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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.)

Seeking the Sacred: A Gen Z Pilgrim’s Mahakumbh Odyssey

Updated: Mar 3, 2025

A journey through faith, mysticism and the unexpected at the world’s largest spiritual gathering.

Gen Z Pilgrim

I’ve never been the archetypal religious person. Although I identify as a Hindu, my understanding of it is quite limited. I grew up learning a few shlokas and aartis, mostly the ones that my parents used to recite. I often prayed, sometimes even trying to bargain with God for good marks or a crush’s attention.


My view of Hinduism was shaped by my family and surroundings. I followed the rituals they did and prayed to the Gods I saw in my home. This covered a total of 10- 15 Gods from the massive repository of 330 million. I am not entirely sure what drew me to the Maha Kumbh. There were claims about it being a myth, a political masterstroke or a way to absolve one’s past misdeeds.


I’m neither politically inclined nor overly ritualistic, but curiosity got the best of me. After all, why would a third of India’s population gather at the confluence of rivers during peak winters for a mere dip!?


I had planned to spend two days in Prayag - one for the holy dip and one to visit the akharas. On the first, the only goal was reaching the Sangam. With vehicles banned from the inner city, the walk through the Kumbh Mela’s throng became an experience in itself. A vast, surging crowd moved in unison - young and old, rich and poor - towards the sacred confluence. Despite the crush, hospitality flourished. Locals distributed food and tea, helped the elderly on scooters, and reunited lost pilgrims via loudspeakers.


The Sangam was more than the meeting of rivers; it was a confluence of cultures. South Indians in veshtis, Rajasthanis in bright lehengas and pagdis, Bengalis in red-and-white sarees, and people like me, more comfortable in cargo pants - all drawn towards the same sacred waters regardless of attire. VIP boats floated nearby, but the real pilgrimage was here, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, bound by faith and the pull of something greater than themselves.


Everyone was absorbed in their own version of devotion. Some filmed vlogs and clicked pictures, others filled bottles with holy water. Some performed puja, while others tossed coins into the river - only for a few to dive in and collect them. There were those playfully splashing around, claiming they were now ‘sin-free’ and ready for fresh ones, while others kept immersing themselves over and over - perhaps as insurance for future misdeeds.


There was no single right way to dress, pray, or even behave at the Sangam. Each person followed their own belief, doing what felt right in that moment, in that sacred space.


On my way back, I saw a massive gathering of ascetics from various akharas lining up for their holy bat. Although I knew little about them, I couldn’t help but admire the striking diversity. Some were completely naked, covered in ash, and carrying weapons; others dressed in all-black, while many wore the familiar saffron robes, radiating warmth with their bright smiles.


On my way back, I saw stalls catering to every income segment - vendors sold chana and puri for as little as Rs. 10, while Domino’s offered pan pizzas for Rs. 100.


There were free tent accommodations, hundreds of mobile toilets, and water dispensers along the way. Yet, despite these arrangements, filth was inevitable. Some toilets were so foul-smelling that I wouldn’t dare to use them.


But with a third of India’s population descending upon a small city, no amount of cleaning would ever be enough without civic responsibility from the masses. It wasn’t surprising, just a stark reminder of the scale of this grand gathering.


Day two began without a clear plan. I didn’t know the names of the akharas or where to find them, and even if I did, I had no set agenda or burning questions.


Still, I made my way to the other side, where the akharas housed ascetics during the Kumbh. Being a digital native, I was familiar with some of the ‘celebrities’ of the Kumbh - the IIT Baba, the Baba with a pigeon on his head and so on.


With no specific goal, I decided to track one of them down and soon found the Baba with a pigeon on his head. He was moving swiftly from one lane to another, and a small group of us instinctively followed, trying to keep up.

We were so fixated on him that we didn’t notice shards of glass on the road. Ironically, he was the one to stop, point them out, clean them, and scold us for being too absorbed in ourselves to see potential harm to others.


Along the way, I came across many ascetics smoking marijuana and performing rituals unfamiliar to me but seemingly normal to others. Having grown up in an environment where smoking was a strict no, it was both shocking and fascinating to see a religion embrace practices that might seem unconventional but are accepted as long as they aid in the pursuit of the ultimate truth.


The next akhara I visited was one often linked to the mysterious and the unknown - the Aghor Akhara. Men dressed in black, rudraksha malas around their necks, kohl-rimmed eyes, and skulls placed around their sacred space. Despite their intimidating appearance, they sat patiently, answering every question posed by curious visitors. Even those associated with so-called ‘dark sciences’ welcomed open conversations with anyone willing to engage. I was lucky to witness a small music event inside the akhara, where men and women sang an aarti dedicated to Lord Shiva. Music and dance have always been an integral part of our culture, but seeing this fusion of melodious devotion intertwined with what I had previously perceived as ‘dark sciences’ helped shatter my long-held stereotypes.


Right next to this akhara was ISKCON, known for the bhakti pathway and its global following. Their setup was entirely dedicated to Krishna, complete with life-like statues of the God to enhance the experience. Here too, people were singing and dancing, but in a more public, celebratory manner. Finally, I visited the Nath akhara which was filled with ascetics dressed in saffron, each minding their own. I even received an appy juice as prasad and had some enlightening conversation with one of the ascetics who patiently answered every question I posed.


Each akhara I visited had its own traditions, distinct ways of praying, dressing, and even different chosen deities. Shiva, Vishnu, Krishna, Kali, Guru Gobind Singh - all had dedicated akharas. Yet, despite their differences, they coexisted peacefully, without debates over whose God or method was superior.


Not every ascetic isolated themselves in a Himalayan cave for years, meditating until they re-emerge at the Kumbh to observe the world. Some travelled across India, organizing fairs to uplift local economies, engaging in charity, or even taking on roles of social and political leadership. Many had advanced degrees, Instagram accounts and active WhatsApp numbers. They were ordinary people who had chosen a spiritual life over a conventional one.


Shashi Tharoor described Hinduism as a henotheistic religion, one that focuses on a supreme principle while respecting the existence of multiple deities and pathways. The Kumbh is a celebration of this diversity - where every path is respected, every seeker accepted and every sincere contribution to understanding the ultimate truth is celebrated. Hinduism isn’t a one-size-fits-all faith; it offers the freedom to choose the path that resonates most with an individual. The foundation remains the same, but the paths are many and within them lies the essence of true spiritual liberty.


(The author is an MBA from IIM Calcutta. She is currently working at Boston Consulting Group, Mumbai. A dedicated dancer for over 14 years she is passionate about exploring new places and experiences.)

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