Not Just a Rescue, But a Reckoning: The Grit and Grace of 'Malamal Boyyyz'

If Malayalam movie Manjummel Boys was a cinematic plunge into the darkness of a cave and the light of friendship, Assamese movie Malamal Boyyyz is a slow-burning descent into the everyday caves of Assam’s youth, where escape isn’t from physical danger but from economic despair, social disillusionment, and the quiet erosion of purpose. In this gritty Assamese narrative, Raghu, Jeevan, Abhi, Lakhi, and Sudhir aren’t just characters, they are emblems of a generation suspended between the ache of what could have been and the anxiety of what is.

Set in Guwahati, Assam, marked by unemployment, political rot, and the silent exodus from villages to cities, Malamal Boyyyz unfolds with a blend of dark humour and quiet resignation. At its core are four young men, dreamers with little means, clinging to ambition in a place where hope often comes second to survival. Lakhi runs a modest chai shop that sustains not only himself but also his three close friends who live together under one roof. Jiban hustles as an insurance agent with Jeevan Bima, where his earnings depend entirely on how many policies he manages to sell daily or monthly. Abhi, without a job or income, shoulders the domestic responsibilities, cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry, and running errands, so much so that he refers to himself, half-mockingly, as the ‘housewife’ of the group. Raghu, meanwhile, dreams of becoming a successful actor but constantly wrestles with insecurities tied to his dark complexion, short stature, and socio-economic background. Another young man, Sudhir though cast within the antagonist group, is portrayed as a duo of villainous brothers bringing tension and power dynamics into the storylines is not a one-dimensional villain. Rather, he represents a deeply familiar figure, the young man who ‘wanted to do something’ with his life, but, over time, found himself enmeshed in corrupt circles and marginalized paths. He embodies the emotional exhaustion and resignation of someone whose ideals were steadily compromised.

One of the most striking aspects of the film, for me, was its subtle portrayal of urban migration in Assam and the rise of footloose labour. It reflects a troubling trend where people, despite owning agricultural land, move to cities and become disconnected from their roots and communities. Driven by aspirations and market pressures, many end up doing menial jobs, working as security guards, watchmen, domestic helpers, in hospitality, construction, warehouses, or sanitation, often sidelining their own agricultural skills. In the process, they begin to imitate urban lifestyles, lose touch with family bonds, and remain unaware of the unwritten rules that shape urban society. This migration, more than just physical, becomes an emotional and cultural displacement, one that gradually erodes the strength and self-worth found in one’s own community.

This disconnection from community and the vulnerability of migrant lives was starkly revealed during the Bangalore-Assamese exodus of August 2012, when a wave of fear gripped thousands of workers, students, and migrants from Assam and other north-eastern states. Rumors of racial attacks and communal violence led to a mass panic, forcing over 30,000–40,000 people to flee Bangalore within days, with similar scenes unfolding in Chennai, Hyderabad, and Pune. Railway stations were flooded with terrified migrants returning home, not out of choice, but fear. The episode exposed the precarious position of northeastern migrants in India's urban labour markets, people who, despite contributing to the city's invisible economy, remained on its fringes, with limited legal protection, fragile societal acceptance, and virtually no social safety net. Many lived in substandard housing and carried the burden of being seen as outsiders, constantly navigating a landscape that offered work but denied dignity.

This harsh truth was poignantly brought to life in Malamaal Boyyyz, when Lakhi’s humble chai shop, his small claim to independence was razed to the ground on the orders of the two villainous characters, Vikram Bhai and Sudhir Bhai. In a matter of seconds, his world turned to ashes. Yet, amidst this devastation, the film introduces a moment of quiet resilience, Lakhi’s father, instead of erupting in anger, chooses to support his son. Forgiving past disagreements, he hands Lakhi a cheque of three lakh rupees, not merely as compensation, but as capital to invest in his roots, urging him to see farming not as menial labour, but as enterprise. This gesture marks a pivotal turn in Lakhi’s journey from alienation to self-reliance.

However, when Lakhi and his friends: Abhi, Raghu, and Jibanscout the narrow by-lanes of their town in search of farmhands, they encounter the deep malaise of dependency. Local youths, idle and engrossed in carrom, scoff at their offer of ₹10–12,000 for ploughing fields. One of them retorts, “That’s just enough for their Bimala Pasand,” reducing dignity of labour to a punchline. When Lakhi defends the sum, arguing that it’s a starting salary even for engineers and doctors, the boys mock the very idea and retorted “then why don’t you bring them instead?”

Through this sharp social commentary, the film critiques the culture of entitlement fostered by unchecked welfare schemes, where free rations have dulled the instinct to work, and labour has lost its dignity. In a brilliant stroke of satire, Naren Da quips, “If you search hard enough, you’ll find thieves and even contract killers, but never anyone willing to plough a field.” It’s a sobering indictment of the skewed priorities of a generation unmoored from agrarian values.

Malamaal Boyyyz offers an alternative model. If the vulnerable are meaningfully supported—not just fed but enabled, they can become assets rather than liabilities. The film shows how gig workers, even borrowing a friend’s vehicle, can hustle through shifts and earn a living. This entrepreneurial spirit contrasts sharply with the inertia portrayed in the earlier good movies. And in another quietly powerful subplot, Arohi’s adoption arc reflects a different kind of abandonment. Her adoptive father’s growing negligence mirrors the collapse of institutional safeguards, much like a recent real-life case where a doctor couple’s alleged cruelty toward their adopted children exposed the emotional failures of a system that often forgets to check the caregivers themselves.

Assamese cinema has undergone a striking transformation over the decades, from a quiet, literary realism rooted in the region’s cultural fabric to more experimental and socially reflective narratives today. Earlier films like Halodhiya Choraye Baodhan Khai, Xagoroloi Bohudoor, etc., captured rural life with lyrical restraint, drawing heavily from Assamese literature and lived experiences. They often cantered on land, displacement, class hierarchy, and moral dilemmas, conveyed through minimalist storytelling and naturalistic performance. These films, though critically acclaimed, remained largely confined to regional circuits due to lack of robust production and distribution infrastructure.

The recent wave of Assamese films: Local Kung Fu franchise, Maaj Rati Keteki, Village Rockstars, Aamis, Tora’s Husband, Bidurbhai, Pikhas, GulaiSoor, and Malamal Boyyyz, etc., marks a bold departure from earlier cinema rooted in nostalgia and folklore. These films signal a cinema unafraid to experiment with form, tone, and theme. Local Kung Fu reimagines urban Assamese youth culture through low-budget martial arts comedy, while Maaj Rati Keteki offers a meditative reflection on loss and belonging. Village Rockstars blends documentary-style realism with lyrical dreams of childhood and resilience. Aamis is daring and unsettling, peeling layers of desire, repression, and social taboo with quiet precision. Tora’s Husband is an intimate and observational film that explored grief, responsibility, and human vulnerability during the COVID-19 pandemic. Bidurbhai explore contemporary moral complexities in everyday lives—touching on corruption, loyalty, and class mobility. Pikhas and GulaiSoor push cinematic boundaries by addressing decay, addiction, and masculine crisis in post-liberal Assam. Malamal Boyyyz turns to satire and absurdism to critique consumerism, migration, and broken promises of modernity. Together, these films represent a new cinematic language, visually inventive, politically alert, and culturally introspective, redefining what it means to tell Assamese stories today. This evolution is inseparable from the rising exposure to world cinema among Assamese audiences and filmmakers. With easy access to Iranian minimalism, Korean thrillers, Latin American magical realism, and European auteur cinema, the Assamese viewer now engages with films not just as local entertainment but as a global language of empathy, dissent, and experimentation. World movies have shown that powerful storytelling does not require massive budgets, it demands authenticity, courage, and a rooted sense of place. Assamese cinema, once quiet and poetic, now learns from this global grammar to craft its own idiom.

For this emerging cinematic voice to flourish, institutional support in the form of film schools, grants, local festivals, and decentralized OTT platforms, must back the creative risks being taken. Just as Malayalam Tamil and Bengali cinema redefined their identities through persistent experimentation and inward reflection, Assamese cinema too stands at a fertile crossroad, no longer turned only inward, but toward the world.MalamaalBoyyz is a testament to this turning point. The director and the entire team deserve genuine appreciation for crafting a film that is both socially resonant and deeply entertaining, skillfully blending satire, sincerity, and narrative purpose.

About the Author

***Pallavi Devi teaches Constitutional Law at the Department of Law, Gauhati University. She is an avid movie lover who enjoys watching films from around the world

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