Pyaasa@60 review: Poignant tale of sensitive soul in a selfish world

For a film called Pyaasa (forever thirsty) to open with a wide-angle shot of a water pond with lotus flowers blooming is only the beginning of a barrage of symbolism Guru Dutt lets loose in the following two-and-a-half hours. To watch a film 60 years after it released and review it may seem like an open invitation to derision and insult, much like the treatment meted out to protagonist Vijay by his family and the world at large. When a film is deemed a classic unanimously, the weight of responsibility doubles.

Simplistically described, Pyaasa is poetry in motion. Lyricist Sahir Ludhianvi’s words pierce through the gloomy atmosphere director Guru Dutt creates as a starving Vijay goes about life, struggling to get his poems published. A talented poet, Vijay has fallen on hard times. He has every reason to wear that desolate, long face throughout the film as the value of his nazms (poems) is mostly found in the waste bin or pegged at 10 annas at the raddiwala (junk dealer).

His chance meetings with prostitute Gulabo (Waheeda Rehman) and college sweetheart Meena (Mala Sinha) cause starkly different ripples in the lives of both women. The contrast is obvious — they are separated by class and their feelings towards Vijay. Gulabo develops a soft spot for Vijay just by reading his nazms she bought from the junk dealer. On the other hand, Meena, who left Vijay for a more secure future and married flourishing publisher Ghosh (Rehman), is left uncomfortable with the meeting. She is afraid her husband’s suspicions may be confirmed after all if he found out about her past. Rehman makes sure he humiliates Vijay by hiring him and then firing him for no fault of his.

In a train accident trying to save a beggar, Vijay lands in hospital while the beggar's corpse is mutilated beyond recognition, the only article of recognition being the coat Vijay had given him moments earlier, with a nazm scribbled on a piece of paper inside one pocket. Vijay is mistakenly declared dead. Gulabo gets his nazms published through Mr Ghosh, sending Calcutta into a state of frenzy over the beautiful poems. When Vijay does return, stoically attending his own death anniversary meeting, he is met with disapproving faces threatened by his very existence. In a reference to the resurrection of Christ, a silhouetted Vijay sings the moving ‘Yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaye toh kya hai’ just before he throws it all away by declaring: ‘Main woh Vijay nahi hoon’ (I am not that Vijay).

The recognition a mistaken death gave Vijay was not what he looked for. The only person who seemed to understand this is Gulabo, with whom Vijay walks away into the distance. 

The dialogue in Pyaasa is minimal, yet symbolic of the characters who mouth them. The lift scene where the old lovers bump into each other and Meena says ‘Mujhe toh upar jaana hai’ defines the character she plays. Similarly, Gulabo saying ‘Khub jaanti hu... tumhari nazm aur ghazlo se’ speaks volumes of her understanding Vijay through just his craft. Even Vijay’s nazms are called Parchaiyan (Shadows), a euphemism for what Vijay is reduced to bowing under the weight of a commercial world. 

The songs, laden with meaning and comment, are evergreen. Legend has it that lyricist Ludhianvi’s own failed affair with writer Amrita Pritam became a reference point for his heartfelt and memorable words. The playful ‘Hum Aapki Aankhon Mein’, damning ‘Jinhen Naaz Hai Hind Par’, comical ‘Sar Jo Tera Chakraye’ and the haunting ‘Yeh Duniya Agar Mil Bhi Jaye Toh’ all remain closely knit within the story, taking the story forward. 

The abrupt jump cuts take away from the smooth flow of the story, but for a film made only 10 years after Independence, we can overlook the editing expertise. However, juxtaposition of paradoxical scenes to enhance the storytelling and impact could be achieved only at the editing table. 

Seen in the backdrop of India’s Independence (1947), the story speaks of a time when optimism brought by freedom was overshadowed by the gloom of Partition. This was a time when jobs were hard to come by and the country was still trying to get a firm foothold. 

Guru Dutt uses symbolism generously in Pyaasa. From the bee crushed under a pedestrian’s foot in the first sequence and the empty rocking chair in the middle to the papers flying around as Vijay storms out of the library after a talk with Meena at the fag end, he meticulously maps Vijay’s journey of despair, loneliness and, eventually, loss of hope. A timeless tale and poignant comment on society and its mostly hate relationship with the right-brained nomads, Pyaasa deserves the ‘classic’ tag in every sense. It also deserves multiple viewings to fully gauge the quality of films that were released in Hindi cinema’s golden period.

Reviewed by Blessy Chettiar