When Unishe April released in 1994, it didn’t just mark the return of nuanced storytelling to Bengali cinema—it marked the arrival of a voice that dared to be soft in a space that had long been dominated by masculine bravado and loud heroism. It also marked the arrival of a voice that dared to be real; real about equations nobody considered reflecting in filmmaking. In an industry that had cropped and depicted relations to perfection, Unishe April was raw and unedited.
Rituparno Ghosh’s 1994 masterpiece doesn’t just narrate a story, but peels back the layers of silences that echo in every modern household. It's a film where glances speak louder than dialogue, and absences define relationships more than presences. But then, isn’t that how it is in real life too? But beneath the quiet drama lies a bold exploration of identity, grief, and generational disconnect—especially between mothers and daughters.
In its delicate unraveling of this authentic and familiar dynamic, the film offers timeless truths about how we love, how we fail, and how we forgive in today’s evolving definition of “family.”
In Unishe April, Sarojini’s character redefines what it means to be a mother in a world that often glorifies self-erasure. She is a celebrated classical dancer whose art is her first language, and motherhood, a role she inhabits on her own terms.
Unlike the nurturing, ever-present maternal figures that dominate Indian cinema, Sarojini is emotionally distant and unapologetically ambitious. Yet, her detachment is not rooted in cruelty—it stems from a deep need to retain her individuality beyond the domestic sphere. The film subtly dismantles the patriarchal idea that a "good mother" must be endlessly self-sacrificing. Sarojini is flawed, yes, but she’s also honest about her limitations. Through her, Ghosh invites us to consider that a woman’s worth should not be solely measured by her maternal devotion, but by the courage it takes to choose her own path- a conversation that remains relevant to this day about gender roles and parenting.
Sarojini is not just a mother; she is a celebrated classical dancer, a woman whose art sustains her both emotionally and financially. Yet, despite being the primary breadwinner, her contributions are brushed aside within her own home. Unishe April lays the uncomfortable truth of many so-called modern families bare in front of us—where a woman’s success is tolerated but rarely celebrated, especially if it disrupts traditional gender roles. Sarojini’s emotional distance is seen as neglect, while her financial support is taken for granted, exposing how capitalism and patriarchy intersect to invisibilise women’s labour; paid and unpaid.
The film invites us to question why a working woman must still prove her love, while a man’s emotional absence is normalized. Rituparno Ghosh challenges the viewer to reassess the narrative of maternal selflessness and asks us, “what does a mother owe her family, and what does the family owe her in return?”
One of the biggest mistakes a child makes is when they put their parents on a god-like pedestal that comes crashing down the moment their parents make a mistake; a trait very common in humans. Unishe April subtly dismantles the myth of the perfect parent—a figure we often build in our heads, especially in the absence of truth. Aditi grows up idolizing her deceased father and blaming her mother, Sarojini, for the emotional vacuum in her life. To her, the father was affectionate, supportive, and ever-present, while the mother remained cold and detached. But as the film unfolds, this narrative shatters. The father, once placed on a pedestal, is revealed to be flawed, human, and perhaps even complicit in Aditi’s skewed perceptions.
However the beauty lies in Rituparno Ghosh not villainising either parent; instead, painting them with the complexity they deserve. In doing so, he urges viewers to shed the rose-tinted glasses through which we often view our parents. In modern families, where roles are more fluid and less scripted, both parents can be right and wrong at once. Ghosh gently nudges us toward emotional maturity; reminding us that healing doesn’t lie in blaming, but understanding.
In Unishe April, the kitchen, which has traditionally been a space for “domesticity” and “femininity” takes on a deeper, more symbolic role. Both Sarojini and Aditi are not typical “homely” women: Sarojini is a renowned classical dancer, and Aditi is a medical student and this becomes evident as both seem to struggle around the kitchen. They exist far outside the boundaries of conventional domestic roles. Yet, ironically, it is within the kitchen—a space neither is particularly attached to—that their emotional thaw begins.
However, it is the fact that both help each other out, making the kitchen a neutral ground, not of servitude, but of care. It is here, amidst mundane tasks, that years of resentment begin to dissolve. In today’s modern families, where roles are often renegotiated, such shared domestic rituals can unexpectedly become spaces of intimacy, vulnerability, and reconciliation. Ghosh turns the kitchen into a quiet stage for emotional truth-telling—simple, unsaid, but profoundly healing.
Unishe April is not loud in its rebellion, yet it quietly revolutionises the way we look at family, motherhood, and emotional inheritance. Rituparno Ghosh strips away the gloss of idealised parenting and reveals something far more honest—families made up of fractured people learning to love each other in imperfect ways. Through Sarojini and Aditi, he gives us a mother and daughter who are not bound by tradition, yet still carry their wounds. In their silences, their awkward reconciliations, and their unspoken griefs, we see our own modern households reflected.
In today’s world of shifting gender roles, blended identities, and evolving definitions of what exactly is a home, Unishe April remains hauntingly relevant.
(Written by Archisha Mazumdar)