Rainy Daze: My essay on Sara Siddiqui Chansarkar’s “Skin over milk”

Sara Siddiqui Chansarkar is an amazingly observant writer.  To paint a picture in broad strokes is one thing.  To knit a yarn with lovingly woven threads is another skill altogether.  No prizes for guessing where the author of the brilliant “Morsels of Purple” falls.  While “Morsels of Purple” was a delectable collection of flash fiction pieces, “Skin over milk” is a quietly powerful novella about three sisters. 

Why did I say, “quietly powerful?”  It is because I have read my share of pieces where the outward explosions and catharses of characters are captured in a raw, in-your-face and unflinching manner.  The tone of “Skin over milk” is different.  Characters implode under the weight of patriarchal entitlements.  There is a mix of gorgeous poetry and minute observation in the way Sara captures pain.  One of the most exquisite lines in this book is a case in point – “The clouds rumbled as they emptied their moisture with a plunk-plunk-plunk on the tin shed but we let ours flow in silence.”  In fact, rain, beyond being a metaphor, is almost a character in the proceedings.  And it is a testament to Sara’s dazzling skill as a writer that she does not use it in convenient, cliched ways.  Nowhere is this more evident in an astonishingly effective line where a character likens her unbearable pain to “why clouds groaned.”

Skin over Milk (image courtesy of https://saraspunyfingers.com)

But lest you think that the book is gloomy, let me assure you that it is anything but.  It is a story of empathy and inner steel in the face of adversity.  It is about living life with hope despite feeling indignant and helpless at times.  It is about finding joy in the little pleasures of life, even if it means the occasional creation of imaginary worlds within the real one.  Sara, for major portions of the book, does a splendid tightrope walk between bringing out the pain experienced by the sisters and their mother while doing so in a matter-of-fact manner, never milking a moment in a superfluous or indulgent manner.  As a result, we marvel at the acute observations, we feel the pain, we smile and laugh with the characters, all along feeling like an active participant in the proceedings, not a remote observer.  When a girl receives physical blows coupled with verbal abuse, the “words cut deeper than the leather belt” not just for her but for us too.  And when the characters engage in some harmless mischief with a rickshawallah, we smile impishly as though we were in on the act.

“Skin over milk” is proof that one need not pack a story with twist after twist for a read to be gripping.  Sometimes, choosing a seemingly simple narrative and examining pivotal moments with a microscope can draw a reader into the writer’s world just as compellingly.  And that is exactly what Sara does with this delightful little book.  The rain might have featured prominently in the book, but it is the readers that will want to shower the author with lavish praise.

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Link to order the book:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B4FV35VG/ref=cm_sw_em_r_mt_dp_FPQX4PQWGYQYP80VZNS3

"It was time..." - Not another review of Vikram

I was five years old when the original Vikram was released.  In the early 90s, I watched the film for the first time on Doordarshan on a Sunday evening.  I was struck by a couple of things.  The coolness of the first half.  And the dumbness of the second half!  After a point, the film seemed to meander aimlessly, with the shoddy graphics in the climax a far cry from the rousing opening sequence where the rocket was captured by the villain.  So, the 1986 film was not one that I was especially fond of.  But the Kamal Hassan fanatic I am, when the first Vikram teaser (for the 2022 version, that is) was released, I somehow felt instinctively that it was going to be a better film.  Something told me – gosh, I sound like Anju in Keladi Kanmani! – that this would be, at the very least, a rollicking ride.  And when I watched the film on the second day of release, my cup of joy began to overflow.

As I mentioned in the title, no, this is not a review of the film.  It is very rare that I feel so much of ‘ownership’ (for the lack of a better term) of a film that I cannot trust myself to do a balanced analysis of a film.  It was because of the delirious state that I found myself in while watching the film.  With writer-director Lokesh Kanagaraj at the helm, it was not surprising to see the film get on with its business from the word, go.  The Pathala Pathala… song was hyped up beyond measure.  But in the actual film, truth to be told, it didn’t do much for me.  It was probably because I was waiting to see Kamal in ‘action’ (pun intended).  The moment where I said to myself, “There’s my Kamal” was the death scene.  The tears, the gesture to the crowd to leave, the easy-chair posture with the grandkid, were all moments where I was struggling to get into the drama of the scene.  Yes, the critics would say that great acting should make the actor fade out and become the character.  And Kamal’s acting in that scene is indeed great.  But I was not a critic (even a wannabe one) watching that scene.  I was a fan admiring his idol’s every move.

The much-celebrated pre-intermission scene made me rue the fact that I was not in a packed theater in Chennai.  I would have enjoyed the whistles and applause as much as the swagger and the action.  In that scene, I actually was enjoying Fahadh Faasil’s acting considerably.  There is a hint of a smile when he says that the Kamal character is not a myth anymore.   And I thought to myself, “This is Kamal’s first major sequence in this film.  And yet, he doesn’t have to do all the heavy lifting!”  I was grinning from ear to ear thinking of films where Kamal had shouldered the lion’s share of the burden – in terms of time, thinking, effort, and even finances – and yet the rewards were hardly commensurate to the Himalayan effort put in.  Yet here he was, playing a role in a film where the director, his crew and the stellar ensemble cast were all playing vital roles in essentially creating a celebratory experience for him and his fans.  I was reminded of Sachin Tendulkar on the day of the World Cup final in 2011.  He hadn’t exactly done anything noteworthy on that day except score a couple of lovely boundaries in a short innings.  But after having carried him on his shoulders, Virat Kohli mentioned, rather eloquently and evocatively, that Tendulkar “carried the burden of the nation for 21 years.  It was time we carried him.”

There is a sequence in the second half where Kamal goes into a place of danger to fetch a bottle of milk for his grandson.  The way I was enjoying that action sequence was what convinced me that I should not dare write a review of this film.  You know why?  Had I been in more of a critic mode, I would have questioned the logic of that scene.  Was that milk powder not something that he could have gotten elsewhere?  Instead of taking on the villains, had he shown his gun to a security officer of a nearby supermarket, he could have spared a few broken bones and teeth!  But no, I was in no mood to question the logic of that decision.  Just to hear him say things like, “tough kudukkare” to his grandson, made it worth it.  And is there an Indian actor that can exclaim, “attaboy” with as much attitude as Kamal Hassan?

I must be thankful for the love that Lokesh Kanagaraj exhibits towards not only Kamal but also his body of work.  Apart from the slightly more obvious references to his earlier films, I liked the fact that the makeup of Kalidas Jayaram in the scene where he is tied to a chair evoked a similar scene with Arjun in Kuruthi Punal.  There is a certain grace and finesse that Lokesh displays in weaving in moments that never detract attention from his storytelling yet give fans of Kamal reason after reason to rejoice and relish the man’s return to the big screen.  To paraphrase a line from the title song, Nayagan meendum vandhu vittaan.  And how!

I remember The Hindu review of Nammavar where the critic had written, “Kamal has fought tougher screen battles before.”  That applies here too.  But the difference is that Nammavar, as good a film as it was, was not a commercial success.  Vikram has turned out to be one of the biggest blockbusters of Kamal’s career.  Just like no fan of Sachin really complained about the fact that he scored only 18 in that famous World Cup final, no true follower of Kamal is complaining about the fact that Kamal has “fought tougher screen battles.”  Kohli and company were more than happy to carry Sachin on their shoulders.  Thanks to Lokesh, we can do the same for Kamal.  Because…it is time.

C/O Support System

Whenever I see someone on Twitter post a tweet about feeling low, my response invariably involves two words – support system.  I might not know them personally.  But my hope is that my response urges them, if they have not done so already, to tap into their support network.  I don’t think any rule applies to everyone.  But I can aver that a core set of people whom you can bank on for sharing your lows and highs, is a vitally important ingredient in the recipe for peace of mind.  I state this based on experiences, be it my own or shared or observed.  Regardless of whether they are an introvert, ambivert or an extrovert, the ones in whom I observe immense centeredness, are the ones who have a set of people in whom they place tremendous amount of trust.  If this is so simple, why do we not do more of it?  Why do we still feel the burden of the world’s weight on our shoulders from time to time?  Why do we sometimes feel suffocated, heavy, and unable to think clearly?

To begin with, self-reliance, as a concept, is overrated.  Emotional independence is not a binary concept.  Instead, it is a spectrum that has, on the one end, people that have the requisite inner steel to take good care of themselves regardless of the highs or lows that they go through.  In the middle are the ones who rely on others for certain aspects of their lives but are self-sufficient for other matters.  At the other end of the spectrum are ones who have much reliance on a set of people to get through their lives.  Excitement or anguish, for these people, cannot exist in a vacuum.  It must be shared.  Every place in this spectrum has validity.  No position is ‘better’ or ‘worse’ than others.  What matters is that we identify where we are in the spectrum, know when to tap into our inner reserve and when to unhesitatingly seek out the presence of the ones in whom we have entrusted our genuine emotions.

It is equally important for the ones who are a part of others’ support systems to realize where in the spectrum are the ones who seek their support.  If I know that I am an essential part of the support system of someone who really needs me to be an engaged listener on certain aspects of their life, then it behooves me to make time for them when those aspects of their life are amplified in importance.  People seek support in a variety of ways.  Sometimes it is to vent, at other times, it is to seek clarity.  Some seek advice, others seek perspectives from our own lives.  Regardless of what they seek, it is important that we know when to give, and how.  Our preferences don’t matter as much as their needs. 

One thing I especially admire in people who give out support, is their ability to push, coax and prod the recipient to think and identify a solution from within.  As they say, it is better to teach how to fish than buying them fish.  Of course, not all situations might lend itself to that kind of guidance but it is certainly a trait that I admire in people.  I also have tremendous respect for the ones who urge the people they support, to seek professional help, be it psychological, legal or any assistance that would get to the core of their issue.  When someone near and dear gives that sort of advice, we are bound to feel less worried about societal stigmas and antiquated notions.  Of course, as recipients of advice, we would want to filter it through our own sensibilities.  But nevertheless, it is wise to listen to the well-meaning advice of trustworthy people in our life even if it feels like it would take some effort on our part to execute on it.

At the end of the day, a support system, regardless of whether we are a giver or receiver or both, takes time, thoughtfulness and effort.  Support systems take time to blossom.  When they do, it is an absolute pleasure to be a part of them.  When they dissipate, due to reasons ranging from extreme ones such as death to moderate reasons such as incompatibility or milder causes such as lack of proximity or change in geography, it is essential to accept and acknowledge that lacuna and move on.  Of course, it is easier said than done.  But do we always have a choice?

As Emma Thompson observes in the movie Burnt, “There is strength in needing others, not weakness.”  We need to be comfortable with the fact that there will be times in our life that we may need others to help bridge the gap between our current state of mind and a healthier, peaceful state.  Despite all this, yes, we may feel the weight of the world on our shoulders.  But a reliable support system can lend a hand to share that burden.  They might not solve all our problems.  But for a fleeting moment, we can breathe easier, feel lighter and think clearer.  That's a start, not the end.

Beyond the Cheek: An essay on some unique aspects of Kris Srikkanth

In a world of witty youtube channel names, “Cheeky Cheeka” is just about perfect for former Indian captain and chairman of selectors Kris Srikkanth.  Merriam Webster helpfully defines “cheek” as “insolent boldness and self-assurance.”  If you have watched the best of his innings for India – I rate his 57 versus England in 1985 and his 116 against Australia in 1986, both at Sydney, as his best – you will find it hard to disagree with the attribution.  And beyond the on-field exploits, the insouciance that marks his interviews, speeches and video vignettes, are a delight to many admirers like me.  But Srikkanth is one of those people whose outwardly carefree nature sometimes makes us lose sight of the depth of character.  This essay is an attempt to dig a little deeper, to showcase the depth and profundity that you may have missed.

The 57 vs England (Listen to Bill Lawry exclaim, "He doesn't even run!" at the 57-sec point)

The genesis of this essay was the video he released today about Sachin Tendulkar.  He tosses off detail that another person would have used as an excuse to turn the spotlight unto himself.  Two cases in point from the 1989 tour of Pakistan.  Indian cricket had been embroiled in payment-related issues between the players and the Board. (Srikkanth wrote about it 18 years after it happened.) But when a worried Tendulkar, who was making his debut in the series, approached Srikkanth to discuss the dispute, Srikkanth assured him that he would not be impacted by it.  Srikkanth (30) was nearly twice as old as Sachin (16) back then.  And as a senior, Srikkanth had exhibited an almost paternal attitude towards the kid.  

Ditto for the way Srikkanth, at the start of the series, promised Sachin that he would play all 4 Tests.  This seems insignificant now, given that Sachin’s legend has been cemented for eternity.  But for a 16-year old kid that failed in his first Test (he was out for 15), the security afforded by constancy would have done wonders for his confidence.  Sachin scored his first 50 in the next Test.  And he never looked back.  If you think about the professional setting, when a company is going through a crisis and a leader has his employees’ back and walks the talk, imagine the ease with which the employees can silence the extraneous noise.  That is what Srikkanth did for Tendulkar back then.  True to character, Srikkanth does not dwell on his pivotal role in allaying the concerns of the youngest member of his team.  But I shall dwell away!

The protective attitude was something that Srikkanth extended to not only Sachin but also the seniors who were front and center of the payment dispute.  Srikkanth wrote, years later, that when the then BCCI president urged him to take a second XI team, he flatly refused.  He wrote, rather touchingly, "I was the representative of my players.  At that moment, I wanted to do my best by them.  I could not betray the people whom I might have had differences with from time to time, but who were also the people I considered my mates."  That the Board, in their wise old ways, dropped him for his batting failure in one series – we do know of players being given a slightly longer rope, don’t we? – is a rather unflattering example of the unfairness of the system back then.  Srikkanth, through those two trying years out of the Indian team, maintained a dignified silence.  Of course, when he came back, his form tapered off after a successful WSC series and his career wound down with a whimper.  But if we are focused on higher order things such as character, loyalty and long-term friendship, Srikkanth, by getting dropped, may have lost the battle but he certainly won the war.  The lack of bitterness at his ill treatment and his warm camaraderie with peers like Kapil Dev three decades after the end of his career are all elements of his character that we must not lose sight of. (It was a delight to see these 1983 world cup heroes celebrate his birthday last December.)

Another trait of Srikkanth that we take granted for, is his positivity.  Let’s admit it.  It is hard to be as consistently positive and nonchalant like him.  We dismiss preternaturally positive people as frivolous.  We only do ourselves a disservice by not seeking to emulate that energy.  It is safe to state that Srikkanth’s effervescence is consistent, unforced and intrinsic.  It was on full display in his batting histrionics, it was evident in the way he fielded, it was there to be seen in the way he cheered for bowlers when they took wickets. (Former wicketkeeper Syed Kirmani once ribbed him about wearing spiked shoes and stepping on him in a moment of ecstasy, post a wicket!)  And age has done nothing to rob him off his sparkle.  His commentary style is a reflection of that personality.  When he says “avan” instead of the more respectful sounding “avar”, it is not a sign of disrespect.  Instead, the colloquiality is a byproduct of artlessness.  The heady mix of positivity, cheer and transparency deserves to be treated with respect and admiration instead of being perceived as a lack of seriousness or focus. (For the record, you don’t top-score in two humungous ODI finals without a sense of focus!)  Harsha Bhogle summed it up best when he wrote of Srikkanth, "As a captain and as a person, he never wore a mask and you always knew where you stood with him." 

His mentorship of the subsequent generations of players is another aspect of his personality that seldom gets attention.  From Sadagopan Ramesh to Ravichandran Ashwin, the memories shared of Srikkanth tend to focus on his candor, forthrightness, his genuine advice and generous acknowledgement of their talents.  The great VVS Laxman, in his autobiography, mentions Srikkanth’s encouraging words during a tough phase and how their religious nature helped solidify their bond.  Even outside of cricket, voice artiste and motivational speaker Ilango (he happens to be visually impaired) shared how Srikkanth inspired and created an opportunity for him to channel his strong voice, thereby shedding spotlight on a talent that has luckily not gone unnoticed.

In the movies, we have a subconscious tendency to not treat well-made light films with the respect they deserve.  In society, we tend to often take lighthearted people lightly.  I once read, "lighthearted is not the same as lightweight."  Casualness can coexist with commitment.  Frivolousness can coexist with focus.  Temerity can coexist with thoughtfulness. 

In short, yes, Cheeka may have a surfeit of cheek.  But as an inimitable inspiration, there is nothing that Kris Sri…can’t do!

Normalizing new normals

Starting in July 2013, I was preparing for a new normal.  I don’t know if I quite thought about it that way at the time, but I think that is what I was doing.  My maternal grandma – I called her Thathamma since I was a toddler until she passed on in 2018 – underwent a bypass surgery in Chennai.  The surgery was a rude shock to her and the family.  The operation was successful and Thathamma recovered quite well.  After moving to the US in 1998, I don’t think I had ever failed to be in active contact with her.  But post her surgery in 2013, I decided that I would call her every day and speak to her at least briefly.  I don’t think I verbalized it, but I interpreted the surgery as a reminder that she was not going to be around forever. 

Thathamma had two children – my mom and my maternal aunt, who was 11 years younger than my mother.  I was very close to my aunt as well.  As I liked to say, my aunt was a sister, friend and mother rolled into one.  Post Thathamma’s surgery, my aunt – who also lived in Chennai – on occasion, would pick up some of my daily calls if she happened to be in the house too.  If I was in a rush, I would tell her, “Shoba, I’ll talk to you later.  Put Thathamma on the phone.  Let me say, Hi.”  Subconsciously, I knew – or I thought so – that I had more time with my aunt than I did with Thathamma.  Then, something unexpected happened.  In October 2016, Shoba passed away, aged 49.  Nobody saw that coming.  I certainly did not.  Yes, she had had some health issues but not for a moment did anyone think that she would die.  She did.  A world without Shoba was not a new normal that I was prepared for.  Nobody in the family or her close circle of friends were, for that matter.  If I had known, I would have prioritized speaking to her on the phone a little more.  But how was I supposed to know?

Over time, I have realized the truth in that wonderful saying about the best laid plans of mice and men going astray.  Not to sound nihilistic, but it is true that there will be times in our life that new normals will be imposed on us.  Through circumstance.  Through fate.  Through destiny.  Through whatever.  If a new normal is unexpectedly positive, we can, of course, rejoice in it.  But if it is not, we are better served accepting it with as much grace as our hearts will allow it.  I am not a perfect man.  I am not always as gracious or as graceful as I would like to be.  But I sincerely believe that the way I went through the grieving process post Shoba’s death was a rare instance where I dealt with an unexpectedly negative development with considerable equanimity.  It was because I realized that the shocking new normal of existence post Shoba’s death was going to be hard for me, yes.  But it was going to be much harder for Shoba’s daughter and Thathamma, who were 12 and 80 respectively, at that time.  Finding inner peace, not happiness, was my immediate goal post Shoba’s death.  I strove, and at times, forced myself to channel my grief in service of those who needed to be shielded from uncontrollable sadness.

We live in a world where there is a tremendous, almost nauseating, emphasis placed on happiness.  The need to look happy, the urge to flaunt one’s happiness through smiles even during instances where inner unrest prevent the smile from reaching the eye.  As I wrote earlier, if we are to place more of a premium on internal peace, we may actually achieve happiness along the way.  Happiness, in a purer form, unsullied by the pressures of society.  I sometimes think that we almost expect and demand that life be a bed of roses.  In my initial phase of living in the US, I remember hearing quite a few of my friends use the phrase, “Shit happens.”  Not the most eloquent, flowery words but it is something that has stayed with me.  Unexpected stuff happens.  Sure, there may be life lessons to be learned if any of it was avoidable.  But in circumstances where things are well and truly beyond our control, we will do ourselves and our loved ones a service by prioritizing two things - outward acceptance of the situation and an inward journey towards finding peace. 

As I reflect on my own life, I know that I am still a work in progress. (Thank you, Will Smith, for that coinage.) As Anu Hasan once remarked, it is not the ones that fall that fail.  It is the ones that don’t get back up that truly fail.  Yes, fate might slap us in the face when we least expect it. (Sorry, Will Smith, for alluding to the Oscar slap!)  But if we can get back up, while lending others a hand, then we might succeed in adjusting to new normals in a fulfilling manner.  

The artiste’s voice – an essay on Chinmayi’s voice work in “Satham Podaathey”

The second half of Vasanth’s “Satham Podaathey” is a rather gripping experience.  It is not a thrill-a-minute ride.  Instead, Vasanth painstakingly follows the antagonist (Nitin Sathya) in the latter’s quest to abduct the heroine (Padmapriya).  He locks her up in a room – the lengths to which he goes to make it soundproof are as scary as they are novel.  Eventually it is through a PVC pipe that the protagonist (Prithviraj) discovers the presence of his wife.  This is a truly memorable sequence.  Given the travails of the lead pair, we truly celebrate the reunion.  Yes, the acting and staging are top-notch.  But what deserves the spotlight that was not afforded to it in the 15 years since the movie’s release was the astounding voice work of Chinmayi for Padmapriya. 

In the aforementioned sequence, Chinmayi had to bring to the fore a mix of relief and disorientation in the voice, given the locked-up state of the Padmapriya character.  Her desperate pleas (“Ravi, naan maadi mela iruken”) and her expression of gratitude to her spiritual guru (Note the way she wails, “Ramana ramana…”) are incredibly effective.  If I am correct, I had read that a part of a PVC pipe was brought to the dubbing studio and Chinmayi had to speak into it to simulate the effect.  Such efforts that are in service of a scene to add to the sense of verisimilitude deserve special praise.  As Mahendran once said, in a tribute to Vasanth, a good director is one who lets the film speak for itself during its running time.  But at the same time, makes us think of his efforts after we watch the film.  Vasanth, in his typically understated manner, uses his mastery of sound design to add to the effect of this scene.  In Chinmayi, he finds an ally who brings his vision to life in an emphatic manner.

In another hard-hitting (pun not intended) sequence where Padmapriya is physically abused by Nitin Sathya, the camera shows very little, letting the wails and screams do their job in establishing the plight of Padmapriya.  Again, this is a scene where Chinmayi’s work is powerful.  At the end of the sequence, even the tremulous expressions are just right, without being overdone.

In sharp contrast to these intense scenes are the soft, dignified romantic portions.  The scene that takes the cappuccino is the one in the coffee shop.  If Yuvan’s gentle score wonderfully establishes the character’s growing attraction, Chinmayi’s voice brings out the silent yet palpable desire of the character.  The way she says, “unga mugatha paatha poi solluvenge-nu nenakave illa…” After a pause, she adds, “Paathi poi kooda.”  It is a delightful moment where the line, the actress’ expression, the background score and the voice artiste’s evocative work all combine to create magic on screen.  Ditto for the scene where Padmapriya gifts Prithviraj an embroidered t-shirt.  When asked if the “R” in the shirt refers to his name (Ravichandran), she responds, “I think you are a nice person, you are a wonderful person.”  Such a line can fall flat if not for the right intonation and emphasis.  And Chinmayi nails it, as she does the part where Padmapriya speaks of her guilt (having returned a child to the orphanage).  Again, a vignette that could have become dramatic and overblown is given subtle treatment by the director, with support from his voice artiste.

In recent years, Chinmayi has had to pay a heavy price in her pursuit of justice.  One hopes that justice prevails, even if delayed.  And that movie and music fans can savor a rich body of new work instead of having to go to the past (like I have).  I hope that there comes a day when Chinmayi rejoices in a new normal, a future where injustice is a thing of the past, a new dawn that makes her delete the words, “strangled songbird” from her Twitter profile.  “Satham Podaathey!” – a great movie title, yes.  But that is not what we should say to people who want to come out with the truth. 

Triumphant Smiles: A review of "Badhaai Do"

The Sridevi character in English Vinglish watches films to learn the nuances of the language.  While watching a particular film, she comes across the word, “judgmental.”  Puzzled by the word, she requests her niece to explain its meaning.  Later, in a speech, she uses this word in the most appropriate manner possible.  I thought of this while watching Badhaai Do.  To let people be, to let their inner beauty shine, to accept their choices without any judgement whatsoever.  Are these not the ultimate expressions of genuine, unconditional love?  In the case of this exquisitely made film, I walked away with the feeling that the director Harshavardhan Kulkarni and his team of writers are absolutely in love with the lead characters that they have created.  The film is an incredibly important advance in the context of gay and lesbian relationships being portrayed in Indian cinema, with sensitivity, grace and nuance.

One of the film’s biggest strengths is the balance that it strikes between idealism and everyday reality.  The film does not take the easy way out in conjuring a utopian world for its lead characters.  While it acknowledges the gradually changing landscape in India, it also does an astounding job of showcasing the challenges and issues that continue to persist.  One of the fabulously etched arcs in this film is that of the girl’s father (Nitesh Pandey).  At first, he breaks his girl’s heart by failing to understand her or accept her orientation.  But by the end of the film, he realizes the error of his ways and through a small but meaningful gesture, makes peace with her.  By showing the initial, harsh response of the parent, the director gives us an example of how lack of understanding can crush the spirit of a child.  But by showing his transformation, we also get to see how the biggest gift that a parent can give a child is acceptance of their choices in a non-judgmental way. 

Another undeniable plus of this film is the gorgeous way it shows the leads falling in love with their respective partners.  The sequence where Suman (Bhumi Pednekar) makes up an excuse to see Rimjhim (Chum Darang) at the hospital is shot in a delightful manner.  Ditto for the sequence where Shardul (Rajkummar Rao) meets Guru (Gulshan Devaiah) for the first time.  The ecstasy on Shardul’s face and the silent realization that he is falling for someone is wonderfully captured on screen.  The musical score plays no small role in adding to the beauty of these sequences. 

‘Show, don’t tell’ is a rule of thumb that filmmakers are advised to follow.  It is especially difficult in movies such as Badhaai Do where the temptation to editorialize or preach might become hard to resist.  But the director treads this adeptly by just focusing on telling a story and trusting the audience to take away the themes that the film is focused on.  For instance, the adoption angle.  The film establishes Suman as a character who loves and adores children.  The scenes that follow, do their job in establishing the challenges in India for the gay and lesbian community in adopting a child.  But by rooting the whole subplot in Suman’s desire to raise a child, the film becomes less of a commentary and more of a story. 

There is not one false note among any of the performances.  Every actor inhabits their part with much assurance.  Both Rajkummar Rao and Bhumi Pednekar are sublime, especially in the scenes with their respective families after the family members get to know of their orientation.  The way Rajkummar sobbingly hugs his mother is a standout moment.  Bhumi too is astonishingly effective in the late-night scene with her Dad.  Suman’s anguish is conveyed mainly through her quivering voice and silent tears.  There is also a quiet little moment where she sees an infant.  Joy that radiates from within is not easy for an actor to project.  That’s precisely what Bhumi does in this sequence.  Every member of the supporting cast is pitch-perfect too, effortlessly slipping into their roles.  Especially noteworthy is the performance of Sheeba Chaddha, who plays Shardul’s mother.  Her character might not be the brightest bulb, but the guilelessness of the character is brought out beautifully by the actress, sans any overemphasis. 

The final frame of the film feels just perfect.  The smiles of the characters speak volumes.  These smiles aren’t the superficial ones that mark the end of wannabe feel-good films.  These smiles result from the characters achieving the pinnacle of happiness after all their struggles, both within and those imposed by a narrowminded society.  These smiles are a byproduct of finally being able to be with not only their loved ones but also being able to do so with the blessings and wishes of those that mean the world to them.  These smiles reflect a triumphant feeling of the present that gives them hope for a bright future.  By the time the end credits roll, the audience will realize that these smiles are transposed onto them as well.  That infectious positivity is what Badhaai Do radiates so effectively. 

Kudos, team!