Khalid Mohamed

Awards — everyone loves them but declaim from the rooftops, “Aaargh, who believes in them anyway?” B’wood is an orchard of sore losers.

Now spare a thought for those who slog behind the scenes to make the events happen. In retrospect, I can declaim from this column (no rooftops for me) that the award seasons were the most nightmarish phases in my life. For nine pregnant years I was fluttering like a wounded sparrow at the annual Filmfare Awards.
Before squirming into the editor’s seat, I witnessed the event hosted by my predecessor. I gasped, standing in an unobtrusive corner with Karan Johar and Aditya Chopra (not a Phantom then), when the Best Actor Award was announced. The year’s favourite, Aamir Khan, wasn’t the winner. Next morning, the still-to-assume responsibilities editor — yours sincerely — was accused of rigging. Huh? Mr Khan went to the extent of killing me softly with his words, “Mr (bleep, bleep) was here… he was very apologetic that I lost. He said you had something to do with it!”
“What! Do you believe that?” I winced.
Khan paused, and plunged a dagger into my heart, saying, “I have no reason NOT to believe him.” Over. I no longer respected the kaan-ka-kacha actor, not that it made any difference to anyone but myself.
That’s the back story to my award experience — the splashy-kitschy shows which I can no longer watch on clumsily edited television megathons. Evidently, live telecasts (deferred by a few hours) haven’t worked: too chaotic at the site, too cumbersome technically. Still, every member of the family, including the cook and the pet pug, are glued to TV. From the visuals I’ve grabbed, I can’t help listing some points about the merry ole awards, given by every media house, plus an assortment of institutions:
n The persisting template of all the ceremonies was devised by Mr Pradeep Guha of Filmfare, who sifted the chaff from the Hollywood Oscars, adapting them to desi tastes. A star compere led the ceremonies. Starry item numbers punctuated the award presentations.
n The trophies were presented by stars in attendance. Sometimes there weren’t a sufficient number. Poonam Dhillon and Padmini Kolhapure, graceful ladies, could be depended upon always to do the honours. Ditto Rekha, with the proviso that she came in at the finale, to go mwaaaah with the Best Actor.

The business about keeping the winners’ names secret is a joke. On the event’s eve, nominees ask chattily, “Am I winning? Or I won’t come. Ha ha!” You have to state strictly that the awards will be fair, whereupon the nominee goes, “Ha! Ha!” again. What’s so funny?
The compere can renege. Like Simi Garewal did, calling upon Pooja Bhatt to present the Lifetime Achievement Award to Shammi Kapoor. He had requested that Rishi-Randhir-Rajiv Kapoor do the honours. Shammiji never spoke to me politely again.
Then there’s Hitchcockian suspense which could kill lesser mortals. Govinda was scheduled to perform but wouldn’t return from Ooty till he was guaranteed the Best Actor trophy. Sorry, no deal. He fetched up at the last split-second, performed and stomped out rudely. What about my blood pressure count?
Support from staff at the office? Forget it. I had this fractured hand in a plaster cast, wished to skip the event since I couldn’t be on my feet — or head — for hours and hours. Staffers cooed, “We’re there for you.” At the end of the event, when the crowds were jostling and jamming, colleagues rushed out asap. They couldn’t miss out on Fardeen Khan’s party.
The filled-out coupons for the award nominees from readers are nothing to crow about.
The police department can close down the function if the top officers don’t get the front row seats.
There’s plenty more but I’m saving them up for my biography. Any ghost writers out there?