If ‘bitter-sweet’ ever needed a face, Aarii would be it. Directed by Jiit Chakraborty, this high-on-EQ film has every element that you want to have a taste of. It’s the story of a mother, Jaya Sen, and her son, Joy, but it’s also about all of us and the quiet weight we carry for the ones we love.
Moushumi Chatterjee as Jaya is the film’s soul. There’s a certain elegance in the way she breaks down on screen — no noise, no show—just presence. You can see her slipping—into silence, into the haze of illness, into the slow disappearance that memory loss brings. And yet, there’s something so dignified in her portrayal it almost feels sacred. Moushumi doesn’t act here. She exists gently but unmistakably. Watching her is like watching a candle flicker in a dark room. You smile as she blooms with her tragedy.
But if Jaya is the soul, Joy is the heartbeat. Yash Dasgupta delivers a performance that is beautifully restrained, almost to the point of being painfully so. You don’t see him cry often, but when he does, it stays with you. His eyes hold stories—of things unsaid, of dreams shelved, of love that can’t be expressed in words anymore. Yash has outperformed in this one, to be precise. Sliding away from the hunk that he is, he slips into his fragility.
And while we watch the mother-son duo, Aditi emerges — a city-bred writer, played by Nusrat Jahan. And she fits. Not like a grand revelation but like a page gently sliding into a book that always had space for it. Nusrat brings warmth and curiosity to the screen. There’s no melodrama in her performance, just genuine effort — to understand, to heal, to help Joy hold on to what’s left.
Partho Bhowmik’s Trilok Halder, on the other hand, is the storm. He’s unsettling without being loud and dangerous, without ever raising his voice. He disturbs the rhythm of the film just enough to remind us that even in love and care, there can be threats — of exploitation, of manipulation, of things falling apart.
There’s no heavy background score dictating how you should feel. No overwrought monologues. Just small, everyday moments that turn into something bigger — like a son adjusting his mother’s shawl without saying a word or a glance that lingers a second too long. These are the things that make Aarii linger in the heart.
Technically, the film is quiet and grounded. You have it all in the movie. Everything is designed to draw you in rather than dazzle you. It works.
What sets Aarii apart is its relatability. You watch it, and you think of your mother. Or father. Or that one memory you wish you could preserve a little longer. It’s not perfect — perhaps it drags in places, or maybe you want a little more fire at times. But then again, life’s most honest stories are rarely perfect. They’re messy. And that’s precisely why they matter.
Aarii teaches you about holding on, holding on to love, to moments, to people — even when they begin to slip away. Especially then. It teaches you the test of time.
Watch it. Not for the drama. Not for the performances (although they’re stellar). Watch it for the feeling. For that quiet, aching beauty that sneaks up on you when the screen fades to black.
IWMBuzz rates it 3.5 stars.
