Slumdogs, after all

I didn’t like Slumdog Millionaire.

Its superficial script, lack of talent in adult star cast, Brit accented chaiwallah, sequences short on time and emotions (gimme a maudlin mamma any day) and an unfriendly host of a game show that once, in fact, touched the heart of this nation so much, it rescued the dipping fortune of Mr. Beard & Baritone- spoiled the chances of the undercooked movie from turning into the sensory experience we like to spend money on Fridays.

That’s not to say I didn’t rejoice in the unprecedented acclaim ‘Slumdog…’ garnered from across the globe. Like you, I got up early morning to catch a glimpse of our own Rahman rub shoulders with Brangelina and win that award, which was the most awaited one in our part of the world for reasons known best to no one.

I did an impromptu jig when he Jai Hoed his way to the Kodak theatre stage generally reserved for song-&-dance items, which aren’t really a part of the nominated films. We all lapped up the show and bathed in its glory. But the truth is that I agreed wholeheartedly when anyone said- with lots of hesitation- that they didn’t quite understand why the world and the Pussycat Dolls suddenly liked a ‘Bollywood’(its actually British) film which couldn’t have lasted even a single weekend in India, were it not for the international wah-wahs.

The worst part is this- I didn’t like the film and I am loathing what it has done to a bunch of kids.

The state of Slumdog Millionaire’s (real) stars- the slum kids- who danced their way o many hearts, reminds me of old Bollywood flicks with the following themes: bonded labour, evil landowners, endless debt, exploitation, no roof over head, strained personal ties in face of new found fame etc. It’s a Bollywood thing- tragic stories with lots of music, tears and blood.

Not that the current state of affairs has anything to do with little Rubina and Azhar not winning the Best Actor award- the shanties of these hapless kids have been bulldozed and they have nowhere to go and nothing to do apart from telling the world that this is what they face regularly.

For the kids, about 10-11 years olds, who were not even going to school before Lovleen Tandon cast them and paid paltry sums, it was all like in films. A Cinderella story- or some other fairytale-like. From the smelly by lanes of Dharavi to the heady curves of the Oscar Red Carpet- a perfect Bollywood plot.

But for them, the reality remains just like before. And it has left bitterness on our otherwise sweet-n-sour tongues. In the early days of glory, many quaffed at the suggestion that the West was back at showing India in a poor light- if not snakes and rope tricks, it is now the muck of slums bang in the middle of Mumbai.

But the way things have turned out for these kids who were promised the good life post their acting stint, there remains little doubt now that it was an ego massage that the wild west didn’t have for a long time as India rose to higher-ups. And now they have got an Academy Award for it.

It took the destruction of their houses to bring director Danny Boyle rushing to Mumbai and announce once again that the kids will get the promised roof. When the media picked on the issue, Maharashtra CM Ashok Chavan also jumped in the house-giving fray with conditions attached- the kids will have to choose between Danny Boyle's plush flat or Govt's housing scheme.

Where did the roti, kapda & makaan promised by our trustworthy netas and generous Hollywood studios vanish? Whatever happened to the life-long scholarships that the kids were supposed to get? Will Aamir and SRK not join their heads for this cause like they did for the ‘poor’ producers?

If an Oscar can’t better your life, what can?!

The fate of the kids is reflective of the way child artists are treated in an industry, where increasing number of prime time sops have children as their mainstay- Balika Vadhu, Krishna etc.

Being Bollywood, where logic matters little till it’s a tear-jerker, jhatak-matak of an affair, this tale too has its sad twists. Two mothers fighting over their newly popular prodigy of a son, the jhuggis coming alive with throbbing scenes of an undercover reporter bringing in wealthy Sheikhs shopping for children, the younger siblings being slapped around for they ‘were no good’ viz a viz their better-off sister- gosh I have suddenly realized why we like what we like on our silver screens. Our- or most of our- small lives are masala scripts for budding Danny Boyles!

It’s okay if you have missed the irony. It’s so much a part of our daily lives, really. But spare a thought for those kids- they thought they had made it big, early on. That the dream their peers could only dream of achieving was a reality already. But in one filmy wipe, it was dark again. The credits rolled up in dim lights, we clapped for the kind attention paid to our part of the world and moved on to the post-movie dinner.

P.S.: Good to know Rahman, Resul, Anil, Freida and Dev have grabbed plum offers abroad. At least someone’s a millionaire, because in The End, things tend to miraculously resume normalcy in the most ‘realistic’ of our films.