Assamese filmmaker Amardeep Gogoi reflects on Collage, a quietly powerful debut rooted in memory, trauma, and resilience, choosing intimacy over scale to tell truths history left behind. “We Didn't Wait Around for the Budget”, he says. Utpal Datta in conversation with the filmmaker.  

In this powerful interview, filmmaker Amardeep Gogoi discusses his debut Assamese feature Collage—a haunting, intimate portrait of Assam in the 1980s and ’90s. Speaking with Utpal Datta, Gogoi delves into themes of memory, political unrest, and artistic purpose, while reflecting on his influences, from documentaries on regional icons to the writings of activist Sumitra Hazarika. Made on a modest budget, Collage is not just a film but a cinematic act of remembrance that challenges silence with sincerity. Gogoi’s insights offer a glimpse into the evolving landscape of Assamese cinema and why truth-telling matters more than spectacle.  

The air in Assamese cinema smells different these days—fresher, braver. New voices are stepping forward, telling stories that don’t play it safe. Among them is Amardeep Gogoi, a young filmmaker whose debut feature Collage doesn’t merely join the movement—it deepens it.  

Set against the haunting backdrop of Assam in the 1980s and ’90s, Collage is a film rooted in memory, pain, and a stubborn hope. After earning praise on the festival circuit, it now arrives in theatres—quietly powerful, like the stories it wants us to remember. I caught up with Amardeep over tea and an open notebook to discuss lost decades, tight budgets, and why the past sometimes refuses to stay buried.

Datta: Collage brings us back to a very specific moment in Assam’s past. Why that era?

Gogoi: I chose the 1980s and ’90s because they shaped so much of who we are today, yet no one wants to talk about them. There was so much unrest—political, social, and emotional. People were scared, unsure of whom to trust. And somewhere in that silence, important stories were lost.

I was a kid back then. But I remember the tension. Stones were raining on rooftops at midnight. Neighbours who suddenly stopped speaking. Homes that felt less like shelters and more like waiting rooms for something awful. At that age, I didn’t understand it all. But I felt it. Now, as an adult, I want to examine it—frame by frame.

Making Collage was, in a way, a personal reckoning. I realised the need to revisit that time, not with nostalgia, but with honesty. Because the legacy of that period still lingers—in our politics, our relationships, even our silences.

When I began discussing the film with producer Sumitra Hazarika Baideu, I realised we shared a common vision. She herself had been active in various movements—from Naxalism to women's rights. That ideological connection made the process much more organic.

Datta: I understand the film was inspired by Sumitra Hazarika’s book Prem, Jibon aru Sangram?

Gogoi: Yes, inspired—but not adapted. That book is vast and layered, and impossible to capture fully in one film. But its spirit stayed with me. I had long conversations with Baideu, with a few former Naxalites, and sifted through my memories. The screenplay grew from those pieces. What you see in Collage is an echo of the book, not a mirror.

Datta: Today, many Assamese films are pushing into big-budget territory. In contrast, Collage is modest in scale. How do you see it standing out?

Gogoi: Big budgets bring their strengths. But storytelling doesn’t always need spectacle. Collage isn’t about revolution in capital letters—it’s about the people living beneath the headlines. Their fears, their sacrifices, their quiet resilience. You won’t find glamorous action sequences in Collage, but you will find some emotional moments that echo human life. That’s the heartbeat of Collage. 

To me, that’s enough. Stories like this don’t need big lights. They need truth.

Datta: But surely, working with a limited budget brings compromises?

Gogoi: Limitations, yes. Compromises, not necessarily. We didn’t wait around for a large budget to show up—we made a plan. When you know your limits from the start, you start thinking differently. You get creative with space, with silence, with suggestion. You find power in less. That’s what we did. Collage isn’t small because we lacked money; it’s small because it chose intimacy over scale. And I think that’s where its strength lies. Of course, the budget affects distribution and promotion, which are practical matters. But it should never choke the creative process. If you plan well, even a whisper can carry weight.

Datta: You've made beautiful documentaries on Assamese icons like Biju Phukan, Manik Chandra Baruah and Mahendra Nath Sharma Dev. Did those experiences shape how you approached Collage? 

Gogoi: Hugely. Documentaries teach you to pay attention to details, to contradictions, to context. You learn to listen, not just record. When I worked on those films, I had to dive deep into the periods they lived through. Read endlessly. Dig through archives. Interview people who had seen the world change with their own eyes. That process taught me patience. It taught me that storytelling isn’t about finding answers—it’s about asking the right questions. In a strange way, the Assam of Manik Baruah’s time isn’t that different from the Assam of the ’80s and ’90s. Both periods were marked by uncertainty, by waiting. In Collage, I tried to capture that same quiet tension. That struggle to live honestly in dishonest times.

In the end, Collage is not just a film—it’s an act of memory. Of holding a mirror up to a part of Assam we’d rather not revisit, but must. Through whispered truths and flickering images, Amardeep Gogoi doesn’t just tell a story—he reminds us why stories matter in the first place.

Sometimes, remembering is the most radical thing art can do.