There came a scene in Prabhash Chandra’s Alaav (which as the English title Hearth & Home) when my jaw dropped on the floor. A 60-something Bhaveen is helping his 90-something mother, Savitri, relieve herself. It’s the part of a caregiving film, where most filmmakers prefer implying it by either starting the scene before or after the said deed. But in Alaav, the camera (thanks to the dependable ingenuity of cinematographer Vikas Urs) remains strategically placed, straddling a pencil-thin ethical line – where on one side they could be accused of being voyeuristic and exploitative; on the other end, it could be held for trying to lessen the blow of a hard-hitting reality. Remaining true to its static, observational style – the scene went on for longer than I was ready for, making me shift in my seat uncomfortably. It’s only then did I recognise what Chandra was trying to highlight – the selflessness of it all. We hear truisms like ‘being of service’ to something bigger than us, but nothing quite tests it like when we take care of a loved one in a hopeless situation, and when everything is only steadily regressing. And that’s when I recognised a whole new meaning to the film’s first scene, where our protagonist Bhaveen is shown doing riyaaz. As he falters through notes, he clears his throats, and tries again. I can’t imagine a singer worth their salt, immersed in a raag, having thoughts about the material pleasures it might lead to. It’s almost like a prayer (or the Hindi word, which I prefer, sadhana) – where one goes about their work with the discipline of a monk. The incentive here, if I’m correct in ascertaining, is to do the work as well as possible with no expectation in return. In a world more performative than it’s ever been, where every chore is a potential LinkedIn post, where everything is about ‘value addition’ to one’s life, career or their social profile – Chandra’s film looks at an extraordinary story unfolding in the most mundane setting. Mixing and matching the best bits of documentary and fiction, Chandra’s film is deliberately ambiguous of what it is. It could be a documentary on a former actor, classical singer taking care of his elderly mother. It could also be a fictitious setting, filmed with the discipline of non-fiction. Chandra’s earlier film, I’m Not The River Jhelum, also similarly blurred the lines between fiction, documentary and cheesy theatre montages. The result is more immersive than one might imagine – the viewer quietly engulfed in Bhaveen and Savitri’s daily routine. A still from Alaav.Bhaveen isn’t acting for the camera while taking care of Savitri – we know this from the way he handles her fragile body. He’s not overly cautious and borderline apathetic – the motions having become muscle memory presumably from having done it a thousand times, But he’s also not let go of his sensitivity completely. She’s his mother, he remembers that. So he apologises when he’s ‘rough’ with her. Bhaveen showers her with the affection a parent would reserve for their toddler. When she asks for water in the middle of his meal – we sense a mild irritation in him, but being bound by his duty, he takes a couple of bites of his khichdi and fetches water for her. One thing I enjoyed thoroughly about Chandra’s film is the staccato-like rhythm of daily drudgery in most scenes, which can also risk feeling like a self-conscious and repetitive ‘art film’. But the filmmaker encourages our minds to wander during these scenes, trying to fill in the blanks with the sparse information made available to us through scenes. For eg: in a scene Bhaveen is reminiscing about his days as a theatre actor by staring at a poster of a stage adaptation of ‘The Idiot’ by Dostoevsky, or a phone conversation with a lover. The resignation on his face when a student constantly turns back to see a clock, because she has somewhere to be. It made me think about the history of Gossains – who seem to be living in a posh gated society in South Delhi. They obviously come from privilege, which has permitted Bhaveen’s idealistic pursuits as an artist. All of Savitri’s relatives have been left behind, or are too consumed with their own battles to check up on her. It’s entirely Bhaveen’s responsibility to make sure she’s fed, gets enough sleep, and is cleaned. He knows even in her last days, she deserves dignity, care, affection – even as she struggles to remember her name. A still from Alaav.A recurring line in the film is Bhaveen asking his mother ‘Main kaun hoon? (Who am I?)’. As much as he’s trying to engage Savitri’s mind, it also feels like a way to remind himself of his own identity – not tethered to his role as a caregiver. As a student of his tells him of her plans to move to Europe after securing a scholarship, or a lover’s plans to settle in a different city – Bhaveen despondently makes tea. He can’t abandon his mother, but there are also times when the caregiving becomes too much. He has a meltdown in one scene, where he storms off to the living room and screams in agony – “Khoon pee lo mera (Drink my blood!)”.Alaav is an empathetic love letter for caregivers like Bhaveen, who go about their ‘duty’ behind closed doors, while overcoming a new obstacle every other day. But it also probes the selfless limbo of caregiving, where an individual is torn between prolonging the (not spectacular in quality) life of their loved one, and wanting to see an end to their suffering at the same time. It’s a question that will haunt many viewers in their 30s and 40s, with parents entering their 70s.But as Chandra’s film concludes (without offering definitive answers), the idea is to serve. In a time when love is often reduced to language and performance, Alaav sits with the cost of loving someone till the very end – quietly insisting that it might be the easiest and the hardest thing one will ever do in their lifetime.*Alaav had its Asia premiere at DIFF 2025, and is playing at the ongoing IFFK 2025.