I’ve never understood it. But I’ve wanted to. Every second coming-of-age film accommodates a wayward protagonist at odds with her/his parents. If it’s a small town, it’s the duty to “settle down” by accepting a partner of their selection. If it’s a big city, the choice of profession becomes the deal-breaker. Thanks to a truly unobtrusive set of parents, these real-life conflicts feel like fantastical movie devices to me – no different from a murderous clown haunting a suburb or space warriors bending the concept of time. I enjoy them as storytelling elements.
But I wonder about those personally relating to these problems. I wonder about families who are ready to abandon them, no less, if they dare to stray from a predetermined way of life. I wonder about tough love and conditional love. I wonder about how unnerving it must feel to look towards their corner after being knocked down – only to realise that their own creators have switched sides and become part of the force that knocks them down. I wonder about brave characters like Farhan Qureshi (R. Madhavan) from 3 Idiots , Ved and Sid (Ranbir Kapoor) from Tamasha and Wake Up Sid , Kaira (Alia Bhatt) from Dear Zindagi , Newton Kumar (Rajkummar Rao) from Newton , and all the boys and girls who are forced to contaminate blood ties in order to confront the universe and pursue their dreams – alone.
Playing the right roles
They have no safety net. Perhaps this drives them harder, and forces them to grow up faster. Take the example of famous Slovenian chef Ana Ros, whose story is captured beautifully in Netflix’s TV documentary series, Chef’s Table . Her valley-side restaurant, Hisa Franko, is solely credited for putting her country on the global culinary map. Yet, her struggles were personal; her parents remained estranged for years because she chose her own path instead of fulfilling their dreams of international diplomacy. The episode ends with a “resolution” shot of them together, finally at peace, drinking wine by a picnic table. She achieved greatness without– and in spite of – them, but shares her success with them.
I found myself thinking about the kind of “new” relationship they grew into – does she parent them now because of all the time she lost as a daughter? Or is she still their little girl, thrilled by their late validation? I’d believe it’s a bit of both. Warriors like her can’t quite strip themselves of their sudden adulthood, especially when it concerns their once-controlling parents. It’s not an act of revenge, just an extension of the grown-up nature they develop. Like Piku’s (Deepika Padukone, as Shoojit Sircar’s eponymous protagonist) incessant fussing about her hypochondriac father’s (Amitabh Bachchan) habits, Ana too might switch roles and have a tough time reconciling with their traditionalism. They become her “responsibility” now, because they had forsaken their own long back.
But Ana and Piku also know when to step back and feel like children again. Piku doesn’t interrupt her father when he goes into patriarch mode about matters regarding their family house in Kolkata. She watches him – a tinge of pride betraying her gruff exterior, like a girl momentarily rediscovering her hero – as he lectures his resentful sister-in-law about loyalty and heritage. Later, she goes back to mothering him.
Fathers and sons
Ditto with Rajiv (Adil Hussain) in Shubhashish Bhutiani’s ruminative Mukti Bhavan , and David (Will Forte) in Alexander Payne’s Nebraska . Both of them have had visibly difficult childhoods with their fathers. Rajiv is often exasperated; on one hand he can’t digest the irony of his father (Lalit Behl) seeking last-gasp salvation at a Varanasi “death hotel” for sins perpetrated mostly on Rajiv, and on the other he resents being dragged along for a journey away from his busy life. Yet, Rajiv stops short of treating him as a burden – torn between a high-pitched, tantrum-y voice and moments of quiet observation. He feels like the parent, but doesn’t shy away from sounding like a son. He doesn’t overrule the withering man’s influence on his own daughter either, allowing him to feel a little relevant.
David, too, humours his dad Woody (Bruce Dern) by undertaking a futile road trip, tolerates his whims, but lets him feel important when it counts. And he becomes a little boy again when confronted by Woody’s long-time bullies. Eventually, these characters attribute their independence, as well as incompleteness, to their old men’s deficiencies.
Forever young
But perhaps those like me take our own sweet time to find ourselves in the knowledge that, if nothing else, we can always retreat into the reassuring embrace of our parents. When I say they’re “cool,” I don’t mean mainstream Bollywood’s interpretation of the term – not quite the kinds who’d celebrate flunking in exams or date people half their age to advertise liberalism.
Mine simply didn’t enforce their ideals upon me. There were no showdowns about jobs or girlfriends – something that might have made me feel like perhaps I’m not “achieving” as much as my determined family-crossed peers. I’d often feel like Janardhan Jakhar before he became Jordan in Imtiaz Ali’s Rockstar (“I don’t do drugs; both my parents are alive; I’ve not suffered enough!”) – driven to manufacture conflict in other areas of my life instead. Maybe this is why it’s the love stories that are usually highlighted for protagonists with supportive parents – be it Raj in DDLJ , Bunny in Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani or Akash in Dil Chahta Hai .
Most significantly, all of them seem the type of people who’d remain their parents’ children, no matter how old they become. Unlike Piku and Rajiv, they aren’t inclined to oscillate between passive and aggressive. Even today, when either of my parents visits, I instinctively take a backseat. I leave the “adult” decisions to them, and watch them pay a bill, instruct the cook or arrange for an electrician. I’m not sure if it’s out of some warped sense of debt or gratefulness, or because I just appreciate watching them feel essential again. Sometimes, parenthood is the only identity that keeps them afloat. Or maybe I’m just soft.
But I might never stop being that kid around them. I might never “take charge” around them. And if it means eschewing an entire genre of cinema, finding drama elsewhere, and even sacrificing the potential of professional invincibility – why not? I’d rather be the exception than the rule. I’d rather be the imperfect love story than an inspirational underdog tale.
