When you are not alone

Until I watched the Malayalam feature film Sancharam a few years ago, I had no idea of the alarming number of gay and lesbian suicides that took place in Kerala, where I lived for 17 years of my life. Of course, my blissful ignorance was also to blame. Released in 2004, Sancharam (The Journey), written and directed by Ligy J Pullappally, is about two childhood friends who discover their love for each other. Conflict creeps in since they are women and there is little or no space in Malayali society for lesbian love.

R

aj Rao, author of The Boyfriend and Whistling in The Dark, books that explore the queer identity, says, “Queer culture needs to be represented in cinema to make people aware of its existence and more importantly, to decentre heterosexist assumptions. There are too many boy-meets-girl films around. This leads people to believe that straight love is the only kind of romantic and sexual love that exists. So much so, that people who are not straight begin to think of themselves as abnormal. In truth, love is pluralist.”

Sancharam was Pulapally’s attempt at creating a positive media representation of young gay people and reducing the isolation that often comes with being ‘queer’. Unfortunately, despite the increasing visibility that queer identity and culture have received, especially in recent times, a large number of Indians still find it difficult to accept the idea of homosexuality, considering it unnatural or even mildly repulsive.

For a long time now, sexual minorities in India have had to live with ‘deviant’ tags. This often leads to feelings of guilt, confusion and even self-loathing amongst some, especially youngsters, who are discovering their sexual inclinations and grappling with it. So when they come across stories of others who experience similar emotions, they tend to feel less alone. And in a country like ours, where people still find it difficult to talk openly about something as natural as sexuality, it is important to include stories that are often flung aside, especially those of the minorities, whoever they be.

Vinay Chandran, executive director of Swabhava, an NGO that deals with LGBT issues and counsellor at Sahaya, a helpline for queer people, is also one of the organisers of the ongoing Bangalore Queer Film Festival. “I hear constant refrains from men and women who wonder if they are the only ones who feel this way. There’s only so many people you can reach out to through a helpline. Whereas, a medium like cinema has a far wider reach. Ultimately, it helps people in realising that they aren’t the only ones who feel the way they do.”

I’ve often felt that we’ve hugely underestimated the power of storytelling. A story, if narrated imaginatively, has the potential to create much more of an impact than facts, statistics or opinions. Not that television debates on issues of sexual minorities where experts are made to condense their views due to extreme time constraints haven’t helped. But the impact that a story leaves, whether through literature or art or cinema or even music, is mysteriously different. Perhaps because there is more time and space to reflect. Essentially though, to be effective, the story must also engage and entertain.
An aunt of mine once switched off the television halfway through a debate on whether or not to decriminalise homosexuality. “Everyone just screams, no one even listens.

Anyway, this is all rubbish,” she said, angrily. A few days later, I made her watch Deepa Mehta’s Fire with me, knowing fully well that she is a fan of Shabana Azmi. Of course, she could easily guess what my intentions were, I was curious to see how she’d react. She didn’t say much after the film. But three days after we watched the film, she asked me if I had any gay friends. She had many questions for me — who were they, did their parents know, how did they realise they were gay, were they happy being gay, was I queer too etc. Her hostility towards the idea of homosexuality had already weakened, at least faintly.

In Fire though, the love between characters played by Nandita Das and Azmi develops by chance, almost as a consequence of their failed marriages. Neglected by their husbands, they turn to each other for comfort initially, and only later are passion and lust infused.
It’s not quite the same as loving someone of the same-sex out of choice. So I’m wondering what to pick up for my aunt next — Wilde or Boys Don’t Cry?