TOWARDS A QUIET ALLEGIANCE
THE HUMAN SPIRIT TRIUMPHS IN A TRULY PATRIOTIC FILM, NOT JUST THE NATION
PATRIOTISM, LIKE RELIGION, IS a personal emotion. It lends itself to very intimate interpretations, and thus means different things to different people, much like religion does. And like religion, it can get inflammatory too. Patriotism is a delicate emotion which, I believe, needs careful handling by cinema. The first patriotic film I ever saw was Kranti (1981). Strangely, it didn’t make me feel very patriotic. I was too young at the time, and as children, I’d argue, we don’t watch films to soak in philosophical concepts. Film-watching is more a visceral experience that impacts you later, perhaps when you are older. You react to films very differently with time. When I was growing up, the texture of patriotism was very different. Through much of our childhood, for instance, the villains of the piece were our colonisers, either the Mughals or the British. At school and at the movies, we’d learn the same things.
When I go back further and look at films of the ’50s and ’60s, I try and keep in mind their context. We had just gained our independence. We were finding our feet as a nation. Our economy was nascent, at the cusp of its birth. Songs like ‘Mere desh ki dharti’ and ‘Ae mere watan ke logon’ found tremendous resonance with audiences because they had been made with a specific intent—to instil a sense of self.
Movies have a very symbiotic relationship with society. There’s an osmosis that happens. Films reflect our times, and society, in turn, absorbs from films too. So,
when you had mill workers make headlines at the time of our economic development in the ’70s, Amitabh Bachchan’s ‘Angry Young Man’ persona became popular. What films speak of is very connected to the time in which they’re made.
Patriotism in cinema is also shaped in part by the sensibility of a film and its maker. Take Lagaan (2001), for instance. While the British were the clear enemies, the film’s villagers were also fighting poverty. They were also fighting drought. When they finally win the climactic cricket match, they aren’t just happy because they have defeated the British, they have also defeated adversity. Their elation is that of the human spirit. Their accomplishment is that of an underdog getting its moment in the sun. Lagaan, for me, was not just another patriotic film. It was a story of courage.
Similarly, when I took on Raazi (2018), and we went through the usual processes of writing, shooting, production and editing, it did not once cross my mind that I was making a ‘patriotic film’. For me, the film told a story of strength, of that indomitable human spirit and of the futility of war. It was only when we put together the first cut did we realise that the film was talking about a lot more.
If you notice, you will not once see the Indian flag in Raazi. Nowhere will you find the national anthem or a rendition of ‘Vande Mataram’ being used as a background theme. To tell a story of true grit was my intent. I didn’t want to impart a lesson on patriotism. What drew me to my protagonist, Sehmat (Alia Bhatt), was that someone like her once existed. For me, the character was a role model, an inspiration. Watching her can gratify and elevate you. Hers is the real story I wanted to tell.
It was only incidental that when people started watching
the film, and when critics started writing their review, did the film come to mean more than what we had set out with. Here was a film that looked at patriotism differently. It showed you could be patriotic without having to resort to jingoism.
When we were writing up the characters of Sehmat’s Pakistani family, we, perhaps unconsciously, ensured that nationalism didn’t condition their behaviour, their actions or decisions. So, when you see these Pakistani characters in relation to Sehmat, she seems the villain. She is the one destroying an entire family. But then you juxtapose that realisation with the reasons of why she is doing what she is doing, and suddenly there is redemption. Remove her motivation, though, and she is again the antagonist. Her Pakistani family is not. Humanising ‘the enemy’, while keeping Sehmat’s moral compass intact was a challenge. One little tip on either side would have made the balance very murky.
Sentimentality doesn’t bother me so much, but my alarms do go off when self-righteousness parades as sentiment. If I am portraying Sehmat’s patriotism in the film, I must also speak of her husband Iqbal’s love for his country. Why should one patriotism come at the cost of another? If we have our patriotism, we ought to let them have theirs. For me to love my country, I don’t have to hate another.
In the end, it is always intent that matters most. When we made Talvar (2015), we never wanted to ride the wave of controversy. We wanted to tell both sides of the story because the reporting, we felt, had been skewed. We didn’t have a solution to offer. We only wanted to put all the information out there. It is that intent which, I think, shows through. Portrayals of patriotism are similar in that respect.
My depictions of patriotism, however unconscious, are impacted by my intent. My country, for me, is my people, my city, and my environment. It’s certainly not an ideology. I do not have to tattoo the tricolour on my face to express love for my country. I believe that if I immerse myself in work, I can come up with a little something that might help make this nation better.
MY COUNTRY, FOR ME, IS MY PEOPLE, MY CITY, AND MY ENVIRONMENT. IT IS CERTAINLY NOT AN IDEOLOGY. I DO NOT HAVE TO TATTOO THE TRICOLOUR ON MY FACE TO EXPRESS LOVE FOR MY COUNTRY