In the salt-stung air of the Sundarbans, where mangroves whisper of tides and centuries of tradition, a quiet ceremony took place that rippled far beyond the village of Jalaberia. Two women, Riya Sardar and Rakhi Naskar, both professional dancers in their early twenties, exchanged garlands and vows at the Paler Chak temple on November 4, declaring: “We can decide our lives”. It was not a legal wedding—Indian law still does not sanction same-sex marriage—but it was a powerful act of love and cultural defiance.
In India, the concept of a relationship between two people of the same gender remains caught between two worlds. On the one hand, in 2018 the Supreme Court of India decriminalised consensual same-sex intimacy, reading down Section 377 of the penal code and affirming individual dignity and privacy. On the other hand, as of October 2023 the court rejected petitions seeking formal recognition of same-sex marriages, declaring that such legal change must come via Parliament. So while love is no longer a crime, the institution of marriage remains elusive for queer couples.
Against that backdrop, the Sundarbans wedding becomes more than a personal milestone—it becomes a cultural signal. In Hindi you might call their union an act of swa-nirnay (स्व-निर्णय), self-determination; of asserting the right to love without apology. What makes it remarkable is not just that Riya and Rakhi pledged themselves to one another, but that villagers—hundreds of them—attended, ululated, blew conch shells, and offered blessings. That acceptance in a rural, socially conservative area suggests that change may be percolating from the ground up, even if the law lags behind.
The cultural terrain, however, remains bumpy. Indian society continues to place enormous emphasis on marriage as a social and religious duty, rooted in the idea of parivaar (परिवार)—the family—extending through generations. Many within the queer community describe living in the shadow of familial expectations: arranged marriages, heteronormative roles, and the pressure to conform. A growing body of research shows that while tolerance is increasing—polls by the Pew Research Center found 53% of Indians supported legalising same-sex marriage in 2023 — discrimination and social exclusion remain real.
Political culture too is shifting slowly. A recent article notes that when a political figure like Abhishek Banerjee publicly endorsed a same-sex marriage, it marked a “political milestone”, signalling that queer rights are stepping into mainstream visibility. That kind of momentum matters, because cultural change often precedes legal reform—and the institution of marriage is deeply imaginative as well as legal.
From the spirited ceremony in the Sundarbans we can read a hopeful sign. Two women, in a place where traditional norms run deep, chose one another. They borrowed the symbols of marriage—garlands, temple rituals—yet did so on their own terms. It was less a legal contract and more a declaration of love, a reclaiming of ceremony, of badhava vichaar (बाधव विचार) — conventional thinking — turned on its head.
Yet the path remains uncertain. Many queer couples in India still face parental rejection, forced separation, and legal invisibility. High courts in various states have increasingly recognised the right of same-sex couples to cohabit or form “chosen families” even in the absence of marriage. Meanwhile, the law awaits reform—parliamentary bills such as the Special Marriage (Amendment) Bill, 2022 propose to amend the law to allow same-sex marriage, but they remain stalled.
For Riya and Rakhi, the most immediate concern may not be the law but day-to-day life: acceptance in their village, livelihood as dancers, the ripple effect of their choice on friends and younger queer people in the region. Their story is one of courage and creativity, of performing a new ritual of love even without full legal recognition. It asks us to consider: What is the meaning of marriage if not love, mutual respect, and the freedom to choose? In Hindi one might say, pyaar ki ijazat (प्यार की इज़ाज़त) — permission to love.
In a country of over a billion people, with multiple religions and languages, cultures and castes, change happens in many registers. But the image of two women draped in garlands, standing before a temple in the Sundarbans and declaring their union, is one of those instances that quietly shifts what is imaginable. It may be a small ceremony in one village, but for the millions of queer people in India dreaming of belonging, it speaks a larger language of hope. And that, perhaps, is the first step towards a wider world where marriage equality is not just legal, but cultural.
Ah, my loves, gather close. Auntie has a story to warm your chest like a sip of midday chai with extra ginger. Two young women in the Sundarbans looked at the world — its laws, its whispers, its wagging fingers — and said: “Not today. Today, we choose love.” And then — listen to this — their village showed up for them. Not just silently watching from behind windows, not muttering gossip over fish curries, but actually attending, clapping, blowing conch shells, showering blessings. If that is not the real India, I do not know what is.
This is the part everyone forgets when talking about LGBTQ+ rights in India. We talk about Supreme Court verdicts, Parliament debates, rainbow flags in big cities. Meanwhile, real change — steady, quiet, rooted like mangrove roots — happens in places people love to call “traditional” or “conservative.” But oh, Auntie always says: tradition is not the enemy; fear is. And in this village, fear took a little step back. Just a little — but enough.
Riya and Rakhi didn’t wait for Parliament to catch up. They didn’t wait for society’s blessing. They simply listened to that deep voice we all have inside — the one that whispers: You deserve to love and be loved. And then — then! — the village aunties, the uncles, the neighbors, the temple-goers came forward and said: “The girls are happy. Let them be.” Do you understand how revolutionary that is? Not in slogans. Not in protests. But in everyday life — the true battlefield of social change.
People think equality happens through big speeches. No, darling. Equality happens when one grandmother in a sari nods quietly and says, “It’s their life.” It happens when a priest hesitates for just one second — and then proceeds with the ritual anyway. It happens when the local shopkeeper still smiles the next morning. It happens when the children in the village grow up remembering that happiness looked like two women in garlands.
One act of love.
One village choosing kindness.
One tiny temple echoing with laughter instead of judgment.
This is how we build a better world — not all at once, but one brave couple and one supportive community at a time.
Auntie raises her glass (yes, with extra chili flakes on the rim): To Riya, to Rakhi, and to every small village with a big heart. 🌶️❤️