[Contains spoilers.]
In the first meeting between Sumon and Nirmali, there is palpable uncertainty. She, a paediatrician, has been called upon by him, a PhD student, on a Sunday. She hesitates as he pleads: his friend has suddenly taken ill and is in pain, and he is worried. He’s just a couple of lanes away, Sumon beseeches. She doesn’t look away from his stricken face. Should she accompany him? What could a paediatrician do to cure an adult? And yet, there is something about Sumon, his childlike innocence being taken over by fear. She eventually concedes.
As it turns out, the friend’s first tryst with meat-eating had its consequences. He swears he won’t eat meat again if cured. Nirmali smiles, almost. ‘Meat isn’t the problem,’ she says. ‘Gluttony is.’
Bhaskar Hazarika’s sophomore feature, “Aamis,” pulls that line apart. How far is too far? What can you do for the person you love? Nirmali and Sumon are utterly ordinary in many ways, unable to show each other what they really feel, say what they really want to say. She’s a respectable name in the medical community, and he, someone who’d rather stay away and alone, in company of his preference. He is a member of a Meat Club at the university, where they catch, slaughter and cook different exotic meats to sample their original flavour and texture. ‘Do you know where frozen meat comes from?’ he asks her. ‘Where it is kept and for how long?’ He doesn’t touch frozen meat. She is intrigued. As payment for her services, she asks him to get a sample of whatever he cooks next.
Hazarika captures the initial stages of a growing romance with great care. When in Nirmali’s company, Sumon’s eyes betray a desire that we are not sure even he is aware of, and she is careful in her gestures, as if she is mindful of the fact that she’s toeing a line that mustn’t be crossed. Even when they text, Sumon is a bit reckless with his affection, whereas Nirmali is measured, slightly aloof. His passion for experimenting with food captures her fancy, and together they have rabbits, catfish with colocasia, and soon, bats. He eats with his hands, she prefers a spoon. Mental block, she says. She can’t touch food with her fingers. Eroticism flows freely during these meetings as glances are exchanged and fingers twitch in longing to touch one another. And yet, they don’t touch. Sumon is smitten; when Nirmali sends him a friendly picture of her with her son, he zooms in on her face, aching to touch it, drink it. He relieves his sexual longing by masturbating, but keeps himself in check when they meet. Nirmali remains enigmatic. She isn’t flattered by the attention he lavishes upon her; she is, after all, on a small and seemingly trivial culinary adventure.
The distance between them, between what they could have, is far greater than just a few centimetres. As it were, Nirmali is married to an insufferable and exceptional doctor who spends most of his time in rural medical camps around the country. Whenever he is home, he talks of little but his exploits in the field, and always with a trace of condescension, as if castigating everyone else for living comfortable lives. In his company, Nirmali is not an equal: she is his wife and mother to his son, never a doctor. He barely notices her, barely listens to her. She tells him about Sumon, but he’s buried in the happy memories of his achievements. Later, when Sumon is invited to their house party, she introduces him. ‘Ah, the journalist,’ her husband remarks, his hand outstretched. ‘The PhD student,’ she corrects him. But her husband isn’t mortified. He couldn’t care less.
“Aamis” explores the quiet power struggle between them in this remarkable scene. During the party, the men occupy the top floor of the house while the women are relegated to the ground floor (a detail reminiscent of Robert Altman’s fabulous 2001 film, “Gosford Park”). The women are tasked with arranging dinner while the men drink and discuss politics. Noticeably, Sumon is displaced. His world is away from such trivialities, far away. It has Nirmali, for whom he agreed to come to this party. And when Nirmali’s husband’s friends toast her later (as if it takes that to remind him of her place in his life), Sumon catches her eye.
Here, the film pauses and watches. Because in that moment, the two find each other, both silently desiring something more than just camaraderie, something perhaps they will never get. Hazarika holds that moment and uses it as a pivot to take the film in a thrilling new direction. Nirmali’s smile is stilted, but among everyone present, only Sumon knows that. It’s the first of many secrets they’ll share.
It’s hard not to wonder if the direction Hazarika takes “Aamis” in is only a gimmick, something sprung upon deliberately to stir the viewer, with little thought being paid to how dramatically it will change what we have seen till now. The transformation, evidently, is not without blemishes; it feels abrupt, as if the film was anxious to arrive here. The meshing of genres is determined, methodical. We are beckoned to watch closely.
Sumon is consumed by his obsession, but he doesn’t have anything else to give her. Nirmali isn’t starved of affection; it’s something else she desires. Something taboo, adventurous, even dangerous. When “Aamis” conveys her deeply-rooted hunger, it plunges into horror. With a deliberateness that is refreshing, Hazarika lays out the nature of their relationship through brief montages: Sumon visiting Nirmali in the hospital with a small box, or both of them looking at the sunset while enjoying a quiet meal. Physicality, or the lack of it, is no longer a hurdle; this is a bold new step for them, and it comes with new possibilities. It’s eerie but daringly funny at the same time, as if we are complicit in a depraved secret but curious to see how long it lasts before it is out in the open.
In the third act, Hazarika works the story into a thriller. Long gone are the characters we started with, and long gone is their romance. Now, Nirmali and Sumon appear to be characters from a different movie, and indeed, this appears to be a different film. Its ambition is compelling; I wanted to applaud. Then again comes the question of whether the film could have done without it. But even when the film stumbles—and ever so slightly—Hazarika’s filmmaking remains captivating, right down to that tidy final shot that brims with empathy.
With its bold exploration of the unpalatable and its stubbornness to not be limited by fear, “Aamis” will stay with me for a long, long time. It’s a difficult film to embrace, especially if one happens to be squeamish, but it’s a film to behold. Once I resurfaced from its world, I wanted to go right back into it.
[Not For Reproduction]
In the first meeting between Sumon and Nirmali, there is palpable uncertainty. She, a paediatrician, has been called upon by him, a PhD student, on a Sunday. She hesitates as he pleads: his friend has suddenly taken ill and is in pain, and he is worried. He’s just a couple of lanes away, Sumon beseeches. She doesn’t look away from his stricken face. Should she accompany him? What could a paediatrician do to cure an adult? And yet, there is something about Sumon, his childlike innocence being taken over by fear. She eventually concedes.
As it turns out, the friend’s first tryst with meat-eating had its consequences. He swears he won’t eat meat again if cured. Nirmali smiles, almost. ‘Meat isn’t the problem,’ she says. ‘Gluttony is.’
Bhaskar Hazarika’s sophomore feature, “Aamis,” pulls that line apart. How far is too far? What can you do for the person you love? Nirmali and Sumon are utterly ordinary in many ways, unable to show each other what they really feel, say what they really want to say. She’s a respectable name in the medical community, and he, someone who’d rather stay away and alone, in company of his preference. He is a member of a Meat Club at the university, where they catch, slaughter and cook different exotic meats to sample their original flavour and texture. ‘Do you know where frozen meat comes from?’ he asks her. ‘Where it is kept and for how long?’ He doesn’t touch frozen meat. She is intrigued. As payment for her services, she asks him to get a sample of whatever he cooks next.
Hazarika captures the initial stages of a growing romance with great care. When in Nirmali’s company, Sumon’s eyes betray a desire that we are not sure even he is aware of, and she is careful in her gestures, as if she is mindful of the fact that she’s toeing a line that mustn’t be crossed. Even when they text, Sumon is a bit reckless with his affection, whereas Nirmali is measured, slightly aloof. His passion for experimenting with food captures her fancy, and together they have rabbits, catfish with colocasia, and soon, bats. He eats with his hands, she prefers a spoon. Mental block, she says. She can’t touch food with her fingers. Eroticism flows freely during these meetings as glances are exchanged and fingers twitch in longing to touch one another. And yet, they don’t touch. Sumon is smitten; when Nirmali sends him a friendly picture of her with her son, he zooms in on her face, aching to touch it, drink it. He relieves his sexual longing by masturbating, but keeps himself in check when they meet. Nirmali remains enigmatic. She isn’t flattered by the attention he lavishes upon her; she is, after all, on a small and seemingly trivial culinary adventure.
The distance between them, between what they could have, is far greater than just a few centimetres. As it were, Nirmali is married to an insufferable and exceptional doctor who spends most of his time in rural medical camps around the country. Whenever he is home, he talks of little but his exploits in the field, and always with a trace of condescension, as if castigating everyone else for living comfortable lives. In his company, Nirmali is not an equal: she is his wife and mother to his son, never a doctor. He barely notices her, barely listens to her. She tells him about Sumon, but he’s buried in the happy memories of his achievements. Later, when Sumon is invited to their house party, she introduces him. ‘Ah, the journalist,’ her husband remarks, his hand outstretched. ‘The PhD student,’ she corrects him. But her husband isn’t mortified. He couldn’t care less.
“Aamis” explores the quiet power struggle between them in this remarkable scene. During the party, the men occupy the top floor of the house while the women are relegated to the ground floor (a detail reminiscent of Robert Altman’s fabulous 2001 film, “Gosford Park”). The women are tasked with arranging dinner while the men drink and discuss politics. Noticeably, Sumon is displaced. His world is away from such trivialities, far away. It has Nirmali, for whom he agreed to come to this party. And when Nirmali’s husband’s friends toast her later (as if it takes that to remind him of her place in his life), Sumon catches her eye.
Here, the film pauses and watches. Because in that moment, the two find each other, both silently desiring something more than just camaraderie, something perhaps they will never get. Hazarika holds that moment and uses it as a pivot to take the film in a thrilling new direction. Nirmali’s smile is stilted, but among everyone present, only Sumon knows that. It’s the first of many secrets they’ll share.
It’s hard not to wonder if the direction Hazarika takes “Aamis” in is only a gimmick, something sprung upon deliberately to stir the viewer, with little thought being paid to how dramatically it will change what we have seen till now. The transformation, evidently, is not without blemishes; it feels abrupt, as if the film was anxious to arrive here. The meshing of genres is determined, methodical. We are beckoned to watch closely.
Sumon is consumed by his obsession, but he doesn’t have anything else to give her. Nirmali isn’t starved of affection; it’s something else she desires. Something taboo, adventurous, even dangerous. When “Aamis” conveys her deeply-rooted hunger, it plunges into horror. With a deliberateness that is refreshing, Hazarika lays out the nature of their relationship through brief montages: Sumon visiting Nirmali in the hospital with a small box, or both of them looking at the sunset while enjoying a quiet meal. Physicality, or the lack of it, is no longer a hurdle; this is a bold new step for them, and it comes with new possibilities. It’s eerie but daringly funny at the same time, as if we are complicit in a depraved secret but curious to see how long it lasts before it is out in the open.
In the third act, Hazarika works the story into a thriller. Long gone are the characters we started with, and long gone is their romance. Now, Nirmali and Sumon appear to be characters from a different movie, and indeed, this appears to be a different film. Its ambition is compelling; I wanted to applaud. Then again comes the question of whether the film could have done without it. But even when the film stumbles—and ever so slightly—Hazarika’s filmmaking remains captivating, right down to that tidy final shot that brims with empathy.
With its bold exploration of the unpalatable and its stubbornness to not be limited by fear, “Aamis” will stay with me for a long, long time. It’s a difficult film to embrace, especially if one happens to be squeamish, but it’s a film to behold. Once I resurfaced from its world, I wanted to go right back into it.
[Not For Reproduction]
