Shambhala at Berlin: Once Pema's Gone
Born in 1984, Nepalese filmmaker Min Bahadur Bham may not yet be regarded as a seasoned figure in the film industry. His 2012 short *Bansulli (The Flute)*, which was his directorial debut, became the first Nepali film ever selected for the Venice Film Festival. For the 74th Berlin International Film Festival, his work *Shambhala* was nominated for the Golden Bear in the main competition.
Min Bahadur Bham’s second feature, *Shambhala* (SHAMBHALA), premiered at the 74th Berlin International Film Festival in 2024, becoming the first Nepali feature film to enter the main competition of a top-tier international festival. Earlier, in 2015, his debut film, *Kalo Pothi (The Black Hen)*, received the Fedora Award for Best Film at Venice Critics' Week and was later selected as Nepal’s official Oscar entry.
At the same time, *Shambhala* was selected for the main competition of the Berlin International Film Festival, becoming the first South Asian film in more than thirty years to do so. The movie also received the UNESCO Cultural Diversity Award and, as the first Nepali feature, premiered at the 68th BFI London Film Festival. These global accolades are both a milestone and a historic moment. For Bham, the creative process over the last decade has been a gradual but consistent accumulation. Filmmaking, however, is not an essential part of his life—only learning is.
Bham’s filmography may be modest, yet every one of his films has represented Nepal at major international festivals, among them Venice, Rotterdam, and Busan. Even with two master’s degrees—one in Buddhist studies, the other in political science—he is now diligently pursuing a Ph.D. in anthropology. In interviews, he has said that he could picture a life without cinema, but not without learning, adding, “Learning is part of life.”
According to Bham, "a truly great film doesn’t need to pander—it resonates with audiences through intuition and emotion, requiring no deliberate compromise or explanation." In *Shambhala*, this principle is realized through the story of Pema, a woman from a village in northern Nepal. Shortly after marrying Tashi, he departs on business, and she is suddenly thrust into a scandal she never anticipated.
Upon hearing the rumors, Tashi begins to doubt whether his pregnant wife has been faithful, and as a form of retribution, he resolves to keep his distance from her—even though Pema is in desperate need of her husband's support, or at minimum, a few reassuring words. Determined to demonstrate her innocence to both Tashi and the wider community, Pema decides to leave their home. She sets out boldly on a difficult trek through mountains and waterways in search of her husband.
The film’s title, *Shambhala*, points to its central theme: a term from Buddhist scriptures and mythology referring to a utopian realm beyond time and space, abounding in joy, wisdom, peace, and spiritual enlightenment. Nevertheless, numerous scholars and explorers from both East and West are convinced that Shambhala genuinely exists, concealed somewhere within the remote, fog-veiled Himalayas. Near the close of her journey, having faced physical and emotional hardship and undergone profound self-reflection, Pema achieves deep understanding and inner tranquility.
Regardless of whether Shambhala is a real concealed place or merely an ideal, its connection to a person’s inner spiritual life is beyond doubt. It embodies awakening and transcendence—a calm, insightful state of enlightenment. Pema’s journey is not only about breaking free from the limits of family and tradition; it also involves releasing herself from the submissive role she held in an unbalanced emotional relationship.
*Shambhala* depicts not just Pema's personal emotional voyage, but also the difficult quest for identity and self-affirmation undertaken by women as a group within a conventional societal framework. During her lengthy and demanding journey, the protagonist experiences a realization of self-awareness, mirroring a spiritual condition akin to pushing through numerous obstacles until reaching the mythical land of Shambhala—discovering contentment and tranquility amidst confusion and suffering. Women as the Earth.
The earth, as the source of all existence, carries and nourishes every living thing. It withstands wind, frost, rain, and snow, yet remains quiet and selfless, continually offering sustenance. These qualities—resilience, immense capacity to nurture, and silent devotion—are deeply echoed in women. This is why the idea of "Mother Earth" is familiar to us, drawing on the parallel between women's noble traits and those of the earth.
Particularly in many mountainous areas and ethnic minority communities, this holds true. There, women are mothers to their children, but they also carry a wide range of heavy, complex duties—easing family tensions, managing household chores, and preserving cultural traditions. In silence, they give themselves day after day and year after year to raising children, working the fields, weaving, and gathering, as though they share a deep, inborn bond with the land itself.
The day before her wedding, Pema is reminded by her father to look after her husband and honor her family—duties he views as part of her shift from daughter to wife. Later, after she has formed her own household, Pema truly transforms Tashi's life. He tells her, full of thanks, that she has infused his home with vitality. Those around her feel an unmistakable sense of light and warmth, for she shines like brilliant sunshine.
Yet, with this
In the film, Pema's household consists of three brothers—Tashi, Karma, and Dawa—under the traditional practice of polyandry still observed in her village, where one wife is shared by multiple husbands. Historically, this system has offered women scant choice in their marriages, particularly in fraternal polyandrous arrangements, where a wife is regarded as "married to the entire family" rather than to specific men. With the youngest brother, Dawa, Pema takes on a motherly role.
Among the three brothers, only Tashi appears, in the conventional sense, to be Pema's true husband. Her relationship with Karma, who was ordained as a monk during childhood, is bound by religious vows and therefore extends only to spiritual understanding and comfort. Still, Pema must steer the delicate emotional interactions with each man, balancing them through wisdom and tact. In the present era, because of economic advancement and outside cultural influences, this centuries-old marriage practice in certain parts of the Himalayas is starting to encounter difficulties.
Pema once loved her husband, Tashi, deeply. The expansion of education and employment opportunities has, in particular, enabled women to enjoy greater freedom in selecting their spouses. Shifts in economic structures and growing awareness of women's rights have prompted younger generations to increasingly opt for autonomous decisions in marriage.
Yet once rumors spread and a crisis of trust emerges, she sees that in Tashi’s eyes, society’s judgment and family reputation outweigh the deep emotional connection she had cherished—despite how profound their bond once was. She realizes her place is subordinate in the relationship. That unyielding, bitter reality breaks Pema’s heart, and it mirrors the film’s subtitle: for her, this is unquestionably *A Year of Cold*. Film stills Her passive acceptance of this subordinate role has already started to come under question.
The hope of overcoming her predicament becomes the psychological and motivational foundation for Pema's departure. She realizes that she can no longer depend on the emotional reassurance she once trusted another person to provide without question. She must search for her true self, and to do so, she must first become an autonomous individual who shapes her own identity rather than passively accepting so-called fate. Her path must be her own choice, aimed at finding authentic happiness.
The awakening she experiences is sparked by the imbalance within her emotional relationship, and in that context, her movement from dependence toward independence naturally takes shape. This crisis of distrust in one relationship that leads to another person’s awakening may inevitably bring to mind the celebrated "Nora's departure." In A Doll's House by Ibsen, Nora, when conflict arises, comes to see that her husband values only his social reputation, not her emotions or the sacrifices she has made.
The director leaves Pema’s fate unresolved in the film; only three sequential shots offer subtle clues. In a faintly lit dream, Pema encounters her departed teacher amid waving prayer flags, gently brushing his smiling face while mentally uttering "Shambhala." In contrast, Nora realizes she has never been a genuinely self-sufficient person, and this awakening ultimately drives her to leave her family behind in search of her authentic identity.
At dawn, the following scene reveals a dark river. Pema has given birth, but the infant is being held by Karma—the one who truly understands her. Pema herself is absent. The film ends with a shot of a blooming pink lotus. Film stills. After her journey ends, Pema’s life remains entirely unknown. Whether she finds genuine liberation or a new place of belonging outside society’s limits is left unresolved.
The narrative style of *Shambhala* embodies a return to simplicity and purity. Yet through these elusive, poetic hints, we glimpse the possibility that a woman can endure storms and bear time's weight like the earth, while also flowing freely like the wind. Pema Artist: Thupten Lama, Image: shambhalafilm, Ethnographic Cinematic Realism.
Bham once remarked in an interview, "The way of life in the high mountains is slow and profound, like meditation." Meanwhile, the film, centered on a Tibetan woman's love story within a polyandrous marriage, also meticulously presents the rich customs of Himalayan mountain living—weddings, celebrations, horse races, farming, trade journeys, rituals, and more. These vibrant cultural elements give rise to a uniquely immersive aesthetic experience.
Bham’s belief that every person forms a symbiotic ecosystem with the village, climate, mountains, livestock, and land led him to adopt lengthy long takes and a calm, meditative narrative tempo in order to convey that fragile rhythm. By embedding emotion within the landscape, this storytelling approach lets viewers absorb the film’s visual beauty while also feeling more subtle, complex, and profound emotional resonance.
Through its careful visual design, *Shambhala* demonstrates a refined cinematic aesthetic. The film’s ethnographic realism places audiences directly into the Himalayan region’s natural scenery and cultural milieu. More than just recounting the journey of a mountain woman who pursues self-understanding and deals with personal feelings inside a particular social framework, the movie employs that story to uncover a distinctive cultural way of living. As a result, it appeals to viewers' senses, emotions, and intellect simultaneously.
In 1930s France, shaped by nineteenth-century literature, a cinema movement known as 'Poetic Realism' appeared and gained traction. Through poetic and lyrical expression, this artistic style underscored the hardships and grief of real existence, frequently dealing with the misfortunes and battles of ordinary folk. It highlighted the movie medium's literary strength and carried philosophical suggestions. Film stills.
In the film *Shambhala*, we encounter the aesthetic qualities of this poetic realism through a series of tender, truthful portrayals of landscapes and feelings. By rendering reality in an idealized, dreamlike yet beautiful way, it brings out the faint sparks of hope and beauty lying behind life's suffering. The resulting emotional depth and tension, akin to still waters that run deep, lets us closely perceive the characters' subtle inner emotional shifts in even the least conspicuous moments.
Numerous singing sequences involving Pema and the different men she marries provide a particularly emblematic example. These scenes show that singing is not confined to solemn, ritualistic occasions; rather, it flows freely with human emotions—whether joy, confusion, or pain—acting as a perfectly natural outlet. Ultimately, the story's themes are not conveyed solely through dialogue or direct dramatic conflict; instead, they are quietly woven into the fragments of daily life, becoming a restrained yet visually potent artistic expression.
In interviews, Director Bham has explained that he sees Tibetan folk songs as closer to incantations or prayers than to conventional music, stating, "Tibetan folk songs are more like incantations or prayers than ordinary songs in the conventional sense." Reflecting this outlook, the film keeps these songs free of explicit subtitles, letting their melodies flow organically and speak to each listener personally. Through such a quiet, modest form of singing, Pema naturally gives voice to the thoughts she keeps within herself.
According to Bham, Shambhala is a film about "journeys," and he views every person's life journey as long—even endless. He also said that leaving out subtitles is a sign of respect for these extraordinary vocal expressions, since they convey people's deepest wishes rather than simple stories. Bham stressed that this approach doesn't mean he thinks little of the audience; instead, it encourages viewers to "understand through feeling, not dissect through translation." Ultimately, this is the best way to appreciate the beauty of music.
My deep gratitude comes from my very existence in this world. This piece was translated from Dalu's blog.