Trigger Warning: This story includes references to sexual assault and the emotional impact of trauma. Reader discretion is advised.
As part of our Pride Month series, we are spotlighting stories of courage, identity, and belonging from LGBTQIA+ individuals across India.
In this deeply personal first-person account, Kolkata-based human rights researcher, educator, dancer, and podcast creator Shovan Sinha Ray reflects on a life shaped by resilience — from surviving sexual assault and an HIV diagnosis to building communities through dance, advocacy, and storytelling.
Through moments of pain, self-discovery, and acceptance, Shovan shares what it means to create belonging in a world that often asks people to hide parts of themselves. His story is a reminder that healing is rarely linear, but that hope, dignity, and connection can emerge from even the most difficult journeys.
The day I thought my life had changed forever
I was pursuing my Master’s in International Studies at Christ University and living in the university hostel. On the surface, life seemed to be moving forward. I attended classes, kept up with my academics, and spent every spare moment dancing. Yet beneath that routine, I was struggling.
In December 2018, I met someone I liked. He was a friend’s friend, and one evening he called, sounding distressed. I went to meet him, believing he needed help. What happened next changed my life.
A frail child often criticised for his sensitivity and dark skin, Shovan found early support from his grandfather and later turned to dance as refuge. He went on to found Kalchakra.
I was drugged and sexually assaulted by an unknown cab driver and the person I had trusted.
The memories of that night remain fragmented. I remember confusion and pain. I remember trying to make sense of what had happened. Most of all, I remember feeling completely alone.
For two days, I could barely move. Eventually, I gathered enough strength to return to the hostel and seek medical help. The driver who brought me back may never know it, but his kindness helped me get through one of the darkest moments of my life.
By the time I reached the clinic, more than 72 hours had passed. I did not know about PEP then. I was diagnosed with HIV that day.
PEP, or Post-Exposure Prophylaxis, is a short course of antiretroviral medication that can prevent HIV infection if taken within 72 hours of potential exposure.
Dr Praneeth and Dr Ashoojit counselled me with the compassion I desperately needed. I tried to appear calm and told myself everything would be fine. But the truth was that I was carrying a pain I did not yet know how to name, let alone heal from.
Looking back, I realise that day was not only about an HIV diagnosis. It was the beginning of a much longer journey of learning how to live, trust, love, and belong again.
How dance gave me community
Long before I was diagnosed with HIV, I was searching for a place where I could belong.
I was a frail child who survived serious health complications as an infant. Growing up, I often felt like I was being measured against expectations I could never meet. My dark skin was criticised. My sensitivity was mocked.
Mentored early by Sohini Das Hartmann, Shovan worked on education and inclusion projects with the U.S. Consulate General Kolkata, volunteered as Head of Research and Development with Gramiksha, and now works as a Human Rights Researcher with ReportOUT.
When I experimented with nail paint or draped a dupatta around myself, I was reminded that I was not the son my family had hoped for. Praise was rare. Criticism was constant.
If there was one person who saw possibility where others saw disappointment, it was my grandfather. He encouraged my curiosity, nurtured my creativity, and introduced me to the power of stories. More importantly, he taught me that failure was not something to fear.
“Go out into the world,” he would say, “make mistakes, learn, and build a life you will be proud to look back on.”
His faith in me became a quiet source of strength. But when you grow up hungry for affirmation, you often mistake attention for belonging.
At 13, I met an older boy who made me feel seen. The relationship taught me difficult lessons about power, boundaries, consent, and self-worth. Yet even in that period of confusion, I found purpose through dance.
What began as a personal refuge slowly became a way of creating community. I started teaching dance to young people from underserved backgrounds, including the children of waste pickers and newspaper vendors.
Together, we built Kalchakra, a small initiative that used movement, performance, and storytelling to create confidence and connection. Years later, two of those students went on to become professional dancers and choreographers.
Kalchakra eventually evolved into Kalchakra: Dance Beyond Boundaries. This space now welcomes not only young dancers but also men challenging gender stereotypes and women who have spent decades putting their own dreams on hold. We believe in the philosophy of “anybody can dance.”
For the first time, I understood something important. Belonging was not something I had to wait for other people to give me. It was something I could help create.
Finding my place, one space at a time
For years, I had been told what I was not. Through my work, I slowly began discovering what I could become.
Mentors like Sohini Das Hartmann gave me opportunities to contribute meaningfully long before I entered the workforce full-time. Through projects with the U S Consulate General Kolkata, I found myself working on education, inclusion, and community engagement.
Years after his diagnosis, Shovan speaks openly about living with HIV — and about a truth he’s learned firsthand: stigma often does more damage than the virus itself.
My commitment to community-led change also led me to volunteer with Gramiksha as Head of Research and Development. Today, as a Human Rights Researcher with ReportOUT, I continue engaging with questions of identity, dignity, belonging, and justice on a broader scale.
As I entered professional spaces, I also realised that inclusion is often more complicated than representation. There were moments when I felt welcomed as a symbol of diversity but not always understood as a whole person — with ambitions, ideas, leadership potential, and dreams of my own.
Those experiences strengthened my belief that true inclusion goes beyond visibility. It requires trust, opportunity, mentorship, and a genuine willingness to invest in people’s growth.
For queer people, people living with HIV, and many others from marginalised communities, acceptance is only the beginning. Real inclusion means being able to participate fully, contribute meaningfully, and be recognised for our work rather than reduced to a single identity.
There were opportunities I chose not to pursue, workplaces I chose to leave, and relationships I chose not to hold on to. Yet each of them taught me that self-respect often requires courage before it brings clarity. Today, I no longer see those moments as setbacks. I see them as invitations to create something more aligned with who I am and what I value.
Living with HIV
Living openly with HIV has taught me that stigma often causes more harm than the virus itself. While medical science has transformed what it means to live with HIV, social attitudes have not always evolved at the same pace.
Some opportunities seemed to disappear after disclosure. Some conversations became noticeably different. There were moments when I found myself explaining my condition more than my capabilities. I have watched people openly discuss diversity and inclusion, yet struggle to make space for the realities of living with HIV.
Launched in September 2024, Hear Queer has released five episodes (two more in post-production) and hosted seven guests, generating over 36,797 views on Instagram, built entirely through word of mouth.
These experiences reinforced a difficult truth: representation alone is not enough. We need workplaces, institutions, and communities that move beyond awareness and actively create environments where people living with HIV can participate fully, lead confidently, and thrive without fear.
Creating the conversations I once needed
Hear Queer Podcast emerged from a simple question: What would have happened if I had heard stories like mine while growing up?
One of those people who helped me turn the corner was Ben Collins, who would later become an advisor to Hear Queer.
Something he told me fundamentally changed how I approached both life and the podcast: “Shovan, you are a great guy. But you know what? You don’t always have to start from zero. Start from where people left off. Don’t be so stuck to things and your way of doing things. Open up. Embrace. Adapt.”
Hear Queer launched in September 2024 and has released five episodes so far, with two more in post-production. We have hosted seven guests — educators, advocates, artists, and community leaders — spending nothing except our hearts and our time. Every follower has come through word of mouth.
The response has been encouraging. On Instagram alone, the platform has generated over 36,797 views, with our highest-performing content reaching nearly 10,000 views. Our audience is primarily young adults aged 25–34, based largely in India, with viewers also engaging from the United States, United Kingdom, Canada, and the Netherlands.
Our first episode featured Aniket, Mr Gay India finalist of 2026.
One viewer commented: “When did you mature so much bro? I remember a calm, shy guy visiting my house… God bless.” Another simply wrote: “But we accepted you, boy.” Those comments reflected something larger than the podcast — acceptance, belonging, and the possibility of dialogue.
The initiative has also contributed to the UNAIDS and International AIDS Society’s U=U Dance Challenge, and has had the privilege of engaging with voices such as novelist Kiran Bhat, while advocates including Vishal Pinjani and Yasir Khan, founder of HIV Buddies, have expressed support and interest.
More than anything, Hear Queer has reaffirmed my belief that storytelling cannot erase pain, but it can reduce isolation. If even one person feels less alone after hearing a conversation, the platform has served its purpose.
The journey is not over
Perhaps the most unexpected part of this journey has been what is happening within my own family. We are having conversations that would have been impossible a few years ago. There are still disagreements. There is still hurt.
But there is also something new: a willingness to engage. For the first time, we are not trying to change one another. We are trying to find a middle ground.
As I prepare to begin my journey as a Teach For India Fellow and continue building Hear Queer, I carry that lesson with me. Change rarely happens all at once. It often begins with the courage to have difficult conversations and the patience to keep showing up for them.
The journey home to myself has been long. But if it has taught me anything, it is that belonging is not something we wait to be given.
It is something we create within ourselves, negotiate with the world around us, and extend to others. Every conversation, every story, and every act of courage brings us one step closer to that possibility. If I can belong, you can too.
All images courtesy of Shovan Sinha Ray
