The Story of Chapal Bhaduri, India’s Renowned ‘Stage Queen’

According to the author’s research, during the mid-20th century in Eastern India’s Bengal region, many of the celebrated female stars of the theater were, in fact, male performers. Among them, Chapal Bhaduri was the most famous, known as the ‘Chapal Rani’ (Chapal Queen). He was hailed as the queen of ‘Jatra,’ a traveling folk theater that once drew large audiences. The tradition of male actors playing female roles was common worldwide—from Europe to Japan and China—in various theatrical forms, and this practice flourished in Bengal as Jatra. Although the income was modest, the musical and mythological folk dramas performed in rural open-air venues had popularity comparable to cinema at the time. These plays, based on poetry and devotional narratives, were presented on open stages characterized by exaggerated voices, expressive gestures, and distinctive costumes. In his new book, “Chapal Rani: The Last Queen of Bengal,” author Sandeep Roy traces Bhaduri’s journey from stardom to obscurity, revealing a fading world where gender identity itself was a form of performance. In such Jatras, men played female roles and were called “purush rani” or male queens. Despite its popularity, this genre was sometimes viewed as socially stigmatized. During colonial times, the European-influenced elite of Kolkata often regarded Jatra as rustic or uncultured. In the 19th century, an Anglo-Indian magazine disparagingly compared the unnatural voices of men playing female parts to the howls of jackals.

By the time Bhaduri entered the theater in the 1950s, this world was changing. Women had begun acting, gradually reducing space for male performers of female roles. Nevertheless, Bhaduri carved out a unique identity. Born in 1939 in North Kolkata to the family of actress Prabha Devi, he grew up in a theatrical community and began acting at age 16. “My gestures and voice were like a girl’s,” he later said. On stage, he would completely transform himself. He adeptly portrayed queens, goddesses, and even women engaged in prostitution. His costumes were meticulously crafted and sometimes made on the spot. Initially, he used fabric scraps to shape his chest, later turning to sponges. He applied various creams and paid close attention to small details to embody femininity. “Womanhood was always a part of me,” Bhaduri stated.

His performances transcended mere comedy or parody; they were deeply immersive. In an environment where queer-coded characters were often mocked, Bhaduri’s work stood out for its sincerity and courage. Roy writes, “In an Indian theatrical tradition where queer or LGBTQ+ characters are often treated with ridicule, Chapal Bhaduri embraced his role as a woman with honesty and bravery.” Outside the theater, Bhaduri’s life was more complicated. Bengali middle-class society was conservative, so he was not openly identified as homosexual, though he was much admired. Adoring fans and lovers sent affectionate letters and proposals, which Bhaduri carefully selected and took pride in. Yet he was clear: “I do not apologize for love.” Some of his partners married and had children. His community always remained marginalized—they were visible but never fully accepted, often relegated to domestic helper roles. Many contemporaries ended up in poverty, some turning to sewing, selling tea and nuts from carts, or doing manual labor. One person even committed suicide. These stories were rarely recorded. Bhaduri himself took on cleaning and dusting jobs in libraries to make ends meet. At one point, he performed the role of the goddess Sheetala Devi on the street.

In the following decade, Bhaduri re-emerged briefly. Bengali film director Kaushik Ganguly cast him in several films. In 1999, publisher and theater director Nabin Kishore documented Bhaduri’s life through a film and exhibition, inspiring new generations to view him from a different perspective. Roy notes, “During a time when LGBTQ+ movements were nascent in India and queer histories scarce, Bhaduri was chosen as a guide.” Still, Bhaduri distanced himself from labels and did not relate to terminology like “third gender.” Outside of the stage, he dressed in typical Bengali male attire such as kurta-pajama, complicating interpretations of his identity further. “He existed as a queer individual,” Roy comments.

As global discussions around gender and identity continue to expand, Bhaduri’s story provides a unique lens. It reveals a theatrical history where gender was fluid, even if not always named as such. Now living in a nursing home near his birthplace, Bhaduri is not warmly welcomed there. He battles health issues while carrying memories of a past life. Why are some artists remembered while others are forgotten? Why are some arts preserved while others vanish with their practitioners? By documenting Bhaduri’s life, Roy attempts to answer and confront these questions. Over more than six decades in theater, Bhaduri was, by any measure, a star. Yet for many years, he lived on the margins of the very culture he helped shape.