Hidden beneath layers of hard to digest opulence, tear-jerking melodrama and billionaire heroes who are straight as an arrow, Hindi cinema has lately rediscovered a breed of dark, brooding, Heathcliffe-type protagonists. From Lootera’s troubled con-man Varun to D-Day’s angst riddled RAW agent Rudra to Ishaqzaade’s wayward Parma – these days we get to meet far from perfect characters whom we might run into in real life as well. Perhaps this is why they tend to leave a more profound impression on us. With life’s pain etched deep on their faces, it is difficult for them to hide the scars of a gruesome past. Yet they try. And in the process they manage to garner our sympathy. Highway’s anti-establishment, expletive spewing abductor Mahabir evoked this very emotion in me last night as I sat deeply engrossed in Imtiaz Ali’s latest piece of work.
The film begins on a warm note with home video style clips of pre-wedding preparations in a swanky New Friends colony bungalow in Delhi and then suddenly plunges into a cold hearted account of a chance abduction on a deserted petrol pump somewhere off the Delhi-Haryana border. The transition from the suave sophistication of high society Delhi to the rough mannerisms of the hinterland is so rapid that it takes a few seconds for one‘s sensibilities to adjust and respond. And then, just like that, characters representing two very distinct segments of Indian society appear alongside making us uncomfortably aware of how the two are poles apart.
On one hand you have the abducted - Veera - an influential businessman’s daughter whose 'brocade and precious stones' swaddled life turns upside down when she is unceremoniously picked up by a bunch of pistol-toting thugs. The terror is evident in her eyes as she is gagged, handcuffed and thrown in the back of a run-down lorry to be taken to a place where unknown horrors await her. The girl who moments ago was ensconced in a plush Audi dreaming of getting away from the noisy confines of her uber-rich life in the city is about to have her wish fulfilled in a most unusual manner.
On the other hand you have the abductor – Mahabir – a hardened, remorseless criminal who swears that he will not flinch even for a second before selling his hostage off to a life of misery in a brothel. He is crude, dishevelled, ever-scowling and bitter to the core. To him the privileges bestowed upon the rich are unjust and believes it to be his prerogative to teach a harsh lesson to anyone who belongs to this section of society. The man who abhors the seemingly flawless lives of the affluent is about to realize that even money cannot buy a life untouched by grief and agony.
At the outset it is difficult to imagine that Veera and Mahabir might have anything in common. She is fragile while he is hard-edged, she is annoyingly puerile and light-hearted while he is mysteriously quiet, sulky and easily inflamed. But as the story unfolds, it becomes evident that under her delicate exterior hides an inured, embittered soul thanks to a childhood battered by sexual abuse. And, under his gruff, rustic demeanour resides a soft core that yearns for his long separated mother and a life of simple domesticity. The two are thus bound unwittingly by a common thread of suffering which slowly culminates into an undefinable yet beautiful relationship. At one point, she acknowledges the bond by declaring with coquettish defiance that 'darr toh na ek dum khatam ho gaya hai'. Somewhere along the way dread has transmuted into camaraderie and animosity has altered to affection.
Amid all this there are flashes of jauntiness which lighten the otherwise hard-hitting story. Be it an incredulous Veera rambling on about how she never knew such beauty existed in the interiors of the country or breaking into peals of laughter when asked why she is so taken by ramshackle buildings and dusty premises or a baffled Mahabir looking on as one of his cronies shakes a leg with Veera to the tunes of a rhythmic English number or again a befuddled Veera trying to figure out why she didn’t make a run for it when she had the chance – an element of humour brings down the pathos by a notch or two.
Even though you know that these kindred souls are eventually going to be wrenched apart, deep down you hope not. You wish for the state of utopia that they find themselves in for a few blessed moments to be the story of their life – a simple hassle free existence comprising a mountain-top shanty for a home, Maggi for dinner and a friend to share it with. Nevertheless, as their dreamland fades into reality at daybreak, the bubble goes kaput when a sniper‘s bullet pierces Mahabir’s body. A screaming and shouting Veera is taken back to the world that she never wanted to go back to ('jahaan se tum mujhe le ke aaye ho wahaan main waapas nahi jaana chahati'). But this time she has the courage to confront not only the skeletons in her closet but also her duplicitous family. Mahabir has given her the ultimate gift – the confidence to walk away from a life of extravagance and leisure, to live a dream with her head held high.
Vast expanses of fissured earth under a sky bursting with stars, an orange orb of a sun hanging low on verdant fields, endless serpentine stretches of charcoal grey roads, tall snow capped peaks and men and women exhibiting rural guilelessness form the canvas on which with bold strokes the storyteller paints a tale of myriad inexplicable human emotions. All of this is accompanied by an earthy soundtrack modulated by the flavours of cities that the film drives us through. For me Highway is yet another example of the Hindi film industry‘s slow but sure progress in the right direction – one which is not just visually and aurally pleasing but also appeals to the intellect.
I liked this movie Didi
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