Hathiram Chaudhary: A Hero For Our Times

We
do
not
whistle
for
Hathiram
Chaudhary.
And
yet
the
bond
we
feel
towards
him
is
spontaneous,
almost
effortless.

This
is
because
he
shares
something
of
our
too-ideal
dreams,
our
wry
acceptance
of
our
limitations,
our
useful
frustrations,
and
our
pointless
sprints,
explains
Sreehari
Nair.

1.
He
is
an
Indian,
Rohtak-born.
His
precinct
is
Outer
Jamuna
Paar
in
Delhi.
His
currency
of
operation
is
that
tough,
drain-pipe
humanity,
which
he
has
to
preserve
in
an
increasingly
murky
world.

High-profile
police
cases
that
turn
out
to
be
zero-sum
games
are
his
to
negotiate.
Slouch-shouldered
and
pot-bellied,
he
goes
through
a
series
of
spirals
only
to
come
upon
dead
ends.

To
do
this
night
after
night
is
to
earn
those
bleary,
exhausted
eyes
that
are
his
signature.

Those
eyes
have
wonderful
bags
under
them
that
touch
us
deeply.

We
keep
persisting
with



Paatal
Lok‘s
hardbound
cynicism
because
we
know
that
even
if
wiped
out
and
shattered,
we
can
still
come
home
to
Hathiram
Chaudhary.
We
are
sure
he
would
let
us
in
with
a
shrug.

2.
This
is
an
age
of
‘mass-movie
anxiety.’

Before
every
big-ticket,
big-superstar
release,
our
anticipation
builds
to
a
feverish
pitch.
It
quickly
devolves
into
weariness
when
we
are
served
that
same
cloak
of
invincibility
and
those
same
shticks
that
have
been
in
place
since
the
1970s.

When
we
blow
whistles
at
such
movies,
it’s
not
so
much
a
validation
of
star-power
as
a
requiem
for
our
innocent
self
of
years
ago.

We
do
not
whistle
for
Hathiram
Chaudhary.
And
yet
the
bond
we
feel
towards
him
is
spontaneous,
almost
effortless.

This
is
because
he
shares
something
of
our
too-ideal
dreams,
our
wry
acceptance
of
our
limitations,
our
useful
frustrations,
and
our
pointless
sprints.

He’s
the
first
to
go
after
a
hot
lead,
first
to
get
knocked
down.
But
unlike
those
box-office
emperors,
he’s
not
aided
in
his
pursuits
by
VFX,
rope-coordinated
stunts,
green
screens,
and
safety
nets.

To
appreciate
the
stakes
at
work
here,
you
have
to
understand
that
every
time
Hathiram
Chaudhary
has
to
fall,
Jaideep
Ahlawat

actually
falls,
and
every
time
Hathiram
has
to
get
hurt,
Ahlawat

actually
gets
hurt.

The
scrapes,
the
gashes,
the
stabs,
the
tears
—
yes,
he’s
an
authentically
cut
Indian
hero!

3.
Writer
Sudip
Sharma’s
style
is
not
simply
to
present
a
puzzle.
He
also
wants
to
expose
the
horrors
of
a
hidden
conspiracy.

He
wishes
to
convey
a
certain
irreparable
rot
and
keep
you
tethered
to
its
stink.

The
problem
with
Sharma’s
approach
(evident
once
again
in

Paatal
Lok
Season
2)
is
that
when
the
puzzle
is
eventually
solved,
not
only
does
the
explanation
sound
not
very
interesting,
it
also
seems
highly
implausible.

So
we
feel
cheated
by
the
stink
that
has
been
let
loose.

Sudip
Sharma
is
locked
in
the
tropes
of
pulp
writing,
but
his
hero
mercifully
isn’t.

Working
close
to
his
unconscious,
Jaideep
Ahlawat
fashions
Hathiram
Chaudhary
as
a
constellation
of
lifelike
details
—
right
down
to
how
he
swears
from
the
corner
of
his
mouth,
and
frequently
when
he’s
short
of
breath.

Those
half-nods,
those
operatic
pauses,
and
those
spiky-faced

Kyus
are
more
than
just
seasonings:
They
are
like
pointillist
brushstrokes
leading
up
to
a
great
Seurat
masterpiece.

It’s
nothing
less
than
exciting
to
watch
a
creation
get
away
from
his
creator.

Even
when
Sudip
Sharma’s
defiant
nihilism
eats
into
your
viewing
pleasure,
Hathiram
Chaudhary
remains
a
feast
of
the
most
human
qualities.

4.
Let
us
contemplate
the
name
for
a
bit.

It’s
a
name
that
Dickens
and
Saul
Bellow
(themselves,
great
namers)
would
have
been
proud
to
come
up
with.

It’s
a
name
such
as
Ebenezer
Scrooge
or
Charlie
Citrine,
fictional
people
whose
fates
seemed
built
into
their
names.

It’s
a
name
that
evokes
a
kind
of
trisyllabic
dance,
the
sort
of
name
that
cannot
pass
your
lips
without
making
you
break
into
a
smile.

One
of
Sudip
Sharma
and
Jaideep
Ahlawat’s
chief
projects
on

Paatal
Lok
is
to
take
a
character
named
Hathiram
and
give
him
true
tragic
force.

He’s
an
incorruptible
knight
dealing
with
conspiracies
too
big
for
him,
a
gallant
bum
in
a
sordid
world.

Throughout
the
show,
he’s
lied
to,
used,
double-crossed.
Yet
he’s
the
only
one
who

cares.

In
the
second
season,
when
a
kid
loses
both
his
parents,
you
don’t
want
anybody
other
than
Hathiram
Chaudhary
to
take
charge
—
for
this
man
of
the
law
is
also
a
natural
hero
of
the
dispossessed,
the
displaced,
the
disillusioned.

The
kid
goes
to
Hathiram’s
heart.
He
feels
it
on
his
shoulders.
You
see
it
in
his
eyes.

5.
There’s
a
strong
case
to
be
made
that
his
entire
quest
is
anchored
in
the
father-son
relationship.

The
thrashings
that
the
system
hands
out
remind
him
of
his

babuji.
The
old
despot
is
long
gone,
but
Hathiram
continues
to
sense
his
presence
in
the
oppressive
system,
its
bureaucracies
and
its
machinations.

On
the
other
hand,
he
wishes
to
redeem
himself
by
looking
out
for
some
son-like
figure,
someone
tender
to
rescue
from
the
pits
of
hell.

His
own
boy
distances
himself
from
Hathiram’s
untucked
shirts
and
unwieldy
sports
shoes,
and
the
inspector
brings
home
a
round-eyed
orphan.

He
has
a
junior
at
the
workplace
towards
whom
he
has
genuine
paternal
feelings
but
who’s
a
little
too
clean-cut,
and
in
the
latest
season
he
meets
an
informant
whose
streetwise
attitude
and
nimble
parallelisms
are
closer
to
Hathiram’s
taste.

They
say
tyranny
breeds
tyranny.
But
Hathiram,
who
tends
to
the
rituals
of
parenthood
with
gnashed
teeth,
is
an
honorable
exception
to
the
maxim.
He
would
rather
be
a
father
who
tries
and
fails
than
a
father
who
fails
to
try.

6.
The
man’s
resourcefulness
is
really
a
miracle.

Running
through
a
body
that’s
built
to
take
blows
is
an
instinct
that
never
seems
to
panic.
It’s
an
instinct
that
becomes
sharper
in
moments
of
chaos,
an
instinct
that
doesn’t
go
to
sleep
even
when
his
leg
does.

All
in
all,
he
has
a
psychic’s
faith
in
mystery,
in
the
power
of
serendipity.
We
accept
this,
and
so
we
accept
the
convenient
plot-twists
of
Season
2.

It
also
helps
that
his
monologues
are
not
uttered
for
effect,
and
he
shows
us
how
they
apply
in
the
real
world.

As
a
police
officer
who
doesn’t
waste
precious
seconds
groping
for
the
light
switch
in
a
dark
filing
room,
who
turns
his
mouth
into
a
torch-holder
on
a
dime,
Hathiram
demonstrates
the
precise
difference
between

Naukri
and
Duty.

Watching
him
sift
through
a
pile
of
files
with
the
deftness
of
a
touch-typist,
you
know
what
grace
under
pressure
truly
is.

7.
Is
it
because
he
operates
so
cheekily
outside
the
protocol
that
he
does
not
get
the
professional
rewards
he
deserves?

Perhaps.

But
imagine
Inspector
Hathiram
Chaudhary
being
duly
appreciated.
That
wouldn’t
fit
his
song,
would
it?

In
a
weird
way,
you
don’t
want
to
see
him
get
‘promoted’
for
fear
that
he
would
lose
the
common
touch.

With
Hathiram,
it’s
not
the
arc
of
achievement
that
you
crave
but
that
spark
of
recognition.

He’s
at
his
most
statuesque
when
he’s
waving
away
a
soft-bribe,
or
wearing
his
cap
as
if
to
make
a
statement,
or
taking
a
quick
whiff
of
his
underwear
before
putting
it
out
on
the
clothesline
all
the
while
fighting
a
set
of
stubborn
chattering
teeth.

8.
I
just
love
his
scenes
with
his
wife,
played
by


Gul
Panag
with
a
transcendent
fire
forever
lighting
up
her
brow.

I
love
how
much
she
adores
him,
despite

often
being
awfully
close
to
strangling
him.

And
isn’t
he
the
ultimate
master
of
spoiling
a
perfect
moment
of
marital
bliss?

While
he’s
out
on
an
assignment
in
Nagaland,
she
gives
him
the
cold
vibes
and
doesn’t
take
his
calls.

After
many
attempts,
when
he
finally
gets
through
to
her,
you
see
him
smile.
It’s
that
Hathiram
smile,
as
rare
as
a
clear
Delhi
day.

And
then
what
happens?

Howitzers
of
incomplete
sentences
are
exchanged
over
the
short
call,
they
end
up
quarrelling
bitterly,
and
he
hangs
up
on
her.

“Now

there’s
a
golden
couple,”
I
said
to
myself,
“always
testing
each
other
in
a
delusional
bid
to
improve
each
other.”

If
the
Macbeths
ever
wished
to
go
on
a
spring
break,
I
would
gladly
replace
them
with
the
Chaudharys.

9.
It’s
not
an
easy
deception
to
bring
off,
but
Hathiram’s
dialogues
manage
to
be
massy
without
ever
being
self-serving.

Think
about
it.

The
refrains
are
Haryanvi
laments
modified
into
comic
observations.

The
asides
—
such
as
a
remark
about
the
effects
of
police
on
a
person’s
uric
acid
levels
—
are
the
stuff
of
dark
theatre.

When
he
says
‘Koi
Apathi?‘
to
a
gang
of
safari-clad
goons,
it
sounds
like
a
comradely
variation
on
‘Do
you
feel
lucky,
punk?’

These
are
sucker
punches,
but
they
are
also
touched
with
a
sense
of
sadness.
Not
once
does
the
speaker
of
these
lines
come
across
as
‘nauseatingly
brave’
—
and
that’s
the
genius
of
the
performance.

What
Hathiram
Chaudhary
says
carries
so
much
weight
because
of
what
he
implies
but
never
says.
The
groans
speak
of
groans
that
have
been
silenced,
and
when
he
drinks
straight
from
a
bottle
it’s
not
a
moment
of
celebration.

10.
He
has
a
political
stance;
he
most
certainly
does.
But
he
never
uses
it
as
a
tool
to
patronize,
instruct,
or
elevate
himself
to
a
higher
moral
plane.

Does
this
explain
his
broad
appeal,
why
he’s
equally
beloved
by
right-wingers
and
lefties?

Here’s
Hathiram’s
version
of
liberalism,
as
unrehearsed
as
they
come.

In
the
first
season,
while
standing
up
for
a
Muslim
colleague,
he
doesn’t
position
himself
as
the
progressive
one
battling
a
bunch
of
bigots.

On
the
contrary,
his
actions
suggest
that
steering
clear
of
bigotry
is
something
we
all
can
aspire
to.

In
Season
2,
there’s
a
wonderful
scene
involving
the
revelation
of
a
close
friend’s
sexuality,
where
he
rebukes
his
personal
brand
of
Haryanvi
machismo
as
he
lends
his
support
to
the
slightly
embarrassed
friend.

“I’m
a
country
bumpkin
with
no
knowledge
of
gay
parades.
But
if
it
feels
right
to
you,
then
that’s
all
that
matters,”
so
says
the
bumpkin,
not
emphatically
but

searchingly,
and
with
a
faint
note
of
some
swear-word
bubbling
up
in
his
throat.

His
inclusive
attitude
is
unique:
It
may
not
possess
the
jingle
of
a
placard
slogan,
but
it
surely
has
the
warmth
of
a
hardboiled
embrace.

Feature
Presentation:
Aslam
Hunani/Rediff.com