IF SOMEONE WANTS to live in her past, and doesn’t acknowledge her present, does she need to be forced to do so? Especially in a world that is full of despair and longing. Sharmila Tagore plays her age, 80, a woman who has seen the worst of times and the best of times. Now in her last years, her active memory is failing her, but her remembrance of things past is strong. She is like the ancient sandstone caves of Meghalaya, her skin and veins no different from the network of branches that make their bridges. Seemingly frail, yet she remains strong in her isolation, dwelling among her old things: a stick picked up on a vacation in Puri, an old harmonium she would practise Rabindra Sangeet on, bank statements from 1974, a radio she would listen to, and an old box she refuses to open. Tagore gives the performance of her life, in a career studded with virtuoso roles. Stripped of artifice, at once fragile and fearless, she is everyone’s ageing mother, one you want to hug and cherish. If you’re not reduced to a puddle at the end of this then you’re fortunate. Nothing makes one feel as inadequate as an ageing parent who refuses to depend on anyone.
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