The Power of Cinema: How The Black Stallion Has Carried Me Through Life

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The power of cinema lies in its ability to transport us—to take us back to moments of pure joy, to remind us of who we once were, and sometimes, to lift us from the depths of despair. For me, that film has always been The Black Stallion.

I first saw it when I was five years old, in a cinema called New Talkies in Bandra. My grandmother took me to watch it, and then my mother took me again. I watched it several times over the years, and in the 1980s, without access to OTT platforms, DVDs, or even regular TV broadcasts, we had to rely on someone with a VCR and a VHS cassette to revisit a beloved film. And revisit it I did—again and again, probably thousands of times.

There’s something about The Black Stallion that speaks to me on a level no other film does. It’s a simple story—a boy and a horse, forming a bond that goes beyond words, beyond logic, beyond any relationship I’ve seen depicted in film before or since. They meet in isolation, stranded on a deserted island, both alone in the world. And in that loneliness, something unbreakable is forged. The purity, the energy, the synergy between them—boy, animal, landscape—it all fills me with a deep, complete contentment.

Lately, I’ve been particularly low. Depression has a way of creeping in, weighing me down, making even the simplest things feel exhausting. And when that happens, I go back to The Black Stallion. I put it on, and I watch the first half—just the boy and the horse, with no dialogue, no human noise, just the sound of the waves, the wind, the hooves against the sand. The barren landscape, the golden light of the setting sun, the ocean stretching endlessly—it all carries me away. There are so many metaphors at play, but to a child watching in the cinema all those years ago, it was simply magic. A connection to aspire to.

And that’s still what I aspire to. Beautiful connections. Connections where words aren’t necessary—where love, need, and the desire to run free are enough.

Carroll Ballard’s direction is nothing short of breathtaking. There’s one shot, in particular, that I always come back to—the one where Alec, played by Kelly Reno, offers the horse a piece of seaweed as the sun sets behind them. The way the camera lingers on that moment, the hesitation, the trust, the silent understanding—it always makes me smile, no matter how heavy my heart feels. In those moments, I forget everything else.

That’s the true power of cinema. It lets you go back. It takes you to the moment when you first experienced it—before life got complicated, before the losses, before the weight of the world settled on your shoulders. When Alec Ramsey climbs onto the horse in the sea and they gallop together for the first time, the music swells, and I feel it in my bones. I feel that rush of freedom, that joy, that dream of running wild and untamed.

Very few movies can do that. The Black Stallion does. The only other film that comes close, for me, is Anne of Green Gables—another story that exists in a world untainted by cynicism, by corrupt logic, by the exhausting battles between overbearing liberalism and catatonic conservatism. A story where beauty is simply beauty.

And even now, as I write this, I feel lighter. I think about the music, about Alec, about the horse, about the island. I think about the sun, the waves, the wind, the freedom. And I smile.

That is the power of cinema.

A Few Facts About The Black Stallion:

• The film was directed by Carroll Ballard, known for his ability to capture the raw beauty of nature and animals on screen. His work in The Black Stallion is widely praised for its poetic visual storytelling.

• The cinematography was done by Caleb Deschanel, whose stunning compositions turned the film into a visual masterpiece. The way he shot the island sequences made them feel almost dreamlike.

• The film’s score was composed by Carmine Coppola, father of Francis Ford Coppola, who also produced the movie. The music is hauntingly beautiful, especially in the moment when Alec first rides the stallion in the water.

• The titular Black Stallion, Cass Ole, was an Arabian horse known for his beauty and grace.

• Sadly, none of the main cast members are alive today. Teri Garr recently passed away, Mickey Rooney before her, and Kelly Reno, who played Alec, stepped away from acting long ago. Even Cass Ole is gone. But the film remains—a legacy left behind, a piece of art that still touches the heart of someone who first watched it 45 years ago.

And that, more than anything, is proof of cinema’s power.

The Complexity of Lies

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Today, I came across a quote that struck a chord: “I was never asking for too much. I was just asking the wrong person.” It made me pause. Lately, I’ve been feeling disillusioned by the people I love, grappling with the simple yet profound expectation of love and honesty. I don’t think I ask for much—just truth, just sincerity. After all, if you truly love someone, wouldn’t honesty be a natural part of that love?

But love and honesty don’t always go hand in hand. We like to believe they do, that love is built on trust and truth, yet relationships often prove otherwise. People lie. And while some lies may stem from fear, self-preservation, or misguided intentions, the fact remains—lies hurt.

I’ve been trying to understand why people lie, particularly to those they claim to love. One could argue that lying is often a reaction to anticipated consequences. The person who lies knows the truth will likely cause disappointment, anger, or pain. But that’s precisely where the contradiction lies—if you know the truth will hurt someone, and you love that person, why lie in the first place? Isn’t deception, in itself, an act of disregard for the person’s feelings?

This brings me to a difficult realisation: lying is not about the character of the person being lied to, but rather about the one doing the lying. A liar weighs the truth, measures the possible reactions, and makes a calculated choice to conceal it. And in making that choice, they assume control over how another person experiences reality. That’s what makes dishonesty so cruel—it robs the other person of the right to respond to life with full knowledge.

Yet, the irony is that truth, no matter how deeply buried, always finds its way out. Lies are never simple; they are layered, tangled, and exhausting to maintain. The truth, on the other hand, is straightforward. It may not always be easy, but it is never as complicated as the web of deceit spun to hide it.

So, if love is real, if it holds any meaning beyond sentiment, then honesty must be part of it. Because love without truth is merely an illusion—fragile, fleeting, and destined to shatter.

Echoes

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Lately, I find myself thinking back to my childhood—revisiting the past with a heart full of nostalgia, retracing the steps of a boy who once ran through the quiet lanes of Bandra. I remember those early mornings, the world bathed in golden sunlight, the short shrubs lined with tiny yellow flowers, and the delicate butterflies that flitted about, as if they were playing a game only they understood. There were four of us, my little gang of friends, always running, always laughing, revelling in the boundless joy that childhood so effortlessly bestows.

Perhaps I see it all now through rose-tinted glasses. Perhaps memory is kinder than reality was. But these moments are etched so deeply in my subconscious that they come back to me in vivid detail—the sunlight filtering through the trees, the movement of the butterflies, the thrill of being young and free.

Some memories stand out more than others. I can still see myself sitting in a classroom at St. Theresa’s High School. I don’t even remember which standard I was in, but I distinctly recall gazing out of the window and seeing the church steeples in the distance. A quiet moment of peace, a scene so simple yet so deeply comforting. Then there was the time I sat on my friend Virginia’s balcony, lost in thought, filled with anticipation for the day ahead—our trip to the beach. The sheer joy of that moment, the excitement of what was to come, is still so tangible in my mind.

And then there was my friend Sarvar’s house. He lived on the fifth floor, which, to me, felt like an extraordinary height. Having lived on the first floor all my life then, standing on his balcony and gazing out was an experience in itself. From there, I could see the TV tower at Worli, standing tall in the distance. In those days, Bandra had no high-rises, so the view was uninterrupted, stretching all the way to Worli. I can’t imagine that happening now—for any child to stand on a fifth-floor balcony and see as far as I did. The world has changed.

But then, doesn’t every generation say this? Doesn’t every generation look back with nostalgia, tinged with a quiet ache for what was? I understand now why memory is so important. It anchors us, reminds us of who we were, where we came from, and what once brought us joy.

Perhaps these thoughts have surfaced because my cousin sister has come to stay in Santa Cruz after a long time. She is the only member of my extended family whom I am still close to. I have lost so many over the years, and with her presence, old memories resurface, unbidden yet welcome. Every time I step out of my house, walking with the children through roads now choked with traffic, pollution, and relentless construction, I think back to a time when the sunlight touched the ground unfiltered, when the air was clean, when the fog in the mornings was not the result of smog but of nature’s own quiet magic—warm days, cool mornings, and nights filled with nothing but stillness.

I know I will never get those days back. Life moves on, things change, people leave. But memories remain. And in them, for a brief, beautiful moment, I can return to the lanes of my childhood, where the yellow butterflies still dance in the morning light.