“I just want to tell you with a heavy heart that the bill was just passed in the Lok Sabha as of two seconds ago,” Rani KoHEnur solemnly disclosed on the phone. It was a little past 6:40 pm on March 24. We were scheduled to get on a call to discuss why the Transgender Persons Amendment Bill 2026 sets the nation back by over a decade. Instead, we were left to contemplate the painful aftermath of a law that failed to take into consideration the very community it impacts. The following evening, the Bill was passed in the Rajya Sabha despite uproar from the Opposition and the National Council of Transgender Persons, a statutory body (which was not consulted).
Conversations with the transgender community about the Bill reveal a sense of dread, anger, and bewilderment over the government’s priorities.
“The trans community is already pushed to the margins. We are still struggling for basic needs like education, food, shelter, and employment. Instead of addressing those, the focus is on regulating identity,” responds model and entrepreneur Nin Kala. Between the high AQI, gas shortage, increasingly unaffordable healthcare, and several more dire global issues, she questions, “Why is energy being spent on a bill that makes our lives harder?”
In 2014, the NALSA verdict of the Supreme Court was a spark of hope for the trans community in India. It recognised transgender persons as a legal “third gender”, thus affirming their fundamental rights under the Constitution. The verdict also acknowledged that biological sex is different from psychological gender and gave the community the right to self-identification. According to the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019, a transgender person was defined as one “whose gender does not match with the gender assigned to that person at birth and includes trans-man or trans-woman (whether or not such person has undergone Sex Reassignment Surgery or hormone therapy or laser therapy or such other therapy), person with intersex variations, genderqueer and person having such socio-cultural identities as kinner, hijra, aravani and jogta.”
The 2026 Amendment backtracks on this legal definition and recognition and, instead, introduces a multi-stage process as a precondition for a transgender certificate. A District Magistrate can issue a transgender certificate only after the recommendation of the “authority”, which is the medical board headed by a chief medical officer appointed by the Central or State government. The Bill excludes self-perceived gender identities from the definition of “transgender persons”. “It tells us our identity is only valid if we can prove it... I want to ask: why do I have to prove that I am trans but no one has to prove that they are male or female? If this is about equality, why are we the only ones being asked to justify our existence through genitalia? And who are we proving this to: a system that does not even include us?” asks Nin Kala.
Every trans person I speak with isn’t just speaking for themselves; their devastation and rage are collective.
“What about trans men? What about those who live in smaller towns, villages?” Rani laments. The actor and model points out that access to gender-affirming surgery is an extraordinary privilege in India. “We have to acknowledge who this Bill affects the most in caste and class contexts,” adds Krey, a Mumbai-based artist also building Da-Lit Queer, India’s first DBA-Queer fest. Zena Sagar, one of the first Dalit trans woman film producers in India, says, “Even if I’m talking to you right now, I’m only one of the .0001 percent of people in this position.”
What the Bill means to trans people
Because the Bill replaces the existing definition of ‘transgender person’—previously inclusive of trans men, trans women, and non-binary people—with a narrow list of identities and medicalised categories, there are particular groups that are worse off. “They are trying to create this thread of traditional and non-traditional,” Zena shares. “At its face, the Bill says we want to uphold values of our religious socio-cultural identities such as Hijra, Kinnar, Aravani, but it has very carefully excluded Nupa Maanbi, Kothi, and various other non-binary and cultural identities. This makes it clear that the agenda is not actually to include but to exclude.”
The passing of this amendment means we are regressing by not just decades but centuries; after all, it was the British who most brutally tried to control and erase queer identities with draconian laws. “The 2026 Amendment criminalises trans identity to the extent of going back to the 1871 Criminal Tribe Act, where the British successfully persecuted the overall Hijra population in the Indian subcontinent,” Zena explains.
A hard-to-ignore aspect of the entire legislative process is that no consultations were held with the community the Bill claims to protect. Since the bill was first proposed on March 13—less than two weeks ago—over 20,000 emails opposing the amendment were sent to Lok Sabha MPs and 60,000 to Rajya Sabha MPs by trans folks as well as allies. The very next day, @againsttransbill, a campaign led by Zena and a team of volunteers, emerged on social media under the title ‘Bill Toh Kaccha Hai Ji’. Several trans people and allies across the nation explained why the amendment threatens their survival in multiple regional languages to amplify the message. Even in such a short period—in collaboration with only 20 creators out of the 100 they aimed for—Zena notes, “We have already seen almost 30 lakh impressions in total and almost 2 lakh individual accounts. I think this tells you something about the online presence of our movement.” Three Opposition MPs issued statements against the Bill following the emails. Going viral is Jaya Bachchan’s opposition to it as she lashes out in Parliament, asking for the Bill to be either withdrawn or referred to a select committee.
The amendments rest on the premise that ‘infiltrators’ can fake being trans. Rani scoffs at the idea: “How would anyone benefit from pretending to be trans when this is a community that is systemically oppressed? A community that cannot even report violent and sexual crimes for fear of the very people who are supposed to keep us safe. How will they check our biological sex? The only word to describe this is dehumanising.” Zena adds, “It’s like saying I love the environment, so I will start burning trees right now to stop pollution.”
At Mumbai’s Azad Maidan, the afternoon after the Bill was passed in the Lok Sabha, hundreds showed up in protest. In the middle of delivering a speech, filmmaker Rayyan Monkey broke down in tears. In response, the crowd chanted in unison: “Hum tumhare saath hain.” The sound echoed across the grounds. The atmosphere was sombre—I noticed more than one person falling into someone’s arms in tears—but there was togetherness too.
“The transgender community is typically deeply divided,” admits Rayyan, “But since March 13, when the Bill reared its head, everyone has come together. On the day the news broke, I felt deeply depressed and even suicidal. But that very evening, WhatsApp groups were formed. So much comfort came from the elder queers: people who have lived in this country before they were seen as equal citizens or even human beings. I am only able to do this, to not give up and give in, because of the elders and their role in galvanising us all.”
How you can help
Organisations like The Humsafar Trust, Yes We Exist, and Naz Foundation are providing support to those who need it through helplines and peer counselling. “But sometimes a safe space is not an organisation. It is your people, your chosen family,” confesses Nin Kala.
This chosen family surrounded and uplifted every trans person at the protest, making it clear that the fight is far from over: in fact, it has just begun. “This is an extremely black day for us,” says Zena. “We are going to grieve for a while and we will come back even stronger to ask for our rights.”
There are still several direct institutional steps allies can take, from simply checking on trans friends to sending emails to Members of Parliament to signing up here to voice your rejection of the Bill. “Allies need to move beyond outrage into action,” notes Krey. “Organise, not just post. Put pressure on policymakers. Show up in real spaces, not just online. Go to protests, write letters to your nearest MLA. Centre trans people in material ways, be it resources, leadership or decision-making. Amplification alone isn’t enough.” Nin Kala agrees: “Not everyone has the same safety to speak. So, those who can, need to speak louder.”
There’s the legal recourse, too. As Rayyan adds, “This is not an end. Even if the Supreme Court were to ratify this through its rules, we would still petition and challenge that. Because like the Supreme Court’s advisory board stated yesterday, already this bill seems [to be] in contradiction to a few different articles of the Constitution.”
It is just as necessary to understand where this wave of hatred is coming from: why, in the last few years, there has been a disabling of trans rights across Europe, USA, and now south Asia. In just 2025, legislation in both the USA and the UK targeted trans people, rolling back gender-affirmative care and halting the issuance of gender-corrected passports, amongst other things. In 2025, more than 600 anti-transgender bills were introduced at state level in the USA; in 2024, 31 anti-transgender bills were passed, prohibiting access to gender-affirming healthcare for youth and the use of bathrooms based on self-identified gender identity.
Zena points out how this increasingly discriminatory rhetoric sees governments perpetuate harm on a very small, already targeted section of society to gauge how they can control citizens. “If they can question trans identities today, they can question yours tomorrow,” cautions Nin Kala. “This is not just a trans issue.”
At the protest, under the scorching afternoon sun, posters and Pride flags flew high. Around me, people held each other tight. “We always have each other and will always do, no matter what happens,” someone on stage said. “Jo hoga hum dekhlenge.”
