Anastasia Ievlev

Wes Anderson’s The Darjeeling Limited (2007) tells the story of three brothers on a journey across India. The eldest, hoping to reunite his estranged siblings, orchestrates a «spiritual trip»—one that conveniently includes a visit to their mother, now living in a monastery. The brothers haven’t spoken for a year, ever since their father—once the glue holding them together—passed away.

I once watched an interview with Anderson where he addressed a common criticism: that all his films look and feel the same. His response? He admitted he keeps making the same movie over and over again—like a serialized story.

Personally, I never saw it as a flaw. Directors are artists, after all. Would anyone fault a painter for having a signature style?

In the same interview, he also confessed his anxiety about audience reception, especially when he saw people walking out of screenings.

I believe his fear was never just about the films—it was about how people saw him. Because Anderson’s films are deeply personal, almost autobiographical. Much like the youngest brother in The Darjeeling Limited, a writer who turns his life into stories—not just to tell them, but to close one chapter and move on to the next.

He could have written a story about a happy family. A father, a mother, and two brothers. But one day, the parents divorced—a tragedy in the lives of two young boys, one of whom was named Wes. A boy who dreamt of being a writer, then an architect, and eventually found his way to filmmaking.

And so, Anderson’s own life echoes through his films—especially this one, a story delicately woven from reality.

No wonder he always wanted to make a film in India. With his love for color, it was the perfect match. He and his longtime collaborators, Jason Schwartzman and Roman Coppola, turned their own journey into the foundation of The Darjeeling Limited.

A Soul’s Journey—With Too Much Baggage

One of the eldest brother’s goals was to bring his siblings back together. Their relationships had fractured, leaving them constantly bickering, grasping for control—over each other, over their father’s possessions, over their own pain.

Another goal? Reuniting with their mother. Their father had been their anchor, their foundation. With him gone, they were adrift, desperately searching for something—someone—to hold onto. That someone had to be their mother. Without a new parental attachment, these emotionally stunted men were drowning.

During their journey, they tried to fill the void with exotic trinkets, alcohol, fleeting romances, gossip, religion, pharmaceuticals—anything to numb the pain. But nothing worked. Every distraction only added to the weight they were already carrying.

The final, unspoken goal was self-discovery. A kind of spiritual growth.

The Ultimate Lesson

The train symbolizes the fleeting nature of life. And on this journey toward something greater, the brothers had to let go of all the emotional baggage they had been clinging to—baggage that kept them looking anywhere but within.

Because true spiritual growth doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens in relationships. In learning to love, to trust—especially those closest to you.

By the end, they had become parents to themselves. They shed their excess baggage—literally and metaphorically—stepped onto a new train, and finally headed home.