Saree, Skin, Silence: How South Indian Queer Bodies Navigate Traditional Femininity Through Dressing Up

In an era when modernity is often equated with progress, queerness is frequently viewed as a rejection of tradition, a shedding of inherited rituals, clothing, and cultural norms. But for many queer individuals in South India, embracing their identity doesn't mean turning away from the past. Instead, it involves reclaiming elements like the saree, not as symbols of conformity, but as tools of expression, protest, healing, and spiritual connection. While the world often celebrates those who look ahead by dressing modern, these stories show that queerness can also be about returning to tradition and reshaping it from within.

Draped in Defiance: How Tradition Became a Tool for Queer Selfhood

Across South India, garments such as the saree, kurta, and pavadai have long held significance beyond aesthetic or gendered norms. Long before colonial morality restructured public dress codes and erased gender fluid roles, traditional attire played a central role in queer life, especially within the aravanis and hijras communities, who were woven into rituals of fertility, birth, and marriage. The majority of Orinam studies reveal that transfeminine individuals have found affirmation in wearing sarees during family or spiritual events. For many, donning such clothing isn’t just a nod to the past but a grounding act of visibility. “I was always told sarees weren’t for people like me,” said Sumita*. “But the moment I wore one, my body stopped shrinking.”

These clothes are not merely costumes or a source of nostalgia; they carry significant political weight. From the layered symbolism of Kathakali attire in Kerala to everyday acts like choosing handloom over synthetic fabric, traditional dressing becomes a statement. As Sumita*, 23, reflected, “Each weave, each fold, each crease is someone’s history and narrative.” For others like Nidhi*, 27, opting out of exploitative textiles is a form of protest. What might seem like a simple outfit is, for many queer South Indians, a means of speaking back to histories that erased them, and stitching themselves back in.

Too Traditional for the Queer Table?

While draping a saree can feel empowering, for many queer individuals, it also comes with a quiet struggle of not quite fitting in. Queer identity today is often associated with symbols of modernity, including loose silhouettes, muted palettes, gender-neutral cuts, and streetwear that signals rebellion against rigid roles. In that context, choosing to wear something as culturally loaded as a saree can feel like swimming against the current, even within queer spaces. “When I wore a saree for my farewell, it felt like I was wearing someone else’s idea of me,” shared Sumita, pointing to the tension between personal comfort and communal perception.

For some, this choice leads to being misunderstood or judged as conforming to traditional gender roles. But for others, it’s precisely the point. As Nidhi puts it, “People think I’m performing femininity in the ‘wrong’ way. But this is my way of taking it back.” The conflict isn’t always with the outside world; it’s also within the queer community itself, where embracing heritage can be read as outdated or inauthentic. Wearing the saree becomes a complex act not just of visibility, but of survival in spaces where the idea of queerness is still learning to make room for those who look too traditional to be seen as radical.

Rooted and Resisting, Why the Saree Still Holds Power

Even with the emotional weight and moments of alienation, many queer individuals across South India continue to embrace the saree not as a concession to tradition, but as a powerful return to it. In regions like Telangana, Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, and Tamil Nadu, where draping a saree remains deeply embedded in social and spiritual life, wearing it becomes an act of reclaiming what was once denied. Mayuri, a 31-year-old classical dancer, reflected on this power, saying the saree is not just fabric but “a way to come home to myself.” For them, and many others, the benefits of reconnecting with their cultural roots far outweigh the pressures to conform to more ‘modern’ or ‘neutral’ queer aesthetics.

In this quiet revolution, the choice of a saree matters too. Many opt for Ilkal, Narayanpet, Mangalgiri, and Kanjeevaram weaves not only for their regional pride but as ethical and ecological alternatives to mass-market fashion. The rejection of synthetic blends or exploitative silk is a form of protest stitched into every pleat. As Shreya puts it, “This is my ‘nenu leni gatham’, my erased past that I now wear with intention.” By choosing fabrics that reflect their politics and their place, queer people are weaving themselves back into public memory, proving that identity can be as soft as cotton and as strong as the hands that wove it.

Worn with Pride, Carried with Power

For many of those who shared their experiences, the saree symbolises far more than tradition; it becomes a vessel for emotion, self-assertion, and quiet resilience. Riya, 29, a hijra dancer, described how wearing a saree for her first paid performance at a baby shower was not just a job, but a deeply spiritual experience that affirmed her identity. Dressing her younger sisters in sarees feels equally profound, like marking their entry into a shared world of sisterhood and meaning. These small acts carry the weight of rituals often denied to queer people and reclaim them with dignity.

Nidhi, who was ridiculed at school for appearing too feminine in a saree, now embraces it as a symbol of strength. “What hurt me back then is what makes me feel powerful now,” they shared. From choosing subtle jewellery to avoid caste associations to wearing bold colours that demand visibility, every decision reflects an act of rewriting how queerness can exist within heritage. For many queer South Indians, the saree is not a symbol of the past; it is a canvas for the future, worn with intention, memory, and unshakeable pride.

*Names have been changed to respect the privacy of the interviewees.