Whispers at an apartment complex in Virugambakkam erupted into shouts. Preethisha, a trans woman and theatre artiste, lived there openly — comfortable in her skin, draping saris and inviting friends over. For her neighbours, this was unacceptable.
More than forty residents ganged up on her at around
2 am. She rang up the police. “Why trouble the residents? Vacate the place,” said law enforcement officers.
She refused.
With the help of Jayanti, a High Court judge and legal advisor, she stood her ground. “She will stay there. If you have any issues, see me in court,” Jayanti told them.
The harassment shushed down for a while. But complaints over parking, late electricity bills — petty grievances meant to drive her out would keep popping up. However, Preethisha remains. “I will stay here only. I am a human too.”
The exclusion spectacle
As per a 2019 report by Tata Institute of Social Sciences, only 2% of rental housing in urban India is through registered, written contracts. This means rental housing is a thickly social field — a set of interactions mediated between renters, brokers, and landlords where the “contract” is socially performed, orally enforced, the report says. This puts the trans community at a major disadvantage, even if they are educated and have sustainable incomes.
SwethaShri, a programme specialist at SAATHII, knows this struggle too well. Over the past decade, she has moved houses eight times. When she first came to Chennai 10 years ago, she slept in a corporation park for a week before a friend took her in.
“The rules remained rigid — parents’ contact number is mandatory, no exceptions. Escaping natal family violence? Not their concern. And be home early — no funny business from ‘your kind’.”
SwethaShri recalls a rental ad she came across recently: Houses for rent, ‘Vaanavil’s (referring to the LGBTQIA+) stay away,’ with a big red strike over Vaanavil.
Compounded discrimination
‘Vaanavil’ — meaning rainbow — is also used sometimes pejoratively, particularly through social media, as a label of exclusion. This extends to brokers and landlords. As a result, in Chennai, some owners prefer that the members of the LGBTQIA+ community keep their orientation hidden, so as to not “cause discomfort” to other residents.
Harish S, an arts and culture programme coordinator, shares, “If you stay closeted, you’re a coward. If you’re too visible, you’re a problem.”
The burden multiplies for queer individuals from marginalised caste. Grace Banu, a trans woman and Dalit trans rights activist, shares that while the tenants’ “saviour complex” may extend to upper caste trans persons, the struggle worsens for Dalit and Adivasi trans persons. “I have shifted 22 houses in 15 years,” Grace says. For most SC and ST trans people, being part of a group is the only way to obtain a rental home, she adds.
She also points out that some owners survey the permanent address in their ID proofs to figure out which area (and, in turn, caste) they are from.
“Finding someone’s caste is very easy in India. It starts with a simple: ‘Where is your native place?’ Which temple does your family worship in? What is your last name?” says an agitated Grace.
This leaves most trans women with no choice but to reside in unsafe and unsanitary conditions, paying higher rent and deposit than other tenants, notes Jaya, a trans woman, general manager of Sahodaran, a trans welfare organisation. In fact, IRCDUC’s (Information and Resource Centre for the Deprived Urban Communities) rapid assessment in 2024 found that 945 elderly persons and 1,430 children were residing in the streets of Chennai, which included 14 trans persons.
There is also a stigma that the community members will “corrupt the neighbourhood” as SwethaShri says. “Even showing your office ID is not proof enough that you work in a regular office,” she adds. Jaya says such transphobic ideas place immense burden.
Landlords cite several reasons, of which the most recurring is the stigma around sex work. “Most of them will be involved in sex work or are escaping from family; we don’t want any trouble later,” says a landlord under conditions of anonymity.
Jaya stresses that to find rental spaces to set up an office for the community is equally hard, even for an established trust such as Sahodaran.
Even accessing land under Tamil Nadu’s free patta scheme is extremely difficult for many trans people, Grace points out, as it requires an Aadhaar card — something many lack because they’ve fled abusive households and often have limited access to official identification. Those who have been able to avail the scheme got free pattas in remote areas, making commute a challenge, Grace adds.
Trans couples who wish to live together, also struggle to find a space. In fact, a trans couple confided having to travel 35 kilometres from the outskirts of Chennai every day for work as most landlords refused to rent them houses in the city.
A broker says landlords are worried that the couple will soon break up and vacate the room as they are “not married and hence, unstable”. Moreover, lack of support from family would mean that the landlord would have to shoulder the responsibility at times of crisis, he added.
Forced out of the closet
Apsara Reddy, a trans woman and social activist, says, “The sad truth is that trans men often fall through the cracks of both policy and perception. While there have been some visibility and support mechanisms created for trans women, trans men continue to be invisible in mainstream discourse and policy implementation.” For trans men, revealing their identity seems to mean that the threat of violence always lurks — silencing them and further pushing them into the margins.
“For those who haven’t transitioned yet, it’s easier to find a place. But for those of us in the middle of medical transitions — our voices breaking, facial hair coming in, binding our chests — we’re forced to hide or risk being outed,” says Fred, a trans man, trans rights activist, and a mental health professional.
Even government identity documents work against them, Fred says. The transgender marker on Aadhaar cards, meant to ensure benefits, exposes them to discrimination when seeking rental agreements or jobs. “The marker forces us out of the closet,” he says.
Many in the community prefer to align with a male marker to avoid unwanted scrutiny, as revealing their identity would mean “inviting sexual advances”. Visibility invites danger, and for most, passing as a cisgender heterosexual man is not just about convenience — it is about survival, to being safe from prying eyes.
Rahmatullah, a trans man, has shifted five houses in four years. He recounts how he used to work as a food delivery agent at night to make ends meet. He had to pay a security deposit of Rs 50,000 and a rent of Rs 8,000 for a cramped shared room. Additional expenses such as water bills would also be piled on him.
However, when trans people are often denied housing with indirect excuses, his Muslim identity overlapped his gender identity and became a cutthroat reason for rejection. “A year back, my friend made an enquiry to a house owner in Mylapore and asked if they would rent out their house for a trans man, and they agreed. All formalities were done. But, when I went to visit the place, they realised that I am a Muslim, and immediately refused.”
Towards an inclusive housing
Central government initiatives like the Garima Greh scheme — a supposed safe space for trans gender individuals — remain underfunded and largely ineffective. “It’s been three years, and the scheme is still collecting dust,” Fred says.
Apsara concurs, “The Garima Greh scheme has sadly been either underfunded or suspended in many states due to bureaucratic apathy and lack of political will. More worryingly, these shelters often cater only to trans women, leaving trans men without a support system.”
A solution offered by Jaya is to organise sensitisation meetings for various stakeholders, not just law officers and brokers but for landlords as well. Through Sahodaran’s efforts, few affirmative rental spaces have been formed in Chennai, with a few landlords coming forward to offer houses, Jaya says, adding “change is happening, but very slowly.”
Apsara suggests that Garima Greh needs to be reimagined, not just re-started. She says, “We must ensure that future housing schemes are inclusive of all gender identities, with tailored support for trans men. Just as we offer tax benefits for eco-friendly buildings, we should consider rental subsidies or incentives for landlords who open their doors to queer tenants,” she says.
The stark reality, however, remains. The LGBTQIA+ community continues to fight for a right that many others take for granted: a roof over their heads.