#KetchupTalks: Sulagna Chatterjee talks about the nuances of queer storytelling, her journey as a writer and so much more!

In a swarm of queer stories that feel forced or tokenist, Sulagna Chatterjee’s work revolving around queer love stories comes as a breath of fresh air. Here’s how it all began for her!

From her early days in Kolkata, where she watched soap operas with her grandmother to her garnering recognition on global platforms, Sulagna Chatterjee's journey reflects a relentless pursuit of doing what you love. As an independent writer-director, her storytelling prowess is evident in projects like Netflix's Feels Like Ishq, where she penned the nuanced queer love story ‘She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not’, and in her short film Olakh, which delves into themes of identity and self-discovery within the confines of a Mumbai home. Chatterjee's dedication to portray authentic experiences, especially within the queer community, highlights her belief in the power of joy and finding solace in everyday moments. As she continues to navigate the challenges of Independent filmmaking, she is making a name for herself in the world of cinema one beautiful story at a time!

Also Read: #KetchupTalks: Nandinee Khosla talks about her film 'The Second Wind' debuting at Cannes, finding her second chance and more!

Here’s how the conversation went!

When did you fall in love with writing, and how did it all begin for you?

It always feels a little surreal to talk about my journey. I must’ve been around 8 years old when I first knew I wanted to tell stories. I grew up in the early 2000s, the golden age of Balaji Telefilms when 8:30 PM meant Kasauti Zindagi Kay and 10:00 PM meant Kahani Ghar Ghar Ki. My grandmother and I would religiously watch them together, provided I had finished all my homework. It was on that screen that I first understood what storytelling could do. The fact that entire households stayed up to watch Mihir’s return, that these stories could make people laugh, cry, hope - it stirred something in me. I didn’t know what “concept,” or “screenplay,” or “directed by” even meant. I was just a kid in Kolkata, far from the hustle of Mumbai. But I knew one thing, every show had one name in common - Ekta Kapoor. That’s when I decided I wanted to be that person someday. The one who made people feel. 

I was always a writer. It was my outlet. I’d spend hours reading, scribbling, reimagining the endings of books or the SonyMax films we caught on TV. We weren’t much of a cinema-going family, but we were voracious readers. Writing professionally felt both accidental and inevitable. I started working during college, digital marketing, PR, even a little reality TV (just one show, to be honest). But when I landed a job in the PR team at Star Plus, I finally got a glimpse of the filmmaking world. People running around with walkie-talkies, yelling “Action” and “Cut.”

That childhood dream came rushing back. I knew I had to chase it. I quit PR, started assisting, and spent a year in advertising, learning the ropes, the pace, the pressure and how to make really good coffee. Then I moved into non-fiction, working with the incredible Shubhra Chatterji. We did three shows together, and eventually transitioned into fiction. Code M felt surreal. I was writing for Ekta Kapoor. Full circle! Since then, there’s been no looking back. I worked on a few more shows as an associate, and finally, in 2020, I decided to go independent. And here we are, five years later, giving an interview about my journey.

A lot of your work revolves around the young adult genre. How different is it to write or direct a film for a younger audience today?

Writing for a young adult audience feels like coming home. It feels like writing for myself, not just who I was, but who I am even today in many ways. There’s a rawness, a restlessness, a need to question the world that defines the YA experience, and I find myself constantly pulled to that space. We’re living in an age where lives are changing at a breakneck speed. Technology has made things easier and harder, lonelier and more connected, all at once. And that dissonance is something young people live with every day, it’s what makes their emotional landscape so complex, and so cinematic. 

I think what’s most exciting, and also challenging, is that today’s youth demands authenticity. They’re sharp, self-aware, and have grown up in a media-saturated world. They can spot tokenism a mile away. They don’t want representation that ticks boxes, they want it to mean something. They want to have difficult conversations. They don’t shy away from calling a spade a spade. They want characters who are flawed, funny, messy, and real. And they want to be spoken to, not spoken down to. As a writer-director, that means constantly unlearning and listening. It means not assuming I know better, but instead asking: What would I have needed to hear when I was 16? What do I need to hear now, as someone still growing, still figuring things out?

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Talk to us about some of the challenges you face as an independent writer-director! How do you think big production banners can help indie filmmakers?

It's actually pretty simple - Fund us. Back us up. Believe in us! One of the hardest parts of being an independent writer-director is raising money. The kind of heartbreak that comes from watching underwhelming, formulaic films get massive budgets and marketing pushes, while we scrape together crowdfunding campaigns, favours, and “passion-project” discounts is indescribable.

I want to be able to pay my HODs their worth. I want to write ambitious scenes without immediately censoring myself for budget or access. I want to imagine big, emotionally or visually expansive films, without being told to “keep it palatable” or “shoot it in one location.” There’s a deeply frustrating expectation that indie filmmakers must be grateful for scraps, that our films are passion projects, not viable products. Or that we’re “niche,” “artsy,” or “too real” to deserve mainstream backing. And that’s where the mindset needs to change. “Market nahi hai” they tell us. It’s your job to create that market. If even a few of the bigger banners set aside a yearly fund, not just to greenlight, but to mentor, incubate, and co-develop work with independent voices, it would genuinely shift the ecosystem. Because right now, most of us are stuck between bureaucratic grant applications and exploitative “no budget” shoots that leave everyone burnt out.

We don’t need sympathy. We need systems. We need access to funds, to networks, to platforms that let us dream just as loud as the rest of the industry. It starts with intent, yes, but it also requires commitment. You say you want fresh voices? Put your money where your PR perception is.

Your episode ‘She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not’ in Feels Like Ishq presents a nuanced queer love story. What inspired this narrative, and how did you approach writing it to resonate authentically with audiences?

Honestly, She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not was deeply personal. When I wrote it, it had been about two years since I came out, loudly and unapologetically. In that time, I had gone through my fair share of heartbreaks, crushes, longing, and those glorious the-world-is-ending kind of feelings that queer love can bring, especially in your twenties. I wanted to write a story that felt lived-in. Something that was silly and awkward and tender, just like most real first crushes are. It was only my second project as an independent writer, and it felt like a huge responsibility. I had been championing the idea of “Let queer people tell queer stories” for years, and now I had the mic. I had to make it count. 

But my goal was never to make a statement. I wasn’t trying to educate or preach. I just wanted queer folks to feel seen. And I wanted straight audiences to laugh with us, not at us. Because what’s more universal than being completely oblivious to whether someone likes you back? We’ve all been there rewriting texts, overthinking glances, doing everything except just saying it out loud. That’s the comedy. That’s the heartbreak. That’s the human-ness of it. So in the end, it wasn’t about grand declarations. It was about the small, awkward, hopeful moments that make us all feel a little less alone. 

How do you normalize writing queer stories on-screen without focusing solely on the challenges of coming out. How do you strike this balance in your writing?

Intent. When you’re a queer person telling a queer story, you know that your life isn’t just struggle. Yes, it’s a part of your identity. But there’s so much more. There’s hope, there’s love, there’s yearning, there’s falling-for-people-who-live-1500-kilometers-away. If one wants to normalize the queer experience, they have to focus of queer joy, because that’s where the magic lies. When you look beyond the romanticized tragedy, you hit gold. It’s not about diminishing the struggle. It’s about looking beyond it, with empathy and not sympathy. And joy, I feel, is the most radical form of rebellion.

Tell us about your short film Olakh. How did it all come together, and what inspired you to make it?

Olakh is, in many ways, the first non-young-adult story I’m sharing that comes entirely from my voice. The seed of the film was planted on a very quiet afternoon during a conversation with my mother. She mentioned, almost offhandedly, that she had forgotten what her favourite food even was. After decades of cooking what the family liked, what the sasural preferred, she was now, slowly, trying to remember and reclaim her own tastes. That hit me hard.

As women, we’re often taught, subtly or overtly to shrink ourselves, to accommodate, to make space for others before even identifying our own needs. Love, belonging, and approval are often tied to how well we can adjust. That’s the emotional core of Olakh. It’s a quiet, intimate story about two women from different castes and classes, finding connection, memory, and a sense of self through the simple, domesticated, yet quietly radical act of cooking together. Food becomes the language of care, of rebellion, of identity. And through that, they begin to reclaim not just the kitchen, but parts of themselves they’d long forgotten.

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You were recently listed in Forbes 30 under 30 Asia. How did it feel when you first heard about it?

It feels… unreal. Honestly, being on the same list as so many incredible artists, change-makers, and people I’ve looked up to, was not on my 2025 Bingo Card. Honestly, I had almost forgotten about it. I had applied, I knew I was shortlisted, and then life happened. I was in the middle of other things, work, fundraising, edits and it slipped out of my head. 

The night the list was announced, I was just heading out for a drink with a friend. It was a regular Friday night. I got a Google alert saying the Forbes 30 Under 30 Asia list was out, and I thought, "Let’s see who made it this year. It's obviously not me." I was just curious! And then I saw my name. I froze. It took me five whole minutes to process what I was looking at. I kept refreshing the page. I think I’m still processing it. 

To be honest, as a young, independent filmmaker with no industry backing, no godfathers, still crowdfunding her next short film, literally trying to raise 4 lakhs just to tell a story with a bit of truth and dignity, this feels huge. Not just for me, but for every single person who’s ever felt like they didn’t belong in the room. This recognition is a reminder: we do belong. We always did. We just had to find a way to hold the door open long enough. And if this makes it even slightly easier for the next independent storyteller to be seen, heard, or backed, then that’s the real win.

Are there particular genres or themes you’re eager to explore in your upcoming work?

I think I’m at a point where I want to explore more mature, layered themes, especially around the evolving dynamics of relationships in our society. The messy, grey spaces between tradition and modernity, love and loneliness, selfhood and connection. 

I’m also really excited by the idea of blending genres and mediums, mixing fiction with documentary, experimenting with form while staying emotionally grounded. Right now, I’m very much in the trenches of writing an atmospheric docu-fiction, which I'm struggling with, that explores young adults navigating identity, silence, and the desperate need to be heard. It’s a bit experimental, very personal, and constantly making me question what storytelling even means, which, honestly, is the best kind of chaos to be in.

You can follow Sulagna's journey here!

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