'Metro… In Dino's' Queer Plotline Isn’t Progress, It’s a Setback

The storyline in Metro… In Dino is not just a missed opportunity, it is a disservice to queer teens.

Rather than treating queerness with the care and nuance it demands, Metro… In Dino reduces it to confusion, experimentation, and invasive “tests”—packaged as quirky coming-of-age comedy.

(Photo: Aroop Mishra/The Quint)

In Metro… In Dino, Anurag Basu attempts a delicate balancing act—interweaving tales of urban love and loss, including a subplot about a teenage girl questioning her sexuality.

For a film released in 2025, in a post-Section 377 India, the inclusion of queer identity should have been a cause for celebration. But instead, Basu offers a muddled, poorly-researched, and, at times, ethically disturbing narrative, that does more harm than good.

Rather than treating queerness with the care and nuance it demands, the film reduces it to confusion, experimentation, and invasive “tests”—packaged as quirky coming-of-age comedy.

What results is not representation, but misrepresentation.

And worse, it risks reinforcing the very stigmas that queer youth are trying to escape.

The Call That Should Have Been a Turning Point

The confused teenager in question is portrayed with visible discomfort and internal conflict. Her friend, worried and unsure how to help, does something many Indian teens do when they feel lost—she calls a trusted adult for advice. That adult is her aunt, played by Sara Ali Khan.

What unfolds should have been a moment for positive guidance or affirming support. Instead, the aunt shrugs off the girl’s struggle by saying, “The internet has made you all confused.”

Delivered with the smirk of someone trying to sound wise, this line encapsulates how mainstream narratives continue to treat queerness—as a phase, a fad, or a Western import. It implies that sexual fluidity is the by-product of too much screen time, not a valid part of someone’s identity.

In a country where access to affirming sex education is still rare, the internet has often been the only lifeline for queer youth. To mock that access is not only insensitive—it’s reckless.

The Problem With the "Kiss Test"

The aunt’s solution is equally flippant. “Just kiss someone,” she says—girl or boy—and “see if you get butterflies.” That’s how you’ll know who you love.

But love, desire, and sexual orientation are far more complex. For many people, especially adolescents, queerness is not just about physical attraction. It's about emotional resonance, comfort, curiosity, and affinity.

I myself came to understand my sexual orientation not through a kiss, but through the depth of my emotional attraction to women—how I looked at them, connected with them, and longed to be around them. The “kiss test” is not only reductive, but it reinforces the idea that queer desire must be physically proven to be real.

This approach contradicts decades of research in queer theory. Scholars like Eve Sedgwick and Adrienne Rich have argued that queer identity is not always anchored in sex or touch—it often begins with feelings, attachment, and even intellectual admiration. Many young queer people feel different long before they can name it. To reduce this complexity to butterflies from a kiss is not education—it’s romanticised misinformation.

The Non-Consensual Experiment

But the film goes further—and darker. Taking her aunt’s advice literally, the girl decides to test her feelings by kissing her friend while she is asleep.

A minor kissing another minor without consent, even framed as "curiosity," crosses a line. The scene is presented without consequences, without remorse, and without any acknowledgment of the violation. It plays directly into dangerous territory, implying that experimenting with someone else’s body—without their permission—is a valid way to explore your sexuality.

In a country where sex education is weak and consent is rarely discussed at home or school, this is an incredibly harmful message to send. Queerness, like all forms of love, must be rooted in respect and consent. To suggest otherwise is to risk enabling harmful behaviors in the name of "self-discovery."

A Boy Waiting for Clarity

In the final minutes of this storyline, the confused girl is approached by a boy who likes her. She tells him that she’s still unsure about who she likes—boys or girls. His response? “I’ll wait.”

This scene may seem innocuous—perhaps even supportive—but it subtly reinforces the idea that queerness is just a pause before heteronormativity. That, eventually, the girl will realise she was just confused and fall into the arms of a patient, understanding boy. It's not just patronising—it's erasure.

This scene may seem innocuous—perhaps even supportive—but it subtly reinforces the idea that queerness is just a pause before heteronormativity. That, eventually, the girl will realise she was just confused and fall into the arms of a patient, understanding boy. It's not just patronising—it's erasure.

Queerness is not a detour. It is not a waiting room for heterosexuality. It’s a valid, enduring identity of its own. If the film wanted to show teenage confusion, that would have been fair. But what it does is suggest that all confusion will eventually sort itself into conventional gendered love—so long as a nice boy is willing to wait.

The Weight of Representation

Representation carries weight. Especially when you’re dealing with queer teenagers in India—where mental health risks are heightened, bullying is rampant, and acceptance is far from guaranteed. According to UNESCO (2018) data, over 50 percent of LGBTQ+ youth in South Asia experience bullying, and more than 70 percent conceal their identities in school and family settings. Academic research presents overwhelming evidence that closeted youth is extremely prone to risks of depression, anxiety, and suicide.

For these youth, visibility in media is not just representation—it’s survival. Cinema has the power to affirm, reflect, and validate. But that requires care, research, and consultation with queer communities. Tokenism without understanding only adds to the problem.

If you cannot represent queerness responsibly, you are better off not doing it at all.

Where Indian Cinema Has Done Better

It’s not that mainstream films can’t get queerness right. Badhaai Do offered a layered portrait of a lavender marriage with tenderness and honesty. Netflix’s Class presented multiple queer arcs with nuance and clarity. Even Made in Heaven gave us queer characters who were messy, real, and human.

What Metro… In Dino gives us is a caricature of confusion. It reduces queerness to a quirky phase, a plot twist, or a hormonal experiment. It reinforces tropes and ignores the responsibility it has toward real lives watching these stories unfold.

Basu’s intent may have been inclusion, but impact matters more than intent. The storyline in Metro… In Dino is not just a missed opportunity. It’s a disservice. To queer teens. To survivors of consent violations. To anyone who has struggled to name their identity in a world that still refuses to see them.

Queer adolescence deserves space, dignity, and care. Not kisses without consent and “confusion” as punchlines.

Tell our stories. But tell them right.

(The author is a research fellow at Vidhi Centre for legal policy and the founder of QAble -an initiative to foreground the rights of queer persons and persons with disabilities in law and policy. This is an opinion piece. All views expressed are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)