Let The Music Flow:
The opening scene draws the viewer right in— it’s an open field, with crowds as far as the eye can see; there is air of anticipation and a little impatience. They could be waiting for a film star, sportsperson, leader. Then a man walks on to a makeshift stage with an iktara in his hand and starts singing. The crowd goes wild, but before the music works its magic, he and his wife are shot dead.
This had really happened to legendary singer Amar Singh Chamkila (on whom a feature film is also being made), and the killers were never caught. Rohit Jugraj has fictionalized the incident for his series Chamak (on SonyLiv), and turned his tribute to the rich tradition of Punjabi music – folk, sufi, classical, rap—into a son’s quest for the truth. The murder of Tara Singh (Gippy Grewal in a guest appearance) and his wife Navpreet (Sharan Kaur) is left unsolved; his brother Satnam (Mahabir Bhullar) escapes to Canada with their infant son and raises him as his own.
Kaala (Paramvir Singh Cheema) turns into a hell raiser, and eventually has to make his way back to Punjab, with the help of loyal friends, to escape a murder rap. All he has from his past is a faded photo of his parents. In Chandigarh, he gets a job as a valet, and just by chance has a parking lot face-off with famous singer, MC Square, which goes viral. His location exposed to the Canadian cops, he has to go on the run again, driven by aspiring singer and drummer Jazz (Isha Talwar), who offers him a friendly ride and gets drawn into the whirlwind of mayhem Kaala’s life is to become.
A casual visit to the gurudwara which is seen in the old photo has gun-toting goons chase him out and Kaala is intrigued enough to set out to investigate who killed his parents. As a very vague clue, there is a photograph of a smiling Tara with four of his friends, who had formed a music company called Teeja Sur in 1990, and a stray remark by his maternal grandmother that leads him to believe one of them might be behind the murder. Pretending to be making a documentary on old Punjabi singers, he starts digging out information, his main source being a disillusioned journalist, Gurpal (Kuljeet Singh).
In the present, Pratap Deol (Manoj Pahwa) runs the successful Teeja Sur, and despairs of his three grown and spoilt offspring ever taking over the company. Jazz is a buddy of the youngest Guru (Mohit Malik) and gets Kaala an audition that ends in an embarrassing meltdown. It also gets him and Jazz kidnapped and almost killed, which confirms that Kaala may have stirred the right hornet’s nest.
He goes after his target using fair means and underhand, and at the same time, finding fame as a singer, and the love of the innocent Lata (Akasa Singh), daughter of one of the men, Jugal (Suvinder Vicky) in the picture—that turns up in various forms in several walls to taunt Kaala
Over the six episodes, scripted by Jugraj and S. Fakira in piquant Punjabi and Hindi, the plot meanders into unrelated subplots like Guru’s gay affair, but it is studded with such exquisite music (curated by Jugraj), that it remains always engaging. Punjabi music is the raison d’etre of the show, and singers like Malkit Singh and Mika turn up in special appearances. As a character says, everyone in Punjab can sing, music is in the soil, but not everyone can become a star. Even minor characters are given some depth—like the hitman Jagga (Prince Kanwaljit Singh), whose wisdom shows Kaala the way to proceed.
The most fascinating character is Kaala, who demands and expects favours like they were his birthright; he is capable of cruelly pushing a rival out of the way, or toying with a woman’s emotions, but is also turns into a self-effacing disciple to old-style music guru Jugal, who has marbles stuffed into his mouth till it bleeds. The casting of Cheema in the lead role is inspired, because he has very large, hypnotic eyes, a slight build and long hair, giving him an androgynous look, despite the beard. The supporting actors—particularly Pahwa and Malik and a deliberately hammy Mukesh Chhabra as a film producer—do their bit to prop up the series when it flags.
Punjabi music has mostly been a male-dominated domain and there is constant criticism of decline in standards to day into vulgar, sexist lyrics and limited beats, but the women in Chamak are not doormats—whether it is the fiery Jazz or Rocky Aunty (Navneet Nishan) who helps runs Deol’s music empire.
At the end of six episodes (on SonyLiv), a prophecy by the grandmother has come true, and Kaala is up against a formidable foe, just as he has found his musical metier. Disappointingly, the mystery will be solved in a second part slated to drop next year. This ploy to extend a show’s shelf life has not worked too well in the past. Maybe music will make Chamak shine again.
(This piece first appeared in scroll.in)
