Political lesbianism, with all its radical energy, isn’t just a niche feminist theory that belongs in history books. As the movement evolves, it continues to resurface in new and interesting ways, one of which is through the concept of heterofatalism. Heterofatalism describes that sinking feeling that heterosexual relationships are doomed to fail, yet we keep engaging in them anyway. It’s the kind of cultural fatigue you see in memes like “men are trash,” yet those same people swipe right on dating apps. It’s the performative sigh of resignation when someone says, “Well, what are you gonna do? That’s just how men are,” as if we’re all stuck in some grim rom-com with no happy endings.
In many ways, heterofatalism is the modern cousin of political lesbianism. While political lesbianism took a more active, radical stance in rejecting men and heterosexuality as oppressive institutions, heterofatalism captures a collective groan—acknowledging that heterosexual relationships are fundamentally flawed but without necessarily offering a way out. It’s as if we’re standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into the void of romantic doom, but are too tired to turn away. Political lesbianism’s call to reject men entirely feels like a fiery revolution compared to the quiet resignation of heterofatalism, yet both ideas challenge us to think about whether love, as society structures it, is really built for women’s liberation.
And here’s where political lesbianism finds a unique foothold today, especially in places like India. In a country where patriarchal norms still dominate, and where heterosexual marriage is not just the expected path but often the only socially rewarding one, rejecting that path can feel as radical as ever. Consider movements within India’s LGBTQ+ communities where women—particularly queer women—are challenging the norms around marriage and relationships. There’s an undercurrent of resistance similar to political lesbianism’s core ideas. Choosing to opt out of the expected life path—whether that is marriage or traditional family structures—feels deeply political in a country where those institutions are closely tied to gender, caste, and all sorts of community.
A great example from India is that, while there might not be an organised “political lesbianism” movement, there are certainly echoes of it in the choices made by some feminist activists and LGBTQ+ groups. Many feminists in India who identify as queer or lesbian face intense pressure to conform to heteronormative marriage, not just from family but from the society at large. In rejecting these expectations, they take on a political stance, even if they don’t name it as such. There’s something inherently political in the refusal to marry or in choosing to live outside the framework of heterosexuality, especially when family honour, societal status, and tradition are all bound up in these institutions. The fight for legal recognition of same-sex relationships in India—especially with the decriminalisation of homosexuality in 2018—shows that this battle against compulsory heterosexuality is very much alive.
Additionally, within the feminist movement in India, there are often discussions around the pressures of compulsory heterosexuality and the value placed on women’s subservience within marriage. Whether it is women choosing to not marry or opting for queer relationships, their choices are loaded with political significance. For instance, urban, educated women who decide to stay single or live-in with their queer partners are quietly challenging the power dynamics that political lesbianism had first pointed out.
Heterofatalism, too, makes its appearance in Indian society, where the cultural expectation for women to get married and stay married often leads to a lot of disillusionment. Marriage is frequently depicted as a necessary burden rather than a fulfilling relationship, with many women feeling trapped by the very institutions that are supposed to provide love and security. The spike in conversations around toxic masculinity and the acknowledgment of women’s dissatisfaction in traditional marriages tap into this sense of fatalism. Yet, unlike political lesbianism’s call to break free entirely, heterofatalism leaves people stuck in an exhausted cycle of knowing something is wrong but feeling too embedded to escape.
The tension between political lesbianism and heterofatalism today brings us back to the central question: Can heterosexuality ever be untangled from patriarchy, or is it doomed to replicate the same power structures no matter how progressive it tries to be? In India, where the weight of tradition and family expectations can be crushing, opting out of heterosexuality feels like an act of rebellion that’s about more than just love—it’s about power, independence, and redefining what a woman’s life can look like.
So, while the Leeds Revolutionary Feminist Group may not have been thinking of contemporary India when they wrote about rejecting heterosexuality as an institution, the echoes of their argument resonate today. Whether it is through heterofatalism or the quiet, ongoing resistance of queer women in India who choose different paths, political lesbianism’s core message—that rejecting traditional gender roles and relationships can be a radical act of liberation—continues to provoke and inspire us all. It reminds us that love, sex, and relationships are never just personal; they’re sites of power struggles, and sometimes, the most radical act is simply choosing to step out of the game.
