Last night, I dreamt I went to Mathura again (with due apology to Daphne du Maurier); on a foggy winter morning, in the Taj Express from New Delhi station. And then on a cycle rickshaw from Mathura Junction to Sadar Colony, to the “cement ki kothi ” by the peepal tree. It is my mother’s ancestral house, it still stands solid, strapping and stately as a repository of my childhood memories. Konkona Sen Sharma transported me back there with her beautifully measured and strikingly assured debut feature A Death In The Gunj .
Escape from the everyday
The Mathura home meant a much-needed escape for us from the everyday routine of the big city life to the innumerable small town adventures with an extended family of cousins, aunts and uncles for company. Quite like Sen Sharma’s fabulous ensemble, played by a consummate cast — Shutu (Vikrant Massey), Mimi (Kalki Koechlin), Bonnie (Tilottama Shome), Nandu (Gulshan Devaiah), Tani (Arya Sharma), Anupama Aunty (Tanuja), Bakshi Uncle (Om Puri), Vikram (Ranvir Shorey), Brian (Jim Sarbh) — on a family vacation in McCluskieganj.
Like their incessant chatter, games, lunches, dinners and picnics, our world was also about endless conversations and limitless family gossip, about a game of cards, reading bound volumes of Hindi comics(Bahadur, Mandrake, Phantom) and Reader’s Digest , and hearing Ghulam Ali ghazals and Manna Dey’s rendition of Harivansh Rai Bachchan’s Madhushala . All this punctuated by regular food breaks. And an occasional walk down to the haunted tehkhana ( cellar) right below the main bedroom for some delicious stabs of fear.
It is easy to lose yourself in the folds of this sanctuary: in the comfort and warmth it offers. The confidence and security stem from the fact that the family is something to which you can easily belong. Till you decide to be different, choose to walk at a tangent. The unconventional choices — be they related to career, ideology or relationships — are enough to alienate you from a world that was once yours and make you experience the pain of not being able to belong to anymore to what you had always been rooted in. You often become a distant observer rather than an active participant. Quite like Shutu, the beautiful boy with a lithe face and fluid expressions, the boy who just can’t seem to fit in.
The director presents a finely observed, lovingly detailed and immensely relatable slice of family life with Shutu at the core. A family that you find yourself getting invested in, despite all its secrets and lies, chaos and conflicts.
Shutu is a quiet, sensitive young man who, years later, is still trying to come to terms with his father’s death; who has failed his exams and isn’t able to live up to the expectations of his mother, family and society. A man in search of his elusive identity in a world that is unable to understand his vulnerable ways. A world that is unintentionally unkind and insensitive and often an obnoxious bully to him. A naïve, guileless man, Shutu’s deepest bond in the family, quite fittingly then, is with the youngest and the most innocent. What happens when he gets sullied and betrayed, how do things unravel when his last strong link with the family gets snapped? What happens when people don’t care enough to even notice his absence? Shutu holds a mirror to the life of every loner and non-conformist.
Strangely uplifting
Sen Sharma’s film is a tale of tragic dissipation that moves you deeply, but without pulling you down to the depths of despair or misery. It’s strangely uplifting even as it is affecting because of the way it tells the story: ever so gently. There is a stillness, quietude and tranquillity to the frames. Nothing screams out loud: be it the period setting or the costumes or the humour. There is a dainty, languid flow to her narration that is incredibly compelling, in tune with the haunting music by Sagar Desai, matching it note for note. Yet she also playfully surprises the audience, and often enough at that, breaking the eerie mood with a funny turn, punctuating tension with humour.
Her style is all about economy. She manages to flesh out the smallest of characters (even the pet dog and the turquoise Ambassador with the number plate 3026) even as she gives us a bigger picture of the tapestry of relationships. As a filmmaker, she achieves this not by elaborating or spelling things out but by slipping in little hints and perceptive details: a conversation here or a glance there.
Little touches stand out, be it capturing the quirks of people or that piece of cardboard under the leg of one of the wobbly chairs, that just about throws a frisky moment off balance. Or the social insight in the portrayal of the domestic workers: they are friends in their own right, who would readily be made part of the two kabaddi teams in the family match yet their place in the hierarchy is assigned, fixed and sealed.
The small town of McCluskieganj becomes a character in itself: a combination of mystery and melancholy, foretelling tragedies with its uneasy calm. In fact, the Anglo-Indian setting is often reminiscent of old British TV series, one of those Agatha Christie mysteries set in a distant hamlet. No wonder everything is there for a reason: be it a séance, a bike ride, a sponge cake stolen from a grave. And yet many a red herring too, to keep you on the edge. The gimmicky bookending of the narrative remains my only grouse and McCluskiegunj is now up next on the travel plan.
