On a field visit to Varanasi, a transgender activist asked me, ‘When does the government ask for a medical certificate?’ And went on to answer themselves, ‘When someone is sick, when a disability needs to be checked, or when a body needs to be medically examined for a particular reason. Medical certificates exist to confirm the condition of the body.’
But when it comes to transgender persons, demands for a medical certificate operate very differently. Here, the certificate is not assessing any bodily-condition; it is verifying identity. It seeks to confirm whether a person’s body meets the state’s narrow, medicalised understanding of gender by requiring a neatly curated archive of all medical interventions one has gone through. The question hence becomes rather simple: when being transgender is more than just physical anatomy, then why does the state insist on medical evidence at all to recognise trans identity?
This question has acquired renewed urgency with the introduction of the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Bill, 2026, which was passed by the Lok Sabha on March 24, 2026. Once the bill is passed by the Rajya Sabha as well, it will be sent for presidential assent, after which it will become law.
No steps forward, but ten steps backwards
The amendment moves away from the principle of self-perceived gender identity (understanding gender-identity as determined by oneself). It instead proposes a framework where a person’s right to identity as transgender will become contingent upon medical and bureaucratic scrutiny. This will undo crucial gains of the National Legal Services Authority v. Union of India judgment.
The NALSA judgment, a landmark moment in India’s constitutional history, recognised gender identity as a matter of dignity, autonomy, and self-determination protected under Articles 14, 19, and 21 of the Constitution. It affirmed that gender cannot be imposed from the outside; it must be articulated by individuals themselves. Thus, heralding an era of state recognition of the self-perceived gender identity of transgender persons.
The legal and political terrain when it comes to the recognition of the rights of transgender persons has always been too complex and fraught to simply situate the NALSA judgment within the dichotomous ‘progressive’ or ‘regressive’ setup.
Yet in India, the legal and political terrain when it comes to the recognition of the rights of transgender persons has always been too complex and fraught to simply situate the NALSA judgment within the dichotomous ‘progressive’ or ‘regressive’ setup. NALSA itself oscillated between multiple frameworks of recognition. Did it affirm gender self-determination? Yes. But did it repeatedly invoke Hindu mythological references to establish a socio-cultural legitimacy of transgender identities in Indian society? Yes. Did parts of the judgment conflate all vernacular and ritualistically constructed identities like Hijra as well as other transgender-identifying people into a ‘third gender’? Yes. Did parts of the judgment seem to constrict who can identify as ‘male’ or ‘female’ based on external criteria like surgery or psychological tests? Also, yes.
Overlapping frameworks of recognition
What does this tell us? It actually highlights two things. First, a tendency to feed into biological essentialism, that is, the reliance on biological or physical attributes (such as genitalia or hormones) to determine gender and to verify or certify someone’s gender identity. Second, a tendency to rely on the socio-cultural acceptance of transgender identity. This creates a tension amongst multiple frameworks of recognition: gender self-determination, biological essentialism, and an overlapping framework of socio-cultural acceptance.
And this tension is not trivial. However, what concerns us most today is that by grounding recognition partly in culture and tradition, the judgment allowed for the possibility of some transgender identities being seen as more legitimate than others, while biological essentialism inserted a loophole for the medicalisation of identity.
The present amendment appears to move further in that direction. By narrowing the definition of ‘transgender’, the bill risks recognising only certain socio-culturally legible identities such as Hijra, Kinner, Aravani, Jogata communities. This risks leaving out a broader spectrum of gender-diverse experiences, such as that of trans-masculine persons.
Historically, Hijra and other vernacular communities have occupied visible ritual roles in South Asian society. Their presence has often been interpreted through cultural and spiritual narratives, placing them within a complex relationship of respect, fear, shame, and marginality.
This has alarming consequences. Historically, Hijra and other vernacular communities have occupied visible ritual roles in South Asian society. Their presence has often been interpreted through cultural and spiritual narratives, placing them within a complex relationship of respect, fear, shame, and marginality. However, lived experiences of transgender persons today extend far beyond ritual spaces.
Many transgender individuals pursue education, seek formal employment, build families, and participate in public life in ways that contest older expectations about gender and community. If legal recognition becomes tied primarily to culturally sanctioned identities, then all those who do not fit these frameworks risk being pushed outside the boundaries of legal recognition and legitimacy.
Medicalisation of gender
The amendment also marks a dangerous return to the medicalisation of transgender identity. By defining transgender identity on the basis of the deeply flawed understanding that the body exists as an objective, medically self-evident truth that can be used to authoritatively determine gender identity, the bill moves away from self-determination to clinical and authoritative verification. It also lacks the understanding that sex itself is not a simple biological binary but a complicated spectrum shaped by medical interpretations, social norms, and the powers that be.
By tying recognition to medical proof, the amendment will produce a hierarchy of ‘legitimate’ transgender citizens while pushing others outside the boundaries of legal recognition.
By tying recognition to medical proof, the amendment will produce a hierarchy of ‘legitimate’ transgender citizens while pushing others outside the boundaries of legal recognition. On the other hand, mandating disclosure of such intimate medical information risks unlawful intrusion into deeply personal aspects of a person’s life, risking their right to privacy. This medicalisation is also counterintuitive, even as per the amendment’s definition of the term transgender, since the socio-culturally accepted transgender identities are not based on medical criteria.
Another grave problem, as pointed out by Gee Semmalar, a transgender activist, is the emphasis on coercion, kidnapping, and forced inclusion within the transgender community under section 18 of the bill, which revives older colonial logics of suspicion towards the community.
For many transgender persons, chosen families are sites of survival, especially when it comes to escaping their natal families’ violence. But by expanding criminalisation without recognising the precarious position of transgender individuals within a natal family, the amendment risks targeting those community-based networks that enable care and escape.
What this moment reveals about allyship
Watching the discussions around this amendment unfold forces an ally to ask: Where do allies stand in moments like these? As the news of the bill began circulating, the transgender community responded with urgency. Activists, collectives, and community organisations began working tirelessly: explaining what the bill entails and mobilising public attention. The immediacy was unmistakable. For many transgender people, the possibility that the state might once again demand proof of their identity was not an abstract legal concern but an already endured plight.
But for many cisgender and heterosexual individuals who have never been forced to authenticate their gender, whose identities have been presumed to be self-evident rather than suspected, these legislative interventions around gender identity might appear as someone else’s struggle. Yet that notion is precisely why allyship matters.
A call for allyship
If transgender persons are once again being forced into a position where they have to defend their hard-won right of self-identification, the burden of resistance cannot fall solely on those whose identities are being scrutinised. Allies must realise that silence in these times is apathy and apathy is compliance; a form of disengagement that allows arbitrary policies to advance without broader public scrutiny.
Being an ally cannot simply end at supporting queer celebratory moments. It must also involve solidarity and mobilisation during moments of political tumult when rights that once appeared within reach are being quietly redefined and distanced through legislation. For cisgender individuals, this moment demands a readiness to understand and amplify transgender voices, and to question policies that risk regulating gender identity through medical or bureaucratic channels.
Identity, after all, is not a diagnosis that requires certification. And in a democracy, the right to exist can never be contingent upon arbitrary norms of state-recognition.
The debate surrounding the amendment is not merely about administrative procedures or legal definitions. It is about the fundamental braiding of identity and citizenship. When the state claims the authority to certify who someone is, it transforms identity into something that must be evaluated by institutions rather than lived by individuals. For transgender communities, this can mean renewed scrutiny, invasive verification processes, and possible exclusion. For allies, it should serve as a reminder that a promise of rights does not always translate to its hoped-for material fruition.
The constitutional promise of dignity for transgender persons does not end with its inked recognition in state terminology and phrasing. It needs to be inclusive of diverse experiences and recognise transgender identities without medical and bureaucratic hurdles. Identity, after all, is not a diagnosis that requires certification. And in a democracy, the right to exist can never be contingent upon arbitrary norms of state-recognition.
About the author(s)
