Stranger Lives: AJEEB DAASTAANS—four uneven short films on life, love, and intersectionality
The four short films in Netflix’s Ajeeb Daastaans—far removed in theme and setting—are bound together by their ability to shock. And it’s Neeraj Ghaywan’s beautifully-crafted Geeli Pucchi that elevates the uneven anthology.
Geeli Pucchi, the most-promising short of the new four-part Netflix anthology Ajeeb Daastaans (2021), begins with the camera following Bharti Mandal (Konkana Sen Sharma) as she deftly performs her job as a factory worker. She is the sole woman in the factory, but no one treats her as such. There isn’t even a toilet for women. Bharti is expected to be just like the men, and this expectation is reflected in her mannerisms, too: her gait, her appearance, and her demeanor betray no signs of femininity. She is tough, fierce and wears her ambition on her sleeve. As the narrative progresses and the prejudices of her coworkers unfold, we understand that this borrowed ‘manliness’ is perhaps her only shield against the utterly patriarchal and casteist world that she inhabits.
An unforgettable world begins to unfold.
As nimble as Bharti is with her hands in the factory (in a back-handed compliment, her boss even calls her a ‘karigar’), she is restless to move up the ladder. She has her eyes firmly fixed on the desk job of a data-entry operator. Her hopes are dashed, however, as the job goes to Priya (Aditi Rao Hydari), a savarna woman who is half as qualified and competent as her. Situated at the opposite ends of the social spectrum, the women still gravitate towards each other. Theirs is a closeness facilitated by their shared gender.
Geeli Pucchi is not just a case of superior storytelling, but also offers a master class in getting the casting right. One of the most terrific actors of our times, [Konkana Sen] Sharma crawls under the skin of the character like the rasp of pen on freshly minted paper.
There is another defining similarity between the two seemingly different women: they are both queer. While Bharti has made peace with her ‘truth’, Priya is trapped in her ignorance. She exudes a childlike eagerness to befriend Bharti. Slowly we learn about her brief ‘friendship’ with Kavita, a once-beloved school friend whom she still fondly remembers. Perhaps Priya sees a bit of Kavita in Bharti, and is eager to fill the void she feels within by befriending her new colleague. Restrained, Bharti slowly gives in.
The women develop a bond which turns into an awkward intimacy: shared lunches, occasional hugs and a geeli pucchi. In the hands of another director the story could have taken a different turn, but Neeraj Ghaywan is invested in unraveling the complexities of intersectionality. He has dealt with caste and gender in previous work (Masaan, Juice), but by throwing in sexuality, he creates a layered narrative which provokes questions and exposes the messiness of the world and greyness of human relations.
After a big revelation, however, the cracks begin to show. It is clear that the chasm between the two women is after all too wide to bridge. Reason ultimately comes in the way, and that’s how the social order sustains itself. Ghaywan stages the conflict superbly: the director is not out there to make grand statement about an unfinished romance, but chooses to deal more with the practicalities of life.
The ending of the short film is particularly telling: there are no exaggerations, but the narrative is infused with a subtlety that lays bare the host of emotions that dictate human desire and actions. In shrewdly claiming what’s rightly hers, Bharti showcases her imperfections as a human being. She is an unlikely heroine who is not overflowing with the milk of human kindness. But does she have to be perfect to be seen, heard and understood?
Geeli Pucchi is not just a case of superior storytelling, but also offers a master class in getting the casting right. One of the most terrific actors of our times, Sharma crawls under the skin of the character like the rasp of pen on freshly minted paper. She nails the physicality of the character, but also wins you over with Bharti’s unparalleled rawness. Aditi Rao Hydari is cleverly cast with her delicate beauty exacerbating Priya’s predicament. It’s refreshing to see Rao in a role that not just banks on her beauty, but also gives her something to showcase her prowess as an actor.
Despite its heavy-handedness, Geeli Pucchi lingers in a way that none of the other shorts do in the anthology—particularly the opener, Majnu.
Set in Barabanki, Majnu is the story of Babloo (Jaideep Ahlawat) and Lipakshi (Fatima Sana Shaikh) who are trapped in a loveless marriage dictated by political exigency. A visibly jilted Babloo tells an expectant Lipakshi not to expect anything from him right at the outset. He is unapologetic because “Gathbandhan ki shaadi mei sabko compromise karna padta hai”, but he still expects her to maintain the ‘maryada’ of the house. This turns Lipakshi into a rebel and she transforms from a coy bride to a seductress burning with desire. Lipakshi’s transgression fuels the story and secrets come tumbling out of the closet turning the short into a messy cocktail of desire and revenge.
Majnu is a half-hearted attempt to create a universe we are all too familiar with. The past few years have seen an influx of small-town stories on the screen where parivaar, parampara and pratishtha (family, tradition, and prestige) reign supreme, where women are hapless victims in the hands of patriarchy. It has been done before and done better. Majnu neither has the controlled measure of Raat Akeli Hai (2020) nor the chutzpah of Mirzapur (2018-). The lack of heft in the story or depth in characterization is rivaled by the director’s insistence on introducing one twist after the other. The plot twists are particularly jarring and juvenile, making Majnu the weakest link in the anthology. It almost seems like director Shashank Khaitan pulled out a leaf from one of those never-ending soap operas on Indian television that demand complete supplication to irrationality.
Their broken pieces fit together. She is luminous, he is charming. Speaking in silences, the duo shares a crackling chemistry. Language makes way for signs, gestures and expressions. The silence is companionable; the romance in equal parts reeling and restrained.
If Majnu is unoriginal and outdated, Khilauna is sacrificed to sensationalism. The short shines a spotlight on three marginalized characters—housemaid Meenal (Nushrrat Bharuccha), her eight-year-old kid sister Binny (Inayat Verma), and a laundry man Sushil (Abhishek Banerjee)—as an indictment of the class divide that runs deep in our society. Meenal is a deceitful yet hardworking maid who is the sole guardian of her younger sister. She is also involved with Sushil which becomes the point of contention for Vinod Agarwal, the society’s sleazy secretary (he has his eyes set on Meenal). Her ‘katiya’ is terminated, and as fate would have it, Vinod is the only one who could help her set things right. Of course, this comes with a price and the narrative juggles between past and the present, predictability and suspense to make its point.
In choosing to tackle an underrepresented and uncomfortable topic, the short has its heart in the right place, but the execution is not only shoddy but also gimmicky. The characters are lacking in authenticity and seem far removed from their context. This is precisely the reason why despite the story building some intrigue, Khilauna fails to hit the right nodes. Instead of extending a compassionate gaze towards the outlier, the director ends up unnecessarily sexualising Meenal, resorting to stereotypes that further marginalise the marginalised.
Bharuccha is unconvincing as a housemaid. Comparisons with Bhumi Pednekar and Tilotama Shome in Lust Stories (2018) and Sir (2018) are inevitable, but she falls short by miles. The ending is supposed to be the revenge of the wronged, but ends up feeling more contrived than cathartic.
In the fractured world of Ajeeb Daastaans, the final short, titled Ankahi feels like a detour into the purer territory of love. It is the story of Natasha (Shefali Shah) and Kabir (Manav Kaul) who are brought together by chance. She is dealing with her daughter’s aggravating hearing impairment and a crumbling marriage when she accidently befriends Kabir, a deaf and mute photographer. Kabir wants to be understood; she wants to be heard. Their broken pieces fit together. She is luminous, he is charming. Speaking in silences, the duo shares a crackling chemistry. Language makes way for signs, gestures and expressions. The silence is companionable; the romance in equal parts reeling and restrained. There is a musicality to the scenes where Kabir and Natasha are together. The music fades as she walks into her world (the world where she is a mother and a wife) literally and metaphorically.
The story oscillates between hope and despair, bliss and sorrow, melody and cacophony, silence and noise, humour and gloom, hope and hopelessness—a nuanced meditation on human relationships in all their complexity. I could not stop thinking about the hesitant heartbreak that Natasha orchestrates and the unbearable depths of her breakdown as a result. Is such a romance too good to be true?
Just as she did in Once Again (2018), Shefali Shah skillfully masks the weariness of a woman torn between her desires and her duties as a mother. Her eyes are expressing, but often betray the chaos of her heart. Kaul meanwhile, reminded me of his impressive performance in Tumhari Sulu (2017), making one wonder why he has thus far been underutilised as a romantic lead.
The four shorts—far removed from each other in terms of theme and setting—are bound together by their ability to shock. Only two of the four—Geeli Pucchi and Ankhani—succeed in doing that. The rest, in their quest for being ‘ajeeb’ (strange), pale in comparison, and end up feeling hollow and superfluous.
Other than its fixation to shock, the anthology unwittingly binds its female characters with a common thread, all weighed down by the trappings of society. Lipakshi’s search for love makes her a pawn in the hands of men. She is shunned by one and exploited by the other. Meenal’s existence is a testimony to the multiple battles women from the marginalised communities have to routinely fight to merely scramble through life. Bharti’s caste, class and sexuality marginalises her three times over, while Priya is so subservient to patriarchal control that she can’t even recognise her own self. Natasha’s familial responsibilities stand in the way of love that can be truly redemptive.
The final scene of Ankahi will refuse to easily fade away from memory, as Natasha and Kadir’s eyes exude hurt, shock, love, and regret, underlining the harsh realities of life and the contradictions of being. Ajeeb Daastaans is far from being perfect, but Geeli Pucchi and Ankahi—the closing shorts—will leave you with questions on life’s predicaments, illusions, and the inconsistencies of love, and with a sliver of hope for the changing face of Indian storytelling.
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Harshita Murarka is a freelance writer and researcher based in Delhi. You can find her on Instagram: @nectar_in_a_sieve and Twitter: @HarshitaMurarka.
