Many years ago, there used to be a very popular club in
Bandra, Poison. They used to serve a certain type of cocktail in dark, black
flute glasses. Sometimes, they would have fashion shows or an assortment of celebrity
mixers. It was more affordable than Olive Bar and Kitchen, another tony
restaurant near Union Park. Anyway, sometimes a bunch of us would be invited to
these parties because we knew the DJ or the decorator or the caterer’s
second-cousin’s parakeet keeper.
And in one of such events, I once saw a trio of men – John Abraham,
Milind Soman, and Arjun Rampal. In motion.
It was a sight to behold because they looked like a magazine
cover. And while each of these gentlemen was good-looking, Arjun Rampal looked
like the male equivalent of the Taj Mahal. There was something about his
absolutely perfect symmetrical face and bearing that made him seem a little out
of this world. Exactly like the Taj Mahal – all very beautiful to behold, but
you can’t imagine a life there.
Around that time, the person who had sneaked us in told me
that all 3 of them were now going to stop modelling and get into movies. Or at
least two of them were. Who knew what Milind Soman would be up to? I remember Arjun
Rampal’s unlined face, tranquil eyes, gazelle-type, delicate smile and thinking,
“Him?”
Which is why the impact of Major Iqbal’s character in Dhurandhar
was quite a surprise for me. I thought Dhurandhar 1 was too violent, and as a
huge Sanjay Dutt fan, I was flummoxed about his absolute disconnect from the
rest of the story. He didn’t seem to care too much about Kandahar or India or,
for that matter, even Pakistan. But…the swag in Pathani was promised. And
delivered.
But in the first part, there is an ultra-gruesome scene of Major
Iqbal torturing an Indian spy. As he coldly and methodically executes the pain,
he explains how pivotal the speech by Jinnah was. He was a child when he heard
Jinnah espouse the military doctrine of “bleeding India with a thousand cuts.”
There was something so quietly manic about the rendition of that dialog that
made one curious about that man. What needed to happen to someone so drastically
that he had to embrace this kind of cruelty without a chink in his armor?
Unlike the other Liyari brethren, all swayed and drunk with power, passion,
etc., something about him was so stealthy – because nothing seemed to matter to
him other than the doctrine of a leader who was long gone.
And that is why, in the second part, I was not really very
surprised when he killed his father. But I was quite taken in by the way the
build-up to that part of the story. The major’s father, we are told, is a war
veteran who tom-toms his conquests during the Bangladesh war. He berates his
own son for not being able to sire a son. And all this while being in a
wheelchair. Iqbal has a mentally challenged daughter, and you see the tiresome burden
of perception he has to carry for wanting a strong nation when his own house is
in shambles.
Anyway, there are a number of times we see the Major’s
father insulting his son. His son calmly removed his daughter from the
situation and then asked an attendant to take his father away. And then, one
day, drowning his father in the bathtub because he allowed himself to see his
father for who he really was – a coward. And then it adds up…the fixation with
Jinnah, the embracing of the doctrine, the insistence on listening to the screams
of the kafirs he wants to torture and kill because he has not been able to accept
his own helplessness. He couldn’t protect his mother. He couldn’t save his
daughter from his father's insults. The country he works for is fragmented beyond measure. There is no purpose
in sight.
Which is why in the last confrontation scene, Hamza’s
backstabbing seemed to pain him so much. By that time, a man of his stature and
position must have seen enough greed and shifting loyalties to not really be
surprised by what Hamza has done. In fact, one could argue that he may have even expected it. But I think, from whatever I saw of him in that scene, he lurched
when he saw his father in his adversary, or rather that part of the father
that he had despised all his life. He didn’t stand a chance against Hamza – not
because he was Indian or a supreme warrior. He didn’t stand a chance against a
man who had accepted death and distance from his family multiple times.
Peace does make you powerful. And before it does that, it
destroys you in so many ways.
Now, I wonder if all this was intended by the director or
the writer, or even the actor. Or did I see all that because I am now getting
interested in generational and epigenetic trauma? So when something connects
with you…what really connects and who does it connect with?
Anyway, Dhurandhar 2 reminded me of that evening long ago
when an incredibly beautiful man caused me to ask myself: “Him?”
Yes. Him.
