Before this film, I knew the bare
minimum about Chamkila. And that’s how Imtiaz Ali introduced Chamkila to us - from a stage, amidst the thunderous applause
of his fans. Our hero is arriving from some distant horizon, to perform for his fans
but only to be silenced by some faceless killers. When Chamkila and Amarjot
were shot - I was shocked, not saddened or filled with grief, just stunned.
Isn't it always shocking to witness someone's demise? But the loss didn't hit
close to home. And why would it? I mean I don’t even know this guy.
And so begins our odyssey, a
journey through the tapestry of Chamkila's life - his struggles, his triumphs,
his follies, and his love.
And before the film ends, we find
ourselves back where it began but this time we are not fans waiting for him to
come on stage. There’s a shift in the perspective, we are seated with them in
the car, and we observe them intimately – as if they cease to be some random performers
and Imtiaz did it, without stripping them of their charisma. As they step out of the car, we feel the
weight of impending tragedy. This time, when we watch them die, the grief is
personal. It lingers and digs its claws deep. This time, the moment is felt, this
time it evokes intimacy, sadness, and the joy of knowing them, in equal
measure.
The song "Ishq Mitaiye," emerges within the movie at a very pivotal point. 1980s Punjab. Disturbed and burning. The lyrics, Ni Maye Mera Ishq Mitaye Haye Haye, Ishq Mitaye Haye Haye "O Mother, my love destroys/O Mother, my love creates…Long live the fire and water within me," serve as a prophetic ode to Chamkila – love both crafting and consuming him. The very essence of art breathed life into Chamkila while ultimately killing Amar Singh. He serenades his motherland, Punjab, seeking to bring a smile to her face through his songs. And amidst the violence and chaos, he says “Mein Hoon Punjab”- as if Chamkila has merged with the very soul of the land. When plagued by violence and cruelty, Punjab responds with joy and laughter. Akhadas remain crowded and undeterred. In that moment, Chamikla becomes an idea.
It’s pretty interesting that
despite all the obscenity in his songs, which the DSP found Kitsch, Chamkila
always sang in duet. There was a moment when he was struggling to find a steady
female singer until he met Amarjot. So
far we have just seen just men engrossed in his melodies within the akharas.
Where are the women? And then come the women. The women, crooning lewd songs at
weddings, listening to him secretly. These women are bound by patriarchal shackles,
yet still, their smiles endure, and their voices harmonize, echoing the spirit of
Punjab. If Chamika was Punjab, these women were Chamkila in their clandestine
obscenity. The women are largely unbothered by his lyrics because they know
it's more about the flawed male psyche than about them. They embrace Chamkila
as an ally in his own misogyny. And perhaps that's all they desire - honesty
amidst imperfection, acceptance despite flaws. Much like the song “Ishq Mitaiye”,
contrast persists. Chamkila isn't just cherished by lecherous men; he's adored
by women.
The character of the DSP is a societal gaze into the life of Chamkila, without him the film falls flat. And I loved what
Imtiaz has done with this character. When in an argument, one of the proteges of
Chamkila says “So you think only dirty people listen to his songs” he very
firmly says “Yes dirty and uncouth people”. To him, Chamkila is a non-essential
rot of society. He intervenes when his constable becomes aggressive against
that young protege and when he says “We have done these plays in colleges, but reality
offers you different answers” we see the veneer of rigidity fading and we get a
deeper gauze in his character. It appears as if he too was once filled with the
idealist values. But with time, reality has chipped away at those edges. In that
moment we see how most of us, like that DSP have embraced practicality,
adjusting our values to fit the world as it is. The world, where idealism often
takes a backseat to what's achievable. Trading philosophy for pragmatism.
Exhaustion evident in his deep breaths, the
DSP sinks into his seat as he delivers his powerful monologue. CUT! In the next
scene, we see, Chamkila striding confidently toward the stage, determined to
deliver his performance. DAMNIT! That’s beautiful.
Imtiaz Ali skillfully contrasts the characters
of DSP and Chamkila once more. We witness DSP entering his home, annoyed by
something, he approaches the window, gazing outside with irritation. The screen
splits to show Chamkila and Amarjot passionately singing their song, unaware
and unconcerned. We see the irritation of DSP and the joy of Chamkila in a
single frame. Pure Cinematic molten cocaine, right in the veins!
Wait! It gets better, here it seems that DSP's
annoyance stems from someone outside his home listening to Chamkila's songs,
something beyond the confines of his control. In his final scene, DSP is
entering his house with newfound humility, his steps slower than usual. As he
hears Chamkila's music playing within the house, he realizes it's his own son
who is listening. His son discreetly hides the cassette, reminiscent of how he
concealed it in the police van earlier in front of his constables. However,
instead of reacting with anger and frustration, DSP allows his son to listen to
Chamkila.
FLIPS TABLE IN EXCITEMENT YOU MF THIS IS LOVE.
Chamkila doesn't have answers for us. He
understands his life and music but he refuses to impose his truth on us. Amar
Singh Sandhiyal, christened Chamikla by mistake, but he wears the moniker with
pride. Being an artist, that's his very essence, his raison d'être - even if it
costs him everything. There’s a sense of acceptance in him as he says " They
wield guns; they will shoot; we wield music we will sing” when he meets the journalist
and in his answers, we see he's come to terms with being a product of his environment
yet he rebels in his humility. The overarching narrative of the film. He
doesn't allow his caste to define him entirely; he takes risks, and forms his own
band. He sings lewd songs because he knows they sell; his fans want that. And yet
he transcends our expectations by singing devotional songs. Chamkila rebels
incessantly in his life but ever so quietly and with humility and he sings with
such graceful shamelessness. A simple act of lighting a cigarette in the car,
despite having agreed to not sing and smoke, becomes an act of defiance. His akharas
just didn't literally break a roof but his voice, in all its vulgarity,
shattered the glass ceiling that society had caged itself in. In his rebel, Rockstar’s
Jordan appears as a petulant child compared with Chamkila (Also, I feel Sadda
Haq and Ishq Mitaye have that Venn Diagram vibes to their differences and
similarities).
In one of the last scenes, we see the movie "Patola,"
featuring a song of Chamkila, people are dancing, despite the
overarching melancholy. Finding solace amid sorrow, a sentiment
Chamkila himself embodied. Here, the film contrasts with reality. Onscreen, we
witness the ecstatic crowd, a reflection of what the Chamkila had always done
in his akharas or what the theatre audience would have been had the movie been
released in theatres.
