media wart

There are some men on the bus I would never sit next to. Some people in the office I would never ask help from. Some writers I’d never read after a really offensive book/article. Once the judgement shapes itself, it takes too much to remold it. I’ve always been quite at peace with my little prejudices. (Not to be equated with customs officials detaining a passenger because he has a Muslim name) Until recently.

Being at the receiving end of niggling suspicion isn’t pleasant. At all. I faced not one, but several raised eyebrows recently.

A film festival on sexuality and being queer is, to me, a great effort at awareness, clarification, and celebration. And I said so. But because I held a mike in my hand and had a cameraman in tow, this was simply chastised by many as a cover to a more malicious intent. Skeptics felt (some even said) I was being warm so some poor soul would unwittingly reveal he had a boyfriend and I’d flash his “disgusting illegal desires” on TV news.

First, I was asked if it was a Hindi or English channel. The latter put most people at ease. I was even sent after a journalist from a sister Hindi channel to have a “journo-to-journo talk and ask her to please not shoot the people who’ve come to the festival”. I was, on the other hand, given a relatively free hand. Decent English channel privileges.

Then there were those who asked me pointedly whether I knew what LGBT was. “Do you know the difference between a hijra and a transsexual?” Each time I interviewed a filmmaker, I went through a test designed to ensure failure. This, I could handle. But the cold shoulders, obvious escapades behind curtains, sudden cropping up of super-urgent appointments— the passive avoidance tactics… these were purely insulting. People would probably have been more welcoming if I were digging at my oozy wart with my claws. Even in that case, I’d have to dump my Press ID card and mike somewhere.

To make things worse, my cameraman, utterly unused to any expression of sexuality outside a drunken boys’ party, was shooting away. The posters, films, anybody holding hands... everything was material. It was worrying, but understandable. Despite he and I being “one unit” and all that, he wasn’t in my head.If there was an anti-street-harrassment installation with a blow up of a woman with a torn blouse, he thought “here’s this picture on display. People are seeing it. So what if I shoot it?” So he zooms in and out of her cleavage. I told him it’s art, yes, but we cannot use close-ups of blow-ups of breasts on TV. He kept asking a defiant "why?" And I failed miserably in explaining. Of course, I edited those visuals out while putting the story together. But his excited shooting at the venue didn’t help my already suspect objective of being at the festival.

I realize there has been enough nonsense on television news to worry people. It’s always either a question of morality and westernization, or a matter of fascination: an “oddity” to be curious about. But keeping aside the question of whether the mainstream media should be involved at all, (I think it should be, responsibly), lately, there have been several honest attempts by journalists to cover queer issues. There isn’t enough space on 24-hour news for a full-fledged debate yet, but questions have replaced comment, and responsibility—whether self-motivated or imposed— has definitely increased. So especially now, the reverse stereotyping is getting a little old.

The festival directors knew what I was doing there, and were fortunately, unruffled about my camera and my presence. But weeks after the four-day film festival, I’m still wondering what do about my invisible media wart.