Holy Curse, a short film, explores themes of queer identity, patriarchy, and the caste system. We decode what it communicates
Radha is a teenager who does not conform to the gender binary
There is a room with pink walls — the furniture in its place. Two frames adorn the walls of the room, and a figure pushes against the door when their family constantly knocks from the outside, urging them to come out. “I want to go back home,” says Radha, a teen with short hair, wearing a blue tank and shorts, as they take their suitcase and rummage through it. This image sets the scene for the film Holy Curse, a 15-minute short film that traces the evolving identity of the protagonist, Radha.
Where is home, or rather, what is home? For Radha, who has returned back to India from the United States, their family — their mother, father, uncle and cousin Bittu, do not offer the comforts of home any more. Their uncle insists on carrying out a ritual to cure the way Radha acts, constantly reiterating the fact that they seem to be cursed by an ancestor as the reason for their “queerness”.
Their mother unknowingly reinforces a lot of norms
The ritualised version of the conversion therapy is suggested due to how Radha does not conform to the image of an ideal daughter in a patriarchal household. They do not grow their hair out, do not play with dolls, or wear clothes that would be traditionally considered more feminine. All of these acts do not sit right with the family’s perception of gender binaries, and how Radha seems to exist outside of them. Snigdha Kapoor, the writer and the director of the film, states that she derives inspiration for the storyline from parts of her own experience growing up, “When your body changes, the environment tells you who you are, how you should be, how you should act. People start enforcing ideas around your identity, and it restricts how you express yourself,” she says.
Kapoor’s memories shape not just the plot but the film’s emotional grammar. She focuses on the concept of gaze in film. “The idea came from a phase of life — those bodily changes, and how something biological like getting your first period doesn’t change your sense of self, but changes how people see you,” she says, expressing how these themes form the film’s core message.
Snigdha Kapoor, writer and director
Radha does not have a space to express themselves, and their feelings are dismissed. The film further communicates the hierarchy of an Indian patriarchal household — a subtle reminder of how elder male figures control everything and how everyone has to oblige with whatever they say, sometimes not even due to compliance, but conditioning. As Kapoor explains, “Writing this wasn’t theme-focused; it was intuitive. I was channelling that anger. Now, being older, I understand where the family comes from—these inherited belief systems are so hard to question. I wanted to capture the emotions that come from navigating that.”
The name Holy Curse itself is a paradox, and connects the Brahminical rituals that the family tries to engage in to “cure” their child, and the way they believe that being different is a curse. Kapoor unpacks it beautifully, “Your biology can become the cause of expectations or norms being imposed on you. The word symbolises traditions that families think are sacred. The curse is what happens when you don’t align with those beliefs.”
She further adds, “Sometimes things said in the name of love end up hurting you. So the title captures that irony—how something considered holy can become a curse when it forces you into an identity that doesn’t fit.”
The film explores the delicate thread that intertwines Radha with their sense of self, and the director does a phenomenal job of portraying it for an audience that may also be exposing themselves to something related to queer identity for the first time. “I think the biggest thing is allowing someone who hasn’t experienced this to walk through Radha’s journey. You don’t have to agree with what the child thinks of themself, but you must give them space to figure it out instead of telling them something is wrong with them,” Kapoor says, “Even if someone hasn’t been exposed to queer experiences, they can relate to the human experience.” She prefers calling it a “human story”, stating that it avoids the othering of the notion of queerness in films.
The film’s 4:3 aspect ratio communicates a feeling of confinement and uneasiness to the viewer, with the composition and character building following a similar logic. “Scenes with family around Radha feel staged and restrictive: the priest, the ceremonies, even the opening shot with everyone outside the door,” Kapoor explains. In contrast, the camera becomes fluid whenever Radha is alone or in a safe space with their cousin Bittu. “The jarring cuts mirror Radha’s emotional turbulence. A 12-year-old doesn’t have the tools to understand what’s happening to them, so the audience shouldn’t feel entirely comfortable either.”
Characters like Radha’s mother show us how the person who might love the most may unintentionally enable harmful norms. Kapoor also adds how the family changes more than Radha does — their cousin Bittu ends up as an ally, becoming Radha’s source of gender euphoria. The frame of the film finally opens up when Radha commits an act of self-liberation — the world around them might not have changed, but they reclaimed their space in it.
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