[Contains spoilers.]
Among Saytajit Ray’s most delightful short stories is “Barin Bhowmik’s Ailment.” Central to that story is an improbability: in one of the world’s most populous countries, what are the chances of two people who have met on a train journey once before, meeting again on another one? And what if one of them had wronged the other in the first meeting? How, then, would the second meeting unfold? In a trice, Ray has us in his grasp. His protagonist, Barin Bhowmik, has forged something of a reputation as a singer by the second meeting, and when he places his companion as someone he had once wronged, his paranoia at the prospect of being recognised threatens to take away the stardom he has earned after much struggle. The rest of Ray’s story hinges on a seemingly simple question: should Barin confess, therefore risk denting his stardom, or should he keep quiet? “Barin Bhowmik’s Ailment” implies that human beings are innately selfish, therefore unlikely to always do the right thing. As much as Barin desires to redeem himself, he fears retribution. He stands to lose too much. By drawing on this detail, Ray cleverly ups the drama and throws in a climactic twist that has us chuckling. I relished “Barin Bhowmik’s Ailment” several times over as a child.
In director Abhishek Chaubey’s rendition of it for the Netflix anthology series, “Ray,” Barin Bhowmik becomes an even more fascinating character. Musafir Ali (played by Manoj Bajpayee) is a celebrated ghazal singer aboard a train headed for New Delhi. Musafir is a man who is tempted easily, which explains his ‘ailment’: when signing autographs, he hesitates to sign one on a fan’s palm, but acquiesces when she lifts up her burqa to reveal her luminous face. Musafir is struck by her beauty. It’s a wonderful piece of writing which Chaubey directs with a lightness of touch that he often brings to his comedies. The terrific opening minutes of “Hungama Hai Kyon Barpa,” Chaubey’s segment in “Ray,” reveal more about Musafir than the succeeding forty minutes. He walks with a swagger, a conceited smile dancing on his lips, embracing attention like one would a gust of fresh air. When alone, he delivers sermons to imaginary audiences. But when he meets Aslam Baig (played by Gajraj Rao) on the train, a man with whom he shares a ten-year-old bond, the encounter peels layers off his ego to reveal a puny, vulnerable man with a secret he had long buried.
Chaubey’s flair for directing comedy is not new. “Ishqiya,” his debut feature, and “Dedh Ishqiya,” his sophomore feature, were marvellously done crime-comedies. The latter was set in a lost world of ghazals and couplets, etiquettes and grace, and in this world men swindled and schemed. Chaubey locates “Hungama Hai Kyon Barpa” in this world, too. Smart call. He knows it—its nooks and corners and people—intimately. Attention is paid to little gestures. When Musafir finishes his drink in one scene, he quietly begs for forgiveness from the Almighty. It’s almost invisible—the deftness with which it is done is most impressive. Likewise, Aslam, the other major character, gets his own set of gestures: he leans forward when he speaks, evoking his background as a wrestler. Bajpayee and Rao are both veterans; neither chews up a scene. They play off each other expertly, accommodate each other’s performance. Long after the film was over, I was marvelling at this aspect.
Like in “Dedh Ishqiya,” the Urdu dialogue in “Hungama Hai Kyon Barpa” sings. Lush language is employed to win people over. Not often does one come across a film full of quotable lines—the mind struggles to pick the best one. Niren Bhatt adapts Ray’s short story handsomely, retaining its playfulness and flavour but giving it his own little tweaks. Salvation is achieved in a dusty shop called ‘Rooh Safa’ (‘soul cleanse’). It’s a scream of a name—there’s a disarming sense of fun running through the film. Why, even when explaining the tricky name of an ailment, a doctor (played by Raghubir Yadav in a sparkling cameo; Manoj Pahwa features in another one at the end) references the 1971 Hindi-language film “Anand,” in which the protagonist was afflicted with a disease with a dreadful name. But somewhere in the middle (it's hard to pinpoint where), a dryness crops up—perhaps a result of too many surreal touches and flashbacks. At fifty-three minutes, this segment does feel a touch too long.
“Hungama Hai Kyon Barpa” is flanked by lesser films in the anthology, but it’s a charming little gem that does full justice to its original material. When it ended, I longed to revisit Ray’s story—and watch the film again after.
[Not For Reproduction]
