Sunil Mohan R grew up loving cricket. But gender norms kept him away from the local boys’ ground because he was assigned female at birth. When he was in the seventh grade, his aunt showed him an ad in the newspaper announcing tryouts for the Kerala women’s cricket team. Sunil persistently pursued his mother to let him take part in the trials. She eventually agreed. That day, Sunil began his journey in sport, which would eventually lead him toward his own liberation.
At the age of 20, Sunil came to Bengaluru as a translator to help a queer couple from Kerala in a crisis situation. Two decades later, he continues to live in the city.
In 2024, he received the Kamla Bhasin Award for Driving Gender Equality Across South Asia in the ‘man (cis/trans)’ category, in recognition of his efforts towards building a gender-just ecosystem.
Over his two decades of work in sexuality and gender activism, 42-year-old Sunil has been at the forefront of some of the most significant shifts in India’s queer movement. His work spans grassroots organising, community-building, and advocacy.
Having witnessed the LGBTQIA+ movement grow, stumble, and evolve, Sunil brings a rare clarity to conversations about its power and limitations. In this chat with queerbeat, Sunil reflects on his personal journey, the strengths and shortcomings of the Indian queer movement, and what it means to hold hope while demanding accountability.
Over 20+ years of advocacy and activism, what shifts have you witnessed in queer and trans movements in India? And when you look at younger activists now, what feels different about the way they approach struggles and leadership compared to when you began?
When I first entered the movement, I started my work with crisis intervention. Today, when I look around, especially in Bengaluru, I do not see the same kind of dedication among the newer people in the field.
Back then, if someone reached out for help, we responded immediately. No matter what the situation was, we went and did what needed to be done. Today, I often see people delaying responses even in crisis situations, saying things like, “It is a holiday,” or “Please come to the office on the next working day.” That is not how crisis work is done. A crisis needs a quick and compassionate response.
We used to get calls from people facing violence from their families, people who wanted to leave home, couples dealing with conflict, or cases involving police harassment. Whatever the issue, we always acted immediately. The person on the other side of the phone should never feel that the call was useless or that help didn’t come when needed. Even over the phone, you have to make them feel supported.
Over two decades, we’ve built networks and systems that did not exist when we started. Because of that, the newer generation is stepping into relatively safer spaces, but they do not fully understand the urgency. When I say we, I mean Rumi [Sunil’s colleague and companion] and I. We have worked together for 23 years. There were other friends like Christy and Kiran, too, whom I met at different times, and we all worked together at one point in [Bengaluru-based queer rights NGO] Sangama. I feel many people now hold leadership positions in name, but the depth of their work is not what it used to be. Of course, it is also our duty to create leadership for the future. We can offer training and resources, but people have to take them up on their own. If they do not, we cannot force it. All we can do is continue our work with sincerity.
Crisis intervention is at the core of your work. In that context, how do you approach negotiation or dialogue with natal families, and what lessons can we learn from your experience?
For many queer people, violence begins at home. We often talk about discrimination from the outside world, but rarely do we look inward, at how much harm starts within families themselves. Families are often given social sanction to ‘correct’ their children if they believe they are going down the ‘wrong path.’ This belief gives them the authority to inflict harm, and society accepts it as normal.
If we want real change, we must hold families accountable for the violence they commit. Without that, nothing will truly shift. At the same time, there has to be room for conversation. Change does not happen overnight. It took me 18 years to help my own parents understand me. I began by talking about queer people in general, then about my friends, and only much later did I say, “I am like that too.” Families need to keep that space open for dialogue. There should be conversation, not violence. But if there is harm, there must be consequences. Accountability cannot be optional.
You’ve spoken in the past about how, in the context of trans people, horizontal reservations alone are not enough and how policies are often designed without any understanding of the community’s needs. From your perspective, what would more holistic and meaningful policies for trans communities look like?
When people think of the word ‘trans,’ the usual image that comes to mind is of trans women. That is the common public understanding, and it shapes how policies are made.
For example, in Karnataka, all trans welfare schemes come under the Department of Women and Child Development. Why? Because the government assumes that trans automatically means trans women. Policies built on that assumption exclude other trans identities, especially trans men and intersex people who cannot access those schemes. That approach is not enough.
When we talk about horizontal reservation, it is meant for both trans men and trans women. If the government says there will be one percent reservation, we can already guess who will receive it, based on how the system privileges some voices over others, and especially persons assigned male at birth. So, yes, horizontal reservation is necessary, but the percentage should be higher and distributed more equitably across the community.
And trans welfare should not be handled by the Women and Child Department at all. It should be moved to the Department of Social Justice, because [empowering] trans lives is about social equity.
Social movements often witness conflict and division, because of ideological differences or even personal interests. For the queer community, where people navigate so many intersecting identities, these tensions can hit even harder. The recent split in Bangalore Pride brings up the same question: why is it so hard for queer organisations to stay cohesive? What can be done to build stronger, lasting alliances?
If we do not take steps to address our differences now, it will only become more suffocating later. We should not feel obliged to tolerate everything for the sake of false unity. If a split is truly needed, it is better to separate than to continue under constant tension.
But honestly, the system too keeps trying to divide us. The government and institutions thrive on divide and rule. Look at what happened with the legal judgments. When the NALSA verdict [which affirmed the rights of transgender people] came, Section 377 [which criminalised same-sex sexual relations] was still pending. They first recriminalized 377, then brought NALSA, and when there was backlash, they decriminalized 377 within six months. Each move created new divides. The state accepted transgenders first, but in doing so, it separated trans people from the broader queer movement.
Before that, the queer movement included everyone, trans people were part of it, not apart from it. We fought together. After those judgments and policies, we started hearing arguments like “Who counts as a trans person?” and “Whose voice matters more?” That fragmentation was manufactured by the system.
Our first step must always be to look at the larger collective goal and try to work through our differences. But we can’t compromise on everything , some political and ideological differences are too deep to ignore, and in those cases, it is better not to force collaboration.
You were vice-captain of the Kerala women’s cricket team before you embraced your trans identity. Looking back, how do you remember that journey?
I like to think of cricket as the space that gave me a sense of assertion and power. It became my reason to step out of home, travel alone, and explore the world. Cricket was my comfort, especially through the uniform. Compared to other sports like hockey or tennis, where women players wore skirts, cricket allowed pants and T-shirts. That made it the most gender-neutral sport for me. When I first went to join the team, I remember getting a boyish haircut before the first match, it was the first time I had ever cut my hair. Such simple acts gave me an incredible sense of freedom and it became an assertion of who I was. For many trans men I know, cricket offers a similar comfort. Even though we play in the women’s category initially, which is difficult, everything else about the sport feels freeing.
You have lived through rigid gender divisions in sport. How do you see the global debate on trans athletes intersecting with the Indian context, where both sport and queerness remain heavily policed?
Even though things were rigid when I started to play [in 1999] we could still find many queer people in sports. Some who identified as trans, and others who were still exploring themselves. I personally knew a few. But, no matter how much we say that trans women should be considered women, our society has not evolved enough to truly accept that. People still think in binaries and are now even talking about creating separate divisions for trans athletes.
I think separation is again discrimination. What we are asking for is inclusion, to be accepted as we are and included in the mainstream. We don’t need a separate division to be accepted.
In Bengaluru, we have formed a trans men’s cricket team and are planning to approach the government [for recognition]… Trans men or women should play in women’s and men’s teams. But given how our social and institutional systems currently function, we have to start the conversation even if it is with some negotiations. The aim is to first open the dialogue and map governments response and start a conversation.
When you think about the future of queer and trans lives in India, what gives you the most hope?
I truly believe that we can create space for ourselves, that queer people can also thrive and achieve things. The important thing is to bring these issues into people’s consciousness. We have to work toward that. When it comes to marginalised communities, there is often an overemphasis on sensitisation. But how long will we keep sensitising people? Sensitisation is just one way and a starting point. Beyond that, [queer] issues need to become part of the way people think and speak.
For example, earlier, when someone started a speech, they would say, “Ladies and gentlemen.” Later, this shifted to “Friends.” That small change reflects growing awareness. Similarly, if we want people to acknowledge queer identities, that shift will only happen when the issue becomes embedded in their consciousness. Otherwise, we’ll remain stuck in binaries.
This example and our medico-legal progress show that change has already begun. Slowly, but it is happening. And it will take time. Change always does.