The hidden struggles of rural India's queer youth

(Trigger warning: This story makes mentions of sexual assault and suicide.)

It’s been over a month since Babul last spoke to their brother—and over two years since they left their family home in Barasat, West Bengal. The 22-year-old lives in Mumbai, working at a garment store, sending money back to their parents, who are glad for the extra income. 

What Babul hasn’t shared with his family is that Mumbai wasn’t just a step toward employment—it was a leap of faith toward selfhood, a “freer city” where they could begin living as a transfeminine person, undergo gender-affirmation surgery, and find the safety of community.

But in the quiet after the surgery, what Babul hadn’t anticipated was missing the old, familiar kind of safety—the scent of home, their mother’s voice singing in the kitchen, and the unquestioning tenderness with which the family tends to its unwell. 

“If this had been any other surgery, no one would have cared for me better than my mother,” says Babul. “She would be shattered if she came to know about what I’ve done. But I still miss her.”

For countless queer youth from rural India, this is the price of truth.

Community members say their freedom comes at the cost of emotional exile, compounded by years of confusion, denial, and dysphoria, and the absence of family support, resources in regional languages, and an affirming community. 

According to mental health experts, in regions where affirmation is scarce and professional help non-existent, anxiety, depression, isolation and suicide have become an urgent and unacknowledged public health emergency. The distress they face spills into the realms of education, healthcare, safety, and livelihood. 

Being AFAB: at the margins of margins

Queer youth who are assigned female at birth (AFAB), face a scarier future as discrimination comes intertwined with stigma, violence, and erasure, owing to their gender identity, geography, and sexual orientation, researchers from Tata Institute of Social Sciences have found. 

In their research, they cite the example of a 27-year-old lesbian woman from rural Rajasthan, who was forcefully married to a man eight years older to her, who assaulted her, following which she was not even given any medical help as her family felt her pain would “change” her sexual orientation.

Arun, a 23-year-old transman, left his home in Madurai and moved to Chennai to begin life on his own terms as a trans man. But even in a city known for its trans-visibility, his attempts to access gender-affirmation surgery at the government-run transgender clinic at Rajiv Gandhi Government General Hospital have been repeatedly thwarted. 

“They keep telling me to bring my parents for counselling sessions,” he says. “But I left home to escape an abusive family. That option doesn’t exist for me.”

Unlike trans women, who often have more visible communities and support networks, AFAB queer people remain largely invisible—even within their own community spaces. Like others who battle caste, disability, and gender identities, they too lack dedicated safe spaces and social safety nets. 

“This is why exclusive shelter homes for trans men are vital,” says Arun.

“Many of us are still in the process of transitioning or saving for surgery,” he explains. “We can’t afford to spend that money on rent. We’ve seen young trans boys—many of them survivors of sexual abuse and assault—struggling just to find a safe place to sleep,” he says. “Shelters tailored to the needs of trans men could provide stability through crucial years of education, employment, and transition.”

In 2001, Sahayatrika, a LGBT activist Deepa Vasudevan founded Sahayatrika, a pioneering organisation in Kerala in response to a spate of suicide pacts among lesbian couples in the state. It was founded as a support system for AFAB queer individuals, including lesbians, bisexual women, and trans masculine people.

Between 1995 and 2003, Sahayatrika documented 22 cases of suicide among young queer women in Kerala, based solely on newspaper reports. 

The disproportionate suicide rates among rural queer AFAB youth and transgender communities is often linked to family and social rejection, medical neglect in gender transition, economic insecurity, and lack of resources. 

The organisation’s helpline (+91 97449 55866) and early outreach became lifelines for individuals in acute distress, offering emotional support and sometimes life-saving intervention before self-harm could occur. 

Vasudevan has spoken widely about the large number of cases Sahayatrika gets—of people either trying to live with their (same‑sex) partners or asserting their identity as a queer person. Much of its crisis intervention includes family abuse, following which, police cases must be filed to help them regain freedom.

The lack of mental health and identity-affirming resources in regional languages also remains a glaring barrier for queer youth from rural and semi-urban areas. 

A UNESCO-supported research in Tamil Nadu in 2019 found that among nearly 400 LGBT+ school students, over half skipped classes to avoid bullying, and one-third dropped out entirely. 

Another 2018 study by  Chennai-based queer rights group Sahodaran, supported by UNESCO, revealed that around 33% of gender non-conforming school-children experienced bullying linked to their sexual orientation or gender identity—leading to reduced peer engagement (73%) and significant mental health challenges (70% reported anxiety/depression). 

For these reasons and more, for rural and semi-urban queer individuals navigating gender identity, sexuality, and mental health challenges, English-dominated resources can feel distant and alienating, say queer social workers. In regions where social support is scarce and stigma runs deep, access to affirming, context-specific care in one’s own language can mean the difference between isolation and survival.

There are some grassroots organisations, including Sahayatrika, which are actively bridging this gap. 

Sahayatrika offers 24/7 helpline counselling in Malayalam, alongside crisis intervention and peer support. Queerala, also in Kerala, conducts sensitisation workshops, peer counselling, and legal aid in Malayalam, tailored to the state’s sociocultural context.

In Tamil Nadu, Srishti Madurai runs a 24-hour Tamil helpline and has pioneered Tamil-language LGBTQIA+ advocacy, including the coining of culturally resonant gender terms. It  coined regional Tamil terms for gender-nonconforming identities and published a Tamil book Maraikkappatta Pakkangal, exploring gender variants and non-binary identities. It also has a helpline for intersex and genderqueer youth in the non-metros of Tamil Nadu.  

Orinam, a Chennai-based collective, hosts monthly Tamil peer support meetups and has co-developed the Tamil government’s LGBTQ glossary to make identity discourse more inclusive. 

In Assam, XUKIA, Northeast India’s first queer collective, produces multilingual queer content—including Assamese and Bengali literature and film—to ensure visibility and validation for regional queer experiences.

The dangers of sextortion and the mirage of online freedom

Despite the growing presence of helplines, support groups, and advocacy efforts, there remains a pressing need for accessible, grassroots mental health interventions. 

TD Sivakumar, Co-founder of Nirangal, a Chennai-based NGO working in crisis response, peer support, and LGBTQIA+ rights, says he receives four to five crisis calls every day. Most are from queer youth, particularly gay men and boys from small towns across Tamil Nadu, seeking urgent help after experiences of sextortion, blackmail, or fleeing unsafe homes.

“Sextortion remains a big daqunger,” says Sivakumar. “Young boys take to online apps and platforms, and while they desperately seek connection and validation, they get lured into ambushes that end in assault and extortion,” he adds.

Once physically targeted, perpetrators record private moments or inflict violence before threatening to expose the victims unless they pay up, says Sivakumar. 

Victims are too often on their own, facing not only financial loss but emotional devastation as well—and the threat of blackmail, arrest, or worse, thoughts of suicide .

Many queer youth are also swayed by queer influencers on social media—figures who speak powerfully about being fearless, independent, and unapologetic. 

“But that narrative, however empowering, rarely aligns with the lived realities of rural queer youth,” says Sivakumar. Hot-blooded and impressionable, some leave home while still in school, chasing a version of freedom that’s neither accessible nor sustainable, he says. 

“They come to big cities hoping to meet these influencers—much like fans hoping to meet movie stars—and when that doesn’t happen, they’re left to fend for themselves. Many end up in unsafe situations, resorting to sex work or facing exploitation.

“That’s why I always tell them a rule of thumb: always carry your government documents, don’t be lured by the glamour of social media, and, most importantly, don’t come out to your family until you’ve finished your education and gained financial independence. That’s when you have real agency—to choose surgery, housing, and a life on your own terms. That’s your key to freedom.”