T 1865 - A wonderful piece written by Anurag Kashyap's brother in law ..

A real 'Hug' for Piku's Dad


Last night, i watched Piku, and after what seems like ages, felt like hugging Amitabh Bachchan.

There was a time when we were brothers.

I would come down from the trees, warm from the sun, a warrior of stick fights, jumps and tumbles, dragging the earth with me into the house. Something cold, something soothing was offered by Ma, a peace offering.

Then i would drag a three-legged metal stool over to where the music was. The size of a small briefcase, with it's own handle, our Bush tape player was a thing of beauty to me. It had large pock-marks where the speakers were, and a 4-digit mechanical ticker which told you your position on the tape. I watched that ticker like it held some secret, waiting for it to trip - but it never did.

But there was a certain combination of numbers on it, i knew, when Amitabh Bachchan would speak. 'Neela Aasmaan', and 'Yeh Kahaan Aa Gaye Hum' on the Silsila tape would start, and i would try quite hard to decipher why MY Amitabh was so sad. I had no memory of the film itself, perhaps my parents in their wisdom only ever took me to the theaters when he was fighting, singing, and jumping about on very long legs. So it mystified me no end to find him so sad. I worried for him.

Actually i worried for him even when he fought. I don't have an actual recall of this, but whenever Amitabh got beaten up (and he always did, before he found his power and turned it all around), i would apparently duck under the seat. Wait for him to start winning. Smile like the devil, throw his head back and laugh, hands on his waist. I could never remember the dialogues like the other kids, nor the names of the films. Couldn't recall when they started, how they ended. But i grew up chewing on my shirt
collars like he did in Mr.Natwarlal, standing in corners being brooding and silent - whatever that meant.

As time went by, reality seeped into me, and Amitabh receded back onto a two-dimensional screen. He looked silly, he was trying too hard - he'd forgotten that he was The 10-foot King, the Pied Piper with the silken voice. Meanwhile, i saw what 'real' heroes were. I belong to a rare family of Paratroopers, men in Red Berets who jump from planes. I saw their courage, their ferocity, i saw what it really took to throw back your head and laugh, through broken backs and bullet holes. Amitabh never really stood a chance.

But then, back in the time before the world interrupted us, i sat on my stool and worried for him. Who is this woman he sings for, why is he so sad to see the rain clouds in a Neela sky?

My daily meditation on this topic was routinely broken by my father's driver - Yudhishtar, hanging back in the corridor before he was handed files to carry over to the jeep. He would use this small window of opportunity to irritate me in different ways - the most effective of which was to do a squiggly dance with his eyebrows. It was impossible to imitate, often making me want to snatch my face off in frustration.

One fine day, seeing that i wasn't joining him in the eyebrow dance, Yudhishtar claimed he knew the reason why Amitabh was so sad - it was because he got punched in the stomach, and was now in the hospital, feeling lonely and unloved. And that's how it remained for a couple of years - Amitabh in a ward somewhere, feeling lonely and calling out to the world, and me praying for him next to our Bush tape player.

I saw Coolie many years later, and understood how Mister Yudhishtar had screwed my reality...perhaps it was the first wake up call for me to step into the real world.

And although that transition in me wasn't completely successful either, my dancing singing brother stepped back into the shadows. I've been watching
from far of course - i can see him tip-toeing on the edges of the silver screen, only a copy of himself. Sometimes he's sitting on a chair on TV, warm and inviting, showing a glimmer of magic. But he's never really been able to breach my skeptical, world-weary eyes.

Until last night, that is. Piku's Baba is my brother, the pied-piper of old. And though he's not punching out villians or kicking out his legs to dance this time, he's the one i worry for. I can feel my hand on his, when
Piku sits by his bedside. I can feel my heart shrivel when he passes away.

So here's a hug for you, Amitabh, my collar-chewing brother of golden summers. Whenever you're feeling lonely, seeing the clouds roll in, know that i am crouched up there in the trees, saying a prayer for you.

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