R IGHT before the interval of Bajrangi Bhaijaan, the hall itself seems to tremble as the surround sound swells. Salman Khan looks at the audience with teary, bloodshot eyes brimming with rage. He has, until now, been calm and gentle, almost naive. But now the storm bottled inside him threatens to let loose.
The audience goes still, which is unusual for a theatre like Gaiety Galaxy, which prides itself on hosting viewers who dance, rejoice and celebrate the experience of cinema. But during this scene, there is silence. You can feel the energy in the air throbbing.
A mute Pakistani girl runs towards Salman and, instinctively, he hugs her.
He then wipes his tears. And it begins.
Salman starts to pummel the goons one after another, a solo war with fury in his fists. The crowd inside Mumbai's iconic single-screen Gaiety Galaxy cinema hall erupts into cheers so loud they almost drown out the Dolby sound system. But through it all one can hear the steady chants of the Hanuman Chalisa rising from the speakers.
Jai Hanuman gyaan gun saagar... Jai kapees tihu lok ujagar...
Today is Eid. Inside this temple of cinema, men in skullcaps are on their feet, rooting for this devotee of Hanuman, in awe of the man who plays Bajrangi Bhaijaan on-screen. Boys and girls with mehendi still drying on their palms are whistling like they have seen God. An uncle in front of me yells, Jeeyo, Bhaijaan!, as Salman tackles yet another adversary.
And throughout, the chants continue.
You do not sit through moments such as these. You rise with them. You become part of something bigger, collective and unusual.
This is what real cinema feels like. When Salman is at his most sincere, he delivers something that cuts through the slapstick and the swagger, revealing just how much heart he can bring to a film.
Over the years, we have seen Salman's walk morph from boyish and casual to intense, bull-like. We've seen him become a myth. And like all myths, he means different things to different people. And we don't know which version really exists. Or which we will find when we walk into the cinema hall.
That day, standing in that dark hall surrounded by strangers who felt like kin, the myth of Salman could so easily be deconstructed. He stands for pure, unadulterated, joyous cinema, whatever it means for every generation, every era, every audience member from every social strata. It's the kind of cinema that invites everyone in.
When Salman is on-screen, he does not care if you are Hindu oг Muslim, rich or poor, left or right. You are a believer in this medium of cinema and it is his purpose to give you what you came for. Entertainment. Togetherness. Paisa vasool, or bang for your buck.
Through the entire five-minute sequence before the interval, the Hanuman Chalisa permeates the hall as Salman demolishes the bad guys.
Two scenes later, standing outside a Hanuman temple, he vows: 'Ab toh hum khud Munni ko uske ghar chhod karke aayenge [Now I will drop Munni home myself].'
Just a man, a girl and a man-made border that's illegal to cross, so what if a child needs to be united with her parents. He is dissuaded by everyone around him, but Salman says, 'Sab sukh lahe tumhari sarna, tum rakshak kahu ko darna [All happiness comes from taking refuge in You. You are the protector, so why should anyone fear anything]?.'
I remember the crowd at Gaiety dancing as Bajrangi decides to take Munni back to Pakistan.
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