For far too long, Indian cinema has had a fraught relationship with representation of the marginalised or invisible. And one of those that’s been perpetuated unfairly for way too long—through caricaturisation or demonisation—has been the portrayal of queer people. In a country where mainstream films impact society and drive the economy in a big way—by 2020, the industry is projected to earn up to $411 million—it’s not an exaggeration to say that representation really does matter. This is particularly true in India, which decriminalised gay sex only last year. But Mumbai-based Faraz Arif Ansari, one of the few queer filmmakers in the industry, is set to shake things up.

VICE recently met the 33-year-old, whose film Sisak —India’s first queer silent film about two young men who see each other on the Mumbai local train but are unable to say anything to each other—came at a time when LGBTQ rights were criminalised (in 2017), and ended up with 59 international awards. He’s now back with Sheer Qorma , a love story between two Indian Muslim women. Here, he opens up about why he will never stop making queer films even though the country, and Bollywood, are clearly not ready for it.

I’ve always wanted to make films. It started with me as a child—as young as four—who staged elaborate skits involving Barbies and He-Man for family gatherings during festivals. But we all knew there was something in my ability to tell stories. I grew up surrounded by inspiring women in my family, who've done pathbreaking things in their own lives, and when you have that, you grow up with a very different understanding of the world by default. It's not a very toxic-masculinity kind of understanding; even my father is a very gentle creature. So when, in school, I heard a lot of "He's not like us", or "He's different", when sexuality and being a Muslim came into play as part of my identity, I just carried on with my life and did what I believed in.

I've always had this insane reservoir of dreams inside me. There are days when I feel absolutely defeated, but I always go back to this reservoir and say to myself, “You do what you want.” I've become my own agony aunt. This is what happens to queer people because you don’t have anyone to reach out to. Interestingly, I've never had to struggle with my own sexuality. I was always like, “I like boys, and it’s okay.” But even though I never made a big deal out of it, everyone around me was very uncomfortable, which I could never understand. Looking back, maybe that comfort came from the fact that I was surrounded by amazing women.