Silence is often equated with submission. To remain silent is to conform.
But what happens when silence becomes speech? What happens when it becomes a mode of protest, a way of life? Kinshuk Surjan’s latest documentary Marching In The Dark (2024) is a moving testament to the dignity of silence. It is an ode to the struggles, resilience, and grit of all the women farmers in Maharashtra, who lose their husbands to suicide every year, and yet keep moving, softly; silently.
Indian farmers have been in the news for a few years now. Their fight against the unjust laws of the State has found voice in two recent documentaries: Trolley Times (Dir. Gurvinder Singh, 2023) and Farming the Revolution (Dir. Nishtha Jain, 2024). However, the question of farmer suicide — an issue that has plagued this country for years — has largely remained unaddressed. Barring the exception of Peepli Live (Dir. Anusha Rizvi and Mahmood Farooqui, 2010) and a few other endeavours by independent filmmakers, one can hardly recollect contemporary films which have drawn our attention towards the precarity of agricultural labourers in India. Surjan’s project is, therefore, a crucial addition, as it not only foregrounds the pain of suicide, but does so from the lens of those who are left behind —grieving widows, ailing mothers, and bereaved children. The film had its Indian premiere in the ‘Focus South Asia’ section at the MAMI Mumbai Film Festival and was given the Gender Sensitivity Award at the recently concluded Dharamshala International Film Festival.
The film follows the journey of Sanjeevani Bhure, and a group of other farmer widows in rural Maharashtra, who remain suspended in the absence-presence of their dead husbands; social stigma and ostracisation being a painful reminder of this reality. And yet, they march. They march together through the darkness of the everyday, carving a life of dignity and independence. In one of the initial scenes, Sanjeevani Tai’s brother-in-law commands, “All the weeding needs to be finished tomorrow.” Bhure takes a quiet pause. “But I have a sewing class tomorrow,” she responds. “What is that good for?” asks the brother-in-law. “It has its benefits,” answers Sanjeevani Tai. She flips one roti after the other, as he indirectly narrates the situation's urgency to her. “What is that sewing class good for?” he asks again. “It has some benefits,” whispers Sanjeevani. “What benefits?” he repeats. “What benefits? Tell me.” A deafening silence follows.
Sanjeevani had come to visit her parents when her husband passed away. With two young kids to care for, she decided to live with her brother-in-law's family, only to discover the difficulty of being heard and seen here. The incomprehensibility of grief—compounded by her status as a widow— forces silence upon her. Silence, therefore, forms an inextricable part of the film’s auralscape. However, as it progresses, we witness the subtle manners in which the same silence is turned into an act of protest, leading to a journey of self-discovery and transformation. She joins a local widows-only support group, pursues tailoring, and takes admission to a college, secretly, silently. As she hears women like her share the same stories of loss, she aids them as well as herself, to grieve, mourn and reflect.
Grieving for the other is also grieving with the other. And, grieving with the other is grieving for oneself, too. In a poignant scene from the film, an elderly widow visits Sanjeevani. Seeing her sick, she remarks, “My intuition tells me when my loved ones are in pain.” She refers to an earlier instance where the two women visit a young widow, and adds, “I know that the pain of others distresses you.” By delicately foregrounding such instances of female camaraderie, Surjan dissolves the distinction between the self and the other, especially in the act of collective mourning. He makes us believe that to love is to grieve. And to grieve is to love even more.
As a cinematic form, the documentary often grapples with the question of gaze. This becomes especially pronounced when the filmmaker inhabits a position of socio-economic privilege vis-a-vis those being filmed. Leena Patoli, Carl Rottiers, and Vishal Vittal erase this scepticism by thoughtfully distancing the camera from its subjects. The camera is a silent, unintrusive spectator that only observes, and does not sensationalise. It penetrates the most personal of spaces — bedrooms, kitchens, etc — acting as a witness. What is revealed is hard work, vulnerability, and sometimes, even fleeting moments of joy. Its slow and reflexive pace frames several trees — some green, some leafless — perhaps alluding to the hope, refuge, and shelter that women like Sanjeevani Tai provide to their children. After the film’s Indian premiere at MAMI, I asked Sanjeevani, “How were you so unhesitant infront of the camera? Did it never violate your privacy?” “When you are submerged in grief, the presence of the camera hardly matters,” she said.
While the film serves as a testimonial to the silent rebellion of several women like Sanjeevani, it also acts as a critique of the socio-economic structures that perpetuate their hardships. Sanjeevani witnesses a suicide every other day. The tender solidarity she extends to her fellow widows not only foregrounds her own resilience but also acts as a signifier of the brutal suicides that farmers in India often succumb to.
Vasudha Chatterjee is a freelance writer and researcher. She completed her post graduation from the School of Arts and Aesthetics, JNU and writes on Art and Culture.
