My most enjoyable conversations with drivers are usually in Washington
D.C., which nurtures a mother lode of cosmopolitan drivers much more
aware of the world than the average citizen. The first indication
usually comes right off the bat when the driver asks you where you are
from and when you say India, he asks where in India? Today’s Uber
driver, on the drive to Bethesda, wrapped me under the vise grip of his
knowledge about India and took me in a delightful direction—Bollywood
films from the 1970s.
Wasting no time, he told me his parents owned a movie theater in Barra, The Gambia, and that he used to see movies 5 times a week while in high school. Many of them Indian. We were roughly the same age, went to high school about the same time, and the orbits of our movie interests were well in synch. Those were the old multistarrers of the 1970s. Most non-Indians who have some familiarity with Indian commercial films may note Raj Kapoor (if they are over 60), Mithun Chakraborty of Disco Dancer fame (if they are between 40-60), and Shahrukh Khan (if they are younger) in conversation. If they are more than familiar with the genre they might point to Lagaan or Three Idiots. This gentleman was off-the-charts. He kicks it off by telling me that he had seen all of Dara Singh’s movies. Now, Dara Singh was a pro-wrestler turned B-grade movie star who catered to a small town audience that reveled in preposterous scripts. Then he names “Charas”, a 1977 film, starring Dharmendra, as one of his all time favorites. Charas was a hit during its time, but by no means an alltime classic; and Dharmendra, a sex symbol in his time, has been largely forgotten. But the mention of this movie polymerized our bond instantly, for I had seen Charas in three installments, cutting afternoon high school classes for bites of time and heading to the Basusree movie theater in Kolkata. This was a time when I was somewhat obsessed by Hindi films. I remembered most of the songs and some of the scenes even today. My driver did not enjoy the newer Hindi films—they were too westernized, he felt. He preferred the earlier ones with their soppy themes and sentimental stories. I suggested that he take the time to watch Dangal and Kahanee, two of the best that I had seen the past few years. He jotted this down with one hand and with one eye on the road.
The hindi film market in Gambia exploded with the release of Julie in 1975 and its melodramatic love story. This made his knowledge time bracketed: he was unaware of films released prior to Julie—even major ones such as the cult film Bobby (1973) that actually led to the release of Julie, and the groundbreaking, hippie backdropped Hare Rama Hare Krishna (1971) that debuted the timeless Zeenat Aman (by the timeless Dev Anand). Our conversation continued. What was the name of the thin, funny guy who was constantly drunk, he asked. Forgetting my age and the need to comport myself, I responded with Keshto’s signature mix of inebriated giggle and laugh combo, and he recognized it instantly. They used to call Keshto “Gehe” in Gambia he said. He was wildly popular there. I could see why. Keshto cut across cultural and ethnic boundaries and appealed to the ethos of a certain age group. I told him Keshto was a teetotaller in real life. This was news to him.
My driver turned out to be a master of what are now long forgotten Hindi films. Of course we talked about Sholay (India’s second 70 mm film and a masterpiece) and we talked about Helen, Bollywood’s queen of the “item number”. But along with this he rattled off Chor Sipahi (story of two brothers separated at birth), Aa Galey Lag Ja, Dus Numbri (Manoj Kumar), Kala Patthar. He waxed wistfully about Hema Malini. It was meant to be, he said, that Hema should end up marrying Dharmendra though Dharam already had a wife. He asked me about Amjad, the brooding bandit in Sholay who delivered one of the greatest onscreen performances of a villain ever and whose lines today have become pure poetry. “Arre O Samba”, I responded, imitating one of his famous lines. He smiled in recognition and we were both transplanted back to the 1970s. He knew those dialogues (we always referred to the monologues as dialogues).
On the drive from Alexandria to Bethesda this morning I received a master class on 70s Hindi movies from a Gambian Uber driver with a photographic memory.
Wasting no time, he told me his parents owned a movie theater in Barra, The Gambia, and that he used to see movies 5 times a week while in high school. Many of them Indian. We were roughly the same age, went to high school about the same time, and the orbits of our movie interests were well in synch. Those were the old multistarrers of the 1970s. Most non-Indians who have some familiarity with Indian commercial films may note Raj Kapoor (if they are over 60), Mithun Chakraborty of Disco Dancer fame (if they are between 40-60), and Shahrukh Khan (if they are younger) in conversation. If they are more than familiar with the genre they might point to Lagaan or Three Idiots. This gentleman was off-the-charts. He kicks it off by telling me that he had seen all of Dara Singh’s movies. Now, Dara Singh was a pro-wrestler turned B-grade movie star who catered to a small town audience that reveled in preposterous scripts. Then he names “Charas”, a 1977 film, starring Dharmendra, as one of his all time favorites. Charas was a hit during its time, but by no means an alltime classic; and Dharmendra, a sex symbol in his time, has been largely forgotten. But the mention of this movie polymerized our bond instantly, for I had seen Charas in three installments, cutting afternoon high school classes for bites of time and heading to the Basusree movie theater in Kolkata. This was a time when I was somewhat obsessed by Hindi films. I remembered most of the songs and some of the scenes even today. My driver did not enjoy the newer Hindi films—they were too westernized, he felt. He preferred the earlier ones with their soppy themes and sentimental stories. I suggested that he take the time to watch Dangal and Kahanee, two of the best that I had seen the past few years. He jotted this down with one hand and with one eye on the road.
The hindi film market in Gambia exploded with the release of Julie in 1975 and its melodramatic love story. This made his knowledge time bracketed: he was unaware of films released prior to Julie—even major ones such as the cult film Bobby (1973) that actually led to the release of Julie, and the groundbreaking, hippie backdropped Hare Rama Hare Krishna (1971) that debuted the timeless Zeenat Aman (by the timeless Dev Anand). Our conversation continued. What was the name of the thin, funny guy who was constantly drunk, he asked. Forgetting my age and the need to comport myself, I responded with Keshto’s signature mix of inebriated giggle and laugh combo, and he recognized it instantly. They used to call Keshto “Gehe” in Gambia he said. He was wildly popular there. I could see why. Keshto cut across cultural and ethnic boundaries and appealed to the ethos of a certain age group. I told him Keshto was a teetotaller in real life. This was news to him.
My driver turned out to be a master of what are now long forgotten Hindi films. Of course we talked about Sholay (India’s second 70 mm film and a masterpiece) and we talked about Helen, Bollywood’s queen of the “item number”. But along with this he rattled off Chor Sipahi (story of two brothers separated at birth), Aa Galey Lag Ja, Dus Numbri (Manoj Kumar), Kala Patthar. He waxed wistfully about Hema Malini. It was meant to be, he said, that Hema should end up marrying Dharmendra though Dharam already had a wife. He asked me about Amjad, the brooding bandit in Sholay who delivered one of the greatest onscreen performances of a villain ever and whose lines today have become pure poetry. “Arre O Samba”, I responded, imitating one of his famous lines. He smiled in recognition and we were both transplanted back to the 1970s. He knew those dialogues (we always referred to the monologues as dialogues).
On the drive from Alexandria to Bethesda this morning I received a master class on 70s Hindi movies from a Gambian Uber driver with a photographic memory.
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