I’m not really an angry person but I was reading this post by the Mad Momma and realized that most of my “reaction posts” sound… well, furious. Reasonably so, in my opinion but still, it made me wonder if I’ve been slowly writing myself to a place that I have no wish to inhabit – the body of a scowly, righteously angry blogger, burning in exhaustively told agony at the sight of a cruel world.
Therefore, I was only too happy to find this post of Aspi’s, one he says was sparked off by a chance remark of mine and closely related to this funny tag of Beth’s. What character in a Bollywood film would I like to play?
I vote: The Hero.
I know I’m probably letting down the sisterhood and I don’t really want to trade my boobs for an uncle chest but what to do? I can’t think of a single female character that ends well.
There are specific female characters that go on to have a happy ending (and really, why would I want to be a Bollywood character and get an un-happy ending? I’d rather be French in that case, thank you very much – at least I’d get to eat good food, drink decent wine and get in a few bouts of adventurous sex before I meet my bad end). But Bollywood’s women in general are wounded birds from start to finish.
If I were The Vamp – I’d get to slut it up all I want, no problem-o. I could wear clothes I bought at Baby Gap even if I weighed 200 lbs and every man I met would love my wriggle and jiggle! Of course, all the women would hate me but it’s not like I was going to win any popularity contests once I finished bitching them out and making them feel like Olive Oyl next to me. I could let my eyeliner trace whatever path it wanted and run screaming into my hairline and nobody would blink an eye. I’d get to sing at least one cool song about how sexy I am and maybe even sexually harass a man or two – with inappropriate touching – and everybody would shut up and take it. Bad news is, somewhere along the line I’d get shot, stabbed, thrown off a train, run over by a car and/or commit suicide. When pregnant. Additionally, right before I bit it, I’d have to beg somebody’s forgiveness and negate all the fun I’ve had thus far. No deal.
If I were The Mother – my life would be hell. If I didn’t get raped and murdered/ rendered insane, my husband would get murdered (never raped) /rendered insane. Alternatively, he’d turn out to be the bad guy and screw my life up even more. I’d never be allowed to bring up normal kids and if, by some miracle of fate, I managed to do so after working my butt off (usually by washing dishes in the bitchiest household I could find or breaking stones in some quarry that’s conveniently situated right in the middle of the biggest, baddest city on the planet that will eventually drive my kids to commit Bad Deeds), said kid would turn out to be the villain. And I’d just have to shoot him. Sigh. To compensate for these pitfalls, if I survive to see my kids grow up into hero material, I get to be the most important person in their lives. Unless, of course, they marry a witch who decides I’m not too old to play Cinderella. In which case, we’re back to square one. No deal.
If I were The Sister – well, good luck to surviving that! Rape and murder, guaranteed! Once in a while, I’d get to marry but I’ll probably end up as a widow. No fucking deal!
If I were The Heroine – oh joy. One, I could be a shrew and be impossible to please until a dashing young man comes along, slaps me around, tells me I’m a worm, pours contempt and scorn all over me and caps it all off by singing a song in which he does all of it all over again – in public with an orchestra and a hundred odd backup dancers. He’ll harass me into drooling submission, maybe even rape me to show me how much he cares and, won over by his sheer ardor, I will then denounce my parents as fascists and run off to live the life of a reformed, proper young Indian bride. Two, I could already be a proper, young Indian girl and in that case I pretty much do nothing but stick around hoping that someone will eventually remember my existence. I’ll finally get the attention I crave when the villain/ villain’s son decides he’d like to treat me like the hero would in Scenario One and then the hero will come beat the crap out of him (because this is Scenario Two and I don’t need reformation of that sort, thanks) and I’ll get to be his grateful prize. If the director is a nice man, he’ll let me ineffectually smack some random bodyguard of the villain’s with a lamp or something similar in company with the hero’s incredibly intelligent pet chimpanzee or Pomeranian who probably played a bigger role than I did in bringing down the Evil Doers. Nix, I say.
If I were The Friend – I’d be Karisma Kapoor and have nothing but bra tops and hot pants to wear. And it still wouldn’t land me the guy I want. Boo! No deal.
So, really, I’d rather cut out the middle(wo)men and be the Hero. That way I’d get to do anything and everything I want, including all the fun bits of the characters above, and at the end of it, no matter what I’ve done, I’d be universally loved. All that and I’d get to pee standing up. Suits me just fine.