69jattlikethat · reportage
AUGUST 2019they knew but have now left behind. All writers
that we work with, including Dheeraj, are people
who have seen rural Punjab through and through.
They understand its language and they know
what is funny there, and would similarly fit for an
international audience.”
Gunbir is touted as the most powerful man in
Punjabi cinema today—during our conversation,
at least three grown men came to touch his feet
by way of greeting. His studio has also taken over
the distribution of Bollywood films in the region.
“We know the market,” he said. “And we have
always played it safe. We either distribute films
in the Punjabi communities, or in north India in
the Hindi-speaking belt. I would never pick up
a film, however good, for a market that I do not
understand.”
In the couple of weeks after our conversation,
the Sidhu consins’ position got even more so-
lidified. Carry on Jatta 2 would go on to become
the biggest ever hit in Punjabi cinema, raking in
almost sixty crore rupees at the box office. Mean-
while, distribution of Bollywood films provides
the studio a channel for steady cash inflow.
I asked Gunbir why his studio does not make
more serious films, especially on Punjab’s recent
history—Partition, the insurgency and the drug
menace. “We made Punjab 1984, and it was a
box-office success,” he said. “But, yes, it was a
one-off, an exception. Even we weren’t expecting
the kind of response we got. The National Award
and everything, it was worthwhile. But can such
films be made on a regular basis? I don’t think so,
not yet.” Just a few months before our conversa-
tion, Dosanjh’s Sajjan Singh Rangroot, produced
on a big budget, an estimated twenty crore ru-
pees, by Vivid Art Studio, had not fared as well
as expected. The movie was based on the experi-
ences of Sikh soldiers who fought for the British
during the First World War.
Punjabi film journalists have also questioned
filmmakers for only roping in popular musicians
as actors, instead of hiring specialists. “We don’t
want to continue doing films with only singers,”
Gunbir told me. “We want to bring in talent from
theatre and acting backgrounds as well. It’s just
that when as a producer your margins are so
narrow, and the risks so big, only popular figures
like Dosanjh and Grewal can guarantee a big
opening. We have only once had an opening be-
low R1 crore, and even that isn’t poor by numbers
in the industry here. So it is a system that has
proven it works.”
White Hill is still trying to do its bit, Gunbir told
me. The studio has been helping budding directors
and writers make short films for release on its
YouTube channel. It is the only studio in Punjab
that produces short films.
But giving one of these directors or actors the
reins of a big-budget film remains a risk that the
studio is not yet willing to take. While White Hill’s
average budget for a film has increased to R 10
crore over the years, Gunbir said that the studio
still cannot afford a major flop. “Even after the
years of success that we have had, that is the life
of a producer,” he told me. “I still at times struggle
to put funds together, because it is crucial to make
money from your investments. I would love to do
a film on Maharaja Ranjit Singh. It has been my
dream. But we can’t afford for it to be a flop, or it at
least has to be free from the limitations of the box
office. Only then will I be able to make it the way I
have always wanted to.”
Meanwhile, Dosanjh is about to face another
test on the national stage, with the comedy Arjun
Patiala. His success would bode well for Punjabi
cinema, and the brand of filmmaking that has pro-
duced oddities such as Fateh Singh, who prefixes
his retorts with “chaped maarni main tere”—I’ll
give you a tight slap—a phrase that can perhaps
onlybeendearinginPunjab.inthe 2016 interview,AnupamaChopraasked
Dosanjhtoexplaintheterm“UrbanPendu.”
“Soisthata characteryouhavecreated?”she
askedDosanjh.“Howcloseisthattothetruth?
AreyoureallyUrbanPendu?”
“I’mdefinitelythePendu,”Dosanjhsaid,caus-
ingChopratobreakintoloudlaughter.“Butthe
urbanpartiswhatI’mtryingtobe.Thatisjust
somethingwhereI observemycityfriendsand
youngpeople—whattheyeat,drink,wearandso
on.Sotheurbanpartisa bitfake,butthere’sa
realpenduinside.”
WhenChopraaskedhimwhytheurbanpendu
characterresonatedwiththeaudiences,hesaid,
“Absabpendubannachahtehain”—noweveryone
wantstobea pendu.“Eventheshehri”—citypeo-
ple—“aretryingtobependu.That’sbecausethe
penduhasswag,andtheshehridoesn’t.”
Dosanjhpausedfora secondasChopralaughed
attheremark.“Sorryyaar,”headded,“butI love
everyone—Punjabi,shehri,pendu.Everyone.” sWhen Chopra asked him why the urban
pendu character resonated with the
audiences, Dosanjh said, “Ab sab pendu
banna chahte hain”—now everyone wants
to be a pendu. “Even the shehri”—city
people—“are trying to be pendu. That’s
because the pendu has swag, and the shehri
doesn’t.”