For a film that unfolds as a chronicle of a death foretold, Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro opens in
For a film that unfolds as a chronicle of a death foretold, Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro opens in resplendent liveliness. A young, brash man struts down (or up?) a Mumbai street, seems to “own the street”, according to the film’s director, Saeed Akhtar Mirza. “My name is Salim Pasha, the public calls me Salim Langda,” announces Pavan Malhotra, then a young man of 30, in insolent voiceover. He walks with movie-star assurance, proudly massaging his wrist, dark birds gliding in the dawn sky. A BEST bus pulls up behind him, and Salim, ever the punk, makes way. He will die a dog’s death by the film’s end, but there’s time.
‘Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro’ revisited: A timeless tale of a small-time thug dreaming of the big league
Saeed Akhtar Mirza’s 1989 film, starring Pavan Malhotra, is a rare serious examination of the marginalisation of urban Muslims.
Nandini Ramnath
Jul 07, 2020 · 10:30 am
Pavan Malhotra in Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro (1989). | National Film Development Corporation.
As opening scenes in movies go, Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro is like the dart that lands smack on bullseye. From a distance, Salim walks towards the camera. He is in the middle of the road. He has a cock-a-hoop stride and a bearing that radiates recklessness. When a bus driver has the temerity to urge him to step aside, he offers up a fitting reply. Limp? What limp?
In Saeed Akhtar Mirza’s classic from 1989, Salim doesn’t let the the impediment in his leg act as a cramp for the ambition in his head. A petty criminal from Mumbai’s Dongri neighbourhood, Salim makes a living from small jobs and is mostly pleased with himself. There are irritants – an unemployed father, a sister on the verge of marriage, an unavailable girlfriend, a pesky rival. But it’s nothing that Salim can’t handle.
Perhaps no other location has been subjected to greater representation in Indian cinema than Mumbai. Auteurs through the decades have splashed the city over with their own lenses. To me, Mumbai is a patchwork of chaos and wonder — chawls where kids played cricket with broken stumps, glittering Marine Drive promenades, and local trains that pulse with a life of their own. As I’ve grown older, I can now see my hometown as more than a setting. Mumbai is alive. It’s a character, relentless yet tender, unforgiving yet nurturing, a paradox wrapped in smog and sunshine.
