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In Life… In a Metro (2007), one of the songs went, “Berang si hai badi zindagi, kuch rang toh bharo” (“Life feels colourless, add some colour to it”). We didn’t have to live in metros to feel that ache. I remember thinking, “So this is what love and life are like in Mumbai?” Years later, watching Anurag Basu’s spiritual sequel Metro… In Dino, in the same city, I awaited lyrics with such urgency. Then came Sandeep Shrivastava’s verse: “Main aur mohabbat kitni karoon? Itni to mohabbat karta hoon” (“How much more should I love you? I already love you this deeply.”) It’s not the voice of a Gen-Z romantic. It speaks for all of Basu’s characters. To borrow a line from Imtiaz Ali (who also appears in the film): it’s the feeling that “something is going wrong, like a train is being missed.”
Unlike its predecessor, which returns to haunt in the form of meta references, Anurag Basu’s Metro… In Dino unfolds across four cities: Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata, Bangalore, and a couple of other scenic places. We meet Chumki (Sara Ali Khan) and Parth (Aditya Roy Kapur), who spark after the most violent meet-cute imaginable. Then there’s Shruti (Fatima Sana Shaikh) and Akash (Ali Fazal), a married couple whose thrill-seeking now hides in stolen moments on the terrace. Former campus sweethearts Shibani (Neena Gupta) and Parimal (Anupam Kher) reunite to confront a couple of pending personal issues together. And lastly, Monty (Pankaj Tripathi) and Kajol (Konkona Sensharma) face a midlife crisis, postpone intimacy in favour of old arguments and new distractions, like a dating app or a missed U-turn. Is their relationship ready to take a turn? Basu’s film sets it all up with an ingenious opening act.
Metro… In Dino isn’t a full-blown Broadway-style musical. It’s partly because we don’t have enough singing actors to pull it off without the format becoming a liability. That said, whenever the film leans into that mode, its impact multiplies. It’s also where Anurag Basu shows his craft, knowing exactly where to place his musicians and how to frame them. Be it on terraces or highways, the intercuts never feel intrusive. The musical form also helps the film steer clear of heavy-handed melodrama. For instance, Parimal’s narration of a family tragedy. In another setup, it could’ve turned maudlin. Another strength of Basu, especially as a writer, is the way he references the earlier film. Some are direct (recurring names) while others lie in how characters are shaped. Tripathi’s Monty is just as lost in love as Irrfan’s Monty once was. Chumki and Parth’s train exchange indirectly echoes Irrfan’s epic ‘petticoat-blouse’ woe from the 2007 film. Basu’s love for theatre is also loud and clear in both films, and so is his disdain for corporate culture and vile bosses.
Right from the days of Saaya and Kucch To Hai, Basu’s films consistently had memorable songs. They have aged well, too. Metro… In Dino benefits from his sensitivity to lyrics and his instinct for blending the traditional Bollywood musical format with new storytelling ideas. So, Pritam delivers a rich, satisfying soundtrack, though a truly standout chartbuster is strangely amiss. Perhaps the filmmaker could have taken a creative leap by opting for a newer voice, like Imtiaz Ali does in the film. While Arijit Singh brings skill to the microphone, his presence across key tracks makes the ghazal-tinged melodies sound too familiar.
Most of Basu’s stories in Metro… In Dino have their ups and downs. The track that stands out in terms of clarity is Monty and Kajol’s. It feels like a natural extension of where Revathy left off in Mitr, My Friend. The arc goes off track at times, but both Pankaj Tripathi and Konkona Sensharma keep the characters steady. Sensharma, in particular, is someone we want to see break free. Basu briefly explores what feminism means before linking infidelity to the idea of revenge. There’s also a smart moment when Tripathi mistakes the word for “infertility.” One of the most effective musical sections in the film is when his character chats with colleagues about their personal lives.
Parth and Chumki’s story uses familiar ideas of a difficult workplace, confusion, and hookup culture. Yet Basu shows he understands Gen-Z better than expected. Aditya Roy Kapur and Sara Ali Khan perform well, especially the former with his confidence and wit. Khan’s makeup and styling feel off in key scenes. It’s bizarre why Chumki would wear a woollen crochet and bright gloss during a normal day at home amid family arguments. The story ends on a strong note, though much of its success comes from Basu’s direction rather than the writing.
Akash and Shruti’s chapter carries the most potential, thanks in part to two terrific actors. Akash’s struggles feel real, and Shruti’s emotional shift is sensitively graphed, but only until she moves to Mumbai. From there, the trajectory dips. Their emotional breakthroughs lack punch, and the final conversation in Ambala (although beautifully lit) feels like a compromise. Still, Fatima Sana Shaikh, who is in top form throughout (Bollywood is ruthlessly underusing her), and Ali Fazal in a heartbreaking turn as a struggling musician, make us root for them.
Parimal and Shibani’s story picks up once their ‘Oscar-seeking’ plan unfolds. Two older people trying to let a young person breathe, using tricks nonetheless, but with feeling. Some parts of the writing are a bit on-the-nose, but Neena Gupta and Anupam Kher are so compelling that we’re happy to watch their “performance” go on just a little longer.
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There are a couple of mini-chapters too. One features a Gen Alpha girl (Kajol’s daughter) grappling with a relatable confusion. Basu handles it with care, letting kids be kids without giving them adult-sounding lines. Another follows Parimal’s daughter-in-law (Darshana Banik, who resembles Keerthy Suresh so eerily I had to double-check the credits) as she learns to move on. There are also two young men (Kush Jotwani and Pranay Pachauri) whose brief arcs touch upon trust, corporate burnout, grief, and rebound relationships. They’re both good-looking (almost interchangeable), and their characters feel overly catalytic, especially Jotwani’s, whose corporate ambitions seem too contrived.
In a film where it is mighty difficult to pick standout frames, editors Bodhaditya Banerjee and Satish Gowda deliver a stellar effort by breathing life into Basu’s vision. That said, the primary flip side of Metro… In Dino is its length which is not an editing-table anomaly, but a screenplay concern. At times, what the song lyrics already convey is further underscored by additional dialogue. Additionally, the four cities do not radiate their distinctive personalities. Sure, we get glimpses of skylines, monuments, metros, taxis, rains, and the like, but these remain surface-level aesthetic choices and do not lend the film the spatial character it seeks.
Despite hiccups, Metro… In Dino emerges as a rare, genuine drama film in cinemas today. The opening Netflix logo makes one wonder how hard Basu must have worked to shake off the “OTT film” label. He shows us that while platforms may have shifted, from chat rooms to dating apps or from TV to streaming, our hearts still ache the same way. So when we hear “Mera dil bhi dil hi hai na,” it lingers just like “Dil to aakhir dil hai na” did when Rahman sang it back in 1998.
I’m not sure where life or social media will be two decades from now. I don’t know if I’ll still be living in a metro. But I do know I’ll revisit Sensharma’s family outburst and find something new in it every time. Because some things in life are for keeps, and that holds for Basu’s taste in music, the beats of a relationship, and the grammar of longing. Metro… In Dino constantly reminds us of that.
Rating: ★★★ 1/2
