Nagraj Manjule’s ‘Jhund’, NRC, and the Walls of Identity

Nagraj Manjule's 'Jhund', starring Amitabh Bachchan, is based on Vijay Barse, the founder of slum soccer.

The popularity of sports drama as a genre in mainstream cinema has remained unabated for a reason — most of these films play around a similar template, refusing to experiment beyond a point, offering us a sense of familiarity that is cliché yet comforting at the same time. In one such cliched ploy, most sports films save their triumph moment for the climax — when after all the hustle and obstructions, the underdog finally clinches the match with a tense, last-minute leap of brilliance.

In Nagraj Manjule’s Jhund however, we arrive at this moment far too soon — a little earlier than even the interval point actually. And in the middle of the big match between the urban kids and the slum team (and our protagonists), we start feeling an uneasiness— Now that they have proved their mettle, what next?

That’s when Manjule, a master at subversion, delivers the most poignant segment of the film - after all the slo-mo crowd-pleasing visuals of the slum team celebrating their victory, we get a quiet montage of all the players talking about their life and their past, with utmost rawness— and we realize that their journey, to self–actualization, and rise has merely begun.

Up until now, we have seen them revel in this self-created den of inequities— playing cards, smoking relentlessly, stealing pets only to sell them off— in short, flouting all conventions of a ‘decent society.’

It is only after the team’s victory that we get to know the real them as their recklessness suddenly turns out to be a garb, a coping mechanism against all the injustice, against all the walls built around them that stops them from being a ‘legit citizen’ and the most important barrier turns out to be the one around documents, with them needing to prove that they belong to the land they live upon.

Manjule handles this chapter with great pathos, incorporating a device that subliminally warns us of one of the biggest threats that loom over the sovereignty of our nation— the possible implementation of the National Register of Citizens aka NRC.

In a nation like ours where we have never really had a rigorous implementation of formal documentation for all its inhabitants, a sudden emphasis on NRC and presenting decades-old proof of your birth, education etc. seems like yet another, and a far more dangerous, tool to ‘otherize’ the already oppressed.

If at all a system like this needs to be put to effect, its purpose needs to be enabling the underprivileged to have better and streamlined access to their rights. In Jhund, however, the lack of their officiality is only used against our protagonists to keep them away from equal opportunity.

Suitably enough, Jhund doesn’t have one antagonist— it presents the entire system as a roadblock which is designed in a way always hindering of the progress of the underprivileged. It warns us of the dangers that would surpass all degrees of heinous powerplay if we allow a system like NRC to come into action.

Jhund consistently plays on the visuals of walls and boundaries, to make its point about the barriers that remain between the privileged and the oppressed. However, as two of our principal characters wait for their identity to be officiated, we realize yet again that not all divisive walls are visible.

Monica (Rinku Rajguru) is a tribal girl from rural Maharashtra who gets selected by Vijay Borade (Amitabh Bachchan) for the National slum team after she displays great prowess at football. However, this is where Monica’s struggle begins. A little later, we see Monica and her father arrive at the passport office, only to realize that they have no prior documents required to be eligible for one.

They then meet the school officials where Monica had studied, only to learn that she was never registered officially. Monica finally manages to procure a ‘Pehchaan–Patra’ from a local gazetted officer after a local resident gives him his word, about being acquainted with Monica’s father.

Manjule treats this last bit with a lot of humor, but from Monica’s viewpoint, it might have been a moment of horror— to realize that her fate depends on the word of someone who she doesn’t even know. (Rinku Rajguru, who is perplexingly given a brownface, excellently captures the emotional turbulence of a girl who can never seem to be too sure of her feelings, because after a point they all seem to depend on how the world chooses to validate her presence, if at all.)

A similar cloud of uncertainty looms over Ankush aka Don (Ankush Gedam) who struggles to outrun blemishes from his past, unable to get a passport verification because that would mean legal (and moral) approval from local police authorities, who continue to be prejudiced and oppressive towards him, using his nickname to insinuate that he probably has multiple passports, and is on a scheming spree.

Jhund is not about the victory of the underdog, but a mere shot at fair play for that underdog, something which eludes a large part of our nation and its citizens on a systematic level.

A film like Chak De comes to mind, another underdog sports drama which encapsulated the chapter of finding approvals in 15 minutes. Over there, the victory was the point. Out here, the mere participation of the underdog is a challenge, and Jhund suitably dedicates over an hour of its run-time to this mammoth task, capturing its character going through the mundane formalities that have suddenly the power to make or break their dreams.

When Monica and her father talk to each other in private moments, they use their native Gondi dialect— and Manjule consciously leaves these conversations outside the jurisdiction of subtitles, making a point about ‘the real India’ and its diversity.

What is real India? Is it the populace that exists in increasingly concretised urban spaces with easy access to everything including ways to legitimize themselves? Or is it the vastly complex and diverse occupants who live elsewhere, with languages and dialects far beyond our knowledge and comprehension, and yet undergoing unwarranted adversities before they’re given an equal opportunity?

India is all of it, equally real and eligible for every bright patch of opportunity that is available out there. But as we know, the last couple of years have seen a conscious effort from the center to redefine what India is, and who true Indians are.

Jhund, even though a film essentially about caste divide, ends up applying to all oppressed communities of our nation that are always forced to fight the extra battle in order to prove their legitimacy.

In another quasi-surreal chain of events, we see Ankush being repeatedly accosted by Sambhya (Akash Thosar), an upper-caste businessman who appears out of nowhere almost like a ghost, asking Ankush to fall on his knees and beg for forgiveness, again and again, merely on the account of one altercation which they had several months ago. Ankush might try to leave his past behind, but his identity and presumed inferiority do not elude him.

(SPOILERS AHEAD) Manjule again captures this nerve-wracking fear of being caught and sent back in the climax where Ankush just doesn’t seem to get past the security check at the airport— with each walk and scan, the officer finds some minuscule object that’s a threat to security.

And though it's majorly a symbol for Ankush’s own baggage, the security officer’s response fills us with dread as he asks, “Ye Blade Leke Kahan Jaa Rahe Ho?” We are reminded of all the occasions in the narrative when random men have held up Ankush, demanding explanations and submission without any right to do so. And we very well know that this officer too holds that kind of power— to put a stop to his literal and symbolic flight.

Even though Manjule overall chooses an optimistic lens in this film, unlike his previous two landmark films, Jhund remains a film where despite a positive ending, we never are allowed to forget the darker possibilities.

Jhund ends with a rousing shot of a plane taking off in all its glory, but it might have been a shot of Ankush exiting the airport, and it would have felt as believable – because we know the world around us is capable of such hostility. Jhund is about the bunch of people who outrun this hostility.

(This is an opinion article and the views expressed above are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for the same.)