In the soft light of a Jakarta dusk, imagine two people—one a lesbian under the weight of familial expectation, the other a gay man whose career in a conservative milieu is still fragile—standing hand in hand in front of relatives. They smile, exchange vows, pose for photos, enter a house together. The ring glimmers. Onlookers leave with the sense of a happilywed couple. But behind closed doors this is no ordinary union: it’s what’s known as a “lavender marriage” — a mariage de convenance born from cultural constraints, social survival and, in many parts of Asia, the unspoken rules of “kěn hé zuò” (肯和作, “agree to cooperate”) rather than “liàng xīn liàng yì” (良心良意, “true mutual intent”).
The term “lavender marriage” originally described early-20th century Hollywood arrangements in which one or both partners were gay or bisexual and married heterosexually to protect image or employment. In Asia, the logic is eerily familiar but layered with Asian-style familial obligations, “saving face” (面子 miànzi), procreation imperatives and honouring ancestors. In China this phenomenon is known as “ xing hūn ” (形婚, “form marriage”), where a gay man marrying a straight woman (often mutually accepting the arrangement) becomes a social-norm workaround. A scholarly Indonesian study highlighted how such unions satisfy legal administrative criteria but undermine the very values of honesty and family-building prescribed by Islamic-law-influenced national statutes.
In India too, the term has made it into public discourse with the arrival of films like Badhaai Do (2022) showcasing a gay man and a lesbian woman entering a lavender marriage to placate expectations while pursuing their own desires. The Swaddle noted that for many young queer people, the decision is often a last-resort: “I would rather keep [parts of my life] hidden… than vocalise it and have to deal with their backlash.”
Why does this endure? Why still today, under smartphones, social media and youth activism? Because in many parts of Asia the interplay of tradition, religion, filial duty and legal invisibility still crushes open queer life. A marriage certificate fulfils parental hopes of children and grandchildren, averts pressure to marry early, and gives both partners a social shield. One recent global piece highlighted that even Millennials and Gen Z are flirting with the concept not only for concealment but for pragmatic benefits: housing, finances, co-parenting rights. Moreover, some Asian professionals still face workplace cultures where open queerness is a career risk—so the “lavender” option remains a strategic safety net.
The story is not merely about concealment. Many practitioners and scholars argue that these marriages also carry deep emotional cost. A Conversation long-read, the authors argue that while such unions can offer “love and safety” in broad terms, they also force silence, deny intimacy, and embed an “authentic self” into a closet. Indonesian research points out that though legally valid, such marriages run counter to the “maqāṣid” (objectives) of marriage under Islamic family law because they sacrifice honesty and effective family protection.
For queer activists in Asia, lavender marriages are an indicator of deep-rooted stigma and the failure of social and legal systems to offer safe, open routes for LGBTQI+ lives. While the first Southeast Asian nation to legalise same-sex marriage—Thailand—took that step only in early 2025, many neighbouring states still criminalise or ignore same-sex unions. Until full equality arrives, the allure of “keeping up appearances” by a conventional marriage remains strong.
At the same time, social media has thrown new light on the phenomenon. In the West, TikTok hashtags like #lavendermarriage are emerging, representing a generational reframe of older conventions. While that global trend is not a perfect mirror of Asian dynamics, it signals that younger queer-aware people are asking: can marriage look different? Does it always need to be binary, romantic, heteronormative? For some in Asia, the lavender marriage is still a reluctant compromise—but it may also evolve into something altogether new.
Whether we view it as a survival strategy, a form of resistance or a sign of how far we still must go, the concept of lavender marriage forces us to interrogate the gap between social appearance and inner truth. In Mandarin one might call it “yǎnjiù hūn” (演旧婚, “perform-old-marriage”), and in Hindi “saṃskriti-vivāh” (संस्कृति विवाह, “culture-marriage”)—marriages not of the heart but of the norm. For Asia’s LGBTQI+ communities, the enduring presence of these unions speaks as much to the courage of invisibility as to the urgency of a future where no one needs to hide behind a ring.
Spicy Auntie has seen a lot of weddings in her time — the grand ones with fireworks and drones, the modest ones with a borrowed gown, and yes, the lavender ones, where the air smells faintly of compromise and quiet courage. And you know what? Auntie isn’t here to judge. Whatever arrangement makes you feel freer, safer, less scrutinised — go for it. If a ring and a photo with perfect lighting on your social feed buy you peace in a suffocating society, then that’s not hypocrisy. That’s survival.
Because let’s be honest: no one invents a lavender marriage out of boredom. These are not cinematic charades played for vanity — they are shields against gossiping relatives, employers who can’t imagine queer love, and parents whose favourite phrase is “log kya kahenge” (what will people say). In a world where simply being yourself can cost you your job, your home, or your family, performing a little heteronormative theatre starts to look like self-preservation. And Auntie, who has been around enough patriarchs and preachers to know how cruel conformity can be, fully understands.
But here’s the rub, darlings: the problem isn’t the lavender. It’s the air that forces it to bloom in secret. The real villain is stigma — that poisonous mix of religion, tradition, and social anxiety that still tells people they must choose between love and respectability. It’s that crushing expectation that every “good son” or “proper daughter” must marry the opposite sex, produce grandchildren, and post their bliss online with the hashtag #CoupleGoals. If we could scrub out that expectation, if we could bleach away the shame and fear, then no one would need to hide behind a polite “arrangement.”
Imagine a world where your gender and your love don’t need translation. Where you can hold hands in public, not because you need to convince anyone, but because you want to. Where your wedding — or your decision to have none — is an act of joy, not camouflage. That’s the freedom Auntie wants for her queer nieces and nephews.
So until society grows up and stops clutching its pearls, Auntie says: protect yourself however you can. Get that lavender ring if it buys you breathing space. But never forget — true liberation smells nothing like lavender. It smells like truth, pride, and the absence of fear.