Filmmaker Rohan Kanawade talks about portraying intimacy, restraint and grief in his award-winning film Sabar Bonda (Cactus Pears), screened recently at the NCPA.

By Aishwarya Bodke

When his father passed away in 2016, Rohan Kanawade returned to his ancestral village for the last rites and the prescribed 10- day grieving period. But there was no time to grieve. A methodical rulebook of mourning ‘correctly’ stared him in the face. It is no different for Anand, the bereaved protagonist in Kanawade’s film, who is 30 and unmarried. Persistent questions about marriage hound him and he seeks comfort in an old relationship: Balya, another unmarried man in the village.

Kanawade did not have a Balya in his time of grief, but he weaves together a delicate reimagination of love, loss and longing in the rural moors of Maharashtra in Sabar Bonda (Cactus Pears), his semiautobiographical, stunningly assured debut. In the film, the fruit—prickly on the outside, sweet and tart inside—is a gift, a metaphor, a suggestion. But the metaphorical invocation of queer love captured in the title may well be the least of Kanawade’s achievements with the medium.

A love story with no villains and no music, it tugs at the heartstrings with the homecoming of a heartbroken man. The loving relationship between the parents and the son defies all tropes. Everyone seems to know the obvious, but their silence is the gentlest way of acceptance.

Sabar Bonda became the first Marathi film to premiere at the Sundance Film Festival last year and went on to win the Grand Jury Prize in the World Cinema Dramatic category, a first for an Indian fiction feature—a landmark moment for Indian independent cinema.

After a packed screening at the NCPA, ON Stage spoke to Kanawade about the film’s journey. Excerpts from the conversation.

ON Stage: In one scene, the two men are listening to a song from Sairat through shared earphones. It seemed almost ominous. What if they befall a similar fate? But the film resists these urges, allowing a warm companionship to unfold. How did you sustain that tone in the thick of grief and was it a deliberate rejection of tragedy?
Rohan Kanawade: I was certain that the story would not end in tragedy. A film that begins with the tragedy of a man losing his father cannot again end in one. It’s not done. I am not a filmmaker who romanticises sadness.

The use of Sairat or its song was never meant to trick the audience. My reason was simple: Sairat is widely known, even internationally; it immediately locates the film culturally. I also drew from personal memory when I was in the village after my father’s death and people often asked me about Sairat. The protagonist also mentions that as a child, he believed that when one falls in love, they sing and dance like in the movies. I felt that way growing up too. But I understand why some viewers associated it with expectations shaped by cinema. We are so conditioned by these stories ending terribly. I wanted to make a tender love story that blooms during a sad time. My aim was for the audience to feel warmth, ease and a sense of being held, almost like the film is giving them a hug.

OS: Coming out to one’s parents is usually shown onscreen as burdensome and conflicted. In your film, the loving parent-son relationship is as natural as it is surprising. How did you arrive at that choice?
RK: The idea of unconditionally loving and understanding parents came directly from what I experienced in my life. Many of my friends have also received acceptance and love from their parents, yet we rarely see that on screen. Most films prioritise drama and that often translates to parental rejection. That tension becomes the story. But I do not believe that is the only way to create drama or conflict. It is only one side of the story. When you show a father who is a daily-wage worker or an illiterate mother being supportive, sexuality stops being this big issue and is normalised. Sexuality is actually really simple; we have complicated it. Love is what makes acceptance possible.

I wanted to present these characters as human beings rather than queer characters. They are just falling in love. I also wanted to offer something hopeful for those who have experienced this kind of love, those who wish for it and perhaps even for parents who are still learning how to accept their children.

OS: The dance between the long shots and intimate camera close-ups is endearing to watch. Could you please talk about the treatment of intimacy in the film?
RK: How close we go to the characters and when we keep our distance was designed at the writing stage itself. When I moved to storyboarding, I sketched exactly how close or far we would be from the characters in each moment. The wide shots of Anand walking by himself in the village were meant to show that he is alone and helpless. Vulnerability does not always need a tight 4:3 aspect ratio. I wanted to use the natural spaces of the village to show how the characters exist within that environment.

Only when Anand and Balya are together does the camera slowly move closer. Sometimes so close that we see just an eye or fragments of their bodies. Anand feels like a fish out of water in the village, but in those moments with Balya, he feels relaxed and loved. This approach was written into the script and discussed in detail with the cinematographer, Vikas Urs. He captured those moments exactly as we had planned, creating a sense of closeness between the characters and their claustrophobia in open spaces.

OS: How did you come to have no background score in the film?
RK: I did not want background music to support emotion or performance. Removing it was a conscious decision made even before I started writing the script to retain the realism. I had to then write scenes that could hold up and feel engaging without musical backing. This was also a challenge for the actors, as they had to give it their all without the score or extensive editing, especially because of the long takes.

Creating the rural world purely through sound was also an exciting process for the sound designers Naren Chandavarkar and Aniruddha Borthakur. If used correctly, the soundscape would enhance the tenderness I was going after.

OS: You shot the film in your mother’s village with some of the villagers being a part of the cast. How did you go about the shoot?
RK: Some villagers appear in the film only in the background, but many more became part of the crew behind the camera. My mami cooked all the food you see the characters eating. Some assisted the art, costume and lighting teams; some worked as spot boys. It was the village’s first experience of a film shoot, so there was a lot of excitement in the first two days. After that, they got bored. But a few stayed till the end and really helped us make the film.

OS: Sabar Bonda created history at the Sundance Film Festival. Since its release in India, how have Indian audiences responded to the film?
RK: The film has been watched by people from villages in Maharashtra and audiences across India. As far as access allowed, those who knew about the film went to see it. I received messages from people who watched it multiple times in theatres. Someone from a small town even told me that he was the only one in the hall and the show was about to be cancelled, so he purchased the minimum number of tickets and watched the film alone in the theatre.

The film was also screened in a village close to my ancestral place where we shot it, and the people loved it. I always knew this was a simple story meant to connect with regular audiences. Thankfully, we got the distribution. Now, audiences are asking about the OTT release to revisit the film, while screenings continue across India at festivals and private venues. But of course, independent films struggle with limited releases and no budgets for promotion. It is often restricted to social media and small circles. Despite those limitations, the audience response has been truly heartening. I am genuinely surprised and grateful for the love the film has received from Indian and international audiences.

OS: The film came to fruition with the support of other countries and a host of producers. What does it say about the collaborative journey of independent cinema?
RK: I think it is great that independent filmmakers have the choice to collaborate with producers from different countries, because getting all the financing from one place—especially in India—is extremely difficult. So, it is encouraging when people from different parts of the world come together to make a film and I am so happy to have found all these people. Early on in our journey, some producers asked for songs or well-known actors. It was a struggle to explain what kind of film we were making until it was actually made. That is why so many of us end up turning to the West or international grants. I wish we had more grants in India for independent filmmaking.

This article was originally published in the February 2026 issue of ON Stage.