Shyam Benegal’s Mammo: A Tender Tale of Loss and Longing:

As I turned on my laptop to make use of my idle time I played this randomly recommended film from my insta algorithm (well it did something good for once). I played Mammo, Shyam Benegal 1994 forgotten masterpiece.

Some stories haunt the pages of histories, always floating, never fully put to rest, always on a journey with no destination in sight. Carried by winds, residing in hearts for their home was now a distant memory living only in the hearts of those who once lived it. Mammo is such story. On the surface, Mammo tells the story of Mehmooda Begum urf Mammo, an elderly woman who come to India from Lahore to her sister, Fayazzi and grandson, Riyaz. A woman who carries the past scars as open medals, her kindness like an open waterfall never dried. The law sees her as a criminal, a spy, an agent from the enemy land, yet she sees India as her own, the place she once called home.

The film doesn't move; there are no loud court splashing scenes with Mammo screaming for her right to live with her family or chase scenes from a law. Yet it's the silent ruffling of the autumn leaves, the chirping of the morning birds in the fajr prayer that makes the film. Benegal doesn't make; he weaves the story of the civilization ever so present yet lost in the haste of time, an echo ever so loud yet so distant to capture. The dialogues bring back the comfort of your own Dadi or Nani narrating her own past, the same soft tender love.

It is the mellow bond between the Mammo and her grandson Riyaz that's built the bulk of the film. A young boy aspiring to be the writer with pen oozing to write story and a museum of tales. Although a hinderance in his still water life, he quickly warms up to her and the two forms a mischievous bond with a restless spirit found between friends more than grandma-grandson. He founds his greatest muse in an old woman who has survived storms, the terror of partition, endless trials of in-laws. Yett the bond is young and filled with silver beyond the horizon. The boy sees a woman's anguish who belongs nowhere, the ghost of the darkest times of the sub-continent, the quiet perseverance of the opposite sex and tales present only in the soul of the elders.

The little scenes like Riyaz sharing smoke with Mammo is a reminder of how our parents, grandparents were just little buds like us with stars glistening of dreams in their eyes yet waned by the moving clock of time. The silent retrieval of Mammo after rejection from her loved ones to a mosque or dargah is mirror of a child running to her mother, yet she runs to her Allah, the only one she has after the death of her husband. The quick rejoint of Fayyuzi and Mammo after a harsh bickering on Riyaz possession of playboy magazines is a reflection of the strength of bonds formed on broken dolls and shared blood. Just a collection of such heart tending scenes is Mammo.

Mammo aced by the everyone's favourite daijaan from Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham, Farida Jalal, brings out the character from the paper to life. A collection of tales and poetry, Farida's plays the character with utmost gentle suppression. A woman haunted by the echoes of what was lost yet cradling the dreams of what may come. As Mammo, she floats in the chilly winds of Bombay, never knowing where she will go but keeping her head high. Originally written for Waheeda Rehman, Farida adds her own spin to this character. Each glance holds gravity, every hand movement is for a reason, even in places of complete silence her presence and body language is enough to convey. Her smile isn't a mask for the traumas but a blissful hope and indication of complacency of the present.

A character actress, the role demands complete deglamorization, and she is up to the assignment fully, from her loud recitation of the holy Quran to her white cotton and chiffon dupattas, she is the epitome of grace and i did catch glimpses of my own grandmother in her.

Riyaz played by Amit Phalke delivers a performance of quiet honesty as Riyaz the boy who listens, observes, and slowly becomes the keeper of his aunt’s memories. His role doesn’t demand grand emotional outbursts; instead, it requires the subtlety of a child who is slowly awakening to the complexities of the world around him.

Phalke brings a natural innocence to Riyaz. His wide-eyed curiosity, moments of shy tenderness, and silent absorption of Mammo’s stories allow the audience to experience the narrative through his gentle gaze. In scenes where Mammo recounts her life in Lahore, or as bureaucratic hurdles threaten her stay, Phalke’s restrained reactions amplify the poignancy of the moment he becomes the audience’s quiet companion, feeling what we feel, learning as we learn.

Yet it is the portrayal woven in glances and pauses of Surekha Sikri which amazes me the most. Her performance is of the everyday woman rooted in the silent glances, waving of hands, clanking of the dishes. She is the silent foundation allowing the story to take place. There is a unique type of restraint in her performance absent from the loud larger than life portrayals by present actors. She doesn't lash out against the harshness of the cold world yet silently defies then in her own rebellion ways. Her body language is the tapestry of the struggles. Her scene with Farida carries the intimacy and strength shared by the two survivors of partition and is a reflection of the bond of sisterhood. With both Amit and Farida sharing their ideas with monologues and dedicated scenes it is the quiet presence of Surekha Sikri Ji which moves you the most.

In the end, Mammo drifts like a half-forgotten melody tender, haunting, lingering just beyond reach. It does not demand tears; instead, it sits beside you like an old family tale whispered at dusk, wrapped in the aroma of evening chai and the quiet weight of unspoken longings. Benegal doesn’t build cinema here he preserves memory. A memory carried not by the victors of history, but by the women who survived its ruins with grace stitched into their daily rituals. As Mammo’s dupatta sways in the Bombay breeze, as Riyaz watches with wide-eyed wonder, and as Fayyazi holds the home together with unshaken poise, we are reminded that even the softest voices echo across generations if only we pause long enough to listen.