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Enter Rainbow Rituals , a Delhi-based collective of Hijra performers who now command ₹25,000–₹50,000 per ceremony. They wear custom-made silk saris (not the garish synthetic ones of stereotype). They arrive with eucalyptus-oil diffusers and hand-embroidered blessing thalis. Their claps are choreographed to fusion music.

For generations, the Indian middle-class lifestyle became one of double-taking : looking away as a Hijra approached the car window, then feeling a guilty pinch of ancient fear— what if her curse is real? Now, watch the turn. Since the 2014 Supreme Court recognition of a third gender, and the 2018 decriminalization of homosexuality, a new archetype is emerging. Young, urban, educated Hijras are reframing their traditional role as badhai providers into a legitimate, high-end lifestyle service.

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This is a stark departure from the traditional gharana system, where Hijras lived in communes led by a guru , often cut off from biological families. Today, many younger Hijras live alone or with partners, order from Swiggy, and argue about rent—just like any other urban Indian. The shift is not complete. In rural Bihar, Hijras are still beaten for demanding badhai . In Mumbai hospitals, many are denied treatment. The clap still scares more than it comforts.

“We are not a Western import,” says Meera Singhania, a 34-year-old Hijra activist and guru (community leader) in Mumbai. “We are the ones who greeted Lord Rama on his return from exile. Our clap is the sound of mangal (auspiciousness).” Enter Rainbow Rituals , a Delhi-based collective of

“We are not begging for dakshina (offerings),” says Arjun (they/them), a 28-year-old member. “We are billing for a spiritual consultation. A Hindu wedding without a Hijra’s blessing is like a pizza without salt—technically fine, but spiritually flat.”

“For decades, Indian TV and cinema showed us only at traffic lights or as comic villains,” says Vidya, a Chennai-based influencer with 200,000 followers. “Now I film myself making filter kaapi in my own flat. That is revolution.” Their claps are choreographed to fusion music

In that moment, the deep feature of Indian culture revealed itself: not a static set of rituals, but a living, argumentative, syncretic flow. The Hijra is not being “included” into Indian culture. She is reminding India that she was always already there—at the wedding, at the birth, at the threshold of the sacred.

To understand Indian culture is to understand this duality. And today, a deep cultural shift is underway. The Hijra community, long relegated to the fringes of highway tolls and railway carriages, is orchestrating a quiet but powerful return to the center of Indian lifestyle—not as objects of pity or caricature, but as priests of a forgotten tradition, urban entrepreneurs, and defiant icons of resilience. Long before the Victorian-era “Section 377” criminalized queerness, Indian culture had a place for them. The Natashastra (a foundational Sanskrit text on performing arts, c. 200 BCE–200 CE) details the tritiya-prakriti (“third nature”). Hijras served as powerful courtiers, guardians of harems, and performers for Mughal emperors. Their most enduring cultural role, however, was as badhai —ritual performers who blessed newborns and grooms. Their curse was feared; their blessing, fervently sought.

That clap was currency. In exchange for blessings at a wedding or a boy’s first haircut ( mundan ), a Hijra received gifts of rice, cloth, and cash—an ancient gig economy rooted in spiritual capital. The rupture came with British colonialism. The Criminal Tribes Act of 1871 labeled Hijras as “innately criminal,” a stain that never fully washed off. Post-independence, they were pushed into the most violent corners of the informal economy: sex work, forced begging, and the now-stereotyped “clapping at traffic signals.”

Yet, something is changing. At a recent high-profile wedding in Jaipur, when the Hijra troupe arrived, the grandmother of the groom—a woman in her 80s—did not recoil. She stepped forward, touched their feet, and whispered: “Meri nani ne kaha tha, bina Hijra ke ashirwad ke shaadi adhoori hai.” (My grandmother said: a wedding is incomplete without a Hijra’s blessing.)