Cactus Pears review: An assured debut feature that subverts queer tropes
Cactus Pears (Sabar Bonda), Rohan Parashuram Kanawade’s semi-autobiographical debut feature about a queer romance experienced amid mourning is the only movie from India competing at the Sundance Film Festival. The story of love and grief in a rural setting came to Kanawade while coping with his own father’s death, as he wondered how different processing the loss might have felt if he had a companion with whom to escape. Regardless of the competition’s outcome in the World Cinema Dramatic category, this movie is already historic as the first Marathi-language film to premiere at the festival.
Using the word "disruptive" doesn’t feel quite accurate for Cactus Pears, yet there is something tenderly disruptive in this compelling drama, an undeniable rebellion running through its DNA. Open and uninhibited expressions of love are not encouraged in most Indian households, especially when either the receiver or giver is a man. It may be a bit of a generalization, but most Indian patriarchs raise the male members of their families to become disciplinarians and household bosses. Hints of soft and tender emotions only get in the way.
Keeping this in mind, the existence of a film that not only presents a story brimming with love but also explores the queer romance between two men without a curtain of shame is both groundbreaking and defiant. That it's such an excellent movie, and a feature-length directorial debut at that, makes it all the more remarkable.
Cactus Pears reveals the struggle of duality between city life and village roots.
Following the death of his father, 30-year-old Mumbai resident Anand (Bhushaan Manoj) and his mother, Suman (Jayshri Jagtap), visit their extended family back in the village of Kharshinde, in Maharashtra, to observe a 10-day period of mourning.
Mumbai is home to many who either are migrant workers themselves, or from families that left farmlands and moved to the city in search of a better life. Anand’s grandfather was the first one in the family to make this move. Throughout the film, multiple characters talk about life in the big city with a sense of mysticism. Some want their daughters to marry city boys, with the expectation this will make for a more prosperous and easy life, as access to basic amenities such as round-the-clock electricity and readily available running water remains rare in parts of rural India.
However, Anand’s grandfather, father, and himself have not found riches in the big city. Anand earns only enough to contribute toward running the studio apartment he shares with his parents. By contrast, his cousin Bajrang, who works as a veterinarian, owns a multi-storied house with enough rooms for a big, joint family. Characters reminisce of a time not in the long past when these homes weren't even made of brick and cement, so there is a sense of upward mobility here. However, somewhere along the home's construction, it seems the family ran out of money. The front façade has no paint on its walls, there is a bare minimum of furniture within, and unused bags of cement lie abandoned on the rooftop. Is the attraction of the city simply an illusion? The house can be seen as a metaphor for the unreliable, unpredictable, and occasionally unfulfilled desire for a life that will somehow be better.
2024’s Grand Prix-winning All We Imagine as Light, the debut feature of Payal Kapadia, also explored this duality. Parvathy (Chhaya Kadam) a cook at a hospital, is evicted from her tenement home by real estate developers. Initially, she is reluctant to leave Mumbai for her village Ratnagiri, also in Maharashtra. But once there, Parvathy reconnects with a happier, more content version of a self she didn't know still existed within her. For Kapadia’s character, this shift from city to village is instantly cathartic, but for Kanawade’s Anand, a young, queer man, the city feels far more accepting and comforting, despite his cramped living conditions.
He is out as a gay man to his parents, but only in the city. In Mumbai, his parents aren't ashamed of Anand’s sexuality. But in the village, relatives have been told that Anand is single because of a girl who broke his heart. In a scene in which Anand and his mother first arrive at the village with his father’s body, everyone exits the car, but the camera stays behind. As you look at the mourners through the car window, you share Anand’s resignation to a detached, out-of-body experience. His real self remains waiting in that car to go back to Mumbai, where, despite a recent breakup, he is happier.
Contrasting with the vast open fields in his village are the traditional mourning rules Anand is constrained with: Don’t wear black. Don’t wear shoes. Don’t visit anyone’s home. Don’t eat rice. Don’t drink milk. Anand surrenders to each rule without argument, afraid to disturb the balance or cause trouble. The portraiture is so realized and heartfelt that it feels almost voyeuristic to have this peek inside the director’s recollected sense of alienation.
Cactus Pears defies queer stereotypes.
As Anand struggles to find moments in his day when the elders aren’t hounding him to find a bride and marry, he reconnects with childhood friend Balya (Suraaj Suman), who provides him relief from his overbearing family. During the sunny days they spend together, shepherding goats and taking dips in a lake, both see in each other an acknowledgment of their desires. For both, it is almost an instant sexual attraction, but for Balya, this also might become his exit from Kharshinde, a place he never got to leave.
The film’s very apt title, Cactus Pears, refers to the bright red, pulpy fruit that grows atop a prickly cactus in the most arid and inhospitable environments. It might be rare to come about, difficult to obtain, and the way to its juicy goodness lined with needles. But the fact that it grows means it is available to be enjoyed by those brave enough to risk injury. This metaphor is reflected in Kanawade’s writing, which is constantly subversive. It’s almost as if he made a list of stereotypes in queer love stories and deliberately attacked each one. Anand’s father is his confidant, not his antagonist. The worldly Balya has more experience with other gay men than the city-dweller; he knows how to drive a car, ride a bike, and keep nosy inquisitors at bay. The narrative has grief and tragedy flowing through it, but a sad story this is not.
No mournful background music underlines how hard it is for queer men to live their lives. In fact, the film doesn’t deploy music at all. The only song, diegetic or otherwise, is the call to prayers from the nearby temple Anand isn’t allowed to go to. The sound design consists only of birds in an open sky, the sound of feet on dirt roads, and bells around cattle necks, reflecting Anand's state of mind. After his father's death, music went out from the world. All that remains are prayers and the simple, everyday sounds that surround him.
Cactus Pears is Indian indie cinema at its scrappiest best.
Cactus Pears is as indie as indie cinema gets. The budgets are small; the lead actors are both theatre artists who have been in plays together. Bhushaan and Suraaj’s ease with each other is evident; their cuddles are natural, each shared glance a by-product of long-held familiarity. Cinematographer Vikas Urs’ unhurried, steady frames allow Balya and Anand to look at each other for as long as they need to do so. Kanawade too allows Anand and Balya to feel their sadness in moments that would come naturally to men in their circumstances. Anand might have nothing to say to an old relative who wants to know how he gets to and from work in Mumbai, but hearing Balya talk about his family’s financial hardships brings him out of his grief-induced reverie long enough to feel empathy again. Anand finds a hundred new stolen moments of peace, suddenly available in the 10-day mourning period.
Cactus Pears feels as if Rohan Kanawade’s personal life has been laid bare for an audience, each emotional moment on display in defiance of what Indian society expects of men. It is a chapter from his diary, a period in his life when all seemed lost — and yet, like the elusive cactus pear itself, happiness found its way back to him. He names his protagonist Anand, which translates to joy, to remind you there is hope to be found even in the bleakest of times, if you only take a pause and open yourself up to the idea.
Cactus Pears (Sabar Bonda) was reviewed out of the 2025 Sundance Film Festival.