Adulthood — coupled with the unrelenting cultural exposure of film criticism — often brings with it a dose of cold rationalism that derails the cinematic nostalgia of childhood. These days I constantly find myself imagining the post-happily-ever-after phases of famous love stories. Most of them, however, extend into fictitious resolutions that invoke the disenchanting opening scene of Tanu Weds Manu: Returns — with the celebrated titular couple bitterly bickering at a mental rehabilitation clinic, struggling to validate their prequel’s happy ending.
Reimagining the happy ever afters
For instance, Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge ’s Simran, after battling to “live her life” on that railway station platform, is destined for a harsh reality check back in London. Raj is an ambitionless oaf, after all. He would have run the Malhotra business empire into the ground, they’d have to sell the Porsche to move to Southall, his father would be exiled back to Bhatinda for spreading his concepts of “failure” among studious pan-Asian students, Raj would be jailed for hitting on the mayor’s wife and a fed-up Simran would have taken off on another solo Europe trip, only to meet struggling American writer Jesse (of Before Sunrise ) on a train, and repeat the mistakes till their withered partnership culminates in Before Midnight ’s sobering sexlessness.
Kuch Kuch Hota Hai ’s Anjali might have soon recognised the deeply rooted misogyny of Rahul’s affections, rebelled by chopping her hair off and even resorted to chain-smoking to emulate his deceased first wife Tina’s voice.
Their toxic marriage would be immortalised within the pages of a bestselling New York Times memoir — interspersed between eight of Tina’s handwritten letters — written by none other than Rahul’s estranged daughter, Anjali, who refused to return home after her NYU Film course.
Kaho Naa…Pyaar Hai ’s Sonia might have shifted to New Zealand with Rohit’s doppelganger Raj, detested the tranquility, eliminated all sheep-related nursery rhymes from her son’s syllabus and constantly taunted Raj and his First World privilege by reminiscing about the humble under-doggedness of dead Rohit. Dil Toh Pagal Hai ’s artful Rahul might have grown tired of the graceful Pooja outshining him on stage, turned into a sellout movie director and made Kuch Kuch Hota Hai a sanitised love triangle partially inspired by his torrid extramarital affair with “tomboy” and best friend, Nisha.
Veer-Zara ’s Zara might have gotten exasperated with Veer after his 22-year jail stint permanently fossilises his toilet and table manners.
Maximum mainstream
There’s a reason none of the above situations sound overly optimistic. It’s not so much new-age cynicism as it is the irreversible experience of growing into an urban generation that thrives on outgrowing the rousing simplicity of mainstream Hindi cinema. And we tend to fear — and satirise — what we don’t understand. It isn’t entirely my fault.
Over the last 15 years, a period that has informed several young writing careers, the term “mainstream” has acquired the flimsiness of a slur. It currently amounts to little more than a tool of commercialism designed to sacrifice art at the altar of the masses. A section of filmmakers have reduced its expression into a chest-beating sales pitch. This might explain why the aforementioned hypothetical scenarios sound derivative, too – like crude digital parodies aimed to pay patronising “homage” to 1990s Bollywood. The tone is vaguely patronising because I can’t help but view these classics through a fickle 2018 prism – a perception that is in no small measure coloured by the stigma of this decade’s theatrical conformism.
Due to this heightened language employed by those now helming comedies, biopics and thrillers, we occupy an era where filmmakers feel obliged to locate a sense of realism, complexity and everydayness in their love stories. Which is why there’s invariably a textural peg to popular contemporary romances — like Band Baaja Baarat (wedding-planning business), Vicky Donor (sperm donation), Dum Laga Ke Haisha (weight), Highway (Stockholm syndrome), Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi (split-personality), Hasee Toh Phasee (social anxiety) and Barfi! (disability). Or there is a simmering individualism at stake — as in the cases of Jab We Met, Tamasha, Rockstar and Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani . Such films pivot on protagonists who find love to find themselves; the existentialism of modern adulthood goes hand in hand with the conflicts of companionship.
A dose of reality
This self-awareness in characters may have advanced the personality of the average movie romance, but it has notably robbed the Hindi “love story” of its timelessness, its canvas and single-mindedness. Nature has assumed precedence over the cinema — the exclusivity — of love. It isn’t an aspirational, larger-than-life emotion anymore. Post-liberalisation Bollywood infused its escapism with an honest sense of innocence — one that was somewhat devoid of economic agenda and sensibility dynamics. Filmmakers propagated a brand of love that was meant to distract audiences from the country’s sweeping reforms; there was a distant regality to it, not unlike the British monarchy that exists purely as a symbol of hope, dreams and tradition. We wanted to be them. But today, they want to be us.
Perhaps this is why none of the modern love stories – part romcoms, part domestic dramas — have an aura about them. They’re messy, complicated, digital and distinctly human, which also makes them achingly mortal — unlike, say, the sentimental perpetuity of DDLJ, QSQT , Hum Aapke Hai Kaun or even a Rangeela . These remain etched in history, because their uncomplicated forms allowed romance to be the most mainstream, and yet the most elite and uncluttered feeling.
Any film that dared to override its mystic while occupying this elementary form – Yash Chopra’s Lamhe , for example — was rejected. Whereas today, films that attempt to reinvigorate those basic old-school templates without the frills — Jab Harry Met Sejal, Jab Tak Hai Jaan, Kites — are rejected.
They don’t fit our current context of romantic naturalism. We call them out of sync with the times as long as we are in a position to fashion pragmatic post-climax universes. Think about it: Sejal’s visa issues and Harry’s Third World complex might have forced them into an awkward long-distance relationship. But it’s virtually impossible to imagine similarly sardonic postmortems of an Aashiqui 2 , Shubh Mangal Saavdhan or Ae Dil Hai Mushkil — because the directors have already made impassioned films out of those possibilities.
Therefore it’s no coincidence that the defining love story of this generation is not a Hindi film. Tonally, Nagraj Manjule’s Marathi-language Sairat straddles these two cinematic eras. The first half is unabashedly mainstream. A Dalit boy falls for an upper caste girl. They sing, dance, secretly romance, and elope. This, in itself, is a dreamy 1990s potboiler. Ironically, if one were to imagine a depressingly practical post-credits story to this, it would be no different from the film’s second half – a clear-eyed, coming-of-age 2016 tragedy. They perish. Movie meets life. And we get the best of both worlds.
