This
is
a
film
about
coping
with
dying.
But
that's
not
what
makes
it
such
a
special
experience.
It's
the
writer-director's
profound
understanding
of
human
nature
that
furnishes
the
simple
story
with
a
lucidity
and
coherence
even
when
the
protagonist's
mind
is
so
numbed
by
physical
pain
he
can
barely
think
straight.
Aashayein
is
structured
as
a
journey
from
a
bright
delusory
light
into
a
place
where
the
radiance
comes
from
a
consciousness
of
why
mortality
is
not
to
be
feared.
In
John
Abraham's
eyes
are
mapped
the
entire
history
of
the
human
heart,
its
follies
and
foibles
as
it
struggles
to
make
coherent
the
indecipherable
logistics
that
define
our
journey
across
that
bridge
which
everyone
crosses
from
this
world
to
the
next.
As
that
very
fine
actress
Prateeksha
Lonkar
(a
Kukunoor
favourite)
says,
"The
only
difference
between
the
healthy
and
the
ill
is
that
the
former
don't
know
when
they
are
dying
and
the
latter
do."
Between
that
state
of
blissful
oblivion
where
we
all
think
life
is
forever
(and
a
day)
and
that
one
moment
when
our
delusions
come
crashing
down
there
resides
some
very
fine
cinema.
Hrishikesh
Mukherjee's
Anand
where
Rajesh
Khanna
smiled
his
way
though
that
wobbly
bridge
taking
us
to
the
next
world,
is
an
interesting
reference
point
in
Aashayein.
I
also
thought
of
the
actress
Supriya
Choudhary
shouting
into
the
dispassionate
mists
in
the
mountains,
"I
want
to
live." The
echoes
reverberate
all
the
way
to
Kukunoor's
heart
warming
funny
and
elegiac
exposition
on
the
truth
that
lies
on
the
other
side
of
that
illusory
mountain
we
call
life.
Kukunoor
pays
homage
to
life
per
se,
and
life
as
we
know
in
the
movies
about
death.
Even
in
the
most
poignant
places
in
the
art
Kukunoor
ferrets
out
some
humour.
When
John's
lovely
girlfriend
(Sonal
Sehgal)
hunts
him
down
in
his
exilic
place
of
the
dying
John
quips,
"So
you
are
not
going
to
behave
like
one
of
those
heroines
in
films
who
dumps
the
dying
hero?"
The
fantasy
element
creeps
into
the
hospice
(yes,
that's
the
spotless
space
that
the
story
inhabits
unostentatiously)
with
the
least
amount
of
fuss.
There's
a
little
boy
(the
bright
and
expressive
Ashwin
Chaitale)
who
weaves
mystical
tales
borrowed
from
the
comic
books
for
the
desperate
and
the
dying.
Here
Kukunoor
brings
in
an
element
of
rakish
adventure
borrowed
from
the
edgy
hijinks
of
Indian
Jones.
Who
says
money
can't
buy
love?
John
uses
bundles
of
cash
to
bring
a
smile
into
these
doomed
lives.
When
he
doubles
up
with
pain
in
womb-like
postures
of
helplessness
we
feel
his
pain.
John
in
Harrison
Ford's
hat
and
whip
cuts
a
starry
figure.
He
has
never
been
more
fetchingly
photographed.
John's
smile
reaches
his
eyes,
makes
its
way
to
his
heart
and
then
to
ours.
This
film
opens
new
doors
in
John's
histrionic
hospice
.It's
a
performance
that
heals
and
nurtures.
John's
finest
moments
are
reserved
for
a
hot-tempered
sharp-tongued
17-year
old
girl
on
a
wheelchair,
played
with
intuitive
warmth
by
Anaitha
Nayar.
He
guides
the
relationship
between
these
two
unlikely
comrades
of
unwellness
with
brilliant
restrain
and
candour.
She
wants
him
to
make
love.
He
does
with
his
eyes
using
his
unshed
tears
as
lyrical
lubricant.
Here
is
a
performance
that
defines
the
character
through
immense
measures
of
unspoken
anguish.
Rajesh
Khanna
in
Anand?
Nope.
John
pitches
his
performance
at
a
more
wry
and
cynical
world
where
true
feelings
are
often
smothered
in
worldly
sprints
across
a
wounded
civilization.
This
is
unarguably
Kukunoor's
most
sensitive
and
moving
work
since
Iqbal.
We
often
find
little
sobs
pounding
at
the
base
of
our
stomachs.
Not
all
the
characters
or
situations
are
fully
formed
and
fructified.
But
even
the
partly-realized
truths
in
Aashayein
convey
more
common
sense
and
uncommon
affection
for
life
than
the
"entertainers" of
today's
cinema
where
laughter
is
generated
through
cracks
in
places
very
far
removed
from
the
heart.
This
one
takes
us
straight
to
the
heart.
Story first published: Tuesday, August 31, 2010, 11:55 [IST]