Blogical Conclusion

AB… SEE?

In which I am relieved that I didn’t bump into Amitabh Bachchan at the recent National Awards ceremony.

SEPT 23, 2007 - EVER SINCE THE ANNOUNCEMENT that I’d won the National Award for Best Film Critic, I’ve been inundated with phone calls from the extended family. I know what you’re thinking, that this is a warm-fuzzy scenario that would leave Sooraj Barjatya salivating. You’re thinking that these calls are an affirmation of their pride and joy in their boy who would shake hands with the President (rather, in this case, clasp his palms in a polite namaste; the earth, apparently, will vanish in a puff of blue smoke if so much as the extremities of opposing genders come in contact during social situations) and walk away with an eye-blinding disc of gold bling.

But that was only a teeny part of it. What these relatives were more excited about was that I’d be in the same room as Amitabh Bachchan, the Best Actor winner for Black. And not just in the same room, but right next to him – and I didn’t have the heart to correct this notion. The only way I was going to be his neighbour at the ceremony was if the organisers decided, by some logic of convolution, that they’d seat the winners alphabetically: everyone else on a first-name basis, and only the Big B by his last name. As far as I could see, that alone could result in Baradwaj Rangan alongside Bachchan, Amitabh.

No such thing happened, of course. Amitabh walked in and took his seat next to Sai Kumar (or Kumar, Sai), winner for Best Child Actor. I was all the way across, and even if I were to take comfort in the Euclidean theory that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, navigating this straight line would take (a) the skills to hurdle across the unending rows of tables in the amphitheatre, (b) the strength to barrel past the inevitable phalanx of photographers, and – in the unlikely scenario that I managed both (a) and (b), a turn of events that, short of being bitten by a radioactive spider, I couldn’t see how I was going to bring about – (c) the presence of mind to say something that would not result in his coming to the conclusion that I was a complete idiot.

After the ceremony, though – the prospect of facing crushed uncles and aunts (and a cousin who wanted me to pass on the message that she loved loved loved him in Cheeni Kum) notwithstanding – I was glad the meeting never took place. And this realisation hit me when I was chatting with Khalid Mohammad at the post-awards dinner. (Yes, I’m name-dropping. So sue me!) This gentleman – let’s call him Unabashed Fan – sidled up to the famous film critic (Khalid, not me) and said he loved loved loved his work. Khalid nodded politely.

Unabashed Fan, clearly encouraged, went on to swear on all things holy that he never ever watched a film that Khalid didn’t recommend. Khalid remarked that, in that case, this man wouldn’t end up seeing that many movies. And then came the kicker. Unabashed Fan made bold and offered this priceless bit of constructive criticism, that Khalid appeared biased towards English films. Even I rolled my eyes, but Khalid, exercising formidable levels of ocular control, simply said that he never reviewed English films.

The gust of wind that coursed through the room an instant later was my silent sigh of relief, as I thanked various combinations of divine entities that I had not been reduced to Unabashed Fan in front of Amitabh Bachchan. I mean, what could I have said? That I grew up with his films? That his presence has, in all probability, shaped my movie-watching more than that of any other actor? That I love how he’s reinvented himself as character artist in the multiplex era? The response to each one of these gushing proclamations would have been an outward smile concealing an inner yawn.

But I did use every opportunity I got to observe the man up close and personal (at least, to the extent that my far-from-vantage point would allow). And somewhere along the line, I ended up feeling quite sorry for him. He’d barely taken his seat, when all the photographers in the room defied a few hundred laws of physics and compacted themselves into the tiny space in front of him. It was as if the mere act of Amitabh Bachchan draping his body on a piece of furniture were worthy of national headlines. The poor, poor man. Then I remembered the price he commands for this loss of privacy, and all was well with the world again.

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