120 Bahadur 

Genre: War Drama Year: 2025 | Duration: 160 mins | Director: Razneesh Ghai|  Medium: Theatre (PVR Cinemas) | Trailer: HERE | Language: Hindi | Cast: Farhan Akhtar, Raashil Khanna, and others | My rating: 3.5/5

120 Bahadur is based on the real-life sacrifice of the 120 soldiers of Charlie Company, 13 Kumaon Regiment of the Indian Army at the Battle of Rezang La during the 1962 Sino-Indian War. It chronicles the extraordinary courage of 120 Indian soldiers who stood their ground against 3000 Chinese troops. The film focuses on Major Shaitan Singh Bhati (played by Farhan Akhtar), showcasing the grit, sacrifice, and valour of soldiers fighting in the brutal cold and high altitude of Ladakh. The story is narrated through the memories of a surviving soldier, and it unfolds as a tribute to the heroism of a band of brothers whose courage came at the highest cost.  

The film’s strongest suit is its war sequences and immersive realism. The battle sequences at Rezang La, rifle fire, bayonet charges, final close-quarters combat, the harsh terrain, bone-chilling cold, and the almost claustrophobic desperation when ammunition runs out are realised with a fierce intensity that’s rare for many modern Hindi war films.  The film features brilliant cinematography by Tetsuo Nagata, with breathtaking shots of snow-covered mountains, freezing desolation, and the starkness of high-altitude warfare.  The film mostly avoids glorifying war for its own sake and is a sober portrayal of the events. This sincerity gives the film humility as it doesn’t frame itself as a triumphant spectacle, but a respectful tribute and remembrance. 

Farhan Akhtar delivers a thoughtful performance. He largely avoids the larger-than-life histrionics often associated with Bollywood war heroes. Instead, he feels rooted, authoritative yet human, decisive yet burdened.  At the same time, the supporting cast, many of them lesser-known actors, bring the infantrymen to life with grit, camaraderie, humour, and vulnerability. Their messy friendships, small conversations, homesickness, and occasional fears humanise what might otherwise have been just a war drama with guns and trenches.  

However, the film seemed to have weak character development; their individual stories were barely sketched out. This makes certain deaths feel less impactful emotionally, more like casualties on a battlefield than deeply personal losses. Because of that, while the collective sacrifice hits home, personal grief and tragedy often don’t. The film’s narrative isn’t always smooth, as flashbacks to family life, interspersed with the lead-up to battle, sometimes break the tension. The prelude drags at times, and the buildup to the climax lacks the steady escalation that such stories need for maximum impact.  

I felt that the depiction of Chinese soldiers has been overly simplified and tends to lean towards caricature: monolithic, villainous, almost cartoonish, robbing them of nuance or complexity. This weakens the moral weight of the conflict and reduces it to a binary ‘good vs evil’ war movie. In parts, storytelling relies heavily on familiar Bollywood popular drama of last-minute motivational speeches, montage-heavy sequences, formula flashbacks and emotional beats, which keep the film from feeling fully original.  

120 Bahadur is not a perfect film, but it is an earnest, important one. It doesn’t glamourise war, and it doesn’t demand you leave the theatre cheering mindlessly. Instead, it makes you reflect on duty, courage, and sacrifice. As a cinematic recreation of a tragic but heroic moment in India’s history, the film succeeds more often than it fails. Its war sequences are unflinching and immersive; its portrayal of brotherhood and sacrifice is heartfelt; its lead performance is measured and credible.

But beneath the combat and solemn patriotism, it made me think that India’s rural society holds the backbone of India’s defence forces. The film also has a sociological moment where rural identity, class, caste, and nationhood intersect. The men of Charlie Company came largely from agrarian communities, especially the Ahir (Yadav) belt of Haryana and Western UP. Their lives before the war were shaped by farming cycles, monsoon anxieties, livestock, joint families, and deeply rooted village cultures. The film becomes a testament to how rural young men, in search of dignity, livelihood, and service, become the face of national defence but rarely the face of national storytelling.

Despite its narrative shortcomings, 120 Bahadur performs a cultural service of returning Rezang La to public consciousness.

The invisible cost of GRAP 

Delhi slips into a public health emergency as air pollution reaches hazardous levels every winter. The government responds by invoking the most stringent measures under the Graded Response Action Plan (GRAP III and IV), suspending all construction and demolition activities, halting infrastructure projects, and restricting dust-generating work. These steps are necessary and justified for pollution control and the health of people. However, the cost of Delhi’s clean air policies is disproportionately borne by construction workers and daily wage labourers, whose livelihoods are abruptly and completely cut off.

Delhi has a massive daily wage construction labour force, estimated between 10-12 lakhs workers, with only around 5.4 lakhs officially registered (around 2.6 lakh active). Construction restrictions under GRAP III and IV are designed to curb particulate pollution, particularly PM10, a major contributor to Delhi’s smog. However, the construction sector is sustained almost entirely by informal labour. Migrant workers, hired through layers of contractors, work without written contracts, income security, or social protection. When work stops, wages stop instantly. There are no savings to fall back on, no paid leave, and often no local support systems. For these workers, a week-long (or longer) pollution shutdown can mean hunger, unpaid rent, mounting debt, or forced return to their native places under distress.

The injustice lies in the fact that these workers are not the architects of Delhi’s pollution crisis. Air pollution is the result of long-term structural failures, like unchecked urbanisation, rising private vehicle use, industrial emissions, poor public transport planning, weak enforcement of environmental norms, and regional factors like stubble burning. Construction workers operate within this system, responding to demand created by the city’s growth. Yet, when pollution peaks, their labour is the first to be criminalised, as if survival itself were an environmental offence.

The common defence of GRAP rests on a false dichotomy between public health and livelihoods. This framing assumes that income loss is a tolerable short-term sacrifice in the interest of long-term health. For daily wage labourers, livelihood and health are inseparable. Loss of income leads to undernutrition, stress, untreated illness, and increased vulnerability. Clean air achieved by pushing workers out of their wages is a policy failure and not a public health success. India’s environmental governance has consistently overlooked this social dimension. While regulations effectively restrict polluting activities, there is little institutional thought given to compensating those who lose income due to regulatory action. 

On 18th December 2025, the Delhi Government announced financial assistance of  INR 10,000 through Direct Benefit Transfer (DBT) to registered construction workers affected by the curbs under GRAP. While this is a welcome announcement by the Government, a clear policy solution is required in the long run for the provision of minimum wages to construction workers and daily wage labourers, both registered and unregistered, for the duration of GRAP shutdowns. This compensation should not be framed as charity or welfare, but as a rightful payment for income loss imposed by public policy in the interest of collective well-being. If the state mandates a halt to work for environmental reasons, it must also accept responsibility for the economic consequences of that mandate.

The most viable way to finance this support is through a dedicated ‘pollution tax.’ Delhi already collects various environment-linked charges, including green cess on vehicles, environmental compensation from polluting industries, and penalties for regulatory violations. These revenues can be consolidated into a Pollution Mitigation and Compensation Fund. Additional sources could include congestion charges in high-traffic zones, higher fees on large real estate developments, and stricter fines on construction firms that violate dust-control norms. Those who contribute most to pollution should bear the cost of its social mitigation.

Beyond immediate compensation, such a policy would also strengthen environmental compliance. When workers are protected from income loss, resistance to pollution-control measures will also decline. Environmental regulation will become a shared responsibility rather than an imposed punishment. Over time, this approach can build public trust in pollution governance, which is currently eroded by perceptions of unfairness and elite insulation from consequences.In the longer term, Delhi must move towards cleaner construction technologies, year-round dust control enforcement, better urban planning, and formalisation of labour. But these structural reforms will take time. Until then, compensating workers during pollution-induced shutdowns is a matter of basic justice. Environmental policy that ignores inequality risks becoming morally hollow and politically fragile. Clean air should be a shared achievement, not one built on empty stomachs and silent suffering.

First published at LinkedIn on 22nd December 2025

Gustaakh Ishq

Genre: Romance Year: 2025 | Duration: 128 mins | Director: Vibhu Puri |  Medium: Theatre (PVR Cinemas) | Trailer: HERE | Language: Hindi | Cast: Naseeruddin Shah, Vijay Varma, Fatima Shaikh, and others | My rating: 4/5

Gustaakh Ishq evokes the spirit of mid-20th-century Urdu-Hindi cinema full of ‘mushaira’ evenings, old printing presses, dusty lanes and small towns of India, peeling walls, hearts heavy with memories, understated longing and emotional restraint. It is a romance steeped in nostalgia, where even silence has a voice. The film beautifully interweaves mood, texture and poetry. There are moments when the film feels like a delicate ghazal, which is slow, heartfelt, and rich in unspoken emotions. As one of the song’s shayari goes,

Such lines, and many others woven through the film, give it a lyrical soul. The music with songs like ‘Ul Jalool Ishq’ and ‘Aap Is Dhoop Mein’ sprinkles the narrative with the charm and warmth of classic romance.

Set in the crumbling lanes of a North Indian town, the film’s lead character, Nawabuddin (Vijay Varma), a man desperate to save his late father’s printing press, seeks out an ageing, reclusive poet, Aziz Beg (Naseeruddin Shah), hoping to publish his forgotten poetry. Along the way, Nawabuddin becomes attracted to Aziz’s daughter Minni/Mannat (Fatima Sana Shaikh), and the old-world romance between generations, art and longing unfold.  Naseeruddin Shah is the emotional anchor of the film, and his character radiates dignity, nostalgia and weariness, carrying the weight of rueful regrets and mutable hope. Vijay Varma brings earnestness with his character’s love for verse and sincerity, offering a believable link across generations. And Fatima Sana Shaikh as Mannat becomes the soft heartbeat of the film.  

The film’s greatest strength lies in its texture and intimacy. The director’s gaze lingers lovingly on the details, creating a world that feels lived-in and emotionally honest. The cinematography does not chase beauty but rather discovers it in decay. The film is like a visual poem, which is its emotional backbone. Lines of poetry drift through the narrative like ghosts of feeling,

Conversations are sparse, glances that linger a second too long, gestures left unfinished, words swallowed, this sensibility, where silence itself feels accusatory, defines the emotional climate of the film.

The performances of all the actors deserve special mention. Naseeruddin Shah brings a weary grace to the role of someone who has lived too much and lost too often. His eyes carry entire libraries of regret. Vijay Varma’s portrayal of Nawabuddin anchors the film with sincerity and his yearning to preserve art in a world that no longer cares feels achingly real. Mannat, a woman whose stillness hides tremors of rebellion, played by Fatima Sana Shaikh with quiet strength, is the film’s most layered character.

One of the most striking aspects of the film is how it treats love. This is not love as possession or dramatic union. This is love as distance, as restraint, as something that exists more powerfully in what is unsaid. In one of the film’s most beautiful moments, this sentiment finds voice,

The background score deserves credit, where the music does not intrude, but it hums like an old wound. Songs are well placed when emotions can no longer be contained by silence. Lyrics feel like extensions of the characters’ inner lives rather than commercial breaks. One such line captures the film’s aching spirit,

Yet, for all its beauty, Gustakh Ishq is not without flaws. The screenplay sometimes confuses stillness with stagnation. Certain emotional turns are hinted at rather than explored, leaving the viewer wanting deeper psychological meaning. The bond between Nawabuddin and Minni, despite its lyrical foundation, sometimes feels emotionally underdeveloped in execution. Perhaps that is the nature of this film, as it is not designed to entertain as much as to envelop. It is more like a fog of memory and longing through which one must walk slowly. Another verse in the film captures this ethos perfectly,

For viewers used to fast-moving plots, clear romantic arcs, or dramatic catharsis, this film may feel meandering, slow, and even frustrating. The pacing demands patient acceptance of nuance, subtle gestures, and quiet sorrow. For those willing to surrender to its rhythm and appreciate the small pauses, soft glances, whispered verses and the ache between two silences, it offers genuine beauty.

If you appreciate cinema that smells of old books, handwritten letters, melancholic poetry and tender regret, and if you believe that sometimes love doesn’t demand grand gestures but hushed confession, the kind of love that bruises quietly rather than bleeding loudly, then this film will likely stay with you.

Chinaman: The Legend of Pradeep Mathew

Author: Shehan Karunatilaka | 528 Pages | Genre: Fiction | Publisher:  Random House India|  Year: 2011 | My Rating: 9/10

“Sports can unite worlds, tear down walls and transcend race, the past, and all probability. Unlike life, sports matter.”-Shehan Karunatilaka, Chinaman

Chinaman: The Legend of Pradeep Mathew is one of those rare novels that begins as a playful, humorous love letter to cricket and gradually reveals itself as an exploration of obsession, loss, nationalism, truth, and the fragility of memory. The novel is both deeply local and universally resonant. While the novel has a story of sports mystery, its real subject is Sri Lanka’s beauty, contradictions, wounds, and unspoken histories. The story is narrated by Karunasena, a retired, alcoholic Sri Lankan sports journalist who spends his final years trying to piece together the fate, brilliance, and disappearance of Pradeep Mathew, a fictional left-arm spin bowler. Karunasena, physically failing and emotionally frayed, embarks on this investigation out of professional regret and to give his last days purpose, direction, and meaning. 

At the heart of the novel is a brilliant structural trick: Mathew may or may not have existed. Karunatilaka plays with documentation, statistics, commentary, interviews, cricketing lore, and Karunasena’s alcohol-induced lapses so convincingly that you might end up Googling the character. In blurring fact and fiction, the novel not only mimics the texture of cricket fandom but also comments on the ways nations construct their narratives. Sri Lanka, recovering from war and silences, becomes a metaphorical parallel of a country with many missing pages.

Karunatilaka’s writing is witty, sharp, and deeply musical. The novel is filled with irreverent one-liners, drunken ramblings, philosophical musings, cricketing trivia, newspaper excerpts, statistics, and lists. It reads like a mashup of journalistic diary, sports documentary, and detective fiction. Although cricket drives the narrative, Chinaman is not even a cricket book. Cricket becomes an entry into race, caste, class, corruption, media ethics, and the politics of memory formation. Sri Lanka’s cricketing establishment becomes a microcosm of the island itself. Mathew, a Tamil, is hinted to be sidelined, unrecognised, erased. The mystery of why such a brilliant athlete disappeared becomes research on institutional prejudice, the violence of bureaucracies, and the quiet, everyday injustices that never make headlines. Karunatilaka never moralises; instead, he simply places cricket where it has always belonged in the South Asia of not just being a sport, but a sociological text.  

The book’s experimental narrative may not resonate equally with everyone. Those unfamiliar with cricket’s technical language, historical rivalries, or South Asian cricketing culture might initially feel disoriented. The nonlinear storytelling, shifting formats, incomplete endings, and metafictional commentary demand patience. But these elements are intentional as they replicate the experience of uncovering a half-lost story, of living in a place where history itself is contested terrain.I thought the book was a triumph of narrative experimentation, cultural commentary, and emotional depth. It is funny without being frivolous, political without being didactic, tragic without losing hope. It is about cricket, but also about journalism, friendship, nationhood, obsession, and the human need to make meaning before time runs out.

Few novels manage to be simultaneously entertaining, intellectually provocative, and heartbreaking. For lovers of cricket, South Asian literature, postcolonial storytelling, or simply great fiction, Chinaman is a highly recommended read.

Tere Ishk Mein

Genre: Romance Year: 2025 | Duration: 167 mins | Director: Anand L Rai |  Medium: Theatre (PVR Cinemas) | Trailer: HERE | Language: Hindi | Cast: Dhanush, Kriti Sanon, and others | My rating: 4/5

I have a fascination with morbid romance, where passion is fierce and consuming, love and ruin walk hand in hand, and loss feels almost sacred. After a long time, I totally enjoyed a Bollywood film, Tere Ishk Mein, for its feverish, fractured, and fearless ode to obsessive love and loss. Anand Rai, as Director, and Dhanush and Kriti Sanon as actors have so beautifully portrayed the volatile landscape of love, messy and irrational, dark and bruised. It is a film that is less about romance and far more curious about what happens when love mutates, dissolves boundaries, and begins to reshape identity itself.

The film centres around Shankar (Dhanush), a young man navigating the emotional ruins of unrequited affection. His world is small, ordinary, burning with relentless restlessness, textured with the familiar lanes of Rai’s cinematic universe. When he falls in love with Mukti (Kriti Sanon), it is with the conviction of a man who sees devotion as delusional destiny. Dhanush’s performance is a masterclass. His portrayal of longing, with shoulders slightly slumped, eyes rimmed with unspoken ache, voice cracking in the in-between spaces of sentences, is brilliant. He brings a fragile humanity that compels empathy even when the character’s choices spiral into moral greyness. There are moments when Shankar’s yearning feels suffocating, and moments when it feels heroic. In several scenes, especially those dealing with solitude and heartbreak, the camera lingers on his face with cruel intimacy. He allows vulnerability to show across the frame, leaving behind emotional aftershocks.

The film’s leading lady, Mukti (Kriti Sanon), is a girl caught between affection, caution, and the burden of societal expectations. She is real, flawed, and aware of her own contradictions. Her emotional arc of moving from curiosity to confusion to a painful clarity is one of the more grounded aspects of the film. What stands out is that Mukti is not a passive recipient of Shankar’s affection. She pushes back, speaks for herself, asserts her boundaries, and refuses to become a prop for his emotional turbulence. In many ways, her character reminded me that intensity does not equal righteousness.

Rai’s filmmaking has always been rooted in the everyday—narrow streets, chaotic homes, lived-in locations where life unfolds in all its contradictions. In Tere Ishk Mein, he retains this aesthetic but adds a layer of psychological depth. His director truly excels in designing silences. Some of the best moments in the film are those where nothing is said: an unfinished sentence, a doorway half-shut, a glance held for one second too long. These are the moments when the film transcends melodrama and ventures into introspection.

What distinguishes this film from typical love stories is its willingness to confront the darker territories of attachment. The film does not glorify suffering, nor does it portray persistence as virtue. Instead, it presents a sobering reality that love can be transformative, but it can also be corrosive if it becomes entitlement.The climax, which is raw, unsettling and necessary, is where the film truly earns its place. It is neither triumphant nor tragic in a conventional sense. Rather, it is painfully truthful. It is a rare mainstream film that lets discomfort linger. A must-watch if you enjoy a turbulent exploration of love.

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