Given that the main flashback encompasses Skype and selfies – not to mention prominent promotional placements for various Middle East-associated brands – are we to assume that the wraparound story takes place in India, 30 years hence? If so, why does everything look identical to the present day?Įlsewhere, the parallel between Vasudha and Aarav’s mother only holds if we see the former doing everything possible for her boy. By contrast, there are too many breaches in Suri’s narrative logic. Melodrama needs to be watertight to earn our tears: the last notable Hindi example, 2013’s shimmering Lootera, based on an O Henry short story, had to seal itself inside a period milieu to have the effect that it did. This revelation should at least grab the attention of amateur psychologists: whether the film can retain it is another matter. For Aarav, Vasudha’s presence prompts memories – and therefore a flashback within a flashback – of his own mother, a hard-scrabbling saloon singer. Vasudha’s job involves filling Aarav’s suite with lilies and orchids later, after she’s channelled Foreigner in imploring him to teach her what love is, the pair are encircled by a sudden flurry of cherry blossoms – you’d call it freaky, were it not part of an overall strategy intended to associate the heroine with such rare, delicate and perishable blooms. Throwing open its doors and arms to the fairer sex – to point out the stars in the desert sky. This Prince Charming whisks her to Dubai – that fairytale kingdom renowned for A two-hour flashback sketches an under-corroborated history of her personal relations first with a brutish hubby (Raj Kumar Yadav) suspected of terrorist activity then with Aarav (Emraan Hashmi), multimillionaire owner of the hotel where she drudges. The woman, Vasudha (Vidya Balan), is not long for this world the film is barely five minutes old when she stumbles off a bus to expire on a dirt road. Yet Suri is also testing the modern audience’s willingness to suspend disbelief, and the material he’s working with here – unfolding the happenstance-heavy mystery of a woman at the mercy of the men around her – proves barely fit for this purpose, or any other.
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Such films can yield their own swooning pleasures: in irony-saturated 2015, it reassures the soul to know that the movies – and Hindi movies especially – are still keen to sell us the image of a woman in a flowing sari running full pelt through sand dunes without packaging it in winking quotation marks.
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