The creator of the belatedly lauded Tumbbad, Rahi Anil Barve, who continues to be a warrior for the cause of experimental cinema, culled from indigenous folk tales and supernatural lore, in conversation with Khalid Mohamed.  

It’s been a peril-fraught ride for Rahi Anil Barve, most famously known for the folk-horror film Tumbbad (2018). It was completed and released almost two decades after its first draft was written when he was just 18.

Son of the widely-lauded Marathi writer Anil Barve and nephew of the iconic activist poet Namdeo Dhasal, he has been self-taught and an unwavering opponent of formula-stacked cinema. Subsequently, against all odds, he completed one more experimental feature, Mann, which isn’t yet as familiar as Tumbbad even among discerning audiences.

Curious to know more about Anil Rahi Barve (aged 46 now), who hasn’t kowtowed to the firmans of filmmaking and has completed two more projects on his own terms, here are excerpts from an interview with an auteur who could be aptly described as a ‘lone warrior’:

Early Struggles and Entry into Filmmaking

What attracted you to filmmaking, even while being aware of its occupational hazards?

I failed my 10th standard school exams and gave up the idea of joining college. I started doing odd jobs at the age of 15—as a peon, then as a tutor in small computer institutes. Somewhere during that phase, I learned animation. Within four to five years, I was doing well in the animation industry. I also worked on a few Hollywood projects as a VFX artist. But I always wanted to be a filmmaker.

So in 2006, I made a 45-minute film, Manjha, with a team of four and a budget of Rs 60,000. Danny Boyle liked it and included it as a special feature on the DVD of Slumdog Millionaire. It also won awards at the Mumbai International Film Festival and a few others in 2008.

After that, my struggle for Tumbbad resumed, which went on for almost a decade till it was finally released in 2018.

What entices you to dive into the horror genre specifically?

In general, I hate horror. Instead, I’m drawn towards mystery, world-building, and the human psyche. I’m interested in the space where humans are more disturbing than ghosts, where they can shock and scare—something that’s supposed to be supernatural.

That’s how my trilogy was built. Tumbbad was the first. Pahadpangira is intended as the second. And Pakshitirtha will be the third.

After Tumbbad, I spent almost five years making Gulkanda Tales. It was originally conceived as a two-part film but eventually became a six-hour web series with eight episodes. I put everything into it—an ancient comedy set around the time of the writing of Vatsayana’s Sanskrit text Kamasutra (Principles of Love).

We finished it in 2024, but it’s still unreleased, mainly because of internal changes at Amazon. Whether it’s Tumbbad or Gulkanda Tales or any project I’ve tried to make, it has been like waging a war. When you’re trying to create something that hasn’t been seen before, the path has been strewn with obstacles. There’s no escaping that struggle.

The Making and Delayed Success of Tumbbad

What was the kick-off point for Tumbbad, and why did it take so long to complete?

The problem with Tumbbad was unique. Almost everyone in the industry loved its narration. Creative teams would greenlight it instantly. But the moment it went to production teams, everything would change. I would be subjected to the same line every time—it’s neither proper horror, nor a mystery, nor a thriller, and it’s not made for Indian audiences. From UTV Motion Pictures to Sony Pictures, the reaction was identical.

Over the years, my producers and actors of Tumbbad changed thrice over. Twice, we had to completely stop and scrap the shoot midway. I almost went bankrupt; I was being advised to stop. The first five years were tough, the next five were worse. But there was one unflinching support—Anurag Kashyap, my second producer. Because of him, Tumbbad survived the initial hell. If I had given up at any point, the film would have never been made.

Finally, Sohum Shah came on board as actor-producer, and Anand L. Rai. I was going through a hand-to-mouth existence by the time it hit theatres.

Cult Status and Industry Realities

Although the ‘commercial’ response was disheartening, Tumbbad is now considered a ‘cult film’. Can you fathom the reasons why?

The film was released in just a few theatres, with almost no publicity. The teaser and trailer were dropped barely a week before the theatrical release. Most people didn’t even know a film like Tumbbad was playing somewhere near them. By film industry standards, it was dead on arrival.

Its ticket sales would have been very different if the backing studios had trusted the film. No one really did. That’s the irony. And yet, over time, people discovered it—slowly, quietly—that’s why it became what people now call a ‘cult film.’ It wasn’t pushed; it was found.

Clearly, I learnt an obvious but important lesson: no one in the film industry is interested in an artist’s struggle or hardship if you can’t make the sun rise. But once it rises, the industry lines up to salute you, even behaving as if the film belongs to them. The faces and names change, but the filmmaking process remains the same. So the only sane way out is to remain quiet and keep persevering. Don’t get pulled into the noise.

Experimental Cinema and Low-Budget Filmmaking

How feasible is it to realise a film on a near non-existent budget? By using iPhone and AI footage, were you creatively satisfied with the visual look of your third film Mann Pishach?

Zero-budget is possible, but only if you stop trying to behave like a normal film production. The moment you try to imitate the conventional system, you’ll start bleeding money. That system is designed to charge you per hour, per step, per correction. You can’t win over that system.

In my case, Mann-Pishach was not ‘shot’ like a film. I treated it like a controlled experiment. I broke every frame down. Actors performed before an iPhone. I built the first and last frames in Photoshop and used AI like a tool—not like magic. Then after-effects were added to the material, almost like old-school stop motion. I learned the new tools on my own. I had no idea about AI videos or any of this six to seven months ago. I stayed completely outside the traditional post-production studios. Absolutely no hourly billing, no external post set-ups.

Even with AI, I was extremely controlled. I spent around Rs 33,000 only on the AI Kling tool for the credits, and that too very carefully. Every shot was planned; there was no random generation, no wastage. That discipline is the only reason the cost didn’t explode.

What satisfied me creatively is not that it looks ‘perfect.’ What satisfied me is this: a film made with cheap, shallow AI tools—which I personally don’t even like—still holds for 80 minutes.

Today, most AI content collapses in two to three minutes, five minutes max. People just can’t sit through it. But Mann-Pishach has crossed around four lakh views on YouTube. Of them, roughly 20,000 people have watched the full film. That, for me, is the real validation. Not the visuals, not the polish—the fact that this new, dirty path sustains attention has been tremendously encouraging. Because polish can always be added later. Money can fix surfaces, but holding a viewer’s attention for 80 minutes—that’s the real test.

And zero budget doesn’t mean zero cost. It means controlled cost—extremely controlled. If we try to replicate the old system cheaply, it will punish us. On the other hand, if we build a new system around our limitations, we might actually complete a film with no compromises.

AI, Experimentation, and Creative Philosophy

Personally, I don’t like AI, which is pure artifice. How do you relate to it?

AI, for me, is lifeless. Yes, it’s pure artifice without a soul. The only way it works is if you treat it like old-school stop motion—where you are constructing everything yourself, shot by shot, constantly controlling what happens between those five to ten seconds. Otherwise, it just collapses into generic, dead imagery.

Of course, I would prefer to make a normal film on digital, with actors, real locations, real light. Experiments like mine were made for small towns and villages with no money, no access, and not even Rs 50,000 to make a film. Maybe just one cheap smartphone and a few struggling actor friends—this was for them. Because I’ve been there. I know that phase.

The biggest danger in an experimental phase is not the lack of money—it’s waiting. Waiting for the right opportunity, the right producer, the right moment. That waiting kills you.

Creating—even through a flawed, artificial path like I have—keeps your core alive. That’s the only point of any kind of experimentation.

Indie Cinema and Industry Challenges 

Why aren’t you helming Tumbbad 2?

I gave up the ownership rights of Tumbbad at a shockingly low cost when I was desperate to get the film made. At that point, survival mattered more than ownership. In any case, Tumbbad 2 was never on my agenda.

My original plan—right from 2007—was always a trilogy: Tumbbad, Pahadpangira, and Pakshitirtha. That was the journey I was building. The idea of a Tumbbad 2 has come up now, after the film found success again during its re-release. I wish the producer and actors all the luck with it. But I’m moving ahead with Pahadpangira.

Can Indie cinema become a major force in India?

In today’s changing India, surviving itself should be considered a major win for Indie cinema. With brutal suppression and absolutely no support, hats off to filmmakers who are far superior to me, like Devashish Makhija and Umesh Kulkarni, who are still struggling. Gratifyingly, a few like Neeraj Ghaywan are breaking boundaries. But it’s tough.

In sum, are you creatively satisfied at all or frustrated?

I can’t say I’m creatively satisfied. But more than frustration, there’s a constant restlessness. Too many battles, too many unfinished journeys. Tumbbad was one. Gulkanda Tales is another. Pahadpangira is still ahead. Maybe that’s how it should be. If you become fully satisfied, you stop pushing.

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