Pradip Kurbah crafts a tale of emotional precision with The Elysian Field, a 2025 Khasi-language Indian film that unfolds through the fragile and persistent rhythms of everyday survival. Set in the Khasi Hills of 2047, the story follows a group of villagers who, bound by quiet loyalty to their land and each other, refuse to let their way of life simply fade away. In a world increasingly gripped by the tyranny of speed and spectacle, the film’s poetic approach encourages viewers to slow down, reflect and sit with the quiet passage of time. 

The Elysian Field recently premiered at the 47th Moscow International Film Festival, where it won Best Film, Best Director and the NETPAC Award. In this interview, Kurbah shares his insights on the film’s themes of grief, resilience and the silent struggles of rural communities.

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Dipankar Sakar: The Elysian Field is deeply rooted in Khasi life, yet its emotions speak to a universal audience. How did you approach telling such a local story while making it feel so widely relatable? And what led you to set the film in 2047?

Pradip Kurbah: For me, the most powerful stories begin in a specific place — a small village, a unique culture — but resonate universally. The Elysian Field grew from my deep connection to Khasi life, its rhythms and its quiet codes. Yet the story is built on emotions — grief, love, guilt, longing — that transcend geography. I trusted these would speak to anyone, anywhere.

Setting the film in 2047 felt symbolically apt. It marks 100 years of India’s independence and 75 of Meghalaya’s statehood; a moment to reflect on what we’ve gained and what we may be losing. One thing I fear we’re losing is our sense of community. The quiet interdependence that once held us together like neighbors checking in — grief shared in silence– is slowly disappearing. Today, even villages feel more fragmented.

Through the film, I wanted to ask: what does freedom truly mean? If we carry unresolved trauma, guilt or grief we can’t voice, are we really free? Freedom, to me, is also emotional and psychological. It’s the ability to feel, to mourn, to connect, to dream and to belong.

Setting the story in the future allowed me to explore memory and imagination side by side. The goal wasn’t to make a political statement, but an emotional one — a call to listen, to remember and to rebuild our shared bonds now, before it’s too late.

If I’m still here in 2047, I hope the future I imagined doesn’t come to pass. I hope instead we choose compassion, connection and community. That would be the most meaningful ending of all.

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DS: The recurring motif of a choir, appearing like an echo from another time, lends The Elysian Field an almost spectral quality. Could you talk about the inspiration behind this choice?

PK: The choir in The Elysian Field is one of the most personal elements for me — not just a creative choice, but something rooted in memory and emotion. In Khasi culture, choral singing is deeply communal; it expresses what words often cannot. Growing up, these harmonies were a part of mourning, healing and collective reflection. They lingered like echoes, long after the moment had passed.

In the film, the choir appears like a memory that won’t fade — a presence that connects the living and the dead. They are not merely performers but witnesses, almost spirit-like, guiding us through the film’s emotional terrain. Their collective voice reflects the idea that grief, even when solitary, carries shared echoes.

The choir allowed me to communicate beyond dialogue, to let silence carry emotional weight and to remind us that memory is never truly quiet. I’m deeply grateful to the singers — Casty Mary Pyngrope, Mebabhabok Marbaniang, Monalisa Rymbai, Rionaldo Warlarpih, Niggie Gillmore Pyngrope and Anderson Damon Warlarpih — who brought such honesty and soul. They became the film’s emotional backbone.

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DS: Similarly, a bus in The Elysian Field feels almost like a character in itself. It is the villagers’ only fragile link to a world they can no longer truly access? How central was this symbol to your narrative design?

PK: The bus in The Elysian Field isn’t just a vehicle — it’s a character in its own right. I saw it as the last fragile link connecting the village to the outside world, both physically and emotionally.

In the hill regions of Meghalaya, public transport is more than a service — it’s a lifeline. The old state buses carry not just passengers but stories, silences and memories of generations. I’ve witnessed how, when a bus stops arriving, a place slowly vanishes — first from maps, then from memory.

In the film, the bus symbolizes that quiet disappearance. It’s the villagers’ only tether to a world they no longer fully belong to but still yearn for. Its fragility mirrors a deeper human truth: our tendency to hope, to wait, even when neglected. Standing by the road becomes an act of quiet resistance, a belief that we’re still seen.

Narratively, the bus mark[s] emotional shifts. Its presence or absence set[s] the rhythm of the film — measuring time not in hours, but in expectation. So, yes, the bus was always central — not just in plot, but as a metaphor for connection, disappearance and the slow erosion of collective memory.

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DS: Promise, Maia, Complete, Friday, Miss Helen — each character in The Elysian Field carries their grief and quiet dreams. How did you and your co-writer, Paulami Duttagupta, develop these characters with emotional honesty without tipping into heaviness or melodrama?

PK: From the start, Paulami and I knew The Elysian Field wouldn’t be driven by plot twists — it would be carried by its people. Each character — Promise, Maia, Complete, Friday, Miss Helen — holds a quiet world of grief and longing. Our challenge was to explore those emotions with honesty, without tipping into melodrama.

We leaned into silence as a storytelling tool. In the world we were portraying, people rarely voice their pain; it’s felt in gestures, in glances, in everyday acts. So, we built the characters through memory and subtle behavior, not exposition.

Paulami and I often reminded ourselves to let the characters feel real, even if that meant discomfort or ambiguity. Life doesn’t always resolve grief, and neither should the film. We didn’t want to fix their pain, only to hold space for it.

Ultimately, we cared deeply about these people — not as fictional creations, but as reflections of those we’ve known, loved or lost. That’s what we hoped would come through — not drama, but truth.

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DS: Radio bulletins announce progress and celebrations in other parts of the state and country, while the villagers continue to suffer from a power outage. Does this disparity serve as a critique of the hollow promises of development and a comment on the inequality and neglect that persist in rural parts of our country?

PK: The radio bulletins in The Elysian Field weren’t meant as a direct critique, but as a quiet reflection — a contrast between what’s broadcast as progress and what’s actually lived in the village. While official voices speak of celebrations, people sit in darkness. That disconnect is a reality many rural communities face daily.

But my intention wasn’t to blame — it was to care. Yes, there is neglect, but also resilience and quiet strength in these villages. I hope that by 2047, this kind of abandonment is no longer our reality. I hope we see people returning to their roots — not out of necessity, but with purpose and pride.

True transformation begins with people — with those who stay, return or build something from nothing. The film is a tribute to them. The radio, then, becomes a symbol — not just of disparity, but of what progress should mean: caring for those at the margins, not just through policy, but through humanity.

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DS: Miss Helen, as a former school teacher, and her son Livingstone (who mourns a lost wife), seem to embody different attitudes toward faith, memory and survival. Why was this nuanced contrast between these two characters necessary to the story?

PK: Miss Helen and her son Livingstone embody two distinct ways of dealing with grief and time. Their contrast was essential to the story — it allowed us to explore how faith, memory and survival take different shapes in different people.

Miss Helen, a former schoolteacher, represents quiet resilience. Her faith is steady, embedded in routine and small rituals: folding Lucy’s wedding gown, tending to untouched clothes, listening to her ever-present radio. Through these acts, she remembers not to dwell, but to endure.

Livingstone, in contrast, has withdrawn into silence. For him, memory is not a comfort but a weight. He sees no solace in faith or the past, and his grief isolates him further. Unlike his mother, he cannot tend to what once was.

Their relationship reflects not only two kinds of grief but also a generational divide between preserving the past and losing hope in the future. They live under the same roof [and] love each other but remain separated by the ways they carry their pain.

I didn’t want to resolve their tension because real grief contains both the will to remember and the urge to forget, and both deserve to be seen.

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DS: The Elysian Field contrasts exterior shots that confine the characters within small, enclosed spaces with expansive, sweeping views of the vast, almost limitless mountainous landscape. How did you and your cinematographer shape the visual language?

PK: From the start, my cinematographer and I avoided close shots, choosing wide frames to visually express the characters’ emotional isolation. The vast, mist-filled landscape of Meghalaya became more than just a beautiful backdrop; it carried emotional weight, reflecting both physical and emotional solitude.

The wide shots emphasize the distance the characters feel — not just from each other, but from the world itself. We wanted the audience to feel that distance, that longing from afar, mirroring the villagers’ experience of always waiting for something that never arrives.

Moreover, filming through all four seasons was an emotional choice, reflecting the inner seasons of the characters — some still holding hope, others fading into silence, some stuck in the winter of waiting. It connected the passage of time with emotional transformation, showing how life, even in stillness, is always changing.

Further, the wide shots also captured the tension between beauty and abandonment. Nature’s grandeur is indifferent, making the characters feel even more forgotten. The visual style — long, steady frames — became the emotional core of the film, where absence, yearning and silence speak the loudest.

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DS: Much of the narrative unfolds through reminiscences, conversations and silences. What was the thought process behind the sound design in enhancing these subtle narrative elements?

PK: From the outset, I envisioned The Elysian Field as a quiet film — not empty, but rich in emotions conveyed through silences, pauses and memories. The sound design had to reflect this. It wasn’t about filling the space but knowing when to hold back and let small sounds speak louder than words.

Much of the story unfolds through what’s unsaid — where sound becomes key. Subtle details like the radio hum, rustling leaves or the windmill creaking help carry the emotional weight, immersing the audience in the rhythm of the village and the quiet inner lives of the characters.

Sometimes, the sound does more than dialogue, like when a fading voice or single footstep becomes a powerful emotional cue. Silence itself, in moments of loss, was treated as a sound, allowing the atmosphere to breathe.

Sound, for us, was an invisible storyteller. It shaped mood, memory and longing, guiding the audience to feel rather than be told what to feel. I’m deeply grateful to my sound team — Sumir Dewri, Saptak Sarkar and Sayantan Ghosh — for their sensitivity and understanding of the film’s soul.

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DS: The ensemble performances in The Elysian Field feel deeply authentic, as though we are watching real people rather than actors. How did you work with the cast to achieve this sense of naturalism?

PK: Thank you for saying that. It truly means a lot, as naturalism was key in The Elysian Field. From the start, I didn’t want the actors to “perform” — I wanted them to be. The goal was to make the audience feel like they were watching real people, not characters acting out scenes.

We approached the work organically, spending time talking with the actors, exploring emotions and letting the space guide us. There were no rigid rehearsals; instead, we allowed natural rhythms to emerge, encouraging actors to draw from their own experiences and body language.

We were fortunate to have actors who embodied this inner world with grace. Richard Kharpuri as Complete conveyed entire histories through stillness. Albert Mawrie brought a lived-in heaviness to Livingstone. Merlvin Mukhim’s Promise carried a lingering vulnerability. Baia Marbaniang’s Maia was grounded and burdened. Helena Duia as Miss Helen embodied dignity and quiet strength, while Jeetesh Sharma’s Friday balanced deep sadness and strength with subtlety.

What inspires me most is their approach in honestly treating the scenes with sincerity, curiosity and openness. We also made room for tender moments like pauses [and] unspoken emotions, where the story came alive.

Ultimately, authenticity comes from trust. I trusted them, and they trusted the story. And for that, I’m incredibly thankful.

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DS: The Elysian Field won major awards at this year’s Moscow Film Festival. How important are these accolades to you, and what do they mean for the film’s journey?

PK: The journey of The Elysian Field has been long, uncertain and personal. To see it recognized at the Moscow International Film Festival is humbling and profoundly moving. The film began as a fragile idea in 2020, and platforms like the Asian Project Market in Busan and the Co-Production Market at Film Bazaar gave it wings and belief that it might reach a larger audience.

Years of uncertainty and hard work followed, and I never imagined winning three major awards at MIFF — Best Film, Best Director and the NETPAC Award. This moment would not have been possible without those who supported it. I’m deeply grateful to Nina Kochelyaeva for discovering and believing in the film, and to the MIFF selection committee for including it in the Main Competition.

I also thank the esteemed jury: Lluís Miñarro, Bushra, Cornel Gheorghita, Aleksey German Jr., John Robinson and Maryana Spivak for their recognition. Their support affirms that even the most local stories carry universal emotions that transcend borders.

These accolades remind me that filmmaking is a collaborative journey. I owe this moment to the entire team — from the cast and crew to those who supported the film from its inception. These awards give me hope, not just for this film, but for every small story waiting to be told. They strengthen my belief that staying true to our roots allows us to speak to the world.

I’m grateful, humbled and inspired to continue this journey.

Dipankar Sarkar (@Dipankar_Tezpur) is a graduate in film editing from the Film and Television Institute of India and currently based in Mumbai. As a freelancer, he frequently contributes to various Indian publications on cinema-related topics.

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