Kavery Kaul is a filmmaker and the founder of riverfilms. She was born in India and is based in the U.S. Her works have been featured at DOC NYC, Telluride, London, Rotterdam and Sydney Festivals, among other major festivals. Her short documentary “Cuban Canvas” was an Imagen Award Nominee, and a Margaret Mead Film Festival Selection. The 2014 Fulbright Fellow’s documentary feature “Long Way from Home” was a Film Threat, Time Out, and Booklist Critic’s Pick. 

“The Bengali” starts screening at the 2021 DOC NYC Film Festival on November 13. The fest runs from November 10-28.

W&H: Describe the film for us in your own words.

KK: “The Bengali” takes the viewer on an unlikely quest when African-American author Fatima Shaik travels from New Orleans, the city of her birth, to a part of India where no American has ever gone. Her grandfather, Shaik Mohamed Musa, and [a number of] other South Asians in the late 19th century married African-American women. Fatima is a granddaughter of this vibrant cultural tangle.

In India, she searches for her past, his descendants, and the truth in the stories she grew up with. 

W&H: What drew you to this story?

KK: I was born in Kolkata, and moved to the U.S. at the age of six. My late mother told me there were Indians who had come here long before us. As a history teacher, she knew that ours was a missing chapter in the narrative of race, culture, and immigration.

I had heard that men from India arrived in the U.S. in the late 19th century, before the Asian Exclusion Act of 1924 prohibited Indians from entering the U.S. On the East coast, they found themselves welcome in the African-American community, where they married and built families in an America that held them all at arm’s length.

“The Bengali” reclaims that past of our Indian diaspora. It reflects the many global migrations that shape our world. And the cultural blend that often comes out of it. 

It falls upon filmmakers like me to take audiences across boundaries. To tell stories that bring our different communities together through a genuine exploration of the ways of thinking that often spark distrust of the unfamiliar. Because we ourselves have been the unfamiliar, [it is important] to insist that we be heard and seen.

W&H: What do you want people to think about after they watch the film?

KK: I wouldn’t want to tell people what to think. All my films have many layers, multiple threads, that I weave together as a director. “The Bengali” is no exception. It tells a story that holds resonance for different people, for different reasons. Each viewer will take away what moves them, what touches them.

I know that black and brown immigrant populations are continually pitted against each other, but in reality, our communities have a long history of meaningful associations. I hope “The Bengali” makes these connections stronger and even more relevant.

I want all audiences to hear the laughter of Fatima and the village women. Filming in the American South and a South Asian village on the opposite side of the world, I want to give viewers a chance to walk in the shoes of someone they may never meet. And to discover family they never expected. Creativity can take viewers on a surprising and satisfying journey of discovery.

W&H: What was the biggest challenge in making the film?

KK: From the beginning, funding was impossible to secure. Despite the large scope of the project, I was told repeatedly that it was “a small story that had no audience.” Most funders seemed to think that if they didn’t know this story, it didn’t need to be told. No one would want to see it.

But we all go to see films — whether we’re women, or South Asian, African-American, or of another ethnic background. We are a large audience. What’s more, I know that in a specific story, one can find the universal. I’m an immigrant. We immigrants bring with us the rhythms of our way of life, the colors of the world we come from. We take from our new world the possibilities it has to offer. That’s how we make progress.

In someone else’s grandfather, you can see your own — regardless of the color of their skin.

On the ground, when I told people in New Orleans and in India about the film, they were surprised that they didn’t know this story and were enthusiastic about seeing the story told. They wanted the world to know this unrecognized past. It’s their support that helped me face the grim and overwhelming challenges posed by those who didn’t see it that way.

W&H: How did you get your film funded? Share some insights into how you got the film made.

KK: This film was funded with difficulty. It was a long and arduous journey. I’m very grateful for the Fulbright Fellowship that made it possible for me to spend time in India, developing the project and shooting there. It came at a time when I’d just begun to wonder how I was possibly going to make this work.

The rest was a patchwork job through a combination of institutions and individuals. 

W&H: What inspired you to become a filmmaker?

KK: I was lucky to spend my youthful years in places where there were a few people, who, even back then, thought out of the box. A “quirky” Harvard professor initiated a whole class to the films of the Indian director Satyajit Ray. There were only six of us in the class, but that was all for the better.

The visionary Dan Talbot of New Yorker Films featured films like Sarah Maldoror’s “Sambizanga” on the big screen. It was one of the first films directed by a woman in sub-Saharan Africa.

These films told stories that opened doors and crossed divides. They captured the heart and engaged the mind. They inspired me to become a filmmaker. I still go back to them to keep moving forward. My own work is also character-driven because I believe that people are at the heart of any story — and stories shape our beliefs, our way of life, and our perspectives of the world.

W&H: What’s the best and worst advice you’ve received?

KK: I learned directing by spending some years as a film editor. In those days, I remember Mike Nichols once saying, “When you’re making a film, if it works, do it.” It was at a time when documentarians had a lot of rules about form and content. I’m so glad that’s changed. You have to let filmmaking be a process that may not always be explicable, but always be magical.

The worst advice came at a meeting when I asked if we could begin. I was told very dismissively that we should wait for the director to get there. I was shocked. But not enough to listen. I didn’t take the advice. I was the director. A woman. Of color. The director. So I said, “Well then, let’s get started.”

W&H: What advice do you have for other women directors? 

KK: Filmmaking allows me to give voice to the world as I see it. It’s my answer to those who would rather I remain invisible.

So believe in yourselves, hold on to your passion and determination.

The question has often been asked — If a tree falls in a forest and there’s no one around to hear it, does it still make a sound? Our films make sound. We have our voices. It’s the others who need to hear it.

W&H: Name your favorite woman-directed film and why.

KK: There are many woman-directed films I count among my favorites — Aparna Sen’s “36 Chowringhee Lane,” Iciar Bollain’s “Yuli,” Agnès Varda’s “Cléo de 5 à 7,” Chinonye Chukwu’s “Clemency.” They all need to be mentioned because we can’t let there be just one woman director in our world.

“36 Chowringhee Lane” was the Indian actress Aparna Sen’s 1981 directing debut. It’s the story of an Anglo-Indian woman in post-Independence India, deceived by the false friendship of a young couple. It’s a beautifully directed and acted, very tender portrait that weaves together intricate themes of belonging, loneliness, and aging through a woman’s eyes.

Iciar Bollain’s “Yuli” tells the story of the legendary ballet dancer Carlos Acosta. As a director, she cuts through the surface to capture the rawness of his early years and the conflicts of race and culture, later when he becomes the first black member of the Royal Ballet. And she knows how to make the dance sequences pull the viewer into Acosta’s own passion.

Agnès Varda’s “Cléo de 5 à 7” was made over 50 years ago. Its opening tarot card reading sequence is such an intriguing and concerning window into the main character’s personal health questions as well as an introduction to a larger look at how women are perceived.

W&H: How are you adjusting to life during the COVID-19 pandemic? Are you keeping creative, and if so, how?

KK: COVID-19 has been a shocking, endless period of isolation, as well as a period of personal and professional uncertainty for us all. I appreciate Zoom and WhatsApp, but I miss in-person contact with friends and family, far and near.

Creativity has been a refuge during the pandemic. I’ve been able to work on new film ideas and do a lot of writing. I’m lucky to be able to disappear into that unreal world and escape for a little bit [from] the threats of the real world.

W&H: The film industry has a long history of underrepresenting people of color onscreen and behind the scenes and reinforcing — and creating — negative stereotypes. What actions do you think need to be taken to make it more inclusive?

KK: There has to be a change in mindset before actions can have any lasting significance. There needs to be space for different stories. An awareness that “different” filmmakers bring much-needed other perspectives about what stories need to be told and how.

In my films, I introduce viewers to people they may never have met otherwise, or even be comfortable meeting ordinarily.

As a child, I found myself in a strange, new world where people eyed samosas with suspicion. Today, chicken tikka masala is a popular favorite, and Basmati rice is sold in supermarkets. So that’s a tiny step forward, but that’s progress. And believe me, food is a serious indicator of transformations in the popular imagination.

But in my experience, you can find genuine curiosity on the ground. It doesn’t always reach the top. The documentary world and the film industry would need to develop its own genuine curiosity — about different voices and another gaze.

We need fresh stories that break away from the conventional victory of good over bad. We need stories that capture all the shades that color the real lives of people. For some of us, that means stories that embrace who we are rather than perpetuating who others think we are, or want us to be.

There’s room for all of us if there’s a willingness to recognize there’s something to be gained from the stories that have yet to be told — because it’s those “different” stories that lend richness to our lives and broaden the cultural landscape.