Shakespeare’s famous words “what’s in a name” sits awkwardly in Indian context, because here, names carry prospects of violence. Names can also mean agency and freedom. People are killed over surnames. Biological families, sometimes, cling to dead names long after a trans person has abandoned it.
Inside the trans communities, a new bond begins by naming, which can also mean the first act of a chosen family. Negha, an actor and mental health counsellor in Chennai, who has lived both sides of this, describes what that looks like in practice. “A circle of trans women sits cross-legged on a cool-tiled floor, passing around fresh fruits and lukewarm tea. If a young trans woman wants someone to be her mother, she would say, ‘I want to be your daughter’. Then the trans mother introduces her to the circle as her daughter,” Negha says.
The practice shifts shape across cities and communities in Tamil Nadu. In some older guru-chela systems, elders formally receive a newcomer through ceremony. In some other places, the bond forms slowly through late-night phone calls, shared rent, or somebody waiting outside a hospital during surgery. Sujithra Duhulasingam, a chef at a five-star hotel in Hyderabad, met her trans mother Negha through Instagram. “We did not know what stage either of us were in life then. But the mother-daughter relationship slowly formed.” For many queer people, chosen kinship is the factor that stabilises them.
Idea of motherhood
A Revathi, theatre artiste and author, has worked with LGBTQIA+ communities for 45 years. She states her definition of motherhood: “A mother is not just someone who conceives and gives birth to a child. A mother is someone who carries every responsibility.” For queer people, she says, chosen relationships precisely fill that gap.
“For trans women, especially while navigating hormonal imbalances and transition, we look for trans mothers who understand us,” says Negha. Her trans mother, Sowandarya Amma, was, she says, “very open-minded and educated.” “She encouraged me to pursue my education and have a career. I used to call her ‘mummy’ even before she formally accepted me as her daughter. That is the emotional bond we share,” she adds.
Rupakala, who is 49 years old and has 13 chosen children, traces her own understanding of motherhood, and her relationship with her trans mother Ponnamma. “She used to tell me that wherever we go, we must behave properly and never cause any harm to others. She would insist on seeking help when needed,” she shares. Rupakala passes on the same teaching to her daughter Soundharya, her granddaughter, and daughter-in-law.
Revathi’s sense of motherhood expanded as her activism deepened. She says, “I see every trans man and woman as my children. I have also sacrificed a lot in my life. If I was stuck with my own pain, I don’t think I would have looked beyond. Everyone’s pain and collective resilience made me narrate real-life stories. My writings, my books are something that I have passed on to my readers as maternal inheritence.”
Shivani, who transitioned about 20 years ago and now raises a son in Chennai, holds a different kind of motherhood story. Her mother Vasantha, stayed with her through all the struggles and successes. She says, “Today, if I am raising a son, I could not have done it alone. My mother’s hard work, support, and care were not only for me but also for my child.” Her son, who was adopted when he was one day old and raised under her sister’s name — because legal adoption in her own name was not possible — is now 23 years old and works in the IT sector.
Negha, who is also a legal guardian to four of her children, shares that once you have vowed to take care of someone, “you are not only a mother, you become the full family.”
Loss and what it leaves
Revathi’s chosen mother was Mallika Amma, who lived in Bengaluru. She was murdered. “The loss I felt was the same way any daughter would feel. When I left home, I did not even have food or a place to sleep. She was my provider. Society treated us like criminals for begging and working for survival. But I had food to eat and place to sleep peacefully,” she shares. Revathi grieved in her own way. “I performed her last rites. I observed 40 days of mourning for her. In her memory, I have given away even the ornaments I wore; I will never wear them again.”
Revathi’s daughters were people who came to her after decades of activism, and many of them were broken by rejection and poverty. She says, “Many people fall into depression because they feel unworthy. To bring them out of that phase, I try to care for them like a mother. I share my personal experiences. I tell them that my life was filled with suffering, but that suffering gave me the strength to move forward.”
What children carry
While each mother imparts lessons, Sujithra imbibed the importance of education from Negha. “Negha Mummy always told me, ‘Whatever happens, we can deal with it later. But never leave your education. People can snatch your money, they can snatch your possessions, but nobody can snatch your education.’,” she says.
Vaibhav from Tirunelveli, who transitioned about a year ago, came to Negha and her partner Rizwan at a moment when he had nowhere else to go. His family threatened him of marriage. He had asked many people on Instagram for help, but was turned away, while some also asked for money in return. Negha and Rizwan called him for a discussion. Vaibhav says, “They patiently listened to every problem I shared without interrupting me. They just kept telling me not to be afraid.” But when he returned to his family, they began taunting him again. He finally left his home and came back to Negha’s. Today, he works and lives independently. “If I have come this far in life, it is because of Negha Amma and Rizwan Appa,” he says.
Burden of the Bill
The Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Bill, 2026, has alarmed the community across the country. The concern centres on a provision that could criminalise people who shelter trans persons who have left abusive homes. Revathi explains, “The problem is that many people from the community leave their biological families and seek shelter in the city. Through this new Bill, if someone shelters them, there is a possibility they can be arrested.”
Revathi ran from home at 16. “When I studied in school, people humiliated and isolated me. No law, no society and no politician protected me,” she states. The new Bill, she argues, legislates from that same ignorance. “Now they are bringing laws without understanding our lives.”
Negha connects the Bill to her own story, “When I ran away from home, my mother believed somebody had kidnapped me and changed my gender.” She argues that the Bill has the potential to criminalise the caretaker. However, she extends the argument beyond the trans community. “Chosen families are the safest space for many people, not only trans people. People survive family violence through these chosen families, but nobody addresses that.”
Revathi frames the Bill as an erasure of decades of struggle. “We have fought for almost 50 years to reach this point. This law feels like it is pushing us back by 50 years.”
We tell ourselves stories about mothers, about the sacrifices they made. We might even use the pop-culture phrase, ‘No Uterus, No Opinion’ unmindful that it is transphobic. We might even approach trans men, asking them their experience of motherhood before transition, without understanding that we are negating their identities and their right to parenthood. Let all days that remind us of our kinship also ask us to look closely into the families around us, as they are made of the same thing — love.