I always thought Saif Ali Khan was a chill dude.
Just going about his job as a 50 year old man playing a 25 year old man. A man who stayed away from Bollywood bullshit. Who sits in his haveli and plays the guitar, sips on French wine and probably wears satin underwear – a nawaab among kabaabs.
I don’t care too much about the ‘Nepotism rocks’ controversy. Or for any controversy for that matter. I am at an age where nothing can faze me anymore. When Linkin Park’s frontman died, I felt bad for a few seconds. As mourning, I ate one idli less and didn’t ask for onion chutney. My cold heart has been turned to stone in the heartless world we live in.
Also, I understand that scripts for award shows usually begin pure like Gangotri – and end up like the Hussain Sagar lake, thanks to the inputs of actors, writers and event producers. I wrote the script for Filmfare South Awards this year and somehow, we ended up having a dark guy dressed in a saree on stage accepting the ‘Black Lady’. So I know. I get it.
I am also familiar with the life of a controversy.
A controversy first erupts on Twitter, and is picked up by BuzzFeed and ScoopWhoop, those two beacons of journalism who put the ‘nali’ in journalism. It appears on my news at 9 AM, fresh and hot like blessings from Gomata on a national highway.
Slowly, opinions are shared. First, from that one person who is unnecessarily vocal about issues (if you’re on my list, I’m that guy!). Then the issue slowly dissipates to second level social news aggregators – like Being Indian, Sarcasm, and Bahut bhook lagi hai, subah subah thoda tatti khila mujhe. By lunchtime, it has become the OUTRAGE OF THE DAY. Our half an hour contribution to nation building under the Pradhan Mantri Jio Phone Lo, FB pe haggo Yojana.
By the next day, nobody gives a shit.
Then I saw the open letter and was tempted to read it.
I imagined the letter to be a nuanced, thought out treatise. A well-read man writing out a regal letter, sitting on his porch with his pooch while twirling his mooch. Royalty coupling with satin underwear to produce a beautiful, thoughtful letter.
What it was though, was a man sprawled on the footpath after gulping down a bottle of Director’s Special Premium XXX Brand Whiskey. A man who has run out of cigarettes and has had to smoke a pack of Ball Beedi.
His retort was absurd, fantastical and tangential to the point where it got excruciating. It was so full of shit, I had to cleanse my screen with Harpic Powerplus Toilet Cleaner.
So far so good. But Nawaab has just lit the joint and taken a puff of the strong stuff. He inhales deeply, his royal lungs filling up with the white smoke, only to float out of his royal nose gracefully.
Nawaab saab closes his eyes for a few moments, ponders on the meaning of life and then wonders what he has to say. Kya Kehna?
This is where things get a little icky. Firstly, the analogy of race horses doesn’t make any fucking sense. Race horses are bred with the single aim to run courses. Are you seriously telling me that’s what goes in human’s minds when they look for partners? That we think not with the nuanced intelligence and empathy of human beings, but in terms of pedigree of race horses? By that logic Kim Sharma and Umesh Yadav must produce the finest children in the country? Are you even fucking serious?
Not only is Saif pleased as punch with his philosophical analogy, he goes on to give some shit to a poor reporter from Elle. To read a book and improve her vocabulary – which is all fine advice. Only, she’s a writer who contributes articles to internet magazines. You own a town.
A fucking town! You’re the ruler of a place in the largest democracy in the world! Anybody who is the Nawab should stay away from discussions on nepotism, man. And you’re lecturing a girl some 20 years younger to you to read books? Could you be a little less cocky, Mr. Dicky Malhotra?
Saif Ali Khan then proceeds to light the joint again (for it might have gone off with all the brainwaves that crash at the banks of his brain. So he lights the joint and comes up with more gems through the night.
Like this bit:
What the fuck are you talking about? Three systems at play? Aristocracy, meritocracy, democracy? What the fuck is this? Chandrakanta??
I always thought Saif Ali Khan was a deep, philosophically intelligent man, but now I realise it was always Kareena Kapoor who said so! And her opinion can be taken with bags of NaCl. But then NaCl ke liye bhi akal chahiye!
Nepotism cannot work in the film industry because it is a democracy? So where will nepotism work, wise one? The People’s Republic of North Korea? Do you even read what you write, O! Nawaab of Kabaabs?
What genetic investment are you talking about?
You of all people shouldn’t be talking about nepotism. Your debut film was symbolically called Parampara. In a space of four years, your character was named ‘Raja’ in four films, ‘Prince Vijay’ in one, and another film was called Ek Tha Raja! And you own a fucking town, man!
What sort of genetic investment went into Bambai ka Babu, Surakshaa, and Aao Pyar Karein? What investment philosophy is this? Rich Dad, Poor Dad??
You won a National Award for Best Actor for Hum Tum. Not Manikchand Superstar of the Year Award – the NATIONAL AWARD. For Hum Tum, a film that was shamelessly copied from the legendary Hollywood rom-com When Harry Met a Shitty Scriptwriter. Your mother Sharmila Tagore was the Chairman of the Central Board of Film Certification. Hum Tum? Are you fucking kidding me? 2004 was the year of films like Swades, Lakshya, Yuva, and Ab Tak Chhappan. And you won it for Hum Tum. And you’re lecturing a 20-something writer to read more books?
What does that bit about Johnny Depp’s advice even mean? Never complain and never explain? You just complained and explained a fucking 1000 word slob-fest. And what do you mean when you say you have forgotten his advice and you’re never going to forget it again? Does that sentence make sense in a different dimension? The one in which Kachhe Dhaage exists?
And now we are supposed to root for fucking Arjun Kapoor? The guy has the acting range of a drunk hippopotamus? Why don’t you just go ahead and tell us which design of Amul Macho underwear we need to buy too?
You get to play the lover boy opposite actresses half your age, even though the film has all the realism of a Saavdhaan India Weekend Dhamaal episode. You get to play guitar with Parikrama with skills that are marginally better than a 3rd year IIT student’s. You get to strum G-A-D-C chords on a guitar and pretend to sing songs along with Pritam Chewbacabarty on a music awards show. AND, YOU’RE THE KING OF A FUCKING TOWN!
The truth is, you got to act in 25 films before Dil Chahta Hai. 25 films! Most actors in the country would give their arms, balls, and liver to get to act in 25 films. You got to live the life of a superstar while sucking gloriously at your job. And I don’t know if you realised it along the way of all the beautiful books you read (which the writer for Elle didn’t). That you lead a life of privilege.
Kangana Ranaut has no such luck. She will not get producers making ‘genetic investments’ in her career for twenty years, while she pathetically flaps about with bigger stars for a hit. To go up on stage and perform a gag is one thing. But to write an open letter from a closed mind, to give vague analogies of race horses and genetic investments – proves you’ve clearly been reading the wrong books. May be if you picked up the latest edition of Elle, you would see the number of actors who struggle to get films.
So kindly shut the fuck up about nepotism. Smoke some cigars, order satin underwear on Zivame, and go the fuck to sleep.
And oh, pass me your dealer’s number, will you, Raja?