A murder, a movie, and the man in between the two

What’s in a name? The name ‘Shahid’ could mean ‘witness’ or ‘martyred’ in Arabic. In Urdu, Shaheed means martyred, Shahid— witness.

On February 11, 2010, 32 year old lawyer and activist Shahid Azmi was gunned down by four men in his office at Taximen Colony, Kurla, Mumbai. He left behind a wall riddled with bullet holes and splattered with blood.

Next day morning, filmmaker Hansal Mehta read of Azmi’s killing in the front page of The Times Of India. A photograph of that wall, with blood and bullet holes, is all he can remember of the article today. An hour later, Mehta had tweeted: “I have found the subject for my next film.”

It had only been a few days since Mehta had moved into a new flat in Oshiwara, Mumbai. Two years ago, his last film, a Bollywood potboiler called Woodstock Villa, had led Mehta to claim he was “creatively dead”, and move to a house in Lonavla, a hill station a couple of hours away. But the distance from the city wasn’t allowing him to “do justice to his work”. “Also, I was getting very retired with my whole approach to life.”

So Mehta bought his first house (he had lived with his parents before this) in Bombay, the city he had been born and brought up in, or Mumbai, the city it had become. Mehta claims the reason Azmi’s story appealed to him was “a growing concern about the polarized world we live in. Mumbai’s second largest community is that of Muslims. And yet Mumbai is so deeply polarized, that the attitude towards Muslims is that they should be bracketed. They’ve also begun to take this bracketing very seriously— to live in this bubble.”

In 2000, after Mehta released his second film Dil Pe Mat Le Yaar!!, Shiv Sena workers stormed into his office to teach him a lesson for a dialogue from the film that they felt was ‘anti-Maharashtrian’, because it described Khar-Danda, an area in Mumbai, as a place where there was “loot-maar, chori (robbery, thievery)” and “ladkiyon ka adda (which implies prostitution)”. “They vandalized the office. I was thrashed,” is all Mehta says about the incident today. There is more in reports from the time and a blog post written by Mehta himself. His face was blackened with ink. He was summoned to Khar Danda to apologize to 20,000 people and 10 politicians and to kneel and touch his forehead to the feet of an elder there. (They threatened that such assaults would continue if he didn’t do this, they threatened to burn down the home of Kishore Kadam, who had acted in his movie). “There was no one to take up for me,” Mehta says. “(Mahesh) Bhatt Saab called me the day after this and said: We are with you.” The state government then was run by a coalition of the Indian National Congress (INC) and Nationalist Congress Party (NCP). NCP leader Chhagan Bhujbal called to say: “We will protect you,” to which Mehta replied: “The time to protect me has gone.” He felt “really let down by Bombay.”

***

A decade later, when Mehta read about Azmi’s murder, his only contact with the lawyer had been a phone call, where Mehta had asked him about an inmate who had been imprisoned at Mumbai’s Arthur Road Jail at the same time as Azmi. “He said he didn’t have time then, and to call him later,” Mehta remembers. “Perhaps he didn’t want to revisit those days.”

But Mehta has tried hard to revisit those days—that bridge the gap between two points in the life of a man that are on either side of the law, the gap in between witness and martyr—in the two and a half years after he read that report. In these years, claims Mehta, “I have lived with Shahid”.

***

In the beginning, for a few months, he read everything he could find on Azmi. “I wanted to stay with the idea. Nurture it to see if and how it could be a film.”

Sameer Gautam Singh, an aspiring screenwriter from Delhi, had asked Mehta to take a look at a script he had written during this time. “It was a twisted love story. I didn’t quite know how to respond to it.” When he didn’t, Singh sent Mehta a “strongly worded” email with lines like “‘you might not have time for me today, but one day you’ll have a lot of time for me’… or something like that,” Mehta recalls, laughing. When Singh visited Mehta’s office the next day and asked for his script back, Mehta met him and said he didn’t really identify with the script he had written, but asked him whether he would like to work on another idea.

Singh and Mehta’s son Jai did most of the initial legwork (“I felt that, in the beginning, if I  went, the family would see me as a person with vested interest— especially since my last movie didn’t lend itself to this kind of film.”). They interviewed Azmi’s family (his mother Rehana and brothers Tarique, Rashid, Arif and Khalid) and colleagues and spent time in the milieu Azmi had lived and worked in. Then Mehta met the family himself. Conversations with each family member opened up a new window: “Each of them had a distinct personal relationship with him.” Khalid, a lawyer himself, provided them with legal papers and pleas his brother had prepared for key cases. “They were almost entirely devoid of any legalese,” says Mehta, whose first film, …Jayate, is based on lawyers as well. “They were written in simple English.”

Key cases such as those of accused arrested under POTA (the Prevention of Terrorism Act) or MCOCA (the Maharashtra Control of Organized Crime Act) which were legislations that allowed for confessions extracted from the accused in police custody—often through torture, deceit or other questionable means—to be admissible in a court of law. Such confessions, even today, result in the imprisonment of the accused in terrorism cases, for long periods, without bail. Accused like Arif Paanwala (2002 Ghatkopar Bus Bombing), later acquitted, or those accused in the 7/11 Mumbai local train blasts, the 2006 Aurangabad Arms Haul, the 2006 Malegaon Blasts. Azmi secured 17 acquittals in a short-lived legal career of only seven years. Acquittals of men who had emerged out of crazed media furors and shoddy investigation work by enforcement authorities under pressure to deliver, who would dish out mug-shots that would be plastered on TV and in print, to create our poster boys of hatred, to be hated, a few for every season of terror strikes. In defending these poster boys,Azmi became something of a poster boy himself. Standing steadfast as witness to their cries in the wild, he became their martyr. His last well-known and well-hated client was Faheem Ansari, accused of conspiracy in the 26/11 attacks. He was acquitted on 3 May, 2010. But his name was finally cleared of any complicity in the attacks by the Supreme Court on August 29, 2012, two years, six months and 18 days after Azmi’s death, and 11 days before Mehta’s Shahid premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival.

Raj Kumar Yadav plays Azmi, an actor, not a star, even though not casting a star meant that Mehta had to compromise significantly on the budget of the film. Yadav was made a part of the research. He accompanied the team to lower courts, where they sat in on sessions and often surreptitiously clicked reference photographs from their phones to aid the authenticity of what they would create.

Mehta remembers that, while researching …Jayate, it had occurred to him that courtrooms were almost exactly “like fish markets”. But in the film itself he had shown the proceedings as sanitized and respectful, as they are in Bollywood, or even Hollywood, legal dramas. In Shahid, Mehta has tried to undo this. Lower court arguments, even those involving terrorism cases, often culminate in spats between advocates, on the court floor, that you cannot help but laugh out loud at. The fact that this laughter distracts you momentarily from the fact that a human life hangs in balance, makes the trial all the more horrific when you return your attention.

Khalid also provided the team with material that his brother and he had studied from for their LLB exams. Not thick law books, but printed and stapled ‘notes’, that sell faster than AIRs (All India Reporters that record the judgments for each and every case) at legal book stores. These notes concise each subject into 50 odd pages. Most students around India are familiar with them, many swear by them. Mehta filmed Yadav reading these notes diligently, when he wanted to show Azmi preparing for his law exams. He filmed Yadav in the same room that Azmi had once studied in, and he filmed him in other real locations, like the Dongri office of the Jamiat Ulama-i-Hind, an NGO providing legal aid to poor accused in terrorism cases, that Azmi fought many of his cases in consultation with.

***

The other side was trickier. Azmi is said to have joined a training camp in Pakistan Occupied Kashmir after the 1992 riots. “I had seen policemen killing people from my community. I have witnessed cold-blooded murders. This enraged me and I joined the resistance,” a 2004 report inThe Times Of India quotes him as saying. He was arrested by the Govandi Police on charges of communal violence, under TADA or the Terrorist and Disruptive Activities (Prevention) Act (which was finally repealed in 1995) when he was 16 (this was despite the fact that he was a minor). Additional charges framed against him, after he was arrested, were that he was conspiring to assassinate Shiv Sena supremo Bal Thackeray and J&K Chief Minister Farooq Abdullah. He was in jail for over five years, till 2001, when the Supreme Court acquitted him. It was in prison that he completed his graduation, as well as a post-graduate degree in Creative Writing. It was after Azmi was released that he studied law.

“The details about his time in Kashmir are very sketchy,” says Mehta. “No one (among his family and colleagues) talks about it.” Still, Mehta found one person, whose name he does not wish to disclose, who spoke about this time. “Especially about him missing his home, and his disillusionment with the movement,” Mehta says. Similarly, there were not many people who could recount the details of Azmi’s time in jail, though Mehta says he knows from what he has gleaned that it “transformed him”. Mehta says: “A lot of the film is based on what I imagined his journey to be.”

There is a scene in the film where Azmi has his face blackened by right wing goons. There is no account of this ever actually happening, though he did receive endless death threats for the cases he took up. But as Azmi saw himself in so many young men he was trying to save from unwarranted torture and imprisonment, so did Mehta see himself in Azmi. “That incident, in the film, was fiction. It was my connection with Shahid, who was persecuted in different ways,” Mehta says. “The truth of the matter is that that incident, what happened with me in 2000, has never left me. And that the violation of our basic right to expression has become even more deep-rooted today. When I see someone being violated, I go back to that incident.”

Mehta is happy with the fact that Khalid said, after watching the movie, that it was “95% accurate”. “When you see Raj Kumar, you do not remember him, you remember the character,” says Mehta about why he thinks Yadav has been an excellent choice for Azmi.

But there might be another reason. “As I listened to his words, I couldn’t help but fear for his future,” Letta Tayler, a researcher in the Terrorism and Counter-Terrorism program at the Human Rights Watch (HRW), had said about how she felt when she met Azmi in 2009. “The light he radiated seemed impossibly bright.” Perhaps the truth of the matter is that no actor, nor star, could have played Azmi. Even the best method actor would be at a loss as to how to recreate an aura that emerges out of a lifetime of pain, grit and inconceivable optimism (Azmi was not, as many self anointed saviours try to be, the light at the end of the tunnel. He was the light in it). Yadav, in his studied portrayal, has done the next best thing— paid a simple, wholehearted tribute to the man who is no more.

In a similar vein, Mehta’s script, which was initially non-linear and complicated (“When I showed people a linear script they felt it would be too long and boring”), was returned at the editing table to an unbroken storyline by his editor Apurva Asrani (who also has writing credits on the film). “He started a non-linear cut, then stopped, because he felt it wasn’t working,” says Mehta. “So, like with a documentary, we built the narrative on the table.”

Shahid‘s producer, Sunil Bohra, came to the shoot one day and asked Mehta: “What kind of director are you? There are no top-angle shots, no dolly, no rig. I’m telling you— you can take these things.” Mehta didn’t need to. “When he (Bohra) saw the film, he got it,” he says. To have stylized Shahid, this rare narrative of our times—not Gandhi, not Jodhaa Akbar, but a narrative that has been woven by us, that we continue to endure—would have been inappropriate. Mehta has played it straight. “I did not want to show off,” he says. “I did not want to manipulate the audience.” Thankfully. How much of life do we see through top-shots anyway?

Also thankfully, Mehta claims he hasn’t had to make any cuts to the film to have it passed by the Central Board of Film Certification (though a crew member reveals that the refusal to remove a scene that shows Azmi being tortured on arrest may have gained him an A certificate). Of course the moral police may come knocking on his door again, but “this time,” says Mehta: “I am not afraid. I will not take it lying down.”

So, unlike in so many other cases, once Shahid releases we may just see the same film that was lauded at so many festivals. Festivals where, in front of cinema theatres full of people, Azmi has been shot, right at the beginning of each showing. The film goes on for a gripping two hours, at the end of which the scene plays out again leaving, each time, a wall ridden with holes.

Who were the men who shot Shahid Azmi? Who sent them? These are the first questions Mehta has been asked by audiences at each festival. “The sad part of our investigation processes is that you never know what really happened,” he says. “There is only speculation. And there are vested interests (that misdirect the investigation).” He also says: “For me, who killed him is irrelevant. It angers me enough that someone walked into his office and killed him.” He adds: “There are mainstream films, like Kurbaan, that provide you with both the problem and the solution— often a half-baked solution. What do you take back from the theatre? Nothing!”

***

Perhaps it is just as well that Mehta didn’t delve into who killed Azmi. Doing so could have been read as a filmmaker commenting on a subject that was sub judice by the Court and, like Black Friday (directed by Anurag Kashyap, one of this film’s co-producers), Shahid’s release might have been delayed endlessly. Mehta, however denies that this was a consideration. He claims his decision was purely creative. And it pays off well. The identity of his killers, like the proverbial elephant in the room, begins to bother the viewer. The blood stained wall looms large and follows you out of the theatre. Perhaps this is Shahid‘s greatest strength. By not telling you, it makes you want to know.

In February, 2010, the month in which Azmi was murdered, four accused were arrested under MCOCA in connection with the case. They were Devendra Jagtap, Pintu Dagale, Hasmukh Solanki and Vinod Vichare. The police claim the accused were members of a gang run by Bharat Nepali. Four months later, in June, Azmi’s peon Inder Singh, the only key witness in the case who was present at the office, received a threat call that was traced to Gujarat. In November, the same year, a gangster was gunned down by suspected Chhota Rajan henchmen in Bangkok. The police have now confirmed this was Nepali.

On January 20, 2011, a MCOCA Court dropped its special charges against the accused because it found no evidence of the fact that “pecuniary gains were made in the crime, a mandatory aspect for MCOCA charges.” Then, on April 8, 2011, Crime Branch officials apprehended a man, named by the press only as ‘Munna’, with a gun and a few live cartridges at the Kala Ghoda Court. Munna had allegedly arrived there, with an accomplice, to free the four accused who were in a hearing at the Court then.

On July 23, 2012, the Bombay High Court granted bail to Vichare, against a personal bond of Rs 50,000, because he was not “shown to be present” during the assassination.

***

“Do you think Mohamed Atta is a big terrorist? The guy who flew the plane into the World Trade Centre?” asks Mehta, when speaking of who could have killed Azmi. “Or Kasab? The real perpetrators, who gave the orders, are sitting pretty.”

Azmi’s death has been clouded by its share of conspiracy theories. There is a theory that he had received phone calls from underworld dons who were Muslim, congratulating him on his work, and that this angered Hindu gangsters such as Bharat Nepali, or Chhota Rajan, who got him killed. Another rumour is that intelligence agencies weren’t happy with the way he was blowing holes into the State’s cases, and making the enforcement look bad. And that he was aware of some greater conspiracy underfoot, that they wanted to hide. And so they wanted him out of the way.

Unlike Oliver Stone’s JFK, Mehta’s Shahid isn’t an investigation into any of these theories. Perhaps because, unlike JFK, which was released 28 years after the president’s assassination, it has only been three years since Azmi passed away, and there is no District Attorney called Jim Garrison asking the tough questions.

Or maybe there’s the irony. That Azmi was our Garrison, our witness, now martyred. “Human rights are violated by the most powerful,” says Mehta. “And the people who fight it have no protection.” Shahid is not a whodunit, but about a larger picture, he says. “If you ask me,” he says. “I think we killed Shahid.”

Musharraf Ali Farooqi on the secret subtext of a cult Pakistani film

Sometime in the 1970s the elders of a secret, Punjab-based foot-worshipping cult met at their Lahore headquarters. At issue was the recent decline in new recruits to the faith. One of the underlying reasons for this trend was the non-availability of the teachings in printed format that can be handed out to potential converts. But the publication of the long awaited Foot Worshippers’ Bible had been delayed again for security reasons. It was a difficult time for all minorities and smaller creeds. A lot of blood had been spilled in Punjab not too long ago over the religion issue. The elders had reason to be nervous. The publication of the book would draw unnecessary attention toward their small, vulnerable and select community.

There were no easy solutions to the dilemma being faced by the cult. Just when the elders were going to adjourn to reflect some more on the issue, a member offered a thought: as a way of getting their message out to the masses, the sum total of the ideology should be embedded in a love story and made into a cinematic production. This Manichean idea struck a chord with the elders. This unconventional but clever, avant-garde method of subliminally disseminating their message was just the thing to get them out of their predicament. The converts would follow in large bunches.

A vote was taken. The minor disagreement in the group showed in the few ‘no votes’ that were cast, but the majority were in favor. And so it was decided.

Embedding the foot, the leg and other associated symbols into this love story of unrequited love between two men was not easy, but it was not a challenge the highly creative elders could not overcome when they put their minds to it. By the time they congregated for their next meeting, they had found a way to do it. Fooling the Censor Board did not require much inventiveness but it was best to observe caution: relevant tactics were carefully discussed before they were adopted. The producer and the director were vetted and brought on board next.

The rest is well documented. Upon its release in 1979 the movie titled Maula Jatt was an instant box office hit. The elders were successful beyond their wildest dreams. Millions were converted to the faith. But intolerance had risen in the society, and the ever careful elders decided that the members of the cult must continue to observe secrecy about their identity. Even today, one would find millions who would profess to be Maula Jatt fans, but not one of them would admit to being a closet foot-worshipper. As a result, there have been no proper studies that tell us about the underlying symbolism of the movie. A lot of questions remain unanswered.

The author of this essay does not by any means profess it to be a comprehensive study of the kind needed on the subject. It is but a humble attempt which he hopes will set the path and pave the way for future scholars to carry out more detailed work. The questions that require in-depth analysis of the movie and its sub-plots and which were beyond the scope of this essay are listed at the end. Those who mistake it for a film review will be invariably disappointed.

*

From the opening scene, the supremacy of the human foot is established when a certain lady in distress in a tight-fitting blue dress outruns a horse on which a villain is pursuing her. He manages to catch up with her only when she trips and falls.

But she has reached a safe haven. A protector has been found in the person of the mother of Maula Jatt. When the villain named Makha who is brother to the notorious Nuri Nutt perseveres in his evil intentions, Maula Jatt’s mother calls out to her son for help.

We have our first, feet-first introduction to Maula Jatt. We do not see his face, only his feet in stirrups. This style of introduction in which a character enters the movie feet first is based on the concept of breech birth when the child exits the birth canal feet first and would be repeated for another two powerful male characters.

Maula Jatt accosts Makha and passes his judgment after witnessing the situation: Makha had broken the peace pact between the Jatt and Nutt clans; therefore he must marry the lady in the tight-fitting blue dress (whom Maula Jatt has just now made his sister). Moreover, Makha Jatt must give his sister in marriage to someone in Maula Jatt’s clan. When Makha makes light of the demands, Maula Jatt’s best friend Mooda beats him up.

The lady in blue now delivers a powerful kick to Makha herself, and breaks into a bout of hysterical laughter. Then, after pounding the ground powerfully in a joyous dance, she gratuitously falls dead due to excessive bleeding from her feet. Thus, shortly after the feet-first birth of a character, we witness a character exiting the stage by dying through the feet.

Maula Jatt tells Makha that he had escaped his punishment; he should return and make preparations for his sister’s marriage, for Maula Jatt would be coming soon with Mooda in a wedding procession to bring her away as a bride. Makha returns home with his tail between his legs, only to be shot dead by his trigger-happy sister Daro (the lady in the tight-fitting pink dress with the rifle) for his sheer inability in kidnapping and raping a girl. She gallops away to kill Maula Jatt herself, and is accosted by Mooda along the way. She asks him to follow on his bullocks cart so that he could help her carry away Maula Jatt’s corpse. When Mooda learns that she is Nuri Nutt’s sister, he informs her that he is set to become Nuri Nutt’s brother-in-law himself. Daro trains her rifle at him but before she could give him a fitting reply, an unfortunate incident occurs. Police arrives on the scene and Daro is arrested on the charges of murdering her brother.

It is time to introduce the person who would complete the heroic presence in the movie. Enter Nuri Nutt, feet-first, walking in leg irons.

He is in jail. The search of a worthy adversary has defined Nuri Nutt’s life so far. He has searched every jail but never met any mighty champion who can be his match. He clearly states that he wants someone who would mark his skin. Someone whose name would give him shivers and keep him awake at night. But alas such a one is nowhere to be found.

Cut to Maula Jatt. We learn that a certain lady named Makho is in love with him.

Lady Makho ambushes Maula Jatt in an empty garden by locking her feet around his neck and moving them vigorously, her ankle-bells creating a violent symphony. Then she performs a dance number for him, employing her feet and hips. We notice that Maula Jatt watches intently the pounding of her feet but moves away disinterestedly when she begins grinding her hips. This is a very important scene. In its earlier part Makho leads us to believe that she knows about Maula Jatt’s preferences, then disappoints us. One may legitimately ask Makho what she was thinking when she offered Maula Jatt the swaying offering of her hips. This scene conclusively proves that Makho’s love for Maula Jatt is not a mature love.

Upon hearing of Daro’s killing her brother, Maula Jatt goes running to post Daro’s bail but does not reveal his identity. She comes out of the jail and tells him that the one who has come to post her bail would do her a greater favour by bringing her Maula Jatt’s tongue as a Happy Release gift. Maula Jatt begins to understand the lady. He accompanies her to the precincts of her village and hastily returns home. But Daro has not forgotten her duty. She snatches a gun and sets out to kill Maula Jatt. But this time too she is foiled. She first runs into lady Makho and then the irascible Mooda. This martial lady even goes through the humiliation of Mooda doing a song and dance number for her. She curses her luck that Nuri Nutt is still in jail.

Cut to Nuri Nutt. He has done his time and about to be set free.

Upon leaving the jail Nuri Nutt earnestly hopes that he finds an adversary who would throw him down and tear him in apart by his legs. He turns up at another police station and makes a statement about how his feet have become embarrassed searching everywhere for an adversary.

He earnestly hopes that he may find a worthy one who may kill him and release him from his quest, or else he would have to kill the adversary and return to the jail. He sets out once again in his quest and heads to the house of Malik Haku, who has the reputation of being a tough, to see if he would give him satisfaction.

Malik Haku is tough, alright. Why? Because we see him feet first. But we immediately suspect that Malik Haku is a spent force. Why that? Firstly, from Nuri Nutt’s expression of dissatisfaction when he first beholds him. But mainly, because Malik Haku is coming down a staircase, not ascending one. Malik Haku himself verifies our suspicions. He confesses that he is no longer as tough as he was in the good old days. Some years ago a Jatt was born who began populating the graveyard with members of Malik Haku’s estate, and Malik Haku gave up his activities as a tough after losing his near and dear ones. Nuri Nutt demands to know the name of Malik Haku’s enemy but he refuses to divulge it.

After making a sarcastic comment, Nuri Nutt leaves him and decides to head to a fair where rough baddies of all sorts would come from among whom he hopes to find one tough enough to satisfy him. There too Nuri Nutt is disappointed as the goons participating in the fair are no match for him. He expresses great dissatisfaction with the land of Punjab that had stopped giving birth to strong men.

He next calls on his sister who tells him all that had transpired while he was locked up and also gives him Maula Jatt’s name. Nuri Nutt learns from Miss Daro about the Maula Jatt phenomenon and what a pest Mooda has been. Nuri Nutt demands to know if the sun still rises from the east, because his ears are not used to tales of such humiliation of his family.

He gallops off to Maula Jatt’s village to sort out a few urgent issues, only to find his way blocked by an oxen cart which had been stuck on a bridge. Nuri Nutt yokes himself and tries to pull the cart out but fails despite putting the very best effort of his legendary strength. Then suddenly, the cart moves. Startled, Nuri Nutt looks and sees that sharing the yoke with him is a fine mustachio.

Cut to Maula Jatt, admiring Nuri Nutt with a similar expression.

And here we must pause to savour the fireworks. The flame of love that unmistakably lights up in their hearts can be clearly seen in the glow of the looks of mutual admiration they exchange. Nuri Nutt demands to know Maula Jatt’s name but he does not give it to him. But we know that a friendship has been struck. They part after shaking hands and each making friendly promises to eliminate the other with his entire tribe.

Nuri Nutt enters Maula Jatt’s village and is challenged by Mooda. Nuri Nutt demands Maula Jatt’s tongue on the platter of his hand because he had defiled his sister by uttering her name in public. Then he revises his demands and asks for Maula Jatt’s hand as well because it had been raised on his brother. Here Mooda pipes up that it was not Maula Jatt’s hand but his own foot that had marked Makha. Nuri Nutt urgently demands Mooda to make him an offering of his foot and place it on his hand. Mooda suggests that if Nuri is not careful the same foot could also defile his nose. As an afterthought he also asks him to take good care of his hand with which he has to put his sister in her doli. Nuri delivers Mooda a fine beating.

Then Nuri Nutt proceeds to break an item of utmost dignity that must never have been harmed or desecrated: Mooda’s foot. Not only that, he makes a statement of great significance: “Now when you walk with the help of crutch, it would not make the sound of tak, tak, tak, but the sound of Nuri Nutt, Nutt, Nutt!” This is a stark reminder to everyone that the human identity resides in the foot and when one becomes weak, the appropriation and colonization of the supreme bodily asset may occur to a degree where the colonized completely loses its identity to the colonizer.

Maula Jatt’s mother does what she does best. She calls out to Maula Jatt, censures him and informs him of Nuri Nutt’s arrival. Maula Jatt goes to his father’s grave and digs up the gandasa which he had buried after the peace pact between the two clans. He heads to Nuri’s village where he disembowels some men for practice and proceeds onwards.

Maula and Nuri finally meet again and learn each others’ identities. Maula Jatt demands Nuri Nutt’s foot on the platter of his hand (in compensation for Mooda’s broken foot) so that the feud can be settled. Nuri Nutt asks him to hold it while he takes a good look at Maula Jatt. Then he thinks aloud that it is too much for a creature with two legs, two arms and a head to make such a demand of a member of a Nutt clan. He demands Maula Jatt to cut off his tongue and give it to him. Maula Jatt retorts that Nuri should cut off his tongue instead and give that to him with one hand, and his foot with the other. This leads to a skirmish of sorts in which Nuri Nutt is wounded before another unfortunate accident occurs, when the police arrive and break up the fight.

The two continue their friendly verbal exchange in their own manner at the police station. Now accompanied by a number of midgets and policemen, the two men leave the police station for jail in a procession of tongas. We hear what is perhaps the first love song between two men in a Punjabi movie, sung by the midgets and the supporters of the two men, while they fondle each other with sidelong glances.

Before they part we see some midgets riding piggy back who break into a fight before the scene ends. Finally, to maintain peace in the area, it is decided that both Maula Jatt and Nuri Nutt should be put under house arrest.

For all we know, Maula Jatt would have bided his time in peace but he is not destined to. Lady Makho decides to make the most of his confinement by resuming her songful gyrations. Mooda also keeps limping up and down in plain sight of him. Maula Jatt just can’t take it. He breaks his confinement and runs away.

On the other end Nuri Nutt is keeping his wound fresh by daily opening it up with his axe. He is not a home body. Daro also wants him to be out and about collecting tongues and feet. Meanwhile she has found a fiancé, Akkoo, and he is deputed on similar duties. Before ennui claims him Nuri Nutt also runs away from home by breaking the police cordon.

The police contingents are in pursuit of the two absconders and their bullet ridden bodies fall close to each other. They creep towards each other and their outstretched hands meet. They smile and repeat their oft repeated vows of severing each other’s choice parts.

Cut to the hospital ward where our heroes lie, in the pink again and exchanging manly pleasantries separated by doctors and police.

Nuri suggests that Maula Jatt should make his ablutions before the next fight because nobody would give the last bath to the single piece of meat that would be left of him when he is done with him. Meanwhile Daro and Makho enter the ward, exchange slaps and are admitted into the room where they exchange more slaps before settling down.

The two men decide that the best way to get rid of the police is to pretend to have reached a peace accord. The police are easily fooled and set them free. Meanwhile Daro has enlisted her fiancé to bring her Maula Jatt’s mother to use as her maid in their future home. Akkoo is unable to carry away Maula Jatt’s very fat mother on his horse. She raises the alarm and Maula Jatt answers the call by killing Akkoo. He declares that instead of mehndi, Daro’s hands should be painted with Akkoo’s blood on the wedding day. He sends sweets and Akkoo’s body to Nuri Nutt’s house and prepares to take the wedding procession on the day of the full moon.

Nuri Nutt and Daro receive the sweets and Akkoo’s body and prepare to convert Maula Jatt and Mooda’s wedding procession into a mass funeral.

Mooda’s wedding procession leaves from one end and Nuri Nutt’s warrior force from the other. They meet in the middle and Maula Jatt announces to Nuri that he has not come as an enemy but as justice: to claim a foot for a foot and a sister for a sister. Nuri Nutt asks him to stop talking and start pulling out his tongue. A free-for-all follows in which many are killed from the Nutt tribe. The sight greatly pleases Nuri and he enters the fray himself only to be beaten up by Maula Jatt. Just as he is about to collect Nuri Nutt’s leg himself with the help of his gandasa, the martial Daro melts and asks for mercy for her brother. While Maula Jatt relents and refrains from cutting off Nuri’s leg, Nuri cannot take this insult to his dignity. He quickly severs his leg with his own hand and offers it to Maula Jatt saying, “I would not even accept heaven if it was given to me in charity. This is but a leg! Take this as your justice, and I will think of this as a reward for your bravery and forget all about it! Go Maula, take a piece of my heart (Daro) and a part of my body (the leg)!”

Maula Jatt now throws away his gandasa once more and asks for it to be buried and a plaque that should read, “Humanity does not want revenge. It wants justice!”

In that as in everything else that has gone before, both he and Nuri are on the same page.

*

The author of this essay is cognizant of the fact that it leaves a number of questions unanswered. For example:

1. Both Maula Jatt and Nuri Nutt are fettered in a way when they are first seen. Maula Jatt by his stirrups and Nuri Nutt by his leg irons. While the author could not decipher the symbolism behind it, he could venture that because Maula Jatt is first seen with his feet in the stirrups and dangling, it perhaps is symbolic of a fanciful disposition. By the same token Nuri Nutt walking on the ground in leg irons could be symbolic of his having a more earthy disposition. How these symbols play out and influence the course of the movie and the libido of the two heroes should be carefully studied.

2. How did two non-Punjabi males – the Urdu speaking Sultan Rahi in the role of Maula Jatt, and Sindhi speaking Mustafa Qureshi in the role of Nuri Nutt – become the two iconic Punjabi male symbols? Was Mustafa Qureshi’s earlier dialogue a part of the script, in which he lamented that the land of Punjab had stopped giving birth to strong men, or was it inserted by him as a snide remark? The many drafts of the scripts should be studied and the prompter’s accounts documented to get to the bottom of this mystery.

3. The movie begins with a female foot. But clearly the theme changes to become all about the male foot. What does this tell us about the religious preferences and biases of the cult, and how do these biases play out in the movie?

4. What is the role and significance of midgets in the foot-worshippers’ cult?

5. If we view the story as a quest for the villain Nuri Nutt’s foot, what is the ultimate message of the movie? Why is it not a quest for Maula Jatt’s foot?

6. What becomes of Nuri Nutt’s leg and who has the greater claim on it? It was demanded as compensation for Mooda’s leg, and was bestowed as a medal of bravery by Nuri Nutt on Maula Jatt. But would it decorate Maula Jatt’s house or Mooda and Daro’s home? They both have equal claim on it. Nuri Nutt has complicated affairs by rewarding it to Maula Jatt at the same time.

7. Regardless of who takes the foot home, we know that it should be displayed conspicuously. But would it be displayed when Nuri Nutt calls on Maula Jatt, or visits Daro and Mooda to have tea with them?

The essay was first published in The Popcorn Essayists: What Movies do to Writers by Tranquebar/ Westland. 

Also read:

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER: MUSHARRAF ALI FAROOQI 

An interview with the author

TBIP investigates the process by which India’s Oscar entry is chosen and how that might be impacting our chances at the awards

It is the 24^th of February, 2013. Jessica Chastain opens an envelope, at the Dolby Theatre, Los Angeles, and reads: “And the Oscar for the Best Foreign Language Film goes to Amour”. An Austrian film by director Michael Haneke. In the 56 times that this award has been contested for, a film from India, the country that reportedly produces more films than any other in the world, has won it— not once. Indian movies have been nominated, in this category, thrice.

Only one movie, from each country, can contest for an Oscar for the Best Foreign Language Film. The selection of this movie, in each country, is overseen by an institution that is authorized to do so by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, or the Academy, which conducts the Oscars every year. In India, this institution is the Film Federation of India (FFI), an autonomous trade body.

On September 22, 2012, Barfi! was announced as India’s entry to the Oscars. Allegations of plagiarism, that had arisen when the film was released, were resuscitated online and in the media. The Oscar for the Best Foreign Language Film is decided through a three-stage process. There is a shortlist of nine movies, five of which are nominated. One wins. Naturally, Barfi! didn’t even make it to the shortlist.

This is not the first time the FFI has been embroiled in a controversy over the selection of India’s entry to the Oscars. Inexplicable choices before include Henna (1991), Indian (1996) and Jeans (1998). On September 28, 2007, Producer Sheetal Talwar and his wife, Director Bhavna Talwar, filed a writ petition in the Bombay High Court, on the grounds that certain members of the jury who chose Eklavya over their film Dharm, were biased.

We set out to find out what lies at the root of these controversies and, through conversations with key FFI officials and jury members, and an examination of related documents, discovered that the problem is not that rules are flouted in the selection of India’s Oscar entry. Rather, that basic rules that would ensure the fairness and transparency of this process have not been put in place to begin with.

THE WAY WE ARE

The FFI was constituted in 1952. It calls itself the “apex body of the film industry” on its website. The first of many objectives it lists here is to “promote, protect and watch over the interests of the Indian Film Industry and allied industries and trades”. The FFI’s members comprise producers, distributors and exhibitors from all over the country, each belonging to one or more of 43 associations that are affiliated with the FFI today. Each association pays a fee to the FFI on becoming an affiliate, and for every year after. Other objectives of the FFI include popularizing Indian cinema abroad; lobbying for laws, grants and governmental treaties with other countries that will benefit the Indian film industry; providing legal aid to its members and safeguarding their rights; and resolving any disputes that may arise between them.

The Academy authorized the FFI to conduct the selection of India’s entry to the Oscars in 1957. Bijay Khemka, the current President of the FFI, says this is too far back in the past to know how or why. “Academy wanted FFI to do it, FFI wanted to take care of it,” he says. “It’s for many years that it’s been going on, so I’m not able to tell you how it started.”

Here is how the selection for India’s Oscar entry is carried out:

• To choose the jury that will select the Oscar entry the FFI first assembles a committee comprising its “(12) office bearers and two to three special invitees”, says Supran Sen, Secretary General of the FFI. These invitees could be “members of another film workers association: the writer’s federation, director’s federation, or any other body— other than the FFI itself.”

• Sen says this committee selects a jury of “11 to 17 members”. Khemka says that after this the members of FFI’s Executive Committee (comprising 80 members who represent, among them, the 43 associations affiliated to the FFI) “okays these names”. According to the Academy’s rules the jury should include “artists and/or craftspeople from the field of motion pictures.” Khemka says that for this jury they “take recommendations from all our bodies (the associations affiliated to the FFI) and we also approach (prospective jurors) on the individual merit of people”. Marathi filmmaker Sandeep Sawant, who was a member of the last jury, adds that the jury is meant to be representative of every region of the country: “They are not just from Bombay, (but from) all over India. They represent maximum regions from India—South, Bengal, Punjab, Assam, Maharashtra, Delhi—of course, you can’t have one from every state, but you have people representing various languages and regions.” The Jury elects one of its members as Chairperson as soon as it has been created. The FFI has to send the list of jurors to the Academy two months before the deadline for the Oscar entry.The Academy’s rules with regard to this process can be found here and here.

• To call for entries, says Khemka “we (the FFI) issue notices (to various film related bodies), we put it on our website also and we inform all the state bodies to inform their producer members, if anybody wants to apply for Oscar.” The date, place and mode of submission (a form has to be filled with details regarding the film; a print of the film has to be sent in; a service charge has to be paid) is outlined on their website.

• Entries may be received by the FFI directly, or received by one of the affiliated bodies and forwarded to the FFI within the due date. The films that fulfill the criteria laid out by the Academy are seen by the jury.

• To qualify for the Best Foreign Language Film category, a film has to be of feature length (above 40 minutes); it has to be, predominantly, in a language other than English; it should have been released in the country submitting it during a particular period (for the 2013 Oscars, the film should have been released between October 1, 2011 and September 30, 2012); it should have run for at least seven consecutive days in a commercial movie theatre, for the purpose of earning profit; the film should be submitted in the format specified by the Academy; it should have English subtitles; and the FFI must certify that the creative control of the film lies with India’s own citizens.

• The films that have been submitted are watched by the jury together. The jury then decides whether to select one out of all of these films or carry out the selection in two stages. If the jury decides on the latter, then it agrees on a shortlist of films first, and then selects one out of the shortlist. There are discussions on the films before them. India’s Oscar entry is finally selected either by a formal vote, or by a consensus that emerges out of these discussions. So the process of selection varies from jury to jury and is often suggested by the jury chairperson.

But how many films should the jury shortlist, when such is the case, before it selects the final film? Should there be a secret ballot in case of a vote? Are there any guidelines for how the jury should be selected, to ensure that no jury member is biased towards a film that is in the running?

These questions remain unanswered. The first notable public mention of guidelines for the selection of the Oscar entry came up during the Bombay High Court hearings on the writ petition the Talwars had filed. The Court directed that the FFI should prepare draft guidelines for the selection process. On December 18, 2007, the counsel for the FFI submitted before the Court that the FFI “had framed the draft guidelines and regulations” and prayed “for time to place the same on record”.

After the last hearing on July 17, 2008, the Court noted that: “Pursuant to the directions of this court, guidelines for selection of films for the Academy Award have been suggested by the Advocate General, Maharashtra (Ravi Kadam). We hope that the respondent Authority will take (these into) consideration in order to avoid any arbitrariness in the process of decision-making which is just and fair.”

Sen claims these guidelines have been put into place, yet he refuses to let us know what they are. “That’s actually confidential,” he says. “Those are our own guidelines.”

However, he says: “We see that there is no interested party (on the jury). That is a very very important factor. That is why this hullabaloo with Vidhu Vinod Chopra’s film (Eklavya) occurred.”

The bodies overseeing the selection of the Oscar entries in other countries put out the guidelines that govern this process in the public domain. In Italy press releases are issued for every stage in the process: the call for submissions, the short list of films and the announcement of the winner. The concerned bodies in countries such as France and Germany have detailed guidelines for the selection of their jurors as well as those for the selection of their Oscar entry on their websites.

Selection committees from all of these three countries also release the names of the jurors who select their Oscar entry once the process is completed (here are the jurors for this year’s entries for France, Italy and Germany.

France has been nominated 35 times for the Oscar (more than any other country). It has won 12 times. Germany, since its unification in 1990, has been nominated for the award 9 times and won the Oscar twice (before its unification, West Germany was nominated for the Oscar eight times and won it once, while East Germany was nominated once). And Italy has won 13 Oscars— more than any other country in the world.

When asked, FFI officials Khemka and Sen agree to give us the names of the chairpersons of juries that have selected India’s Oscar entry in the last couple of years. But they refuse to disclose the names of any other jury member.

When questioned about this, Khemka says: “This is a process where the general public don’t come into the picture, because it’s an internal process. Like when the Oscar Award is given and the Oscar selection is made and there are 5000 people to select the Oscar Best Picture and nobody knows who they are.”

But here the jurors comprise only 11 people. When it was pointed out that the names of all the jurors are released in other countries he said: “Nahin (No), even we call the press conference. All the jury members are present there and they announce the best picture (India’s entry). So it is known.”

Yet neither Sen, nor Khemka tell us who the jurors on the last jury, which chose Barfi! as the official Oscar entry five months ago, were. Most media reports have only the name of the jury chairperson Manju Borah. While some news reports have cited the name of another juror, Marathi filmmaker Sandeep Sawant, neither of the FFI officials confirm this— even though Sawant does so himself, when TBIP speaks to him.

Says Sen: “The basic simple reason is— suppose there are say 11 jury (members), then the press start telephoning everybody and then out of their minds they say this happened. That is why the whole problem was there that time. Nobody except the Chairperson (is revealed). Because then everyone approaches each individual jury (member) and says: How did you find…yeh-woh (one movie or the other). Sometimes they force them. So we don’t tell.”

Revealing the names of the jurors, after the selection has been announced, ensures the accountability of the FFI. It allows the public to gauge for themselves the qualifications and standing of those who select India’s entry to the Oscars. It seems impossible that the press can “force” jury members to reveal who they voted for, or even talk to them, against their wishes, but perhaps, if the names are in the public domain, the press can question the jurors about whether the selection was carried out in a fair manner. Also, putting out the names ensures that if any jury member has actually been professionally involved in a film that he has voted on— people will find out.

This was what had happened at “that time”— as Sen puts it. It was five years ago, during the selection of India’s entry for the 2008 Oscars. Here is what appears to have transpired.

 ADHARM

In September 14, 2007, before Eklavya had been officially announced as India’s entry to the Oscars, Producer Sheetal Talwar was at the airport. Talwar remembers the date because an India-Pakistan match was on. “I had already gotten a call from Supran Sen saying: ‘Sheetalji, we are going with Eklavya and not with Dharm’.” he says. Then, says Talwar, he got a call from Producer-director Vinod Pande, who was chairperson of the jury that had taken this decision. “Sheetalji, I just wanted to tell you, I was trying to watch the India-Pakistan match, and I can’t, because I think an injustice has been done,” is what Talwar claims Pande said.

Another Jury member, cinematographer Nadeem Khan, called Bhavna Talwar soon after this, to congratulate her on Dharm. “I just want to tell you that I loved your film and if I had my way it would have gone as our entry,” is what Khan says he said to her. The Talwars spoke to the two jury members and found out who else was on the jury.

After the decision was announced officially, on September 25, the Talwars filed a Bombay High Court writ petition, on September 28, praying that the Court should review the jury’s decision to send Eklavya to the Oscars. Respondents in the case were the FFI, Vinod Chopra Films Pvt. Ltd., which had produced Eklavya, as well as the 11 jury members.

Because of this case, the names of all the jurors who chose India’s Oscar entry in 2007 are in the public domain. The 11 jurors were producer-director Vinod Pande, writer and lyricist Jalees Sherwani, cinematographer Nadeem Khan, filmmaker Anil Sharma, producer Bijoy Kalyani, producer Ravi Kottarkara, costume designer Shahid Aamir, film editor Ranjit Bahadur, producer-director Jagdish Sharma, music director Ravi Sharma and filmmaker Sudhir Mishra.

The Talwars alleged in their petition that one of the jury members, Bahadur, was biased towards Eklavya as he was involved in editing a documentary on the making of the film, which was used to promote the movie, and that two other jurors, Mishra and Jagdish Sharma, were biased because they were close to Vidhu Vinod Chopra, the producer and director of Eklavya.

There were six hearings, according to court records, up to July 17, 2008, when the petition was dismissed with a note to the FFI to take the guidelines suggested by the Advocate General into consideration.

The Academy learnt of the case. On October 10, 2007, Bruce Davis, then Executive Director at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, wrote a letter to Pande which read: “In fact it turns out that there is a widespread feeling among Indian filmmakers and the public that your committee could have been more sensitive to ethical issues in making its decision—if there were in fact one or more members who should have recused themselves from this year’s voting—then we are confident that your group will establish more readily defensible internal standards for future years.”

Pande and Davis exchanged letters over the next few days, in which Davis offered to allow the jury five days to “either reaffirm its original choice or designate a different Indian entry”. But since the Court had not come to any sort of conclusion by that time, this was not to be. TBIP has procured a copy of these letters from a source who wishes to stay unnamed.

Two of the 11 jurors, Jagdish Sharma and Ravi Sharma, have passed away. TBIP spoke to five of the remaining nine. Here are excerpts from the conversations.

Vinod Pande – Jury Chairperson, 2007

Pande has been on the jury for India’s Oscar entry thrice. Here, he suggests that some jurors who seemed to prefer Dharm voted for Eklavya instead. And that they might have voted for Dharm had he called for a secret ballot instead of an open vote.

TBIP: What happened?

Vinod Pande: Okay it’s history, so perhaps we can speak about it. You see, when the films were seen, the heart, the sentiment of almost all had immediately gone to a film called Dharm. It was a very competent film, a very poetic film. And in our view it represented India precisely. It dealt with those fault lines of India which are affecting us. Normally we have obtained a consensus (the last two times that he was on the jury) by following a tradition ki koi voting nahin honi chahiye (there shouldn’t be any voting). In any such organization, especially in creative exercises, although democratic processes warrant an exercise like voting, you try not to. You want to give the impression that it was unanimous. So we tried to avoid it. So in order to avoid it I have always followed a method that I tell members that, rather than a (quick) general discussion, there will be extensive discussion on all the films we have seen. So that they are then able to precisely zero in…

TBIP: On the merits…

VP: Ki merit kahaan ja rahi hai (where does the merit lie). And we were able to do it. And we were clearly able to see that Dharm was… (our choice) And so there wouldn’t have been any voting and it would have gone. But someone mentioned: “Sir ab voting karenge (now we’ll vote)”. Now if a member insists, then you’re caught. Because you have to put it to a vote. I was very sure (that Dharm would win). Most of the members were praising Dharm. There was a member who said “Sir poetry thi” (It was poetry). Their sentiment was so clear. One of the jurors said: “Sir, can I give 3 names?” (I said) Go ahead. He says, “No. 1 Dharm, No.2 Dharm, No. 3 Dharm.” I mean such was the commitment.

Then I was taken by complete surprise. Some jury members who were praising Dharm voted for Eklavya instead. And while voting, you can have a secret ballot. And the mistake that I ended up making was, that was my mistake because I had never envisaged this, you know. I said: No let’s have an open ballot. Agar main secret ballot karata to shayad yeh film (Dharm) ho jaata (if I had asked for a secret ballot then maybe this film—Dharm—would have been selected).

Nadeem Khan – Juror, 2007

Khan says that one of the jurors, whom he would prefer not to name, was insistent on choosing Eklavya because its producer had the infrastructure and money to lobby for the film in LA. Khan also claims that Vidhu Vinod Chopra called Khan about the film more than once, and that Chopra’s production manager came to meet him with promotional material.

Nadeem Khan: What rankled me was that, from day one, there was this one gentleman, who came in with an attitude ki bhai falaani film jo hai, uska jo producer hai, wahi (that this particular film, its producer— he’s the one), he’s got the infrastructure, he’s got the money to lobby in L.A. The guy under question is my class fellow (Vidhu) Vinod Chopra. The film in question was Eklavya. So I told him: “Let’s all first see the film and then we’ll decide. Why are you blowing a trumpet prematurely?”

This gentlemen who I’m speaking about, during the course of our screenings, made it a point now and then to talk about how Eklavya was the only suitable film as our entry to the Oscars because infrastructure L.A. mein Vinod ka itna accha hai (because Vinod’s infrastructure in LA is so good)… There was a very strong lobbying for Eklavya.

 In fact, Vinod (Vidhu Vinod Chopra) had rung me up also before this: “I’m a class fellow yaar. So it goes without saying ki tu toh, yaar, hai mera dost hi na (that, after all you’re my friend right)?” And I said, “Vinod, let me just see the film.” “Of course, yaar.”

 Vinod used to ring me up three times a day. In fact, he sent his production manager. I was shooting in Juhu somewhere and he came with a pamphlet. At that point in time, we had not started seeing them (the films). Vinod is my friend. He tells me, “Ay, listen man, my film’s coming in.” I’m being preconditioned right? 50%. So when that guy came in I said: “Isko le ja yaar tu (take this away man). Mere friend ne mujhe phone kiya (my friend has phoned me). End of story.’

TBIP: How did Vidhu Vinod Chopra find out that you were on the jury?

 NK: You ask him that. Don’t ask me. He rang me up even before I started this thing (the jury’s process). He said: “Boy, you’re on a jury”. Maybe someone told him. I don’t know. I didn’t tell him.

Jalees Sherwani – Juror, 2007

Sherwani says he received phone calls from a production house, which he doesn’t want to name, saying they wanted to meet him and “give details” and tell him “how much” they had done for a film that was trying to be India’s Oscar entry. The person making the phone call knew he was the jury member the day before he knew this himself.

Jalees Sherwani: I was not liked by everyone who participated because they could not influence me. Many people tried, but I politely refused, said they had a wrong number, or that somebody else has given them wrong information about me.

 TBIP: Were you getting phone calls? Before the actual selection process began?

 JS: Yes, yes, yes.

TBIP: When we spoke to Mr. Supran Sen. When we asked about this time’s jury members, he said the FFI had decided not to give out their names. So how did someone find out in this case?

 JS: Definitely it was leaked. I mean before I knew that I was a jury member I was informed by a production house, saying: “We want to met you and give details and explain how much we have done for this film and what kind of film it is.” I said: “I don’t understand, why are you bothering me?” “No, no sir you are the Jury member.” I said: “Gentlemen, let me know if it is so, because I have no information about it.” And next day I get a phone call from FFI that you are a Jury member and from so and so date we are having these screenings and please join… I mean, you can call it dubious, you can call it a leak, you can call it whatever word you feel that is suitable for this kind of irregularity— which is dishonest.

TBIP: Are you saying sir that the jury could have been biased— because people knew who the jury was?

JS: Possibly the decision was influenced. When they can make the call to me, they can make the call to other jury members as well. I didn’t get influenced, but somebody else could have been influenced by them.

TBIP: Sir do you remember which production house?

 JS: No I cannot say that

TBIP: You can’t say that?

 JS: No.

 Sudhir Mishra – Juror, 2007

Mishra says that “‘bias’ is an ambiguous word” that can’t really be proven in the Indian film industry where so many people have worked together in the past, or are friends. But he warns against a scenario where a juror has been professionally involved in the film he or she is judging. Also, he recommends a secret ballot and a larger jury. He agrees that juror’s names, as well as the selection procedure, should be in the public domain.

TBIP: Bias was alleged against you as well as other jurors in a writ petition filed in the High Court.

 Sudhir Mishra: The Sheetal Talwar and…

 TBIP: Sheetal and Bhavana Talwar were the ones who filed it. How would you react to that?

SM: The voting should be kept secret. How do they know who I voted for? And then when you say ‘bias’ it’s a very ambiguous word. What does this bias mean? I don’t even know what happened to that case…

TBIP: The Court dismissed the case and asked the FFI to look into it and institute guidelines for the selection procedure.

SM: I think the FFI should get a clear set of guidelines. Guidelines that make the process transparent and fair. And the jury should also be larger. There should be a very strict guideline that no jury member should be involved in a film he is (judging)… but what do you do in the case of a friendship? When a jury member happens to be friends with a filmmaker (whose film he is judging)?

TBIP: Because many jurors could be friends of filmmakers whose films have been submitted, or could have worked in the past with such filmmakers on other films, if not the one they are judging?

SM: That’s right. That is why you should have a larger jury, with top-notch professionals from various branches of films and various regions. And voting should be by secret ballot. But you’ll always have this problem, that so-and-so editor has worked with so-and-so director, three years ago. Unless someone has actually been professionally involved with a specific film, how do you determine bias?

TBIP: Do you think that the names of the jury members should be put out in the public domain…

 SM: Definitely. The names of the jury members should be put out in the public domain, after the process is complete. But this is the reason why I will never be part of a jury in India again. Because then I’ll be subject to pressure, and abuses from people. If your friend’s film doesn’t go, you will say Sudhir Mishra was part of the jury and he was biased.

TBIP: But if there’s a secret ballot, and no one even mentions how many votes a film won by, then no one will know who voted for what.

 SM: Yes, maybe if an objective agency counts the vote.

TBIP: Like the PwC (PricewaterhouseCoopers) for the Oscars?

 SM: Yes.

Ranjit Bahadur – Juror, 2007

 Bahadur says he wasn’t asked whether he had been professionally involved with the films he was judging.

TBIP: Why didn’t you say that you had worked on a promotional documentary on the making of Eklavya?

 Ranjit Bahadur: The fact is that I happened to work with the line producer of the Dharm movie too. I worked (with the line producer) before this film. I worked even after the controversy. So I don’t know, it didn’t occur to me. I didn’t provide any false information. They didn’t ask me that: “These are the films that are going to be there.” I thought we would just watch movies and the only time I speak my mind is when I see a film and I thought it was a serious panel discussion and I put forward my views strongly. Beyond that I don’t know anything.

Despite repeated efforts to reach him, Vidhu Vinod Chopra was not available for comment. TBIP contacted the CEO of Vinod Chopra Films Pvt. Ltd., who replied with an email saying: “Vinod is out of the country and not available as of now. I will not be in a position to comment on his behalf or on behalf of VCF.”

(TBIP has some jurors, on record, talking about who voted for which movie. It has decided not to put this information out because the scope of this article is not to try and decide a case dismissed by the High Court. It is entirely futile to try and determine if the jury or Chopra were in the wrong in the absence of clear rules defining right and wrong in this scenario.)

Today, Supran Sen says the FFI “always takes a declaration from each jury member that ‘I’m not at all concerned (connected with a film that is in the running in any way)’. This time (while assembling the jury for the 2013 Oscars) also there was one (interested party)— but it was sorted out.”

But there is no way for us to ascertain this as, other than the jury chairpersons, we don’t know the names of all the jury members on any of the juries that succeeded this one.

Also, a juror may be biased towards a film even if he or she has not been professionally involved with it (for instance, if he or she is a relative or friend of the film’s producer, or director, or crew member, or is working with such a person on another movie). The best way to ensure the objectivity of such jurors would be to put in place a system of secret ballot— so jurors have to fear neither the discomfort of voting against a friend, nor the reprisal of a powerful producer.

As for the phone calls allegedly received by jurors (and, as in the case of Khan, the visitor on his film set), what exactly are the rules laid down when it comes to lobbying for one’s film?

The Academy, when it comes to lobbying for the Oscars, lays down that: “The picture must be advertised and exploited during its eligibility run in a manner considered normal and customary to the industry”. For the award for the Best Foreign Language Film, the Academy’s general committee, which votes on the films, is divided into 3 groups and each group is given a list of films to watch, of which they should have watched 80% to be able to vote in this category. So Academy voters might miss a film unless the producer publicizes it avidly, and holds screenings for it. This, however, is not the case with the FFI, which facilitates and ensures that the jury for India’s Oscar entry sees every film that is submitted.

Here, the FFI should lay down clear rules that say that a producer whose films have been submitted to the jury for India’s Oscar entry should not try to influence a jury member to vote for his or her film. If such an attempt to influence him or her is reported, and can be proved, by the jury member, the film in question should be disqualified.

Also, a producer’s infrastructure, and resources that allow him to lobby successfully in LA, may be relevant when it comes to determining India’s Oscar entry, but considering we’re a country of so many talented filmmakers with meager resources, it falls upon the FFI to institute a fund, with the aid of the government, that allows a producer to lobby abroad to ensure that India’s Oscar entry stands a fair chance at the world’s most prominent film awards.

Many countries have changed the way they select their Oscar entry. East and West Germany had to overhaul and merge their selection processes after the unification. In Italy, the Associazione Nazionale Industrie Cinematografiche Audiovisive e Multimediali (ANICA), a trade association of producers, distributors and film technicians very similar in nature to the FFI, has revised their system of selection twice— when the responsibility for selection was shifted from a 8 to 10 member group, selected by ANICA from among members of the Italian film industry, to the jury of the David di Donatello (Italy’s most prestigious film awards) in 1998; and when this responsibility reverted to a 15 member jury selected by ANICA again, in 2005. The Academy itself, after it faced criticism for not including acclaimed films like 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days and Persepolis in the Best Foreign Language Film shortlist in 2008, revised its selection procedure for this category from a two-stage to a three-stage voting process.

We know of these changes because they are in the public domain. Because we have been informed about them. But the FFI is less forthcoming about its plans. “We will revise the process as and when we need to,” says Sen, assertively. “We don’t need to revise it every year. And this is an internal matter. We can’t disclose it to the media.”