Spit take |
Years ago, on the rickety elevator of a multi-storeyed apartment complex, my co-passenger happened to be a South Superstar. As the lift rattled upwards, with the bouncer/bodyguard era still a few years away, we ended up being the only two inmates of that temporary prison. As nanoseconds turned into hours, I realised it was up to me to address the situation.
So, I said, somewhat awkwardly, “I like your work, sir”. (I was being truthful. I did like some of his work.) The big man mumbled his thanks. But from the look on his award-winning, pre-botox face, it was obviously a first. I hadn’t said I admired him, loved him unconditionally, written him letters in blood or that I would kill myself if I didn’t see his movie on the first day. I’d said I liked his work. Worst of all, wonder of wonders, I hadn’t said I was his fan.
I didn’t realise what I was saying then. Nor was I saying it for effect. But I’ve figured out a couple of things since. Firstly, a quarter century on, the gentleman I bumped into on the lift, who celebrated his aruvadam kalyanam a few years ago, is still a Superstar. A bigger one than he was then, as a matter of fact. But the funny thing is, he isn’t an anomaly. So are his contemporaries from the neighbouring states. As are some of their sons simultaneously.
Why do we love old men so much? And why are we a country of fans? What makes young men – inarguably the largest segment among moviegoers – worship men ten years older than their fathers? What makes young men want to see these digitally corrected senior citizens sing and dance with, and, above all, harass in the name of romance, women in their twenties? What kind of kink is that?
One could argue that even in Hollywood, the biggest stars commanding the highest fees, like Tom Cruise and Robert Downey Jr, aren’t exactly spring chickens either. But no one is bathing their cut-outs in milk, are they? Or when was the last time a Cruise fan killed a Downey fan? Or when did either of them romance Chloë Grace Moretz or Dakota Fanning, dressed in purple pants and an ill-fitting toupee?
Here’s what’s interesting though. We worship old men but our adoration is reserved only for a few of them: old men from films, politics and spirituality, to be precise. Their ‘punch dialogue’ on all subjects, ranging from how women ought to conduct themselves to whether sex before marriage is good is our primer. They can do no wrong. Because we are their fans.
But we are also the most ageist nation when it comes to ordinary men and women in all walks of life. A couple of days ago, I confronted a man who was being rude on Facebook. When I told him politely and firmly that I wouldn’t accept his kind of language or discourse on my page, he called me an ‘uncle’ to humiliate me. When I told him that I saw myself more as his machaan than his mama, he realised that this old man still had some mileage left. And left.
How often we’ve heard folks yell out “kezhava” or “buddhe” at traffic snarls. How often we’ve seen people being belittled, sidelined and dismissed for not being young.
As for what women in all walks of life go through the minute they cross thirty, from the same men who worship these septuagenarian male superstars, no further elaboration is needed.
Krishna Shastri Devulapalli is a satirist. He has written four books and edited an anthology.
