Film Review: The Lunch Box

Irfan Khan in The Lunch Box

Debutant film maker, Ritesh Batra, has made a fantastic start, with his first. Pegging the film on two elements – the Bombay Dabbawalas, who have become an international case study at management schools, and the evergreen recipe called love, he has made a profoundly meaningful, touching film, with only one very well-known actor, that being Irfan Khan, as cast and other lesser known names like, Nimrat Kaur, Nawazuddin Siddiqui. A story so beautifully woven, with so much sensitivity, really did not need a super engaging cast, to carry the film to a box office hit.

Saajan (Irfan Khan), is about to retire in a month after 35 years of work life. He is a lonely widower, with nothing else except his job as crutch.

Ila (Nimrat Kaur) is a housewife with a daughter and a husband she suspects is having an affair outside their marriage.

Nawazuddin Siddiqui, is the young man all set to take over the job from Irfan, after he retires in a month or two. He is eager to learn from Irfan, but the latter is a reluctant teacher for his insecurity of a life of retirement, is only too close and looking him in the face.

At that moment, by a turn of fate, there is an interchange of dabbas (Lunchbox) and the one he receives is not the one, meant for him. But the food is home cooked, and ever since the death of his wife, Irfan has been eating from the canteen, which only provided, potatoes on a daily basis. Irfan takes the liberty to send a chit in the box complaining, complimenting, telling stories, inside the box. Ila, who receives these letters, is a bit baffled at the beginning, but begins to enjoy and anticipate the letters. Her drab life, with a cheating husband, which she tells Irfan about, finds a patient listener. The letters fill the emptiness of each of their lives. They plan to meet.

However, at the appointed time, at the restaurant decided before, Ila, is waiting anxiously, while Irfan, a much older man, comes to the restaurant but does not meet her. He sits and watches her, hesitating to move forward. Naturally Ila is unhappy at this let down, but receives a letter of explanation from Irfan the next day, in the dabba, of course. Along with her daughter, she visits his Office, only to find, he has retired and left. She herself decides to leave for Bhutan, leaving her husband behind.

What is the actual message of the film? At no point do the two protagonists, Ila and Irfan, ever meet and yet, the audience is left with this feeling that they will meet, sometime. Perhaps in Bhutan where they plan to go together, but each has gone his own way!

The whole movie is a brilliant depiction of our need as humans to communicate. The key message is -  given any situation where two people are alone and have no one to talk to, they will create a bridge of communication, between them, even if they do not know, or have not seen or met each other. For Irfan, Ila filled the vacancy of this life, just by reading/listening to what he was writing; for Ila, Irfan was that person, she did not know, but could share her deepest fears or insecurities. Yet, when challenged to meet, personally came, Irfan prefers to maintain status quo. Indeed, he is aware that this bubble would burst if they were to meet personally, face to face.

At another level, even the aunty, living above Ila, whose voice the audience hears but whose face it never sees, is another example of communication between two humans living close to each other.  There is exchange thoughts and queries, and there is a basket hanging on ropes which again becomes a loop to hang another form of communication, where, tid-bits shared between two kitchen, one on top and the other below, becomes a tool that gives a loud and clear message – There is a voice that binds the two and there is a connection too, between the two. Again, they are communicating, whatever be the objects shared between the two.

Brilliant as it were, the film talks about a very basic need – the need to be heard and the need to communicate in any form, because, as someone said, no man is an island. We are all part of the milieu, we call life. We are complete, only when there is the other, in whatever form it may choose to be there for us.

The film is clean of all other quick fix modern day communications that shake the hall with belly dancers, romantic run-around trees or making out at sea bed. Also, there are no Smartphones, Facebook, Twitter or gmail even.

Such a break from the mundane! Such a beautiful film!

Read also why The Lunchbox should have been the film for the Oscar nomination.

http://www.tehelka.com/the-community-of-independent-filmmakers-in-india-is-essentially-crabs-in-a-basket/

About Communication

Recently I received a sharp hit on my knuckles, by the Only One, who is allowed by all means to strike me, whenever. He does it for my own good. This is the third time He is doing so in the last two years that I have started blogging.

The concept of blogging was unknown to me until, quite by chance I met someone at poetry reading and wanted to exchange my writing with her’s. I was given certain links to read her work – poetry and prose. Needless to say I loved what I had just received. A communication between us ensued and finally I opened account in the same blogsite and ever since life has never been the same. However, I was soon to receive a tight slap from the One Above, for getting close to a few commentators on my blog. Having learnt nothing from that I received what I generally like to call, the best way He can teach me a lesson – a bitter experience, after another long ensuing friendship, that started of with fellow-blogger. I thought I had learnt my lesson. But no! Yet again, I did make another mistake and of course I received another sharp hit on my knuckle.

The point I am trying to make here is, as humans, communication is in our genes. We will communicate in one way or the other. As an ex-advertising person, I know the value of communication. I also know, the different forms of communication, tools and methods we use to speak, verbally and quite often through body language. Sample a piece of my own writing to understand what I am talking about. It is from a story I have titled Voice, because, here the protagonist’s house help, anxious to communicate, begins to talk to a visitor in a language, the latter does not understand.

“We left on our errand. When I returned before dusk to the house, I found I was alone with Mami. The drawing room was a picture of old wooden furniture, not antique, just solid wood that is becoming hard to find in the cities today. The furniture was well maintained, getting their polish ones every two years and being dusted by Mami’s able hands every day. I sat on a chair and looked at the TV, which was turned off. I saw a few books at the bottom of the TV Stand. Mami came to the door that connected the drawing room to the adjoining dining room. She stood at the doorway, half her body hidden behind the doorway and the other half visible to me.

" Kaapi wenuma?" ( Do you want coffee?)

I shook my head " Wanda" I said in the little Tamil I knew.

She did not leave the doorway, but continued to remain there. And in the next half-hour, I heard her whole life story in Tamil. She just spoke. She knew no other language except Tamil. I knew only Bengali, English, Hindi and a bit of French. But Tamil? No! I did not speak it nor understand it. I sat half turned towards her and half my body still turned to the TV, occasionally looking at her just for a little while. But she spoke in a voice that was desperate to tell a story. I was an outsider and therefore a person who was not a part of the family. It was safe to talk to me. I was not going to be there all my life. From a few words like " hospital" etc. I could tell she was talking about her husband. Meena manni had told us that her husband had died in the hospital. Except for a useless son, she was alone in the world and she had been with this family for the last forty years. I knew therefore the content of her monologue without understanding the words.

I came from a background of communication. I understood and was ever sensitive to the need for human beings to communicate. I knew there were different types of communication and my professional training had taught me to use these modes and methods to communicate to a larger audience. It had also taught me to know when to speak and when to keep quiet. To be a fine listener and to be able to listen to the gaps between words. Above all, I heard and trusted body language. The body does not lie. That is why, I had maintained this side position when she was speaking. I did not want to confront her with the front view of my body and my direct glance. She also was half hidden behind the doorway, only half-visible to me. In that position, she communicated to me that she was only ready to tell me what she was comfortable to talk about. The other half of her body was an area she had forgotten or had hidden in the deep recesses of her mind. It might have been her childhood, her growing years. If I had changed my seat and gone and sat on a chair facing her completely, I am sure she would have stopped talking. She too did not want to see me at front view…this way I was hidden from her direct view."

What I have never been used to or trained in is the language of blogging for it seems that here the rules are different. In fact, the learning curve in my case has been constantly taking a dip, sadly.

Touch, voice, eye contact are only natural to most communications. Yet, in the blogging world there is a difference. Strangely, if you like someone’s writings or even their blog very much, you might want to get to know them personally. It is only natural, I think. And yet, there is a grave danger. More often than not, the attempt leads to communication breakdown.

My years of training as a communication professional, even my Masters in Business Management with specialization in Human Resources, has only proved one thing – no amount of learning can make me perfect and new grounds need me to learn continuously even though I know, I will never be perfect in it.

Thank God, my Teacher this time is not in the classroom. I won’t have exams, EXAMS, kind of thing.

Only struck on my knuckles!