A Movie About Constipation 

This will be big and long, so let's not hold back.

Piku tells the story of a fiercely independent daughter (Deepika Padukone), her father (Amitabh Bachchan), and a lot of shit. Or rather, the lack thereof. Piku’s father, Bhaskor, is in his 70s and struggling with chronic constipation, so much so that it becomes everyone else’s problem. Widowed and dealing with various health issues, he’s looked after by Piku, a 30-something architect who’s been his caretaker for years. He’s stubborn, selfish, and deeply codependent—basically a walking Indian pharmaceutical ad. Piku, for the most part, has accepted this life. She even wants him to live as long as possible…, but we slowly begin to see cracks in her patience.

In an attempt to get away (or maybe just take control), she books a road trip to Kolkata, their hometown, with a local taxi driver, Rana, who is forced to deal with the family’s antics and play the sort of straight man we need. What follows is a chaotic journey featuring a stubborn daughter, her even more stubborn father, their emasculated caretaker, a chair with a hole in it, a paatraag, and a pear tree. Classic road trip movie setup.

But to me, the entire ethos of the film is far deeper and rooted in the cultural significance of being an adult in Indian society, more importantly, a woman. There are several unspoken truths the movie lays out, and watching them unfold, you can either accept them or squirm uncomfortably in your seat. I did both.

Bhaskor isn’t sick—he’s constantly on the brink of being sick. And that state of imagined emergency is where he thrives. He schedules test after test, convinced he’s dying, and becomes almost disappointed when doctors find nothing wrong. In one scene, Piku berates him for his obsession with pointless diagnostics, and it’s clear this isn’t the first time she’s had to talk him off a non-existent ledge.

But even in this exhausting dynamic, there’s humour. In a particularly chaotic moment, Bhaskor is discussing the colour of his “motion” with his doctor, when Piku interrupts with, “Why don’t you sit with a colour shading card? Shit is shit!” To which Bhaskor fires back: “Don’t bring my shit into this!”

The back-and-forth between the two is the main stickler for hilarity in the film and is painfully real for many Indian households. The only thing more consistent than Bhaskor’s constipation is his need to talk about it. Sadly and comically, it doesn’t end when he’s not around either. When Piku is on a rare date (the first in what seems like years), she’s interrupted by a call from her father, who’s convinced his temperature is rising. The date ends abruptly—not just because of the interruption, but because Piku ends up explaining her father’s bowel movement in such vivid detail that the poor guy physically recoils. That’s the thing, she’s so used to this that she doesn’t even realize how far gone she is. Her life is one long medical report narrated in disgust.

One of the most quietly radical things about Piku is how firmly it stands against the traditional notion of marriage being a woman’s final destination. Piku is successful, intelligent, and grounded. But unlike a stereotypical feminist trope, she doesn’t reject the idea of love or marriage outright. She’s open to it. She’s willing to start a life with someone, even if it comes with complications. Whether that willingness is a rebellion against Bhaskor’s views or a genuine desire to build something beyond codependency is left intentionally ambiguous.

Bhaskor, in his typical hypocritical fashion, tells her not to marry unless the man supports her career and doesn’t expect her to become a maid. He constantly reiterates that "marriage without purpose is low IQ," even going so far as to say his own wife had no purpose beyond serving him. It's a cruel irony—he raised Piku to be fiercely independent, yet can’t accept that she might want something more. His liberal views are undercut by his own selfishness: he doesn’t want to lose his unpaid caregiver. Piku is “not just a strong woman because she speaks her mind—she’s strong because she lives a complicated, contradictory, sometimes unsatisfying life with conviction. That complexity is what defines the modern urban Indian woman. Piku doesn’t have it all figured out. She’s messy, conflicted, tired, and still trying. That’s what makes her powerful.

Rana (Irrfan Khan), the reluctant cab driver, plays a surprisingly pivotal role in this emotional mess. He’s not there to be a love interest in the traditional sense. He’s a quiet observer, the voice of reason, the only person who sees through both Bhaskor and Piku without judgment. His presence challenges them both. He calls out Bhaskor’s manipulative tendencies without being cruel and gently encourages Piku to consider her own needs, not just her father’s. And in many ways, Rana represents what a modern relationship could look like: mutual respect, shared sarcasm, and a simple understanding. He doesn’t try to "fix" Piku or force himself into her life. He exists alongside her, and that presence is enough to provide clarity. His comment that not many children would put up with what she does is less praise and more a mirror held up to her sacrifices.

Piku states that even though it’s a sacrifice, at some point parents can’t keep themselves alive; they have to be kept alive, and it’s the kids' responsibility to do so. It’s not framed as noble or heroic. It just is. When I first watched this, I was forced to confront the idea that giving up your sense of calm and peace for your parents is a noble thing to do. Bhaskor doesn’t manipulate Piku with anger—he uses guilt. That subtle, simmering Indian-parent brand of emotional sabotage. Rana even reiterates this when he's had enough of Baskor's remarks in the car, stating, " saying you're a burden to induce emotional blackmail is wrong. If you were a burden, your daughter wouldn't have tried this hard to take you on a trip". I remember when my parents would say things like “I know you won’t take care of me when I’m older”—as if cornering me into accusations I haven’t even committed yet was supposed to make me feel guilty. It did, but for all the wrong reasons. This inconsistency is pointed out very blatantly, and I love this movie because of that. I hoped a lot of parents who had this mindset in the theatre would take something out of it.

The sad part is, Bhaskor isn’t malicious. He genuinely loves Piku. But he also genuinely believes she owes him her life because he gave her one. That messy contradiction is what makes him sympathetic and insufferable. Like many parents, he never learned where his responsibility ends and hers begins. The dichotomy of piku is subverting both ideas. Piku is simply criticizing the modern notion of “I don’t owe anyone anything,” because it's not true. Living in a society confines you to certain responsibilities and respect –if you want the same respect to be earned back for you.

Lastly, I wanted to talk about the reason for the trip itself. Piku and her family grew up in Kolkata, but Piku left with her father to New Delhi to advance her career. The trip to Kolkata isn’t just about constipation or nostalgia. It’s a return to roots—and in many ways, a confrontation with the past. Piku and Bhaskor walk the streets of their old neighbourhood, reconnect with extended family, and exist outside the urban hustle for a moment.

This return to origin is an underrated theme in Indian cinema, acknowledging where you come from without being trapped by it. When Piku is surprised by the new buildings popping up around the city, Rana says, “This is a good thing, this is, I guess, what we call development. But if you take away your roots, what’s left?”

Piku doesn’t renounce the city, nor does she suddenly become a small-town girl. What she gains is perspective, a reminder that life isn't just obligation and stress. She made the hard decision not to sell her family home by the end of the trip, and for me, it was a sign of balance. She’s accepted her new life in New Delhi, new opportunities and identity—but she’s glad to have a part of what raised her to come back home to.

Spoiler alert (but not really): Bhaskor dies at the end of the trip in his childhood house. But not tragically. Actually, sort of in the way I’d want to go. He finally, after all this time, has a “good motion” and basks in his glory. He passed away the next morning peacefully in his sleep, with a gentle grin. The scene where Piku rearranges his bed afterward and cries quietly has me bawling every time. She has to come to terms with the fact that she is the woman she is because of her father, and it’s going to be difficult to manage things on her own, as independent as she thinks she is. But she’s ready because her father has prepared her thus far.

And it’s oddly poetic. His death isn’t a punishment for being difficult, and it’s not even a relief for Piku. It’s just… life. It happens. The same way motion happens. Piku tells his doctor that Bhaskor wanted everyone to listen to him all the time, but he made sure death listened to him also.

For Piku, it’s not the end of her story. It’s the beginning. She loses a burden and a loved one all at once. And she carries both those truths with grace. She’s able to be free of constipation—literally and emotionally.

I could talk about this film for several hundred more words because it really is too interesting in all aspects, but I'll spare you. There’s something rare about a film that feels like it was made for your living room. Not your fantasy, not your trauma, not your Pinterest board. Your actual living room. Piku is that film. The dialogue is never forced; it just flows (like poo), and it makes for one of the most thought-provoking life-lesson films disguised as a slice-of-life story about constipation. This is what beautiful Indian cinema is, and I’m always searching for more like it.