Nostalgia is a hell of a drug. It’s even more potent when it’s wrapped in a silk sari and served with a side of aggressive family values. Anupam Kher just hit the plunger.

He took to the digital town square to wish filmmaker Sooraj Barjatya a happy birthday, but he didn't stop at a cake emoji. No. Kher went full hyperbole, crowning Barjatya a "national treasure." It’s a heavy title. One usually reserved for ancient monuments or singers who’ve survived multiple regime changes. In Kher’s eyes, Barjatya is the keeper of some sacred flame of "wholesome" cinema.

It’s a fascinating bit of brand alignment. Kher, a man whose social media presence is a masterclass in performative sincerity, knows exactly what he’s doing. By praising Barjatya’s specific brand of filmmaking—which essentially boils down to three-hour weddings interrupted by occasional dialogue—he’s drawing a line in the sand. On one side, you have the messy, gritty, strobe-light reality of modern streaming. On the other, you have the Rajshri universe. A place where the biggest conflict is whether or not the dog will find the lost slipper.

Let’s be real about what Barjatya’s films actually represent. They aren't just movies. They’re high-budget hallucinations. They depict an India where everyone has a palatial bungalow, no one has a job that requires getting their hands dirty, and the patriarch’s word is more binding than a smart contract. Kher’s tribute isn't just about friendship. It’s an endorsement of a specific, sanitized mythology. He’s celebrating a world where the friction of modern life—the rising cost of living, the political polarization, the sheer noise of the internet—is simply edited out.

There’s a specific trade-off here, though. To enjoy a Barjatya film, you have to pay a steep price in cognitive dissonance. You have to ignore the fact that the "traditional" values being sold are often just rigid social hierarchies dressed up in festive colors. The "kind of films you make," as Kher puts it, are the cinematic equivalent of a low-pass filter. They cut out all the high-frequency anxiety of the 21st century. It’s comfort food, sure. But at what point does a diet of pure sugar become a health hazard?

The friction comes when this legacy mindset hits the wall of modern distribution. Barjatya’s last outing, Uunchai, cost roughly 30 crore to produce—a drop in the bucket compared to a Marvel slop-fest, but a significant bet on the idea that people still want to watch old men walk up a hill. It worked, mostly because of the Kher-Barjatya synergy. It proved there’s still a market for the "National Treasure" vibe. But it’s a dwindling demographic. The kids aren't watching Hum Aapke Hain Koun..! on repeat. They’re watching 15-second clips of people doing dances in subway stations.

Kher’s post is a digital signal to that aging demographic. It’s a way of saying, "We’re still here, and we still believe in the dream." It’s an interesting move for Kher, who has successfully navigated the shift from character actor to a sort of cultural influencer. He’s leveraging Barjatya’s reputation for purity to polish his own. It’s smart. It’s calculated. It’s a bit cynical.

Barjatya’s films are built on the idea that the past was better because it was simpler. Kher leans into this. He’s not just wishing a friend happy birthday; he’s defending a fortress. The "national treasure" label is the moat. If you criticize the films, you’re criticizing the nation. If you find the plots repetitive, you’re attacking "tradition." It’s a neat trick that shields the work from any actual critical analysis.

In the end, Barjatya will keep making films where the lighting is too bright and the smiles are too wide. Kher will keep posting the tributes. The algorithm will keep feeding these moments to people who miss a version of India that probably never existed outside of a studio backlot in Goregaon. It’s a closed loop of sentimentality.

Is a filmmaker a national treasure just because they make you feel like it’s 1994 again? Or is the real treasure the ability to sell that feeling back to us, year after year, while the world outside actually burns?