The title of Tribeny Rai’s debut is a mild criticism. Bishnu (Gaumaya Gurung) can make momos, they even taste fine—but they look weird. It’s a running joke in the family. “No one would believe you’re from Sikkim,” her sister, Junu (Shyama Shree Sherpa), teases her. This doesn’t seem to bother Bishnu as much as what perfectly shaped momos symbolise for her—another annoying standard that women are supposed to live up to.
As though in solidarity, the film around Bishnu is misshapen too. I don't mean this in a negative sense. Most films aim for defined shapes of exposition, character motivation, narrative structure because it's expected and safe. Shape of Momo has a looser, more introspective progression, which seems more representative of life in this quiet Sikkim village and the limbo Bishnu finds herself in.
We're told little about Bishnu’s life in Delhi, only that she worked as a creative in an ad agency. The film opens with her reading aloud to a roomful of guests one of her print advertisements. "Our daughter has written an excellent poem," someone remarks. Another suggests that her mother and late father deserve credit—“They educated her as they would a son.” Bishnu’s face falls when she hears this, and hardens when the guests start talking about finding her a suitable match.
In this casual pivot from Bishnu as capable individual to commodity on the marriage market lies the battleground of Shape of Momo. Rai, who co-wrote her debut film with Kislay (Aise Hee), doesn’t present this as a polemic. Instead, with quiet precision, she indicates the many small and big ways in which women are expected to conform. She also creates a memorable force of resistance in Bishnu, while acknowledging the constant effort it takes not to be boxed in.
Bishnu spends her first days home bristling at various things: the migrant workers on their land, her easy-going sister, her mother. She’s tough on the tenants who tend to their orange orchard, dismissing their requests for delayed and reduced payment. Underneath the bluster, there’s uncertainty. She has no job, and doesn’t seem ready to look for one yet. She has a vague idea of building a homestay on their land, which her mother (Pashupati Rai) isn’t keen on, though she warms to the idea when she realises Bishnu will be working with architect—and eligible bachelor—Gyan (Rahul Nawach Mukhia). And though a closeness soon develops with Gyan, there’s wariness here too.
With all the overheated cinema out there, Rai’s calm observational style comes as a relief. There’s a deceptive ease to the everyday scenes with the siblings, their mother and grandmother (Bhanu Maya Rai). Pashupati Rai’s matriarch is a fascinating character, warm and clever but also driven crazy by her daughter’s combativeness. You can see where Bishnu gets her steel from, and also why she wants a different kind of life for herself.
Underneath the Koreeda-esque warmth of the household scenes, there are darker currents. A couple of nighttime scares underline the risks involved in four women living on their own on a secluded hillside. Yet, it’s also true that their reaction is xenophobia towards the Hindi-speaking migrant workers (the family speaks Nepali). Given how people from Sikkim (and its neighbouring states) have had their own longstanding battles with discrimination, it’s bold of Rai to turn the gaze inward, to show how easy it is for any majority, no matter how small, to blame ‘outsiders’ for their problems. The family’s treatment of the tenants is particularly uncomfortable to watch. Taking off from Bishnu’s hard bargaining over the orange crop—which she later regrets—her mother matter-of-factly coerces the wife to move their house to make way for the homestay (she urges her not to wait for her husband’s approval, saying “he’ll blow the money on drinks”).
With no job to distract her, Bishnu spends her days zealously guarding her freedom; she even names the sweet cat on the property ‘Azaadi’. This means freedom from dependence on strangers (she drives a car, ticks off the grumpy odd-job man), from financial uncertainty (steady rentals from a homestay versus depending on crop yields), and from any man who might seek to change her (Gyan gets an earful when he says smoking doesn’t suit women). Gurung deftly plays her as a visible work in progress, making mistakes and learning from them. Though Bishnu’s biggest clashes are with her mother, there’s a beautiful tribute montage with old photographs, sketches and voiceover towards the end—a small flourish in an otherwise simply fashioned film.
Shape of Momo is a rare film from Sikkim to find a national release. Curious viewers might find themselves charmed, as I was, by its homespun qualities and earthy humour. There’s a scene at the dinner table where Junu audibly farts. Bishnu teases her, as Junu protests that it’s common during pregnancy and their mother tries not to laugh. Their grandmother recalls her father-in-law’s stomach problems, which made him fart in a sputtering fashion. Soon, three generations of women are saying “ke-ke-ke-ke” and giggling helplessly. It feels like a bit of new ground being broken, or at least new wind.
‘Shape of Momo’ is in theatres.
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