There are certain events that occur without warning and completely change one’s life. Injury and death are two particularly resonant examples. They both happen unexpectedly and inevitably remind one of the fickle and fleeting nature of the present moment. Resultantly, intense self-deliberation and a reorganization of one’s priorities often accompany the healing process. But the journey of coping is very different than that of healing. Whilst immersed in one of these experiences, one operates from an almost-primal survival instinct that thrives on simply doing without completely understanding. Much of this behaviour is motivated by the uncertainty of resolution. It’s often only after a tragic event has passed that one resurfaces and realizes how foggy they previously were. October is a beautiful film that displays this chaotic and incessant nature of grief. It follows characters through the haze of confounded remorse and shows them to emerge as kinder, more understanding people. What makes this film resonant is its message that tragedy and its accompanying inner conflict can, with the aid of resilience, be transformed into selfless love.

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October showcases the character arc of Dan, a young trainee at an Indian five-star hotel who is earning a degree in hotel management. But unlike his well-behaved and eager-to-please coworkers, Dan is an apparent outlier. While his peers have grown into reliable, honest adults, Dan adamantly clings onto childhood. Like a toddler with an inability to see beyond his own interests, he is simultaneously pitiably innocent and infuriatingly dislikable. He can be arrogant, has an explosive temper, is annoyingly persistent, and is completely obedience-averse. But at the same time, his boyish charm is difficult to turn away from. Like his manager Asthana who incessantly hounds Dan for his appalling lack of responsibility but for some reason refuses to fire him, I found myself also developing an inexplicable fondness for his character. 

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In its essence this film is about an inexplicable connection between Dan and his co-worker Shiuli, who slips into a coma after an unfortunate accident. Prior to the tragic incident these two worked alongside one another as hotel trainees but their contact was sparse. We see only one scene where they verbally interact (when Dan knocks over Shiuli’s flowers and refuses to pick them up) and it shows little else apart from mutual annoyance. But after Shiuli’s accidental fall, Dan takes an uncharacteristic interest in her. This interest is initially propelled by a misplaced sense of guilt since Shiuli’s last words were “where is Dan?”. But this eventually quells into affectionate obsession. Dan visits Shiuli everyday in the hospital, often buying her medicines, talking to her nurses, and taking a keen interest in waking Shiuli from her coma. He is such a regular at the hospital that he becomes Shiuli’s mother’s right-hand man, defending her from jibes issued by Shuili’s uncle and almost becoming a part of their family. 

What I loved about this film was the ambiguity surrounding Dan and Shiuli’s relationship. There is never a time when their relation is concretely defined, and the scriptwriters’ choice for subtlety is completely understandable. The process of friendship and romantic love, contrary to popular media, rarely turns on a single moment. It is an organic process, a lingering connection that is often, nay, almost always, erratic, confusing, and ill-defined. And in the case of Dan and Shiuli, we don’t know whether they’re friends or lovers or something in between. Neither of them discuss it and frankly, I think it’s beautiful that they don’t. In a film industry so fixated on rigid demonstrations of love, enmity, and friendship, a lack of clarity is refreshing. It left me wondering but it also left me with the resonant feeling that I was prying into something personal. I may be an audience member, but that doesn’t mean that I need to know all of a character’s secrets. The victory actually lay in accepting that ambiguity is just as satisfying as definition. 

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Too many times male characters in South Asian films get reduced to a heap of witty dialogue, superhuman propensities for violence, and voice pieces for reiterating the strict stereotypes of ‘mardaani’ (‘manhood’). Juhi Chaturvedi’s conception of a young male with an incomplete sense of self and plenty of outstanding flaws is so much more interesting and endearing. While it can be argued that the trope of a young man finding his identity amidst trying circumstances veers dangerously close to the coming-of-age genre, Chaturvedi reinvigorates the tired premise with an intricately-designed lead. Not only is Dan a terrible employee, he’s also a terrible friend, and even a terrible son. But he’s a character of profound duality. He reaps plenty, but when he sows, he does so with innocent, sincere conviction. In one instance he shoots his mouth off, condescendingly bragging to the laundry guys about how they’re wasting their lives, but in his hour of desperation, comes back to that very laundry room to take a nap, and no one complains. They don’t complain for two reasons: 1) They think of Dan as a bratty kid but 2) any child, no matter how bratty, needs affection.  

   

On another note, something else that I found to be immediately magnetic about this film was it’s experimentation with emotional tonality. It saddens me to say it, but many Hindi-language television programmes and films lack the ability for emotional subtlety. Whether it be joy, sadness, anger, jealousy, or guilt, emotion is usually immediately perceptible to the audience. If it isn’t obvious, the scene is supplemented with an exotic dance, a fight sequence, or some visual or sound effect. Although these techniques may be motivated by genuine concern that the audience won’t understand unless explicitly told, the opposite is often true. In the end, an overemphasis on clarity often leads to unintentional farce. Using an opposite approach, October uses micro-actions to examine melancholy. One of my favorite scenes in this movie is when Dan lifts Shiuli off her wheelchair and into bed and Shiuli, being a victim of neurological trauma, can only communicate through eye movements. The way that Dan carries Shiuli, like a precious doll, and the way that Shiuli relaxes in Dan’s arms and keeps her eyes fixated on him says everything I need to know about this relationship. As Dan walks out of the room, promising to visit her the next day, Shiuli tracks his movements out the door, seeming to yearn for him to come back. There is nothing more emotionally pure. And yet, all of this was communicated without a word.   

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Overall, October is a quiet, introverted, and compassionate attempt to quantify the imperceptible: grief, innocence, and affection. It was a joy to watch.