Around the turn of the millennium, when gay parties in Mumbai first began to appear in semi-public venues, they were still shrouded in discretion. Many enforced quietly draconian house rules that disallowed drag. Much of this stemmed from internalised transphobia — a policing of feminine expression in male spaces — but some of it was also strategic, as drag made parties more visible, and visibility risked exposure.

It’s an ironic reversal today: where queer stages once dimmed the lights on femininity, they are now reckoning with how masculinity can be reclaimed. I remember the Queer Azaadi March of 2008, where women and trans folks led the procession, held placards with slogans and set the general tone of the Pride march in Mumbai. By sundown, the after-party at Girgaon’s multi-roomed Liquid Lounge (now permanently closed) was steeped in hyper-masculine gayness. It’s a pattern that lingers to this day. In many gatherings, to avoid triggering a raid, queerness was kept just quiet enough, and curated through a particular kind of masculinity. Frequent police crackdowns on private parties made queer organisers wary of moving into the open. The infamous White Party raid of 1999 saw gay men paraded out of a private beachfront bungalow in Patilwadi near Madh Island, under the glare of television cameras. According to India Today, around 150 people in their twenties were in attendance, and the party featured fireworks, ecstasy, a drag queen show and male striptease. Among those arrested was a scion of a prominent diamond-trading family—proof that even elite privilege offered little protection when queerness was involved.