'Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani': Shah Rukh Khan As The Symbol Of Indianness SRK’s persona evokes the kind of Indianness that denies categorisation into singular, exclusive identities. And thrives on making others feel welcome. This essay was originally published in Outlook magazine, here. Illustration by Saahil. 01 November 2021 Following the arrest of Aryan Khan, as news and social media began churning out its toxic narrative of Shah Rukh Khan as a traitor and depraved parent, a poem by the poet Akhil Katyal went viral: “Wo kabhi Rahul hai, kabhi Raj/ Kabhi Charlie toh kabhi Max/ Surinder bhi wo, Harry bhi wo/ Devdas bhi our Veer bhi/ Ram, Mohan, Kabir bhi/ Wo Amar hai, Samar hai Rizwan, Raees, Jehangir bhi/ Shayad isliye kuch logon ke halak mein fasta hai/ Ki ek Shahrukh mein pura Hindu stan basta hai.” I too shared the poem on
This week's Mid-day column, coming on the heels of the world cup (although not about the world cup, not about cricket etc.) Just about our enthusiasm for censorship and such stupidities on the one hand so we can ignore how bigoted we really are and how much easier we find it to hate than to love. I don't know if that's just the human way as some tend to argue. I know that I do equal number of things from anger or annoyance as I do from enchantment. So if those who express hate are expressing love someplace, why aren't we hearing of it more? Or do we not see it as love, because we are prejudiced against the thing they love. Meanwhile, not quite connected but I found this amusing link - pride in being censored - while searching for an image of a CC. Took the image from a rather nice site called Doc Bollywood btw.
Since this article appears in a truncated form on the Mint website - it was first published in a special issue of the paper on the theme Going Home - I'm putting it down here in its full form. The anatomy of a hometown summary PAROMITA VOHRA grew up listening to her father talk about his Lahore. When she visited it for herself, she found the city had become hers too Changing cityscape : An old photo of Faletti’s Hotel; (top) one of Pakistan’s many painted trucks. photo-group text BP Print As an Indian Air Force kid, I spent my childhood changing cities, changing homes, changing schools. I studied in Kendriya Vidyalayas and convents, experimental and public schools. Across them all, one thing remained constant. Every year, you had to account for the delicious, elongated torpor of summer holidays, their voluptuous aimlessness, by writing an essay: “What I Did In My Summer Holidays”. Some children did the Heritage of India holiday of course: