A quiet, timeworn ancestral house. The camera glides slowly, capturing its understated grace and serenity. Then, without warning, comes the sound of a fall — a loud crash that shatters the calm. As the story unfolds, we learn that the person who has fallen inside the house is Akash Chatterjee, once a legendary music icon, now an ageing man.
But is it merely the physical fall of an old man? Or is it the fall of stardom? Or the collapse of an ego, nurtured over decades — an ego whose closest synonym perhaps is abhhiman?
Why Akash Chatterjee abandoned his lovingly built world of wife, son, and music years ago to embrace self-imposed exile in this secluded house is a mystery the film reveals only towards its conclusion. Therefore, I shall refrain from discussing that reason here. What matters is that, despite everything, the elderly father and his grown-up son — Rishi (Aador) Chatterjee, now a celebrated actor — eventually find their way back to one another. The force driving this reconciliation is the desire to break through years of accumulated hurt. Naturally, the audience wonders: why did this realisation arrive so late? Has Akash finally heard the call of his final farewell?
The film revolves around two principal characters, portrayed by Prosenjit Chatterjee and Jisshu Sengupta. Prosenjit plays the same character across two stages of life — a younger man and an elderly one. Jisshu, however, wears three hats. Besides playing Akash's son on screen, he is also one of the film's producers (alongside actor Saurav Das), and the original creator of the story. The seed of this story was planted in Jisshu's mind while working on Rituparno Ghosh's Abohomaan.
Coincidentally, he had also played the son of a celebrated star-director in that film, portraying the subtle emotional tension within such a relationship. Perhaps while inhabiting that character, he found himself wondering, "What if...?" — and that thought gradually blossomed into the story of Abhhiman. Since he acts in a story born from his own imagination, the psychological nuances of his character naturally remain under his complete command. Alongside him, Prosenjit delivers yet another commanding performance, excelling in both avatars with the effortless authority that has become his trademark.
Yet, despite the brilliance of these two actors, careful observation suggests that neither of them is the film's true nerve-centre. I doubt either of them would object to this observation, because seasoned professionals understand that cinema is ultimately a team effort. Every story has a nucleus, and in Indradeep Dasgupta's Abhhiman, that nucleus is Shree, played by Subhashree Ganguly. Indradeep surely knows this, and so does screenwriter and dialogue writer Srijato, who structures the screenplay accordingly.
Why call her the nucleus? Because throughout the film, Shree remains the active bridge between father and son, her omnipresence is almost god-like, carrying the enormous responsibility of making their inevitable reconciliation (something the audience can foresee from the very beginning). Subhashree performs this task with remarkable finesse, alternating effortlessly between confidence and tenderness. There is only one crucial twist in the story that Shree herself does not know — just as Kanchan Mallick, playing the ever-loyal assistant to the superstar, remains unaware of it. That decisive revelation belongs to Prosenjit, who delivers it in the film's climactic moments with the mastery of a true veteran.
The ending also allows Shree's dormant musical identity to blossom, as the screenplay finally gives her the opportunity she deserves. The reality-show sequence towards the end, however, arrives somewhat abruptly, making that particular development feel less believable. Yet this slight haste can be forgiven because it beautifully prepares the emotional context for the song Jodi Shunte Tumi Na Pao, sung by Shirsha Chakraborty — a magnificent composition that stands among the film's finest achievements. Its visual treatment is beautifully photographed (DoP Prateep Mukherjee).
Since music has entered the discussion, one must acknowledge Prosenjit's extraordinary achievement in effortlessly portraying the musical superstar. When Virat Kohli scores "only" 60 runs, one almost feels disappointed — such are the expectations placed upon greatness. Likewise, audiences almost take Prosenjit's brilliance for granted. The enormous leap across decades that he creates purely through body language is something perhaps only he could accomplish.
Likewise, the agony of the old man is portrayed through his oh-so-meaningful empty glances. In one scene, he is the charismatic superstar commanding the stage; in the next, he is a frail old man crippled by fading memory. Watching him perform the musical sequences occasionally reminded me of my own stage actions; at other moments, especially because of the costume (Sabarni Das), I found echoes of Nachiketa. Shree's T-shirt, emblazoned with the word sphulinga (spark), is aptly symbolic because her character is indeed the spark that keeps glowing throughout the film.
Among the songs, another standout is Ador, written and composed by Srijit Mukherji — a piece that is at once mystical and melancholic, perfectly embodying the emotion of abhhiman itself.
I have admired Indradeep Dasgupta's work ever since Kedara, and he does not disappoint here either. As the film's music director, he exercises admirable restraint and sophistication. The songs are here to support the narrative, not to project themselves.
If I must point out shortcomings, I would say the interval arrives at an awkward point. The balance between the two halves of the film feels uneven, with the second half noticeably more energetic. Had some of that momentum been present earlier, the overall rhythm would have been stronger. Moreover, the scene chosen for the interval is not at all important to the storyline. Jisshu's girlfriend, played by Debjani, never quite develops into a convincing character. In contrast, Sohini Sarkar, despite limited screen time as Akash's estranged wife, leaves a lasting impression.
Even with these little and easily overlookable flaws, Abhhiman is absolutely worth watching. It is especially a film to experience with one's family, because it strengthens faith in familial bonds and reminds us of the quiet love that often remains unspoken. It also raises expectations — not only from director Indradeep Dasgupta but also from the new production house, Why So Serious Films. At a time when Bengali cinema continues to struggle at the box office, one hopes films of this quality will once again draw audiences back to theatres. What more could one ask for?