Guru Dutt’s Pyaasa is often discussed as a work of cinematic poetry, but to revisit it today, in the hyperconnected, hyper-capitalist 21st c...
Guru Dutt’s Pyaasa is often discussed as a work of cinematic poetry, but
to revisit it today, in the hyperconnected, hyper-capitalist 21st century, is to
discover that it is also a disturbingly relevant social document. Viewed in
2025 film is an unusual paradox: a product of the 1950s, yet uncannily
prophetic of our own times. It is drenched in lyricism but brutally
unsentimental about society’s hypocrisies. It wears the garb of romance but
tears into the edifice of materialism and commodified success.
A Story That Refuses to Age
Pyaasa tells the story of Vijay, an unemployed poet struggling against a
world that measures human worth not by integrity or art but by financial yield.
The late 1950s in India were still years of post-independence idealism mixed
with creeping disillusionment; today, that disillusionment is turbocharged. Our
era, dominated by influencer culture, algorithm-driven popularity, and
commodified human relationships, echoes the same themes—only the pace has
accelerated.
When Vijay’s poems are dismissed as commercially useless, we see an
early critique of what today we might call “content economy logic”: if it can’t
be monetised, it’s worthless. The heartbreaking truth is that in 2025, the
struggle for authentic creative voices has only grown harder in a marketplace
that rewards virality over depth.
Vijay: The Conscience That Won’t Conform
Through today’s lens, Vijay is both a romantic hero and a cautionary
figure. His refusal to compromise his ideals makes him admirable, but also
alienates him in a world built on transactional exchanges. If he lived today,
he would be the poet ignored in the noise of Instagram reels and clickbait—his
verses “too long” for Twitter, his empathy too inconvenient for politics.
Vijay’s tragedy is not just that the world rejects him, but that when it
finally accepts him (after believing he is dead), it does so for the wrong
reasons—fetishising his art as a commodity. In our age, where posthumous
“rediscovery” of artists is often accompanied by profit-making in their name,
Vijay’s arc feels like an indictment of how capitalism co-opts rebellion once
it can be branded.
Meena: Pragmatism in a World That Punishes Dreamers
Meena, Vijay’s former lover, is often judged as opportunistic, but
through a contemporary feminist lens, she embodies a complicated survival
strategy. In a patriarchal society—then and now—security often demands
compromise. Her choice to marry Mr. Ghosh, the wealthy publisher, can be seen
less as betrayal and more as a negotiation with the limited agency women had
then (and still often have).
Today, many women navigate similar moral compromises, balancing
ambition, love, and economic reality. Meena’s realism contrasts sharply with
Vijay’s idealism, revealing that survival and integrity often sit on opposite
ends of a cruel scale.
Gulabo: The Radical Power of Empathy
In a society that measures women by respectability, Gulabo—played with
luminous warmth by Waheeda Rehman—subverts the label of “fallen woman” by
embodying a form of humanity and selflessness that the so-called “respectable”
characters lack. She recognises the worth of Vijay’s poetry before anyone else
and invests in it not for profit but for love and true belief in his art.
In today’s fractured world, where cynicism often overshadows compassion,
Gulabo’s arc reads as revolutionary. Her empathy is active—it demands effort,
sacrifice, and emotional risk. If Vijay is the voice of conscience, Gulabo is
the act of conscience.
Mr. Ghosh: The Prototype of the Ruthless Capitalist
Mr. Ghosh is a chilling reminder that greed and opportunism are
timeless. His commodification of Vijay’s poetry, his exploitation of Meena, and
his lack of moral scruple feel painfully familiar in an age when corporations
mine personal data, package rebellion as a lifestyle product, and profit off
tragedy.
Seen today, Mr. Ghosh could be the archetypal media mogul or tech
billionaire who buys authenticity to sell it back as a premium subscription.
His character forces us to confront the fact that capitalism thrives not
despite art’s idealism, but because it can repurpose it for gain.
The Jolt of “Jinhe Naaz Hai Hind Pe”
If Pyaasa often whispers its critique through tenderness, “Jinhe Naaz
Hai Hind Pe” is the scene where it raises its voice to a furious, unflinching
pitch. Sahir Ludhianvi’s words cut through the romanticism of nationalism to
expose the cruelty festering beneath a newly independent India’s proud
rhetoric. Guru Dutt stages the song not as a performance for pleasure but as a
cinematic confrontation—Vijay, wandering through a brothel, directly indicts
those who boast of India’s greatness while turning a blind eye to its
exploitation, poverty, and moral decay.
Viewed today, the jolt is undiminished—perhaps even sharper. In an era
where public discourse is often drowned in patriotic sloganeering, the song’s
refusal to sanitise or self-censor feels radical. It forces a reckoning: how
can a nation claim pride when it ignores the marginalised, commodifies women’s
bodies, and measures worth only in economic terms?
The song’s genius lies in how it doesn’t allow the audience to remain
spectators. In 1957, this was a wake-up call; in 2025, it’s a slap in the face
to complacency. It remains one of Indian cinema’s most searing acts of moral
defiance—proof that art can both seduce and wound.
The Aesthetic and Poetic Brilliance
The film’s visual grammar—its chiaroscuro lighting, delicate close-ups,
and painterly compositions—serves as a cinematic embodiment of its moral
tensions. The poetry of Sahir Ludhianvi’s lyrics still resonates, perhaps even
more so now when public discourse is increasingly stripped of subtlety. And how
beautifully are they ornamented by SD Burman’s magical melodies.
Songs like “Yeh Duniya Agar Mil Bhi Jaye” are not merely laments of a
poet; they are manifestos against a hollow civilisation. In 2025, the song
feels like a soundtrack to climate collapse, war economies, and the alienation
of digital life. The beauty of Pyaasa is that its critique is timeless but
never pedantic—it wounds through beauty.
Relevance in the Current Moment
Viewed through the lens of today’s moral crises—rising inequality,
commodification of identity, and the erosion of empathy—Pyaasa becomes more
than a period piece. It is a mirror to our world, asking us if we have moved
forward at all.
Vijay’s rejection of fame at the film’s end is especially poignant now.
In a culture obsessed with visibility, his decision to walk away is almost
unthinkable—a radical refusal of both the market’s validation and society’s
shallow redemption.
The Enduring Lesson Pyaasa Offers
Pyaasa refuses to offer comfort. It exposes the rot beneath social
respectability and asks us to imagine a different moral economy—one where
empathy and truth-telling are valued above profit. In 1957, this was
revolutionary; in 2025, it feels urgent.
The film reminds us that while the faces of exploitation may change—from
Mr. Ghosh’s publishing empire to today’s social media conglomerates—the
struggle of the artist, the compromises of the survivor, and the transformative
power of compassion remain constant. And perhaps, in our own times, the
greatest act of rebellion is not merely to create art, but to live with the
kind of integrity that refuses to be bought.
By Pratik Majumdar (author Love Coffee Murder and 1975 The Year That Transformed Bollywood)
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