We often believe that Northeastern society enjoys far greater gender parity than the Hindi heartland. Yet, watching Shape of Momo, we realise that while the shape of patriarchy may vary, its taste remains exactly the same. Here, the humble dumpling becomes a brilliant, tactile metaphor for the rigid social architectures women are forced to inhabit. Between the geometry of conformity and imperfection as resistance lies a tender coming-of-age story worth savouring.

Often, the luminescence of cinema lies not in loud rebellions but in the mapping of invisible boundaries. Tribeny Rai’s debut feature delivers a gentle, sharp-witted exploration of autonomy, inheritance, and the friction of modern ideals against ancestral soil. Along the way, the film effectively dismantles romanticised views of Himalayan communities, highlighting economic disparities, migrant labour issues, and gender expectations in a cultural context.

The narrative follows Bishnu (played with fiery nuance by Gaumaya Gurung), a modern woman who leaves her life in Delhi behind to return to her family home in a picturesque hamlet in Sikkim. There, we find three generations of women living under the omnipresent, suffocating shadow of patriarchal tradition. The men are physically absent, yet their authority remains absolute.

Her grandmother (Bhanu Maya Rai) is waiting for her son, who will take her to Dubai. Her mother’s (Pashupati Rai) approach is defined by a tactical compromise with her surroundings, with a half-smile hiding the fear of an increasing outsider presence in her territory. She hangs Bishnu’s dead father’s clothes outside the house as a silent, phantom armour, establishing a fake male presence to ward off the gaze of strangers. Over the years, she has learned to want only what is realistically available to her. Perhaps she understands that to protect her daughters, she must turn a blind eye to minor injustices.

Bishnu’s elder sister Junu (Shyama Shree Sherpa) represents the toll of conventional conformity. Once a promising, vibrant basketball player, Junu is now a heavily pregnant housewife who has retreated to her maternal home. Fuelled by righteousness, Bishnu, not ready to suffer the torment, assumes it is her duty to emancipate them. What follows, however, is a gradual dismantling of her own entitlement as she tries to take control of the family’s orange orchard and the household chores outsourced to men. Though the script doesn’t allow him much elbow room, the poor orchard contractor’s son stands as a potent counter to the sanctimonious air Bishnu carries. Meanwhile, Bishnu’s dream of building a homestay brings her into contact with a local architect, Gyan (Rahul Mukhia). Son of a politician, he seems gentle and understanding, and Bishnu’s mother sees him as the elusive male presence she was waiting for, but Rai doesn’t offer her protagonist a smooth path to tread.

Bishnu is brilliantly written as a flawed, life-like modern-day woman searching for her moorings in society. She is progressive, but her privilege becomes a reason for her abrasive behaviour. While her feminist ideals are principled, her execution is blinded by class privilege and structural arrogance. By aggressively picking fights with the community, she inadvertently shatters the delicate social equilibrium her mother spent years building. Archana Ghangrekar’s cinematography captures both idyllic and ominous undertones that mirror emotional states.

Within its seemingly serene layers, the film offers an unflinching look at how class, conditioning, and family obligations complicate the desire for independence. Bishnu does not know how to make a perfectly shaped momo — and crucially, she does not care. The mother and sister, conditioned by lifetimes of survival, become the ones policing the shapes of the next generation’s dumplings. They enforce the very structures that oppress them out of a deep-seated anxiety regarding “what society will think.”

Drawing on personal experience, Rai’s style is deeply observational and restrained, in which silences and gestures carry significant weight. Avoiding melodrama, she lets everyday rhythms — kitchen conversations, household chores, village interactions — reveal deeper tensions and provide a lived-in feel.

The film relies heavily on metaphors, deftly grounding them within a casual, conversational, and accessible atmosphere. A casual dinner table joke on fart betrays the pervading stench of entitlement. By naming a domesticated household pet Azadi, the film establishes a sharp, living paradox that mirrors the women’s illusion of independence. What’s real is when the seemingly progressive Gyan leaves his empty momo plate on the table and walks away to wash his hands, perhaps assuming that a woman will clean up his mess. Not to be! 

Shape of Momo is currently running in theatres.