How does one begin to talk about a living legend, a man whose life, once he is no more, will surely be translated into the same medium which he has ruled for decades: cinema?
His career did not begin with great promise like those of the three Khans who succeeded him as Badshahs of the box office. Only film historians will probably remember the part he played in KA Abbas' Saat Hindustani (1969) even though he won an award for promising newcomer for his performance.
It was in the '70s that his career really took off, playing with considerable promise the angry yet sensitive, meticulous yet helpless doctor who tries to save Anand's life (Anand) and with explosive energy a role turned down by none other than Dev Anand: Inspector Vijay Khanna, the cop in Zanjeer. And such was the simmering anger in his performance that one now finds it laughable that Dev Anand should even have been considered for the role.
With Deewar came the iconic scene of the dockworker waiting to fight a bunch of antagonists single-handedly, nonchalantly chewing on a beedi. Every teenager’s heart went dhak dhak while looking into that compelling, expressionless gaze. There were many memorable roles to follow: the man in love with his best friend’s wife (Bemisaal), the stuttering, nervous English professor forced to tutor a young girl in Botany (Chupke Chupke), the hot-headed rich brat who was ready to sacrifice his childhood friend to his ego (Namak Haram), the jaggery trader who marries for professional profit and brazenly courts the village belle (Saudagar), the singer who could not tolerate his wife’s superior talent (Abhiman). And there were enormous errors in judgment, roles in cringe-worthy films like Lal Badshaah, Hindustan ki Kasam and Nishabd, where one asked oneself, why is he doing this?
And his life ran a course as riveting as any screenplay written by Salim-Javed: the unusual educated background, his closeness to the first family of Indian politics, the wooing of the sweetheart of new wave cinema, the affair with a co-star that led him to announce that he would veto the press, the staggering rise - and then the accident on set that suddenly brought everything crashing down.
He battled for life while a whole nation prayed for his recovery. And recover he did to do a number of eminently forgettable roles, start a business that ran into monumental losses, battle myasthenia gravis, win a Lok Sabha election with a record margin and then withdraw from politics, be accused of illicit gains in the Bofors scandal - so that like the heroes of Greek tragedy the favourite of the gods was once more back to square one - penniless, fighting huge debts, his once glorious career in a shambles, people calling him a traitor to his face.
A lesser individual would have retreated into the shadows of oblivion. Not so this man. Swallowing his ego, he went out and begged for work, starring in films like Mohabbatein. Contrary to industry naysayers who said it was professional suicide for a film actor to go on TV, he accepted the role of host in Kaun Banega Crorepati and won a whole new generation of fans. Such was the wit and good humour, the courteousness and compassion of his hosting that when one contestant, male, not female, mind you, said that he had fallen in love with the host, all of us in the audience agreed!
And along with KBC, currently on its sixth season, came some outstanding roles: the Mumbai mafia godfather in Sarkar, the irascible chef in Cheeni Kum, the progeria affected schoolboy in Paa where the 67 year old miraculously and with total conviction played his own son’s 13 year old child.
We in India tend to lionize our filmstars. Heroes must be larger than life on screen - and off it too. This particular hero played the role of his life not on the big screen but on the small screen, convincing all of us that he was a gentleman, a man who cared for others, sharing their moments of crushing disappointment and soaring jubilation, humble to a fault and as nervous as a rookie when facing the camera. The worlds of illusion and reality melded the moment he gently asked in his unmistakeable baritone, "Lock kiya jai?"
That is why the incessant advertisements with him selling everything from cement to cars, the news about him buying agricultural land and calling himself a farmer, the curious company he keeps of shady businessmen and shadier politicians, grate on us. National treasures have reputations to live up to. On the eve of your 70th birthday make us a promise you will keep, Mr. Bachchan - let your life match up to our image of you.
(Shormishtha Panja, PhD
Professor of English
President, Shakespeare Society of India)
Comments
0 comment