Catherine Duleep Singh is today known best as a suffragist, a queer pioneer, and for being instrumental in aiding the escape of many Jewish families from Germany during the second World War.
The Indian princess moved to Germany in 1908 with her former governess and life partner, Lina Schafer, next to whom she also asked to be buried when she died. Historians will, of course, call them roommates, but today most recognise them as an iconic queer couple. We honour Catherine as a hero, and for me personally, she helped me reconcile my queer and South Asian identities through her bravery and authenticity.
As a queer and non-binary South Asian person, Catherine’s story is deeply personal. A few years ago, while volunteering for the Whitworth Art Gallery’s Undefining Queer exhibition in Manchester, I came across a beautiful gold saree. Its intricate embroidery shimmered under the gallery lights, catching my eye and, unknowingly at the time, my heart. Upon learning that the saree belonged to Catherine Duleep Singh, I felt an instant connection — not just to her story, but to my own heritage and identity.
The saree itself stands as a powerful symbol of South Asian heritage. Worn by as a sign of femininity for centuries, its drape holds histories of craftsmanship and artistry that were threatened by colonisation. Under British rule, the saree — and the expression of South Asian mastery and identity it represented — was diminished in an attempt to dominate and control the colonised populace. For Catherine, wearing a saree would have been an act of rebellion, perhaps a manner of expressing her queerness — a quiet yet bold assertion of her identity, against both colonial and societal norms.
As a suffragist and a queer woman living in early 1900s Britain, Catherine embodied the saree’s spirit of resistance. Her queerness adds layers of meaning to the garment, transforming it into a symbol of living authentically, of rejecting the binary boxes imposed by patriarchy and heteronormativity. Seeing her saree on display at the Whitworth was a monumental moment for me — a queer, South Asian university student dealing with my own queer journey.
The saree’s symbolism in Catherine’s life resonates within the broader context of queer South Asian history and culture. For centuries, South Asia has been home to communities like the Hijra, who have existed outside of the gender binary. The Hijra have historically donned sarees, using the garment as a powerful expression of their identity. The saree, in this context, is more than clothing — it is a declaration of selfhood and resilience in the face of marginalisation — and the princess’ story is an empowering one that led me to a deeper understanding of my own history.
As I navigated my own queerness and transness, I initially felt a sense of distance from my heritage, as if the two parts of my identity were pulling me in opposite directions. Learning about Catherine through the metaphor of the saree helped reconcile these aspects of myself.
Her life showed me that to be queer and South Asian is not a contradiction — it is a legacy of resilience and courage, someone who dared to live authentically, a queer pioneer who inspires me and countless others. And the saree, shimmering in the Whitworth Art Gallery, represents so much more than its fabric and stitches — it represents the unyielding power of identity, heritage, and love, and for me, a way to weave together the threads of my identity and wear them with pride.
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