Indians hardly ever agree on anything. Mostly, they beg to differ. Sometimes these differences are sharp and polarising, and sometimes gorgeously nuanced. But there is one thing on which you and I will happily hold hands and bow our head to, and that is the genius of the Mahabharata.
There are hundreds of renditions of the Mahabharata, and though I have read just a few, the one that I think is truly exceptional because of its depth, politics, angst and literary grace is the one by Maggi Lidchi-Grassi. Originally published by P. Lal’s Writers' Workshop in three parts — The Battle of Kurukshetra, The Legs of the Tortoise and The Great Golden Sacrifice, last year Random House released it as one 900-page book — The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata. Lidchi-Grassi’s version begins with Ashwatthama as the narrator and then switches to Arjun, and it is, in the words of this newspaper’s book reviewer, Aloke Roy Chowdhury, the story of “one war, two existential heroes”.
I suspect that director Arnab Chaudhuri and writer Rajesh Devraj, who also wrote Quick Gun Murugan, may have been inspired by Lidchi-Grassi’s Mahabharata. Their focus is on Arjun, more specifically, on how the introspective pacifist becomes India’s greatest warrior.
Arjun uses an interesting narrative device — a dai-ma is telling Arjun’s story to a young yuvraj in an unnamed kingdom. This is very clever as it beautifully lends itself to a dramatic twist eventually, especially for those who may not be familiar with the story of the kingdom of Matsya, Urvashi’s curse, the transgender danseuse Brihannala and prince Uttar.
Dai-ma begins her bedtime story when Vidur takes the five young sons of Pandu and Kunti to Dronacharya’s gurukul, to be trained along with the 100 Kauravas.
I have always been fascinated by the story of Gandhari giving birth to a lump of flesh that Vyasa cut into a hundred and one pieces from which emerged 100 boys and one girl, Dushala. But I had never really visualised a hundred Kauravas. Arjun brings that figure to life with one single scene, a rath competition, and we uneasily note the might of the Kauravas.
For readers of a certain vintage, when they think Dronacharya, Surendra Pal from B.R. Chopra’s television series will come to mind, and the superb Gufi Paintal as Shakuni, as well as the annoyingly wimpy and whiny Girija Shankar as Dhritarashtra.
It probably did for director Arnab Chaudhuri and his animation team as well. That is why, I’m guessing, they have played with characters and their looks. Apart from making them look dramatically different from their Amar Chitra Katha and telly versions, they have added lovely baubles that breathe fresh life into them. Dronacharya is bald, Yul Brynner like; Bhishma is large but not majestic; and Mama Shakuni is a donkey-riding midget with a phlegmatic voice and a faint French beard. Unfortunately, Karan, in a story about Arjun the warrior, is an odd-looking, nondescript creature who doesn’t seem like he could really challenge Arjun.
Arjun’s story touches on most of the major events that mark the beginning and grand finale of the rivalry between Duryodhana and the Pandavas — we see Duryodhana’s insecurity and criminal malevolence, how easily Bhishma sides with the wrong side and how the blind Dhritarashtra cheats the real uttaradhikari of Hastinapur.
There’s the deceit of Laksagrha (the House of Lac) where, after the Pandavas manage to escape, Bheem, in a fit of rage, kills a man with his bare hands. Arjun sees this and realises that he can’t kill. This is the first of his many existential moments, and we instantly form a strong bond with Arjun and share his dilemma till, of course, Krishna arrives. He changes the game for Arjun, and for posterity, and gives us all a Kshatriya code where it is okay to go battle and kill one’s own if dharma is at stake.
Of course, Krishna is helped by the seething Draupadi who extracts a promise from Arjun that he will avenge her humiliation. This is followed by the 13-year-long vanvaas during which Arjun gathers divine shaktis and shastras.
Though the film ends rather abruptly at the battle of Viraat where Arjun defeats the entire Kaurav army singlehandedly, the cathartic satisfaction I felt during the film's climatic scene, when Arjun’s sword is at Duryodhana’s neck, cannot be described. It can only be experienced.
Arjun has been in the making for over two years. I don't know what the problems were but I really hope that there will be a part two to Arjun, because this story is really worth telling and Arnab Chaudhuri and his team tell it really well.

Arjun skips several events — like Draupadi’s cheer-haran, and here Draupadi remains just Arjun’s wife — because, I guess, the director and writer wanted to focus on Arjun’s story. So we see Arjun in combat, with Dronacharya, Shiv, Duryodhana, and, of course, we happily applaud at him at Draupadi’s swayamvar, which is one of the film’s defining moments. This scene is lavish in scale and impressive in detailing, and yet the clincher here is a nice twist to the shooting of the fish.
Arjun’s dialogues are not its strongest point, though Bheem, his gadha and gluttony provide some cute humour. Arjun’s real strength lies in its ability to create poignant moments that involve people who don’t wear a halo. Despite the archaic language, these are all real people. Duryodhana doesn’t “look” evil, Bheem often argues with Yudhishtira, Arjun has self-doubt and other characters have dimensions and shades of grey, no one more so than Krishna.
Though Arjun’s animation is superb, this is not a film for children. Despite one brief attempt at catering to the PSP generation — there is quick slaying of freaks and flying monsters — Arjun, with its contemplative mood and pace, is for those who are already in love with the Mahabharata.
The film’s music, by Vishal-Shekhar, ranges from bad to okay. And since no Indian yoddha can escape Sukhvinder’s Omkara-like rousing chant, Arjun gets one, too.