The jury would forever be out on who the greatest Bollywood star of all times is- Amitabh Bachchan or Mithun Chakraborty. Even as I write these lines, I can already picture a pack of rabid, blood hound film fanatics bombarding their ridicule guns at me and asking me rhetorically- how dare you compare Mithun with Amitabh? Why, how could you even spell the two names in the same breath? Who is Mithun? And what is he in front of Amitabh?
To all these nay sayers, all I say is- go, get a life. Period. For all those brave hearts (and I am the biggest self appointed champion of their lot) who willingly (bought a ticket and) crammed their sweaty asses into the grimy, betel nut spit smeared front seats of the congested, hot and humid cinema halls of North India in the cinemascopic ‘80s and early ‘90s, the answer had always been and would always be an unequivocal- Mithun Chakraboty, aka, Lord Mithun Da.
The history of Hindi Cinema would, for all times to come, be a story of two distinct epochs: the pre-Mithun Da era of sugary love laced mush fests centered on Sri Nagar’s Dal Lake; and the Mithun Da era urban crime, decadence, rape, murder, jealousy and retribution film noir. To understand this dichotomy would require an understanding of the societal forces that were at work in the India of the ‘70s and ‘80s and the way they were (and were not) represented on the celluloid screens of the Hindi cinemas all across India.
I would refrain from going on a tangent here by expounding my theories on what these societal forces were. Many enlightened souls have met their maker begging for a chance to expound some more and God only knows how many countless acres of jungle have been felled trying to accommodate their myriad opinions on this complex construct. As with so many other things in life, here also, the process of elimination works best. And so, suffice it would to say that the beautifully manicured gardens and palatial bungalows, buxom leading ladies in tight fitting chiffons (and cashmere clad tits), and hyperventilating males in stately Impala cars- the props that formed the feed stock of the pre-Mithun era movies (and yes, that includes many of Amitabh’s brain busters), were as far away from the struggles and realities of our daily lives as the Earth is from the Sun.
For months, Pooran tried hard to hook Chhachhrauli’s moviegoers on to these sugar candies with dismal results. Enter Lord Mithun with an ambulance full of badly beaten up thugs in tow and a solemn promise of retribution screaming out from his blood red eyes and, lo and behold, the order was established. We Chhachhrauli folks knew a good thing when we saw one. We saw what Prabhu had to offer and we liked what we saw. Our Friday evenings would never be the same again.
Lord Mithun had an endearing way of announcing himself to us wide eyed followers. After enduring the mind numbing gibberish of the opening credits of the movie (that were presented in three different languages- Hindi, English and Urdu, in those days), we would soon come face to face with our Lord who would proceed to give us a one lined description of his avatar for that particular movie:
“Mera Naam Hai Heera, Maine Chaku Se Bullet Ko Cheera” (My name is Diamond and I have cut a bullet into two with my knife)
“Dikhne Mein Beevda, Bhaagne Mein Ghoda Aur Maarne Mein Hathoda Hun Main” (I look like a drunkard, I run like a horse and I deliver blows like a hammer)
“Main hun Do Nambari- Ek Se Jyada, Teen Se kum” (They call me Number-2- More than one, less than three)
“Tere Naam ka Kutta Paalun” (I will domesticate a dog and name it after you)
“Bheegi Hui Cigarette Jal Nahin Sakti, Aur Ye Tei Hai Ki Teri Maut Ki Taarikh Tal Nahin Sakti” (A damp cigarette won’t burn; and be sure that the day I have decided for your death won’t turn)
Thus, making his intensions clear to one and all (as if they weren’t already), he would proceed to bust the dental (and consequently, the mental) make up of the hapless goons that would go flying all over the screen, screaming in agony.
There was an endearing, assembly line precision to the stories and screen plays of our Lord’s movies- a sovereign promise of the sorts the Governors of the Reserve Bank of India have been doling out to the holders of the Indian currency notes for the last 60 years- I PROMISE TO PAY THE BEARER A SUM OF 100 RUPEES (Read in Lord Mithun’s words: I PROMISE TO SHOW MY FAITH FUL MOVIE GOER AN UNENDING ORGY OF RAPE, MURDER AND BLOODY REVENGE- FRIDAY AFTER FRIDAY AFTER FRIDAY).
A la Ford Model-T, you could watch as many movies of the Lord as you liked as long as you didn’t question the basic building blocks of the screen play:
Scene# 1: Lord Mithun's sister is dancing to the tunes of a raunchy song with her lover in the rice fields of her village when a rapacious villain (usually the village landlord or his minions) sets his evil eyes on her heavily heaving bosom (or sweaty legs or navel or heck, all at the same time).
Scene# 2: My Lord's sister is abducted in the dark of the night, gang raped and strangled to death. Her lover dies a futile death trying to revenge his loss (he being no match for the mighty goons).
Scene# 3: My Lord’s old and partially blind mother gets to know of the ignominy and dies of heart attack (occasionally, towards inducing some freshness in the plot, she would turn senile in some of the movies).
Scene# 4: My Lord sets foot in his village after spending a few months as a manual laborer (or truck driver, or auto rickshaw driver, or a coolie at the airport: you see, unlike Ford’s Model-T, our Lord did offer you a generous variation in the shades of the characters he played) in the city.
Scene# 5: Our Lord’s lady love (usually going by the name Bijli) would inform him of his bad luck on his way to the village from the railway station.
Scene# 6: The Lord would pledge retribution on the still smoldering funeral pyres of his mother and young sister (usually with a burning stick from the pyre in hand).
Scene#7 and on wards: Full blown retribution in all its graphic glory
The producers of Prabhu Ji’s movies cut no corners when it came to helping him extract his revenge in as He-Manly a way as possible. The results, more often than not, spoke for themselves in the films’ climaxes:
At the mere hint of Mithun Da’s right hand push, ten tonner Tata trucks would go flying in the air; entire armies of carbine and bazooka wielding soldiers would bite the dust with his carelessly tossed aside hand grenades; on occasions he would catch the hand grenades tossed at him in mid-air and aim them back at the perpetrators with disastrous consequences.
The best climaxes however were those in which, the villains, having pulled a fast one on Mithun Da and tricked him into surrender, forced his girlfriend over a gun point to dance all around him and celebrate his impending death. As fate always had it, unknown to the poor bastards, Lord ji would pull out a carefully hidden blade in his shirtsleeves (he had this amazing ability to think through and be prepared for every situation in advance) and cut open his harness. Under blazing machine guns, rocket launchers and other pieces of heavy artillery, he and his girlfriend would then proceed to finish the unfinished task, sending the villains and their entire armies to the greener pastures beyond.
Watching Mithun Da in action was like watching the living affirmation of the dauntless bounds of the initiated human spirit. No task, no matter how difficult, was impossible for him and by corollary, would be for my young mind. As a Good Samaritan told a young Mithun Da in his golden jubilee movie Dance Dance, “Agar Tujhe Halwa Chahiye To Tujhe Nachna Padega (If you want to eat cake you will have to first dance)”, so I realized that the best and the only way of solving life’s problems was to get up and do something about them- the consequences be damned.
To all these nay sayers, all I say is- go, get a life. Period. For all those brave hearts (and I am the biggest self appointed champion of their lot) who willingly (bought a ticket and) crammed their sweaty asses into the grimy, betel nut spit smeared front seats of the congested, hot and humid cinema halls of North India in the cinemascopic ‘80s and early ‘90s, the answer had always been and would always be an unequivocal- Mithun Chakraboty, aka, Lord Mithun Da.
The history of Hindi Cinema would, for all times to come, be a story of two distinct epochs: the pre-Mithun Da era of sugary love laced mush fests centered on Sri Nagar’s Dal Lake; and the Mithun Da era urban crime, decadence, rape, murder, jealousy and retribution film noir. To understand this dichotomy would require an understanding of the societal forces that were at work in the India of the ‘70s and ‘80s and the way they were (and were not) represented on the celluloid screens of the Hindi cinemas all across India.
I would refrain from going on a tangent here by expounding my theories on what these societal forces were. Many enlightened souls have met their maker begging for a chance to expound some more and God only knows how many countless acres of jungle have been felled trying to accommodate their myriad opinions on this complex construct. As with so many other things in life, here also, the process of elimination works best. And so, suffice it would to say that the beautifully manicured gardens and palatial bungalows, buxom leading ladies in tight fitting chiffons (and cashmere clad tits), and hyperventilating males in stately Impala cars- the props that formed the feed stock of the pre-Mithun era movies (and yes, that includes many of Amitabh’s brain busters), were as far away from the struggles and realities of our daily lives as the Earth is from the Sun.
For months, Pooran tried hard to hook Chhachhrauli’s moviegoers on to these sugar candies with dismal results. Enter Lord Mithun with an ambulance full of badly beaten up thugs in tow and a solemn promise of retribution screaming out from his blood red eyes and, lo and behold, the order was established. We Chhachhrauli folks knew a good thing when we saw one. We saw what Prabhu had to offer and we liked what we saw. Our Friday evenings would never be the same again.
Lord Mithun had an endearing way of announcing himself to us wide eyed followers. After enduring the mind numbing gibberish of the opening credits of the movie (that were presented in three different languages- Hindi, English and Urdu, in those days), we would soon come face to face with our Lord who would proceed to give us a one lined description of his avatar for that particular movie:
“Mera Naam Hai Heera, Maine Chaku Se Bullet Ko Cheera” (My name is Diamond and I have cut a bullet into two with my knife)
“Dikhne Mein Beevda, Bhaagne Mein Ghoda Aur Maarne Mein Hathoda Hun Main” (I look like a drunkard, I run like a horse and I deliver blows like a hammer)
“Main hun Do Nambari- Ek Se Jyada, Teen Se kum” (They call me Number-2- More than one, less than three)
“Tere Naam ka Kutta Paalun” (I will domesticate a dog and name it after you)
“Bheegi Hui Cigarette Jal Nahin Sakti, Aur Ye Tei Hai Ki Teri Maut Ki Taarikh Tal Nahin Sakti” (A damp cigarette won’t burn; and be sure that the day I have decided for your death won’t turn)
Thus, making his intensions clear to one and all (as if they weren’t already), he would proceed to bust the dental (and consequently, the mental) make up of the hapless goons that would go flying all over the screen, screaming in agony.
There was an endearing, assembly line precision to the stories and screen plays of our Lord’s movies- a sovereign promise of the sorts the Governors of the Reserve Bank of India have been doling out to the holders of the Indian currency notes for the last 60 years- I PROMISE TO PAY THE BEARER A SUM OF 100 RUPEES (Read in Lord Mithun’s words: I PROMISE TO SHOW MY FAITH FUL MOVIE GOER AN UNENDING ORGY OF RAPE, MURDER AND BLOODY REVENGE- FRIDAY AFTER FRIDAY AFTER FRIDAY).
A la Ford Model-T, you could watch as many movies of the Lord as you liked as long as you didn’t question the basic building blocks of the screen play:
Scene# 1: Lord Mithun's sister is dancing to the tunes of a raunchy song with her lover in the rice fields of her village when a rapacious villain (usually the village landlord or his minions) sets his evil eyes on her heavily heaving bosom (or sweaty legs or navel or heck, all at the same time).
Scene# 2: My Lord's sister is abducted in the dark of the night, gang raped and strangled to death. Her lover dies a futile death trying to revenge his loss (he being no match for the mighty goons).
Scene# 3: My Lord’s old and partially blind mother gets to know of the ignominy and dies of heart attack (occasionally, towards inducing some freshness in the plot, she would turn senile in some of the movies).
Scene# 4: My Lord sets foot in his village after spending a few months as a manual laborer (or truck driver, or auto rickshaw driver, or a coolie at the airport: you see, unlike Ford’s Model-T, our Lord did offer you a generous variation in the shades of the characters he played) in the city.
Scene# 5: Our Lord’s lady love (usually going by the name Bijli) would inform him of his bad luck on his way to the village from the railway station.
Scene# 6: The Lord would pledge retribution on the still smoldering funeral pyres of his mother and young sister (usually with a burning stick from the pyre in hand).
Scene#7 and on wards: Full blown retribution in all its graphic glory
The producers of Prabhu Ji’s movies cut no corners when it came to helping him extract his revenge in as He-Manly a way as possible. The results, more often than not, spoke for themselves in the films’ climaxes:
At the mere hint of Mithun Da’s right hand push, ten tonner Tata trucks would go flying in the air; entire armies of carbine and bazooka wielding soldiers would bite the dust with his carelessly tossed aside hand grenades; on occasions he would catch the hand grenades tossed at him in mid-air and aim them back at the perpetrators with disastrous consequences.
The best climaxes however were those in which, the villains, having pulled a fast one on Mithun Da and tricked him into surrender, forced his girlfriend over a gun point to dance all around him and celebrate his impending death. As fate always had it, unknown to the poor bastards, Lord ji would pull out a carefully hidden blade in his shirtsleeves (he had this amazing ability to think through and be prepared for every situation in advance) and cut open his harness. Under blazing machine guns, rocket launchers and other pieces of heavy artillery, he and his girlfriend would then proceed to finish the unfinished task, sending the villains and their entire armies to the greener pastures beyond.
Watching Mithun Da in action was like watching the living affirmation of the dauntless bounds of the initiated human spirit. No task, no matter how difficult, was impossible for him and by corollary, would be for my young mind. As a Good Samaritan told a young Mithun Da in his golden jubilee movie Dance Dance, “Agar Tujhe Halwa Chahiye To Tujhe Nachna Padega (If you want to eat cake you will have to first dance)”, so I realized that the best and the only way of solving life’s problems was to get up and do something about them- the consequences be damned.
