Dilli Door Ast

Almost always around on our cinemascapes,the Delhi film has been enjoying a recent renaissance,solidifying its presence,colouring itself in. It is being shaped by young filmmakers who grew up in the galis and chaubaras,the colonies and the enclaves,who leapt on to green-and-yellow DTCbuses,who partook of ‘chang’ at Majnu ka Tila and Tib Dhabs (Tibetan Dhaba,whose grungy sit-downs dished out hot noodles and hotter intoxicants to generations of impoverished students),romanced in the Ridge (the heavily forested area that borders Delhi University),who took their first dates to the no-longer existing Chanakya theatre,and who were subsequently chased by thullas looking to make a fast buck while they were making out behind a bush in Lodi Garden. Or the other plentiful parks in Nai Dilli. Or just eating kebabs and chaat in the Walled City.

The overarching hegemony of the Bombay film has been such that there seems to have been no other city in this country. Hindi cinema for the longest time has swayed to tapori rhythms,or in the balle balle Punjabi that comes from the filmmakers who washed up in Bombay before and after the Partition,and who populated the movies with long-living mundas,kudis. The bijis and baujis are still in business,and will always be,as long as there are takers for sarson ka sagas. What are the odds that Yash Chopra,in his next,will not get Salman and his voti to not break roti-shoti,or the kind of fasts that get broken under a moon and a chalni? There are a zillion pativratas who have never held a sieve on that day,and gone quietly about their business,but after Messers BR-Yash-Adi-Karan,can anyone believe that?

So we fell gratefully upon the Delhi bravehearts who decided to take the Mumbai film head on and shove it aside. The days when the dapper Dev led the lovely Nutan down the Qutub steps,humming that immortal melody involving dil and bhanwars,are long gone. So has the hero,whom we lost last week. The Delhi of today’s filmmakers should be reflective of the city,which is in its biggest churn since Independence,and which is glaringly obvious as it goes about celebrating its 100th year as the capital of New India.

When Dibakar Banerjee takes us into a crowded West Delhi ‘clony’ and shows us a young boy sitting on a charpai next to a buxom matron busy folding her oversize bras,that is a moment not committed to celluloid before. When Imtiaz Ali shows Ranbir strumming a guitar under that tree,looking at that other famous college across the street,scoffing yet wanting to be there,that is unveiling a very Delhi sentiment. Or santimant,if you prefer. When Habib Faisal gets his Dimple Chadda to tell her father off,that is a true girl who makes us laugh. So what if she was galt? She would never say galat,not even if her life depended on it.

But having seen all these Delhis unraveling in the past couple of years,I’m suddenly struck by how stuck-in-a-loop it’s all getting. Banerjee’s Love Sex Aur Dhoka had the salesgirl who spoke in a broad Jat accent,was brash and refreshing. Faisal’s Dimple is not too far from that anonymous girl,even if divided by wealth: that girl is in sales,this one goes to sales. That one is looking for an AmBeeA degree to get out of the departmental store ki naukri; this one is dutifully poised to go off to into an AmBeeA’s arms,and live happily ever after. Dimpal (yes,that’s the way it’s pronounced,okay,not this effete convent school Dimple) being Daddy’s Darling,no?

I’ve been looking for a Delhi movie which would not give me India Gate. Or Connaught Place. Or some other imarat which would underline the fact that it’s all happening in Dilli. Chandni Chowk’s crowded galis were the best part of Delhi 6,even if Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra didn’t quite make the most of his story. But by now,those galis,and conmen hiding-in-burqas in this year’s Delhi Belly have got old.

Like any other great city,and especially a city like Delhi which embraces the old and new like no other,Dilli is not a template. It is a work in progress. Show me.

shubhra.gupta @expressindia.com