Bollywood - a kitchen where Hollywood recipes are bastardized beyond recognition, sprinkled with every spice known to man, battered, deep fried and served with a side of onions and chillies. A meaningless mashup of inane song and dance charades grudgingly interspersed with a handful of emotion drenched dialogues delivered by aging buffoons romancing nubile somethings roughly the same age as their own wards, legitimate or illegitimate. Indeed the prodigious frequency of these song and dance routines is rivaled only by the television advertising industry in it’s inter-galactic quest for maximizing nerve damage without driving audiences utterly raving insane. And the plot, if there happens to be one, is so brazenly, so outlandishly illogical, that it makes you doubt your own notions of logic. Just as the plot is central to every good movie, the quantity (not quality, mind you) of emotion is central to every Bollywood movie. Indeed, it is safe to say that there exists a strong correlation between the emotion to logic ratio of a Bollywood movie and its box office returns. Another correlation worth mentioning is the cloth to skin ratio of female actors (and also, disturbingly, some male actors of late). This is negatively correlated with box office returns.
The precocious Ramu thought of sharing these thoughts with Somu, his ubiquitous confidant, but decided against it, given Somu’s passionate, almost fanatical obsession with tinsel town’s celebrities, and more importantly, his utter inability to comprehend, let alone appreciate thinking on any plane other than the immediate and the corporeal. Summer vacations had just commenced in the bucolic plains of Shivajinagar, that quaint, forgotten relic from socialist India. These four months were the closest the daredevil duo had come to experiencing paradise on earth. Whole days of utterly unfettered freedom, with no tyrant teachers to kill their youthful innocence and inquisitive spirits, no peevish parents urging them to study harder and no soul-crushing homework to trade for marks hollower than a ping pong ball.
Somu, as it turned out, happened to be a fanatical fan of the ambitious, versatile, talented yet ultimately flawed Shahbaz Khan. It was Ramu’s misfortune on many an occasion to endure the crowds, the heat and the hamming on the proverbial first day first show of Khan’s lavish and predictable releases, usually shot in exotic foreign locales. He always took special care not to exert undue strain on the logical faculties of audiences, at the expense of overworking their emotional faculties. Somu had seen Khan’s hits more times than he had fingers to count on, arithmetic never particularly having been his forte. He had been nursing a secret desire to see his superhero in the flesh for a long time, but couldn’t muster the courage to tell Ramu, for fear of a tongue-lashing followed by interminable philosophical ramblings of which he could make as much sense as Ghanekar, the local municipal corporator could make of a budget. However, after being awed and completely suckered by the Khan’s latest emotional roller coaster ride, Somu could suppress himself no more, and confided his dream to Ramu as they were nearly being trampled by the delirious hordes on their way out of the musty theatre.
Ramu scoffed derisively at the thought of expending time, effort and money on such an absurdly frivolous venture. However, his innate sense of adventure got the better of his thinly veiled contempt for the megastar. Additional inducement came in the form of sly mention of a possible role in the Khan’s next project, a melodramatic saga of two friends tragically separated in childhood, culminating in a poignant reunion through the marvelously ingenious device of an ancient melody known exclusively to them. The Khan was said to be personally involved in conducting a nationwide search for the boys who would play the childhood personas of the two protagonists (both, incidentally, played by the man himself, in a credulity-stretching double role, with a ridiculous mustache as sole distinguishing characteristic).
Piggy banks were feverishly broken, shirt and pant pockets surreptitiously emptied, train tickets furtively procured, and two juveniles seen stealthily clambering aboard the Marathwada Express en route to Mumbai from a somnolent Shivajinagar station in the dead of night. As the guard sounded the horn, and the train sedately departed the station, startling a sleeping resident dog, Ramu and Somu’s hearts pounded like a bungee jumper jumping off the Western Ghats, at their newfound liberty, the audaciousness of their thrilling escape and feverish anticipation of the adventures that lay ahead.
The duo spent a sleepless night aboard the train, marveling at all the new places the train halted at like a child given a basketful of new toys. They had never left the confines of Shivajinagar prior to this, and every distinctive station seemed to hold an adventure waiting to be discovered, mysteries waiting to be unravelled. The journey itself was so exciting that it was a mild disappointment when the train clattered into Mumbai. Slums lined the tracks on either side, horrifying Ramu and Somu with the sheer inhumanity of the living conditions. Ramshackle buildings separated by barely a foot provided only slightly better, still subhuman accommodation to it’s emaciated, desensitized inhabitants. The state’s flagrantly criminal disregard for it’s citizens and blatant unwillingness to provide even the most basic necessities distinguishing man from beast, was nowhere more brutally and poignantly exposed.
Ramu and Somu, suitably chastened, dreams tempered by the harsh light of reality, alighted at the teeming giant cave that was Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, the erstwhile Victoria Terminus. Their spirits were given an unexpected lift by the sight of a larger-than-life banner with the man himself flashing perfect pearlies in promotion of a toothpaste. They took it as a good omen. Somu had with characteristic meticulousness, clipped the newspaper advertisement from Shivajinagar Times containing the address where the auditions would be held. Lacking funds to hire a cab, and having heard cautionary, not entirely false, tales of unscrupulous cab drivers, they decided to take the local public bus service quite aptly named BEST for it’s punctuality and professionalism.
The BEST bus took them right to the front gate of Film City. The star-gate which would transport them to the world of dreams, the squeaky Utopia where everything worked, and people had the luxury of exhibiting their emotions. Their first hurdle came in the form of the brusque and apathetic security guard, who brushed them off as an irritated elephant would brush off flies. The direct approach having failed, they tried bribery. However hard a man might outwardly appear, they knew that it took an almighty will to ward off gastronomic temptation. As the guard polished off a fragrant samosa, Ramu Somu entered into an alternate reality. They were dumbstruck by the clean, glittering, dreamlike sets - not realizing that they were but facades, just like the plastic masks worn by actors.
They asked around for directions to the sets of Khan’s movie and reached the promised land. A clown cheerfully directed them to Khan’s secretary, a gentleman by name QQ Qureshi, sitting underneath a large umbrella. A strong odor of tobacco emanated from his person, and they took an instant dislike to him. His features and manner didn’t help shift the balance of opinion either. He looked at them like they were beggars. How the great Shahbaz Khan could have hired this horrible man as his secretary defied explanation almost as much as his movies defied logic.
Nevertheless, this condescending bozo had to be overcome as well. When mention was made of the audition, QQ rudely remarked that they already had too many applicants. Pleas, entreaties, cajoling didn’t make him bat an eyelid. Ramu then played the samosa card again, and remarkably enough, QQ’s will proved weaker than the guard’s. Their names were crudely pencilled in. The audition room at long last beckoned Ramu Somu.
It was no cake walk. First, the heat had to be endured. The infernal heat. Then the waiting. Of all the things in life they had a grouse against, and there were plenty, waiting was the one thing that got their goat the most. It just wasn’t in their DNA to sit around waiting for things to happen. Besides it was a criminal waste of time, that most precious elixir of life. An eternity later and after much perspiration, their turn arrived.
Two lads, Rahul and Raj, are in a ship at sea caught in a storm’s almighty fury. Rahul is tragically swept overboard. Raj: Rahul, my friend, my brother. Don’t leave me alone to battle the machinations of this cruel world. Rahul: Raj, my friend, my brother, our association transcends one lifespan. We’ll meet surely in the next life, in the next life, in the next …. (trails off)
Khan who was a bit of an eccentric, abruptly ordered the audition ended without much display of emotion. He dispassionately complimented their passion and motioned QQ to hand them a contract to sign, which seemed as incomprehensible to them as algebra to an infant. Ramu Somu, baffled by the wide gulf of disconnect between the Khan’s on-screen and real-life personas, were nonetheless in seventh heaven at their implausible journey and even more implausible selection, feasting on grapes with harps playing in the background.
The next few days were a blur of harsh lights and shutter claps. Ramu Somu shot an insane amount of footage of the ship scene and of the friends’ pre-separation days. Perhaps their roles were more important than they had envisaged. Perhaps their acting talent was far greater than they gave themselves credit for, perhaps they were heroes of the movie, on equal footing with Khan. Visions of stardom danced before their vainglorious eyes. Khan eventually melted enough to grant them autographs and photos with him. It was surreal and well beyond their capacity to dream. Would anything in their life ever measure up to this euphoric high?
They returned to Shivajinagar triumphantly only to have their ears twisted out of shape by apoplectic parents. Their accounts were dismissed as fantasy with a mixture of disbelief and derision. Only when contracts and autographed photos were produced did it sink in. Demeanors changed as suddenly as English weather. Frowns were replaced with smiles wider than faces.
Ramu Somu left no stone unturned to milk it to the maximum. They were demigods in their class. They made new friends each day, each minute. They received presents without asking for them. It seemed even teachers were more generous than usual in dispensing marks.
The movie finally released after six glorious months. Ramu Somu swaggeringly sat in premium balcony seats with their parents, flanked by a small army of friends, teachers and hangers-on in the decrepit, musty Shivaji theater for the premiere. The movie opened with a ship caught in a storm’s almighty fury. Ramu and Somu flashed on screen. They mouthed one dialogue each and were seen for a sum total of thirty seconds. Then the screen flashed forward to a youthful Shahbaz Khan with freshly shampooed hair and bright red lips riding a motorcycle while humming a catchy tune. There were no more flashbacks.