The Curry Eastern Takeaway

Madhu Jain

The Indian actor who played the human-sacrificing priest with a necklace of skulls swinging round his neck in Steven Spielberg's Indium Junes and the Temple ofDuum is constantly being asked by Hollywood producers to play a Red Indian Chief.' Of course, India's favourite villain, who has evil carved into every line of his granite Mount Rushmore face, would make a delightful Red Indian. But the import of an Indian actor all the way from Bombay signifies something else that is happening. Room is being made in Hollywood's pantheon of stereotypes for another entrant. The original Indian, the Indian from India that is, serves the same purpose as the Red Indian in the Cuny Easterns now being made in Europe and in America. The landscape has changed from the rocks and deserts of the Wild West to the ravines and vastness of the Wild East. The colour of the forces of evil, the adversary, might have changed from red to brown, but essentially, it is still the cowboys and Indians game which is being played. The native remains a native. And, interestingly, both are the original inhabitants of the land. Both kinds of Indians prove to be the ideal foil for the brave white man. They afford him the chance to prove his valour. They also allow him to show his chivalry. In the case of the Curry Eastern he rescues the damsel-in-distress more often than not a princess - from the funeral pyre of her husband on which she has been forcibly thrown by the evil natives. Sati - as this North Indian practice made illegal during the last century is called - seems to be a popular leitmotif in the made-in-India British and American commercial films: the television soap The Fur Pavilions, films like Around the World in Eighty Days (there was an animated version as well), The Deceivers and other European television series. Sati was used to provide an exotic obstacle on the hero's adventure path. Cross-fertilisation is taking place between the popular Indian cinema and popular Western cinema and television - primarily the American and British. The two streams of cinema could not be more parallel, more apart. Yet, the two are influencing each other. Moreover, interesting things are happening to transplants to alien shores. The two-way traffic is hardly new: Mughlee, the little Indian boy in the jungle, forms part of the childhood memory of many European men.
Presented at the Workshop entitled "Public Culture in India and Its Global Problematics," sponsored by the Joint Committee on South Asia of the Socal Science ResearchCouncil, April 1989.
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Kipling's Gunga Din creation is a dog-eared prototype for the loyal native. And, what went the other way were the cabaret girls for that touch of modem glamour (all that is Western is considered modem, like short hair for the heroines of the '60s and the cha-cha-cha) and Humphrey Bogart trench coats for home-grown sleuths. What is new and interesting, however, are the hybrids being produced from all this to-and-fro between the continents. Bombay commercial cinema has certainly bitten off large chunks of American box office hits - though none too well-digested - and then indigenised them. But what is a Curry Eastern? you might well ask. The Spaghetti Westem has been on the menu a long time. And India has a fairly old tradition of the Curry Western: these are usually remakes, often frame for frame, of American Westerns which have been grafted onto Indian landscapes and anchored with heavy doses of Indian morality - and, of course, the Indian archetypes. And then we have had the Raj films - scores of films about the British set in India. More recently, there has been a Raj Revival with The Jewel in the Crown (a television series based on Paul Scott's Raj Quartet), Heat and Dust, Queenie, Lord Mountbatten, The Last Viceroy. The Curry Eastern is a different genre altogether. Cuny Easterns are adventures based in India. And unlike the Raj films, they do not trade in nostalgia. The latter just used India and Indian characters with walk-on parts as a cardboard backdrop to the Raj Revival celluloid tales. India provided the background for the unfolding chamber dramas of the English Abroad rather, the colonial. And the British used India as a mirror in which they could see themselves more clearly. How do you make a good Curry Eastern? You take large portions of an adventure tale. Rudyard Kipling, John Masters, E. M. Forster have provided good malleable ingredients which can go with most sauces. Add chunks of the cowboy ethos and epic morality: these allow for the play between good and evil which thickens the sauce. Throw in the spices: elephants, snakery, widow-burning by natives, human-sacrificing priests, bloodthirsty goddesses, thuggees with lethal knotted scarves, a little mumbo-jumbo about the mystic but more often dangerously mysterious orientals. Finally, garnish with dusky princesses awaiting a freshly incarnated Saint George and deliverance. Interestingly enough, Indian princesses are often played by American actresses, and the result of these 'bootpolish confections can be hilarious. Writing about Raj Revivalism, Salman Rushdie was unsparing in his depiction of Hollywood Indians. Amy Irving plays the Indian princess in the TV soap opera version of M. M. Kaye's bestseller The Far Pavilions. And Rushdie is quite acidic about her makeup person who "obviously believed

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that Indian princesses dip their eyes in black ink and get sun tans on their lips." Her lover (Ben Cross of Chariots o Fire fame), born British but f brought up as an Indian orphan, as ersatz Kim of Kipling is dyed-in-brown too. The Curry Eastern has certainly met with box office success. Spielberg's Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom worked wonderfully at the comic book level. It had all the right ingredients and was played out against the background of an India more suited to a chamber of horrors in an amusement park. Spielberg's hero is a white superman who almost singlehandedly fights his way through the dangerously exotic land of the brown people: yet another incarnation of Phantom in the Denkali Jungle, or even Gulliver amongst the Lilliputians. He endures a roller coaster ride through the myth and mayhem of the India of grotesquely stylised Kali-worshippers (the destroyer-goddess demands sacrifice - usually animal, but sometimes human); menacing or venomous serpents; an exotically evil villain - the bald priest with the necklace of skulls and mesmeric eyes. Ismail Merchant's film The Deceivers (based upon John Masters' book of the same name) also worked at the fantasy level. It did not do too well at the box office. Perhaps it was too spicy: the chillingly real sound of necks being broken by the killer scarves of the thuggees - a secret cult of Kaliworshippers who befriend, rob, kill and bury their victims - might have proved too much. But it ploughed the same landscape: wily maharajahs, sati,nuutch girls, moonlit initiation rites, elephants (both the shikur kind and those used to kill betrayers). The Deceivers, however, has greater resonance than Spielberg's films because it delves deeper into the nature of evil and the evil within us. Taking the cue from Joseph Conrad, the film is also a journey into the heart of darkness and not just the arena-view of the fight between good and evil. Spielberg, however, comes closer to the popular Indian film in his treatment of the good-versus-evil phenomenon, which is also the stuff that Indian epics are made of. In fact, several of his films (Raiders of the.Lost Ark, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom) use some of the tricks of the Indian mmala film. Manmohan Desai, the movie tycoon, whose films have for the last decade-and-a-half had the most mass appeal, says that he draws all his plots from the two epics: Ramayana and Muhubhurutu. (He is considered an Indian Spielberg by some; a French critic is actually writing a book comparing the work of the two.) These epics are perfect primal sources for both the Indian masala fl and the Cuny Eastern. And the films of both im men share some of the same gimmicks: repetition, reiteration, and an overhanging sense of pre-ordained destiny. There is a more fundamental similarity between the two directors, who on the surface could not be more different: the use of deus ex muchina. The

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gods come down in the films of both. The Curry Eastern, however, invokes the gods with a different attitude. Critic Iqbal Masud puts it succinctly in his appraisal of Desai's oeuvre: "Basically, the trick is that in an unjust society the gods come down. In the Western films it is just a device but in the Indian context it is a device to live by. From Raja Hurishchundru in 1913 to Murd." The latter is one of Desai's recent films, in which an idol of a tiger becomes real and rescues a woman; the tiger also joins its paws together in the gesture of namaste, the Indian traditional form of greeting. The balance of trade - of ideas -between the two countries is, however, in favour of the West. The import of Indian exotica and bits of ersatz Hindu mythology has not gone beyond the fringe of Western cinema. It is far less in the mainstream, in fact, than the Chopsticks Western with all the kung fu and martial arts from the Far East. And it has in no way altered the course of popular cinema But going the other way, the influence of American cinema on commercial Indian cinema has done so. It is much more persuasive. And it goes much deeper. In fact, American cinema has not only affected Indian cinema, but gone beyond it to modify life itself. This is a case of life imitating art that is, if one accepts the thesis that cinema influences society. This is not the subject of the paper, but politics and cinema are irretrievably linked in two of India's southern states: one of them has an actor as its chief minister; the other did until last year. And all this long before Ronald Reagan. It all began with plagiarism. First came the Western remakes and the Curry Western was born. It reached its apogee in 1974 with the landmark film Sholay. The film was, to use a euphemistic word, an adaptation of The Magnificent Seven. It proved to be the biggest blockbuster ever: little children still spout dialogue from the film as if they were quoting Shakespeare. And even today this film that launched a thousand imitations draws the crowds. Here was a totally alien subject. The setting was alien. So was the idea of tough men being engaged as mercenaries. Even the cabaret scene didn't quite fit with the local ethos. But, the import was ingeniously indigenised. The mujara, a courtesan's dance, was a perfect substitute for the cabaret. The thakur, the feudal landlord in rural India, was introduced into the story. The male code of honor fit in beautifully with the theme of the film. So did the Indian ducoit; he was perfectly at home with the ethos of the Western. An ever present social reality and object of mystique, he proved easy to adapt to Western tradition. And director Ramesh Sippy had conjured a perfect Curry Western, adapted to the Indian palate. Naturally, the Curry Western was located in a rural setting. The shift to the city came with the import of the tough cop image which the film Zanzeer

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first incarnated. Dirty Hurry was the original inspiration. Until then, the tough cop was not really part of the Indian cinema. Policemen were usually bumbling foils to the hero, part of the comic relief. But Dirty Hurry soon spawned little Clint Eastwood clones. Initially, the tough cop began to be modelled on the Amitabh Bachchan persona. This matinee idol was king of the box office for over a decade and is still not out of the picture. A stream of films about the cop going out of r: the system to fight for justice was made. Life also began to imitate a t tough cops became more visible off-screen too. But, of course, the tough and increasingly nasty cop had first to be indigenised, Indianised. Dirty Hry had no family; in the Indian context he had ar to have one. He was placed within a context of the family melodrama, whether it was the father-son conflict, as in the films Shukzi and Ardh Sutyu, or the usual boy-meets-girl scenario in Shehumhuh (in which the policeman works both within and outside the system). Other sources of inspiration were the various cops-and-robbers series, bringing in their wake the crash helmet and leather jacket, male bonding and fast-track violence with disco music. Culturally, the popular Indian cinema had begun to depend upon the West. The dependence became almost total with the emergence on the scene of video directors: directors who sit at the beachside hotels of Bombay, watch video cassettes of American films, and then proceed directly to the studios. No film scripts needed! The Age of the Vigilante, inspired by American cinema, set in during this decade. Lots of brown Rambos sprouted with all imaginable arms possible. Sleeveless T-shirts adorned the increasingly hirsute heroes and the shops. The Indian screen was inundated with Rambo I, II, III and Death Wish I , II, ad infinitum. It should also be mentioned that law and order were also beginning to break down in India. The centre was not quite holding. And a whole new population of homeless, urban and frustrated youth had emerged. Corruption had become commonplace, quite ordinary. The honest cop or the wronged individual now had to go outside the establishment to right those wrongs. The eye-for-eye and tooth-for-tooth school of cinematicjustice was instituted. And, it had its spillover off-screen. The Macho Male had arrived. The Indian public gradually tired of the Macho Male. And the screen gods created the Avenging Female. The Exterminating Angel took over a few years later - again from the American cinema. Strangely enough, she first entered through the B-grade films. These were crudely made films with little-known stars, and made by equally obscure directors. One of the most fascinating aspects of the Female Avenger is that this import from the West struck a chord in the Indian psyche. In the process of

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embellishing the female Rambos with Indian impulse and accoutrements,the filmmakers invoked mythical archetypes. Violent revenge and destructive goddesses proved a volatile mix. The angry goddess on the warpath is one of the most powerful and vibrant inhabitants of the Hindu pantheon. Remnants of the matriarchal system still persist long after the patriarchal system displaced the mother goddesses. What is interesting is the deus ex machina aspect of this phenomenon. The female protagonist is usually quite meek and mild. But when grossly wronged (usually raped), or when the villains have completely emasculated the heroes and there are none left, the heroine sheds her docility. She takes on the characteristics of the goddess-as-destroyer. Kali and Durga are the two goddesses who are worshipped in India for their strength. In fact, Kali, who is the more fearsome of the two, has been grafted onto the Curry Eastern: The Deceivers, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Around the World in Eighty Days.Even in the new French film, La Nuit Bengalte scripted by Jean-Claude Carribre, there are references to the terrifying Kali who "lifts up her skirts and dances." In this film, Kali can be almost felt in the dark, deep eyes of the young heroine who represents the dangerous, mysterious East. The British journalist's camera breaks - a bad omen for h m -when he tries to flirt with her. The mystery has to remain. i The Indian directors, in their attempt to indigenise the gun-toting woman, included religious iconography and references to Indian mythology. They were being clever: a powerful woman is more readily accepted by a predominantly male audience when she is rendered larger-than-life - in other words, elevated to the realm of the myth. Your own women are safely excluded. The woman in popular Indian cinema today, in fact, reflects a sort of cultural schizophrenia. There is the Sati-Savitri woman of the epics whose whole world is circumscribed by the Indian male. Hers is truly not to question why but to do-and-die. On the other hand, there is the nurturing, protecting and avenging Kali and Durga who show the destructivepower of women. This dualism is both celebratory and fearful of female power and sexuality. Today's films carry this further and exploit it. And the wealth of religious iconography is unlimited. The woman-as-avenger has become a curious amalgam of the East and West. Before her humiliation she is meek, docile and usually in a sari. Once she becomes the avenger she sheds femininity and the sari. She becomes a latter-day black leather Kali. In most of these films she changes into black leather trousers and a jacket before she is handed the whip or the gun. And when she has done her deed, the director usually pans his camera to a painting or an idol of either Kali or Durga to reinforce his message. Durga rides a tiger. Kali has ten arms, in each of which she has some instrument of

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destruction. Another popular iconographic image which has made its way into the cinema is the goddess who slays the demon with the axe and then puts her foot, triumphantly but delicately, on his chest. In the fl Pratighaut im the actress did this with effect. The most unexpected fall out of this volley of East-West exchanges has been the introduction of Indian exotica into the commercial Indian cinema through American films. Snakes, snake charmers, skulls, tantrics, and mimal sacrifices are now making their way into Indian cinema gratuitously, as props. This boomerang effect reminds me of the beautiful sweaters Indians bought enthusiastically at Harrods which turned out, alas, to be made in India. Similarly, these films are like those products grown in India but processed and packaged in the West and then brought back, enhanced, to India. The Curry Eastern Takeaway may have found a place on American menus. But strangely enough, it is getting onto Indian menus too - like mulligatawny soup, which is a British distortion of Indian cuisine. A new iconography has arrived. If the male vigilante spumed and mocked the courts, the Kali figure does the same. Here you have the woman with kohl-rimmed eyes, long hair streaming down her back, on her path of revenge and quest for justice. Goddesses like Durga and Kali normally came in when cosmic order had been disturbed. Similarly, the heroines confront evil head-on when all else has failed. The old myths were energised by the imitations of foreign models. The Kali element which appears to intrigue the West goes well with the avenging woman theme. Often, the heroines took on the names of the fearsome goddesses. We imported the Avenging Angel and set her in the old mythological milieu. The trend is quite evident in this decade: Pratighaat, Be-Abroo, Khoon Bhari Mang, Karz, Zakmi Aurat, Bahu ki awaz, Sherni, Durga, Insaf ki awaz, Budnaseeb, Sitapur ki Gita. These films show how the Female Avenger has been adapted in India and given greater resonance by adding religious iconography, symbols and references to mythology. The film Pratighaat comes closest to a contemporary myth of the Avenging Goddess. A meek school-teacher takes on the politician-villainof the town where she has come to teach -he is the very incarnation of all that is evil and corrupt. But she does so only after she discovers that all the men are cowards, including her lawyer-husband. She stands for election against the politician. She would have won, but the mafia-type politicians capture the voting booths and burn down the entire village. The heroine goes up to congratulate her opponent, and then picks up an axe and all but beheads him. He falls on her feet. And when she puts her foot, Durga-like, on the stomach of the slain demon-politician, she enters into the realm of the myth. The audience is charged at an even deeper level.

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The film Khoon Bhari Mang is a remake of Return to Eden. Indian mythology and iconography give the film rich resonance. A fortune-hunter marries a plain but rich woman. He throws her into a crocodile-infested river, but the heroine survives. She gets plastic surgery done, and then starts on her path of revenge. The sari is shed. She dons black leather killing gear. When she whips the first man, he falls back on a long nail protruding from the wall and dies in a pose which recalls the Crucifixion. The camera pans to a mythological painting just above h m of the goddess Durga slaying i a demon. And then before she throws her former husband into the river with the hungry crocodiles, she shouts: "YOU think of woman as Mariam ( a y , Mr) the gentle Yashoda, the goddess Lakshmi .... Yes, she is these but she is also Durga, Kali, Jhansi ki Rani. Zakmi Aurat is yet another remake, another revenge spree. The rapists are castrated and then humiliated by a newly formed sisterhood of sorts. This is a Western import: motorbikes, black leather and guns. There are no saris. But Kali looms in the background. When the heroine is being gangraped, her jeans hang from the fan, a reference to Draupadi being undraped in the Mahubharata. A similar 'undraping' scene appeared in Pratighuat, but there patriotism was the theme with the unfurling of the national flag. This is Draupadi's disrobing in modem language. A travesty of law and legal process occurs: the urban female vigilante appears who has to be punished for her sexuality. The goddess figures of K,ali and Durga are linked to the matriarchal system, in which women were associated with fertility, There are similarities here with the old cult of the Virgin in pre-Christian Europe. Woman had a prime place before 'man the hunter' became 'man the plougher'. Even today, in many parts of India, worship of goddesses is prevalent. Women are associated with fertility and the cycle of the moon. And in Bengal and Punjab, especially agrarian societies, devil worship is pervasive. The Cuny Eastern has some of these resonances.
Madhu Jain i a correspondent with the weekly news magazine India Today. She lives s and works i New Delhi. n