If, a 26-minute short film by acclaimed Bengali filmmaker Tathagata Ghosh, is a sensitive, evocative piece of storytelling that lingers long after the credits roll. Set against the everyday rhythm of life in Kolkata, the film delicately unpacks the story of a lesbian couple torn apart by the weight of societal expectations and dares to imagine a different future, one where a mother's love might just change everything.
What struck me first was the film’s raw, grounded realism. The characters feel like people we know, middle-class families navigating a complex world with quiet resilience. The world of If is filled with silences, glances, and stills, rather than heavy dialogue. Ghosh masterfully uses these moments to speak volumes, allowing viewers to sit with discomfort, interpret the unspoken, and feel deeply.
The chemistry between the two women is authentic and heart-wrenching. Their relationship is tender and emotionally rich, never dramatized, but honest and deeply moving. Their final meeting by the river remains etched in my memory: the emotion, the grief, the impossibility of their love unfolding in the shadow of societal pressure. The juxtaposition of their conversation with a background ritual of death is hauntingly poetic, especially as one of them admits she fears her truth might kill her father.
One of the most poignant scenes is a flashback of the two protagonists flying a kite together where their kite soaring high in the open sky, full of joy and freedom. This cuts sharply to the present where the married protagonist stands by the window of her marital home, staring out. The window grille resembles a cage, and outside, a kite is stuck in the branches of a tree, tangled, motionless, and unable to fly. The contrast is heartbreaking. It wordlessly captures everything: the loss of freedom, the emotional confinement, and how far she’s drifted from who she once was. It’s a quiet, devastating moment that says so much without a single word.
And then, there's the mother. She appears briefly, but her presence shifts the narrative’s emotional arc. From the moment she quietly discovers the truth about her daughter’s relationship, her actions speak volumes. She invites the young woman over, saying she needs to talk, there’s a sense of urgency with care. She cooks her favourite dishes for lunch, creating a space of comfort and familiarity, before gently asking, “Are you really happy?”—a question that lands with a serious, weighty pause. And finally, that piercing line: “How long will you continue to lie to yourself?” It’s not a confrontation, but a lifeline. And when she says, “I am there for you, always,” it’s a moment packed with quiet strength, unconditional love, and the possibility of healing. The mother is a character who warms your heart, reminding us how much difference just one person’s support can make. That one moment of acceptance, of maternal love, carries immense power. It opens the door, not to a definite resolution, but to possibility.
The film ends not with resolution, but with ambiguity. And that’s its strength. Maybe they reunite. Maybe they don’t. If doesn’t try to wrap things up neatly; instead, it leaves us in a space of introspection, about choices, regrets, and the small cracks through which hope can still enter.
Ghosh also weaves in subtle threads of politics and religion, never overt, but unmistakable. These elements add layers to the personal story, grounding it in a broader cultural and ideological context. The film never preaches, but it invites viewers to consider how societal systems, beyond just families, also shape personal destinies.
The film’s exploration of identity, love, and societal expectations is deeply resonant. As a woman, I felt the pain of watching a character shrink after marriage with her smile gone, her spirit dimmed, her likes and dislikes fading into oblivion. Who cares that she smiles less?—the question echoes beyond the film.
Technically, If is beautiful. The cinematography captures the quiet intimacy of domestic life and the emotional weight of Kolkata’s landscape. The sound design is subtle, never manipulative. The music doesn’t overwhelm. It draws you in gently, carrying the story's emotional weight with grace.
If makes a powerful statement about LGBTQ+ rights, but even more so, it speaks to the role of family, especially parents, in making or breaking queer lives. It reminds us that love stories between same-sex couples are, ultimately, just that, love stories. Love is love.
I would recommend If to everyone, queer or straight, parents or children, lovers or those still searching. It shows us how society too often complicates what is, at its core, very simple: two people in love. And it urges us to imagine a world where honesty and acceptance can lead to healing.