With June observed annually as Pride month, queer individuals in Goa are hoping for a shift in lens—from visibility to value, from tokenism to true inclusion
ADITHI SHARMA | NT BUZZ
Each June, rainbow flags unfurl, and brands adopt inclusive messaging to commemorate Pride month. But for queer individuals, Pride is not just a celebration—it is a reminder of unfinished business, of the quiet struggles, and daily negotiations that stretch beyond a single month.
“Pride is not a costume you wear once a year. Our lives go on with the same joys, sorrows and struggles long after the flags come down,” says filmmaker, editor and writer Apurva Asrani.
Indeed, in Goa, as in much of India, queer people continue to push for inclusion not just in parades but in policies, healthcare, workplaces, and everyday social spaces.
“We work, care for our families, and try to stay healthy, just like anyone else,” says hotelier and queer event organiser Divya Kamat, who co-runs Queerly Goa, an LBT-led group that curates events to build visibility and belonging within the queer ecosystem, with her partner. But even in these ordinary moments lies an undercurrent of caution. “Unlike straight couples, I have to think twice before holding my partner’s hand in public. That kind of calculation is something I wish more people understood.”
Asrani shares a similar sentiment. His days often include walking the dogs, writing, and caring for his mother—“wonderfully ordinary” routines as he puts it. “We’re not so different,” he says. “All we want is connection, understanding, and a place to belong.”
Yet, this is not always easy to come by. According to Nihal Satpute, an event organiser who runs Queer Kinara (a collective focused on bringing the queer community together through social gatherings, events and activities) and a queer-friendly homestay, many queer people in Goa live in remote areas and still hide their identity at home and work. “It’s like living a dual life—it takes a huge toll,” he says.
While Pride month offers visibility, several community voices warn against treating it as a performative ritual. “It creates this temporary illusion of visibility,” says artist and entrepreneur Vrujen Andhare, who co-runs A Rainbow Collective in Goa. “Pride becomes a stage, but once the lights go off, the structural issues—like housing discrimination, mental health inaccessibility, or safety in public spaces—still persist.”
Kamat notes that while Goa has seen an increase in queer events beyond June, social visibility is not the same as legal equality. “These events create room for connection and joy, but they don’t automatically translate into protection under the law.”
A common concern in the community that is often raised, is about performative allyship. “Tokenism speaks in slogans; real support shows up in action,” says Asrani. “True allies don’t just celebrate us in June, they ask why we’re still denied rights like marriage, adoption, and spousal inheritance.” Writer and activist Francis H. Fernandes adds, “If your feminism doesn’t include trans people, or your activism ignores intersectionality, it’s not genuine.”
When it comes to rights, Goa’s queer residents agree that while conversations have begun, implementation lags far behind. “Most policy changes are only on paper,” says Satpute. “But I’ve noticed students now choosing LGBTQ-related topics for their university projects. That’s promising.”
Andhare, who is recovering from a heart surgery, stresses how deeply health systems misunderstand queer bodies and experiences. “We need gender-affirming care, trans-inclusive insurance, and policies that protect our dignity across the board.”
For Kamat, marriage equality is a particularly personal fight. “My partner and I are engaged. Our families are fully supportive, but on paper, we’re strangers. That means no health insurance, no legal rights in emergencies, no financial security. It’s disheartening and unjust.”
Fernandes meanwhile notes that local political action in Goa still lacks momentum.
Another shared frustration is the perception of queerness as spectacle. “We’re not here to provoke or entertain,” says Asrani. “Some of us are raising children, some caring for elderly parents.”
Andhare, whose drag persona Sexwax blends performance with protest, says, “My glitter hides grit. I don’t want to feel like I’m staging a revolution every time I step out in heels. I just want to exist.”
Kamat agrees, “Queerness is often seen as flamboyant and that erases our quieter, more routine lives. We’re not asking for special treatment, just to be treated as human beings.”
What, then, does lasting solidarity look like? For Fernandes, it starts with education. “Talk to us. Read about us. Attend queer events. Learn our history, not just our hashtags.” Asrani adds, “Make space for us at your dinner tables and boardrooms. Inclusion starts with a question: How can I make this space safer?”
Satpute puts it simply, “We are one of you. Your family, your neighbours. Please treat us that way.”
Andhare offers a broader vision: “Goa is a land of waves, rhythm, and soul. Let’s make sure that spirit includes all its people.”
“You don’t have to fully understand someone’s identity to stand with them. What matters is respect, space, and the willingness to show up,” says Kamat. In the same vein, Asrani adds, “We’re not that different after all. We’re children of the same god—a loving god who promised care for all.”
