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Jubilation in India at Slumdog Millionaire sweeping the Oscars has been over the top,commented an acquaintance, “As if the country was craving for attention and eager to appropriate whatever glory came its way, even obliquely, any which way.’’

It’s fair comment, though the extraordinarily high decibel levels in an imploding media may have exaggerated this perception. When everything — right from what the Indian nominees wore, ate, drank and spoke — is thrown at the viewers/readers, it must seem as if this year’s Oscars were the discovery of a new planet, not just awards for a film.

In many ways, though, it has hardly been otherwise, for we have always rejoiced at the recognition that has come to us from the West, even by remote access. To give only a couple of examples, consider the hoopla over Sunita Williams’s space journey, or Bobby Jindal’s strident march in politics, despite both of them being as Indian as a custard apple is an apple.

Theories of a civilisation unsure of itself, even under a massive inferiority complex, find ready currency in such a scenario. Hundreds of years of subjugation by ‘invasive’ influences, the argument goes, must manifest itself in this meek manner where even mere acknowledgment by those perceived ‘powerful’ is seen as an approval of identity.

This may have some truth value, all said and done, but I think this point misses another, perhaps equally significant: in the age of globalisation, din and clamour does help in focusing attention on intrinsic virtues of a person (or peoples/country), and more importantly, opens up new vistas for expression of talent and identity.

In an oblique sort of way, this has been manifest in cricket and Indian classical music for some time. When Sir Donald Bradman in 1998 said he saw himself in the way Sachin Tendulkar batted, the Indian maestro’s stock sky-rocketed though his precocious talent had been evident right from the time he made his debut in 1989.

When Ravi Shankar teamed up with the Beatles, he not only made the sitar a household instrument in the West, but created an opening for a place in the sun for Indian classical music.

It’s not that India’s film industry has suddenly thrown up new, globally relevant talent in AR Rahman, Resul Pookutty & Co just because they have been anointed with the Oscars. Mehboob Khan, Guru Dutt, Raj Kapoor, Satyajit Ray, Dilip Kumar, Dev Anand, Nargis, Shyam Benegal,Amitabh Bachchan, Shabana Azmi, Smita Patil, Naseeruddin Shah, Om Puri, Mamooty, Naushad, Shankar Jaikishan, RD Burman, Shah Rukh Khan, Aamir Khan, to name a few, would stand up to any scrutiny, any comparison for their body of work. They are no less mighty practitioners of cinema just because they haven’t won an Oscar.

The issue for me, therefore, is not whether Slumdog Millionaire was worth its eight Oscars, or whether it is a tribute or rebuke to India. That is an academic debate which could plausibly produce a differing verdict by experts from the medium, though I must confess to enjoying it tremendously. The more pertinent is what it means to the Indian film industry from here: for its actors, music directors, technicians et al.

There is now suddenly a ‘wow’ factor to such talent emerging from India. In many ways, this talent has always existed, but it has now found shape, sound, expression and opportunity. From a creative person’s perspective, that should seem like a big deal.

India’s current tour of New Zealand has thrown up the wonderful story of Ewan Chatfield, former fast bowler, who now drives a cab for a living, and without any remorse. I can think of countless other former cricketers — in India and overseas — who fret and fume at the mega bucks being made by current players, I have yet to come across any who has been reduced to earning his daily bread in such menial manner and not because he squandered his fortune.

Chatfield’s equanimity at his current position in life is astonishing. Perhaps he is a Zen guru in disguise. Which reminds me that had Mahendra Singh Dhoni not caught the eye of the selectors at the right time, he might have remained a ticket collector in the Railways.

Who says life is unfair?