The Great Shamsuddin Family

Farida Jalal didn’t grey her hair overnight. She’s been acting in movies since the 1960s. Since DDLJ, she’s been a sweet, endearing presence in Hindi films, buffing up large ensembles with her nourishing warmth. At 75, she’s a grande dame in the tradition of Zohra Sehgal and Nafisa Ali. Yet like those greats, Jalal is very much her own actor—as Shyam Benegal’s Mammo proved. Her new film, The Great Shamsuddin Family, directed by Anusha Rizvi, is also an ensemble comedy, with Jalal billed behind everyone else. Yet it only sparks to life when the actor joins the fray.

Bani Ahmed (Kritika Kamra) wants to write. With just 12 hours to submit an application that may land her a job in the United States, she finds herself interrupted by the doorbell. Continuously. Each subsequent ring sees the arrival of a member of the Shamsuddin clan. There’s her easily gullible and recently divorced cousin Iram (Shreya Dhanwanthary); an over-intellectual ex (Purab Kohli) and his latest young girlfriend; another cousin in Humaira (Juhi Babbar Soni); inquisitive and opinionated aunts (Dolly Ahluwalia and Farida Jalal); another cousin and his bride-to-be. Simply said, Bani just cannot catch a break.

Racing towards a 24-hour deadline to submit a presentation which will hopefully get her into a top US university, Bani Ahmad (Kritika Kamra) settles down to it, but she hasn’t taken into account her family, and friends: the door-bell rings with an unexpected visitor, and within a few minutes, the trickle into a flood, and it’s full-blown mayhem. Anusha Rizvi’s second directorial feature, 15 years after rural satire ‘Peepli Live’, circles back to the city, with one day in the life of a Delhi-based comfortably-off Muslim family. It’s the kind of family we almost never see in mainstream Hindi cinema, because usually a Muslim character is safely tacked on to the periphery, biding his or her time for when the script bothers to remember them, and even that kind of tokenism has been steadily erased over these past years.

In a highly polarised and radicalised social climate in 2025, I am often asked some truly bizarre questions. “You have Muslim friends? Are you left-wing?” Before I can even raise an eyebrow, I am usually met with unverified statistics: “I’m not against Muslims, bro. Eighty per cent of them are good; it’s the twenty per cent I have a problem with.” Sometimes I wonder how, at least in urban setups, we have normalised such conversations. When I watched Anusha Rizvi’s Jio Hotstar film The Great Shamsuddin Family, I was reminded of many eccentric families I know. And I wouldn’t even insert religion here, because this is simply a regular, loud, annoying, over-the-top, yet loving Indian family.

In the mahaul of hate-mongering and venom-spewing comes a breath of fresh air. ‘The Great Shamsuddin Family’, at once delightful and incisive, knocks more than one pigeonhole we all have begun to inhabit. Baring the religious divide yet batting for harmony, here is a film whose characters are as delectable as the leitmotif of the film. As the title suggests, we meet this ‘great Shamsuddin family’. The word ‘great’ is pun-intended, hides humour in its folds, but soon reveals their ‘great’ bonding and idiosyncrasies in the everyday acts.

After weeks of shrill, strident films, The Great Shamshuddin Family offers the warmth of a quilt and the taste of ginger tea in a Delhi winter. Nearly 15 years after Peepli Live, Anusha Rizvi returns with a day-long glimpse into the life of a modern Indian Muslim family that is achingly human, steadfastly hopeful, and consistently humorous. Carrying tensions arising from interfaith relationships and generational grievances within its layers, the film gradually builds the tenuous relationship between the home and the world. From the passive aggression of liberals, the youthful presumptions, the manipulation of conservative but well-meaning elders, to the bitterness, the casual communal innuendos, and prejudices that we see around us, the film brings out the foreboding and the fears of social violence in our subconscious mind without pointing fingers.