A Tribute to the Only Bollywood Star My Indian Family Ever Agreed About
Amitabh Bachchan
Amitabh Bachchan (Credit: STRDEL/AFP/Getty Images)
There are three things that power the nation of India: food  cricket  and cinema. Take away that holy trinity  and no Indian would agree to get out of bed to a country filled with poverty  partisan riots  and corruption. I was born and raised in New Delhi  and my family so besotted with movies that our modest flat boasted three televisions  which lowered the odds of World War III breaking out between those who chose the news broadcast over the 1955 black-and-white Devdas  or the primary colored Hindi musicals of the 1980s  or Wimbledon. Only one man could unite a family:  Hindi film actor Amitabh Bachchan . He's not a politician or a saint  even though there's a temple that prays for him in Calcutta. But he's family to practically everyone I consider family.
For someone so integral to India   Bachchan  struck out with  his  first nine films.  He  scored a major Indian film award for 1970's Anand  but it wasn't  his  breakout role. Depending on who you ask   Bachchan 's rise could be credited to 1972's action comedy Bombay to Goa  or the decade-defining Zanjeer in 1973. Objectively  the latter did spark the nexus of  Bachchan 's fame: the "angry young man" struggling daily in a country rife with despair and unemployment  who isn't afraid to fight back if necessary.
India in the 70s was overflowing with young college graduate males who'd been told their dreams would come true in a country that was just turning 30. Instead  they stared down arch societal expectations. Around this time  there were also unwed mothers who'd been abandoned by the rotten male scoundrels in their lifeâyoung women repulsed by men leering at them on buses and in college corridors. There were dockworkers who dreamed of glamour and intrigue. Ordinary people everywhere wanted to be whisked away for three hours and 30 minutes.  Bachchan  was a handsome young man with  his  back to the wall in movies about surviving while staying true to faith and family; to millions   he  was life itself.
 Bachchan  plays Jai  a common yet wise criminal who  along with  his  partner Veeru  is recruited by an ex-cop who wishes revenge on a famous dacoit. I watched Sholay last week for the first time in almost a decade  and it was such a warm and welcome experience that I wanted to dance in the streets and send everyone to Hindi classes so they could understand the dialogue. Indeed  there are nuances in  Bachchan 's delivery that risk being lost in translation; in Sholay   his  voice moves like oiled leather  and  his  first line of dialogue translated is a hallmark of leftism: "All cops look the same to  me ."
While recently revisiting  Bachchan 's filmography  two films took me by surprise. I hadn't seen Abhimaan from 1973 since I was a teenager and was wary to revisit it; based on the marital troubles of Pandit Ravi Shankar and his first wife  Annapurna Devi  it's an dissection of the jealousy that consumes a famous singer after his new bride turns out to be more talented than him. The film's honest depiction of sexual desire and gratification  and its death in the face of discord  took me by surprise  and that  Bachchan  plays the part of the disgruntled singer opposite his own wife  Jaya Bhaduri  adds layers to the film that I wouldn't have noticed as a child.
On the other hand  I've watched 1975's Chupke Chupke many times and have yet to tire of  Bachchan 's portrayal of Sukumar Sinha  an intelligent English literature professor who's hapless in playing an elaborate practical joke on his friend's brother-in-law.  Bachchan  has comedic potential that directors have often ignored in order to rack up the drama points; he's no less hilarious in Piku from 2015  in which he plays ornery Bengali father Bhashkor Banerjee  consumed by constipation and all discussions thereof.
Bhashkor lives with his adult daughter Piku (Deepika Padukone)  an architect who's nearing her last nerve while taking care of her father; for the first time  I saw myself in  Bachchan  in that I know what it is to be a stubborn Bengali daughter to a stubborn Bengali father. Water pooled in my eyes as I imagined future conversations about the color and consistency of stool with an ailing fatherâwhether from mirth or sorrow  I wasn't sure.
Truffaut called  Bachchan  a "one-man industry"; a nation full of disheartened unemployed youths called him "the angry young man"; mothers called him their son. As for my aunt  she didn't call him anything when she met him once  after a premiere in New Delhi. She was a teenager  and shook his hand. He smiled at her. That night  she slept with that hand cupped neatly against one cheek. I am certain that if I am lucky enough to meet him before he passes  I would do the same.
Amitabh Bachchan (Credit: STRDEL/AFP/Getty Images)
There are three things that power the nation of India: food  cricket  and cinema. Take away that holy trinity  and no Indian would agree to get out of bed to a country filled with poverty  partisan riots  and corruption. I was born and raised in New Delhi  and my family so besotted with movies that our modest flat boasted three televisions  which lowered the odds of World War III breaking out between those who chose the news broadcast over the 1955 black-and-white Devdas  or the primary colored Hindi musicals of the 1980s  or Wimbledon. Only one man could unite a family:   [TGT]  .  [TGT] 's not a politician or a saint  even though there's a temple that prays for  [TGT]  in Calcutta. But  [TGT] 's family to practically everyone I consider family.
For someone so integral to India   Bachchan  struck out with  his  first nine films.  He  scored a major Indian film award for 1970's Anand  but it wasn't  his  breakout role. Depending on who you ask    [TGT]  's rise could be credited to 1972's action comedy Bombay to Goa  or the decade-defining Zanjeer in 1973. Objectively  the latter did spark the nexus of  Bachchan 's fame: the "angry young man" struggling daily in a country rife with despair and unemployment  who isn't afraid to fight back if necessary.
India in the 70s was overflowing with young college graduate males who'd been told their dreams would come true in a country that was just turning 30. Instead  they stared down arch societal expectations. Around this time  there were also unwed mothers who'd been abandoned by the rotten male scoundrels in their lifeâyoung women repulsed by men leering at them on buses and in college corridors. There were dockworkers who dreamed of glamour and intrigue. Ordinary people everywhere wanted to be whisked away for three hours and 30 minutes.   [TGT] was a handsome young man with   [TGT]   back to the wall in movies about surviving while staying true to faith and family; to millions    [TGT]   was life itself.
  [TGT] plays Jai  a common yet wise criminal who  along with   [TGT]   partner Veeru  is recruited by an ex-cop who wishes revenge on a famous dacoit. I watched Sholay last week for the first time in almost a decade  and it was such a warm and welcome experience that I wanted to dance in the streets and send everyone to Hindi classes so they could understand the dialogue. Indeed  there are nuances in   [TGT]  's delivery that risk being lost in translation; in Sholay    [TGT]   voice moves like oiled leather  and   [TGT]   first line of dialogue translated is a hallmark of leftism: "All cops look the same to  me ."
While recently revisiting   [TGT]  's filmography  two films took me by surprise. I hadn't seen Abhimaan from 1973 since I was a teenager and was wary to revisit it; based on the marital troubles of Pandit Ravi Shankar and his first wife  Annapurna Devi  it's an dissection of the jealousy that consumes a famous singer after his new bride turns out to be more talented than him. The film's honest depiction of sexual desire and gratification  and its death in the face of discord  took me by surprise  and that  Bachchan  plays the part of the disgruntled singer opposite his own wife  Jaya Bhaduri  adds layers to the film that I wouldn't have noticed as a child.
On the other hand  I've watched 1975's Chupke Chupke many times and have yet to tire of  Bachchan 's portrayal of Sukumar Sinha  an intelligent English literature professor who's hapless in playing an elaborate practical joke on his friend's brother-in-law.  Bachchan  has comedic potential that directors have often ignored in order to rack up the drama points; he's no less hilarious in Piku from 2015  in which he plays ornery Bengali father Bhashkor Banerjee  consumed by constipation and all discussions thereof.
Bhashkor lives with his adult daughter Piku (Deepika Padukone)  an architect who's nearing her last nerve while taking care of her father; for the first time  I saw myself in  Bachchan  in that I know what it is to be a stubborn Bengali daughter to a stubborn Bengali father. Water pooled in my eyes as I imagined future conversations about the color and consistency of stool with an ailing fatherâwhether from mirth or sorrow  I wasn't sure.
Truffaut called  Bachchan  a "one-man industry"; a nation full of disheartened unemployed youths called him "the angry young man"; mothers called him their son. As for my aunt  she didn't call him anything when she met him once  after a premiere in New Delhi. She was a teenager  and shook his hand. He smiled at her. That night  she slept with that hand cupped neatly against one cheek. I am certain that if I am lucky enough to meet him before he passes  I would do the same.