Today, with globalization and the elevation of consumer culture, Bollywood’s commercial success attracts respectful study in academic departments, and the films are increasingly popular worldwide. Collaborations between Bollywood and Hollywood (and other Western) talent, such as this past week’s Danny Boyle–directed Slumdog Millionaire — set in Mumbai and featuring Bollywood stars — are more common. Bollywood music is ubiquitous — even Bostonians regularly dance to its beats at the Stix Lounge. India’s rise, national pride, and rapid social change have encouraged Bollywood filmmakers to expand to new themes.
As such, writers have recently begun to experiment with realism, to introduce region and dialect into the story, to present more nuanced explanations of characters’ motives, and to dare to depict social problems like political corruption, drug trafficking, gang violence, poverty, and, yes, terrorism. These are depressing problems, so what better way to present them than with a dash of Bollywood élan? Which brings us to an unusual movie protagonist: the singing, romancing, family-loving, dancing, emotionally open . . . terrorist.
Terrorists as dancing, romancing protagonists
In Fanaa (Annihilation, 2006), the stage is set when the heroine’s mother cheerfully says to her beautiful, blind daughter, Zooni (Kajol), “Love only the man who is willing to be annihilated by your love.” With this morbid counsel in mind, Zooni goes off to Delhi to sing and dance in a Republic Day festival and fall in love with a charismatic young tour guide named Rehan (Aamir Khan).
Skipping lightly over several songs, we find Zooni’s sight restored and Rehan dead in a terrorist explosion claimed by the Independent Kashmiris Front (IKF), a fictionalized version of secessionist Kashmiri militant groups. At this point, the movie careens off into a different genre fraught with danger, violence, and dazzling (if ridiculous) plot twists. Focus turns to a young, handsome international IKF terrorist, who in one scene jumps out of a burning helicopter, lands upright on the snowboard strapped to his feet, and glides speedily away from the blazing guns of the law. He reports to his grandfather, a leader of the IKF. Soon, his and Zooni’s paths cross and more song and dance, death and drama ensue until the terrorist tires of terrorism.
Dil Se features equally surreal scenes. One slow-motion song-and-dance sequence shows the lovebirds Amar (Shah Rukh Khan) and Meghna (Manisha Koirala) in different landscapes and multiple outfits, looking tragic and embracing while fire, explosions, barbed wire, and more fire appear as metaphorical (and actual) obstacles. The absurdity of the pair falling in love while still having time to make multiple costume changes as the world is destroyed by terrorists is part of Bollywood’s ludicrous and endearing DNA.
Terrorists as only human
It might seem from the preceding account that Bollywood filmmakers’ approach to terrorism is cavalier and ham-handed, that they dive headlong into India’s hot-button issues with nary a clue. Not so. In an industry that loves clichés, films dealing with terrorism are surprisingly astute, if you look past the blur of stimuli flying at you from the screen. For all their formulaic elements, the films offer, via dialogue between characters emotionally involved with each other, arguments for and against violence as a response to injustice.
In the 2007 movie Dhokha (Deception), Zaid (Muzammil Ibrahim), a young Muslim police officer in Mumbai, discovers upon his wife Sarha’s death in a nightclub that she is the suicide bomber believed responsible for the explosion that killed 20. Shocked, he sets out to either clear her name or discover who Sarha (Tulip Joshi), his shy and affectionate wife, really was. He soon learns of a great personal tragedy in her past, and the influence of a mullah in her life. Later, Zaid is able to use his knowledge of past trauma to help another young man sever his ties to the mullah, just in time to prevent another suicide bombing at a train station.
The “terrorists” are depicted as frightened, impressionable young people responsive to human contact, rather than as hardened monsters unworthy of communication. The tentative thesis the movie asks us to consider is that personal suffering can be shaped into larger resentments by powerful religious orthodoxy, and a compassionate helping hand might loosen this influence better than attempts at extermination.
The movie’s other themes of a love triangle and friendship tested by strife (as well as the ever-present song and dance) dilute its preachiness, except for a speech at the end that spells it all out for us in typical Bollywood fashion. But that’s to be expected, and even welcomed, in this genre.
In Dil Se, a reporter questions a terrorist.
“You look just like us,” notes the reporter.
“What had you expected?”
“What is your aim?”
“Independence.”
“From whom?”
“From your government. India.”
“Why?”
“Fifty years ago, when India became independent, many promises were made to us. Not one was kept. We’ve been oppressed.”
“Yet it’s your country.”
“No. To you it seems Delhi is India. States in far flung areas have no meaning because they are small. Delhi cares for vote banks. We’re cannon fodder.”
“You terrorists . . . ”
“We’re not terrorists — we’re revolutionaries.”
