The forest breathes at night. Under the dense canopy of the Eastern Himalayas, the darkness hums — a gentle symphony of rustling leaves, distant calls, and the faint flutter of unseen wings. It is here that Mansi Mungee stands, her face softly illuminated by the glow of a white cloth screen. Beside her, Bicki waits, his eyes attuned to the shifting shadows. They are watchers in the night, seekers of fragile things.
Nocturnes captures this waiting — the patience of discovery, the quiet reverence for what might appear. Directed by Anirban Dutta and Anupama Srinivasan, the documentary becomes less a study of moths and more a meditation on the act of seeing. The light flickers, and wings gather. Some tiny, barely visible; others bold and intricate, carryng the stories of their species in the patterns they wear. Each arrival feels like a revelation.
But why do the moths come? Science offers an answer wrapped in mystery. Moths, guided by an ancient instinct called positive phototaxis, use the moon and stars to navigate. Their attraction to artificial light is an accident of evolution — mistaking the glow for celestial guidance, they spiral closer, drawn into the quiet drama unfolding on the screen. And in this dance of confusion and longing, they become accidental performers in a theater of observation.
The film unfolds with the rhythm of the forest, unhurried and reflective. The camera lingers, not just on the delicate creatures drawn to the light but on the faces of the observers — the way curiosity shapes their expressions, the way wonder flickers across their eyes. The night becomes a canvas, and the moths paint it with their fleeting appearances. And it is the film’s photography that transforms this canvas into art. Each frame is composed with exquisite care, capturing the interplay of light and shadow, the texture of wings, and the dense, breathing presence of the forest itself. The stillness of the images carries an emotional weight, making every flicker of movement a moment of revelation. The visual language of Nocturnes feels like poetry — lush, patient, and filled with quiet intensity.
Behind this patient gaze is Satya Nagpaul, the film’s cinematographer. You can almost imagine him there — standing just beyond the screen’s glow, his camera as still and alert as the watchers beside him. There is a reverence in the way he frames the world, as if afraid to disturb the delicate equilibrium of the night. His lens follows the slow dance of wings with the tenderness of someone who understands fragility, who knows that beauty is often brief and best observed in silence. It’s not just skill but sensitivity that shapes his images — a quiet dialogue between patience and presence. Through Nagpaul’s vision, the moths become more than specimens — they are light-seekers, poets of the air.
In this stillness, the sound design becomes its own kind of storytelling. The forest whispers, clicks, and hums; each sound a reminder of life beyond what is visible. It’s a tapestry woven from the rustle of leaves, the whirr of wings, and the occasional cry of an unknown creature. These sounds wrap around the visuals, making the unseen as vivid as the seen.
But the heart of Nocturnes lies in the relationship between its human subjects and the land they explore. Mansi brings the precision of scientific inquiry; Bicki carries the intuitive wisdom of someone who has walked these paths for a lifetime. Their conversations are sparse, their respect palpable. There is no hierarchy here — only shared wonder and the quiet understanding that knowledge takes many forms.
As the night deepens, so does the film’s reflection on fragility — of ecosystems, of time, of the balance that keeps these worlds alive. The moths, drawn so briefly to the light, seem like messengers from a more delicate reality. Their presence reminds us of all that remains unseen and unrecorded, the mysteries that thrive in the dark.
Nocturnes is a rare kind of documentary — one that moves with the grace of poetry and the depth of philosophy. Its photography captures not just images but moods; its sound design composes a nocturnal music that stays long after the film ends. In its patience, it finds revelation; in its silence, it speaks volumes. This is not just a film about moths — it is a love letter to the art of observation, a gentle plea for wonder in a world too often rushing toward daylight.
