3 days ago
‘Love is universal, but the journey to it isn't': how Kamakshi Madan started Arzoo, the matchmaking service for LGBTQ community
On September 6, 2018, a historic moment unfolded. The Supreme Court struck down Indian Penal Code Section 377, decriminalising homosexuality and igniting celebrations across the nation for the LGBTQ community. For Kamakshi Madan, a homemaker-turned-spirited entrepreneur with no prior connection to the community, this was the spark that changed her life.
Watching the news that evening, she felt a stirring curiosity. 'What does this mean for those who can now love freely?' she wondered. That question became the seed for an extraordinary journey.
Madan's venture began with a bold idea: matchmaking for the LGBTQ community. She was an outsider, a straight woman with no first-hand knowledge of the community's struggles or joys. Yet, her lack of experience didn't deter this graduate from Delhi's Lady Shri Ram College. Instead, it fuelled her determination to learn.
With support and unconditional encouragement from her family, she dove into research, visiting NGOs, meeting activists, and speaking with parents of queer individuals. Madan's mother-in-law, 'a woman way ahead of her times', lauded her initiative and her first contact with an NGO came through her mother-in-law's sister. She consulted affirming doctors and therapists, piecing together the nuances of gender identities, sexual orientations, and the unique challenges faced by the community. From the complexities of gender reassignment surgeries to the emotional weight of coming out to families, Madan absorbed it all.
Her research revealed a critical gap: the need for a safe, personalised matchmaking service. Unlike heterosexual matchmaking, which often focused on superficial traits, Madan's service had to account for deeper considerations—family acceptance, mental health struggles, and societal stigma.
She designed an offline platform, a deliberate choice to prioritise privacy and security. 'Online apps can be too exposing,' she explains. 'People need a space where they feel safe to be themselves.'
Her platform, named Arzoo, required detailed forms but she ensured they were inclusive, asking questions like, 'Are you open to partners with disabilities?' or 'Have you disclosed your identity to your family?' These weren't just checkboxes; they were bridges to understanding.
Launching Arzoo in January 2020 was no small feat. The world was on the brink of a pandemic, and Madan faced scepticism as an outsider. 'How can someone not from the community understand us?' the homosexual people asked. She relied on social media to connect, slowly building trust. Her first clients came through word of mouth, often from unexpected sources. From there, the network grew, one story at a time.
The challenges were immense. Funding was a constant hurdle. Madan poured her savings into Arzoo, but the costs of mental health support, legal counselling, and medical guidance strained her resources.
'Love is universal,' she told herself, 'but the journey to it isn't.' She noticed that many in the community couldn't afford therapy, yet their need for emotional support was profound. Childhood trauma, identity struggles, and societal rejection created a vicious cycle, making relationships daunting. Madan began offering free mental health sessions, funded by the modest fees she charged for matchmaking—Rs 5,000 per person, a small price for a lifetime of connection.
What helped was that, unlike others, she decided to go offline too from the beginning. 'There was no other choice, if I wanted to be sure.
So when people sign up with me I visit them and spend at least an hour chatting to get to know them. I then fill up the form for them, make a profile and send it to them to check and verify. Once the profile gets into my database I match it with a suitable person. Only when both people approve of each other's profiles do I share the photographs. Once those are approved, only then do I share the names and addresses,' she explains.
Her work wasn't just about pairing people; it was about building a community. In 2021, she started the Coffee Club, a series of events hosted in various cafés across Mumbai. These weren't just matchmaking mixers but safe spaces for queer individuals to laugh, share stories, and feel seen. From movie screenings to speed-dating events, the Coffee Club became a beacon of joy. One evening, a trans woman shared her story of finding love through Arzoo. 'I never thought I'd find someone who saw me as me,' she said, her voice trembling. The room erupted in applause, and Madan felt her heart swell.
Yet, not every story had a happy ending. Madan recalled a heart-breaking incident involving a trans woman matched with a man who seemed genuine but later revealed predatory intentions. The woman was devastated, and Madan felt the weight of her responsibility. She tightened her vetting process, requiring declarations and IDs, and banned the man from her platform. 'I can't eliminate every risk,' she admitted, 'but I can make it harder for harm to happen.' These moments tested her resolve, but they also deepened her commitment.
Parents played a surprising role in Madan's journey. A father from Delhi called her, seeking a match for his lesbian daughter. 'I just want her to be happy,' he said, his voice thick with emotion. Madan was stunned—parental acceptance was rare. She started a parents' support group, hoping to foster understanding.
By 2025, Madan had grown to serve over 200 clients, from trans individuals to non-binary folks, each with unique stories. She celebrated small victories—like the mother from South India who, after Madan matched her son, called to thank her, only to worry later that he was neglecting his studies. Madan laughed, guiding the mother through her concerns.
Societal challenges persisted. Some questioned the existence of diverse genders, and funding cuts to NGOs affected the broader queer community. Yet, Madan's work remained untouched by these shifts. 'It's not just about finding love,' she said. 'It's about showing the world we exist, and we're here to stay.'
As the Coffee Club prepares for a July event—a flea market with live performances—Madan reflected on her five-year journey. She had no office, no staff, just a laptop and a heart full of purpose. The cafés she hopped between were her office. 'Everyone deserves love,' she told a new client, a non-binary person hesitant to join. 'And if you're not ready for that, come to the Coffee Club. You'll find friends, laughter, maybe even yourself.'
Madan's work wasn't perfect. She couldn't erase trauma or guarantee every match would last. But she created something rare: a space where the LGBTQ community could dream without fear. As she sat in a bustling café, planning the next event, a young man approached her. 'You helped my friend find love,' he said shyly. 'Can you help me?' Madan smiled, pulling out a form. 'Let's start here,' she said. At that moment, the 54-year-old knew her journey, sparked by a news headline in 2018, was far from over. It was just beginning.
