Poulomi Das

It’s rare for a Hindi filmmaker today to command the calendar Anurag Kashyap has this year: two films—Kennedy and Bandar—arriving months apart, alongside the re-release of Dev.D (2009), the cult film that imprinted his signature on Hindi cinema. It’s a fitting moment to take stock given that Kashyap occupies a complicated place in our cinema. He is among the handful of storytellers who rewired its grammar. Yet, lately his own reputation has begun to precede him. The recent output has been prolific, but also a slow bleed of the edge that once made him essential. Think a boomer cosplaying Gen Z (Almost Pyaar with DJ Mohabbat), or a raconteur sifting through his greatest hits (Nishaanchi).

There is a certain kind of homecoming story Indian cinema has told so many times that it has become its own grammar. Someone leaves their village for greener pastures. They survive the city and then return changed, sharper, more knowing. The village is the past; they are the future. Tribeny Rai’s stirring Nepali-language debut feature, Shape of Momo, begins as if it is that story and then methodically dismantles it. The film, set to release in theatres on May 29, opens with Bishnu (Gaumaya Gurung), freshly back in her village in rural Sikkim after quitting her job in Delhi, reading out a piece of advertisement copy she has written to a room full of relatives and elders. And then, in the same breath, the conversation turns to which of the few men still living in the village might make a suitable husband for her. Her face simply shuts. That small moment is the film’s thesis: that no amount of distance, education or financial independence fully immunises a woman from the place she comes from, because the place is not just geography. It is an expectation handed down for so long that it has started to look like inheritance.

At a moment when Indian theatres are increasingly crowded with spectacle — pan-Indian actioners, franchise filmmaking and historical epics — Boong arrives as something radical: a children’s film that trusts the intelligence and emotional acuity of its young protagonist. That it is returning to theatres after becoming the first Indian film to win the BAFTA award for Best Children’s & Family Film (defeating Disney’s Zootopia) is both a milestone and a small indictment. A milestone because a Manipuri-language film has found global recognition; an indictment because the film needed that recognition to be rediscovered by Indian audiences.

About an hour into Kennedy, writer-director Anurag Kashyap springs a sequence so wickedly orchestrated that it alters the film’s grammar in an instant. In the scene, former cop Uday Shetty (Rahul Bhat) massacres a local politician and his family. The violence is merciless, yet staged with such choreographic precision — pauses, glances, the geometry of bodies collapsing across rooms — that it lands as shockingly comic as it is brutal.

Abhiraj Minawala’s Mardaani 3 begins where the franchise is most comfortable: with a crisis that demands urgency. Two girls are kidnapped from a farmhouse in Bulandshahar. One is the daughter of an Indian diplomat. The other belongs to the domestic worker employed by the family. The distinction is not subtle, and neither is the film’s point. What initially appears to be a mistake quickly escalates into a national-level crisis, exposing the familiar fault lines of power and urgency. Shivani Shivaji Roy (Rani Mukerji), now with the National Investigation Agency in Delhi, is called in to handle the case. She takes charge instantly.

Four More Shots Please! returns for its fourth and final season the way it always has: mid-chaos, mid-confession, and mid-freakout. The opening image is telling. There is a wedding underway, and right at its centre is Siddhi Patel (Maanvi Gagroo), spiralling. She is high on brownies, overwhelmed by commitment, and quietly devastated by the absence of her father, whose death still sits like an unprocessed ache. It is a familiar emotional cocktail for this show: intimacy laced with panic, humour doing the work of survival. But after the vows are sealed, the four women make a pact: to confront the patterns they keep dragging from season to season. It is a neat way to begin a finale. It is also, unfortunately, emblematic of a season more interested in tying ribbons than in pulling threads tighter.

Guru (a fearless Mohit Agarwal), a nervous young man, sits in a cramped cyber café, the fluorescent tube above him flickering in agitation, as though mirroring the restlessness crawling under his skin. He stares at the door, hoping the woman who he had been messaging on an online sex chat room to appear. The clock keeps ticking. The cold coffee before him remains untouched. When Guru finally understands he has been stood up, humiliation spreads across his face like a slow burn. It’s a quiet scene, almost banal, but filmmaker Kanu Behl tilts it ever so slightly: the silence around Guru feels weaponised, and the space — narrow, intrusive, public — feels like a character in itself.

In May 2020, two months into India’s lockdown, journalist Basharat Peer came across a photograph that captured the crisis with devastating clarity. It showed two migrant workers on a Madhya Pradesh highway — one lying unconscious from heatstroke, the other hovering over him, scanning for signs of life. The image was a moment of tenderness amid national neglect. Intrigued and unsettled, Peer investigated the story behind the photo and found that Amrit Kumar, a 24-year-old Dalit worker, and Mohammad Saiyub, a 22-year-old Muslim worker, were childhood friends returning home after the suspension of their factory jobs. Only one made it back.