The Devdas Syndrome

 Pritish Nandy


  I am told Devdas has opened to the biggest box office collections ever.
  I am not surprised. As a nation, we have always loved losers. And you
  cannot get a bigger loser than Devdas. He symbolizes everything that is
  wrong with us.  Defeat and loss have always been noble ideals for us.
  The more glorious the defeat, the more we exalt in it. For we believe
  that losers are the salt of the earth, winners are cheats. That is why
  successful people are admired but seldom respected. We are programmed to
  believe that success always comes along with a certain amorality. That
  winners are people who smartly sidestep the law.
  Now, after so many years, we are slowly figuring out that it was the
  laws that were actually wrong. Whether it was FERA or MISA or COFEPOSA, these laws were made by a bunch of cunning, manipulative, self-seeking politicians who believed that by enacting such draconian laws they could terrorize people and make a lot of money on the side. It was like a jazia tax on success. Meanwhile, the losers have taken it all. They are the glory boys of our literature and public life. They are the heroes. They have reinforced our age-old belief that it is more noble, more heroic to walk away from success than to embrace it. While Americans celebrate the journey from the log cabin to the White House, we admire the exact opposite. We respect Siddhartha for giving up his kingdom to become the Buddha. We admire Ashoka who won the battle of Kalinga only to become a bhikshu;  Mirabai, who walked out of the palace to become a minstrel. Our father of the nation is Gandhi who gave up his successful career as a barrister to become what the colonizers saw as a 'half-naked fakir'.  Even Subhas Chandra Bose's iconic stature comes from the fact that he kept losing. He lost out to Gandhi's machinations when he stood for the Congress presidentship. His Azad Hind Fauj was a non-starter. All he stood for finally was a string of heroic failures. That is why we revere him so much. Possibly, that is why Devdas has always touched our hearts. Generations of Indians have empathized with him as he drowned himself in whisky and self-pity. It is the most maudlin story of our time, and the most sickening.  By adding spectacle to this noxious imagery, director Sanjay Leela Bhansali has actually enhanced its mystique and made it
  that much more contemporary and relevant to our times. But Devdas is not Forrest Gump. Nor is he the AIDS-stricken Andrew Beckett whose character Tom Hanks essayed so sensitively in Philadelphia. Devdas refuses to rise above his sick and sodden self-image. In fact, he wallows in it and his
  death is a supreme act of completely meaningless sacrifice. An escape,
  as it were, from the sheer trauma of coping with life.


  By enshrining the story of this eternal loser and packaging it so
  lovingly and misleadingly as the story of the eternal lover, Bhansali
  ends up romanticizing Devdas. He adds scale, magic and spectacle to what
  was seen, till now, as a very simple and austere tale of loss and
  loneliness. P.C.  Barua, K L Saigal and Dilip Kumar stuck to that
  original paradigm. But Shah Rukh Khan, whose own life epitomizes the
  precise opposite-the Raju who became a gentleman - tries his best to be
  convincing as a drunken sod in the new, improved version where
  everything is so much larger than life.  The last scene, where Devdas
  lies dying, smothered by red petals, as the huge gates of the zamindar
  mansion close in on his beloved Paro, trapped in a marriage where she
  gets neither love nor sex, only a hopelessly rich husband and children
  too old to call her mother, is the ultimate tribute to the bleakness of  life.
  In fact, it is not just Devdas. All the three are losers. Paro loses the
  one man she ever loved and remains trapped like a restless ghoul in this
  huge mansion with a loveless husband and those grown-up children she
  never gave birth to. The fact that the mansion is so stunningly
  beautiful, with huge stained glass doors and spectacular mosaic
  floors,  makes her tragedy that much more visually dramatic.
  Chandramukhi, on the other hand, remains a victim of her calling. The
  whore with the golden heart that every novelist, every screenplay
  writer, dreams of. Whether it is Sarat Chandra or J F Lawton, who
  scripted Pretty Woman, the imagery is the same. A woman who sells her
  body every night but saves her soul for eternal love. An ageing
  Madhuri Dixit, by just being Madhuri Dixit, gives the role that much more
  poignancy. Just as Aishwarya Rai plays Paro to the hilt, with her
  moist eyes and drop dead porcelain prettiness.  You want to protect her,
  love her, hold her back as she runs down this one-way street to hopelessness.
 
  Did I like the movie? Does it really matter? The truth is I had far
more fun the next evening, watching on ESPN two extremely gifted young
  cricketers - Mohammed Kaif and Zaheer Khan - steer India to a
  spectacular victory over England in the Nat West Series. As thousands
of fans went ballistic at Lord's, I realized how important victory can
be.  In bringing together and bonding people. All those who talk about how important it is to be Hindu to rediscover our self-esteem must have been taken aback to find two young Muslim
boys redeeming our honor as a cricketing nation. That is exactly what
  victory does. It erases irrelevancies. It does not matter who actually
  scored the runs - Hindus or Muslims, Brahmins or lower castes. What
  matters is that India won. Success beats back prejudice, hate, all the nastiness that politics
  unleashes. That is why, for me, a Mohammed Kaif is that much more
  important than a Devdas. For when we win, we rise above our
differences. When we lose, we destroy everything and everyone around us. Like Devdas.

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