Released on 23 October 2026, Ratanpur is one of those Assamese films that leaves a lasting impression because of the uncomfortable social realities it chooses to confront. I happened to watch its final screening at Kalpana Cinema Hall in Charaideo district.
What surprised me more than the film itself was the almost deserted theatre, with barely five people occupying the seats. It was difficult to reconcile such a sparse audience with a film that had so much emotional depth and social relevance.
The disappointing turnout also raises questions about the grassroots promotion, distribution and audience outreach of contemporary Assamese cinema. Directed by Kangkan Rajkhowa, known for films such as Dur and Shinyor, and produced by Sanjive Narain, Ratanpur deserved considerably more attention than it received.
I came across a few rather dismissive reactions on BookMyShow, including one viewer who suggested that watching the film amounted to wasting two hours. I would respectfully disagree. While Ratanpur may have certain limitations in its narrative construction, dismissing it entirely overlooks its sensitive characterisation and remarkable performances.
The film revolves around Bogi, a woman who sells locally brewed liquor to sustain herself and her younger autistic sister, Mira, in the village of Ratanpur. Her occupation becomes a convenient target for the village’s moral guardians, even as several men from the same community consume the liquor she sells. When societal pressure intensifies and the villagers demand the sisters’ expulsion, Kamal and Ratul attempt to challenge the entrenched prejudices.
What unfolds is an emotional confrontation involving morality, hypocrisy, love and the politics of social acceptance.
The film’s greatest strength lies in its performances. Siddhartha Sharma, popularly known as KK Da, delivers perhaps the most memorable performance as a henpecked husband suffering from night blindness. His portrayal is remarkably effortless, with excellent comic timing and an evolving emotional range. He brings considerable authenticity to an otherwise familiar character.
Amrita Gogoi, who plays Bogi, is another major highlight. Her gradual improvement as an actor is evident, particularly in the way she captures the vulnerability, resilience and dignity of a rural woman living under constant social scrutiny. Her appearance, makeup and overall transformation into a village woman are convincingly executed.
Snigdha Gogoi also deserves appreciation for her portrayal of Mira. Her performance is handled with considerable diligence and sensitivity, avoiding unnecessary exaggeration while giving the character an identifiable emotional presence.
Structurally, Ratanpur takes an interesting tonal turn. The first half is largely entertaining, sustained by humour, amusing situations and well-timed comic exchanges. However, the second half gradually abandons this light-hearted atmosphere and plunges into tragedy. This transition is particularly effective because the laughter of the initial portions eventually gives way to the uncomfortable realisation of how cruel collective social judgement can become.
The central theme is deeply rooted in the Assamese rural experience of samajik bahiskar (social ostracisation). Bogi becomes the village’s moral offender simply because she sells liquor, while the very men who purchase and consume it conveniently escape public condemnation. The irony becomes even sharper when the villagers, despite taking an oath associated with their Bhaona performance, continue to indulge in the same behaviour they publicly condemn.
The film thus exposes the selective morality of a society that frequently judges individuals without examining its own contradictions.
However, the film is not without shortcomings. Its storyline does not experiment significantly with narrative possibilities, relying instead on familiar rural conflicts and social prejudices that Assamese cinema has explored before.
More importantly, the absence of a conventional resolution may leave some viewers dissatisfied. The principal conflicts remain largely unresolved, and the director deliberately avoids offering a reassuring conclusion. Yet, this narrative incompleteness can also be interpreted as an artistic choice.
By refusing to resolve everything, Rajkhowa leaves the audience with a sense of helplessness and several uncomfortable questions about justice, acceptance and collective responsibility.