Interview | “Mainstream Cinema Must Give Indie The Reverence It Deserves": Chhatrapal Ninawe On Ghaath

We did two screenings of Ghaath last week, which I personally attended. One of them was specifically organised for surrendered Naxalites and their families. There are severe restrictions around their colonies and in some cases, even stepping out too far can be dangerous. Making cinema accessible in such contexts is a logistical challenge.

As a writer, there is always a level of detachment when depicting lives one hasn’t lived. I might never truly understand what a surrendered Naxalite goes through, yet I’ve attempted to build a story around them. Naturally, I expected criticism—questions about the accuracy of the language, clothing, or how they were represented. Instead, they expressed support. They told me that what they saw on screen was accurate. That kind of validation meant a lot, especially since our process involved heavy research and care across every department. 

Some viewers did express concerns about the ending, which gave me new insight into how the story might be received from different vantage points. But overall, the screening achieved what it needed to—I was able to bring the film to the people it was truly made for. That was made possible by Picturetime, which happens to be Maharashtra’s first mobile digital inflatable theatre. More than just a personal milestone, it felt like a significant moment for independent cinema, proving that it could reach the audiences it intends to, even in places that are typically inaccessible.

I believe that cinema must be looked at from an experimental point of view, not just by independent filmmakers but by mainstream producers and distributors as well. I think distributors need to back indie films more actively as a way to better understand current audience behaviour. When there is genuine respect for diversity in stories and storytelling, the scope for experimentation in filmmaking and gauging the returns from it expands and gains the support it needs. 

Right now, distributors are so unsure of audience tastes. They’re re-releasing old films under the guise of nostalgia. Money is constantly being invested in projects and sequels that audiences don’t necessarily enjoy. This constant guesswork is causing a stagnation in the kind of content being made and circulated. It’s not just about resisting the system, but about presenting a constructive path forward. If we start seeing cinema as a site for testing and learning what viewers enjoy, the industry, as a whole, benefits in the long term. 

Initiatives like Picturetime are also extremely important innovations in terms of accessibility, cost and sustainability.

Since distribution is traditionally regarded as the final stage in the lifecycle of a film, it is often mistaken as the simplest. In truth, it demands an entirely different kind of endurance. Today, it’s not just indie films that struggle to draw crowds into theatres; even the most mainstream films must compete with the comfort of scrolling on a mobile phone. Ghaath was not designed with either the cinephile or the mass viewer in mind, and that ambiguity becomes both its strength and its challenge. In such a landscape, being able to convince a studio to back a film feels nothing short of a miracle.

That some producers are still willing to bet on experimentation, is a reminder that risk in cinema has not entirely been exiled. In that sense, I have been fortunate—producers like Shiladitya Bora made it possible to bring this vision to life. Though Ghaath had a decent budget, its distribution path is deeply indie, built not around formulas but around curiosity. We are attempting, almost anthropologically, to decode how a film like this can find its people. It’s a study, an unfolding rare for indie cinema, where the stakes are often too high to experiment at this scale. And yet, our refusal to compromise on vision made it possible.

Kurosawa stands as a towering reference in my cinematic landscape—one of the seminal filmmakers whose work introduced me to a new grammar of cinema during my post-graduation days. Over time, other auteurs have seeped into my creative vocabulary. Japanese filmmaker Shohei Imamura’s visceral, uncompromising treatment of vengeance and violence is something I admire. Closer to home, it is Marathi filmmakers like Sunil Sukthankar and Sumitra Bhave, whose cinema is an exercise in subtlety, almost Iranian in its quietude, yet is expressive of the most difficult human emotions. Of course, the cinematic lineage is vast: Hitchcock, Fellini, Tarantino— from whom no cinephile entirely escapes. Sergio Leone is a huge influence on me too; his music is quite post-event and reflective. Someone told me in Berlin that Ghaath’s music feels very “Leonean”. It was heartwarming to hear that because I also wanted to use music the same way—not to glorify violence but to ponder upon the aftermath.

Though there is a natural temptation to pay homage to these cherished directors—especially as a new filmmaker—gradually, one must cultivate a voice distinctly their own. What do you have to say that hasn’t been said or done before? To truly do that often demands detachment, sometimes even abstaining from watching or thinking of any other films during the writing process—to turn inward, yet be aware of the stories around you. It is a slow, necessary unfolding and a gradual process of evolving as a distinct storyteller, even though inspired by the greats.

Each character in the film navigates their own distinct mode of survival, shaped by circumstance and agency. Whether it is Kusari (Suruchi Adarkar), Raghunath (Milind Shinde) or even Nagpure (Jitendra Joshi), I personally couldn’t see a saviour in my own film, which was subconsciously reflected in the writing. It is very difficult to balance thinking intellectually, instinctively and writing creatively. The artist first writes and then reflects. Initially, Ghaath was conceived as a short film, consisting only of its first chapter. Yet it felt incomplete, as the characters required additional narrative threads to fully realise their stories. 

During our recce, we met people living in the jungle whose perspectives were distinct and compelling—shaped by their close relationship with nature. Their language and terminology, deeply rooted in the environment around them, often sounded unfamiliar to urban audiences. Despite an apparent innocence, these individuals demonstrated sharp intelligence and were savvy with the tools and conditions of their environment. One significant inspiration was the Man of the Hole from Brazil, a solitary last-standing man from his tribe who lived deep in the Amazon forest. All that culminated in the creation of Perku (Janardan Kadam), a character who embodies isolation, purity and ancient existence. This character has become especially well-loved—from my office boy to filmmaker Marco Müller—uniting diverse audiences through a shared recognition of his charm.

Indie cinema was created to represent those who are often left out. That’s its core function—it doesn’t have the luxury of detachment from that responsibility. While mainstream cinema tends to follow formulaic structures, designed to appeal to a broad audience, indie cinema works in the opposite direction. It rejects imposed expectations, refuses to check boxes, and operates outside the pressure of aligning itself with a particular subject, theme, or viewer demographic. Its value lies in its freedom to explore without constraint. This independence makes it a space where innovation is not only possible but necessary.

As developments like AI-generated scripts become more common, audiences will eventually grow tired of narratives that feel manufactured. What can’t be automated is authenticity—and that is where indie cinema holds its ground. It continues to drive meaningful storytelling forward because it is rooted in lived experience and creative risk. Mainstream cinema needs to acknowledge this and give indie the reverence it deserves—not as a niche or alternative, but as a vital part of cinema’s evolution. As long as people and their stories exist, indie cinema will remain essential—not bound by definitions, but defined by its refusal to conform.

You have to know who to reach out to, how to pitch, and where the money might come from. Whether it’s through luck, strategy, or consistent networking, you have to stay alert to every possible funding opportunity. Like I reiterated before, some producers are incredibly supportive of experimental cinema. There are also traditional patrons, screenwriting labs, filmmaking labs, and more recently, there’s been a strong push through international collaborations—France, for instance, has become an important partner, especially with filmmakers like Payal Kapadia. That’s a space we should explore more. Alongside this, there are also actors, public figures, and directors within the Indian industry who genuinely support independent voices. OTT platforms have really helped here—they’ve opened up space for Indie films to reach people who might not have had access to them otherwise. Of course, the hardest part of indie filmmaking is funding. But filmmakers have to be open and proactive about it.

 Interestingly, both. Since I belong to Nagpur, I’ve been meaning to explore autobiographical stories from my own life—especially from the 90s, when growing up meant being shaped by a highly orthodox environment. In schools, even basic interaction between boys and girls was discouraged, and that kind of quiet policing affected how one learned about connection, distance, love and even power. I’m developing a coming-of-age project that responds to that atmosphere, reflecting on what it meant to be growing up in that space.

At the same time, I still feel closely connected to the world of Ghaath, and I’m interested in building upon it further. I’ve been working on an idea that brings in mythological elements and follows the story of a nomadic hunter—or even a generation of them. I’m moving between these two stories currently and am slowly working through the process of figuring out how they’ll be funded and developed.