The day human beings learned to tell stories in their way, they simultaneously drifted apart and came closer to one another. Though the sentence may seem contradictory, in truth, there’s no contradiction—instead, there is harmony. The person who can observe this distance and intimacy from a bird’s-eye view can also grasp the underlying symphony of this harmony, like the principal note played on a sitar. In society, the ability to perceive this harmony is essential.
Watching Anyadin… directed by Kamar Ahmad Simon, I was reminded of the eternal dance of conflict and unity, illusion and transformation in human history. The film begins with a journey— hundreds of people board an old paddle steamer. Among them are silent animals and restless adolescents, energetic youths, foreign tourists, wealthy housewives, impoverished elders, madrasa students, seasoned politicians, future journalists, a blind beggar who sings… who isn’t there? The boat becomes a metaphor for an entire nation and its citizens, moving with the current of time toward an uncertain future.
Through this journey, the director tells us a story, within which smaller stories begin to unfold. After all, human life is nothing but an ongoing story. Some stories centre on God, others revolve around virtual worlds full of fans and followers. Some find truth in the narrative that human history is the history of class struggle. That’s why someone on the lower deck raises a fundamental question: if we’re all on the same boat, why must some people use the toilets below while others enjoy the comfort of cabins above?
The class question becomes even starker at the dining table. Upper-class women debate whether to serve chicken legs to their drivers. One tries to appear generous and democratic; another openly admits she is narrow-minded. Their opinions are explicit—who shares a table with the lower classes? And those “lower-class” people, the subalterns without a voice in society, what do they say? After a horrific accident, one man sits silently with a metal rod in his leg. His wife is overwhelmed with despair, unsure how to carry on. Another woman from the same social group advises her to beg if needed—for what shame is there in asking for help?
The wealthy worry about who gets the chicken leg, while the poor worry how to walk with a broken leg. In between, the middle class debates aesthetic theories. A group of young people—two girls, two boys, a poet, and a singer—quarrel over trivial matters but reconcile just as easily. Like waves that rise and merge into one another, they argue, bond, and stir each other’s emotions. Their chatter creates the perfect setting for Mohiner Ghoraguli’s song to play: “You are more complex than a riddle, clearer than hunger.”
Once, in rural Bangladesh, before the spread of religious sermons and gatherings, travelling theatre performances (Jatra pala) were common. These plays often featured a character named Bibek, who served as the conscience. In Anyadin…, a blind beggar named Sohel seems to carry that role. He sings mystic and spiritual songs with a captivating voice, expressing a philosophy of life: “People come to see [to say last goodbye], even if for a moment.” A devout old man, too, speaks of the inevitability of death. Though their expressions differ, their message is the same. There’s harmony in their perspectives, even if they come from different stories and belief systems.
Beyond class and spirituality, we witness yet another story—the story of politics. The film delves into the dark realities of politics in the name of development, exposing corruption, disappearances, and exploitation. One politician compares politics to football—“You can’t sit out just because you’re upset. You have to keep the hope alive.” Meanwhile, we hear steamer workers measuring the river’s
depth: “Dui bam mele na, dui bam mele na” (Measuring the depth of the river), but the word Bam stands for the word left and leftist too in Bangla. So, this sudden reminder brings to mind two things: first, how even during Bangladesh’s most unstable political times, leftist leaders rarely unite, constantly fracturing and weakening their cause, allowing others to reap the benefits. Second, it evokes Rabindranath Tagore’s fictional character Fatik in the story “Chhuti,” who hears a similar phrase while being taken from village to city via a river route—“One span doesn’t match, two spans don’t match”—symbolising his struggle to find footing in a new, suffocating world. Much like Fatik, the people of Bangladesh seem to find no solid ground to stand on. From fascism, we’ve slipped into anarchism. Where is the path to liberation?
A man desperate to go abroad pleads with foreign tourists, wanting to tell them, ‘Take me away.’ I can’t bear this curse of unemployment. He knows he must leave. Two madrasa (Islamic religious school) boys know their fate depends on others’ pity. A teenage YouTuber knows that more subscribers mean more income. And the steamer’s captain knows how many waves he must conquer to reach the shore. Yet destiny remains uncertain. The steamer gets stuck on a sandbar in the middle of nowhere. Everyone is stunned—how did it end up here? They wait for the tide to return, for the chance to float again. And there the film ends.
Is Anyadin… reflecting how Bangladesh as a nation feels stuck? Unsure whether to move toward liberal democracy, fundamentalist extremism, or a middle path? Toward leftist ideology or something else? We are in limbo, waiting for a revolution—a tide that will carry us to the right destination. Like a Buddha awaiting nirvana, we patiently endure pain, holding on to the hope that it will pass.
The story of being human is filled with pain and struggle. Yet, like a lightning flash, a few moments of joy dazzle us—like the young girl’s dance and song that, briefly, make us forget the uncertainties of life. We wish we could live in a colourful world, like the toy Pegasus horse in a little boy’s hand. But the truth is: despite all illusions of fantasy, we remain stuck on dry land—whether in education, employment, healthcare, or democracy.
If only we could be more humane—putting people above all—then perhaps, with the strength of our humanity alone, we could break through this paralysis. We could become our best selves. Anyadin… prays for that vision—a world where everyone respects the dignity of others. Directed by Kamar Ahmad Simon and produced by Sara Afreen, Anyadin… has already received international acclaim. Though made in 2021, it is only now being released in Bangladesh. We hope this country does not remain like the stranded steamer—may it gain momentum and move toward its rightful destination.