Still in love with an old flame: Poonam Saxena writes on Sholay
The restored and uncut version was the best film I watched in 2025. I left the theatre surprised: How, 50 years on, was it still this spellbinding?
Towards the end of December, I watched the restored, original version of Sholay at a Delhi theatre.
I hadn’t expected to be enthralled, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen.
Like so many millions of us, I have seen Sholay multiple times. I know much of the dialogue by heart. I remember the scenes almost frame by frame. Before watching the film again, I did have some qualms: suppose I was disappointed? I wasn’t prepared to have my shining memories of the film tarnished in any way.
I needn’t have worried. I sat, enchanted, all through.
I laughed at Veeru’s (Dharmendra) antics, at Basanti’s (Hema Malini) chatter. I felt uneasy prickles on my skin every time Gabbar Singh (Amjad Khan) appeared on screen. I cried for Thakur’s (Sanjeev Kumar) devastated world. And cried again when Jai (Amitabh Bachchan) died on that lonely road. (And again at the new ending, but more on that in a bit.)
I left the theatre a bit surprised: How is it that, 50 years later, with umpteen viewings in-between, Sholay remains as powerful and spellbinding as ever? I don’t want to over-analyse the movie and spoil the genuinely compelling cinematic experience, but here’s what came to me quite spontaneously after watching it.
Sholay has been called the perfect Hindi film and there is truth to that. There are many great ones out there, but if we were to look through the prism of the quintessential Hindi movie, which has traditionally (no longer, though) given viewers a bit of everything — drama, tragedy, comedy, music, dance, romance, action, supported by the bulwark of solid emotional storytelling — there is really no beating Sholay.
The themes of vengeance, friendship and sacrifice are seldom found in a single film anymore. That last motif, sacrifice, has all but disappeared, and is viewed disparagingly, in fact, as a sign of maudlin melodrama.
Sholay blends the elements in just the right balance. Each part of the whole is expertly spaced out over the nearly-three-and-a-half-hour runtime. Take the interval point. Before the break, Thakur tells his story to Jai and Veeru in a long flashback.
The massacre of his family by Gabbar Singh is not explicitly shown (unlike today, when we are subjected to so much gratuitous violence on screen), but it comes like a gut punch anyway. There are gunshots, and bodies fall in slow motion. Then, the faintest background music, and the creaking of a swing. The terror mounts as Gabbar, astride his horse, canters up to where Thakur’s young nephew is standing. We do not see the ultimate act of barbarity, the killing of this boy. The gunshot merges with the train whistle as Thakur alights at the railway station, unaware of what has happened to his family.
The tale unfolds relentlessly from then on, until the final act of horror, when Gabbar Singh says, “Yeh haath humko de de” and we cut to the present. Thakur’s shawl flies off his shoulders and the empty kurta sleeves flap in the wind. He walks away slowly.
Interval. As the lights turn on, I realise I’ve been holding my breath, even though every scene of the flashback is familiar.
The tension mounts again ahead of the new ending (or rather, the original ending crafted by director Ramesh Sippy). In the version we all know, Thakur attacks Gabbar Singh with his hobnailed shoes. But as he’s about to crush his head and kill him, the police arrive and take the dacoit away, urging Thakur not to take the law into his hands.
In the original ending, now restored to the film, Thakur’s foot does crush Gabbar to death, and I think this is the more fitting end, for two reasons. It is cathartic, which is what the audience craves at this point. And after this is done, Thakur, who has been cold and stoic throughout, breaks down in Veeru’s arms and weeps. It brings the tale to a sweeping, emotional conclusion.
The film doesn’t end here, of course. After Jai’s funeral, Veeru bids farewell to Ramgarh and boards a train. It chugs out of the station, leaving the lone figure of Thakur on the platform, a mirror image of the opening scene, in which Ramlal stood on an empty platform, waiting for Jai and Veeru to arrive.
Within the compartment, Veeru sees Basanti waiting for him. They run to each other and embrace to an uplifting background score. You leave the theatre smiling through your tears.
Yes, Sholay is a true classic.
(Reach out via poonamsaxena3555@gmail.com. The views expressed are personal)
Towards the end of December, I watched the restored, original version of Sholay at a Delhi theatre.
I hadn’t expected to be enthralled, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen.
Like so many millions of us, I have seen Sholay multiple times. I know much of the dialogue by heart. I remember the scenes almost frame by frame. Before watching the film again, I did have some qualms: suppose I was disappointed? I wasn’t prepared to have my shining memories of the film tarnished in any way.
I needn’t have worried. I sat, enchanted, all through.
I laughed at Veeru’s (Dharmendra) antics, at Basanti’s (Hema Malini) chatter. I felt uneasy prickles on my skin every time Gabbar Singh (Amjad Khan) appeared on screen. I cried for Thakur’s (Sanjeev Kumar) devastated world. And cried again when Jai (Amitabh Bachchan) died on that lonely road. (And again at the new ending, but more on that in a bit.)
I left the theatre a bit surprised: How is it that, 50 years later, with umpteen viewings in-between, Sholay remains as powerful and spellbinding as ever? I don’t want to over-analyse the movie and spoil the genuinely compelling cinematic experience, but here’s what came to me quite spontaneously after watching it.
Sholay has been called the perfect Hindi film and there is truth to that. There are many great ones out there, but if we were to look through the prism of the quintessential Hindi movie, which has traditionally (no longer, though) given viewers a bit of everything — drama, tragedy, comedy, music, dance, romance, action, supported by the bulwark of solid emotional storytelling — there is really no beating Sholay.
The themes of vengeance, friendship and sacrifice are seldom found in a single film anymore. That last motif, sacrifice, has all but disappeared, and is viewed disparagingly, in fact, as a sign of maudlin melodrama.
Sholay blends the elements in just the right balance. Each part of the whole is expertly spaced out over the nearly-three-and-a-half-hour runtime. Take the interval point. Before the break, Thakur tells his story to Jai and Veeru in a long flashback.
The massacre of his family by Gabbar Singh is not explicitly shown (unlike today, when we are subjected to so much gratuitous violence on screen), but it comes like a gut punch anyway. There are gunshots, and bodies fall in slow motion. Then, the faintest background music, and the creaking of a swing. The terror mounts as Gabbar, astride his horse, canters up to where Thakur’s young nephew is standing. We do not see the ultimate act of barbarity, the killing of this boy. The gunshot merges with the train whistle as Thakur alights at the railway station, unaware of what has happened to his family.
The tale unfolds relentlessly from then on, until the final act of horror, when Gabbar Singh says, “Yeh haath humko de de” and we cut to the present. Thakur’s shawl flies off his shoulders and the empty kurta sleeves flap in the wind. He walks away slowly.
Interval. As the lights turn on, I realise I’ve been holding my breath, even though every scene of the flashback is familiar.
The tension mounts again ahead of the new ending (or rather, the original ending crafted by director Ramesh Sippy). In the version we all know, Thakur attacks Gabbar Singh with his hobnailed shoes. But as he’s about to crush his head and kill him, the police arrive and take the dacoit away, urging Thakur not to take the law into his hands.
In the original ending, now restored to the film, Thakur’s foot does crush Gabbar to death, and I think this is the more fitting end, for two reasons. It is cathartic, which is what the audience craves at this point. And after this is done, Thakur, who has been cold and stoic throughout, breaks down in Veeru’s arms and weeps. It brings the tale to a sweeping, emotional conclusion.
The film doesn’t end here, of course. After Jai’s funeral, Veeru bids farewell to Ramgarh and boards a train. It chugs out of the station, leaving the lone figure of Thakur on the platform, a mirror image of the opening scene, in which Ramlal stood on an empty platform, waiting for Jai and Veeru to arrive.
Within the compartment, Veeru sees Basanti waiting for him. They run to each other and embrace to an uplifting background score. You leave the theatre smiling through your tears.
Yes, Sholay is a true classic.
(Reach out via poonamsaxena3555@gmail.com. The views expressed are personal)
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