“Mere paas baap hai!” - the father in hindi cinema

The role of the father in the Hindi film is one that
is very intriguing, if only for the reason that it
offers such a contrast to the status the father plays
in Indian society at large, particularly so in the
Hindi speaking states.

There is a strange situation that relates to the
father in Hindi cinema. Simple observation is enough
to appreciate that the father is largely ignored,
constantly degraded and generally presented in a
clearly negative light, both historically as well as
contemporarily. The father is delineated in caricature
and weakness and general emotional and mental failings
characterise much of his representation in cinema. In
fact often he is completely absent and unacknowledged,
the mother behaving as if the hero or heroine was born
through some form of Immaculate Conception.

Most characters in Hindi films are stereotypical,
certainly, but the father appears to have been singled
out for some particularly contemptuous treatment-
almost the sort reserved for the traditional villains,
but without even the definition and depth of character
that many bad guys enjoy.

One would have imagined in a masculine, paternalistic
society like the Indian, where strength and power and
hierarchy are so respected, and weakness and
femininity equated constantly in idiom and in
practise, the father would have got more strength in
his portrayal in the most important expression of
popular culture that exists. As a dominant player in
the social structure it would be natural to expect
that the father would have been able to carry that
dominance into this sphere of popular expression. That
the prevalent patriarchy would have translated into a
more positive and dignified portrayal in cinema.

But the themes that actually mark the role of the
father in Hindi cinema are those of impotent idealist,
drunkenness, weakness, obstinacy, autocracy and the
constant implication of his having abandoning his
family and responsibilities in some substantial way.

Here are just a few of the recurring themes,
stereotypes to illustrate what I mean. We are all
familiar with the principled and impotent Gandhian, A
K Hangal type of ineffectual whiner who cannot really
confront the powers of evil. Or the stern patriarch
who is out of step with the times and his family until
he is finally shown the error of his ways by (who
else) his wife/daughter in an emotional outburst. Or
how about the good man who in the very beginning of
the movie, often even before the titles, sees or says
something and is therefore shot or burnt alive in his
house. Then there is the drunken wife beater who is a
complete louse throughout the movie before redeeming
himself at the very end as in Suhaag. And of course
the one’s who abandon their family and go away, commit
suicide or return years later – 'Mother India,' 'Aa Ab
Laut Chalen', 'Deewar' etc being examples. In Deewar
in fact Vijay (Amitabh Bachchan is tattooed with a
permanent reminder of the cowardice of all fathers -
‘Mera Baap Chor Hain’. In most cases it almost seems
that the father necessarily has to die or disappear
for something to happen. Then only, with a sigh of
relief, the dirty stuff out of the way, can the real
film begin.
In ‘Kal Ho Na Ho’, for example, there are two fathers
both of whom are marked by their absence rather than
presence, and a third who is a clown. Shahrukh Khan’s
character, Aman, presumably has a father but he is
never discussed or even mentioned - he as well may
have never existed. Whereas Preity Zinta’s character,
Naina, has a father who has committed suicide, the
ultimate act of cowardice and yet another variation on
the theme of abandonment so central to the discourse
of the father. In case there was any doubt on the
score that this act was one of cowardice, Naina’s
mother says so explicitly. Once again, it is the
mother who has to hold the family together, playing
provider as well as comforter and in this she is
pitted against another familiar symbol of patriarchy,
that is the Mother-in-Law. And Rohit, Saif Ali Khan’s
character has a father who is actually the secondary
comedy track.

It is certainly the norm so far as Hindi movies go to
have a strong, almost impossibly resolute mother. A
woman who braves the elements, capricious
circumstance, lecherous assaults and absolute penury
to support a family, to hold their world together, to
shape their values, feed and clothe and raise them.
Occasionally she has to rely on the powers of the
Shakti, Durga or Kali to pull it off, and in some
instances she uses sheer power of will to do so - but
in any case she does. It would be virtually
unthinkable to show a mother who is weak in the way
the father is so routinely portrayed, except from a
weakness brought on by the love of her husband and/or
children. The mother can never really be evil, except
rarely as stepmother, career woman or socialite. She
is uniformly the more human side of the pair, the
warmer, more emotional and sympathetic of the couple.
And she is one the kids really want, the one they are
willing to fight over and it is she who by her choice
of sibling can make the ultimate moral argument for
good - ‘Magar mere paas Maa hai”. An argument before
which even the ultimate hero is silent. The unstated
truth is that for someone to actually say “Magar mere
paas Baap hai” would simply be laughable.

This contrast of course makes the pathetic plight of
the father even more interesting. The one place where
the father actually has a role at all is often where
there is a generational conflict – Mughal-e-Azam,
Shakti, Kabhie Kushi Kabhie Gham etc. But here too the
father is the reactionary and the son the
revolutionary. The son is not the misguided youth who
returns sobbing in repentance to his mother’s arms but
the fiery rebel who for love or through
misunderstanding is estranged from the father, and the
fault is clearly the father’s intransigence. Even in
those instances where the father is the correct, more
principled of the two; Shakti for example, he
certainly comes across as the less sympathetic. And
the only real instance where the role of the father is
likeable is where he is lumped together with the
mother and then both are abandoned, as in Baghbaan,
Avtaar and the like.

This is not to say that there are no exceptions –
there are the rare examples of model dads like Balraj
Sahni in ‘Do Bigha Zamin’ or Shashi Kapoor in ‘Aa Gale
Lag Ja’, but today I basically despair of my son
seeing a Hindi film which delivers anything but the
most seriously negative perception of the male parent.


The cavalier treatment of the father figure I notice
does not extend to other languages. In Bengali cinema,
despite a much bigger cultural influence of the
powerful female in society (or perhaps because of it,)
there is significant attention paid to the father in
the construct of the film. The relationship that a son
or daughter has with the father is handled in a much
more balanced manner in Malayalam, Tamil and Telugu
cinema as well. In all these languages the father is
not reduced into the drunken, weak, complexed or
autocratic caricatures that Hindi cinema unfailingly
appears to generate.

Though I am not making the thesis here, I feel there
is enough evidence to suggest that in one of the
deepest reactions to the overwhelmingly patriarchal
nature of society, a subaltern, if almost unconscious
revolt against its oppressive male-dominance is to be
found in Hindi cinema. The feckless father, the
disappearing dad, the pathetic pater is rebellion
against the repressions of the feudal, the systemic
social claustrophobia that we live in.

Art in any form, even popular art, ultimately
articulates the unspoken, gives voice to the
voiceless. Sexuality, violence, prejudice– perversion
along with injustice - all that lacks expression in
society, will find a tongue in art. Or so I think
anyway.

folklife in the city

folklife in the city

In Seattle now the weather is that specific combination of whipping wind, grey, short days and freezing rain that is the winter in the Pacific Northwest. The streets are full of people leaning forward into the driving rain. The only umbrellas are in the hands of tourists, the Seattle-ites just thrust their hands into the pockets of their REI jackets and move on. You also understand in this weather the importance of the coffee shop - a cosy haven with pools of light spilt on the floor, warm, friendly aromas swirling like dervishes, the clattering of companionship and conversation and the hiss and splutter of steaming machines working their alchemy.

As I sit in the coffeeshop, the rain knocking at the window, begging to be let in, I think of the Northwest Folklife Festival that Sahir and I went to a few months ago. A day very diffferent from this cold, windy winter day.

Each year, on memorial day weekend, on the sprawling lawns of the Seattle Centre, in the funky 'flying-saucer on a swizzle stick' shadow of the Space Needle, there is a strange smell that gathers.

Violating cruelly the sanitised, hyper-chlorinated confines of American society, is a combination of deep, dark, unwashed body odors, with whiffs of marijuana, trampled wet grass, the cuisine of two dozen countries and popping kettle corn.

This is a part of what has come to be known as the Northwest Folklife Festival. Ecstasy and extortion in unequal parts, it is an awkward collection of strange people, strange things and even stranger hairstyles. I usually go as I usually am in Seattle around this time, it being around my son's birthday.

We went on Monday, Memorial Day, and just as we did, the sun burst through after many days of Seattle gloomy drunge. It was crazy beauty, with colours just going wild, liberated from days of grey. All the leaves twittered and fluttered, suddenly oily green.

As we entered, my son and I, through the chaotic tangle of tie-dye shops, turquoise and silver jewelery, hand-tooled leather and serene women braiding the hair of children with colourful bits of string we followed a pattern we had set ourselves.

First we went to a little shop that sold stuffed toys and bought a little beanie dragon. A drageen he calls it. This is to match the two he already has from previous years. Then we went to get a huge chunk of curly fries - a serving bigger than his head.

We sat by the sloping sides of the huge fountain where children more adventurous and physical than my son ran and threw off their clothes. We ate the too-salty fries and watched people go by. The sun was warm on our faces and hands, the fries were crisp on the outside and soft inside and it was good.

After that we walked, following the sounds of music - African drummers all frenetic and fluid with a hundred crazy dancers paying obeisance - elegant women with silver hair and adopted children from Cambodia swaying sinuously, bald hippies with stringy grey beards hopping up and down, African immigrants stunned to tears by the powerful and familiar rhythms made strange by the context showing them everything right and wrong about life, Gothic teens and yuppies who yearn for freedom without knowing from what.... they were all there with the assorted tourist and wandering stranger.

We saw the long haired country singer who wanted the crowd to take back the country from the Bushies, the street performers and magicians doing their thing as if they were at Cirque Du Soleil, the professional singers unsure as to what this strange mixed-up crowd wanted, making weak jokes about their suburban lives.

It was all wonderful and we could not help but be happy there. And as we left it seemed to me that my son loved me more, and I him more too. With all the love around it was inevitable we should take a little home with us.

Sahir Riding His Bike

28th of Dec 2006!

Sahir learns to ride a bike

It is in many ways a rite of passage. A traumatic but necessary moment of truth, an enlightenment of sorts.

The bicycle.

Two wheels and faith. Improbable, post-industrial perambulation. And at first it seems impossible. Completely, laughably unrealistic. Instablity in extremis. Two circles that roll wobbly sceptic as your eyes. And when you sit on it, all your doubts are confirmed.

You totter drunk and fall left and fall right. You clunk and you clutter - you hurt, you look stupid and the smiles of the passers-by hold no kinship - only mockery.

But you are now enraged and you persist. It is perversity and hate that drives you back on the pole above the wheels. And when you savagely kick at the spinning pedals, suddenly there is a moment and you are moving and the wheels are turning and the bushes passing by. And then you fall again.

But that moment has given you a glimpse. A subtle, fleeting look into another world where everything is magic and people move without effort, their feet never touching the ground.

Now you are greedy and suddenly you dont feel the pain anymore. And you get on and this time you go a little further. And then a little further. And then suddenly, as if all the struggle never happened - you are riding.

You are flying, like mercury with winged feet. Moving many times further than you should given the effort.

And what seemed unimaginably complex a moment ago is suddenly and forever childlike simplicity.