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According to the Bhai Bala Janamsakhi tradition, Guru Nanak and Bhai Mardana encountered Sheikh Sharaf in Baghdad. The Sheikh is described in bridal adornment, henna-stained hands, rose coloured lips, and kohl-lined eyes.
When Guru Nanak asks why the Sheikh presents themselves in this way, the Sheikh replies:
“I have not yet found my Beloved (Vahiguru), so I have become a bride to be found.”
Guru Nanak responds that the Divine does not require costume, only sincerity and devotion. Importantly, the Guru’s question holds no ridicule or judgement; it opens space for understanding. The Sheikh is met with compassion and curiosity, not correction or censure.
What follows is a shared moment of love and recognition: two seekers acknowledging each other’s longing for the same Truth. They sit together, exchange verses, and sing in Raag Dhanasari.
This story reflects a broader theme in Sikh and Islamic mysticism: the soul is portrayed as the bride, yearning for union with the Beloved. The imagery dissolves rigid gender and prioritizes devotion over identity or form, reminding us that the path to Vahiguru has always been wider and more tender than the boxes society builds.

Kavi Santokh Singh’s Gur Pratap Suraj Granth recounts Guru Arjan Dev Ji’s time in Lahore, where poets, musicians, and seekers gathered to present their verses. Among those named in this tradition is Shah Hussain, the renowned Sufi poet of Lahore. The Granth keeps focus on Guru Sahib, but briefly notes Hussain’s presence and his poetic offering.
Beyond this glimpse in Sikh narrative, Shah Hussain’s life story is richly preserved in Panjabi and Sufi traditions. Born in 1538, Hussain became a leading figure of the Malamati/Qalandari school, mystics who defied social respectability to humble the ego and centre divine love. His poetry in Panjabi kafi form shaped generations, including Bulleh Shah and later Panjabi Sufis.
Shah Hussain’s life cannot be told without Madho Laal, a Hindu youth who became his companion, disciple, and beloved. Their bond deepened into a lifelong union remembered as Madho Laal Hussain, two names spoken as one. Their partnership sits within a long Indic tradition where human love becomes a language for the Divine, like Radha and Krishna or Heer and Ranjha, dissolving boundaries between earthly affection and spiritual longing. After Hussain’s passing, Madho Laal tended his dargah and was later buried beside him. Every year, tens of thousands gather at their shared shrine in Lahore for Mela Chiraghan, honouring a love that crossed caste, creed, and convention.
When Shah Hussain presented his work, Guru Arjan Dev Ji met him with attention and grace. There is no record of judgment or exclusion, only recognition of sincerity and spiritual yearning. In a city alive with Sufi music, poetry, and seekers, the Guru’s openness quietly testifies to a central Sikh truth: what matters is the state of the heart, not the label society places on the body.
For queer and trans Sikhs today, this moment offers a lineage of belonging, a reminder that Punjab has long held space for love, devotion, and companionship that sit outside rigid norms. Guru Sahib saw the light in Shah Hussain, not the scandal imagined by others.
Shah Hussain's Poetry
ਚੁਪ ਵੇ ਚੁਪ ਅੜਿਆ ਚੁਪ ਵੇ ਅੜਿਆ ॥ ਬੋਲਣ ਦੀ ਨਹੀ ਜਾਇ ਵੇ ਅੜਿਆ ॥ ਸਜਣਾ ਬੋਲਣ ਦੀ ਜਾਇ ਨਾਹੀ ॥ ਅੰਦਰ ਬਾਹਰ ਹਿਕਾ ਸਾਂਈ ॥ ਕਿਸਨੂੰ ਆਖ ਸੁਣਾਈ ॥ ਇਕੋ ਦਿਲਬਰ ਸਭਿ ਘਟ ਰਵਿਆ ਦੂਜੀ ਨਹੀ ਕਦਾਈ ॥ ਕਹੈ ਹੁਸੈਨ ਫਕੀਰ ਨਿਮਾਣਾ ਸਤਿਗੁਰ ਤੋਂ ਬਲ ਜਾਈ ॥
Be silent, stay quiet, stay absolutely quiet. This is not the place to speak, O stubborn one. O friend, this is not the place to speak. Inside and outside, there is only One Lord. To whom should (I) speak, and what should I say? The one Beloved pervades every heart, there is no second. Says Hussain, the lowly faqir: I surrender again and again to the True Guru.
Gur Partap Suraj Granth written by Kavi (Poet) Santokh Singh in 1843, Page 197

Sarmad was an Armenian Jewish-born Persian mysticand poet who settled in the Mughal empire during the lifetimes of Guru Arjan Dev Ji, Guru Hargobind Ji, and the succeeding Gurus. He became closely associated with the great Sufi saint Mian Mir, the closest known companion of Guru Arjan Dev Ji, placing Sarmad firmly within the same spiritual and political world inhabited by the Guru period. Through this connection, and their shared presence in Lahore and Delhi, it is extremely likely that Sarmad and the Sikh community were aware of one another, and may have crossed paths.
Sarmad took the radical step of abandoning clothing altogether, wandering naked through the streets of Delhi as a rejection of pretence, ego, and religious hypocrisy. His teachings challenged both Islamic orthodoxy and imperial authority. His life was also shaped by a deep and loving relationship with Abhai Chand, a Hindu man who became his companion, disciple, and partner. Their bond is openly recorded in multiple Persian and Urdu accounts, one of the clearest examples of same-sex devotion preserved in South Asian history.
Sarmad was executed on the orders of Emperor Aurangzeb in 1661, not for his queer relationship, but for refusing to complete the Islamic declaration of faith, stopping at “There is no god,” a mystical affirmation that the ultimate truth is One, beyond form and doctrine. His death places him among the martyrs of his age, resisting the same Mughal machinery that persecuted the Sikh Gurus.
Though not Sikh himself, Sarmad lived inside the same vibrant network of Sufis, seekers, poets, and revolutionaries who interacted with the Sikh Gurus.
His life, and his love with Abhai Chand stands as a powerful reminder that queerness, faith, and resistance have always existed within the wider spiritual landscape of Panjab and the Gurus’ time.

Migration, sexuality, and colonial policing
Between 1909 and 1929 a disproportionate number of men charged with sodomy in Vancouver were South Asian, many of them Sikh. This occurred during a period when immigration policies ensured that most South Asian migrants were men, sent to Canada to perform dangerous industrial labour in mills, railways, and forestry, while their families remained in Punjab.
As a result, many Sikh men lived for years in male only environments; bunkhouses, work camps, boarding houses, and shared rooms. Intimate contact with women was often impossible, restricted, or criminalised. This created conditions that historians of sexuality recognise across many contexts; prisons, ships, armies, mining camps, and migrant labour systems.
In such settings, sexual behaviour between men has been widely documented across cultures and time periods. This does not require modern identity categories to explain.
In 1915, two Sikh mill workers, Dalip Singh and Naina Singh, were entrapped by undercover police and charged with sodomy. Their case, known as Rex v. Singh, was one of many prosecutions used by white colonial authorities to police immigrant communities and reinforce moral panic and racial exclusion. Same-sex sexual behaviour became a convenient legal tool to criminalise South Asian men and discourage settlement.
Like many queer histories, the inner lives of Dalip Singh and Naina Singh do not survive in the archive. This absence is not incidental. It reflects how queer and racialised lives most often appear in colonial archives: not through voice or choice, but through surveillance, accusation, and punishment. Their story reminds us that queer Sikh history is not only found in pride or poetry, but also in courtrooms, silences, and the violence of colonial law.
Why this history matters
This case is not included to claim a heroic or celebratory queer past. It is included because it shows that queer sexual behaviour existed within early Sikh diasporic life, even when it could not be named safely, chosen openly, or remembered kindly.
Queer Sikh history is found in courtrooms, police files, and silences. Remembering Rex v. Singh means acknowledging that some queer Sikh lives entered history only through punishment, not pride, and that this, too, is part of our inheritance.

Migration, sexuality, and colonial policing
Empire, resistance, and queer life in plain sight
Catherine Duleep Singh lived in Britain at the height of the British Empire, a period defined by racial hierarchy, imperial extraction, and the denial of political rights to women and colonised peoples. As the daughter of Maharaja Duleep Singh and granddaughter of the great Sher-e-Punjab Maharaja Ranjit Singh, Catherine occupied a unique and uncomfortable position within imperial Britain, a Sikh princess raised inside the belly of the empire that had annexed her family’s kingdom.
Although raised and baptised a Christian, Catherine later reconnected with her Sikh heritage. After travelling to Punjab in 1903, including Lahore and Amritsar, she increasingly invoked her Sikh lineage and aligned herself with Sikh and Indian anti-colonial struggles, embracing Sikhi as inheritance and resistance rather than institution.
In the early 20th century, British women were denied the right to vote, and suffragette activism was met with surveillance, arrest, and violence. The suffrage movement was divided between militant and non-militant approaches. While her sister Sophia Duleep Singh became a militant suffragette with the Women’s Social and Political Union, selling Votes for Women outside Hampton Court Palace, refusing to pay taxes in protest, and openly defying the British state, Catherine supported the cause as a suffragist aligned with the non-militant National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies (NUWSS), using her wealth to fund the movement and organise fundraising efforts. Together, the sisters represented some of the most visible South Asian participation in Britain’s struggle for women’s political rights.
Catherine never married. After the death of her parents, at the age of 22, she developed a close relationship with her governess, Fraulein “Lina” Schäfer, who was twelve years her senior. Over time, Catherine and Lina travelled extensively through Europe and eventually settled together in Kassel, Germany, Lina’s hometown. Their relationship appears in letters, addresses, and living arrangements rather than through public declaration. This was typical of the period, when same-sex relationships between women were often lived openly in practice but coded carefully in the archive.
In 1938, after Lina’s death and as fascism rose across Europe, Catherine used her status and resources to oppose Nazism and support Jewish refugees fleeing Germany. Her politics did not soften with age. She remained active in anti-fascist and anti-imperial efforts until her death in 1942. In her final act, she was cremated instead of being buried, with some of her ashes scattered in Kassel to rest near Lina, while others were scattered at Elveden, her childhood home.
Like many queer histories, Catherine’s sexuality does not survive in the archive as confession or label. It survives through patterns of life: whom she chose as family, which futures she rejected, and how publicly she resisted power. Her story reminds us that queer Sikh history is not only devotional or symbolic. It is also political, anti-colonial, and lived in full view of the state.
Why this history matters
Catherine Duleep Singh’s life shows that queer Sikh history did not exist only on the margins. It existed at the centre of the empire, carried by a woman who refused marriage, respectability, and obedience, and who built a life with another woman while confronting the British state directly.
Queer Sikh history is not only found in saints and poets. It is also found in protest lines, domestic partnerships, tax resistance, and anti-fascist struggle. Naming Fraulein ‘Lina’ Schafer alongside Catherine matters because queer history is not abstract. It is relational, shared, and lived.