'Roam Rome Mei', a strong and much needed commentary on gender, misogyny and sexism, turns out to be a  powerful directorial debut by Tannishtha Chatterjee. The film is further supported by the most convincing portrayal of an elder brother by Nawazuddin Siddiqui who goes to Rome looking for his missing sister. What the narrative does most wonderfully is offer a sharp critique of gender dynamics in contemporary India which still refuses to allow its women to have a mind of their own. It opens with a shot of Siddiqui’s character, Raj, on a video call with a woman who the viewer soon finds out to be his sister.

<h2>As the story progresses, the viewer is further made to realise that this Raj is different from all the other Rajs we are used to seeing in the Indian cinema space. Unlike all his namesakes before him, he will make you sit up and pay attention to all your internalised sexism. </h2>Needless to say, the strength of the film lies in the way it establishes a strong feminist premise and follows it through right till the end, using the point of view of a male character, as if, almost urging the tools of patriarchy to introspect and change. <br><br>

Unlike films which often fall in the trap of romanticising the foreign land, the film offers a balanced and adequately de-glamourised version of Rome to the viewer. Further, as Raj finds himself unable to differentiate between dream and reality, the narrative acquires a life of its own. The mystery builds up to involve and frustrate the viewer, already struggling to make sense of what is truly going on. Where did Reena go? Why is no one - past lovers, police, her brother - able to track her? But most importantly, who is Reena truly? Is she the girl who wears <i>kurtas</i> and returns home to follow her seven-thirty-curfew or is she the curly-haired woman in summery dresses who aspires to be an architect, constantly struggling to step out of the shadow of discrimination and lack of education by a family which prioritised her brother over her?

<h2>The film hits home too close for comfort, and might even be triggering for several women. The beauty of the narrative lies in the fact that 'Roam Rome Mei' is the story of everywoman. </h2>This is precisely what makes it an intimate and moving experience for those who have felt discriminated against and dreamed of a reality where they could truly be themselves. On his wild-goose-chase to bring his sister back, a la true patriarch and son who has to ‘uphold the honour’ of his family, Raj finds himself unlearning all that he had established about gender identities, location of women in society, sexuality, and most importantly, Reena. Once again, Siddiqui does not disappoint in the delineation of a repentant brother desperate to find his sister.<br><br>

Another strength of the film lies in the manner in which it borrows from the genre of dramedy. This borrowing, which Chatterjee accepted in response to a question by the author, organic in nature, enriches the narrative manifold. The most intensely moving scenes are allowed to be diffused by an unexpected quip or witticism, making them wholesome and balanced. Towards the second half, the film runs the danger of sagging and becoming slightly threadbare. However, Chatterjee’s direction soon pulls it together making it a well-rounded product highly recommended for Indian viewers. <br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Rosheena Zehra</span></i></b>  


Roam Rome Mei | Review | Nawazuddin Siddiqui, Tannishtha Chatterjee

‘Shoebox’ brings to life a world that is chaotic, cruel, unforgiving, but above all, intensely personal and intimate. This intimacy is precisely the reason why it draws the viewer deeper and deeper, ensuring that it stays with them long after they are done watching the film. <br><br>

<img src="https://i.imgur.com/8bAi2Z6l.jpg" /> <br><br>

Mampu (Amrita Bagchi), a research scholar in Pune, returns to her native Allahabad due to a health emergency in the family. Her father, Madhav Chatterjee (Purnendu Bhattacharya), is a rigid man of strong beliefs, refusing to forgo smoking even in the face of dire health demands, or his theater, a relic of the past long gone and forgotten in an age of multiplexes. 

<h2>Commenting on this sense of the personal, and how it gets tied with cinema, director and co-writer, Faraz Ali says, “As I moved cities and traveled far from home and then returned to it time and again, I saw unbridled change that was slowly going out of control. Of course, this is inevitable, but for each person it’s an intimate loss. <br><br>

This very intimate, macro experience of a larger process of loss and displacement is what I wanted to capture in my first feature film. Because let’s face it, the only thing closest to actually living in those now-erased spaces, is recreating that world (and its sense of comfort) through cinema, which is such a wonderful tool to re-enter past worlds.”</h2> 

In the process of this exploration, the film does a especially notable job to not simply conjure the father-daughter equation, but also the many forces that tug and pull at it, that shape and mold it into a dynamic that is defined by care and affection, and the desire to look out for each other, as much as it is marked by past resentments, impatience, and ensuing baggage of emotions that have been left to fester for too long. <br><br>

<img src="https://i.imgur.com/pFc6BCLl.jpg" /> <br><br>



‘Shoebox’ presents to us a world which is very distinctly its own, a metaphorical box whose walls are made of past, memories, friendship, loyalty, resentment, parental figures and their harshness, and yet, a common thread of intimacies and vulnerabilities that tie them all together. However, while Madhav may have refused to move on from the only time in his life when he truly felt happy, this world continues to march to its own beat against a backdrop of political power tussles, urbanization and modern day progress that might sometimes come at the cost of jeopardizing a city’s cultural ethos.<br><br>


A space of WWF cards, strong filial and familial bonds, the urge to protect a younger family member in a way Mampu couldn’t be protected, and letting go of the grief of one family member to make space for the peace of another is constructed with the plot's progression. And yet, the various elements, constantly at war with another, are sometimes deliberately kept indifferent to the individual troubles of the protagonist, drowning her in their cacophony, ensuring that she finds herself at a moral crossroads, unable to distinguish between what is right and worth fighting for, while also safeguarding herself and those around her. <br><br>

Spectacularly complementing the various emotional intricacies of the plot are the sophisticated visuals of Mahesh Aney. The resultant frames enrich the film most beautifully, ensuring that it’s precisely their presence which add a nuanced, deeply crucial layer of authenticity to the narrative.

<h2>There is much to be said about the atmosphere created as part of the experience of watching the film. And indeed, it was a result of conscious, meticulous effort by Ali who adds, "I only aimed to go beyond verbal emotions and work toward an atmospheric film.<br><br>

The primary ingredient for this was the sound design. The film was set in the North Indian winter when air density increases, and since Allahabad doesn’t have many skyscrapers or tall buildings, faraway sounds are not blocked, making a peculiar acoustics of the city. Ambient sounds are amplified and they reach our homes. Trains pass in the distance and railway announcements are made. New names are heard. The sound of a city becomes the sound of our homes. And thus with time, the sounds of a changing city also become the sounds of our changing homes." </h2>  

<img src="https://i.imgur.com/SYsbWmrl.jpg" /> <br><br>

As the emotional and personal develop alongside the external, practical world, ‘Shoebox’ remains an sincere, devoted and wonderful endeavor of storytelling that especially stands out for its honesty and authenticity. There are very few rough edges (for instance Mampu’s sudden and effusive expression against sending her young cousin to a boarding school) that might come across as inorganic, but on the whole, it is easy to overlook them, simply in the name of the quiet, calm world the film evokes for you. Both Ali and co-writer Noopur Sinha are refreshing, skilled voices to look forward to. 
<br><br>

<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Rosheena Zehra</span></i></b>



Shoebox | Faraz Ali, Noopur Sinha

Much like people, how a film makes you feel, can often be a good index of judgement. Does it disturb you? Good. Does it trigger a spell of melancholia? Better. Throw in a little pathos and poignance and voila! The film has managed to become a successful work of art. If the purpose of art is to reform society, what better way to invoke deep sentiment in its audience that leads to corrective measures and actions?

<h2>'The Illegal' achieves a similar space, even if not going all the way. It tells a story which is sure to stay with you, in a deep recess of the self, long after you're done watching it. What starts as an exciting story of hope and possibilities concludes with a heavy residue of human emotion that absolutely refuses to leave. </h2>

The narrative offers a critique of the American dream, an idea pervasive enough to have spread its roots all over the globe, securing itself a deeply entrenched space in India as well. A young boy from Delhi has landed himself a place in his dream course at an unnamed, but established to be an immensely reputed film school in the US. <br><br>

However, before you get too comfortable with the idea, our protagonist Hassan has his first encounter with hostility at the airport itself, an omen of what is to come. The narrative brings in a suggestion of using light and colours, primarily red, to invoke those forces, both within (Hassan himself) and without (other characters), which will obstruct Hassan’s way to achieving his dream of becoming a filmmaker. Interestingly, it would mostly be his fellow-immigrants who become the biggest challenges to be tackled with. <br><br>

This is perhaps also the first time when there is a direct echo of imminent events and the direction the narrative is headed in a film titled 'The Illegal'. The blurry lens gains some clarity on the horizon of expectation which has already been put in place for the viewer. From then on, it is only a matter of time until the inexorable movement of the narrative, as well as the viewer, find themselves at a point of no return.
On the first night of his arrival in Los Angeles, Hassan finds himself without a home, and thus begins the spiralling down of his plans and hopes. 

<h2>The film does a wonderful job of capturing and translating to screen the turmoil, apprehensions, fear and the absolute, invincible need of a twenty-something-boy to make things work. </h2>

Despite the heady cocktail of everything that Hassan undergoes, there is never a sense of heaviness or disorientation. The story keeps the viewer deeply involved throughout.

<h2>Another strong aspect of the script lies in its exploration of the contrast in Eastern and Western values, and how the two attempt to conflate (in a doe-eyed, inexperienced protagonist), yet prove to be too starkly different to be even remotely similar (in Hassan’s realisation of how far his lived reality in the US is from what he had expected). </h2>

'The Illegal' does a beautiful job of tapping into several emotions in the right measure, and seamlessly weaves together wonderful performances by Shweta Tripathi, Adil Hussain, Iqbal Theba and the effortless Suraj Sharma. Sharma brings to the screen wide-eyed wonder and innocence which makes the story more heartbreaking. Irrespective of his naïveté and mistakes, you still find yourself rooting for him till the very end because dreams may come true at any point, but will they for our protagonist?


<br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Rosheena Zehra</span></i></b>


The Illegal | Review | Suraj Sharma, Shweta Tripathi, Adil Hussain

A heady mixture of supernatural fantasy and horror, of memory and past, and the flow of time, riding steadfastly on Adil Hussain’s impeccable performance, Nirvana Inn presents to you the many far-reaching effects of a fractured psyche. <br><br>

Jogiraj is a caretaker of a property in Himachal Pradesh, of the eponymous resort where strange events soon begin to stick their head out in the most disturbing and unexpected ways. Alongside these developments are strewn little bits of information about Jogiraj’s past which together begin to weave a story of a dark secret that now threatens to consume the protagonist’s present.<br><br>

<img src="https://i.imgur.com/TzloPxWh.png">
<br><br>

The narrative does a beautifully skilled job of looking inwards, more than outwards. Horror is invoked by employing the manifestations of these intimate functionings on the immediate physical reality and not the other way round. Amidst the memories that haunt Jogiraj, the question implicit to the narrative then becomes, can this particular inn, a reminder of the redemption and salvation that could be the fate of a truly repentant soul, indeed be the space of Jogiraj’s redemption as well? Is the inn truly an in-between realm that straddles the possibility of both heaven and hell?<br><br>

Every night, Jogi is presented with a deeply unsettling growling on the roof of his living quarters, as if the hounds of hell have descended themselves to take charge of his soul. Additionally, strange guests enter and exit this space with tremors in their wake that become instrumental in Jogi’s unravelling. Once again, as reality bleeds into dream, the external world simply serves to echo the internal machinations of Jogi’s mind, deepening the chasm that exists between within and without. <br><br>

<img src="https://i.imgur.com/qfPAQ3Ch.png">
<br><br>

In the process, the role of guilt, survival, suicide, and eventually, death, all become crucial to the development of the plot. Motifs and symbols in the form of masks, sustained silences (the film has no dialogue for the first few minutes, for instance), folk art forms, and a background score that further pronounces the eeriness of them all, together allow the film to show, not tell. Whether the supernatural elements are truly souls driven by vindictiveness, or if they are a result of a man unable to reconcile his guilt of a terrible accident, remains another core underpinning of the narrative. All of these elements together allow the final result to bring to life uniqueness of approach and treatment of thematic concerns. <br><br>

Nirvana Inn is definitely an ambitious project, with indeed some hits and misses, but the overarching storytelling remains skilled and notable, with Adil Hussain’s expertise and finesse as an actor being one of the true triumphs of the film. Additionally, Rajshri Deshpande as Mohini, is quietly powerful, ensuring that the viewer is at the edge of their seats every time she enters to deliver one or the other mysterious, alluring and clandestine developments. <br><br>

<img src="https://i.imgur.com/PjrG2gYh.png">
<br><br>

 The writing too remains a marked strength of the film. The film should be relished for the freshness it brings to the table, using tools and devices that have existed all along. However, finding the right combination and balance of these, sometimes complementary, other times disparate, is what makes a story work, and it is precisely that that the film endeavors and presents to you.

<br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Rosheena Zehra</span></i></b>










Nirvana Inn | Adil Hussain, Vijay Jayapal, Rajshri Deshpande, Sandhya Mridul

Marked by a frugality of dialogue and words, often allowing a strong background score to fill any consequent lacunas, the film does a notable job of drawing parallels between the fate of a woman and a water body. It is in this manner that Jahnabi becomes a bridge, an unbreakable link, between nature and the humans who engage and interact with it on a regular basis. <br><br> What the narrative achieves seamlessly is to draw a jarring comparison between the wrongs done to both of these, the woman and the river, and yet, their course continues, unceasing, unrelenting. As they meander through the several curves and highs and lows, an existence of betrayals, cruelties, and sometimes plane indifference, is realised. Shot in nineteen locations across India, the film employs skilled camerawork, matched by equally complementary music to bring to life a remarkable story of love, loss and longing.  <br><br> In this world of heartache and sadness, dreams often bleed into reality and vice-versa, blurring the boundaries of what is real and what isn't. However, the overarching reminder about the fateful existence of women as well as the water bodies, specifically in contemporary India, remains a lucid, unequivocal message of the film for the viewer.

Jahnabi | Shorted Screening

There are films that you watch to be entertained - films that you watch mindlessly, whose fictional
universes you can escape to with no demands to remain grounded in your reality. Bhonsle is not
that film. It is impossible to disentangle yourself from the characters on screen, or the situations
they find themselves in. While newspaper headlines talk about the Marathi language being made compulsory in all Indian schools, and Delhi struggles to recover from the stomach-churning communal violence of February, watching the petty game of politics and bigoted
hatred between the Maharashtrian and Bihari communities play out in the film, and
slowly escalate into something dark and twisted, just feels like an extension of our own
reality.


<h2>The film is loaded with symbolism, but never leans on them. Its aesthetic, pregnant with poignancy,
blends easily with the story. 

The fleshed-out characters and tumultuous contexts are complemented with perfect mise-en-scènes – it is evident that nothing in the frame is accidental. </h2>

A symbol that runs
through the film as a comparative thread to Bajpayee’s Bhonsle is that of Lord Ganesh, or
rather, his idols. The opening scene oscillates between close up shots of an idol of the god being
made and brought to life, and a resigned Bhonsle preparing to go home, leaving behind the only life
he’s ever known, after his last day at his job at the police station. As he wearily unbuttons his faded,
old uniform, a brand new silk cloth is draped over Ganpati’s torso, as he unpins his badge and
shoulder straps, a shiny, silver armband is put on the idol, as he takes off his police hat, a bedazzled
crown is placed on the idol’s head.



<h2>The interpretations can be infinite, but one thing is certain – the iconic, historic figure in Indian
and Maratha history, Shivaji Bhosale, might have valued and popularised the worship of Ganesha and the celebration of the Ganpati festival, but Bhonsle himself feels no desire to model his
ancestor. </h2>
Bhonsle refuses to prioritise religious or communal demands over his
humanity and kindness. He refuses to partake in hostile, discriminatory, and violent behaviour in the
name of his community’s God. Communal strife and violence in the name of religion doesn’t stop until
it has taken everything from the disembodied, dismembered body and soul, as is clear in the
film.

<br><br>

The number of dialogues Bajpayee has in the film is probably restricted to single digits – he is
silent, and more stagnant than stationary, for most of the film. His performance is, even then, one
that is bound to stand out and stay in your mind for a long time to come. His movements are weary
and languid, but his eyes are arrestingly expressive, and his moustache even more so. His facial
muscles strain, quiver and fall disappointedly, so that you wonder why films ever needed dialogues
to convey emotions.

<br><br>

Bhonsle is a film that feels as liberating at certain points as it is suffocating in others. The
cinematography is exquisite and the performances not only engaging, but memorable. It will make
you want to hug the screen, then promptly scream at it. Bhonsle is a film that you not only watch, but
experience – it’s only horrifying that the experience is one that we continue to live in even after we
exit the theatre.


<br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Sanjana Bhagwat</span></i></b>

Bhonsle | Manoj Bajpayee | Review

Hamid is an achingly beautiful film about love, loss, faith, duty, and keeping humanity alive in a
climate of injustice and dangerous politics. Adapted from Mohd. Amin Bhat’s play ‘Play Phone No
789’, the film follows a seven-year-old Hamid (Talha Arshad Reshi) in Kashmir, trying to find his
footing in a world where his father has gone missing. Unable to comprehend the implications of his
father being taken by the police, or his mother’s (Rasika Dugal) isolating grief as a half-widow, Hamid
embarks on a quest to get his father back. When told that his father is with Allah, Hamid puts two
and two together, and calls Allah’s number – 786. His call is answered by a CRPF officer, Abhay (Vikas
Kumar) who decides to play along, and an unlikely connection blossoms between the diametrically
opposite individuals. 

<h2>In recent years, without a doubt, if there ever was a region creatively and emotionally exploited by
filmmakers, “hami asto, hami asto, hamin ast” (it is here, it is here, it is here). Kashmir has become a touchstone for
creating darker, more relevant content for artists, focused on emotionally overwhelming their
audiences rather than actually tapping into and depicting the raw reality of Kashmir. </h2>

Hamid manages to never lose sight of the issues that allow its protagonists’ story to exist, without
continually exploiting them. The film rests on Hamid’s belief that his father is in “jannat” with God,
but everyone other than the young boy is painfully aware that his father is merely a casualty of the
conflicts in “Jannat-e-Kashmir”. Hamid, his parents and their story are casualties of Kashmir’s
trauma; his grief is almost an archetypal one – part of a collective subconscious of the Valley. The use
of a child’s lens to view dark and traumatic events isn’t a new concept, but Hamid never treats its
foundational concept as something unique or ingenious.

<br><br>

The cinematography is wonderful, bringing something novel to even the cliché, quintessential
'Kashmir shots'. As engaging as Hamid’s humorous naivety and heart-breaking determination is, the
film dominated by long shots engulfs him in Kashmir’s expansive greenery and tumultuous politics.
Rasika Dugal’s performance is phenomenal; every posture, every expression and every move
exude destitution and resilience, anguish and numbness, heart-break and anger, all at once. Reshi is an impeccable Hamid; he plays the part of an innocent and stubborn child with
surprising maturity and intuitiveness. <br><br>

The film truly is heart-breaking; I’ve watched it thrice in the span of a year, and I’ve never managed
to hold back my tears when Hamid reads out a letter he’s written to his father, begging him to
return, when talking to “Allah” on the phone. 

<h2>What is even more heart-breaking, however, is the
fact that when Hamid won a National Film Award for best Urdu film and best child actor in August
2019, the filmmakers were unable to communicate the celebratory news to young Talha Arshad
Reshi – a resident of Kashmir - owing to the state-wide lockdown and internet shutdown in the
region. </h2> 

The helpless anguish depicted in the film extends to reality, especially today, when Kashmir’s
state of affairs has so quickly barrelled out of control.

Like most films based on Kashmir, the conventional happy ending is not possible for a film like
Hamid, as there hasn’t been a happy beginning, middle, or end for Kashmir. Giving in to the grief,
burying the past, and moving on seems to be the only form of closure a film like Hamid can offer to
its characters and viewers. 

<br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Sanjana Bhagwat</span></i></b>


Hamid | Rasika Dugal | Review

Yours Truly is a film that finds itself thrust under the genre of romance, as its 57-year-old
protagonist Mithi Kumar (Soni Razdan) quietly pines after a man she’s only ever heard, but never
seen. She hears his voice over the station speakers every day on her long commute to work, and
over the years, develops an ineffable connection and attraction to this invisible “announcer”. She
regularly writes him unreserved and intimate letters where she pours out as much of her heart as
she does of the deep, reflective musings about the world. She imagines him addressing her personally over
the speakers - teasing, chastising, and guiding her through her day-to-day activities. However, the
station announcer never writes her back, and his private messages in her fantasies are never
recreated in his public messages over the station’s speakers. 

<h2>The film only fits in the romance genre
by how prominently Mithi’s life lacks it. </h2>

The opening scene shows Mithi lying motionless in bed, as a train rushes by loudly outside her
window. This is a predecessor for much of the film to come – the world moves along at a pace not in
sync with Mithi’s, while she remains stagnant, shielded under her gauzy mosquito nets, quiet teas
with biscuits, lonely train rides, and long nights of listening to her loud neighbours in bed while
craving the touch of her faceless man. It is an empathetic exploration of loneliness – a loneliness that

clearly weighs heavily on the protagonist – but a weight she doesn’t seem to mind. 

<br><br> She makes no
effort to rectify her isolation. She refuses to reciprocate her tenant, Vijay’s (Pankaj Tripathi),
forthcoming behaviour and attempts at conversation; she doesn’t try to seek out and meet the
“announcer” during the many years of being infatuated with him; she doesn’t seem to own a
television set or laptop; even after her vivacious younger sister, Lali (Aahana Kumra), presents her
with a new phone, Mithi doesn’t feel the need to use it to relieve the loneliness of her long, daily
commute on the train and ferry, where everyone around her is mindlessly scrolling through their
phones or listening to music to pass the time. 

<h2>Mithi seems to be living in a hangover from a fantasy world that she wishes existed – a world that is
not obsessed with gadgets, where a woman doesn’t have to be alienated in her workplace from all
her male colleagues, and where love letters are not only written, but also reciprocated. </h2>

There is a scene in the film where Mithi looks on at a dead body being transported on the train. As a
jolt displaces the sheet covering the body, revealing the corpse’s face, Mithi immediately gets up to
cover the body with her newly purchased quilt – an act of pure kindness, if it hadn’t been for the
look of paralysing fear in Mithi’s eyes when staring at the corpse’s face. It is unclear whether she
struggles to sleep that night because of being exposed to the cold without a quilt, or because of the
memory of why she doesn’t have one in the first place. <br><br>

Perhaps she’s afraid of how the dead body symbolises her future; perhaps she’s even more afraid of
how the scene resembles her present. Whether it be familiarity, or fear of 
the future, the emotion in Mithi’s eyes when she looks at the corpse is one perhaps also reflected in the viewer as we
watch Mithi’s life, love, and loneliness unfold in all its comfortable silences and disconcerting
mundanity on-screen.

<br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Sanjana Bhagwat</span></i></b>

Yours Truly | Soni Razdan, Pankaj Tripathi, Aahana Kumra | Review

Mallesham is the story of a man who refuses to give up in a world that roots for him to fail, and in
doing so, manages to revolutionise an entire industry. Based on the life of Padma Shri winner
Chintakindi Mallesham, the film closely follows the trials and tribulations he faced before all the
success and acclaim. He is exposed to the hardships of the weaving community at a young age, with gruelling
conditions and poor monetary returns causing grievances and even tragic deaths in his family. As a child, Mallesham is upset by the backbreaking nature of his mother’s work; as a young man,
he sets out to help his mother and the multitude of other women in the weaving industry by
designing a machine that will substitute their manual labour. 

<h2>The film does a stellar job of establishing the gravity of its context while also balancing it with
humour and relatable characters. Priyadarshi plays the part of the empathetic Mallesham
wonderfully – never crossing the border between obsession and complete lunacy, but performing
somewhere in the gray area between the two. </h2>

The protagonist’s journey isn’t an easy one – the process of making the machine leaves him riddled with
debt, and buried in criticism, abuse and a tarnished reputation. He is faced with failure and problems
even until the last five minutes of the film, leaving the audience with hardly any time to celebrate
with him in his victory. However, Mallesham’s TED Talk is shown alongside the credits as they
roll, and the thunderous applause from the Ted Talk’s audience members is the rewarding moment
that the film’s viewers have been waiting for. <br><br>

The opening and closing credit sequences are lovely, with the former taking us on a
soothing journey of a saree being weaved by hand, and the later introducing the viewer to the TED
Talk, establishing the transition to technology, and Mallesham’s hand in it. His victories are not
limited to the weaving community, but involve a larger societal impact. This is especially clear when real-life Mallesham talks of a girl who told him that thanks to his machine, she was not forced to
learn weaving, but instead could secure an engineering degree and a well-paying job. 

<h2> Mallesham faces one obstacle after another, and every small breakthrough or minor victory is met
almost immediately with a major setback. His failures are so numerous and frequent that the plot
would have seemed, had the film not been based on true events, overwhelmingly contrived. Being immersed as a viewer in the intense lows, with rarely any highs,
can be exhausting. </h2>

Yet, Mallesham refuses to give up when almost anyone else in his situation would have, and you realise it’s
because somewhere along the way, designing the machine becomes his raison d’etre – his reason to exist. He perseveres for the same reasons that Thomas Edison persevered and eventually
succeeded in inventing the light bulb, despite thousands of failed attempts; or why esteemed
neurologist Viktor Frankl felt compelled to rewrite his manuscript filled with years of research and
theories even after it was confiscated. They each had a goal to achieve – and it is this purpose,
perseverance, and determination to help the weaving community that drives the man and the film,
Mallesham.

<br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Sanjana Bhagwat</span></i></b>

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