My first memory of visiting a cinema hall was when I was around 7 or 8. The movie: “Enter the Dragon”.
Me, my elder brother, and his friends, who stayed in our housing society in Trivandrum, went to see this Bruce Lee flick in Sreevisakh Theatre near the Railway Station; this being the only theatre that showed English movies. Since I was the youngest of the lot, it required strategic-persuasion from some of these elder kids to convince my mother that this film was suitable for my consumption. A few drops of salty tears from me settled the matter, melting my mothers’ heart. To my brother was delegated the special task to ensure that I don’t get lost in the crowd. “ Look at me mom, you really think your son is such that he can’t be spotted in a crowd!” Well, I wish I had said something smart like this then, but in front of mom, my little brain prodded me to keep mum.
I still remember shuffling uncomfortably in the chair, waiting for them to start the movie. I kept staring at that massive White Space ahead of me, all excited. And then a flicker appeared. Then a few ads. The speakers were too loud. I asked my brother whether Bruce Lee has arrived. He shook his head to say no. He was a man of few words, unlike now.
Then the movie started, without a warning. For the first few minutes, I was totally lost. Just when I thought this is not as exciting as I thought, I heard some whistles and clapping from behind. My brother clapped too. I realized that something important is about to happen. My brother announced “Look Bruce Lee”. I looked. But was surprised. Almost dejected. This can’t be the Bruce Lee. He looks so thin and undernourished. Also he had small eyes, and looked like no Malayali i have seen before. He didn’t fit into my idea of a hero. In Kerala, heroes needed to have a double chin, or at least a potbelly – that was the absolute basic criteria.
But despite this bad first impression that he made on me, I was taken aback when he started hitting the living daylights out of decent looking people. I was worried. “Why is he hitting them? Are they brothers?!” My brother was getting irritated with my constant questions, and he gave me a final ultimatum. Though he added that Lee had good enough reason to beat these men. He was the good guy, and they were the bad guys. Ah, now it all made sense to me.
Though Bruce Lee never spoke much, others around him did. I didn’t understand a single word of their dialogue. But to give credit where it is due, I remembered each punch that Lee uncle landed on these bad guys. After a while, I was so deep into this magical film-viewing experience that I started imagining myself in place of Lee. I took over from Lee in thrashing the opponents to pulp. Later on when I grew up and took an interest in films, I heard the term “ego-centric” to describe the film-viewing process. Anyways, after a while, these “chops-punches-kicks” were taking a toll on me. My stomach was sending strong signals for nourishment. Miraculously the lights came on. That’s when I realized that the movies are divided into 2 halves, divided by something called interval. I remember thinking… “ah, it’s so much like football!”
During the interval, the gang took the opportunity to visit the men’s loo. Though my first visit here, I felt proud and felt a strange sense of bonding with fellow Lee-worshippers who lee’ked . The collective sound of the leak crashing on the ground felt like rainfall to me. I remember feeling a surge of excitement for we hadn’t taken the umbrella, and that means, we will have an adventure trip back home getting drenched in the rain. Straight from the loo, the gang reached the ‘Falooda’ counter. From there, we could see the outside road, and I realized that it was quite sunny. Though a bit disappointed, all was forgotten when “Falooda” arrived in the tallest glass I had ever seen. I could see the different layers of fruit from the outside. I dived straight into it, and reached the bottom of the glass where the delicious mixed fruit syrup concoction awaited. I licked the last drop, rechecked for any more hidden drops, and looked at my brother for an encore, but he asked me to behave or he’ll tell mom.
Something similar to my school bell rang. I almost thought that all this was a dream, and I have to rush to the class now after playtime. But thank god, it wasn’t. Everyone rushed back into the hall. The ‘falooda’ break seemed to have done Lee lot of good. I noticed that he had increased the intensity of his punches. Also strange sounds like ooooh and aaaaaah escaped his mouth. Though initially confused, I was slowly starting to get this language. I figured out that these sounds were Lee’s mantras that he mixed with his punches to flatten his opponents. Something like Om.
And then the movie finished.
All those “Lee-worshippers” who moments ago had leaked together in brotherly bonding, vanished into their own world. Some in cycles. Some in bikes and cars. Our gang walked back. The elder kids were discussing the finer points of the film. But those “Oohs” and “Aahs” were still echoing in my system.
Once school restarted, I used to demonstrate these newly learned punches on unsuspecting students. I remember being asked to narrate the story of the film, and all I could remember was the fighting. So I tried explaining that Bruce Lee had no time for stories. He was busy fighting to save the world. I am not too sure, but I think they believed me. Over the next few years, as was the fashion in those days, my hair grew to cover my ears. My look got fashioned on Mr. Lee. Father never interfered with these hairstyles I suspect because he was in his middle age and was slowly balding. I respect him much for this. Some of my father’s friends started calling me ‘Bruce Lee’. There was no kick better than this for a young boy.
In my effort to live up to my illustrious look-alike, I remember jumping from 14 feet high walls onto the ground, peeling of layers of skin from my knee. The pain had to be hidden under a smile since other kids looked up to you. I couldn’t let them down. But if you think that Lee’s Kung fu helped me in the home front, you are mistaken.
As kids are during that stage, I was also dutifully naughty. I loved trouble. And trouble also loved me I think. And the only way I could be disciplined was with my mother’s “chattuam”. Normally, Chattuam is a cooking utensil used in daily cooking in Kerala – imagine a large flat spoon made of stainless steel. But this utensil morphed into a martial art weapon in my mom’s hands, as she set out to show me my rightful place in this universe. Some of her loving blows would miss my ass, and break it. Not the ass, the “Chattuam”. To this day, I keep a safe distance from this utensil. I sometimes wonder what Bruce Lee must have thought of this “chattuam martial arts”. Chattuam landing on Lee’s bony ass would have hurt him too, says my grown-up assessment.
Bruce Lee is also the prime culprit responsible for breaking my teeth. I tried my Bruce Lee antics on my elder brother, 4 years elder to me. He pinned me down on the floor, and gave me such blows that next I know, 2 of my front teeth were hanging loose, but not totally out. The sight of these dangling teeth still haunts me. Anyway, that’s when I smelled blood for the first time, and as much as I would have liked to smear the blood over my face in true Lee fashion, I did something I was ashamed of. I started crying like mad, for blood was not very tasty. The next few months were embarrassing as adults enjoyed their “Bruce Lee’s” toothless smile, which they found cute, I found torturous. I realized that it is very difficult to utter certain words when you have your front 2 teeth missing.
I had revenge on my mind. After a few more movies like “Return of the Dragon”. “Fist of the Fury”, I was waiting for my next duel with my Bro. And as fate would have it, we got an opportunity to engage in a “Mahabharata” at home after a game of cricket. I bowled a few overs of "Malcom Marshall-like" deliveries to him, and when it was my turn to bat, he decides to retire for the day. Exhausted after emulating Marshall, I was raging within. I was also sure that any court of law would find him guilty this time, I was sure that I could take him on. Yet again I was pinned down and thrashed mercilessly. My little mind cried “What kinda justice is this, my lord?!’’ Later I remember my helpless mom complaining to dad that your sons indulge in Mahabharata while you go to work. But my sporting dad, who passed away recently, used to brush it aside asking her to relax.
And today my only association with Lee is the Jeans that come under that brand name. On the days I wear Lee, I feel like a kung-fu master. There is a spring in my step. I even smear the remains of the tea over my face in “true lee” fashion. And whenever they show Bruce Lee reruns in the movie channels, you will find me reliving those early days.
Why am I writing all this. SimpLee!
