Munjya
is
the
most
wildly
entertaining
ghost
I
have
encountered
at
the
movies
recently.
But
he
has
the
added
advantage
of
being
a
Maharashtrian
ghost,
of
possessing
rhythms
of
speech
and
behaviour
that
are
distinctly
Maharashtrian,
of
being
blessed
with
that
beautiful
brand
of
Maharashtrian
irritability,
points
out
Sreehari
Nair.
Abhay
Verma
in
Munjya.
Munjya
is
both
a
shape-shifter
and
a
body
snatcher.
Given
his
peculiar
interests,
it
helps
that
Munjya
is
gelatinous
in
texture.
He
is
also
emphatically
vulgar,
and
is
often
only
a
syllable
away
from
uttering
the
choicest
Marathi
cusswords.
A
troublemaker
of
devious
proportions,
he
has
a
visible
enthusiasm
for
breaking
and
smashing
things
up.
But
despite
your
best
efforts,
you
can’t
pin
him
down
—
he’s
just
too
fidgety.
This
fidgetiness
bespeaks
bad
karma;
for
Munjya
was
once
Gotya,
a
little
Konkani
boy
on
the
make,
forever
twisting
and
turning
in
a
bid
to
soften
the
sting
of
his
mother’s
cane.
More
dangerous
than
an
imp
and
far
less
adorable
than
a
scallywag,
Gotya
was
the
sort
of
boy
who
could
make
grownups
sick
just
to
watch
him
in
thought,
the
sort
of
evil
child
who
could
inspire
mass
sterilisation
drives.
Though
his
flirtations
with
black
magic
were
carried
out
in
deep
secrecy,
his
plotting
disingenuous
eyes
made
his
projects
all
too
clear.
Ergo,
when
he
was
killed
by
the
power
of
his
own
dark
force,
even
his
parents
had
trouble
shedding
tears
for
him.
Ayush
Ulagadde
plays
Gotya
in
Munjya.
So
Gotya
returns
as
Munjya,
purposeful
and
raucous,
not
as
a
ghost
out
to
correct
historical
blunders
but
as
a
mischievous
tree
spirit
intent
on
having
his
way,
with
the
girl
of
his
choice.
The
theme
of
his
return
also
ties
in
with
his
past,
since
Munjya
(née
Gotya)
had
connubial
feelings
at
an
age
when
kids
are
typically
occupied
with
marbles
and
spinning
tops.
And
now,
as
the
bursting-at-the-seams
spirit,
he
demands
his
long-impending
marriage,
cries
out
‘Lagin,
Lagin,’
as
if
it
were
the
overtones
of
a
Tibetan
chant
gone
foul.
Munjya
is
the
most
wildly
entertaining
ghost
I
have
encountered
at
the
movies
recently.
But
he
has
the
added
advantage
of
being
a
Maharashtrian
ghost,
of
possessing
rhythms
of
speech
and
behaviour
that
are
distinctly
Maharashtrian,
of
being
blessed
with
that
beautiful
brand
of
Maharashtrian
irritability.
When
he
learns
that
the
love
of
his
life
can
no
longer
lay
claim
to
being
a
dainty
pigtailed
beauty,
our
ghost
is
so
vexed
that
he
lets
out
a
grunt
and
wishes
her
away,
much
like
some
Joshi
kaka
sending
back
Crab
Sukka
on
Ekadashi.
Munjya
is
largely
preverbal
(a
boy,
mind
you,
he’s
a
mere
boy),
and
this
trait
is
at
odds
with
his
raging
obsession.
His
plans
for
marriage
waylaid
by
nature,
he
howls
with
anguish;
but
just
as
quickly
he
regains
his
twitchy
energy
and
doubles
down
on
his
ambitions.
No,
this
is
no
hashtag
ghost
content
with
promoting
this
or
that
social
cause;
he’s
a
lot
more
colourful,
and
he
recalls
a
tradition
of
mythical
freaks
who
have
weathered
ages,
fashions,
revolutions.
In
his
ability
to
keep
going
despite
failures,
Munjya
is
closer
to
such
fabulous
monsters
as
Chamataka
and
Doob
Doob,
themselves
spiritual
successors
of
Karataka
and
Damanaka,
those
vile,
vile
jackals
who
give
the
Panchatantra
its
anarchic
shine.
While
hashtag
movements
seek
to
boil
complex
issues
down
to
a
statement
or
a
message,
great
myths
strive
to
do
complete
musical
justice
to
even
the
nastiest
human
feeling.
This
is
why
myths
tend
to
have
a
whole
range
of
meanings
and
associations,
and
why
they
affect
us
at
a
deeper
level
than
we
can
possibly
express
in
words.
With
equal
felicity,
Munjya
turns
lamp
posts
into
shards
and
rivals
into
castrated
no-goods,
and
his
actions
leave
you
terrorised
yet
elated.
He
makes
you
laugh
at
your
own
childish
responses,
which
may
be
a
surefire
sign
that
you
are
being
corrupted
with
pleasure.
As
I
watched
him
wreak
delightful
havoc
on
the
screen,
I
prayed
that
he
would
keep
finding
ways
to
refine
his
kvetching,
and
I
wished
all
ghosts
were
as
viciously
funny
as
Munjya.
You
can’t
tell
why
his
antics
work
—
if
you
could,
they
wouldn’t
be
so
bewitching.
The
gravelly
voice
seems
to
scratch
his
throat,
as
he
elicits
from
us
a
combination
of
complicity
and
nervous
glee:
silently,
we
applaud
his
daemonic
will;
shamefacedly,
we
chuckle
at
his
negative
splendor.
The
Maharashtrian
setting,
in
which
Munjya’s
crotchetiness
and
irascible
personality
seem
completely
at
home,
is
crucial
to
the
story’s
humour
in
more
ways
than
you
can
account
for.
Those
sprinklings
of
Makad-Tondya
and
Bin-Dok
and
Sardya
—
profanities
of
the
gut
—
are
all
the
more
charming
if
you
let
them
work
on
you
without
subtitles.
When
little
Gotya
talks
about
black
magic
needing
Dirgha
Abhyas,
the
phrase
hits
you
with
the
speed
and
mystery
of
a
Kishkas
in
a
Philip
Roth
novel.
But
there’s
more.
By
and
by
you
realise
that
the
entire
cast
of
Maharashtrian
characters
who
surround
the
ghost
are
part
of
the
story’s
‘homegrown
surreal’
tone.
The
delusions
of
these
characters
add
to
the
blossoming
chaos
rather
than
detract
from
it.
In
their
frustrations
and
overflowing
passions,
they
themselves
become
great
comic
types
—
shaking
their
fists
injudiciously
or
wrinkling
their
noses.
Even
the
superstitious
ones
are
bucktoothed
beauties
blessed
with
moles
the
size
of
betel-nuts.
Though
they
all
speak
in
Hindi,
their
inflections,
or
better
yet,
their
bile
and
their
spit,
are
unmistakably
Maharashtrian.
This
is
a
stirrer
of
a
ghost,
yes,
and
for
his
excesses
to
land
smoothly
the
world
around
him
had
to
be
seasoned
just
right.
And
that
is
exactly
what
you
get
in
this
tale
of
well-calculated
wild
swings.
Every
jaundiced
remark
that
Munjya
makes
and
every
anatomical
joke
he
cracks
is
rescued
by
that
touch
of
‘tartness’
and
‘naughtiness’
—
what
we
children
of
the
Sahyadris
call
Ambat
and
Chavat.
And
sure,
there
are
other
West-of-Deccan
seasonings
that
liven
up
the
proceedings:
sentimental
hokum;
unexpected
sincerity;
practical
thinking
in
the
face
of
grand
drama;
a
fussy
concern
for
the
nuances
of
language,
even
while
you
are
hanging
by
a
cliff
at
the
brink
of
doom.
When
Gotya,
that
pint-sized
tryant,
gets
ready
to
sacrifice
his
sister,
he
puts
a
razor
blade
to
her
neck,
yelling,
‘Narbali!‘
And
the
horrified
freckled
girl,
trembling
like
a
damp
sparrow,
finds
the
presence
of
mind
to
say,
‘But
I
am
a
Naari.’
Stunned
for
a
moment
or
two,
Gotya
snaps
back,
‘Even
Naari
would
do.’
This
mix
of
bravado
and
desperation
is
a
defining
feature
of
Gotya,
and
it
becomes
more
pronounced
in
his
incarnation
as
Munjya,
the
one-two
punch
serving
as
a
key
ingredient
of
his
complex
dimensions.
Munjya
arrives
at
a
period
in
our
cinematic
history
when
the
supernatural
is
being
slowly
defanged,
its
feral
edge
traded
for
marketable
moralism.
The
transgender
ghost
in
Bhool
Bhulaiyaa
3
was
conceived
as
if
sexual
ambiguity
had
purified
him
and
driven
out
earthly
faults;
femaleness
did
the
same
for
the
leading
ghost
in
the
Stree
franchise.
These
are
‘corporate
creations’
that
smell
of
the
boardroom
and
the
walnut
conference
table,
of
whiteboards
and
scented
markers
and
trend
charts.
In
this
climate
of
risk-free
ghosts,
Munjya
strikes
you
as
nothing
less
than
a
renegade.
His
savagery
isn’t
aimed
at
redressing
wrongs
or
peddling
messages
of
inclusiveness.
He
shocks,
he
confounds,
he
amuses.
In
him
there’s
a
dash
of
pop
as
well
as
a
distillation
of
our
basest
passions
—
jealousy,
desire,
thwarted
ambitions
—
all
rendered
with
a
regional
specificity
that
can
only
be
linked
to
the
personal
mania
of
his
creators.
The
garden
of
modern
horror
comedy
has
become
too
sanitised
and
too
well-preened
to
inspire
wonder.
Munjya
invades
it,
like
a
dogged
child
reclaiming
his
playground.
