What Sholay says about 1970s India

Hindustan Times

5 days ago

It was probably a coincidence that Sholay was released on Independence Day in 1975. But this does add a quixotic twist to the story we can call India after Sholay. Sholay produced a keyhole narrative about offence and vengeance in which there was no reference to any social-political context (Hindustan Times)
The legend, as told in the film world, is that the film was already before the censor board when the Emergency was declared on June 25, 1975. In the version the censors first saw, Thakur, the chief protagonist of the film, kills the villain Gabbar Singh.
This was unacceptable to the censor board — in keeping with the Indira Gandhi government's projection of the Emergency as a tool for restoring order and rule of law. The producers of Sholay changed the ending so they could get the censor board certificate. In the version we have been watching for 50 years, the climax of the film is that the police arrive just in time to, gently but firmly, persuade Thakur to not kill Gabbar. Bloodied and beaten, Gabbar is taken off to prison.
Scholars of social history may well quarrel over whether the original version, with Thakur exacting vengeance, was more in sync with the mood of the times or whether it was a warning about where we were headed. In hindsight, those of us who grew up in the 1960s, can see Sholay as a landmark event in the decline of a social milieu in which reality was not a simplistic binary of good versus evil.
Films about dacoits and other doers of bad deeds were commonplace. But it was Sholay that gave us a sociopathic villain whose cruel wit, brutal violence, and dramatic macho swagger resulted in iconic status. In later years, a popular brand of biscuits was actually advertised as Gabbar ki asli pasand (Gabbar's true preference), complete with a photo of the villain and his self-satisfied grin.
However, Sholay did something much more insidious than make an evil character look cool. It produced a keyhole narrative about offence and vengeance in which there was no reference to any social-political context. Until then, filmi dacoits usually had a back-story that evoked the audience's compassion. In doing this, Hindi films were faithfully depicting a structural reality of the 1950s and 1960s — namely, of oppressed and traumatised peasants forced to take up arms and become dacoits out of desperation.
Dilip Kumar's Ganga Jamuna, Sunil Dutt's Mujhe Jeene Do, and Raj Kapoor's Jis Desh Mein Ganga Behti Hai were made at a time when Vinoba Bhave and Jayaprakash Narayan were working on the ground for the surrender and rehabilitation of dacoits, who were mostly distressed farmers. Sholay provided no back-story for Gabbar — empathic or otherwise. Devoid of any socio-economic context, he is presented as pure evil — sadistic and maniacal. Thakur, as an honest and hard-working police officer-cum-landlord, captures Gabbar, but the prison system fails. Gabbar escapes, kills Thakur's family and cuts off Thakur's arms.
Earlier, Hindi films critiqued the system of governance in order to project stories of rebellion or idealistic struggle. In the universe of Salim-Javed, the vastly successful duo who wrote the screenplay of Sholay, the governance system was invariably presented as defunct and worthless. This was offered as the justification for valorising vigilantism. In Sholay, there is no samaj (society) standing up together to fight evil. There is only Thakur's raw, personal need for revenge versus Gabbar as an individual.
The urge to seek vengeance is indeed an atavistic human trait. This is precisely why much of India's pauranic tradition is devoted to helping us understand both the compelling reality of this urge and how we might process it in ways that don't leave everyone worse off. However, in the last five decades, a large volume of films has instead focused on revenge as personally satisfying and the only viable option. Society is depicted as having given up on the formal governance system delivering justice.
In India after Sholay, the validation and celebration of vengeance, by individuals and collectives, became a cultural and political phenomenon. The lust for vengeance is no longer related to specific crimes against individuals. The political discourse, using digital era propaganda mechanisms, has generated collective forms of victimhood and projected vengeance as both natural and justified.
This shift happened gradually, due to multiple reasons. It was not driven by cinema. But a wide variety of audio-visual media, including what currently purport to be news channels, do provide the drumbeat for what now appears to be a collective bloodlust. At times, this drumbeat can feel overwhelming. But it is still not the only reality. If we make the effort to listen carefully to the full variety of sounds and songs around us today, this will expand our mental space and perhaps even create some breathing space. In the relative calm of that space, we will be able to better cognise strivings based on compassion and reason. Then, justice rather than retribution can become not just attractive but possible.
You could say that such defiant enthusiasm by itself cannot resolve the crisis of institutions and the justice system. True, but it is in fact energising countless efforts on the ground where highly talented people are working tirelessly to move the needle towards a humane rule of law.
Such creative action is driven by a simple truth, however unpopular it might appear at present. Namely, mass acceptance of vengeance makes the restoration of the justice system increasingly difficult or even impossible.
One way to counter this is to generate more public acknowledgement of the courage of otherwise unsung heroes and heroines on the ground. These are people who work doggedly for human rights and civil liberties — often at great risk as they grapple bravely with characters who could make Gabbar look tame by comparison.
It might also help to watch the rejected original ending of Sholay, which can be found on YouTube. For, this version leaves us with some difficult questions. After Thakur succeeds in killing Gabbar, he crumbles to the ground, looking stunned. As Viru, the surviving hired gun, tries to comfort him, Thakur breaks down and sobs bitterly.
The most obvious interpretation of this scene is that Thakur is finally able to let go and express grief and horror over the unspeakable cruelty inflicted upon him. But is Thakur also weeping because his victory somehow feels empty? Did eliminating Gabbar actually give Thakur the satisfaction he expected? What would have been the best application of the strength and resolve of a man of Thakur's calibre?
When Sholay is re-released, again on Independence Day, we could just sit back and enjoy it as entertainment. But this need not prevent us from considering the above questions and pondering how, in real life, we might support true justice, which is a strength rooted in compassion.
Rajni Bakshi is the founder of the YouTube channel Ahimsa Conversations. The views expressed are personal