Bollywood, Biryani, Burqa & Big B: An Indian Traveller’s Iran Story

While diplomacy builds walls, Bollywood builds bridges, writes Akhil Bakshi.

Ask any Iranian who runs their country – you might get a shrug. But ask them who cried the hardest in Kabhi Khushi, Kabhi Gam and the answer would be etched in their national memory. 

(Photo: Vibhushita Singh/The Quint)

A few years ago, I was walking up and down the streets of Bandar Abbas, Iran’s southern port on the Strait of Hormuz, observing the Islamic country celebrate Nowruz, a Zoroastrian festival.

It seemed that families from all corners of Iran had converged in Bandar Abbas with their pots and pans, and taken over its lanes, pavements and parks, where lively, densely packed tented colonies were massed together. The broad roads facing the sea were the most popular with the campers. 

But these were no blustery, raucous, chaotic beach parties. Everything was peaceful, tidy and civilised. While the men snoozed or smoked their hookahs, the children played football and the women cooked rice noodles and fish or meat pilau, the intoxicating fragrance of the aromatic seasonings sweetening the damp coastal air. Recognising me as a visitor, people greeted me cordially and inquired if I was “Hindustani or Pakistani”.

“Hindustan. From India”, I would say.

Their faces lit up as they proceeded to show off their knowledge of popular Bollywood actors. “Shah Rukh Khan! Amitabh Bachooon!” they hollered, in a state of consuming excitement.

With a wave of my hand I acknowledged their familiarity with the symbols of modern India. Some wanted to strike a closer acquaintance with me. Sitting on grass, feasting on food spread out on a rug, they beckoned me to join them. Intoxicated by the whiff emanating from the plates, I accepted an invitation. It was a mistake.

Stuffed with Food, Drenched in Bollywood Love

“Sabzi Polo Mahi… Reshteh Polo...” they said, naming the dishes being served liberally on my plate. Under the gaze of a dozen people, I downed the offering and took leave before they could stuff me again.

Neighbouring campers who had seen me masticating now insisted that I have a bite of their menu too. Their generosity of spirit led me to prowl from tent to tent, sampling skewered chello-kebabs, fried fish, chicken drumsticks – all downed with flasks of green tea and chillums full of hookah smoke.

In return, I soaked up their endless banter about Indian actors and references to senseless Hindi movies that seem to provide the spice of Iranian life.

As the cargo of meat got heavier in my stomach, I warily avoided any engagement with the merry-makers. More food and talk about Bollywood would only have expedited my journey – upwards. I anchored myself to a lamppost till a taxi driver bailed me out.

A Photographer’s Gamble Near the Sea

A long row of veiled women, with their backs towards me, stood on a low wall, looking at the sea, their black burqas fluttering in the breeze. I parked my Scorpio next to a no-parking sign and pushed forward through the heavy wind to shoot the spectacle.

Expecting to be ticked-off by the men, I took pictures hurriedly, without wasting time to compose them. Meanwhile, a platoon of young cops had milled around my vehicle, looking intently at my expedition’s route map—from India to Cape Agulhus, the southernmost tip of Africa—sketched on the front doors. I walked towards them with my tail between my legs, expecting to be shouted at and fined.

To my pleasant surprise, the young, uniformed policemen, in a state of excitement, welcomed me with handshakes and hugs and pecks on both cheeks and wanted to know all about my journey. Their affable leader introduced his colleagues, mentioning the region of Iran they came from, and in great length told me how beautiful their hometowns were and impressed upon me to visit those parts of the country. 

The author with Iranian policemen, who were Bollywood fans.

(Photo: Akhil Bakshi)

All of them expressed their desire to visit India and meet – who else, but “Shah Rukh Khan, Amitabh Bachan., Salman Khan….” I told them to forget the actors. I would get them to meet the actresses – Aishwarya Rai, Sushmita Sen, Preity Zinta… Just the thought of it made them swoon. Their white skins reddened with blood gushing into their veins. Exchanging email addresses, I left the young boys in a state of ecstasy.

Shiraz: Where Namaz and Hindi Cinema Coexist

In Shiraz, at sunset, I took a rickety taxi to the mausoleum of Shah Cheragh. Men and burqa-clad women mingled freely in the streets but they entered the mausoleum from different gates. The inside courtyard was packed with people, thousands of them: neat rows of men in the front and columns of women behind them. The Friday prayers were in progress. The prayer-leading mullah read the namaz in a soft voice transmitted over the loudspeakers. 

Timidly, I captured the grand spectacle from a long distance, my zoom lens focused at the mass of women who, in their flowing black veils, made more captivating subjects. Noticing that they were being photographed, some of them straightened the creases of their veils and even smiled and posed for me as they prayed.

No hail of shoes or abuses showered on me. My confidence raised, I inched closer and closer to the ladies till I was a handshake away, shooting them freely through my lens. The harshness, rigidity, intolerance, narrow-mindedness, and conservatism of Islam seemed like baseless propaganda. Though some of it may be true, I only experienced the bright, soft side of Islam.

Namaz over, the men and women picked up their shoes and went away in small groups to sit and gossip on the edge of the blue-tiled pond, the reflection of the beautiful mosaic dome shimmering in the water.

Bollywood Over Diplomacy

A dandy young man, in his early twenties, recognised me as an Indian and startled me with his fluent Hindustani. He was an Afghan who had sought refuge in Pakistan where he picked up the language, refining it further by watching Hindi movies.  He had now settled in Iran.

“I love India. I love your movies. You know Shahrukh Khan? He is my hero. I love him. And Amitabh Bachchan! Ahhh! He is the greatest. Do you know them? If I come to India can I meet them?” 

Initially, I basked in the glory of these Bollywood heroes. But now it was becoming monotonous. He latched himself to me, incessantly chattering about Indian actors. To divert his energies, I asked him to tell me the story of this mausoleum. He said he was the most irreligious Muslim in the world, didn’t know Shah Cheragh from Adam and couldn’t care less. He was here to meet with his relatives, who had also left Afghanistan and go for a walk in the park.

While I waited for a taxi back to my hotel, a young girl skipped past me humming Chaiyya Chaiyya. I chuckled. Ask any Iranian who runs their country – you might get a shrug. But ask them who cried the hardest in Kabhi Khushi, Kabhi Gam and the answer would be etched in their national memory. 

In that moment, it dawned on me: while diplomacy builds walls, Bollywood builds bridges. If India ever runs out of diplomats, we need only send Shah Rukh Khan to Tehran. The ayatollahs may not approve, but the people? They’ll roll out the red carpet - with biryani.

(Akhil Bakshi, an author and explorer, is a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society and Explorers Club USA, and Editor of ‘Indian Mountaineer’. He is also the founder of Bharatiya Yuva Shakti, an organisation that ensures good leadership at the village level. He tweets @AkhilBakshi1. This is an opinion piece, and the views expressed above are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for the same.)