Caution : This is going to be vague, and rambling at best. Venture with caution...
"Sunflowers. Vincent van Gogh.
He painted what he felt, not what he saw. People didn’t understand. To them, it seemed childlike and crude. It took years for them to recognize his actual technique......to see the way his brush strokes seemed to make the night sky move.
Yet, he never sold a painting in his lifetime. This is his self-portrait. There’s no camouflage, no romance. Honesty." Thus spake Katherine Watson in Mona Lisa Smile to her young subjects while trying to impress upon them the need to understand and appreciate ART, and most of all, the need to be true to oneself, one’s vision, and most importantly.
To keep one’s ear attuned to that particular piper, who beckons you down that alluring, yet different path. I wonder what it must be to be a brilliant man amongst mediocres, for fools you can suffer gladly, its mediocrity which really hurts, it has a way of overshadowing brilliance, making brilliance stand all alone, where mediocres are free to throw stones at it, hurt it, kill it.
Its quite funny... I was talking to a friend the other day, as to how I decide if I am gonna watch a Hindi movie, based on its promo. There’s a certain click inside your head and its more of the movie choosing you than the other way round...
It was the same when I saw Luck By Chance, Dev D, and now Delhi 6. So all this hoopla about critics, reviews, star ratings frankly does not matter at all. Anyways, coming to Delhi 6. Let me mince no words. This my friends, is not your main stream run of the mill cinema. This is a thinker’s expression, and if I am sounding smug and appear to be a snob, so be it. (I have recently discovered the magic of alliteration, bear with me.)
Anyways, here I was, with absolutely no clue of what the movie was about, other than masakalli, and the fact that there was Rishi Kapoor, a fact which helped me bribe my Dad to come along. As you all know, to help his grandmother spend her last days in peace, and to appease his stubborn father’s conscience.
Roshan comes to India, looks in awe, at the people around him, ridicules them at time, and then ends up saying about them, "Nal mein paani ho na ho, aankhon ka paani hamesha barasne ko taiyaar rehta hai". He looks on indulgently at the two sparring brothers, Om Puri and Pavan Malhotra, who need no excuse to engage in a verbal duel, but whose wives and kids are in perfect sync, often exchanging pakodas, gossip and other bits of life through a loose brick in the wall which acts as the dividing line.
He tickles the funny bone when the old Lalaji (Prem Chopra), walks in with his child bride at the Ram Lila and without batting an eye lid, everyone blesses her with "Sada Suhagin Raho". I mean, what are the odds of PC even living for another 5 more years? He finds himself being friends witht he affable street side jalebi vendor Mumdu(Deepak Dobriyal, brilliant), who is an ardent devotee of Hanumaan, and finds himself being drawn in the war of words between the local idiot Gobar(Atul Kulkarnee, do I need to say anything) and the low caste.
Untouchable street sweeper girl Jalebi(Divya Dutta). In between, he forms a bond with the twinkle eyed Begh Saahab (Rishi Kapoor), who often acts as the mediator or go between the confused Roshan and the others, and gets drawn towards Bittoo, a young girl anxious to break free of her patriarchal family, saying, "Main ye nahi jaanti ki mujhe kya chahiye, par ye jaanti hoon ki kya nahi chahiye." From Ram Leelas and jaagrans to cows who stop traffic because they give birth in the middle of the road, Roshan’s Dilli soujorn becomes an eye opener.
Hamne maana dakkan mein hain , bahut se kadr-e-sukhan, par kaun jaye ae zauk, ye dilli ki galiyan chhorh kar There is no doubt that Delhi 6 is an intensely personal film to Mehra, and somehow, its this very quality which makes it warm. I smiled in pleasure when I saw Ram Lila being enacted for I was reminded of my school days when getting homework done during the navratra days was a priority so that one could watch RamLila during the nights. I hummed along the Genda phool picturisation, reminded of the time my mother and grandmother used to make pickles sitting on the roof top of the old house. My personal favorites were the Sufi with the mirror, and the radio, which embodied the soul of the father.