As I sat down a couple of days ago to watch Mr India, I was fully prepared to be awash by its nostalgia of it all, considering what a huge part the movie was of my growing-up years. I was looking forward to the marvel of our hero Arun (Anil Kapoor) who cannot contain his excitement after wearing the gadget for the first time, to Mogambo’s (Amrish Puri) larger-than-life introduction where he declares his desires of conquering a neighbouring nation while menacingly tapping fingers on the little globes that rest on his throne-arms, and my most favourite sequence of the film - when Arun’s foster-kids and the heroine fight over a football.
Instead, what I found myself most overwhelmed by this time was the untainted magic of the Charlie Chaplin homage sequence. As our leading lady Seema manoeuvres her way around the henchman’s vice-infested social club (with the invisible moral and physical support of Mr India aka Arun) - Sridevi, a natural at physical comedy and uninhibited about contorting that impish face of hers, revels in this opportunity, convincing us both with the goofy laugh as well as a child-like tearing up when a thug accuses her of cheating in a dart game - and I realised what a significant moment this sequence is for Hindi Cinema, where a female protagonist is sent out to helm a full-fledged comic setpiece all on her own and knocks it out of the park.
There are a lot of things to laud and marvel at in Mr India, which completes 35 years this week. It released in 1987, a year when eight of the top 10 earning movies were out-and-out action dramas, driven by alpha-male figures like Dharmendra, Sunny Deol, and Sanjay Dutt - and naturally stood out in those times for its bold strides while maintaining a sense of familiarity and rootedness. Salim-Javed (writing their last film as a team) and Shekhar Kapur brought to us a Superhero story weaving in elements of Science-fiction and mainstream formula at once, all handled with a touch of Comic-book larkiness to it.
However, one of the film’s most distinguished yet underrated strokes remains how it built an equal protagonist in its female lead, using her comic prowess - in a film about a vigilante Hero.
Arun, our invisible protagonist, is not fighting against any aliens (though the villain resides in a foreign land, we are told), but for the poor, underprivileged strata of the nation. In the film’s angriest sequence, Arun forcibly feeds adulterated food to Mogambo’s henchman Teja (Ajit Vachani) and his mistress before carrying the humungous food tray and placing it in front of a poor family right outside the lavish restaurant. When they ask who is he, Arun replies, “I am a common man who knows how it feels to be hungry.”
Mr India cleverly balances out the film’s angsty vigilantism arc by entrusting its heroine to form the film’s comic bone in equal capacity, if not more.
Seema (Sridevi) is a crime-beat journalist, working at a fictitious newspaper called ‘Crimes of India.’ A diligent reporter focused on her work, Seema is not the punching bag of the jokes here though; she is the cynical observer - sometimes of her perpetually irritable boss, at other occasions of her tardy colleagues. Seema’s entry scene brings forth her no-nonsense attitude as she storms into her office, bumping into colleagues, pissed off by their inclination to believe that saying ‘Sorry’ is enough to make up for a mistake.
And most importantly, Seema doesn’t like children, for they are the antithesis of what she desires for an ideal work environment - peace and quiet. In one of the most underrated funny lines, Seema says “Why do children even exist? Why can’t we be directly born all grown-up?”
The film’s funniest stretch has Seema and Arun’s foster kids battle it out over a football, set to a medley of parody film songs (from the film’s composer duo Laxmikant-Pyarelal’s oeuvre), as they protest against and for the game to continue to be played on their premises. The sequence ends with a howling visual, of Sridevi oscillating in rhythm to the hook-line of ‘Om Shanti Om’ - only she is not dancing but rather shivering in frustration, unable to control her tears over the defeat, the last visual being that of her imitating Kishore Kumar’s robust roar from the iconic song - only this time its a roar of haplessness. It’s hard to pinpoint another actress who would give in to a comic part with such abandon.
Mr India also arrived right at the peak of Sridevi’s glorious Bollywood career - when she was doing nearly 10 films a year, many of which relegated her to ‘love interest’ parts in hero-dominated films. With Nagina (1986), Sridevi proved that she could drive a film on her own, but barring Sadma (which didn’t receive great box-office success), no film had tapped into her latent comic potential.
Very few films had ever tried to give us the funny through its female performers, actually. Actresses like Nutan, Amrita Singh, and Rekha had great comic flair, but rarely got a script that did justice to their talent. Most of the great comedies we could recall up until then - Amar Akbar Anthony, Pyaar Kiye Jaa, Namak Halaal, Bombay to Goa - had actresses who were relegated to secondary parts at best. Padosan and Golmaal had a few inspired moments from their leading ladies, but still remained narratives largely driven by male actors. In Sholay, Hema Malini left a huge mark as Basanti, the self-contradictory chatterbox who was hilarious but rather incidental to the plot. Once in a blue moon, we had a film like Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi or Chameli Ki Shaadi where the leading lady was given a free hand to be goofy. Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s Khoobsurat was one rare light-hearted film with a bonafide female protagonist driving the narrative.
We cannot deny that comedy has always been served to us in Hindi films from a gender-skewed perspective. We were not used to seeing funny women on our screens, and it showed. Our idea of comedienne was systematically shaped by the presence of actresses like TunTun and Manorama who were either in slapstick cameos or served as the punching bag - a female comic often delivered laughs at the cost of their femininity. With ‘Kaate nahi Katte’, Sridevi brought an intense sensuality to the same part which also captured her at her clumsiest. This song might have arisen out of commercial diktats (Sridevi was known by the moniker ‘Thunder Thighs,’ afterall), but went a long way in establishing that a heroine’s funny bone and sexuality are not mutually exclusive. To a great extent, Sridevi also paved the path for actresses of coming years, (Juhi Chawla and Kajol most notably among others) who found more parts with their comic talents utilised in a more integral way to the narrative, with films like Hum Hain Raahi Pyaar Ke, Pyaar to Hona Hi Tha, and many more.
Another sequence that has embedded itself in our memories as a classic Sridevi image is the ‘Hawa Hawaai’ song sequence. It’s an archetypal situation - a gutsy heroine venturing into the villain’s territory to figure out their evil plans. It could have been written as a simple item song, but Javed Akhtar penned a ditty that begins with gibberish (I still crack at phrases like “Assi Tussi Lassi Peesi” and “Hongkong Kingkong” used in the same stretch) and stays loony throughout. Saroj Khan imbibed the larky element in its choreography which had everything from breakdance moves to klutz-like stumbles - and Sridevi does complete justice to its madness. A little later when one of the villains Daga (Sharat Saxena) is all exasperated by the invisible force aka Arun that keeps dragging his hunter away, there is a brilliant off-hand moment where a confined Seema in the back advises him to go for the rope quietly without making any big movements.
Even as Arun rescues her later, Seema can’t help but think of taking notes as a priority, losing the context of where she is standing. It’s a classic Hero-rescues-damsel sequence, but with cheeky incorporation of the damsel’s quirks of her own. It’s hard to imagine any other actress pulling off these moments, and it’s impossible to fathom what Mr India would be without its Miss India. But then again, that’s what Sridevi bought to the table in the 80s - in a decade largely dominated by action dramas and hyper-masculine films, Sridevi carved her niche and stood in a league of her own, redefining the idea of a Hindi film Heroine.
BH Harsh is a film critic who spends most of his time watching movies and making notes, hoping to create, as Peggy Olsen put it, something of lasting value.
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