Please spare me, O Khuda!

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Wah wah. Yeh to camel ho gaya. A camel race, no less, in Rajasthan. Hark ye then to Turkey (just go Roorkee guys, much closer). And whoa, over to Goa. Sad to say, but this Globetrotter-nama is a strict naah-naah.
That’s Hema Malini’s Tell Me O Kkhuda (is that supposed to be read as Ok Khuda or is it a joke on an actor who once went kkKiran?). Too many questions, in fact, keep raining on your head. Dread. Like why would Hemaji Maliniji remake her own Dil Aashna Hai (1992), which was actually cogged from Hollywood’s Lace? Grimace.

Did she get uncontrollably excited by Mamma Mia in which Meryl Streep sang, boogied, had a blast getting picky-choosy about the three could-be sires of her daughter? Why cement the impression that this is a comeback showcase for her daughter Esha Deol? Just let the dear girl be, do her own numbah!
Anyway, such unsolicited platitudes apart, one last question for the day in this column space: whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy make this film at all? Tell me O Hemaji. There seems to be a fascination with the theme of let’s locate the biological parent. In Dil Aashna…, the late Divya Bharati grappled to find out whether she was the daughter of Dimple Kapadia, Amrita Singh or (heavens) Sonu Walia. This time around, Esha Deol has to wag an accusing finger at Vinod Khanna, Rishi Kapoor or Dharmendra. No free gift vouchers for guessing the ID of the real bio-dad. Never mind, the bids to put you of the track via the dialogue, which goes infuriatingly yak yak yak. So lacklustre.
Throughout, you do strive to get nostalgically gooey. Suspect Dad No 1 (Vinod Khanna) belongs to former royalty and behaves like Tipu Sultan. Suspect 2 (Rishi Kapoor, most endearing of the lot) is a Turkey hotelier. Last but aaha not the least Suspect 3 is a don combating other mobsters. The three senior actors have screen charisma, squandered by a script, which appears to have been written on a pinhead. Instead of the plot thickening, it thins before the first reel is over. In exasperation, you twiddle your fingers, hoping for some crackling music, dances, funny business. No point. Old-timer Johnny Lever shows up, and is about, as comic as a bout of hay fever.
Vis-a-vis, the youth quotient, your heart bleeds — albeit not in a nice way — for the dad-hunting daughter. She’s a writer but behaves like an airhead, accompanied by a couple of balloon heads (Arjan Bawa, Chandan Roy Sanyal, both okay types). Again, the scripting is grossly at fault. The characterisations of the youngish trio neither arouse your empathy nor interest. Even when the heroine locks her real dad into a verbal confrontation, the sequence is more artificial than emotionally impactful. Tsk.
Perhaps the herky-jerky quality of TMOK can be ascribed to the fact that its original director was replaced, presumably for creative differences. Maliniji took charge. Clearly, she could not bring the project together. In addition, the choice of subject is absolutely incomprehensible: Besides being outmoded and implausible, it’s been bashed to death. Oh well.
All you can say is Maliniji, do be careful the next time around. Don’t waste your time or ours. The resources lavished on the location shifts alone could have financed two or three sensibly budgeted productions, a genre to which she is no stranger, be it the films she acted in, directed by Gulzar, Basu Chatterji and Aruna Raje during the prime of her career.
Much is made about “commercial” films, big budgets, worldwide shoots and promotional budgets. Yet there’s another world out there, a feisty, Indie world of filmmaking, which could have repositioned Esha Deol as an actress of some merit. Over-cosmeticisation and over-the-hill scripts kill.
Convictions work. So next time, do pass the Turkey please. Pretty please?