Joint families tick on telly by Randeep Wadehra

Joint families are fast vanishing in our society. Even the so-called bastion of orthodoxy our rural hinterland – is no more a safe haven for this once vital social unit. Yet joint families have been proliferating on our television — Hindi soap operas to be precise.

Come to think of it, one can’t recall any major serial based on nuclear or single-parent families.

Joint families are ideal for providing the necessary backdrop, characters and plot for a spicy-weepy-funny-gripping-boring saga. Some may find similarities with our epics while others may point out Godfather as inspiration for various productions. Whatever the case, these provide enough dumbed down entertainment to our couch potatoes.

What makes joint families tick on the telly? Why the absence of clamour for small family sagas. There is obviously a magnetic attraction in the wiles of intriguing in-laws, snarling spouses and skirmishing siblings. The drama that the feuds offer is impossible to ignore.

Take the popular Saat Phere. If Kaveri has succeeded in making her in-laws’ lives miserable, then Urvashi has managed the impossible by tearing apart the seemingly unbreakable fraternal bonds between Brijesh and Nahar. She has reduced them to sighing-crying ninnies and Bhabho to a helpless bystander as the joint family’s edifice begins to crumble. The eyeballs remain glued to the telly in anticipation of a riveting fight back by the forces of the good against the ascendant evil.

Similarly, the war of attrition between the Kharbandas and the Lambas in Viraasat is interesting too. The sniggering Rishabh Lamba’s machinations keep us transfixed. The manner in which he tries to oust his younger brother Rahul and his wife Priyanka from the joint family is both revolting and hypnotising.

The intra-family feud is more compelling than the inter family one. Since these dark deeds only underscore the negatives of the joint family system why should it bewitch the viewers? Does the success of such serials indicate the manifestation of latent sadistic voyeurism in us? Or are there other factors that make soaps subtly attractive? It could not be our perennial vicarious base instincts that goad us to watch all this on television forever and again, there must be something more substantial.

Let us have a look again at the above two serials. One factor is common to both, viz., emphasis on sanskaar, a concept more profound than what is generally understood as value system. Sanskaars comprise values imbibed since birth enabling one to deal skillfully and wisely with an array of relationships and situations that one comes across in life. These are a combination of value system, social skills and inherent traits that help develop one’s character.

Sanskaar is a much-mouthed word in these two serials. In Viraasat, the arch enemies Raman Lamba and Kailash Kharbanda swear by it. In the same serial Prof. Vardhan admonishes Juhi Lamba for lack of sanskaar. When she indulges in character assassination, Priyanka shows her the right path. Priyanka is the epitome of this typical Indian value system which helps keep the family together.

Ditto for Saloni in Saat Phere, who wouldn’t utter one strong word against her elders no matter what the provocation. In every testing situation she does the right thing by eschewing the temptation for revenge or self-gratification. Thus, it goes against her sanskaar to take on Dhir Singh, Urvashi and Kaveri etc.

But not all joint families on the television make a song and dance about values, yet they have a sound and practical sense of the right and the wrong. Take the Thakkar family in Baa Bahu aur Baby. Despite their differences and foibles the members stay together. They share joys and sorrows and look after the most vulnerable in the family. Godavari, the matriarch, commands respect and obedience from one and all, including her daughters-in-law without resorting to ma-in-law type strong arm tactics. The pivots of the narrative remain the weakest in the family, be it the physically challenged Baby, the mentally challenged Gattu or the terminally ill Saumil. The family invariably rallies round whenever one of them needs help. Things do get mawkish at times, but who wouldn’t like to live in such a joint family where tears and giggles mingle so naturally? In real life this institution has become an anachronism. Thus its invocation invites ridicule among today’s viewers.

Yet a farce like Instant Khichdi enforces its viability on the idiot box at least. The bluff patriarch of the Parekh parivaar, the silly but lovable Hansa-Prafull couple and the busybee Jayshree Bhabhi keep us amused even as they stick together through thick and thin.

Why has such a joint family become utopian in real life? The refusal of successive generations to care and share is becoming louder. As a child reaches adulthood he wants to strike out on his own. The family values of yore have become a burden and a drag on one’s quest for self-fulfillment. Our desire for personal space and need for growth have thrown us into a vortex of high ambition, insecurity and angst. So what is the solution? We have yet to see serials resolving such dilemmas. Or do the above serials offer one such? Can’t say, given the interplay of the adult ego. All one can do is slap one’s forehead and exclaim with Jackie and Chucky, the two Parekh kids, "Bade log, Bade log."

THE TRIBUNE

All for love by Randeep Wadehra

How love makes the television soaps go round. In the process, varied reactions like jealousy, sadness, anger, possessiveness are triggered off

AMONG all the strands woven into the tessellated pattern of human relationships, love is the most colourful and vital. Legal and illicit, real and presumed, comforting and painful, beautiful and ugly... it dominates our television soaps.

Saat Phere’s Shubhra is an interesting instance. An explosive mix of hubris and insecurity, she becomes an epitome of jealousy and bitterness when her love for Nahar remains unrequited. Her condition gets exacerbated when she finds that her ordinary-looking elder sister, Saloni, has succeeded where she has failed. This leads her into situations where she becomes an unwed mother.

When Neel and Saloni rescue her from a dark future, she becomes grateful, but only temporarily. Her sister-in-law Kaveri, evil personified, plays on her insecurity and turns her against her well-wishers.

Neel, on the other hand, exemplifies sublime love. Failure on gaining Saloni’s hand makes him despondent for a while but he comes out of it. He accepts a platonic relationship with her. Later, he marries Shubhra to save her from disgrace.

Matters of heart provide staple to our TV soaps. Hearts brimming with multi-hued multi-layered emotions affect actions of different characters in a narrative. Each emotion manifests itself in a manner peculiar to the story line and cast. But what is really interesting is the Krishna motif that often crops up on the small screen. For example, allusion to Yashoda and Devki in Sindoor is a time-tested dramatic device that has been in use ever since motion pictures came to India. Thus, Vedika, the foster mother is locked in a tussle with infant Krishna’s biological mother Anisha for the child’s possession. Needless to say, streams of tears inundate the narrative.

There is a rather unwholesome dimension to onscreen love. Of uncontrolled passion that breaks all societal norms, thus creating rather piquant situations later on for protagonists. So we have nostril-flapping, rebellious born-out-of-wedlock progeny confronting errant parents as shown in Kasauti Zindagi Kay, Miilee et al. This provides enough dramatic content to lure and retain eyeballs.

However, the manner in which the angry young misbegottens are portrayed does nothing to discourage illicit love in real life; instead it insidiously glamorises the concept.

Not that legitimate relationships have any attraction for young viewers when they watch spouses going out of their way to be nasty to each other as Jai Walia is towards Baani in Kasamh Se.

Or, the senseless ease with which one is ready to break the bond for reasons that look oh so selfless and altruistic, viz., in Sindoor Niharika forces Rudra to sign on divorce papers so that he might be acquitted of false charges.

Of course, there is a fine example of ideal conjugal love in Saat Phere between Nahar and Saloni, or platonic one between Neel and Saloni. But, a cynic may well ask, isn’t such pure sentiment a bit too unrealistic in the real world. The likes of Dheer, who cheats on his wife in the same serial, are closer to real-life characters.

But love survives. In fact, it forms the dominant sentiment, triggering off varied reactions like jealousy, sadness, anger, possessiveness and what have you. So we have Ramona going to pieces on learning of Aoni’s passion for Miilee, while the latter’s attitude to her former bete noire changes from platonic to not so ambivalent.

The sublime variety too makes its presence felt in such soaps as Pyaar Ke Do Naam–Ek Radha, Ek Shyam (the Krishna motif again!), which uses the hackneyed but effective narrative device of rebirth to portray ideal love.

Perhaps the award for the most crass portrayal of love should go to Jab Love Hua. The Shroff women flee the city to take refuge in their ancestral home in a distant one-telephone-no-electricity village. The metro-bred girls keep wrinkling their pretty noses at all things rural. Situations are contrived to impel them to fall in love with ganwaars — Ananya with Raghu, for instance.

The dialogues, no the entire scenario, reminds one of Hindi movies of 1960s when it all used to begin with cultural clash between the rustic and the city-bred.

And a few contrived situations later one would find the duelists burying their hatchets and turning into cooing lovebirds. There would be song, dance and romance in idyllic surroundings. Talk of love life coming full circle.

THE TRIBUNE

A saga of outsiders By Randeep Wadehra

The inheritance of loss by Kiran Desai

Penguin. Pages: 324. Price: Rs. 395/-

This is a saga of loss. And there are so many losers. Jemubhai the judge lost his pride when he joined the Indian Civil Service. The ignominy of having to pretend being equal to his British colleagues when in fact they looked down upon him, and, ignoring the second, and sometimes third class, treatment – violent racist attacks et al – to his compatriots in England. Worse, the attempts to keep up the pretense of belonging to the elite class deprived him of conjugal happiness and filial love. The independent India only compounded his agony when Gorkhaland activists raided his house in Kalimpong, took away his weapons and treated him with contempt. Finally, he loses his sanity when his dog is stolen, triggering off an emotional explosion that had remained suppressed in his breast.

Then there is Sai who not only loses her parents and is brought up in a convent but also faces the realty of reluctant acceptance by her grandfather, the judge. Later on she finds love in the person of her tutor, Gyan, but loses him to the separatist movement. The judge has a cook who has nothing much to lose barring the dream of seeing his son prosper and settle down, which he eventually loses. His son Biju is an illegal immigrant in America where he loses his identity, and, exploited by his employers, his sense of dignity too. Later on, when he returns to India, he is deprived of his belongings – including whatever he was wearing – by thugs among the activists. Finally, Kalimpong loses its serenity, its colonial exclusivity and attendant perquisites to the insurgents.

Interestingly, all the characters are outsiders in one sense or the other. They are strangers in the changed, post-colonial scenario, with little understanding of the aspirations of the increasingly assertive locals. Gyan too is an outsider to the stratum Sai comes from, and also to his own people whose belligerence he is unable accept fully.

Despite the overwhelming aura of loss, the narrative does not become heavy for there is comic relief in the form of the Banerji sisters’ and Mrs. Sen’s desperate attempts at remaining colonial. They have company in the forms of such anachronisms as Uncle Potty and Father Booty who too lose something – their hitherto uninterrupted, taken-for-granted stay in India.

Diligent research, original metaphors and innovative syntax make this volume a compelling read. My grouse? An ending that is a bit too pat.

A profile in courage by Aradhika Sekhon & Varied shades of life by Aruti Nayar

A profile in courageAradhika Sekhon

"NOT only do you look like Napoleon, you also talk like him," said the Brigadier as he towered over the diminutive Indian-Army aspirant. This young man had the temerity to demand to know the reason for his non-selection to the Forces. And throughout the 48 years of his life, he has demanded answers to the tough questions that life has posed to him and come to terms with tough setbacks.
Randeep has a wealth of creative output to his credit. A regular columnist with a leading daily, Randeep has reams of poetry, reviews, short stories and satires to his credit. Only recently, his first book of short stories, Walls and Other Stories, has come out. "Its been published by a Chandigarh-based publisher but, please, its not a vanity publication," clarifies Randeep. In addition, he has two books of poetry coming up for publication. "One of them comprises pure love poetry and the other has a variety of themes like nature, society and humour." Randeep says that the love poetry "has the feeling of deep romance, passion and also some bitterness"
"In India it is hard to publish something unless you know someone or have won something big in the West," he quips. However, his never-say-die attitude has got him thus far and he believes that he has miles to go before he is done. "Appreciation has been my muse," he says. "I wrote for some publications and then I started posting my poems on the Web. That’s where I got some praise and slowly my confidence as well as my stock of poems started growing and finally when my publisher showed interest in printing my work, all I had to do was select from the work I had ready." In fact, a few of his short stories included in his recent book have already been published in some British and Canadian magazines.
However, all of his poetry did not generate appreciation. "There was a poem that I wrote some years ago, an ‘intellectual’ one that I was really proud of and I sent it to a local paper through my father," he recollects with a grin. "First, my father totally disowned it. Said it was too obscure. Then the editor tore it apart`85there was a red mark or a circle in every line and I was kindly instructed to write poems that people would understand. I licked my wounds for a couple of days and as you see, I am at it again, this time, hopefully with more comprehensible stuff."
Randeep has had more than his share of hard times. A chronic spondylitis attack froze his hip joints completely and it’s been almost 20 years since Randeep has been able to move his body. The attack happened just when he was settling into matrimony and fatherhood. After the illness, not only did his wife divorce him but he was also removed from his job at the Bank of Travencore without any emoluments or gratuity.
However, his family has been very loving and supporting. One of his sisters has even decided not to get married till Randeep is on his feet again. "Our mother was the source of our strength. She was the backbone of the family. When she died it seemed as if the bedrock of our existence had slipped and we were left floundering," says Randeep. "Some of the best poems in my compilation are inspired by and dedicated to her."
Randeep has had eclectic influences directing his creativity. When he was six, his teacher in a school in Kanpur, Mrs. Philomena Fernandes, gave him the opportunity to star in the role of Abraham Lincoln, "in spite of my short and roly-poly stature". In Central School Delhi, his was considered the best rendition of Subhadra Kumari Chauhan’s Jhansi ki Rani. The Principal of his school in Bangalore introduced him to Enid Blyton and most remarkable of all, it was his milkman in the same city who got him hooked to Leo Tolstoy.
Although confined indoors for the last couple of decades, Randeep’s love for life has remained intact and although he is not "out there doing it", his window to the world affords a view of far horizons.

Varied shades of lifeAruti Nayar

Walls and Other Stories
by Randeep Wadehra. Unistar Publications. Rs 195. Pages 124.

Randeep Wadehra’s anthology of 15 short stories, Walls And other stories, does not have a single theme or linear thread that binds them. With deft strokes and a skilful pen, he writes with a vigour and passion that is a natural’s. Written primarily in the realistic mode, they are descriptive and evocative. Whether it is pain or joy mingled with pathos, the writer captures fine nuances of varied hues of life in an eminently readable style. Since the canvas is vast and the range wide, reading the stories is experiencing an entire gamut of emotions—from anger, self-pity, humour, pathos and simmering violence to tender, almost lyrical, love, ardour and seething passion. If The rendezvous in Cyberia is a riveting and poignant tale where a father ‘encounters’ the daughter he has never seen on the Net, A parched rose and Our house atop the lonely hill and Images, resonate with loss, pain of separation and resentment. They deal with the betrayal, be it by death or by circumstances and fickleness of the beloved.
It is the title story Walls that reveals superb craftsmanship and a psychological realism, with the narrative shifting back and forth to synchronise with the memories and thoughts of the protagonist. It is this story, well structured and racy, that gives the reader a feeling that Wadehra’s strength lies not in the realistic mode but in capturing the landscape of the mind and the psychological ebb and flow of the subconscious—an area that he needs to explore in later works.The bare walls of the the empty flat in Bombay are a metaphor for the main character’s barrenness and the abrupt end of his rocky marriage.
Up the star-spangled garden path, The French Connection and Dreams gone awry make a tellingcomment on the way institutions have been subverted by individuals. He builds up humourous situations and etches well-rounded characters with an economy of expression. Veiled irony and subtly sardonic tone help sharpen the effect. Be it Ricky, an aspiring poet’s ambition, rather desperation, to be noticed and the entire web of deceit and hypocritical attitudes of the so-called aficionados of poetry who are supposed to talent hunt but in reality are racketeers is amazingly true to life.
At times, however, one feels there is no objectivity and no distance between the mind that suffers and the mind that creates. If nostalgia and an intensely felt recollection of trauma experienced gives Wadehra’s fictional landscape the ring of sincerity and cadence of the spoken word, it also hinders his growth as a consummate story teller. It is important for a story teller to objectify the situation and make it transcend from a personal outpouring to a universal truth.
Comfortable with the rhythms of language, his art as a story teller is indisputable. It is the structuring and the craft that needs honing.
Well brought out with an evocative cover, Walls And other stories, holds the promise of many more riveting collections to come.
THE TRIBUNE

Laughing at ourselves by Amar Nath Wadehra and Randeep Wadehra

Punjabis are known the world over for their exquisite sense of humour, and they take pride in the fact. Suddenly, the Punjabis have stopped laughing at themselves and at others. This has introduced the hitherto unknown element in the Punjabi psyche, viz, intolerance, spelling death for genuine and innocent laughter that came so naturally to them once upon a time.

QUAINT humour in Punjab had to face two onslaughts over a period of time. One was from city slickers who propagated ribaldry by painting the ruralite as an uncouth simpleton. This did an enormous damage to the image of Punjab and its culture.

Despite its present political boundaries, Punjab still is a cultural entity that encompasses a vast region extending from Peshawar in Pakistan to Delhi, touching the boundaries of states like the Uttar Pradesh and Rajasthan. Even the state of Jammu and Kashmir has not remained untouched by this vibrant culture. Simple by nature, the region’s rural folks were generous to a fault. One could enter any field and help himself to sugarcanes, maize-ears, spinach-mustard leaves etc. without provoking even mild reprimand. But it would be wrong to look upon them as some sort of blockheads. Imbued with earthy cleverness, they had a unique ability to look at the funnier side of even mundane happenings.

he second blow came in the form of militancy. Suddenly, the Punjabi stopped laughing at himself and at others. A scowl enwrapped his visage. It introduced the hitherto unknown element in the Punjabi psyche, viz, intolerance. This spelled death for genuine and innocent laughter that came so naturally to us once upon a time. We do crack jokes now, but we are always wary of "not hurting someone’s psyche or sentiments." The anecdotes recounted here are an attempt to hark back to the era of uninhibited frolic sans malice.

Ticketing titters

Today’s generation will find it hard to believe, but there was a time when buses used to run on coal. Life flowed at a leisurely pace. A ‘steam-bus’ from Samrala would trundle towards Ludhiana at the exhilarating speed of 15mph. Its frequency was uncertain and hours irregular. The bus would wait for as long as three hours to have the required load of passengers. One could see the folks getting down the bus and having their meals while waiting for the conductor to signal the start of the journey. The more impatient ones would simply walk down to their respective destinations -- beating the bus by healthy margins.
One wintry day, after all the seats were occupied, the bus chugged off. The conductor, after a quick headcount, discovered that one of the passengers had not purchased his ticket. When repeated appeals followed by stern warnings did not elicit the requisite response, he began to check the passengers’ tickets from one end of the bus. Painstakingly he reached the other end when he espied a weather-beaten-granite-faced rustic, munching peanuts nonchalantly. Dressed in the traditional khaddar kurta and pajama, and cozily snuggled in a woollen blanket, he seemed lost to the world.
"Baba, toon ticket litta hai (Grandpa, have you bought your ticket?)," the conductor’s shrill query broke his reverie.
"Nah." The elder replied with a why-bother-me-with-trifles tone, and poured a fistful of nuts into his yawning mouth.
"Kyon?"
"Meri marjee (my wish)!"
"Ticket tann laina paiyega (You will have to buy the ticket)!," the conductor declared firmly.
"Changa (OK)," the old man dipped a huge hand into his kurta’s pocket. Then he rummaged through his pajama. Finally, just when the impatient conductor was about to explode, he came up with a coin. It was as weather -beaten as its owner.
Its value appeared dubious.
"Baba, eh taan khota hai!"
"Mere kol taan ehi hai." The sexagenarian expressed his helplessness, with a twinkle in his eye.

That was the last straw. When a Punjabi conductor blows his top, the details are best not enumerated. While the verbal fusillade was still on, he managed to ask the driver to stop the bus. Then he caught hold of the old venerable and pushed him out on the road. As the bus resumed its wheezing trek towards Ludhiana, the old man shouted, "Son, where was the need for all this shoving? My destination had arrived anyway."

II

Years later, a woman replayed the above incident at the Ludhiana railway station, a bit differently. Let us call her Kailasho. Whenever she had to travel from a village near Jagraon to Ludhiana, she took the bus. Like many others of her times she was unfamiliar with the ways of the railways and studiously avoided journeying by train. But one day, as luck would have it, she had to board the train for Ludhiana. Jagraon was a tiny one-platform station, so she could easily identify the right train. She innocently assumed that tickets would be issued in the dabba (the compartment), as was the case with the bus.
The train was well on its way to Ludhiana when she learnt from her fellow passengers that she was supposed to buy tickets at a window outside the Jagraon platform. The passengers gleefully added to her panic by conjuring up images of hefty fine, or worse, a stint behind bars. It was clear that the city folks were enjoying the village belle’s discomfiture. After the initial horror subsided, Kailasho’s survival instincts came into play. Quietly she hit upon a plan
When the train reached Ludhiana, she made a beeline for the exit gate. When the ticket collector asked her for the ticket, although she was quailing within, Kailasho maintained her external poise. She said sweetly, "Brother, may I place my trunk across the gate? I do not want to block the way."
The unsuspecting babu allowed her to cross the threshold. To liberty. Without breaking step, she kept on walking.
The T.C. shouted, "Sister what about your ticket?"
"What ticket? I’m yet to board a train!"

The esteem bath

It was mid 1940s. Vidyasagar was a celebrity of sorts in his village. After all, he was the only lad who had passed the Intermediate exam, and that too in first division. He felt like cat’s whiskers when he was recruited in the Air Force soon after he passed the exams. Those days, to land a government job was the surest way to reach the pinnacle of village folks’ esteem. "Munda naukar ho gaya hai" would be whispered in a mix of pride, awe and envy. And to be a fauji, who would supposedly be flying the "jahaaj", catapulted one to the ranks of romantic heroes.
Every society has its share of mavericks and ego-busters. Vidyasagar’s village too had one such by the name of Chhinda. He was always on the lookout for the feet of clay that could be exposed and thus ridicule the ‘gods’. Villagers would always be a bit extra cautious with their words and deeds whenever Chhinda was around. He had zeroed in on Vidyasagar now. Not out of malice, but just because the rest of the village was eulogising him, so he felt it his bounden duty to correct the imbalance. He had the added incentive of getting even with Vidya who had excelled him in studies. Chhinda had dropped out of school after class three.
The relentless ribbing had started getting on to Vidyasagar’s nerves. He was saved from further ordeal by the timely call for training to the distant Bangalore. Bangalore’s scenic beauty and serenity bewitched Vidyasagar. The tough training schedule and his performance did wonders to his self -esteem. After the initial period of training, he was allowed a short leave to visit home.
A transformed Vidyasagar landed at the Samrala bus stand. Crew-cut hair, smartly tailored dress, shining black shoes and a bulging military kit bag full of exotic goodies from the distant Bangalore. With a spring in his gait and a song on his lips our hero took off to his village through the lush green fields, when a familiar greeting stopped him in his tracks.
"Oye yaraa! Aa gaya ain chhutti?" only Chhinda could talk to our "suited booted sahib" with such familiarity.
Vidyasagar threw his bag on the ground and fervently embraced his childhood friend. They talked and laughed like two long lost brothers. Chhinda picked up the kit bag and both of them began to walk towards the village.
Engrossed in small talk, light banter and reminiscing they were walking arms in arms, with Chhinda addressing him as " Oye faujiya" and "Yaraa" making our man wince. He did expect a bit of deference to his better social standing from this school dropout even if he was a friend!
Suddenly they were face to face with Vidyasagar’s cousin Taranath - a stoutly built uneducated, uncouth and quick-tempered fellow - notorious for his rough and ready methods in resolving all arguments. The ‘daang’ (seasoned bamboo stick) was his constant companion, and took pride at being a "daang-bahadur". Hidden virtues of tact and silence manifested themselves when Tara was in belligerent mode. Vidyasagar would have happily avoided crossing this family black sheep’s path. But this was not to be
He and Chhinda stopped to greet Taranath.
"Panditji, kee haal aie?"Chhinda was at his socialising best.
"Theek thaak bhai. Vidya chhutti aya ain?"
"Haan bir." Vidyasagar was brief but polite.
After exchanging pleasantries and small talk Taranath took leave as he had to settle a pressing problem in the neighbouring village.
No sooner was he out of the earshot than Vidyasagar turned on his companion.
"Chhindya, this is ridiculous!"
"What is?"
"I’m the most educated man in the village and have a decent job too, yet you take all sorts of liberties with me, while you address my good for nothing cousin as ‘Panditji’! Ridiculous!!"
Chhinda’s eyes twinkled with amusement and mischief.
He chuckled and replied, "Faujiya! We are friends, so I take liberties - as you call them. Moreover Tara’s daang is far more potent than any book you might have come across. What harm can your Intermediate certificate do to me? One blow of his daang can fuse all distinctions between the wrong and the right. Don’t fret my friend, the day your pen begins to wield more power than his stick you will be called Panditji with reverence by one and all."
http://www.tribuneindia.com/2001/20010107/spectrum/main1.htm

Facing life like a champ BY Randeep Wadehra

My Fight Back from Death’s Door
by V. Chandrasekhar
East West Books, Chennai. Pages ix+121. Rs 150.

When limbs are strong and reflexes panther-like, when one is in the prime of youth and is blessed with rare talent, success in the chosen field is a foregone conclusion, especially when one is ambitious, focused and hard working enough. But when adversity strikes only a true champion has enough grit to overcome. This is the story of the iconic Venugopal Chandrasekhar, the former national table tennis champion who earned the Arjuna Award as well as lifetime achievement award. He was striding towards the acme when the cruel blow of fate in the form of negligence by a reputed hospital turned this potential world-beater into a vegetable.

He was already the national champ and was making his mark on the international TT scene when he had to go in for knee surgery in a world class super-specialty hospital. He should have been up and about in three or four days. But destiny had plotted something tragically different for him. Things went horribly wrong on the operation table and Chandra suffered brain damage that cost him his vision as well as control over his limbs.

Known for his aggressive play, Chandra refused to turn into a rotting vegetable. The extent of brain damage was such that experts gave little chance of recovery. But he refused to accept this verdict and fought with his back on the bed. Moreover, he had decided to thwart the cover-up efforts of the hospital authorities. Thus began his war of attrition against fate that involved battles on several fronts, viz., health recovery, fighting court cases, mobilizing funds and support. It was not easy. There were many heartbreaking phases when despair and defeat stared him in the face, when those expected to stand by him disappointed and sheer helplessness of his father only added to the dismal scene. But there was help from unexpected quarters as well as friends and society at large.

Although a champ to the core he did display some contradictions in his character. For example, he preferred to surrender his finals match to Manjit Dua than take personal insults from the rowdies amidst the Delhi crowd, but he pocketed the insult when someone called him a drunk mistaking his post-operation slouch ‘n’ shuffle for inebriation. Nonetheless, all through the narrative one is impressed by Chandra’s champ-like demeanour – whether he is negotiating better financial deals for himself and fellow table tennis players or playing mind games with rivals. When some players began suspecting him of using ‘supernatural’ tricks to win matches he did nothing to allay their fears. Instead he played on their ill-informed belief to psyche them! He was friendly and helpful towards all, although not an extrovert. But he was always relentlessly competitive. This trait stood him in good stead while dealing with the vagaries of time. Today he is contributing his mite towards making table tennis a nationally popular sport. And, more importantly, he coaches children in Chennai in his effort to nurture world beaters. He played like a champ, fought like a champ and is now living like a champ.

For a handful of stardust by Randeep Wadehra

Some earn love, adulation and respect of the masses as well as the classes and thus bask in stardust’s tinsel glory for life, while others, treated with amnesiac indifference, fade into oblivion. If one looks at the routes to success taken by different actors, one discovers that there really is no cut and dry formula for success. Physical attributes, screen presence, pedigree, connections, luck and sheer talent contribute in varying degrees. For example, Chunky Pandey and Smita Patil came from powerful political families; while the former remained an also-ran, the latter had acquired the status of an actress of substance.

And, now it is part of the Bollywood lore that superstar Amitabh Bachchan perhaps would still be selling paints in Calcutta or elsewhere if his mother Teji Bachchan were not a friend of Indira Gandhi, who in turn was close to Nargis Dutt – a connection that fetched him the role of a mute in Reshma Aur Shera. The rest is a still unfolding history.

So, what makes an actor tick?

Among female artistes, the ‘wow’ factor works with a telling impact. Of course, this can be both an expression and an acronym. As expression it can be used to appreciate all things beautiful, including hour-glass figures of the tinsel town’s bewitching belles like Sushmita, Aishwarya, Priyanka et al.

Earlier, Simi Garewal in Siddharth, Rehana in Dastak and Chetna, Mumtaz in Aparadh and Zeenat in Hare Rama Hare Krishna had wowed the audiences with various degrees of skin exposure, although by today’s standards they, barring Simi in Sidharth perhaps, look definitely overdressed. As an acronym, WOW stands for westernised oriental women as epitomised by Zeenat Aman, Simi Garewal and Parveen Babi. None of the three can be ever regarded as great actresses but they survived because of their exotic looks. Today’s WOW like Sushmita Sen, Priyanka Chopra or Aishwarya Rai are capable of emoting better than them.

Hema Malini got the Dream Girl tag for her flawless facial beauty but she has not been a great performer, although she impressed in such Gulzar movies as Khushboo, Kinara and Meera. Like beauty and brains, talent and good looks are a rare combination in Bollywood. Madhuri Dixit is an excellent example. Her vivacious-vulnerable persona has triggered off many a male fantasy — MF Husain’s Gajgamini for example. She is a versatile actress as indicated by her comic role in Khel, the exploited but defiant girl in Tezaab or as Chandramuki in Devdas. And, who can forget her portrayals in Dil, Beta, HAHK, and many others? Actually, she reminds one of Madhubala, who ruled over male hearts in the past. Famous for being Anarkali in Mughal-e-Azam, she was equally charming in comedies like Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi.

Sridevi fans will disagree but Rekha is perhaps the ultimate in sensuality and method acting. She carved out a niche as an all-time great actress, courtesy her role in Umrao Jaan. She has portrayed a wide range of characters in movies like Khoobsoorat, Muqaddar Ka Sikandar and Khoon Bhari Maang to name a few. This brings us to the moot point: does a woman’s physical attributes overshadow her acting talent? There are no easy answers but if one considers the success stories of Shabana Azmi in Arth, Fire, Ankur, etc and Smita Patil in Aakrosh, Arth etc, one would admit that histrionic prowess matters. In fact, Shabana has reached the rarefied peak meant only for all-time greats. Smita too was a class actress and would have matched or even surpassed Shabana’s achievements if she had not died young. Earlier, Nutan had gained popularity by the dint of her abilities despite her not-so-glamorous looks.

Among the present crop, there is no dearth of talent. Karishma has given award winning performance in Fiza and Raja Hindustani. One liked Aishwarya Rai’s role as Neerja in Raincoat. That she is much more than a pretty face is substantiated in flicks like Devdas and The Mistress of Spices. Preity Zinta exudes sophisticated charm onscreen be it in Veer Zara, Salaam Namaste or Kal Ho Na Ho. But the most exciting performers are Kajol and Rani Mukherjee. The former is making waves in Fanaa, while the latter has stamped her class in Black. There are other movies too in which the cousins have displayed great talent. Gupt saw Kajol play a negative role even as in DDLJ she excelled in soft romance. Rani, as lawyer in Veer Zara, held her own in scenes with Shahrukh, and excelled in movies like Calcutta Mail, Chalte Chalte and many others. Although neither of them have the features of a classic beauty, they have an indefinable charm. Juhi Chawla, in contrast, is charm personified. Her smile is her USP. QSQT brought her unprecedented acclaim. She too has displayed great versatility by playing romantic, serious as well as comic roles. Darr, Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani, Hum Hain Rahi Pyaar Ke, Eena Meena Deeka, etc are proof enough. Tabu had no particular USP. She has come up the hard way. After Prem flopped, she soldiered on until she gained recognition for her role in Maachis. Urmila Matondkar established her credentials as an actress of substance in Banaras and Pinjar, while Amisha Patel performed well in Gadar.

Suffice to say that talent among women actresses, whether beautiful, sexy or plain Janes, is proliferating. And successors to the likes of Meena Kumari, Waheeda Rehman, Nutan and Rakhi won’t be hard to find.

Among men, handsome hunks like Akshay Kumar, John Abraham and Hritik Roshan have been in the limelight along with the pint-sized heartthrobs like Aamir and Salman. But sheer talent too has made its presence felt. Today when one watches Om Puri, Naseeruddin Shah, Ashish Vidyarthi, Irrfan, Rahul Bose, Kay Kay Menon and others with unconventional looks play main protagonists on the big screen, it becomes difficult to imagine that there was a time when mostly tall and well-built men with Greek God looks like Dharmendra and Vinod Khanna, and before them Sohrab Modi, Prithviraj Kapoor etc, were preferred for lead roles. Talent wasn’t a priority, although the not so glamorous but highly talented Ashok Kumar and Dilip Kumar became cult figures during their lifetime. In those days, exceptional talent had to struggle for recognition.

Hindi cinema has always been home to the extraordinarily gifted as well as the absolutely mediocre. At different times fresh blood from small towns came to Bombay and set new benchmarks in histrionics. Dilip Kumar as tragic hero remains unequalled. Rajesh Khanna rewrote cinematic performance’s syntax, yet will be remembered as a peerless romantic hero. And since Big B’s arrival, Hindi cinema has never been the same.

Time and again Bollywood has proved that, as in any other profession, talent isn’t the only criterion for success. Luck and pedigree play their part too. For example, Abhishek Bachchan, Tushaar and Shahid Kapoor would have sunk without trace had their respective parents not been big names in the film industry. The likes of Karisma, Raveena, Kareena, Aamir and Salman too would have found it tough to get decent offers at least initially. Outsiders like Amitabh, Shahrukh, Om Puri, Kay Kay Menon, Aishwarya etc have invariably been more successful at the box office. True, Sunny Deol, Sanjay Dutt, Rani Mukherjee and Ajay Devgan are successful progeny of film families, but would they have got even a look-in had they been outsiders?

Since stardom and glamour go hand in hand, many good-looking actors with wooden expressions have thrived in the tinsel town. One can recall Anil Dhawan, Rakesh Roshan and Navin Nishchal who fall in this category. For example, Anil Dhawan had nothing much to do in BR Isharaa’s movies except play second fiddle to Rehana Sultan, while Rakesh Roshan has played in good comedies like Khatta Meetha but he is remembered more as Hema Malini’s fiance in Paraya Dhan. Navin Nishchal’s Sawan Bhadon did him little good. Jeetendra’s face has been his fortune. Variously named as Jumping Jack and Indian James Bond, he was lucky to make his debut when chocolate-kid looks were the norm. Wowing the audience as action hero in Farz, he soon became famous for his energetic dance style. Only Gulzar could extract some histrionic juice out of him. Before him, Rajinder Kumar was also one such lucky star. Barring Sangam, one can’t recall any other movie wherein he displayed much acting skills. Yet he became famous as Jubilee Kumar! Dharmendra, in contrast, acted within his limitations but saw to it that he never got typecast as action hero by portraying sensitive characters too. He was a revelation in comedy roles in movies like Chupke, Chupke.

Yet, there were many who were talented but depended heavily on style and looks, rather than substance, to succeed.

Dev Anand has been a style icon to generations of cine buffs. His puff, wardrobe and thousand-words-a-breath dialogues added to his good looks. But as an actor? Whether he’s romancing his onscreen beloved or breaking sad news to his mother, his face sports identical half-serious-half-mocking expressions. When he’s delivering or receiving a punch, he does it in style, taking care not to fall with a thud. His crying seldom evokes pathos. Yet, he gave memorable performances in films like Guide and Tere Mere Sapne.

Raj Kumar too depended substantially upon style to build an iconic image. His rugged looks, swagger and dialogue delivery, peppered with one liners, earned him a huge fan following. On the other hand, Rajesh Khanna – the original phenomenon – was a unique mix of style and substance. Successful both as a romantic hero and a serious actor, he ruled Bollywood like no one else before him. Anand, Aradhna, Amar Prem, etc got him a place of honour in the Indian cinema’s hall of fame.

At the other end of the spectrum was Dilip Kumar who epitomised the ‘Method’. His voice, eyes and facial expressions were backed with a well-rehearsed body language. If he made you weep as Devdas, he touched your heart as Salim in Mughal-e-Azam and entertained you in Ram Aur Sham. Even as an aged thespian, he held his own against the formidable Amitabh Bachchan in Shakti, and his performance in Mashaal was awesome. In fact, Shakti was touted as the clash of titans that would decide who was the greatest actor of all times. Dilip, as upright police officer shares laurels with Amitabh who plays his angry, rebellious son. It was the death scene on the runway that saw the duo display their best wares.

Sanjeev Kumar was another actor who got under the skin of the characters he portrayed. If he displayed great comic sense and timing in movies like Angoor, his portrayal of a deranged lover in Khilona has remained a benchmark for his successors. His deaf-mute role in Koshish is simply unforgettable. Like Dilip he too depended upon his voice, eyes and body language to make his mark. In contrast, Balraj Sahni was a mix of classic good looks and natural talent; who can forget Garam Hawa, Do Bigha Zamin and Seema among others?

Sunil Dutt gave memorable performances in Gumrah, Padosan, Mujhe Jeene Do and many others. Though obviously gifted, he could not be called a great actor as most of the time he featured in home-made dacoit movies that did him little credit. And, Guru Dutt, despite his limitations as an actor, came up with great roles in Pyasa, Kaghaz Ke Phool and Chaudhavin Ka Chand. Rank outsiders, both of them have left an enduring impact on Hindi cinema.

Amitabh Bachchan is still going strong. Dismissed as a no-hoper when he had arrived in Bollywood, he is now looked upon as the only complete actor Hindi cinema has ever had. Recently, he was voted as the sexiest male, and to think that there was a time when film critics used to call him horse-faced and compare his long legs with those of a camel’s: A case of the revenge of the ugly duckling!

If one takes a close look at some of the major success stories, one realises that there was an assiduous attempt at creating a brand. So, Raj Kapoor was the loveable naïve vagabond of Shri 420 or the down-at-heel lover-boy of Sangam who dared to dream, and succeed too. His naivet was his USP as epitomised in Teesri Kasam, Jagte Raho and Mera Naam Joker, to cite some. And in case of Manoj Kumar, he purveyed patriotism to nurture his image as the supremely idealist Bharat Kumar in movies like Upkaar, Purab Aur Pashchim and Roti Kapda Aur Makaan etc. He even harangued his heroine on matters patriotic. Yet, he came up with a masterpiece in Shor. Anil Kapoor did start as an angry young tapori a la Bachchan, but shall be remembered for his role in Ishwar.

Today’s actors are better trained, fitter, excellent dancers and camera savvy. But can they measure up to the masters of yore? Hritik is one such, and has established his credentials as an actor in Koi Mil Gaya. But is that all one can expect from him?

Do the Akshay Kumars, Sunil Shettys and John Abrahams have it in them to impact the cinema for any length of time? Is the era of all-time great actors over? It’d be hasty to say so, what with Ajay Devgan, Aamir, Shahrukh and Anil Kapoor still around and Nana Patekar, Kay Kay Menon and Om Puri regularly breaking new ground in histrionics. Moreover, who knows, some lad from a vague place may storm Bollywood and redefine acting paradigms altogether.