Rhythm Of A Flower: Amit Dutta Merges A Singer's Breath With Cinematic Cadence

Amit Dutta stands as one of the significant figures in Indian avant-garde and experimental cinema, a classification earned through his constant formal innovation of the medium. Dutta often describes his methodology as 'cinema of inquiry,' linking it to the Indian tradition of Margi as well as the concept of the hunt. In Sanskrit, the word Marga (path) originates from a root associated with tracking or hunting wild animals. For Stefan Borsos, IFFR film programmer, his works “continue to surprise, enchant and educate.”

It is no surprise that Dutta’s films struggle to find funding, as they differ fundamentally even from what is today considered ‘independent’ cinema. These films have never seen a theatrical release; instead, they are showcased at film festivals and art galleries. In this context, Dutta proposes the concept of a 'self-sufficient cinema' empowered by modern technology. However, this is more than just a production model; it is a profound philosophical and aesthetic approach aimed at liberating the medium of cinema from external influences and commercial frameworks.

After spending many years directing films in Pune and Ahmedabad, he has now settled in the Kangra Valley near his birthplace. He approaches filmmaking much like a traditional craftsman at work. He views animation as the most suitable medium for the concept of self-reliant cinema, and in this endeavour, he is supported by his wife, Ayswarya Sankaranarayanan, who is an animator herself.

Dutta is known for his experimental approach to animation. He has directed short animated films earlier, bringing a highly unique and distinct perspective to the medium of animation. In Wittgenstein Plays Chess with Marcel Duchamp (2020), he employs a flickering style of cut-out animation. Rather than smooth visual transitions, shapes and objects are presented through juxtaposition, appearing one after another in rapid succession.

Rhythm of a Flower is Dutta's feature-length animated film. It is a poetic work based on the life of the renowned Indian classical musician, Kumar Gandharva. It won the top Golden Gateway Award at the 2024 MAMI Mumbai Film Festival. The film premiered in the Harbour segment of the prestigious International Film Festival Rotterdam (IFFR).   

Rhythm of a Flower is a convergence of the rhythm of a blooming flower, the breathing patterns of the singer and the very pace of the cinematic movement. In this work, silence is not the absence of music, but rather the womb from which new ragas are born. Just as a musician listens intently for the perfect note, the camera waits for the image to speak to it. This is where the beauty of this film lies. It reminds us of the way Mani Kaul edited his films—like composing music, moving a shot along the timeline, beyond logic, meaning or chronology, till it finds its right place, in terms of mood and rhythm.  (“And I know that when the shot finds its place, it has a quality of holding you”).

On the use of animation, Dutta says, “Animation doesn’t just allow ideas to unfold—it enables them to become. It resonates with the poetic complexity of classical Indian aesthetics, where emotions and ideas are encoded rather than just represented.”

Rather than a conventional biopic, this is an experimental work that emphasises Gandharva’s musical philosophy. Integrating watercolour animations by Allen Shaw with natural imagery, the film presents musical concepts like 'Laya' through dreamlike visuals.  

The film focuses on a pivotal and tragic period in Gandharva’s life. At the peak of his musical career, he contracted tuberculosis and lost the function of one lung. Doctors strictly forbade him from singing, leaving him bedridden for six years.

In this 81-minute film, Gandharva is seen convalescing at his home in Malwa, Madhya Pradesh. This period becomes an opportunity for him to reflect deeply on his music and his inner self. Simultaneously, the film revisits his past in his birthplace, Sulebhavi, Karnataka.

Dutta employs powerful metaphors—a child chasing a bird and the profound influence of Harikatha singers arriving in the village. In one striking image, a bird perches on a gramophone’s tone arm, while the horn grows large, as if to swallow the watching child.

A unique auditory richness defines the film—the ticking of a clock, the call of a cuckoo, the rustling of book pages, blades of grass swaying in the wind and folk songs dissolving into the atmosphere. Underpinning it all is the background score of Gandharva’s Chhota Khayal composition, ‘Karan De Re Kachu Lala Re’.

During those years when he was unable to sing, Gandharva listened intensely to the world and nature around him—the cries of birds, the wind whistling through the grass and the resonance of folk songs. He would hum so softly that only he could hear—it is said that this gentle form of music sparked a profound revolution in his style when he eventually returned to the stage.  

In terms of visual language, this film marks a departure from the ‘miniature painting’ style seen in Dutta’s earlier works like Nainsukh (2010). The simple, hand-drawn watercolour animation by Shaw feels like a moving storybook for children—a seamless sequence of flowing images. The hallmark of this animation is the use of morphing imagery. Musical staff lines appear across the screen like telephone wires. Small black ink dots, representing musical notes, land on these wires—but they do not remain still. Suddenly, they sprout wings and transform into birds perched on the lines, chirping and fluttering in harmony with the singer’s voice.

As the Tanpura is plucked to set the drone (shruti), its wooden base strikes roots into the earth, while its long neck rises like a tree trunk, sprouting leaves as it grows. The film’s finale features a massive, intricately carved chariot wheel inspired by the Sun Temple of Konark. As this wheel begins to rotate, its motion aligns perfectly with the cyclical nature of the musical form known as ' Taan'.  This reflects the interconnected essence of Gandharva’s musical philosophy. Nature is central to the film’s visuals—the very rhythm of a flower blooming represents the organic, living growth of a musical note.

To portray Gandharva’s six-year struggle with tuberculosis, the film employs a stark and haunting image: a serpent coiled around its own body, eventually attempting to swallow its own tail. This motif reappears throughout the film at varying intervals. The most significant of these sequences lasts about two to three minutes—a mesmerising visual of the serpent spinning in a circle as it consumes itself.

The film culminates in a deeply profound and transcendental finale. After depicting Gandharva’s return to the stage and his years of teaching, the watercolour animation begins to bleed and dissolve. The physical outlines of the singer gradually fade until he vanishes entirely into a pure, radiant light. In Indian philosophy, this represents the ultimate goal of an artist: the merging of the self (Atman) with the universal (Brahmaand), until nothing remains but the music itself.

The use of sound in the film is both subtle and remarkable. Gandharva’s transition from his childhood village into the vast world of music is depicted through a train journey. Instead of using conventional train noises, the film employs a soundscape that mimics the rhythm of a steam engine but gradually evolves to harmonise with the rhythmic beats of the Tabla.

Dutta applies Gandharva’s own assertion—"No flower blooms without a rhythm of its own"—to the very editing of the film. Familiar sounds, such as the rumble of thunder or the rustling of a turning page, are used repetitively throughout. This provides the film with a meditative framework, reminiscent of the structured progression of a Raga.

To explain the circumstances of Gandharva’s life, the film incorporates various voices, including that of music consultant Kuldeep Barve.  The entire sound universe of the film is constructed from the world that drifted in through Gandharva’s window while he was bedridden—the rustling of grass, the warbling of birds and the sound of trees swaying in the wind are treated with as much importance as musical notes. Dutta creates a specialised audio-visual rhythm here. For instance, a bird landing on a blade of grass is synchronised perfectly with the plucking of a Tanpura string, suggesting that nature itself determines the shruti (pitch) of music.

Furthermore, the movement of the grass as the bird perches on it evokes the tactile sensation of a finger pressing a Tanpura string, bridging the gap between sight and touch. This creates a sensory experience where the texture of the object feels as though it is being felt by our own hands. According to Laura Marks’ theory of Haptic Visuality, the eyes function like organs of touch. Rather than ‘optical visuality’—where the viewer observes images from a distance with clinical precision—haptic visuality allows the spectator to ‘touch’ the images with their eyes, thereby awakening a tactile sensation.

It is against a vast and multifaceted backdrop that Dutta’s art and creations are born. His films represent a confluence of diverse arts, aesthetics, philosophy, history, culture and legends, all underpinned by rigorous research. They are, in essence, a meeting point for a multitude of disciplines.