'Cactus Pears' (Sabar Bonda) Movie Review: A Film That Stays With You

Set in a quaint Maharashtrian village, Rohan Parashuram Kanawade’s directorial debut feature, Cactus Pears (Sabar Bonda), closely examines grief, identity, and forbidden love. As the first Marathi language film to ever premiere at the Sundance Film Festival, Sabar Bonda created a ripple, especially in the Indian indie film community, after it won the World Cinema Grand Jury Prize Dramatic at the festival in January 2025. The worldwide recognition is a win for Indian regional language film.

Sabar Bonda’s meditative style draws its audience immediately into Anand’s life and the catastrophic loss that changed the trajectory of his being. As the only child of his parents, Anand knew that he had to hold back his emotions when his father passed away. He couldn’t afford to break down into tears, though his heart ached seeing his father’s lifeless body. His tears would have been interpreted as a sign of weakness, as is common in patriarchal society. Anand and his parents lived in Mumbai, and it can be assumed that, in many ways, the cosmopolitan city had helped them become more accepting towards queer identities. Anand felt revolted at the thought of spending ten days, the duration for the completion of the funeral ritual, in his rural village, where homosexuality existed only in the realm of the unimaginable. No one spoke about it or even knew how to address it. How do you deal with something that doesn’t even exist? Anand was afraid of facing taunting remarks and the constant coaxing to consider marrying a village girl. Had it been up to him, Anand would’ve stayed back, but he knew that his father would’ve wanted to be cremated in the village he was born in. Sabar Bonda is essentially about the ten days Anand spends in the place he once called home. After he left, he never felt the need to return, but here he was, back to his roots, as a grown man comfortable in his own skin.

Kanawade’s focus is as much on the grief as it is on the romance that acts like a ray of hope in Anand’s life. Grief is not a chapter with a defined beginning and ending—a realization that becomes more evident during the light-hearted moments that Anand shares with his childhood friend, Balya, when the focus unexpectedly shifts to the chirping of birds, which Anand believes to be his father’s voice calling out to him (Hindus believe in reincarnation, and in India it’s very common to discuss rebirth, especially the idea of a loved one returning to the mortal world in the form of a bird). From the temple his father visited as a young groom-to-be to the birds that sang in harmony and the crows that pecked at the rice ball (pinda) offered during the funeral ritual, every little detail emphasized that Anand’s father had become one with nature, and his son felt his presence in the obscure and the obvious. 

Conversations hinting at the stereotypical Indian mentality and tendencies, such as Anand’s decision to come out to his parents only after his increment, hit home. The need to prove oneself, be it academically or career-wise, to soften the blow and to create a space for acceptance is as real as it gets. While section 377 of the Indian Penal Code has been scrapped, the state does not yet recognize queer marriage. The fear is rooted in LGBTQ+ visibility; Indian society continues to marginalize queer individuals, and prefers turning a blind eye to discourse on sexuality and gender identity. Cosmopolitan cities in India, such as Mumbai, over time and with rigorous effort, have successfully built queer-friendly spaces, allowing individuals from the community to open up. Anand captures the boons and banes of growing up in a city as a gay man, while Balya embodies the struggle of staying true to one’s sexuality in a rural village. His refusal to be erased and simply become invisible to the world around him was the real challenge. He feared sticking out like a sore thumb by refusing every marriage proposal, but submitting to societal expectations wasn’t an option either. He’d learned to live with the constant negotiations and, at times, the heated arguments with his family. Through his nostalgia-laden conversations with Anand, he rediscovers the tenderness of love, something he’d been long denied after years of being treated merely as an object of sexual desire. After being introduced to the premise, I was under the impression that the film would gradually arrive at a violent turn considering the many conflicts in place, but Rohan Parashuram Kanawade carefully steers clear of stereotypical portrayals. 

The film mostly unfolds through long static shots to stay true to the depiction of realness. Also, the very-intended cuts in Sabar Bonda will catch your attention; at least they did mine. The cuts can be interpreted as allowing the characters privacy from the prying eyes of the audience (the scene when Anand and his mother, Suman, arrive at the village, and while they climb out of the ambulance and walk to the house, the camera remains trapped in the vehicle, and we witness the family grieve from a distance), or one can also say that it acts as a glaring reminder of how we’ve failed to create a safe space for the characters to express their desires, so they resort to self-censorship. As the film progresses, the lovers reclaim the space and establish the need for queer love to be seen. 

When it comes to the performances, subtlety is definitely the key here. Every movement, every conversation is soft and intentional. Bhushaan Manoj shines as Anand, a grieving young man forced to deal with judgmental remarks as he desperately tries to stay true to his identity. Suraaj Suman beautifully captures Balya’s innocence and affection. Balya’s small acts rooted in love and care, such as asking Suman if Anand was awake every morning or bringing him the cactus pears from the neighboring village just because he fondly remembered having them as a child, convey his selflessness. Jayshri Jagtap’s Suman skillfully embodies the primordial nurturing love that a mother has for their child regardless of whether they adhere to their expectations. 

Sabar Bonda delves into the challenges of being queer in a society that continues to ostracize the LGBTQ+ community, but it refrains from taking a depressive turn; instead, there is a light at the end of the tunnel, a hope that acts as a reassurance for those in the audience struggling to be their authentic selves. The film’s depiction of Anand’s relationship with his parents, where mutual love and care always triumphed over imposed norms, was refreshing and deeply sentimental. Sabar Bonda is one of those films that linger long after you’ve watched it. The reactions, expressions, emotions, the cathartic ending and above all the fact that the film is deeply personal for the director makes it truly memorable.