Perhaps it is through artists that we come to see stories we might never have known otherwise, stories that exist beyond the margins. Body of Our Own is one such film. Centered on the lives of three women from the Hijra community, offering a perspective rarely seen on screen.
The film is brought to life by Rahemur Rahman and Lily Vetch. Rahman, an award-winning London-born designer, filmmaker, artist, and Senior Lecturer at Central Saint Martins, brings a multidisciplinary approach shaped by South Asian heritage, queer identity, and decolonial craft, with recognition from the British Fashion Council, British Council, and the Victoria and Albert Museum. Vetch, a London-based director, photographer, and producer, is known for her work exploring gender, femininity, and subcultures through global documentary projects, as well as through her independent production company, Otto Pictures.
We sat down with both directors to discuss the making of Body of Our Own – from the years-long process behind the film to their work within the Hijra community itself. They reflect on the importance of building trust, the responsibilities of representation, and why taking time was essential to telling this story with honesty and care.
View of the Arts: Body of Our Own follows three very distinct members of the Hijra community, each with a beautiful personality and aspirations. How did you decide to focus on Momo, Neshi, and Jannat, and what drew you to their individual stories?
Lily: We were incredibly lucky. Rahemur spent two weeks laying serious groundwork before I arrived, and through our charity advisor Joya Sikder, we were introduced to our three characters within a day of my landing. Just the three of them – and they were perfect. Soulful, charismatic, completely themselves. People normally spend years searching for the right subjects; we were gifted that from the start, which meant all of that time could go into building trust and going deeper instead. That made all the difference.
Rahemur: When we decided to make a documentary in collaboration with Hijra and Trans charities, our first step was finding the right charity partners. Through Joya Sikder, who runs Somporker Noya Setu, we met many Hijra women, and as Lily mentioned, we were immediately captivated by Neshi. She had a warm smile and a sharp sense of humour, and we knew she would win people over just as she had won us over. Momo and Jannat, whom we met in 2019, used to live together at a time when Jannat was Momo’s Chela (disciple/daughter). From the moment we met them, it was clear they both knew exactly what they wanted and were determined to get it.
VOA: The film was shot over seven years. How did this long-term process shape the intimacy and trust that comes across on screen?
Lily: When we first filmed, we had a larger crew – camera operator, sound, the full setup. The content was incredible and became the backbone of the story, but that formal environment had a ceiling. We knew we needed to go deeper, more guerrilla. The moment it was just Rahemur and me, the dynamic shifted completely. Trust was also built over time, beyond the camera. During lockdown, we raised £10,000 for the women through Joya’s charity – and when they saw we weren’t chasing clickbait but were genuinely in it for the long haul, they opened their worlds to us in ways we never could have anticipated. That’s when the real film began.
Rahemur: We started filming shortly after I had come out to my own family, and was very quickly ostracised. In many ways, watching these women show love to themselves, in a world that so often wouldn’t, helped heal something in me that was hurting. I grew extremely close to all of them, but especially Jannat. We were both hopeless romantics at heart, just wanting to be cuddled, adored, and protected. Our shared pain of being far from our families is what held us together. It’s what allows the lens of this film to feel intimate, to feel real. It’s through this collective vulnerability that we were able to enjoy the highs so deeply, too.
Lily and I made a conscious choice to break the documentary rule of objectivity. We chose instead to build real friendships, ones that have lasted. I speak to them regularly, mostly through voice notes and memes, swapping updates about our lives. We wanted that warmth to be felt on screen, in the way we frame them, in the sounds the viewers hear.
These three women are, I hope, now sisters to the world. They have something to teach us all.
VOA: The documentary portrays its subjects actively shaping their own narratives through performance, self-presentation, and digital expression. How did you balance observing their lives with highlighting their agency?
Lily: Rahemur and I had long, long discussions about how to approach this. Being self-taught actually became one of our greatest assets – I taught myself to shoot, Rahemur handled sound, and because we weren’t working from any formal framework, we could be playful, instinctive, and completely flexible in the spaces we were in. There was no wrong way to shoot. It was just: keep shooting. Ultimately, we were at the whims of the women, entirely. We’d suggest loose activities for the day, but mostly we just followed them around and did what we were told – and it was an extraordinary privilege to be let into their spaces so freely. That dynamic broke down the traditional documentary format naturally. Interviews happened informally, in quieter, more settled moments, so the film ends up feeling less like a documentary and more like a group of girls getting ready for a party, talking about life and boyfriends. The fact that we all shared the same humour – outrageous, naughty, completely unfiltered – made all the difference.
Rahemur: This documentary has gone through several edits, seen by a small number of people over the years. In total, we shot over 120 hours of footage. When it came to shaping the story in the edit, we knew we wanted the intertwining of these three lives to be the narrative itself. Together, their stories offer the viewer a spectrum of what the Hijra and transgender experience looks like across South Asia.
Neshi is our suspense – the one who confronts us with the harsher realities of that experience. Jannat is our empathy – she carries our hope through her pursuit of love. Momo is our catharsis – her vivaciousness cuts through everything, reminding us just how alive and electric Hijra and transgender lives can be.
Collectively, they tell a story bigger than any one of them. We wanted to trust the viewer. To let them immerse themselves, draw their own conclusions, and find humanity in lives lived differently from their own.
VOA: Momo’s mentorship and activism, Neshi’s online search for connection, and Jannat’s pursuit of independence reflect varied strategies of survival and self-expression. What did you hope audiences would take away from these different paths?
Rahemur: My hope is that audiences leave with questions rather than conclusions. That they take a moment to sit with these women, to really think about them. What we wanted, more than anything, was for the audience to feel the weight of their reality and the full force of their agency. These aren’t just stories of hardship; they’re stories of people who have carved out joy, connection, and meaning in the face of a world that has often tried to deny them all three.
Momo, Neshi and Jannat each found their own way through mentorship, online connection, and independence. I think that’s something quietly universal. Most of us, at some point, have had to find our own strategy for surviving and still being ourselves. I hope that recognition creates a bridge.
I also hope audiences feel what we felt filming them: that there is something deeply freeing about watching people live fully and unapologetically, especially when society is trying to diminish them. That freedom is contagious. It asks something of you.
More than anything, I hope audiences see a part of themselves in these women. Not despite their differences, but through them. I hope their stories stay with people long after the screen goes dark.
VOA: Hijra culture has a long and complex history, with traditional hierarchies and expectations. How did you approach documenting this cultural context without reducing your subjects to stereotypes or outsider interpretations?
Rahemur: We never saw ourselves, or this film, as the definitive account of the Hijra experience. Rather, we wanted to act as a conduit. Something that opens a door and invites viewers to think more expansively about Hijra culture. From the beginning, we knew we wanted to shoot observationally. Not a fly on the wall, but something closer, a friend in the room. That intimacy was intentional. It allowed us to strip the lens of preconception, to let go of stereotypes and outside interpretation, and to let the women themselves speak. Their realities and their truths guide both the story and the edit.
We are trusting the viewer to leave with questions. To do their own research, to seek out the factual and historical context of Hijra culture on their own terms. What we hope Body of Our Own offers is something different: the emotional story, the empathetic story, the one that makes you want to learn more. Body of Our Own becomes a way into queer history that doesn’t begin from a colonial gaze, but dismantles it.
VOA: The production was largely independent and built on long-term relationships. How did this approach influence the tone and rhythm of the film, compared to more conventional documentary methods?
Lily: It’s been a real hustle. From the very beginning, Rahemur and I shared a visual and artistic language that transcends both our backgrounds – it meant decisions came quickly, and there was never any ambiguity about the film we wanted to make. Raw, unconventional, spontaneous. That’s a hard sell to traditional networks, especially in a moment when the industry is risk-averse. But seeing emotionally driven, people-centred films sweeping the Oscars right now tells me the appetite is there – and this feels like exactly the right moment to put it out. We also knew that working independently was the only way to do it properly.
Proper safeguarding was never negotiable – we wouldn’t bring anyone in who we didn’t trust completely. What that’s given us, in return, is collaborators who are here because they genuinely believe in the film. Manni Dee, Diet Paratha, the Pxssy Palace gang – people who love it with their heart, not their wallet. That means everything. It’s true to our artistic signatures, and more importantly, it’s the right way to honour the women’s stories.
Rahemur: This film would not exist without the generosity of our friends, family and wider community. Over the years, so many people have helped shape it. From established production companies to independent filmmakers, offering guidance on how we were telling the story and how we were communicating it. That ongoing dialogue has allowed the documentary to evolve into what it is today.
It is the extraordinary online community I feel privileged to be part of that has been most instrumental in bringing the film to its current form. Diet Paratha, a friend from the fashion world, is one of the most exciting voices in South Asian arts. Bringing them on board to help us understand the film as an arts piece was an easy decision. Pxssy Palace, the iconic queer femme POC club night, has had me shaking my ass on their dancefloor for years. The soundscapes and worlds they conjure every night were something I kept returning to while filming the Hijra women, especially Momo. That energy, that unapologetic joy, felt like a kindred spirit to what we were capturing.
We are deeply indebted to the community that has funded our entire post-production, our festival submissions, and our social impact campaign. Body of Our Own is an act of love – by the community, of the community, for the community.
VOA: Friendship and mutual care are central themes in the film. How did you cultivate and convey these emotional bonds on screen, especially across such a long production period?
Lily: We were also lucky in the specific community we found ourselves in. All three women took a far more maternal, nurturing approach to hijra structures than is always the case. In some hijra groups, chelas – daughters – are required to give 50% of their earnings to their Guru Ma and take on domestic labour also. Momo and Jannat were the opposite: they supported their chelas emotionally and sometimes financially, which meant those relationships were still intact and thriving when we returned. It made for a much richer story. Neshi was more isolated – she was so sensitive and generous that the world, which is already unkind to hijras, took advantage of her softness. She just wanted to help people, often without enough protection for herself. But Rahemur tells me she’s in a much better place now, which means a lot.
Rahemur: We stopped filming in 2024, so everything the viewer sees is drawn from what we captured between 2019 and then. But the story didn’t stop there. My relationship with each of them has continued, and each of those stories has taken its own shape since the cameras were put down. The film closes on a phone call with Jannat from late 2025, a real conversation that happened over Instagram, where we speak often. Without giving too much away, that call helps contextualise something essential. What finding love actually looks like within the Hijra and transgender community in South Asia. It felt like the right place to land and end the film.
Our continued friendship is part of how I talk about this film now. They are as invested in it as we are. They care for me as much as I care for them, and I hold that with a lot of gratitude and awareness. The differences between us, geography, privilege, class, sexuality, are never far from my mind. Acknowledging that honesty is part of what keeps the friendship real. What keeps Body of Our Own real? I’m glad they like the posters. I sent them each a copy, and Jannat’s response was simply: “I look sexy!” That meant everything. If this film can make her feel that, make all three of them feel that, then we did something right.
VOA: For audiences unfamiliar with Hijra identity or South Asian queer communities, what conversations or reflections do you hope Body of Our Own will inspire after viewing?
Rahemur: I hope it inspires curiosity before anything else. Not pity, not shock, but curiosity. The kind that makes you pause and ask yourself how much of what you think you know about gender, identity, and belonging has actually been shaped for you, rather than by you. For audiences unfamiliar with Hijra identity, I hope the film works as an opening rather than an explanation. We were never trying to define or contain the Hijra experience; we wanted to make you feel it. And feeling something is always the beginning of understanding it more honestly.
I hope it starts conversations about how we tell stories of communities that have historically been spoken about rather than spoken with. About who holds the camera, who shapes the narrative, and whose gaze we are actually seeing through. These are questions that go far beyond South Asian queer and transgender identity. There are questions about power, representation, and empathy that touch all of us.
Most of all, I hope viewers turn to each other afterwards and say, ‘I saw myself in them’. Not because their lives mirror your own, but because of the things that drive them. The need for love, for dignity, for freedom, for a place in the world, are all things no human being is a stranger to. If the film sends even one person down a rabbit hole of reading, listening, and learning about Hijra culture and decolonial queer history on their own terms, then it has done its job, and I have done mine.
Written and interviewed by Maggie Gogler
Featured image courtesy of Laisul Hogue (Rahemur) and Katarina Lilius (Lily)
View of the Arts is an online publication dedicated to film, music, and the arts, with a strong focus on the Asian entertainment industry. As we continue to grow, we aim to deepen our coverage of Asian music while remaining committed to exploring and celebrating creativity across the global arts landscape.
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