Queer Lives: Narrations of Research Abroad (May 18)

Finally, it’s here – the big day.
I’m sure I’ve planned everything to perfection. My backpack is filled with my essentials – my computer for taking notes, iPad for collecting forms, backup chargers and a backup charger for the backup chargers – and, if all else fails, a good old-fashioned notebook and pen. I’ve slung my Laidlaw nametag around my neck and double-checked interview times. Finally, dressed and ready to head out the door, I sit down for a moment to pull up my festival tickets – only to realise I’ve selected the wrong theatre for pickup.
Now, let me explain – while I can be a slight klutz sometimes, this blunder has a legitimate explanation. The Kashish Film Festival, voted one of the top five LGBTQ+ film festivals in the world, takes place across three theatres scattered through Mumbai. Each theatre screens different films and hosts different guests – and, most importantly, each theatre is in a different area of the city, making travel between them nearly impossible. I bought my tickets to Kashish months ago, when I hadn’t confirmed interviews yet, so I had selected the theatre nearest to Bandra to pick up my tickets. All of my interviews, though, are taking place in the south end of the city – over an hour away.
All is not lost yet, though! I still have my online confirmation, so my appa and I set out to Liberty Cinemas. On the way, I mentally prepare a speech so rousing and persuasive it’s sure to convince the staff to let me in with my e-tickets despite my physical tickets being miles away.
It’s not needed. When we arrive, I rush into the shade and show my phone to the staff member checking tickets, ready to explain the issue – but they reach across the table and hand me my ticket! By some twist of fate, my ticket’s ended up here after all, saving me from having to awkwardly explain my mistake.
I take a few minutes to look around the venue. Liberty Cinema was built in 1947 – the year of Indian Independence from Britain – hence its name. Like many other buildings in the city, it’s built in a noticeably art deco style, in warm shades of yellow, red, and orange – but today, it’s an explosion of colour. Rainbow butterfly banners line each wall; signs, flags, and posters cover every inch of available space. The cafe in the corner is run solely by members of the transgender, genderqueer, and third gender community. There’s no mistaking that this is, right now, a space for queer people. I’m immediately comfortable, and I can feel my shoulders relax as I look around the room.
It’s still quite early, though. My first scheduled interview isn’t for another hour, and neither is the next movie screening, so my appa and I embark on a quick quest to find something cold. The heat has set in once again, and after a few minutes of walking I feel drenched and uncomfortable. Our saving grace comes in the form of kulfi, a traditional frozen dairy dessert. It’s usually made from flavoured milk – often mango, rose, pistachio, or cardamom – which is slowly cooked in a kadai until it condenses. It’s sometimes described as similar to ice cream, but I don’t find it to be – it's usually denser and richer, and, in my opinion, far better.
The place we go to, Kapoor Kulfi, isn’t a kulfi shop, per se – it's a factory, but when we ask, they let us sit and watch them make the kulfi while we sample different flavours. The narrow, covered room is a welcome respite from the blanket-like heat, and I’m entranced by the chefs in the back – the repetitive, almost rhythmic process of pouring, cooking, and freezing. In that moment, with the hot sun on my back, the kulfi is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
Alas, we can’t stay long. Although I could probably spend hours crouched on the bench, eating kulfi until I’m unable to move, I do have an interview to get to. I meet my first interviewee of the day at a cafe opposite the cinema; we grab a table in the back-room – which is thankfully air-conditioned – and I turn to face her.
I’ve spoken with Aruna previously – online – but I’m thrilled to see her in-person. The first thing I notice is her outfit – she's dressed in a gorgeous, extravagant sari which reminds me of the decorations inside the cinema. I tell her so, and she laughs gently. Everything about her – her smile, soft voice, and care – is unshakeably friendly and warm, but as we talk, I get to know of her determination and commitment to the queer community. While she doesn’t identify as part of the community herself, she’s the mother to a queer child, and has embarked on a decades-long mission on behalf of her loved ones to foster acceptance and safety within families. As I listen to her stories, which range from conversations with young, closeted students to scarier threats from people resistant to her efforts, I’m completely taken aback.
Obviously, being a Laidlaw scholar involves thinking a lot about leadership and the nature of leadership. And while I think there are, of course, many inspirational leaders across the world – some of whom are incredibly well-known – I can’t help but think that the most inspiring people I’ve gotten to meet recently are the people I’m interviewing. And while I can’t share too much about the content of the interviews themselves, I can tell you that I walk away from each one feeling invigorated and reminded of why the area of research I’m pursuing is so important.
I walk with Aruna back to the theatre, where I have a short amount of time before the main event of the day – a parents’ panel – begins. I spend the time racing around the building requesting interviews from anyone and everyone available – a retired professor, an activist, a volunteer, a mother. Finally, I am making defined progress, and as my number of recordings grows so does my confidence.
While I can’t record the parents’ panel, it’s interesting to listen to the stories of kids coming out to grandparents, facing backlash within workplaces or schools, or even recollections of arguments with doctors and professionals. However, I have started to notice something – and I discuss it with my appa after the panel as we’re heading back to Bandra. Right now, in Mumbai, acceptance and queer comfort is a privilege of the rich. Everyone I’ve met is, as we put it, the Bandra crowd. People with money, status, and stability. That’s not to say that queer people don’t exist otherwise – of course we do – but participation in events such as Kashish definitely seems to be limited to a certain demographic.
We make it back to Bandra just in time for our dinner reservation. It’s my appa’s last night in Mumbai, so together with Revathi Auntie and Asok Uncle, we head to Soul Fry, a traditional Goan restaurant just around the corner. I’ve unfortunately lost most of my appetite due to a combination of nausea and medications – but it partially reawakens at the sight of Goan sausage and crab. Just like the cinema, the restaurant is thoroughly colourful – and the food, as well – all vibrant and rich and beautiful.
The room is strangely quiet once my appa leaves to the airport. It’s been a simply amazing experience getting to explore Mumbai with him – and I wish he was here for my final few days – but at the same time I feel like I’ve learnt the city well enough at this point to manage. I don’t have much time to dwell on it, anyways, as tomorrow will bring another busy day at Kashish – and, in true Mumbai fashion, it’s promising to be even hotter than today.
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