Discarding doesn’t come easy to Delhi-based ethnomusicologist and archivist Shubha Chaudhuri. Which explains the boxes of vintage sarees and a suitcase containing black-and-white family photographs, some featuring faces even her 98-year-old mother cannot recognize. It took years, but she finally managed to clear out the Colaba flat of her mother’s “pretty, practical and proper” elder sister, Jai Dordi Vakil, who passed away in 2022, two months shy of 100.Among the belongings, Chaudhuri—executor of her aunt’s estate—uncovered a projector, Ganeshotsav slides, various untitled frames, and most notably, reels of 8mm and Super 8mm home movies that have now found a home at Pune’s National Film Archive of India (NFAI).A popular amateur film format introduced in the 1930s, 8mm was compact, affordable and easy to use, making it the go-to medium for home movie makers long before digital video became accessible. Described by NFAI as “a window into mid-20th-century life,” the reels chronicle a life well-travelled and quietly documented. “I don’t know what’s on the reels or what condition they’re in,” says Chaudhuri. “But I’m sure there’s travel footage and shots of military planes that could be of interest,” she adds, having donated the archive with help from her friend, architect-filmmaker Nachiket Patwardhan.Born in 1922, Vakil studied at St Xavier’s College in Mumbai, learned French and later worked at the Indian embassy in Brussels. During a posting in Delhi, she met Air Force officer Jamshed Dordi, her future husband. Together, they travelled widely—across Africa, Japan, Italy, Hong Kong, Austria, Nepal and Bhutan, and within India to Gir, Bharatpur, Kashmir, Goa and Mahabaleshwar—footage of which now survives on her 8mm reels.Though not a professional filmmaker, Vakil—whom NFAI calls an “amateur filmmaker”—had a cinematic eye. “She was technically oriented. She would repair her own car,” says Chaudhuri. “While she loved documenting her travels, she couldn’t pursue a career in the visual arts as life kept her moving.”Safaris, American highways, European streets–her flashgun lapped it all up. “She didn’t have children. Whenever my mother and I visited, she’d set up the projector and play her films,” says Chaudhuri, who also found a box of alphabet cutouts used to paste titles onto the reels.“Home movies offer glimpses into domestic and communal experiences,” says Prakash Magdum, managing director, NFDC-NFAI. “They’re fragments of memory, capturing cultural and emotional landscapes across time and class.”Preserving such material isn’t easy. “Celluloid often arrives with an unknown history—how it was stored, whether it was rewound or handled well,” explains Magdum. “We stabilize and preserve it under archival conditions.” Once digitized, curated excerpts may be made accessible to students and researchers. “We’re already collaborating with cultural institutions and looking to expand engagement,” says Magdum.Vakil’s story is a reminder that the visual history of Indian cinema is shaped not only by stars and studios but also by women with cameras and quiet curiosity. “She put in effort labelling slides, camera gear, old photos,” says Chaudhuri. After Jamshed’s death in 1995, Vakil—who loved Western classical music and concerts—seemed to withdraw. “She had stopped labelling things after 2015. Though she had four cupboards full of pretty clothes, she would wear the same ten pairs.“Vakil visited Iran with friends, and once came to Delhi, recalls Chaudhuri. But that was that: “She wasn’t one to travel solo.”
