I am just back from the movie Ishaqzaade.
On the face of it, a usual and the regular outing for us empty
nesters, going to the movies. But this particular viewing turned out very
different, ending up becoming an experience in fact.
For one, we chose to go to “Delite Diamond” on Aruna Asif
Ali Road to watch this flick. It is a very different world from the DT Star
Promenade. The crowds wait outside on the pavement until the hall has been
emptied of the previous show. The popcorn is cheaper and less buttery, the
coffee frothier and sprinkled with chocolate powder. People are aggressively unapologetic,
answering cell phones in loud, completely at home voices. No one bats an
eyelid when annoyed voices are raised at audible conversations.
There were several side shows in progress inside the hall, running parallel
to the drama on screen. When the movie broke at intermission for instance,
there came in a harassed looking man, shuffling up to the last row where we
were seated. He did not look like he
owned a movie ticket. There was in his hand a tiny digital camera instead. After a momentary hesitation, he took quick
and furtive pictures of the couple sitting two seats down the row, to my right.
There was a muted flurry, a subdued, almost calm suspense, broken eventually by
the lady who squeezed past my feet, grazing them slightly, to go and stand near
the photographer. A couple of urgent voiced exchanges later, it was established
that the picture shooter was indeed her husband who had come to confront her
with her office boyfriend! I gaped as
she walked out of the hall and her husband lowered himself next to the much
younger Lochinvar to ask him outright and distinctly so, “Are you having an
affair with my wife? I want to know. I have a five year old son.” The paramour
says, “No, no…there is no such thing.” Just like that!!
A young couple entered late, again to my right! She wore a
comprehensive hijab over her face, covering it all but for the eyes. The cover came off completely just as soon as they were
settled into the far corner. The two proceeded to bond over intermittent lunges and a heart to
heart dialogue, treating the movie hall more as a safe getaway than a space with any
clear purpose. One of their phones would
suddenly begin flashing as they pored over some mutually gratifying photographs
This is India, I told myself bemusedly.
Far more than anything else, there was a dissonant pathos in these alternative lives unfolding
around us. In their needs clearly on display, there shone a reflection of what
lay at home. The movie hall was many things to many people. A comfortable, air conditioned
break for the policeman on duty, an escape from drudgery and despair for the adventurous
lady and a cosy cove for the young couple.
Interestingly, the images on screen spun a similar story of
the small town life in India. Against a realistic location of small landfills,
grubby rail tracks, grimy toilets, sweaty and unkempt humanity, Zoya and Parma lived their curiously escapist existence. I saw a certain
menace in Parma’s filial obedience and loyalty. His childish and short range
reactions were as though, cries of defiance against the terrifying violence
around him. Zoya’s inner world was
unravelling even more make believe, if anything. From being a filmy and pampered daughter, she was cast out of the
family in a cruel turn of events. Her unrealistic flights of fancy with Parma
were chilling in their disconnect with what lay around her. There was sexism,
there were clichés, there was a predictable end but most of all, there was a deep
seated desolation in the jagged frames of Ishaqzaade. They spoke of people
dying to live, of hating to love, of defying to die.
For me, the predominant flavour of the film was one of no place to go, no cause
for hope, and no silver lining to the cloud. In the movie’s dim lit fabric lay
a tale of chronic clan wars, deliberately cultivated male chauvinism and the
validation of might being right. The only bugle belongs to the male heads of
the Chauhan and Quereshi families, the rest provide the shell for their
mounting.
Ishaqzaade is the dead end of the small town India. It is not about living but about staying alive.
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