#11: Heartache. Heartbreak

This post is a part of a series that chronicles my personal journey with the movies, the origin of the love affair when I was a kid and its growth into the obsession it is today. Click here and read from down upward for the entire series.

"When we're in love we experience pleasure, and extreme pain." - Paul Thomas Anderson's 'The Master' (2012)

The first favorite film of my life, 'Hum Aapke Hain Koun!', was released exactly 23 years ago. It went on to change a lot of things. Made by a 28-year old, it changed the perception of movie business by becoming the first film to gross 100 crores. With its songs and dance and games, it changed how the weddings in most of North India were conducted - with increased popularity of the ritual of groom's shoes being stolen by bride's sisters, to be returned only after extorting a good sum of money. And it changed the film-buff in me, as evident by this previous post on it.

Five years later, Sooraj Barjatya returned with his next. I still remember seeing its first look one afternoon in a newspaper outside the library of my boarding school. During the Durga Puja holidays that followed, my Mom, my brother and I would spend hours listening to its songs and discussing its lyrics and finding clues in it about the story. I remember Kunal Kohli's very favorable review of its music in his show 'Chalo Cinema'. I remember reading its preview in the newspaper and wondering how it could be, as mentioned there, a modern-day adaptation of the Ramayana. Would it involve the kidnapping of Sita by Raavan and the war that follows? And I remember the deep sorrow I had felt on realizing that it won't be released in my home-town on the very first day, Diwali of 1999, and I'll have to wait for the Winter Vacation to watch it. 'Hum Saath Saath Hain' was the first film I had truly, madly, obsessively waited for. The movie-lover in me had now turned a fanatic.

And as it happens with obsessive love, I was to soon receive immense pain when, back at my hostel, a friend who was a big fan of 'HAHK!' mentioned his disappointment with 'HSSH' to me. Others were even more critical of it, 14-15 year olds who, obviously, had started preferring more realistic movies, like 'Shool', released the same day, and loved openly lambasting the saccharine idealism of Barjatya.

Like all heartbreaks, I went through all five stages of grief, while dealing with the underwhelming response to the film. But when, in the next vacation, I watched it in Lucknow, my brother and I laughed and cried and absolutely loved it. Like all fanatics we decided to keep our faith in the filmmaker we most revered. We watched it again, in Patna, and I memorized all its dialogues, hoping to narrate it to my friends when I meet them next and slowly spread the cult of this movie!

Well, 'Hum Saath Saath Hain' did end up as the biggest grosser of the year, but its business was a let-down for the market. As Januray 2000 arrived, the phenomenon of Hrithik Roshan redefined the Hindi film hero, and the ideals of Sooraj Barjatya rapidly became a thing of the past. Today, I am aware of all the flaws of 'HSSH', and its very convenient plot-points embarrass me, but I still watch and love and get sentimental about it as often as I can, including humming its songs which have lost their magic on me.

But then, there is something more to this story. Recently, my family and I made a trip to Dehradun to meet my to-be in laws and I got engaged. As I thanked God for making this happen, finding the right life-partner and seeing my parents happier than ever, I realized one more thing as we laughed and ate and traveled together. That joy we felt and the respect and warmth my parents received took me back to several moments from the cinema of Sooraj Barjatya. Weddings and family values continue to be such important parts of our society and the film-maker who led to its documentation is him. Life is not as saccharin sweet as his films, but these joys are as pure. Time and again, Sooraj Barjatya has brought me closer to my brother and my parents, and I hope he will continue to inspire me as I become a part of a new family. And for this reason alone, he continues to remain the most revered film-maker for me, despite all his bad movies and heartbreaks that followed 'Hum Saath Saath Hain!'

#10: My Film Playschool

"You know, places are like people. Some shine, some don't." – Stanley Kubrick’s ‘The Shining’ (1980)

Through my previous posts in this series, you know that I left my home at the age of eleven for a hostel. Out of all the beautiful things that life has given me, that might just be the most significant – eight years of my adolescent life in this ashrama, because it was, among different things, my first film-school. Or playschool, to put it more correctly.

Spread over thirty-three acres in the holy town of Deoghar, run by the Ramakrishna Mission, it was a world in itself. Vast green football-fields – two for every grade, pitch-white hostel buildings with wonderful, little front gardens maintained by us, a majestic temple at the heart of the plot, dense mango orchards, and ancient banyan trees, the school that started with three students in 1922 had grown up to house boys from all over Bihar, Bengal, Orissa, the North-Eastern states, Bangladesh, and even Delhi and UP. Run on the ethos of the ashram-culture, where all seniors and teachers were referred to as dadas (‘elder brothers’ in Bengali), it was an English-medium school providing modern education under the CBSE curriculum. We were not allowed to step out of the campus except during semester breaks. It had a dairy with over a hundred cows, a giant dining hall, an auditorium, a small hospital-cum-dispensary, an extremely well-maintained and versatile library, a general store, barber shop, cobbler and washer-men. Our daily routine included, apart from attending lectures and hours of supervised self-study, chanting and meditating – twice every day, cleaning our dormitories, attending compulsory PT and evening games, and serving food in the dining hall. There were several outdoor activities and sports, as well as training in fine arts and vocal and instrumental music. Not all of us enjoyed all these different activities and most of the above-mentioned details were nothing but torture for us. Add to this the restrictions we had – all of us were supposed to dress very simply, and alike, even in dormitories or in the play field; we could not talk to our parents over phone – writing and receiving letters was the only source of communication; and we were not allowed to keep comic books, magazines, video games, or portable music systems. Two hours of TV every Sunday was all we had in the name of recreation. I believe it was growing up in an environment like this that shaped my taste, and my sense of pleasure and joy. I also would like to attribute my ability to switch between solitude and working in a team to the formative years in that school, as well as my growth as a storyteller.

After watching ‘Satya’ in October1998, I was eager to share its story with my friends – as most had not watched it. That gave birth to this frequent ritual. Whether it was during the lecture of a teacher who failed to turn up, hiding away from our supervisor during self-study hours, or while having our meals – I was often busy narrating stories of films to some eager audience. The most common exercise was the Sunday afternoon story session that was often ‘pre-booked’ by friends. Those who belonged to a different dormitory could not join us inside the room as it was prohibited. So they would stand outside the window to enjoy these narrations that went on for hours, complete with songs and background score.

Despite the traditional ashrama environment, our school provided me with something that I could not have experienced at home – exposure to English movies. Occasionally, the entire school assembled in the central hall of the library to watch movies played through VHS tapes on a big color TV. ‘Jumanji’, ‘Commando’, and ‘Predator’ are the titles I can instantaneously recall. But the most remarkable experiences were to watch the ‘Star Wars’ trilogy and ‘The Matrix’. I also remember how excited we were to watch the old Western ‘Mackenna’s Gold’ (1969) only because there was one shot of a woman’s nude behind, or how we anticipated that ‘The Godfather’ would have something titillating but turned it off after its long opening sequence that for us was the most boring thing we had seen in our lives. At times, we also managed to watch the latest Hindi releases and I remember watching ‘Gupt’, ‘Dil Se’, and ‘Sarfarosh’ among others. By that time I had a diary of mine where I wrote lyrics of dozens of Hindi film songs during vacations. It was also the time when ‘Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam’ and ‘Refugee’ had made me fall in love with the use of Hindustani semi-classical music in films. The romance was ripening and the next post in this series will illustrate how around end of 1999 it turned into a singular obsession. I hope to write that special post soon.

However, I have to briefly narrate a really amusing story before I wrap up this current post. All of us unanimously and strongly feared one person in the school – our Chief Warden. A senior monk, but more of an administrator and a disciplinarian, he single-handedly maintained the decorum in the campus where we hundreds of monkeys lived. Despite his strict manners, he allowed the occasional screening of movies, especially during a holiday, as mentioned above. He did not really endorse these movies but some senior students managed to make him accept their request. One such holiday, it might be holi, and we do not know what exactly triggered it, he got furious at our ever-growing demand for movies that he did not really approved of and decided to retort in the most imaginative way. He called for a black-and-white movie from the 60s, one that according to him was a rare good film, and made it compulsory for everyone to watch it. I still remember what horror the incident had created, when every single kid was chased out of dormitories, even those who hardly cared about movies, and those who wanted to spend the afternoon studying or sleeping, and we had to endure that movie under his watchful eyes. It was Bimal Roy’s ‘Bandini’ (1963), the only film that was made a compulsory watch in my eight years of stay there!

Several years later, I met our Chief Warden in Mumbai, and he expressed to me his disappointment regarding my decision to quit medicine for the movies. “What if I tried to make movies like ‘Bandini’?” was my argument that made him nod in silence. Perhaps he got my point. By the time of this meeting of ours, I had watched almost all Bimal Roy films and the brilliance of ‘Bandini’ was more than evident to me. If, as a filmmaker, I could go even half way close to that, I would be very proud of myself. But for the film-buff in me, that movie, and the allegorical importance of it in the lives of all little brats who grew up together in that amazing ashrama, will always remain very, very special.

‘The Autobiography of a Romance’ is a series of post chronicling my love affair with the movies since early childhood. To read more posts under this label, please click here and read from bottom upwards.

#9: The Moment of Truth

“I've loved you all my life, even before we met. Part of it wasn't even you. It was just a promise of you.” 
– Sydney Pollack's 'The Firm' (1993)

Sometime in early 1998, I proclaimed a movie album to be my favourite of all time. It was Uttam Singh’s ‘Dil Toh Pagal Hai’ (1997). ‘Are re are ye kya hua’ is still one of those songs that uplifts me unlike most others and the romantic wistfulness of ‘Bholi-si soorat’ has been my inspiration as a poet ever since I turned one. One thing that I particularly loved about the music of this film was the programming, including the beautifully fresh interludes. In 1998, I represented my school at several science seminars and congresses. At the age of fourteen, being the only one from my batch to actually get to travel mid-semester was more than any of the privileges I was aware of. It was also the first time I was travelling, and these first long-distance train journeys had turned me into a complete romantic. I had fallen in love with the writings of Ruskin Bond and my parents had bought me my first portable stereo that I could use only on these trips as it was not allowed in hostel. Pankaj Udhas’ ‘Stolen Moments’ and Shankar Mahadevan’s claim-to-fame ‘Breathless’ were among the few cassettes I had, and soon I had learnt the latter’s title track by heart. The album, however, that was to become my favourite companion on train journeys, and still is, was ‘Dil Se’ (1998). ‘Chhaiyya Chhaiyya’ was perhaps the first song I became truly crazy for.

During the summer vacation that year the trailer of one film caught my attention. It was called ‘Satya’. Perhaps not many know that I am called ‘Anshu’ at my home, and ‘Satya’ by my school friends. So, the trailer of this movie appealed to me, and for this reason alone, because otherwise, it looked dry and Urmila Matondkar disappointed me in her all-clad avatar after her act in 'Rangeela' (1995) and 'Daud' (1997). After the vacations, one day, I heard my warden, the only teacher in our Ashrama who talked about movies, mention ‘Satya’. “I’m dying to watch it,” he said and I was left wondering – even a movie like this has people ‘dying’ to watch it? It was a new perspective for me. From that moment, I was taking this movie seriously. A couple of months later, a very close friend fractured his hand and went home for a few days. On returning he raved about the movie, that he had not seen something as stylish and gritty as this. I really valued the opinion of this friend and thus made up my mind to watch this film during Durga Puja vacations.

That October, my parents took me to Kozhikode, Kerala and ‘Satya’ was playing there. My Dad, as you all know by know, was almost averse to watching movies. But somehow, we convinced him to take us to this one movie. I am so thankful to the cinema owners in our country who never care if the people buying tickets for an adult movie are actually adults. My brother and I were not, and ‘Satya’ was an adult film, mainly because of its realistic violence and cuss words. I also loved the dingy look of the theater – we had to go through what looked like a concrete tunnel to enter it. And when I watched it, this was the first movie that completely impressed me, from its first shot, to the opening voice over, to the unlikely gangster character of Satya, and the infinitely memorable Bhiku Mhatre. I loved the songs – ‘Baadalon se kaat kaat ke’, ‘Geela geela paani’ and ‘Tu mere saath bhi hai’, apart from the obviously entertaining ‘Kallu mama’ and ‘Sapne mein milti hai’. This was also the first film whose technical brilliance affected me like never before. The scene where Satya is being beaten up by some goons at the balcony of an old building, overlooking the street below with oblivious passers-by, with the sound of rain being most prominent – no background score, no added effects for kicking and punching sounds – it was more realistic and stylish than anything I had seen before. I also remember noticing how the sound of a scene preceded its visuals, overlapping with the closing seconds of the preceding scene – something that, I later learnt, was called a ‘J-cut’. And the way the film ended, the climax on the day of Ganpati visarjan – it left me spellbound. Even my dad was deeply impressed by the film – he could not believe a film as good as this could be made in the 90s. The impact of this movie can be guessed from the fact that on my way back home, lying down on my railway berth at night when the rest of the passengers were asleep, I actually revised the entire film, scene by scene, in my head. In the months to follow, I would narrate the film to my friends in school, of course with dialogues and background score. ‘Satya’ was thus the first film that suddenly made me interested in the craft of cinema. Soon I was visualizing the filming of the Ruskin Bond stories I read. In my own world, I was turning from a film buff to a film-maker.

This May, my parents travelled to Delhi to attend the function where our directorial debut ‘Tamaash’ won a National Award. Saurabh Shukla, who played ‘Kallu Mama’ in ‘Satya’ and who was also one of the writers of the film, was also there, having won Best Supporting Actor for ‘Jolly LLB’ (2013). For me, the moment when I introduced my Dad to him and when the two men shook hands will always remain very special. Last month, ‘Tamaash’ took me to Kerala to participate in the Kerala Shorts and Documentary Festival. One evening, at Kovalam beach, I was getting some chocolates from a shop where the title track from ‘Dil Toh Paagal Hai’ was playing. As I emerged out of the shop, I passed by a Belgian couple who were humming the song, smiling with a pleasant surprise. I was so fascinated by their reaction to the song that I decided to talk to them. They told me that back in 1997 they were travelling to India, and had watched this film and this song was one of the very few Hindi songs they would recognize. Their two little daughters, who understood no language but French, watched me talk to their parents with an amused smile. It was a sweet little chat. “Au revoir” – I said, thanks to my limited knowledge of their language from the French cinema, as I rushed to the fellow film-maker friends to tell them about this wonderful little incident. It was late evening. The beach was empty and the sea was at its glorious best. Life had come full circle in the form of this wonderful trip to God’s own country where sixteen years ago I had met the inspiration of my life, a film that changed Hindi cinema of the 90s, and me, for the better.

‘The Autobiography of a Romance’ is a series of post chronicling my love affair with the movies since early childhood. To read more posts under this label, please click here and read from bottom upwards.

#8: Puberty's Pictures

"For me, a normal man is one who turns his head to see a beautiful woman's bottom." - Bernardo Bertolucci's 'The Conformist' (1970)

There comes a moment in a boy’s life when he loses his innocence with his own hands, and quite literally so. Today, as a 30-year old man, I do not feel any hesitation talking about it. But seventeen years ago, when it happened to me, in the summer of ’97, it was confusing and scary, but also thrilling and unprecedentedly pleasurable. Today, that image of guilt-ridden misadventures of my little self, looking for privacy in a big, joint family in the summer heat appears almost endearing to me. I wish I could go back and have a talk of reassurance with the teenaged me and advise about having the most of that colourful period of sexual discovery. Back then I had no one to talk to, and for better or for worse, movies were my only guide, this time into the world of forbidden pleasures.

By now you know that I was in this ashram-hostel with no access to TV, or other means of entertainment. I hope you will not laugh with a sense of mocking if I tell you that the introduction to human reproductive system that was only suggestive and left a lot for imagination in our seventh-grade science text book was a big hit in our hostel. Some of us borrowed those well-illustrated manuals from the library for ‘higher studies’ and then the entire dormitory read the chapter on reproduction with more interest than any other topic from any other subject in our course. And we often took refuge in our own secretive acts of pleasure, taking help from newspaper cuttings, illegal magazines, and memories of what we saw on TV during vacations.

My Dad brought cable TV home exactly one year after the onset of my male menarche and I was suddenly exposed to all kinds of content, including the unending parade on FTV. There was this music channel, I don’t remember its name, that aired a show called ‘Shabab’ at 11 in the night. I had discovered it one night browsing the channels looking for something of ‘interest’. I had the reputation, and rightly so, of being very fond of studying, apart from doing my homework. So I, kind of, earned the right to remain awake until late night. Whenever I felt sleepy, I turned on the TV, and then went back to my studies – was the excuse I gave to my parents. The truth was that I kept watching TV all night, until either my eyes were dead tired, or my Baba caught and lectured me. So when I discovered ‘Shabab’, it was one of the most amazingly fulfilling discoveries of my life. The show was a collection of erotic songs from Hindi cinema. The three songs that always come to my mind when I think of it – and I will only hint at those to test your knowledge – starred the pairs of Pooja Bhatt and Rahul Roy, Madhuri Dixit and Vinod Khanna, and Dimple Kapadia and Anil Kapoor. Today, these songs do nothing to me, and wouldn’t do much to today’s kids either, but back then they were scandalous and inviting and I couldn’t bat an eye-lid as they played on TV, on mute!

We also heard about movies like ‘Fire’ and ‘Kamasutra’ (both 1996) but never really got a chance to watch them. I also remember very well that Dad was disapproving of the stuff we watched on TV because we mostly watched trailers and songs of upcoming movies, some of it being lurid, and suggestive. Today, it is so common that perhaps most parents have taken it for granted. Back then it was not. And he used to voice it out to my Mom, his concern regarding what we watched. Mom always replied to him with supreme confidence in me. “Even when he is watching those dirty songs, he is only focussing on the making, the craft and the choreography and music. So there’s no need to worry!” She barely knew that in the very adjacent room, her good son was actually burning with desire!

Raveena Tandon was one of my sex goddesses. ‘Tip tip barsa paani’ from ‘Mohra’ (1994) has to be one song that turned me insane. And then there was this scene from ‘Aatish’ (also 1994) where she is showing off the scars on her body to Sanjay Dutt. Today it all looks so cheesy and cheap. Back then it was pure gold for me. I also particularly liked Pooja Batra who had obviously zero talent but an amazingly pretty smile and something irresistibly sexy about her. I never found Mamta Kulkarni that appealing, although she was a big hit among my friends. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t seen much of her. The famous Rekha-Akshay Kumar song from ‘Khilaadiyon ka Khilaadi’ (1996) was again something I had heard a lot about but couldn’t really manage to see until very late in my life. Strangely, Madhuri Dixit who had a very clean image was an object of my fancy because of two films she did with Sanjay Kapoor – ‘Raja’ (1995) and ‘Mohabbat’ (1997). The white sari she wore in the latter in a rainy scene with Akshay Khanna remained etched in my memory forever. Urmila Matondkar in ‘Daud’ (1997), Rani Mukherji in ‘Ghulam’ (1998), Karishma Kapoor in ‘Biwi No. 1’ (1999) and Sushmita Sen in ‘Sirf Tum’ (1999) were also maddeningly desirable for the little teenager I was. But the best among all these lovely ladies was, I wish you guessed it right, the inimitable and unsurpassable Sonali Bendre. She stormed into the imagination of that innocent boy I was with her dance moves in ‘Duplicate’ (1998). And then, in 1999, came the song that I undoubtedly consider the sexiest motion picture experience of my life, bigger than Sharon Stone’s ‘Basic Instinct’ – ‘Jo haal dil ka’ from ‘Sarfarosh’. To be honest, all the songs and scenes mentioned above have aged really poorly, but not this. It still gives me the same pleasure, albeit minus the thrill I had while trying to catch it in the hall of my house, the hall with four entrances where anyone could walk in from any direction, as it required a serious and meticulous vigil to keep enjoying these pictures on the TV without being caught and getting my reputation ruined forever. It is still intact, by the way. Guess, now that my Mom reads this blog post she will realise what I was up to way back then growing up under her proud protection.

#7: The First Signs of Being 'Different'

"I am big. It's the pictures that got small!" - Billy Wilder's 'Sunset Blvd.' (1950)

Once my parents dropped me back to my hostel after my first vacation, which was forty-five days of summer, I realised there were so many things I forgot sharing with my Mom - little things about the hostel, and my experiences there. That left me heartbroken. The next vacation was three months away and it was going to be a short, eight-day leave. And I was sure that in the next three months, I would have accumulated so many more things to share with her. Intimidated and terrified by the idea of a continuously building deficit of "things-to-share-with-Mom" over several vacations, I decided to solve it, once and for ever. I started making a note of things happening to me during my term at the hostel in my little diary, half-sentences that contained long stories and new discoveries and layers of emotions. During the eight days of the next vacation, the mention of which has been made in the previous post in this series, Mom was so busy that I never got the time to sit with her and go through those pages of my diary. She was aware of it and it was an important agenda for her, but somehow we never got time. Finally, the last night, a few hours before I was to leave, Mom and I sat on a mat spread on the floor, and I shared with her all that I had to. That image of my mother, tired and exhausted, her heavy eye-lids battling against her resolve to spend time with her son and hear him out despite the night turning old and cruel, will remain one of the most special memories of my life. But today, as I look back, I also see the REVERSE SHOT of that scene - an eleven-year old boy, going through his 'notes' that he had made over several weeks, narrating stories and incidents with untiring enthusiasm and excitement. Today, as I look at the eleven-year olds around me, I wonder - was that the beginning of the method-oriented, obsessed-with-planning-and-execution storyteller I was to eventually become? Or was it simply, the first sign of me being 'different' - an adjective my friends in high-school and college used for me, for all compliments and insults!

A little more than a year after that night, I was on my way home for the winter vacations. It was December, 1996. It was for the first time that I was travelling from my hostel in a car, as my Buaji (the one who until her marriage was an active member of our domestic movie club) and her family had picked me up on her way to Munger, my home-town. I was sitting in the front passenger seat with my Chachaji and had fallen asleep as the car made its way through the rocky terrain of Sooiya Pahaad (the Hill of Needles). A little later, my eyes opened to the sound of a song that was being played from the car stereo. The song was ending but I heard it sufficiently to exclaim to my Uncle - "This is a good song!". "Isn't it?" he said. "Now, listen to this, an even better one." He reversed the side of the cassette and the song faded in. If life is a romantic ride, that definitely was my first experience of one. As this song soared, I felt its voices echoing in the dull and dead ambience of the hills around me. I was mesmerised by its pure magic, and until today, every time I listen to it, I am reminded of that amazing afternoon.

The first song I had heard while waking up was "Chappa Chappa Charkha Chale". And the one that eventually won me over was, yes you guessed it right, "Chhod Aaye Hum Wo Galiyaan". Within a few days, I asked Dad for the cassette of "Maachis" - my first buy as a music lover. It must be mentioned that buying film music was not encouraged under my Dad's regime, despite the three of us (Mom, brother, and me) being crazy movie-buffs. But Dad brought this one. As Devanshu and I played all the songs on our little tape recorder, the haunting melodies of Vishal and the beautiful words by Gulzar, my Dad expressed his disapproval - "What's so special about this music?"

How could have I answered that? I just knew that Dad didn't think this music was great. And most people around me, including my friends, thought the same. And the world around me was infinitely more obsessed with "Pardesi Pardesi" from 'Raja Hindustani' that was the craze of the season. When I watched that film, the biggest blockbuster of the year, I was pretty disappointed. By the time the film reached its climax, I had given my verdict - "Raja Hindustani is a bad film." The Filmfare Awards that followed a couple of months later thought otherwise, and I realised that I was different, that there will be films I hate which will be celebrated by the world around me. Today as I look back, I feel thankful to my Dad for being vocally disapproving of the music of "Maachis" as well as to that moment when I had discovered its magic among the hills of Jharkhand (then Bihar). "This is good, despite others' opinion of it" - was the thought that had come to my head. Several years later, it was to become the most constant feeling with things, especially movies and music, that I loved and celebrated. Only, the world of the internet would make sure that I eventually realise that there were several people like me who thought of cinema differently, and that I was not exactly "different"!

#6: Partners in Crime

"Only one is a wanderer. Two together are always going somewhere." - Alfred Hitchcock's 'Vertigo' (1958)

Early hours of 28th September. 1995. About 2am. It is raining heavily. Dad and I have just reached home after an exhausting train journey from my boarding school. The Durga Puja vacations have begun. It is going to be the shortest vacation of my hostel life - only eight days. And I am really upset that the rains delayed the trains and spoiled almost half a day of my vacation. Soaked wet, we enter the compound of our house. Mom and my brother, Devanshu, come rushing to the collapsable grill. It is dark. Power failure. Mom is struggling to find the keys, more so with the excitement of having her son back, than due to darkness. Devanshu and I are standing on either sides of the locked grill, unable to look at each others' faces but glad to be together. The first thing he says to me is: "You missed something that came on TV tonight. It was called "the Making" of a film. They showed how the film was made and all that, and it was amazing. The film will be released in Diwali. It is called 'Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge'."

This conversation, even before Dad and I had entered the house, is the first memory I have of Devanshu and me having a personal, passionate discussion on the movies. We were eleven and ten respectively. This memory is so vivid, I feel I am still there, soaked, unable to see anything, waiting to enter the house and touch the feet of my Mom, but already curious about what "the Making" of a movie could be like.

For the next seven years, this was to be our ritual. Whether during Devanshu's visit to my hostel to meet me, or during my vacations, it did not take more than five minutes for us to start discussing cinema. And then we went on and on for hours. Mom participated excitedly, often giving us perspectives that her two kids did not have, while Dad was left ignored, and he retaliated with unkind remarks. The moment power supply was restored, Devanshu and I used to rush to the hall, to watch the latest trailers of the upcoming films. And he made me hear movie songs from the cassettes he had bought. This was all too overwhelming for me, especially during the first day of my vacations. He also taught me the lyrics of the latest hits - he had always been sharper than me when it came to learning the songs, and he could sing really well. But he was always less inhibited about his excitement and that often led us to embarrassing and difficult situations. I remember how he had exulted with joy when a particular song had topped the weekly top-ten on Doordarshan, a show called "Ek se badh kar ek", as Baba, our grandpa, was having dinner in the same room. Devanshu exclaimed as the song grabbed the top position and started singing along, as I stole a glance at Baba's disapproving face. The song was "Ek ho gaye hum aur tum, toh ud gayi neendein re" from Bombay (1996). Needless to say, I shivered with fear as the video of the song played on TV, in which the lead couple made love, with Baba sitting with us, and my brother, as if unaware of his presence, singing along.

Perhaps staying away did this wonderful thing to us. We longed for each others' company. And we longed to discuss cinema. My years away from him and this distance, I am sure, had to play a very major role in turning us into serious cinephiles very early in our lives. Leaving home as the vacations ended was sad not just because I was going to be away from my family, but also because my connection with the movies and the songs would be interrupted for the next few months. I remember, during the final day of all my vacations, I spent my entire day before the TV, trying to soak in all that I could, and the only relief would be the fact that on reaching hostel, I would be able to discuss with my friends all that we caught during the vacations. That mad passion for cinema would one day become our life, and we would continue to stay partners in crime, eventually working together and sharing credit - "Satyanshu and Devanshu Singh" - was of course a thought that never came to our heads back then. We were yet to be infected by the 'film-making' virus, and were happily, innocently, and harmlessly enjoying our love for cinema, together.

During my winter vacation in 1995, I finally got to see DDLJ on video. All had already seen it before me. I remember how amazed I was when the line "Bade bade deshon mien" was repeated in the end. Was that my first taste of an unforgettable pay-off? Perhaps it was. Later, perhaps in the summer vacation of 1996, Mom, Devanshu and I watched, for the first time, the Filmfare Awards on TV. I am sure it was a repeat telecast. But that added another chapter into my cinema consciousness, as since then I obsessively followed the Awards, year by year, to eventually compile a list of all winners in Filmfare history, and almost learning that by heart. As far as that 'first' Award show is concerned, I distinctly remember two things - that I believed 'Ho gaya hai tujhko toh pyaar sajna' had better lyrics than the winner 'Tujhe dekha toh ye jaana sanam', and that all three of us wondered what Choreography meant!!!

#5: Officially in Love

“Thank you for the movie today. It was a gift.” – Martin Scorsese’s ‘Hugo’ (2011) 

I hardly felt bad when my parents and brother left me that Sunday evening, my first day at hostel. The reality set in the following morning when I woke up at 5 am and found myself in a new and alien world. None of us knew each other, so we hardly talked while getting ready at the common wash basin. It was dark and gloomy and I felt a painful lump in my throat. Life had changed from that day. That afternoon, we were informed that the last two lectures have been cancelled for a movie screening! Our Principal, who was to be changed after my first month there, preferred sports and extra-curricular activities over studies. “Wow”, we thought, “and they call it the best school in this part of the world!” The movie screened that day from a VHS tape was Orson Welles’ “Macbeth” (1948). I hardly knew then that the actor-director was the maker of “the greatest film ever made” and that I would be idolizing him some 15 years later. That movie bored us all. I much preferred ‘Karan Arjun’ that I had watched only five days ago!

During the days that followed, ‘Karan Arjun’ was to soothe me in ways more than one. We had no source of entertainment except sports at specified hours and a couple of hours of TV on Sundays. During our leisure time in the hostel, my friends would ask me to sing film songs. Those born and brought up in today’s era of iPods and laptops can’t even understand what it was, as I sang and others, all in their beds, quietly listened. The song that I always ended up choosing was “Sooraj kab door gagan se” from ‘Karan Arjun’. I was reminded of my brother and my Mom every time I sang that, and possibly that emotion was felt in my voice. It’s often the distance from your loved ones that makes you realize the intensity of your love.

And the same happened with my first favorite film that I had watched nine days before joining hostel, with Mom and brother, reaching theater late and missing the opening credits. We had loved the film and kept talking about it, comparing our favorite moments and our favorite songs. But it was only after I left home that I realized how much I loved ‘Hum Aapke Hain Koun’ (1994). During the summer vacation, it was still running in our home town. Encouraged by Dad’s gesture of taking us to ‘Karan Arjun’, Mom suggested that we watch it again, this time with Dad. Surprisingly, he agreed. We went back to the same theater – Neelam Talkies, and missed the opening credits this time too. I don’t remember how much I read into the film, but it was to remain my favorite film for the next six years. It was also to give birth to the crazy cinephile in me around the end of 1999. How that happened will be covered in a later chapter, because this is dedicated to my first ‘official’ love!

Loving ‘Hum Aapke Hain Koun’ came naturally to me. It was so close to the world I lived in, the world of joint families that ate and danced together. And it was also as far away from reality as it should be – the romance of the lead pair was a stuff of the movies. At a time when Hindi cinema was at its shameful lowest, here came a film devoid of all formulae that were in practice. There was no effective villain except destiny, and no violence except one now-famous slap. Grace prevailed over vulgar hip-shaking dance numbers, and people sang for their loved ones in the family, and played household games. After it became such a huge hit, and created a trend that was to be used and abused for the following years, we feel the film itself was based on a contrived formula. It was not. It gave birth to the formula, and changed the content and commerce of Hindi popular cinema forever. I was to watch the film several times in the years that followed. Diwali 1997 was when it came on TV and I watched its Opening Song, only to be blown over. Imagine discovering an exceptional quality in your loved one, years after you have known her! And it was to happen again. Last month, I watched the film again and watched the song “Mujhse juda ho kar” for the first time as it was edited out of the versions I had seen before. And I so loved it, especially the moments where the lovers are imagining their marriage and their married life. I was haunted by the presence of Pooja, Nisha’s elder sister, in those dreams, because I knew the painful end she is going to have. And I wished – what if she had not died, what if they all lived together as they had imagined.

But if Pooja had not died, there would have been no ‘Hum Aapke Hain Koun’. Her death and everything that follows, which is covered only in the last half hour of the film, is its Conflict, Confrontation, and the Resolution. The entire 150 minutes before that is the Set-up. I have not seen a single film, from across the world that can entertain you, and hundreds of you sitting together, for more than two hours without any real conflict. It was the conviction of Sooraj Barjatya, who until today is my most revered film-maker, that he just made the audience spend time with these endearing characters, and made them fall in love with them and care for them. The audience was living with the family, attending their functions and playing games, and dreaming about the future, until that unexpected tragedy. No other film-maker that I have seen has managed to achieve this. Name some if you can think of, and please do not name Tarkovsky because we all know how difficult to watch his films are. To my relief, when I watched the film again last month, I could see the perfect ‘cinematic language’ used by Barjatya, something I could not have appreciated as a child. I was scared that my knowledge of film-grammar would spoil my first love. It didn’t. It can not. There is not a single shot in the film that does not seem to have born out of meticulous planning and a purposeful design. People who understand film grammar will agree to this even if they hate the film, that the writer-director had everything under his control, and it was not a fluke that this ‘marriage video’ made by a 28-year old went on to become the highest grossing Hindi film of all time, a record that was to be broken only in the new millennium.

From dreaming to buy a mandolin and eventually getting one after my Class X exams, to creating the story of an endearing family celebrating a child’s birthday (my first screenplay), ‘Hum Aapke Hain Koun’ is an inseparable part of me. It started this love-affair that eventually became my raison d’etre.

#4: Changing Times

"Choose carefully. Memories are all we end up with. At least pick the nice ones." - Juan Jose Campanella's 'The Secret in their Eyes' (2009) 

It must be some time in 1990. My Mom and my Bua were contemplating on recommending a movie to my Baba and Dadima. “This is a film they should not miss. It is more decent than they can imagine” – my Mom suggested and my Bua nodded. “Except, for the opening title sequence”, Mom thought out loud. “If it were not for that song, we could have definitely recommended it to them.” But my 20-year old Bua thought otherwise. “What’s wrong with that song? It’s the dance of Shiva and Parvati. I’m sure they won’t mind that!” And the two ladies burst out laughing.

My grandparents did not go to watch ‘Maine Pyaar Kiya’, the beautiful ‘family film’ that opened with a song where the shadows of two lovers, dressed in tights, danced with passion. The popular Hindi cinema of the early 90s was too embarrassing for such a suggestion to be made to them. Those were the times when ‘Sexy sexy sexy mujhe log bole’ played at Saraswati Puja near our house. Once on our trip to the holy town of Deoghar, the bus constantly played the song “Sarkaaye lo khatiya jaada lage, jaade mein balma pyaara lage…” On our way back perhaps I was missing that song that I started singing it. My mother snapped at me – “Don’t sing that song. It’s dirty.” I must have been nine then, too young to understand why that song was dirty. But yes, I did not sing that song before her ever in my life again.

After Bua got married, in 1993, our little domestic movie club was broken. My Mom still managed to watch some movies, very few indeed, when we were at school, with some neighbor or guest visiting our home. I remember how impressed she was with ‘1942: A Love Story’, especially how ‘clean’ it was. And I remember she narrated to us how Rahul Roy turned into a lion in ‘Junoon’. I haven’t watched that film yet, but it seems I have actually seen that scene of the ‘werewolf inspired’ transformation, so vivid was Mom’s description of it. She always had some insight into films that I could never think of. After watching ‘Saajan’, she remarked how by making Sanjay Dutt slightly bent over his walking stick, his tall frame did not appear too awkward with Madhuri and Salman by his side. While watching the opening credits of the movies on TV, I used to ask her what a ‘Nirmaata’ (Producer) or a ‘Nirdeshak’ (director) was. And when my teachers prepared us for an upcoming cultural program at school, I used to tell my friends which teacher was the ‘Nirmaata’ of this show and who the ‘Nirdeshak’ was. A couple of teachers once over-heard this conversation of mine. They were amused and smiled lovingly at me, their favorite student among all, one who barely spoke.

Dad, unlike what the first post of this series suggested, never regained his interest in the movies. In fact, he was not interested in anything except his work. But yes, when ‘Saudaagar’ released, even my Dad could not resist the temptation of watching Dilip Kumar and Raj Kumar back on the big screen. One evening, after making the two of us sleep, Mom and Dad went for the 9 pm show at Konark Talkies. As far as I remember, that was the only movie my Mom and Dad, just the two of them, watched together.

Amidst all this, something else was to change. Once on his trip to Deoghar, Dad found about this school-ashram that was known for its spiritual ambience, disciplined lifestyle, and wholesome education. He wanted me to prepare for its tough entrance exam. I attempted twice, after failing to get through the first time. Having trained under my Mom, that included 5 am study hours, getting admitted to Ramakrishna Mission Vidyapith was the first goal I consciously strove for. It was dreamt by my Dad, and my Mom and I fulfilled it. My admission into that prestigious institution was a matter of pride for my entire extended family. “Your son will now be an IAS officer” remarked my Dad’s friends. All knew this was a significant achievement in my life as a student. And perhaps no one knew, least of all I, that this was the first Plot Point in my life as a whole – an irreversible change, that was to transform a shy, introverted child into the boy I was to become. End of March, 1995, I left my home, never to return back, except for the small vacations. What happened after that and how it affected my life as a film-buff will form a major chunk of the posts to follow. But let me end this post with something totally unexpected that happened just a couple of days before I left home. My Dad took us for a movie! It was 22nd of March, my birthday, and Dad took all three of us – Mom, my brother, and me, to watch ‘Karan Arjun’ (1995). It was a rare birthday gift, when all four of us watched a movie together for the first time. That it happened two days before I left my home is perhaps one hint at the emotional side of the stern persona my Dad sported.

#3: Maiden Foreign 'Trip'

“The movie never changes. It can't change. But every time you see it, it seems different because you're different.” - Terry Gilliam's 'Twelve Monkeys' (1995)

Every time I think of the single screen theatres of my hometown, every time I go into my memories of them, there are certain images that never fail to turn up. Today, in the world dominated by multiplexes with top quality seating, projection, and acoustics, those images seem to be from a different world, or a past life. Those screens were huge, and the capacity several times more than that of the largest multiplex theatre near me. Green-yellow walls loomed over us, decorated with coloured glasses, as we rose up the wide, paan-stained staircase to enter the movie hall. There was no air-conditioning but several noisy, and habitually inefficient fans lined the edges of the walls, adding to the humdrum of the excited, rowdy crowd. Once it went dark, the little doors with 'Exit' sign above them fascinated me. Why it is important to mention that these doors take you out - I never knew! The movies were always preceded by the timeless ads for Vicco products, and during the intermission, hand-written transparencies were projected in a slide-show, advertisements for the local sari shops and gift stores. Several minutes before the 'Intermission' titles appeared on the screen, it was 'announced' by the uninhibited entry of vendors, selling soft-drinks, Uncle Chips, and pop-corn of the most pathetic order. The soft-drink wallahs had their bottle openers using which they made an irritating but inviting sound on the glass bottles. Gold Spot and Limca were our favourites, occasionally Thumbs Up. Pepsi and Coke were unheard names. I remember, asking Mom for these or other eatables was not easy - she was strict with what we ate outside the house, even though all of us were out on a 'forbidden' trip to the movies. I also remember that during the Intermission, all the people around me looked like midgets, and especially their faces appeared shrunk. Possibly it was the after effect of watching the giant images on the screen that the real people suddenly appeared tiny. Possibly, it was only in my head. But that sight was not pleasant - tiny faces look evil - was my observation. Even my Mom looked strange, and it was particularly discomforting. I also remember the echo of the dialogues in the hall - it required sincere effort and imagination to understand the lines. And I remember the bed-bug ridden seats - that completed our movie experience.

The creatures and the faces and the sounds and the energy among the audience - all was to adopt a different meaning one morning as our school - an orthodox Christian school that punished us if we were caught talking in Hindi - took all students to the Konark Talkies for a movie. It was Steven Spielberg's Jurassic Park (1993), possibly the first international film to reach every small town of this country, and definitely the first Hollywood film that grossed more from overseas than the American market. That was one unforgettable day. All lectures were cancelled and it was amazing to see the entire hall crowded with us kids - in white shirts and navy blue shorts (for boys) and red skirts (for girls). That was my first taste of American or non-Indian cinema, of a master film-maker, of a film without songs, and of the breathtaking spectacle that cinema can be. I still remember how little quirks in the film impressed me, as I had never seen them in our 'own' films - like Sam Neil clumsily tying the seat-belt when he is unable to figure out how to lock it as the helicopter descends down on the island with a waterfall in the background and a mesmerising background score playing on the sound-track. That I loved the film would be an under-statement. And the setting - with all friends and school-mates together, made it unforgettable. To think of it now, it was to be the only film I watched with my earliest friends.

On returning home, I shared the story with my Mom, excitedly. After listening to me, she said, "Imagine how this film would look in 3D". "What's that?" - I asked and she explained to me what 3D was. A middle-class housewife from a small Indian town talking about 3D in the early 90s! I didn't know then what it meant. For me, she was my Mom, who knew 'everything', sharing her knowledge and awareness of the world with me, as we let our imaginations loose about what 'Jurassic Park' in 3D would look like!

Last week, that twenty-year old imagination came alive, as I watched the movie again, re-released globally in 3D. And all those memories came rushing back to me - of those movie halls and my school friends and that conversation with my Mom. 'Jurassic Park' was my first, and deservingly so, entry into the amazing world of international cinema. I hardly knew back then, that the beginning made that day will turn my world into an amusement park of movies and turn me into a kid refusing to grow up. Today, I see the flaws in that film, which is rightfully considered an inferior film in the filmography of Spielberg. But for reasons mentioned above, and those that can perhaps never be expressed but only felt and cherished - 'Jurassic Park' remains, and will remain, one of the very favourite films of mine.