One September evening in 2022, my friend Swar sent me a post by a newly created Instagram account, Queering in Chandigarh (QIC).
“Meet your people, share some new bonds and get your folks to tag along,” the post read, alongside the details of a potluck at the iconic Rose Garden, a sprawling, manicured park that also happens to be a popular cruising spot.
“Pata kar yaar [Find out more, my friend],” Swar asked in his message.
I was sceptical. Must be another gang of gay men, I thought, my distaste for exclusive clubs of cis gay men coming through clearly—the ones that I knew of in Chandigarh at the time tended to regularly organise parties that denied entry to trans people. But no harm in trying. At least I will have Swar, I told myself.
Swar and I have known each other for two decades now, and it’s been 15 years since we came out to each other. Swar is transmasculine; I am a cis gay man. We were the only queer peer support we had ever known.
When we reached the meeting spot in the park, my initial fears were put to rest. The crowd was nothing like I’d imagined. There were a few gay men, but the group was diverse and included butches, nonbinary folx, and trans people.
However, I was now feeling uneasy for a whole new reason. I was 40 years old then. All the people there were much younger than me—many were half my age.
Despite my hesitation, I leaned into the gathering. Someone played a couple of songs on a ukulele. Conversation flowed freely. We spoke of everything from experiences with adventure sports to getting caught making out in public. As time passed, more people joined. Before we knew it, there were around 50 of us sitting there, chatting, sharing food and space. We were all surprised to see that there were so many of us in a city like Chandigarh.
Over the next few months, there were more meetups and listening circles. I attended only a few of them, treading carefully, still not sure I really belonged. But somewhere along the way, amidst art sessions, frisbee games, and kite-flying hangs, I began to increasingly feel like part of the group.
By then, I had even started to contribute to organising the group’s activities: I arranged for a meeting with a queer writer who was visiting the city for book signings. But despite my growing comfort with the group, I was still surprised when I got a text from Simran, the founder of QIC, asking if I’d like to help out with organising Chandigarh Pride, which was scheduled for a month later, in February 2023. Suddenly, I was in the inner circle.
At 41, I was going to attend my first Pride. How late was that? And considering I had never even attended a Pride march before, was it too early to be a core organiser? Looking back, I now know it was the right time.
Coming out—all the way out
I had been closeted for most of my life. In 2018, at the age of 36, I finally came out to all my close friends and my brother. The following year, I came out to my parents. I finally felt comfortable in my own skin, though I was still a long way away from asserting my identity. And then the COVID-19 pandemic hit.
At the peak of the second wave in April 2021, when India was battling a shortage of hospital beds and oxygen cylinders, I went on a date.
He was an acquaintance of a friend and had just moved to Chandigarh, looking to escape the metropolitan chaos of Bengaluru. Mature, intellectually stimulating, and single, he was a bit of a rare catch in my city. I hoped our date would lead to a long-term relationship (it didn’t).
He had been living alone with very little contact with the outside world, so it seemed safe to meet. We decided to meet outside, betting on the open air to lower the risk of infection. But as we talked, trust began to build, the masks kept sliding, and we ended up in his flat.
Two days later, my throat felt scratchy. By then, I had given the virus to my whole family. I had had no other exposure, so the date seemed the most likely cause.
What followed was intense guilt and a struggle to recover and provide care to everyone at home. Eventually, I began to introspect about why I had made the very impractical decision of going on a date in the midst of a global crisis. I could have easily waited, so why didn’t I?
Over time, I found my answer. When I came out to my family, they initially accepted it and then ignored it entirely, as if it had never happened. This indifference and the pervasive heteronormativity at home had left me feeling stifled and eager to embrace risk. Many of us are prone to such tendencies, as I realised through my journalistic reporting on sexually transmitted infections and substance abuse among queer people. Seclusion often forces us into risky behaviour, but the world only sees the outcome, not the cause.
Was I taking refuge in my marginalised queer identity to rationalise and defend my actions? Maybe.
The truth is, I had also played a part in staying closeted even after coming out. I could have pushed the envelope, talked about myself even if no one was asking, and claimed space within the family. I hadn’t done any of that.
But by the time I had recovered from COVID, I decided that things would change. At home, I started talking about my need for a partner. I also started writing about queer and trans rights as well as about my personal journey with sex and identity.
Over the years, I had volunteered my time and labour for many causes—protesting the felling of trees, promoting natural farming, and supporting people with mental health disabilities. While I care deeply about all of these issues, in a way, I had also used them as distractions from the cause that is closest to my own identity. But now, I was ready to change that, to work on the ground for something more personal.
I had become fully ready to come all the way out of the closet. I was finally ready not just to walk at the Pride march but also to own it.
Queer twist to a grid city
I thought I had a wardrobe malfunction, but the dark blue sari was still sitting on my shoulder and tied to my waist. Having never draped a sari before, I didn’t realise that it was just the pleats that had come undone. As the audience cheered, I managed to sync with Madonna’s “Material Girl” and signed off with a famous Madhuri Dixit hook step before quickly rushing off stage, worried the whole thing might come down at any moment.
It was April 2024, and I was walking the ramp in drag for the very first time. I was dressed like a bald witch, my face painted pink and purple, my forehead framed by black paint in devil-wing style, and my neck adorned with a heavy necklace. I was thrilled to take on a new avatar—especially one that was much larger than me.
The Pride march of 2023 was just the beginning. In the year that followed, I participated in the formation of a book club, Holi fun in a public park, and a whole bunch of workshops, fashion shows, film screenings, parties, and pop-ups. I was experimenting with my look, trying on lipstick and pendants. I even performed a couple of stand-up sets. I could see myself shifting: I was opening up, trying new things. I was beginning to occupy space freely.
I had spent most of my youth closeted, rigidly drawn inwards. Amid the young tribe I was now surrounded by, I felt I was getting a chance to relive those years. At 42, I felt younger than I ever had at 22. I was unapologetic, calmer than I’d been, and more expressive and collaborative. Maybe this is the “second adolescence” psychotherapist Adam James Cohen described when talking about late bloomers like myself.
I experienced desire for men from a very young age, but I only started exploring those desires the year before I turned 30. The years that I had lost to fear, pretence, and internalised homophobia weighed heavily on me.
I would be lying if I said my youth was completely awful. Being closeted, despite its mental burden, comes with certain privileges and access to spaces. I had great friendships in my 20s, mostly with women, and these have merged seamlessly into my later years.
Around 2011, I was warming up to the idea of exploring my queerness. Dating apps had just begun to gain popularity in India, and it was easier for me to meet queer people. The more I explored, the harder it became to pretend I felt at home in cis-het society.
Around the same time, I quit my job in Delhi and decided to move back to my hometown, Chandigarh. I planned to freelance as a journalist, doubling down on the financial instability of a famously ill-paid profession. I figured that moving in with my family would help me save on rent.
Chandigarh is a relatively big city with decidedly small-town culture. It is the kind of city that queer people my age tend to move away from as they seek the freedom and anonymity of India’s bigger cities or even friendlier countries, like Canada or Australia. By the time I relocated my life there, most of my straight friends had also moved out or gotten wrapped up in their marriages.
Growing up, I had loved the city, but as a 30-year-old, I found it claustrophobic. The planned landscape seemed too rigid and the cultural milieu too traditional. Being a journalist allowed me to be on the road often, and I seized every opportunity to escape the city and myself.
But after I discovered Queering In Chandigarh, the city opened up for me. I remember walking through secluded corners of Rose Garden once, stumbling upon one straight couple after another, feeling like an intruder even as heterosexual families with their kids laid siege to the main grounds. That a bunch of queer folks could be in the same place, picnicking, playing, reading, or dancing, meant we were pushing the boundaries of the city rather than letting it confine us.
Being in a small city also meant travel and scheduling was never too hard. Impromptu lunches and parties became a regular part of our lives. Sharing your location on the QIC WhatsApp group was usually enough to find someone who was around and up to hang out. The innate experience of being queer, which separates us from the world, made it easy for us to come together.
J, another person in their mid-40s who joined QIC last year, also affirmed this connection between finding queer community and feeling at home in the city. “Even though I am not very active with the group, it’s nice to know there is a community; it makes one feel less isolated mentally,” they say. “The city is not as distant as it used to be.”
Somehow, I had missed this detail at first, but many months into being a part of QIC, I noticed that its Instagram bio reads, “Queer twist to an otherwise grid city.”
Bantering and burnouts
As an older queer person with a relatively settled existence—perhaps too much so—the connections I made through QIC helped me have fun, discover myself, and feel less alone in Chandigarh.
For other queer folks, especially younger ones, the group became a safety net—members have attended to distress calls from other queers, helped them navigate hospitals and government offices, accompanied each other house hunting, raised funds in times of crisis, and supported those facing police brutality and judicial bias.
When the police tortured a queer person from a slum and sent their partner back to her abusive family, we teamed up with an activist and lawyers. Together, we helped file a petition challenging the partner’s confinement by her family, coordinated press coverage for the case, and arranged therapy.
Peer support work is emotionally and physically intense and can lead to burnout. In a collective, however, the burden of care is distributed. Everyone takes responsibility, and we can rant and vent to each other. New volunteers show up unexpectedly, and often, things just work out even when everything looks bleak. (Of course, there are also some instances when nothing works.)
Being a cis man with a greying beard has its advantages in these situations. Respect comes without my demanding it. Landlords are not prejudiced before you even open your mouth, officials pay attention, and doctors are respectful.
V, a trans woman and a younger member of the QIC community, was having a tough time at college. Some professors refused to use her chosen name since it was not on the official records, and the administration didn’t let her use the women’s washroom. She was struggling to get the college to take her concerns seriously. When I accompanied her to the campus with another QIC member, a professor came storming towards us, irate about an incomplete entry in the visitor’s register. But as soon as he saw me, his indignation quickly faded. We spoke to the director of the college, who agreed to look into the deadnaming and allocated a separate washroom for V to use. I signed up to be V’s local guardian in her college records. Since then, these meetings have been quite cordial.
Hospital staff often assume I am an elder relative of my queer friends—mostly an uncle, but I was once a father, too. The age and social respectability associated with these roles means that I am taken more seriously than younger queer folks when they seek healthcare.
Navigating the age divide
When QIC came into my life, I was worried about whether I would fit in. The age gap between most of my peers in the group and me was impossible to ignore.
During a round of introductions before a treasure hunt, one of the members introduced themselves as “Gay AF.”
“Afghanistan?” I thought out loud.
“Lol, no babe,” said the person next to me. “Gay as fuck.”
Thankfully, my age didn’t stop me from becoming an integral member of the community— and it even became an asset at times. But occasionally, it has also been a source of friction.
The first time it happened, I was taken aback.
“You must have used pigeons to send love letters,” S said to me at the Holi event.
“No, it was the dinosaurs,” I replied, offended but pretending to be unfazed. By the evening, they had sent an apology. While the words helped, it was their subsequent actions that ensured the barb didn’t leave a lasting wound. Except for that incident, I have mostly been treated like a pal.
At a recent Pride party, S circled their arm around me as we were dancing and asked, “Which were the famous songs in your time?”
“This is my time, this is my time,” I mock-yelled over the techno beats, as they nodded in agreement. Then I leaned into their ear: “‘Dil Chahta Hai.’”
The age gap shows up in other ways as well. We grew up in times when the world was not so right-wing, social media was benign, the climate crisis and pollution levels were not as severe, and there was still hope for the future. And while growing up queer in today’s world offers greater visibility, encouragement of self-expression, and an easier time finding queer friends, the stressors are also manifold. The recent Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Act, 2026 has added to this crisis. I can only imagine the experience of being young and anxious.
The way younger queers relate to technology is also vastly different from the way I do. I learnt many of the acronyms used in chat, like WDYM (what do you mean), AFAIK (as far as I know), and BYOB (bring your own booze), but with new trends emerging every other day, I eventually gave up trying to keep pace.
More than anything, it’s the excitement that comes with youth that I find remarkable. They have a thousand ideas, are positive about making all of them work, and function at a higher bandwidth while my pessimistic self trots along on a dial-up network. And though I do feel younger in my brain these days, my body constantly sends me notifications about my actual age.
What co-creating looks like
Over the last two years, many members of QIC have moved cities or left India. The community is still thriving—there are regular events, and attendance remains strong. But the organisers are no longer on first-name terms with everyone who attends, as was the case during my initial years.
Some things, however, are certain. Folks who meet at QIC events are finding new friendship circles, creating memories and support systems.
At a time when most older people are connected to millennials or Gen Z only through the strict boundaries of familial or professional relationships, communities like QIC offer space to make connections that defy age gaps.
Queer ageing often does not follow the chronology set by heterosexual society. We tend to bypass the usual milestones of work and love or arrive at them later. This puts us in a unique position to nurture communities across age groups.
In a queer collective, older folks don’t always need to guide. They can heal, too. And younger people don’t need to revere the grey-haired; they can hold space and lead.
But when you are with people not your age, be ready for surprises.
A QIC friend once visited me at home. “Who was that?” my mother asked later.
“From our group,” I told her, since she already knew about QIC.
“So young,” she said.
“Yes, in college,” I replied.
“Do you get to know yourself at such a young age?” she asked.
“Of course, you know from very early on.”
“So why did it take you aeons to know?”
Ouch.