I read everything about the Hindu pantheon of Gods. Hindu philosophy, with its notions of reincarnation and karma, made a lot of sense to me. I was 14, true, but as my cousin pointed out, George Harrison was also Krishna devotee. How cool was that.
From then on India, for me, became the repository of eternal insights into the human condition. It was the birthplace, moreover, of Tagore, the first Asian to win the Nobel Prize for literature, and Gandhi, who, when asked, “What do you think of Western Civilization?” replied, “I think it would be a good idea.”
In college, I decided to visit India. I had by then outgrown my interest in Lord Krishna and Ayn Rand, who was the next phase in my restless nerdish wanderings, and was gripped with a new-found passion, which was communism. I was 18. A fellow activist told me that the collected works of Marx and Engels (50 volumes) and Lenin (45) could be bought in India for only a few hundred pesos. At the time, India had close ties with the Soviet Union while the U.S. coddled India’s rival, Pakistan. India also had formidable Marxist political parties. (The two communist parties are still around and still winning state elections.) My Indian comrades were practically giving away Marxist literature dumped by the Soviets, and I wanted to get a piece of the action. I was like a girl who, on Christmas, must have a Cabbage Patch doll, which was also at the height of its popularity in the mid- to late 1980s. But my mother refused to give me money for the airfare to India and, I believe, she even laughed when I told her why I wanted to go there.
My fascination with India, in short, had come full circle. Initially, as the birthplace of Gods and, later, as the vendor of cheap books that sneered at divinity.
As I was watching “Slumdog Millionaire” last week, I thought I would be introduced to yet another strange aspect of this great Asian country. Instead, I came to face to face with familiar images.
The slums of Mumbai could have been in Manila. The syndicates that “manage” young beggars. The hatred fanned by religion and ethnicity. Class distinctions. Warrantless arrests and torture in the hands of law enforcers. The idolatry of movie stars. An entire nation glued to a TV show that promised to make your dreams come true. An underdog of a hero — poor and Muslim in a Hindu nation hurtling toward the future. The primacy of blood ties. Young love.
All this in gorgeous photography, seamless editing, compelling acting, brilliant story-telling and an unforgettable soundtrack.
“Slumdog Millionaire” provides a glimpse of India that is poor and rich, backward and modern, disturbing and lovely, and at the end of it you learn more about…yourself. In its depiction of a foreign, exotic country, this magnificent movie brought us closer to the common humanity that binds us all.
Now that is art. That is great art.
Send feedback to [email protected]
