The story really starts to breathe once Robin Chad Murmu enters. His presence not only adds to the story but also opens up a few things. Suddenly, the film begins to resonate with memories of countless short stories and novels, familiar pieces of literature come to life through their presence, as if the characters themselves inhabit those worlds within themselves. It’s the quiet power of Cha Garam’s recently released Choraki that is attracting attention, and rightfully so.
At its core, Cha Garam is about the lives that exist just outside the scope of mainstream storytelling: tea plantation workers. People who live without adequate health care, fair wages or proper sanitation – and yet, in the eyes of the film, they are not limited to suffering.
Director Shankha Dasgupta has attempted to do something delicate here: portray deprivation without erasing dignity, hardship without erasing humanity. And to a large extent he succeeds.
The story follows a recently graduated doctor, Irene, who finds herself in a remote, almost isolated tea plantation in Sylhet. Here, “health care” has been reduced to paracetamol and a standard antihistamine, a grim shorthand for systemic neglect. She is soon joined by her friend Mithu, an architecture student and aspiring artist from Dhaka. Together, they confront the layered realities of the tea plantation community, especially through Nandini, a talented young girl whose dream is equally courageous and delicate: to become a doctor.
The film shines brightest in moments of quiet poetry. One line, in particular, persists: Tea plants, which can grow as tall as banyan trees, are shortened so that workers can more easily pluck the leaves, just as the people who tend them do.
Performance-wise the film is uneven. Safa Kabir’s Irene lacks the gravitas that is expected from a character with such narrative weight. His portrayal feels tentative, sometimes slipping into impression rather than conviction. But where it falters, others rise brilliantly. Sara Jabin Aditi as Nandini brings a searing, painful honesty that keeps the film emotionally engaging.
And then there’s Rezwan Parvez as Robin Chad Murmu – arguably the film’s most compelling presence. His performance is compact, grounded and effortlessly impressive. What elevates him further is how naturally he embraces the film’s wit, the dialogues, which are often quirky and full of sarcasm, find their true rhythm in his voice.
Written by Saifullah Riyad, the script has a quiet intelligence, where humor hardly exists without an undercurrent of discomfort. Robin delivers these lines with such ease that their irony never diminishes, allowing the wit to shine through, even as it exposes the harsh truths beneath. Together, they carry the film to its weakest parts, keeping the audience engaged.
That said, expecting a 90-minute film to comprehensively expose such layered structural issues might be asking too much.
The film shines brightest in moments of quiet poetry. One line, in particular, persists: Tea plants, which can grow as tall as banyan trees, are shortened so that workers can more easily pluck the leaves, just as the people who tend them do.
It’s a powerful metaphor, one that immediately echoes Mulk Raj Anand’s ‘Two Leaves and a Bud’. The parallel is hard to ignore: lives have been systematically cut short, ambitions diminished before they can even fully blossom.
Nandini’s journey symbolizes this metaphor. A brilliant student who dreams of becoming a doctor is instead pushed into early marriage, a familiar, stifling path. Irin and Mithu step in, helping him prepare for the exams, providing not only academic support but also a fragile hope of escape. This is where the film finds its emotional backbone.
Yet, despite all his powers, Cha Garam does not fully realize his potential. The dialogue, often witty and layered on paper, doesn’t always land with the expected sharpness. The humor is present, the intelligence is evident, but the presentation sometimes diminishes the impact.
Interestingly, these same lines sound much more natural and effective when voiced by Robin, whereas Mithu’s execution lacks that spontaneity. Additionally, AK Azad Shetu feels that he has been underutilized; His presence is missed in moments where the narrative could have benefited from his depth.
Perhaps the film’s most notable limitation lies in its scope. It ambitiously touches on a number of issues, health care, education, sanitation and poverty, but struggles to weave them into a solid thematic core.
It begins with a strong focus on healthcare, which then fades into a broader narrative of education and aspiration, while the core issue, chronic poverty and low wages, remains somewhat less understood. Sanitation has also been introduced but is not fully developed. That said, expecting a 90-minute film to comprehensively expose such layered structural issues might be asking too much.
And yet, despite its imperfections, Cha Garam matters. It tells a story that is rarely told in the mainstream media landscape of Bangladesh. It brings tea gardens, often romanticized as natural backdrops, into focus as sites of quiet struggle and resilience.
The film may not say everything it wants to say, but it says enough to provoke thought, generate unease, and perhaps most importantly, inspire conversation.
In the end, cha garam is less about perfection and more about presence. It exists where there once was silence. And for that alone, it is not only worth watching – but also worth acknowledging, appreciating and, yes, appreciating as an honest and necessary endeavour.