Inside The Making Of Kok Kok Kokoook, Geopolitics Of Assam And Current State Of Independent Filmmaking In Northeast

When I was in 5th or 6th grade, I raised many chickens. Years later, when I began making films, I found the idea of a chicken character intriguing, which is why I included one in my film's screenplay.

One of my mentors loved the script before we shot, but she urged me to remove the chicken layer. Having had a tough experience directing a donkey in my previous film, The Horse from Heaven (Assamese: Mor Ghorar Duronto Goti), she warned me that taming a chicken would be nearly impossible. I agreed with her in theory and promised to cut the character if it didn't work.

However, I had a backup plan. About 20 to 25 days before shooting, we bought two identical chickens. We kept one at my house and gave the other to Raju Roy, the lead actor, asking him to spend time with it. Unfortunately, a cat carried away the chicken at my home, leaving us with no backup.

On the first day of shooting, Raju arrived with the chicken, and it was absolute magic. Over those 20-25 days, the chicken had truly become his pet. They shared an honest, intimate connection. If Raju moved his hand up, the chicken stood; if he moved his hand down, it sat.

Raju was so attached that he wouldn't let anyone else care for the chicken. He built a custom carrier bag to transport her on his bike every day. He named her Bipasha and even kept her as a pet after filming wrapped, though she eventually passed away. It was an eye-opening experience for me, proving that magic can truly happen in cinema.

We shot the entire film on a wide-angle 16mm lens to capture a chicken’s perspective—allowing the audience to experience the story through its eyes.

I know Kok Kok Kokoook is an unconventional title, and it took time for people to accept it. My crew initially preferred Sikan (which was our working title), but Kok Kok Kokoook offers far more narrative depth than just a character's name. It isn't just a generic sound; it is the specific call a chicken makes when it is scared, agitated, or angry. Every element in the film must add a layer to the narrative, which is why this title felt right.

The chicken is central to the film, mirroring our main character, Sikan—a marginalised man living like a caged bird, uncertain of when he will be butchered. Ultimately, he reflects all of us: living in a cage, aware that our time will eventually come.

My character comes from a marginalised community, but  I am not making it clear enough whether he is a Bengali or an Assamese Muslim, because I don't see a difference.

Since childhood, I’ve seen how migrants exist in plain sight yet remain completely invisible. They are all around us, but people ignore them, knowing nothing about where they come from, where they return to, or how they live.

Having grown up in the Northeast, I deeply worry about our region's ongoing marginalisation and the lack of space given to our voices. While these issues affect many, my primary focus is regional: I want to make films that speak directly to my own ethnic community, creating a space where our shared experiences and feelings can be expressed and understood.

Neither the magical realism nor the humour was intentional when I began writing the film; both emerged naturally as the team contributed. Magic realism simply enters my stories automatically—I don't force it. Any story I try to tell seems to drift into that magical zone. Similarly, I don't consciously add dark humour; I just embrace it when it surfaces.

I believe the most serious topics shouldn't be told with absolute gravity. Even when facing difficult times, life isn't purely bitter—it's also full of humour. I draw inspiration directly from this real-life balance.

My filmmaking process isn't rigid; it's fluid. It is shaped by my surroundings, keen observation, and current life experiences.

Just before I made this film, I went through a painful breakup that deeply impacted my life. Writing the script became a journey of self-discovery and a way to navigate trauma. The breakup left a vacuum I desperately tried to fill, but nothing worked. Eventually, I realised that only I could fill that void—a revelation that profoundly shaped the movie. It birthed the theme of obsession: what happens when you lose something you are profoundly attached to, try to replace it, and ultimately realise that the only true replacement is yourself.

Humans and machines are fundamental opposites—we feel, machines do not. Yet, the reality is that many of us have turned into machines. While writing, I questioned whether a human could truly make that transformation. I realised I don't know if an average person can, but I am certain a migrant can—driven by the severe identity crisis, isolation, and existential struggle of having nowhere to turn and no one to confide in.

Jafar Panahi’s translator watched our film at the Busan International Film Festival and loved it. I asked if she could show it to Panahi, but she explained that he was constantly travelling and suggested showing it to Mohsen Makhmalbaf instead. It felt surreal. She shared the film with Makhmalbaf, and he wrote back a few lines of beautiful feedback. That meant everything to us—receiving validation from a filmmaker whose work has deeply influenced us was a dream come true.

A few months later, the translator reached out again, saying Makhmalbaf wanted the link to show the film to his daughter. Naturally, we shared it. Then, two or three months later, we got the incredible news that he wanted to program our film in a festival. It truly feels surreal and remains a huge milestone for us, especially coming from an Iranian filmmaker.

We are living through very difficult times—arguably some of the worst I have witnessed since my childhood. Growing up, I went through harsh and turbulent periods, but today feels even more challenging. Back then, the hardship often came from external elements; now, people are fighting among themselves for absurd reasons.

Look at how politics operates today, such as the attempts to commercialise Kaziranga into a capitalist venture for hotel revenue, effectively destroying it. When people speak out against this, they are mocked and arrested. The arrest of Pranab Doley is a critical issue, yet it receives virtually no coverage in the national media and very little in local news—relying solely on social media for public communication.

This is a time to question whether our belief systems are in the right place.

It is an inspiring time to be a filmmaker in Northeast India. A vibrant wave of unique voices is emerging—filmmakers like Dominic Sangma, Rima Das, and Pradip Kurbah, who are making their mark in international cinema. Although we share the same region, each director brings a distinct craft and perspective, offering so much to learn from.

It is encouraging to see international film festivals recognising Northeast India. During our premiere in Busan, an audience member remarked on the sudden shift in Indian cinema, noting that some of the most compelling and distinct new storytelling is coming from our region.

Back home in Assam, the independent film scene gives me immense hope. Despite operating on a small scale, filmmakers create work with deep sincerity—not merely to entertain, but to reflect our collective conscience, history, and present realities. However, there are certain challenges.

Funding is exceptionally difficult, and support from the Assam government is virtually non-existent; it often feels as though they are unaware of our films and international achievements.

Experimenting with artistic style requires backing, yet we are forced to navigate this with almost zero financial aid. Additionally, the lack of cinema halls and an underdeveloped film appreciation culture in the state make it hard to foster cinema as a true art form. Despite these hurdles, we must keep believing in our vision and finding alternative paths forward.