Help me find
Today is Christmas. And I was roaming in the only mall in the newer townships of Mumbai. Its 3 in the afternoon and it seems that all and sundry have descended for their Christmas shopping here irrespective of religion. An elderly Bengali couple sips the free Bru instant coffee being promoted and philosophizes that this shopping has nothing to do with the Yule spirit but is just an implications of fattening paychecks and bulging plastics in wallets. I pretend to ignore them. This story is not about them.
I come upon the first floor Santa and its various reincarnations of the reindeer and stumble upon a typical family. Lady window shopping and caressing her hair. This story is not about her. Pop playing with his latest “in” mobile. This story is not about him. A doting father eggs his son, “C’mon Rahul, stand beside Santa, let me take a pic and flashes his digicam.” Being a recent proud owner of such an apparatus myself, this caught my attention, but this story is surely not about it. Rahul trudges and stands beside Santa with a smile-less face. Pop obliges with a snap.
This story is about Rahul and similar creatures of his ilk.
This listless feeling has been hitting me in the face for quite some time, but there have been some glaring incidences. I had been at home for the Durga Pujas. And having overcome that amount of homely lethargy, I ventured out with some long lost friends to catch up with some pandal hopping. First, I did not seem to take notice, but, on the day of Navami, it suddenly dawned upon me that the “tonic” for Durga Pujas has been missing, since I was yet to come across any glaring microphone blasting out Hindi numbers. Now, I take serious sentimental offence to this. And anyone like me who has grown up with a restricted viewership of Chitrahaar and “Best of the Best” would vouch. Puja microphones belting out Aashiqui, Saajan, Sadak numbers were our annual doses of Bollywood and we gobbled them. Our vocabulary of Hindi had been supplemented to the levels of survival of today, much due to these songs. Altaf Raja is much more a contributor to my Hindi education than Harivansh Rai Bachchan. But, the cultural smorgasbord has worked overtime since, so that what we are left with delectable cuisines of shehnais or the chanting of mantras or the umpteenth repetition of Birendra Krishna’s voice serving out Mahishashurmardini. And till this day, those songs carry with them the scent of growing up. This generation would surely miss tearing their head over Irodov in the dead of the night, shivering in the cold with a distant hymn coming from the darkness pouring relief “Saanson ki zaroorat hai jaise….”
The belief strengthened during a recent visit to the nearest multiplex (gross misnomer, I do agree, but a fantastic example of a price searcher market in economics). The movie in question was Dhoom 2. And I was in all my salivating splendor, my age could muster. After all this was Bollywood heirling after Bollywood Lady No. 1A with the latter trying to run clear from the minimum amount of attire, while the former hoarsed, “come on, do leave something for my imagination on my first night after our marriage … ahem, if we do.” After a tortuous wait of almost 45 mins She did arrive, gyrating and setting the screen on fire. But, in the midst of the Dolby surrounds, did I miss something? I mean where are the damned WHISTLES? Where are the kisses flying around? Where are they? In every successful “item” movie, the chemistry between the lead actors was almost as profound as the electricity struck with the audience and I do believe that this is as much an earning for an actor as much as the ringing cash counters. So from Mr. India to Sarfarosh, from Apradh to Gupt to even Fiza the story during my growing up years have always been the same. If we remember correctly, five of us on a rickety scooter, risked a cyclone to be present to hoot for "Jo Haal Dilka..."
But it seems that in the mire of cultural policing we have forgotten to give our vent to psychic enthusiasm for “eye-tonic”. Amidst Page 3 columns of local dailies and “erotic” cooked up problems we find our salivating solutions and hence have come to cohabit this part of the earth with listless citizens. Of Rahuls who have seventy three snaps, all in designer clothes and without smiles.
I come upon the first floor Santa and its various reincarnations of the reindeer and stumble upon a typical family. Lady window shopping and caressing her hair. This story is not about her. Pop playing with his latest “in” mobile. This story is not about him. A doting father eggs his son, “C’mon Rahul, stand beside Santa, let me take a pic and flashes his digicam.” Being a recent proud owner of such an apparatus myself, this caught my attention, but this story is surely not about it. Rahul trudges and stands beside Santa with a smile-less face. Pop obliges with a snap.
This story is about Rahul and similar creatures of his ilk.
This listless feeling has been hitting me in the face for quite some time, but there have been some glaring incidences. I had been at home for the Durga Pujas. And having overcome that amount of homely lethargy, I ventured out with some long lost friends to catch up with some pandal hopping. First, I did not seem to take notice, but, on the day of Navami, it suddenly dawned upon me that the “tonic” for Durga Pujas has been missing, since I was yet to come across any glaring microphone blasting out Hindi numbers. Now, I take serious sentimental offence to this. And anyone like me who has grown up with a restricted viewership of Chitrahaar and “Best of the Best” would vouch. Puja microphones belting out Aashiqui, Saajan, Sadak numbers were our annual doses of Bollywood and we gobbled them. Our vocabulary of Hindi had been supplemented to the levels of survival of today, much due to these songs. Altaf Raja is much more a contributor to my Hindi education than Harivansh Rai Bachchan. But, the cultural smorgasbord has worked overtime since, so that what we are left with delectable cuisines of shehnais or the chanting of mantras or the umpteenth repetition of Birendra Krishna’s voice serving out Mahishashurmardini. And till this day, those songs carry with them the scent of growing up. This generation would surely miss tearing their head over Irodov in the dead of the night, shivering in the cold with a distant hymn coming from the darkness pouring relief “Saanson ki zaroorat hai jaise….”
The belief strengthened during a recent visit to the nearest multiplex (gross misnomer, I do agree, but a fantastic example of a price searcher market in economics). The movie in question was Dhoom 2. And I was in all my salivating splendor, my age could muster. After all this was Bollywood heirling after Bollywood Lady No. 1A with the latter trying to run clear from the minimum amount of attire, while the former hoarsed, “come on, do leave something for my imagination on my first night after our marriage … ahem, if we do.” After a tortuous wait of almost 45 mins She did arrive, gyrating and setting the screen on fire. But, in the midst of the Dolby surrounds, did I miss something? I mean where are the damned WHISTLES? Where are the kisses flying around? Where are they? In every successful “item” movie, the chemistry between the lead actors was almost as profound as the electricity struck with the audience and I do believe that this is as much an earning for an actor as much as the ringing cash counters. So from Mr. India to Sarfarosh, from Apradh to Gupt to even Fiza the story during my growing up years have always been the same. If we remember correctly, five of us on a rickety scooter, risked a cyclone to be present to hoot for "Jo Haal Dilka..."
But it seems that in the mire of cultural policing we have forgotten to give our vent to psychic enthusiasm for “eye-tonic”. Amidst Page 3 columns of local dailies and “erotic” cooked up problems we find our salivating solutions and hence have come to cohabit this part of the earth with listless citizens. Of Rahuls who have seventy three snaps, all in designer clothes and without smiles.
posted by contramental at 12/25/2006 06:06:00 PM
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