There was a time when Goutam Ghose could do no wrong. One of the great bastions of Bengali
cinema from the 80s, his brand of filmmaking has inspired generations. Perhaps his loss of
vigour in this decade made Raahgir such a triumphant return to form. It sees him go back
to his roots - making films about villages, abject poverty, and the values of humanity that still
reside in those villages. <br><br>

Based on a short story of the same name by Prafulla Roy (also one of the writers of the film), Raahgir follows Nathuni (Tillotama Shome), who is
the sole breadwinner of a family that consists of a paralysed husband (Onkardas Manikpuri) and
two children. Hunger drives her miles away to a town in Jharkhand’s mining heartland in
search of work. She encounters a lone traveller on her way. Lakhua (played brilliantly by Adil
Hussain) is a loner who walks the fringes of survival, while singing songs and dancing. He is a
peculiar character, one who truly belongs on the roads and not their destinations. <br><br>

The two encounter Chopatlal (Neeraj Kabi) whose scraped-together van gets stuck in the mud,
carrying an old couple to a hospital in town. The two characters are stuck in a
conundrum. If they do not help, the couple dies. If they do, they and Nathuni’s family will have
to sleep hungry. 

<h2>The dilemma is one that has unfortunately persisted for longer than it should have.
While crippling poverty still plagues Indian villages, it is also coupled with a deep sense of humanity and kindness. Despite struggling with fragile chances of survival, humans often find it in themselves to help others. When
subsistence becomes the only goal of one’s life, life itself must become a way of achieving a purpose that makes it bearable enough to carry on. </h2>

The 69-year-old filmmaker’s strong satire and storytelling is ageless. The film comments
on the plight of the tribal community, the impact of the Naxal movement on them and their subsequent suppression. The
mines and factories that destroy the lush natural beauty of the land are captured beautifully by
the young cinematographer Ishaan Ghose. Wide frames and natural weather play a game larger
than the characters who are at the mercy of the elements around them in the film. The
mesmerising grey hues during rain and storm, contrasted against the green pastures of the land
along with the colourless machinery of the factories, all form a poignant visual treat.

<h2>The sheer brute strength of the powerful acting of the four main actors (all of whom could carry
a film each on their shoulders) is enough to invoke deep emotion. Helped with the masterful direction of a visual-based director, one who is both a cinematographer as well as an actor, and a story that has stood the test
of time, the film has all the bases covered. </h2>

Raahgir is a film that keeps on giving the more one thinks about it. It works as a story about
humanity that keeps persisting despite all odds. It works just as well as a political allegory,
where all the characters are, but a cog in the machine.

<br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Nimish K Sharma</span></i></b>

Raahgir | Review | Adil Hussain, Tillotama Shome

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

Despite all efforts for women’s emancipation and the increasing relevance of the conversation on feminism, India remains a deeply misogynistic and sexist society. While we strive for change, to usher in equality, the role of art gains immense significance as a tool capable of invoking powerful thought which has the potential to lead to action, and eventually, reform. The documentary Shut Up, Sona attempts to achieve the same, to question the status quo of inequality and sexism, and succeeds most brilliantly in making its point. The narrative follows the life of Indian singer and musician Sona Mohapatra and raises deeply disconcerting questions about the gendered nature of art in contemporary times. <br><br>  The scene is of Sona’s house where she discusses a legal notice with her husband Ram Sampath, also an accomplished music composer. As our protagonist introduces the viewer to all that she is being alleged of - singing a song as old as several centuries, and devotional in nature, in what society deems to be ‘inappropriate’ clothes and make-up, you are allowed to share her combined rage, disappointment and hurt. <h2>The story of an artist condemned for blasphemy over a piece of art that did not sit well with the times is not a new one. Yet, as Sona points out, in twenty-first century India, male artists are allowed to get away with much more than their female counterparts. It is not about religion or a religious figure, it is about being a woman, it is indeed about gender, as the documentary itself points out.</h2>  As the narrative progresses, it touches upon several aspects that a woman singer or, as a female voice (surprise, surprise!) is heard announcing while introducing Sona, “songstress”, has to deal with while trying to make herself heard in a predominantly male field as well as world. There is a sense of validation, emancipation and empowerment for women, in particular, and the marginalised in general, to be found in this deeply poignant narrative where Sona refuses to relent, to give up, to break, to “stay in her place” despite all odds. <h2>She may be questioning the <i>qawwals</i> in Delhi’s Nizamuddin Dargah where women are still not allowed inside the inner sanctum, but a calm smile will not leave her face. She may disagree with her husband’s approach to let the allegations and accusations blow over, to not say a word, but it will not alter the course of her fight. She may revisit the close confines of an old hostel room, find herself break down in it, yet find it in her to smile for the selfie-camera a young girl has directed towards her. </h2>  There is a sense of self-awareness in Sona that makes the narrative more meaningful than it already is, that protects the film from being threadbare, hackneyed and preachy. Instead, it is powerful, ensuring that the viewer finds themselves questioning why only a woman’s presence is not sufficient on stage, why she has to seek validation and acceptance, not through her art, hardwork and skill, but by using male presence as a crutch, why any attempt to break away from it would incur upon her the condemnation of her family, society and loved ones.<br><br>  Sona is fearless in calling out people who do not stand with her. Her anger is almost like a character in the film which supports the narrative most wonderfully. The film takes you into a tour of her disagreement with society, it leads you by the hand into an understanding of it, breaking it down for you bit by bit. This harsh truth that the viewer is forced to swallow like a bitter pill is juxtaposed against her melodious, soulful singing to the point that every time Sona opens her mouth to sing, the viewer is not far from goosebumps. Consequently, the documentary becomes a strong, pertinent comment on society and the manner in which it locates women across different fields, age groups and social positions. The protagonist, her talent and her rage all enhance it further making it a wholesome, relevant product.
<br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Rosheena Zehra</span></i></b>  

Shut Up, Sona | Review | Sona Mohapatra

Pearl of the Desert is a documentary film set in the beautiful barren expanse of the Thar desert and is about a
community of lower class Muslims Manganiyars. Historically marginalised and forced into depending on
their patrons for sustenance, Manganiyars are musicians and are mostly found in weddings and other ceremonies, playing to an indifferent crowd.<br><br>

The Manganiyars cut their crops (opium usually) while singing songs
passed down from rich oral traditions, while their children play kabaddi and sing Bollywood
songs. It is clear as day that the traditions are endangered, of either being stunted or being
forgotten. However the film does not take such a simplistic stance on the subject.  Instead, it is
focused on Moti Khan, a gifted child, determined to make a career in music, despite all the social injustices and systematic oppression that afflict his community. <br><br>
The masterfully made film begins with Moti's mesmerising voice against the visual of a seemingly endless
desert. He practices his singing with his father. Early in the film, he skips school to sing, only
to be scolded by his father (in perfect meter and immaculate rhythm.)
<h2>The cinematically shot film would almost make you forget it is a documentary, and perhaps, it is not one in the traditional
sense. It uses non-actors and employs interviews between them, but the camera itself is
one of the most potent storytelling devices in the film. It regularly walks off to explore the
surroundings, much like a Terrence Mallick film, enhanced further by an incomparable musicality.</h2>

The sound design of Ajith Rathore builds an unparalleled narrative out
of rustic, folk tunes with shots of sceneries that must have inspired them generations ago.
Pushpendra Singh understands the community deeply, their conversations that happen in
meter, their sensibility and their art. The intimacy created is one that is thoroughly earned. A good example here would be its gut-wrenching portrayal of a music
school for the community, along with its sage-like caretaker, that runs without funds in Berna.

<h2>The scenery is sketched across the screen as potently as the music and poetry that tie up the
film together. Loosely bound by a narrative and interesting title cards, the film explores with an
austere discipline. Stories coalesce to form a narrative of the Manganiyars.  </h2>
There is no right way to protect a culture. The Manganiyars desperately keep the traditions alive
through their own sheer will. Moti refuses to go to school to pursue music, despite his father's
apprehensions, while his uncle plays at wedding ceremonies. The school at Berna tries to
preserve age-old songs in books as the text threatens to fade away from their yellow pages. <br><br>
The film also explores art in freedom and art as a performance. Moti is an immaculate singer in
the open, under the sky sitting on a mound in the desert but he sings off key in ensembles and
studios. Pearl of the Desert's story is ultimately about music, and how it affects the
Manganiyars. <br><br>
They believe themselves to be destined to be subservient. Pride is a taboo for them, like many
other artists. Perhaps it is so ingrained in them that they will never change their art, never
revolutionise it. It may have preserved the art, but the artists never quite grew as much as they
should have. And that is the quiet tragedy of the film. <br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Nimish K Sharma</span></i></b>  

Pearl of the Desert | Screening | Pushpendra Singh

In the face of all misogyny, sexism, classicism and women themselves participating in patriarchal oppression, it's a glass of juice which will become an agent of protest. <br><br> The short film is the story of one evening and how that in itself is sufficient to delineate the normalisation of women's marginalisation. However, one day, when a woman decides to stand up and question it, will she be allowed the space to do so? Juice is a wholesome and skilful product which questions the grossly imbalanced gender equations. Shouldered by the most stellar performance by Shefali Shah, the film is undisputedly a very relevant, subtle and poignant piece of art on gender.

Juice | Short Film of the Day

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

Tanuja Chandra's documentary
‘Aunty Sudha, Aunty Radha’, follows her real aunts who live
in a rural part of North India along with a retinue of their domestic helpers.

<h2>The two nonagenarians are the centre of a peculiar, little, self-sustained community in Mathura. All of their household helpers have been there for decades. They work with reverence, making serving the two women seem almost like a devotional ritual. </h2> In return, for their
sustenance, the vast farmlands in the property are equally divided to provide them surplus crop.
Aunty Radha’s son, who devised the arrangement and bought the property, frequents them
once a week. Rest of the time the house is run at the whims of Sudha, the younger, much more
dominant sibling. <br><br>

It is a unique set-up, one that most people cannot hope to afford, but that is not the point of this
film. It is about what truly matters in life. The relationship between the two women is explored
simultaneously in depth along with the everyday occurrences of their life and
times. It is a symbiotic dependence of two souls that have been together for ages, and cannot
fathom to be apart. In each other, they have found a reason to make the rest of their life worth
so much more. Perhaps it is each others’ company that has prolonged their lives, and kept them healthy. 


<h2>Chandra’s care for the subject is translated well into the film that is profound without ever trying. The
film’s grammar feels as delicate as blown glass. It treats its characters with affectionate care, love and a sense of security that pervades throughout. </h2>

Life is alright in this little community
and there is nothing else, but all-pervasive positivity that has made its home there. The experience of being part
of a loving, synchronised community is visible in the household helpers. The cook who knows she
will never quite satisfy Aunty Sudha’s demands, the experienced gardener who is happy to tend
to flowers and laugh at the women's quips, another helper who is much closer to the old women

and understands the responsibility that comes with it; the sense of spirituality of daily life is found
in every member of the house.

<br><br>
Through characters that are old, and preparing for the ultimate eventuality, the film affirms life
itself in its most rudimentary form. Happiness is not only to be found in success, or grand events that
surround one, but merely the conscious act of living for oneself, and being there for the people
around you is sufficient. This film is an experience that places one’s faith in living, and in the ordinary, mundane experiences of life that remain grossly underrated.

<br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Nimish K Sharma</span></i></b>

Aunty Sudha Aunty Radha | Shorted Screening | Tanuja Chandra

There has been a recent surge in mainstream films set in small cities of Northern India.
However, in ‘Bareilly ki Barfi’ (an otherwise good film), when Kriti Sanon smokes a cigarette
sitting on her rooftop with her father, she does not have to think <i>log kya kahenge?</i>. Most of
these films do not tackle the actual hardships of living in these cities. The burden of living in a
society where it dictates your personal life to the point of absurdity is perhaps not a suitable
topic for entertaining cinema. <br><br>

Kislay’s ‘Aise Hee’ has proven it can be done. It is a film about an elderly woman in Allahabad
(later Prayagraj) who, after the death of her husband, begins to live her life on her own terms.
The husband, however, is a looming shadow in the film, his absence the driving force.

<h2>Little scenes in the first act brilliantly build this up. Earlier on, we see her younger family
members scrounging for colourful sarees in her wardrobe that she would no longer need. Her
son and daughter-in-law diligently plan to give her room on rent for extra money. The locals
respect her for being a lawful wife, and by extension, expect her to be the perfect widow. </h2>

When she breaks away from the norm, society is not ready to handle it. Until then, perhaps
her presence was little more than a venerated idol in the house. Stones don’t require people to
change their lives for them. Kislay’s brilliant screenplay follows her journey in every aspect - in its
pacing, its momentum and its interaction with side plots.

<h2>The film is more than her story. It slowly, but surely develops into a competent social and
political commentary, and a story of a middle class family struggling to keep their lives
functional. Her son, brilliantly portrayed by Harish Khanna, struggles with the uncertainty of
contractual government jobs. When we see him burst out in anger at his family, we see his
frustrations. It is apparent that his professional life is confined to being a  yes man to a boss who
couldn’t care less, trying to find work in an industry he clearly cannot understand.</h2>

Another brilliant moment comes in the character sketch of his wife, she finds her kitchen in
disarray, only to see her apathetic daughter coming in and nonchalantly contributing to the
mess. She bursts out in tears as she cleans it. <br><br>

A strong subsidiary plot is set in the backdrop of radicalisation of youth as Allahabad becomes
Prayagraj. ‘Aise Hee’ is able to comment on class relations, religious tension and misogyny in a
multi-layered narrative that is ultimately the struggle of a family to keep itself together in a
disintegrating society. <br><br>

All characters fall victim to their circumstances in their own way. Kislay compounds it with collages of their real
pictures from a life of ‘innocence’ as he completes their character sketches while Schubert’s C
minor symphony plays in the background. <br><br>

The filmmaking is relentless, unnerving, yet intimate. The camera understands its characters,
and never judges. There are no clear blacks and whites in their bleak world. In a sense what we
do not see in the film is worse. Kislay has presented a world at the brink of a fallout, desperately
clutching to itself. When we look back, the comedy of errors seems less comic and more ominous with regards to what is to come. It is the story of a degenerating society that might just
crumble, where nothing can be done ‘aise hi’. Well-meaning things have dark repercussions,
and the individual is never free from the dehumanizing grasp of society.

<br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Nimish K Sharma</span></i></b>

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