Who is the better singer? It all depends on where you come from
Vinit and Debojit, Lucknow and the entire Northeast, not to mention viewers, will be happy when Final Friday (24 February) comes and goes. Preferably goes. That’s the day Sa Re Ga Ma Pa goes Dha Ni Sa and it’s alvida to the talent contest that has taught us one salutary lesson: it’s not about how you sing, it’s about getting others to sing for you.
That the show has taken so long to reach the last stage is truly astonishing when it was fairly clear (at least four months ago) that Debo, as he is fondly called, was going to be in the reckoning and that Vinit would be throwing his baseball hat into the ring, too. Debo and Vinit possess the widespread appeal of your average boy next door who, in addition, can sing outside the bathroom.
The cardinal rule in these contests is to ensure that the most talented performers do not win. No offence, Debo and Vinit, but Himani and Nihira were nightingales to your larks (feminists please note, girls are losing to the boys). When, last, did you watch a talent contest in which the best man — or woman — won? Never, right? Unless it was American Idol’s Kelly Preston who, by the way, won a Grammy Award the other day. Girl, oh girl, can she sing. Sorry, Debo and Vini, you sound good but you’re no Kelly Preston.
So you thought talent contests were about talent. Sure are but it’s not good enough to have noodles of talent, you must have oodles of audience appeal. Don’t confuse that with sex or star appeal. And, don’t make the mistake of thinking you need to be top of the pops with the judges, either, just with those Tom-thumbs on the SMS alphabet. Essentially, talent contests are SMS contests.
And, rather like elections. Only, here, each contestant campaigns for him or herself more brazenly than any politician ever did: politicians promise you roti, kapda and makaan, these contestants plead, beg, implore: ‘‘Vote for me. Please, if you like Debojit’s blond-streaked hair, vote for Debojit at 3333.’’ And what do you get? What you voted for: Debojit’s blond-streaked hair.
Like the blond-streaked hair, there is something so false about Sa Re Ga Ma Pa and shows like it. Last week, we were being asked to vote for Vinit, not because we liked his voice, his baseball cap or any other personal characteristic. His ‘guru’ Himesh Reshmaiyya did a Rang De Basanti on us: ‘‘Vote as an Indian for an Indian.’’ He didn’t say Debojit was not an Indian, or mention the well-publicised fact that he is from the Northeast but we got his drift. Meanwhile, young Vinit is from the Hindi heartland of Lucknow and deserves your ‘‘aashirwad’’.
Lovely. First, the best singers are voted out, then the finalists demand and receive votes on the basis of caste, creed or region. Next stop religion? Thus, what ought to have been a search for the best singer has been transformed into an “honour killing” regional conflict. If you’re from anywhere east of Kolkata or the Northeast, vote for Debojit; if you’re from anywhere else north of the Vindhyas, vote for Vinit. And what about south?
Does this say something about the nature of India and Indians or more about the show? Probably, both. The show has, throughout, encouraged conflict — particularly between its illustrious gurus who have distinguished themselves by their bad manners, temper tantrums and partisan politics. There have been times when the show has been reduced to a street fight and barring the fisticuffs we’ve seen it all — walk-outs, shout-outs and just downright loutish behaviour.
Sa Re Ga Ma Pa used to be one of the most enjoyable singing shows on television. Now, it’s dividing a nation on the basis of mobile phones (to say nothing about regionalism).
The SMS revolution has consumed news channels too. So, what we have here is a neat little alliance between the mobile companies and the TV channels who betwen them carve out a pretty little commercial profit from the thousands of messages we SMS the channels. Didn’t you just know it: Sa Re Ga Ma Pa isn’t about great singing, it’s about the cash registers ringing.
Shailaja Bajpai in The Indian Express in February 2006-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pitfalls of imitating the American Dream
Does good literature teach us anything about what constitutes good economics? Prevailing punditry on economic reforms says no. What have novelists, playwrights and poets got to do with economic growth? Leave that to businessmen, economists, financial engineers and management gurus. That’s the consensus which even the political class is veering round to.
As the BSE sensex stands all set to cross 10,000 this week, a minuscule minority of the super-rich are going to get richer. However, with all the attendant trumpeting by the media, that’s enough to cause millions of additional middle-class Indians to become converts to the paradigm of stockmarket-driven prosperity. At a jolly time like this, who wants to hear voices of scepticism and disillusionment from the world of literature? Don’t you know about those rags-to-riches business families whose wealth is now several thousand crores, and rising? That’s what constitutes, according to the dominant philosophy of wealth-creation, the Great Indian Dream, the 21st-century version of the Great American Dream of the last century.
A play I read in my college years during the radical Seventies, and re-read recently, makes me disbelieve this paradigm. This week marks the first death anniversary (February 10) of Arthur Miller, the renowned American playwright who wrote Death of a Salesman. Those familiar with theatre know that it is one of the finest plays of the 20th century. Written in 1949, and enacted and adapted in theatres all over the world since then, it questioned the very dream that we now see being hard-sold by our salesmen of unbridled capitalism more than 50 years later. It is a powerful portrayal of an ordinary salesman who buys into the Great American Dream and spends all his working life in fervent pursuit of wealth, success and status.
A good-hearted and honest middle-class American at a time when being a member of the middle-class meant being pride of the nation and not an increasingly insecure nobody as is the case now in the US, Willy Loman believes in the myth that any American can become rich by working hard. He is also led to believe that, apart from hard work and honesty, success in life depends critically on status, popularity and personal attractiveness. But the more he chases these false values of capitalism, the more he feels that he is just not making it. Life teaches him that capitalism creates dreams for all, but fulfills them only for a few. He chooses not to become one of those ‘‘successful’’ few by becoming dishonest in his dealings. However, as age catches up on him, his own son begins to consider him a failure in life. Soon, he too starts to think likewise. Slowly, his sense of self-worth fades and he dissipates to his hopeless death.
Though place-specific and time-specific in its content, good literature always gives expression to experiences, aspirations and angst that are universal. Thus, there is a line in Miller’s play that echoes the experience of millions of ordinary workers and employees in today’s heartless and impersonal economic system in India. ‘‘You can’t eat the orange and throw the peel away,’’ Loman protests, when his boss fires him for not notching up the same high level of sales as in his youth, adding, ‘‘A man is not a piece of fruit.’’ If you have the eyes to see, you can see tens of thousands of these meekly protesting but essentially powerless Lomans in India, China, United States and other countries. They provide the labour that helps a few become millionaires and billionaires, but who themselves live largely unhappy lives, unhonoured in their workplaces, unknown in their habitats, mostly worrying about their children’s education, employment and housing, their family’s mounting medical expenses, life after retirement, etc.
When Miller died last year at age 89, he was mourned as the ‘Moral Voice of American Stage’. In an excellent obituary, Time magazine’s theatre columnist Richard Corliss wrote: ‘‘Miller saw the American Dream as a kind of curse, for it led us to mistake ambition for destiny, and to suffer the inevitable slump and crumble when reality makes mock of the dream.’’ There is a stirring line in the play that expresses the anguish and anger of those whose dreams go bust. Just before Loman’s death, his wife Linda, who loved and cared for her husband both in his prime and in his crisis, poignantly cries out: ‘‘Willy Loman never made a lot of money. His name was never in the papers. He’s not the finest character that ever lived. But he’s a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He’s not to be allowed to fall into his grave like an old dog. Attention, attention must finally be paid to such a person.’’
After the worldwide success of Miller’s play, ‘‘Attention must be paid’’ became a popular line in pro-people theatre and political writing. That line bears repetition in the present Indian context, when the same myths, half-truths, false promises and counterfeit values, which were castigated by Miller and countless other great poets, playwrights, novelists, journalists, philosophers, political activists and spiritual leaders all over the world, are now being propagated by consumerist advertising in India. Individualism is extolled. Obligation to contribute to the well-being of the collective is underplayed. Our young people are being led to believe that life is all about getting rich quickly, gaining status in society, and having a ‘‘good time’’. Those who can’t make the grade are adjudged ‘‘failures’’, even if they are honest and display other superior qualities at workplace and in their personal lives. The rich and the powerful are the new icons in our society, never mind how some of them got their money and power. Surely, ‘‘attention must be paid’’ to these life-impoverishing imbalances in our ideas of prosperity, economic growth and development.
Sudheendra Kulkarni in The Indian Express in February 2006
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Last month saw the release of Rakyesh Mehra's 'Rang De Basanti', a film that trains its sights on a rootless, disenchanted generation of Indian youth and juxtaposes their lack of purpose with the firebrand nationalism that drove youngsters like Bhagat Singh, Rajguru and Sukhdev on a revolutionary path. The film's protagonists represent the typical attitudes of contemporary college-goers, at least in urban India, who have accepted the rot in our society as a given and are content either planning for a bright future abroad, or too busy having fun to think of life beyond the campus. For their generation, the sacrifices made by people their age during the course of India's freedom movement seem irrelevant and wasteful. It is obvious to them that the India they've inherited has nothing to be proud of and corruption and nepotism are a way of life that cannot be done away with or fought against.
When these youngsters get an opportunity to play the youth revolutionaries of the 1920s in a documentary film, their perception about life starts undergoing a subtle change. A personal tragedy finally awakens their conscience and suddenly they cannot turn away from the viciousness of the political system. They set off on a path of violence and nihilism – the same approach Bhagat Singh and Co. adopted towards their oppressive colonial masters. Much has already been written about the irrational turn 'Rang De Basanti' takes in its last quarter and the director has been criticised for offering a simplistic, unviable solution to this country's problems. Never mind the fact that the film's wonderfully constructed screenplay builds up a perfectly logical base for the climax.
But while this ending has irked many, nobody batted an eyelid when another 'youth' oriented film last year threw up the most outrageous resolution possible. Shaad Ali's 'Bunty Aur Babli' is a classic representation of the aspirations of small-town India. Bunty and Babli run away from the claustrophobic environs of their homes in search of greener pastures. They both want to 'make it big'. But mere material wealth isn't lure enough – they also want to become famous and make it to the front page of newspapers. In order to achieve their dual goals, they join hands and go around conning people all across North India. Although none of their heists have any logical base, the audience is thrilled to know that Bunty and Babli never get caught. The dumbest DCP in the history of Indian cinema (played by Amitabh Bachchan, no less) finally nabs them and then, funnily, finds the kindness in his heart to let them go. Since he's a law unto himself, there's no questioning of his judgement by anyone else in the establishment. But the icing on the cake is that after being let off by the law, Bunty and Babli cannot adjust to their sedate life as 'respectable' citizens and the DCP once again comes to their rescue by hiring them to help the police department track down other conmen.
Typically, because a film like 'Bunty Aur Babli' is positioned as an 'entertainer', the perception is that nobody is going to take any message from the film. But that's far from true. 'Bunty Aur Babli' represents the psyche of a post-globalisation generation – a youth whose dreams are firmly hooked to fame and fortune. These are the youngsters who queue up for days on end in the hope of becoming the next 'Miss India' or 'Indian Idol' or some such quick-fix celebrity. Their icons Abhishek Bachchan and Rani Mukherjee show them on screen how easy it is to con the system and get away with it. Moreover, the signal they convey by their sheer callousness is that there is no shame in leading a life of crime. Contrast this with the climax of 'RDB' where the protagonists apologise for their actions, admit that the path they have chosen isn't the best way to tackle the nation's problems, but also emphasise that it is up to the citizens and particularly the youth to effect a positive change in this country.
A message similar to the one conveyed by films like Mani Rathnam's 'Yuva' and Farhan Akhtar's 'Lakshya', both of which didn't fare well at the box-office despite featuring popular stars. While 'Yuva' suggested that the youth must join active politics in order to stem the rot in Indian society, 'Lakshya' emphasised the need to find a purpose in life – which, in the case of the protagonist is joining the army and defending the country's borders. Analyse the options offered by these two films and place them next to 'B&B' and you'll know why the latter was one of the most successful films of last year – "Kajra re" notwithstanding.
There is no room for idealism in Indian society today, and therefore there's no scope for idealistic heroes in cinema either. Last year, Sudhir Mishra's 'Hazaaron Khwahishen Aisi' delineated a story of three youngsters growing up in the turbulent '60s and '70s. Those were the days of Che Guevara, communism, political mobilisation of the youth and their active participation in the Naxalite movement. The three central characters in the film represent three different attitudes. Siddharth, the son of a retired gives up his comfortable life and tries to create an awakening amongst the landless peasants of Bihar. His girlfriend Geeta initially follows him around out of love, but gradually finds herself drawn towards the marginalized sections of rural India. Vikram, a small-town youth realises that the system is waiting to be exploited and he makes a career as a political fixer.
At the end of the film, the hard blows of realism shatter Siddharth's idealism and he runs away to England. Vikram's power and money cannot save him from a becoming a vegetable when he's ruthlessly crushed by the very system he's fed on. Geeta continues to have conviction in her beliefs and works selflessly in some far corner of the country. One generation after the period in which the film is set, the Siddharths and Vikrams of this country are thriving and prospering, while the Geetas have vanished and nobody has noticed their absence.
'Hazaaron Khwahishen Aisi' came and went without much ado. Around the same time a certain film called 'Kya Kool Hain Hum' rocked the box-office. Respectable audiences of our spiritually evolved and morally upright nation revelled in the antics of two 'lovable' young men who spend their time panting after short skirts and duping others to lead a good life. As the film's title itself suggests, their actions are considered 'kool' and going by its success (enough to spawn a dozen me-toos and a sequel!), a large section of the film-viewing public seems to endorse this description.
The question that needs to be asked here is whether cinema, by virtue of being the most accessible and therefore the most powerful medium of communication has a function beyond mere entertainment. It does. Most cinemas of the world reflect contemporary reality and tackle issues relevant to their time. This is true even of Bollywood's escapist formula. However, good cinema – like all other arts -- doesn't just mirror social trends, it also has the power to shape the future. But when audiences routinely reject sensible cinema, the signal they are sending out to financiers and producers (whose only interest in the profession is glamour and the green bucks) is that trash sells. Last year, the one ray of hope in the midst of all the mayhem created by 'Bunty Aur Babli', 'Kya Kool Hain Hum', 'No Entry' etc. was 'Iqbal', a small film about a small-town youth's aspirations. But again 'Iqbal' was a story of individual triumph and not of collective will. As writer Javed Akhtar rightly said in a recent magazine interview, "Now we have no collective aspirations or dreams so we don’t have heroes. Do we have a dream? Sure, but only for ourselves."
Which is why, when a film like 'Rang De Basanti' sets out to 'awaken a generation', it deserves to be applauded for its intent alone.
