KARAN MAHAJAN
Born and raised in New Delhi, India
While I am usually a sieve for my grandmother's incessant chatter, my ears pricked up when I heard that Mihir had died in a car crash. This news had come in the midst of several random narrations and I finally folded my newspaper, inquiring solicitously about the death of this unknown family friend. "It's sad," I said, and mumbled something about traffic regulations.
It was only the next morning that I realized I was among the few ignoramuses who didn't know that Mihir was a character on India's then-biggest TV soap: "Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi" ("Because the mother-in-law was once a daughter-in-law"). The whole republic of India was up in arms that this man — this clean-shaven, well-spoken, beatific vessel of values — had been struck off the static by some corporate decision.
Headlines spoke of tragedy. Angry letters were mailed in to Balaji Tele-films, the producers of the show. Mothers everywhere wept into their starched saris. TV ratings plummeted in defiance. Strikes and meetings were held outside the offices of Balaji Tele-films. Tempers flared.
And so Mihir was brought back to life. "It was some dude who looked something like him who had died," retorted Balaji.
But this is not his story. Instead, this is the story of the newest island on the delta where fantasy meets reality — the Great Indian Television Soap. It's only been four years since India's cable networks began airing episodes about the drama of the upper-class joint family and now even Bollywood has competition.
Nearly all these soaps boast indistinguishable story lines, showcase melodramatic acting and possess titles beginning with "K" (for good luck, apparently). The central feature is the urban joint-family and the tensions it represents. Women (bitches / goddesses) are anchored in their traditional roles as homemakers. Men such as Mihir drop awful, saccharine lines. The mother-in-law engages in sinister puppeteer-ing. Marriages are viciously arranged.
Still, the titles of shows such as "Ghar Ghar Kee Kahani" ("The Story of Every Family") may be misnomers. In fact, this whole phenomenon represents an interesting dichotomy — viewers are typically city-dwellers who live in nuclear families and aspire to increasingly liberal values, while the shows carry strong messages about an India of traditions and hierarchies. What draws these viewers who have junked the joint-family juggernaut?
For one, the joint family, with its collection of random relatives, is a construct seething with intrigue and malice. It allows directors to pull off an Indian version of "The Bold and the Beautiful" without an overdose of adultery and sexual innuendo, thus making it socially acceptable. A whole generation views the rites and rituals of its childhood updated to a modern setting. This modern setting, as opulent and vulgar as it may seem, is also an escape for young people who struggle with the drudgery of urban life.
By channeling the drama of the great Indian epics and applying their clear demarcations of good and evil, these shows market role models for Indian society. So much so, that the arranged-marriage circuit is abuzz with people asking specifically for sons-in-law "like Mihir". Or as my grandmother puts it — "Either you're with the Mihir, or you're against him".
Furthermore, as a part of this revivalism, "sales of holy tulsi plants, worshipped by the women of the house, have shot up...retro clothes and furnishings featured on the shows are all the rage," according to Time Magazine. Even some of my more independent female friends watch TV's "domesticated" women with a fanatic fascination.
Clearly, India's TV shows are ripe with the evidence of cultural backlash that accompanies liberalization. In certain a way, this "backlash factor," filtered through political rhetoric and supplemented by media images may help preserve some of the values of family life. Or it may cause us to regress.
Also, if Mihir's resurrection is an indication, then the people are ultimately in charge of what they want. If Americans demand schizo lawyers, then we Indians have the right to our crazy mother-in-laws. I, however, won't be buying into the cult of the joint family any time soon. Well, at least not until I'm married.
Kumkum Bhagya
Anupamaa
