It is easy to forget the what we have lost because of Hindi cinema’s tilt towards the right. Initially a mouthpiece for secular values in a post-Partition India, the film industry soon became an emblem for the Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb (culture). It was the place where a Muslim man would become a newly-independent India’s first superstar, where dialogues in Urdu, Khariboli and Hindi would invent a new concoction of Hindustani, which would trickle down into everyday parlance. It’s only in the movies where the three biggest stars of their time would get separated at birth into homes of different religions, only to reunite and take down the villain in the climax. Sure, some part of it was an echo of popular sentiment, and carried a whiff of opportunism. But the tragedy of our new-age Hindi cinema is how it’s eviscerated even performative niceness in favour of unbridled, authentic hate. And this is precisely why Avinash Das’s Inn Galiyon Mein made me nostalgic for Hindi cinema of the past. Das’s film reminded me of those social harmony dramas I’d watch on channels like Zee Cinema. It has the earnestness and sincerity – and also the technical tackiness – of a message-oriented street play. It took me a while to enter the film’s world, where the acting seemed to be taking place at a slightly heightened pitch, and the makers seemed enamoured by Uttar Pradesh lingo like kantaap (a slap), which has been popular in a post-Wasseypur world, and the small-town social dramedy of the last 10 years. But then enters Jaaved Jaaferi. He plays Mirza, a tea-shop owner, whose establishment runs at the intersection of the Hanuman Gali and Rahman Gali, and is the conscience of the locality. With minor strife, Hindu and Muslim ghettos have been co-existing peacefully for a while. Until a local politician (Sushant Singh) arrives with his noticeable saffron paraphernalia. His goons are also noticeably bearded – and enthusiastic about cheering their political leader any time they get a chance (even during an India-Pakistan match screening for both the lanes). It’s during this politician’s election campaign that the peace of these two lanes begins to erode. Mirza sees this from far away, and that’s why his brows are furrowed the moment he walks into the locality. He’s seen many versions of this politician, who will instigate the two lanes against each other – only to fast-track themselves to power. A still from ‘Inn Galiyon Mein’.A word for Jaaved Jaaferi, whose acting potential has mostly been untapped. Having begun his career playing the spoiled brat character, and more recently playing the buffoon (except for maybe in Samar Khan’s Shaurya) – the stars have rarely aligned to shine a light on Jaaferi’s heft as an actor. With Mirza, Jaaferi marries his wit (which we heard in plenty through his voice-overs for Japanese game shows) and his world-weariness. He starts the film off with two puns – paantastic and ‘peek’ performance – seeing someone spit out their paan (betel leaf). It doesn’t feel like organic dialogue for Mirza, but I didn’t mind it because the jokes blurred the lines between character and actor.In another time, Avinash Das’s film would have registered as a minor work advocating social harmony. But in the current times, the film feels like a way of resisting a time when religion has permeated into colours, food, celebration, love stories. Despite showcasing smartphones, Inn Galiyon Mein protects its values of the pre-smartphone era. When we weren’t so consumed by our screens, we would venture out of our homes to greet neighbours, where a boy falls in love with the girl next door, and where the entire locality would consider it their moral responsibility to opine on the blooming love affair. There’s something spectacularly old-school about Das’s film, coming out in stray dialogues, when Mirza says “Chaupal anaath padi hai (the communal space lies orphaned)” – after a skirmish the evening before around someone bursting crackers after India’s loss against Pakistan in a cricket match. A still from ‘Inn Galiyon Mein’.Vivaan Shah playing Hariram – a local vegetable vendor – appeared to try too hard in the start to wipe the privilege off his face, to play someone with fewer means. But his performance grew on me over time, and if nothing else, you’ve got to admire his initiative to make his character as pesky, without turning him into a parody. Avantika Dasani, in her debut, also appears slightly undercooked in the beginning, only to mature towards the end of the film. A still from ‘Inn Galiyon Mein’.Das’s film reinforces how easy it is to sow distrust in a peaceful community, to make someone paranoid of their neighbour with the slightest of suggestions; and how it’s been the oldest trick in the playbook of those looking to get to power. And yet, how often even we fall for these tricks. The film touches on many postmodern social evils of our times – the manufactured debate around inter-religious marriages, the impunity with which people can circulate fake news, and our way of combating such division is by exercising our rights in a rapidly-depleting democracy. It’s Jaaved Jaaferi’s Mirza – who emerges as Das’s antidote for our times, who realises that a response to an accusation (however ludicrous), can’t be reactionary. Where he has somewhat made his peace with being a second-class citizen of the country, not bringing it up as often, to preserve the overall peace of the locality. In one of the best scenes, Mirza stands up to a hateful Hindu mob using the choicest of slurs for Muslims, and when he gets attacked by them – the entire mohalla retaliates on Mirza’s behalf. It’s a fairytale, sure, but I felt a lump in my throat.Mirza seems to understand how much time goes into building a sense of community, to keep a sense of brotherhood going, even if it means suppressing his personal traumas for the greater good. Selflessness has gone out of fashion in the mainstream and increasingly self-centred Bollywood, and this modest film’s most sparkling trait is its determination to bring it back.Inn Galiyon Mein had a limited release in theatres on March 14.