Minna Saran, a Mother Whose Support for the Queer Community Will Always Be Remembered

My heart goes out to the 65-year-old Polish woman who was killed in a terror attack at Berlin Pride on July 25. Her identity remains undisclosed due to German privacy laws, and to protect mourning family members from unwanted public attention and scrutiny. However, news reports do reveal that the deceased woman had travelled all the way from her home in Warsaw, Poland, to attend the event – which is officially called Christopher Street Day – to support her daughter.

The mother died after the attacker, Abdul Ballout, reportedly a 21-year-old German citizen of Lebanese descent, rammed a rented van into a crowd at Berlin’s Tiergarten park. She succumbed to her injuries but, thankfully, her daughter survived and is recovering at a hospital.

This news hit me because parents in many parts of the world continue to shame, abandon or harass LGBTQIA+ people who muster the courage to come out and live on their own terms. Any parent who rejects cruelty, and chooses love, is worthy of appreciation. It is challenging to swim against the current when you are part of a society that normalises homophobia and transphobia.

We do not celebrate parents, and their contributions to advocacy, nearly as much as we ought to. This needs to change. One way to fill the gap is by telling stories of parents who have resisted hate, fought discrimination, wiped tears and replenished hope when it threatened to run out.

Noida-based Minna Saran, the former manager of a beauty salon and spa located at Hotel Le Meridien in New Delhi, was one such parent. She died on March 28, 2026. Four months have passed since. I never had an opportunity to meet her, but we spoke twice. She contacted me first to say thank you when I wrote a column about her son Nishit Saran’s spunky and intelligent book Lurkings in 2019. It is a collection of his essays about being gay. Nishit met with a fatal car accident in 2002 at the age of 25. Minna, and her husband Lt. Col. Rajeshwar Saran, set up the Nishit Saran Foundation after they lost him, and the book was posthumously published in 2008. She was thrilled that her son’s book was seen as a thing of value 11 years after she published it.

We spoke again in 2021. I reached out while working on a feature about the role of parents who joined the legal battle against Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, which criminalised “carnal intercourse against the order of nature”. In 2009, seven years after Nishit’s death, the Delhi high court decriminalised consensual sex between adult same-sex partners in the landmark case of Naz Foundation v Government of NCT of Delhi. Astrologer Suresh Kumar Koushal challenged the verdict in the Supreme Court. Between 2009 to 2011, several petitions were filed to support the original ruling. One of these was filed by Minna and 18 other parents of LGBT people.

Over a phone call, Minna told me, “In their old age, parents want acceptance from their children. Similarly, children want acceptance from their parents when they are young. If parents stand by their children, nobody in society can raise a finger or even an eyebrow.” I was moved by the fact that her commitment to advocating for equality and dignity beyond looking out for her own son.

Minna became a popular figure, thanks to Nishit’s film Summer in My Veins (1999), which records the moment when he came out to his mother on camera. She and her sisters were in the United States to celebrate Nishit’s graduation from Harvard University, where he studied filmmaking. Minna’s initial reaction is disbelief. She tells Nishit, “You are joking, you like to shock people. Are you going around with men?” Once it occurs to her that Nishit is serious, she says, “You’re my son. I’m not going to be ashamed of what you do, or who you are. Till the time I’m alive, I’m with you.” This unconditional love and acceptance is what many yearn for.

I learnt about Nishit in 2016 when I read his essay ‘Why My Bedroom Habits Are Your Business: Against Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code’, copies of which were circulated at the School of Environment and Architecture in Mumbai after a show of Delhi-based dancer-choreographer Mandeep Raikhy’s Queen Size. The performance was a theatrical conversation with Nishit’s essay. What he explored through words, dancers Lalit Khatana and Parinay Mehra investigated through their bodies with Mandeep’s choreography and direction.

In 2002, when Nishit and four of his friends were killed by a speeding truck, he was in a relationship with Mandeep. Minna continued to be a significant presence in Mandeep’s life even after Nishit passed away. I learnt of Minna’s passing through Mandeep’s Instagram account.

Nishit Saran. Photo courtesy Mandeep Raikhy

Mandeep has a delightful story about the first time he met Minna. He recalls, “Nishit and I were in our early 20s. We would party every night. He had this habit of sleeping until noon but I’d wake up by 8 or 9.” One morning, after they had spent the night together at Nishit’s house, Mandeep found Minna sitting at the end of their bed, smoking a cigarette. He says, “I woke up with a fright because I had seen her only in Nishit’s film, not in person. He was still sleeping.”

Somehow, Mandeep summoned up the courage to greet Minna. He said, “Hello, I am Mandeep.” She replied, “Yes, I’ve heard quite a lot about you.” He remembers that, at first, she seemed like a formidable figure, looking at her son’s lover and “assessing if I was good enough”. But they hit it off soon enough. Mandeep says, “There were no catty saas-bahu vibes, trying to compete with each other. I used to call her Minnu. In fact, when Nishit and I broke up briefly for a month, she made it clear to him that she and I would continue to have an independent relationship.”

Minna kept her word. When Mandeep was in London to study at the Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music and Dance, and later to work, Minna and Mandeep spoke to each other on the phone every Sunday. He says, “It used to be a long call. After Nishit died, we made sense of our grief in each other’s company. I will always remember Minna as a person with an incredibly open heart.”

Whenever there was a show of Queen Size in Delhi, Minna showed up to support Mandeep. He could be himself more freely with Minna than his biological parents. He says, “Minna opened my eyes to the possibility that one could have a really accepting family. Nishit and I could speak about anything in front of her, and that included anal sex and polyamory. She never shut us up.”

Mandeep also has fond memories of visiting gurudwaras with her. They went together to Harmandir Sahib in Amritsar, Bangla Sahib in Delhi, and Sri Guru Singh Sabha in Noida.

He tells me, “Minna loved dressing up and watching Pakistani TV serials. She was one of six sisters, born in August 1947, just nine days after India became independent. Her mom was pregnant around the time of Partition. She carried Minna across the border, inside her womb.”

Urban studies scholar and queer rights activist Gautam Bhan, who splits his time between Bengaluru and Delhi, met Minna through Mandeep in the early 2000s. “Minna was this sassy, larger-than-life person for many of us in the community because we first saw her on screen in Nishit’s film,” he says. He got to know her personally as they spent more time together. “I got to see her extraordinary gentleness, and also the moments when she turned into a tigress,” he says.

The petition that Minna filed in the Supreme Court in 2009, along with other parents, documents her participation in various public debates, television shows, film festivals and other outreach initiatives “to promote a deeper understanding of homosexuality as a part of human nature and hence the need for society to be more inclusive and accept LGBT persons as part of humanity”.

Gautam recalls, “In those days, parents were terrified because homosexuality was a crime in India. Minna made herself available to queer kids who had no support from their own parents. After losing Nishit at such a young age, being around other young people helped Minna heal.” She would often call up Gautam and ask him to accompany her when she felt nervous. He went.

While Minna advocated for these youth, she also tried to make them understand where their parents were coming from. Gautam adds, “We thought of ourselves as krantikari (revolutionary) but Minna knew how to humble you in 30 seconds. She was a force of nature, fighting for our rights and making us realise that we were being impatient with our parents.” He recalls Minna telling him, “It took all of you so many years to accept yourselves. Give your parents some time. In the first five minutes of coming out, they are not going to be the best version of themselves.”

Filmmaker Avijit Mukul Kishore, who lives in Mumbai, met Minna through Nishit. Avijit had been in touch with Nishit over email while the latter was a student at Harvard. They met when Nishit returned to India after his graduation. “I watched Summer in My Veins with Nishit at his place in Noida, and I helped him with setting up the projector and operating the sound equipment when the film premiered at the Stein Auditorium at India Habitat Centre in 1999,” says Avijit.

Her husband, Raj, who was the wind beneath her wings, died three years ago. Mandeep recalls that Raj doted on Minna, and would always make a drink for her when she returned from office. He adds, “I met Raj Uncle only after he retired from the army. He kept himself busy, teaching computers and English to kids. He was such a diligent and meticulous archivist of Nishit’s work. He stored every single piece of news coverage that mentioned Nishit, and put it away in files.”

During his first interaction with Minna, almost three decades ago, Avijit was struck by the fact that he had, until then, never met the parents of any queer friend who was out to their family. “Being gay was normalised in their household, and Nishit’s queer friends were welcome. There was no awkwardness, no euphemism.” Avijit was pleasantly surprised and deeply touched when Minna asked him if he had a boyfriend. “That really meant a lot, coming from a friend’s parent.”

When Avijit visited Minna a few months after Nishit’s death, she said, “Kahaan thay ab tak (Where were you all these days)?” Seated in Nishit’s room, they both broke into tears. Avijit says, “I wish I had been better at keeping in touch. I wish I had met her before she passed away.”

Minna touched many lives. Nilakshi Roy, a retired college professor and an active member of Sweekar, which is a support group for parents of LGBTQIA+ people in India, says, “When you are petitioning with other septuagenarian parents for a cause that your son identified with, even years after he passed away, you must be made of some mettle. Till the end of her life, she fought for the rights of LGBTQIA+ people…I urge all parents to accept their children unhesitatingly.”

In 2023, when the Supreme Court of India was hearing a batch of petitions related to marriage equality, more than 400 parents – mobilised by Sweekar – wrote a powerful open letter to then Chief Justice of India D.Y. Chandrachud, stating, “We empathise with those who are opposing marriage equality, because some of us were there too. It took us education, debate and patience with our LGBTQIA+ children to realise that their lives, their feelings and their desires are valid.”

Nilakshi believes that acceptance at home is a safety net that offers protection against societal backlash. She is confident that Minna’s contributions will inspire other parents to be allies.

This thought is echoed by Siddharth Narrain, faculty director at the Queer Archive for Memory, Reflection and Activism (QAMRA), housed at the National Law School University of India in Bengaluru. He was part of the legal team that worked with parents to have their voices heard after Koushal moved the Supreme Court to reverse the decriminalisation of homosexuality.

Siddharth recalls, “Summer in My Veins had a huge impact on me when I was a law student trying to grapple with my sexuality. The way Nishit comes out to his mother, and the way Minna responds, gives me gooseflesh every time I watch it. I hope that film will never be forgotten.”

He was in touch with Minna and other parent petitioners to give them regular updates on the case. “At a time when people were trying to conflate homosexuality with paedophilia, and claim that it was alien to Indian culture, having parents from different sections of society step forward was a powerful gesture. Their children’s lives were being impacted by the law.” This parental intervention brought cultural legitimacy and emotional heft to a conversation about rights.

Queer rights activist Harish Iyer, a founding member of Sweekar, points out that Minna was always happy to support individuals and initiatives wanting to engage with parents. He says, “Queer people do not live in isolation. We are part of society, which includes non-queer people. To build support structures, and to grow as human beings, we must engage with people who have different beliefs. Islands of hope do not grow out of thin air. We have to nurture them slowly.”

As I reflect on these words, I think of the Polish woman who was killed at Berlin Pride. We lost a 65 year old who believed in showing up as an ally. And she lost her life while doing this. She, and countless other parents, who have put love above everything else, deserve to be honoured.

Chintan Girish Modi is a journalist, educator and literary critic. He worked with the UNESCO Mahatma Gandhi Institute of Education for Peace and Sustainable Development and the Georg Eckert Institute for International Textbook Research to develop a guide on how to embed concepts of peace, sustainable development and global citizenship in school textbooks. He has also worked with the Prajnya Trust to lead workshops on queer inclusion for teachers.

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