Haider - Hamlet in Kashmir

The sludge like greyness that I woke up to this morning was a perfect nod to the movie I had picked for the day – Haider. From the moment the lights dimmed in the theatre and the movie opened to a rather dreary scene, I knew that it was going to be two and a half hours of hard hitting cinema. Through Vishal Bharadwaj’s lens we are whisked to an eerily silent village cradled in the beautiful yet bloodied Kashmir valley of the 90s. The only sound that resonates once in a while is the collective clattering of soldiers’ boots as they hit the stone pathways or the muffled whispers of those who scuttle back home, trying to make it in time before the curfew sets in. Within this premise, unfolds a tale of a boy (Haider) who returns from college to charred remains of his childhood home, a missing father (Dr. Meer) whose name now bears the black mark of a terrorist-sympathizer and a mother (Ghazala) who is seen happily humming Kashmiri folk songs with her brother-in-law (Khurram) instead of being crazed with grief.

Even though the story is primarily about Haider’s hunt for his father and his burning desire to avenge everything that he has lost, there is a haunting larger picture. To me, the poignant exchange that takes place in the first few shots between Ghazala and Dr. Meer sums it up. To Ghazala’s quivering question – ‘Kiske taraf hain aap’ (Whose side are you on - India, Pakistan or the Separatists?), the composed doctor replies ‘Zindagi ke’ (I am on life’s side). It is an exchange that is rife with many unanswered ideological quandaries. On one hand the humanitarian aspect prods us to believe that a human life, irrespective of whether it is that of a fierce terrorist or an innocent bystander, is of utmost importance. On the other hand, the possibility that the same terrorist will, in all likelihood, end up mauling anyone who poses a roadblock in his quest for validating fanatical beliefs, makes us question the humanitarian within.

That the Indian Army isn’t shown in a particularly positive light is definitely a big dampener for me especially because the story feels lopsided in its narration. This is not to say that the plight of Kashmiris whose loved ones have been taken away for interrogation is in any way less excruciating than what has been depicted. What is missing though is the delineation of the circumstances under which troops are obligated to conduct cordon and search operations and catechize those found suspicious. Contrary to what is shown in the movie, this task isn’t one that our soldiers find amusing or pleasurable.

A close personal source once shared his own experience of just how physically strenuous and mentally draining these operations are. Imagine waking up at 2:30 am and preparing for an exercise that will last almost 20 hours, carefully shepherding the village men (many of whom are often hostile towards you) to a designated area, thoroughly scouring the village for hidden troublemakers – all under the constant threat of sudden ambushes and open fire from unseen vantage points that might leave you dead within seconds. Having seen them at close quarters for the better half of my life, I can assure you that these soldiers and officers are far removed from what they are made out to be – insolent louts lounging inebriated in interrogation camps which double as torture cells, deriving sadistic pleasure in the misery of those imprisoned.

Apart from the above, the movie is quite riveting in its account of Haider’s journey. As he painfully exhumes the rancorous truth about the iniquities perpetrated by his uncle, Khurram, the unintentional flaws in his mother’s character and the confusing canons of the ‘Azad Kashmir’ movement, you can see his soul swell with a black rage that eventually pours out and destroys everyone. Tabu as Ghazala, the woman torn between a desire to fulfil her personal needs and those of her enraged son is as usual a pleasure to watch. Her eyes speak a thousand words with the help of which she credibly portrays Ghazala’s insecurities and failures.

Kay Kay Menon plays out an apt version of the treacherous uncle Khurram – a consequentialist who believes that the end justifies the means. Without a flicker of remorse in his hardened eyes, he not only pretends to be a messiah to the grief-stricken masses with the sole intent of furthering his own political interests, but also double-crosses his brother in order to bring to fruition his personal agenda. Irrfan Khan brings a cold metallic insidiousness to the story with his character – Roohdaar – an ISI agent. In sharp contrast to Haider’s fury and Khurram’s greed that profusely dominate their expressions and dialogues, Roohdaar’s calculated vileness is subtle. Yet he is successful in sending a shiver down your spine. It suffices to say that Irrfan Khan has proved his mettle once again.

Shraddha Kapoor as Arshee, Haider’s love interest, breaks the morbidity for a few rare moments with her scintillating smile that calms raw nerves and her hazel eyes that are pools of innocence. And last but not the least, Shahid Kapoor’s aura as Haider himself is a far cry from the chocolate boy image that he has been known for in the past. Dangling precariously between sanity and insanity, Haider’s character demands a certain degree of precision which Shahid Kapoor has painstakingly achieved. Through him you experience the five stages of loss – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and eventually acceptance and at each stage his emotions are honest and palpable.

The director clearly focuses on telling an unsparing tale and carving out characters and dialogues that fit like puzzle pieces in it. Resultantly, the landscape fails to win even a smidgen of screen space. There are no wide angle shots of the serene Dal Lake and the umpteen houseboats bobbing in it or of the breathtaking apple orchards and snow-capped peaks that Kashmir is famous for. Snippets of still life in the region are however recreated by things like carved walnut-wood furniture, multi-hued namdas and firans, rows of arched windowpanes and handle-less cups brimming with steaming kahwa that can be spotted in the background in most scenes.

All in all, in spite of not sharing the storyteller's beliefs on the subject of Kashmir, I enjoyed the multi-layered intrigue of the story itself. And to the naysayers, more importantly the ones who are foaming at the mouth about the movie’s lack of patriotism, all I would like to say is that in a democratic country like India, each one has the right to form an opinion and talk about it. After all, isn’t that what sets us apart from countries like North Korea and Afghanistan where every non-conforming voice is unceremoniously muted?

Mohallas, Kebabs, Colours and more

Years ago, when I lived in Hyderabad, I remember spending most weekends with like-minded food lovers, scouting the congested by-lanes of Charminaar, looking for hidden gastronomic delights. The dusty old city never disappointed me. Under the fairy-light strung canopies that illuminated the bazaar each night, I found flavourful biryanis, melt-in-the-mouth kebabs, spicy qormas and saccharine desserts like khubaani ka meetha and double ka meetha that appeased my taste buds immensely. Aah... those were the days! Without batting an eyelid I could give in to the desires of my palate, for, adding inches to my waistline wasn’t even a speck on my blank slate of concerns.

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Watching ‘Daawat-e-Ishq’ yesterday, brought back some memories of that time. After Ishaqzaade, this is YRF’s second attempt at a watered down, ebullient version of the more intense cinematic style called ‘kitchen-sink’ realism – one that simulates the domestic situations of the working class. It is a story of a father-daughter duo battling the age old social illness that afflicts the great Indian middle class even today – the dowry system. The backdrop is an ancient mohalla in old Secunderabad where lunch boxes are packed with flaky shaami kebabs at the crack of dawn just as the 323 year old Charminaar stirs to life to the cooing of early morning birds. 

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Let me tell you at the very outset that the story isn’t a masterpiece. It is not something you haven’t seen before. What is captivating though is its depiction of commonplace lives that thrive in those sections of Indian cities that haven’t yet caught the ‘mall-food court-flyover’ bug. Be it purani Dilli, Old Bhopal, Secunderabad or Lucknow, each one has its own network of crumbling nukkads and gallis - remnants of a bygone era that hang on to dear life as wave after wave of modernization threaten to raze them to the ground. Ensconced within their cramped alleys, life goes on unabashedly, without giving a second thought to the cracked walls, frayed curtains, broken lattices, frequent power cuts and open sewers. 

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It is astonishing how, in spite of this decay, everything still feels more refreshing here. The fruits pedalled on wheel barrows under the scorching sun are juicier than those sitting symmetrically on shelves in air-conditioned grocery chains, milk from the steaming handis at a local halwaai looks creamier than that poured out of a tetra-pack, rows of seekh kebabs roasting merrily on a makeshift coal grille under a tin shanty smell more heavenly than anything at a fancy restaurant. I might be totally wrong but even the people working here seem to have lesser worry lines crisscrossing their faces than those working in high rise corporate offices.

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 But, I digress. Habib Faisal, the director of ‘Daawat e Ishq’, deftly walks a tightrope while recreating the aforesaid essence. It is a fine balance that needs to be struck. He avoids going overboard with the cultural stereotypes but at the same time he doesn’t underplay them either. As a result, the Hyderabadi ‘hau’s and ‘nako’s that pepper Gullu’s (Parineeti Chopra) conversations with her Booji (Anupam Kher) do not sound over the top. The buxom aunties with beady kohl rimmed eyes and paan stained mouths do not look burlesque. The narrow lanes flanked by handcarts groaning under the weight of plump mangoes, twinkly glass bangles and earthen pots of tangy jal jeera look very much a part of the picture that is being painted.

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While Parineeti Chopra has proven one too many times in the past that she can do a fabulous job at playing rustic roles, Aditya Roy Kapoor as the roguish Taaru is quite a revelation. The suave, city boy from ‘Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani’ and ‘Aaashiqui 2’ has transformed into a gold earring toting, broken English mouthing heir to the kebab king of Lucknow and may I say, the transition is seamless. There are no residual dregs of urbanity hanging on to him as he rattles off his restaurant’s menu in typical tapori style to an amused group of foreigners. The supporting cast too is sufficiently plausible and in fact quite a riot. Taaru’s potbellied friend Neeraj, Gullu’s first love interest Amjad (Karan Wahi) and Taaru’s greed spewing parents are characters that have not just been etched well by the writer but also convincingly portrayed by the actors.

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Films like these are telescopes that allow us to peer into the heart of India. Their purpose is not to merely tell a tale but to present a snapshot of daily lives in ordinary households – the kind you and I grew up in. As long as they are successful in doing that, it is perhaps easier to let the flaws in the storyline slip by as we sit back and rekindle memories of simpler times.  

Queen - When Life gives you Lemons, make Lemonade!

It is like a tall glass of freshly squeezed lemonade on a warm summer afternoon. At the same time, it is like a power packed pill of courage on a day chock-full of trials and tribulations. It is Delhi’s 'gol-gappas', colour and love, Amsterdam’s hostels, beer-bikes and pole dancers and the parties, glitz and allure of Paris - all blended into a heady medley. And amidst all this is Vikas Bahl’s Rani, a.k.a Queen, who takes us along on a journey from the bowels of helplessness and heartbreak to the pinnacles of strength and confidence.

As the film begins you find yourself standing in the courtyard of a classic middle-class household in Rajouri, New Delhi where wedding preparations, reminiscent of films like ‘Tanu weds Manu’ and ‘Band, Baaja, Baaraat’ are at their peak. Bearers balance steel tumblers brimming with frothy lassi on trays and decorators streak bare walls with strings of marigold. An endearing Dadi and her retinue of spirited friends sway to the tunes of Hindi dance numbers. With restrained euphoria, Rani – the much protected daughter of the family – gets her soon-to-be husband’s name painted on her palm with henna. Despite a couple of customary hiccups like power cuts and missing photographers, the smiles, ‘thumkas’ and blessings flow unbridled, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that is about to strike them down.

Days before the wedding Rani’s shy smile is wiped off her face in an instant when her London returned fiancé suddenly deems her unsuitable to be his bride. In one callous sweep he dusts not only the dried grains of her henna off the table but also the shattered remains of her dignity off his conscience. That moment sticks with you and your heart goes out to this lost girl clad in a simple hand knitted cardigan, tears threatening to tumble down her cheeks any moment. It appears as if her whole fragile world of dreams and hopes has come crashing down right in front of her eyes. The story could have ended here, leaving us with a pitiful image of a jilted girl withering away till yet another knight in a shining armour appears on a white steed to rescue her from a life of stodginess.

Instead, with growing respect we observe Rani surface from under a film of shock and self loathing to nurse her own wounds and experience by herself the hidden joys that the world has to offer. Drawing strength from the kindness and encouragement showered on her by the family, she quells her fears and heads to Paris – a city she had earmarked, what seems like an eon ago, for her honeymoon. At first, her insecurities plague her and she misses the presence of a man by her side, guiding and instructing her through life. Nevertheless, one cathartic monologue and a shimmy to the tunes of ‘Hungama ho gaya’ later you see her breaking the chains of propriety and releasing all her pent up emotions. The weight lifts off her chest and she spreads her wings and takes off.

Rani’s adventures have only just begun. With wide-eyed amazement she watches, learns and discovers her own potential – to make friends, to charm strangers, to drive a car, to earn a living and to take care of herself. Slowly, buried under layers of pain, she unearths her smile as well and with that fixed firmly on her face she lights up the movie infinitely. Soon she finds herself enjoying all those harmless things that are otherwise labelled abominable for 'girls belonging to good families' back home. From befriending boys to savouring a night of drunken revelry and from turning down her ex-fiancé’s offer to take her back to experiencing what she calls  her first 'lip-to-lip' kiss with a firang whom she has a crush on – Rani does it all and with the merry abandon of a soul who has snatched peace and happiness from the clutches of despair.

What makes it even more believable is the fact that she does not undergo a total transformation. She is still the girl who thinks that a vibrator is a joint-massager and that losing her ‘virzinity’ is a total no-go for an unmarried girl. It is refreshing beyond words to see Rani retain her identity and her innocence without a care for people who might find it hilarious. And, it is exhilarating to know that when she was at a fork in her life from where she could have chosen to either go down a path inundated with pity, hurtful gossip and self destruction or opt to forget her misery and start afresh, she selected the latter. Even though the film has a women-centric overtone, I believe that there is something that all of us, irrespective of gender, can learn from it. We can all learn to take life as it comes and to never forget who we really are. As for me, in addition to all of the above, Queen was exactly what I needed to mop clean the gloom that a sky full of clouds had cast on my day off.

                                

Highway - A Road Less Taken

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.