Rituparno Ghosh’s death anniversary arrives just two days before Pride Month begins, making this an apt moment to revisit the films through which he brought queer identity into Bengali cinema long before such conversations became mainstream.
At a time when homosexuality was still treated either as taboo or caricature on screen, Ghosh’s work approached queer lives with dignity.
Few films capture this better than Arekti Premer Golpo (2010). Directed by Kaushik Ganguly, the film also marked Ghosh’s acting debut. He played a double role — Abhiroop, a queer filmmaker documenting the life of Chapal Bhaduri, the legendary jatra actor known for playing female characters on stage, and the younger version of Bhaduri himself.
The parallel narratives allowed the film to examine two generations of queer experience. Although set in two different periods, the lives of Bhaduri and Abhiroop mirrored each other as both of them bore the brunt of loneliness that often comes with queer relationships in India.
What made the film remarkable was its empathy. The film focused on the search for emotional acceptance that many queer people seek throughout their lives. The narrative didn’t ‘otherise’ Bhaduri or Abhiroop. Rather, it ‘normalised’ them.
Chapal Bhaduri’s public success as a female impersonator stood in stark contrast to the social isolation he experienced offstage. Through Abhiroop, the film showed how little had changed across generations despite the appearance of modernity.
Ghosh’s performance carried a raw vulnerability that blurred the line between actor and individual. His body language, speech and quiet emotional fragility gave the character an honesty rarely seen in Indian cinema at the time.
If Arekti Premer Golpo dealt with queer love and loneliness, Memories in March (2010) focused on queer grief. Written by Ghosh and directed by Sanjoy Nag, the film unfolded almost entirely through conversations between a grieving mother and her dead son’s partner.
After her son’s sudden death, the mother (Deepti Naval), travels to Kolkata and slowly discovers that he had been in a relationship with a man named Arnab (Ghosh). The film’s emotional force came from its restraint. There were no melodramatic confrontations or lofty speeches about identity. Instead, the screenplay relied on shared silences, and gradual understanding and acceptance of the son’s sexual identity.
Ghosh’s portrayal of Arnab was especially significant because the character was not defined solely by sexuality. He was grieving, lonely and emotionally exhausted. One of the film’s most powerful ideas was how queer relationships are often denied social legitimacy even in death. Arnab mourned someone he deeply loved, yet remained excluded from the traditional structures of family grief.
Memories in March also avoided turning acceptance into a simplistic resolution. The mother’s eventual empathy emerged not through ideological transformation but through recognising the emotional truth of her son’s relationship. In doing so, the film humanised queer love, something Indian cinema had rarely attempted before.
Then came Chitrangada: The Crowning Wish (2012), arguably Ghosh’s most personal film. Inspired by Rabindranath Tagore’s dance drama Chitrangada, the film starred Ghosh as Rudra, a choreographer considering gender reassignment surgery.
Unlike many films dealing with gender identity, Chitrangada refused to be boxed into the binaries. The film explored how identity could become entangled with love, artistic ambition and the desire for social acceptance.
Ghosh used Tagore’s text not merely as adaptation but as conversation, drawing parallels between mythology, gender fluidity and contemporary discourse around the body.
Chitrangada approached the subject of gender reassignment with intellectual depth. It did not reduce transformation into either triumph or tragedy. Instead, the film remained invested in emotional ambiguity. “Be what you wish to be,” once character says during the climax. And that sums up the entire narrative.
What united these films was Ghosh’s refusal to treat queer identity as spectacle. His characters were flawed, emotionally layered and deeply rooted within Bengali cultural life. They existed within families, artistic circles and middle-class social structures rather than outside them.
Today, when queer representation has become more visible across Indian cinema and streaming platforms, these films still feel remarkably ahead of their time. They were not interested in slogans or tokenism. Instead, they asked difficult questions about loneliness, acceptance, grief and the right to live truthfully.
That remains Rituparno Ghosh’s lasting contribution. He gave queer characters an identity at a time when Indian cinema barely allowed them visibility.