6th December, 2024
As far as I can remember, I truly watched Rockstar
for the first time during the early phase of the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020. I
was appearing for my 10th board examination in March when this situation picked
up throughout the country. Soon, the lockdown was imposed. It led to the
postponement of our final Geography paper, which was later cancelled.
In this period between writing board papers and
waiting for the results, I could not help but deliberate about the future that
seemed obscure. A transition was knocking at my doorstep — I did not want to
step out of school and venture into college. I was trying hard to figure out
life racing ahead while the world was stuck. Ironically, I am still figuring
out life as the final year of my degree college comes to an end in the next few
months.
Somewhere around June 2020, my parents started
inquiring which stream I was planning to opt for among Commerce, Science and
Arts. While writing always intrigued me, I only took it more seriously toward
the end of high school. Before that, I was busy chasing another passion for
almost four to five years. However, I was beginning to realise I was miles
behind the actual race. The acceptance seeped in during the lockdown when I was
confronted by the fact that time had probably slipped out of my hand. These thoughts
kept running in my head, and there was no vacuum to let go of it. The only time
I felt a little at ease was when I occupied myself writing or watching movies —
and both of those interactions heartily pursued the several dilemmas
surrounding art, artist and artistry.
One of those many films was Rockstar (2011) by
Imtiaz Ali. Although I was aware of it and saw bits and pieces when it
occasionally aired on television, I never settled to watch and explore the film
in its entirety. So, on a fine evening, I downloaded it and was left glued to
my laptop screen for the next three hours.
I saw myself in Janardan, who was desperately
seeking to be Jordan — to be someone more than who he was and told to be
— to experience something beyond the petty constraint and construct of his body
and invisible boundaries. In our search for an answer on how to break out of
this mould, we crossed paths with Khatana Bhai (a canteen owner played
by Kumud Mishra) and our agitated, confused, hungry, and unaware soul somewhat
surrendered when he said:
“Dekh ek dil hota hai kalakaar ka… Personaalti hoti
hai… Zindagi nahin hai teri vaisi… Woh doosre type ki zindagi hoti hai jo
insaan ko kalakaar bana deti hai… Tu sab ki zindagi utha ke dekh le… Jitney bhi
hain na ye sangeetkar, gayak, artist, painter, writer… Ek aisi cheez hai jo inn
sab ki zindagi mein common milegi tujhe… Pain, dukh, dard, aansu… Jab tak
takleef na ho na life mein tab tak koi bada nahin banta… Toote huye dil se hi
sangeet nikalta hai… Jab dil ki lagti hai na, tukde-tukde hote hain tab aati
hai jhankaar... Tere saath kya hua hai? Dil toota hai kabhi?”
/
What added fuel to these words and core idea was the
overwhelming journey, guided sincerely by an immortalising performance by
Ranbir Kapoor, who embodied the calm, the frantic, the deluded, the staggered,
the passionate and the repressive spirit of an aching soul, desperately seeking
the end of the tunnel. It was further enhanced by the arousing musical album
composed by A. R. Rahman, which still has the quality to awaken a dead soul.
I could not help but hold my breath when the film
ended. The surreal experience where I felt beyond transcended made me crave
more of it. While the world of cinema had enamoured and influenced me before,
this was maybe the first time I realised how it had the power to engrave
itself. I decided to be a writer, and it became the only thing that made sense
to me for the next two years — there was not much to do confined inside the
four walls of my house.
However, without realising it, I started relying more
on an empty piece of paper to confide and find solace than anyone else. In a
way, I held my hand and helped myself walk away from the real world because I
found it liberating. I could not comprehend it was enslaving me equally.
Two years passed. Junior college ended within a blink
of an eye, and I walked straight into the degree college. In this phase, I was
again trying hard to be — or at least to be considered — a writer. Even though
I had managed to take a few baby steps ahead, it more or less seemed
meaningless.
One day, toward the end of 2022, when I was feeling
dull, I thought of watching Rockstar. I played it on my laptop. The
above-mentioned scene between Janardan and Khatana Bhai happened
— I felt nothing. It passed without inciting any shiver. While I remained
invested and rooted for Janardan in his journey of dreaming and becoming
Jordan, I understood it was futile to him by the end when I finally
registered and processed these words where he wants to run away from all he has
become and all he has lost:
“Mujhe yeh sab kuch nahin chahiye Khatana bhai… Mujhe
nahin banna bada… Bas mera dil nahin tootna chahiye… Mera dil nahin tootna
chahiye… Please Khatana bhai kuch karo… Please… Mere paas aur kuch nahin hai…
Yeh nahin hona chahiye…”
I came face to face with the false idol I was
following and the void it had created in my life. Suddenly, I could sense the
underlying melancholy infused in the lyrics by Irshad Kamil. The broken pieces
and empty shells — which first appeared blurred — became clear, and I stood eye
to eye with the irrational illusion I had surrounded myself with.
I was under the impression that I had walked some
steps ahead in my journey. However, when I looked back, I realised I had only
driven away from who I really was. The intention behind the quest was to become
someone — unfortunately, I had become someone else. I could not gather the
strength to rationalise and draw a conclusion on whether it was good or bad. I
just didn’t like it. It wasn’t me.
/
In the following months, I tried to break out of my
pattern and participated in other activities, such as college cultural clubs
and festivals. It took me a long time to assimilate and blend in with the
people I was working alongside. To be honest, I was (still am) terrible
socially. I often said and did things I keep rewinding in my head countless
times — and cringe and pull my hair and scream — and wish I could change
everything about it. Thankfully, I was with a bunch of warm people who made
everything worthwhile. They were quite welcoming and understanding, and I have
genuinely built some wholesome memories with them.
Naturally, the writing took a slight backseat but
never went out of sight. I became more open to exploring, learning and trying
different styles, genres and mediums in storytelling. Somewhere, I feel I went
all over the place, and yet I was able to carve my space by the end of my
second year in college, April 2024.
Not to forget, I carried a little hatred toward Imtiaz
Ali and his work because of my evolved understanding and relationship with
Rockstar. Additionally, he was facing a slight slump in his career owing to the
underwhelming reception of his films Jab Harry Met Sejal (2017) and Love
Aaj Kal (2020). Even though I could not force myself enough to disregard
the magic he has managed to create and spread with Rockstar, Jab We
Met, and Tamasha, there was a silent scepticism in me while watching
his every new project. However, when I sat down to watch Amar Singh Chamkila
on Netflix, I fell in love with Imtiaz Ali again. Strangely, it felt like a
personal victory to see him again re-creating the same magic with his film.
It marked a string of resurgence for him, backed by
the further re-release of Rockstar and Laila Majnu in theatre.
Both of them were cherished and celebrated even more by the audience compared
to the time of their initial release. I did not visit the theatre, but I did
watch Rockstar again on my laptop with no intention of feeling inspired
or charged, simply to experience it all over again and...
My life again reached a standstill for a split second
when Ustad Jameel Khan (a renowned classical musician played by Shammi
Kapoor) took notice of the distinct voice Janardan found in Jordan
and spoke profoundly of him in front of Dhingra (a profit-hungry owner
of a record label enacted by Piyush Mishra) in the film:
“Yeh bada janwar hai… yeh aapke chhote pinjre mein
nahi samayega… Yeh apni dhunein banayega… Yeh doosri cheez hai Dhingra… Ispar
uska hath hai, uski inayat hai… Humne keh diya na Dhingra sahab, ispar laga
dijiye, bhot kamayege.”
It wasn’t like I had not taken note of this moment
before. It always played somewhere in the back of my head — but this time it
hit.
As the final year of college was about to begin, I
knew I probably had only a year left to prove my worth as a writer, something I
had been trying to do for the last four years and continue till today. While
there have been a few moments I will forever keep close to myself, I am still
yearning for this particular scene to play out in my life despite realising it
is a relentless, endless quest to be an artist. I don’t know whether it will
answer all my questions, but it might make me believe more in myself…
“Yeh nadaan parinda apna ghar dhoond hi lega!”
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