Review: Gandhi My Father

Tryst with destiny
Pratim D. Gupta

August 15, 1947: As the whole country rejoiced at their newfound independence, one Indian was more interested in the sweets that were being distributed and not the flags with them.
That was the “tryst with destiny” of Harilal Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, a streetside beggar by the time Nehru was announcing India’s arrival to the world.
As a father-son story, Feroz Abbas Khan’s Gandhi My Father is not very different from Ramesh Sippy’s Shakti but it is the historical backdrop which turns everything upside down. In fact, there is so much of shock value in the going-ons that Khan (also the writer) has to deliberately jam the brakes on the pace to help the audience soak it all in.
The inner angst of Junior Gandhi — that’s what Harilal was called in Phoenix Settlement in South Africa — was so deep that he would try to change his future by changing religions as fast as he changed his clothes and appearances. But it was the past he couldn’t rid himself of. “Mera itihas lambi hai aur bhugol gol,” he cries in despair.
Thanks to a father who would “define the meaning of independence and then set its parameters”, Harilal was lost in his lineage. As years passed, he kept getting tonked around back and forth from South Africa to India and internally things got so bitter that at one point of time he says: “Whenever I fail, he (Gandhi) succeeds.”
But interestingly, they would both come back to each other from time to time looking for redemption. Harilal would first seek Gandhi’s permission, then his money and then even his identity. He almost tells himself: “I’m Gandhi’s son; how can I cheat?” Gandhi, on the other hand, realises that he could have done so much more for his elder son but cannot take out time to do so. In a telling scene, he asks Harilal to come back to him but, as the train rolls out of the station, he has to leave him there.
Yes, producer Anil Kapoor is right — this is a story that had to be told. And told with the responsibility that Feroz Khan brings on board. You can feel an overtone of Mahatma Gandhi’s insensitivity towards his son but the director never screams it out. Because he comes from a rich background of theatre, Khan’s script tends to become episodic in parts. But the stage-to-screen switch works with the stress on physical acting by the main players. Feroz also uses close-ups of on-lookers to great effect.
Harilal is Akshaye Khanna and not the other way round. Letting go of his familiar dimpled chuckles, Akshaye sinks into the role seamlessly. And the scene when he comes shivering home to his dead wife looks set to become one of the finest pieces of acting in the history of Indian cinema.
Darshan Zariwalla is so effective as Gandhi that you never miss Sir Ben Kingsley, which is quite an achievement. Even Shefali Shah and Bhoomika Chawla are knockouts as the ladies caught in the middle. Another hero of the enterprise is cinematographer David McDonald who uses natural lighting and colour schemes to great effect.
The silhouettes stay with you and so does the lingering question: Was Gandhigiri a fool-proof
formula?