Zwigato review: Kapil Sharma slips out of his image to slip right into Nandita Das’ thoughtful take on the gig economy

Language: Hindi with some Odiya

Cast: Kapil Sharma, Shahana Goswami, Yuvika Brahma, Prajwal Sahoo, Shantilata Padhy, Ashwin Ray Mohapatra, Jyoti Ranjan Mishra

Director: Nandita Das

Why on earth didn’t someone make this before? That’s the first question that comes to mind on watching Zwigato, Nandita Das’ third feature as a director that had its India premiere at the ongoing International Film Festival of Kerala in Thiruvananthapuram. Like last year’s The Great Indian Kitchen (Malayalam), the subject of this one too has been staring us in the face in our personal lives, and crying out to be made into a film.

No relation to Swiggy and Zomato (ahem!), Zwigato – written by Nandita and Samir Patil, edited by Jabeen Merchant – is the story of an everyday figure who we rarely notice even though this individual has become such an intrinsic part of the urban existence: the delivery person for app-based service providers. Gond ke Laddu, the short contained in the anthology Unpaused: Naya Safar (2022, Hindi), touched upon the challenges of this new age job, but without the clarity of purpose and unassuming depth that marks Nandita ’s film.

Zwigato is set in Bhubaneswar where Manas ( Kapil Sharma ) lives with his wife Pratima (Shahana Goswami), two children and mother. The location is an early indicator that Zwigato does not intend to mechanically follow the conventions of the Hindi film industry from which it has emerged. Hindi cinema tends to confine itself geographically to Mumbai where it is headquartered and to the Hindi belt.  Not only is this script situated in the capital city of Odisha, it aims at a degree of authenticity in language (with snatches of Odiya lines thrown into conversations), which too Hindi film writers usually do not bother with.

Manas and Pratima are originally from Jharkhand. From a mention of his earlier profession, we gather that they have known better financial circumstances. The couple have a warm relationship, but when she decides to add to their meagre income by working outside the house, he is uncomfortable with the idea.

There is no dramatic turning point in Zwigato, no melodramatic twist, yet undercurrents of high drama pervade the narrative. This is an account of the daily struggles of a family in which the primary breadwinner is a worker in the gig economy, neither a full-time employee with benefits nor actually a “partner” as he is fancifully described by the rich corporation that depends on him and his ilk for its functioning. The app creates a façade of freedom, while in fact enslaving men like Manas with its stringent demands for minimal returns.

Zwigato might appear non-political in comparison with Nandita’s Hindi-Urdu-Gujarati Firaaq (2008), which was set shortly after the 2002 Gujarat riots began, and the Hindi-Urdu Manto (2018), a biopic of the Pakistani writer Saadat Hasan Manto , but that would be a superficial reading of this film. Below the surface of the seemingly placid tale it tells is a churning of Manas’ frustration, Pratima’s quiet determination wrestling her own worry that she is hurting her beloved husband’s feelings, and the roiling mud of India’s caste, class, religious and gender divisions.

As challenging as the battle against easily definable discrimination is the less in-your-face prejudice that comes routinely from supposedly ‘good’ people who might vehemently identify themselves as progressive; sometimes from those who love us – these are the situations Zwigato concerns itself with. There are numerous mini scenarios strewn across the film, of the sort regarding which real-life perpetrators often offer blinkered arguments such as “but he is not trying to restrict her, he is concerned for her”, “the service lift is just a matter of convenience”, “it’s class, not caste” and “poverty is the only caste in India today” (for an example of that last one in cinema, watch American director Ramin Bahrani’s The White Tiger ).

Many overtly socially conscious films with protagonists drawn from marginalised communities in India tend to romanticise and deify the underprivileged. Irrespective of their intentions, this is a form of othering. Zwigato is too discerning to indulge in such nonsense. Both Manas and Pratima are flawed. As much as they are hurt by the indignities heaped on them due to their station in life, neither of them is free of bias or apathy towards those below them in the hierarchy of social privilege. Manas’ unstated assumption that (Pratima’s) housework is easier than his job and his ignorance about the nitty gritty of the running of their household because he is used to being served both indicate his higher ranking on the ladder of patriarchy than Pratima, who in turn reveals her position on the caste pyramid when a garbage collector asks for water. Zwigato is filled with such unobtrusive, illuminating moments.

One scene gave me pause. It shows Pratima describing a violent dream she had. Does the dream reflect her frustration with the burdens she bears at home? Is it being used by the writers to denote sentiments boiling below her mild demeanour? These explanations seem implausible since the episode is dressed as a joke. Besides, Pratima’s jestful tone while recounting the dream is at odds with the image she saw, and neither matches her characterisation. The scene feels superfluous, but this is a small quibble about a film in which there is so much to admire.

I could not help but wonder though what Zwigato might have been if it was about a delivery woman, not a man, dealing additionally with the attendant gender-related exploitation and tension including, possibly, animosity from the likes of Manas, especially considering that there are so few delivery women in India. Over the years when I have interviewed mainstream filmmakers and asked why they consistently centre their films around men, the answer has often been: but should I not tell the stories that come naturally to me? The supplementary question to that is: why do the stories of men, not women, come naturally to you? Obviously, Nandita Das cannot be clubbed with most of these directors because, unlike them, she has not sidelined the women of Manto and Zwigato, and because Firaaq was not focused on just one gender. Zwigato would not have been what it is without the expansive and empathetic writing of Pratima. That said, if not the lead, then I do wonder why there is no noticeable woman delivery person even among the film’s multiple satellite characters.

In Zwigato’s overall scheme of under-statedness, cinematographer Ranjan Palit plays an essential role by presenting Bhubaneshwar without zeroing in on obvious landmarks and capturing class contrasts without pointedly underlining any visual. He imbues the interiors of Manas and Pratima’s spare residence with a telling blend of warmth and dimness, while lending a cold, colourless brightness to the homes of the rich that they visit. In this the camera is aided by production designer Rita Ghosh, whose excellent work in Manto remains memorable.

One of the most interesting choices made for this film is Sagar Desai’s unexpectedly zippy, zingy background score. The music punctuates the storytelling at regular intervals, playing a part in sustaining the film’s overall optimism despite Manas and Pratima’s many difficulties.

The other unusual choice is the casting of Kapil Sharma, who is known almost solely for his hugely successful and loud television comedy show. I recall watching him in a thin-as-a-potato-chip Hindi film called Firangi (2017) in which the fictional character he played looked like Kapil Sharma, talked like Kapil Sharma and walked like Kapil Sharma. In Zwigato though, Kapil Sharma is nowhere to be found. Not only does he give us a lovable yet complex Manas, he also miraculously erases his distinctive clipped accent and intonation for this role. It’s a mystery how Nandita spotted her Manas in Kapil, but her instincts have paid off.

Shahana Goswami ’s performance, of course, is no surprise. From the lines of her body to the pauses in her speech, the virtually indiscernible touches in her gait and posture, everything is attuned to transforming her into a perfect Pratima. The leads are surrounded by actors who are unfamiliar in Hindi cinema, yet completely comfortable before the camera.

In terms of Pratima’s entry into the job market, Zwigato got me thinking of my favourite Satyajit Ray film Mahanagar (1963, Bengali) because of the differences and similarities between the tussles of the spouses in both. In Mahanagar, Arati is extremely shy and hesitant to step out of the house to earn money, it is her husband who pushes her to do so to ease their constraints. When she begins liking her job and excelling in it though, he feels threatened, and pressures her to leave, but she refuses. Zwigato’s Pratima is not aggressively assertive, but she does take the initiative to find a job because the family are short of funds, and doesn’t back down though Manas objects – and bares his insecurity – even before she sets out. Zwigato is a reminder that the more things change, the more they remain the same, or even regress.

Nandita Das’ storytelling style is so unpretentious and subtle, that she could easily be underrated. Watch carefully though, and through her cinema you will see a director with a profound interest in the human condition, an acute understanding of socio-political dynamics in India, and a firm handle on her craft.

Zwigato is gentle, thoughtful entertainment.

Rating: 4 (out of 5 stars) 

Zwigato is now in theatres. This review was published in December 2022 after the film’s India premiere at the International Film Festival of Kerala. Its world premiere was at the Toronto International Film Festival in September 2022.

Anna M.M. Vetticad is an award-winning journalist and author of The Adventures of an Intrepid Film Critic. She specialises in the intersection of cinema with feminist and other socio-political concerns. Twitter: @annavetticad, Instagram: @annammvetticad, Facebook: AnnaMMVetticadOfficial

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