollywood’s traditional coyness about same-sex love.
Crucially, Made in Heaven also wove in the legal reality of India pre-2018. The series is set just before Section 377 was struck down, and it boldly addresses the law’s impact. In a gripping subplot, Karan’s landlord discovers his sexuality and calls the police, leading to Karan being arrested under Section 377 for engaging in consensual sex. These episodes are unflinching, we see Karan suffer humiliation and even sexual assault in police custody, a stark reflection of what many gay men in India had endured under the shadow of that law. The storyline closely mirrored the real-life case depicted in Aligarh, but here it was happening to a young protagonist in present day, which hit home for a lot of viewers.
The show uses this turning point to not only elicit empathy for Karan but also to make a political statement. After his release, a shaken yet defiant Karan decides to take a public stand against Section 377 – organizing a protest event and confronting the very social stigmas that had kept him hidden. In one scene, the series even alludes to potential hostility from right-wing elements (“the ruling party” and its signature color are referenced) – a daring move that underlined the creators’ intent to hold a mirror to society.
What sets Made in Heaven apart is the nuance in its queer storytelling. Karan is not the only LGBTQ character; the show brings in others, each depicted with care. We meet men Karan dates – some out and confident, some married and furtive – reflecting the spectrum of queer experiences. “Karan’s relationships with other gay men are refreshing, unabashed, multi-dimensional,” noted The Quint, adding that even minor characters were written without “lazy writing” or clichéd treatment. The friendship between Karan and his business partner Tara is another highlight. Tara is a straight woman, but she is not just a token supportive friend; their relationship is tested and evolves through the series, showing two complex individuals who rely on each other. By the end of Season 1, Karan’s journey – from a closeted man avoiding conflicts to someone who literally marches in the street for his rights – embodied the catharsis that many gay Indians felt with the end of Section 377.
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It’s worth noting that Made in Heaven, being a streaming show, had the freedom to be more candid than a typical movie. It could target a niche urban audience without worrying about appeasing traditional family sensibilities or censor board scissors. This liberty allowed it to be bolder than most contemporary films with LGBTQ themes. The series doesn’t wrap up Karan’s story with a neat bow. He earns some victories – personal acceptance, a repaired relationship with his mother, and a hopeful look towards a more open life – but it also leaves him as a single man still coping with past trauma and looking for love, which feels authentic.
Inside the industry, Made in Heaven is seen as a milestone. Gazal Dhaliwal, a trans screenwriter in Bollywood, pointed to the show as a sign that LGBTQ stories can be told “with nuance, empathy and honesty, while maintaining the mainstream parameters”. Indeed, Made in Heaven managed to engage a wide audience with high production values and gripping drama, all while centering a gay protagonist. It proved that Indian viewers were ready for, and receptive to, such content on OTT platforms. Arjun Mathur’s sensitive performance as Karan even earned him an International Emmy nomination, a testament to the impact of the character globally.
In summary, Made in Heaven expanded the horizon for LGBTQ+ representation beyond the constraints of the silver screen. It delivered a story that was simultaneously entertaining and unapologetically queer, setting a template for future series. It showed that when not boxed-in by the demands of a theatrical mainstream release, creators could venture into more bold, authentic storytelling about queer lives. The success of the show has since encouraged other web series and films to cast queer characters in lead roles with genuine narratives, contributing significantly to the normalization of LGBTQ+ presence in Indian entertainment.
Beyond the Token: The Road Ahead for Queer Representation in Bollywood
Over the decades, Bollywood’s tryst with LGBTQ+ themes has come a long way – yet the journey is far from over. From the cringe-inducing caricatures of yesteryear to the heartfelt stories of today, each phase has added new dimensions to queer visibility in Indian cinema. Importantly, what was once relegated to subtext or slapstick is now finding expression as primary narratives. The evolution has not been linear or uniform; Bollywood still often operates in a push-pull between bold storytelling and staying “boxed-in” by commercial comfort zones.
On one hand, recent years have given us reasons to celebrate. Mainstream films like Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan and Badhaai Do not only put gay and lesbian characters front and center, but also did so in a way that reached families and older generations, initiating conversations that might previously have been unthinkable at the dinner table. The very existence of a Pride-flag cape on a Hindi film hero or a same-sex couple performing marriage rituals on screen is a powerful marker of progress. Moreover, the industry is witnessing more content creators and writers from the LGBTQ+ community bringing authenticity to these stories. As one observer noted, “media truly has the power to bring about change in our collective social consciousness” – and having queer storytellers like Gazal Dhaliwal or Rituparno Ghosh (in Bengali cinema) helps ensure that representation is coming from a place of insight rather than ignorance.
On the other hand, Bollywood is still navigating how to depict queerness beyond tokenism or formula. For every Kapoor & Sons that subtly normalizes a gay character, there might be a mainstream comedy that still throws in a flamboyant fashion designer purely for comic effect. Even well-meaning films sometimes lean on the crutch of heteronormative validation – showing that the queer protagonist is “good” because they conform to family values, or ensuring the story ends with parental approval to comfort the audience. This reflects a reality that while the law (Section 377) may have changed, social attitudes take time. Filmmakers often choose a pragmatic route: pushing boundaries gently rather than shattering them. The result is a kind of tightrope walk. For instance, a few films have notably avoided showing queer characters face overt tragedy (opting for happy resolutions) so as not to reinforce the old trope that queer lives must end in misery. But in doing so, they occasionally veer into wish-fulfillment territory, perhaps underplaying the genuine struggles many LGBTQ+ people still encounter daily in India.
There is also the matter of breadth of representation. So far, gay men and to some extent lesbians have begun to find representation in Bollywood narratives, but other identities on the LGBTQ+ spectrum remain virtually invisible or misrepresented. Transgender individuals, for example, are still battling stereotypes on screen. Recent attempts like Chandigarh Kare Aashiqui (2021) – which featured a trans woman character in a romantic lead opposite a cisgender man – are promising. However, as noted in a Vogue India critique, even that film resorted to insensitive jokes and lacked nuance in parts, indicating a need for more educated writing. The industry has only started to scratch the surface when it comes to bisexual, non-binary, or queer characters of other hues. There’s hope that as audiences grow more accepting, writers will gain the confidence to explore these stories without resorting to caricature or over-cautious sanitization.
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One encouraging sign is the growth of the OTT (over-the-top streaming) space, which has already delivered shows like Made in Heaven and others (e.g., The Married Woman, Ye Hai Chahatein in regional content) that handle LGBTQ+ themes with maturity. Streaming platforms allow content that doesn’t have to please a “family audience” in cinemas, giving creators a freer hand to depict reality. The cross-pollination between cinema and streaming means talent and stories can move fluidly, a film actor today might not shy away from doing a gay character in a web series, and vice versa, as the stigma diminishes. Furthermore, the success of these ventures is proving wrong the old notion in Bollywood that “gay stories don’t sell.” As more such projects find both critical acclaim and a dedicated viewership, the financial and reputational risk that traditionally deterred producers from queer content is gradually lessening.
Ultimately, the path ahead for Bollywood involves both creative courage and cultural sensitivity. It’s about finding that sweet spot where storytelling neither trivializes nor pedestalizes queer characters, but treats them as naturally as it would any other character. The Hindi film industry has always been a powerful mirror and molder of public opinion in India. As such, continuing this trajectory of better representation is not only an artistic choice but a social responsibility. Films and shows that portray LGBTQ+ individuals with honesty can contribute to reducing stigma off-screen as well, helping audiences unlearn decades of negative stereotypes and see the humanity in people of all orientations.
Bollywood’s romance with LGBTQ+ themes is still in a relatively young phase, but it’s growing deeper with each passing year. From a time when queer characters were confined to the shadows of subplots, they are now stepping into starring roles. The industry seems to be realizing that these stories are integral to the diverse tapestry of India’s narrative, not just niche topics or comedic interludes. Moving forward, one hopes to see an even wider range of queer stories, from lighthearted romances to serious dramas – told with authenticity and artistry. If Bollywood can marry its love for storytelling with a genuine respect for LGBTQ+ lives, it will truly have its happily-ever-after moment: where being bold no longer requires being boxed-in, and queer characters can live and love on screen with the full complexity and freedom that every good story (and every human being) deserves.