Lack of research does Bhaag Milkha Bhaag in

I am not sure if it was predestined that I return to blogosphere with a critique of Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra’s biopic on legendary Olympian Milkha Singh—Bhaag Milkha Bhaag (BMB); but this is how it is and preordained or not, I am compelled to put my thoughts on paper about a cinematic endeavour that has been written about much, praised to the skies, and draped with all trappings of glory that one would associate with cinema and its offering to the masses, which is often not discerning enough to question the alarmingly jingoistic, reactionary, and one-sided yet commercially viable representation to which filmmakers often resort. Fact of the matter is that BMB is completely off the mark, both historically and politically. And here I do not mean the various romantic interludes that Mr Singh had with several women, but the manner in which the trauma of Partition is imagined and depicted in this monolith of a film, which could have done with crisp editing as well as good and correct research. Let us first go over and understand the major historical inaccuracy that inflicts the script right from the opening sequence, which begins with Milkha Singh leading the 400 metre race at the Rome Olympics, a race he loses and falls to fourth place because of a split-second mistake he makes—he turns to look back. And what exactly is he looking at? Well, the viewer is made to believe that Mr Singh had a quasi-spiritual experience on the race track and presumably in his mind’s eye witnesses the bloody murder of his father in course of the violence that rocked the subcontinent in 1947. In that instance, he imagines himself running through the fields of his village from what the audience views is a horseman. Mehra wants his audience to believe that the turbaned horseman who looks like a medieval invader, invariably Muslim, is a Pakistani. It is actually hard not to mention that the sequence, which should have probably elicited strong reactions from its viewers is pretty laughable. The depiction remains grossly shrouded in mystery since neither the attire or the circumstance seem to be accurate. First, the horseman or horsemen, I should say, who looks and behaves like a medieval savage, does not have a face. It seems, therefore, that the filmmaker intended to create a temporal distance between the visage of the sword-wielding “Pakistani” and the victimised “Indian”, where the audience becomes one with the bloodied victim and his kith and kin. This distance is further enhanced as more of these horsemen come into view as the film moves along. All of them seem to be attired in curious black robes as if the raid by the Pakistani’s on the village was colour coordinated and choreographed by an ace. It is hard to believe that the research team that worked on the film did not delve deeper. It should not have been too difficult to find references for the correct attire that the newly created “Pakistanis” wore in 1947. Any in-depth account on the history of Pakistan chronicles the changes in overall attire that came about through the years after Partition, during which the common folk in undivided Punjab wore lungis, dhotis, turbans (of course, but not the kind depicted in the film), and shalwaar-kameez; this was true across community boundaries. It is only in the mid-1980s that the shalwaar kameez began to emerge as something of a national dress to coincide with the pro-mujahideen stance of the then President, General Zia-Ul-Haq. I tried to reason in my mind that perhaps the director wants to categorise the Pakistani swordsmen as soldiers of the Pakistani army or the police, in which case they should have been attired in khaki trousers and shirts! Then again, if the swordsmen were intended to be represented as tribal invaders—ostensibly the Pathans who invaded the Kashmir Valley, the depiction is historically flawed. Second, Partition violence was participatory. Therefore, the manner in which it is exaggerated shrouds it with an uncanny yet incendiary intention to fuel, create, and percolate an extremely untruthful image of the “other”. There have been remarkable, sensitive cinematic instances, which depicted the violence and not too long ago in the history of Indian cinema—1947-Earth, Pinjar, Train to Pakistan, Maachis are some examples. All the research team of BMB had to do was to take a look at the Partition sequences filmed by the respective filmmakers, although a few of the films listed were criticised for being diabolically jingoistic. On the contrary, lack of research and perspective has really led to the acquisition of an unflattering epithet for the film, which I guess Rakeysh Mehra envisaged as his magnum opus—that of a film with the most inaccurate depiction of Partition violence in recent times. The script attempts to insinuate a diversion from the act of forgetting for a generation that has moved on from the horrors of the Partition, on both sides of the border. It creates an imagery of the “other” that not only permeates the imagination of the Muslim on the other side of the barbed wire, but also in not a very subtle fashion leads to an imagination of the Indian Muslim as a medieval savage, a murderer of Hindu and Sikh men, and despoiler of Hindu and Sikh women. One would think a man who created magic on the silver screen with Rang De Basanti could do better!

Back on the blogosphere

I am back on the blogosphere and intend to stay! Look forward to roaring out my views on cinema, movies, films...whatever you may like to address this absolutely fascinating and captivating human endeavour.

My take on Shootout at Lokhandwala

This has been a busy week particularly with regard to my film viewing schedules. Started with Life in a Metro which should have been named Sexual Life in a Metro as all Anurag Basu did was dwell on sleazy underbelly of corporate culture and human relationships. Fair enough, to each his own. The other film I watched was Shootout at Lokhandwala. Given a choice between romance and guns, I’d go for guns any day. The film comes hot on the heels of the Sohrabuddin Sheikh fake encounter case grabbing headlines and eyeballs in the media. Less importantly are the Khwaja Yunus custodial death case and another fake encounter case in Gujarat that of Javed Sheikh who was gunned down in cold blood by the Rajasthan and Gujarat police in 2004. All three cases are preceded by a long and sordid history of fake encounter killings and the people with blood on their hands are the usual suspects – the police and the armed forces. Kashmir has seen the worst encounters over the past many years. Some of them find publicity and media coverage and become iconic while the rest (and the numbers are staggering) remain stacked in the dusty alleys of the establishment.Was the Maya Dolas encounter in 1991 a real one? The Bombay High Court ruled in favour of the Anti-Terrorism squad being led by Aftab Ahmad Khan, which planned and executed the whole operation. Human rights activists and citizen’s group thought on the contrary. The encounter they said was a set-up. Khan had been on the D-gang payroll and had been sounded off after Dolas got too big for his boots. The families of the five men who were killed (and according to Shootout…quite brutally at that) petitioned the court saying that their children were killed for a crime they did not commit. However, all records (I have done some research on this) state that Dolas was indeed an extortionist who fell on the wrong side of Big Bhai in Dubai and was killed in a police encounter which involved loads 327 policemen and sophisticated weaponry and put the lives of close to 102 men, women and children living in the heavily populated Lokhandwala area on 16 November 1991 in danger.The film does not provide answers to this vexing question. But is it supposed to? I don’t know. It is a film-director’s take on an incident, which has long been lauded as the longest encounter ever in the annals of the Mumbai Police. In portions, the screenplays veers towards hero-worship of the police officers involved in the operation, there are other sequences where the film-maker makes an attempt to provide a humane face to otherwise ruthless gangsters. It is much like a see-saw. The film begins with three large blood stains on the lane in front of Swati Building, the residential block which had housed the Maya and his boys for weeks and ends with the bloodied faces of the slain criminals. Was it correct to hound the men in the fashion that the Mumbai police chose to follow? The question is raised over and over again by a television reporter (played by Diya Mirza) fuelling an ideological and ethical debate.My only problem with the film is the unnecessary and useless song and dance sequences and characters like the bar dancer (Aarti Chhabria) and Bua (Tusshar Kapoor). Kapoor not only failed to portray the sharpshooter to any devastating effect, his command over dialogues was grotesque. He should probably only stick to comic roles and leave the gangsta flicks to Vivek Oberoi. It was nice to see him come back into his own after the searing role in Company. He is superb as Mayabhai, the young extortionist who rebels against the D-Company. Rohit Roy is decent enough in a small role while Shabbir Ahluwalia, Ekta Kapoor’s blue-eyed boy makes a foray into Bollywood as RC, the young associate who cannot get over the fact that he murdered a family in cold blood.Scenes to die for? Quite a few. ACP Shamsher Khan kills one of Maya’s cohorts (played by Aditya Lakhia) in front of the media, police, and Lokhandwala residents. It is effective, gory, and sets the pace for the rest of the sequence. But again it is difficult to judge the tenor of the filmmaker’s ideological leanings (whether in favour of the police or ethics in general) from this one scene; however it does raise a few questions about the methods the police uses to bring criminals to its knees. At one level the film propagates the infallibility of the police’s patriotism while on the other it raises a few uncomfortable queries about the fact that criminals too need to be treated like human beings and have rightful access to the institutions of law and justice. The verbal duel between Maya and ACP Khan too is well-shot and modulated. Dutt is a model cop – uncorrupted, patriotic, and dedicated and he does a brilliant job of his role (as usual).Yes, one more thing. The presence of just too many stars from the commercial pantheon pulled the film back a bit. But who could have played Maya better than Vivek Oberoi?

Encounters: to be killed like dogs

I recently read a rather pointed, well-researched and blow-by-blow account of the encounter that had the ATS progenitor, A A Khan pitted against the notorious gangster, Maya Dolas (born Mahendra Vithoba Dolas) close to 14 years ago. The piece that appeared in the Mumbai tabloid, Mid-Day obviously was inspired by the release of Bollywood's latest take on Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs -- Shootout at Lokhandwala. The film dramatises the encounter which according to some accounts was stage managed by the police to eliminate the foulmouthed Dolas at the behest of underworld don and Dolas' estranged boss, Dawood Ibrahim. Others critiqued it as cold blooded murder by the men in uniform of five petty criminals who possessed less than half the ammunition carried to the site by the police. The police used more than three hundred to kill five.Perhaps a case of being overprepared? Were 300 policemen required to tackle five men? Is it fair to not allow the criminal to have proper recourse to justice and a trial? After all, every man, woman, and child born free has a right to be heard. Why does the police prefer to 'Shoot to kill' when arresting the man alive could lead to vital leads in very many cases? The gangsters could have been caught alive and tried for murder, extortion, arson, whatever.Ditto for Sohrabuddin Sheikh, Ishrat Jahan, scores in the Kashmir Valley, Khwaja Yunus, Javed Ahmad...many more. Yes Sohrabuddin Sheikh was a criminal, an extortionist. But the Gujarat police have no records to show that he was a Lashkar militant, the charge on which he was shot in cold blood. What about Kausar Bi? Was she also a militant? Ishrat Jahan -- university student, amateur tutor, shot point blank in an 'encounter' in Ahmedabad. How on earth was she shot in the head and chest if she was fleeing and trying to escape the police? The windshield of the car she was travelling in was smashed completely. The rear shield was intact. How? Khwaja Yunus -- software engineer in Dubai, picked up after the Ghatkopar blast in Mumbai, never returned home. The police has been accused of killing him in custody. The 1993 Mumbai blasts led to a flurry of arrests and torture recounted impeccably in S Hussain Zaidi's book and then filmed to perfection by Anurag Kashyap in his project which goes by the same name. The film showcases the torture scenes brilliantly, the macabre violence of it all is outlandish and scary. Thus, it is but childish to either believe or expect the police to adhere to and abide by rules. If the police manual permits torture, in fact lists it as the only method to extract information, then it is but usual that the men in uniform do not think twice before torturing suspects. And mind you, these men (sometimes women) are only suspects. The question then is -- Is is fair to get down to torture purely on the basis of suspicion?Coming back to the Lokhandwala encounter, the police denies that the underworld bosses has any hand in the encounter and claim that it was absolutely legitimate and true. The incident had been forgotten until film-maker Apurva Lakhia (of the Mumbai Se Aya Mera Dost and Ek Ajnabi fame) decided to dig into the past and come up with a film on the encounter that shook Mumbai in 1991. He has been accused of glorifying violence and creating iconic figures out of misdirected youth ending up as gangsters. Shootout at Lokhandwala is a violent film. After all it is based on an extremely violent episode where a lot of blood was spilt. Not only did the police put the lives of close to a hundred and fifty Mumbaikars at stake by firing indiscriminately at the dilapidated flat where Maya Dolas, Dilip Bhuwa and three others were holed up for some weeks, it also converted the entire residential area into a war zone for close to six hours at the end of which the five gangsters were killed and two policemen injured.So does the film justify the methods adopted by A A Khan? Apurva Lakhia would like to think so but Shootout... actually ends up not taking sides at all. If anything Maya Dolas emerges as a somewhat wronged antagonist who was not allowed a shot a justice. I have written about the film in the other blog I frequent and write for -- Passion for Cinema. I'll extend my argument a little bit here and say that the police went overboard. And Lakhia goes overboard in trying to make a case for Khan and his boys while all he ends up doing is convert Maya and his gang into reel heroes. Let me explain. SI Javed Sheikh, drafted into the ATS by Khan specifically because of the wide network of informers he had in the Muslim dominated areas as well as the underworld drags one of the men out of the building, alive, before Khan shoots him down in full view of the heaving, screaming crowds. 'I said Shoot to Kill meaning shoot to kill,' he says before gunning down Maya's cohort. The fact that the shooting happened in front of a thronging crowd made it look like a spectacle. The 'Breaking News' phenomena is made full use of the film as television journalist Meeta Mattoo (yet to decipher if the real encounter was filmed or not) played by Diya Mirza follows the cops to Lokhandwala. She questions the ethics of the encounter throughout the film, from the first frame to the last. Her expression after having witnessed the killing of the criminal says it all. Disgust is writ large over the character's face even though she happens to be an admirer of Khan's ways. The police, according to the rules are supposed to shoot a man only in extreme circumstances and that too below the knees to decapitate the person. This is true even for encounters. Under no circumstances are they supposed to cross the line. But they do, day after day across India, there are reports of encounter killings. Ahmedabad gangster Abdul Latif was shown bail papers, ordered to escape and then shot at. Hardly an encounter!Thousands have disappeared in Kashmir and never returned. The lucky ones have found column space in newspapers as victims of fake encounters. Others are just numbers, statistics. The police (as also the army in Kashmir) is said to have staged fake encounters to boost their chances of promotion and to bag the cash award that comes with the killing of every militant. And mind you, all these men killed in so-called encounters are all 'dreaded' terrorists who pose a grave threat to the safety and security of India. After investigations by independent agencies and the media, the men turned out to be carpenters, teachers, tailors, farmers, shepherds, and even informers.Two men were killed in a staged encounter in New Delhi's Ansal Plaza some years ago. Eyewitnesses recount that the men were brought in a police jeep, the bandobast was complete with coffins and shrouds to take the bodies away. People too scared to bat an eyelid later said that the men were pushed out of the jeep and asked to run...the police shot them dead after a perfectly staged drama that went on for more than two hours. Just before Diwali, the encounter of alleged militants was a feather in the caps of the Delhi police.This is not to say that criminals are to be left free to hurt the society even more and not taught a lesson. The nature of the lesson needs to be questioned. The police went to Lokhandwala with an 'intention' of killing Maya Dolas and his men. The police manual describes and defines an encounter as an act of self defence. 300 people and Khan himself certainly did not need self defence. Thus, the encounter was intentional, cold-blooded. Was killing the only option? The film does not answer the question. Instead it raises many more. One of them is, well -- was killing really the only option? Repeated over and over again by Dia Mirza. Lakhia's attempt at glorifying the police actually doesn't work that way. It does otherwise propelling the ethical debate into the public domain. Amitabh Bachchan's question in the courtroom is misplaced and melodramatic. Would you be confronted by a gangster or the police? Ask the riot victims in Gujarat who were directed towards the murderous mobs by the police? Ask the families of the 14 Muslim men killed by the police at the Suleiman Bakery in the Bombay riots? Ask the wives of those who have disappeared without a trace in the Kashmir valley? The answers would be apparent.The film comes at an apt time. Televised debates have been held on the question of encounter killings in the past few weeks after the Sohrabuddin story broke. But Bollywood has from time to time dwelt on the issue. Ab Tak Chappan was apparently based on encounter specialist Daya Nayak's life. Company, D and Sarkar looked at the underworld quite effectively. Black Friday was an exceptional film. Shootout attempts it...and succeeds to a great extent. Bollywood finally creates a desi Reservoir Dogs-lookalike in the form of Maya Dolas and his men after attempts such as Kaante and the ilk. By putting police encounters back in the limelight, the film, even though overtly dramatic in parts is a great try. The sepia background makes Swati Building where the encounter happened look sinister, almost imposing. The battleground becomes the backdrop of a perfect potboiler. Masterfully edited, Shootout at Lokhandwala is crisp and pithy, something a film such as this rides on. And more importantly, it put the encounter question back in the minds of the people. But will there be a public outcry? One is yet to see a public outcry in cases involving the lowly and the downtrodden. Yet one question still remains-- will Manu Sharma, Santosh Kumar Singh or even Vikas Yadav, the offcpring of powerful men ever be killed in encounters?

Whatever in Jodhaa Akbar warranted protests!

Let me understand. Did saffron wielding mobs protest against Jodhaa Akbar because there is a historical debate over the name of the Rajput princess who married Akbar? Or did they pull posters down and force theatre owners to stop screening the film because it is perhaps the first mainstream, commercial, popular Hindi film which portrays a Muslim man marrying a Hindu woman? The second reason is much likely why there was such an outcry against Ashutosh Gowarikar’s magnum opus. Remember Mahesh Bhatt’s Zakhm or Mani Ratnam’s Bombay? Both films that applauded the union of religions – one monotheistic, the other polytheistic – through marriage. However, both films portrayed the woman as a Muslim, never the man. The notion of intermingling of the bloodline was clearly sidestepped. Jodhaa Akbar did just the opposite. Firstly, Gowarikar picked a story that had a Muslim emperor marrying a Hindu princess. Their co-mingling produced the heir to the Mughal throne. The period of Mughal rule, mind you, is regarded by the Sangh Parivar and its affiliates to be the most ruinous period of Indian history. For the saffron flag-bearers, they are the outsiders who sacked the land of the Hindus. That the Mughals were the only race that made Hindustan its home, that Jalaluddin Mohammad, heir-apparent to Mughal Emperor Humayun was born in the house of a Rajput noble, that he saw friendly alliances, including those of marriage as possible conciliatory ways to overcome the need for wars and bloodshed, that he was the greatest ever ruler to govern Hindustan and was conferred the title of Akbar (Great) by predominantly Hindu subjects does not matter to those who have come the view the world in terms of those who support the so-called Hindu cause and those who do not. The marriage of a Muslim man to a Hindu woman is thus sacrilege of an unpardonable degree. These are tumultuous times, the society at large is moving towards intolerance and bigotry. Gowarikar attempted something that did give him a resounding success at the box office; at the same time, protests for no rhyme or reason marred the release and run of the film. The narrative per se is flawless, at least historically. References to all events depicted in the film can be traced back to texts. The taming of the wild elephant, Akbar’s spiritual experience during the Sufi song sequence, the rebellion of Sharifuddin and Adham Khan’s killing can be traced back to any authoritative writing on Akbar and his times. In fact, those who know Delhi also know of Adham Khan’s tomb at the entrance to the Mehrauli area. The film, in a subtle manner, dwelt on the secular and syncretic aspects of Akbar’s relationship with his wife Jodhaa whom he had married not out of choice but in order to put an end to the communal strife that had broken out between the Hindus and the Muslims in the Rajputana and Gujarat regions. He viewed the marriage as a gesture of friendship towards his Hindu subjects. Those who watch the film carefully would note that the first offer of marriage is brought to the emperor’s court by Raja Bharmal of Amer, Jodhaa’s father. Akbar did not, in any way, force the princess to enter into this alliance. On the contrary, the princess was free to express her fears and concerns and in doing so she places two conditions that the emperor must fulfil before tying the knot. Her first condition was to do with conversion and the second, unheard of in Mughal courts till then, the construction of a temple in her quarters where she could install her family deity. Akbar nonchalantly agrees to both the conditions, marries the princess, and does not insist on the consummation of the marriage with a non-consenting Jodhaa. He, on the other hand, explains to his new wife, that under the laws of Islam, she is free to annul the marriage if she deems fit. Therefore, those who protest clearly did not even make an attempt to watch the film before falling prey to beguiling rumours. The Mughal emperor, a practicing Muslim, is also credited with having abolished the pilgrimage tax or the tirth yatra mehsul that had been levied on Hindu pilgrims from time immemorial. Despite flak from court clergy and the nobles, Akbar not only abolished the tax but also refused to accept an argument that claimed that taking the tax off would damage the exchequer. He clearly placed a high degree of importance on the confidence of his subjects, majority Hindu. Further, Akbar put an end to the practice of beheading defeated local kings and allowed them to live as loyal subjects of the Mughal empire—a rather humane gesture in times when bloody wars were commonplace. These instances go to show the extent to which the film adhered to the basic tenets of history. It would not be wrong to say that Jodhaa Akbar is perhaps the most historically accurate film to roll out of the Bollywood assembly line. Mughal-e-Azam, I dare to say, could be termed as a cinematic classic, but it was by all means a historical disaster. The film depicted the saga of love between Prince Salim (later Jahangir) and the exquisitely beautiful courtesan Anarkali. Historians of great repute and authority have recorded that Anarkali was part of Akbar’s harem and even bore him a child. According to them, there was no relationship between Salim and Anarkali. Despite this deep-rooted historical flaw, the film was allowed a safe run across India. It, in fact went on to become one of the biggest blockbusters ever. Why then, this objection to Jodhaa Akbar? The reason, as explained earlier, is the deepening saffronization of the Indian society that has created a rather wide chasm of hatred and mistrust. Pogroms like that in Gujarat have only contributed to deepening this cleavage between communities. There is a hardening of stands on both sides. In times like these, Jodhaa Akbar breaks new ground. It rocks the foundations of the Sangh dictum that Hindus can never co-exist with Muslims. Parallely, it also deconstructs and completely destroys the theory postulated at the time of Partition—that Hindus and Muslims are two separate nations. We have borne the burden of that flawed theory ever since.

A perfect balance of Black and White

First things first, it is hard to believe that this is Subhash Ghai. Quite literally, Black and White (hereafter B&W) is the very antithesis of anything that Ghai has ever stood for. Grand commercial successes, ornate melodrama, opulent set design, stylized imagery and costumes—he is Bollywood’s modern day showman! B&W is, in one word, minimalist. Not in scope or reference. For the film, for perhaps another first in mainstream Hindi film lore, examines the trans-territorial nature of Islamic extremism. The narrative moves from the bombed-out badlands of Afghanistan to the narrow bylanes of Old Delhi. The reflection of minimalism becomes apparent in the latent landscape of the film. The major part of the story is set in Delhi’s historic Chandni Chowk overlooked by the majestic Red Fort, the object of the terrorist’s gameplan. The thronging crowds at the Red Fort commemorating India’s independence must be blown apart in one diabolical suicide mission—the protagonist/antagonist, Numair Qazi, an Afghan posing as a victim of the Gujarat pogrom is the man on a mission, a mission to give up life for the ONE above. It is after all, Allah’s wish that he blew himself up to attain jannat. Once in India, he meets Prof Rajan Mathur, a Hindu teacher of Urdu at the Zakir Hussain College, reminiscent of the strange case of Prof SAR Gilani, the man accused of sheltering terrorists and aiding the suicide attack on the Parliament. Prof Mathur mouths verses of the Holy Quran with a never-seen-before flair, a rather piquant anomaly for the young man on a mission. As the narrative moves ahead, his mentor in India – a well-known businessman who had promised Numair an entry pass to the Red Fort, shoots himself dead when faced with arrest, a crucial turning point in the film. It is after this incident that Numair discovers that he will have to make drastic changes in the original plan to make his mission a success. Thus, Prof Mathur is the only other person who can get him into the VIP enclosure; Prof Mathur is a good man, a well-respected man. The only hitch – Prof Mathur’s firebrand wife, Roma who feels Numair is more suspicious than trustworthy. The terrorists hatch a plan to convince Roma that this young man is a victim of communal hatred, a soul who has lost his childhood in the raging fires of Gujarat. Stealthily, the terrorist gains entry into the Mathur household, into the impregnable fortress of Indian syncretism. Ghai plans his narrative well. He places the Afghan extremist in the sprawling mansion of an elderly poet-patriarch, played so brilliantly by the inredible Habib Tanvir. No one suspects him, not even the chirpy newspaper baron’s daughter who lives next door and loses her heart to the silent, brooding young man. The film dwells deftly on a couple of sequences that are quite strikingly woven together to create an overall impact. One such sequence is the one in where the stodgy government official offers Numair prasad from a temple. The man’s intention is clear. He plays on the notions of morality and blasphemy in the annals of conservative Islam. Numair is an Islamic radical. Earlier in the film, he kills a man, a Muslim, in cold blood after he announces that he drank himself to a stupor and could not wake up in the morning and states that he does not believe that anyone who doesn’t follow Islam needs to survive in this world. So, the officer looks expectantly for the man to flinch, lift up his hand and strike him down, kick him from under the chair. Numair does none of these. He puts the sweet in his mouth and gulps it down disdainfully, all for the sake of the final hurrah, his ultimate prize—the path, you see, has been chosen by his maker. He must die so that he can live in the afterlife. Numair gets his entry pass, his ticket to salvation. The other sequence that needs a mention here is when Prof Mathur’s little daughter plays Saare Jahan se Accha on her synthesizer for Numair, who has by now been accepted as a member of the Mathur family. The scene is study in understanding the conceptual tendencies of trans-territorial Islamic fundamentalism. Numair is an Afghan, he is on a deadly mission to India and here is listening to this little girl playing an ode to the very edifice that he has come to breach. The creases on the man’s brow tell it all. Does he succeed in his mission? No, he doesn’t. Roma, the woman who called him brother is killed by members of his group. Prof Mathur forbids his daughter from wailing as he fears a Hindu backlash will ruin the peace of Chandni Chowk—a secular haven. In one heart-rending sweep, Ghai delivers a power-packed scene. Independence Day; Numair does gain entry into the VIP enclosure, is about to blow himself up but does not. His eyes well up, they killed the woman who called him brother, they let her die…he cannot take it anymore. The police too – having cracked the plot – is closing in. Numair escapes. With a lost dream, with an image of India that still lives on the hope that Hindus and Muslims are one nation. Does he survive? Yes he does. Prof Mathur saves him, standing like a shield between the bullet and the man he gave shelter to. The Indian state accuses him of treason. The film ends with the terrorist’s email absolving the good professor of all guilt, declaring him a great son of India. The film works because of the way it ends. Ghai resists the urge to close the narrative in a form of a bloody encounter where yet another suspected terrorist is killed. The man survives to realize that perhaps the larger ethos of India is much too strong for the footsoldiers of global jehad to break down. However, at the cost of sounding nit-picky, I lament the fact that the film, in many ways, falls into the trap of stereotyping the Muslim. The villains of the set-piece are all Muslim barring the good-hearted poet and the guitar-totting aspiring musician. The terrorists are technical wiz-kids; the protagonist/antagonist prefers the jehadi’s interpretation of the Quran over the professor’s peace-message. The man is ruthless, unscrupulous and takes lives without batting an eyelid. One does not doubt Ghai’s intensions but frankly these rather stark images sometimes leave a bitter taste in the mouth. The narrative moves at a good pace. Some critics panned the film by saying that it is slow. It is not. This is Ghai’s best work till date. After Yaadein and Kisna and a long hibernation, the man returns with a powerful critique of contemporary world politics. Even though he does get caught in the exigencies of stereotyping and imagination, the film is well intentioned. He succeeds in extracting good performances from the leads actors. Newcomer Anurag Sinha is, in a word, minimalist, the solitary, quiet recluse with a searing screen presence—Ghai’s perfect terrorist, viscous and uncompromising. Another possible addition to the string of ‘performing actors’ who have made their presence felt in an incestuous industry. Veteran Anil Kapoor is exceptional. One wonders where Sonam Kapoor came from. She certainly does not seem to be this man’s daughter.

Khuda Kay Liye: a searing critique

I did not intend to but am forced to start with this. Watching Khuda Kay Liye in a plush multiplex in the capital reminded me of another piece of searing political drama—Black Friday. The audience reacted with such mirth and vile that one felt nauseous. They sniggered at a man being tortured by Americans saying, ‘These Muslims deserve it.’ Was I amazed, shocked? Neither. The sensibilities of a so-called educated class are suspect to say the least. The finest thing about Khuda Kay Liye, Pakistani filmmaker Shoaib Manzoor’s ambitious take on the current political scenario in the Islamic world and Western hegemony is that it begins with music and ends with music. Within the larger debate of fundamentalism and extremism pervading Pakistan, the film narrates the tragic story of a family torn apart by the endless and devastating scourge of a disintegrating world order. It is about Mansoor and Sarmad, blood brothers who belong to an upwardly mobile, elite Pakistani family. Both are musicians. They play to the gallery, they love their music. Symbols of a modernizing world, English-speaking, and hence the object of hate in the conservative, fundamentalist sections of the Pakistani society. And Sarmad succumbs. To the blatant venom-spewing Maulana Tahiri. A radical, the Maulana drills hate into his very being. ‘Islam mein mausiki haraam hai,’ says Tahiri. Sarmad falls deeper, stops singing, questions his older brother who still swears by music, defies his family and leaves home to accompany the mullah into the depths of jihad. Meanwhile, Sarmad’s cousin, Mary (or Mariam) – a British-Pakistani in love with a Brit youth – arrives in Pakistan with her father, who is bent on getting his ‘wayward’ daughter married off to a true Muslim to prevent her from getting into an alliance with the firang man. The man is worried to death about the purity of the Islami nasl being in danger! And who does he want as his daughter’s groom? Her cousin, Mansoor. But as luck would have it Mansoor proceeds to the United States for higher studies in musicology and leaves behind a forced marriage between Sarmad – by now a real jihadi, complete with the Islamic attire including the headgear – in the rugged backdrop of the frontier areas. Mary is shattered, she hates her father, hates her cousin (now husband) and everyone else around her. By now Mansoor has settled down in the United States, and found himself a gori girlfriend. Of course, they plan to get married. Then 9/11 happens to the world—the event that shattered the lives of an unimaginable number of people all over the globe, be it Afghanistan or Iraq, Morocco or Egypt, no one was spared America’s wrath, most of it misplaced and misconstrued. Mansoor is arrested on the night of his wedding and taken away by the US police. The pain sets in. Mansoor’s incarceration in the US torture cell are the most chilling sequences in the film. It is no hold’s barred, one is reminded of the horrors of Abu Ghraib. However, the sequence that defines Khuda Ke Liye is so telling, one is caught between a guffaw at America’s foolhardiness and a tear at the condition of an innocent man held in an American hellhole for no fault of his. A raid at Mansoor’s house yields an old abandoned taweez. But of course, the chief investigator has no idea what it is. He tears it open and finds a scrap of paper with a grid, a common sight in dargahs and mazaars’s across South Asia—the blessed pieces of paper that so many of us carry with us as divine protection against the evils of the world. Our super-intelligent American, of course thinks the grid is a map of New York. And here’s more, he picks out the numbers 9 and 11 written in two squares, encircles them, and holds it as evidence of Mansoor’s involvement in the 9/11 attacks. The quantum of torture increases. Relentless and never-ending, the young aspiring musician ends up in a mental rehabilitation centre—paralysed, bruised, broken, and speechless. While Mansoor is facing the wrath of the American (in)justice system, Sarmad is busy fighting a fruitless battle against the marauding American forces in Afghanistan and his own inner demons which pull him back, prevent him from killing another human being. Mary, his wife by force in the meantime has succeeded in sending a letter to her British lover. She receives help. The British government gets involved in a legal battle to get Mary back to England. The girl by now is a mother, the result of a forced copulation. Sarmad too decides to go back. The courtroom sequences are brilliantly written, especially the monologue delivered to such amazing perfection by Nasiruddin Shah. From the right of a woman in Islam to walk out of a marriage to the Prophet’s love for music, Shah dispels myths with a panache never seen before. Pakistani star Shaan is superb as the tortured Mansoor and so is Fawad Khan as the confused Sarmad. The young man’s return to music – his first love – is well-crafted. Mary, free from a life of bondage, presented with a bright future in Britain, returns to the frontier areas to set up a school for little children whose love for ‘Englis’is unparalleled.