Rahul Desai

The test of an effective Hindi film these days is the post-screening afterglow. If it’s a loud historical, the chaotic traffic and fumes outside feel like a relief. If it’s a button-pushing social thriller, some walk out with big chests and a renewed passion to blame someone. If it’s a patriotic biopic, there might be wet eyes and a desire to be very Indian. If it’s a love story, men stride out with an inflated sense of self-worth, corny grins and cloud-nine-sized delusions. At different points in life, I’ve been guilty of doing all of the above. Add Gustaakh Ishq to the list, a period drama about poets and lovers that’s so immersive and committed to its setting that I was overcome by an urge to speak in chaste Urdu and rhyme idioms with emotions. The cab driver did not appreciate my use of “qaatil” to describe the waiting time. He sped away the second I started waxing lyrical about English being a flight and Urdu being the nest we come home to.

Of all the Disney movies over the years with PG-13 racial metaphors and diversity parables, Zootopia 2 faces the most uphill battle there ever was. For it takes on the task of doing the near-impossible: the destigmatisation of Snakes. The fear and distrust of this reptile is so historically and genetically entrenched in human systems that the real-world subtext is almost secondary. In Zootopia 2, the unlikely police pairing of hyper-rabbit Judy Hopps and red fox Nick Wilde try their darndest to unscramble snake propaganda — a pit viper named Gary De’Snake emerges in the mainland, and everyone is terrorised. Except Judy, who trusts that the snake is the good guy whose ‘people’ have been maligned by the ruling family of lynxes. Gary wants to prove that the land was theirs to begin with (duh), and the patent was stolen by the sly lynxes. History students, unite.

It’s only noon and I’ve already had three showers today. Under normal circumstances, I’d say it’s because I had to step out in the morning and Mumbai’s AQI is beyond redemption. Under normal circumstances, that’s a perfectly valid reason. But these are extraordinary circumstances. I stepped out to watch a morning show of Mastiii 4, a cinematic pollutant so noxious that I’ve been frantically trying to wash off its fumes after reaching home. Say what you may about a Milap Zaveri film, but it works wonders for my personal hygiene.

You want to believe 120 Bahadur is a different historical drama. It’s from the makers of Lakshya (2004). The enemy is not Pakistan. It’s inspired by a passage of the 1962 Sino-Indian war. The optics speak to a more modern movement of resistance. The regiment in question is made up almost entirely of the Ahir community, a telling choice in the aftermath of the Indian farmers’ protest. The landscape is Ladakh. The film even addresses that there were doubts about the authenticity of the fabled Battle of Rezang La, where 120 Indian soldiers are said to have defended a pass against more than 3000 Chinese soldiers; both countries had their own versions. You also want to believe it knows the distinction between patriotism and jingoism. You just want to believe.

A high-profile summit between Delhi and North-East India — the ‘mainland’ and the ‘margins’ — is around the corner. Nagaland is the sensitive face of this summit. The region is divided between rebel factions who distrust the centre and older statesmen who bat for peace and integration. A veteran leader is killed. Officers from outside arrive to lead an uncertain investigation featuring political strife, local divides, drug dealers, foreign forces, covert business interests, historical trauma, traitors, scapegoats and shifting loyalties. A secondary character dies, making it personal for the grief-stricken protagonist; his allegiances are questioned, and he is suspended. There is a mole in the midst. A little orphan searches for belonging. A conspiracy unfolds beyond borders and within governments. Our hero in a dysfunctional marriage must clear his name without compromising on his moral fibre. But enough about Season 2 of Paatal Lok.

Most Indian moviegoers are wired to like cinema that squeezes lemonade out of life’s limes. The country has such deep social faultlines that we automatically appreciate stories looking for silver linings within them. Take the middle-class space crunch, a problem as old as time. Over the years, it’s been softened by several movie genres: the joint-family saga that emphasizes the happy chaos of communal living, the romcom or sex comedy where everyone gets a say, the love story thriving on secrets and shadows. Think Shubh Mangal Saavdhan, where a small-town household weighs in on the hero’s erectile dysfunction; think The Affair, Hardik Mehta’s short film about a married couple from a cramped Mumbai flat meeting like covert lovers after work. The movies sell nightmares as lesser dreams; we see no breathing room, but the characters reframe it as togetherness and proximity.

A hit series churning out multiple seasons is like a small startup that’s teased by old clients when it becomes a unicorn. It invites those classic jibes: “oh you’re too big for us now” and “boss you’ve changed”. After the success of Season 1 of Delhi Crime, most viewers went into Season 2 anticipating this change — maybe it’ll be safer, more templatised, splashier and simpler. But despite a creator shuffle, Season 2 not only reinforced an honest personality and forensic gaze, it also addressed criticisms of the first season by humanising its Delhi Police characters — warts, blind spots and all — rather than glorifying them. The popularity, if anything, made it more introspective.

I admit I have trust issues with a Luv Ranjan screenplay. When it’s funny, I worry if I’m amused for the right reasons. When it’s dramatic, I get anxious about the gender politics behind the gender politics. When it’s chatty, I look for hints of meninism in the elaborate arguments and expository dialogue. When it’s good-looking, I am distracted by everyone speaking like they’re in a detergent ad. When it’s progressive, I suspect it’s trying to fool us. When it’s regressive, I wonder if it’s aware. One might argue I’m being too paranoid about a harmless genre: the romantic comedy. (I can almost hear the “stop overanalysing, just enjoy” voices). But we live in an age of relentless commentary; storytelling is only a vessel. Every new-age Hindi film, regardless of form, has something to say. Maybe it’s on us to figure out what that is, before choosing to be entertained or disappointed.