Rohan Parashuram Kanawade’s Sabar Bonda (Cactus Pear), much like its title, is a thorny-sweet tale of love between two young men in rural Maharashtra, set against the backdrop of loss and mourning. The film, also the first Marathi film to premiere at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival, where it won the World Cinema Grand Jury Prize Dramatic—had its first private screening in Delhi NCR at Alliance Française de Delhi recently, for a select gathering, ahead of its theatrical release on September 19.
In the film, Anand (Bhushan Manoj) and his mother (Jayshri Jagtap) are back in their ancestral village from Mumbai, for a 10-day mourning period after his father’s death. Back home, the 30-year-old faces relentless questions about marriage and his future, while reconnecting with his estranged, still unmarried childhood friend Balya (Suraaj Suman). Together, they navigate grief, memories, and the pressures of expectations.
Part imaginary, part autobiographical, Kanawade’s debut feature is, in many ways, a recounting of his father’s demise in 2016, while navigating the pressures of questions about marriage and the future, much like Anand. “I was frustrated and seeking escape…I thought, what if I had a friend in this village? I could have just sneaked out with him and avoided the pressure,” Kanawade shared about the beginnings of the film during a post-screening conversation with filmmaker Shaunak Sen.
In the film, Kanawade recreates the mourning rituals with a barrage of rules—from avoiding slippers or black shirts to not cutting hair—as a tender journey for his protagonists. “We usually associate this time with sadness and emptiness, but here love blossoms during a grieving period,” he explains. Using silence, the background hum of wind and natural soundscapes, and wide-angle fixed frames, he recreates the slowness and simplicity of village life.
Telling queer stories
Kanawade has always been telling queer stories. Before Sabar Bonda, he made the Marathi short film U Ushacha (2019), a rural love story between two women, and another short, Sundar (2016).
Sabar Bonda is understated in its portrayal of romance between queer men, eschewing the performative markers of queerness or dwelling on the idea of acceptance at home. Its romance and portrayal of desire is subtle—in the way Balya runs his hands through Anand’s hair, in the way they hold hands, the hugs they share under a tree in the barren land while grazing goats, or Anand curiously watching Balya wash his hair with the shampoo he brought from the city. Kanawade cast local theatre actors Manoj and Suman, childhood friends, guiding his first-time film actors to give natural performances.
“When you make stories about queer people, it is mostly situated in the cities,” says Kanawade. He does not force the queerness on viewers. “By using these rituals and characters from a rural area, I could ground the story in my own soil,” he adds. It is a love story stripped of cinematic flourishes — no music, no dramatic background. “That sound design gives that tender quality to the film. The absence of music also immerses you in that world. I wanted to create that feeling as if you are there in that village,” says Kanawade.
Hope over struggle
The film stays hopeful even till the last moment in the midst of loss and grief. Just like the sabar bonda that Balya dethorned for Anand in the film, Kanawade carefully removes every thorn, every expectation of conflict for the viewer. In most narratives, one anticipates a struggle or for tensions to arise in moments of intimacy—this is not such a film. In one of the scenes, the men lay shirtless in each other’s arms on a grass bed in the open. A viewer might expect someone to catch them, to intervene, to escalate the situation—but nothing happens. “Unlike cities, in the village, you see so much open space. So why should someone come and catch you there? Why can’t people just have a good time? Unless we see this positivity, we won’t normalise these stories,” notes Kanawade.
“In real life, there are no bad people. These villagers and relatives are not bad—they just don’t know the reality, other realities. That’s why they think he should get married, or that there should be someone for his mother. Their intentions are good, but sometimes relatives can cross their limits, and that becomes irritating. That’s what I wanted to show.” This gentle portrayal comes from Kanawade’s own experiences growing up, particularly the acceptance he received when he came out to his parents in 2013, after a breakup. He recalls being scared at first, having only heard tragic coming-out stories, and doubting that his chauffeur father, who hadn’t finished school, or his illiterate mother could understand.
Initially hesitant, Kanawade eventually showed his father a picture of his ex, who simply asked, “Is he your friend?” Kanawade replied, “He’s more than a friend. He got married to a woman because he couldn’t tell his parents. I don’t want to do that.” His father understood immediately. He said: “If you know about yourself, that’s what’s more important,” a line that Anand repeats in the film.
“That conversation ended in two minutes,” adds Kanawade. “I experienced a positivity I never thought I’d experience. And I realised that my parents love me.”