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Vienna
Calling
By Mehru jaffer
I
think my teenaged son was put off by Bollywood after he saw me sobbing
silently at a special screening of Kutch Kutch Hota Hai. I presume
that the already confused world of the youngster was further
confounded when he caught his big, strong mama cry over Kajol’s make
believe plight and Shahrukh Khan’s profile on screen.
‘So
dumb,’ he grumbled as we walked out of the theatre. It was as if he
had run out of words to describe how silly he actually felt. And that
is the last film, made in Bollywood, that he has seen with me. Knowing
how crazy he actually is about movies and music I have tried to lure
him back by tempting him with titles from family romance, action film
to musicals but with little success. There used to be a picture of
Akshay Kumar in his room once upon a time but I dont see it anymore.
Unless it is lurking somewhere behind a larger poster of a stranger
called Lacuna Coil. The worst is when I remind him of the day when he
had dreamt of marrying Raveena Tandon. Then he just gets up and
leaves.
I
can understand that he has no time any more to sit through three hours
of such social dramas in the dark. After all he has so many other
things to do. I even told him that if he wanted to forget about films
it is alright but he should at least listen to the music. If the oldie
goldies were too unfashionable for him he could lend a ear to the
exciting remix of Indian melodies with the techno beat. I hunted out
Monsoon Wedding from the CD rack of a local music store. I played it
day and night but the scowl did not leave his face. If I am not
imagining it, it probably deepened.
Then
the other evening he took a very long shower and stayed far too long
in the bathroom before he appeared, looking even more handsome than
Hritik Roshan. He was going out in the evening and wanted a certain
amount of money. And I thought that he was asking for a bit more than
he usually spends on a Saturday evening.
“But
it is the most fancy club in Vienna,’ he said grabbing the money,
jacket and boots and running down the stairs as if he had no time for
any further discussion on the matter.
When
I saw him again at noon the following day he was a changed person. The
scowl had replaced a sweet smile. He asked me if I wanted him to get
me anything from the store down the road. When I said, no thankyou, he
disappeared into his room but did not bang the door shut. A little
puzzled I walked into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. As I
stirred the sugar into the brew my ears could not believe what they
heard.
I
returned to his room the tea cup rattling away its own music on the
saucer and saw him swinging away to a beat quite familiar to me.
“This
is MC Punjabi, mom, and all my friends danced all night to this
music...At the most fancy club in Vienna!’ he yelled and continued
to shake.
I
felt so happy that I did a little jig myself. Then I went back to the
trash where I had crumpled up a programme of Bollywood Basic and saved
it. This is a list of films to be shown at a festival to start next
week at the Austrian Film Museum. For two weeks films will be screened
here from Homi Wadia’s 1936 classic Miss Frontier Mail to Shyam
Benegal’s Zubeida.
Now
I have to think how I can get the brat back to Bollywood. I would love
to see him enjoy the poignant romance of Pyaasa, the grandeur of
Mughale Azam and he must listen to the music of Dil Se. Mother India
is also a must so that he can judge for himself what a great actress
Nargis was when he sees her again in Awaara...and Mohabbatein too,
here in the city of Mozart?
-----Mehru
Jaffer
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