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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Yash Chopra Presents — Parr
(a Bollywood song-and-dance routine, with inspired interruptions from Hitchcock)

(Prologue in Amitabh’s voice)

This ditty has no pity,
This isn’t a story for the itty-bitty.
It tells the story of a fowl most foul,
The kind you want to disembowel.

Ugly birdie flying high,
dropped a message from the sky
“Oh”, said the blogger wiping her eye,
“It’s a good thing that bulls don’t fly!”

Once upon a time, there was a girl. Think of a Chopra/Johar heroine in a white salwar kameez who has nothing to do in life except skip gaily through hills and valleys with a mandatory vibrant dupatta fluttering in the background, be annoyingly chirpy and hum wordless la la laaaa laaa la la songs in Lata’s voice. Yep, Aishwarya in Mohabbatein types. (Please to note her character’s name in the movie. Yikes!)

Now, this girl loved to tell stories. Some real and some make-believe. So she started a li’l corner where she narrated her tales. You modern day techie folks call it a blog or something similar, but this was a long time ago, and we simply called it a story-telling place. Meghalaya, if you insist.

Now, so vain and self-obsessed was she, that she used her own name in a movie title to name her little corner. Even the address of her home was a variation of her initials. And just in case people didn’t get that it was *her* place, she put a bunch of clouds all over her area. Feeling suitably satisfied at the subtleties, she went on to tell her stories. At first nobody came. But slowly they started to arrive. I mean gradually, not in a running-in-slow-motion sort of way. People came, listened and shared better stories of their own. After all, who can resist talking about painful childhood memories of crappy Hindi films and bad PJs? So all the boys and girls bonded, loved each other and lived like one big happy org .. oops, I mean family. *lots of passionate sax playing in the background to set the mood* Lots of love everywhere. The girl sang dream sequence songs about the colors of her bangles and the tinkling of her earrings and how they reminded her of her hero Aryan while the chorus sang le ja le ja, soniye le ja le ja along with customary hand movements.

But one day the dark clouds rolled in. Dark clouds, but no rain — Lagaan style. Accompanied by a flap-flap sound. Thinking it to be her hero Rahul arriving, she hurriedly finished singing the title song and rushed to the window, hoping to spot the all-familiar black helicopter .. alas .. to find a big bird, instead. On further observation it turned out that he wasn’t the cute Maine Pyar Kiya courier bird bringing her a pehle pyaar ki pehli chitthi either. Instead he was a jealous psycho bird. Well, he was also ugly, but we try to not let our bias for pretty people show too much. It seems he wasn’t getting any worthwhile roles so he wanted to try his luck with the Chopra camp. He made enquiries on how to get in. But her happy family wasn’t looking for a pet, so they politely told our feathered friend to find himself another project. But he wouldn’t listen. Five times a day he stalked the studio creating a stink and demanding an audition. Finally they had to explain it to him that the fluffy white doggy had already been cast and he could even play cricket, so the bird didn’t stand a chance.

But birdie didn’t take kindly to rejection. Which, when you think about it, was odd, considering he had a lifetime of it to be used to. Angrily he flapped his wings and tried to poop on the entire scene. Total crapola, I say! Now, I don’t know about you, but Meghalaya is a country located right in the middle of a Chopra movie set, where anything dirty and unpleasant like pooping on people is a crime. Every dried leaf is strategically floated by for effect, and every sunshine-yellow curtain is meant to shimmer just so. Houses are mansions, people take private jets to the mall and wear designer labels when they sleep. They also wear the clothes that come attached to the labels, not to worry. And nothing and nobody is allowed to be ugly and dirty. Things are spotless white and squeaky clean and whatever needs to be done will be done, to keep it that way.

So the plan was made. The bird was sweetly invited inside for an audition, the spot-boys and assistants were called in at the right time, and the super-sized bottle of industrial-strength bleach was pulled out. And the deed was done. *violins playing appropriate shrill notes to create a sense of a bird-like creature scratching and clawing* They say implicit violence has a lot more impact, so I’ll leave it to your imagination to paint the rest of the picture. But if you need help, wacko + bird + violence reminds one of sheer Hitchcock-ian brilliance and I do love it when the dots connecteth.

But violence leaves incriminating evidence, so every now and then you might see a bleached feather float by, or poop stains of a ghost bird. Not to worry, our art director will airbrush those out soon enough. Feathers will turn to flower petals and the stain will become rain. And all will be well in the world once again.

Much celebrations happened throughout the land, the girl once again sang happy songs, this time about the colors of her mehndi and the decorations of her doli while the chorus sang lene tujhe o gori, aayenge tere sajna. Raj stood with his arms outstretched, as she ran towards him in slow motion synchronized with the flap-flap of the real helicopter this time. The scene melted into soft-focus and then became a blur of dupattas as the highly sentimental aaaaaaa and oooooo chorus version of the title song drowned out all signs of screechy psycho birds. On the screen the words flashed — The End.

(Epilogue, again in Amitabh’s voice)

This blog is much like a movie set,
It would make an art director proud.
Not a leaf looks ugly,
Nor a doggy barks too loud.

We keep this page a pleasant place,
With lots of laughing and singing.
But we’re not a bunch of idiots,
If that is what you’re thinking.

So, if you’re looking to join the fun,
“Well sure, do come right in!”
But if you’re looking to crap on us,
There’s a bottle of Clorox waitin’!

• People who have watched Telugu movies of the 70s
• People who find a special joy in watching the stud-heroes of Telugu movies of the 70s
• My cousin, a fan of Telugu movies of the 70s, who will stop talking to me after reading this post
• Nice, sweet, wonderful people who will read anything I write (and hopefully not notice my use of multiple adjectives to sweet-talk them)

Yes, this is a something new I am trying out. Niche markets are common and products are often designed for specific target audiences. So why not my posts? (Saying this, she hid under the table while the Marketing MBAs in the audience heckled and laughed at her) Considering that I write about a lot of arbit things, and not everyone who comes to my blog will find every pearl of wisdom to be .. well .. a pearl, I shall henceforth warn you of the impending attack so you have a chance to escape. Of course, if you do not fit the target audience and still have an opinion to share, kindly ignore my attempt to stereotype you, and feel free to comment. Moving on to the subject of the post ..

A conversation with a friend reminded me of this. There used to be a Telugu actor with the impressive name of Sobhan Babu who was a firm believer in the number three. He often delivered punchlines in multiples of three. Imagine this — 45-year old Sobhan Babu in industrial strength makeup and an oh-so-believable wig that is perfectly gelled into place save the one curl that dangerously hangs on his forehead. We shall call this fine specimen of manhood — The Agitated Hero. Enter harassed wife waiting at home, looking grungy and grimey with an expression of perpetual suffering. I am unable to feed your three kids, the expression cries. The agitated hero has just lost his job. He needs solace, he needs support and comfort. He takes a step forward, pauses, flicks back the gelled curl with the back of his hand, takes two more steps towards his wife who stands in front of him and calls out in a voice full of anguish — Lakshmiii, Lakshmiiiii, Lakshmiiiiiii!

For anyone who doubts the effectiveness of this scene — there isn’t a single person in the audience who has any doubt left in their mind that the heroine’s name is Lakshmi.

That concludes our pointless peek into a cinematic moment from my childhood.

Now, unless you were living under a rock all your life, you have heard of the movie Casablanca (1942). This Humphrey Bogart — Ingrid Bergman — Paul Henreid story of love, honor, duty and sacrifice set against the backdrop of World War II is a perennial cinema classic. But I bet you didn’t know they made a Hindi remake of it! Not just any aira gaira remake we’re talking about, mind you. None other than Armaan (1981). Bogart’s role (Rick) played by Raj Babbar (Yikes! Is there no God!?), Bergman’s role (Ilsa) by Ranjeeta (I’m still recovering from sher Babbar, so no comments) and my favorite block of wood — Deepak Parashar, playing the role of Paul Henried (Victor). Oh the horror, oh the tragedy! Oh that reminds me, the Germans are replaced by the Portuguese and the scene has shifted from World War II to Goa’s liberation. Pure joy, I tell ya.

Imagine this — the smoke filled Rick’s Cafe, Sam playing the piano, Bogey taking a long drag on his cigarette and .. <jarring scene change> .. Shammi Kapoor at the piano, Raj Babbar trying to swallow a cigarette and just when you thought it couldn’t get any better — enter Kalpana Iyer dancing to Bappi Lahiri’s ramba ho samba ho. Or is it Prema Narayan? Either way, it scars you for life, eh? Well, that’s about it for ugly.

Now for something a li’l more worth your time. A couple of days back, I got a very interesting comment from Braveheart on my Ghost stories blog. I am quoting the relevant portion here—

You have rightly pointed out that there is no reason God should be more respected than Ghost. But we the weak human beings protect us always through defence mechanisms. God is our biggest spoof, out strongest protector. We take refuge in his arms all the time. But Satan should be worshipped just as much. I am saying this because if you dont worship him, you fight with him. And fighting with him is fighting with urself. It weakens you. It wouldn’t ever let you discover yourself.

So the key lies not in surrendering yourself, but absorbing him into urself, and hence, growing bigger than him. You should not reject what you are afraid of, you should submit, absorb and grow through it.

It got me thinking again about a topic that I often mull over.

Good is not the result of the absence of evil, but the ability to take on evil, accept that it is a part of us, and then find mechanisms to deal with it. Reminds me of a line from a song from the recent movie Swades (2004) — Man se Raavan jo nikaale, Raam uske man mein hai. To do that one first has to accept that there is a Raavan in all of us.

I don’t think this is true only of evil. It extends to a number of negative emotions in general. Grief, hurt, fear, turmoil .. I once had a conversation with a friend about relationships. She mentioned that she avoids getting emotionally involved ‘cos it can lead to grief and pain and she doesn’t want to get hurt. I remember that my reaction was that as long as she avoided that pain, she’ll never learn to deal with it. It is much better that she jumps into a relationship and handles that hurt if and when it comes, and thus, no longer *fears* the pain. Not quite in the same spirit as good vs evil, I know.

They say that peace comes not from the absence of conflict in life, but from the ability to cope with it. True of inner peace too. Acknowledging one’s inner demons, and yet not letting them consume us, is one of the toughest things to do.

That, and keeping a straight face while watching Armaan.