Have you ever visited a place after seeing it in a film? What was the experience like? Did you expect to find things a certain way? Were you surprised by what you encountered there? I am curious because of my recent adventures in Kochi, the setting of Sachin Kundalkar's film Cobalt Blue (2022), which I watched on Netflix. I happened to enjoy the movie and the city.
A beautiful process unfolded as I allowed myself to prioritise feelings over plans, small pleasures over big moments. Simple things came alive because of associations that I carried from the film. Kochi queered itself for me because I made the journey with Tanay (played by Neelay Mehendale) and the unnamed artist (played by Prateik Babbar) in my heart. The chemistry between those men in Kochi was the only thing from the film that worked for me. Things do not work out for them in the end but let us focus on the good times for now.
Some characters are so beautifully imagined and depicted that they help you enter a place in an unusual way, almost as if they are there to welcome you and take you around. I felt their presence most strongly when I was checking out the art at Pepper House in Fort Kochi. In the film, we are told that the artist arrives in Kochi from Landour in Himachal Pradesh because he has been commissioned by spice warehouses that are being turned into art galleries.
Taking in the ambience of that cultural centre, which was partly shut due to low footfalls during the COVID-19 pandemic, I remembered so many scenes from the film – when Tanay and the artist discover their shared love of Ruskin Bond, when Tanay sniffs to find out what the artist smells like, when they sit facing lotus blossoms waiting for the pet tortoise to show up, when Tanay caresses the keys of the artist's typewriter, when Tanay kisses the artist's book, when the artist photographs Tanay while he is asleep, when Tanay inhales the fragrance from the artist's shirt drying on a clothesline, when the artist gets a head massage from Tanay, when Tanay and the artist sit in a tub and splash water at each other, when they wake up from a night of lovemaking on the riverbank to a majestic elephant greeting them.
No, I wasn't seeing any apparitions. Thank you for asking. I was just trying to figure out what it must be like for two queer men in Kochi to be out and about on a regular day. It was a way of assessing safety – physical and emotional – for myself in a place that was exciting but new to me. One cannot always look for a rainbow flag to know whether a space is safe for not. There is something precious and powerful about trusting intuition, and going with the vibe.
Later, I thought of Tanay and the artist when I saw two guys sharing a ghee roast dosa at the Indian Coffee House in Ernakulam – one of them looking left and right before feeding the other a chutney-soaked morsel with his right hand. It was a stolen moment of intimacy, a quickie if you will, for what could be more intimate than feeding someone lovingly, or even eating off the same plate in a country like ours filled with taboos around inter-caste dining.
On another day, while I was sipping from a large glass of Sharjah shake – a cold beverage made using milk, bananas, and Horlicks, the manager told me – a waiter came to my table and asked about the book that I was reading. He said it reminded him of his younger days when he used to read. He doesn't read now because work leaves him with no leisure time.
It was a sweet, heartwarming exchange – only about books – but there were shared glances and knowing smiles. Sometimes, it is enough to acknowledge each other quietly. There is no need to ask: How do you identify? What are your preferred pronouns? Are you out, honey? A brief encounter can be memorable in itself. There is no need to stretch it out, exchange numbers, follow each other on social media handles, and make an epic out of a short story.
Tanay and the artist popped up in my mind again on Bolgatty Island while watching a Kathakali performance at the opening of the Kerala Travel Mart, an initiative to boost tourism. The painted faces of the dancers, their graceful movements, their expressive eyes, all the grandeur and excess on that stage made me think of all queer boys who have loved make-up, clothes and dance since childhood but have been forced to hide or downplay their interest in whatever is deemed feminine – and, by extension, inferior, and unworthy of emulating.
Later, when I went to Willingdon Island to check out stalls by travel companies and tour operators, I wondered what kind of options queer people like Tanay might have today if they chose to travel outside Kochi to other parts of Kerala. It was disheartening to note that most hotels, resorts and homestays with stalls there had not factored in the needs of queer clients.
Some of them were not even familiar with the term LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender), which was a surprise, considering that the tourism industry has a lot to gain from serving these clients – if not from the standpoint of social justice, at least commercially. The immense untapped potential in this sector is mind-boggling. If queer people are willing to pay, it seems pragmatic to address their needs. That is how one usually attracts customers.
Just as I was about to leave, I met a woman who confided in me that her property is not advertised as LGBT-friendly or queer-friendly because she is still learning from her daughters about these identities and experiences that she has been unfamiliar with. She was once contacted by a lesbian couple who wanted to book a room for a holiday. Apparently, they had a good time, and they told their friends. Word of mouth is how queer people often share information – whether it is about accessing therapists, doctors, estate agents, or hotels.
That conversation struck an optimistic note for me. I was happy to meet someone who was ready to go beyond talking about Kerala's "progressive" credentials, and was willing to acknowledge that there is a big gap in terms of safety, acceptance, and solidarity. Allies make a world of difference when they commit to doing what they can in their sphere of influence.
Neither Tanay, nor the artist, openly identify as queer. Their story is set in a time before the Supreme Court read down Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code to decriminalise "carnal intercourse against the order of nature" but the film ends with Tanay looking at posters of Deepa Mehta's film Fire (1996) plastered on the walls of Kochi. Change is already in the air.
By including this scene in his film, Kundalkar reinforces the well-known fact that the release of Fire was one of the biggest milestones in the history of queer rights movements in India. It would be easy for a viewer, who is not queer, to miss the significance of those posters on the walls. But they matter to me, and I think that they would matter to Tanay and his unnamed queer literature teacher (played by Neil Bhoopalam) too – if not the artist – because we owe so much to our queer elders. If I feel safe writing this piece today, it is thanks to the efforts of people who came before me, who wrote, spoke up, demanded rights so that I could thrive.
Chintan Girish Modi is a journalist, commentator, and book reviewer.