Open letter to Amitabh from a cynical fan

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Dear Amitabh,

Aaj khush toh bahut hoge tum...

I truly believe every generation deserves the heroes they get. Born in the bleached out 80s, I missed by a decade the emergence of an exciting new phase in Indian cinema experimenting with Technicolour and expressionist cinematography.

As my generation grew up with the Competition Success Reviews, Camlin sets and detachable, bi-colour anti-glare screens on black and white television sets, there was a recurring image of one man who was the Sunday afternoon Robin Hood of the small screen.

The multiplex was still a futuristic concept and cinema was a rare family pilgrimage after much vetting by the elders. But be it in the darkness of the theatre, or the repeat screenings on Doordarshan on Sundays, the one-man-show was spectacular in its arrogance.

From the whining, wronged protagonist of the 60s who preferred to die with dignity coughing up blood, you turned cinema around to an unapologetic spectacle of what this generation loosely refers to as an 'attitude'. For the first time in many years, the voice of the youth counted and its choices were acknowledged.

Those were the years when the youth was desperately looking for an icon. From the coiffeur to the file-pusher, the housewife to the bar dancer, everyone was in love with the tall angular man whose intense eyes could crinkle at the corners with suppressed laughter and fists could smash glass windows with unrestrained fury.

When you slicked your hair back from your forehead, a nation followed suit. When you decided to wear your sleeves short, tailors scampered to copy the 'Amitabh bush shirt'. When you married a co-star, thousands of heartbroken women vowed celibacy.

We lit candles for your recovery from a near-fatal accident. Women of 60 lit incense in front of your photograph, jostling for space with pictures of their regular gods and goddesses.

What can I say? We are a nation that worships its heroes. You are one of the few actors that have enjoyed the adulation of four generations of fans. You have probably seen the film industry changing from a poorly organized community into a multi-crore behemoth PR machine in the last 30 years.

Even when you made poor choices, your audience stayed with you. The political foray bombed, the business venture almost went bust and the clean-shaven, coloured hair makeover did nothing to hide the signs of ageing when you tied a scarf around your neck. But selfish, nostalgic fans sent out their tentacles and lured you into doing one bad film after another.

Like many others, I have long since outgrown my teenage fascination for your lazy drawl. I no longer mouth your dialogues along with you with every rerun of 'Deewar'. I have finally stopped watching 'Sholay' after the 25th time and even torn up my outraged letter (that I didn't have the nerve to post) to GP Sippy for letting you die.

But never once in all these years, I, your devoted fan, imagined that you will outstay your contemporaries and bend to the rules that define cinema today. So as I watch 'Buddha Hoga Tera Baap' in the company of middle-aged men and women and the odd college kid, I feel sorry for a generation that has to revoke its ageing heroes to fill a void.

Your outrageous shirts and multi-coloured shades couldn't hide the laboured acting as you desperately tried to live up to an image that should have gone out with bellbottom pants and Binaka Geet Mala. The flirtatious old man image frankly does not suit you any more than the leather jacket and protracted swagger does.

Sensitive about your age in the Puri Jagannadh biopic, you would bash up anyone who calls you 'buddha' (old man). To make your point you flirt with two young things who fulfill little in the film other than looking pretty.

As I stare in disbelief at a man who was once the inspiration for my generation's mischief making, and who just won't quit at the age of 69, I can't help but wonder what makes you tick. I am desperate for a glimpse of the brilliant actor who could once make a city come to a standstill on first showings.

Just as I get up to leave, you tear up in the last scene in front of your estranged wife, the helplessness written all across your wrinkled face and say "buddha ho gaya hu naa..."

And instinctively I think, buddha hoga tera baap.