An Insignificant Man

I had anticipated An Insignificant Man for a long time, being also a crowdfunder to the film with a very tiny contribution. The film, originally and better titled as "Proposition for a Revolution", has, however, disappointed me, notable for its focus on one man (Aam Aadmi Party, or AAP, founder Arvind Kejriwal) rather than the film's stated aim of focusing on the evolution of a new political party.

The biggest letdown of the documentary film is its linear narrative, which ends with the unexpected good performance (for some) of the AAP in its very first legislative elections. Unexpected for the uninitiated, but the Indian knows the story, and the film thus ends up giving some thrilling political narrative with some grit around it, but is absent of substance, is absent of thought. It focuses too much on Kejriwal and Yogendra Yadav, essentially doing the same what Kejriwal himself has been repeatedly accused of: personality cult. Electoral battles, however, are not won by mere charisma, especially when it's on a wide scale and for the first time, and when you face more charismatic leaders in the opposition (BJP's Modi): they are rather won through grassroots successes, which the film gives a mere glimpse of. The film could have focused on a few aam candidates, a few constituencies within Delhi: for it is the workings of politics that need to be shed light upon and that would provoke thought, not the tired old story (especially by now) of the outsider storming to power. The film, though it claims to be impartial, also does worship Kejriwal: it does not focus on opponents, except when it is a weak opponent in her weak moments, as Sheila Dikshit during her moments of arrogance. What of Modi or even the very weak Harsh Vardhan? To show victory, you have to show what got defeated (and, then, BJP stood first in those elections). The film's linear narrative, which though misses out on the Anna Hazare context except a visual in the beginning, only makes the film be like one of those Hollywood sports movies, at the end of which the underdog does win, against all odds. All political thought, except when preached by Yadav, serving as punctuations in the film, is absent. For that to happen, the film should have engaged with party volunteers as well as voters and opposition candidates, rather than revolving around Kejriwal. And with less Yadav preaching. The film is not supposed to be a Kejriwal biopic, one must remember.

Meanwhile, the film does simplify matters to those audiences who know nothing about Kejriwal, notably foreign audiences: hence, it is a film that can run well on the festival circuit. The sheer complexity of India, and its electoral exercise, is a mind-boggling one, which is captured in detail in the film, and that can impress or stun (or confuse) a Western viewer, some of whom are too often used to think of themselves as the only democracies. The film's subtitling in English, though, is terrible, at least for now: colourful or idiomatic Hindi is replaced with staid English phrases. The title of the film itself, which is the unique title of the film including in India, does it great disservice; it in fact gives impression of a reality that does not exist, something ironic for a documentary: aam aadmi does not mean "an insignificant man", but "a common man". In the film as well, Kejriwal's proclamation that he is but an aam aadmi is again subtitled as "insignificant man", so that is very clearly a conscious choice. Yes, the mango man does carry nuances of insignificance, but that is already packed in the English word "common". If Kejriwal had meant to call his party that of "insignificant" men, Hindi does not lack words: to translate "common" as "insignificant" elevates the thrill of the (now insignificant) outsider, the David, versus the established, the Goliath; it also heightens bitterness, and at the same time gives a distorted picture of Indian polity and society.

The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

The film tries its hand at humour, and does succeed at times; where it succeeds the most, even if unwittingly, is in being also a very depressing film. While trying to stereotype India, the India where only an Englishman can do something worthwhile (explain dunking toast in tea, visiting a maidservant/low-caste woman, telling how a cricket bat should be held, fixing a leaking tap, keeping accounts - and you better watch the film for the complete enumeration) and the Indian can only play capers and do frauds on people with the chalta hai attitude, the film in fact ends up stereotyping, very miserably, very unjustly (as all stereotyping is), the British themselves: unable to see beyond money and sex? The character of Evelyn Greenslade, played by Judi Dench, is the one most cruelly disappointing: even she was just after the usual rigmarole of companionship, sex and so-called independence! Oh dear! Tati could not have projected this circus in a better way: only, I highly doubt if the filmmakers of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel wished it that way. Interestingly, judging the high opinion in which the film is kept in many quarters, the stereotyping is certainly based on some reality: otherwise, how is that possible? (It would not be amiss here to recall another film, the French superhit of 2011, Intouchables, for the same combination of a film playing on stereotypes becoming a huge hit among critics and masses alike.)

The film starts well: the hypocrisy and heartburns in each character's lives are very believable, very much part of the Tati and Barnum play. But, then, the film nosedives: more and lower. The choices of language are interesting: a normal rickshaw puller is shown speaking in English (and quite fine words), but then why not the old cook and the maidservant? (Should it also be reminded here that the film reinforces European notions of caste and economic class being one?) The choices of language get further interesting: what kind of language is that character from Arsenic and Old Lace - yes, I do mean the Dev Patel character - using? The only worthy wit in cut-and-dried British style comes from the Anglo-Indian club secretary (Denzil Smith): of course not from the slavishly adoring maid.

The biggest flaw of the film is its British characters: the film ends, and yet all of them are where they were. How, where did they develop as humans? If a story starts at point A and ends right there, and no point B, then either you are Jacques Tati and making that as your point, or you are just expressing a very sad aspect of modern life, of modern Britain here: that there's no story (anymore?). No one discovers the rhythm of India, the spirituality of India, the peace of India, the non-aggression of India; running after their unrealized desires, they only discover a new woman in bed, a new man to call their own, a new confidence, a new self-respect, begotten from minds and eyes still in colonial awe.

And yet, are all the minds and eyes in India (still) under that colonial awe? Are they as awestruck by a society which does not even know what to do with their old? That won't be a comfortable question to pose to those who made the film: finding India a jumble and never able to go beneath the rumble.

Champ of the Camp

While someone who is familiar with Hindi movies, like me, might still enjoy to some extent this feature, just because of the songs, it will certainly be a harder take for those not steeped in that context: for the documentary is not very well made, and in fact there rise several questions if it could be called a documentary or just a promotional video. This is a major sore point in watching Champ of the Camp, and all the more so since many viewers decide to watch a film after going through its (official) trailer: the much-interviewed organisers of the singing competition, which in itself has not been questioned at all in the film, are missing completely from the trailer, leaving a very different picture in the mind of the viewer to what the film in reality is. The reality is that the questioning of the gimmick of having a singing competition to market products is not even in the frame of the film: how so? Are the workers of the "labor camps" not the naive, innocent or willingly participating exploited ones, exploited by those who organise this singing competition itself? There is a lack of voices in the film: we have those who are participating, who are willing to gain some notoriety, some fame, some money, some gifts, and we have those who are selling the event, but none of this is questioned. Where are the questioners? Where are the voices of those not getting sold, not selling?

The film reminds me of those ads in newspapers which are not that visible as ads: the ones which counsel you on your falling hair, give some history of traditional methods of falling hair, give you some statistics and some testimonies, and during all that also sell some particular brand of shampoo. Is that an ad or an article? Is this a film or a promotional video? There is also little context, little work done in the background: labor migrants are even in India. A labourer of Uttar Pradesh working in Bangalore is in a much worse condition than those who are working in the Gulf: and as much far from his family, or even more, for with hardly any money, how frequently can he go to his hometown? Nor can he often call his family, living the life of a nomad and in rough company. So why this story and not that? Why not the thousand other stories?

Of course, each story is worthy to be told: but it is the writer, the director, the narrator who tells us why. It is a privilege when an audience seeks your story, hears your story: it is not a right to be assumed with no responsibility, it is not an access to be trifled with. I had not watched the film with high expectations, for the trailer itself gives a clue in that respect: however, I had not expected the film to be such a brazenly made promotional film. It is possible that the director may not have had other means of accessing the story: but, then, if no other way is there, why not wait till a way is found?

Court (2014)

The beauty of a film like Court is that it hardly takes sides: or that it takes the side of observing, not interpreting, except the position that justice is sleeping in India. And if you wake justice up, it will slap you hard in your face and continue sleeping. The film is about many different dharmas: each being is doing their own, and it is difficult to tell who is tarred and who is not by the taint of good and bad. Or maybe, such a thing as good and bad does not exist: each life follows its own course, dictated by choices, circumstances and laws.

Heroism is absent in the film: and yet many people are doing things that can be termed as heroic. Vora, the defence lawyer, is fighting cases for people who don't have money to pay him and he is even giving loans for their bail amounts: but he is also a privileged member, having access to panels that bring him publicity and supermarkets. Yet, are these incompatible? The public prosecutor has the usual middle-class life and might seem virtuous for that reason to many: yet, her dharma is to fight a case regardless of whether a person is guilty or not of something, and her leisure is to enjoy some anti-immigrant bashing. Vora cannot even speak Marathi well, the local lingo: how she must squirm fighting a case with him as the tireless opponent is left to the imagination of the viewer. Narayan Kamble himself, the man on whom an unjust case has been foisted, does not rouse any sympathy in the viewer's mind: he too is simply following his duty as he thinks it fit, to rouse trouble. That does not translate into his actions when he teaches some school kids, for example: he is content to follow the rote learning system of India. And the judge is very zealous of his obligations: to keep out women dressed not enough for him, for which he has eyes, but to turn a blind eye to the merits of a case, for which no amount of procedure will be enough except years of counsel or resignation. Meanwhile, the widow has moved on: life's daily deals are more than a handful, and she knows the worth of her own life or that of her deceased husband - nothing. While the two lawyers further their interests, and a worthless worker in the gutters becomes a pawn, she remains detached and practical: it is living, surviving itself that presents itself to her as her dharma.

A brilliant film in its restraint, very remarkable in a bitter commentary on Indian justice, Court has the ability to make a statement that may be heard - if not now, then later. Director Tamhane is doing his dharma - he may lose this round, but maybe not a next one, just like what Atticus did. For dharma is not business. Or if it is, it is a long-term investment.

Ship of Theseus

While life is yours, live joyously;
None can escape Death's searching eye:
When once this frame of ours they burn,
How shall it e'er again return?
- Madhava Vidyaranya, 14th century AD

Social status depends not upon your accomplishments, but in the ownership of property; wealth is now the source of virtue; passion and luxury are the sole bonds between spouses; falsity and lying are the conditions of success in life; sexuality is the sole source of human enjoyment; religion, a superficial and empty ritual, is confused with spirituality. 
- Vishnu Purana, ca. 100 BC [a prediction of the modern age]

Ship of Theseus "tries to" ask if there is a beyond outside the body, the material world: if you were to create a man with different parts, would that still be a man (a life, rather, since the emphasis is not just on humans), or would something still be missing? (And what would that be?) Its intentions "seem to" be to address the opposition between two of the ancient Hindu schools of thought, as quoted above: one dualist, the other not; one believing in soul, the other believing in the here and now and nothing else. However, unfortunately, the film ends along with Life of Pi as one of the several recent successful spirituality-driven hoaxes: it seems that such stuff has become the new business, with audiences fed up of investments and shopping in upmarket malls wanting some instant dose of spirituality. What else are discussions between Kabi and Shukla (playing the characters of Maitreya and Charvaka in the film) except for some "Learn to Be Spiritual in 10 Minutes" crash course?

One of the main reasons for this film to suffer the same fate as Life of Pi's is once again heavy reliance on technology: director Gandhi may or may not have used the most high-end equipment to shoot his film. However, it's the film's stunning cinematography and graphics that keep the film propped up, more than anything else. A couple of other good things that Gandhi did was to keep background scores away, often (ab)used to give some 'epicality' to the film; plus use of a decent cast and "cleaner" urban India (thus keeping the film focused to the spiritual narrative it wants to tell). However, with the lack of substance in the film, the props can only support this much: it "can get only this much good."

The most important blot on the film is in its most important-seeming story: that of Maitreya, the (Jain) monk. It is easy to ask questions, but it's the clues one needs to provide, one's own insights, through art. The questions are already there. What's the answer of Maitreya to Charvaka's "What's the difference between you and a suicide bomber?" A lame "Are you really making that analogy?" Why not? In fact, what's the problem with the suicide bomber? Is he, who at least hasn't lost the capability of believing, not better than someone who can't do so? Maitreya's apparent irritation to being compared with a suicide bomber comes across, and makes you understand that the director doesn't know his own story: he has been able to think only till the skin depth of questions, then it's all dense.

For beliefs are not meant to be established through reason. For if I love someone, I can never prove it. I may feel it. The beloved might or might not feel it. In any case, there is no proof. Love is simply belief. Nothing less. A believer who tries to explain his belief is already an unbeliever: belief is Mira's devotion to Krishna, it is what spirituality is all about. Gandhi has reduced the flame of spirituality to its cinders of religion, and mistook the latter as the former: Maitreya tries to explain away his institutional duties and abidings by saying that it's important to look beyond symbols. But why to have symbols? While Western philosophy works through creating more and more symbols for esoteric circles of intellectuals, spirituality works through removing more and more symbols for esoteric circles of believers, for those who have the supreme capacity to be ever joyous, to believe. Symbols are meant for those who can't look beyond them: a form of spiritual spoon-feeding. And yet no one can be spoon-fed: wisdom has to come to oneself from within, from one's own experiences. The film itself abounds with references, the intellectual's favourite symbols. And yet, Gandhi is unable to build any of his characters in the film, except to a certain extent that of Sohum Shah in the third story: and that is where his film lacks pitifully. More importantly, it is clear that the film belongs to yet another pseudo-spiritualist class of work, that the person telling the story has himself not the inclination or the ability (or both) to think more deeply of what he's saying.

Once the lack of substance prevails, there is nothing much else in the film to watch, for there is hardly any storyline except in the third (Shah's) story (which also has some good comic moments). One pity is that the Hindi dialogues are very inaccurately subtitled by the filmmakers themselves: but that is hardly any new trend in a world and a film where 'karma' and 'karmic' is bandied about half a dozen times with the standard Western meaning of the word while all along pretending to portray Indian thought. The only reason to watch it once is its cinematography, plus for those unaware of Indian nonviolent traditions, to get introduced to them. If you have missed watching this film, there's nothing to regret.

Life of Pi

When a film claims itself to be "spiritual," I often subconsciously compare it with Dreyer's works, in particular Ordet. Belief in God is not some wild frenzy, whereas in Life of Pi it seems to be always the case with all stages of Pi Patel, except maybe that of a mellowed Irrfan Khan (and not to be able to place the pulse on this mellowing in the film's story is an irritant). Is it indeed a spiritual film, or simply a showcase of what all can be done with computers?

If only this can be done with computers, then I am very disappointed: because even on the level of visual imagery, I much prefer animation shorts like Hedgehog in the Fog or Father and Daughter, rather than this sequence of ocean storms that fail to touch and move. Probably, for those who can't get enough of India, since outside of documentaries focussing on poverty there is not much material, not as much as India deserves, it's still satisfying to get some of Pondicherry and Munnar: but, as an Indian viewer, I have seen India in a much more satisfying way in many other films. Nishabd's is a story rooted in Munnar's tea gardens: an organic part of the whole. Frozen creates poetry from humans and the snowy, Himalayan space surrounding them. Kisna sparkles with the freshness of Gangetic rivers and valleys. In contrast, Life of Pi is such an utter disappointment: it fails to catch not only the Indian atmosphere, but also the Indian landscapes. And fails miserably. In spite of fine actors all over (except Rafe Spall playing the writer).

The film's greatest gift is the discovery of a brilliant actor, Suraj Sharma, playing the lead role. It remains to be seen whether he can go on now to build a fine acting career, but in this film at least he has given a stunningly good performance. Irrfan Khan usually overacts these days, but surprisingly in this film he has not, and also looks good, as does Tabu. Depardieu is brilliant in such a short role, though I was quite bitter to find him for such a short time. Both boys playing Pi have also done a great job - a more difficult task, considering that good child actors are always in paucity. And, yet, it's a pity, that given such wealth, the film has gone nowhere: most importantly, in its argument, if it is trying to make one.

God isn't to be proved or disproved, pertinently not through miracles: especially when those miracles are created on a computer. The effect is like watching all those Santa Claus films with a Western teen audience, wherein the teens are enjoying the film as some 'fun', even if they poke fun at the Santa legend. The most crucial difference between Life of Pi and Ordet is that whereas in the latter it is the believer who is pushed out of society, a mad man, in the former it is the man standing for reason (Pi's father, well played by Adil Hussain) that is cornered: when this is done, inevitably Belief stands in the dock. And how can Truth ever defend itself? For defence itself means coming inside the ambit of Reason, means accepting the duality of white and black, true and false, whereas Truth lies not somewhere there.

Kites

Yes, Kites is indeed Koyla stylised, repackaged, and trimmed, and in fact a much inferior version of the latter. Yes, the Indian critics are right to rip it off for its complete lack of story and the actors' non-acting. But yet, the film I would say is more rather an introductory tutorial into the world of Indian cinema for the Western audiences, and in that it does the job: the warmth of the film stunningly contrasts with the coldness of Hollywood films and has been a major factor besides its very design that has made it the first ever Indian film to make it to the US top ten at the box office, and the chemistry between the lovers - Hrithik Roshan and Barbara Mori - is a sight to watch in spite of the two different languages they speak in - English and Spanish. Love is a lot like music.

While Koyla brimmed over with anger and focused on the angst of a man, Kites chooses to remain being a simple love story doomed to failure: in some senses, there is more of Ghai's Kisna to it than any other film. But instead of the Himalayas, this time we have the New Mexico's sunflooded arid landscapes. The beauty of Kites lies in the fantasy feel to it: the love between Roshan and Mori seems like too good to be true, and yet it seems to be true. Even though the actors themselves don't know much about acting and have a limited stock of expressions on their faces, the chemistry between them is just alluring, and forgotten is their greed for money which brought their cruel fate onto them in the first place.

What is sad though however is so much non-use of Kangana Ranaut as to force her name as in a guest appearance in the credits roll: one of the finest actors of the world that she is, and reduced to a few minutes' screen time? Her character, too, could have been developed more: her father's one dialogue that he has seen her happy after a long time in itself sets in chain a thousand sequences that could have come off, that could have established another niche in the film, and all we have is just a jilted woman, who is shown to be obsessed so that the audience may not sympathise with her at all. On the other hand, the brother is rather more focused upon, in the old tradition of Hindi films where the villain was equally important as or even more than the hero, and it only makes the film a bit caricaturish. But then, as one US critic said of the film, everything is forgiven. It's a warm, crazy film, and just for the sake of that, it's not all that bad.

Sins

The man who gave one of the most honest and daring TV series that I've ever seen in my life, Reporter, Vinod Pande, gives a scathing indictment of the Catholic religion and completely rips off the tabernacles, the crosses hanging in ostentation, and the mumbled formulae, features of a religion that induces belief by fear and superstition as much as an affected belief that every man is your brother, or father.

Sins is easily one of the most erotic films I have ever seen across a spectrum of all the world cinema: the sex is not muted but wild, not painted in the rehearsed smooches of a Hollywood film but rather garish in one man's bestiality and one woman's greed, and not apologetic but telling us that it's indeed pleasure. Pleasure, however, for a Catholic priest to that extent that he ends at murder and is unrepentant, as long as he can take vows and kneel before Mother Mary and takes the rosary in his hands. The Catholic Church did everything to prevent its release in India, but failed to do so. It's easy to see why they never wanted it to be seen, though they could've easily ignored it: made in English, how many people were anyway expected to see this film? More than two-thirds would anyway be bench-warmers to gape at the nude scenes: but then doesn't a religion, especially ones which strike terror and lay down rules, run on such people?

Apparently the story of a priest who lusts after a young girl and then does everything to retain her in his power, one could think that the most one could derive is a mud slinging on the priests, not supposed to marry. But the film goes beyond that. After every sin, his salvation lies in confession, attending masses, praying: confess and do the sin. You already lightened the burden, placed it on Jesus through the medium of Church and pitied yourself: now you are free to earn more sins, the Son carried the crucifix for your sins and will do so. Finely woven are motifs where a parishioner explains why isn't she has been attending the church with regularity: fear and upbraiding leading man to the Church and thus supposedly to God. One of the best critiques of an organised institutionalised religion, the film also derives its power through the stunning acting performance of its lead actress Seema Rahmani.

At first feeling pleasure and willingly sharing each wrong of the priest (Shiney Ahuja), she slowly begins to be afraid of him: she has bedded a man who has repressed himself all his life and she is the vent now for his carnal instincts, for in fact everything that wasn't allowed to him while he blessed people with smiles and soft voice on his face, a man who holds power and has eyes and ears everywhere. Now the love metamorphoses into a physically abusive relationship, and from the first she was always a doll in his hands: but she realizes this now. Soon she would find kindness in another man, soon she would beg and hate the same man: and her every expression, even during the sex scenes in the film, lends power to the film. Set in southern Kerala, the green paradise of the world, the film however doesn't at all use any of the backdrops: what it strangely does is to try to mix up some Malayalam accent in the English which was not nice an experiment. Making it in English anyway meant an international audience, and it won't know the different accents within India, so there was no point at all marring the dialogues. Shiney of course, as seen many times, is great with facial expressions but leaves a lot to be desired with his dialogue delivery; what the film does have is a background music score that matches the film beautifully, and takes on the tempo as the sex climaxes, lulls again, picks it up again with another bout.

The film, let me warn you, is sickening! It is brilliant and the story and theme warranted it: and it succeeds. It does not lend a good aftertaste: the gruesome end doesn't help either. Shiney Ahuja's character also is one of the best studies I've seen of a psychotic killer who still believes that he loved her: better than any serial killer movies, Hitchcock movies, or films made upon elaborately pinpointed themes in that kind. It is indeed sad that India doesn't recognise its own good films, but runs behind something that the West praised or they think will praise. Of course one needs to have the sensibilities in the right place!

Parzania

It is only political correctness that is prompting people to not dare to say anything against the current, the current which might pit them with 'fundamentalists' and the 'regressionists' and something which can cause them to be looked as uneducated louts or stone-hearted intelligentsia. But, the point is that art is for art's sake, and not for preaching or propaganda or an advertisement for missing. If you've got to indulge also in any of these pleasures, then package it with an ultrafine veneer, so that not even the keenest of critics cannot see through, and even if they can the film's power and beauty compels them to shut off.

This is where Parzania fails, terribly. Fine efforts by Naseeruddin Shah and Sarika go in vain - since there's nothing else. The love within the family and the easy relations between the different communities living in the same chawl - they are only being tried to be shown. For one thing, when you know that the dialogues would have been in a local language, it's difficult to digest English, especially for things such as sundry and trivial remarks. Otherwise, Americanise the film. It is only the American who is using the f__ word so many times, but do the Indians not speak it? Most of them, especially the Gujaratis, speak it even more (of course, the local language variants) - then why not? You have shown so many different people in the film, of all shades and hues, and yet somehow all are looking so subdued, so dazed and insensible, so much like amateurs in a debutante play.

The gist of the problem? The film does not touch you, anywhere. It still connected with me, somehow, since I have experienced the riots, the volatile situation, that was in Gujarat those days, and always haunts any Gujarat/Maharashtra city or town, village or hamlet. Maybe, why that is the case, more on that sometime later, on my personal blog. The child artistes are terrible - they are neither good actors nor sensitive ones, and nor charming ones. Now, in such a scenario, how does a film, whose sole premise is the tragedy of a lost child, connect? The director has probably even taken the wrong pains - Parzan's sister is shown gaily swinging in each frame of the film, even when she is getting up daily to chalk up the remaining days. Maybe, the director thought that this would bring out the youthfulness of the girl, the innocence of the girl - but believe me, it is looking so much terribly out of place (and besides, no child, except probably a retarded one, would behave so). And when you juxtapose with the later dialogue of Sarika that her daughter is terribly unhappy on the inside and she only does not show it - it really comes to being ridiculous.

It's not only the child artistes. All the characters except Shah and Sarika are totally out of place. Raj Zutshi as a Muslim itself is terrible casting - and that too one with an angst? The Gandhian, the supposed mentor of the American in the film, is looking a total hypocrite and is making look the whole Gandhism a terrible flip-flop. There is no intensity, no key on which the film operates. It's just a mess of saffron flags, the insufferable child artistes (the newspaper boy another one who adds to the agony), the totally out-of-place music by Zakir Hussain, and a beautiful-looking Sarika. In spite of Naseeruddin's acting, it is she who, for me, somehow props the film - but pity that she is given such sketchy and immature bits as delivering a lecture at the end of the film - very melodramatic and very, very film-destructive. The only wonder that how did the film-makers manage to put the name of Pande in? Really courageous - for PC Pande, the then Ahmedabad commissioner of police, was and is the one guilty of so many people's blood - he should be actually hanged, simply.

The real problem is the story of the film itself. The real picture is a very complex one in Gujarat, and to simplify or bias it is not only unfair, but also trying to put a spoke in a smoothly running wheel. The story might have been based on the real-life search for a Parsi boy, but this is a film. Show a Muslim family itself. And I would show the angst, the bias, the aggression that most Muslims in India suffer from - it is true that they celebrate Pakistan's victories, they are always on the lookout to poke fun at Hindu gods and ways of living, and that they do not share any patriotism whatsoever for India. It is true, very true! The problems are different, and mainly two. One, the usual one of generalisation. Just because someone is a Muslim, you do not classify that person as another one of those who try to undermine India. Exceptions are always there anywhere, and they are not rare, but many. Two, even if someone is a biased Muslim, how do you have the right to tell that person to move on to somewhere, or to injure him or his property? That person is a human being first of all, and all other things are created by us. Circumcision is not something based on which you classify humankind - the point is sorely missed by the film. Another thing - the violence in Gujarat was only facilitated, and probably provoked, by the state government. But, the Hindus of Gujarat, usually a very timid and cowardly lot, are very rabid fundamentalists - and the opportunity was perfect to indulge in some foreplay. (I call it foreplay, since Gujarat was and is only the so-called lab for the Sangh Parivar; they still hope to indulge in the bloodshed wherever they can, on a genocidal scale.)