BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Most memories fade with time. But a few refuse to vacate the mind and go away. One such memory had catalysed the possibility of an accident a few months ago. I was in a taxi in Mumbai, and the car stereo was playing the cult classic I Am A Disco Dancer from the film Disco Dancer that had turned Mithun Chakraborty into an overnight dancing sensation in 1982. While humming the song, the driver changed gears so excitedly that he almost hit an auto-rickshaw. Out of sheer disgust, the rickshaw driver churned out some awful unprintables. After sanity returned, my cab fellow told me apologetically, "Sorry, saab. But I really love the song. I have been hearing it ever since the film got released." I wasn't prepared to grant him unconditional apology, since the experience had shaken me up thoroughly. But I understood him. As someone who had witnessed the Disco Dancer mania at its peak, and that too in a small town, I knew that the driver had turned into Mithun for a brief while.
There are so many books on Bollywood and its stars, but I am yet to come across a serious yet popular work on the enormity of its impact on the commoner's lives. Although I am a great Amitabh Bachchan fan, I was astounded when the Big B came to an awards function in Mumbai last year. Till the superstar arrived at the arena, the Vivek Oberois of the world were hijacking all the attention. But once he did, about eight persons climbed on a ledge to have a look at the man. While trying to wave at him, all of them fell down. With big grins on their faces, they wiped the dust off their clothes and returned to the seats. Had I not been working for the company that had organised the awards ceremony, would I have acted like those fellows? Don't know. Won't speculate. Actually I might have, considering I had once watched Shahenshah every day for one week or more. Even today, I tend to find millions of merits in Big B films like Ek Ajnabee that the critics pan and the box-office rejects. And, while I am sure that no critic will sympathise with my perspective, it is equally true that are at least a few thousand fans out there who think Ek Ajnabee is a flawless masterpiece unlike me.
When a star is at his or her peak, fans mimic their dress sense in a big way. I have been fortunate enough to see people wearing yellow shirts, yellow trousers and, of course, white shoes when Jeetendra's Hindi forays shot down South were huge hits. Amitabh's hairstyle was copied by thousands and, here I have noticed, mostly by short men. When Mithun Chakraborty became a rage, many shaved off their sideburns. In parts of the cow belt, 'disco lights' were available for Rs 20 which people attached to their belts. The lights went blink, blink, blink, as the proud owners walked up and down the streets, trying to look like their beloved disco dancer. In a small-town theatre, I have seen people leave their seats and go down on their knees, imagining they had guitars in hands when Amitabh Bachchan played the instrument onscreen in Yaarana or Mithun did in Disco Dancer.
If you visit an awards show, just make sure you see how people move their necks every time a new star comes to the venue. Eastward, Westward: that movement is to catch a better view of Abhishek Bachchan who makes an entry from the front. Westward, Eastward: that is for Rani Mukherji who walks in from the rear. Don't the necks hurt because of the sheer number of times everyone moves them? Not at that time, although one is quite sure many feel the sting once they are back home and dealing with the demands of everyday living.
Many feel that people flock to Mumbai in huge numbers every year to work as extras because they have no job opportunities back home. I can understand if the reference is to cab or rickshaw drivers, who earn a lot more than they can back home. But most who work as extras do so because they are besotted with the idea of being close to the stars they adore so much. Some of them continue to dream of becoming minor actors till the last days of their lives. With such aspirations in mind, they work for 16 hours a day, eating unpalatable unit food, earning hardly anything, unsure of what tomorrow has in store. But then, such is passion.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
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