Archive for the ‘Indian Cinema’ Category
A relic of a childhood spent in Pakistan was that obedience became my way of showing respect to elders. In seeking mum’s guidance, I was showing deference to her continuing role in my life, even if my flourishing free spirit sometimes compelled me to defy her choices. Hindsight tells me that independence and obedience aren’t perhaps compatible after all. But old habits die hard, and so it was that well into adulthood, I simply couldn’t blurt out my garbled plans for a night out as I slammed the door behind me. Ever the dutiful daughter, I would stand soberly waiting for mum to sanction my plans, knowing full well that I was also giving her the power to refuse.
It was my best mate Josie who put me up to going on holiday with her, just as I was preparing to leave Bradford for married life in Islamabad. And before I could back out, she’d booked us a week in a three-star, self-catering apartment in Crete. This would be my first holiday independent of family, and the first one where I would need a beach towel and suntan lotion, instead of a suitcase large enough to carry presents for relatives I hadn’t seen for a decade. But first, there was a hurdle to overcome. I might have been 23 years old and on the cusp of marriage, but I still needed my mum’s permission!
I first met Josie around the time I started producing a quarterly fanzine for confused British Asians like myself. I got the idea after mum puckered her brow when I brought home a photo story magazine which featured among its pages a teenage boy and girl sharing a proper kiss. If this wasn’t the sort of material I should be reading then there was little else that young women like myself could identify with. So I decided to set up a fanzine of my own. Its Asian focus also meant that my attention now shifted from the likes of New Model Army to artists such as Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, much to my mum’s relief, although even an outing to something as honourable as a qawwali concert was subject to her approval.
Josie quickly became my confidante and mentor. I often wondered if she was such an understanding friend because, with an Asian husband of her own as well as two small children, she also had a limit to the number of nights out she was permitted per week. So we were perfectly matched as chaperones – both bound in our own ways to family obligations, and always mindful of the curfew waiting to drag us both off the bhangra dance floor at Bradford’s St. George’s Hall.
Now, with the holiday looming, I braced myself. I’d work through the objections I imagined mum would fire at me and rehearse my answers. Then I’d panic and phone Josie once more: “Remind me again why we’re going. Why did you say the trip is important? How should I frame my argument?” When the emotional ordeal made me doubt our upcoming plans, Josie would patiently go over the details again. I had nightmares about breaking the news of our trip with Josie’s husband and children outside, waiting to drive us to the airport. At other times I’d think it was surely only a matter of time before mum found out from someone else, since I’d discussed my dilemma with almost everyone I knew. After months of worry and with just a fortnight to go before the trip, I finally found the courage to speak to mum.
I framed my argument just as I’d rehearsed with Josie. It was probably my last chance to take a holiday like this with a friend, and it would be the perfect way to say goodbye to my old life and reflect on what lay ahead. Josie and I were asking for a few days’ grace to devote to friendship. And besides, if Josie’s husband was willing to look after the children for a week to enable her to accompany me on a trip of a lifetime, the least mum could do was to accept their gesture by letting me go. There was also plenty I didn’t say; that the holiday was a breathing space where I could steal myself, a week where I didn’t have to be someone’s wife or daughter. It was a chance to enjoy one final fling with freedom, a week where we wouldn’t have to observe curfews or explain ourselves, where our movements would not be curtailed. It was our Thelma and Louise moment.
A few months later, mum transferred me from her guardianship to that of her older brother, since he was also my father-in-law. I was now in my uncle’s care since my husband had returned to his job in the Middle East just a fortnight after our wedding. Yes, I could have insisted that he take me with him, but this would have involved trading his male quarters for accommodation that was wife-friendly, probably at considerable expense. The truth is that I wanted to show him what a supportive wife he’d selected. Also, I didn’t want to seem needy, nor did I wish to be viewed as chattel, to be transported with my husband from one location to another. Besides, I’d had enough of feeling out of place in Bradford, and the idea of being suspended in liminality in the Middle East just didn’t attract me. So I remained in Islamabad, where I had my father-in-law for company.
My uncle became the father I never had. A respected senior engineer at Radio Pakistan, I had watched him leaving for work in a suit and tie as a little girl, before Zia-ul-Haq implemented an Islamic system in Pakistan in 1978. Now, I handed over his tiffin box and watched him ride away on his Vespa every morning, with his crisp, cotton shalwar kameez flapping away in the breeze. A deeply spiritual man, my uncle was also open-minded with a cracking sense of humour. I loved his refreshingly healthy attitude towards Islam, advocating a balanced approach to life. His unwavering routine of walking to the mosque five times every day for congregational prayers, went hand in hand with an appreciation for music and dance. Prayer was an individual act and if I chose to waive the virtues of regular prayer, then it was up to me. But I had to be respectful by turning off the music and covering my head, whenever the call to prayer from the mosque loudspeaker permeated our home. One evening, he asked if I was planning to stay up to watch a James Bond film that was being televised. Before I could warn him about the risqué nature of 007’s dalliances, my uncle added enthusiastically, “I’m looking forward to seeing Ursula Andress. I’ve heard she was quite a beauty!”
During an initial spring clean, I came across a forgotten video tape labelled ‘Mujra Songs’ which featured Bollywood sequences in the style traditionally performed by dancing girls or courtesans in the courts of the Mughal kings. We frequently watched the tape together, with my uncle sharing his knowledge of the classic films that had spawned these performances. The tape featured a couple of songs from Sharafat (Asit Sen, 1970) which I found particularly captivating. I was entranced by the quick footedness of the dazzling dancing girl, fluttering around the dance floor like a brightly coloured butterfly. Whilst she had the same playful eyes, she wasn’t as voluptuous as the Hema Malini I remembered from the cabaret song in Naseeb (Manmohan Desai, 1981). It was my uncle who confirmed that the nimble dancer was indeed Hema Malini and the squirming hero was her real life husband, Dharmendre.
If my uncle was liberal, regrettably he was also set in his ways, especially when it came to gender roles. Being the only son, I’d heard tales of grandma doting on him until her final days. Whilst rotis (chapatties) made for the rest of the household could be relegated to the plastic hotpot to keep warm for an hour or so, my uncle’s rotis had to be made from scratch for maximum freshness, the moment he was ready to eat. And with no daughters of his own, I’d heard whispers among the extended family that he had little understanding of women’s whims. As my new guardian, my uncle had very clear ideas about the division of labour. While he sped off to work each morning, I took my place in the kitchen.
Among the tedium I abruptly inherited was the daily provision of freshly cooked curry and rotis. Perhaps I’d imagined whimsically baking coconut macaroons on a Saturday afternoon, but the idea of putting dinner on the table every night had somehow escaped me! I had also managed to resist mum’s extensive efforts to introduce me to the rigours of roti making, which was now my greatest ordeal. As I kneaded the dough with all my might, I would hear the mocking tone of a great aunt from our ancestral village in my ear, “She who can’t make a roti is not a real woman,” knowing only too well that the shape, size, texture and lightness of my efforts were a measure of my merits as a daughter-in-law. Dry and brittle as they were, my rotis resembled poppadum and were woefully unfit for purpose. They should have been pliable enough to scoop up a dollop of curry, not dependent on a soaking in the sauce to make them edible. Out of principle and adamant that all I needed was patience and practice, my uncle refused to buy them from the roti house more than once a week. When I discovered the local international supermarket stocked pasta and noodles, I started serving them several times a week as roti replacements, until my uncle mischievously mocked me with a newspaper article about a man who’d stabbed his mother for serving noodles over and over again!
To make matters worse, housework needed to be planned around load shedding, the intentionally-engineered electrical outages during peak times due to under capacity. This meant there was no electricity between eight and ten o’clock, nor at lunchtime and again in the evening. I didn’t dare step into a room in the summer months without switching on the ceiling fan first. Load shedding made it utterly unbearable to function in the muggy kitchen. The best remedy was to douse yourself in cold water and keep still for an hour or so until the artificial breeze returned.
The wildlife colonising our kitchen also kept me occupied. I didn’t mind the ants walking in single file along the window sill, and picking them out one by one from the sugar bowl became oddly therapeutic. It was the house lizards and cockroaches scaling our walls that took some getting used to. I didn’t dare leave anything uncovered after locating a lizard perched on a freshly washed bowl when I turned on the kitchen light one evening. If ever I felt inclined to ease my hygiene standards, I remembered how my cousin had unintentionally cooked a lizard after it had fallen into a pot of lamb and spinach curry. My poor grandfather had already been served his dinner when my cousin returned to the kitchen for a refill, and only became suspicious after spotting the now tender meat falling off the skeleton! Yet, a few days after the horror of confronting a black snake in the hallway, I nonchalantly flicked a plump lizard off my pillow before crawling into bed.
Within a matter of months, I’d rearranged the furniture to my heart’s content, labelled all the spice jars and mastered a routine in the kitchen. I’d stitched new curtains for my uncle’s bedroom and even learnt to make tea with the lemongrass growing in our garden. I was ready for a fresh challenge. I thought about improving my O-Level French by taking some classes at the Alliance Francaise, located just a couple of miles from our house. It would get me out of the house and it was high time I made some friends. I put this to my uncle one night as he prepared for his fifth and final visit to the mosque for the day. “How will French help you?” he pondered out loud, much to my unease. “I could understand if it was a cookery course because that would benefit us all,” he continued.
The response was stifling but my uncle was a man of his word. I was also mindful of his seniority in the family which meant that nobody ever stood up to him, not even mum who held her older brother in the utmost regard. So I only dared to challenge his old-fashioned views light-heartedly but it was clear his decision was made. Under the circumstances, it seemed indelicate to involve my husband by pitting him against his father, nor could I ask mum to intervene. With my husband absent, my uncle had evidently forgotten that my primary reason for entering the household was as his son’s wife. So there I was, six months married and stranded in Islamabad, destined for daily drudge as the dutiful daughter-in-law.
THE NEXT INSTALMENT: SISTERHOOD AND SOLIDARITY
PREVIOUS: ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST
In the previous instalment, I explained that Yorkshire is one of Britain’s most sought-after filming destinations: scenes from The King’s Speech and several Harry Potter movies were filmed here, not to mention TV stalwarts like Emmerdale and Heartbeat. It was with this legacy in mind that the region decided to bid for the International Indian Film Academy Awards (IIFAs). If the team behind Yorkshire’s bid could pull it off, the ‘Bollywood Oscars’ would offer a massive boost to the region’s economy and tourism. It would give Yorkshire the perfect opportunity to inspire Indian film directors with its stunning landscape, castles and abbeys. But in order to understand Yorkshire’s offering, and the strength of its case, you first need to appreciate how love works in Bollywood.
If you know only one thing about Indian films, it’s probably that they feature several song and dance sequences. Songs create a spectacle but also have an important function; they are often used to declare love and emotion in the narrative so it’s vital that the backdrop matches the romantic sentiment. Nowadays, most protagonists in Indian films expect to choose their own life partners, yet their behaviour still endorses strong family values. The age old technique is to show the unmarried couple cavorting outdoors rather than confining them within four walls. This is Bollywood’s answer to damage limitation: if the couple are in a public space, no matter how remote, they won’t be tempted to indulge in physical intimacy. Being outdoors somehow dissipates sexual tension.
Most settings are chosen purely for their visual beauty. The priority given to aesthetics over any sense of continuity actually gives the director a great deal of freedom. He can use a song and dance sequence to display exotic locations without the background being part of the story. As long as the backdrop contributes to the mood of the scene, it doesn’t matter if the protagonists were travelling in a dusty rickshaw seconds earlier; they can be suspended on the Swiss Alps long enough to frolic gaily in the snow with multiple costume changes. We don’t need an explanation about how the characters got from A to B because we know they’ll go back to reality as soon as the song ends.
Songs also act as a key marketing tool. The sequences are a bit like mini pop promos, and they’re aired on Indian music channels before the actual film hits the big screen. Songs offer audiences a real flavour of the film and they’re critical in determining the film’s popularity. No wonder that filming the song and dance sequences in glamorous foreign locations eats up a huge chunk of the budget. While foreign locations bring a sense of excitement, escapism, adventure and aspiration to the film, they also have a practical purpose. Having all the cast available in one location away from home can minimise disruptions sometimes caused by an unpunctual or absent diva!
Film makers are permanently on the quest for the perfect romantic backdrop. During the 60s and 70s, exotic meant snow. In fact, the first time I saw snow was probably in Junglee (Subodh Mukherjee, 1961). However, having endured my share of severe British winters, it’s difficult to see how sliding down a snow clad mountain on your front can inspire romance, particularly when you’re inappropriately dressed in a flimsy shalwar kameez and court shoes!
This scene was shot in Kashmir in India, which was widely regarded as ‘heaven on earth’. The pure white snow, crystal clear lakes, the spectacle of snowy mountains presented idyllic surroundings for falling in love on screen during the 50s, 60s and 70s. In fact, Kashmir’s scenery and landscape became so popular that lakes, trees and mountains became synonymous with romance in Bollywood. So much so, that when the militancy and terrorism threats of the late 1980s made the place inaccessible to film makers, substitutes for Kashmir had to be found overseas. This was a move that did wonders for my geography. Somewhat shamefully, I must admit that my initial knowledge of Europe’s beauty spots was probably culled from repeat viewings of favourite Indian films.
Switzerland and its lakes, snow-capped mountains and impossibly green alpine valleys quickly became an obvious replacement for Kashmir. Actually, you could argue that film director Yash Chopra (nicknamed the godfather of love because of his contribution to the romance genre), has single-handedly placed Switzerland in the Indian consciousness as an aspirational place to visit. Seriously, he has filmed so often at a particular lake that the Swiss Tourism Board has unofficially named it The Chopra Lake. Now, remember those relaxed rules of continuity? The heroine in Chandni (Yash Chopra, 1989) is fast asleep in her bed in India, and probably doesn’t even have the means to fly to Switzerland. Yet she is conveniently transported to the idyllic location, after a detour to the beauty salon it would seem, as she dreams about the man she loves.
I’ve never been to Switzerland, and to this day, what I know about the country is probably scraped together from Indian films I’ve seen that were shot there. You see, we were taught to look to Pakistan for inspiration. Pakistan was the ideal and we were leading second best lives in Bradford; there were times it felt like mum’s heart was still beating in Rawalpindi. Circumstance had brought us to Britain. After my father took another wife, mum didn’t want to depend on her parents. Thankfully, our British passports meant we could return to Bradford and the council quickly put a roof over our heads. It’s easier to make a life for yourself on your own in Britain. It’s less judgmental and more forgiving. And the distance allowed mum to pretend to her family that life here was much better than it actually was. It also meant she could indulge us in a love affair with her homeland. It became the place where everything was good, where the sun shone brighter and where the mangoes were sweeter. And so, I was conditioned to believe that my family’s dream destination could only ever be Pakistan, traipsing after mum who’d be diligently catching up on 10 years’ worth of births, deaths and marriages among her extended family.
I didn’t know much about The Netherlands either. It was only after watching Rekha and Amitabh Bachchan in Silsila (Yash Chopra, 1981), running through endless stretches of tulip fields that I linked the flower with the country. Actually, I doubt I’d ever seen a tulip until I watched Silsila. If I was to recreate this scene, my heroine would be running through pots of red geraniums because that’s the only blessed flower we had growing in our house throughout my teens. Mum wanted to grow something pretty on the window sill in front of the net curtains. Being the cheapest of all pot plants, and the only ones available in Morrisons anyway, even we could afford them on our budget. Not only were geraniums easy to grow meaning results were guaranteed, they came in a variety of colours and proved to be incredibly good value. If one of the long stems broke off accidentally, you simply buried it in moist soil and it would soon take root, without any fuss. So with her initial investment, mum soon had geraniums lined up all along our window sill.
Thanks to their glossy portrayal in Bollywood blockbusters, many overseas destinations have enjoyed a real boost from Indian tourists. Although the story of Fanaa (Kunal Kohli, 2006) was set in Kashmir, the snow clad terrain of the Tatra Mountains in Poland was used as a Kashmir replacement. This created a lot of interest from Indian tourists wanting to walk in the footsteps of Kajol and Aamir Khan. Singapore Tourism Board launched a tour package to coincide with the release of the superhero film Krrish (Rakesh Roshan, 2006) which was shot there. In her debut film, Jeans (Shankar, 1998), Aishwarya Rai managed to complete a round-the-world trip in just one song, taking in The Great Wall of China, Eiffel Tower, Empire State Building, Taj Mahal, Pyramids, Roman Colosseum, as well as the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Unsurprisingly, filming for the song ‘Ajooba’ involved a budget breaking 30 day round-the-world trip with the cast and crew.
Britain too has become a very popular screen location in Bollywood films. So much so that VisitBritain produced a Bollywood Movie Map to encourage Indian film fans to visit the British locations shown in their favourite films. The map highlighted old and recent Bollywood productions and included Kuch Kuch Hota Hai (Karan Johar, 1998), whose title track was filmed at Glencoe, Ross Priory and Loch Lomond in Scotland.
Thanks to the casual approach to continuity, Scotland’s diverse landscape could provide the backdrop for the song even though Scotland had nothing to do with the storyline. However, recent Bollywood storylines have featured non-resident Indians (NRIs) to appeal to the huge number of Bollywood fans living outside India. It’s well worth keeping them happy because the higher ticket prices paid by audiences in Canada, USA, Middle East and Britain can recoup more than half the total earnings of a film. For instance, my cinema ticket guarantees a higher return because I probably pay twenty times more for it than someone in India! With all this in mind, it makes sense for Britain and Bollywood to strengthen their ties, which is exactly what Yorkshire had in mind when it successfully bid to host the prestigious International Indian Film Academy Awards in 2007. It goes without saying that the region would offer an impressive backdrop to song and dance sequences. However, in my next blog post, I’ll reveal Yorkshire’s other unique selling points which convinced the organisers to bring the Bollywood Oscars to our doorstep.
THE NEXT INSTALMENT: YORKSHIRE BOLLYWOOD AND HISTORY
PREVIOUS: YORKSHIRE BOLLYWOOD AND KEIGHLEY
I often wonder why it was that when my dad got off at Heathrow Airport in 1958, he rejected a life down south and carried on travelling until he reached Bradford. The truth is that he wasn’t interested in sightseeing, museums or palaces. He’d come to England to find a pot of gold. So he headed straight for the textile mills of Bradford where work was a plenty, well paid, didn’t require much English, any skills or qualifications. All you needed was a willingness to graft. You could arrive in Bradford at night and report to work the following morning with the men you were staying with. “Is there any more like you?” the mill supervisors would ask the immigrant workers. Such was Bradford’s reputation as a textiles centre, and such was its appeal to labourers, that I’ve heard stories of new arrivals not being met by friends at Victoria Station, and taking the porter’s advice to catch the Bradford train because that’s where the majority of Asians were!
Coming to Bradford was a financial arrangement, and a temporary one at that. There wasn’t much to do back home. A British wage and exchange rate meant that men like my dad could send more rupees each month to their families than they could dream of earning in a whole year. The men hoped that working in the mills for a few years would give the family in Pakistan a leg up; clear debts, build a house, and perhaps start a business. The aim was to earn as much as they could whilst living as cheaply as possible, which is why they didn’t bring their families with them.
If ever there was a man dedicated to finding his pot of gold, it was my father. If the work was available, he’d happily do double shifts all week, the equivalent of 16 hours on the trot. And what was the point of spending Saturday resting when he could earn time and a half at the mill! Being an entrepreneurial chap, dad bought 1 Alpha Street, Keighley, furnishing the modest terrace with several beds in the two bedrooms and two attics, as well as the lounge, and taking in about 15 lodgers. A rota system determined who slept when. If you finished work early, you might have to wait for a housemate to get up for his shift before you could use the bed. We might call it overcrowding now, but this was the norm among the migrant workers living in group houses, and of course it made things cheaper. They were probably awake for no more than an hour or so at either end of a shift, which was probably a blessing because there wasn’t much personal space to be found.
The men didn’t have much time to socialise. Any time off tended to get taken up with births, deaths and marriages among the new settlers. Seriously, people waited until the weekend to bury the dead because the concept of taking a day off didn’t exist. Dad didn’t even attend his own wedding. The family had taken on debt to buy land in Pakistan. It didn’t make sense for him to lose money by taking time off and incur the expense of flying back to Pakistan. So the couple took their marriage vows down the phone in 1964. A few months later, the last lodger at Alpha Street was just moving out as mum landed at Heathrow Airport. Thankfully, it was a weekend so her arrival didn’t interfere with dad’s shifts. Mum says you never saw anyone out in the daytime except for women and children. The English men would be working the daytime and evening shifts, while the Asian men, who tended to work the night shift, would be sound asleep.
Mum didn’t leave the house much after she came here. Dad did the grocery shopping or he would arrange a delivery. A rare treat, if you can call it that, was being accompanied by dad in a taxi to Bradford perhaps once in three months to visit friends and in-laws. The fare was around £2, probably a few hours’ wage in those days. But this was a necessity rather than a luxury as far as dad was concerned. A conservative man, he believed that his pride was dependent on his wife’s public demeanour. So, when mum accompanied dad, the onus was upon him to protect her honour, which mainly involved distancing her from the gaze of other men. This included male travellers on public buses, even if the alternative was costly. The rules were somewhat flexible though – mum was free to take a bus on her own because nobody would know whose wife she was, meaning dad and his honour couldn’t be implicated.
It was only after she befriended an English lady, Aunty Ivy we called her, that mum came to know there was more to Yorkshire than the main road between Keighley and Bradford. Mum remarked to Aunty Ivy one day what a built up area they lived in. She said she was bewildered by the ten mile journey between Keighley and Bradford, along the old A650 route. When she’d travelled by bus or train in Pakistan, she recalled recognising the end of a town or the outskirts of a new one by the ensuing fields which stretched out for miles and miles. The changing landscape and different crops acted as landmarks, alerting her that Gujarat was approaching, or Jhelum. But, wondered mum, how could you tell when Bingley finished and another area started. All she ever saw were row upon row of soot-stained terraced houses.
Dad would say, ”That’s just how it is here”. To be fair, even though he’d now been living in Keighley for a decade, dad didn’t know any different. You could say his relationship with the area was purely contractual so it probably never occurred to him to indulge himself during his Keighley voyage. There was no motivation for him to get to know the place. He’d bought a house in Keighley not because he was swayed by the area’s aesthetic values, but because he knew it would make him money – what you might call a buy-to-let I suppose, crucially located within a few minutes’ walk of several mills. Even after mum joined him in Keighley, dad still regarded his stay here as temporary. When mum grew tired of using the mismatched crockery she’d inherited from the lodgers and decided to buy a dinner set, dad chided her for wasting money on things they’d one day have to leave behind.
There was no incentive for him to learn anything new, to raise his potential. He knew where the mills and the grocery shops were. He didn’t need to know anything else. Trained hands were in such high demand that you could walk out of one mill and straight into another. Maybe that’s why he didn’t bother to learn English, even after 25 years of working in this country. Perhaps his lack of education also contributed to his lack of curiosity about the world around him. So you can imagine then, can’t you, that introducing mum to the fabled Pennine landscape and the Yorkshire Moors wasn’t on dad’s list of priorities. Ironically, mum had read the classic works of the Bronte sisters at college in Rawalpindi but never realised, as she puts it, that for all these years, she’d been living in the armpit of Bronte Country. What mum knew about Haworth was that the mills there made a finer quality of wool than was made in Keighley. Whenever mum wanted to do some knitting, dad would ask acquaintances that worked in the Haworth mills to pick up some cheap wool for her. And so, it was Aunty Ivy who educated mum about Yorkshire’s legendary landscape, taking her on the bus to show her empty spaces, farmlands and different crops.
Mum’s ‘temporary’ stay in Keighley ended in 1971 when dad sent his wife and kids to settle in Pakistan. Mum brought us back in 1977 and we were allotted a council house on the Canterbury estate in Bradford. Mum was now our guide in what was really a new country for me (I was nine) and my siblings. In a way, we were still stuck in survival mode from my father’s era. This time, mum was the one working shifts and she had three pre-teens to care for. So we still weren’t sniffing around Bronte Country or the Parsonage looking for inspiration. I doubt that we could afford the bus fare, let alone the entrance fee.
During the early 80s, mum’s younger cousin from Lahore began making annual trips to London as part of her training to become a gynaecologist. A vivacious character, she’d represented Pakistan as a member of the table tennis team at the Olympics many years ago. After a round of training and exams in London, she’d borrow a car for the weekend and turn up at our door with a group of Pakistani friends – all female trainee doctors, and desperately homesick. Looking back, we didn’t have much to offer besides traditional food and hospitality. We didn’t have a car and didn’t know there were places locally that we could take guests to. Our repertoire involved walking down Canterbury Avenue to the Central Library, or taking two buses into Leeds City Centre, though our purchases were usually restricted to window shopping. It was probably my aunt and her friends that taught us how to be tourists. My first memories of ‘sightseeing’ involve my own doorstep, so to speak – driving through vast stretches of unspoiled countryside with my aunt, hunting for dainty little tea shops in pretty Yorkshire villages.
My aunt would also talk about the Lake District, apparently a place of great beauty with sweeping hills, lush green fields, and gorgeous lakes. Apparently it was just a stone’s throw from Bradford, easily manageable in a day trip although it was well out of our reach. I’d heard the Indian film, Lamhe (Moments, Yash Chopra, 1991) was famously shot in England, but I had no idea that one of its songs was actually filmed in the Lake District. Had someone asked me to identify the location, I would probably have said Switzerland, because the country’s scenery regularly features in Indian films (I’ll explain more about this in the next blog). And yes, the handsome chap in this clip really is Anil Kapoor from Slumdog Millionaire.
The Lake District was also immortalised more recently in a song from the film Mujhse Dosti Karoge (Will You Be My Friend, Kunal Kohli, 2002). In the title track, two families enjoy a day out in the Lakes including a ride on a steamer boat on Lake Ullswater. This sequence also showcases the area’s celebrated features – scenic lakes, rolling hills, narrow winding roads, dry stone walls dividing up the farming landscape and fluffy white sheep.
Much like it was in my family, the sights of Yorkshire are a relatively recent discovery among Indian film makers. I only know of one Indian film, a supernatural thriller called 1920 (Vikram Bhatt, 2008) which was filmed at several locations in the region including Allerton Castle, Ripley Castle and Bolton Abbey. Of course, Yorkshire hasn’t just hosted Indian film makers. I suppose Bronte Country is most famously epitomised in The Railway Children (1970). And who can forget Richard Gere blessing Keighley train station with his presence in The Yanks (1979)? Of course, Yorkshire’s grandest moment under the Bollywood spotlight came in 2007, when the region beat rival bids from the likes of New York, Barcelona, Rome and Hong Kong to host the International Indian Film Academy awards (Bollywood Oscars). The prestigious IIFA weekend was jointly hosted by five Yorkshire cities (Bradford, Leeds, Sheffield, York, Hull) with the award ceremony at Sheffield Arena being watched by something like 400 million people in around 100 countries.
I’ll be writing about Britain as a Bollywood film location and how the IIFA’s came to Yorkshire in the next instalment of my blog.
THE NEXT INSTALMENT: YORKSHIRE BOLLYWOOD AND GEOGRAPHY
PREVIOUS: RISHI, RAJ AND ROLF HARRIS