Photo Project : Tranimal Trails by Manad Das

There’s something sacred about taking drag outside the safety of enclosed walls. Off the stage, away from the clubs, far from the curated lights. There’s a raw, unfiltered poetry that happens when the painted face meets the public gaze—when glitter walks on cobblestone, when heels strike against the earth, and when queerness refuses to be confined.

Tranimal Trails was not just a photoshoot. It was a movement—fluid, feral, and fearless. A collaboration between my drag and Manab Das’s extraordinary lens. This time, we chose Shilparamam, a place known for its cultural craft, its rural charm, and its traditional ethos. And into this space walked a creature of contradiction—me, in tranimal drag.

Tranimal drag is not about beauty; it’s about becoming. It breaks the binary of glamour and grotesque. It’s duct tape instead of diamond, it’s found object over fashion label. It’s what happens when drag gets political, punk, and primal. With my face deconstructed and reconstructed through textures of fabric scraps, broken bangles, jute threads, and paint smudges, I walked through Shilparamam like an apparition from a parallel mythology—a wandering spirit who refused to be boxed in.

The reactions were a mix of curiosity, confusion, concern, and quiet reverence. Children followed me with eyes wide open. Elders stared, unsure if they were witnessing performance or possession. And somewhere in that beautiful dissonance, the art began. Manab, with his quiet observant presence, began capturing moments—not just of me, but of the way the world looked at me.

He caught the poetry in postures, the rhythm of movement against mud paths, the sunlight bouncing off sequins stitched onto rags. He didn’t just photograph a drag artist; he documented a disruption. He painted with shadows, frames, and fragments, turning a casual stroll into a radical procession.

What made this experience profound was not just the aesthetic, but the placement. Public space. Drag in temples of tradition. Drag outside of pride parades and proscenium stages. Drag without a safety net. I’ve always believed that queer expression should not be hidden away. It must live, it must breathe, and it must claim space. And Tranimal Trails was a loud, lopsided, glitter-smeared declaration of that truth.

Public spaces have always been policed. Who gets to wear what, act how, move where—those are questions rooted in patriarchy and caste, gender norms and colonial hangovers. By walking through these spaces in full drag, I was not just performing—I was reclaiming. Every step was resistance. Every look exchanged with a passerby was a dialogue. Every click of Manab’s camera was an act of memory-making, archiving the ephemeral.

With Tranimal Trails, we asked: What happens when the margins walk into the mainstream? Not to assimilate, but to agitate. Not to beg for inclusion, but to assert existence.

This project reminded me that drag isn’t just about the look. It’s about where you take it. It’s about allowing queerness to haunt landscapes that once erased it. And it’s about collaboration—about artists like Manab who hold a lens with empathy, who see the body not just as spectacle but as story.