Suvrat Kakoti’s Bidurbhai is a remarkable addition to the Assamese film industry. Released in July, it is a true blend of comedy and emotion that leaves a lasting impact. The execution, direction, acting, and cinematography are all top-notch, making it a visual treat.
The movie, however, falls short in some crucial areas, particularly in its portrayal of sensitive issues like queer identities and male survivors of sexual assault.
Certain dialogues and scenes from the film are highly insensitive toward the LGBTQIA+ community. Comedy often relies on double entendres, but this does not excuse making fun of an entire community. The inclusion of a queer character, only to portray them in a derogatory manner with mocking music and extremely exaggerated feminine gestures, is unacceptable.
The clash between the queer villain, a powerful MLA (Ashim Sharma), and the cis-het male protagonist Ujjal (Ujjal Rajkhowa) could have been portrayed in numerous ways without resorting to cheap humour at the expense of queer people and survivors of sexual assault.
Queer characters as punchlines
The film reduces queer experiences to mere punchlines, particularly in scenes where a cis-het man, who gets into gang fights with other cis-het men, is shown as helpless and pitiful against an exaggeratedly feminine gay character taking advantage of him. In reality, it is the other way around: Women and queer people are the most vulnerable groups in society.
Queer men, especially those who are feminine, are more vulnerable to sexual assault. Further, queer people understand the concept of consent just as well as cisgender heterosexual people do. Portraying us as sexual predators is not just problematic, it’s dangerous.
In a country where LGBTQIA+ people, women, and other vulnerable groups already face discrimination, violence, and rape, such representation only reinforces harmful stereotypes. When films like Bidurbhai perpetuate these norms, they help create an environment in which it’s easier to dismiss the real issues.
In one scene, when a man faints, one of the characters suggests giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, to which another responds, “Moi ki gay niki (Am I gay)?” This line, sexualising a life-saving process, reflects profound insensitivity toward queer individuals.
Stree 2 features a similar scene, where the protagonist Vicky (Rajkumar Rao) resuscitates his best friend Jana (Abhishek Banerjee). Unlike Bidurbhai, where the situation is used for cheap laughs, Stree 2 handles it with respect and dignity—the moment is charged with emotion as Vicky desperately attempts to save his best friend’s life.
The most troubling aspect of Bidurbhai is its depiction of a man raping Ujjal. When the survivor takes a shower afterwards, one expects the film to address the trauma he has suffered.
Instead, the scene gets a comedic treatment, with Ujjal showering in a peculiar way that makes the audience laugh even as the character cries.
This made me, as a queer person and rape survivor, extremely uncomfortable, especially seeing everyone in the theatre laughing at this moment.
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Homophobia, insensitivity
Writer-director Kakoti did include a line toward the end: “Lora manuhor logotu dhorkhon hoi (men also can be victims of sexual assault).” But this doesn’t justify the mockery preceding it. This powerful line went unnoticed by those around me in the theatre because the film’s intention of highlighting sexual assault against men does not come from a place of honesty. It is laced with homophobia and insensitivity throughout—Bidurbhai treats its subject as a joke.
The film made me feel unsafe in the theatre. It left me with a profound sense of sorrow and made me realise that queer people’s emotions hold value neither in the real world nor the reel one.
The portrayal of LGBTQIA+ characters and issues in cinema is crucial, especially in India, where legal protections are still evolving. The Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS), the proposed replacement for the Indian Penal Code (IPC), does not contain an equivalent section for IPC Section 377, which criminalised sexual assault against men. This change has left many in the LGBTQIA+ community feeling vulnerable.
The film’s portrayal of queer characters is equally problematic. It often depicts them with exaggerated feminine walks and gestures, reinforcing the stereotype. Queer individuals, like everyone else, have diverse expressions and behaviours. Using queer characters as fodder for comedy undermines the dignity and humanity of LGBTQIA+ individuals.
The song De Bhogoban features boys dancing in a way that feels demeaning, with exaggerated feminine expressions—clearly meant to be laughed at, rather than appreciated for their grace. Watching this was particularly distressing as I was also forced to do the same type of performance during my theatre work. It shows how far the entertainment industry will go to make the audience laugh at the expense of queer people.
Stree 2 also features male background dancers performing highly feminine steps, but the song Aaj Ki Raat celebrates their grace and strength—not a single frame mocks them.
The contrast is stark and telling. Stree 2 portrays its characters—queer or otherwise—with a sense of humanity and respect that Bidurbhai sorely lacks.
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Personal reflections
As an LGBTQIA+ activist and survivor of sexual abuse, these portrayals are deeply painful and triggering. When I was doing theatre from 2003 to 2007, I recall being pressured to perform forced feminine roles multiple times during rehearsals of various plays.
Even though the stories and scripts didn’t demand it, the director improvised these roles on the spot, designed to make the audience laugh at my expense. This made me the target of ridicule and bullying—it left lasting scars.
In one such instance, three boys were sitting on a bench in the dressing room, one of them exposing himself, and they called me over to mock me. I panicked and got out of the room.
During breaks, I would hide to avoid being bullied and assaulted. I cut all ties with my theatre team, even with friends from school and college, and stopped acting despite being good at it. I had been recognised in various newspapers multiple times as the best actor, but the hate I faced took away my acting career. I even stopped dancing, having trained in it for years.
The trauma of having gone through those incidents at such an early age is something I carry to this day.
Suvrat Kakoti and I had worked together on the play Apun Nodir Apun Xaku. I remember him witnessing the bullying I endured for being feminine. He initially participated in it, but later casually told the others to stop it. They never did.
This context makes the insensitive portrayal in Bidurbhai even more disappointing, as it reflects a lack of understanding and growth on Kakoti’s part despite those experiences. Also, seeing people who abused me during my theatre, school, and college years playing various roles in the movie forced me to relive those traumatic experiences.
Some of these actors have called me maiki (faggot) and mocked my dancing and gender expression. They have been part of many other horrible things inflicted upon me.
Watching Bidurbhai, I was reminded of all this hate and bullying that I had repressed for so long.
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Impact of cinema
Films like Bidurbhai reinforce harmful stereotypes, making it harder for LGBTQIA+ people to be seen and respected in society. This is all the more disturbing when one considers the comedic depiction of sexual abuse against men.
Media has the power to shape public opinion and influence social change. The Assamese film industry and filmmakers like Suvrat Kakoti have a responsibility to do better. They must recognise the impact their work has on vulnerable communities and strive to create content that uplifts, rather than demeans.
It’s not just about representation—it’s about respect, dignity, sensitivity, and the power of storytelling to bring about real, material change. As someone who has experienced firsthand the challenges of being part of the LGBTQIA+ community in India, I urge filmmakers to consider the weight of their words and images.
We need stories that reflect our realities, not caricatures that perpetuate our struggles.
Rajesh Paul is an LGBTQIA+ activist from Assam. Views are personal.
(Edited by Prasanna Bachchhav)
Does men have any rights in india??
It’s not funny it’s truth