‘Sonchiriya’ review – A glorious ‘Indian western’ with a gentle emotional core

Indian cinema is largely devoid of an equivalent to Hollywood’s westerns. Bandits now belong to the past, and our filmmakers rarely feel the need to capture their fascinating stories, which carry immense political and social relevance. One such rare film set in the Chambal ravines, Abhishek Chaubey’s Sonchiriya, proves that there are multiple ways of looking at dacoits. We have seen them celebrated as figures of valour in poetry. We have also known them as brutal assassins who pose serious threats to society, particularly to the wealthy. Thus, there exists a vast gulf between the two definitions – baaghi (rebels) and daaku (dacoits).

Set during the Emergency, Sonchiriya neither glamorizes bandits nor sanctifies the officers pursuing them. Instead, it offers perspectives and explanations for several whys and whats, viewed through the prisms of caste supremacy, illiteracy, deep-rooted patriarchy, superstition, and vast socio-economic divides. Each of these factors shapes the lives of those inhabiting the barren heartlands.

Sonchiriya opens with the introduction of a rebel gang led by daku Man Singh, alias ‘Dadda’ (Manoj Bajpayee), and his close associates Lakhan Singh (Sushant Singh Rajput) and Vakil Singh (Ranvir Shorey). In the opening shot, their path is blocked by a dead snake, regarded as a bad omen. After a few ritual chants, the men proceed, though some remain convinced that the curse will follow them.

As if to validate their fears, heavy casualties ensue when the gang attempts to loot a wealthy goldsmith’s house. A vicious gunfight and multiple deaths force them to flee. Soon after, they are joined by a woman on the run, Indumati (Bhumi Pednekar). Meanwhile, the rebels continue to be pursued by a police unit led by Inspector Gujjar (Ashutosh Rana).

From the outset, Sonchiriya presents a difficult moral matrix to empathize with. The rebels are never framed as heroic figures. They are not shown looting the rich to feed the poor. For them, violence is a way of life, governed by their own code of dharma. They possess their own definitions of right and wrong. Even within the landscape they inhabit, every commoner – whether a housewife or a peasant – carries a gun. For some, it is a means of protecting family honour; for others, it is basic survival gear.

The most captivating characters in Sonchiriya – unexpectedly – are its women. Bhumi Pednekar’s Indumati is a harrowing victim of patriarchy who breaks free from prolonged abuse after witnessing a young girl being violated by a family member. Her impulsive rebellion may appear unusually bold for her era and caste. Yet the film validates every ounce of her courage as it moves toward its finale. Pednekar is particularly striking as a rural woman who handles both the gun and the ghoonghat with equal authority.

Khushiya plays Sonchiriya, the film’s moral compass and a metaphor for deliverance. She is named after the majestic Indian bustard, a bird so elusive that it is often perceived as extinct or mythical. The third major female presence is Phuliya, a woman bandit clearly inspired by Phoolan Devi. At one point, she tells Indumati, “Woman is another caste altogether. Different from all. Beneath all.” Phuliya, too, carries a backstory – one that unsettles within seconds, conveyed without exposition or excess detail.

Speaking of backstories, Dadda and Lakhan Singh share one as well: the haunting vision of a five-year-old girl who serves as the tether to their conscience. This episode, revealed through a flashback, stands out as the film’s most disturbing sequence. Brutal in implication, Chaubey deserves credit for keeping the violence largely off-screen. The closing image – where armed dacoits and villagers confront each other, followed by a cut to the girl staring out from a window – is deeply disquieting.

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Largely plot-driven, Sonchiriya also succeeds in examining the individual truths of its characters – all of whom seek freedom, though each defines it differently. At their core, they exhibit the innate human instinct to protect their own, or those they feel emotionally bound to. A telling example is Lakhan’s quiet tenderness toward Sonchiriya, which Indumati perceptively acknowledges: “There are good people among bandits too.” This observation does not come as a revelation from a woman who has endured years of oppression at the hands of supposedly honourable men.

Shot on real locations, cinematographer Anuj Rakesh Dhawan captures the stark barrenness of the Chambal valley with remarkable precision. His use of unusual angles, fluid camera movements, and striking colour palettes heightens the film’s impact. This effect is further strengthened by Meghna Sen’s editing, whose selection of frames may not always present the actors in their most flattering light but significantly enhances the film’s raw authenticity and narrative engagement.

Sound design and mixing form another major strength, achieving a powerful balance between eruptive violence and stretches of near-deafening silence. The Vishal Bhardwaj–Varun Grover title song, placed at a crucial juncture, underscores the film’s fragile emotional core beneath its rugged exterior. Performances are uniformly compelling, with Rajput, Rana, Bajpayee, Pednekar, Shorey, and the supporting cast bringing freshness and conviction to roles that have few clear precedents in Hindi cinema.

The screenplay (by Sudeep Sharma and Abhishek Chaubey) is deliberately understated, and it is in the story’s restraint that its characters fully come alive. One does wish the central conflict between Lakhan and Vakil had reached a more decisive resolution. However, since the film ends with each character achieving a personal catharsis, this shortcoming ultimately feels inconsequential. The final stretch carries all of Chaubey’s familiar signatures. It is violent, brisk, and stylish in equal measure.

The conventional closure to Indumati’s arc is visible from afar, yet the impact lies in how starkly it exposes patriarchy. Although the film is set in the 1970s, Chaubey’s dramatic and thunderous staging of this moment underlines how the family’s status quo continues to hold relevance in present-day India.

Chaubey’s use of the Bundelkhandi dialect in the dialogues may pose a challenge when the film is screened without subtitles for a broader audience. While the basic meaning is not difficult to grasp, much of the flavour and the film’s understated dark humour risk being lost, with language becoming a potential barrier, particularly for urban viewers.

As the film draws to a close, Chaubey enables us to empathize with every character in Sonchiriya because their worlds are never strictly black or white. With a final jolt before the end credits, the film forcefully reiterates its philosophy: “The snake preys on the mouse. And the snake is preyed upon by the vulture. That is how God has set the law of nature.”