I recently watched Gulaal
(2009) on the ‘MH One’ TV channel, and I was genuinely stunned by its intricate
plot and the thoughtful execution. The film stands out as a rare gem, far
removed from the typical lot produced in India. Upon discovering that it was
written and directed by Anurag Kashyap, everything made sense—he is a
master of his craft, deserving of the highest honours and recognition.
The film lingered in my mind long
after it ended. One striking observation was that nearly every character who
died seemed to be actively courting their own demise. It’s an eerie pattern
worth noting.
The first to fall was Rananjay
Singh ‘Ransa’, portrayed brilliantly by Abhimanyu Singh. His
performance was so compelling that I looked him up and learned he hails from
Sonpur, Bihar. His natural and powerful acting left a lasting impression.
Ransa, captured by his envious stepbrother, showed no fear. Instead of pleading
for his life, he hurled insults at his armed captor, provoking him until he was
shot. It felt as though Ransa invited his own death.
Later, Dukey Banna (played
with intensity by Kay Kay Menon) orchestrates the killing of Jadwal,
though the film offers no background, making it unclear whether Jadwal’s death
was similarly self-inflicted.
Dukey’s elder brother, Prithvi
Banna, mentally unstable after their father’s death, spirals out of
control. Dukey attempts to shoot him but accidentally kills a dancer instead.
Prithvi’s erratic behaviour made his fate seem inevitable.
Toward the end, Dilip, a young
student, shoots Dukey Banna. Rather than trying to escape or seek help,
Dukey spends his final moments revealing how Dilip’s girlfriend manipulated him
to gain political power. It’s as if Dukey chose to spend his last breath
enlightening a confused youth rather than saving himself.
Bhati, Dukey’s associate, is later killed
by a rival gang. His decision to venture alone into a dark, isolated area is
baffling. He could have eliminated Dilip earlier when he was vulnerable. Even
Bhati's reaction to being shot—standing still, making no attempt to flee—felt
like a silent acceptance of death.
After realizing he was used by Kiran,
Dilip tries but fails to shoot her. It’s a tragic moment, reflecting how
love can paralyze even in the face of betrayal. Her brother then shoots Dilip,
and instead of seeking help, he runs to his empty rented room. That final run
felt deeply symbolic—more a journey of heartbreak than a response to injury. It
was his homecoming, his pilgrimage, his moment of maturity—tragically timed
just before death.
The film’s ending, where the corrupt
triumph and the idealists perish, is both ironic and fitting. Gulaal portrays a
world where predators roam freely, and some characters, knowingly or not,
embrace their fate.
Perhaps when life is lived on one’s
own terms, death becomes less a fearsome end and more a threshold to cross.
- Rahul Tiwary
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