Fandry: Harsh realities of the underprivileged

Another election, another intense high-stakes battle fought along caste lines in an India whose leaders would like to tell the world that this is a country that has moved on with an egalitarian agenda. That caste is an uncomfortable fact, ever present on the fringes of our existence, hits home with the effect of a sledgehammer as the Marathi film Fandry unfolds in the darkened interiors of a plush multiplex.

Fandry is slang for pig and the film by Nagraj Manjule, centres on the adolescent Jabya grappling with the pangs of first love for the fair-skinned, upper-caste girl in his class and his own marginalised identity as a Dalit, is a searing reflection of the India that we live in.

Jabya’s world, set in a village in Maharashtra, is one where his caste dominates his every waking minute, where his dark skin sets him apart as different, where his family is forced into isolation, but also called upon to do the dirty jobs no one else does — like handling pigs and ridding the village of their impure presence. It’s a basic, stark existence in a basic, stark home with no electricity and no toilets.

It could be the dark ages, relegated to a corner of Indian history. But this is no period film. This is a film set in contemporary India where the telecommunication revolution has ensured smartphones if not sanitation for all, where the nearby town, a cycle ride away from Jabya’s village, has a Van Heusen showroom complete with a mannequin.

And so Jabya, achingly conscious of his looks and status in life, dabs on some powder to make himself a shade fairer, looks longingly at the mannequin and, back home, clamps his nose with a clothes hook, hoping to tame his broad features into the sharp, corporate look that is the stuff of an unreal world he can only dream about.

Freedom from his everyday reality finds expression in his quest for the black sparrow, an elusive bird that when captured will lead him to love. Burning the sparrow and sprinkling its ashes on his pretty schoolmate will win Jabya her love, his friend Chankya, played by director Manjule, tells him.

Chankya is the voice telling Jabya it’s okay to dream, the counterpoint to his father, who accepts his fate with a docility born of generations of suppression.

But there are no takers for Chankya, who symbolises a changing world. Jabya’s father, whose sense of self is so totally obliterated that he wants only to continue living in the village as always, beats him up for meeting him.

In this modern-day pastiche of orthodox belief and acceptance, there are sparks too. Jabya’s elder sister, who has been abandoned by her husband, is no pushover. She fights back when heckled by the men watching the family hunt down pigs in the last frenetic, breathless sequence.

It leaves you shaken. Like the gladiator arena of yore, Jabya’s schoolmates and others in the village watch from their perch as the family chases the pig. The circus is on. The jeers echo loud and, just in case we are lulled into believing that this really is not the India of today, a young boy films the ignominy and loads it on Facebook. And the young girl who has so fascinated Jabya wants to stay on for some more time to watch the fun.

When the pig is killed and carried away right before BR Ambedkar, painted on the walls of the school, is when the dam bursts. Jabya turns around and hurls a stone right at us. The screen darkens, the light comes on and we are faced with that inevitable question — what next for him and the millions of others chafing at the lives they lead, refusing to accept the identity thrust on them by birth.

It’s a question India’s politicians must answer as they desperately seek votes and promise a better tomorrow.

The author is consulting editor, dna