Our film? Or theirs? The question has steadily been gathering steam since Slumdog Millionaire released late last year to hosannahs in the US and the UK. It has now burst forth, propelled by the clutch of Oscar nominations the film has collected.

The Oscars are a distant peak we keep trying to scale, and fall off, either from afar, or from up close. Sure, Bhanu Athaiya got one, but that was back in the dark ages. So did grandmaster Satyajit Ray, but seriously after the fact. Mira Nair got within sniffing distance. Lately, we’ve had only one serious stab at it, when Aamir Khan nearly went up that stage at the Kodak stadium, for Lagaan. Nothing else we’ve sent, and we do it doggedly every year, has even come close to getting into the last five.

A certain amount of breast-beating is de rigeur, and we indulge in it every year, post the nominations, when we come up empty. Oscars, shoscars. Rubbish. Why should we run after awards created by Americans, for Americans? We’re doing fine, thank you. Look at us, after all this time, Hollywood has only 6 per cent of our total market. Only.

But the ten nominations Slumdog Millionaire received have blown us out in the open again. The drumbeats have begun. Now it’s not a question of will it, but of how many of those golden statuettes it will get. But the big, big question, which even Jamal Malik, the young slumdog in the hotseat in the film, would have hesitated at, remains: ours, or theirs? Indian or British?

... contd.