Arnab Banerjee

Set against the turbulent dawn of the 1970s, Ikkis opens on the formative years of Arun Khetrapal (Agastya Nanda), a young army officer of exceptional promise undergoing rigorous training to command a tank regiment. Distinguished early for his leadership, Arun appears poised for a life defined by purpose and quiet fulfilment. Love, too, smiles upon him in the form of Kiran (Simar Bhatia), and the future stretches before him, radiant with possibility. History, however, is rarely so benevolent. The outbreak of the 1971 war with Pakistan violently disrupts this fragile equilibrium, thrusting Arun—just twenty-one—into the crucible where youth, duty, and destiny irrevocably converge.

What further encomium can one lavish upon a cult classic that has not merely entertained but profoundly enthralled three successive generations of devoted cinephiles? Little, indeed—save for the recognition that an evergreen classic endures not solely by virtue of the nostalgia that sustains it, but because certain monumental works of art, having already inscribed their place in history, stand as enduring exemplars of sublime creative achievement, etched forever into the world’s collective memory.

In the last decade, Hindi cinema has witnessed a surge of patriotic historical dramas, each striving to present tales of courage rooted in pivotal moments of India’s past. Within this landscape, 120 Bahadur, directed by Razneesh “Razy” Ghai, sets its sights on one of the most stirring chapters of the 1962 Sino-Indian conflict. Farhan Akhtar steps into the challenging role of Major Shaitan Singh, the charismatic commander whose steadfast leadership during the Battle of Rezang La has long been revered but insufficiently explored on film. The result is a work that marries emotional solemnity with the visceral spectacle of war, aiming to honour a legacy that remains vital to national memory.

That an older gentleman should tumble helplessly into infatuation with a sprightly young woman is hardly the stuff of headlines; it is practically a civic tradition in our cinema. But that a vivacious, bubble-gum-bright twenty-something should lose her heart to a much-married man with two full-grown offspring is an exotic rarity—particularly in the hallowed halls of Hindi films. The former trope has been inspected from every possible angle: by R. Balki with his Big-B-powered reverie Shabd, by Rakesh Omprakash Mehra’s Aks, and even by Basu Chatterjee’s Shaukeen, that unabashed comedy of lecherous seniors on the loose. Yet the idea of a 50-plus man seeking romantic renewal with a partner who isn’t his first, but his wife—round two—remains something our storytellers regard with the suspicion usually reserved for budget overruns.

In 1978, Shah Bano, an elderly Muslim woman from Indore, filed a petition seeking maintenance that her estranged husband, Mohammed Ahmad Khan, had abruptly ceased paying. What began as a private plea for sustenance evolved into one of India’s most seminal legal battles. The litigation culminated in a historic 1985 Supreme Court judgment—Mohd. Ahmad Khan v. Shah Bano Begum—which upheld a divorced Muslim woman’s right to maintenance under Section 125 of the Criminal Procedure Code.

There’s something innately delicious about a good mystery — the kind that tightens its grip with every scene, whispering secrets just out of earshot, inviting the viewer to lean in, connect dots, and squint into the cinematic shadows. Alas, Lord Curzon Ki Haveli is not that film. Instead, what unfolds is an overwrought chamber drama that aspires to Hitchcockian suspense but lands somewhere between amateur theatre and a particularly awkward dinner party.

Can two ex-lovers rekindle an old flame, amicably, no less? Even if it involves impersonations, preposterous plans, and enough emotional confusion to make Freud reconsider his career path? Of course they can—especially if they’re in a 135-minute Bollywood rom-com, a genre that continues to churn like a butter factory run by hopeless romantics. Now, while global cinema gallops into bold territories—where genre-bending narratives and offbeat themes are embraced with open arthouse arms—our beloved Hindi films remain steadfast in their commitment to unearthing every last angle of the same timeless theme: love.

Homebound, directed by Neeraj Ghaywan and written with Varun Grover, Shreedhar Dubey, and Sumit Roy, is a poignant exploration of caste, faith, friendship, and survival in contemporary India. The marginalised have never had it easy—but in our own fractured land, their journey is not just arduous, it is often soul-scarring, as Neeraj Ghaywan’s Homebound reveals. Arnab Banerjee’s review of the film. With unforgettable performances, sharp social commentary, and emotional depth, Homebound stands as an unflinching cinematic mirror to caste oppression, religious prejudice, and human dignity in India today.