Riya Agarwal is a filmmaker who understands the profound art of storytelling. With her screenplay "If You Show Me Yours I'll Show You Mine," she demonstrates an exceptional ability to capture the nuanced emotional landscape of adolescence, weaving together moments of vulnerability, confusion, and discovery. A Tisch School of the Arts graduate who has worked alongside renowned directors like Anurag Kashyap and Nandita Das, Agarwal brings a distinctive voice to contemporary cinema—one that is both deeply personal and universally compelling. In an intimate conversation that reveals her raw, unfiltered truth, we discovered the beating heart behind her art.
● Can you tell us about your childhood? Where did you grow up?
My childhood was a mix of stability and movement, shaped by the different places I lived. I spent my early years in Calcutta, surrounded by its rich cultural and artistic environment, which fueled my love for creativity. But in high school, I moved to Bangalore, where I transitioned from the Indian education system to an international one. That shift was transformative for me. The international system focused on applying what you learn and critical thinking, which helped me thrive academically for the first time. It was such a contrast to the Indian system, which often emphasized rote memorization without real understanding.
After two years in Bangalore, I moved to Delhi, and I also spent a significant part of my life in Goa. The time I spent in Goa, with its unique charm and slower pace, feels just as integral to my upbringing as the other cities. Each place gave me a different perspective, and together, they shaped who I am today.
● How did growing up as part of the South Asian community shape your early perspectives on storytelling?
Growing up in a South Asian community gave me a nuanced perspective on storytelling. Our culture is steeped in rich traditions of oral narratives, folklore, and mythologies, which made storytelling feel inherently communal and layered with meaning. There’s an emphasis on multigenerational perspectives, where the past and present coexist, and I think this naturally influenced how I approach characters and themes—looking at the intersections of identity, history, and personal struggles.
It also exposed me to the duality of South Asian life: the tension between tradition and modernity. This duality shaped my storytelling lens, giving me a sensitivity to explore internal conflicts, societal expectations, and the complexities of human relationships. I aim to capture both the beauty and the struggles of that dynamic, particularly through characters who navigate those gray areas of identity, belonging, and self-expression.
● Looking back at your childhood, was there a specific moment or experience that first sparked your desire to tell stories?
Absolutely. One of the most pivotal moments was during a rainy day in boarding school when I watched Fight Club for the first time. I was going through an identity crisis at the time, and that film hit me like lightning. It was bold, introspective, and unapologetically raw—it opened my eyes to the power of storytelling as a medium to explore the complexities of human nature and the questions we’re often too afraid to ask ourselves.
Before that, I’d always been drawn to the arts—selling abstract paintings in exhibitions in Calcutta as a child—but that moment showed me how stories could transcend words and visuals to touch something deeper. It was the first time I realized storytelling wasn’t just about entertaining; it could also be a form of therapy, self-discovery, and even rebellion. That realization has stayed with me ever since, and it fuels my desire to tell stories that challenge, heal, and provoke thought.
● What drew you to screenwriting as your medium?
Screenwriting felt like a natural convergence of all the things I was passionate about—visual art, storytelling, and psychology. I was deeply drawn to the visual arts and spent years experimenting with abstract forms, which taught me how to evoke emotion through imagery. At the same time, I had a fascination with people—their inner lives, their contradictions, and the way their stories unfolded in layers.
When I discovered filmmaking, it was like finding a medium where all of these interests could coexist. Screenwriting, in particular, captivated me because it’s where the story begins—where the blueprint for everything else is laid out. I love the challenge of creating a world on the page that can later come to life on screen. It’s this intersection of structure and imagination, where you’re not just writing words but visualizing moments, crafting dialogue, and considering how the story will be told visually.
Also, screenwriting allows me to explore the complexities of human nature and relationships in a way that feels both intimate and expansive. It’s a medium where I can take risks, experiment, and tell stories that are personal yet universal.
● Can you share what it was like to assist well-known directors like Anurag Kashyap and Nandita Das early in your career?
Both have such distinct voices and approaches to storytelling, and working with them gave me a masterclass in the craft of filmmaking.
With Anurag Kashyap, it was like being in the middle of creative chaos—he thrives on spontaneity and pushing boundaries. Watching him work taught me to embrace the unpredictability of the process and to trust my instincts. He has this ability to delve into the darker, more unspoken corners of human nature, and it resonated deeply with my own interests in psychology and storytelling.
Nandita Das, on the other hand, brought a very thoughtful and socially conscious perspective to filmmaking. She has such a calm and composed presence, but her storytelling is bold and impactful. Working with her helped me understand the importance of nuance and emotional depth in portraying complex issues.
Both experiences gave me a behind-the-scenes look at how powerful storytelling can be when it’s authentic and fearless. They also reinforced the idea that there’s no one way to tell a story—every voice and perspective is unique, and that’s what makes cinema so exciting.
● What was the transition like going from assisting directors to creating your own work?
One of the biggest shifts was embracing the weight of decision-making. When you’re assisting, you’re focused on executing someone else’s vision, but when it’s your own project, every decision—from the story to the shot composition to the pacing—rests on you. It was both liberating and intimidating, but also deeply fulfilling.
Another significant shift was finding my voice as a storyteller. While assisting taught me the technical and logistical aspects of filmmaking, creating my own work pushed me to dig deeper into my personal experiences and perspectives.
Ultimately, the transition taught me to trust my instincts and lean into the vulnerability of sharing stories that feel honest and personal. It’s a process of constantly learning, unlearning, and growing—but it’s also what makes creating my own work so rewarding.
● You recently graduated from the MFA Graduate Film program at the Tisch School of the Arts, NYU. How has your formal education influenced your craft?
My time at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts was transformative for my craft. The program offered not just technical training but also an environment that challenged me to push the boundaries of my creativity. It encouraged me to take risks and tell stories that felt deeply personal while exploring universal themes.
One of the most impactful aspects of the program was the collaborative environment. I had the privilege of working alongside incredibly talented peers and mentors who brought diverse perspectives to the table. That exchange of ideas sharpened my storytelling instincts and helped me see my work through different lenses.
The structure of the program also allowed me to experiment with different genres and forms of storytelling, from short films to feature-length scripts. For instance, If You Show Me Yours I’ll Show You Mine grew out of my desire to explore the tension between innocence and maturity, a theme I refined during my time at Tisch. The school’s emphasis on understanding character psychology and narrative structure aligned perfectly with my own interests in crafting complex, layered stories.
Above all, Tisch taught me to trust my voice as a filmmaker and to approach every project with intention and authenticity. It wasn’t just about learning how to make films—it was about learning how to make films that matter to me.
● Let’s talk about If You Show Me Yours I'll Show You Mine! Can you walk us through the inspiration behind this beautiful little story?
Through conversations with friends and family, I started to realize how people are often misunderstood if their actions aren’t looked at with context. Also through conversations, I realized how my upbringing in India and things that I was exposed to was far more sheltered compared to the western world. My ideas of sexuality, growth, the difference between what’s right and wrong, and morality in general was more holistic than individualistic. It’s probably because in the 90s there was a starker difference in the societal structure than there is today. But, all of this to say that, I got interested in delving deeper into the gray especially when there is confusion in the midst of the gray.
As a naive and sheltered child myself, I was confused about my views on sexuality and liberalism in many ways - not really knowing what it meant. As a result, most of the films I have written have been in an attempt to help me understand sexuality, relationships, and the growth that comes with it.
● What about the main character, Niki, resonates with you personally?
What resonates most with me about Niki is her naivety and curiosity—qualities I deeply relate to from my own childhood. Like Niki, I grew up in a sheltered environment where certain topics, like sexuality and personal boundaries, were rarely discussed openly. There’s a raw honesty in her desire to explore and make sense of the confusing world around her, even when the adults in her life provide conflicting or overwhelming guidance.
Niki’s struggle to navigate the tension between innocence and maturity mirrors a journey I’ve experienced myself. As a child, I often felt caught between what I thought I was ready to understand and what society or my family believed I was too young to grasp. That sense of being pulled in different directions—by curiosity, cultural expectations, and a need for validation—is something I poured into Niki’s character.
Her relationship with her brother also resonates deeply with me. It reflects the kind of unspoken bond you sometimes have with a sibling—the feeling of being understood without judgment, even when the world feels confusing and chaotic. Niki represents that pivotal moment in adolescence when you’re trying to figure out who you are, but you’re still leaning on the people closest to you to make sense of it all. It’s a beautiful, vulnerable place to be, and that’s what makes her story so personal to me.
Niki is, essentially, me.
● This film explores the journey of innocence to maturity. Why was it important to you to tell this story?
It was important for me to tell this story because the journey from innocence to maturity isn’t just about learning—it’s about the emotional chaos and confusion that come with it. Adolescence is full of moments where you’re confronted with things you think you’re ready for but don’t fully understand. I wanted to explore how those moments shape us, especially within the context of family and culture.
For Niki, her family plays such a significant role in her understanding of herself and the world. Their attempts to protect her often create even more tension, which reflects a dynamic I’ve observed in so many families, including my own. That push and pull between shielding someone from harm and giving them the tools to navigate the world is so universally relatable, and it felt like an important story to tell.
I also wanted to look at the role of trust—how it’s built, how it’s tested, and how it shapes a child’s perception of the world.
● How do you want audiences to feel after watching If You Show Me Yours I’ll Show You Mine?
I want audiences to walk away feeling a mix of discomfort and empathy. This is a story that doesn’t offer easy answers, and that’s intentional. I hope it lingers with viewers, making them reflect on the complexities of growing up, the role adults play in shaping that journey, and the impact of well-meaning but flawed actions.
I want them to feel the tension Niki experiences. Ideally, this discomfort sparks deeper conversations about how we approach difficult topics like sexuality and boundaries with young people, and how those moments can shape their sense of self.
At the same time, I hope there’s an underlying sense of compassion. Niki’s story is deeply personal, but it’s also universal in its exploration of the messiness of adolescence and the imperfect ways families navigate it. I want audiences to leave with a greater understanding of the gray areas in life and a reminder of how crucial it is to approach these moments with care and thoughtfulness. The film is designed to make viewers uncomfortable, but in a way that encourages them to think critically about how we navigate these delicate, pivotal moments in life.
More than anything, I hope it prompts conversations. I want audiences to feel like they’ve witnessed something raw and real, something that might reflect their own experiences or challenge their perspectives. It’s less about feeling resolved and more about sitting with the discomfort and realizing that growing up is messy—for everyone involved.
● The dialogue feels natural and rhythmic—did you find that the characters’ voices came naturally to you?
Thank you! I’m glad the dialogue feels that way because creating authentic, natural rhythms in conversations is something I focus on heavily. Niki’s voice, in particular, came quite naturally to me. I think it’s because she embodies that mix of curiosity, defiance, and vulnerability that I remember from my own adolescence. Her way of speaking—sometimes playful, sometimes searching—reflects the way young people often explore their emotions and boundaries through words.
I tried to ground each character’s voice in someone I knew in real life. Her friends’ voices were inspired by the more confident, daring personalities I grew up around—kids who were further along in figuring things out and weren’t afraid to push boundaries. Their words reflect a contrast to Niki’s own naivety, creating a dynamic that mirrors how we often look to our peers for guidance, even when they’re just as unsure as we are.
The dialogue with the adults, though, was a bit more challenging. It required striking a balance between their intentions and how their words would be perceived by Niki. For example, her uncle’s attempts to educate her had to feel both well-meaning and unsettling. I wanted the words to carry that duality so the audience could feel the same tension Niki experiences.
Ultimately, the voices in the film came from a blend of observation, memory, and instinct. Once I grounded myself in each character’s perspective, their words and rhythms just started to flow. I trusted that if I stayed true to their inner conflicts and dynamics, their voices would feel genuine.
Attributing each character to someone I knew helped their voices come naturally. It allowed me to bring an emotional honesty to their words, and I think that’s why the dialogue feels authentic—it’s rooted in real people and real dynamics.
● Your screenplay has recently moved from page to screen. Could you walk us through that journey? What were the most surprising or illuminating moments of seeing your written words transform into a living, breathing production?
Writing a screenplay is such a solitary process—you’re building this world in your mind and shaping it with words, but it’s still just on paper. Seeing it come alive, with real people inhabiting these characters and physical spaces bringing the story to life, is both surreal and deeply rewarding.
What made this film particularly challenging was the need to explore its gray areas with a level of subtlety. While bold things happen in the story, this isn’t a film about sexual abuse or assault—it’s about misunderstanding. Translating that ambiguity to the screen required a delicate balance. Working with the actors was crucial in navigating this. Together, we focused on their inner motivations, ensuring that every action and reaction felt authentic without over-explaining. Watching them bring nuance to their performances—whether through a hesitant glance or a moment of hesitation in their dialogue—was incredibly rewarding.
The crew also played a big role in achieving this subtlety. For instance, the cinematographer and I worked closely to use framing and lighting to convey emotions without being heavy-handed. A soft focus here or a shadow there could imply so much without needing to spell it out. Even the production design was carefully crafted to reflect Niki’s world—a place that feels safe and idyllic on the surface but carries an undercurrent of tension and confusion.
One of the most illuminating moments was realizing how much the film evolved through collaboration. The gray areas I had written on the page became richer as everyone added their perspectives. It taught me the importance of trust—trusting the actors to embody these complicated characters, trusting the crew to bring out the visual and emotional depth, and trusting the process to do justice to the story’s ambiguity. It’s no longer just your story—it becomes a collective effort that’s greater than the sum of its parts.
● As both the screenwriter and director, what was it like seeing Sway Bhatia bring Niki to life? Were there moments where she added dimensions to the character you hadn't imagined while writing?
Seeing Sway Bhatia bring Niki to life was nothing short of magical. As both the screenwriter and director, I had spent so much time imagining Niki—her quirks, her vulnerability, her curiosity. But watching Sway step into that role was like seeing a whole new dimension of Niki emerge. She didn’t just play the character; she understood her on a deeply emotional level, which made every moment on screen feel authentic and alive.
One of the most striking things Sway brought was her ability to balance Niki’s innocence with her defiance. There’s a scene where Niki pushes back against her mother after her plans for her birthday fall apart. In Sway’s hands, it wasn’t just a tantrum—it carried this quiet, simmering frustration that I hadn’t fully envisioned while writing. She gave Niki a sense of complexity, showing her as both a child trying to assert independence and someone still tethered to her family in ways she doesn’t yet understand.
Another standout moment was the subtle way Sway portrayed Niki’s discomfort in the scene with her uncle. It’s such a delicate part of the film, and Sway approached it with incredible sensitivity. Her body language and expressions conveyed so much more than words could—she brought layers of hesitation, unease, and an internal struggle that elevated the scene beyond what I had written.
What also amazed me was her spontaneity and willingness to collaborate. There were moments where she improvised small reactions or movements that added depth to Niki, making her feel even more real. Sway’s performance didn’t just match what I had imagined—it expanded it in ways that made Niki feel like a fully realized person.
It was a privilege to work with her, and I’m grateful for the honesty and heart she brought to the role. Watching her embody Niki reminded me why I love this collaborative art form—it’s the magic of seeing your story evolve and deepen through someone else’s talent and perspective.
● Looking back at the shoot, which scene brought you the most joy to film?
Looking back at the shoot, the scene that brought me the most joy to film was the final one—where Niki runs hand-in-hand with her brother toward the beach, leaving the chaos of the adults behind. There’s something so freeing about that moment, both visually and emotionally. It’s not a resolution in the traditional sense, but it’s a rare point of clarity for Niki, a moment where she finds solace in the bond she shares with her brother.
Filming that scene felt cathartic. We shot it at sunset, with the light casting this beautiful, golden glow over the beach. Watching Sway and her on-screen brother run, laugh, and embrace felt so genuine—it was as if the characters were experiencing a small triumph amidst all their confusion and struggles. It was also a reminder of the simplicity of childhood and the unique comfort of sibling relationships, which are such an anchor for Niki throughout the story.
What made it even more special was the collaborative energy on set that day. Everyone—the cast, crew, and even the environment—seemed perfectly in sync. There was a shared understanding of how pivotal this moment was, and it felt like we were all collectively holding our breath to capture it just right.
When I saw the playback, I knew we had something special. That scene perfectly encapsulated the heart of the film—the innocence, the confusion, the fleeting moments of connection—and it brought me a deep sense of joy and gratitude to see it come to life exactly as I had hoped.
● I hope it’s okay to ask… Did you face any challenges in writing from the perspective of a 13-year-old?
One of the biggest challenges was resisting the urge to impose adult logic or hindsight onto Niki’s perspective. As adults, we tend to rationalize situations or explain them in ways that make sense to us now, but 13-year-olds don’t have that same clarity. They’re figuring things out in real time, often based on incomplete information or emotions they don’t fully understand yet. I had to remind myself to let Niki be messy, impulsive, and confused without trying to overcorrect her actions or thoughts.
Another challenge was finding the right tone for her voice. It needed to reflect her naivety and curiosity while still feeling sharp and specific to her character. That’s where I leaned heavily on observing real teenagers and even reflecting on how I used to speak and think at that age. Her dialogue, for example, was written with a lot of rhythm and emotional swings—one moment playful, the next deeply frustrated—because that felt true to the energy of being 13.
But honestly, those challenges made the writing process all the more meaningful. It forced me to tap into a part of myself I hadn’t visited in a long time.
● What did you learn from making this film, both personally and professionally?
As I navigated the challenges of bringing this story to life, I realized that every professional decision I made—whether it was guiding the actors, collaborating with the crew, or making subtle narrative choices—forced me to confront my own beliefs and assumptions.
Directing this film, in particular, required a heightened level of sensitivity and reflection. It’s a story about misunderstanding and the gray areas of human behavior, and bringing it to life made me examine how I approach ambiguity in my own life. I had to ask myself: How do I respond to discomfort? How do I process moments where intention and impact don’t align? These questions weren’t just relevant to the characters—they became deeply personal as I explored them through the filmmaking process.
Professionally, it was a lesson in trust. Trusting my collaborators to handle delicate material with care. Trusting the audience to sit with complexity. And, most importantly, trusting myself to tell a story that doesn’t rely on easy answers. That trust translated into a personal realization: the stories we tell often reveal parts of ourselves we may not fully understand until we see them reflected on the screen.
What I found most profound is how filmmaking can act as a mirror. Every decision—every shot, every line of dialogue—holds up a piece of yourself. In making this film, I saw echoes of my own adolescence. It reminded me that filmmaking isn’t just about creating; it’s also about discovering.
● How do you continue learning and growing your craft as you work on these projects?
I think learning and growth in filmmaking come from a combination of introspection and collaboration. Every project teaches me something new because no two stories or processes are the same. I try to approach each project with curiosity, asking myself: What am I trying to say with this story? What haven’t I explored yet? That introspection keeps me grounded and pushes me to dig deeper into the themes and characters I’m working on.
At the same time, I believe collaboration is one of the most powerful tools for growth. Working with actors, and crew members, gives me perspectives I wouldn’t have arrived at on my own. For example, in If You Show Me Yours I’ll Show You Mine, seeing how the actors interpreted the material gave me a fresh understanding of the characters. I learned to let go of my preconceived notions and embrace the layers they brought to the story.
I also make it a point to engage with other art forms—whether it’s reading, watching documentaries, or exploring visual arts. Inspiration often comes from unexpected places, and I find that stepping outside of filmmaking can lead to surprising insights about storytelling.
Finally, I try to stay open to failure. Not everything works the way you plan, but those moments of struggle are where the biggest lessons happen. Every mistake, every misstep, is an opportunity to refine my craft and learn something new about myself as a filmmaker.
Filmmaking is an ongoing journey. It’s not just about mastering the technical aspects or telling the perfect story—it’s about constantly evolving, challenging yourself, and staying curious. That’s what keeps me passionate about this art form.
● What’s a piece of advice you would give to filmmakers trying to break into the industry?
The most valuable advice I can give to filmmakers trying to break into the industry is to focus on authenticity. The stories that resonate the most are the ones that come from a deeply personal place, so don’t be afraid to draw from your own experiences and perspective. Lean into what makes your voice unique, even if it feels vulnerable or unconventional.
At the same time, stay adaptable. Filmmaking is as much about collaboration as it is about vision, and being open to learning from others—whether it’s your cast, crew, or peers—will make you a better storyteller. Listen to feedback, but always filter it through your own voice.
I’d also say: don’t wait for permission. It’s easy to get caught up in trying to network your way into the “right” opportunities, but sometimes the best thing you can do is start creating with the resources you have. Whether it’s a short film, a script, or even just writing down your ideas, every small step builds momentum.
Lastly, remember that this is a long game. There’s no single moment that defines success in this industry—it’s about persistence and passion. Surround yourself with people who inspire you, and don’t shy away from taking risks. It’s in those risks that you’ll discover your greatest growth as a filmmaker.
● What’s the legacy you hope to leave behind in the world of film and storytelling?
Honestly, I don’t think much about legacy. You live, you try to do your best, make meaningful connections, tell the stories that matter to you, and then you die. That’s it.
What I care about more than a legacy is the work I’m doing now—being present in the process, creating something that feels true to me, and connecting with the people I collaborate with along the way. If my stories resonate with others, that’s a bonus. But at the end of the day, it’s not about what remains after I’m gone.
In September 2024, If You Show Me Yours I'll Show You Mine won Best Screenplay at Top Shorts.
Comments