Hamare Sapne Ek Hain (Our Dreams are One): A review of ‘The Queen of My Dreams’
Almost every South Asian child, from the subcontinent and beyond, has grown up with a Bollywood influence. We live and breathe Bollywood, dance to its tunes, or have fond memories of that one film our parents and grandparents could never let go of. It’s so easy to be blinded by it, to allow it to permeate our lives and stories to the point that we not only quote these films daily but attach deep emotional meaning to them. I am a critic of Bollywood, it has its flaws and I unabashedly make them known; but I cannot deny the influence it has had on my friendships, cultural education, and the simple joys it makes known.
All of these facets of the film industry, its legendary status, influence, and critique can be found in The Queen of My Dreams (2023) directed by Fawzia Mirza, which puts a unique spin on the old Bollywood movie Aradhana (Shakti Samanta, 1969) as it breathes new life into it as a remodelled tale of queerness, coming of age, and immigrant-hood. The film follows Azra (Amrit Kaur), a Pakistani-Canadian woman as she navigates her mother Mariam’s (Nimra Bucha), disapproval of her queerness while grappling with a tragedy back home in Karachi. But step one foot in Karachi, and we are instantly transported to 1969, where a young Mariam, also played by Amrit Kaur, navigates dreams of moving abroad and finding love in the shadow of her overbearing mother, Amira (Gul-e-Rana). However, what brings Azra and Mariam together is their love for the classic Aradhana, passed down from mother to daughter as a symbol of eternal love.
Distinctly a difficult teenager and young adult, Azra is repeatedly criticised by her mother for her difference, be it in her lesbian-ness or Canadian-ness, who at one point claims “I am not nobody, mein tumhari maa hun (I am your mother)” when teased for a mispronunciation. In response to Mariam’s frustration with her daughter, her husband Hassan (Hamza Haq) claims “If you want to know what your daughter would be like, uski ammi ko dekho (look at her mother).” And we do get a look at what her mother was like; young, vivacious, and bold Mariam taking her life into her own hands in Karachi, wearing gorgeous '60s dresses and exclaiming “It’s 1969, I should be able to do what I like!”. With the aid of recreated scenes - from the song ‘Mere Sapno ki Rani’ recreated by Kaur as a young Mariam with her husband and by Ayana Manji as a young Azra, falling in love with a girl for the first time. Mirza furthers a beautiful legacy of generations of women falling in love to the same movie and song; mother and daughter united in Bollywood, both playing a gorgeous Sharmila Tagore in her iconic blue saree, even as they are torn apart in actuality.
However, none of the women can reckon with each other’s differences. A young Azra remains disturbed by her mother’s need to fit into a very White Nova Scotia alongside her turn to religion which she enforces upon Azra, while a young Mariam is unable to understand her mother’s relentless hold over her life. In return, an older Azra is unwilling to conform to her mother’s traditionality in Karachi, while Mariam cannot see why her daughter remains so resolutely herself even in times of grief. There is a discomfort in the intergenerational tensions, and also a recognition. For when Azra bathes an old Amira who profusely apologises to her, mistaking her for a young Mariam, the tears in Azra’s eyes reflect the cracks that lie in the acceptance and rejection of young South Asians, queer and otherwise!
The Queen of My Dreams holds a softness and nuance that 90% of Bollywood films are unable to retain, while also paying homage via references and resemblances to Aradhana for its role in shaping the lives of numerous South Asians, intergenerationally and across the borders of India and Pakistan. It does not replicate Aradhana, but borrows from its storytelling, style, and music to tell an epic tale of bridging boundaries between loved ones. One of the film’s accomplishments is refusing to create divisions within the sub-continent, but rather pushing for love as the overpowering message, as is recognised by Amrit Kaur in her acceptance speech for a Canadian Screen Award. Kaur thanks Mirza for “casting an Indian woman in a Pakistani part” and “pushing for unity between two countries that were once one.” This is reflected in the film, be that when a heartbreaking qawali version of ‘Mere Sapno ki Rani’ plays, or when I recognise glimpses of my hometown in Karachi as depicted in the film. “Colonisation pushed us to a place of division, genocide, and now two communities who once loved each other, live in absolute vitriol,” Kaur continues in her acceptance speech. This bringing together of communities and families, especially women - where the dreams of those seemingly disparate are ultimately the same - is what lies at the heart of The Queen of My Dreams.
As the credits rolled, I broke, tears uncontrollably streaming down my face. A strong whiff of nostalgia and a feeling of being deeply seen blends into one as they reckon with all the possibilities the film represents. Possibilities of family, love, and difference that still blooms in the face of conflict, a resistance to negativity and division that is much needed in current times, all depicted in the film with a care that Mirza fishes out of herself and her viewers. The Queen of My Dreams enters your life like a breath of fresh air and leaves behind the sweet, lingering scent of a film that is as unforgettable as the tune of the song it takes its name from - ‘Mere Sapno ki Rani ’- or the deliciously saccharine mogra that instantly reminds me of childhood.
The Queen of My Dreams premiered at TIFF in 2023 and was released in UK and Irish cinemas on the 13th of September 2024.
This article was included in our 2024 freshers issue, which can be found here.
Edited by Humaira Valera, Co-film & TV editor
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