Inside Baksho Bondi: A Gritty Tale of Resilience at Berlinale 2025

At the post-screening Q&A, you described the process as almost like making theatre. How did this approach originate?

Saumyananda Sahi (SS): Tanushree and I are hugely inspired by [the writer-director] Mike Leigh’s work, and how he unpacks relationships in his films and how he works with actors. We were keen to do that with writing: we had a process where we referenced people from our life, people we had heard of from acquaintances to the characters we were writing. So, mining stories from real life was important. Of course, these fictional characters became something else entirely when the actors came onboard. For example, Tillotama came in very early and she brought in her own story.

Tanushree Das (TD): Actually, Leigh rehearses with his actors for one whole year. I thought where will we have that kind of time, but we ended up rehearsing for five years. [laughs]

This can be quite intense since everyone is bringing their personal stories that they want to be heard and considered. So there tends to be some kind of tension. How did you manage this?

TD: In our case, we became each other’s sounding board and touchstones. When an idea was put forward, we would all sit and discuss it—it was better that a group was taking artistic decisions and not one person. In fact, there was one draft where we changed Maya’s character completely—this is about three years down the line—based on some feedback.

How do you maintain the focus and creative intensity for such a project over five years? Especially since you all worked on other projects in different capacities while you were working on Baksho Bondi.

SS: It’s a bit like the fermentation process. So, not working on it constantly was a good thing.

How often would you work on this project in a year?

TD: There would be a lot of gaps. But they helped. When you take so many years for a project, it might feel like time is our enemy. But it is actually the opposite; as artists we have a certain amount of discipline which we adhere to.

SS: It developed very organically. It wasn’t that we had a written down schedule. Because the film was so personal, we were always thinking of it and then there would be some events which would trigger us to go back to the script. So it fluctuated between intense working periods and fermenting in our minds.

[to Tillotama] Do you want to say something?

Tillotama Shome (TS): The change that I reacted to was a certain fleshing out of certain ticks that Maya has, and there was also Maya’s dreamscape, which gave access to the audience to Maya’s dreams and superstitions. Perhaps because the power of the script when it came to me was that it allowed me to colour the character from my lived experience, because there was not much given about her state of mind.

I liked the fact that I am curious about Maya’s interiority since it was not externalised. Hence, the rewriting that came from nowhere—neither from the world of the film nor from them as people. It was also great to understand that maybe a good direction for someone else is not a good direction for our film. Because a group of German women who had come to watch the film could see themselves in Maya and not think it is an Indian woman thing.

The film reminded me of Girish Kasaravalli’s Kannada film Dweepa and the character of Nagi. Both films prominently feature the courage and resilience of a woman stuck in difficult circumstances. However, Dweepa is interested in critiquing the state and asking bigger questions about developmental policies, which your film is reluctant to do. Why so?

TD: I come from a simple and small space: All the powerful people have to go back home and to their beds—for me, politics starts there. To paraphrase what Susan Langer said (which has stayed with me): even if your furniture, teapots, cups, plates, spoons at least aspire to be art, we have not reached democracy. The change has to come from within us and resilience is also rebellion.

What I meant was the state as an external faceless entity that has an impact on our lives, which you hint at with Sundar’s PTSD.

SS: In earlier drafts, there were elements of [the] state but we chose to look at the social stigma and the issues arising due to it from a very intimate space.

Were there any boundaries or rules you set up for yourselves in terms of collaboration? Also, what are your learnings as co-directors?

TD: We made clear boundaries for each other early on. For example, Saumyananda led the writing process in terms of scenes and structure, but the dialogue writing was left to me. During the shooting, I handled the entire casting process and all workshops with actors while Saumyananda took the lead in finding locations and shot division. During the filming too, we had an understanding that anything to do with performance was my domain, while Saumyananda handled everything else. During the editing, we worked together, and this was where we fought the most! Sometimes, our son would intervene and chip in with his own opinions as well. Our film was very much what you could call a “home” production.

For an actor, the challenge while playing a character like Maya is pitching it with the appropriate intensity (with body language, expressions etc.). There is always a decision to be made—whether to over-dramatise it or show restraint. For instance, the scene where you break down next to the railway station. Can you talk a little about building your own Maya?

TS: We had the gift of time in searching for Maya. We also had a corridor full of Mayas we knew. The friendship that developed with the directors helped us immensely. We could share our own stories with a great sense of intimacy. These stories, along with the various drafts of the script, began exerting a force that gained momentum.

This film carries a lot for each of us personally. The images, letters, music, that the directors had shared with me became a real memory due to repeated viewing. When you work over a period of 6-7 years, you don’t have to approximate intimacy; you are already very close to each other and can communicate with a certain shorthand on set. I do understand that these processes are rare. And [I] hope to keep my heart open for such journeys.

Also, I calculated the total time her job takes—that indicated how fast she will need to walk and cut through space. Her interiority was filled up with all the stories but it had rare external sightings because she did not have the time for breakdowns, because there simply was no time. Besides, Maya is deeply private and I tried my best to keep it that way.

The scene at the railway station was the joys of being an actor in a theatre of life. It was shot documentary style, with the camera and crew placed far away. I was surrounded by real people who had no idea I was an actor. There was this one man who looked at me breaking down with such care, that I welled up. I cried not for Sundar but for this stranger’s kindness.

Regarding cinematography: it is interesting that even though the expectation for the audience is to understand the resilience and the struggle within Maya, the film is shot in a gritty realist style instead of the camera lingering on Maya, thus emphasising her interiority. It’s the same for Debu although it is less frequent. Can you talk a bit about this choice?

SS: The words “gritty” and “realist” are open to many interpretations. These might evoke a handheld and extremely naturalistic approach, which is not really the style of Baksho Bondi. The camera for the most part is quite restrained; it is observational and also intimate.

We didn’t opt for too many movements that are not motivated by the characters themselves, and the shot breakdown aimed for simplicity. We use mostly natural light, and extremely realistic—almost documentary—production design, shooting in real homes and public spaces. But at the same time there are interventions in framing and subtle lighting choices that aim to elevate the image and displace it from reality. The contrast-y, low-key face lighting with an entirely black background in the confrontational conversation between Sundar and Maya in the shed is an example. Or how the wides that characterise the first half slowly narrow down to just faces in the second. Also, there are many moments where the camera does linger on Maya’s face to observe the thoughts and emotions flitting under her skin.

The viewing experience was quite intense, and it felt like there was no relief as Maya’s situation increasingly worsens with the film’s running time. Is this what you intended in terms of the choice of rhythm, intensity, and pacing?

TD: Yes, Maya’s life has little relief besides some small moments, like her reading the newspaper by the railway station with a cup of chai. The film follows her routines during the day, which are quite packed, and we share Maya’s rhythm. With Sundar’s disappearance and the police investigation, the rhythm becomes even denser, even if what we are seeing are everyday moments rather than explicitly dramatic scenes. The outward rhythm of the shots actually becomes slower in the second half, while the inward rhythm and the weight of the scenes increases in density.

Was it an ambition from the beginning to make your debut film as an international co-production?

SS: The budget of our film was primarily sourced from India. Having multiple producers coming on fair, equitable terms helped spread the risk and was also born out of necessity, with different people coming on board at different points in the film’s journey. Also, each of these producers brought their own expertise and networks to the table, so they not only made a financial investment but also so much more.

That said, we were also keen to look for international grants and the possibility to collaborate with crew from a very different context. The international collaboration added a lot to the film creatively. Having the CNC Aide aux cinémas du monde post-production grant was itself a prestigious stamp on it.

Considering Baksho Bondi’s form and the story, did you have an audience in mind?

TD: While making the film, we didn’t try to cater to one audience or another. We didn’t try to engineer the film to work for a particular audience. The effort was to tell a story with honesty, with authenticity and with economy. We wanted to make a film that we ourselves would like to watch, with the hope that if we did so, there would be others who would like to watch it and be moved by the story.

All of you have worked on many independent films before and know the trajectory of the distribution of such films. Will Baksho Bondi be any different? Are you working towards a much wider distribution?

SS: Each film, we have learnt, has its own unique and individual journey. It’s not possible to generalise what the trajectory of a film will be. Independent films are as diverse as mainstream films, and the journeys of neither can be taken for granted.

With Baksho Bondi, we hope that the film will find its audience, and with the backing of all our producers who also bring industry heft, we hope that the journey will be a little easier.