piyush jha

One of the most enduring images of Kashmir is that of the South-Indian soldier standing guard over native Kashmiris.

What goes through the mind of this man from the south, as he stands on a highway thousands of miles away from his home, staring at people, searching for anyone who looks like trouble? Does he understand the people he guards? Does he know the wrong one from the right? What does he read in their eyes when they look at him?

I spoke to a few of these soldiers and officers. When I asked them what they thought of this land that was quite alien for them, they stared back stoically, and said, “This is our country too”. Their take on the “Kashmir issue” was the regular “We are only doing our jobs”.

I decided to probe further, but surreptitiously. I spent a day watching a South-Indian soldier on duty across the street from my hotel. I sat in my room all day observing him through my semi-shut hotel room window, and noting his every action.

He stood at the same spot all day, staring at people with his expressionless eyes, taking a break only for a quick rolled Roti. During the day, he stopped four people and questioned them with a semi-stern face. However, whenever a bunch of school kids would pass, he would become a soft, smiling, crinkly-eyed friend. He spoke and joked with these kids. On one occasion he let a passing schoolboy touch his gun, then snatched it way in mock anger, bursting out in a laugh as he saw the boy’s shocked face. The boy gave him a friendly salute, and went on his way. The soldier went back to staring at passersby. But, this time his eyes were a little softer.

Towards the evening, I strolled up to him and offered him some biscuits. He refused politely. A little embarrassed, I tried to make conversation with him. He sort of hesitated every time before he answered my questions, never taking his eyes off the street. I realized that I was disturbing him, so I decided to leave. As I was leaving, I asked him the final question, “Where are you from”? “. “Kanyakumari District, Tamil Nadu”, was his reply.

As I began to write my script, this soldier kept coming back to mind. Thus, was born Lt. Col. Rajesh Rao, the South-Indian army commander of the area that Sikandar lives in. On one hand, Rajesh Rao uses force to bring peace, while on the other, he believes in giving people second chances. Although, quite young, his years in Kashmir have given him the ability to see beyond the obvious. However, his job is made difficult because he has to steer through the under-currents, of the political and religious kind.

After I had finished narrating the script to Madhavan, he sat back and told me he had been a diligent NCC cadet in his growing years, and had wanted to join the Army. Somehow, he didn’t follow that dream, but ended up becoming a film star instead.

For years he had wanted to do an Army man’s role in a film. Although, he’d been offered many a role, he hadn’t quite agreed with the characterization.

I sat back wondering where this was leading. Till he smiled and said, that’d he had loved the role, and believed that Lt. Col. Rajesh Rao was a character that was made for him.

And so, Madhavan from Chennai, Tamil Nadu traveled to Pahalgam, Kashmir, quite like the “Unknown Soldier” from Kanyakumari who perhaps still stands guard on some street in Kashmir.

I was a seller of packaged goods. A snake-oil salesman. A man who sold people products that they didn’t need.

But, I wasn’t like that always. In my college years, I was what you can call ‘a concerned citizen’. I, like so many others, believed in a better tomorrow for all Indians. I had dreams that I would make a difference. Those poems of my youth were lost somewhere when I set out on the quest to earn my daily bread.

One fine day, as I was partaking of my daily dose of TV, an orphan boy from Kashmir called out to me from the TV screen. He looked at me and said “Are you only going to visit me on 2 minute specials on news channels”? “Will you continue to switch the channel even before this impassioned report is over”? “Am I ignored because I’m not economically viable”? “I’m not saying that I want you to revel in my misery, but, can’t you at least spare a thought”.

I brushed him aside like a breadcrumb. Laughing to myself, thinking, who wants to see cinema about the downtrodden? The ‘Other India’ is squeezed out of film. Packaged love brings happy smiles, and sells more popcorn. Reality is acceptable only if brought to you in a pop song instead of on the blow of a hammer. My days in the real world had given me the experience that the foolish idealism of my youth had bowed down to the taste of today.

But, that orphan boy just wouldn’t go away. Every time I’d switch on the TV, I’d see his face lurking in the shadows of the Cola and Chips ads, standing next to my favourite item girl, staring at me with those lost eyes.

I began to go back down the path I came. Like Hansel and Gretel, I searched for the crumbs of idealism that I’d dropped along the way. I went for a drive down the road that I’d forgotten and saw the teeming millions living just a 100 kms away from my urban abode. The great unwashed, the huddled masses, the people that are being swept under the shining carpet of new-India.

I spent eight months traveling and searching, till my search led me back to my own doorstep, where I found Sikandar sitting patiently. He spoke from inside me and said “Tell them my story, but tell it in a way that keeps them interested in me. Make them feel me in their guts and their hearts. I’m unloved, make them love me.”

I grew up on a staple diet of the Parallel Cinema of the 80s. I loved those films. They had their own simple recipes. Social issues were the main course, served with a curry of characters that lived lives of quiet desperation. No Achar, no Papad, no dessert. I stuck solidly with the diet, till it gave me indigestion.

After a few groundbreaking films, they all started seeming the same. It was as if I was eating a bowl of the same food everyday. The characters were all so morose, with problems similar to each other, and the Bhashanbaazi that abounded, could be cut-pasted from one film to another.

How I wished these films served me up some excitement. How I desperately wanted to be thrilled, intrigued or swept off my feet while understanding the complexities of life. I wondered why Parallel Cinema was always trying to be documentary in its filming approach, instead of using the cinematic tools available to anyone who decides to make a film.

When I went to watch a ‘Masala Film’ those days, I admired the filmmaker’s desperate need to entertain you. To have you rolling in the aisles, to fill your heart with a warm fuzzy feeling, to have you reaching for the handkerchiefs. I came out of these movies feeling as if I’d been taken on a trip. Sometimes the trip was enjoyable, at most times it was not.

The questions that sprang in my mind in those days have shaped my filmmaking vision. Why couldn’t some filmmaker marry these two forms together? Why didn’t someone make you laugh while giving you an insight into a social issue? Why couldn’t a film give you a warm fuzzy feeling while taking you into the lives of ordinary people?

Today I am the chef, and I’m serving the audience with a kind of film that I wanted to see when I was growing up. A film that will hopefully move you emotionally, and thrill you viscerally at the same time. I’m glad that I was able to get a chance to create this experiment, with no other cook trying to spoil the broth.

Sikandar releases on 21st, August. Enjoy you meal.

Does your film have a “Feel Good Factor”? This was an oft asked question as I went about trying to get my film backed by Producers. “Why pray, is this necessary, if I may ask you, with humble regards, dear sir”? I mumbled every time.

Pat came the reply, “It is easier to go into a cinema hall with a general idea of a film”, “People want an easy-to-understand narrative”, “At the end of the three hours there should be something that they themselves can easily identify with”.

As I walked out with the door swinging shut behind me, my mind would swirl. Is every film maker supposed to work only on “feel good” films? Because, no one want to feel challenged? No one wants to think? Is that really true? Is the audience only interested in doses of syrup, to help calm their feverish lives?

“But, the audience needs some magic”,  “It is needed for box-office hits!” are the defensive, belligerent cries.

But, isn’t a good film one that takes you by surprise? A film devoid of the frills? Because, life and human nature always present a kaleidoscope of possibilities, with various tributaries of circumstances that could lead to places never imagined.

It is my belief that the audience is not an idiot, the audience is your “wife”, and she knows everything.

In ‘Sikandar’, I’ve presented challenge, after challenge. I’ve ensured that there would be no yearning for any dumbed-down frills. No forced “Feel Good Factor”, but no one will feel bad. I guarantee, that the audience will be engaged in trying to guess the outcome of the layer upon layer of circumstances that unfold, after Sikandar, one fine day, finds a gun on the path to school.

The film’s “magic” lies in understanding that Sikandar could be your child, your brother, or you. But, about the box-office magic, I have no clue.

Sikandar is any adolescent trying to understand the confusing realities unfolding before his eyes. Aspirations, dreams, wishes and fears layer the racing mind of any 14-year-old, and Sikandar is no different. How many times haven’t we as adults come across people who share the same agonies, fears, growing up stories, parental dilemma and manipulation? How often haven’t we been convinced that almost every child is the perfect bait for the games adults play?

Sikandar is incidentally a Kashmiri, who is oblivious to the conflict in the valley. Almost. All he wants to do is play football and he bends his energy towards reaching his goals, notwithstanding the tribulations of being born and living in a conflict zone. A Kashmiri child is like any other in India – loves sports, Hindi films, mother’s delicacies, and is unaware of what the real world is. His world oscillates around schoolbooks and friends, and trying to be cool and up-to-date with the latest fads. The similarity among children across the globe permeates through the parental pressures that they fall prey to, and the toy that children become in the hands of these adults. Children play, and adults play with their innocent minds.

Sikandar is more than just an boy trying to understand why a gun is a gun, and trying hard to sieve the good from bad, the good from the better. His story could unfold anywhere. Under a different circumstance, and perhaps a different context, would have led Sikandar to take a different path? Perhaps a different upbringing wouldn’t have made such an impact on him? Perhaps. But then, everything is about the human psyche – the geography or the history hardly matters to a kid who wants to sleep happy at night, fulfilled that he scored his goal on the real football field. A child can never see the field of human games, and Sikandar’s story is just about this sort of innocent blindness.

So, what goes through our minds when see hear the word “Kashmir”? Nine times out of ten, it will invoke images of AK-47 wielding young terrorists. We will shudder if any of our friends suggest going for a holiday to Kashmir. We will dismiss Kashmir as a “problem”: someone else’s problem.
The truth is that the Kashmir is in most parts- safe, and yes it is still one of the most beautiful places on the face of the earth. The average Kashmiri has absolutely the same aspirations as the average Joe from Bihar, Andhra Pradesh or Maharashtra; i.e. upward mobility.
The average Kashmiri kid wants to be a Doctor-Lawyer-Engineer and/or Sharukh- Sachin- Bhaichung. He wants the latest Mp3 players, 24 hrs Hi-Speed broadband, and wants to take part in reality shows. In other words, the average young person is not oiling his AK-47 for the next strike, but is waiting for the rest of the country to accept him into the national mainstream.
When I realized the above, I went about creating a dramatic script for a film. A film that will bring forth to national mainstream cinemagoers a perspective that will perhaps change their view. Of course, the film needs to be an exciting, thrilling piece instead of some boring bhashan baazi, which will make the viewer snore.
The initial trials of my film ‘Sikandar’, are making me confident that I have been able to achieve this dual goal.
I‘m just waiting for the film to hit the cinemas for the people’s verdict.

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