Raincoat

In December 2004, my British friend Lisa came to Bombay to visit me. Lisa and I are friends for more than thirty years. She is a lesbian and I am very straight. That makes it an enviable platonic friendship. On that trip, Lisa had come with a girl older than her. Don’t know if they were mere friends or more, but it was none of my business.

Bombay is not a touristy place. Once the two British girls saw the Gateway of India, the Gothic architecture in South Bombay built by their own ancestors, and refused to visit the Elephanta Island, because of the Tsunami which had happened that week, not much remained to be seen. From the day of arrival, they had expressed interest in Bollywood. I had to disappoint them by saying there is no such place as Bollywood. Hollywood exists, but not Bollywood. The best thing that can be done is to watch a Bollywood movie.

Bollywood movies are fairy tales for adults. Protagonists must be good looking, the leading lady Miss Universe if possible. Villains must look and act nasty. Every fifteen minutes or so, the storyline freezes, and everyone starts dancing. The leads (called the hero and the heroine) take carefully choreographed bollywood steps, and behind them are hundreds of dancers creating the Indian corps de ballet. The dances are extremely colorful, rhythms invigorating, sets appealing and tunes catchy. The seven or eight songs in the film may have nothing to do with the plot, but they offer a welcome relief to those who wish to buy popcorns, visit restrooms or answer missed calls. In effect, every Bollywood film is a musical. I thought Lisa and her friend would enjoy that part much. Also I won’t need to translate anything when the songs are on.

I checked with my Indian friends. They recommended Dhoom, a blockbuster film of that year. It was a nonstop action thriller, with seven or eight songs. An ideal film for foreigners wishing to get a taste of Bollywood. Dhoom had the famous Dhoom machale number, which I was obliged to listen to every morning at my gym.

In 2004, we couldn’t yet book movie tickets on internet. I checked the Dhoom timings in the newspaper. Lisa, her friend and I took a taxi to a nearby multi-screen cinema. We waited patiently in the queue for tickets, anxiously looking at the watch. I like to watch the ads before the movies.

“Three tickets for Dhoom, please.” I said at the counter.

“Dhoom? That’s house-full.” The man, whose head was the only visible part, said. I thought he frowned to suggest people just can’t walk in ten minutes before Dhoom and expect to get tickets.

“Look, I have my friends from abroad here. They wish to see a Bollywood movie. If Dhoom is not possible… do you have tickets… for…. Hulchul?” That was another recommendation from friends. This one had Kareena Kapoor, and six songs.

“No tickets for Hulchul either.” The man said. By now the queue behind us was getting restless. Indians respect foreigners, but only up to a certain point. The ticket seller gave me the names of the remaining films.

“I have tickets for Raincoat. Raincoat has Aishwarya Rai.”

Raincoat was a good English title. Maybe the film has lots of English dialogue, I thought. And Aishwarya Rai was a Miss World. I briefly told Lisa what the options were, and bought tickets for Raincoat.

By the time we reached our seats, we had missed the ads and trailers. Suddenly Raincoat, the feature of the day, started. The film begins with Ajay Devgan, the lead actor, coming to Calcutta from a smaller town. He has lost his job. He meets the woman (Aishwarya Rai) he was engaged to many years ago. She is now married. For the first ten minutes, maybe twenty, the two protagonists are in a depressing-looking room, just talking to each other. Films connected to Bengal are generally depressing. This one had no music, no songs. The two protagonists were speaking in chaste Hindi. Of course, no subtitles.

In the darkness, I turned to Lisa and whispered, “I am so sorry. The title Raincoat was misleading. They are talking in pure Hindi. And no songs, no dances. It seems unlikely there will be any. Please tell me when you wish to leave, and we will leave. Sorry.”

I waited for five minutes. I had lost interest in the film. As soon as Lisa gave a signal, we would all leave. Lisa was still focused on the screen. I kept taking my eyes off the screen and looking at her for a sign.

“We can leave when you wish.” I said once again.

“No, no. It’s fine. I think we will guess the storyline. In any case, I can just keep watching her endlessly.”

Well, if Lisa is happy looking at Aishwarya for two hours, why should I hurry? Or worry? Gradually, I got over my guilt, and began to get involved in the movie.

At interval, three of us came out.

“Once again, so sorry for bringing you to this film. I want you to know this film is exactly what Bollywood films are not. If I wanted you to understand how Bollywood films are not made, I would have selected this film. It must be a torture for you to sit through the hour without understanding a word. I can give you….”

“On the contrary…” Lisa said. “We understood the whole story. The visual medium doesn’t need words. And these are good actors. We are enjoying the film, don’t worry.”

Wow, I thought. I had always admired Lisa’s intelligence. To appreciate a film without knowing a word in that language was remarkable.

“She is a prostitute.” Lisa began. “And he is a drug-dealer. Both are unhappy about their professions. That unhappiness has brought them together. They are discussing how both of them can escape with each other’s help….”

Lisa went on and on. Giving me minute details of the storyline. I didn’t interrupt her. My initial thought was to give the English girls the gist of the story, until interval. Since I had not seen the film before, I had no idea what would happen in the second half. But if I could tell Lisa the story till interval, that would make her life easier. When Lisa told me the story, I changed my mind.

The English girls had invented a story. Just by watching what was happening on the screen. They could continue in the same vein till the end of the film.

I said nothing. Of course, she was not a prostitute, neither was he a drug-dealer. Lisa’s was a western perspective on the images she had seen. Her entire storyline, though interesting, had absolutely nothing to do with the real storyline. But who was I to disrupt her creativity? Would the real story be as enjoyable for them as the fiction in their mind?

We re-entered the auditorium to watch the movie. On that day, Lisa and I watched the same movie with two different storylines.

Ravi