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“Ask a millennial what Pride means, and they’ll tell you about a struggle. Ask someone who's 20 or 22, and they might tell you it’s more of an emotion.”
It is, admittedly, an imperfect distinction. Queer lives are shaped as much by caste, class, gender identity, geography, and family as they are by age. Yet it is a distinction that has surfaced repeatedly in conversations across south India's queer communities. While Pride has always been rooted in resistance, the meaning and expression of that resistance has evolved across generations, from Gen X to millennials to Gen Z.
“Millennials had to fight for Pride and actually hit the streets to win the rights they passed on to us,” says Ini, a 22-year-old journalist. “We didn't really face the heat of queer politics. Millennials did. So automatically, your experiences build your perspective.”
Ini (they/them) has been to Pride. They'll go again. But the question that follows them through every march — “what exactly does Pride mean now?” — is one many within the queer community are increasingly asking.
As Pride has become more visible, so too have the conversations around it. Should it remain, above all else, a protest? Can it also be a celebration? Has commercialisation diluted the movement’s politics, or helped queer communities reach further? And if younger queer people appear to engage differently, is that because they are less political, or because they have inherited a different social and political landscape?
The answers are neither simple nor unanimous. TNM spoke to queer persons across south India — from Gen X to Gen Z — about how they understand Pride today, and what they believe its future should look like.
Pride is growing, but people disagree on what it should be
Kanna (21) (they/them), an undergraduate student at Azim Premji University, believes Pride has become “less of a remembrance or a stance for queer people, and more of a commercial thing."
To Kanna, asking people to leave politics out of Pride defeats the movement's purpose.
“Pride is a political event. It doesn't just represent gay or lesbian people; it encompasses transgender, intersex, and other queer identities, layered further by caste and class,” they add.
Fred, 47 (he/him), a transgender rights activist who has been involved in south India’s queer movement for decades, sees the shift slightly differently. While Pride has become more visible, he believes it has also become more individualistic, with some people attending simply because they identify as queer rather than to stand in solidarity with the wider community.
“We as a community are failing,” he says.
That tension surfaced publicly during one of Bengaluru’s December pride marches, when participants carrying placards calling attention to the genocide in Palestine were reportedly asked by a group of attendees not to “cause a scene,” claiming that these marches were “meant only for queer rights.”
The disagreement reflected a broader question confronting Pride movements across the world: should Pride speak only about LGBTQIA+ rights, or about all systems of oppression that intersect with queer lives?
According to Vipulaa (19) (she/her), who is also an undergraduate student, “queer events themselves are kind of taboo topics, but bringing politics into that on top of it makes it worse."
Those differing visions of Pride have also reshaped Bengaluru's own Pride landscape.
Until 2024, the city hosted a single annual Pride march. Following ideological differences within the movement, organisers split into two collectives, each with its own approach.
The December Pride, or Namma Pride, continues to be organised by CSMR (Coalition for Sex Workers & Sexuality Minorities' Rights), a coalition of LGBTQIA+ groups and allies in Bengaluru. It has historically centred grassroots organising, protest, and advocacy alongside celebrating the city's queer movement.
The June Pride, organised by the breakaway Coalition for Sex Workers, Sexual and Gender Minority Rights (CSGMR), aligns with Global Pride Month and commemorates the Stonewall riots. Supported by businesses, shopping malls, technology companies, and community groups, many of its events place greater emphasis on celebration, visibility, and networking, alongside political demands.
This year’s June march, for instance, featured slogans calling for 18 demands related to LGBTQIA+ and trans rights, while marchers in Chennai's Rainbow/Self-Respect Pride later that month called for the repeal of the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Act and greater inclusion. Performances by members of Karnataka's Jogathi/Jogappa tradition also underscored the continuing relationship between Pride, local cultures, and political expression.
“We need more and more political slogans to be raised in Pride marches, whether they are calls against patriarchy, misogyny, homophobia, genocide, or fascism,” says Ini. “The community in general is leaning more towards trying to maintain the ‘decorum’ or civility of the spaces.”
Many of those TNM spoke to shared the view that Pride is inherently political and should continue to centre those whose voices are most often marginalised. But they also questioned who was showing up to carry that politics forward.
Radz (they/them), a 30-year-old freelance language teacher, puts it bluntly. "There are some who will just dress up and come but won't know anything about what is happening. You can't treat this like a fancy dress event. That's when a lot of people entering really dilute the purpose of Pride."
Are millennials really more visible at Pride?
Among many activists and community members TNM spoke to, there was a perception that younger queer people, particularly Gen Z, were less visible at Pride marches and other forms of queer organising.
“The pride run I went to was mainly millennials and my friend and I were probably two of the only teens or young adults there,” says Spandana (19) (she/her).
Ini says they often see the same faces “again and again” in different venues — “they are always someone in their late 20s or early 30s, who would have been at the forefront of the community since the 2010s or 2015.”
Footage and photographs from protests against the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Act earlier this year appeared to reflect a similar pattern, with many familiar activists on the frontlines, while younger queer people often expressed their support online. But whether this represents a genuine generational divide, or simply different forms of participation, remains a matter of debate.
Part of that perception may lie in the history of India's queer movement.
Its roots stretch back to the early 1990s, when the AIDS Bhedbhav Virodhi Andolan (ABVA) organised one of the country's earliest public protests against discrimination. The first Pride march, the Friendship Walk, took place in Kolkata in 1999. The decades that followed saw sustained legal and political campaigns against Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, the colonial-era law that criminalised homosexuality. After the Delhi High Court read down the law in 2009, the Supreme Court reinstated it in 2013 before finally decriminalising consensual same-sex relationships in the landmark Navtej Singh Johar v Union of India judgment in 2018.
The movement also fought for the recognition of transgender persons’ rights. In 2014, the Supreme Court's landmark NALSA judgment affirmed that gender identity is self-determined and cannot be contingent on medical examinations or biological tests. While the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019 sought to codify those rights, many activists argue that the 2026 amendment rolls back several protections by narrowing the identities recognised under the law.
For many older queer activists, these legal battles continue to shape their understanding of Pride and political participation.
Radz, who identifies as a Zillennial (on the cusp between Millennials and Gen Z), says they feel caught between two generations.
“I was 23 when Section 377 was declared unconstitutional, and I was around 18 during the NALSA judgement. So I haven't fought as much as maybe a 40-year-old,” they say.
Radz says many older queer persons who were part of earlier legal and social movements worry that younger generations may not always recognise the labour that went into securing these gains. More than attendance at Pride marches, they say, they hope to see greater intergenerational solidarity.
“Even if they shoulder 5% of the responsibility from us, it still means a lot to us. Sometimes, it feels like younger queer people don't realise how much organising has gone into securing the rights they have today.”
Younger queer people interviewed for this story, however, often described a different reality. Vipulaa, for instance, believes participation is already a healthier mix of generations than it might appear. The perception of a generational gap, she suggests, may be louder than the reality.
‘Gen Z faces different barriers’
Rather than a lack of interest, many pointed to structural barriers that shape how younger queer people engage with Pride and queer politics. Financial dependence, lack of safety at home, the fear of being publicly outed, and hesitation to publicly challenge government policies mean that, for some, online spaces can feel like a safer way to participate than public demonstrations.
Kanna points to another practical challenge. “You need permission from the government and the police department to have the walk in the first place, and all of that makes it very public,” they say.
For younger queer people still navigating dependence on family, uncertainty around coming out, or concerns about their safety, attending a Pride march can feel less like a celebration than a risk.
The pandemic compounded those barriers. The years many Gen Z queer people might otherwise have spent exploring their identities and building community were instead spent indoors, often with families who did not know or accept who they were.
“It’s almost as if we can consider this like a high-pressure vessel,” says Ini. “The pressure needed an outlet, and that outlet happened to be online spaces.”
For many, those online spaces became their first queer communities, allowing them to find language, solidarity, and support that may not have been available offline.
But growing up online has shaped political participation in different ways, too.
“I think that would have definitely caused a lot of desensitisation to what’s happening around us. And I think that’s a pretty big barrier that millennials wouldn’t have faced,” says Kanna.
Yojit (21) (he/him), who is an undergraduate student at FLAME University, points to another under-discussed challenge — a generational disconnect within some queer spaces, where younger queer people sometimes avoid venues dominated by older community members.
Then there is the paradox of growing up in a world that is, in some ways, more accepting.
“I think the thing with Gen Z is that everyone's so accepting, so why am I not able to do it?” says Vipulaa. She explains that greater visibility and acceptance can create their own kind of psychological paralysis, where younger queer people feel compelled to label themselves in order to be accepted.
Fred believes one of the biggest differences between generations lies in access to language and community.
“In this generation, people have created a pathway for others to also understand themselves and figure out who they are,” he says. “The availability of the internet and communities across the world has given young people a much better platform to be who they are at a much younger age.”
Compared with queer people who came of age in the 1970s and 1980s, Fred says, younger generations today have access not only to information and community, but also to support systems that simply did not exist before, including support groups for parents of queer children.
For Fred, recognising those changes is just as important as remembering the movement's earlier struggles. But they have also changed what many queer people expect from Pride itself — and that raises another question.
The politics of commercialisation
As Pride has grown more visible, it has also become more commercial.
Every June, corporations swap their logos for rainbow versions. For many in the queer community, this has become one of Pride month’s more “hollow” rituals.
“Businesses should not be supporting Pride just during Pride month,” says Ini. “It should be done year-round.”
For Ini, support that disappears on July 1 doesn’t feel meaningful at all, particularly when queer employees continue to navigate discrimination throughout the rest of the year.
The selectivity, others argue, runs deeper than timing.
“A lot of companies feel that trans rights are where it gets very radical,” says Radz. “Gay men are a target audience for capitalism. But we are people who struggle with basic healthcare and are not in a position to buy a lot of the products these brands advertise. Companies don't want to comment on our rights as much as they do on gay rights.”
Corporate allyship, in this reading, often appears to follow consumer demographics as much as political conviction.
Commercialisation also shapes who gets to participate. Expensive ticketed events, Yojit observes, are often the ones most eager to leave politics off the agenda.
“In general, Pride revolves a lot more around the aesthetics of showing up than it does about showing up for protest.”
For Ini, ticketed events also raise questions of accessibility. “When you introduce the concept of ticketing or paid events, you're essentially establishing a barrier for people from specific socioeconomic backgrounds.” A trans sex worker in Chennai and a corporate IT employee in Bengaluru, for instance, may both belong to the queer community, but they do not enter Pride spaces with the same resources.
Vipulaa, meanwhile, recalls instances where people attended Pride events claiming to be queer when they were not, while Spandana points to exclusions from within the community itself.
“I know people who might be bisexual or gay and are themselves transphobic, and they attend Pride. It defeats the whole purpose,” Spandana says. “Upper-class queers also kind of look down on Dalit queer people.”
Yet commercialisation is also not a straightforward villain. Better-funded events can also make Pride more accessible.
“In India, we don't really see any sort of arrangement made for people with disabilities,” says Ini. “For that, we obviously need funding, and NGOs can only do so much. That’s where I think commercialisation is not just automatically bad.”
For Ini, the question is not whether Pride should receive corporate support, but whether that support is sustained, inclusive, and directed towards the communities that need it most.
These questions, in fact, were reflected in Pride marches across south India this June, where demands for trans rights, legal reform, and greater inclusion sat alongside celebrations of queer identity.
What does the next generation want from Pride?
For many younger queer people, the future of Pride is less about spectacle than substance. They imagine spaces that educate people about their rights, welcome those across socioeconomic backgrounds, and remain rooted in the movement's political purpose.
Ini believes there is a greater need for mental health support, legal rights awareness, and academic discussions than for fashion events or music festivals.
Kanna hopes Pride will create more space for communities that continue to remain at the margins, including indigenous communities. “I’d like to see events where indigenous communities get to play their music or sell what they need to sell for their livelihood.”
Yojit believes Pride also needs more events designed specifically for younger queer people. Branding every gathering as 18+, he argues, reinforces the idea that queerness is inherently sexual. More family-friendly spaces, he believes, could help challenge that perception.
Spandana and Vipulaa imagine something quieter. Rather than large annual celebrations alone, they speak of regular community gatherings — spaces like Bengaluru's Beku Café, where queer people can meet, learn, organise, and simply exist with one another.
The café's owner, Prarthana Prasad, regularly hosts queer community events, including fundraising markets for sex workers and gender and sexual minorities, drag brunches, networking sessions, book discussions, and game nights for aromantic and asexual people.
Radz hopes Pride also becomes more accessible outside English-speaking circles. With much of the debate around the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Act taking place in English, they believe regional-language theatre could help more trans people understand the law and participate in organising around it.
Fred, meanwhile, hopes to see greater visibility for Assigned Female at Birth Transgender Diverse (AFAB TGD) communities, whose experiences, he says, remain underrepresented even within queer spaces.
Across generations, the conversations in this story point to one shared desire, that Pride should continue to evolve without losing sight of the inequalities it was created to challenge.
The debate now within south India's queer communities is this: How can Pride remain a political movement, while also serving the needs of generations that came of age in very different worlds?
This article was written by a student interning with TNM.
