<p>If Yash Chopra’s ‘Kabhi Kabhie’ (1976) were released today, it would be considered too woke. Beyond its timeless soundtrack and stunning visuals, it’s a modern, mature film about human contradictions that stands in sharp contrast with present-day Hindi cinema, dominated by hyper-<br>masculine, violent, and problematic leading men whose misogyny is either glorified or presented as moral ambiguity. ‘Kabhi Kabhie’ remains peerless in recognising how even the ‘good guys’ can be problematic: decent, sensitive men, never crude enough to be dismissed as women-haters, yet likely to let their internalised sexism slip into their words and actions, and how remarkably it confronts them without ever turning didactic. The film is clear: both men and women can be morally ambiguous but women are judged more harshly. </p>.<p>It has Amitabh Bachchan as the ‘Angry Young Man’ of another kind. Not the aggrieved one from ‘Deewaar’ (1975) or the traumatised witness to his family’s murder in ‘Zanjeer’ (1973), or the self-punishing recluse in ‘Kaala Patthar’ (1978).</p>.<p>His character Amit’s disgruntlement stems from heartbreak of giving up the two things that define him: his poetry and the woman he loved. From a lover to a loner, Amit’s path begins with grace and sacrifice, which eventually turns into smug self-victimisation. </p>.<p>‘Kabhi Kabhie’ opens in Kashmir, where Amit, a poet, and Pooja (Rakhee), an admirer of his verses, meet. He describes her captivating hazel eyes as capable of forming a connection with whatever they behold. Their love story is thwarted when Pooja agrees to marry a man of her parents’ choice. Amit, like the gentleman he is expected to be, lets her go. She urges him to continue writing for her sake. He advises they part completely. She embraces her new life. He gives up poetry. Years later, they meet again at different stages of their lives, reflecting on their journeys.</p>.<p>The man-woman dynamic, shaped by past and present, is unpacked through two marriages: Pooja and Vijay’s (Shashi Kapoor), and Amit and <br>Anjali’s (Waheeda Rehman). Both Pooja and Amit have married other people due to societal compulsions, yet how they connect with their respective spouses is a wonderful exploration of gendered perspectives and the idea of moving on. Pooja and Vijay’s domestic bliss is starkly opposed to Amit and Anjali’s outwardly functional but emotionally frigid marriage. </p>.<p>All three men — Amit, Vijay and Vijay’s son Vicky (Rishi Kapoor) — represent a version of the ‘good man’, but also hold certain prejudices against women. Amit’s abandonment of a creative life and the shrinking of his identity to that of a businessman and family man isn’t heroic. His silent suffering becomes a passive-aggressive reminder to Anjali, who, despite her attempts at companionship, is denied emotional reciprocity. </p>.<p>In contrast, Vijay is doting and attentive. He shares a healthy rapport with both Pooja and Vicky, who is well brought up. And yet there are moments where both father and son flippantly endorse unjust stereotypes about women. Each time it’s up to Pooja to raise objections to these notions.</p>.<p>The conflict of the past and present is the film’s central theme. The men speak of their pasts. They reminisce, romanticise, and even build their identities around it. But a woman’s past remains unacknowledged, as though she cannot have one. When buried histories resurface for Pooja and Anjali, the reactions are revelatory. Amit reacts most cruelly and hypocritically about Anjali’s premarital child as a moral transgression even though he is evasive about his own past. For all his artistic sensibilities and creative depth, he cannot let go of the past — neither his nor his wife’s. This is where veteran screenwriter Sagar Sarhadi’s writing shines. In Amit, he creates a complex character whose tragedy doesn’t justify his hypocrisy. Hurting doesn’t give a free pass to hurt others, as we see in Pooja and Anjali, who are graceful and pragmatic in accepting their reality and moving on. </p>.<p>And what about Vijay? Sarhadi sets this up as the film’s moment of truth. When Vijay confesses that he knows about Pooja and Amit’s past relationship, he is momentarily insecure. But he soon recognises and is even embarrassed by the pettiness of his reaction — typical of a man towards a woman he has long loved. He laughs at the fragility of the male ego and settles the discussion once and for all. And with this single turn of events, ‘Kabhi Kabhie’ conjures a different kind of a leading man: one who may have his prejudices but is brave enough to introspect them. The kind lost in today’s wave of I-care-a-damn alpha males. </p>.<p><em>(The author is a freelance journalist who writes about vintage Hindi cinema)</em></p>
<p>If Yash Chopra’s ‘Kabhi Kabhie’ (1976) were released today, it would be considered too woke. Beyond its timeless soundtrack and stunning visuals, it’s a modern, mature film about human contradictions that stands in sharp contrast with present-day Hindi cinema, dominated by hyper-<br>masculine, violent, and problematic leading men whose misogyny is either glorified or presented as moral ambiguity. ‘Kabhi Kabhie’ remains peerless in recognising how even the ‘good guys’ can be problematic: decent, sensitive men, never crude enough to be dismissed as women-haters, yet likely to let their internalised sexism slip into their words and actions, and how remarkably it confronts them without ever turning didactic. The film is clear: both men and women can be morally ambiguous but women are judged more harshly. </p>.<p>It has Amitabh Bachchan as the ‘Angry Young Man’ of another kind. Not the aggrieved one from ‘Deewaar’ (1975) or the traumatised witness to his family’s murder in ‘Zanjeer’ (1973), or the self-punishing recluse in ‘Kaala Patthar’ (1978).</p>.<p>His character Amit’s disgruntlement stems from heartbreak of giving up the two things that define him: his poetry and the woman he loved. From a lover to a loner, Amit’s path begins with grace and sacrifice, which eventually turns into smug self-victimisation. </p>.<p>‘Kabhi Kabhie’ opens in Kashmir, where Amit, a poet, and Pooja (Rakhee), an admirer of his verses, meet. He describes her captivating hazel eyes as capable of forming a connection with whatever they behold. Their love story is thwarted when Pooja agrees to marry a man of her parents’ choice. Amit, like the gentleman he is expected to be, lets her go. She urges him to continue writing for her sake. He advises they part completely. She embraces her new life. He gives up poetry. Years later, they meet again at different stages of their lives, reflecting on their journeys.</p>.<p>The man-woman dynamic, shaped by past and present, is unpacked through two marriages: Pooja and Vijay’s (Shashi Kapoor), and Amit and <br>Anjali’s (Waheeda Rehman). Both Pooja and Amit have married other people due to societal compulsions, yet how they connect with their respective spouses is a wonderful exploration of gendered perspectives and the idea of moving on. Pooja and Vijay’s domestic bliss is starkly opposed to Amit and Anjali’s outwardly functional but emotionally frigid marriage. </p>.<p>All three men — Amit, Vijay and Vijay’s son Vicky (Rishi Kapoor) — represent a version of the ‘good man’, but also hold certain prejudices against women. Amit’s abandonment of a creative life and the shrinking of his identity to that of a businessman and family man isn’t heroic. His silent suffering becomes a passive-aggressive reminder to Anjali, who, despite her attempts at companionship, is denied emotional reciprocity. </p>.<p>In contrast, Vijay is doting and attentive. He shares a healthy rapport with both Pooja and Vicky, who is well brought up. And yet there are moments where both father and son flippantly endorse unjust stereotypes about women. Each time it’s up to Pooja to raise objections to these notions.</p>.<p>The conflict of the past and present is the film’s central theme. The men speak of their pasts. They reminisce, romanticise, and even build their identities around it. But a woman’s past remains unacknowledged, as though she cannot have one. When buried histories resurface for Pooja and Anjali, the reactions are revelatory. Amit reacts most cruelly and hypocritically about Anjali’s premarital child as a moral transgression even though he is evasive about his own past. For all his artistic sensibilities and creative depth, he cannot let go of the past — neither his nor his wife’s. This is where veteran screenwriter Sagar Sarhadi’s writing shines. In Amit, he creates a complex character whose tragedy doesn’t justify his hypocrisy. Hurting doesn’t give a free pass to hurt others, as we see in Pooja and Anjali, who are graceful and pragmatic in accepting their reality and moving on. </p>.<p>And what about Vijay? Sarhadi sets this up as the film’s moment of truth. When Vijay confesses that he knows about Pooja and Amit’s past relationship, he is momentarily insecure. But he soon recognises and is even embarrassed by the pettiness of his reaction — typical of a man towards a woman he has long loved. He laughs at the fragility of the male ego and settles the discussion once and for all. And with this single turn of events, ‘Kabhi Kabhie’ conjures a different kind of a leading man: one who may have his prejudices but is brave enough to introspect them. The kind lost in today’s wave of I-care-a-damn alpha males. </p>.<p><em>(The author is a freelance journalist who writes about vintage Hindi cinema)</em></p>