Cha Garam: story of impact, a tale lesser told

The story truly begins to breathe the moment Robin Chad Murmu walks in. His presence doesn’t just add to the narrative, it unlocks something. Suddenly, the film begins to echo with the memory of countless short stories and novels, familiar fragments of literature resurfacing through his presence, as if the character himself carries those worlds within him. That is the quiet power of Cha Garam, a recent Chorki release that has been drawing attention, and quite deservedly so.

At its core, Cha Garam is about lives that exist just outside the frame of mainstream storytelling: tea plantation workers. People who live without adequate healthcare, fair wages, or proper sanitation—and yet, in the film’s gaze, they are not reduced to mere suffering.

Director Shankha Dasgupta attempts something delicate here: portraying deprivation without stripping away dignity, hardship without erasing humanity. And largely, he succeeds.

The narrative follows Irin, a freshly graduated doctor who finds herself in a remote, almost disconnected tea estate in Sylhet. Here, “healthcare” is reduced to paracetamol and a standard antihistamine, a grim shorthand for systemic neglect. She is soon joined by her friend Mithu, an architecture student and aspiring artist from Dhaka. Together, they encounter the layered realities of the tea garden community, most notably through Nandini, a brilliant young girl with a dream as audacious as it is fragile: to become a doctor.

Performance-wise, the film is uneven. Safa Kabir’s Irin lacks the gravitas one expects from a character carrying such narrative weight. Her portrayal feels tentative, occasionally slipping into affectation rather than conviction. But where she falters, others rise, spectacularly. Sarah Jabin Aditi as Nandini brings an earnest, aching sincerity that anchors the film emotionally.

And then there is Rezwan Parvez as Robin Chad Murmu—arguably the film’s most compelling presence. His performance is textured, grounded, and effortlessly commanding. What elevates him further is how naturally he inhabits the film’s wit, the dialogues, often quirky and laced with irony, find their true rhythm in his voice.

Penned by Saifullah Riad, the screenplay carries a quiet intelligence, where humour rarely exists without an undercurrent of discomfort. Robin delivers these lines with an ease that never dilutes their irony, letting the wit land even as it exposes the harsher truths beneath. Together, they carry the film through its weaker stretches, keeping the audience invested.

The film shines brightest in its moments of quiet poetry. One line, in particular, lingers: tea plants, capable of growing as tall as banyan trees, are pruned short so workers can easily pluck the leaves, just like the lives of those who tend them.

It is a striking metaphor, one that instantly evokes echoes of Mulk Raj Anand’s Two Leaves and a Bud. The parallel is hard to ignore: lives systematically trimmed, ambitions curtailed before they can fully bloom.

Nandini’s journey embodies this metaphor. A gifted student with dreams of becoming a doctor, she is instead nudged toward early marriage, a familiar, suffocating detour. Irin and Mithu step in, helping her prepare for exams, offering not just academic support but a fragile hope of escape. It is here that the film finds its emotional spine.

Yet, for all its strengths, Cha Garam does not fully realise its own potential. The dialogues, often witty and layered on paper, do not always land with the intended sharpness. The humour is present, the intelligence evident, but the delivery sometimes dilutes the impact.

Interestingly, these same lines feel far more natural and effective when voiced by Robin, while Mithu’s execution lacks that ease. Additionally, AK Azad Shetu feels underutilised; his presence is missed in moments where the narrative could have benefited from his depth.

Perhaps the film’s most noticeable limitation lies in its scope. It ambitiously touches on multiple issues, healthcare, education, sanitation, and poverty, but struggles to weave them into a solid thematic core.

It begins with a strong focus on healthcare, only to shift into a broader narrative of education and aspiration, while the root issue, chronic poverty and low wages, remains somewhat underexplored. Sanitation, too, is introduced but not fully developed. That said, expecting a 90-minute film to comprehensively unpack such layered structural issues might be asking too much.

And yet, despite its imperfections, Cha Garam matters. It tells a story that is rarely told in Bangladesh’s mainstream media landscape. It brings the tea gardens, often romanticised as scenic backdrops, into focus as sites of quiet struggle and resilience.

The film may not say everything it intends to, but it says enough to provoke thought, to stir discomfort, and perhaps most importantly, to inspire conversation.

In the end, Cha Garam is less about perfection and more about presence. It exists where silence once did. And for that alone, it deserves not just to be watched—but acknowledged, appreciated, and yes, applauded as a sincere and necessary effort.