On a quiet evening at the 17th International Documentary and Short Film Festival of Kerala (IDSFFK), the screen at Kairali Theatre came alive with a voice that refused to be silenced, a personhood that resisted invisibilities.
A. Revathi opens up about her life in P Abhijith's documentary, I Am Revathi
‘I am Revathi’, the protagonist proudly declares in P Abhijith’s documentary of the same name. At first glance, it is just an ordinary statement. However, as the story unfolds, these words swell with defiance, vulnerability, and dignity — the weight of a lifetime carried in a single line.
For A Revathi, a transwoman fromTamil Nadu, who has weathered rejection, violence, and endless questions on her existence, the act of naming herself is a matter of survival. Sitting down with us she speaks softly yet firmly: “When I say I am Revathi, I am telling the world that I exist. They cannot erase me, no matter how hard they try.”
The documentary captures her journey with a rawness that lingers long after the credits roll. But Revathi insists this is not just a film about her — it is a mirror held up to society. “People think they know us, but they only know the stereotypes. My story is not only mine — it is the story of thousands who are never heard.”
Revathi recalls her earliest memories as being filled with confusion. Growing up, she felt different, but there was no vocabulary to explain it. “In school, I was teased. Teachers ignored me. My own family looked at me like I was a mistake,” she says, her words tinged with the exhaustion of recounting wounds that never truly heal.
For years, she lived a double life — one in which she was forced into silence, and another in which she secretly imagined the freedom to be herself. But the world outside, she says, was unforgiving.
“Everywhere, people asked me: Who are you? Are you a man or a woman? Why do you walk like that? Why do you talk like that? I was never allowed to just exist.”
The film’s title, “I Am Revathi”, resonates deeply with her. She explains that reclaiming her name was an act of resistance. “When I chose the name Revathi, it was like being born again. That name carries my pain, but also my power. It is the name of the person I fought to become.”
Her insistence on identity is echoed in the film’s most powerful sequences, where her voiceover cuts through silence. Abhijith may have framed the film, but Revathi’s words are its heartbeat.
Revathi is frank when asked about Kerala’s supposed progressiveness. “People say Kerala is educated and forward-thinking. But when it comes to transgender people, the same society shuts its eyes. They love to clap for us on stage, but in real life, they don’t want us near them.”
She recalls being denied jobs, harassed in public spaces, and even facing violence at the hands of those who claimed to ‘protect morality’. Her voice hardens: “Do you know what it means to be laughed at every single day? To be thrown out of buses, refused by landlords, insulted in hospitals? People see us as entertainment, not as humans.”
While Abhijith’s direction gives the film structure, Revathi believes its strength is that it does not sensationalise her story. “He didn’t tell me what to say. He didn’t ask me to cry for the camera. He just let me speak. That itself is rare. Usually, others want to speak for us. This time, I spoke for myself.”
Her words expose the paradox of representation. While queer and transgender characters are becoming part of Indian cinema, Revathi argues that most of those roles are mere caricatures. “When films show us only as jokes or tragedies, society believes that is all we are. I wanted this film to break that pattern.”
At IDSFFK, the film concluded with a long and loud applause, a gesture that visibly moved Revathi. But she remains cautious. “Claps are good, but claps alone will not feed us. After the applause, will anyone give us jobs? Will anyone rent us a house? That is the real test.”
Yet, she does not dismiss the importance of festivals like IDSFFK. “This festival gave me a stage. It gave me visibility. For someone like me, who has spent a lifetime being invisible, that matters.”
Revathi’s resilience is almost unsettling in its clarity. She knows her fight is far from over. “Every day, I have to fight. To walk on the road without fear. To be respected as a worker. To live like any other human being. That fight doesn’t end just because a film was made about me.”
She smiles faintly, then adds: “But the fight also makes me who I am. If I did not resist, I would not be Revathi. I would just be one more existence swallowed by silence”.
One of the dangers that worries Revathi is being reduced to an object of sympathy. “I don’t want people to look at me and say, ‘Oh, poor thing’. I want them to see my strength. To respect me, not pity me. That is why I spoke in this film.”
This distinction, she argues, is crucial in changing attitudes. “Sympathy is temporary. Today they feel sorry, tomorrow they forget. Respect is permanent. That is what we need.”
(Written by Threyambaka A B)
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