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In the smog-choked alleys of 1937 Calcutta, impoverished radical Shikhar Godhwan becomes consumed by a decades-old newspaper clipping that falsely claims Rabindranath Tagore wrote “Jana Gana Mana” as a sycophantic ode to King George V. Convinced the revered poet is a traitor to Bharat Mata, Godhwan launches a one-man crusade of vengeance against the elderly Nobel laureate at Jorasanko Thakurbari. What begins as a grim mission of cultural purification quickly spirals into a relentless, banana-peel-strewn farce as every meticulously planned assassination attempt collapses in spectacular, self-inflicted disaster.

Over the next four years, Godhwan’s obsession drives him through twelve increasingly inventive and catastrophic schemes: a kitchen knife thwarted by a discarded banana peel, poisoned rasgullas that explode in his own face, a rooftop rock that crushes his foot, a disguised cobra that bites him instead, an exploding Diwali firecracker launched under his own backside, a speeding bullock cart diverted by the scent of bananas, a fake-doctor syringe plunged into his own arm, a midnight ladder plunge into a mountain of fresh cow dung, and a final rusty-knife lunge that ends with him head-butting a mango tree and being pelted by fruit. Each failure earns him savage beatings from servants, mobs, and wedding guests, followed by ritual police lathi charges and ever-escalating bribes that bankrupt his family and leave him a bruised, penniless, neighborhood legend of comic futility. Yet the gentle, patient poet’s repeated Hindi explanations of the song’s true meaning—as a prayer to the spirit of the nation—slowly erode Godhwan’s delusion.

By 1947, on the night of independence, a transformed Godhwan stands amid the joyous Maidan crowd singing “Jana Gana Mana” with genuine reverence. The toxic hatred has finally dissolved into shame and clarity; he understands the anthem was never for any king but for the chaotic, vibrant destiny of India itself. When he inevitably slips on one last banana peel and lands softly in a pile of jute sacks, he does not curse the universe—he laughs. The long, bruising comedy of errors ends not in tragedy but in redemptive self-mockery, proving that some songs are too great to be silenced by even the most determined fool.

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