When Memory Becomes a Companion is Utpal Datta’s meditative reading of Hamsafar, a silent Marathi short film that transforms an everyday object into a vessel of love, loss, memory, and the quiet endurance of companionship.

In this sensitive film review, Utpal Datta explores Hamsafar, a Marathi short film directed by Abhijit Arvind Dalvi, examining themes of memory, loneliness, ageing, and emotional attachment through visual storytelling, silence, sound design, and the symbolic presence of a radio as lived memory.

Objects as Emotional Anchors

The film opens with a close-up of an old radio, humming with a faint crackle. No programme has begun yet, and yet the radio is switched on. The next long shot reveals an old house. Another close-up follows—this time of a nameplate: Shri Sadanand Ramchandra Nagarkar. Soft music plays in the background, and in rhythm with it, a window curtain trembles gently. From beneath a blanket on the bed, a senior man’s hand slowly emerges. He gives the radio a tap, and instantly it comes alive.

This is how Hamsafar, a Marathi short fiction film directed by Abhijit Arvind Dalvi, begins. From its very first moments, the film delicately explores memory, loneliness, and the subtle psychology of human inner connections. Through an object as ordinary and familiar as a radio, Dalvi unveils complex emotional layers of the human mind with remarkable restraint and sensitivity.

At the centre of the film is an elderly man named Sadanand. True to his name, he appears cheerful, spending his days joyfully with family members and friends. One of his closest companions, however, is that old radio—carefully established at the very beginning of the film. Nearly defunct, the radio is far more than a machine; it is an intimate presence and a repository of deeply personal memories.

In Indian family life, especially in the pre-television era, the radio was not merely a source of entertainment. It was a living presence in the household—bringing news, music, routine, and emotional continuity. Hamsafar gently revives this collective cultural memory.

Silence, Absence, and Inner Worlds

Sadanand’s daily life unfolds in rhythm with the radio, as the day progresses alongside its various programmes. Surrounded by family and friends, his days pass in warmth and cheer, neatly aligning his character with the meaning of his name. One day, however, the radio stops working. His family replaces it with a modern, new one—but this fails to bring him any comfort. The old radio is sold off like discarded scrap. From this point onward, the film takes a turn.

The ever-smiling man becomes quiet, withdrawn, joyless. The viewer senses that something essential has been taken away from his life. Overcome by nostalgia and longing, Sadanand experiences a vision: through a mysterious interplay of light and shadow, a woman approaches him and gently offers him a radio. Nothing is stated explicitly, yet it becomes clear that she is his wife—no longer alive.

This moment opens up entirely new layers of Sadanand’s psyche—his memories, desires, and emotional dependencies. His attachment to the radio acquires deeper meaning. In an instant, it becomes evident that the radio had long occupied the space left behind by his departed wife. It was never just an object; it was his constant, intimate companion.

Craft, Performance, and Resonance

This realisation is conveyed not through dialogue or explanation, but through silence, gaze, and bodily expression. The wife’s character is never clearly defined within the narrative, yet her presence is profoundly felt and emotionally powerful. The restrained yet piercing emotions on Sadanand’s face during these moments make the director’s intention unmistakably clear.

This sequence stands out as one of the most powerful passages in the film and serves as a fine example of Dalvi’s strength in visual storytelling.
Notably, Hamsafar contains no spoken dialogue from its characters. The only voices we hear come from the radio itself. This creative choice significantly deepens the film’s psychological texture. Just as memories often surface in silence, these disembodied voices strengthen the bond between the elderly man and the radio, gradually opening up his lonely inner world.

Gaurav Kulkarni’s cinematography captures the film’s shifting moods with sensitivity and restraint. One may feel that a slightly more muted colour palette could have intensified the film’s philosophical tone further. Structurally, the film unfolds in two distinct halves—one marked by the radio’s lively presence, the other by its absence. The first half moves with warmth and vitality; the second grows quieter and more complex, as family members search for the lost radio while the protagonist remains almost frozen in his memories.

Mayur Hardas’s editing skillfully balances these contrasting rhythms, allowing the emotional core of the story to emerge smoothly. Aditya Vedekar’s sound design deserves special mention—the radio is rendered almost as a living character through sound alone. The performances are understated and natural, lending emotional weight without exaggeration. Vijay Patkar brings remarkable depth to the role of Sadanand, embodying a character who appears outwardly cheerful yet is inwardly lonely after the loss of his wife. The radio becomes both his companion and his shield, helping him conceal his solitude behind sociability.

Ultimately, Hamsafar is a film that lingers in the mind. It reminds us that memory is not merely a fragment of the past—it is an active force that accompanies us in the present. By discovering profound meanings of love, separation, and remembrance through an ordinary object, the film quietly asserts that while time moves forward, certain emotions never truly leave us. Amid the noise of modern life, Hamsafar listens closely to the cool, gentle touch of memory—and finds a heartbeat there.