ON LOYALTY, ART, AND THE PETTINESS OF MINDS

Ae Dil Hai Mushkil features several dear friends of mine, and among them, my brother Imran makes a brief appearance—an appearance, I now suspect, has been ungraciously curtailed. The reason? Not artistic judgment, alas, but the meddling of small minds intoxicated by narrow prejudice—minds so petty that even those wholly unconnected to the matter have been made to suffer.

Let me speak plainly: I care not a whit for your political leanings. A friend remains a friend, and a brother, a brother. Love, not ideology, governs the compass of my affections. And where affection abides, I do not permit the froth of nationalism or the tantrums of public sentiment to muddy the waters.

Indeed, I confess to a certain disdain—yes, a withering contempt—for the manner in which some have chosen to handle this affair. And before anyone is tempted to sharpen their tongue in these quarters, I would urge them to take a long, hard look in the mirror and give their own mouldering prejudices a proper audience. Let your venom pour forth in solitude, and spare the rest of us the rot.

As to how the film will fare, I do not pretend to know. But this much I will say: if your mind is not already sullied by pettiness, I encourage you to go and watch it. If, however, your head is already brimming with rubbish, then by all means, go and have it topped up—you deserve no better.

Fawad Afzal Khan is like a brother to me, and Imran Abbas Naqvi is my family. And I will always stand by my family. The fleeting applause of the public, however loud, means little to me. Blood, and the fidelity of love, mean everything.

Postscript: LET THIS BE READ WITH AN UNCLOUDED MIND AND AN UNTROUBLED HEART.

A Word of Caution:

This reflection is not intended for the zealot, nor for those whose convictions leave no room for charity. Let the intolerant and the immoderate pass it by—for truth makes no lodging in a mind already barricaded against it.

I do not deny that the producers had staked a considerable fortune upon the film’s success. It requires no particular genius to surmise that by now they have not only recouped their investment but have likely profited handsomely through endorsements, partnerships, and auxiliary commercial channels. The film industry is no tender terrain—it demands both nerve and resilience. And yet, let us not lend it more gravity than it deserves. The real loss here was not the seed but the surplus—the anticipated windfall from box office returns.

And let us be honest—this was never truly about cinema, was it? Two nations, long embroiled in tensions for reasons they themselves barely comprehend, found themselves once more in a familiar scuffle. And who, as ever, bears the heaviest burden? Not the architects of conflict, but the innocents who merely wish to live, to love, to create.

The hostilities between these neighbouring states did not erupt yesterday—they were ignited decades ago when politicians discovered that animosity could be minted into gold; that fear could be used to draw borders deeper than those inked upon maps. This is not merely about politics—it is about the disfigured, degrading theatre that passes for politics. But even beyond that sordid stage, this was about loyalty: to friendship, to brotherhood, to the sacred bond that exists between hearts who have stood by one another.

And in yielding—so publicly, so compliantly—to the dictates of those who would make puppets of artists, you declared by deed, if not by word, that profit holds dominion over principle, and that all our high talk of affection collapses under the weight of coin. I do not deny the complexities you faced; I sympathise. But I cannot condone it. For to abandon a brother in the face of pressure, to disown a friend to appease the mobs, is not merely betrayal—it is akin to partaking of his flesh whilst he still draws breath.

Let us, if only for a moment, cast aside the tangled webs of ideology and examine this matter with an unclouded eye. Countless films never see the light of day; they lie forgotten in cans, consigned to the dust of history. Ae Dil Hai Mushkil could well have joined their number—and that, perhaps, would have been the nobler course. Better oblivion than to trumpet so loudly the creed that money is everything, and all else is expendable.

There were, I dare say, other paths—roads less base. Could you not have considered alternative means of distribution? Could the film not have been offered through digital avenues, or broadcast in neutral territories, where no flame of jingoism would set fire to its spirit? Was it truly impossible to exercise that creative ingenuity which you so often boast is your métier?

Have not the Americans filmed beyond their shores, and the English shot their dramas upon foreign soil? Was there truly no way to continue creating with the very people you once revered—no way that would both preserve your integrity and sidestep the politics of hate?

And yet, like frightened cats doused in cold water, you shrank back. Under the glare of public fury, you revoked your love with chilling haste, vowing never again to collaborate with those whom only yesterday you called brothers.

This, dear reader, is what the love of money can do. It can turn affection into expediency, fidelity into farce. It can make decent men behave in ways so pitiable, so small, that one is left not merely saddened, but ashamed.

To live amongst those who praise us when we serve their interests, and disown us the moment their standing is threatened—that is a sorrowful burden. But more sorrowful still is when we, knowing better, choose to become one of them.

Yes, it was, in many ways, a transaction of mutual benefit. Our own creative industry, finding itself increasingly fatigued—it’s well of talent rather parched—looked across the border for fresh vigour, for the kind of panache that could breathe life into roles long suffocated by monotony. It is no secret, after all, that many of our so-called stars have outlived their artistic merit, their presence more burden than boon, their fame an inflated bubble paid for not in merit but in myth. In contrast, those from across the divide sought the reach our industry offered, to give their artistry a wider berth, and that, too, was fair.

But here is where we must acknowledge a rather inconvenient truth: those very artists from “the other side” had within them not only a natural physical grace, but a cerebral command—a combination which, had they so chosen, could have surpassed us with ease. We, meanwhile, had squandered our inheritance by exalting mediocrity. We continue to hail flop shows as ‘saleable,’ to enshrine the talentless and crown them as kings, all while neglecting the few genuine craftsmen—those writers, those visionaries—who still labour in the background, creating brilliance with ink rather than glamour. I daresay it is high time we rouse ourselves from this daydream of delusion and squarely face the reality we have so long postponed.

Just a few days ago, someone asked me with incredulity, “Why this pining for them?” 

To which I can only reply with wounded honesty: “You would show greater respect to a dog in this land than you would to a man whom I love as a brother. And then you dare ask why my heart aches for him?”

Let me be utterly clear: it is no crime to love—neither by law, nor by conscience, nor by any code of honour I recognise. To love another human being, regardless of where they were born or what flag they salute, is not treason—it is humanity. And no one—no evangelist, no mob, no sanctimonious patriot—has the right to question my loyalty merely because I choose to cherish a brother for who he is, and not for what I might gain by association. I am as much a child of this soil as any man who waves its flag. This is my motherland too. And if my nation finds itself entangled in a quarrel with another, why, I ask, must I as a civilian be forced to bear the cost?

Why not, instead, drag to account those whose decisions have led us into this mire? Why not fix your indignation upon the architects of discord, rather than vent it upon the innocent, the apolitical, the ordinary folk who ask only to live and to love in peace?

I must say—and I say it with as much restraint as my conscience will allow—that I am weary of being asked, time and again, to prove my fidelity. Disagreements are natural, even necessary; dissent and disapproval are woven into the fabric of any vibrant society. But to descend into slander, to hurl vulgarities, to reduce a fellow human being to the status of a beggar by mere word—such behaviour is not only unbecoming, it is shameful.

And yet, we are in an age—how tragic to say it—where grace and civility are not merely absent, but ridiculed. Where decorum is dismissed as pretension, and politeness mistaken for weakness. But the highest strength of man, I believe, lies in his ability to adapt, to uphold his dignity even amidst degeneration, and to draw goodness from even the foulest of circumstances.

By all means, let us disagree—openly, even passionately—but let us not trample upon another’s dignity in doing so. Let us never justify hatred in the name of patriotism, nor weaponise creed, origin, or name. Let me ask plainly: had the names in question been Anil or Adam, would there have been such an uproar? Would they have been banished from our screens and bantered about as enemies?

You and I both know the answer.

What would I have done, had I stood in that place? Permit me to explain it thus:

Let us imagine that war has erupted between two nations—again, alas, not an uncommon spectacle in our fractured world. Amidst the rattle of sabres and the deafening roars of nationalistic pride, I look not at the banners nor at the borders, but at a man. A man who has, for more reasons than can be counted on one’s fingers, become a brother to me—not by birth, perhaps, but by bond. He has stood by me in seasons both lean and plentiful. He has shared his gifts with my nation, and my nation, in turn, has traded handsomely on his talent. There has existed between us an unspoken pact—not merely commercial, but human: an interdependence, a silent understanding, as all lasting relationships must inevitably possess.

At some point, this man—initially viewed perhaps as a commodity—becomes something more. Familiarity gives way to fraternity. He no longer remains a figure on a poster or a name in the credits, but a soul with whom one has shared laughter, toil, and trust. And then, just as swiftly, comes the test. At the first stirrings of unrest, what do we do? We flee. Like the proverbial jackal who, in the face of distant thunder, abandons the very kin who once sheltered him, we retreat—not out of wisdom, but cowardice. When, in truth, that is the moment to draw near, not withdraw.

Would it have cost me? Yes, no doubt. But I would have let the accursed money go. For life, dear reader, is not—has never been—about profit margins. Life is about love. It is about the sacredness of human relationship. It is about my brother. About bonds not forged in blood, but in that rarer substance—loyalty. And for such a bond, I would lay down my very life without hesitation. I would not trifle with it by choosing gold over man. I would not prostrate myself before empty-headed bullies, nor retract my truth merely to appease those whose appetite for power is fed by hatred, and whose coffers, ever growing, remain insatiable whether I draw breath or not.

Will some now call me a traitor? Very likely. Those who laud the fallen—men perished not by fate, but by the mess of their own making—as martyrs, are often quickest to vilify the voices that question them. They who drive luxury cars and sport designer garb are the loudest in calling others dishonourable, failing to see the hollowness of their own grandeur. Yet they forget: one’s brother may forgive an insult—that is the virtue of his tehzeeb, his culture—but the one who betrayed him shall never again meet his eyes in peace. For such treachery, if there be any conscience left at all, corrodes the soul more surely than rust corrodes iron.

Let them not forget: I can adopt another homeland. But I shall never find another brother. The ones who bowed to the pressure and followed the convenient path have made it unmistakably clear—they valued only their interests. “We needed you,” they seem to say, “we used you. And now, seeing in you a threat, we discard you.” If I were in your place, I would walk away from such fair-weather friends, who sell their love like a commodity and abandon honour for comfort.

And yet, even in the thick of this absurd tempest, there are those—yes, from across that imaginary line we call a border—who have responded not with rage, but with grace. Who have spoken not of retaliation, but of peace. Who have shown a concern not only for their present, but for the children yet to come. To them, I bow. To you, I say—I do not know if you shall ever understand the depth of what I feel, but I love you. Deeply. Not for your name or your place of birth, but for the light you have brought into my life.

You matter to me as much as these others do. I care not for stature, nor for stardom, nor for the vanity of fame. An actor can be hired. A performance purchased. But that rare intimacy between two human hearts—unsullied by agenda, unmeasured by gain—that is not to be gambled away, even in a storm. That, above all, must be preserved.

It is in such moments of trial that we see our true selves—our bare, unvarnished selves. And those who have failed in this test have shown what little fibre they truly possess.

Forgive me, if I have repeated myself. My mind, once bridled, has now poured forth like a volcano long suppressed. I know too that I have been emotional—but what is life if one is forever calculating and guarded? Caution has not saved us from ruin, and apathy has birthed no miracles.

And so, when this manufactured madness finally burns itself out, I await with quiet hope the arrival of Tum Bin 2—a film written, co-produced, and directed by my bade bhaiya, Anubhav Sinha. With my friends, the charming Aashim Gulati, the chiselled Aditya Seal, and the ever-graceful Neha Sharma, perhaps it shall remind us—if only for a few hours—of beauty, of gentleness, and of joy. God knows, in these grim times, we need such reminders. We need art, not acrimony. Light, not loathing.

Let us at least attempt, in this world we have marred, to leave behind something finer for those who shall inherit it.