In this exclusive interview with Utpal Datta, filmmaker Vikram Kumar reflects on memory, grief, migration, belonging, autobiographical storytelling, and how personal experiences, tribal realities, and quiet observation have shaped his distinctive cinematic voice and evolving artistic journey.

Vikram Kumar belongs to a new generation of Indian filmmakers who combine personal memory with a keen awareness of the social realities around them. His films move beyond conventional storytelling to explore themes of migration, displacement, grief, memory, and the fragile relationship between people and place. From his acclaimed feature Celestina & Lawrence, centred on the lives of tribal workers, to his deeply autobiographical short The Flower-Eating Mother and the Land-Eating Father, Kumar has steadily developed a distinctive cinematic voice rooted in quiet observation and emotional honesty.

Your feature film, Celestina & Lawrence, dealt with the struggles of tribal working people in a town. What drew you to that particular community and their story? How did you ensure authentic representation without romanticising their hardship?

My connection to Jharkhand's landscape and tribal people began when my family moved to Ranchi in 1996. During the 2004–2012 Naxalite conflict, I read extensively about ordinary tribal people caught in the crossfire. Through those stories, I became curious to learn about other issues related to tribal areas. I found myself more inclined towards stories of migration and human trafficking.

To ensure authenticity without romanticising hardship, I relied on my documentary background and drew inspiration from the subtle, observational realism of international auteurs like Abbas Kiarostami and Jia Zhangke. Because I was filming in a familiar environment with characters I deeply understood, I prioritised cinematic subtlety over commercial expectations, allowing the community's daily realities to speak honestly for themselves.

There is a visible shift from a feature film exploring a community's external struggle to a short film exploring two individuals' internal, emotional landscape. Was this a conscious artistic decision, or did the subject of The Flower-Eating Mother and the Land-Eating Father demand a different format?

Celestina & Lawrence was my first feature film. Starting with a social issue felt safer and gave me a strong structure to lean on while I was still building my confidence. Writing about my own personal experiences felt too difficult for a first project.

On the other hand, making a short film freed me from financial pressure. It allowed me to experiment and dive into deeper, more personal themes like memory and grief. The story of The Flower-Eating Mother and the Land-Eating Father came from my own life and naturally called for a different style, using long shots and dreamlike scenes. So, the shift wasn't a sudden change in my filmmaking, but just a natural next step.

Mumbai, Identity and the Search for Cinematic Belonging

How has your experience of living and working in Mumbai shaped your filmmaking sensibility? Do you see yourself as an insider or an outsider when you return to tell stories rooted in your place of origin?

Ironically, my time in Mumbai actually reinforced my disconnect from mainstream commercial cinema. Having grown up watching Doordarshan-era regional films by directors like Adoor Gopalakrishnan, Jahnu Barua, Gautam Ghosh, etc., my taste leaned heavily towards Parallel Cinema. The loud, song-and-dance formula of Bollywood clashed with my quiet nature. Instead, my real cinematic education came from attending film festivals in the mid-2000s, which exposed me to international art-house cinema. Mumbai taught me patience, but my sensibility was shaped entirely by the global directors I kept on discovering later in my career.

Writing the characters of Celestina (inspired by our housemaid) and Lawrence (our building watchman) gave me my first true sense of intimacy and belonging. Yet, identity in Jharkhand is complicated; as a Bihari, I faced the tension of being viewed as a cultural outsider. However, when local intellectuals and the tribal community warmly embraced the film, the apprehension subsided. I realised that capturing local realities in the local language has brought me closer to the tribal people. I now intend to stay in Ranchi to help forge its unique cinematic identity.

Autobiography, Grief and the Emotional Power of Metaphor

The title is striking and deeply poetic — The Flower-Eating Mother and the Land-Eating Father. Could you unpack the imagery? Are these metaphors for tenderness and destruction, or do they carry more personal, biographical meanings for you?

The title was purely instinctive, growing out of personal memory rather than intellectual planning. My mother had an intense affection for plants, particularly hibiscus flowers, mainly due to her daily prayers. After her traumatic passing, I found myself placing the same flowers before her photograph. One day, noticing the withered flower had vanished, my grieving mind conjured a vivid image: what if she was physically taking them? This emotional response to grief, rather than horror, gave birth to the concept of the "Flower-Eating Mother".

The "Land-Eating Father" emerged from a real-life land dispute where a local villager's father was murdered. As the family slowly lost their remaining holdings for money, I wondered if a deceased father might linger out of anger, literally consuming his land because his sons couldn't protect it.

Ultimately, both narratives share a core theme of attachment and consumption. We spend our lives accumulating possessions, relationships, and land, becoming so intertwined with them that we forget the art of letting go. The act of "eating" is a literal visual translation of common phrases like "he swallowed up the land". It is a dramatic, emotional exploration of lingering grief and attachment, rather than a commentary on tenderness or destruction.

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The film has an autobiographical element — one character is a Mumbai-returned filmmaker, clearly a reflection of you. How difficult was it to place yourself within the narrative? Where does Vikram Kumar end and the character begin?

My presence in the film is constant, as I envisioned myself in the story from the very beginning. Living in solitude, my daily routines—naps, vivid dreams, and imagining the presence of my parents in my house—directly infused the film's atmosphere. The filmmaker’s interactions mirror my own experiences of meeting local people in the village and surrounding areas. It seemed difficult initially, as there was no clear narrative. But after combining my character with that of the villager, I started finding meaning in the whole story. I don't feel Vikram Kumar "ends" anywhere; his perspective encompasses the entire film.