“Drag Is My Devotion”: The Sacred Power of Queer Faith

Wearing an off-white sari with a red border, a motif of the Hindu goddess Durga on her cotton blouse, 33-year-old drag queen Patruni Sastry capered across the dance floor. She was full of energy, her bright red wig flowing about her while onlookers clapped as the curator, who goes by the stage name SAS, whirled round and round, setting the tone for India’s first inter-faith pride fest.

As the crowds swelled at the expressionist art café in Hyderabad last June, Shastry went on to the prayer-song “Hey Bhagwan,” the Hindi lyrics for “Oh God!”

“There is no one way of finding god,” she bellowed, fiery and bright-eyed. “Our event is to challenge the idea that faith and identity can’t co-exist.”

With its focus on queer futurism and faith, the festival wasn’t Sastry’s first attempt at spotlighting the intersectionality of identity, faith, and belonging.

Dressed in drag finery, in her hands a pair of kartals — small hand cymbals used as a percussion instrument during devotional singing — she often kickstarts interfaith drag bhajans on Hyderabad’s bustling streets and subway stations.

In a city lying on the sloping terrain of pink and grey granite, and dotted with many small hills and artificial lakes, she moves fluidly from place to place. 

Wherever she goes — from the streets to the parks, urban cafes, and shiny corridors of corporate offices — the performer brings an Indian and spiritual approach to “tranimal drag,” an animalistic interpretation of the drag queen. In her unconventional clothing, deconstructed makeup and colorful wigs, Sastry always wanted to foster a community that honors inclusion.

“Queer people are excluded from so many religious spaces across India and even the world,” she says, a rosy glow spreading across her face. “Then again, many queer people have left faith because of the weaponization of religion. As a queer person, Sastry’s questioning of god was constant. Yet, what she feels most connected to today is what she calls “the transgender spirit.”

She doesn’t just embody that on stage. Her wife, a cis-gendered artist whom she married four years ago, respects her deep faith in a gender-fluid divine spirit. 

“My god is a trans spirit,” says Sastry. “They have given me the agency to battle social pressures, ridicule and ostracization that traditional religion has not.” 

Growing up, Sastry found refuge in religion from the age of five. 

When her upper caste Hindu priest father performed puja at temples and homes and solemnized marriages, Sastry happily played with clay idols at home. Unlike most boys her age,  she found comfort in her sari-clad, heavily made-up Goddess Durga clay idols bought at local fairs or sourced from neighbors..   

In the industrial town of Kharagpur in eastern India, her room would often transform into a fantasy world where she assembled miniature pandals — temporary shrines made from everyday articles — to house her clay idols.       

During school functions and religious festivals in her neighborhood,  her younger self felt empowered dressing up as gods, particularly those embodying feminine energy.

This even opened her up to Indian classical dances like Bharatnatyam and Kuchipudi with their strong ties to religious storytelling and temple traditions. Dance was not only a safe space away from all the bullying at school and judgment from family members, but also her new-found artistic expression. She could use it to transform into fierce and powerful forms of the divine feminine power Shakti, and feel their protective and benevolent energies. 

Other times, in her ornate jewellery, necklaces, crowns and headdresses, she could transcend herself and lay the ground for a new kind of spiritual liberation.   

But as Sastry grew older and more aware of her pansexual identity, classical dance with its firm framework and Brahmanical roots began to feel restrictive.

“I wanted to break out of the pure arts,” she says. “So, I started experimenting with other art forms like Butoh, the Japanese dance that resists fixedness.”The avant-garde art form that had developed at the height of the Japanese counter culture movement appealed to Sastry for its equally grotesque and stunning imagery and taboo topics — because it straddled beauty and horror.

In 2018, when she met with seven drag artists during a pride festival in the metropolis of Bangalore, her interest in the performance arts grew stronger.

“I felt exaggeration of gender was the cloth I wanted to wear, whether through classical dance, Butoh or other indigenous art forms,” she says.  

In drag — the performance art involving dramatized avatars of feminine and masculine energies — not only did Sastry see gender fluidity, but also ways to challenge the status quo by pushing the boundaries of drag culture in India.

Though prevalent in Indian culture with historical instances of men portraying women in mythology, folk dances, and religious traditions, drag’s modern representations were still in their infancy in India. 

As Sastry dabbled in drag research, she felt troubled by several questions. How would she carve out avenues for her artistry? 

More questions followed as she ventured into creating vivid looks with hand-carved masks and tribal prints in different geometric shapes and patterns. 

She wanted to fuse the Indian classical dances with the anti-art aesthetic of tranimal drag. Her photos spouted tantric symbols, animalistic personas, and goddesses embodying cosmic energy and the cyclical nature of life and death.     

But how would she find providers for this kind of drag with its push-and-pull between genders? How would she use her art for social commentary? And how would she sensitize people about faith and sexuality?

The answers started surfacing after she joined forces with a few civil society organizations on campaigns like HIV awareness and drug abuse and Sastry felt more called to the Sacred in her artistry.

Religion had always been an integral part of her upbringing and identity. 

Hindu scriptures and epics were read widely at home, temple duties were attended to, and her family regularly attended religious narration events. But as Sastry came to terms with her sexual identity, her ties to Hindu religion were disrupted. She felt different from others in her community.

“Navigating the conflict between my faith and sexual identity led me on a journey of self-discovery,” she says. “I got curious about other spiritual traditions and Hindu practices where queer[ness] has been integrated organically.”

Slowly, Sastry immersed herself in literature and podcasts about Sufism, Hindu Advaita philosophy, mystical Baul traditions, Baha’i faith, and the works of Bengali mystic poet and philosopher Lalon centering compassion and inclusion. She even grew aware of spirit worship at festivals like Theyyam, Bhoota Kola, Ravanakata and Bonalu, where stylized dances were like native versions of drag. 

There was a holy connective tissue she discovered: saints from different religious traditions existed in the interconnectedness of social and religious identities, and advocated for justice and equality for all. There were overriding ideas, like everyone is equal in the eyes of the sacred. 

“I felt like I was part of a bigger community,” she says. “So, I started performing Christmas carols to classical dance, and Sufi poetry to classical dance.”

Yet, all around her faith was being weaponized by fundamentalists.

When Canada-based filmmaker Leela Manimekalai shared a poster for her documentary film “Kaali,” depicting a woman dressed as Hindu goddess Kali holding a cigarette and waving a pride flag, she faced severe backlash on social media from angry Hindus who accused her of hurting their religious sentiments.

Religious groups in Europe and the United States were opposing drag shows, citing concerns like morality, threat to traditional values, and objectionable content. Even at the opening ceremony of the Paris Olympics last year, a major controversy erupted over drag queens seated at a long table presenting what some described as a mockery of Jesus and the Last Supper. 

Amid these pressures, Sastry’s resolve to act as the bridge between drag and faith — despite its complex and often conflicting relationship — only strengthened.

She was determined to challenge  the idea that drag was a westernized art form and use her artistry to spark interfaith dialogue in different communities.

“We spotted that fire in her,” says Pavani Madhira, the program director at Rubaroo, a youth development and volunteering organization in Hyderabad. “SAS is self-aware and always brings the intersectional lens into conversations.” 

At Rubaroo, an Urdu word meaning face-to-face, Sastry felt seen and heard. When she was chosen for their interfaith youth leadership program last year, she began to engage proactively with faith leaders and institutions in the city. 

At their regional and national workshops, she learnt how faith traditions and spirituality  could be used to reform society, and also its potential to soothe communal tensions.  

When Sastry and her colleagues visited the universities of Birmingham, Cambridge and Oxford last March to meet with faith leaders, she felt more inspired. 

“We visited gurdwaras, mosques, cathedrals and temples where we not only raised the pitch for gender inclusive spaces,” says Sastry. “But also drag as a spiritual practice to foster inclusion and help people heal from faith trauma.” 

The conversations at the faith centers in the UK so often also pivoted to her unconventional artistic expression to build bridges between faith groups.

“Drag, faith and sexuality are mostly seen as counter to each other,” said Tashi Choedup, a queer Buddhist monastic based in Hyderabad. “So, what SAS is doing is critical because it provokes people to look at their prejudices.” It also prompts her to explore what’s deeper, what connects us all, and what it means to practice radical acceptance. To welcome the Sacred into her interpersonal and communal relationships.

Sastry’s exploration of religion and sexuality through the queer lens also led more people to her podcast series “Drag Me to Heaven” last December. “Her canvas is so big — more than 5,000 performances and hundreds of talks,” said a drag artist from Mumbai. “But her podcast series was really unique.”

In “Drag Me to Heaven,” Sastry explored the divine intersection of drag artistry and spirituality through interviews with 30 drag artists across the world.  It not only helped her deepen her ties with the global community, but also brought her closer to issues ranging from Palestinian futurism to reclaiming one’s religious and caste identities — all through the lens of drag. 

In the podcast’s celebratory space, Sastry felt a deeper knowing that her god was a transgender person embodying feminine and masculine divine energies.

She recalled her childhood readings of Hindu scriptures that featured stories of individuals transitioning genders and even androgynous deities.  

Transgender people had helped her navigate her sexual identity, which led her back into religion. Which she could now use to advocate for the voiceless.

“SAS has always moved with grace and courage, living outside of the comfort zone,” said Rajeswari Devi, Sastry’s wife who stands firmly by her side despite the numerous threat calls, attacks by religious extremists, and hateful texts targeting their family. “She’s never afraid to do or speak for the marginalized.”

With her family’s support, Sastry has persisted in honing her artistry. 

“When I’m performing, I feel deeply connected to God,” says Sastry. “That’s how I experience the divine, and that’s what gives me the strength to work for all marginalized people.”

By Priyadarshini Sen