In which we provide an illustrative tutorial on song and dance routines in Hindi films.

Alright. Gather around peoples. It’s time to get on the soapbox.

Every time I see someone use the phrase running-around-trees to refer to current Bollywood song-and-dance routines, I get annoyed. Yes, Bollywood is escapist and unreal. But news flash. We do NOT run around trees. Not anymore. They stopped doing that, circa 1992. They’ve chopped up all the trees and replaced them with ostentatious sets that resemble space-age metropolises. (Or ostentatious red and gold, stained-glass sets if you go the Bhansali way.) Even the sarson ke khet loving Yash Chopra productions have retired their gaggle of giggly sahelis and instead prefer to feature hotties on the beaches of Sydney and Rio.

Now for those of you who don’t understand words, we have a simple illustrative example of song-and-dance routines in Bollywood, then and now. First Exhibit A, from 1970.

As you can see above, the 70s were a time when trees served many a purpose in Hindi films —

• To run around and sing songs.
• To hide behind and (presumably) kiss.
• To fill up background space when you didn’t have the budget to hire backup dancers. (Standard formula used — one banyan tree = 5.2 apsaraa girls.)
• For hero to hide behind, while chasing the villain with a gun containing a single bullet. (The hero being twice the width of the tree is of scant significance.)
• To sway menacingly to warn the audience of the storm (figurative and literal) that is soon to strike the hero-heroine. (A device used excessively in ghost stories just before villain puts buri nazar on heroine, kills her, and leaves her bhatakti aatmaa to torment audiences for rest of movie.)
• To topple over onto an obviously-fake miniature house to indicate a natural calamity of choice (earthquakes and floods being most popular) thus separating the hero and his family, only to have them be united in the end, after singing the ubiquitous family song. (For all of you who scoff at the idea — exactly how many of you have a pre-determined group song as part of your family contingency plan? Hah. I thought as much.)

Bottomline, trees were important in Hindi films and their importance in romance was no less. Without the tree, the hero had nowhere to trap the heroine so he could lean into her for a kiss. Without the tree, the heroine had nowhere to back into, before coyly giving in to the kiss. Without the tree, Jaya Bhaduri couldn’t annoyingly hide from Randhir Kapoor while singing main yahaan to his tum kahaan. Without the tree, Vyjayanthimala couldn’t hang off a branch, coyly swing her ghaghraa back and forth, and sing dil tadap tadap ke keh rahaa to Dilip Kumar. Well, you get the point. Trees — important.

Now we move on to Exhibit B. This is 2008. Notice. No trees. No nature. Just oodles of symbolism. Whoever said Hindi movies cannot be subtle?

So now you know. Movies of the 70s and 80s were more eco-friendly. And that is the convenient truth.

Every once in a while I like to remind my readers about my Gult conscience. First there was the childhood memory of Sobhan Babu. Then it was my conjecturing about why Gult porn doesn’t exist. But today, we come back to my first love — Chiru.

So the news around town, in an ironic instance of life imitating art, is that Chiru’s nineteen-year old daughter eloped and got married to her boyfriend of four years. Now, please note. Nineteen. Four years. Sigh. I feel like a grandmother. So anyhoo, this news should be of no consequence to anyone except the elopees and their distraught maa-baaps. But this is Chiru. In Andhra. So let us take a deep breath, let out an even deeper sigh, stick on a big honking red nose and jump right into the media circus that has ensued.

So the plan, apparently, went something like this (Do not try this at home without parental supervision) —

• Tell folks at home that one is visiting some aunt/grandma types.
• Meet up boyfriend at friendly neighborhood Arya Samaj mandir.
• Marry. Take pheraas at breakneck speed like tail was on fire.
• Take stock photos and videos with standard-issue pimply engineering college buddies in background.
• Give TV interview telling the parents to shove it.

Simple really. And now Chiru fans around the world are irate at the girl and her naya-navela dulha for besmirching (I love that word) the fair name of their beloved star. Never mind that this is a family matter. The whole world and their neighbor has jumped in anyway and chosen to be angry about it. The boy’s Orkut profile has scraps threatening him and his friends (in exhaustingly bad language), his parents have gone into hiding and the girl has requested police protection for her hubby. Exciting stuff indeed.

Now, admittedly Chiru is a bit of a God for his fans. But the whole ‘how can you do this to your own parents?’ seems rich, no? It could just as easily apply the other way around. Is it really that ridiculous for a kid to revolt against her dad, especially if he had her pulled out of college and placed under house arrest? All this cos the guy was of a different caste? The only part of this whole thing that bothers me is her age. Nineteen (while legal) is admittedly a bit wet behind the ears. But that one issue apart, I don’t get what the big hoo-haa is.

The official comment from the family is that the Megastar is too distraught to comment. But they add that he has brought his dotty up with utmost freedom (must have been before the house arrest?) and some bad boy has led her astray. Total WTF stuff wonly.

Of course, what is truly ridiculous, is the haircut she’s sporting at her own wedding. But nobody wants to talk about that. Tsk.

The concerns about my well-being have been pouring in. While I am hugely touched (no, not in the head, although that too, is true), I am also a wee bit confused. You see, the concern is not about why I vanished from my blog. (Although, to be fair, a few people noticed that too. Much thankoo for caring.) But instead it is about why I have taken to writing pointy posts. (Um, non-pointless?) Apparently going gaayab on my blog is not such a crisis but non-dysfunctional writing from me is a sure reason for alarm.

Of course, frantic citizens of the blogosphere are running amok with wild theories. (We’re a bit full of ourselves, you say?) Have the aliens returned? Has this blog been taken over by her good twin? Has she been listening to Daler Mehndi? Has she been watching too many repeats of NTR’s Honda-man .. er .. Superman video in which he does PT exercises with Jayaprada, while he looks for his underpants? (Many thanks to Deitadi for introducing us to this gem.)

(The answers to the above questions, by the way are, no, nah, not over my dead body! and oooh yess!)

But worry not, my dear readers. However impossible it may seem, the Tin Man can have a heart, the Scarecrow can have a brain, the Lion can have courage and Dorothy will eventually get home. And seeing as it’s fall, she’ll be back with a ton of pictures for y’all. (Ooh, that rhymed!) Oh and some more gushy-mushy writing that’ll have you calling the paramedics. But until then, be the good readers that you are, say ‘neinn readddyyy’ in your best Jayaprada voice (Is she even a Reddy?) and sing with me —

Soooparrr-maaaannnn .. <la la laaaa laaaa laaaa> ..
Soooparrr-maaaannnn .. <la la laaaa laaaa laaaa> ..
Sooparrr-maann .. <laaa laaa> ..
Sooparrr-maann .. <laaa laaa> ..
Sooparrr-maann .. <laaa laaa> ..
Sooparrr-maann .. <laaa laaa> ..
chika chika bum bum chika jaa bum bum ..
chika chika bum bum chika jaa bum bum ..

Very good. Now, while on the delish topic of desi Supermans, here’s the classic from Dariya Dil (1988). (Greatbong readers will find themselves in familiar territory with this one.) Starring Govinda as Superman (check out the hip-n-happenin’ faded blue outfit and mismatched boots), Kimi Katkar as Spiderwoman (ooh, so many digs, so little time), a distraught couple and even more distraught goons who double up as ceiling fans.

There. Scare factor and cheesy costumes nicely in place. Now I just need to get into the spirit, put on my Spiderwoman costume, and exit with the traditional stomp-out-the-ants-in-the-grass-and-shake-shake- my-bum-while-I-wave-wave dance that Chichi and Kimi perfected. Oh yeah, that reminds me — happy Halloween, everyone. Boo!

Are you single, feel like a Pringle, ready to mingle?
Or do you skulk in a corner like a wrinkle, wondering if you are Hangal?

A reader of ours remarked on his blog, that he is reaching the age where his hitting on women makes him, what I have referred to in the past as, the ‘lecherous A K Hangal type’. Since I have been made out to be some sort of expert on the matter of lascivious geriatric men, and I love being an expert on matters, especially those that I know nothing about, I decided to make a quick checklist for the denizens of the blogosphere. So, if you ever look in the mirror searching for the Hangal in you, this will help you find him.

• Have you tried to get a refund on hair regeneration products recently?
• Do you feel like the oldest person in any group you are with? Even when you meet up with your parents’ friends?
• Have you addressed at least one person as arre betaa in a quivering voice, in the last week?
• Are at least three of your friends married? Do at least two of them have kids? Does at least one of them have an annoying wife/husband who perpetually tries to set you up?
• Are you lately, beginning sentences with a hamaare zamaane mein .. ?
• Have you shrugged your shoulders and philosophized about the inevitable ignore/rejection by a girl with a — honii ko kaun taal saktaa hai?
• When you asked a girl out, in the deathly and awkward silence that followed, did you find yourself muttering in your mind — itnaa sannaataa kyon hai, bhai?

Now this is obviously a checklist for men, so don’t start crying foul about a gender bias. He may be antediluvian, but Hangal is very much a man. A virile stud-types of his days, even if that was a long, reeeally looooong time ago. If you’re still having doubts, think of all those jawaan betiyaan who eventually became the bojh of his boodhe kandhe. They didn’t appear out of nowhere without Hangal indulging in some jangal mein mangal, did they? So there.

So, if you nodded yes to at least half the questions, chances are, when you got all nouveau-Bollywood, and trooped off to Goa for the weekend with two of your buddies, intending to have a Dil Chahta Hai (2001) moment, you more likely had a Shaukeen (1981) moment instead. Shaukeen, by the way, is a tender tale of three geriatrics who go to Goa, try to hit on Mithun’s girlfriend and have their butts kicked. (If they got their butts kicked, their tail will understandably be tender, no? Heh heh. I am so easily amused.) But really, it is a sweet and fun movie by Basu Chatterjee. Do watch it. Lovely music too, by R D Burman. Incidentally, today would have been Pancham’s 67th birthday, had he been alive. If only. Sigh.

Okay now, for the sake of giving this post some respectability, let us conclude with an interesting trivia question for you all. Hangal has been the oldest character in pretty much every movie that he has starred in. He’s the resident paidaaishi budhau for as long as Hindi movies have been around, almost. But but but! (No, not the jurassic ones that Mithun kicked.) There is a movie in which Hangal has a dad! Imagine that! An actual on-screen dad, who addresses Hangal as beta. Any guesses, which phillum? And who be the dad?

The correct guesser will get a free pair of dentures.

There hasn’t been a post on this blog in a while so some of you have probably given up reading it. Worry not. Here’s a mega-long post full of stereotypes and blanket generalizations, so I can tick off some more of you. Oh, and if you are an Andhra-ite and the Gult nomenclature bugs you, then this post is sure to annoy. Okie, done with warnings.

I recently got a comment from Jethro asking me why I don’t seek inspiration from my Telugu roots often enough. I am after all, Gulty as charged. You see, I have never been much of a stereotypical Gult. I don’t care much for pickle and spice, I prefer chapatis to rice and I cannot tell Pavan Kalyan apart from Uday Kiran. And of course, I never stereotype. Heh heh.

But there’s a bigger, emotional reason why I don’t pick on Gult heroes. And before people start to question my love for Andhra I need to set the record straight. Tender childhood tales need to be told so you understand why it is that I do not and cannot make fun of Chiru. So let me use my favorite rotating black and white circles along with a crescendo of violins and flash back to a story that goes thus —

I was a little girl with mismatched rubberbands who had just arrived in Hyderabad. Fresh from the trauma of pulled-pigtails, I trusted no one, and especially so — men! Those vile creatures. All they knew is to steal, harass and cause grief, I thought.

Now, I am Gult by birth but had never lived in Gult-land until then. I spoke the language (somewhat), but only because mom had tormented and force-taught it to me. She was just doing her part in instilling some Gult-hood in her dotty, I suppose, but it didn’t really work much. I found the language strange and the people who spoke it, stranger. It also didn’t help that I had really demented cousins, so the association of Gults = weirdos was rather easy to make.

Upon arriving in Hyd’bad, it was time to put the fish-out-of-water into school. Now, my third-language until then had always been Sanskrit. Not that I was particularly good at it, but at least asati, asatah, asanti were a familiar enemy. But now suddenly, mom had recognized my ‘telugu inti aadapaduchu‘ potential. That’s the ‘cultured Telugu girl of good family values‘ types for the non-Gult readers amongst you. My grandma, who had started to notice the decreasing skirt-length and hair-length of her grand-dotty also joined in support of mom. And they collectively decided I was going to take Telugu in school. I resisted, I fought, I cried! And then I shuttup and went to school.

I was awful at the language. People were writing essays and spouting Vemana Satakam while I was barely saying the alphabet. And to add to my woes — my Gult teacher, a nasty agarbatti + hair oil smelling man, constantly reminded me that my Telugu was ‘trash, I zay! kompleeete trash!‘. Hmpfh. Men — nasty. Men who pulled pigtails — nastier. And Gult men — nastiest. Did I mention, I never stereotype? Heh. Anyway, two months of smelling tomato-pappu breath while being yelled at, and I decided I had enough. I pulled my brahmaastra. Sanskrit is the grandmother of all languages, I said. And if I was learning a grand-mommy language, then my grand-mommy cannot be complaining about it, can she? Shockingly enough, the logic worked and the torture finally ended. Bye bye, Mr C S Anjaneya Prasad.

So there I was — back in Sanskrit class, giggling at the pondy connotations of conjugation tables and gleefully hating all things Gult. And then one beautiful Sunday morning, I walked down to Raja Video Parlour. As Samantha Fox pouted back at me invitingly from the ubiquitous poster, Raja surreptitiously slipped a video tape of Kondaveeti Donga into my hand. I instantly protested. What is this? Give me Kishen Kanhaiyya, I demanded. Don’t have, madam. It is out. Okay, how about Baap Numbri Beta Dus Numbri, then? He smirked and then looking at me rather like a rancher approaching an unsuspecting cow with a cattle prod, said — Take this. Chiru. Superb dancing. You will like.

A handful of words that changed my life. Chiranjeevi in a Robin Hood-esque role complete with Zorro-like cape and boots, wooing the voluptuous Radha and Vijayshanti, dancing to Ilaiyaraaja’s tunes and wreaking havoc on the villain Amrish Puri, a tantric Temple-of-Doom-type baba, with glowing red-bulb skulls, chanting hreem kleem chamundaaya namaha spells to make people work in his research lab. Yes, Baba Atomic Research Centre, if you please. Hee haw.

With a formula like this, what’s any self-respecting girl supposed to do? Fall hook, line and sinker for the man, of course. Hey, if you saw the gentleman wearing painted-on black leather pants, walking in slow motion or dancing to ping-u pong-u body, jing-u shing-u lady in response to the gal’s tip-u top-u look-u lip-u meeda kiss-u you would understand why I was reduced to a shivering noodle in his screen presence. Oh that reminds me, Gult film lyrics will teach you that you can add a -u to any English word to get its Telugu equivalent. Pretty simple, yes?

In the coming weeks and months, movie posters and billboards were drooled over from moving cars and autos, and every newspaper and magazine article that had a Chiru photo accompanying it, was read, devoured, cut out and saved for posterity. And to do all this, I learnt to read, write and speak Telugu like there was no tomorrow. And that’s how this Gult discovered the joy of being a Gult. And *that* is why I don’t mock the man. What mommy dearest couldn’t accomplish in six years, Chiru did in six months. And the proverbial West was won.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I had a crush on Chiranjeevi and I am not ashamed to admit it. The Megastar was Megha’s star. Yeah, I said was, so you can all stop sniggering now.