The Hindu Business Line : A <I>Shwaas</I> of fresh air

The film is short, the shooting of Konkan villages is done lovingly, there is little dialogue and every frame holds the viewer. Only a sense of fun is missing.

"YE le, Shwaas ka tape (Here is the tape of Shwaas)," said my friend, Vivek Bendre, and one did not refuse the pirated tape as the Marathi film has been drawing oohs and aahs from filmgoers.

Vidya has seen the film at Citylight in Dadar and insisted on my enjoying it. "It's a straight tale easily told. Not like the films of Adoor Gopalakrishnan that have one admirer in Adoor and a few critics who can be termed chamchas (now made famous by Anil Ambani)," Vidya said.

Vivek agreed with Vidya's critical estimation though my neighbour differed strongly. "Mere ko paisa deke rone ka nahin hai (I don't want to pay to weep). Sambhal ke, police pakad lega (Be careful, the police can arrest you)," he said.

At around 11 in the night one watched Shwaas (Breath), directed by Arun Nalavade who dons the main role of the grandfather in the film. The film is short, the shooting of Konkan villages is done lovingly, there is little dialogue and every frame holds the viewer. Only a sense of fun is missing which is the bane of most Indian films, art and otherwise. For our directors a laugh is probably the worst sin. A village kid is losing his vision and an expert doctor in a city hospital says it is cancer of the retina affecting both the eyes. The choice for the grandfather and the kid is between totally losing eyesight and living, or refusing an operation and dying of cancer. The director does not offer any teary messages and gets on with the job, which ends in some style.

The story, written by Madhuri Gharpure, could happen to any of us and that makes it relevant. One became a part of some of the shots of Konkan villages (one hopes one's guess is right) as Paul and oneself have toured the area a bit. Konkan, Goa and Kerala form one long green strand on one long beach. The two-tiered tiled homes resemble the naalu kettu Nair residences in Kerala.

One saw the film twice to relish one long shot: The grandfather in the traditional dhoti, shirt, black topi, with an umbrella hanging from his wrist, stands still looking at the doctor stepping out of his car at the request of a lady medical-social worker. The pain shows in the old man who is probably unsure (or rather wary) of the professional ways of the doctor. A huge risk is being taken by the spectacled old man who will be held responsible by the parents of Parashuram, the kid.

Between Lagaan and Shwaas for an Oscar, one prefers Shwaas — though one cannot understand the Oscar obsession. Do we still need the white man's critical acclaim, and is not local applause satisfying enough? Arun Nalavade has won the esteem of the Marathi manus and many others. That's enough.

The film came up for discussion at a private hospital in Borivili on Saturday where Vidya was admitted for dental surgery. One spent the day in a cubicle of the two-bed hospital as the doctor had advised rest for Vidya till late in the evening. There were no outdated magazines or newspapers to read. One learnt to stay put staring at the wall when the nurse, who had nothing to do, started talking. "Saab, aap dekha Shwaas. Achcha laga. Hum roya (Did you see Shwaas? A good film. I wept)," she informed me.

Like onself, she had seen the tape at her neighbour's place. One nodded agreement as at some point one felt a bit down. But the nurse was not quite convinced of the hospital scenes as, according to her, no doctor is helpful as in Shwaas nor are the hospital staff polite. But the lady dental surgeon explained to us Vidya's problem and one did not understand anything. The doctor opened her mouth to indicate the location of the wisdom tooth and one closed one's eyes.

The 50-year-old nurse has been working with the lady doctor for the last 22 years and today earns Rs 2,000 a month for 12 hours' work. She has two daughters and stays in a chawl in Kandivili. "Kya karega (What to do)," she told me. She started talking about the TV serials she regularly enjoys and was joined by 60-year-old mausi, who has been an assistant at the hospital for 20 years. Mausi earns Rs1,300 a month plus money for the railway pass as she travels every day from Nerul in Navi Mumbai to Borivili, changing three trains. A one-way journey takes about two hours, and she is at the hospital by 10.30 a.m. to work at least 12 hours, if not more.

Sunday is a rest day for the two old ladies who may no be able to afford a surgery at the hospital as it costs about Rs 8,000. For them it will be a choice between bearing the pain or going broke.