11 October,2026 07:19 AM IST | Mumbai | Akshita Maheshwari
(Right) Drag artiste Zeesh says that social media used to be a safe space for members of the LGBTQIA+ community, but now it brings them unwanted attention. Pic/Satej Shinde
What makes a queer person safe? Is it support from friends and family? Is it financial security? Is it fame? Madhusudan Sandhu, better known as Mad Sandhu to his over two lakh Instagram followers, had all those things. And yet, he was shot dead by two men on a bike in Amritsar last week. Soon after, a post on gangster Goldy Dhillon's Facebook claimed responsibility. What was Sandhu's crime? He had "spoilt" Punjab, just by being himself, by being gay. Dhillon's post quickly disappeared thereafter.
The LGBTQIA+ community in India is no stranger to violence. "Our mere existence makes people feel threatened. Being âout and proud' has its own pros and cons," says Yash, a Delhi-based queer rights advocate. "Being yourself is a basic human need. At the same time, for someone like me, it means risking death."
Sandhu knew that too. In fact, he had faced homophobic threats from extremist groups for over a year. His family had even sought protection from the Amritsar police.
Yash runs an initiative called Humans of Queer (@officialhumansofqueer), an Instagram page with close to 40,000 followers dedicated to documenting queer stories from India. "When Section 377 was first struck down, it was a hopeful time. There was a need to be more visible, to have our stories out there. Since 2019, a lot more people know about queer culture, which is so, so important. The more queer stories people know, the more they can be sensitised to us. But at the same time, we are that much more exposed," says the 28-year old.
"The hate I get on Instagram right now is way more than what I would get before 2019. The instances of physical violence also seem to be going up now. There is a certain pride in that hatred now," Yash says, "For example, there was a popular page from Haridwar [now taken down], where a religious extremist used to find trans people and beat them up, positioning himself as a âsaviour'. People not only feel safe committing these crimes, but recording the evidence. They know that they will be protected."
Yash finds social media to be a unique dichotomy. "It's tricky. Because social media ârewards' you for being yourself. You get a platform, a stream of income - things that are denied to queer people a lot. Putting yourself out there is an act of resistance. But I don't think many of us know what we're getting ourselves into."
The content creator recalls, "I have been in situations where people have stalked me. There was this one time one person stalked my gym. I have been chased by men on bikes in the streets. All of this because I put myself out there."
"I come from a privileged background. My parents know about me. But that's not the case for most LGBTQIA+ people," he adds, "And the system will never protect us. Meta doesn't care [about online harassment], your family won't help, your friends may turn their backs, the police won't help."
For queer content creators, social media can be incredibly affirming. "It feels like you made it beyond all odds," Yash adds, "But the risks are enormous."
For Sandhu too, social media brought success that would have otherwise never found him. He built a following, was a successful makeup artiste, ran his own salon, and was primary breadwinner in his household. He'd earned dignity, but it wasn't enough to keep him safe.
For Yash, this has meant "toning down" their gender expression. "I try to protect myself. I try my best to not look âvisibly queer'. It's a very tough thing. Because no one âlooks' like something. It's just elements and behaviourisms. So how do you protect yourself?"
After hearing about this case, Yash's been reaching out to queer friends in rural Haryana. "I've been telling them to lay low for a while. It's hard, but I just don't want them to risk their lives."
Mad Sandhu isn't a one off case, says non-binary drag artiste Zeesh. We meet Zeesh at the LaLit hotel in Andheri East, where they are to host a drag night the next day at Kitty Su, a queer-first club. The heat isn't too forgiving on us. And yet, Zeesh is here with a full face of makeup on. Their eyebrows are shaved at the ends and they're wearing a dark lip combo that leaves this writer impressed.
"This time, the reaction from the queer community is not one of fear. We're angry," says non-binary drag artiste Zeesh, "Mad Sandhu isn't a one off case. The amount of cases that don't even get reported is enormous."
"We're angry because the queer community always shows up for everyone. We are there at your celebrations, we are present when you're angry, we protest alongside you, we show up for women's rights, for students' rights. Where is Gen Z now? Forget Gen Z, where are Millennials?" asks the 33-year-old, as their voice crescendos.
Zeesh grew up in a conservative family. "I'm a Muslim, non-binary drag artiste," they count off on their fingers, "I have been breaking norms since I was born. Thankfully, I found some chosen family who chose me too. And later, my family - my mom and sister - also became supportive, through conversations and education," they say with a smile.
It's this same drive to break the shackles of conformity that can be seen in their drag performances at unexpected public spaces, such as the Dadar flower market, often amid quizzical stares and hateful glares. But sometimes, this comes at a cost.
Zeesh feels that as a visibly queer person, fear is like a second skin. Violence may be just around the corner. "Many, many years ago, I was in Delhi for a music video shoot. After wrap-up, my cab dropped me around 600 metres from my OYO hotel at 12.30 am."
"I started walking towards my hotel and noticed two men drinking, staring at me. Your immediate reaction is to just stay in your lane and get through it. But then they approached me, started touching and grabbing me. I was petrified. I was calling someone at the hotel, anyone who could help me.
"Then a staff member yelled at them to leave me alone. This attacker tells me, âOh you're staying at this hotel. I know now. Ab raat mein dekhna [I'll see you in the night]. I couldn't stay at the hotel for another second. I went in, grabbed my luggage, booked a cab to the airport, and left at midnight for a flight at 7 am," they recall.
Safety isn't easy to find in the real world. For a while, social media and the online world was a safe space for queer folk. "That's how I started. No one in my family knew about me. I would make videos in my bedroom and post them on Instagram. But now if you do that, you're putting a target on your back," Zeesh sighs.
The sad part is that I wasn't shocked at all when I heard of Sandhu's murder," says Bonita Rajpurohit, a filmmaker and a trans woman, "I'm immediately reminded of Pranshu Yadav, who was 16 when he died, or Makeover Yash," she says, talking about two queer makeup artistes who died by suicide in the last couple of years after facing immense homophobia and bullying.
"When is it enough?" she asks, "You could have financial security and even support from your family. But there's no guarantee that you'll be safe if you're a queer person. The minute you seem âdifferent', they'll kill you," she says.
Rajpurohit grew up in a small village called Dornari in Rajasthan. She's no stranger to the need to fit in - or what she calls "merging" - to remain safe. "I would go to school or college knowing that I'm going to get looked at with eyes of hatred or ridicule. I had to be a soldier, ready for war every day. But why should I? I was just a child," she laments, "That's why passing becomes so important. It offers you safety."
Rajpurohit feels a certain apprehension even when dating. "You never know what the other person's reaction would be to finding out you're trans. I have no sense of safety then," the Andheri resident says.
Over the years, Rajpurohit sees herself changing more and more. "When I was young, I was much more audacious. I miss that. The more you grow up, you see how the world works. So you start thinking it's okay to minimise yourself," she sighs, "When I go back to my village, I find myself wanting to âmerge' more and more these days. I know that I can't dress a certain way in front of certain relatives or there are some people I should stay away from. Because I want to
live my life."
Nishtha Berry is a marketing executive by day. After work hours though, you can find her on Instagram, sharing her opinions on the goings on in our world.
As a masc-presenting queer woman in Delhi, the threats are double-fold. "I've gotten uncomfortable stares from people trying to work out my gender. But there have been scary moments. Once in a cab in Gurugram, the driver - who was drunk - assumed I was a man. He started saying disgusting things about women's bodies," she recalls, "I was afraid of him for a minute or two, then played along to stay safe and recorded him. When I posted the video on Instagram, it was taken down for âbullying and harassment.'"
"Another time, a group of teenage boys with cricket bats threw slurs at my gay best friend and me. My friend said we should keep walking, but I turned around and gave it back to the guy. He was telling me, âChal taali baja aur naach kar dikha. [Clap your hands and dance for me.]' I didn't want to stand there and take it, so I gave it back to them," she tells us.
Berry says that fearing for your safety as queer folk isn't that different from the fear women face. "A gay man who falls into the hands of a nasty man could be beaten and raped, and women carry that same fear," she says. This writer is reminded of the 2025 death of Bathinda-based influencer Kamal Kaur Bhabhi, who was killed by a man named Amritpal Mehron for posting "vulgar content".
What will bring change, we ask Berry. "We need more queer-led events where allies and curious people are welcome too. We need businesses, like cafés, to openly say they're allies. It costs nothing, but it tells us the staff and the space will treat us like anyone else," she says, "We're tired of walking into places where we're stared at and judged. We want to belong, and we want to befriend straight people too. But too often they judge us by how we look without having one conversation."
"No government has supported us really," says Georgina Maddox, a queer woman who's been performing drag for nearly three decades across Mumbai and Delhi, long before Article 377 was scrapped. "When Article 377 was taken down, it seemed to be a moment of hope. But since then, we lost the marriage equality case, and then the Transgender Act was amended," she says.
Maddox believes that change has to come top-down. "Right now, our infrastructure makes them feel emboldened to hurt queer folk," Zeesh concurs, "When [Article] 377 was taken down, there was an immediate change. I have always worked in night life, and I can tell you no one was open to queer people and drag artistes before 2019. All of that has changed now."
Maddox adds, "All the good work we've done in the last few decades is taking a back seat. Right now, the most fundamental ideas of queer liberation are being questioned," she says, "It'll take a long struggle to re-establish our rights. It won't be long before we raise our voices again."
2 LAKH+
Number of followers of the late Madhusudan (Mad) Sandhu on Instagram
The Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Act, 2026, prescribes imprisonment from six months to two years, plus a fine for the abuse of a transgender individual. This law, however, only protects transgender individuals.
According to the LGBTI National Policy Dataset from Princeton University, US, sexual orientation is covered by hate crime legislation in at least 45 countries, including the UK, France, Argentina, and in many states in the US.
