Bangalore Gone Wild
Sarada Peri
Issue date: 4/20/06 Section: Op-Ed
Last week, a prominent Indian actor named Rajkumar from the state of Karnataka died after a fairly standard heart attack at age 77. Given the natural cause of death, non-Indian observers would perhaps expect an unremarkable public reaction.
Please. This is India, land of drama.
The outpouring of grief was like nothing Americans will ever see. Crowds thronged the streets, beating their chests and crying out "Annavaru," which means older brother. They blocked roads, stoned the Microsoft office, and generally wreaked havoc on Bangalore. Yes, that's the same Bangalore that has been lauded as India's technology capital and rising phenomenon. As the mob started rioting, police fired into the crowd killing four people, after which a policeman himself was beaten to death by a mob. Officials had to literally shut down Bangalore for several days. Mind you, we are still talking about a movie star's death.
Imagine for a moment the same thing happening here in the United States. When a comparably revered American actor passes away, he receives the usual long New York Times obituary, perhaps an A&E Biography special, and the compulsory appearance in the year's "In Memoriam" montage at the Oscars. Would it have been conceivable for Los Angeles to start rioting when Cary Grant died?
The experience of mourning for actors as though these mega-rich superstars were members of one's own family speaks to the unusual role that cinema plays in the hearts and minds of Indians. Indians take their movies, like their cricket, very seriously.
Because I am skeptical and mocking of most mainstream Indian movies, the reaction made little sense to me. If the reader is unfamiliar with Bollywood films, here is a plot - you can pretty much apply variations of it to the thousands of films that emerge from the Indian movie industry annually. Poor girl loves rich boy, or vice versa. Parents disapprove. They court each other anyway. No fewer than seven song-and-dance sequences are sprinkled throughout, often including costumes resembling Vegas showgirl outfits and backdrops of the Swiss Alps. Cut to a poorly choreographed fight with ill-timed sound effects that seem like they came off the mini-keyboard I got for my 9th birthday. A family member dramatically dies and hysterical sobbing ensues. The lovers learn a lesson, perhaps battling corrupt police in the process. The movie ends approximately 3.5 hours later, either happily ever after or in utter death and despair. Roll credits. Immediately begin selling soundtrack whose songs will instantly become hits, played incessantly on the radio, danced to at every party, and sung by every aspiring "Indian Idol."
Please. This is India, land of drama.
The outpouring of grief was like nothing Americans will ever see. Crowds thronged the streets, beating their chests and crying out "Annavaru," which means older brother. They blocked roads, stoned the Microsoft office, and generally wreaked havoc on Bangalore. Yes, that's the same Bangalore that has been lauded as India's technology capital and rising phenomenon. As the mob started rioting, police fired into the crowd killing four people, after which a policeman himself was beaten to death by a mob. Officials had to literally shut down Bangalore for several days. Mind you, we are still talking about a movie star's death.
Imagine for a moment the same thing happening here in the United States. When a comparably revered American actor passes away, he receives the usual long New York Times obituary, perhaps an A&E Biography special, and the compulsory appearance in the year's "In Memoriam" montage at the Oscars. Would it have been conceivable for Los Angeles to start rioting when Cary Grant died?
The experience of mourning for actors as though these mega-rich superstars were members of one's own family speaks to the unusual role that cinema plays in the hearts and minds of Indians. Indians take their movies, like their cricket, very seriously.
Because I am skeptical and mocking of most mainstream Indian movies, the reaction made little sense to me. If the reader is unfamiliar with Bollywood films, here is a plot - you can pretty much apply variations of it to the thousands of films that emerge from the Indian movie industry annually. Poor girl loves rich boy, or vice versa. Parents disapprove. They court each other anyway. No fewer than seven song-and-dance sequences are sprinkled throughout, often including costumes resembling Vegas showgirl outfits and backdrops of the Swiss Alps. Cut to a poorly choreographed fight with ill-timed sound effects that seem like they came off the mini-keyboard I got for my 9th birthday. A family member dramatically dies and hysterical sobbing ensues. The lovers learn a lesson, perhaps battling corrupt police in the process. The movie ends approximately 3.5 hours later, either happily ever after or in utter death and despair. Roll credits. Immediately begin selling soundtrack whose songs will instantly become hits, played incessantly on the radio, danced to at every party, and sung by every aspiring "Indian Idol."
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