Bollywood

So my friend Sami loves Bollywood. Naturally because I love Jane Austen, she once felt I should watch Bride and Prejudice. Perhaps I’m a purist, but I don’t like my Austen contemporized, set in a different culture, to a trendy sound track, and for the love of god please leave the zombies out. Just give me Mr. Darcy and let me swoon. And not just any Mr. Darcy; it has to be Colin Firth.

Sami is a unique person.

She’s half British and has no accent. Seriously, I’ve heard her attempt at a British accent and I was offended on her mother’s behalf.

She also has a tendency to be pulled aside by airport security every time she flies across the pond.

I went to study Jane Austen literature in Scotland. My professor was British, we read a Jane Austen novel a week, and I was in heaven. Before my move to Scotland, Sami agreed to meet me in Wales and we would take a few days to travel up the United Kingdom by train.

Sami was doing a summer internship in the United States Embassy and I was so nervous about being questioned at customs for a visa that I blabbed all about Sami. Apparently, I crack under non-existent pressure.

So, Sami likes Bollywood. Bollywood and tea.

Perhaps if I enjoyed unapologetic escapism in the form of musical numbers I could appreciate it more. But there’s something about musicals that rub me the wrong way. They’re either too cheerful or too depressing. I’m looking at you, Rent.

I get that there is deep history in Bollywood that has to deal with British colonialism. But I refuse to believe this is Naveen Andrews singing.