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By:

Rajeev Puri

24 October 2024 at 5:11:37 am

Before Sholay, there was Mera Gaon Mera Desh

When the comedian and television host Kapil Sharma recently welcomed the veteran screenwriter Salim Khan onto his show, he made a striking claim. India, he joked, has a national bird and a national animal; it ought also to have a national film. That film, he suggested, would surely be Sholay. Few would quarrel with the sentiment. Released in 1975 and directed by Ramesh Sippy,  Sholay  has long been treated as the Everest of Hindi popular cinema -quoted endlessly, revisited by generations and...

Before Sholay, there was Mera Gaon Mera Desh

When the comedian and television host Kapil Sharma recently welcomed the veteran screenwriter Salim Khan onto his show, he made a striking claim. India, he joked, has a national bird and a national animal; it ought also to have a national film. That film, he suggested, would surely be Sholay. Few would quarrel with the sentiment. Released in 1975 and directed by Ramesh Sippy,  Sholay  has long been treated as the Everest of Hindi popular cinema -quoted endlessly, revisited by generations and dissected by critics. In 2025, the film marked its 50th anniversary, and the release of a digitally restored, uncut version introduced the classic to a new generation of viewers who discovered that its mixture of revenge drama, western pastiche and buddy comedy remains curiously durable. The film’s influences have been debated almost as much as its dialogues – from scenes taken by the Spaghetti westerns of Sergio Leone, particularly ‘Once Upon a Time in the West’ (1968) or to the narrative architecture of ‘Seven Samurai’ (1954) by Akira Kurosawa. Others note echoes of earlier Hindi films about bandits and frontier justice, such as ‘Khotey Sikke’ (1973) starring Feroz Khan. Yet, rewatching ‘Mera Gaon Mera Desh,’ directed by Raj Khosla, one cannot help noticing how many of the narrative bones of  Sholay  appear to have been assembled there first. Released in 1971,  Mera Gaon Mera Desh  was a major hit at the box office, notable for holding its own in a year dominated by the near-hysterical popularity of Rajesh Khanna. The thematic framework of the two films is strikingly similar. In  Sholay , the retired policeman Thakur Baldev Singh recruits two petty criminals - Jai and Veeru - to help him avenge the terror inflicted upon his village by the bandit Gabbar Singh. In  Mera Gaon Mera Desh , the set-up is not very different. A retired soldier, Jaswant Singh, seeks to protect his village from a ruthless dacoit and enlists the help of a small-time crook named Ajit. Even the villain’s name seems to echo across the two films. In Khosla’s drama, the marauding bandit played by Vinod Khanna is scene-stealing performance is called Jabbar Singh. In  Sholay , the outlaw who would become one of Indian cinema’s most memorable antagonists was Gabbar Singh. There is an additional irony in the casting. In  Mera Gaon Mera Desh , the retired soldier Jaswant Singh is played by Jayant - the real-life father of Amjad Khan, who would later immortalise Gabbar Singh in  Sholay . The connective tissue between the two films becomes even clearer in the presence of Dharmendra. In Khosla’s film he plays Ajit, a charming rogue who gradually redeems himself while defending the village. Four years later, Dharmendra returned in  Sholay  as Veeru, a similarly exuberant petty criminal whose courage and irrepressible humour make him one half of Hindi cinema’s most beloved buddy duo alongside Amitabh Bachchan as Jai. Certain visual motifs also appear to have travelled intact. In Khosla’s film, Ajit finds himself bound in ropes in the bandit’s den during a dramatic musical sequence. A similar image appears in  Sholay , where Veeru is tied up before Gabbar Singh while Basanti performs the now famous song ‘Jab Tak Hai Jaan.’ Other echoes are subtler but just as suggestive. Ajit’s pursuit of the village belle Anju, played by Asha Parekh, anticipates Veeru’s boisterous attempts to woo Basanti, portrayed by Hema Malini. Scenes in which Ajit teaches Anju to shoot recall the flirtatious gun-training sequence between Veeru and Basanti that became one of  Sholay ’s most cherished moments. Even the famous coin motif has a precedent. Ajit frequently tosses a coin to make decisions - a flourish that would later appear in  Sholay , where Jai’s coin toss becomes a running gag. Perhaps most intriguingly, the endings of the two films converge in their original form. In  Mera Gaon Mera Desh , the villain is ultimately killed by the hero. The uncut version of  Sholay  reportedly ended in a similar fashion, with Gabbar Singh meeting his death at the hands of Thakur Baldev Singh. However, censors altered the climax before the film’s 1975 release, requiring that Gabbar be handed over to the police instead. All this does not diminish  Sholay . Rather, it highlights the alchemy through which cinema evolves. The scriptwriting duo Salim–Javed took familiar ingredients and expanded them into a grander narrative populated by unforgettable characters and stylised action. On the 55 th  anniversary of  Mera Gaon Mera Desh , Raj Khosla’s rugged western deserves a renewed glance as the sturdy foundation on which a legend called  Sholay  was built. (The author is a political commentator and a global affairs observer. Views personal.)

Police & Pandits: Biggest Beneficiaries of Devotion

Updated: Jan 29, 2025

Corruption is rampant at Kalighat Mandir under CM Mamata Banerjee's nose

Kalighat Mandir

Kolkata: The Uber ride from my hotel to Kalighat Mandir was only fifteen minutes, but it felt like a journey into another world. A cold and crisp Tuesday morning in Kolkata, known as the City of Joy, set the stage for my reluctant pilgrimage to one of Hinduism’s holiest shrines. Reluctant because, as someone who believes you don’t need to stand in line to meet God, I’ve never been much of a temple-goer. But family insistence has a way of bending even the firmest resolve, and so I found myself en route to the famed temple of Goddess Kali.


Kalighat’s significance in Hindu mythology is immense. Believed to be the site where Maa Sati’s right toe fell, it is one of the 51 Shakti Peethas, sacred abodes of the goddess. Yet, the sanctity of the temple often feels at odds with the chaos surrounding it. The hotel receptionist had warned me: Tuesdays draw larger crowds, as the day is considered auspicious for Maa Kali. I braced myself for long queues, pushy devotees, and the unpredictable chaos that defines India’s spiritual epicentres.


The temple’s entrance was just as expected, teeming with energy and opportunists. Before I could even locate the gate, an elderly man in a traditional kurta and dhoti appeared at my side. His demeanour was calm but calculated, his movements choreographed for maximum effect. “The gate is there,” he pointed, steering me toward one of the many pooja stalls lining the entrance.


Within moments, I was engulfed by men preparing a pooja thali before I could even process what was happening. Hibiscus garlands, a coconut, incense sticks and bangles were swiftly piled into a bamboo basket while chants in Sanskrit were murmured over my head. Prices were declared in quick succession as though I were at an auction rather than a temple.


My self-appointed guide led me to the main entrance. “VIP entry?” he asked with casual authority. I hesitated but handed him Rs. 200 - the price of convenience. Inside, two lines diverged: one, a snaking queue of ‘ordinary’ devotees under the sun; the other, a shorter line dominated by Pandits, exuding an air of hierarchy.


At the inner sanctum, a separate system operated. Two men collected money on either side of the deity, while the main priest handled offerings. The cramped space was packed with devotees in a single line. “Sister, give only Rs. 20, not more,” my Pandit advised. “If you give Rs. 100, they’ll demand even more outside.”


The idol of Maa Kali was a stunning, terrifying figure - her blackened face adorned with gold and silver, her four arms poised with weapons and gestures of blessing. The priest stationed before her barked at devotees, his temper short and his hands quick to push overzealous worshippers back into line. When a group of rural women, wide-eyed and eager, tried to touch the idol’s feet, they were scolded and physically pushed away. The irony was stark: here stood the goddess of empowerment and strength, worshipped in a space that thrived on intimidation and control.


As I exited the sanctum, my Pandit guide ushered me toward a coconut-breaking shrine. Another man waited there, collecting Rs. 500 notes from devotees who sought to add this ritual to their spiritual checklist. I negotiated down to Rs. 100 and cracked the coconut, watching as the pieces were whisked away, ostensibly to be distributed as prasad. “Didi, idhar sab paise se chalta hai,” the Pandit muttered matter-of-factly. Everything here, it seemed, came at a price: access, blessings, even the right to break a coconut.


Back at the pooja stall, I was handed a bill of Rs. 1700. “Round it up to Rs. 2100,” the Pandit suggested, offering to arrange a Bhandara in my name. He even presented a QR code for online payment. Faith, it seems, has embraced fintech.


As I waited for my Uber, an elderly woman persistently pleaded for money, and I reluctantly gave her Rs. 100 - yet another addition to the temple’s bustling economy. In just 30 minutes, I had spent Rs. 2730 for a fleeting glimpse of divinity.


Situated in the heart of Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee’s constituency, Kalighat Mandir presents a stark paradox: women jostled within its sacred walls and left begging beyond its gates.


As my Uber pulled away, I couldn’t help but marvel at the audacious commercialization of faith in a space meant to transcend worldly concerns. “Jai Maa Kali,” I muttered under my breath, the irony unmistakable.

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