In the middle of these semi-rural places was always a temple that stood as the anchor point of their respective existence. These temples were the storehouse of shared and collective experiences of the whole place, that kept a record of the ethnography, migration, social history and political watermark of the population. Their festivals were the milestones by which events were marked and remembered. Temples were not about the religion at all, they were congregational places where people gathered to share gossip and ask after each other while circumambulating around the sanctum sanctorum. A sad death of a cow was noted with a nod, a birth was celebrated with an open smile and the secret story of an affair was shared with meaningful half-smiles.
This provincial memory is perhaps why I am a fan of Hrishikesh Mukherji and Basu Chatterji movies. Growing up in Bombay, I was not attracted to Hindi film as a medium. I avoided them as much as possible primarily because I did not "get" the sensibility of Indian movies. I discovered them with a passion when I came to America and slowly learned to go past the obvious and appreciate Indian movies as a genre, much like opera or nautanki and not compare them with movies from other places. Hrishikesh Mukherji opened the door to a hidden India that I appreciated from memory.
I find the heroes of those movies quite satisfying. They are members of the eternal class that is perennially becoming middle-class. They are at the verge of things happening to them; they are educated and decent and have jobs with full potential to become something very respectable. Most of them are not manly-men full of machismo and righteous anger, but they are accountants and officers with a flair for manipulating the truth and an appreciation for a good time not peppered with violence. They fall in love with women who have lazy hairstyles and casual habits in wearing their clothes, but are satisfied and happy. They are not horrible or mean, nor are they slutty or bitter. These women, while they work and are independent, are the perfect matches for the earnest yet lacking-in-confidence heroes.
And most of them, the leading ladies and leading men, do not have their mothers. If they indeed have mothers, they are conveniently not present in the movies. One gets the impression that the cheery disposition of the characters is partially due to the absence of the mother figure. Fathers are mostly absent too; if present they are benevolent absent-minded fools who are happy to float through life preaching values that they seldom hold that dear.
Of course, none of this would work in the absence of Utpal Dutt (and rarely Ashok Kumar). As far as I am concerned, Utpal Dutt remained the reason why these movies worked. To be happy in this world meant that one had to be in the company of Dutt, either as a potential son-in-law or as an acquaintance. He was a teacher, a boss or a police inspector who brings order to your life, not that the life these movies described were by any means orderless.
I also like the fact that they movies lack conspicuous villains. They don’t have dacoits waiting to rape fair maidens or urban dons smuggling gold biscuits through Versova beach. Most of the time, the only villain is the circumstance. Misunderstandings and misplaced expectations conspire to deprive our hero of his rightful access to the woman of his dreams. Yet, he does not resort to force; he uses wit and persistence (and a dash of chicanery) to win her from a more dashing and confident opponent or a stubborn and traditional father. You know that they are going to live happily ever after just as soon as they tie the knot.
Sisters also play a great part in these movies. They may be boring and annoying but they love their families and dot on their brothers. They are very proud of their brothers’ achievements and are quite selfless in the way they go about keeping the whole universe in order. In that regard, they act as the counterpoint to Utpal Dutt. The horrible fate of being raped and murdered (and murder right after the rape in a natural consequence in all the movies to preserve the modesty of these women) that befalls the sisters of Amitabh Bachchan and other more manly heroes escapes them. Their world lacks evil impulses of murderers and rapists. Their world is often populated by a greedy goldsmith or a drunken watchman, but such annoyances can be easily dealt with. In the 70s and 80s India of small towns were actually more like this than the world of Amitabh Bachchan anyway.
The fact that very little happens other than the micro-story in the micro-society gives these movies a certain familiar intimacy. It is like being part of a family story or attending the wedding of a relative. You know them almost. Even when the story is set in a big city like Bombay, the stories have a small town feel because the camera focuses on the few actors who make their small world, just as it dos in yours and mine. There is something to be said about doing well what you do best.
One day I hope to own the whole collection of these movies for my library. Not because I regard them as good cinema but because these movies are like chicken soup for the soul. In the real world where we face alienation and judgment and where the rush to make something out of our lives is so prominent, it is good to have something to turn to that comforts us even if it is the fake world of old movies. These movies take you back to a world that does not exist and perhaps never existed, but represent the best that existed at that part of the world at that point in time.
And for this short journey, past becomes our true companion. The past walks with us, carrying the memories, reminding us who we truly are even if we are not that and never were. The past itself may be manufactured, a phantom, yet it is a past that we need, like an imaginary friend. A friend that above all the real friends, would not abandon us when the going gets tough.
So here is to the movies for our collective manufactured pasts.
Na Jaane Kyun, Hota Hai Yeh Zindagi Ke Saath
Achaanak Yeh Mann, Kisike Jaane Ke Baad
Kare Phir Uski Yaad Chhoti Chhoti Si Baat
Jo Anjaan Pal, Dhal Gaye Kal, Aaj Woh
Rang Badal Badal, Mann Ko Machal Machal
Rahen Hai Chal, Na Jaane Kyun Woh Anjaan Pal
Saje Bhi Na Mere, Naino Mein
Toote Re Hai Re Sapno Ke Mahal
Wohi Hai Dagar, Wohi Hai Safar
Hai Nahin Saath Mere Magar Ab Mera Humsafar
Idhar Udhar Dhoonde Nazar Wohi Hai Dagar
Kahan Gayi Shaamein, Madhbhari
Woh Mere, Mere Woh Din Gaye Kidhar
