homebound

a review of my life

Mitski did some irreversible modification to my brain when she sang I cry at the start of every movie, I guess because I wish I was making things, too. Every time I go to watch a film, specifically in theatres, or cinema halls as we like to say, I do feel this sense of absence from my life. There are certain real life limitations that are tied to my feet, and I drag myself to work and back and here and there, all with a heaviness that reaches the heart from the feet. I need to do Something that carries a meaning. A truth.

Recently booked a late night show for Neeraj Ghaywan’s Homebound. I had heard enough, seen enough about it to know that I would like it. Masaan, and Juice, and Geeli Puchchi – all the films that you turn to when you want to see something Good & Real are his creations, so I was not in for a bad surprise.

Homebound is based on an essay featured in The New York Times by Kashmiri journalist Basharat Peer. It recounts the story of “two young migrant workers in Surat, who were caught in the COVID-19 lockdown in March 2020.” I had somehow ended up reading that article when I was reading anything and everything I could find, perhaps a recommendation by somebody on the internet, or it had landed in my inbox.

I am considering backspacing everything I have written, this sounds too article-y, too MA papery. Let’s drop it, start afresh.

I watched the film in Hyderabad, where Ghaywan was born. I am somebody who suffers from “interconnectivity” – I want everything to connect to each other, justify within itself, otherwise I won’t be able to carry on living. Everything means something, otherwise why is it there?

Let me review the film before I move ahead. Fantastic. Go and watch it. Give money to these movies. Give it praise and accolades. Give such stories the courage to come out in the open, especially in the times that we are living in.

Okay, moving on.

The theatre was cold, but I was appropriately dressed. My phone was at 31 percent, and I had fed myself so that I would be able to sit through it all. The movie started at 10:55 pm, or at least the ads did. I watched trailers for all films that in the moment felt watch-worthy, even if it was ironically. An annoying couple sat next to me, who started eating even before the movie started. They were definitely north Indian, which gave me even more courage to say something to them. I ended up shushing them, telling them to shut (the fuck) up. I hope they suffer everyday bit by bit, in ways that throw them off their routine. I do not like people who talk during the movies. I am not going to the movies to make out, to flirt, to talk, to eat. I am going there to have an intimate moment with pictures on the screen, I am there to listen to things on a volume that is otherwise unattainable unless you are in a baraat. So, yes, thank you, I would like a ticket for one, and one only. And if everybody else can clear out as well, it would be ideal.

The plot is not the point; it is a fact, it is history. The actual point of Homebound is the characters. Jahnvi Kapoor did a good job. I really hope she believes in whatever she portrayed; if nothing, it will give her cushy life some flavour. I am glad nobody darkened her skin.

When she mentions that she saw her father fail, so she was perhaps asking Chandan to compensate, it made me feel an ache in my heart. I wanted to run out immediately and call the proof of love in my life and apologise for being hard on him. When she talks about how education is the only way for emancipation, I felt reassured about PhD in the future. I felt reassured, the only thing I could do, being from the general category. Picture an old lady nodding along to Chief Keef, it is not for her, but it is music to somebody, and Chief Keef rocks. The worst parallel award goes to me right now.

The scenes are beautiful. There’s light, and it diminishes like an eclipse taking over Chandan and Shoaib, over and over, in various periods of their lives. When they are on the top of the truck, running from the police in the streets, walking across a drought ridden field somewhere in North India. The light comes and goes. It envelops Chandan’s mother in the last few minutes, but her entire being is outlined and coloured with darkness. That’s what happens when your ghar ka chirag (the light of your life) goes out.

The tragedy keeps on building upon itself. Chandan is one of the best characters ever. He is stuck in a place that has no way out, he says it so himself. You look at him and you see a boy, lost. Why does this boy not have the same privilege as the other boys he plays cricket with? He is just a boy who is in love with his friend, another boy. Why are these two boys always getting the shorter end of the stick? You think the same questions that have been echoed everywhere, especially in academic spaces, in air conditioned halls, in papers that mean nothing once you have presented it, in rallies and protest sites that have to keep happening because if you stop pushing or lose momentum you are done for. Sitting in the audience, as somebody who does not have a life like the Chandans or Shoaibs, but who has a lot of them in the most personal version of my life, I could do nothing but send out a prayer to everything out there.

The friendship between Chandan and Shoaib reminded me of these two people I know, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit like an outsider, staring at something so entirely unattached to myself, and I felt sad and pathetic about the fact that I do not have anybody like that in my own life. But that happens, anything and everything serves as a reminder about my halfness in this world – the certain kind of halfness that is only fulfilled by a friend who will be the Mikey to your Nicky, Gazzara to your Cassavetes (yes, of course, I am Cassavetes, who else?), and now, Chandan to your Shoaib.

Throughout the movie, I cried a lot of times. I cried in the beginning because I was sitting with so many people and watching something together. Peoplehood, even if half of these people are a nuisance. Go to the theatres and watch Homebound, and people-watch. See the kind of people who have come to watch, who have the privilege of affording a ticket, and maybe the popcorn. Before you feel like the audience is misplaced, think about how these people made a choice to come and watch this – and they will take home something from it. Maybe it will not change them entirely, maybe they won’t be at the frontlines of resistance tomorrow morning, maybe they will start being kinder to the people around them, maybe nothing will change. That is what this world is about – it’s not the beauty of the world; it is a mere fact.

Coming back to the crying. I cried for my father, whom I have been missing intensely lately, and for the first time, I feel like going home all the time. I don’t know why that is. Probably because he lost his own father recently, and I am just scared for him, he is just an orphan out in the world, and he is so old, but he is NOT fragile, but he is my father and – yeah, well. I cried for Chandan’s sister, and I cried for Chandan&Sudha, I cried for Chandan&Shoaib, I cried for Shoaib. I cried in a way that is helpless, but I know I am better than this. I can’t sit and weep and call it a day. I have a lot a lot a lot to do.

There is Babasaheb in the movie; Chandan has a photo of him in his wallet. It reminded me of the stencil of Che in my favourite canteen in university, where I would sit and read quietly for hours. It reminds me of the Independence, Democracy, Socialism (zindabad) flag in my room. It reminds me of the hammer&sickle printout I took from my friend Hari’s wall when he vacated the hostel. There is a lot to do sathiyon.

I am perhaps getting carried away in the disillusioned city girl MA degree manner. I am getting too emotional about this. Let’s be practical now. I am quick to cry lately, forgive me.

The bottom line is, the movie is excellent. I think this Oscar entry makes up for Laapata Ladies. Neeraj Ghaywan, you are wonderful. Please go watch it. Watch it and make your friends watch it and watch out for everything from now on.

Mitski, take the lead.

But I’m working for the knife

I used to think I would tell stories

But nobody cared for the stories I had about

No good guys.