A Short Note on Abhishek Chaubey’s “Hungama Hai Kyon Barpa”

[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]

Review: Abhishek Chaubey's "Dedh Ishqiya" is delightfully deft.

In an early scene in Dedh Ishqiya, a wily gangster asks his crony if he has ever heard of Batman. The Batman analogy in question is the reason why he spares his blood relative of getting killed, or worse, getting buried alive. He goes on to state phlegmatically that there is no Batman without the Joker. Yes, siree, we too are of a similar opinion, but his is more rational, see? And his smugness is something you ought to bask in.

And from that winsome opening sequence, the baroque plot that unfolds is something only a writer of Vishal Bharadwaj's stature can pull off. Chaubey's second crack at direction is endlessly surprising, explosively funny and, like those numerous poets who iterate their beautiful lines of Urdu poetry, is handled with careful poise. 

It's a canny world that Bharadwaj and Chaubey fashion, where people win people over words and a pleasantry goes a long way. The same kind of wonderfully atmospheric world thwarted my expectations in last year's snafu Matru Ki Bijlee Ka Mandola. But not this time, not this time. Oh yeah, a fun fact I was dying to joke about : the C-word is being subtitled as snafu, believe that? And the film does do its bit to kill the lovely repartee by using those snobby subtitles. I couldn't believe the goddamn impudence of the coot who ordered them to be blemish the waggish banter. Anyway, those who have an ear for poetry should better see over them. You'll love to hear the mellifluous words, I can guarantee as much. After all, it's Bharadwaj, who is a magician with a pen in hand.

We had met our guides around the ominous badlands of North India, the dream team who bicker, steal, quote and quip in 2010's Ishqiya. Uncle Khalu and nephew Babban who had taken periodic cues from Romeo and fallen head over heels in love and lust with a femme fatale in the predecessor, are blessed to have two different women to fall in love with this time. Khalu loses it to an old flame, the reigning queen of Mahmoudabad, Para Begum, while Babban is besotted with her ancillary, Muniya. But there's a catch - the widowed Begum will choose a groom for her through an annual poetry competition, where Urdu maestros, armed with lines and lines of glorious poetry, compete against each other for the throne. Too fusty for you? Yeah, yeah. I thought as much. 

For a while back there, I could almost see the struggle put in to keep Dedh Ishqiya from being a period piece. True, these situations, these characters, these words would've melded rather well in a cultured epoch of the twentieth century. I mean, you don't get to see nawabs and begums saluting each other, engaging into an occasional wordplay and inviting shyness by cracking ribald lines now, do you? And I fervently wished Dedh Ishqiya were a period piece, because it would've been so much easier to invest into it. I can't put my soul into a movie I know is not what it seems. I pride and despise myself for that. And with this film, I lean a mite towards the former. Gosh, how I would've loved this movie only if the dates were changed! And the talk about iPhones and other modernistic stuff flagrantly snapped me out of its quixotic world. Jeez!

Baring that one minor niggle, the film is otherwise pitch-perfect. The writing is chiefly Urdu, and the playful chinwags are worth wolf-whistling about. The acerbic humor is cleverly utilized, and the pulp of it is given to the film's most vivacious character, Jaan Mohammed, the antagonist and one of the contenders for the throne. In a riotous sequence, a Mexican standoff lasts all night and is broken only when the sound of a posse of students singing for peace is heard. There are moments like these that win you over, and where you should give in gladly. You won't have a say in it, you know. They will sway you.

The performances are uniformly fantastic. Arshad Warsi and Naseeruddin Shah are sublime, Warsi giving the best performance of his young career. Really, here is an actor who needs to choose scripts assiduously, because half of the films he does do not bring out the acting chops a film like this does. Shah, an old-timer, is enigmatic and earnest, and this is the most fun I've seen him having in a long time. Madhuri Dixit-Nene still has that commanding screen presence she was famed for having. Huma Qureshi, who aptly plays her sidekick, Muniya, also plays the stereotype she always plays. A change of role now, please? 

But the real deal is Vijay Raaz, the scraggy marvel who is brilliant as the rather likable antagonist. Raaz has always been the sly scene-stealer in the movies he does, be it Delhi Belly or Monsoon Wedding, and he proves yet again why he's one of the most underrated actors in the industry who is shamelessly belittled. I sure hope this film would mean we would get to see him more often now.

I can't say if Dedh Ishqiya is an improvement or not, comparing it with its predecessor would mean denigrating both films, but it is better crafted and written. But I sorely missed the dark, mature undertone of Ishqiya, which was far more ambitious in its plotting. And yet, Dedh Ishqiya feels as if this is the kind of movie you were aching to see all this while. I sure as hell was.

Gorgeously shot against the backdrop of Uttar Pradesh's scenic landscapes, dotingly directed and flawlessly plotted, this is a film clearly in love with its language and characters. And it is this passion that makes you enjoy it more than you thought you would.