Onir has been relentlessly telling stories about queer people, and he refuses to slow down. Starting his filmmaking career with My Brother… Nikhil in 2005, he has worked on acclaimed films such as Chauranga, I Am and Shab, among others. In an exclusive interview with SCREEN, he asks, “In the world’s largest film-producing country, who’s telling our stories? In the industry, everyone’s telling other stories and it’s not getting exhausting?” His latest attempt in shaping the queer narrative is Nandini, a segment in the anthology My Melbourne. It revolves around the evolving relationship of a Melbourne-based queer writer and his father after the death of his mother, Nandini. In this chat, Onir speaks about how he’s never faced parental opposition, why he urges closeted queer people to come out, and why it’s too soon for him to explore subjects beyond queer identity.
Your segment Nandini revolves around a Bengali father trying to come to terms with his son’s sexuality. How autobiographical is it?
Actually, it’s based on the writer Greg’s (Gregory Francis) personal experience. But when I read the script, I connected with it at various levels. I also thought of My Brother…Nikhil, where the father-son relationship was very important. Being queer, I don’t relate to it personally, but I see so many people from the community still facing the same thing with the family, especially with the father. It touches me even if it’s never been my personal journey. When my father saw My Brother…Nikhil, he said, ‘I’m not like that.’ I said, ‘It’s not about you (laughs).’ It affects me very much, especially to what extent (there’s discrimination). For a lot of queer people, when a close one dies, the access is taken away from them. What I liked about the script is that when we don’t accept someone, it’s not just that person’s loss, but also your loss equally. That’s the realization that the father goes through – by rejecting his son, he’s rejected a part of himself.
You said you don’t relate to this story personally. Do you see that as a privilege? How easy did parental acceptance to your sexuality come?
Many people ask me, ‘What’s your coming out story?’ I tell them, ‘Honestly, I’ve never had a coming out. I don’t have a sad story.’ I think the first person I formally spoke to about this was my sister. I said, ‘Hey listen, I think I’m gay.’ She just said, ‘Cool.’ That was it, really. When my parents figured out, they reached out to me and said, ‘Listen, we love you. And we want to stay with you.’ And that was it. No conversation like ‘Are you sure?’ And I come from a very middle-class family. My parents were teachers. I didn’t go through any trauma. My father was 85 when he told the media that same-sex marriages should be legalized because I want him to have someone in his life, which is recognized. So I’ve been very lucky. I feel it’s important to use our privilege to speak because so many people feel ashamed to own their identity. We’ve to make sure they feel empowered and they can tell their parents, ‘See, they’re out and proud and living a life of happiness.’
What do you think stops queer people from coming out to their families even today?
Even now, when people tell me the reason of them staying in the closet, they say it’s a choice. And I say, ‘Not really.’ You don’t hide being straight. This is a condition. But I always tell young people that your entire identity is not your sexuality. A lot of times, they’re worried that they’d be cut off from their parents’ finance and property. It’s not just family love, but also the other perks that come with. I tell them to be financially independent. After that, if your parents don’t accept you, why do you want to nurture a love that’s not there? Because they love someone that’s not you.
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We don’t see the dead mother, even in flashbacks, in Nandini. But from the interactions of her husband and her son, one gets the feeling that she was the link between the two. How do dynamics change when the mother is taken out of such an equation?
In various queer stories you see, it’s usually the mother who’s much, much more accepting. What spoke to me is when she is ‘absent,’ she becomes the reason to bring them together. The father feels the vacuum more when she’s no longer there. So he feels the need to reach out to the only other person in his life. Which is why he keeps saying, ‘This was your mother’s last wish.’
Towards the end of the film, the son’s partner asks him why he hasn’t told his dad about the good news of a career breakthrough. Why does he not choose to be open with his father now that he’s back in his life?
Even if you accept, it can’t happen overnight. Even though he’s making the effort, it can’t happen that in one day’s time, he’ll go back to hugging his father. Also, it’s not just about his sexuality. He’s been condescending about everything, including his work. His writing has already been dismissed. We had shot another scene in which the father discovers the book deal in the kitchen and feels proud, but while editing, we thought it’s not really needed. The door was closed, and now it’s been opened. But it’s not like immediately, everything is going to be hunky dory.
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The last shot – of ashes spreading in the river – tells that mortality is staring both the father and the son in the eye. Where do you think the story goes from there?
I feel like at the end, what is all this hate, when ultimately, it’s all ash. Why am I holding on to everything when you’re losing the precious time you have. I think it’s a symbolic way to tell each to let go. That’s why you also see that when the ashes are going out, the father gives his hand to the son and they hold hands.
You’ve been telling queer stories since the start of your career. Do you ever feel like exploring other areas, but the community’s expectations are caging you?
I feel like you’re the one who’s caging me. You’re the one who’s discriminating me with the question. You’ve bracketed me as the one who makes queer films. But 2.5 films out of eight films are non-queer. Secondly, will you ever ask a straight filmmaker like Imtiaz Ali, ‘All your life, you’ve done straight love stories. Do you think now you’ve done enough of that and will you now, for a change, do a trans love story or a queer love story?’ No. So the problem is that just because I’m out, this question won’t be asked to all the closeted filmmakers. Unfortunately, this has been a problem right since the start of my career. When My Brother…Nikhil released, the media described me as ‘one of the only out and proud filmmakers.’ I said, ‘Is that a negative?’ It’s almost. I will not become invisible because people bracket me. My journey in filmmaking has been about visibility.
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I feel the straight world is not equipped to tell our stories as much as we’re equipped to tell their stories because I’ve been born accepting the straight world. The straight world is still new to acceptance. Unfortunately, even in the industry, when people are commissioning, they want to see queer stories, but only that they’re comfortable with. Also, they’ll go watching thinking it’s ‘their’ story. I’ll go watch any film without thinking it’s ‘their’ story. How can I be thinking I’ve said enough? Officially, we’re 10% of the population, but it’s much more. Someone has to tell our stories. At least, I’m being honest to my community and trying to help the straight community to accept us and watch us.
My Melbourne releases in cinemas this Friday on March 14.