‘Sabar Bonda (Cactus Pears)’ Review: A Tender Queer Indian Drama Born of Grief

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In the realm of cinema, I’ve had the privilege of experiencing “Sabar Bonda (Cactus Pears)” – a moving debut by director Rohan Parashuram Kanawade that’s as tender as a budding flower. It’s a story set against the backdrop of rural life, with undercurrents of sorrow and longing that gradually transform into vibrant hues.

This tale, deeply personal to the filmmaker, starts in a somber mood, but it’s not long before it blooms into something radiant. The emotional intricacies here are woven from characters who dance around truth, not because they wish to hide it, but because euphemisms are the only words they know.

The Marathi-language movie primarily explores themes of tradition, showing how seemingly trivial cultural customs can transform into restrictive barriers. Imagine a series of bars stacked next to each other; collectively, they form a cage. At the onset, we encounter Anand (played by Bhushaan Manoj), a 30-year-old Mumbai call-center worker who is at the hospital due to his father’s deteriorating health. Before they can fully come to terms with their loss, they are compelled by funeral rituals to return to their rural village for a mourning period that lasts ten days. Anand expresses reluctance about staying the entire time. Although his mother appears distressed, she seems to comprehend his reasons, though we only catch a glimpse when she suggests he tell people he’s waiting to find the right girl before settling down, as his family tends to inquire about this matter.

Emotional fog envelops Anand due to the challenges of mourning, a fact skillfully portrayed by Manoj through the symbolism of an unseen, heavy blanket throughout his acting. His posture is stooped in every scene, his hair tousled and his eyes heavy with weariness from a fatigue that seems like it’s been etched into him for years, stemming from the death of his father. This powerful portrayal gives us a deep understanding of Anand without needing explicit exposition. The film subtly reveals more about him through nuanced actions and shifts in atmosphere, such as when he encounters his old friend Balya (played by Suraaj Suman).

In a simpler and more conversational style:

Balya, the farmer’s son who’s never married, comes off as more confident than Anand, but despite this, they quickly rekindle their friendship; this time, Anand appears unfazed by his family’s ancestral home. As they reminisce about the past and talk about the familiar landscape – the fruits they used to share, and trees that are no longer standing – a glimpse of their history becomes clear, although it remains purposely vague.

Regardless of the specifics of their past, Anand may not recall every event clearly, but their current presence is uniquely defined by their common experiences such as shared economic struggles, a clandestine sexual orientation, lower caste status, and societal pressure to marry women they’ve never met. The recent turmoil in Anand’s life has driven him further into hiding, ironically making him more exposed. Spending more time together intensifies their connection, and the “Sabar Bonda” (Cactus Pears) – a symbol of this bond – grows increasingly appealing.

In a 4:3 frame with soft, curved edges, Kanawade deliberately unfolds each scene with slow, leisurely pacing, punctuated by long stretches of silence between dialogue. The camera lingers during these moments, capturing the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind and Vikas Urs’ stunning landscape cinematography, while the actors meticulously deliver their lines, pausing to express emotion. The film maintains this measured pace throughout its duration, occasionally becoming slightly repetitive, but the visual composition is always deliberate. Medium shots, taken at a leisurely pace, allow the actors’ physical expressions to convey the story of their growing familiarity. At crucial points, the camera zooms in on intimate moments of touch between the characters, which are both surprising and inevitable.

As a movie enthusiast, I must admit, those electrifying instances are hard to come by, but when they do, they leave an indelible mark. Soon enough, the conundrum of what lies ahead for Anand and Balya surfaces, casting a shadow over their potential future together. Yet, the narrative masterfully avoids rushing into these dilemmas, instead approaching them with a delicate touch. Each veiled conversation between Anand and Balya, like their discussions about their past romantic relationships (prying if they each have a “special someone”), or even Anand’s mother subtly probing about Balya’s sexuality (“Does he not wish to marry too?”), seems to quietly grant them the freedom to navigate their sorrows, old and new, in their unique ways.

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2025-01-28 05:16