Dec 29, 2015 11:31 PM
7050 Views
Here’s another sermon from the pulpit to be nice to Moslems. Moslems have the green, Hindus have the saffron, but color doesn’t have a religion – Mastani says.
Of late, Bollywood has taken to this fine tradition – like Wolfgang Puck to Michelin Stars – of serving up bitter fascist propaganda carefully sweetened as an entertainment dish. Check out what these guys are saying: PK, Bajrangi Bhaijaan, Barack Obama, the Shah of Iran and now top crusader Donald Trump – the last guy on the list differing slightly to the extent that he disagrees completely. The last three don’t really belong to Bollywood.
I have a suspicion that Bollywood has been taken over by financiers from Dubai who are silently working behind our backs, right under our noses, when we aren’t looking, when we be sleeping, to keep their rabid indoctrination machina deux up and running, till the last armor-coated, horse-mounted, sabre-wielding Trump amongst us is proselytized and married fourscore and more.
The story is not about the famed exploits of that great Peshwa general who expanded the Maratha Kingdom from a dot on the West Coast to a lot across Central India between 1720-1740, who defeated the Mughals and the Portuguese, and knocked right at the doors of Delhi – yes, it’s a little about that too, but mostly it’s about a madly infatuated female stealing another’s husband.
In the army there is an offence that is liable to get you shamed and cashiered: it’s called ‘stealing a brother officer’s wife’s affections.’ That’s what Deepika alias Mastani proceeds to do. Her father, the Ruler of Bundelkhand, summons the help of the Marathas to defeat the Mughals who have laid siege to their city and made the royal family prisoners.
Bajirao née Ranveer arrives on the scene and defeats the Mughals. As his stay lingers beyond the formally mandated military rest and recoup leave, and turns into furlough, sparks of raging hormones between Mastani and Bajirao lead to rampant flames of illicit love consuming the two.
Bajirao returns to the slash and burn of his military quests, and the frigid arms of his desolate Queen Priyanka, but Mastani is not far behind. Determined not to let time slake their passion, the crafty bastard-girl – the illegitimate daughter of a king and his paramour – resorts to the crude device of a convenient Rajputana custom where a woman may marry a suitor’s dagger during his absence on account of being away at battle.
She claims her marriage to Bajirao is solemnized on account of his having gifted her his dagger – innocently though – the man didn’t mean anything by it. Being born out of wedlock herself, she finds nothing wrong in pursuing a married man. And her father too, never thinks it fit to stop her from her ignominious quest – perhaps he thought it good riddance.
She stalks him then, much to the dismay of the parties concerned. Bajirao’s orthodox Brahmin family, horrified by her impunity, scorns her, humiliates her, and makes several attempts to assassinate her. But she, like a woman of easy morals, perseveres in the face of opposition. Bajirao’s first wife, Priyanka; his mother; and his younger brother are most deeply affected; deadly against this sinful dalliance, they bear their anguish in regal misery. Bajirao’s mother recognizes her for what she truly is, and leaves no stones unturned in reminding her of what her place is – among the danseurs and court courtesans.
In reality Bajirao did lead an exciting life, both on the battleground and off it; and he was indeed a master of strategic battlefield mobility, choosing the battle on his own audacious terms. He also happened to be actually married to Mastani, the daughter of the Bundelkhand king. It is also true that their son, Shamsher Bahadur, denied a Hindu upanyana(rites of passage) ceremony because of his ancestry, died fighting for the Marathas in the battle of Panipat at 27. Shamsher’s son, Ali Bahadur, carved out his own empire in the Bundelkhand region from the lands bequeathed by Bajirao to Mastani, which today is called Banda. Bajirao died of a heatstroke while collecting revenue, and not in the torment of his parting from Mastani, as depicted here.
They say Bhansali had a keen eye on this epic period romance for the last 15 years – I ask what was the life and death crisis if he’d kept it canned for another 15 – or say 30? I think there are too many things that go wrong at the functional level where it becomes hard for a traditional Indian audience, still deeply rooted in the consecration of family, loyalty, religion, and tradition, still badly hung-over from the sermonizing of the last few films, to swallow this tale.
No way an Indian, or a Hindu is going to accept sanctification of adultery or polygamy – the men might – on the quiet – but the women won’t – and they decide which movie the Sunday family goes to. I guess it was fine for the royalty to keep harems – and it was okay as long as everything went on behind closed doors: after all, Mumtaz was Shah Jahan’s third wife, and Mastani was Bajirao’s second, but when a Hindu-Muslim thing is at play, I guess it’s natural to expect animosity of the audience towards the Muslim usurper and marriage-wrecker. Had the conflict not been on a religious level, which Bhansali elevates it to, and I think that’s a strategic mistake, one would have gladly embraced the Hamletian dilemma that a married man faces when being pursued – like a Hindu hare on the moors by sporting Muslim hounds – by so much beauty. I wish the conflict were on account of some royal treachery, or political vendetta, or plain body odor or hairy shins: and I would have agreed.
We have seen Ranveer clowning around in too many recent movies, and the stupid grin lingers here too, till halftime, when he suddenly realizes he is a forlorn regal character allegedly torn between libido and duty; and the grin disappears, and the man inflates in stature. Still, it’s hard to take him seriously. Deepika too, is flippant and frivolous – were she to have Taj Mahals built after her – she ought to have shown more aplomb. Priyanka though, as a grieving, scorned wife, carries her role with élan.
In Greek plays they had comic relief; when devastating sorrow swept over a sobbing audience, the playwright summoned the sobering clowns; in our movies, we have philharmonic relief, where song and dance, and rain and trees take over and bring tissue papers to the teary girl: just after intense jousting, when Deepika and Priyanka, sworn bloodsuckers vying for the life force of their master, return as grinning, well mannered, well adjusted, and magnanimous competitors in the palace dance show, it becomes unnerving, upsetting and quite disorienting for the confused Indian cinegoer who doesn’t know innuendo from Nintendo. Just because Bhansali pinched on the pennies by composing the music himself, and not paying that Master Jingle-Rip-Van-Winkle A. R. Rahman, doesn’t mean that every tune you dreamt of has to be inflicted, whether it makes sense or not.
As is usual with Bhansali, who believes in the trick of the eye, there are a lot of photo shopped scenes here, including that of a sedated Bengal Tiger, sterilized battlefields and castles, scarlet skies, and riding heroes and heroines looking distinctly uncomfortable being swung from rubber bands.
The first half moves at the sedentary pace of a documentary, which is filming the conception and birth of a cub in the wild where the tigress is marooned alone on an island. The tear-jerking second brings out the neck-breaking pace of a sprinting tiger, who is trying to save himself in the aftermath of a fierce battle for territory between the same tigress and a visiting one, equally marooned, on that same island.
The End.
