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Journalism of Courage
Fan magazines have never held much charm for me and I am charitable towards them only to the extent of flicking idly through their pages. Until, of course, my better half prevailed upon my sensitivity to subscribe to a couple of them.
Until then, in my wife8217;s eyes, I was just an insensate soul who could at best sport a stony smile and remain unmoved even by the evocative, beautiful faces of today8217;s stars. Convinced I belonged to the old school of thought, she accused me of not being in tune with the times and trends. She was not far from the truth because my admiration was reserved for the more mature veterans a blood-shot-eyed Devdas-ish Dilip Kumar, a Chaplinesque now-he-cries-now-he-smiles Raj Kapoor and the highly stylised Dev Anand. I would erupt into encomiums at the hypnotic sight of Madhubala, the severe beauty of Nutan and the acting prowess of the likes of Meena Kumari and Waheeda Rehman. Why, even Johnny Walker and Tun Tun had me in splits.
The presence of the Idiot Box only added fuel to fire. My wife would cling to her dear remote whenever any channel beamed a new film while I beat her at this game like India manages to beat Australians in the one-dayers. At the sight of Hrithik Roshan, she would go weak in the knees and would swoon at Shah Rukh Khan8217;s quot;magnetic smilequot;. My cynical expressions only made her more vocal: that I was overtaken by the green-eyed monster and had no class.
I would retort that her fondness for new films betrayed the immature streak in her, that her proclivities lay with style that had little or no substance. She would be so transparent in her thoughts that I could hear her even before she exercised her vocal chords. quot;Did any fan ever write a letter in blood to the stars of your times? Were there die-hard fans who would see films 30-40 times? Just to see Hrithik Roshan8217;s cherubic face?quot;
quot;Those were the days when precious celluloid wasn8217;t wasted just for the sake of a face. There would be a decent storyline too and good performers were backed by good playbacks,quot; I would hit back. The slanging match would touch a new pitch every time.
In my happier moments, which were few and far between, she would hand me fuzzy logic that the tinsel world was like computer software where each day brought an upgradation and the past either paled into insignificance or oblivion. Put simply, I stood steadfastly by my old values whereas she would swear by new ones 8212; those that caught her fancy which was practically every second day.
Anil Kapoor was in and out of her mind within no time while Akshay Kumar and Akshay Khanna were just passing phases by her standards of course. Salman was just beginning to make inroads when his indiscretion in Rajasthan saw him fall from grace. Shah Rukh probably enjoyed the longest innings before Mr Rippling Muscles Hrithik Roshan made short work of him. But poor Hrithik doesn8217;t know that Abhishek Bachchan is breathing down his neck.
Of late, I have wisened up to her idiosyncracies with a quot;to each her ownquot; shrug. The subscription to the glossies have brought down the strident decibels. But still, I can sense an argument when it8217;s round the corner and I allow her the luxury of winning hands down.
