Ma, revisited.

For me, as someone who grew up in the 90s, Raveena Tandon’s wet pelvic thrusts to the beats of tip tip barse paani in that dingy cave was perhaps the first taste of sensuality. Not sexuality mind you, for that can come in a very well written raunchy porno where the story and the build up make the ultimate act sexier than it is; but this is deeper than that. It is sexuality with a certain restrain that makes you fall in love. You don’t need to know the story, and you really don’t care about what she plans to do. You see her move, and you just know, that this woman, has the power to dig trenches inside your brain and live there through a hundred Holocausts. I for one, was and am in love with Raveena Tandon in that yellow sari for those few minutes watching her seduce her man; completely ignorant of the fact that she would become some sort of a motif when it comes to sensuous rain dances in Hindi cinema.

So it was a bit sad when I watched Bhuddha Hoga Tera Baap and found out that she has made her big ass come back as a bimbo who is smitten by Amitabh Bachchan who really doesn’t give a rat’s ass about her. But she doesn’t care, she goes on playing the middle aged slut with a pretty neat body and tries to seduce him like those women who become irritating, nagging and incorrigible, not knowing what the man wants. I am sorry, but she is way better than that. If her role had a significant part to play in the storyline I would have understood, but then, I am probably being juvenile and mixing my personal feelings.

But this isn’t about that, it’s not even about an actor like Makrand Deshpande in a role that could have very easily been played by rejected Bhojpuri actors turned to unemployed mimics in the streets of Bhopal. It’s about something else. It’s about something that I have experienced before, but not in this way. It’s about watching my mom, along with a few more unknown middle aged women in the theatre, watching the big screen with stars in their eyes.

I knew that this film was a tribute to Amitabh Bachchan and his pulp cinema of 70s and 80s. I also knew that whatever he did, he was a rage amongst the Indian youth. And though I have mocked and ridiculed his histrionics in those completely brainless films, never for one moment did I not have fun watching them. Of course, now we enjoy them as films that aren’t supposed to be taken seriously, as India’s lovable kitsch films, as sources of popular culture reference for anthropologists trying to decode the pre liberalized India. But in those times, he meant much more to the Indian youth than what film stars of today mean to us. He gave them that perfect gateaway which wasn’t really too much away from reality. He was the rebel that every unemployed man wanted to become if reality had a sense of humour and allowed them to do so. He was more than a movie star, (and oh yes he was such a movie star!), he was a source of catharsis for middle and lower class India, that gave them the strength to face the reality once out of the cinema hall. There was less romance I thought, but more rage. There was less sex I thought, but more idol worship. Everything Amitabh Bachchan said or did in those films was larger than life, and it was the perfect way to instill some imagination in the dreamless eyes of people; imagination, which was not unabashed, but somehow grounded to reality.

And so as a tribute to him and his movies, watching BHTB would be like revisiting his mannerisms and confidence, which he showered on the less than ordinary and almost nondescript adversaries with a mix of wit. I knew Bachchan had a very strong female fan base, and my mom is definitely one of them. But what I didn’t know was that, he had the power to make them teenagers again. I wondered what women like my mom would be like when Bachchan used to kick those goons with his long legs so many years back. They must be fresh out of college then, getting stolen away by young men in bell button jeans and thick side locks. There would be Kishore Kumar, R.D. Burman and Bob Dylan, there would be educated naxalite movements and political emergencies, with a smattering of Eastwood and Redford westerns. And there would be Bachchan, rude, yet subtle, angry yet witty, condescending yet with a tone of modesty, a sort of rawness that has kept some space for hidden polish, standing in all his 6 feet 2 (or something like that) avatar, making the women go weak in their knees. Today, when he reminded the audience how the queue starts from where he stands, he probably wanted to collectively take all these women for a ride in the time machine. I know my mom took that ride with a delicious smile in her face.

“It’s him who is singing isn’t he,” she asked almost not wanting to hear any other answer but a yes.

“Yes, but the rap portion was by Abhishek Bachchan.”

“Which was that? The English portion? Where he keeps saying Go Meera Go?”

“Yes, there was a bit more but yes.”

“That was hardly anything. But mostly it was him right?”

At that very same moment, I thought about a few other women I know of, and I wondered how they would have reacted. I wouldn’t really bet against them reacting in any other way. But looking at my mother’s star struck and completely infatuated face, I sat back sipping my coke with a smile in mine. I realized, that beyond the expected mediocrity and a series of clichés, beyond the offensive casting of the heroine of my dreams and beyond the over the top bullshit inspired from playing-to-the-gallery genre of cinema, this film still manages to somehow rise above the average. No, not in the “so what it’s still a hit” kind of a way, but in a proper way, as a good film must be. For it would not only make the guys at the stalls throw coins at the single screen theatres, but it would also make a lot of women like my mom, become silently gushing teenagers. And for those who completely dislike these pretentious tributes to below average movies, they might just take a pinch of salt as they enter the theatre. It’s a perfect mothers’ day gift if there was one.

I for one am mighty happy. For I finally saw my star struck mom romance for two continuous hours. It was dreamy, fierce and short lived, like love stories should always be.