The original Kokadeuta Nati Aru Hati was released in 1983 and instantly became one of the most recognisable Assamese films ever made. The film was essentially a family drama that vividly captured rural Kampur in the Nagaon district and wove its story around the locale in such a beautiful and thought-provoking manner that not just the characters but also the landscape, the beauty of the topography, and, most importantly, the way the characters inhabited the land where the story unfolded became as much a reason to watch the film as anything else. Every frame looked resplendent and had rough edges reminiscent of a human being creating a piece of art. The characters, their dialogue, and the ensuing drama between them never lost their urgency, and one could gauge the impact and emotional weight they carried.
While the dialogue delivery of some characters may feel theatrical and over-the-top by today’s standards, it still has the necessary impact and is reminiscent of what was the norm in those days. Even with the story remaining firmly rooted in what was happening within a certain household and how the lives of different characters influenced one another, the film beautifully showed how their deep connection to the land and their recognition of the love and value they shared ultimately brought them together in the end in very different ways, completing a story for which it was difficult to imagine a sequel.
Surprisingly, the writing of Kokadeuta Nati Aru Hati 2 does justify the existence of the sequel. It succeeds in creating a story that has the potential to build upon some of the best qualities and traits of the original while also infusing the narrative with elements that feel like the kind of upgrade modern storytelling deserves and that an update of a beloved classic can benefit from in order to find an audience among a new generation of moviegoers.
The story revolves around Prasanta Saikia (Pranjal Saikia), who was also known as Moina in the original film and is now a grandfather himself, residing on his estate in Kampur. His son, Pallab (Jatin Bora), sends his son, Ankur (Utpal Das), who is battling drug addiction, to live with his grandfather. The intention is to keep him safe while also helping him recover from his addiction.
Although Ankur is unwilling to leave Miami and initially gets into constant altercations with his grandfather, he gradually begins to reconnect with his roots and experiences the love and affection that he has been craving for years. Just when things start looking promising for the Saikia family, an old enemy decides to make a move against them. It is at this juncture that Pallab decides to return to Assam to save his family.
Unfortunately, the writing of the film proves surprisingly inert and lacks the heart required to make even a semblance of an impact or add the much-needed sense of urgency to the tale. Half of the film revolves around Ankur reconnecting with his roots with the help of his grandfather, and this is the portion where the writers and the director have the best opportunity to tie Ankur’s changing mindset to the beauty of the place, the love, care, and even rebuke that he receives from the people around him, and, most importantly, his own realisation that this is a better and more purposeful way of life.
The film does touch upon all of these elements, but each of them is treated so superficially and with so little emotional impact that it becomes a chore to sit through scene after scene of drama between the characters, where the actors often seem as though they are merely delivering rehearsed lines with little heart or intent. This instantly makes the drama the weakest link in the film and, in the process, robs it of the warmth and emotional resonance that made the original so great.
This does the film another great disservice. Ankur’s transformation and the way he eventually becomes the hero of the story feel farcical and manufactured. Let me illustrate this with an example. The altercation between Ankur and his grandfather reaches a crescendo after Ankur promises never to drink again but still goes to a pub and drinks with Tuhin (Preety Kongkona). The argument escalates to the point that Ankur storms out of the house at night and ends up in a jungle. He passes out, is rescued by an elephant, and is gently placed under a tree for shelter and protection. We all know who that elephant is eventually revealed to be. The next morning, he wakes up, suddenly notices the beauty of the forest and the nearby vistas, returns home, and immediately begins transforming. The entire progression feels outrageously convenient, and at least some more effort should have been made at the writing level to justify such a radical change in the character.
The same chain of events also contains another glaring inconsistency. After being horrified that Ankur has left the house, the grandfather is shown the very next morning calmly cleaning the statue of the mighty tusker, Brikodar, instead of actively searching for his grandson. The writers attempt to justify this through a piece of dialogue, but it does not work. This becomes a recurring problem with the writing of the film, as several sequences create a similar disconnect between logic and narrative progression, further diminishing both the impact and the organic believability of the story.
This brings me to the direction of the film. There have been instances in the past where poorly written characters have been elevated by great direction and performances. Unfortunately, that is not the case here either, as the actors are primarily let down by the poor writing of their characters and, throughout the film, seem to have surrendered to those deficiencies, appearing interested only in going through the motions.
Utpal Das is a good actor, and he was the perfect choice to play the character of Ankur. However, he completely surrenders to the weak writing and does not even attempt to elevate the character with his inherent charm or by infusing it with drama through his dialogue delivery, mannerisms, and screen presence. He is also terribly let down by an awful wig that, rather amusingly, vanishes in at least one dream song featuring Tuhin’s character. This unintentionally suggests that even a fictional character within the film imagines Ankur without the wig. It is a production choice that visibly undermines the character’s credibility.
Pranjal Saikia is a legend, and he can rarely put a foot wrong when it comes to portraying a character. Here too, I could not find any fault with his performance per se, apart from the fact that it has very little impact because he is never given enough opportunities by the writers and the director to develop any significant drama through his exchanges with Ankur or Pallab. Both relationships could have been sources of heartbreaking drama and inspiring moments in the narrative, but their potential is never realised.
There is one surprising exception to these complaints in terms of both the writing and the performances, and that is the character of Birinchi, played by Tapan Das. It almost feels as if the character was written by someone completely different and was, at the very least, given dialogue by someone other than the people who wrote the rest of the film. The character itself, along with Tapan Das’s performance, makes every aspect of Birinchi memorable, entertaining, and unpredictable. After a while, I found myself rooting for him more than I was for Kokadeuta and Nati.
He has at least two lines of dialogue in the film that perfectly reflect the audience’s reaction to certain characters and even to the way the film itself treats its audience. Tapan Das also seems to be the only person who takes every aspect of the story and his character seriously, performing with genuine conviction. When he breaks into a monologue that, admittedly, feels like a lazy piece of writing to bring the story to an end, it is nevertheless elevated to a great extent by Das’s performance and swagger alone.
The second half of the film concentrates on the rescue of Ankur and the reconciliation of Pallab with his father. It becomes a somewhat different film during this portion and is characterised by poorly executed action sequences that lack any sense of physicality. To top it off, they do not carry any genuine stakes or sense of thrill that would make the proceedings feel tense. There is also a lot of talking in this portion, which begins to stretch the film well beyond the point of tolerance. I honestly feel that this film should have been 20–30 minutes shorter.
Even with such an elongated runtime, the film is not able to develop a single character to the extent that the audience would genuinely resonate with them or feel the emotions they are experiencing.
Kokadeuta Nati Aru Hati 2 ultimately feels like a missed opportunity more than anything else. There are enough ideas in the narrative to justify revisiting this beloved world, and the film genuinely attempts to bridge the gap between generations by exploring themes of family, identity, and reconnecting with one’s roots. Unfortunately, those ideas are let down by questionable writing, direction, and emotionally inert, underdeveloped characters that never evolve into people the audience can truly invest in.
Apart from a delightful turn by Tapan Das and Pranjal Saikia’s reliably dignified performance, there is very little that leaves a lasting impression. Fans of the original may still find some nostalgia in revisiting these familiar characters and locations, but as a sequel to one of Assamese cinema’s most cherished classics, this is a film that never comes close to recapturing the warmth, emotional depth, or storytelling magic that made the original so enduring.
Rating: 2/5 (2 out of 5 stars)