There are at least two lessons Indian soaps can teach Indian cinema: the first is how to create something out of nothing and stretch it out till any elasticity left is sagging in the middle. The second is to create the illusion that something is happening when nothing is. Bid a warm welcome to television’s special effects, the real superstars of the soaps.
Begin with the mildest soap suds, a Doordarshan daily. It’s time to join Airhostess on a flight that seems perpetually grounded — if only the plane flew, the serial might take off. Meanwhile, on terra firma, we are at the heroine’s home. Mama, Papa and assorted relatives look very busy awaiting some action. A young man begins to think. The effort, clearly too much for him, he fades to black and white. Camera loses interest in him, switches to a car driving up in slow motion. At once, cymbals clash like the Gods in heavenly row, followed rather appropriately, by the incomprehensible but familiar sound of chanting. Something is going to happen.
What happens is that a woman in red (saree) alights from the vehicle and promptly walks through an invisible X-ray machine, which makes her look rather negative — that she is, of course, otherwise she would never be seen in red (heroines wear red only when getting married or remarried to their pati-dev). She knocks, papa opens door.
Responding to his astonishment, the camera reels — into a series of passport-size close-ups of all those present (caught with their mouths half-open). Drums thud upon your heart with all the force of a doctor resuscitating a dead patient. Papa utters inaudible sounds (courtesy the drums) and the woman in red swivels around with the first spoken word “Bulls..t!”
That’s enough to drain the colour from Papa. It’s his turn to turn black, and then white as she adds with ferocity, “You will now get a taste of my generosity!”. Before she can display her large-heartedness, mobile rings. Airhostess to the scarlet woman. “I will shove your family out of this house,” threatens the latter with glittering eyes to match the diamonds in her ears, nose... wherever. “Oh no, you won’t, Miss Kambatta,” replies Airhostess in sweet menacing tones, “Aryan is coming to see me.” Now, we don’t know who Mr Aryan is but the mere mention of his name drains her saree — and face — of all colour, which in turn sets off a chain reaction: Papa & Co. turn into ghosts, the drums go berserk. Aryan must be very important.
All of this has taken five minutes during which nothing has happened, and yet, courtesy special effects, we’ve been considerably exercised (like running on the spot?).
On to Kahani Ghar Ghar Kii, where Om is enjoying a peaceful shut- eye at the hospital.
Doctor (examining his face): Let’s remove his kidney.
Cymbals dash against each other like Great Khali running into himself (he’s home, by the way, in case you missed Star News), and resound with treachery; the wind howls in protest, the music shrieks in warning. Oh dear. Given the alarming impact it has had on the decibel level, we know this is no ordinary kidney operation, it’s a donor racket.
In Saat Phere, we’re in a majestic mansion where everyone has collected at the well of the house (!!). As in Airhostess, the mobile rings. Man switches on: “Ranbir has run away,”. Well, well, that deserves a quarrel between the cymbals, surely. Sure enough, they race into a head- on clash. Seconds later, the door opens, revealing a bearded wonder. Under normal circumstances, this would be the perfect moment for him (and the others) to turn pale; but he’s already in white having just run away from hospital, so there’s nothing to be done but to give him (and all those present) a close shave, sorry a close-up. Time for a chant? Drums? Or shall it be loud, climactic music to herald momentous news? Loud music wins.