A slow, subtle film that deeply resonates, Jaya ar Sharmin draws its audience into a profound exploration of human connection against the backdrop of COVID-19 pandemic. Shot over a 15-day period with a tight-knit team adhering to strict health regulations, this movie, directed by Piplu R Khan and co-written with Nusrat Islam Maati, delivers surprising depth and on-point performances. The film was also co-produced by Jaya Ahsan and Piplu R Khan with the backing of Applebox Films Ltd, Box Office Multimedia, and Jaya Ahsan’s own production house, C Te Cinema.
Within the confines of a single flat, the film masterfully intertwines the inner lives of its two protagonists; when Jaya, a celebrated actress played by Jaya Ahsan, and her domestic help, Sharmin, portrayed by the phenomenal Mohsina Akhter, are forced into an involuntary coexistence. While on the surface, not much happens in terms of plot, this enforced proximity highlights the stark contrast in their lives and socio-economic backgrounds, yet it also fosters an unexpected, albeit fragile, connection.
Jaya ar Sharmin is fundamentally the story of an almost-friendship, which doesn’t quite blossom because of the class difference between the two characters. Yet, forced in a small space together, day after day, they end up talking, playing Ludo, and taking care of one another, forming an unlikely bond. Food makes up a substantial part of their conversation, cooking being one of Sharmin’s major duties. The kitchen, with its quirky and colourful mosaics, is where the women meet often. A quintessential scene from Bengali culture plays out – the two women talk about dishes they make while chopping vegetables, compare recipes, dream of going places. While wistfully speaking about a Kolkata visit, Sharmin quips, “I think we’re not going anywhere, all we’ll do is stay home and wash our hands.” But the lockdown is hardly the reason this dream of Sharmin remains unfulfilled.
Sharmin, played by Mohsina Akhter, whose presence in Spardha’s plays – Bishmoykor Shobkichu, Montrash and Ami Birangona Bolchi is utterly captivating – is impeccable in this movie. Each time she is on stage or the screen, it’s near impossible to look away. She becomes Sharmin, from the tips of her hair to down to her toes and sometimes, it seems from the inside as well. She adapts the local speech pattern with perfect grace. When she mops the floor, washes clothes, makes fun of a vegetable vendor, and speaks on her button phone, it is Sharmin we see; no residue of anyone else is left.
The unfolding of Sharmin’s story is layered, she is extremely dedicated to her work; she’s learning to write, and we only see her writing the name of her little boy, Tanju Miah. She sings about him in a haunting, melodious voice that lingers, carrying with it the whole heart and the melancholy of a girl whose story is destined to disappear without trace. In her loneliness, Sharmin makes up stories. The film’s rushed production shows in the somewhat abrupt ending to her story, leaving us wanting a deeper dive into her past, her family, her life before becoming the house help of an actor.
The portrayal of Jaya, on the other hand, is candid, raw, and introspective. In the beginning, she is happy, curious. Unearthing a vintage typewriter, she starts tapping away, warm sunlight playing on her face. Starting with warm weather and a hopeful mood, we see the perfect execution of lights in a cramped space. As the story progresses, the weather turns sombre, the view from the window is of a tree with bare branches, reflecting the hopelessness creeping in. One thing leads to another, and the viewer witnesses the actress’s unfiltered descent into depression. We see her tedious and emotionally taxing rehearsal for playing a grieving character, holding a toothpaste mutely, asking it to answer existential questions. An overbearing director of a movie within the film interjects in the story, his irksome monologues offer little inspiration.
One of the major incidents that acts as a propulsive force in the movie is the attempted suicide of an influencer, a fan of Jaya. She feels deeply for a near stranger while failing to see the person right in front of her, shining a harsh light on the class difference. This is somewhat rectified when Sharmin falls sick, and Jaya takes care of her to the best of her capacity, ignoring advice to send her away. The social distance, too, is reminiscent of how they can share laughter, but in their loneliness, in their helplessness, they remain solitary in separate spaces.
The raindrops that start falling at the end promise a sense of liberation at last, bringing in hopes for new leaves and spring. Jaya ar Sharmin ends on an open note instead of tying all the loose ends perfectly. A grounded, understated, yet moving story that is sure to stay with the viewers long after the credits roll.