A New Dawn for Queer Indian Stories

The air is thick with the scent of spices—mango, cumin, and longing. In a cramped Mumbai apartment, two men share a jar of homemade achaar, its tangy heat a secret language of their love. This is the world of Raakesh Rawat’s *Almari Ka Achaar*, a short film that dares to weave queer romance with the earthy warmth of Indian domesticity. In a recent interview with *Cinema Express*, Rawat declared, “LGBT films mostly show characters who are very sad. Just because somebody is gay or lesbian, does not mean that they have to be sad all the time”. He’s right. For too long, Indian cinema has draped queer love in tragedy, as if joy were a forbidden fruit. But *Almari Ka Achaar*—set to premiere at the 22nd Indian Film Festival Stuttgart on July 25, 2025—flips the script, offering a tender, humorous, and unapologetically vibrant take on same-gender love in a conservative society. Let’s dive into this cinematic rebellion, where love is a pickle jar shared in stolen moments, and explore how Rawat’s vision is reshaping queer storytelling in Indian cinema.

The Achaar of Love: A Symbol of Intimacy

In Indian households, achaar isn’t just a condiment; it’s a labor of love, a jar of memories pickled in time. Rawat’s choice to center *Almari Ka Achaar* around this potent symbol is nothing short of poetic genius. “I like the earthiness of the story and the tone and that element of achaar,” Rawat shared. “If my wife and I cook something, we will not share it with anybody. This is how sacred it would be for us”. In the film, the achaar becomes a metaphor for the private, sacred bond between two middle-aged men navigating love amidst societal pressures. It’s not just a pickle—it’s a rebellion against the heteronormative gaze, a declaration that queer love can be as grounded, as flavorful, as the rituals of an Indian kitchen.

Picture this: a dimly lit room, the flicker of a single bulb casting shadows on the wall. Two men sit close, their fingers brushing as they scoop achaar onto a plate of steaming rice. The act is sensual, deliberate, a quiet defiance of a world that demands they hide. This is where Rawat’s storytelling shines—turning the mundane into the erotic, the domestic into the radical. It’s a nod to the queer nightlife of Mumbai’s underground, where stolen glances in crowded bars pulse with the same intensity as a lover’s touch. The achaar, with its sharp tang and lingering heat, mirrors the complexity of their desire—fierce, layered, and unapologetic.

From Tragedy to Tenderness

Indian cinema’s history with queer narratives has often been a tearjerker. Films like *Aligarh* (2015) and *Kaathal: The Core* (2023) have given us gut-wrenching tales of isolation and societal rejection. While these stories are vital, they’ve painted queer love as a Sisyphean struggle, forever rolling uphill against prejudice. Rawat, however, dares to imagine a different path. “I think the balancing act is to keep it simple and treat it tenderly,” he explains. “The film shows the love between two people and is a celebration of love for all kinds of audiences”. *Almari Ka Achaar* doesn’t shy away from the complexities—one lover is married, torn between duty and desire—but it refuses to let pain define the story. Instead, it leans into warmth and humor, offering a vision of queer love that’s as universal as it is specific.

This shift echoes a broader evolution in Indian cinema. As *India Today* noted, “Indian cinema has gradually shifted from stereotypical portrayals of queer characters to more authentic and nuanced stories”. Gone are the days of caricature and mockery, like the transphobic tropes of the ‘90s or the campy sidekicks of early Bollywood. Films like *Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan* (2020) and *Kapoor & Sons* (2016) have begun to challenge heteronormativity, portraying queer characters as complex humans rather than punchlines. Yet, as queer filmmaker Sridhar Rangayan points out, “A lot of queer storytelling is still about pain and trauma”. Rawat’s film is a bold step toward joy, a reminder that queer love can sparkle with the campy glamour of a Bollywood dance sequence, even in a conservative society.

The Censorship Conundrum

But let’s not sugarcoat the spice. Indian cinema operates under the heavy hand of censorship, particularly when it comes to physical intimacy. “Whatever story we tell, we cannot spoon-feed the audience in terms of what is right or what is wrong because censorship and gatekeeping exist in Indian cinema,” Rawat laments. To navigate this, *Almari Ka Achaar* focuses on emotional intimacy, portraying the central relationship as platonic yet deeply romantic. It’s a strategic choice, sidestepping the censor board’s scissors while still conveying the heat of desire through glances, touches, and shared silences.

This restraint is both a compromise and a masterstroke. In a country where public displays of affection—especially queer ones—can invite violence, Rawat’s focus on emotional depth feels revolutionary. It’s reminiscent of the subtle eroticism in Wong Kar-wai’s *In the Mood for Love*, where unconsummated longing burns hotter than any explicit scene. Yet, it’s also a stark reminder of the barriers queer filmmakers face. As filmmaker Onir, known for *We Are Faheem and Karun*, noted, “Queer narratives are often overlooked by major studios and people at large”. Rawat’s ability to craft a sensual, heartfelt story within these constraints is a testament to his skill, turning limitation into art.

The Queer Gaze: Authenticity in Storytelling

What sets *Almari Ka Achaar* apart is its queer gaze, a perspective that producer Neeraj Churi describes as “rooted in the experiences of queer people, reflecting their struggles, aspirations, and tenacity with nuance”. Rawat, who also serves as cinematographer and editor, brings this gaze to every frame. The film’s warm, humorous tone invites audiences into the lives of its characters—played by Manwendra Tripathy and Manoj Sharma—without judgment. It’s a stark contrast to mainstream Bollywood, which has often relegated queer characters to the margins or used them for comic relief.

Think of the iconic scene in *Kal Ho Naa Ho* (2003), where a misunderstanding between two men is played for laughs, or the stereotypical trans characters in ‘90s comedies. These portrayals, while sometimes well-intentioned, reinforced harmful stereotypes. *Almari Ka Achaar* rejects this, treating its queer couple with the same dignity as any heterosexual romance. Actor Roshan Mathew, reflecting on his role in *Moothon* (2019), said he realized “there are no differences” between queer and straight love stories. Rawat takes this universality and grounds it in the specifics of Indian queer life—family expectations, societal pressures, and the quiet rebellion of a shared meal.

Queer Nightlife and Radical Love

To understand *Almari Ka Achaar*’s vibrancy, we must look to the queer nightlife that pulses beneath Mumbai’s surface. In hidden bars and underground clubs, queer Indians carve out spaces of freedom, where sequins glitter, and bodies move to the beat of Badshah and Madonna. These spaces are more than parties—they’re acts of defiance, where love is celebrated in all its forms. Rawat’s film captures this spirit, not through explicit scenes but through the electric charge of intimacy. The achaar jar, like a drag queen’s glittering heels, becomes a symbol of campy, radical love—a love that says, “We exist, and we’re fabulous.”

This echoes the ethos of queer icons like Rituparno Ghosh, whose films like *Chitrangada* (2012) explored gender and desire with poetic boldness. Ghosh, a queer filmmaker who passed away in 2013, paved the way for storytellers like Rawat, proving that queer narratives could be both artistic and accessible. As trans-woman writer Ghazal Dhaliwal shared about *Ek Ladki Ko Dekha Toh Aisa Laga* (2019), “There was an Indo-American girl whose father hadn’t spoken to her for eight years after she came out to him. He watched the film and reconnected with her”. This is the power of queer storytelling—it heals, it connects, it transforms.

The Global Context: Learning from the World

Rawat acknowledges the influence of global queer cinema, citing films like *Call Me By Your Name* (2017) and *Moonlight* (2016). Yet, he notes a key difference: “The Indian audience is not ready for physical intimacy in queer love stories, despite greater exposure to international films”. While Western films can depict explicit romance, Indian filmmakers must navigate a cultural landscape where even heterosexual intimacy is policed. This makes *Almari Ka Achaar*’s emotional focus all the more radical—it proves that love doesn’t need a kiss to burn brightly.

Compare this to the lush sensuality of *Portrait of a Lady on Fire* (2019), where every glance between Marianne and Héloïse crackles with desire. Rawat achieves a similar intensity through restraint, letting the audience feel the weight of a hand on a shoulder, the intimacy of a shared laugh. It’s a uniquely Indian approach, rooted in the cultural practice of *nazm*—the Urdu poetry of love that thrives on suggestion rather than declaration. In this way, *Almari Ka Achaar* joins a global conversation about queer love, adapting its language to an Indian context.

The Road Ahead: Queering the Mainstream

The premiere of *Almari Ka Achaar* at Stuttgart’s ‘Queer Special Program’ is a milestone, but it’s also a challenge to Indian cinema. As Monika Shergill of Netflix India said, “Authentic stories come from authentic spaces”. Initiatives like QueerFrames, a creative incubator for queer South Asian storytellers, are paving the way for more voices like Rawat’s. But the industry has a long way to go. Actor Vidur Sethi, who starred in *Pine Cone*, argues, “I don’t want to only see trauma. I want to see a queer person be intelligent, successful, have a career, and juggle personal life—just like any other human”.

Rawat’s film is a step toward this future, where queer characters aren’t defined by suffering but by their humanity. It’s a vision shared by activists like Sushant Divgikar, who demands, “Please stop with all these love stories” centered on pain. Instead, *Almari Ka Achaar* offers a love story that’s messy, joyful, and defiantly alive—like a Bollywood musical number set in a Mumbai kitchen. It’s a reminder that queer love, like achaar, is a blend of flavors: sweet, sour, spicy, and unforgettable.

A Call to Action

As we await the premiere of *Almari Ka Achaar*, let’s celebrate the audacity of queer Indian storytellers. They’re not just making films—they’re rewriting the cultural script, one tender moment at a time. So, grab a jar of achaar, dim the lights, and let yourself be swept away by the radical, sexy, unapologetic beauty of queer love. Because in a world that tries to keep us in the closet, every story of joy is a revolution.