One of India’s Pioneer filmmakers, V. Shantaram is known for making socially relevant films, just as he is known for making historical dramas and big entertainers on an epic scale, most of the latter ones resulting in spectacular shows though often gaudy.

Way back from his “Kunku” (1937; in Marathi) and its Hindi version “Duniya Na Maane,” he laid the corner-stone of his socially relevant films. He had started to make films in the silent era, and many of these were historicals.

“Kunku”/”Duniya Na Maane” turned out to be an epoch-making film, and it left a deep impact on the viewers, including me, about the age-old marriage customs that almost always worked against the bride.

Emboldened and encouraged by the success of “Kunku,” Shantaram continued to make socially relevant films, while also making entertainers. His socially relevant films covered topics such as bride-for-sale (“Kunku”), communal harmony (“Padosi”), rehabilitation of a prostitute and its ramifications (“Aadmi”), dowry (“Dahej”), and widow remarriage (“Subah ka Tara”).

His 1950 “Dahej” was followed by “Teen Batti Char Raasta” in 1953. With the theme of national integration at its base, given that it was made relatively soon after India’s independence in 1947, “Teen Batti Char Raasta” deals with the age-old problem of equating beauty with fair skin, relegating the dark skin beyond reach.  Shantaram tackles this theme through the story of a well-to-do family whose five daughters-in-law are each from a different region of India, and each speaks her own language = in addition to Hindi – belonging to that region.

It is worth noting that the actresses playing these five daughters-in-law are actually from their respective regions of India. The Gujarati daughter-in-law is played by Nirupa Roy, Marathi by Shashikala, Bengali by Smriti Biswas, Tamil by Meenakshi, and Sindhi by Sheila Ramani, each with the attire appropriate to their respective regions.

This not only lends the situation an authentic air, it also makes it so much more interesting.

The national integration theme is implied, not express. The Khushalchand household with Khushalchand himself, his wife, and the five daughters-in-law is in itself  Shantaram’s statement about national integration.

Yes, it is a family like any other family, and there are differences, and that leads to clashes too, sometimes, but these are resolved amicably, and, in some instances, light-heartedly.

The film’s title is symbolic. It signifies the regional variety of the household, beginning with the patriarch, Lala Khushalchand, a Punjabi, married to a woman from Uttar Pradesh, followed by their five sons, each married to a girl from a different region of India.

As for the Sindhi daughter-in-law, it  may be noted that although Sindh went to Pakistan after the partition, many Sindhis made India their home. As such, a Sindhi daughter-in-law in this household does not seem incongruent.

I had seen this film several decades ago, but when I had another look recently, I discovered that in addition to this theme of national integration, the film has another important and interesting story, that has to do with the family’s sixth and unmarried son falling in love with and wanting to marry their housemaid.

But the plot is not that simplistic. Ramesh, the sixth and the youngest son, has fallen in love with the most famous radio singer in the city, without ever having seen her.

Based on her sweet and melodious singing, he has conjured up her image as a dazzlingly beautiful young woman, and it is this beauty he has created in his mind that he wants to marry. Based on his imagination, he has even created a sketch of the love of his life.

As it happens, this singer, Kokila, is poor, and she takes up a job as the housemaid in Khushalchand’s household to supplement the meager amount she gets from her radio singing a couple of times a month.  She does not reveal her identity as the singer Kokila. As such, nobody in the family, much less Ramesh, has any inkling that their housemaid Shyama – she goes by that name in their house – is none other than Kokila. In the film’s beginning, she is shown distributing newspapers in the neighborhood. That is how Khushalchand’s family knows her. A little later, she is offered the job of a housemaid there.

After a few dramatic and tension-ridden turns of events, Ramesh finds out to his utter amazement and initial dismay that the beautiful image he has been nurturing of this

singer and has fallen in love with is their housemaid, and that she is not at all beautiful in the traditional sense. He is heartbroken to learn that not only is she not beautiful, she is quite dark skinned.

Ramesh is faced with two insurmountable problems – the imagined love of his life is none other than the housemaid in his own household, and she is dark skinned. He soon finds himself struggling with his own self to accept her as she really is, quite the opposite of his conjured up image of her. The age-old obsession of the “beautiful bride” – read

“fair-skinned bride” – comes into play here, and Ramesh himself hesitates to implement his own decision.

He also knows that it is going to be an uphill task to get his parents’ nod of approval about his proposal to marry Kokila.

In the format of a family drama-themed films of its time, Shantaram deftly handles this story of the age-old stigma of the acceptability of a dark-skinned girl in marriage with a reasonably fair-skinned boy from an upper crust of the society.

The filmmaker is able to create enough cinematic tension to take the story to its climactic point, toward an ending appropriate to the development of the story line. Ramesh and Kokila do come close, and  Ramesh, after his internal struggle and introspection, does confess his love and dedication to Kokila after all. She trusts him, and begins to dream of their happy future life.

There are, however, set pieces of typical cinematic impediments and misunderstandings, taking the film to its ultimate resolution of the problems through some funny and some weakly funny moments.

Also, the viewer is able to see that, although Shantaram is adept at making meaningful, socially relevant films, in this current instance, there are some sequences or parts of sequences that are rather bland or stagey, and lack the desired impact. Happily, such instances are not too many and not an important part of the story, and overall, the direction is even-handed.

It may be remembered that this is a 1953 film, and societal norms and people’s tastes in cinema have changed substantially in these 70 years, although some beliefs and preferences take generations to change.

Of the film’s two leads, Sandhya as Kokila/Shyama is quite expressive, and turns in a performance very much in keeping with her character. Karan Divan as Ramesh is more than adequate, and succeeds in bringing out all his character’s nuances. The actresses playing the five daughters-in-law turn in very interesting, apt and funny performances, doing justice to their parts.

Shantaram’s old faithful Keshavrao Datey could have infused a little more life and vigor in his role as the family patriarch’s friend and ‘doctor’ who appears toward the end of the film in the climactic sequence.

I noted a rather unusual thing in the film’s music. Karan Divan was an actor- singer, but here Talat Mehmood has provided his playback. That is very likely because Divan’s two songs in the film are better suited to Talat Mehmood than to Karan Divan himself. There are very few such instances in the annals of playback singing in Hindi films where a singer’s playback is provided by another singer.

An important and interesting film in Shantaraam’s stable of socially relevant and meaningful films, “Teen Batti Char Raasta” is worth a look after a seven-decade gap.

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e.mail : surendrabhimani@gmail.com

To Kill A Tiger

In a small town in the hinterlands of India, a horrific event takes place that throws the victim and her family into a very delicate and difficult situation.

How do they cope? What kind of fight do they have to fight? What odds do they face? Do they come out victorious out of this?

“To Kill a Tiger,” a brilliant and gripping documentary written and directed by Nisha Pahuja, tells this family’s story.

In a small town in Jharkhand, India, Ranjit, a poor rice farmer, has a problem on his hands. His 13-year-old daughter has been brutally raped by three men, and his attempts to seek justice are thwarted at every step, and help and support seem but a faint and distant possibility.

When he files the police complaint, Ranjit is dissuaded by villagers from going forward with his efforts to get justice. Instead, he is asked to marry his daughter off to one of the perpetrators to protect her honor, and to maintain the dignity of the village.

These suggestions and advice are so brazen, and Ranjit receives them from so many people and entities that he is simply appalled – and so is the viewer to find that instead of helping Ranjit in his just cause, the whole community is doggedly against him. And, what’s more, village elders and others do not see anything wrong with that.

Indeed, it is even suggested that Kiran, the victim, is at fault for having provoked the perpetrators to do their heinous crime.

Nisha Pahuja has detailed the long and arduous struggle of  Kiran and her parents, lasting 14 months and trying the patience of all concerned. She lays bare all aspects of

this horrific occurrence, and patiently follows Ranjit’s unflinching attempts to get justice in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds.

By far the only support for Ranjit seems to come from the Srijan Foundation, a non-government advocacy group. But the villagers are unrelenting and brazen in their insistence about Ranjit withdrawing the case, and marrying Kiran off to one of the arrested rapists.

“To Kill a Tiger” is a praiseworthy documentary that brings to the fore the evil forces that become solid roadblocks in the path of those seeking justice for a severe wrong done to them.

“To kill a tiger” is the translation of an Indian expression signifying eventual victory in a difficult task. This incisive documentary by Nisha Pahuja does a remarkable job of delineating one family’s resilience and perseverance in the face of heavy odds.

It is only fitting that “To Kill a Tiger” was nominated in the category of best documentary feature in the 2024 Oscars.

A laudable feat.

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e.mail : surendrabhimani@gmail.com

The India Club was not chic or fancy. It was a no-frills restaurant, serving delicious lamb bhuna and fish curry.

Joseph Mitchell, the American journalist and writer, elevated the art of writing about the demise of favourite restaurants which are now lost to the relentless forces of development. He passionately believed that the soul of his cherished city, New York, could be found somewhere, it would be in the backstreet eating houses.

In the wistful echo of Mitchell’s spirits, I cannot help but lament the rude health of cherished London establishments, each bearing its own unique tapestry of fondness.

Whether it is the announcement of the closure of the two-Michelin star restaurant Le Gavroche, a pioneer of the food scene for more than five decades, or the closing down of the legendary Banner’s café in Crouch End after three-long decades which also drew the enigmatic Bob Dylan, it felt the gems from long-ago London, untouched, unreconstituted and ungentrified, were falling apart, each at a time, as the long days of summer start to fade away.

However, my heart will always resonate most profoundly with the permanent closure of the India Club – the capital’s most singular restaurant and bar – an institution to my mind that belongs to a different category.

Ever since my time in London, the India Club has been my go-to place: a comfort during demanding days, celebrating birthdays, personal occasions or cultivating sublime friendships from all walks of life, especially concerning or linked to South Asia.

India Club- A Sense of Belonging

As a frequent visitor of the Club, the space gave me a sense of belonging: a natural human instinct as a South Asian migrant. I never imagined that the place where I once found space, comprehension and calmness amidst the hustling culture of London to contemplate pressing issues while holding a glass of Mango Lassi (which seldom they run out of) would reject me twice during its final phase: a reminder of the luxury I had taken for granted during my formal days at the London School of Economics and Political Science (LSE).

While the closing of the Club was long anticipated, if not too far, the very soon dreadful announcement from the Marker family – who have run the club for almost 30 years with utmost dedication and commitment – induced a flood of emotions, including shock and sadness, as it often happens when one tries to brush off the reality under the carpet, despite knowing it entirely. It was indeed a long silence before a final adieu, as the long days of summer started to fade as a distant memory.

For more than seven decades, it stood as a bustling epicentre for the Indo-British groups, forged in the wake of Indian independence and the tumultuous partition era, including the Calcutta Rowing Club, Goan Association and the Curry Club.

Within its walls, photographs of Dadabhai Naoroji – the first Indian MP in the UK – and other dignitaries, including former defence minister of India VK Krishna Menon, compounded with other Indian scenes hung, which attracted the likes of the Indian Journalist Association, Indian Workers Association, and Indian Socialist Group of Britain converged as a vibrant hub for their myriad events and endeavours.

Yet, the final days have been a hotter ticket, the busiest I have ever seen, with its well-wishers and loyalists, some even in their late 90s with more enthusiasm and sadness than one can expect, coming together to bid their final farewells and reminiscing their bygone “golden days.” From time to time, depending on how quickly the tables were cleared, a line sprawled almost an hour before the opening of the Club, with more than two hours waiting in the evening out onto the sidewalk – a surge drawn by nostalgia, as a member of the Marker family told me.

However, for anyone who has not been there, describing the place is difficult. Situated in the heart of London’s Strand across the road straddled between Fleet Street and the Royal Court of Justice, it attracted a cosmopolitan clientele of employees from the Indian House, journalists, lawyers, lecturers and students from the London School of Economics and King’s College, next door. While the building wears a weary look and the decor frozen in time, giving it a timeless quality, if a restaurant was ever a cult, the India Club is it.

Yet, the India Club was not chic or fancy. It was a no-frills restaurant, serving delicious lamb bhuna (roast) and fish curry passionately to its customers with one purpose: to further ‘Indo-British friendship.’

And in many myriad ways, it achieved its motto. It is only telling that the closing of the India Club comes at a time when Britain is desperate to deepen its ties with India, more than ever.

But the Club has been resilient all these years. Despite the Club increasing its prices with the impact of the cost of living crisis, the prices continued to be fairly decent than any other Indian restaurant in central.

In 2019, the club proudly labelled itself a community treasure when it hosted a National Trust exhibition on its premises. As a testament to its historical significance, the British Library now houses oral histories from this exhibition, among which is the story of David, the son of the legendary waiter Joseph.

During my initial visits to the Club, I took my friend from Brazil to the club – who has a fine sense of dining and cultural understanding. “Is that Mahatma Gandhi?” she asked, as she pointed to the painting on the wall while eating Paneer Butter Masala, which continued to become our go-to dish at the club. “We should come here often,” she smilingly said. Which we indeed did.

During the final week of the Club, we celebrated our second London anniversary in the Club together. Unlike whenever we promised to be at the Club soon without any kind of waiting, this time we waited for two hours to get the table (we got lucky to get the same table which we often used to dine at!) and unfortunately, there won’t be any more evenings like those.

And as the sun set on September 17, an era has come to an end. The India Club was one of the lasting institutions that played a pivotal role in the narratives of diasporas and independence movements of the nation. Similarly, I could think of the Polish Club, overlooking Hyde Park with the history of the Free Polish forces and their base in London. The Irish Club too, located in the opulent Eaton Square, exuded significance.

Currently, the India Club is looking for an alternative space nearby. However, even if that materialises in all fairness, will it be able to recreate the spirits of the institution in a new settling? Scepticism only abounds.

Cities are ever-evolving landscapes, forever in motion. At a time like this, when cultural vandalism is all pervasive, what does one do? I chose to cling to memories, more than ever, that acted as a hub of intellectual exchanges and fostering of progressive ideas.

Kalrav Joshi is a London-based journalist-writer. An alumnus of the London School of Economics and Political Science (LSE), he writes on politics, culture, technology and climate.

Courtesy : “The Quint”; 26 September 2023

Photo courtesy : Kalrav Joshi