Love is still one of the most dangerous things for a lot of people. The ability to be free with your dear one(s) without the interjunction of clashes from the so-called custodians of caste, class, gender, sexual orientation and so on, is a privilege only a few can enjoy.
For those assigned female at birth (AFAB) but grow into identities that resist womanhood — trans men, non-binary and gender-diverse persons — leaving home is often accompanied by surveillance, coercion, emotional violence, and the constant threat of being pulled back into conformity. When they leave with a partner, the risk doubles.
Until recently, Tamil Nadu had no shelter that could accommodate transmasculine persons and their female assigned partners. That absence is what led to the shelter by Urimai Kural Trust, a registered non-profit. It is a discreet shelter in Chennai for transmasculine and their female assigned partners. The location remains undisclosed for security reasons. “This shelter exists because couples were being forced to choose between safety and staying together and that choice should never be imposed on anyone,” says Fred Rogers, director of the Trust, trans rights activist and mental health professional.
While Tamil Nadu has several organisations working on LGBTQIA+ rights, Fred points out that transmasculine and AFAB gender-diverse communities are often rendered invisible within queer spaces themselves. He says, “There are organisations doing important work, but very few that prioritise people assigned female at birth, who do not identify as women, and the specific kinds of violence they face.”
Urimai Kural Trust, registered in 2024, was conceptualised to fill that gap. While the Trust also works with other marginalised groups — including women, children, youth and persons with disabilities — its core focus remains queer and trans voices that have historically been silenced. The shelter, currently, has the capacity to house 10-12 individuals at a time. Residents can stay for up to a year, during which they are supported with legal aid, mental health care and assistance in securing employment. They are also supported in accessing social entitlements and provided referrals for gender-affirmative care procedures. Three professional counsellors currently offer pro bono services.
For readers unfamiliar with the vocabulary, Fred explains that transmasculine and AFAB gender-diverse communities include people assigned female at birth who do not identify as women — some identifying as men, some as non-binary, genderqueer, agender or elsewhere on the masculine spectrum. “Not everyone chooses medical transition. Not everyone chooses legal or social transition. Support has to be client-centred and safety has to be unconditional,” he says.
Violence often begins at home when individuals come out — driven by rigid patriarchal expectations around marriage, reproduction, and femininity. When a transmasculine person is in a relationship with a cisgender woman, both families frequently respond with hostility. “Society sees these relationships as abnormal. But it is just love and that terrifies systems built on control,” he says.
Given the risks involved, safety protocols at the shelter are strict. The premises are monitored by security cameras and guarded round-the-clock. Residents are not permitted to use location-enabled apps or share their whereabouts with anyone outside the shelter. Fred says, “Even on phone calls, the location cannot be revealed. That boundary protects lives.”
Police stations in the vicinity have been informed about the shelter, and Fred says the response from law enforcement has been supportive. Officers from nearby stations and women’s police units have sought guidance on how to support transmasculine persons who approach them during crises. “Instead of resistance, there was curiosity and willingness to learn. That mattered,” he says.
Finding a space to rent was among the hardest challenges. Fred recalls six weeks of repeated refusals — landlords willing to rent to “families,” but not to trans men; or offering polite deferrals that went nowhere. Eventually, the shelter became possible through support from relatives and sustained backing from friends, colleagues and fellow crisis workers. Fred says, “This was never a single-handed effort. It exists because of collective care.”
The shelter is currently funded through a three-year private grant, which covers core expenses.
So far, the shelter has housed two residents and received multiple crisis calls. Fred also emphasises autonomy — residents are never prevented from returning to their families if they choose to do so. “Safety cannot come at the cost of agency,” he says.
For Fred, the shelter is a beginning. He concludes, “We may have taken a small step in the right direction.”
For inquiries, contact Instagram @urimai_kural_, or email trusturimaikural@gmail.com.