Payal Kapadia opens her masterful All We Imagine as Light with a signature sequence of non-fictional footage captured in the bustling city of Mumbai, accompanied by a voiceover that maintains a dreamlike, almost ethereal relationship with the images. These mesmerising moments echo the style of her earlier non-fiction documentary, A Night of Knowing Nothing. Through snippets of conversations in different Indian languages—spoken by men and women, young and old—the spirit of Mumbai comes alive. Eventually, we are introduced to one of the protagonists, Prabha (Kani Kusruti), a striking figure clad in blue, standing in a running tram. Kapadia’s debut feature is an extraordinary achievement, marking it as one of the finest cinematic works of this century.
Prabha (Kani Kusruti), a senior nurse in Mumbai, navigates a life marked by absence and unspoken yearning. Bound by the tenuous threads of an arranged marriage, her husband, now residing in faraway Germany, fades into silence with each passing day. Their union, devoid of love and fleeting in its shared moments, exists more as a faint memory than a present reality. Yet, it is this barely tangible bond that keeps her from pursuing the possibility of companionship. When Manoj, a kind-hearted and poetic doctor, expresses his interest in her, Prabha gently turns him down, explaining that she remains committed to her husband—a tie that feels more like a shackle than a connection.
Anu (Divya Prabha), also a nurse at the hospital, is lively and impulsive, her life fuelled by a secret and forbidden love. In the shadows of a judgmental society, she dares to nurture her romance with Shiaz (Hridhu Haroon), a Muslim man, their stolen moments together fraught with both tenderness and peril. Anu’s exuberance is a bright counterpoint to Prabha’s reserved sorrow, yet both women navigate a world that demands silence and sacrifice from them.
Their lives become further entwined with Parvaty (Chhaya Kadam), the hospital’s fiery cook and a widow fiercely defending her late husband’s home against the relentless march of gentrification. Parvaty, unlike the heroic protagonists in Hollywood tales such as Erin Brockovich, does not choose to wage a grand battle against the capitalist forces threatening her home. She knows the odds are stacked against her—unable to claim legal tenancy and met with apathy from even her own lawyer. Her resistance is quieter, more personal, yet no less poignant. When she decides to quit her job and return to her village in Ratnagiri, it is not an admission of defeat but an act of reclaiming her agency, a refusal to be consumed by the city’s relentless grind.
In the days before their departure, Parvaty and Prabha share a rare moment of rebellion, sneaking onto the developer’s worksite and leaving behind a playful, almost mischievous mark of defiance. Their act is symbolic—unlikely to halt the relentless capitalist machine—but as they flee the site, their laughter echoes with a purity that transcends the illusions of Mumbai, a city that promises much yet leaves so many yearning. For a fleeting moment, their joy is untainted, freer than any illusion the metropolis can offer to its millions.
Unbeknownst to Prabha and Parvaty, Anu is drawn to a secret rendezvous with Shiaz, who has journeyed in silence to meet her. Their reunion blooms in the shadows, only to be quietly unveiled by Prabha’s unintentional discovery. Later, as the sea murmurs its eternal restlessness, Prabha pulls a drowning man from its grasp. Tending to him with quiet devotion, he begins to take on the visage of her distant husband, as if conjured by the tide of her own unspoken desires. In a fleeting moment, he presses a kiss to her arm, whispering that she is the light he imagined in his darkest hours. But deep within, Prabha has long recognised a truth she has refused to confront: she has never truly wanted him. As Prabha, Parvaty, Anu and Shiaz quietly sit by the sea in the end, the light they imagined shines on their faces. It is the light they each had dared to imagine, fragile yet luminous, a fleeting promise in the endless rhythm of the waves.
Kapadia is a filmmaker of quiet yet profound magic. She refuses to romanticise the oppressive world her characters inhabit—a world burdened by repression, scars, and the heavy weight of history, tradition, capitalist forces that suffocate dreams, and taboos that deny love and freedom. Yet, much like the stunning hues of blue she paints across her women and the shimmering light she casts upon the city of Mumbai, Kapadia illuminates the power of imagination that pulses within our bodies. This fleeting light, though ephemeral, binds us—whether through the tenderness of love, the warmth of friendship, or the solace found in solidarity. It is in these transient moments of connection that life finds its most vivid meaning, making every act of imagination profoundly worthwhile.
My favourite actress, Maggie Cheung, once said that “film is a fantasy,” and that sentiment perfectly encapsulates the magic of All We Imagine as Light. It moved me to tears in a way I couldn’t control. I could list a thousand reasons why I loved All We Imagine as Light, but none would capture the same enchantment as seeing it on the big screen, in the dark, surrounded by strangers. It’s in those moments that the fantasy comes alive.
Photography: Getty Images and the BFI London Film Festival