Why we celebrate and mourn Bollywood

The only constant in our human world is change. Change takes place for good or bad but nobody can avert it or impede it. Change has its own mind and pace.

The world of art is no exception. It has experienced change just like the others. The human necessity and aesthetics of expressing themselves started with some symbols on the walls of some cave in the Stone Age but it became a way of life once it got pen, paper and a wider audience. Then came theatre- the reenactment of what was written, another change. That change led to formation of cinema. Sciences were making progress and the cinema was one of its many perks. The dream just got bigger and better.

The beauty of the cinema is that it takes you on a journey that is life and in just under three hours you get all the shades and flavors of life. In this mayhem, those three hours are a lifeboat for many.

Our Cinema grew like any other cinema. Like anything else, at the time of independence our cinema too was in shatters. However, it remerged and we started to find our feet again. Varieties of audience were built and manufacture to consume our cinematic output. Even in those days there was a sizeable number that liked Indian cinema. Even in those days, the Indian movies use to get releases in Pakistan. The stories were relatable, the language was understandable, and the music strike similar kind of emotions. The thing about cinema is that it creates stars. People get frenzy about them. The more it gets frenzy, the better. So, Indian movie stars were now our stars too. Dilip Kumar was a big deal and Madhubala was beautiful.

The 1965 war saw a ban on the Indian movies in Pakistan. I sincerely believe that it was the start of the end of the Pakistan’s film industry. Indian movies had a better production value than our movies and they pose a challenge to our movie industry. This challenge always kept them (our film industry) on their toes and striving for excellence. Before 1965, Pakistan really produced some good movies such as Malangi (1965), Ghoonghat (1962), Neend (1959) and Anarkali (1957) to name a few which gave Indian movies run for their money. In the absence of competition, the quality of Pakistan’s cinema declined and our film industry died a slow death. Fortunately, now Pakistani cinema is in its revival phase and Pakistan is churning out some good movies but still there is a long way to go. That is why we need world cinema to not only feed our cinemas and cinema goers but also to increase their appetite and make them to appreciate a good movie irrespective of its country of origin.

However, this piece is not about Pakistani cinema or its decline or revival. This piece is about why we celebrate and mourn Bollywood? Obviously the main stimulant behind this piece is sudden and untimely demise of Siridevi and the consequent criticism on Pakistani media for her projection. The interest of the news channels in her death was natural because of the way she died and all the mystery that clouded her death. Keeping in mind the reporting of Indian media on the same issue, Pakistani news channels fared better and reported the incident in a more professional manner. First thing first, it should be understood that we can mourn Siridevi and condemn Syria at the same time. It is a doable thing and it is not inhuman.

As I have stated above, the reason for acceptance for Indian movies in Pakistan is that both of us share same kind of problems and language. So, as compared to others it is easier for Pakistani cinema goers to relate with Indian movies.

Another factor that contributed in establishing a Bollywood fan base in Pakistan irrespective of the ban in 1965 was the VCR revolution of the 1980’s followed by the Cable revolution of the last 1990’s. These revolutions gave Bollywood an access to every Pakistani household.

It should also be kept in mind that after 1980’s, at least two generation of Pakistanis have grown without the cinema of their own. Though Pakistan was making movies but they were cyclostyle gandassa vehicles, catering the needs of a particular type of cinema goers (no offence intended). Pakistani cinema seriously lacked diversity. We grew up watching Indian movies and listening to their songs. Madhuri was the first crush of many, Siridevi’s attire in Chandini was a rage among local females, sweaters wore by Anil and Rishi were local favorites, Sunny and Sanjay were our action heroes.

The only savior or the knight in the shining armor was PTV. This Bollywood onslaught coincides with the golden age of PTV. That is why both of them that are PTV and Bollywood enjoy same amount of nostalgia.

There must have been other factors too but we have to accept this as the reality of our times. There is a need to expedite the revival of our film industry without compromising on the quality of production and content. Still, there is no harm in appreciating a good performance. Sridevi was a brilliant performer and she deserved all the mourning she got. My first Siridevi movie was Mr. India and I will always remember her for the Charlie Chaplin sequence from the movie and the Hawa Hawai song. Although, I watched the movie as a kid but when I grew up the “I love you” song made me to appreciate her sensuality. Ironically, her last movies had two Pakistanis in a pivotal role and her shout out to Pakistani actors can turn many strong willed teary eyed.    

The shadows who breath

Every day I question myself, why I am here? Why I was here? My will to bear, my will to survive is not what it was some 6 dusty and consuming years ago. I am the oldest person of my age. I came here to better my life and that of my family. It has been so many years since I last saw them that they have become some distant shadows to me. They are some people who I use to know. They grew without me like the running water does to a stone laying in its way in a river. They touched me and moved on but I stayed believe me even today I am there, at my place. This was not my place, I deserved the journey too. The reality is that now they know a life without me. I am a distant part of their life. They tell you come here and you have to work like a machine and a day comes when you become a machine; all emotionless, only responding to particular set of commands, performing the sole objective of your creation with few moments of malfunctioning along the line but you return and the same chain starts again, nothing much and nothing less. 
The reality of the matter is that you do not become a machine. You are not that big. The fact of the matter is that you are small as you are just a cog, just a replaceable cog, nothing much and nothing less.
When the surge of the emotions dies down and when I am my comparative usual self. I think about the life after my return can I survive their? Can I live their? All of them are no longer habitual of having me around. It is not like I am past or forgotten I am part of every family WhatsApp group, their favored Skype contact but now I am only this; not a part of any family group photo, not a part of their sorrows or merriment even our Eids are not on the same day. I feel all kind of emotions for them but alone here in my overcrowded and messy solitude. 
It is not like that I do not have a life here or something like that. I know people who share my condition. Some of the days, I think why not all of us the “pardesis” of the world get unite like Marx wanted for his workers but instead of establishing some dictatorship we will build cities; cities full of people like us who feel the same way and share the same agony and pain. Until then my job is just to survive and living by all that which after all turned out as nothing. I hope that nothingness and futility of all this exercise does not turns me into a nothing. Believe me that life will be worse than this one; a life in which you are not even a shadow.

As-salāmu ʿalaykum wa-raḥmatu llāhi wa-barakātuhu

I saw her again, passing by me like I do not even exist. She was the most beautiful girl in our part of the world which we all called our university. However, the thing was and is that she is beautiful in most parts of the world, hands down.

A village dweller like me was only there because I could only run fast for no particular reason. I was bad at studies, may be it is the studies from which I use to run. When I was growing up schools in villages were rare and you have to walk miles to get to your school, mine was no different. Since the inception of my educational career I am on my foot; which all jokingly call the gaya’rah (11) number. I do not know how many miles I have walked. The answer to this question is that “many”.

In our days, she use to be the only girl that use to driver her own car to the university. Female drivers are a norm now but back then in the year 1966 it was a big thing. Most of us seize to think about her when we use to look at her coming out of her car.

You guys live in an easier world. You can start it with a friend request and I was not even able to request her to get a side; many a times I changed my path just to avoid the possibility of talking to her. I have spent many sleepless nights thinking about how to start a conversation with her. I wished that some goons attack her so that I could rescue her. Though the plan was good until the rescue bit but where the entire plan gets failed was the point “what to say?” and “how to say”? Now, I think that had she said thank you, the things would have been a lot easier for me to start the conversation as I would have conveniently said “You’re welcome”.

Then I thought how about if her car broke down on a deserted road and I could give her a lift on my cycle. However, the problem that was bigger than the breaking down of her car was that until than I kind of had no bicycle and though I would have done it happily but I giving her a piggyback ride would not have complied with her idea of a conventional lift.

So, finally I thought of writing her a letter. Now another dilemma hit me and that was of language. Her convent education kind of made her weak in Urdu and my preferred language of communication was not even Urdu, it was Punjabi. I could try to write few lines and verses in Urdu to explain her, my mental and romantic condition but doing the same in English was a big ask as the longest letter I ever wrote in English was during my matriculation papers asking my father to send me 50 Rupees. She barely passed her Urdu and I have been literally an outstanding student of English that is in every English class I stood out of the class. There was a possibility that I could ask someone to write it for me but I rejected this notion for two reasons; one when it comes to her all of us (i.e. the boys) were competitors and two even if I send her a letter written by a professional letter writer (yes, they use to exist in those days) who is going to pay him and if she replies the cost of the correspondence was surely going to soar. I realized that it was easier to teach her Urdu than writing her a letter in English. This was my Eureka moment. I decided I will offer her Urdu lectures in exchange for English lectures. It was kind of a win-win situation as I was going to get English lessons and to teach her Urdu, I was surely going to study Urdu.

Even today, I do not know how I was able to get to her. Although, I contemplated on the words to kick start the conversation; a hi, a howdy or a hola but I do not know what get to me and I started the most important conversation of my life which was at that point of time was more important than an India-Pakistan summit or cooling down of the cold war.

However when I approached her I forgot all the other words and suddenly an “As-salāmu ʿalaykum wa-raḥmatu llāhi wa-barakātuhu” came out of my mouth.

1+1

Have you ever tried to write a story?

No, I am not good with words.

Have you ever seen a story that has no beginning or has no end?

No, what kind of story that is who has no start and no end?

I am the one who is asking the questions here

I know but answering everything is kind of difficult or frankly, it is next to impossible.

Every question has an answer

True but the answers differ. If you ask me, the answer depends on the questioner

I guess you are wrong. I mean………1 + 1 is always 2

Life is not 1+1, it is not

Then what really it is?

I do not know but I only know that it is not sure, it is not 100%  like that red wire blue wire situation, if you cut the wrong wire everything will go kaboom.

Hahahahaha, have you experienced the kaboom?

Every time…..every time.

Then you are bad judge of people

That, I am or may be it is the people who are wrong about me?

May be a mix of both, your 1+1

But this 1+1 adds to zero

Why you hate yourself so much? Have you ever given others a chance to know you better? Have you ever given yourself a chance?

Every day is a chance. Every day is an opportunity. Every day they fail and every time I rise again. This is pretty much hectic you know. I am tired of it, now.

But is it really their job to know you or love you? I mean what about you?

What about me, I am the one who is giving the opportunity. I am the one who is opening the door.

You are the one who is blocking the way; not letting anyone in.

Am I?

Yes, you. You are afraid of being happy. You love sorrow. You do not know a life without it. It is your badge of honor.

Now as you have mentioned it, the reality is that happiness is a funny word. It is the biggest lie. We use it to lure people into keep on suffering.

For example?

 For example, we allow our girls to think that they can be anything and we let them believe this until we marry them away and then they become someone else’s problem. We give their dreams a slow death; it is both gradual and painful. The beauty of all this is that none of us know what we are doing, it is so deep rooted in our society that both the hunter and the prey, do not know what the hell has just happened. It is not like that only women are subject to this fraud, there are many men who have the soul of an astronaut but they are riding bicycles. All these terms are just coined to exploit us. Marx was right. We all pursue happiness; the happily ever after. There is nothing like this in the real world. No mice make your dress. They do not even care. They nibble their life away. All this is big propaganda and whosoever calls the bluff, you all gang up on him. You call him names. You call him pessimist. He is just a dog who was able to see the rainbow but no other dog believes him because all the rest of the dogs are color blind.

Man you are unhappy.

May be or may be it is you who is unhappy and sugarcoat it with a fake smile but all the other times you are finding that happiness thing that never exists in the first place.

The thing is my smile is someone else’s happiness. The center of happiness is you not someone else. It gives me happiness that my smile is someone else’s happiness. There is joy in everything. You are your own happiness and you are your own sorrow. The thing is there is no such thing as selfless virtue. There is no such thing called charity. They all are different faces of happiness. Happiness is not Mount Everest, it can be those pebbles you throw in water just to see the ripples. It can be Katrina, if it is your idea of happiness. You are only right about not stereotyping what happiness should be otherwise happiness is a real thing even you and I talking is happiness.