It took me about 7.2 seconds in Delhi to finally understand what mi madre has meant all these years that she’s been muttering “Thinks he’s a damn hero,” (pronounced heeeer-oh!, not he-row) under her breath when ticked at a person of the male persuasion. All this time, I thought she had some sort of feminist anti-fairy tale complex. But I’ve finally figured out the cultural referent.
“The hero” is a classic South Asian male trope, apparently timeless and unchanging. Essentially, the hero is a man– age indiscriminant, from the prepubescent to the geriatric, spanning all classes, religions and locals of the subcontinent– who fancies himself the Bollywood leading man of his own life. Now those of you unfamiliar with the resplendent genre of the Bollywood musical may not yet appreciate the charisma, poise, and general attractiveness of the hero– so I did a little google image searching of one manifestation, just for you:
This is the model of smoldering machismo that the street hero too strives for. The context may change (the autorickshaw-wala to the head archivist at the National Archives to the paanwala to the scrawny adolescent on his motorbike) but the ideal remains– exude such a compelling masculinity as to render yourself at once irresistible and while still an impossible love object. The hero can only ever love himself, drunk as he is with his own manliness and power over all things in the world. The first step of herodom, naturally, is the outfit. Let us not forget that the clothes make the man. Take for instance my hero du jour, who at the National Archives (a hopping spot I assure you) was dressed, if not to the 9s, to the 8 1/2s at the very least. Monochrome is key and as Delhi is a crisp 38 degrees celsius (a mere 100.4 farenheit), black for sure is the way to go. Function over form always for the hero. But the hero must dress with an eye to the needs and certainly the desires of his adoring public so the true hero doesn’t shy away from showing skin. And (manly manly) chest hair. Shirts unbuttoned to one above the navel is a commonly accepted practice for the hero. The look is enticing and allows for ventilation. The hero, you see, is a thinking man. Every thinking man also needs proper accessories. Texas-sized belt buckles, shades and several heavy gold chains are good. A diamond stud and rings on each finger? Extra credit. (The ultimate hero-accessory is a luxurious mustache because true herodom cannot be bought but must be grown.)
Now I would hate for you to think that the hero is merely an aesthetic category because it is so much more and a real hero can be one in any garb. The hero is, in fact, self-fashioned. This is to say that believing yourself a hero is half the battle. The other half of the battle is fought in the arena of public opinion so the hero must convince the masses of his status. The best way to do this is by wooing the ladies by strutting about, toothpick or cigarette dangling from lip, and shouting either classy pick-up lines (the hero is a sparkling conversationalist) or better yet, by singing a line or two from the most recent blockbuster. All of this is accompanied by the hero strut– chest out, legs apart, hip cocked to the side and perhaps holding the hand of another hero (homosociality between heros only magnifies their manliness). This is certain to spark the interest of passing females, but should this fail the hero will display great perseverance and follow said female until she is heady with desire for his blazing masculinity and burning to be the swooning, giggling heroine in the Bollywood cinema of his life. In the end though the hero, like the cowboys of old, can’t be held down and must move on. There are other women to wow with his testicular fortitude, musky scent and lush body hair. Others to blind with his potent machismo and utter supremacy over those doomed to live without a Y chromosome. This, if nothing else, is what I’ve learned today–wooed and heartbroken as I have been by heros on motorcycles, on foot, in libraries and napping in alleys: they are just too much man for this woman.
