How three Indian designers are reimagining queer identity through craft

In a cultural moment where queerness can feel like a performance—or a provocation—what does it mean to express pride not with a flag but with a thread? What does it look like to belong not through spectacle, but through silk?

This Pride Month, three Indian designers—Suneet Varma, Ashdeen Z Lilaowala, and Mayyur Girotra—are answering those questions, not through slogans or overt statements, but through their craft—fashion. Their current collections are exercises in vulnerability and vision, created at the intersection of their queer identity, heritage, and craft.

Together, they suggest a quieter kind of pride—one embroidered into personal history, made luminous by self-acceptance.

A TALE TOLD IN TULLE

Suneet Varma has always been known for romanticism—the kind that’s less about fantasy and more about emotional precision. His upcoming couture collection is no exception. Inspired by fairy tales (and, maybe, Alice in Wonderland?), it trades bridal drama for a lyrical world of organza, shimmer, and storybook silhouettes.

“I’m imagining an enchanted forest,” Varma told me from his Delhi studio. “A poetic version of my mother, who passed away recently. She wrote a piece of poetry for one of my shows last year. This collection is a continuation of that energy—something delicate but powerful.”

The pieces suggest a kind of magic realism, which has ever-so been his trademark: sculpted corsets beneath sheer feathered wraps, tulle gowns studded with crystal dew, chiffon sarees embroidered with calligraphy-like vines. 

And then there are the details—the kind most designers might overlook. “I still have a box of feathers I bought in 1988 from a flea market in Paris,” he said, pausing. “They belonged to a French ballerina. She had died, and her possessions were being sold. There was this little box—just feathers and a headpiece she must’ve worn on stage.” Some of those same feathers are now being reinterpreted into his current work, fluttering like a memory along hemlines and shoulders.

While Varma’s designs often carry the dazzle of couture—rhinestones, crystal-studded veils, precision-cut bodices—there’s always something more intimate beneath the surface. A floral motif from a vintage saree might reappear as 3D appliqué. A button from the 1930s might anchor a neckline. “I’ve never needed fashion to be armour,” Varma said. “But I do feel empowered by what I do.”

That personal strength has long defined his approach to identity. Varma came out to his parents at the age of 20. “They were more concerned with my well-being than my orientation,” he said, recalling how his mother, the day after he came out, invited him to hear poetry from an exiled Iranian poet. That’s how it was: no drama, just love—and a shared room full of words.

His collections aren’t about making statements; they’re about telling stories. And sometimes, those stories begin with something as delicate as a feather.

THE QUIET LANGUAGE OF EMBROIDERY

If Varma’s language is that of dreams, Ashdeen Z. Lilaowala’s is archival; layered, considered, and quietly radiant. His new collection, Haft Rang—a continuation of his collaboration with Good Earth—revives Persian Rasht embroidery with a contemporary softness.

“The Parsi influence is always there,” he told me. “But this time, I wanted to go further—to tell stories from beyond the traditional. This collection is a departure from strict heritage. It’s about emotional connection.”

The result? Hand-embroidered sarees and shawls in peacock blues and midnight aubergines, trimmed in chain-stitch florals that echo Safavid tiles and Chinese scrollwork. There’s reverence, yes—but also freedom. Jackets with soft shoulders and sweeping sleeves paired with tailored trousers. Sheer layers that move like memory.

“I’ve always been out,” he said, reflecting on his identity. “There was no big announcement. My friends knew. My family knew. But I always say: when we come out, we have to let our parents come out, too. They have their own process.”

That tenderness extends beyond the personal. In 2021, at the World Zoroastrian Congress in New York, Lilaowala closed a show with a Pride-themed sequence featuring real people—an LGBTQIA+ ally wearing a sash that read “Proud Mama”, a young gay man in a mirror-embroidered kurta, and a YouTuber in drag paying tribute to the iconic Rekha. “It wasn’t about making a point,” he said. “It was about telling a story that needed to be told.”

PRIDE ON THE RUNWAY

If Varma is a dreamer and Lilaowala a historian, Girotra is a force of momentum. His Ride to Pride capsule, unveiled this month in New York City, is a riot of colour, craft, and intention.

“This was always more than a fashion show,” he told me over Zoom, speaking from a car weaving through Manhattan traffic. “It’s about visibility. It’s about the communities that have never been invited to the table.”

The show doubled as a trunk presentation, featuring 35 queer individuals—none of them professional models—wearing gender-fluid ensembles that merged Indian craft with street-edge flair. Think brocade trench coats with Madras plaid, kaftans slashed with mirrorwork, and rainbow-piped jackets paired with saree skirts. Many were made from upcycled silk, bamboo linen, and recycled polyester.

The effect was one of movement, of possibility. “Fashion can’t solve everything,” Girotra said. “But it can open doors.”

His own story mirrors that philosophy. Once a private bank professional in Dubai, Girotra walked away from his career—and the expectations of a conservative Punjabi family—to pursue fashion. “I refused to sign up for a lavender wedding,” he said. “I wasn’t going to lie to myself or ruin someone else’s life.”

Now, his mother counsels other parents of LGBTQIA+ children. His upcoming NGO will offer support for queer youth, including helplines and STI clinics. “This is the work,” he said. “This is Pride.”

THE FABRIC OF BELONGING

For all three designers, the relationship between fashion and queerness isn’t metaphorical; it’s fundamental. Their clothes don’t just reflect identity. They build it. They archive it. They release it. There are no obvious Pride motifs in their collections—no rainbows, no slogans. And yet, everything they create is political. A saree that tells a grandmother’s story. A corset that dares to dream. A trench coat that doesn’t ask who it’s for.

For LGBTQIA+ Indians, visibility remains hard-won. But in the hands of these designers, fashion becomes a kind of shelter—something that doesn’t shout but listens.

Their collections suggest a vision of Pride that’s unvarnished, honest, and deeply stitched into selfhood. Not marketing. Not messaging. Just truth—one thread at a time.