Amitabh Bachchan won accolades for
his role in Pink, for “naa; naa ka matlab naa,” or something on those lines.
Years before that, in 1998, a very Preity
girl had told Bobby Deol the same thing — in words that had an impact far
deeper than Bachchan's baritone.
Soldier
taught me to sing o naiyo naiyo(albeit not loudly) whenever
anyone asks anything of me.
I
had no clue thatit was possible for a movie to be titled just to
accommodate the lyrics of a song. The title need not be relevant at all. Soldier
taught me that, as would Bichhoo.
I
never believed that mera baap chor hai could be bettered. Then Soldier
gave me mera pati deshdrohi hai.
Soldier released this day, 1998. The charm
lingers, and is likely to linger for a lifetime.
Keep playing the songs in a loop tonight. Mehfil mein. Baar baar.
Durga Pujo has died for me. Like all old men, all I
live by are memories of Kolkata’s grandest festival. Pujo in Kolkata used to
reek of polyester, sweat, and chilli sauce. These have been replaced by
expensive polyester, failed deodorants, and chilli sauce bought from Big Bazaar.
This might come as a surprise to most, but even I used to be young at some point. I used to like the concept of Pujo at that time. We used to go to nearby Maddox Square. The chairs
we acquired were significantly inadequate, so we used to seat ourselves in a substantial
circle on the anticipatory newspapers. The chairs were given away to the
parents who arrived late.
The evenings used to pass quickly. Was I happier at
that point of my life than what I am now? I do not know.
Do I miss Durga Pujo? Not quite. I have deliberately
stayed away from the city for four years at a stretch. It may have to do with
my age, but struggling for hours to find a place to stand is definitely
not my idea of fun anymore.
Being surrounded by cell-phones masquerading as
periscopes as they approach pandals adds to that. Perhaps other quadragenarians
find the idea attractive.
Today, Shoptomi, was thus just another day for me. I boarded
a late-morning train from Vikhroli to Currey Road (update: I have downgraded my
location from Navi Mumbai to Mumbai).
The train was empty enough for me to find a seat at
Vikhroli. If you know what I am talking about, you might have let out a shriek; if you do not know, you are better off in life.
The train passed Kurla. Thanks to my new location, I do not have to participate
in the Battle of Kurla anymore. Instead, I derive sadistic pleasure from watching
others do the same from my vantage point inside the train.
A group of schoolchildren boarded the train at Sion. The
incredibly discounted student passes invariably result in a high percentage of
grateful students in the first-class compartments, and today was no exception.
Today’s batch consisted entirely of pre-teens who would, in three decades’ time, turn into brooding quadragenarians.
All of them were donning dusty schoolbags and bright smiles. I could not help but
wonder how much salt their toothpaste contains*.
* This is a lame joke and a blatant lie.
The children stood next to the open doors, all of
them. It was obviously risky, but at their age even I was not aware of the
concepts of fear unless my parents threatened me with kidnappers carrying
humongous gunny-bags.
The man opposite me was not too happy about this. He was
probably in his high fifties. His hair, though completely white, did not seem
headed for premature disappearance anytime soon.
He yelled at the children, asking them to move away
from the doors. The children, though taken aback, hesitated. A second shout did
the trick. They feebly uttered something on the lines of getting down at
Matunga (the next station) before retiring to their seats.
His job done, the man returned to his newspaper. Our eyes
met. Instinctively, for no known reason, I did something uncharacteristic of
me: I nodded, smiled, uttering “baraabar”.
But then, Pujo is about doing things you don’t do
every day. Was this my Pujo? I have no idea. Probably. Probably not.
But I did reach work in a good mood. I even remembered
to thank the liftman.
বাজে, মিথ্যে ইমেজ বানিয়ে চলারও প্রায় সাঁইত্রিশ-আটত্রিশ বছর হল বৈকি।
ঠিক করেছি এবার ঢপ্বাজি বন্ধ করে কয়েকটা টুকটাক স্বীকারোক্তি করব। এটা প্রথম। গ্যারান্টি দিচ্ছি না আরও থাকবে, কিন্তু এটা থাকবেই।
মহালয়া নিয়ে ন্যাকাপনা আমি ছোটবেলা থেকে করে এসেছি। ভোর চারটের সময় অ্যালার্ম দিয়ে উঠেছি। প্রচুর লোককে বলেছি আমার দারুণ ভাল লাগে, গায়ে কাঁটা দেয়, নিজেকে বাঙালি মনে হয়, দেবীপক্ষ নিয়ে একটা বেশ শিহরণ জাগে এটসেট্রা এটসেট্রা।
যারা ওঠেনি তাদের নির্লজ্জের মত হ্যাটা করেছি “বাঙালি হওয়ার যোগ্যতা নেই, নাকউঁচু, ট্যাঁশ” ইত্যাদি বলে।
আসলে হিপোক্রিসি করেছি, কারণ আমার মহালয়া শুনতে রীতিমত খারাপ লাগত। বরাবর।
মাইরি বলছি, বছরের পর বছর ভোর চারটের সময় উঠছি, আর কোনওবার সোয়া চারটে অবধি টানতে পারিনি। ঐ আলোর বেণুটেনু দুয়েকটা কোট করতে শিখে গেছিলাম, কিন্তু ঐটুকুই।
আমি নিশাচর প্রাণী, ভাবতাম ভোরে উঠতে কষ্ট হয় বলে হয়ত মহালয়া শোনার বিশেষ প্রভাব পড়েনি।
কিন্তু তারপর দুটো কেস স্টাডি করলাম, তাও কয়েক বছর ধরে।
১) ভোরে উঠে কোনওকিছু শুনলে কি আদৌ আমার গায়ে কাঁটা দেয়? নাকি ঘুম ব্যাপারটা এতটাই শক্তিশালী যে কোনওকিছুই বিরিয়ানি মনে হয় না?
উত্তর। বীরেন্দ্রকৃষ্ণের গলা শুনে আজ অবধি গায়ে কাঁটা দেয়নি। কিন্তু তার মাস দু’তিন পর দিত, ভোরে, রিচি বেনোর গলা শুনে, তাও অনেক পরে। তদ্দিনে মহালয়ার ঢপ্টা দেওয়া বন্ধ করে দিয়েছি।
বেনোও গেছেন। ভোরও গেছে।
২) মহালয়া কি দিনের অন্য সময়ে শুনলে গায়ে কাঁটা দেবে?
উত্তর। এমপিথ্রির আমলে চেষ্টা করেছি। না বস্। আমার জন্য নয়। ঐ আলোর বেণু অবধিই টানা মুশকিল হচ্ছিল।
আমার জন্য মহালয়া নয়। তাই এবার থেকে আর শুনছি না।
কী করব, ভেতর থেকে তাগিদটাই এল না যে!
আপনারা যারা শোনেন, ভালবাসেন, শুনতে ও বাসতে থাকুন, প্লিজ। বাংলা ও বাঙালির ভবিষ্যৎ আপনাদের হাতে। আমার দ্বারা আর হবে না।
1. X (25
September 1916 – 11 February 1968) was an Indian politician. X was one of the
most important leaders of the Bharatiya Jana Sangh, the forerunner of the
present day Bharatiya Janata Party.
2. Y (station
code MGS) is an Indian Railways railway station in the Indian state of Uttar
Pradesh. Y is the fourth busiest railway junction in India. Y
contains the largest railway marshalling yard in Asia.
You know what I
am getting at: Mughalsarai will be renamed to Deen Dayal Upadhyay. I am sure
this is the Government’s own way of honouring a significant man in their history, renaming
perhaps the most iconic junction in North India.
The Government is obviously keen on making India forget the mighty Mughals. Renaming
Mughalsarai is the easiest way to make sure tourists visiting Taj Mahal remain
blissfully unaware of the history of the Mughals in India.
Being a person
averse to travel, I do not have sentiments or associated with Mughalsarai. I
did not feel sad at the town being renamed. A part of my childhood was not lost,
not even a minuscule.
Of course, a
part of history was lost — at least temporarily — with the renaming. I
understand that.
However, as a
nation we have collectively failed to preserve our history, so this was always
on the cards. It has been a habit carefully nurtured over millennia. Indeed, we
are unlikely to care for our history unless we get to know from WhatsApp groups
that our history has been acknowledged as the best in the world by UNESCO.
Where was I? Ah,
Mughalsarai. Take the station away, and there is really not much in the town. I
am yet to meet someone from Mughalsarai. The only eminent
Mughalsarai-born person I know of is Lal Bahadur Shastri, a man born on October
2 — the day when Ajay Devgn took his family to Panjim for Satsang. I am not
sure of the date when Mohanlal did a similar act before Devgn.
In other words, Mughalsarai
does not hold memories for me — except one. And that is what you are about to
learn now.
When Mughalsarai
was relevant
I had spent a
year of my halcyon days in Delhi. I stayed in a hostel on Shaheed Jeet Singh
Sansanwal Marg, a place from where the Qutb Minar looked tiny and aeroplanes
looked humongous. You can figure out the location if you are from Delhi.
Obviously we
needed breaks from rajma, paneer, butter chicken, and temperature
that varied between -75°C and 140°C (blame the Delhi weather for the
exaggeration). Even the newly-acquired swear-words did not make up for the
challenges.
So we
had to return home. I did that five times in a span of a year — in July
(for an emergency), for Pujo, and for Christmas; the last two trips were in summer.
This
was a May trip. The trains were crowded. Tickets had to be booked two months in
advance. In a few years’ time IRCTC would come to make things worse. This was
an era when internet was still spreading its, er, net in the middle-class
stratum.
1998
was all about long, serpentine queues, the only plus of which was a richer vocabulary
of swear-words — something that scaled levels hitherto unknown to me till I
reached Delhi.
But
the tickets were acquired. We marched on to Kalka Mail. I think the train used
to leave Old Delhi at 0700 and reach Howrah Station about the same time the day
after. Basically it was a morning-to-morning thing that started with chhola-batora
at Tundla and ended in that impatience-saturated stretch after Liluah.
Since
the train was crowded, they added a couple of compartments at the end, after
the pantry car. The sleeper class compartments typically go by the name of S1,
S2 ... and so on. The additional ones were named (I think) AS1 and AS2. Perhaps
A stood for additional.
Mughalsarai
is located famously almost midway between Delhi and Howrah. Kalka Mail arrived
there in the evening. We set out in pursuit of some concoction of chicken and
carbohydrates. The food was duly acquired and the money paid. We strolled back
towards AS1 (or AS2).
Wait,
what compartment?
There
was no compartment. Our compartment, our accommodation for the night, complete
with luggage, was gone, along with its neighbour.
Just
like that. Poof!
It
was not a pretty sight. Four or five men, all in their early twenties, waiting utterly
flabbergasted in a station named after one of the greatest dynasties in the
history of India that the Government would choose to forget in about two
decades’ time.
One
of these men decided to get the food out of his way first. You have probably guessed
who it was.
Did
the others join in the act? Of that I have no memory whatsoever. However, I
remember a stern look from at least one pair of eyes.
But
then, since when has appetite depended on vanishing compartments?
We
did not even know whom to ask. There were officials in that gigantic junction,
but none of them could answer our query. Worse, they looked supremely
unconcerned. There could have been two reasons for this (or at least I think
so):
1. Missing
compartments was not a part the curriculum when they had appeared for the
admission test.
2.
There was a substantial chasm between their brand of Hindi and ours.
Was
this the greatest heist ever pulled off at the junction? What about the nation?
Two entire compartments, presumably with people inside them...
Time
passed. Our group sunk into various postures of resignation that ranged from
slouching helplessly to staring blankly into the starry night sky to washing
hands after a hearty meal.
More
time passed. And some more. Every second felt like an hour spent in Saki Naka
traffic in office hours (Google it) without an oxygen mask.
Wasn’t
the train supposed to leave in half an hour? Hasn’t it been longer?
What
if it left without us?
What
if it had left without us?
Where
would the compartment go? Would it roam about aimlessly all by itself in the
labyrinthine stone-chips-and-metal-clad realm that goes by the name of Indian
Railways?
The anticlimax
Just
when we had resigned to the unknown deities of Indian Railways and were considering
rummaging our pockets for money, we heard it. From some far, far land they
appeared, two supremely familiar metallic cuboids on wheels, dragged by an
engine certainly past its expiry date.
We jumped
on to them. We found our seats. Everything was there. Every lock. Every chain
with which the ancient suitcases where attached to the seats. Everything.
Then
we talked to the handful of smart passengers who had opted to stay back during
this cataclysmic chain of events that was on the verge of changing the future
of the planet. “It’s perfectly normal for additional compartments,” they told
us. “They sometimes add another pantry car.”
That
was it. There is no climax.
Climaxes
seldom happen in real life, you see. And when they do, like most things in
life, they are often impeccably faked.
The authorities have recently decided to shift my
workplace to Mumbai, a city significantly bigger than Navi Mumbai. This obviously
added to my glamour quotient, for I travel to what Mumbaikars refer to as Town:
in other words, I am part of the crème de la crème of the office-goers in this
city that seems to remain alive round the clock and calendar.
But.
This affected me in two ways. First, I had got
attached to my previous office. If you do not get why this bothered me, think
of it this way: how will you react if you suddenly find out that Arsalan — the
greatest of all pilgrimages in the history of mankind — has suddenly been
serving biryani on bright blue plates? They will still serve the same manna
from heaven, but will it taste the same during your first few trips?
Of course, I have a new office to get attached to and
attach files to emails from. This pun would have thrived if I carried an
attaché case to work, but you cannot get a touch of everything in life, can
you?
The other aspect
is more significant: I have to travel to work.
This may not
sound very threatening for the uninitiated. I know people for whom travel is
biryani. There exist people who travel every day to work and take leave to
travel to random destinations and return from travel to travel to work every
day again and derive happiness out of the entire process.
Yes, there are
people like that.
I am not one of
them. I used to walk fifteen minutes to work.
Walk. Not
fifteen minutes in a vehicle of any sort. Walk.
That has changed.
My biryani is no longer cardamom-free. And I cannot guarantee that this will be
my last mention of biryani.
Obviously I will
have to shift base, but that will take time. As for the interim period, I have
to travel.
And it has to be
by train. If I take the road — especially in monsoon, that selfie-inducing
obnoxious time of the year — I will probably develop a bedsore of sorts.
No, it has to be
by train. That bit I figured out after a day and a half of taking the road.
***
I know the tense
is not consistent here. Blame it on the train journeys.
Note: When I say ‘tense’ I mean that past-present-future
thing, not the state of mind you develop when the Arsalan angel tells you they
will have to check whether there is mutton in the kitchen).
***
Where was I? Ah,
Mumbai local trains. I am no stranger to them. They are powerful,
authoritative, and omnipresent. I am aware of the advantages — speed,
consistency, and availability, and more. They are the heart of the city, and
more. Maybe they are even the lungs and kidneys and pancreas of the city as
well.
However, the
train also comes with a massive, humongous drawback: they are incredibly
crowded during office hours.
How crowded?
I used to think
Sealdah is crowded. It is. I have let trains pass Sealdah, casting futile, respectful
glances, maintaining a safe, reasonable distance. No, I would never have
managed to permeate that phalanx.
It is different
in Dadar. My first attempt involved buying a ticket, going up the footbridge,
and casting a futile, respectful glance at the platform, maintaining a
safe, reasonable distance. I took a taxi that day and reached probably the next
month.
That was what I was up against.
Mumbai Suburban
Railways have three main lines. The first two are called Western (it is in the
west) and Central (just east of Western). One may expect the third, the
easternmost to be named Eastern. But the City That Never Sleeps decided —
perhaps on one of those sleepless nights of hers — that Harbour Line would be a
more appropriate name.
I live in
Sanpada. My nearest station is Vashi. There are people in Vashi whose nearest
station is Sanpada. This makes perfect sense in this part of the world, so my
opinion is as relevant as that humble bowl of raita next to biryani.
Vashi is on the
Harbour Line. The station nearest my office is Currey Road, on Central Line; it
is also approachable from Lower Parel, which is on Western Line.
In other words,
I was doomed.
If you look at
the map, you will notice that the Harbour and Central lines meet at Kurla, and
later at Sandhurst Road, Masjid, and CSMT, as CST is called these days. The M stands for
Maharaj. The full name reads Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus.
Indeed, that literally
translates to Emperor Shivaji Emperor Terminus. Before you say something on
redundant words, you remember the irrelevance of the raita, don’t you?
Where was I? Ah,
Kurla — the station that caters to approximately the population of New Zealand at
any given point of time in office hours. If the entire population on Kurla
Station at 9 AM decides to yell in unison, they will probably produce enough
energy to create an earthquake in Mars.
But I had to
change trains at Kurla. There was no other option.
The first bit
was easy. Since Vashi is one of those ‘marquee’ stations, trains often start
from Vashi. This means that on a good day you may be able to travel in
first-class with both your legs inside the train. Fine, I exaggerated a bit,
but you get the gist.
Unfortunately,
trains do not start at Kurla. They pass through Kurla. And when
they halt at Kurla, 43,224 people get off and are immediately replaced by
another 72,163. Of course, these are merely eye-estimates and may have been off
by a couple of digits or so…
***
Okay.
So there I was, armed
with a first-class monthly ticket, an umbrella, and a paunch (among other
accessories).
I had to brave
what Mumbaikars have been braving since time immortal: change train at Kurla in
office hours.
The first phase
went without much hassle. Twenty minutes of standing is about half of what I used
to do in physical education classes in school — albeit without the cell-phone
trilling provokingly in my pocket.
Then came Kurla.
Or rather, then came Abhishek, if you look at things from Kurla’s perspective.
One has to cross
over to another platform to change trains at Kurla. There is a footbridge for
that. I was foolish enough to assume it would be a cakewalk.
As things turned
out, I did not cross over to the other platform. I did not need to. An ocean of
humanity hurled me up the ramp. A second one shoved me towards the staircases
that led to the other platform. For once I thought I would trip on my way down,
but there was too much humanity around me to lose balance.
I was there before I could figure out exactly what was going on. All I had to do was turn twice.
I waded through
people to reach the section designated for first-class passengers. In case you
are not aware of what to look for, it is a metal pillar painted in yellow and
red to match the MCC tie, blazer, and hat.
Then I prepared
myself for the war, the real showdown, my Valhalla.
***
My ears were the
first organs to sense the arrival. The sound was unmistakable.
Unfortunately,
mine were not the only ones: 72,163 other pairs also picked up the sound.
They were on the
edge of the platform before my ears could transmit the message to my brain. I
had lost the first battle.
There was no way
I could make it to the compartment. My only chance was the platform-change
drill, but in this case everyone was in front of me.
The train left
without me.
But I did not
leave without a train. True, I had lost the first battle. But I had also
learned a lesson, a very, very crucial one: Mumbai office-goers thrive on
aggression, speed, fitness, and dexterity, none of which, unfortunately, is a part
of my armoury.
So I decided to
take time out.
What were my
strengths? How could I put them to use to outdo these commuters and put at
least one foot on the compartment?
Would puns do
the trick? They came to me, one by one. I kept telling me that I could train
myself to compartmentalise my flow of thoughts. I could not afford
to let my resolution to be derailed. I needed to establish a platform
in this realm of commuters.
No, no, no: it
would not work. It seemed extremely unlikely that people would make way for me
if I keep uttering these one by one.
There had to be
a Plan B.
Could it be
cricket history? Would they peacefully let me board the train if I lectured
them on Lord Frederick Beauclerk?
No.
What about Plan
C? What else was I good at?
For someone who
never went to a typing school, I can type reasonably fast. Unfortunately, I use
a desktop at work and was not carrying a laptop, hence… hey, what if one of
them carried a laptop? What about a typewriter?
No, no, no.
Douglas Adams?
Woody Allen? The Ray family? Asterix? What would it be? Map-pointing? Giuoco
Piano? What? Would wolf-whistling work? What about touching the tip of my nose
with my tongue?
I moved on from
Plan D to E to F and beyond. Panic struck when I moved past Plan U — what if I
ran out of letters?
Another train, complete
with twelve compartments and 72,163 passengers, had passed by in the interim
period.
Then came that
Eureka moment that had once made Forbes launch into the Indian market with an
assortment of vacuum cleaners and water purifiers over a decade back.
At about a
quintal, I weigh about twice the average Mumbaikar. My mind raced. What was it
they had taught me? Momentum was mass times velocity, was it not? If the
Mumbaikar moved at twice my pace, I could counter him with twice his mass.
And I had twice
his mass. And some velocity, which would actually put me at an
advantage.
And when it
comes to mass (I am not discussing churches here), dexterity does not matter. No,
it does not. And I it had dawned upon me — exactly how to make mass count over
dexterity.
So I prepared
myself. How to go about it? Use my knee? Elbow? No. Go headlong. Think of
yourself as a bull, a buffalo, a grotesque, ghastly minotaur, albeit a hornless
one.
I knew they
would go past me the moment they would hear the train arrive.
They did exactly
that.
I smiled. I knew
what I was going to do.
They scrambled
for the door. I ambled for it.
Then, as an entire
garrison attempted to squeeze itself into one gate, I acted.
I took a couple
of steps and pushed myself, almost headfirst, into the back of the frailest
individual I found.
He stood no
chance. My mass, combined with my more-than-zero velocity, propelled myself
inside the compartment. The man enjoyed the collateral benefit of being thrust
into the compartment as an inseparable entity, but that did not matter.
I was there. Physics
had got me there. Mechanics had got me there. Decades of red meat, oil, carbohydrates,
and sugar had got me there. Utter disdain for physical exercise had got me
there.
No, there is no valid reason for me to blog on
this. It does not make any sense. I know all that. But hey, what the hell, is
this blog not supposed to be about what I want to write about?
Let me spell this out: despite its rich history of
other genres, thrillers and horror movies have not been the forte of Bollywood.
Of course, there have been efforts, serious efforts. For example, Yash Chopra
made Ittefaq in his pre-chiffon-saree-amidst-smoke visuals — in other
words, when he was one of the greatest directors around.
Ittefaq remains one of the finest thrillers in the history of the industry. While
music stole the show in Teesri Manzil, Ittefaq had to ride only
on the script and a criminally forgotten performance from Rajesh Khanna — for there
was no song, while Nanda and Sujit Kumar did not really form an ensemble cast.
Samay featured a dynamic Sushmita Sen in a taut script. While some claim it
was loosely based on Se7en, the stress should probably be on ‘loosely’,
not ‘based’. There was also Kaun, made in 1999 — an era when Ram Gopal
Verma was synonymous to quality movies: trust me, watching Kaun inside a
dark theatre was not easy for me.
No, this is not about these movies, though this is a
perfect time to mention Khamosh, EkHaseena Thi, Kahaani,
and Talaash. This is about a list of Bollywood thrillers and horror
movies with English names. Bollywood directors possibly work under the concept
that these genres are western concepts, and should hence be given English
names. I cannot think of any other reason. Perhaps English names sound cool. I have
really no clue.
Conditions:
1. Only full-length feature films are included.
As a result, Anurag Kashyap’s Last Train to Mahakali misses out, as does
Rajat Kapoor’s Private Detective (Two Plus Two Plus One). PS: Both are
excellent movies, but were aired only on television.
2. Addresses do not count as movie names. As a result 13B
and Plot No. 5 (and even Shanghai)miss out.
3. Official remakes (Pizza) are also
ruled out.
4. Movies involving only names (Raman Raghav 2.0,
Aamir) do not make the cut, either. Technically the former should make
it (it also has a name), but, well, if you have seen it…
5. 100 Days has not been included because I did
not feel like it.
I will not give away the plots because —
obviously — these are thrillers. I will, however, list plot keywords.
Note:
Before I begin, I guess I owe the uninitiated a word
or two about Plot No. 5, starring Uttam Kumar, Amol Palekar, and Amjad
Khan. It seemed a riveting plot, but unfortunately the audio quality of none of
the copies (they are basically copies of the same copy) I came across was good
enough for a thriller. If you find one with decent audio, do let me know.
Now that pistol jail mein aa chuka hai, let us get
cracking with the ones that missed out.
Honorary mentions:
Blue Oranges (2008)
Rajit Kapur does an excellent job as a detective, but
the script drags a bit.
Chocolate (2005)
Remaking The Usual Suspects was not easy: Chocolate
falls reasonably short. However, if you can forget the original, it has its
moments.
Table No. 21 (2013)
The script is fast-paced and the ending neat, but the movie
is pulled by poor individual performances. Paresh Rawal cannot save you every
time.
Reporter Raju (1962)
I am not sure whether this qualifies as a thriller,
but what the heck, it features Feroz Khan, father of you-know-who.
Murder 2 (2011)
Murder 2 is not a sequel of Murder, but a remake of the Korean movie Chaser.
More of a slasher than a thriller, it does a better job than expected. Emraan
Hashmi puts up an honest show, but Prashant Narayanan easily steals the show.
The Pool (2007)
A surprisingly good movie: with commendable
performances from Nana Patekar, Venkatesh Chavan, and Ayesha Mohan. The characters
are surprisingly real, and we as delve deeper, they get better. The downside? It
is probably not a thriller; borderline, maybe.
Via Darjeeling (2008)
Such a promising premise; such a great cast (Kay Kay
Menon, Vinay Pathak, Sonali Kulkarni, Rajat Kapoor, Sandhya Mridul, Simone
Singh); such ordinary execution. It hurts.
Race (2008) and Race 2 (2013)
If only Abbas-Mustan realised that “too many plot
twists” is a thing! From ensemble cast to catchy (albeit copied) music to
fruit-eating detectives, Race had it all, but they ruined it with
overkills. As for Race 2, I typically sit through movies.
The main list
11. That Girl in Yellow Boots (2011)
Director: Anurag Kashyap
Cast: Kalki Koechlin, Naseeruddin Shah
Plot keywords: Prostitution, quest
A girl’s quest for her father sounds simple, but
things turn out to be more sinister as every layer is unfurled. I found it
disturbing, and I am sure I was not the only one. It is not recommended if
you get disturbed easily. There are “happy endings”, but…
Oh, and keep an eye out for those surprise cameos.
Bollywood has had its share of heist movies, but most
of them are loud and rarely make sense. Special 26 is sensible yet
fast-paced: while the big guns are given the screen share they deserve, they
are never given precedence over the script. There are several amazing twists, and
some of the underrated names on the list pull off surprisingly good performances.
But… is a heist movie a thriller?
9. The Stoneman Murders (2009)
Director: Manish Gupta
Cast: Virendra Saxena, Arbaaz Khan, Kay Kay Menon
Plot keywords: Serial killings, The Stoneman
Do you remember Stoneman, the serial killer who went
on a rampage in Calcutta in 1989? If you do not, here it is: ‘Stoneman’ smashed
the heads of 13 pavement dwellers (on separate nights) with stone slabs and — here
is the catch — never got caught. I remembered being scared, but little else. I
never expected they would make a movie on this.
The movie is as fast-paced as thrillers are supposed
to be. You do expect Kay Kay to do well, but Arbaaz surprised everyone by
pulling off easily the greatest performance of his life (who would have
thunk?). The characters, especially on the side of the law, all look three-dimensional,
while the Mumbai nights pull off an impressive support act.
A haunted hostel room and atheists make the perfect
condiments for a B-grade movie. I cannot think of any other reason for 404
going through theatres with a near-anonymous stature. If you think about it
afterwards you will realise that the script is hardly complicated, and yet it is
executed so subtly that you will sit through it without realising that two
hours have passed by.
Just like millions of others in the world, Karthik
feels trapped in a mediocre world until, well, the rest of the movie happens. While
I am not a big fan of Farhan Akhtar’s acting skills (that voice, ugh, that
voice), he pulls off possibly the greatest performance of his career. My
biggest problem with this movie is the inexplicable underutilisation of
Deepika: why not go for a lower-profile female lead in that case?
6. Being Cyrus (2005)
Director: Homi Adajania
Cast: Naseeruddin Shah, Dimple Kapadia, Saif Ali Khan, Boman Irani, Simone
Singh
Plot keywords: Murder, gangs
Even if Being Cyrus had nothing in it, the stellar
performances by each member of the ensemble cast — supported by dark, dry humour
— would have made it successful. The tone of narration varies between the unassumingly
smart and unapologetically sinister, setting up the tone for the climax
beautifully. Saif deserves special mention for holding his self alongside
Naseeruddin, Dimple, and Boman.
Do not believe if they tell you that Ugly is
about a little girl who gets kidnapped. Ugly exposes the dark side of human
psychology in a manner so gruesome that you cannot stand to watch the movie. At
the same time, so brilliant is the script and so convincing are the performances
that you cannot look away. At times I felt claustrophobic and nauseous — probably
because I could identify the characters, most of them, around me; and in the
end it gave me at least one sleepless night: yet another Anurag Kashyap movie.
4. Manorama Six Feet Under (2007)
Director: Navdeep Singh
Cast: Abhay Deol, Gul Panag, Raima Sen, Sarika, Kulbhushan Kharbanda, Vinay
Pathak
Plot keywords: Lies, murder, village, author, engineer
Despite being based on Chinatown, Manorama Six
Feet Under keeps you hooked. I thought hard, but could not come up with a
better compliment. Every single member of the cast fitted into their respective
roles, each drier and yet more intriguing than the other. True to the spirit of
the original, Manorama gets more and more sinister as it goes on…
3. A Wednesday! (2008)
Director: Neeraj Pandey
Cast: Naseeruddin Shah,Anupam Kher, Jimmy Shergill
Plot keywords: Common man, hostages, terrorism, bomb blasts, telephone
calls
This is the second Neeraj Pandey movie on the list. Fast-paced
and near-real-time, A Wednesday! rarely offers a dull moment, but that
is not its biggest USP. The problem is, it is impossible to describe why it is so
revered without giving away the plotline. Let me put it this way: Naseeruddin
and Anupam Kher have done justice to the brilliant script, while the script manages
to remain unpredictable without being unconvincing. All in all, one of the best
made in India.
2. No Smoking (2005)
Director: Anurag Kashyap
Cast: John Abraham, Paresh Rawal, Ayesha Takia, Ranbir Shorey
No, I have not read Quitters, Inc., the book on
which this is based. I know I may not like No Smoking the day I read,
for my experience says movies rarely live up to the books. It is also Kashyap’s
greatest movie by a distance — of course, this is a personal opinion.
No Smoking is (I am trying my best to stay away from spoilers
here) a journey of the soul. Even if the movie had fallen flat on its face, it
would have been remembered as a remarkable effort. But No Smoking emerged
a great success — albeit not commercially: I remember watching it in a
near-empty multiplex and people walking out at random moments, never to return.
Kashyap made No Smoking years before his bigger
hits. Exactly why John was cast for this movie is not very clear, but to be fair,
he looked perfectly convincing. He could have had a more impressive career had
he chosen his directors and scripts more wisely, you know.
1. Jewel Thief (1967)
Director: Vijay Anand
Cast: Dev Anand, Ashok Kumar, Vyjayanthimala, Tanuja
Plot keywords: Doppelgangers, mistaken identities, plots and
subplots, and obviously jewel theft (s).
I know people for whom Jewel Thief is “the
movie with songs on the B-side of Guide”. Even if one removes the English-name
criterion, it is difficult to find a Bollywood thriller at par with Jewel Thief.
I do not even know where to begin. The scenery? SD
Burman’s magic? The background score that never lets the pace drop? The
performances? The script? The concepts? The many, many twists that leave you
hanging despite its three-hour length?
I am itching to go on for hours, but how does one do
that without giving plot points away?
Jewel Thief turns fifty this year. If you have not watched it,
do. Yes, they used to make movies like that here.
Note:
The exclusion of Red Rose was deliberate. It
was a poor effort by any standards, but hey, all that can be forgiven for this
one song.
