Neeraj Ghaywan's Homebound is based on Basharat Peer's New York Times article, "A Friendship, a Pandemic, and a Death Beside the Highway," but one can also find faint similarities between Shazia Iqbal's Dhadak 2 and Ghaywan's drama. If Siddhant Chaturvedi's Neelesh tried to escape politics to focus solely on himself, Chandan Kumar (Vishal Jethwa) conceals his identity by falsifying it on forms and in the presence of other people, including government officials. Like Neelesh, Chandan doesn't understand English in college, and he, too, gets an invitation to a wedding from his girlfriend (Janhvi Kapoor). Also, let's not forget all those Ambedkar posters here and there. Homebound, in a sense, is what Dhadak 2 should have been. Iqbal, though, for all her good intentions, remained on the outside. She ultimately discarded the same bitter pill she had been forcefully feeding to the audience. Ghaywan, too, provides you with a bitter pill; however, he neither forces you to swallow it nor does he discard it. Rather, he gently places it in front of you and then dares you not to be moved by it. Ghaywan is first and foremost a humanist. When he puts the spotlight on characters who belong to the minority, he doesn't exploit their pain like a sensationalist. There are moments in Homebound when the background is briefly blurred, bringing the characters sharply into the foreground—people who are often overlooked by the mainstream. This showering of attention is devoid of exultation; it is meant to expose the dirt that has long been ignored or brushed aside by politicians and the privileged public.
Speaking of politicians, unlike Peer's article, Homebound doesn't launch direct attacks on any political party. Yet, the criticism is as sharp, as biting as it is in the piece. Homebound can be considered as a sibling of Anubhav Sinha's Bheed. In both movies, the people at the top are never seen, as they remained absent during the actual crisis, issuing orders from their ivory towers, from the comfort of their surroundings. It makes sense, then, that a top shot of migrant workers walking home at night beneath three streetlights feels "cinematic." To the person watching from above, the struggling crowd becomes fodder for entertainment, drama, and visual delight. But when Ghaywan's camera is on the ground and close to the characters — which is true for almost the entire film — what we experience is a series of intense emotional stings. One of them arrives when Chandan goes to the office to inquire about the police exam results, and he talks to a man who displays his contempt for reservations. The obvious way to admire this scene is by talking about its text, which burns a hole at the center of the screen. But this is also where Ghaywan shows his talent for directing actors skillfully. The employee, when he notices Chandan's pain and asks him to sit, looks sympathetic and kind. Having said that, he suddenly transforms into an ugly beast when he probes Chandan's name and caste, revealing his contempt for oppressed, marginalized communities. He humiliates and undresses Chandan with his malicious eyes.
The dominant political philosophy in India is rooted in Hindu ideology. The right wing openly prioritizes Hinduism over secularism, equality, and constitutional rights, and encourages Hindus to unite. But through Chandan Kumar, Ghaywan presents the absurdities of the so-called Hindus and their devotion to the caste system that actually destroys the concept of unity. The notion is taken one step ahead with the revelation of Chandan's full name: Chandan Kumar Valmiki. Interestingly, Valmiki was a great poet and the author of the Ramayana, an epic revered by all sections of Hindu society. Ghaywan's thoughts come across so subtly that he appears to be a man who can't help but chuckle at the state of the country. Ghaywan, though, is not always mocking the absurdities. There are scenes where he screams. When Mohammed Shoaib Ali (Ishaan Khatter) becomes the target of cheap jokes by colleagues who label him a "Pakistani," he puts his foot down, says enough is enough, and quits the company. Perhaps if he were not poor and Muslim, this moment could have become a turning point in an underdog story (a hero rejects a big corporation and its employees for his own dignity). Shoaib, however, is both poor and Muslim. He belongs to an India where someone can freely mock his religion, his identity, without worrying about any repercussions, any penalty. In the same way, Chandan's family — his mother (Shalini Vatsa) and his sister (Harshika Parmar) — are openly insulted because of their identity, and the people who pass contemptuous remarks walk freely without worrying about facing punishment from the concerned authorities.
Given the subject Ghaywan tackles, it's incredible that he manages to stay rational instead of painting the story with shades of black and white. If two police officers beat Chandan and Shoaib for breaking lockdown rules, two police officers also put them inside the ambulance later in the film. If an employee looks down on Shoaib due to his religion, then there is another employee who also recognizes and praises his sales skills. When Chandan goes to Shoaib's house to eat biryani and finds a lock on the door, two Muslims pass by, looking at him suspiciously. Everybody in Shoaib's house, though, treats Chandan like a member of their own family. Shoaib's mother (Sudipta Saxena) lends her support in expanding Chandan's home, and Chandan and Shoaib see each other as brothers — their friendship is all Hindu Muslim bhai bhai, or rather Dalit Muslim bhai bhai.
Perhaps expecting something as basic as equality and justice from a system that can't even conduct exams properly is asking too much. Nonetheless, one can't go through such a gloomy life without some hope, some motivation. Motivation is what Chandan hands out to Shoaib by using a cricket ball as an example. A ball's real purpose is in the air, and when it's in the air, it travels to its destination. One can add to Ghaywan's social and political commentary by noting that the air, which is carrying the ball, is polluted (the AQI score is always near or above full century). Anyway, one can view Chandan and Shoaib as cricket balls tossed in stormy weather. They are hurled mercilessly by the bat of life, each gust sending them further from their intended course. They veer far from the destinations they had hoped for, leaving them at the mercy of forces beyond their control. People like Chandan and Shoaib are often easily dismissed. They are treated as "use and throw" materials. Shoaib's boss likes Shoaib because he consistently generates profit for him. However, when someone makes a joke at Shoaib's expense, the same boss laughs openly instead of defending him. Parents generally trust people like Chandan's mother and sister to assist their children with bathroom needs and cleanup. But the moment they serve food to the kids, all hell breaks loose in an instant. In a larger context, it would be fair to say that politicians aim to please citizens when seeking votes during election rallies. However, once elected, they often make clumsy decisions for the public, brushing them aside and treating them as individuals to be controlled or ignored. This mirrors the behavior of the manager at the factory where Shoaib and Chandan work, who disregards his workers' concerns and phone calls when lockdown is enforced in the country.
Generally, in movies, best friends are portrayed as telepathic couples who can read each other's thoughts and share every secret. Ghaywan avoids this cliché, though. Shoaib and Chandan are brothers, but they also have their own boundaries. For instance, when Chandan buys slippers for his mother, he doesn't show them to Shoaib to ask for his opinion. He, in fact, hides the box from Shoaib and basically tells him to mind his own business. And this friendship undergoes great tension when Chandan passes the police exams and Shoaib is left working as a peon. Ghaywan derives tension from a PDF search, and when Chandan delivers the good news at his home, the frame is bright, yellowish, and cheerful. On the other hand, when Shoaib delivers the bad news to his parents, the frame is bluish, dark, and doleful. When Chandan and Shoaib score during a cricket match, the latter lifts the former on his shoulders and runs around happily. The same image takes on a depressing tone later, thanks to the chaos caused by the COVID-19 pandemic. Speaking of that cricket match, Chandan complains that the team won because of him, but due to his caste, no one cheered for him. A similar sentiment is echoed during another cricket match, where a Muslim player is celebrated for helping India win against Pakistan, but an ordinary Muslim man is mocked because of his religion, because of who he is.
What this means is that, despite the CBFC's decisions, the soul of Homebound remains intact in its very fabric. Ghaywan's gentle, empathetic filmmaking defeats the intrusion of hate and censorship. Ghaywan is a raw filmmaker, and his rawness is evident in the crying scenes. He effectively captures the primal pain that appears while wailing. Consider how Manoj Kumar Sharma reacts when he clears his exams in 12th Fail and how Deepak Kumar sobs when, in Masaan, Shaalu dies. When a Ghaywan character cries, the howl of anguish is both messy and oddly funny. I don't mean "funny" in a negative way. If you listen closely to someone bellowing in absolute agony, their high-pitched sounds can feel a little amusing. But that amusement is buried under layers of pain, so you neither laugh nor smile. Comedy, however, isolates this quality: it singles out the pitch, expands and exaggerates it, and sends you rolling in the aisles. Most works of drama do the opposite; they strip away this rawness by staging crying with theatricality (slow tears, controlled expressions, reddened eyes). Ghaywan, though, keeps everything. Notice how Chandan's mother's lips quiver before she begins to wail — and what a wail it is. Loud, high-pitched, and yes, for a few seconds, funny. That touch of reality is what makes a "Ghaywan Cry" so affecting. When a man weeps for his friend, you feel the weight of their shared suffering. On one layer, you see a broken system, a broken society. On another layer, a voice mournfully asks, "Saala ye dukh kahe khatam nahi hota bey?" The friends don't get an answer from the concerned authorities. The silence of those in power is deafening.
Final Score- [9/10]
Reviewed by - Vikas Yadav
Follow @vikasonorous on Twitter
Publisher at Midgard Times