Rodevra Republic

A solitary moment—where abundance and emptiness quietly coexist

Some of you may be familiar with the work of Robert Frank, the Swiss photographer and documentary filmmaker. He was among the most influential photographers of the mid-20th century, known for his nuanced and often ironic portrayal of American life—very much from an outsider’s perspective.

The photograph above, in many ways, is reminiscent of that sensibility.

Set against the backdrop of a rapidly advancing, consumer-driven society, it quietly captures something deeper—a sense of isolation that persists despite material abundance. The pursuit of more does not necessarily fill the inner void.

Frank’s own words perhaps capture this duality best:

“Black and white are the colors of photography. To me, they symbolize the alternatives of hope and despair to which mankind is forever subjected.”

This interplay of hope and despair—two enduring human conditions—finds resonance elsewhere as well.

In an Indian cinematic context, the film Safar explores similar themes. Through its characters and music, it reflects the journey of life, where ordinary individuals grapple with difficult choices and quiet suffering.

One is reminded of the lines by Indeevar:

हम थे जिनके सहारे, वो हुए ना हमारे
डूबी जब दिल की नय्या, सामने थे किनारे

(Those we relied upon did not remain ours;
Even as the heart’s boat sank, the shore was within sight.)

Another song from the film carries a gentler, yet equally profound message:

Nadiya chale chale re dhara, chanda chale chale re taara—tujhko chalna hoga.

(The river flows, the tide moves on; the moon and stars continue their course—you too must move forward.)

There is also a memorable scene that underscores the power of the visual over the spoken word. When Avinash (Rajesh Khanna), suffering from cancer, asks his doctor Chandra (Ashok Kumar) how long he has to live, the doctor silently places an hourglass on the table. As the grains of sand fall, the answer reveals itself—without a word being spoken.

The theme of terminal illness is handled here very differently from Anand. In Anand, there is a conscious effort to embrace life with warmth and cheer. In Safar, the portrayal is more inward, conveying a quiet desperation and the unsettling awareness that mere survival is not the same as living.

Sharmila Tagore’s performance, too, reflects a certain restraint—almost stoic in its expression. While effective, there are moments where familiar mannerisms surface, slightly diluting what is otherwise a finely held portrayal.

And just as a gentle aside—the film features a rather unusual musical detail. In the song “Jo tumko ho pasand wohi baat karenge,” the car horn finds its place as part of the composition—perhaps one of the more unexpected accompaniments in Hindi film music.

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