I know it’s rude to gloat and I shouldn’t, but I really was born the same year as Jaani Dushman, or Beloved Enemy, a Hindi sex-horror film. Soon after its release, it became one of the highest grossing films of India. If you haven’t watched it recently (or ever), here’s how it begins. First shot: a pair of headlights beaming down a long road. It’s a taxi, with a young, newly-married couple on the backseat. The husband can barely keep his hands off his wife. She giggles and swats away his greedy hands, cast as she is in the authentic mold of Hindi film heroines. She doesn’t want the driver to see them through the rear view mirror, although it is nighttime, and they are (predictably) on an empty road.
The husband light up three cigarettes.
The wife widens her eyes, “Three at once?” she asks.
“It’s for the smoke, so it will conceal us.”
She titters, and flashes him a naughty-come-hither smile.
But the taxi—following the blueprint of horror movies in every language everywhere—breaks down. Thunder, lightning, and rain crack open the sky. The driver tells them they should seek shelter. He points to a nearby mansion that somehow exists here, right in the middle of nowhere, and he says he will get the car fixed and return.
We, the audience, know his suggestion is not coming from a place of kindness or grace. For one, the role of the driver is being essayed by Mac Mohan, the skinny, rakish actor who appeared in every Hindi film of the 1970s and ‘80s. With his trademark black and white hair and beard, he always, always played one role and one role alone. He was always the villain’s right-hand man. In his five-minutes of screen time thus far, he has flashed a secret smile or two, and spoken in innuendos. We, the audience, don’t yet know what this film is about, but we know this much about the Hindi sex-horror world. No character has ever come out looking virtuous after exhibiting secret smiles and talking in innuendoes, especially if the character is being played by the notorious Mac Mohan.
Hesitantly, fearfully, the couple approaches the mansion. Of course, the doors swing open automatically. They reveal cobwebs and strange sounds. The very next minute, the resident ghost appears inside a picture frame. He is young, in his mid to late thirties, with thick hair, prominent eyes, and a sharp mustache. From his expensive Nehru coat and clutch of pearls, it’s clear he’s at home in this mansion.
The ghost tells the frightened couple his story. On his wedding night, just as he was about to consummate his marriage, his new wife brutally murdered him. She wanted all his money, and she wanted to be with her lover. The murdered man has been a restless, vengeful ghost since then. He kills every new bride that he comes across.
A struggle ensues, but the couple manages to escape. So, on and so forth. Clocking at over two and a half hours, Jaani Dushman boasts of a massive ensemble cast, several interconnected love stories, hammy acting, chase sequences, at least one jarring accent, and a terrible monster costume. The film released two months before my birth, and yet I believe I forged a transcendental connection with it from inside my mother’s womb. What else explains my penchant for bad films?
Or that the first movie I watched in a theater shortly after arriving in the US in 2006 was Snakes on a Plane. It was not an easy decision to spend $6 on the movie. I, a brand new grad student, had only recently arrived from India. I had no money to spend on frivolities but then how do you say no to something whose greatness begins with the title itself?
I have fond memories of that day and viewing that I enjoyed in the company of my new friend Parul. But what cracked my heart open was the lack of an intermission. What kind of a world had I come to? When was I supposed to use the toilet, or inhale the buttery smell of popcorn and walk away knowing I had no money? But most importantly, when and how was I supposed to judge the people sitting around me?
