| Vinod Rathod |
This past week, I was stunned by my first (hopefully not my last) chance to meet a famous Bollywood playback singer, which left me wondering if delusions of grandeur are really all that silly after all. I was at Saginaw Valley State University, walking around before a three-hour history class, when I noticed that Curtiss Hall was packed with desis, women in silk saris and men in suits or in kurta-pajamas. I passed by a few times more by coincidence before I tried to ask anyone what was going on. When I finally asked a white guy standing by the sidelines, he said he had no idea. There were a couple of signs that stated that there was a fundraising event for the building of the tri-city Hindu temple that was going up, which I knew had been planned a couple of years ago. Still, I didn't know anything of what was going on until I asked a desi guy in Hindi what was going on. I kind of regretted the Hindi; he was actually a second-generation desi, probably irked by a gora trying to talk to him in Hindi when he was perfectly OK with English. I asked, "What's going on here, yaar?"
"There's a Bollywood show going on," he said, and was about to turn away from me when I asked him further.
"What do you mean? Is it like a dancing performance or like a series of film songs? Any singers?"
"Yeah," he said, "Vinod Rathod is going to sing."
I'd heard of Vinod Rathod many times, and heard many of his songs before, and was excited by the answer. "What? You mean he's coming here to sing?"
"No, he's already here." he said, pointing to the auditorium, and left. I wasn't too skeptical, actually, of what he'd just said, since I knew that the playback singer Yesudas had come to SVSU earlier on a couple of years ago; I'd kicked myself when I found out that I'd missed it. But now, it was Vinod Rathod himself about to perform. Before I could do too much more wandering around, I spotted a couple of desi girls I knew and approached one of them, a Nepali, to ask them if thiswas true or not.
"Is it true?" I asked in Hindi .
"What?"
"Is it really true that Vinod Rathod is coming here to sing and perform?"
The Nepali girl looked skeptical. "Who is Binod Rathod?" The other girl, whom I'd noticed lately wasn't paying as much attention to me as she was to her cellphone, looked up in confusion.
"He's a singer. You know, a playback singer, who sings for films."
The other girl looked up from her phone and said, "Koi nahin aanewaala hai. Nobody's coming." Then in English, she added, to my dislike, since she'd gotten this attitude lately of talking to me like I don't speak Hindi at all no matter how much I talk to her in Hindi, said, "It's a Bollywood show."
I almost was laughing at myself when I heard this, because at that moment I felt like it was all a joke, that he really wasn't coming. I tried to joke with her about it in Hindi. "Main har ek se puchch raha hun aur har dusron se koi dusra jawab mil raha hun. Yeh kya hai? Koi concensus nahin banta hai kya? ("I'm asking every other person and getting another answer from another person. What's going on here? Is there no concensus about what's going on inside?") " Finally she laughed at my attempts to joke, and after talking slightly with another guy I went off to my history class, feeling like this Vinod Rathod bit was all a joke. But I was still kind of uneasy with myself for missing the show, which I might have liked better than a three-hour long talk about ancient Israel
"Tell me, janaab," I said in Hindi, "I heard earlier today that Vinod Rathod himself was coming here to perform, and I'm not sure if it's true or not. Do you know anything about it?"
"Vinod Rathod? He's inside, yeah, go on in."
I rushed inside the darkened auditorium to find myself at the tail-end of the performance that had lasted more than three hours. On stage was a man with long hair and wearing an outfit I wouldn't have expected to see on a desi singer (almost like a rockstar's kind of clothes), surrounded by a live band featuring a tabla player and a couple of keyboards and a drumset. He was vocalizing into the microphone a song I'd heard before, one I'd seen the movie to: Munna Bhai MBBS, which was followed by an encore performance of Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna. It was the voice I'd heard on cassette tapes in my jaolpy while driving to school, a familiar voice I'd tried more than once to imitate, and had never been successful in doing. Not long after I'd gotten in, the program ended, and a horde of desis streamed out ofthe auditorium while I stood in one of the back rows. Did I have a piece of paper with me? I searched my pocket and found a pamphlet for a mosque openhouse I'd gone to a couple weeks earlier, and found a pen. I was determined to get his autograph if possble, but I wasn't sure if there was going to be security or something for this great singer.
I made my way up to the front where Vinod Rathod was standing. I'd seen pictures of him before; actually, I'd first seen and heard of him while watching the film Baazigar, in which he appeared onscreen, holding a microphone and singing during the engagement of Shah Rukh Khan and Kajol's characters. It was the same face, but his hair was much longer, and he looked more like a Sufi dervish than what I'd thought. He looked like he should have been holding a dafli in his hands and whirling around doing dhamaal. Up with him, right by the stage, other members of the desi community were getting their pictures taken with him, which made me hesitant to go up and ask him for his autograph; I didn't want to interrupt any pictures being taken. Finally, when I'd gotten close enough, one of the desi guys nearby, who knew that Vinod Rathod was Gujarati and who had been at the garba a few nights earlier and knew that I knew Hindi and some Gujarati, said out loud, "Hey, he's Gujarati! Say something to him in Gujarati!"
I looked over and shot back, in Hindi, "Meri Hindi meri Gujarati se zyaada behter lagegi usko! (My Hindi's better than my Gujarati, and my Hindi would sound better to him too.)" At this, Vinod Rathod's eyes widened; he clearly hadn't been expecting the only gora in the crowd to talk in Hindi or Gujarati. I approached him, and he smiled at me. "Rathod ji, aapke dastkhat, (Mr. Rathod, your autograph, please)." I handed him the folded pamphlet and my pen.
He smiled at the paper, and the asked, grinning widely, "Isse Hindi mein likh dun ya Gujarati mein? (Should I write it in Hindi or in Gujarati?)" He made little circles with the pen in the air.
I said, "Hindi mein (In Hindi)."
While he had the piece of paper in his hands, a silk-sari'd woman not too far away looked at me and asked, "Aapko Hindi aati hai kya?(You know Hindi?)" Filled with something like self-pride, or completion at having been recogized as a Hindi-speaker by several people there, I shot back, "Haan, aur aapko is baat pe hairaani aati hai kya? (Yes, and you're surprised by this?)"
After a brief scribble, Vinod Rathod handed it back to me along with the pen and smiled, folding his palms in namaste. I returned the smile and left, knowing that I was out late (as I generally am on Tuesday nights), I left for the parking lot outside. Reverently, I touched the authographed pamphlet with my eyes and held it to my forehead and my heart before leaving. I looked at the autograph and realized that it wouldn't really have mattered had he written in Hindi or in Gujarati; I could barely make out the Hindi letters he'd scribbed down. In retrospect, I wish that I could have spent more time there, that I hadn't left so soon, but Rathod-ji porbably had a lot of admirers who wanted some time in the spotlight with a famous playback singer. I'd already had mine, and I'd not only gotten his autograph but had been recognized in front of him, this famous singer, as a Hindi (and Gujarati)-speaker, as something close to being to what I felt was authentically desi. I went home that night with the paper, and reverently put the autograph and the pen on my bedroom desk, where they are still right now. 