Revolution and Love: The Subtle Subversion of ‘My Comrade’

‘My Comrade’ isn't purely a film about rebels, rebellion, and political camaraderie. However subtle the relationship may be, it is also a queer love story concentrating on the volatility of desire, which melts into the violence of real life.

By Raktim Nandi

Queer, politics (not necessarily queer politics), and violence are the three usual keywords

used to describe Tathagata Ghosh's body of work over the years. My Comrade, his latest

production, is set in the picturesque Jungle Mahals amid the prolonged, violent confrontation

between the Indian State and the Naxalite insurgents, and is fueled by rage directed at the

authorities who exhibit nothing but scorn toward the villagers living a meager, unassuming

life.

The film's plot is simple enough to be summarized in a single line: a chance meeting

between a helpless villager and a wounded Naxalite rebel alters the trajectory of their very

lives. Anyone who has seen a film or two from the director's oeuvre knows that this change

will not be rosy and colourful.

While the narrative is straightforward, the film is anything but. It speaks between the lines,

and offers its audience hidden subtleties that elaborate on the story and even add to it, if they have the patience and acuity to look. This is a deviation not only from the entirety of mainstream Bengali cinema, where the plot is meant to be condensed into a pill for the viewer to swallow, but also for a vast segment of independent output, which overuses experimental methods to downplay weak narratives.

Much of the conflict between the State and the Naxalites is linked to land, and the resources

that can be harnessed from it. The 2006 Forest Rights Act, intended to correct a historic,

long-standing colonial misdirection, gave the villagers a claim to forest land for habitation

and sustenance, but the implementation of the act has been anything but proper and smooth.

This, along with the stipulations attached to the act itself, led a portion of the villagers to join

the rebellion.

The land resource conundrum is evident from the very beginning of the film, with the Mrinal Sen-esque on-screen words and the first proper shot featuring Nanda, the villager, looking quizzically at the forest and the sky, as if questioning whether the forest resources, which sustain his entire existence, truly belong to him.

Then, of course, he discovers the wounded Bikash and helps him to his humble abode. His

wife, Jhumri, does not approve of the idea of sheltering an insurgent, an action that could

lead to immediate tragedy. The struggle over helping Bikash persists throughout the film,

changing shape and form constantly.

At first, it is the pragmatic woman trying to protect their existence from police brutality. But, then, as Jhumri explicitly rebuffs the Naxalites as being no different from the police—as full of contempt for the villagers and as overzealous in ruining their lives—the struggle heads in a new direction.

At the same time, Nanda finds himself developing a deep bond with Bikash. The pull he feels

is sexual, but it soon evolves into a (rather dreamy) political solidarity. How much of this

solidarity is fueled by the initial sexual attraction is open to speculation, but it leads to several

brilliantly crafted moments, some imagined, others real, some encompassing determination

and fury, others unsettling in their very softness. That the director chooses to keep the

sexual attraction subtle and understated adds to the film's allure.

Not that the director is timid or indirect, Nanda’s connection to Bikash is clearly not solely based on brotherly companionship. The sentiment presented by the ‘My’ of the title reveals itself multiple times, and at least two of the gentler moments also serve as false endings. Naturally, this is a risky tactic, as false endings can easily detract from and lessen the impact of the true conclusion, which thankfully doesn't occur here.

Some questions do persist, which may turn into reservations for a potential viewer. First and

foremost is the depiction of Jhumri, a character reminiscent of Smita Patil’s characters from

Parallel Cinema, and her part in the story. It’s easy, indeed, very easy, to label her as a

heterosexual outsider and a disruptor in a homosexual bond. Her actions consistently hinder

the inevitable and ultimately lead to the freeze-frame climax. While the author of this essay

does not see her as a one-dimensional, selfish disruptor, some viewers might perceive her

as such.

Next is the film's presentation, which is polished and often beautiful with the soft colours of

nature on permanent display. There’s a formalism in this film that is frequently absent in

other works with a similar setting and background, and this formalism might potentially

distract from the struggle on screen.

However, My Comrade isn't purely a film about rebels, rebellion, and political camaraderie. However subtle the relationship may be, it is also a queer love story concentrating on the volatility of desire, which melts into the violence of real life. Without the polished, pristine quality of the production, the softer moments wouldn't feel as tender, and would ultimately diminish much of the film’s promise.

It's intriguing to view this film at a time when the State's efforts to suppress Naxalite

insurgency are at their most direct and intense, with the shutting down of alternative discourses a key element of the suppression. The narrative is predominantly invested in

personal moral struggles, the "I" within the "we". Among the film's three characters, one is a

rebel, and the two villagers either gravitate toward or away from the insurgency, each with

motivations perfectly valid from their own viewpoint.

The rebel's transformative influence acts upon Nanda (who embarks on a rather dreamy journey, at times almost in the semi-conscious state of Bikash at their initial meeting) and not on Jhumri (who, instead of dreaming, grapples with multiple internal conflicts). In recognizing the personal within the collective, Ghosh acknowledges the collective itself, which in turn opens up the possibility for discourse.

Aamar Comrade stars Sounak Kundu as Nanda, Aratrick Bhadra as Bikash, and Adrija Majumder as Jhumri. It has been screened at the World Film Festival, Kolkata, International Documentary & Short Film Festival of Kerala, and will next be screened at the Vancouver International Film Festival, Canada.

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Raktim Nandi is a film critic and scholar based in Naihati, West Bengal.