A Bollywood lover from Istanbul

The last thing I expect to hear in Istanbul is a Kishore Kumar song. I also don’t expect to find a neighbourhood named after a Mughal emperor, but I suppose that’s a bit more likely.

I am walking through the streets of Cehangir (pronounced Jehang-eer) when I notice second hand items on sale. A necklace. A pink alarm clock. An ashtray. I follow the line of used goods, because, well, they have history. And the history of things is connected to the people who once owned them. I wonder which man or woman gifted this necklace to his/her lover, and why said lover chose to get rid of it.

How many mornings did that alarm clock ruin? Perhaps its owner now missed its signature shrill, in the way a child can both despise and desire her mother’s advice. The ashtray is made of crystal glass. Either it’s hardly been used or the owner did an excellent job of scrubbing away their presence.

My legs continue to follow the items on sale, and I come across an old-fashioned radio. It takes me a moment to register what I’m hearing.

Next to the radio sits Mehsood, a brownskinned man with a crisp, white beard. “India?” I nod and smile. But what he says next turns my smile into a fullthroated laugh. Maine Hindi picture dekh ke Hindi seekhi hai.

I’ve learned Hindi by watching Hindi movies.

I have been in Istanbul for a week now. I have had more conversations in broken Russian than English. So to find a Turkish man who speaks Hindi is – frankly speaking – frigin awesome.

“Mohammed Rafi,” Mehsood says in his sort-of Slavic accent, “Kishore. Lata.” “Hemant Kumar,” I add.

“Hemant Kumar. Anu Malik.” Wow. He just said Anu Malik. “Veer Zara. You’ve seen Veer Zara?”

Mehsood’s children are in Bombay. He wants to go there someday.

Mujhe Hindi picture bahut achi lagti hai. He really likes Hindi movies. I do too.

I grew up on Bollywood, the cultural fast food of most non-resident Indian families. Every few months, no matter where Papa was stationed, a parcel came in the mail from an aunt in America. Underneath the yellow paper and bubble wrap lay three video cassettes, each holding a pirated Hindi movies. I gorged on these films of the nineties, again and again, until I anticipated each twist, danced to each song, and with some favourites, memorised each dialogue. Not the healthiest mind fodder, these films, like most cultural fast food, provided comfort. But Bollywood wasn’t just entertainment. It held, in spite of our nomadic lives, the idea of home.

The first movie that made me cry was Sadma. Girl goes through head injury, loses her memory, and mentally becomes a child. Boy meets girl and takes care of her. Boy falls in love with girl. Girl’s memories and mature resurface and she forgets boy. As her train pulls away, boy tries to catch her attention through the window, making the clown faces she used to love. That was my favourite Sridevi movie.

Sridevi mar gayi? Did Sridevi die?

Yes, I tell Mehsood, she died. “And Dilip Kumar?” I don’t know. “Vo beemar hai. In hospital.” Mehsood had seen Dilip Kumar’s Devdas, the older version of the movie. I had seen the new one, with Shah Rukh Khan in the lead role. But the story remains the same. Boy meets girl. Girl gets married. Boy drowns himself in durgs and the affections of pure-hearted prostitute. Girl loves boy. Prostitute also loves boy. But boy loves melancholy now.

I am surprised, I tell Mehsood, that Hindi songs are playing on the radio. “They aren’t.” He points to the tiny pen drive jutting out from the top of the radio. “Paanch hazaar Indian gane. Five thousand.”

I marvel at what India has given to the world. The number zero. Chicken tikka masala. And stories that perpetuate immortal love and racism.

But Pragya, you might be thinking, the narrative is changing. There are stories of women who don’t need men. Stories exposing the underbelly of small-town gangs. These films are intelligent, well-written, and commercially successful. And then there is Darr.

Boy meets girl. Girl doesn’t know boy exists. Boy turns stalker. Girl eventually needs lover to kill stalker. In Darr, Shah Rukh Khan played a villain that the country sympathised with. The stalker became the hero.

These kinds of stories encourage sexual harassment, skin-whitening, body-shaming, homophobia, and Islamophobia. These films are also successful, exponentially more so. But Mehsood and I, like millions of people worldwide, still watch them. “Chai?” Mehsood says.

I tell him I’ll be going now. “Khuda hafiz.” We shake hands.

People like Mehsood and I, we are bound to get along. If nothing else, we are connected by the cinematic French fry.