Sadhu Meher: Remembering the Silent Cry That Gave Birth to Hindi Parallel Cinema

Courtesy Omprakash ji

Some film historians insist that Hindi Parallel Cinema was born the day Ankur hit the screens. If that’s true, it wasn’t the roar of revolution that launched it—it was the voiceless, haunting cry of Kishtayya, the deaf and dumb farmhand in the film’s climax. 

That silent scream, more eloquent than any dialogue ever written, tore through the complacency of mainstream cinema. And the man who gave that cry a human face, Sadhu Meher, left this world quietly on February 2, 2024, aged 84.

Sadhu was the kind of actor who never arrived at the set with a “performance” ready. He came like a farmer—empty-handed, patient, prepared to sow. A native of Manamundu in Odisha’s Boudh district, he had begun humbly enough—as a ticket collector in Mrinal Sen’s Bhuvan Shome (1969). 

I Remember visiting that set once, not because I Was invited, but because Shyam Benegal had told me over tea, “Come and see what Mrinal is up to—he’s making a film that will look like a documentary but sound like a folk tale.”

During the shoot of Bhuvan Shome in Bhavnagar, one day there was Sadhu in a railway ticket collector’s uniform, holding a railway punch like it was an heirloom. He told me, deadpan, “This is the only role where I Can fine the audience if they don’t clap.” Even Utpal Dutt, who was in a perpetual hurry to deliver gravitas, cracked up.
By the time Ankur came along, Sadhu had graduated from ticket collecting to soul collecting.

During the shoot when I Visited Ankur sets, I Saw him sitting under a neem tree, practicing how to express anger without making a sound. “That’s difficult,” I Said. “I’ve seen producers express anger without spending a rupee, but they still make noise.” Sadhu just grinned and pointed to his throat. “Kishtayya (his character in Ankur) can’t afford sound,” he said. “He only has eyes.” Shyam Benegal, watching from a distance, muttered, “There’s my film.” And indeed,

 Ankur’s final shot—Sadhu’s voiceless cry of defiance—became the voice of an entire cinematic movement.
When he was not acting, he was busy making advertising and corporate films with Jalal Agha with whom they had a production house — Maja Mediums. In his Tardeo A/C Market office, he was often seen sketching what he called “marketing strategies for serious cinema.” Jalal, of course, was convinced we could sell Bhuvan Shome T-shirts with “Get Off My Train” printed on them. Sadhu thought it was hilarious. As expected Mrinal da and everyone shot down the idea,

Sadhu Meher was one of those men who never announced himself when he entered a room; instead, the room quietly rearranged itself around his presence. On Bhuvan Shome, where he served as our production manager and ofcourse as Gauri’s husband – the corrupt ticket collector -  he carried a battered canvas bag that seemed to produce everything from location permissions to last-minute props to a thermos of tea no one remembered packing. 

Once, when a crucial bullock cart failed to appear for a sunrise shot, Sadhu vanished for ten minutes and returned triumphantly on a cart he had gently but firmly persuaded a local farmer to “lend to art.” The farmer later admitted he’d agreed mostly because Sadhu had looked at him with those calm, unblinking eyes that suggested destiny was involved.
On Ichchapuran, he outdid even himself. 

One afternoon, with clouds gathering like a conspiracy, our generator sputtered and died. While the rest of us argued about tools, fuel, karma, and the end of the world, Sadhu simply squatted beside the machine, tapped it twice, muttered something in Odia, and coaxed it back to life. I still believe he spoke to machines the way some people speak to old friends.

He and Jala Agha made quite a pair in the ad-film world—Jala’s flamboyance flaring in all directions while Sadhu quietly stitched the whole circus together. They balanced each other like improbable bookends: one all fire, the other all steady earth.
But what set Sadhu apart was what he became back home.

 In his state, Odisha, he wasn’t just a film technician or manager; he became a first icon, a pioneer who proved that someone from a small village could stride into the national film scene with talent, dignity, and an almost magical discipline. He opened doors that hadn’t existed before, showing young Odias that cinema was not a distant dream but a path they too could walk.

Through it all, he remained the same Sadhu—barefoot when he could get away with it, smiling rarely but meaning it when he did, and carrying that indefinable aura of a man who never needed credit to feel complete.
Sadhu went on to become Odisha’s first National Award-winning actor for Ankur. 

His work in 27 Down, Manthan, Mrigayaa, and others showed that sensitivity could be as powerful as rage. Later, in Bhukha, he brought the raw rhythms of Sambalpuri life to the screen with such honesty that critics didn’t know whether to praise his acting or apologize for ignoring Odisha all these years. He also became a familiar face on Doordarshan through Byomkesh Bakshi, where he played a character so convincingly guilty that my mother once asked if he’d been arrested after the shoot.

In his later years, he turned director, making small Odia films that were high on sincerity and low on budget—the truest definition of Parallel Cinema. And when he received the Padma Shri, I Sent him a message saying, “You’ve finally joined the mainstream.” He replied, “No, they’ve come to the parallel track.”

That was Sadhu Meher—modest, quietly revolutionary, and never in a hurry to explain what the camera could already see. Yet somewhere, in the memory of Ankur, that soundless cry still echoes—and in that silence, Sadhu Meher lives on.

FAQs

Q1. Why is the film Ankur considered the beginning of Hindi parallel cinema?

According to many film historians,  Ankur ushered in a new wave of realistic, social, and daring cinema, distinct from mainstream films. It is therefore considered the foundation of Hindi parallel cinema.

Q2. Why is the 'silent scream' of Ankur 's climax so powerful?

The silent scream of farm laborer Kishtayya in the climax hits deeper than any dialogue. This scene brings out the exploitation, anger, and helplessness in a very human way.

Q3. Who played the character of Kishtayya?

The memorable character of Kishtayya was played by actor Sadhu Meher, who created history with his acting without much dialogue.

Q4. Why is Sadhu Meher remembered in Indian cinema?

Sadhu Meher is known for his natural, honest, and down-to-earth acting.  His role in Ankur is still considered one of the most powerful performances in Indian cinema.

Q5. When did Sadhu Meher pass away?

Sadhu Meher passed away on February 2, 2024, at the age of 84. His passing is considered an irreparable loss to Indian parallel cinema.