Apart from the Three Aces that emblematize its resident den of sin, Aarop reveals its cards exceedingly slowly. It took some faith to make it to the end. The first half is undoubtedly enjoyable, both in its development of the various romance tracks and in the glamorous fun to be had with Bindu’s character. After that, the film comes off the rails a little bit. I’ve decided in retrospect that it found its way home; as the second half was actively unfolding, though, I mostly made confused noises and distracted myself by admiring Saira’s saris. I think that Aarop was produced and directed by Atma Ram, with a screenplay by Ram Govind and dialogues by Vrajendra Gaur. Since I had already exhausted my devanagari-decoding energy by the time I finished watching, I have had to blindly trust IMDB regarding those credits.1
In the small municipality of Nandganj, the local government decides to license the Three Aces casino with an eye to bringing more employment to the area, increasing tax revenue, and avoiding the ire of seth Makhanlal Singh (Rehman). Although impresaria Kanchan (Bindu) is publicly the owner of the club, Makhanlal has bankrolled it and his economic and personal heft within this community greases its path to success. The local newspaper, Mashaal, would ordinarily be in a position to protest against both Makhanlal’s racketeering and the deleterious moral effects of the club. Makhanlal has conveniently ensured that its editor Subhash (Vinod Khanna) is safely behind bars following a libel suit. Subhash commends the paper temporarily to the care of his conspicuously unsuccessful defense attorney, Ravi (Vinod Mehra). Ravi soon accepts the assistance of zealous schoolteacher Aruna (Saira Banu). Once Subhash has served his six months, Mashaal is ready to take on the Three Aces with three friends at its helm.
My conflicted feelings about this film stem partially from how diagonal its stated values seem to the actual unfolding of the story. Somewhat like Prem Kahani (1975), I can’t gauge how much we’re meant to sympathize with the main characters’ zealotry. If this film were conked just a few degrees to one side, it would be an overt indictment of political fanaticism—or at least a warning label regarding its flammability under exposure to interpersonal conflict. Given that the final line of Aarop, written in literal fire, is “aur Mashaal jaalta raha,” I am probably not experiencing this story in the spirit that the filmmakers expected. One of Ravi’s college friends turns down a request for funding for Mashaal by saying that they can still be friendly even if they don’t do business together. Aruna immediately snipes at him, making it clear that she isn’t interested in the goodwill of someone who isn’t completely invested in Mashaal and its mission. She’ll have perfection or she’ll have nothing. Most of this film’s denizens are not idealists of this water. They’re scrambling to keep their feet under themselves (Dhondu and Kalawati), or are willing to side with whomever will give them a hand up at the present moment (Tony), or are more devoted to their loved ones’ wellbeing than any particular ideology (Shyam Nandan). Importantly, these characters are more effective in resolving the Three Aces situation than the main trio are. Makhanlal Singh is brought to justice by ordinary, compromise-minded people who wind up standing against him for reasons that are as much personal as they are ethical. Perfection would not have gotten them there.
I found the character of Kanchan especially engaging; all the other characters seemed to believe something slightly different of her and her real sympathies or motives were never precisely revealed. (The print I saw was brutalized, so there’s a non-zero chance that some vital Kanchan backstory got lost on the edge of a reel. On the other hand, Aruna is stated in two directly adjacent scenes to have been raised by her sister in a different town and to have been abandoned at Nandganj’s temple as an infant, so simple sloppiness could also be the culprit.) Even if I didn’t get answers, I enjoyed wondering what exactly Kanchan’s deal was. Bindu makes the character irresistibly feisty. She lies in bed in full glam reading Chic magazine, of which I approve even if it’s the polar opposite of my own lifestyle. The relatively large supporting cast and their thoughtfully written characters also help enliven a narrative that could easily have felt cramped. Dhondu (Johnny Walker) and Kalawati (Savita) are great fun as the middle-aged couple who own the press at which Mashaal is printed. She’s a harridan and he’s a moral lightweight, continuously bickering but clearly deeply in love with one another. Their presence is vital for keeping Nandganj’s political struggles grounded in real stakes; Dhondu clearly doesn’t have the self-control to keep himself from gambling away all their savings if the Three Aces stays in town, but being involved with Mashaal in even an ancillary capacity also puts the couple at risk for retribution from the municipal council and Makhanlal Singh’s rowdies. The same is true of Bharat Bhushan as Aruna’s foster father. Although much of her unwavering sense of justice would presumably have come from the manner in which he raised her, their interpretation of those values are frequently at odds.
I had heard “Nainon Mein Darpan Hai” before, but I would not have been able to tell you the composer’s name. Now I am left wishing that Bhupen Hazarika–whom I am made to understand worked primarily in Assamese–would have written more Hindi scores. Not only are the songs of Aarop good listening, but they play into some extremely well-constructed dramatic song sequences. At least two of them would spoil you badly for the surprising event that impels the second-half plot, so explore YouTube with caution, I suppose. One of my favorites is “Jab Se Tune Bansi,” a Krishna devotional song sung in the temple where Aruna has made her home. She dances through her chores while the devotees sing across the courtyard. (Does anybody recognize the tanpura player on whom this song is picturized? She looks very familiar, but I can’t place her.) Bindu gets two excellent numbers. One of them, while funky and excellent, is also spolierish, so I will mention “Chale Aao Na Satao” instead. It is a tuneful, knowing item song in which Kanchan lists off the prices of her various assets, sartorial and physical. The lyrics and picturization play up the obvious ridiculousness of this genre of song, making clear how willfully delusional Makhanlal Singh must be to view this woman’s loyalties as genuine.
The thoughtful use of music is not limited to songs per se. Eric Clapton’s “Hang Down” underscores much of the excellent passage in which our heroes travel to Bombay to try and secure more funding for Mashaal. I couldn’t help but be reminded of when an ensemble I was in tried to have a planning meeting after the last concert of the season, only to find that the only restaurant still open in downtown Kansas City that late was directly above a hopping club. The clamorous aural atmosphere in which Subhash, Ravi, and Aruna are trying to do business suddenly dissolves into the equally surreal semi-classical “Haath Mere Hai Madhu”—and then back again. Along with some piquant dialogues and jarring editing, these musical choices aptly convey the increasing deterioration of the evening as well as the straining relationship between the three protagonists. The beautiful opening credits sequence is equally effective. It follows the newspaper deliverymen’s bicycles as they travel throughout Nandganj with the dawn mist coming in. The only noise as the city wakes up is the backing score, which indulges in some whimsical bicycle-bell sounds.
As a final note, I was favorably impressed by how Aarop depicted the process of publishing. Having worked in the industry, I’m usually a left little baffled by filmi depictions of authors or publishers—all the more so in movies that, like Aarop, tend towards mythicizing the power of the pen. The main characters necessarily devote much of their energy to the tedious work that goes along with sustaining a local newspaper: getting funding, ensuring distribution, soliciting a steady supply of written material. They have conversations about balancing the argumentative power of writing with its aesthetic appeal that, with different subject matter interpolated, could have come from the meetings I have on a weekly basis. And, in these days when type cases mostly serve as wall décor, it was a delight to spend time with the compositors in Dhondu and Kalawati’s old-fashioned letterpress.
1 That faith is probably misplaced, since it credits Gulshan Arora with playing a goonda named “Caesar.” I’m confident he was meant to be “Scissor”; he keeps threatening to cut people up!