Queer identity, more often than not, is scripted in tragedy—where the dream of freedom is dangled, only to be withdrawn. It’s not the love that falters, but the premise that queer love can exist unshaken, without consequence. The illusion of the co-existence of queerness with lasting happiness quietly collapses, again and again. Even when we speak of queer joy as urgent and necessary, it remains just out of reach in most narratives. This is why many films in this Pride month aren’t love-conquers-all stories (though they exist), but grounded ones—closer to what is, rather than what should be. They reflect a world where “love is love” still feels more like an aspiration than a reality.
There’s an undeniable beauty in moments stolen from time—the kind that exists only within the cocoons queer people build, away from the world’s gaze. But that world eventually seeps in. The transformation these moments spark is real, but so are the costs. Transgressions don’t go unpunished: families disown, appearances are policed, mobility is stalled and survival itself becomes a question. Films that reflect this often carry a pessimistic weight, but not without purpose. They open out into the layered realities of queerness—how it survives erasure, how silence speaks, and what allyship truly demands.
The recently concluded Kashish Pride Film Festival’s 16th edition in Mumbai offered a mix of such narrative features, shorts, and documentaries that narrated compact, affecting stories of love, longing, and loss. There were three remarkable films among these that I watched—Jodi (If) by Tathagata Ghosh, Jalsa (The Name Day) by Saikat Mondal, and Strawberry Cream by Vishu Sinha—all 2024 premieres, ushering various queer experiences with a tender, honest gaze.
While identities are rooted in and are reflections of our environment, different spaces serve as mirrors, safe havens or even hiding spots from who we really are— depending on the people we share them with. In Strawberry Cream (2024) by Vishnu Sinha, two classmates Tushar (Mihir Ahuja) and Ashwin (Nihal Grover) escape the chaos of Delhi towards the serene breeze of Ashwin’s grandparents’ home in Kashmir. The story gently explores the complexities of inhabiting a queer identity without the language or awareness to name it. However, the film refrains from moral judgement; instead, it quietly bears witness to the disorientation that accompanies unformed desire. The lush strawberry fields, the lavishly rustic bungalow and its mountain roads lend the landscape a character of its own. Ashwin and Tushar are shaped and painted in different hues of their own identities within the space they inhabit. It is here that they first allow themselves to see each other differently than they usually did in class. Similarly, Jaya (Adrija Majumder) and Fatima (Shivamrita Chakraborty) in Tathagata Ghosh’s Jodi (If) (2024) find brief sanctuaries across Kolkata. Whether it is Jaya resting her head on Fatima’s shoulder in a horse carriage, or the two darting through a narrow lane, fingers tightly intertwined. These stolen moments feel tender, yet their secrecy reminds us of a cruel pattern: queerness often survives only when sheltered. The world claims to be more accepting, but it’s a distant, sanitised progressivism. It’s okay for someone else to be queer, as long as it’s not your child, not your blood.
In Saikat Mondal’s Jalsa (The Name Day) (2024), Meneka (Vicky Shinde) and Suresh (Mainak Mitra) are siblings who have reunited after eight years. It’s not just time lost, but a reflection of the deep fractures that come from Meneka being a transgender individual cast out by her family, and Suresh not knowing how to reach the sibling he once knew. When he finally finds her address, he wastes no time—racing to her door with the hope of repairing what the world had broken. Similarly, Jaya in Jodi (If) carries the quiet grief of knowing her family might never accept who she is or who she loves. Her forced marriage to Amit (Bimal Giri) affirms that fear. And yet, her mother eventually sees her, not because she understands queerness, but because she chooses empathy. That kind of allyship is rare. It asks: why must someone suffer for being themselves? For many queer people, especially transgender people, this is a violent truth—to live honestly often means losing the semblance of a home or family itself. And even then, the world demands your conformity, your silence, and denies you the dignity, opportunities, and rights owed to all.
The idea of a “found family,” or the family you choose, holds a resonance in queer communities. When the only family you’ve ever known turns away, the loss isn’t just emotional—it’s disorienting. That’s why found families don’t emerge from convenience, but from the need to survive. In Jalsa (The Name Day), Meneka speaks of her name as “The Kinnar of Heaven,” surrounded by other transgender women who embraced her as their own. It’s a small, contained world—cut off from access, dignified work, or broader visibility—but it is hers. It keeps her happy. It keeps her whole.
Contrary to Meneka, Fatima in Jodi (If) is a Muslim woman quietly out of place in a Hindu locality. Her queerness only sharpens that divide, deepening her need to remain unseen. The film paints her as headstrong, sharp, and alone—someone who’s lost too much too early. When Jaya leaves, Fatima disappears too, without a noise or a notice. What remains is a kind of exile because the warmth of found families and communities isn’t easily accessible. Some people are left watching from the sidelines, choosing solitude over the risk of more loss.
Tushar and Ashwin in Strawberry Cream exist on a quieter, more internal plane—where before community or identity, comes the deeper, often messier need to accept one’s own nature. Tushar lingers in this limbo, circling his feelings for Ashwin against the stillness of Kashmir. Love is distant; even naming desire feels too much. Their misstep isn’t in feeling, but in resisting its acknowledgement. Some embrace that rupture and walk toward clarity. Others retreat, avoiding the risk of intimacy altogether. Both are real. Both are human. But Strawberry Cream wonders: what does queerness look like when it has no name yet?
Camerawork becomes a language in itself—tender, deliberate, and often more revealing than dialogue. Whether it’s the soft focus on alpana being applied in Jalsa (The Name Day), Jaya and Fatima holding each other’s faces in the golden quiet of Jodi (If), or Ashwin and Tushar’s feet brushing gently in Strawberry Cream—the queer gaze lingers within the transience. It carries weight. It lets romance unfold without spectacle, away from the heteronormative script. This kind of intimacy—fleeting, honest and deeply felt—deserves to take up more space on our screens.
While more films should circle back to lived realities, there’s also a deep longing to see queer joy—stories beyond survival, beyond the constant fight to exist. We need more queer narratives told by those who’ve lived them, who want to reclaim their voice, be raw, be loud, be soft—be everything at once. But the truth is, films full of queer joy still feel like a distant dream, one that can’t fully arrive until the world acknowledges queer people with kindness first. Filmmakers like Tathagata Ghosh, Saikat Mondal, and Vishnu Sinha become essential storytellers—offering queer viewers a space where their lives are seen without distortion. Their work quietly signals that there is room for more stories, and that joy, harmony, and inclusion don’t need to be exceptions.
Sakshi Salil Chavan is a documentary filmmaker and an entertainment writer based in Mumbai.
