Confessions of a Closet Bollywood Buff

Bolly Good?

“So, your last name’s Khan, huh?” a guy at work randomly asks one day. We’ve always smiled and waved in the hallways, but until this particular summer afternoon, our congenial interactions haven’t really progressed beyond assessments of the weather and mutual despondency over shared cases of the Monday blues. “That’s Indian, right? Like Shah Rukh?”

Ummm, say what? Before I know it, Colin, a blond-haired, blue-eyed, rugby-shirt-clad chap — who’d fit in more at a polo match in the Hamptons than in line for the latest masala offering from India’s moviemaking capital — is extolling the musical merits of the chartbuster “Rock ’n’ Roll Sohniye” and professing his love for Rani Mukherjee.

The secret’s out. Looks like Bollywood ain’t just your ammi’s cup of chai these days.

Today, Aishwarya Rai flutters her lashes in L’Oréal commercials, Stephen Colbert consults a bhangrometer before settling major disputes, dhol beats reverberate from speakers at mainstream clubs, America’s Next Top Model stages elaborate Indian-inspired photo shoots, and Shakira gyrates those infamous hips in an all-out Bollywood tamasha at the MTV VMAs.

But what about us who’ve grown up with Bollywood? Our hips have been telling the truth for years. Just ask Helen or Madhuri.

In the interest of full disclosure, I’ll admit that I’m not exactly a Bollywood fan. For the rare Rang De Basanti or Parineeta that holds my attention for a full three hours, there are scores of asinine Namastey Londons and Main Prem Ki Diwani Hoons that send me fleeing from the TV in convulsions after subjecting myself to 15 minutes of masochistic abuse. I’ll concede that I do like the music quite a bit — my brother recently discovered how many Indian songs I have on my iPod and ridiculed me mercilessly for it — but it’s hard to find classics like the “Chura Liya” and “Pehla Nasha” of yore amid the deluge of thumping, sultry “item numbers” pervading the scene.

But despite my love-hate relationship with it, Bollywood is as much a part of my life as kheema-chawal. After all, if you’re a true-blue desi with a bona fide dharak-ing dil, have ever tasted your ma ka doodh, or are prone to screeching “Mujhe bachaoooo!” when stuck in traffic, you’ve probably been exposed to more than your fair share of Mumbai masala magic. Most South Asian kids in the States were raised on a steady diet of screeching violins, delayed reactions to ill-placed dishum-dishums, and spontaneous, perfectly choreographed, and comically attired dance sequences. Is it any wonder, then, that brown kids grow up to be drama queens who can’t fight and insist on busting out bhangra moves at the drop of a napkin?

The Bollywood of my youth (back before it was ever known as Bollywood — pre-Bollywood Bollywood, if you will) would be virtually unrecognizable to anyone accustomed to the candy-coated, substance-free bile being churned out by the masala factories in Mumbai today. There was a time when a Hindi movie was a wholesome family affair that transcended every strata of South Asian society: It offered rona-dhona melodrama to depress the aunties; a sweet, fresh-faced girl to charm the uncles; a chocolate-box hero and cheesy romance to lure in the girls; blood and gore to excite the guys; melodic music to appeal to the masses; grandeur and sophistication to be appreciated by the classes; morality to appease the conservative set; double entendre-laden (but discreet) humor to entertain the shameless; and — a miracle! — an actual storyline that could be followed and enjoyed by all.

PBB was a simpler time, with simpler titles like Mr. India and Beta and Maine Pyar Kiya and Hum. Today, nonsensical spectacles with monstrous appellations like Jab Kabhi Kabhi Kuch Kuch Ho Na Ho to Dhoom Machake Alvida Na Kehna Munnabhai (JK4HNHTDMANKM for short) generally struggle to make up for what they lack in storylines by serving up extra helpings of vulgarities. Even the music is rapidly spiraling downhill: “Just Chill” and “Shakalaka Boom Boom” might get the frontbenchers excited for all the wrong reasons, but it was during the classic “Mehndi Lagake Rakhna” that I witnessed crowds celebrate by enthusiastically flinging chappals high into the air to express their sincerest appreciation.

But today’s Bollywood is a different animal. Gone is the innocence, replaced instead by X-rated dance moves that put the Pussycat Dolls to shame. Bye-bye, dhamakedaar plot twists; hello, remakes of remakes of remakes. I can barely fathom the eagerness I felt while anticipating catching up with the latest hits during Wednesday night screenings of Chitrahar on Doordarshan; today, a glut of cable channels inflicts videos on all of our senses every second of the day. Aishwarya is stalked by American paparazzi, and Bollywood tracks find their ways into Denzel Washington movies and Black Eyed Peas songs.

Perhaps it’s easy to romanticize the past; after all, when do I ever sit down to watch an 80s-style revenge saga in my Manhattan apartment? Maybe if I actually revisit the favored films of my bachpan (I saw Dil a groundbreaking 93 times) I’ll cringe at the gaudy clothes, over-the-top histrionics, and strubbornly unified eyebrows. But glorified in the enchanted recesses of my memory, these movies will always have a special place in my own dil.

And it’s ironic that America only discovered Bollywood after Bollywood pretty much became American.

So what’s next? Will I turn on the Zee TV one day to see Colin, the Nordic cutie from work, dancing around trees and frolicking along Juhu Beach? Will he profess his love to a coy Indian heroine sharmao-ing into her dupatta? Can he master the fine art of turning his head just so as he leans in for a kiss, right before the camera not-so-discreetly pans away?

Anything can happen — this is Bollywood we’re talking about, after all…

The End [Or Is It The Beginning?]

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