In Search of Sanity...

Karan Calling Karan

2012-02-12T23:15:00.006+05:30

The recent version of Agneepath, a film which Mr Karan Johar and Mr Karan Malhotra sold to us under the disguise of a remake and as "redemption for the failure of the original which was my father Yash Johar's dream", has been receiving inexplicably rave reviews, and unprecedented box office earnings. I had a few things to say about it and, well, I have no other platform. So here goes. We are well beyond the stage of ‘bear with me’.

Suffer with me.

1. This is not a remake.

Just think for a second. If I change only two names- Vijay Dinanath Chauhan and Kancha Cheena- this is only a story of a boy who grows up to avenge his father’s death at the hands of a drug smuggler, and uses another gangster on his rise to the top. Now consider the sheer plethora of films that alludes to: everything from countless Bachchan and Mithun films, through Parinda, to Soldier. Yes, I agree that these arguments apply to the original film also, but the original film was a pretty generic film: if you are going to remake a generic film by revering it, you may as well remake it exactly, instead of turning it into an even more generic film. Dharma Productions should simply have stuck to their guns and given us a full throated 80s style potboiler (and, as Dabangg and Singham have clearly shown us, such films are virtually unbeatable at the box office right now) instead of using an established film’s name and cheating us.

2. The 80s Renaissance.

It seems that the 70s are over. We re-discovered the 70s, re-made a bunch of Bachchan films, celebrated the decade affectionately with Main Hoon Na and Om Shanti Om and Once Upon A Time In Mumbai, and then called it quits. We have now moved on to the 80s. So films are now largely remakes of Southern blockbusters (and, apparently, only the language changes, not the volume), ‘Heroes’ are back with their dialogue-baazi, larger-than-life villains have returned, and, as Agneepath has shown us, so have the Thakurs and Munim-jis. I am incredibly, extremely petrified. Nothing has prepared me for films which would make Jeetendra nostalgic.

3. The Bifurcation.

This is a very interesting time in the industry, akin to the late 70s and the 80s, when the burgeoning art film movement and the increasingly crass masala movies were clearly dividing the audiences. On one hand, this unexpected and inexplicable 80s renaissance that threatens us currently seems to be sprouting films and almost pushing our helpless selves back by about three decades (or more, considering the films of the 80s were old-fashioned even in the 80s); on the other, we are also being pulled forward, as we are served regular helpings of the modern and beyond with films like Love, Sex & Dhokha, Rockstar, Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara and Delhi Belly. The net result is, I suppose, that we are standing still.

4. Don’t change genres.

The 1990 Agneepath was a gangster film. That is a well-established genre, with roots ranging back to the 1930s, with its own rules, conventions and tropes. The 2012 Agneepath, on the other hand, is a vendetta film, which is an equally well-established and explored genre, with its own specific rules, conventions and tropes. The former charts the rise and fall of a criminal- the alliances, the betrayals, the unexpected love of a good woman which humanizes him, the injustice doled out to the gangster so that we root for him, and ultimate punishment in death- these are the beats every gangster must invariably hit, be it The Public Enemy or Vaastav. The focus here is on a compelling character. A vendetta film, however, must pit a smaller, weaker being against a larger evil where the former must eventually take his revenge against the latter for some past injustice. The focus is on plot. You can’t change the genre of a film when you remake it! Because when you insist on changing the genre, you change its grammar. The narrative changes from a character-driven story to a plot-driven one. That is why the older version, at a shorter duration and containing several more sub-plots, seemed to narrate a fuller, more spacious tale. That is why we unfairly spend the entire duration of the new film waiting for the inevitable confrontation between Hrithik Roshan and Sanjay Dutt, making everything else before it is simply a prelude- unlike the previous one, which had several memorable set pieces sprinkled throughout (like Bachchan’s entry, the muddy sequence in the slums, the Ganesh Visarjan). And that is why it makes no sense why Hrithik Roshan must suddenly seek his mother’s approval of his actions before he can die in peace when all through the film he, frankly, hasn’t given a damn.

5. Don’t end with the character’s death.

This may seem like a petty complaint, but it bugs me no end. Living in Cyprus, I used to watch Hindi films on pirated VHS tapes, which were often chopped off according to the pirate’s whims to fit the length of the tape. When I saw Devdas in 2002, the film ended with Shah Rukh Khan closing his eyes. It was a bit sudden, and I kept wishing for days after that that the film had a few more shots to round off the ending. When I saw the actual cut later, I was relieved to see shots of the lamp blowing off, and the incomplete tattoo on his hand. For some reason, this makes a big difference to me. I truly detest it when a film ends with the shot of the main character dying. It almost ruined Maqbool for me. The film is not the character- the character is part of the film. Is it that difficult to spend fifteen more seconds and finish the narrative with a couple of establishing shots? It brings a beautiful sense of closure, as evidenced in greats like Anand, Braveheart, Philadelphia, American Beauty and Guide. Mr Karan Malhotra, you made us sit nearly three hours- would thirty more seconds have killed you?

I didn’t like this film at all. I am not at all surprised that it has now taken the highest opening of all time. This is the same world, after all, where Bodyguard and Ready are the second and third highest grossers ever. One of these days I must create a mathematical formula describing the inverse relationship between the quality of a film and its box office earnings.

The Perpetual Spectator

2011-05-11T00:42:00.002+05:30

A friend recently downloaded "Mile Sur Mera Tumhara" on her new phone (the original version of the song, don't worry) and played it on a loop throughout lunch, singing along with it continuously. Even where she didn’t know the lyrics, she managed to imitate the sounds pretty well, betraying how often she must have heard it before. It was clearly a tune etched in her memory, and the sheer frequency of exposure she had had to it had ingrained everything about it in her mind- the beats, the instruments, the visuals- so much so that even years after she must have last heard it, she could replicate it perfectly.

And I understand that this is no great feat. Every person of my generation can apparently recite this song with fluency comparable to the national anthem, and shot-by-shot relay the video also.

So I was not unprepared for the surprise on her face when she discovered that I had only heard the song once or twice, and knew next to nothing about it. “Sacrilege!” her eyes screamed, as she tried desperately to find some reason to retain whatever little positive opinion she had of me.

Once again, I came face to face with my muddled past, and once again, albeit after quite a while this time, I blamed my father and his transferable job for not leaving me with a grounded sense of history.

Growing up around the world has several instantly recognizable advantages- the opportunity to see so many places, the chance to experience so many cultures, learning different languages, access to great schools, and the concomitant ease of faking sophistication and worldliness. What lies beneath, in the shadows beyond the glitz and the limits of myopic eyes, is the side no one wishes to acknowledge. The darkness where constant upheavals and repeatedly trying to make new friends and losing good, old ones dance uncomfortably with a confused sense of identity and a lack of a solid, grounded sense of belonging.

Living in India for the past 7-8 years (the longest I have ever stayed in one place) has thankfully cured me of the suffocating lack of belonging that plagued me greatly during my late teens. However, every once in a while- as it did on that day at lunch- my culturally fragmented childhood resurfaces, and makes me pine for a more… normal past. Certainly, I would have to give up on many a wonderful experience, but what I wouldn’t give to belong. Somewhere. Anywhere. What this constant uprooting and the inability to properly immerse myself anywhere has made me, I think, is a permanent tourist; the eternal outsider, the perpetual spectator; who can only observe life and cultures and experiences from a distance- quietly and unobtrusively, without ever being able to take centre stage.

That is why, I think, I value cinema so much. There’s a famous quote from Scorsese that sums it up beautifully: “It's as if movies answer a quest for the common unconscious. They fulfill a spiritual need that people have: to share a common memory.”

What cinema allows me is a sense of shared history, of a common mythology. Sure, I didn’t have any classmates in 1998 who wore chains saying “COOL”, but just like you, I too started playing basket ball after watching Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. So what if Hrithik Roshan was just an actor to me in 2000 and not a hysteria-inducing name; I have also tried to imitate the ‘Ek Pal Ka Jeena’ steps in front of a mirror. Mowgli and Bagheera may not have visited me every Sunday, but I have also thrown sticks in the air and waited for them to come back in my hand. I may have no experience of playing cricket in gullies, but I too cheered for Bhuvan. I also got a hair cut after Dil Chahta Hai, I also cried at Jai’s death, I also dangled out of trains hoping to catch a girl’s hand, and the first song I also learnt on the guitar was “Tujhe Dekha Toh Yeh Jaana Sanam”. I may not have grown up the same way as you, I may not have played the same games, roamed the same streets, celebrated the same festivals or had the same experiences, but when it comes to films, even though you and I may be strangers, we have seen and laughed and cried at the same things.

Years later, I will be able to discuss a scene from a film, and you will tell me how you also loved that scene, and while we may not have met before and may never meet again, for that one miniscule, meaningless moment of our lives, we will be connected- we will have a shared past, one that is exclusively ours and yet simultaneously universal.

And that one moment will immediately fill me with a confluence of calming peace and an exciting awareness.

That I finally belong.

BREAD PAKODI KI KASAM!

2011-01-07T14:54:00.003+05:30

I saw Band Baaja Baarat this weekend.

For the third time.

In four weeks.

People have been asking me for some time now why I find it so great. So I thought I should let them know. After all, everyone has a right to my opinion.

I can’t remember which was the last film that gave me so much repeated joy… Khosla Ka Ghosla, in all likelihood. That was a tremendous film- brilliant characters, a novel story, undervalued actors and the most subversive heist tale I have ever seen. Band Baaja Baraat, on the other hand, has neither of these things- yet I have seen it thrice, and can happily go see it a few more times. And there is only one man to thank.

Mr Habib Faisal.

While the film can boast of excellent direction and spot-on performances (which we shall discuss in a moment), it is ultimately the spectacular writing which makes this film click. Habib Faisal, fresh off directing that sweet little middle-class-Delhiite film called Do Dooni Chaar, clearly understand the living-in-Janakpuri-dreaming-of-GK mentality, and paints his words with hues and rhythms we have not witnessed since… Well, since Khosla Ka Ghosla.

However, what I really wish to examine here is how amazingly well Band Baaja Baraat can serve as a textbook in screenwriting- that is how flawlessly Mr Faisal scripts his narrative. Be it Syd Field’s three act “Set-Up/Conflict/Resolution” structure, or the classic Indian “Introduction-Masala-Interval-Drama-Happy Ending” format- Band Baaja Baraat holds on to traditional structures in a steadfast yet light manner.

In the process, it also ticks all the boxes of classic cinema story-telling. We understand the two characters inside out by the time the titles are over (the ‘Tarkeebein’ montage captures the protagonists perfectly), so that our story can begin right off the bat- and indeed, the first sequence after the credits has the two leads meeting each other, and their company takes off twenty minutes into the film. Right when the film requires a character for the protagonist to talk to about his conflicted feelings, pat appears his friend (otherwise, a godforsaken mirror monologue seemed to be on the cards!). And just when the story seems to be dwindling in self-pity and melancholy, we are thrown into the third act with the big Sidhwani wedding. It really takes several viewings to appreciate how wonderfully this film is constructed.

I have always believed that a film is dependant most of all on the small moments. These moments are what stay in our mind after that film and are lifted through nuanced acting and snappy words ; it helps, then, to have sparkling dialogue- and Faisal’s dialogue positively crackles. With words dipped in typical Dilli slang and marinated with the city’s atmosphere, he creates lines that almost smell of DTC buses. How can one not love a film which gives us words like ‘kaand’, ‘thulla’, ‘jhand’, ‘bhasoodi’ and ‘cheapda’? Mr Faisal creates moments which in lesser films would merit entire scenes, but here are almost throwaway moments, heightening their charm- be it Bittoo practicing how to say ‘shit’ with a posh accent, or teaching Shruti’s mother how to spell his name; be it Bittoo’s friend agreeing that “haan, kheer nahi, raita hi phaila hai”, or Shruti greeting her would-be husband with an ironically expression-less “Kaise ho?” It is a film full of such moments, and any film that glitters itself with such lines deserves all the applause it gets. Watch the brilliant scene between Bittoo and his father, and you will understand what I mean.

Thankfully, Habib Faisal’s script has the two things it very badly needed to be fully realized: a director and a cast who both clearly understand Delhi and Dilliwalas, and- highly misunderstood in our cinema- human beings and their behavior.

Mr Maneesh Sharma, in his debut venture, directs with a lightness of touch and the surefootedness we witnessed in the legendary debuts of Aditya Chopra, Karan Johar, Farhan Akhtar and Dibakar Bannerjee. Here is a man who truly has guts- he stops in the middle of a frenetic, humourous narrative to observe the quietest, most sensitive love scene we have seen recently, and shoots it with magnificent sensitivity. It is a ten minute sequence in a 150 minute film, and the proportional space given to it demonstrates how important the man feels this scene is.

It takes immense courage to construct a love scene that is so nervous and tender for such duration, to have faith that the audience who likes everything underlined and scored to a laugh track will not get restless. Sure, I heard several nervous giggles each time in the hall, but that just goes to show that the audience too was experiencing the same dry-throated, heart-thumping anxiety that the characters are going through.

Notice how the tense build-up to the first kiss is played out in utmost silence, with the soft music only kicking in once the act has commenced- we can almost hear the two leads breathe, and we can almost feel their heartbeats. This scene works because of the way it contrasts the silence of this lovely moment with the loud music of the preceding celebration party- he understands that the memories of our first kisses are invariably still and silent, and scored to thumping heart beats rather than pop music. He also understands the sheer awkwardness of the post-coital morning: the avoiding each other’s eyes, the nervous silences and how it invariably changes things forever.

And then there are the performances.

You know that a cast is good when the most meaningless role is played by Manu Rishi (although I have a feeling that his role must have been chopped off on the editing table). Ranveer Singh comes up with a debut that is the most self-assured and confident that I have seen in years, perhaps since Kaho Naa Pyaar Hai. His is the true success story, for here is a man who faced near universal rejection and ridicule when he was first shown in trailers. I remember words like ‘lallu’, ‘chhichhora’ and ‘champu’ being used to describe him. His victory lies not in proving all these people wrong- but instead in proving them all right; after all, he was a chhichhora character and only after seeing the film do we realize how perfect this performance is. And once you consider that this is a boy from Mumbai pulling off a totally authentic roadside Dilliwala, a standing ovation does not seem too much to ask. Here is a man to watch out for. Observe how naturally he complains that the clients “pay in ghaas-phoos, and ask delivery of kukkad”, and you understand how pitch-perfect this performance is.

Anushka Sharma has the less dynamic role, as the laws of rom-coms require one of the characters to be more subdued and sorted than the other (we all know what happens if both are equally in-your-face: remember Kambakkht Ishq?) Yet, for some reason, I have always believed that characters which are slightly more mature and level-headed suit her (case in point: Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi vis-à-vis Badmaash Company). She may not have a Kareena’s vivaciousness to pull off a Jab We Met, but she exudes a sweet, sincere and smart personality, and that is what she utilizes here. It is a brave, solid performance, one that alternates between the sheer joy of successfully pulling off a wedding to anger at having fallen for the wrong guy; from the trepidation every time Ranveer starts giving impromptu speeches to clients, to the typical Delhi-lass bravado with which she keeps men at bay. Of course, it helps that she’s quite a looker, and has eyes that shine like… well, like her smile.

And finally, in a sensational moment, the film redefines love as fun- ‘mauj’. And it is shocking to realize that it took our cinema so long to realize this- that, at the end of the day, love makes you enjoy life. Every moment one spends with their loved ones is full of fun. And in a world pushing us relentlessly, isn’t that moment of fun what we all crave?

Finally, all one can say is that you know a film is special when, for the rest of your lives, it removes your ability to pronounce 'BUSINESS' without at least once considering if you should remove the ‘S’.

In Her Eyes...

2010-11-11T18:31:00.010+05:30

There’s an interesting scene in that awful piece of yarn-spinning we were subjected to in the name of Anjaana Anjaani. Yes, believe me. There IS one interesting scene.

At the seedy motel where they stay in Las Vegas, the film observes Priyanka Chopra applying kaajal in front of a mirror before going to a party. While this is happening, she- and we- watch Ranbir Kapoor step out of the bathroom, wearing only his jeans, hair still wet. She pauses, and turns around to stare at him. At this point, the camera slowly, lovingly explores his bare chest, as she clearly admires what she sees: a shirtless, smouldering Ranbir, enveloped in steam emanating from the shower, a bit of shaving cream on his lip.

Hmmm.

Before you start thinking of witty comments, let me clarify why I find this scene interesting.

I find this scene interesting because Priyanka Chopra doesn’t get a counter-part scene. When was the last time you saw the man in the film exposing his body while the woman ogled, and not the other way around? (I can think of a small scene in Jodha Akbar, but, in all fairness, that film was stuck in period film constraints). Another scene set in a night club early on in the film has Ranbir showing his spiel in trying to seduce her, while she, charmed and willing, just enjoys it. And, contrary to all Hindi film trends, she never tries to seduce him. In fact, we don’t even have a similar opportunity to heave a cold sigh about her. It is almost a role-reversal, with Ranbir doing the skin-show as well as the seduction numbers, and Priyanka- and all the women watching the film- being the appreciative spectators.

In her seminal 1975 essay “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema”, Laura Mulvey introduced a term that seems obvious today, yet is as much a part of popular art as heroes and villains: “Male gaze”. Mulvey states that in film women are typically the objects, rather than the possessors, of gaze because the control of the camera (and thus the gaze) comes from factors such as the as the assumption of heterosexual men as the default target audience for most film genres. While this was more true in the time it was written, when Hollywood protagonists were overwhelmingly male, the base concept of men as watchers and women as watched still applies today, despite the growing number of movies targeted toward women and that feature female protagonists. In Hindi cinema, where ‘chick flicks’ are still an alien and unprofitable term, films are almost entirely male-driven: be it the film-makers, the crew or the audience. Hence, the term ‘male gaze’ is even more applicable here today.

This is where the above scenes become matters of interest. Ranbir is also famous (notorious, perhaps)for his startlingly candid towel-dance in his debut, Saawariya. What is truly remarkable in that film, as well as in the scenes outlined above, is that the while they represent a break from the norm of ‘male gaze’, they don’t try and level the playing field, in the way a Dostana did, by equally showcasing the bodies of both Priyanka Chopra as well as John Abraham. With Ranbir, we aren’t just ogling him as an object, we are ogling ONLY him as an object. The women (Sonam Kapoor and Priyanka Chopra respectively) are shown in relatively conservative mode vis-à-vis the man. Sure, Priyanka Chopra is dolled up in the film, and looks adequately sexy with the shorts and mini-skirts, but even she is not given the slow-motion ogle-fest that Ranbir provides us.

Could it be that Ranbir Kapoor represents, in Indian cinema, the advent of the ‘female gaze’? We can discount any efforts on the film-makers parts: both Bhansali and Siddharth Anand are heterosexual men who have, in the past, objectified beautiful women beautifully; successful female directors who would ordinarily be expected to lead such feminist waves are busy making Katrina Kaif look sexier than ever.

Certainly, the growing voice of women in every sphere of life today, as well as their increasing independence, plays a part in this. Women today aren’t particularly coy about what they like, and desire their opinion to be counted. Yet, it is strange that only Ranbir kapoor’s films reflect this trend. Sure, women ogled at Hrithik Roshan too, who regularly plays to all the female galleries, yet every Dhoom 2 contains a Crazy Kiya Re, every Kites has a Barbara Mori in a bikini. The first Indian superstar, Rajesh Khanna, too had his share of female admirers, yet not only were his films equally devoted to showcasing female beauty, the female gaze wasn’t as pervasive or vehement.

The female gaze only becomes noteworthy in cases where the women in the films are not reciprocating the gaze. As I mentioned, while films like Dhoom 2, Om Shanti Om and Dostana objectify the male, they do not qualify since the women here too are objects- these are simply films attempting to appeal to both the genders, and in the process reduce all their characters to lust-worthy objects.

The female gaze is not an unheard of trend in Hollywood, with a sharper dissection of audiences and female-centric films being profitable. Films like Sex and the City focus so heavily on a female audience that the heroines of the female can happily be active possessors of the gaze, making- or reducing- men to objects to be had.

It seems, then, that Ranbir Kapoor has brought about films where his body is the object, rather than the woman’s, consequently making women the active gazers. What this says for the future of Hindi films and popular art- if anything- is hard to say. It may just be a transient phase, it may just be odd occurrences my immature mind is forcing trends upon, or it may even be the advent of the appreciation of the woman’s point of view.

Whatever is the case, Ranbir Kapoor has gone beyond being simply a poster-boy to being a harbinger of an alien concept into Indian popular cinema. Coupled with a time of sky-rocketing sexual confidence in women, Ranbir Kapoor may actually manage, in the annals of Indian cinema, to become more than just the next superstar. He may just become the first public embrace of the female gaze.

THE THINGS THAT MAKE LIFE WORTH LIVING

2010-06-09T15:19:00.012+05:30

I recently revisited Woody Allen's magnificently shot, moody, sympathetic dramedy "Manhattan". As I watched those spectacular images- drenched in Gershwin's music- wash over me, two scenes etched themselves into my mind with a force that can only come with fond familiarity. The first was the justly celebrated scene of Woody Allen and Diane Keaton walking among the planetarium on a rain-soaked New York afternoon. And the second was the equally effective- and deceptively simple- scene before the climax where Woody Allen, lying on his couch, depressed, contemplates a list of all the things that make life worth living.

I was inspired, and here, in random order, is mine.

1. Scorsese's films.

2. Gulzar's poetry.

3. Jazz.

4. A strong frappe- no ice cream, no chocolate sauce- with good writing to enjoy.

5. Unexpected, random e-mails from estranged friends.

6. A warm walnut brownie with hot chocolate sauce.

7. Her face.

8. Watching a child who has just learnt how to walk stumble around in a store to a beat no one else can hear while his parents are busy shopping.

9. The first rains.

10. The damp onset of spring.

11. Glorious, lazy sunday mornings which combine the possibility of a whole day of freedom lying in store with the urgency of only one whole day of freedom lying in store.

12. Her exclaiming "How did you know that I was just thinking about you?" as soon as she picks up my call.

13. The unending re-runs of F.R.I.E.N.D.S- each episode, with dialogues I know by heart and characters I love beyond belief, feels like a warm blanket I have been using for years.

14. Reading essays I have written eons ago, detachedly musing at the passionately discussed themes which seem irrelevant now, marveling at some ingenious choice of words, chuckling at a forgotten splash of acidic wit.

15. Watching her eyes sparkle as she figures out the murder mystery before the TV detectives.

16. "Indiana Jones", "Casablanca", "The Godfather", "Taxi Driver", "DDLJ", "Swades". Spending hours in front of the mirror after viewing any of these films once again; emulating the leading man and observing the physical similarities between them and me which unfortunately no one else has ever been able to see.

17. Walking, hand-in-hand; irrespective of whether it's around the shining lobbies of a mall on a Saturday afternoon, or across a jubilant park on an Autumn Sunday evening.

18. The arrival of the paycheck after the last few, agonisingly slow and miserly days of each month.

19. The electricity flying through my nerves- faster and faster as the third bell approaches- on the opening day of my plays.

20. The triumphant surge of pride when she laughs at one of my lame jokes.

Mr Allen, what else can a man possibly want? If life, along with all its pain, insanity and disappointments, also has the above around in any permutation-combination, then the ride will forever be worth it.

CONFESSIONS OF A LANGUOROUS MIND

2010-06-07T16:29:00.010+05:30

Hold your breath. Are you ready? Are you sure you want to know? Okay, here goes. These are the confessions of my petty soul, things I am afraid to admit even to myself. Don't complain later that I didn't warn you.

I have never seen a Kurosawa film. I am haunted by both that fact as well as my fear of boredom.

I thought "Dev.D" was a failure, and Anurag Kashyap is hugely over-rated.

I think Shahrukh Khan is a great actor.

My alter ego is a mix of SRK in "Swades" and SRK in "Mohabbatein", with a liberal dash of Holden Caulfield.

I am beyond dreadful at managing my money.

I cannot stand the self-seriousness with which people underline their opinions when discussing cinema. Let me enlighten you, my friend- no one could care less how you feel yesterday's film could have been improved!

I believe, from the bottom of my heart, that- give or take a couple of people- everyone one I know is an idiot.

I have overpowering urges to slap people who believe themselves to be cinephiles, and happily distribute their opinions on what they believe is 'Cinema' without knowing anything about Scorsese, Guru Dutt or Buster Keaton. If you liked "Kites" and/or "Singh is King", I am talking to you.

I am a hopeless romantic, and proudly (albeit discreetly) possess a firm, unshakeable belief in love. I love both "Casablanca" and "When Harry Met Sally". I also love "Kuch Kuch Hota Hai".

I love watching all the mundane chick flicks with my girlfriend, because I love the way her face lights up when she laughs at a stupid joke.

I love shopping. Yup. I truly enjoy the high of holding my girlfriend's hand, walking around a mall, peering into windows, waiting outside trial rooms, nodding at her in approval, and handing over my cards to the tellers.

In line with all those who get money suddenly after a lifetime of poverty, I truly relish the rush the power of money brings to me.

I have huge pangs of insecurity when I read something written in such a fluid manner that I know I could never match it.

I have huge pangs of insecurity when I meet someone taller than me.

I have huge pangs of insecurity when I feel people won't get my weird, off-the-wall humour.

I truly wish more people understood my unfortunate neither-here-nor-there accent.

I am never too bothered by people richer, better looking or smarter than me. But bring me someone who has more films in his/her collection, and watch me panic!

I try very hard to pretend that I know what is going on in the world of sports- in truth, most of it comes from catching sports results on rediff.

I don't know how to hold a cricket bat. I invariably hold it like Aamir Khan did in "Lagaan"- that comes naturally to me.

I would rather have coffee with my girlfriend than beer with the guys.

I have never seen a single episode of "LOST", and don't feel that I have missed anything. I am proud to say that I feel no pressure to watch it, nor any feelings of being an outcast. I also don't feel any need to watch a show in order to be a part of a larger collective.

I don't feel tense or anxious at all for things -like money, careers and success- that give the rest of the world tension and anxiety attack; and that worries me. A little bit.

I am extremely paranoid that one day people will catch up to me and realise that everything I do, everything I say, everything about me is a facade- that I know nothing about directing plays, writing scripts, making films, or anything else for that matter, and my entire life is a process 0f very intricately masking that fact.

There. I said it.

Raat Bhar Bujhte Huye Rishte Ko Taapa Humnein...

2010-04-28T14:24:00.010+05:30

On one of my aimless wanderings through the blogosphere, I came across the following poem by (his holiness) Gulzar. It is less commonly known than, say, "Dastak", but it has to be read to be believed- unforgettable imagery, almost unbearable pain and loss, and universal feelings expressed with a stunning intensity.

"ALAAV" by Gulzar

Raat bhar sard hawa chalti rahi

Raat bhar humnein alaav taapa

Maine maazi se kai khushk si shaakhein kaati

Tumne bhi guzre huye lamhon ke patte tode

Maine jebon se nikali sabhi sukhi nazmein

Tumne bhi haathon se murjhaaye huye khat khole

Apni in aankhon se maine kai maanze tode

Aur haathon se kai baasi lakeerein phenki

Tumne palkon pe nami sookh gayi thi, so gira di

Raat bhar jo bhi mila ugte badan par humko

Kaat ke daal diya jalte alaavon main use

Raat bhar phoonkon se har lau ko jagaye rakha

Aur do jismon ke indhan ko jalaye rakha

Raat bhar bujhte huye rishte ko taapa humnein...

Sigh.

Where would the world of poetry- and this poor, inarticulate society- be without people like Gulzar who can bring such velvety expressions to pain and loss?

MY FIRST REAL SIX STRING

2010-03-17T21:52:00.005+05:30

I went to my college yesterday.

I happened to be in the neighbourhood, and, after the customary meal of a kathi roll at Nazim’s and a strawberry shake at Keventer’s, I found myself gazing in the general direction of my college.

What the hell, I figured. It had been a long time- and who knew when I would be here again? The last time I was here was three years ago, to collect my marksheet, when I had met a couple of my teachers.

Would I meet someone again, I wondered? Even at this late afternoon hour? And if I did, what would I say? Should I be bothered that I haven’t shaved? I digress, but why is it that we feel compelled to leave a good impression on near-strangers simply because we meet them again after a long time? I hardly cared what they thought of me when I used to see them every day- and I would perhaps never meet them again.

I crossed the street and started shuffling towards my college. It was a familiar stretch, and yet, curiously new. There was a new bus stop there now, proudly displaying the college’s name. All we had in our time was a crowd of people that the bus drivers instinctively knew to stop in front of. Strange, how much pride a mundane little thing like having your college’s name on a bus stop can bring about.

The little lane leading up to the South Campus canteen (one that the guard never let anyone through) had been opened. I just marveled at the convenience the students would have now, and how much shorter their walk would be. I distinctly remember pleading with the guard there on a daily basis to let us through. Of course, now with a Barista, a Café Coffee Day and other such joints in the Satya Niketan market, the students may no longer understand the importance of the warm Gulab Jamuns, tangy Bunta and Dal-filled Tikkis of the South Campus canteen.

And then, the building came into view. The letters constituting the name of the college had been re-painted recently in a shiny red, and greeted me in a magnificent gesture of false bravado. I walked in, half expecting the guard to stop me and ask what business I had there. However, the guard never did care in the three years I was here, and he did not care now either. Like always, I walked up the small path to the tree which formed a fork in the way- one way to the entrance, the other to the library. And like always, I took the former.

I want to say that the corridors greeted me like a long lost friend. The walls smiled down at me and asked how I have been. The big blackboard which announced the names of the teachers on leave was empty- probably in preparation for the next day. I remember the eagerness with which I would check that board out every morning, hoping with bated breath to find the name of at least one of our teachers there. The canteen ignited evocative memories of great times and samosas, and the classrooms leapt up in joy at the sight of me- which, for them, had always been an admittedly rare sight.

I want to say all that very badly indeed- but if I did, I would be lying.

No such thing happened. The corridors were empty, cold and dark. The stark walls seemed foreboding and aloof, and the classrooms were still strangers- even more so now. I had no awkward meetings with any teachers- even if I had met them, I would nothing to say to them, I realised. The plant pots lining up the bottom step of each staircase seemed new, as did a new cane building in the middle of the grounds. I glimpsed no familiar faces, and no waves of nostalgia swept over me.

This was my college building, for God’s sake!

I stood in the middle of the corridor and tried to figure out why I had none of the romanticized, nostalgic feelings I expected. I have spent the greatest days of my life here, and my head spins with the memories accumulated in this building. Some of the best friends I ever made- or will make- I found here; and it was here, in these very corridors, that I understood the meaning of friendship, love and life, in the process leaving the boy behind and became a man. I should, ideally, feel immense loss, nostalgia and longing for this place.

Why, then, could I not find any such feelings within me?

I spent a long time thinking about this then, and I spent a long time thinking about it afterwards, long after leaving that concrete maze. It slowly dawned upon me then.

This was just my college building.

My memories are not of this place, but of my experiences here. I often feel loss, nostalgia and longing within me, but it is for my friends and the time I have spent with them here, not for these walls and corridors.

I was standing in an empty vessel, rummaging within myself for some semblance of emotion for it, when all my emotions were in fact already with me, because my memories- and more importantly, my friends- were still with me. No soulless concrete structure, no vapid grand institution is going to make me long for days gone by- only my friends can do that; and they will always be with me. And just like my friends, I will forever carry in my heart the memories of the innocent and incredible days gone by.

And when you finally become conscious of being so full with the warmth of your memories, and so saturated with the affection of friends near and far, what space is there within you for anything else?

Nivedita, Abhinav, Kanika and Urvashi- as far as I am concerned, College is You.

I DISAGREE, MR SHAKESPEARE

2010-02-19T04:50:00.005+05:30

Whatever happened to good, exciting, imaginative titles?

My English teacher in high school, whenever she wanted us to write anything good, used to tell us that a story is like a really good burger- a good beginning, an exciting end, with a really meaty middle. Since food analogies have an inexplicably successful way of succeeding with me, I believed that to be a really acute analogy. Imagine, though, if inspite of having the perfect burger in front of you, it was not called a “Whopper” or “Zinger”, but instead something as banal as “The Burger”- or “Bread with Meat in Between”. Who would order that?

You could, of course, argue that no matter what the name, once you discovered its quality, you would order it anyway. It’s a valid argument. However, there is a reason the fast food joints go for zippy names, rather than the aforementioned banalities. A good name, with due respect to that inimitable fellow from Stratford-Upon-Avon, can totally change your outlook and anticipation for its possessor.

I distinctly remember a time when, just because of the sheer strength of the title, a film could make me look forward to it. Imagine the days of “Hero Hiralal”. What a name! Even now, that title can draw out a smile, overpowering the sour after-taste of that film. Imagine the arrival of a film with such a name- who could possibly control their excitement and anticipation? Who would NOT want to see a film like that? The promise a good title brings forth is almost unquantifiably gigantic.

The 70s era art films were particularly rich in fantastic titles. With no stars nor any publicity, all they could hope was that a god title would bring in the crowds. Mr Saeed Mirza, God bless his soul, was a particularly inventive genius with his strange, off-the-wall titles incorporating the leading characters’ names. After all, once a man makes films called “Arvind Desai Ki Ajeeb Dastaan”, “Mohan Joshi Haazir Ho” and “Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro”, you have to take your hat off to him. Without even knowing that he also gave us perhaps the greatest title of all time: “Albert Pinto Ko Gussa Kyon Aata Hai?”

The 80s, the unanimously heralded as the garbage bag of Bollywood, also had their peculiar trend- a title had to SOUND like it promised lots of action. Ergo, “Golimaar”, “Hatya”, “Qayamat”, “Mawaali”, “Ilzaam”, et al. These titles too, if you were the target audience - i.e. male, and between the ages of 10 (too young to remember a better time) and 70 (too old to remember a better time)- could send you into tizzies of excitement, what with the certainty of a plot with plenty of drama and action, spear-headed by the usual multi-star cast (almost every film had a pick-and-mix system of at least three stars amongst Jeetendra, Dharmendra, Shatrughan Sinha, Mithun, Sanjay Dutt, Anil Kapoor and Govinda).

The 90s had their own problem to deal with. I have come to believe that it was an unwritten rule that if a title had fewer than four words in it, financing was near impossible. If the title was a line from an old song, e.g. “Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge” or “Hum Hai Rahi Pyaar Ke”, then lo and behold, the world was your oyster. This was a competition intensely fought, and the old war-horse, Anil Kapoor, was an unexpectedly strong candidate, having starred in both “Hum Aap Ke Dil Mein Rehte Hain” as well as “Humara Dil Aap Ke Paas Hai”.

Back when Ram Gopal Verma used to make cinema and RGV was not a leading contender to the throne of ‘the combination of three letters to fear most’ (others being HIV, STD and LeT), even his failures were entertaining. His funny but flawed yarn set in Bollywood, “Mast”, allowed him to make a comment on such titles: Urmila mentions that the film she is working on is called “Hum Aap Ke Dil Mein Reh Kar Hum Aapse Pyaar karne Lage”. At that point of time, RGV was fresh off “Satya”, and held as much promise as Raj Kumar Hirani- hence we laughed. We now realize, of course, that he was the prime force behind the advent of what I refer to as a ‘step-motherly’ treatment of titles.

His films titles, never more than one word long, started off inventively, with examples like “Rangeela”, “Kaun” and “Company”. Then, however, almost imperceptibly, yet harmoniously in sync with the quality of their possessors, the titles too began to sink: “Darling”, “Agyaat”, “James”, “Contract”, “Jungle”, “Naach” and- sacrilege!- “Aag”.

Just when his titles were getting too much too bear, along came a man who has, by the sheer success of his settings-masquerading-as-films, made a mockery out of both the Box Office as well as the National Awards. Madhur Bhandarkar, also known as the ticket to national awards (if you are either female or Atul Kulkarni), believes titles to be the greatest nuisance since tax planning. You can almost taste his disinterest and irritation when he names his films: “Page 3”, for a film based on Page 3; “Traffic Signal” for a film based around a traffic signal; “Fashion” for a film set in the world of… You guessed it. Hmmm… I wonder what he would title a film set in a jail?

These are not titles, Mr Bhandarkar, they are labels. I know it must have physically pained you to call you film on policemen “Aan”, as opposed to your trademark “Police”, but I will forever be highly grateful for small mercies.

Giving a film a title is as much an art as giving it music. However, this is an industry which is yet to understand it. Apart from the rare “Dev.D” or the magnificently titled “Kaminey”, when was the last time a film made you sit up and take notice simply by virtue of its title?

How I weep when I think of the amazing titles films could have had! Why favour the faithful-yet-bland “Omkara” over Bhardwaj’s original and far more evocative choice “Issak”? Why let ridiculous polls name your heroine-dominated rom-com “Jab We Met” instead of the spunky “Bhatinda Express”, or “Punjab Mail” as originally envisaged? I am glad that “My Name Is Khan” won out over “Khan”, but even that’s only slightly better. And “3 Idiots”? Come on- even Chetan Bhagat managed a better title!

Yet, I am relieved to say, there is hope. Just like in the 70s, the off-beat films come your rescue. Dibakar Bannerjee is particularly ingenious, what with “Khosla Ka Ghosla”, “Oye Lucky, Lucky Oye” and the forthcoming “Love, Sex aur Dhokha (LSD)”. Shimit Amin too holds a lot of promise: “Ab Tak Chhappan”, “Chak De India” and “Rocket Singh: Salesman of the Year” are all fantastic titles, making the products seem twice as intriguing.

In an age when the news of a just announced film can reach the entire world within seconds, a smart title can make all the difference with respect to both the promotions, as well as the curiosity factor. With “Kaminey”, a film that intrigued its audience for months before its release with both its excellent title as well as the secrecy of its plot, Vishal Bhardwaj proved a very simple fact to his favourite source: A rose will indeed smell as sweet by any other name. But would a Juliet covet it were it called a Cauliflower?

THE GREAT ADAPTATION DEBATE

2010-02-18T10:22:00.006+05:30

I am truly exasperated of those “the-book-was-better-no-the-film-is-better” discussions. I have gone through so many of those- and strangely, many in the past few days- that I am compelled to write this. I plan to refer whoever has an issue in this regard to this entry.

I have often heard- usually prompting impatient sighs from me- about how books are always better than the films they inspire. With all due respect to all those who believe this- that’s not true. Don’t mistake my opinions for the ranting of a passionate cinezine: what I am saying is simply the result of a lot of thinking and almost-scholarly analysis.

It is true that great books almost never translate into decent films- the mind buzzes with examples, right from various horrifying Shakespeare adaptations to recent tragedies like ‘The Kite Runner’ and the Harry Potter films. Moreover, even when good books do spawn good films, the latter always pale away in comparison to their literary roots- be it ‘The Godfather’ or ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’. Then there are some classics which are virtually unfilmable- ‘Catch-22’, for instance.

However, it is important to note that there are several great films that have been adapted from rather mediocre books. Be it ‘The Magnificent Ambersons’, ‘Masoom’, ‘Million Dollar Baby’ and even ‘L.A.Confidential’. This, then, just reinforces the question- which are better, books or films?

The answer, I’m afraid, isn’t as simple as all that. We can’t just tally up the number of film adaptations which were improvements on the book and compare it as a number to adaptations which were disasters. In order for us to arrive at the spectacular moment of truth where we all discover the hidden wisdom behind all this (perhaps accompanied by a collective “Ooohhhh”) we must take a slightly scholarly detour around this subject.

Let us take an example- say, Harper Lee’s ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ (TKAM), my all time favourite book. It was also turned into a surprisingly good 1962 Robert Mulligan film starring Gregory Peck (in his career best performance- but then, what a role!). Nevertheless, it was clearly not in the same league as the book- which, let’s face it, given Lee’s experiential, observatory, first hand narrative, it never could be. There are many who defend this film with the argument that there are certain basic differences in storytelling between a book and a film; and, in cinema, with its constrained framework of time and space, it is not possible to translate the story in a better fashion. While that may be true- and even I have difficulty imagining a better adaptation of the novel without using a TV serial format (which has lesser constraints and allows one to examine and depict finer details) - allow me to propose another theory.

Given the story and theme of TKAM, it is possible to relay it using various formats- for instance, as a short story, a poem, a drawing, etc, besides the novel and the film which it already is. These different formats are called ‘mediums of expression’, and, for every given message/story/idea that is to be conveyed, there are several such mediums of expression, of which one must be chosen such that it is the best suited for the material at hand. For instance, when Javed Akhtar was moved by the things he witnessed on a visit to Kargil in 1999, he felt a need to express his feelings- and, after a lot of thought, rejected his usual mode of poetry in favour of cinema- and ‘Lakshya’ was born.

Now, ideally, the medium chosen must be the one in which the material attains maximum effectiveness. So, while the story of TKAM may be effective in various mediums, it would clearly have the maximum impact as a novel, since that medium allows it the space to document each and every one of the fine details which make the story such a heart-warming, touching affair.

All this theory about mediums of expression- while scholarly and reasonable- still doesn’t explain the debate between books and films. Then, you are justified in asking, why have you been reading all this, listening to me going on and on? Well, friends, it is because it is this theory of mediums of expression on which the next segment is based.

Yes, there is another segment to go.

Once a piece of art achieves its ultimate form in a given medium of expression (say, the way TKAM does in novels, or Citizen Kane does as a film, or “If” does as a poem) then it cannot achieve the same level of quality in another medium. That is to say, every piece of art has a given medium of expression in which its form and impact is maximized- the ideal medium for that piece, if you will; once that content has been put in that ideal medium of expression, it will not achieve the same effect in any other medium.

Therefore, a general debate on “books vs films” is rather naïve. The question is, has the piece of art achieved its utmost form? If so, then no other medium will equal it. That is why, a great book like TKAM will lead to a good, albeit disappointing film adaptation, while a mediocre book like “The Bridges of Madison County” will lead to a great film.

THINGS I FAIL TO UNDERSTAND #2

2009-10-03T23:36:00.004+05:30

GRACY SINGH'S CAREER GRAPH:

(Quality on Y-axis, Year on X-axis.)

Go Figure!

Now That Harry Has Met Sally- Why Wait?

2009-09-29T21:18:00.005+05:30

I have had one of the strangest conversations of my life today. And that is the reason for this hopelessly sentimental post. (What the hell- like you were missing my sarcasm!)

Two friends of mine (both girls- obviously) today had a long discussion with me about the need and the rationale of marriage. Perhaps I need to be more specific. Both their parents had approached the topic with them, and both of them are trying everyday to desperately avoid it. They see no reason for the urgency. They are both unanimous in their verdict- marriage, all things considered, should only happen once one is mentally ready. And, of course, the usage of that phrase every time in history has implicitly assumed that one is not.

I suppose then, in hindsight, that it was perhaps not the ideal moment to inform them that I had been proposing marriage to my girlfriend on a daily basis for the past five years.

Their verdict was once again unanimous- I am mentally unstable. (I can see you nodding your head in agreement. Stop it.)

After listing the numerous obstacles one would face after marriage- financial issues, responsibilities, compatibility, adjustments, compromises, and even horrendously hungry babies- they turned the spotlight on me and asked a stupefying question: Why was I so eager to get married?

Now, while that question itself is perfectly harmless, and a logical derivation of the above discussion, it had me dumb-founded. You see, I have spent all my energy and all my time so doggedly chasing the idea of marriage, revelling in my unshakable conviction of its merits, that I had, momentarily, forgotten my motive.

However, as I write this, wading in my reminiscence of today, the answer becomes startlingly clear; it is, after all, the simplest, and the most obvious thing I can think of.

Why was I so desperate to get married? Well, dear friends, why not?

Being mentally ready is like being in love- it is not a state you find yourself in, one fine day. It is also not a function of your age or financial stability (given, however, that maturity and a bank balance are always desirable). One doesn't simply stumble into it, strolling along the narrow, twisted pathways of life. You don't just wake up one day, saying, "Oh, I am now 28, and therefore mentally ready!"

It is a decision. One day, you look deep within yourself and decide that you are mentally prepared. Or that you are in love. And once you do that, the rest of your life simply falls in line. Mine did.

I understand all your arguments, friends, and I also admit that they are indeed valid.

I, however, know only one thing. Around five years ago, I discovered someone, and decided that that is the face I wanted to wake up to every morning of my life. I see no reason why I should wait. Or any way I possibly can.

That's it.

"...when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

~Nora Ephron, "When Harry Met Sally"

THINGS I FAIL TO UNDERSTAND (amongst others...)

2009-09-27T03:37:00.005+05:30

I am a confused man.

This declaration should hardly come as a surprise to those who know me. I spend half of my time desperately trying to comprehend the goings-on of this world, and the rest of it simply marvelling at the levels of sheer absurdity prevalent around me. The world is a ridiculous, funny, absurd, mad place, and it is therefore no wonder that I love it so much.

In my "search for sanity" in this utterly insane universe, I come across things on a daily basis which make so little sense that they fit in perfectly with our world. However, at the end of day, there are certain things which deservedly get mention in the "Insanity Hall of Fame": things which simply do not make sense, no matter how hard I try, even by the shockingly low standards of sanity around us.

Following, then, is a list of certain things that do not make sense to me in the least. Those who know me well will vouch for one thing- this list is by no means comprehensive.

1. People who need to read the menu before deciding what to order at McDonald’s.

I just don't get these people. I'm sorry, many of you are very close friends, but come on! McDonald's is a wonderful institution which seems to have decided to stand as a pillar of strength and stability in this ever-changing world: not one thing has changed since its arrival here in India- the menu, the service, the decor, the prices, and usually even the clientele remain steadfastly the same. Yes, there are minor changes in the menu every 4-5 years (so we now have chicken nuggets! Woo-hoo!) and the prices (the McGrill went from 20 to 25 to 30!) but more or less, I don't walk into that restaurant expecting any surprises.

And yet there are people who are simply unable to choose what they want to order until they see the menu! A menu which, just like laughter in Sidhu's throat, has remain fixed for the past ten years! Haven't you memorised it by now? Are you still in the dark about what are the burgers McDonald's serves?

There seems to be an interesting theory that is often thrown in my face whenever I start my rants about this. Some say that seeing the images of the burgers, or any visual aid, helps the decision-making progress. While I understand that there may be some merit to this theory, it is irrelevant here because, just like McDonald's offerings, people's choices too remain the same! The McChicken lover will always order that, the Maharaja Mac fan will sick to his love, and the Veg Surprise devotee will continue to enjoy that only! The McDonald's connoisseurs are steadfast loyalists- and yet, these people need to look at menu, almost as if in a desperate bid to re-affirm their own convictions!

You are a strange, inexplicably insane bunch- I love you all.

2. “One-Time-Watch”.

This is an amazing phrase, one that I am convinced does not exist anywhere else on this planet. I suppose it is fitting in a way that the origin of this soon-to-take-over-the-world phrase is the nation which produces the highest number of films in the world.

All over the world, people judge films as being good, bad or simply 'okay', describing the mediocre. We, however, are a nation that is both full of obsessive film lovers, as well as inundated with mediocrity all around us. Most films, good, bad, or hideous, we will watch anyway; and most films, from the afore-mentioned spectrum of the good, bad or hideous, will fall in the cateogry of "okay". We know the latter is a fact; we have understood it over years and years of being confronted with mediocrity, and millions and millions of fridays of battling disappointment. And yet, with the unmatchable Indian optimism, we will watch every film that comes out.

Considering the sheer number of films that fall in the "okay" category every year, all Indian cinegoers soon realised that the term "okay" was simply inadequate both as a judgement as well as a catogory- there was an urgent need for further classification, lest we (God forbid!) misguide our friends and families, who would watch the film irrespective of what we told them.

Thus, the term "okay" was sub-divided into three major categories:

"Dekh le, par bakwaas hai"
"Ok-Ok only"
and the magical "One-time watch toh hai"

This phrase, "One-Time Watch", once upon a time used to be grammatically correct: people would say "ek baar toh dekh sakte ho", or "you can watch it once". Soon, people realised that these words were beginning to encompass an entire- and rapidly growing- category, and, just like with every other oft-repeated phrase, they shortened it, to a name they gave such films- "One-Time Watch".

One must finally understand that this glorious phrase points to two essential characteristics of us Indians, which perhaps justify it too to a certain extent: one, we often watch a film two- or more- times in a theatre if it is good enough; and two, we are so starved for entertainment, and so much in love with cinema (and perhaps possess such low standards), that a film being a "One-Time Watch" is a good thing.

I, for one, have never understood this phrase. As far as I am concerned, a "One-Time Watch" is a Titan with dead batteries.

3. Salman Khan’s Stardom

Forget, for a second, "WANTED".

Salman Khan is one of the veterans and the stalwarts of the film industry. He has always been considered one of the superstars of India Cinema, and is an integral part of Bollywood's ruling clan. And yet, what is amazing, is that I cannot remember the last good movie he came up with.

While he has been considered a superstar for the past twenty years, ever since the days of "MAINE PYAAR KIYA", this is is a man who has not had a single A-league film in recent memory. I mean, what was his last major release? "YUVVRAJ"?

According his filmography at IMDB, in the past 25 films he has done, right upto 2002, that is almost eight years, he has had four hits. Yes, FOUR- and those too are films like "PARTNER", "NO ENTRY", "TERE NAAM" and "MUJHSE SHAADI KAROGI". Two David Dhawan films, an Anees Bazmee and a Satish Kaushik- hardly A-Listers!

On what basis do we call him a superstar?

However, in the past twenty years, I defy you to find one person who can deny that this man is not a superstar. This is is a man whose last decent film was perhaps 1999's "HUM DIL DE CHUKE SANAM"- and yet there is no need for him to provide any evidence for his stardom. If any were needed, there is the opening collections of "WANTED".

Not one A-league film in over 25 releases, not one landmark movie, not one A-league production house- but Salman Khan's stardom is indisputable. This is a man who has gone beyond the Box Office, and needs neither hits nor awards to prove his stardom.

Salman Khan's stardom is a walking, talking example of the madness of country we live in. And a fabulous one at that.

*********

While I end my post here, my confusion at this world obviously will not. Therefore, in all likelihood, I threaten to come back with a sequel.

THE TOP 20 INDIAN POP-CULTURE MOMENTS OF MY LIFETIME

2009-08-17T15:52:00.008+05:30

India is a country defined by a collective mythology: no, I am not referring to religion or history here. I am talking about what constitute our modern way of thinking, our mental encyclopedia of images and our colloquial dialogue. I am talking about our pop-culture. That, I believe, has far greater influence on our day-to-day behaviour than anything else: who hasn't mouthed SHOLAY dialogues at some point of their lives, or thought the words "Thandi Hawa Ka Jhonka" every time they met anyone called Sameer?

In random order, then, here are moments, images and events from the past 25 years that- in my opinion- are now part of pop culture folklore and have defined this generation as well as the world today:

Aishwarya rai, with wet hair, asking Aamir Khan for a Pepsi. We could totally understand Aamir willing to do anything to get that Pepsi. And oh yes- that slide under the shutter...
Shah Rukh Khan throwing Shilps Shetty off the roof in Baazigar. Woah. The public stared, dumbfounded: "Huh? Isn't he the hero?" And thus, the anti-hero was re-incarnated. And a three letter acronym entered our glossaries: SRK.
Kapil Dev breaking down on national television during the match-fixing scandal. Cricket has rarely given a more poignant moment, or a more heart-breaking one. Time almost stood still as the entire country sat shocked, betrayed and confused about one of its most intense passions.
Papa Kehte Hain from QSQT- that song defined a generation. Just wasn't mine. But it gave us Aamir Khan, and Udit narayan, who went on to create many more such moments.
Asawari Joshi, twirling her fingers, and telling us "Dhoondte Reh Jaaoge!"
Mowgli and his boomerang. Didn't you ever throw sticks in the air after that and wonder why it didn't come back?
Natwest Cup final. India defeats England after the latter posted a nearly-unsurmountable 326, and Sourav Ganguly celebrated by swinging his shirt. The new India was announcing its arrival: brave, ruthless, and armed with a never-say-die spirit. It brought promises of times unimaginable.
Salman Khan took his shirt off and sang "O-Oh Janejana" for the girl of his fantasies. And became synonymous with the 'shirtless' tag.
Sanjay Dutt finally channelled that attitude correctly and became a gangster in "Vaastav". For the rest of our lives, no one can replace him as the image that comes to our minds every time we hear the word "Bhai".
The Undertaker stepping into the ring. A significant part of my childhood was devoted to WWF trump cards.
Hrithik. Ek Pal Ka Jeena. A star was born, and a new dance form was created.
Madhuri Dixit, stepping into millions of fantasies and making a rubbish film memorable with "Dil Dhak-Dhak Karne Laga". May that image live on.
Urmila. Tanha- Tanha. Rangeela. Black vest. Beach... Anyone who was a teenager in 1995 knows the importance of that image.
A.R.Rahman, swinging his hair, arms spread, looking upwards and crooning "Vande Mataram". Rock had just met patriotism, and suddenly it was cool to be nationalistic again.
Shahrukh Khan rinsing his mouth with Pepsi after waking up in Dil Toh Pagal Hai. Pepsi could not have asked for a better endorsement or a bigger brand ambassador, and everyone who ever saw that movie was totally convinced about the need for leotards on women and Pepsi vending machines in their homes. That movie also turned an obscure western traditioncalled Valentine's Day into a national obsession- pretty much what Hum Aapke hain Kaun did for weddings, Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge did for Karva Chauths and Kuch Kuch Hota Hai did for Friendship Day.
Alisha Chinoy burst onto the scene in an industry which only knew Baba Sehgal and Apache Indian with "Made In India". Both male modelling (Milind Soman) and Indipop had arrived, and film music was just so passe.
The first Indo-Pak cricket match in years in 2004- India made 351, and Pakistan, with Inzamam in top form, looked ready to match it. Women forgot to make dinners, children forgot their homework, streets were literally empty and all shops were closed- an entire nation held its breath as Nehra took the ball for the last over. A last over that was heart-stoppingly exciting, suspenseful and involved a heroic, inspiring dive by Kaif. It was, ultimately, a victory we savoured- but one that Pakistan deserved just as much.
Dil Chahta Hai. Three words which inscribe numerous images defining our generation- whereas Kuch Kuch Hota hai introduced us to the term "cool", DCH told us what it meant. Whether it is three friends lazing around in cars on impromptu trips, or dancing in clubs to trance music- all of us young, urban yuppies found our rolemodels, and started planning annual Goa trips. And ever since then, whenever anyone has thanked me for coming to their birthday party, I have had only one reply: "Cake khane ke liye hum kahin bhi jaa sakte hain".
Anil Kumble coming back onfield after his injury with his head wrapped up in a bandage. Wow. Heroism does not get more gritty, or more inspiring.
Shahrukh Khan playing the mandolin amidst mustard fields, Kajol in virginal white, a cow-bell, and the strains of the refrain from "Tujhe Dekha To Yeh Jana Sanam" playing with the wind. I personally know people who wanted to buy the "DDLJ wala chhota guitar". It is solely because of that image that an entire generation grew up, totally unaware of what a mandolin is, pretending to be SRK everytime they held a guitar.

The Joys of Brevity

2009-07-29T12:35:00.005+05:30

A short story is usually a task of both extraordinary skill as well as extreme precision. Not only does it involve the development of both character and action in a short span of time and narrative space, but it is also required to provide a satisfactory denouement to the plot in order to etch itself in the reader's mind. On top of that, the quality of a short story often hides behind the "twist-in-the-tale" tool to be effective: its real test is, in fact, its brevity- the utilisation and the economy of each word the author uses. In the best short stories, each word adds to the action, the character development, the narrative or the creation of an atmosphere-not a single word, not a single punctuation mark is wasted.

Therefore, when I came across the following story, I agreed with the popular opinion- it is truly, perhaps, the greatest shortest story ever written. I have gone through numerous contests and lists of the 'shortest stories ever', but this one is utterly unparalleled. Written by Ernest Hemingway in a fit of inspiration, the untitled story uses exactly six words, one colon, one comma and a period to create a suffocating world of shattered dreams, pathos and tragedy. This is, undoubtedly, pure genius:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

Observe the way the full stop creates the finality here; also consider how hollow the story might have been had Hemingway replaced the last word by "used". Although the meaning remains the same, the focus while using the word "used" goes to the shoes, while in the original, the brilliant choice of words leads to a focus on the deceased baby. Like I said- Genius.

Mr Hemingway, here's saluting you.

"WE'LL ALWAYS HAVE PARIS."

2009-06-14T02:18:00.009+05:30

Even Humphrey Bogart could not resist the charms of this city.

But then, he had Ingrid Bergman with him, and what would not be charming with her around? I had, as my company, an old American friend from school and two of his college friends whom I had never met before. And having spent the day touring Paris with them, I have understood a great truth- what fascinates me about this place is light years away from what fascinates them. Or other, normal, rational people.

Sure, the city is extremely visually appealing- the Eiffel, the Louvre, the Champs-Elysees, the Arc D’Triomph- you know the works. Ultimately, however, I am hard to impress- after all, I come from Delhi, and we have the Qutab Minar, the Rajpath and the India Gate. As for the Louvre- well, we have Sarojini Nagar. Hundreds of people walking aimlessly in herds, looking around at things they wished they owned, wondering which way to turn- it’s pretty much the same thing.

The big things in Paris do not fascinate me- I am, however, pretty astounded by small, insignificant, everyday things. This is interesting, because I grew up in Berlin- and most of all, Paris reminds me of my childhood. However, living in India for the past seven years has conditioned me to a given way of looking at the world and a given set of expectations- I believe those seven years allow me to look at little things in Paris and appreciate small comforts with a new-found vigour. When I would enjoy them in Berlin, I was perhaps too young to truly understand their significance. I don’t know about wiser, but I am older now.

Take, for example, wall-to-wall carpeting. What a wonderful, wonderful thing. My feet have never felt more at home. I had it at home in Berlin too, but wearing slippers for seven years on cold, uneven floors (often competing for space with cockroaches and mice) has given me a new-found respect for floor coverings. I wonder why they are not common in India- perhaps because they are hard to clean with jhadoos by our maids- and of course, who would trust them with something as expensive as a vacuum cleaner? Perhaps because our food is almost always wet (and therefore spill-able) as opposed to the usually dry food Europeans eat. Perhaps because we are so consumed in buying big gold-and-maroon carpets to show off under the centre tables in our drawing room, we have never had the time to consider its practical implications.

Then there are the magical taps. Once you get used to the ever-available hot and cold water, turn them on: the water comes out in a thick, white, tempestuous, foamy stream. It’s truly amazing- I am so used to the limp, transparent cold waterfall in Delhi that I can- and sometimes do- spend hours just watching the water come out of a tap. I don’t know how it’s done, but it should be done more often, in all countries, and when I do buy a house in Delhi, I will make sure the taps function the same way.

And the bath tubs.

Bath tubs are singularly my favourite place in any home. They were in Berlin, they were in Cyprus and they are here. I suppose space is the major reason for their unavailability in most homes in Delhi. All we need in Delhi to have a bath is a running tap, some form of soap and a mug (the last is optional, as one can see on many streets at dawn). But a bath tub is like the caviar of the bathroom- it turns the cleansing of your body into such a luxurious, fulfilling and heavenly experience, that nothing else is ever good enough. What can’t you do in a bath tub to make bathing a better experience? Everything is possible- you can read, eat, drink wine, use aromatic oils, play with plastic ducks (actual, not proverbial- although that too I suppose is possible) or take a companion and make it a social, recreational experience! Bath tubs have permanently transformed the experience of having a bath- I am for ever spoilt, and you will be too.

It’s a bit strange to discuss all this when asked how I liked Paris. I suppose my feelings are unusual. I am sure it’s a great city and all, and lots of people would do anything to be here, but these are the thoughts I have been living with for the past week- I can’t help it. Not how pretty the city is, not how wonderful the Mona Lisa is (I failed to see what the hype was about. The chandeliers at the Louvre were pretty amazing though) or how it is the most romantic city on Earth. Let me tell you the secret to making a city romantic: it doesn’t matter whether you are in Casablanca or Paris- all you need is your Ingrid Bergman with you.

THE THIRD WAVE OF THE INDIAN NOUVELLE VAGUE

2009-03-28T02:00:00.000+05:30

It is said that every system in the world is self-monitoring: that is, given the cyclical nature of life, every system, when it is at the peaks of success, will also create a reason of collapse out of that success. This is visible in the world around us right now, as we are thrown from an economy at the height of a boom to the depths of a recession.

Similarly, however, systems also have the necessary self-protective function also in-built. Therefore, when things are going wrong, the system also throws up the solutions, and things eventually improve. Take America, for example. In 1932, the combination of fear and inner questioning due to the Great Depression resulted in a political upheaval, and the election of Franklin Roosevelt. A similar thing happened in the before the election of Ronald Reagan in 1980. This just proves that fear and inner questioning are not ideological but are the components of a change in mind-set- or, perhaps, a mind-set in change. In 2008, this combination resulted in a decisive win for Barack Obama, hailed as the flag-bearer of hope for the world.

There is perhaps no better case study for this than the Indian film industry. We as Indians have a tendency to stick to the tried and tested- wherever we see, taste or smell success, we go and do what those Romans are doing. After all, the sunflowers turn whichever way the sun shines. Therefore, it should not come as a surprise that in around a hundred years of Hindi cinema, even though the prototype film remains the song-and-dance filled, melodramatic masala flick, we can divide the timeline by typical films of each era.

The one thing we still have not learnt, however, is that too much of something can truly be a bad thing. After a point of time, there is nothing left to be milked out of something: that is not an understanding we have chanced upon till date. For example, when the recent spate of comedies tasted big success at the box office (starting with Priyadarshan’s Hera Pheri) we suddenly saw comedies mushrooming everywhere. In the beginning they worked, but after a point, the audience grew weary, and, in a vicious cycle, the films became increasingly derivative and farcical in an effort to be funny. Thus, what was a nice trend had been milked to the last drop. The same thing happened with the trend of the semi-porn, soft-core flicks which got a lease of life with Jism, peaked commercially wit Murder, and gave birth to a spate of B-Grade sexploitation films and actresses like Meghna Naidu and Sherlyn Chopra.

While both the above trends had started out as a response to an environment that was clearly bereft of and was ready for them, they died out because everybody (the proverbial fools) rushed in to cash in on it.

The ‘Nouvelle Vague’, or the ‘New Wave’, or the New Cinema, or the Art Film Movement- or whatever else you may want to call it- tends to define an exciting, tumultuous episode in cinema all around the world, and came about in the same way. It was a response to a long chain of spectacularly failing big-budget, claustrophobic, visible artificial dramas masquerading as cinema in France, Italy and subsequently both Hollywood and Bollywood. What is ironic is that during the time when this wave reached its peak, the mainstream commercial films figured out what was going wrong, what the public now wanted, and- having incorporated selected feasible elements of the art films into their own films- started being successful again, while the art films began their gradual descent into commercial and critical failure. This is the story of the ‘New Wave’ world over.

My argument in this essay, however, is that India is the only country to have experienced not one, not two, but three separate waves of the Art Film Movement. This is my theory and description of each of them, and both the reasons for their growth and decline in each phase.

The first wave occurred in the late sixties/seventies, when commercial potboilers were at an all time low: films were big budget multi-starrers, all had the same stories, most were revenge dramas; acting, dialogues and settings were totally artificial and melodramatic, and the box office simply was not smiling upon the commercial film-makers. At a time like this, a handful of filmmakers and actors (mostly from the FTII, Pune, and heavily influenced by Truffaut and Godard) brought an alternative cinema to the Indian audiences, one that was much cheaper to produce, needed lesser returns to be successful, had no stars, and put the emphasis sorely on stark realism in every sphere: from the storytelling, to the story; from the acting to the overall look of the film. This wave was aided by the then recent introduction of hand-held cameras which were cheaper, lighter, easier to use and allowed greater flexibility to the cinematographer in terms of shooting on real locations. This movement was wildly greeted with both critical and commercial acclaim, and fueled by the idealism of those filmmakers.

By the time this wave ended, several artists had become household names: Naseeruddin Shah, Om puri, Shabana Azmi, Smita Patil, Kulbhushan Kharbanda, Mrinal Sen, Shyam Benegal, Govind Nihalani, Vidhu Vinod Chopra, et al. The end came when, post an overdose of art films, not only did the films lose their novelty value, but, in an effort to constantly impress, they also became too gimmicky and complex until they defeated their own purpose and alienated the viewers. These films which had started out as a way for committed film-makers to express themselves had now simply become a sinking ship which many frustrated directors hung onto having no avenue into commercial cinema.

At the same time, many of the main players of this wave were lured to the commercial cinema due to many reasons- greater remuneration, greater fame, and often, frustration with the ‘art’ film movement. Commercial films had by now become slightly more sensible, having incorporated several aspects of the at film movement, and a new genre had emerged which combined the best of both worlds: the middle-of-the-road cinema, which was both sensible and entertaining, and involved everyone from Amitabh Bachchan and Dharmendra to Amol Palekar and Farooque Sheikh. Added to this, failure of the art films in terms of marketing, distribution and the sudden upswing in the box office fortunes of the commercial films sounded the death knell on the first wave.

Post this time period, and the end of the dreaded eighties (a nightmare for every Hindi film lover), the nineties came as a breath of fresh air, with the arrival of several new faces (Aamir Khan, Salman Khan, Akshay Kumar, Ajay Devgan, Shahrukh Khan, Juhi Chawla, Madhuri Dixit, etc) and filmmakers (Sooraj Barjatya, Mansoor Khan, Aziz Mirza, Aditya Chopra and later Karan Johar) who pumped up Bollywood with newer stories, newer storytelling, a world view which was truly worldly (worthy of the post-liberalization era).

However, buoyed by the success of Hum Aapke Hain Kaun, Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge and even Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, the late nineties and the first couple of years of the new millennium saw a suffocating flood of clones all about love, romance, soft-glow photography, melodrama, family drama, huge starcasts, actresses in pastel shades and stories usually set in London. The writing was very clearly on the wall when Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham, with perhaps the most ambitious starcast in history, was severely criticized for its been-there-done-that storytelling in the face of fresh storytelling of Lagaan, Chandni Bar and Dil Chahta Hai. This was when the second wave occurred.

The second wave was the invention of the Hinglish film: a trendy, up-market genre consisting of stories and protagonists set essentially in the Metros. These stories were largely told in English, with a smattering of Hindi, and dealt with issues which were too sensitive for the mainstream audiences, such as homosexuality, mafia and cultural identities, all handled with a dash of humour.

While the first such film is considered to be Dev Benegal’s “English, August” in 1994, the stars of this genre were essentially a young actor called Rahul Bose, who, with his English sensibilities and diction, created a new prototype of the urbane, confused hero; and a director called Nagesh Kukunoor, who, with his NRI mentality and experimental films burst onto the scene with “Hyderabad Blues” and proved that this genre could also be profitable. Others to later on join this bandwagon were stalwarts such as Kay Kay Menon, Tara Deshpande, Sanjay Suri, etc.

These films were aimed at an audience who had grown up on English films (as opposed to their parents, who had seen the odd “Towering Inferno” and “The Guns of Navarone”), had urbane sensibilities, and were comfortable not only conversing in English, but also dealing with sensitive themes. They enjoyed black comedis, and liked films they could relate to.

Soon, however, this profitable genre turned into a hurricane which everyone wanted to latch onto- budding filmmakers, veejay-turned-actors, models, et al. This meant not only people who had no talent or ability, but also a falling quality of films. The death knell was sounded when switched to Hindi films with “Teen Deewarein”, and Rahul Bose and Kay Kay chose to do films like “Thakshak”, “Jhankaar Beats” and “Ek Khiladi Ek Haseena”.

However, this phase too left its marks on the mainstream industry: films became more urbane, wittier and relating to identifiable, relatable characters who had other things to do besides dance in big, multi-starrer weddings. The clearest indication of this was a film called “Dil Chahta Hai” (2001) which was almost an English film in Hindi. Now that the mainstream cinema could do what the Hinglish makers were attempting, the smaller genre had to die out.

A few years later, a peculiar phenomenon occurred which single-handedly gave birth to the third art wave in India: the multiplex. Having smaller halls meant less people were now needed to make a film run successfully, and one could now aim at smaller sections of the audience rather than making a potboiler which aimed to please the entire country. Thus, a set of filmmakers and actors emerged who, with smaller budgets and tight, entertaining storytelling, seduced the metropolitan crowds, while not even getting a release in the interiors. These were, among others, Abhay Deol, Ranvir Shorey, Vinay Pathak, Imtiaz Ali, Konkona Sen, Gul Panag, Shreyas Talpade, and the father of them all, Anurag Kashyap.

We are therefore living in an era today where almost every week one such film is released- be it an Abhay Deol drama, or a Vinay Pathak (a superstar after “Bheja Fry”) comedy. However, a dangerous trend can again be seen, mirrored perfectly in Vinay Pathak films- after the success of “Bheja Fry”, a whole slew of films started with him in the lead, all with comic elements- be it “Oh My God”, “Dasvidaniya” or the yet-to-be-released “SRK”: none of these films proved of any great quality or of box office status.

While actors from this club migrate to the mainstream cinema (Vinay Pathak in “Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi”, Ranvir Shorey in “Chandni Chowk To China”, Konkona Sen in “Aaja Nachle”), and mainstream films integrate aspects of those films into theirs (both “Taare Zameen par” and “Rock On” were both aimed at given, selected audiences in the meros); and revenues of these small multiples films fall- especially in the face of the recession- these films must coordinate and go back to why they started in the first place: provide excellent entertainment or a terrific quality product.

In a world ruled by marketing rather than the product, these multiplex film directors cannot hope to compete on a mass-market level. Therefore, their future too seems bleak unless the lessons from the past two ‘waves’ are learnt and acted upon.

Whispers From The Mirror

2009-03-01T03:10:00.000+05:30

A friend mentioned recently how she was extremely depressed after watching “Vicky Cristina Barcelona”. Her reason? She had seen people get stuck in marriages that might have had love somewhere, but totally lacked passion. She had seen people who thought they wanted to get into a marriage, but after taking the plunge, kept looking for the ever-elusive escape route. Seeing all that around her in her daily life, she didn’t want to come back and see it on the screen too. After all, aren't movies supposed to be all about escapism?

Talking to her got me thinking- as it always does. (She’s a strange person who sees a lot of films and thinks a lot- my favourite combination, one that’s always dangerous and fun- but I have met very few people who think more logically than her. That is why arguing with her is so much fun.) True, cinema is indeed the ultimate form of escapist entertainment- the key word here being not only escapist, but also entertainment. If cinema is our refuge from the pain and drudgeries of real life, why would we want to see on screen the same things we are trying to run away from? To quote her, she’d rather see an “Iron Man” after a long day as opposed to a “No Country For Old Men”. Makes sense, I suppose, on some level.

My take, however, is slightly different. Yes, I value escapist entertainment immensely, and will fight anybody who frowns upon them by calling them a cheap art- if anything, I don’t know what is more difficult than making a crowd-pleasing entertainer (proof? Consider the success ratio of the imitators of “When Harry Met Sally” or “Kuch Kuch Hota Hai” or even “Sholay”.) However, there is something extremely exciting and compelling when I see someone portraying on screen the exact thoughts, situations and problems that I encounter in my daily life, without compromising on the complexities.

It is extremely easy to think of a situation (friends falling for each other, say) and make it into a film which pretends to tackle this (“Kuch Kuch Hota Hai”, or the horrible “Just Friends”, and countless other chick flicks). However, popular films rarely have room to examine the complexities of real life. The reason I like “When Harry Met Sally” is that even tough it only ostentatiously examined the above, it had a moment of genuine complexity towards the end: the loneliness which engulfs you when you fight with someone you love, who just happens to be your best friend also. Who do you talk to? The scene with Billy Crystal celebrating New Year at home while watching TV alone is my favourite scene of the film- and I have yet to meet someone who appreciates the truth of the scene, rather than finding it dragging. This is something I could personally relate to, and the loneliness is murderous.

I am fascinated by Woody Allen because- leave his exhilarating writing aside- he considers issues which lesser filmmakers never have the courage or the intelligence to explore fully. Take “Vicky Cristina Barcelona”, for example, a film while nowhere near his best, is still pretty darned good. Imagine Vicky. What do you do when, in a sudden flash, you start feeling that maybe the comfortable, secure lifestyle you are on the brink of attaining is not what you want after all? You can’t share your feelings with anybody- people will think you have lost your mind! Not only have you always wanted that lifestyle, but the person you have chosen is absolutely wonderful! At the same time, even though you are thinking about rejecting it, the only other option that you would have considered is both unavailable as well as impractical. What do you do?

Imagine, now, Juan Antonio. You love a woman, but somehow, when you are with her, you are ready to kill her. And yet, you can never find the same connection and passion with anyone else. What do you do? And what f the only possible stabilizing element is another woman? Then?

Another example is the Michael Caine- Mia Farrow- Barbara Hershey track from “Hannah and her Sisters”, where a nice, respectable accountant falls into love and has an extra-marital affair with his wife’s sister. Any other director would have shown dramatic scenes of contemplation, hysteric arguments, and a final, melodramatic moment where he must choose between his two women. Mr Allen decides to show it as it is: a man who momentarily- albeit passionately- thinks he loves another, sleeps with her and enjoys it, yet is not sure whether he truly dares to give up the comfortable life he has made for himself. He’s confused, thinks about confessing, yet never manages to tell his wife. The affair simply fizzles out, both parties agreeing with time that it was impractical and myopic. In my opinion, that is far more realistic. And Mr Allen ensures that it never seems forced, as you recognize scene after scene as if it could happen to you, and you would behave exactly the same way.

Another terrific example is the yo-yo love story of “Manhattan”, where Woody Allen’s character breaks up with the 16 year old Muriel Hemingway, only to realize at the end that she is whom he waned after all, and yet, so absorbed is he in his self-pity and ‘glamorous’ loneliness, that he has the audacity to ask her to leave her studies and stay with him.

One of the most depressing phases in my life was in my 12^th standard, a period of intense loneliness and tempestuous introspection, when I realized I was extremely fed up of the moral decay I saw around me and, if I could, I would just take a gun and blast everything away. During those highly implosive days, almost as if it was meant to be, I discovered Scorsese’s “Taxi Driver”. And it is till date my favourite film- a storyteller in direct contact with me, saying and doing things I could relate to, almost as if reading my mind.

A similar thing happened the first time I saw Aditya Chopra’s “Mohabbatein”, and was amazed to see Shahrukh Khan saying aloud things about the nature of love in the tense climax which I thought only I had felt. I could perfectly well understand loving someone so much that even after her death you can still feel her around yourself, see her all the time, talk to her whenever you wished. I nodded along, as I saw Mr Khan speak- “Mohabbat mein shartein nahi hoti, mere dost. Maine usse kabhi yeh shart toh nahi rakhi thi ki woh mere se zyada jiyegi. Uske marne se se meri mohabbat bhi khatam nahi ho jayegi.” Absolutely.

These are all moments where I have seen a film hold a mirror to my face and show me things I see all around myself. While it never depresses me, I get strangely excited- how can a man I have never met, a film I have never seen, words which I have not written convey exactly the thoughts that I have, and that too so vividly?

The best part about Mr Allen is that he never provides answers. Perhaps he doesn’t have any. As he says in “Manhattan”, when he wonders who would jump off a bridge to save a drowning person- he cannot swim. But that does not make his stories and his scenes any less profound. He may not be able to swim, but he knows that there are people drowning in the world, and we will probably not jump in to save them. And we are indeed quite shallow people who will then sit in cafes and explain our handicap. The fact that someone else understands this fascinates me. It amazes me. The fact that he can say this directly to me makes me jump up with joy and salute the power of cinema.

We don’t always like to look at a mirror without make-up on, knowing fully well it will show our flaws- our warts, our blisters, our dry skin, our expanding waistlines, our receding hairlines. But sometimes, just sometimes, if you listen carefully, the reflection speaks to you. In a whisper, it tells you to relax, to breathe, and to smile- this is life, it tells you. It’ll go on. And then it winks at you and assures you that you are not alone.

SNIPPING THE UMBILICAL CORD

2008-11-21T06:14:00.000+05:30

"The cinema is truth 24 frames per second."

~ Jean-Luc Godard

"Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life."

~ Oscar Wilde

The mother figure, as immortalized in Indian cinema since time immemorial by actresses such as Leena Chitnis and Nirupa Roy, has been an integral part of our films. The roots of Indian cinema can be found in the oral folk tales told to small gatherings under peepal trees, and, considering that most of these tales were offshoots of Indian myths and legends, it is no surprise that they were usually morality plays. Therefore, by association, Indian cinema started off- and still plays, to a very large extent- with morality tales.

The morality tale comprises of four essential roles: the protagonist, the antagonist, the crisis and the protagonist’s support system. The protagonist is, obviously, the wonderful, all-Indian virtuous hero, on whom the lives and happiness of many depend. The antagonist, in our gloriously polarized films, is the all-black wretched character who lures our hero into some form of crisis. The fourth role, of the support system, is what is at stake for hero: the reason he must solve the crisis and defeat the antagonist. This ‘support system’ can be of many forms: it could be revenge, for his sister’s rape, or father’s murder or mother’s insult, it could be winning the love of the heroine, or it could be redeeming himself in the eyes of a female character- be it his lover or his mother.

Therein lies the importance of the mother character. While the female lover may join the protagonist in any circumstance- she may, for instance, be Parveen Babi in Deewar who meets Amitabh Bachchan only after he becomes a smuggler- the mother is the one constant in his rapidly changing lifestyle. Thus, she may be Deewar’s Nirupa Roy who sees her son’s journey from a bitter atheist to an affluent smuggler, or she could also be Company’s Seema Biswas who watches with pride as her small-time-crook son rises in the gang. She could also be Rakhee in Karan-Arjun who watches with pride as her sons embark on their quest for revenge. Her role, in this scenario, is to be the keeper of her son’s conscience. It is only by looking at her and registering her opinion of him that the son realizes when he is wrong. That is why Amitabh Bachchan’s Vijay in Deewar, who is accustomed to all forms of pain, is the most hurt when his mother chooses not to stay in his house but to go with his brother to an impoverished but honest lifestyle.

This mother is also reflected in Nargis’s seminal Mother India where she plays the woman who suffers all hardships to bring up her family but would dutifully murder her son before he can force himself on a girl. Contrast this with the other child killer, played by Reema Lagoo in Vaastav, who murders her increasingly paranoid son to relieve him from further pain and punishment. While both mothers kill sons who are criminals, the former does it as a woman’s duty to stop a crime from happening, and the latter does it out of pity when her son is no longer a criminal but just a pathetic runaway. This perhaps would be a good platform to compare the changes in the mother figure’s psychology.

As it seems, mothers initially were harassed and miserable women who stood for all that is right and proper- their staunch white widow’s sarees reflecting their all-white personas. Mothers of today, however, no longer seem to be that rigidly bound in a given social straitjacket. They are allowed to have their own judgements, which can, like the protagonist’s, be swayed by money and glamour, as we see in Company. They are also allowed to behave like human beings, and the unwritten rule that the mother must be an epitome of goodness, sensibility and love no longer applies.

A perfect glimpse of the mother who inhabits today’s films is seen in Kunal Kohli’s Hum Tum. Both the protagonists in this film have several interactions with their respective mothers, as well as with each other’s. The mothers are played by Kirron Kher (as Parminder Prakash urf Bobby, Rani Mukherjee’s mother), who seems to have replaced Farida Jalal and Reema Lagoo as the favourite on-screen mother today, and Rati Agnihotri (playing Anju Kapoor, Saif Ali Khan’s mother), the yesteryear actresses making something of a comeback opposite Rishi Kapoor.

Kirron Kher’s theth Punjabi character is a very interesting variation on the caring mother. Firstly, here is a widow who does not resort to wearing only white (and therefore, when her son-in-law dies, her daughter too does not wear white). She is seen happily in elegant, colourful sarees, who is ever ready to flirt with other men. She understands her daughter’s plight, and is supportive of her decision to relocate to a different city, far away from all two-faced well-wishers after a tragedy. Her daughter’s happiness and loneliness are far more important to her than society’s opinions, and she sees nothing wrong in asking her daughter’s male friend to find a suitable boy for her. She is seen acting goofy and silly at times, ruining a tender, quiet moment by commenting how cute Indian children doing potty on the streets look.

On the other hand, Rati Agnihotri plays a highly educated career woman who not only has better things to do than run around smothering her grown-up son with maternal affection, but also, in a fresh new approach in Indian cinema, treats her divorce with utmost normalcy. She single-handedly runs her wedding planning business in a man’s world without needing a man’s backing, and never pleading anyone for compassion or help: in fact, in a particularly well-etched scene, she admonishes her son for waking up late and being scruffy, INFORMS him that he will be helping her that afternoon, and that he should fix up his own breakfast as she is very busy; all the while haggling on the phone with flower-sellers.

This is an important scene because, perhaps for one of the first times in Indian cinema, we had a mother who had decided to cut the umbilical cord. She undoubtedly loves her son, but sees no reason why he should be the centre of her universe- or, for that matter, in a bold, subtly hinted feminist statement- why any man should. Therefore, as she is very busy and her son is capable of getting his own breakfast without hurting himself, she feels they should both go about their respective work. Love does not imply sacrificing your own life, and here was a mother who understood that.

It would be a fair assumption if it was said that Rati Agnihotri represented the new breed of mothers, who are increasingly starting to infiltrate today’s society. The question is, therefore, how can companies and marketers take advantage of the “new mother figure”?

Mothers today, and women in general, are busier with their own lives, and more reluctant to give up everything else and live only for the sake of her son and husband. She wants her own life, her own career, her own bank account, her own money, her own car, her own independence and her own leisure time. This is clearly reflected in increasing sales of microwaves and washing machines, as more and more women discover the time-saving properties of these devices.

Kellogg’s Corn Flakes is working today not only because of its appeal to children’s pester power, but also because mothers are increasingly beginning to understand the convenience and comfort involved in serving breakfast cereals as opposed to the traditional parathas and puri-sabji. Thus, a mother who has to get her children ready and send them off to school before going to her own office can see multiple benefits of the quick, neat and healthy breakfast cereals.

Marketers too have started cashing in on these concepts. Similar reasoning as above explains the growing consumption of microwaveable dinners and pizza take-aways, as both are depicted as the ultimate solution to the dinner problem after a long hard day. Mothers, with increasing levels of education and awareness nowadays, can be lured towards products better suited for the children with the promise of more scientific and medical benefits, be it health drinks, tonics, diapers, sanitary napkins, water purifiers or even refrigerators- all traditional mother/housewife items are now marketed with an assumption of an educated customer who is worried about her family’s health.

Thus, the marketer who is trying to get to the Indian family today via the mother/wife, must focus his strategy on two aspects: one, the mother’s enhanced education and awareness of the world, and two, her insistence on putting herself and her needs at the centre of her universe. If he or she can appeal to the customer by promising benefits that adhere to either of the following, success cannot be far away. After all, he or she now has the mother as the loyal customer; to paraphrase a classic line, “Uss ke paas Maa hai”.

It's A Deal!

2008-07-27T20:23:00.000+05:30

Two very, very good friends of mine hooked up today. Yes, to each other. And no, they are not of the same sex. Not right now, any way.

Although I am committed- happily- for almost four years now, I find the proces of two people getting together no less mystifying than any of the skeptics. I mean, taking the two aforementioned people as a case study (yes, you can take me out of a B-School, but you can't take the B-School out of me), I and the rest of the world were waiting with bated breath for about six months now for these two to FINALLY get together and give us the inevitable treat. Seriously, if you thought waiting ten years for Ross and Rachel to get together was a test of patience, wait till you see these two!

This situation is a very clear reflection of what happened with me- when I was discovering the joys and the initial highs of love four years ago (the lows would come later, and, honestly, I wouldn't miss them for the world: you can't have a better test for a relationship), everybody around me too as waiting for us to wake up and start going around. I always thought that this is a very interesting situation- isn't it weird how, when it's someone else's life, solutions and answers and paths are so spectacularly clear to all of us, and yet, when it comes to our own lives, we get miraculously enveloped in a fog, and take an astonishingly long time weighing out the nitty-gritties?

And while we are at it, why is it 'nitty-gritties', and not 'nitties-gritties'? Never mind. I digress.

I think, as people, we are shockingly lacking in objectivity. That, above religion, fraternity, love and greed is what unites us as humans- our total and absolute lack of objectivity. I have always thought that as one looks at someone else's life, all he sees are two adjacent rectangles, one black, one white, only separated by a very thin line. It is only as we get closer, that that line becomes wider and wider, until we realise that is an equally large rectangle made entirely of grey. And that is why, when it is our life we are thinking about, we understand the complexity of situations as we can appreciate life's grey-ness. Otherwise, of course, as far as we are concerned, everything is black and white- so why is it taking them SOOO long to hook up?

It is also interesting to see how similar the process of a business deal is to our thoughts when we are considering someone for a relationship. After all, that is also no less than a deal. I mean, think about it:

You take an equally long time, sometimes more
There are various rounds of deliberations
A million negotiations ("okay, fine, I'll try and remember your birthday if you let me go out for drinks with my friends")
Numerous different reports are released to the public from numerous different sources ("She told me nothing is official!", "But he said everything is!")
PR plays a paramount role ("Listen, I think he is a really nice guy. You should consider him more seriously")
When the two concerned parties finally "sign on the dotted line", there are both official statements released, and a big, joyous celebration.
The share prices of both parties increase manifold- the guy suddenly seems safer and nicer, the girl seems more desirable (we guys have an inexplicable tendency to suddenly find someone else's property more desirable- psychiatrist call it an offshoot of the forbidden apple theory; I believe it is simply a case of "There must be something he saw which we missed!").

Yes, there goes the MBA in me talking. Management, you see, is a lifelong occupation.

But then, so is love. And this one goes out to everyone who has ever looked at someone sitting next to them and thought, "hey- my interest rate in you is rocketing upwards. How about a merger?"

Dear SCD and Roy- here's to you both.

TOP TEN HINDI FILM ENDINGS THAT WILL FOREVER STAY WITH ME

2008-07-23T21:50:00.000+05:30

Running through a few other blogs, I noticed that almost everyone has entries listing “Top Ten _________________________” where the author has filled in the blank according to the area of his/her expertise. Naturally, I got very jealous, and decided to punch back. I have always argued that nothing is more important in a film than the note on which it begins, and the note on which it ends. The former builds up expectations and hooks you to the happenings, and the latter makes sure that the film stays with you after you have left the theatre. At least, that’s what should happen in an ideal world, with ideal films. However, most films turn out to be disappointments on both fronts. May be someday I will compile a list of great beginnings. For now, here is a list of the best endings in Hindi Cinema that I could think of.

10. Don

Forget, for a moment, all those discussions about how much better AB’s version was, or how this new ending creates holes in the plot. Just ask yourself this- could you, in a million years, ever see it coming? I can still hear the audience whistling and clapping for SRK at the denouement. That is a testament to his stardom. And to Farhan Akhtar’s ingenuity and guts.

9. Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge

The thing with love stories is, from the moment you the posters, you know how its going to end. This is, after all, Bollywood. That is why, inspite of predictability, when an ending to a love story as you clapping, you know you have seen something special. Aditya Chopra knew one thing, and that was abundantly clear: it’s not what you do, but how you do it. And that is why, an extremely predictable, simple boy-meets-girl tale became the longest running hindi film of all time: by virtue of HOW the story was told. Aggression, angst, passion, a fight, and a wonderful, wordless exchange between SRK and the late Amrish Puri: what an ending.

8. Khoya Khoya Chand

Sudhir Mishra does not make his films for entertainment. However, if you ever wanted two diametrically opposite insights into the film industry of the days one by, never look further than Om Shanti Om and this film. Although this sensitve, moody and character-centric film pales in comparison to Mishra’s masterpiece Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi (which too had a haunting, painful end) KKC is memorable for the courage he showed in coming up with an ending few would appreciate- or, for that matter, understand. By the time the ending arrived, most of the people I was watching the film with had stopped caring what happened to the alcoholic actress or the egoistic writer. However, if you were still connected to the film and characters, you would realise that few films end on a higher note (in the middle of the song ‘Thirak Thirak’, Soha Ali Khan suddenly stumbles and everyone, fearing the worst, comes rushing to the rescue of this dying actress- only to be told that her paayal had broken. Suddenly, sunlight breaks through and everyone starts smiling). And Mr Mishra- kudos for the last shot.

7. Kabhi Kabhie

Ignore the unnecessary fire-in-the-forest chase sequence at the end. And concentrate on only the real ending to the superbly crafted story: the magnificent dinner party scene where Amitabh Bachchan and Rakhee confront their age-old simmering feelings and Shashi Kapoor discovers their relationship. Brilliantly written, masterfully executed, and pitch-perfect acting. AB played the hurt lover with a dignity no one has ever brought to the character again, and Shashi Kapoor turned in his career best performance in a wonderful role. “Kabhi kabhie mere dil mein… Something something… Aata hai…” Wow.

6. 1947 Earth

For a man who tries to challenge himself with every performance, Aamir Khan has not yet tired of playing the roguish charmer. He may not have overgrown his welcome, but I am waiting for him to remind himself of what he is capable of. If he needs help, he can always pop in this DVD. Just observing the way his eyes pierce the screen when he watches Nandita Das being dragged away, or the intensity with which he looks at the little girl when he asks for Das’ whereabouts, is a testament to the reservoir of talent he is.

5. Satya (Company also)

Seriously- can you imagine a better, more apt ending? What better punishment for killing so many people than to prove so repulsive to the woman you love that she refuses to open the door while the police guns you down? Pure, great cinema- at once stunningly apt, as well as hauntingly tragic. Genius. (RGV would only rival this in his pseudo-sequel Company, where, bravely, brilliantly, he had a then unknown Vijay Raaz shoot Ajay Devgan just when a happily-ever-after ending was finally in sight.)

4. Johnny Gaddar

I cannot think of- for the lack of a better word- a cooler ending than this. I mean, finally we had a movie where there was no discussion on the hero sinning and getting just punishment- finally we had a hero who had no qualms about killing people for money, and we watched him, enthralled, engaged, and extremely on his side. And just when he seemed to have overcome all the obstacles on his path, just when everything was all over- happily- Mr Raghavan moved the floor from under our feet. We could almost feel his cheeky grin at the end.

3. Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron

It is at times difficult to remember that there were a couple of other scenes after the side-splitting ‘Mahabharat’ scene. However, Kundan Shah reserved the biggest kick for the final scene of his masterpiece: Naseeruddin Shah and Ravi Vaswani, in prison uniforms, walking amongst the crowds, with ‘Hum Honge Kaamyab’ playing in the background. At that moment, irony had a new name.

2. Sadma

Oh man. Oh man oh man oh man. This is an ending that kept me awake at nights. I kicked myself, saw the film three-four times, tried to believe it- to no avail. There’s never been a character on the Hindi screen I have felt sorrier for, and Kamal Hassan made this role his own. Perhaps the most ‘logical’ ending on this list, it is also the most profoundly moving and tragic.

1. Anand

Do I even need to start on this? Who among us has not spent the entire length of this movie praying that some miracle saves Anand? Who among us has not felt an inexplicable loss shared by all the characters in this film at Anand’s death? Who among us has not mirrored Amitabh ‘Babumoshai’ Bachchan’s initial exasperation and subsequent warmth for this man? Who among us has not screamed with Bachchan at Anand’s dead body, knowing that we are too helpless to do anything? And which of us has not felt those goosebumps rising when Rajesh Khanna’s voice calls out on the tape recorder, teasing, smiling, life-affirming? Life, indeed, should be big, and not long, Mr Mukherjee. You proved it.

Runners Up:
· Dil Chahta Hai (Oh, the joy of long lost friend re-uniting)
· Dil Se (I challenge you to find a more apt and effective ending to this story)
· Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam (I have never felt so sad for Salman- but Mr Bhansali pulled it off with a flourish)
· Nayagan (Imagine- the court releases you, but the deeds of your past come back…)
· Main Hoon Na (for the sheer joie-de-vivre with which it ends in the song “Yeh Fizayen”)

Graveyard of Dreams

2008-06-28T13:59:00.000+05:30

Right here beneath you lies your dream,
Broken, shattered, destroyed beyond recognition,
That which you thought you will hold forever close
Buried alive, fallen, hurt and still vulnerable.

You know now that not every poem must rhyme,
And not every day begins with sunshine,
Sunsets too are rarely breath-taking,
Only the occasional rainbow has all seven.

Loves and lives too are just days,
Roads are all lonely and endless,
Silence screams, and always louder than words,
Everyone is a stranger alone in a crowd.

But you have also discovered something else,
You know now that the wind will still flow in,
Chased by light and the occasional dew drop,
Even if you tightly shut all the windows you can.

Life you now realize is an adhesive,
No matter how many glass dreams you have,
No matter how many shatter on life’s rocky roads,
Life picks up all the pieces and moves on.

Uncountable dreams and ambitions die every day,
You watch them fall, sometimes resigned, often reluctant,
Adding another tally to the things you could never be,
Never actually making peace with their untimely deaths.

Life around you may be a graveyard of dreams then,
Each day a funeral, every whisper a requiem,
Yet you remember to bring flowers to these graves everyday,
Knowing their fragrance will wash out the stench of the corpses.

Black Suits and Blue Jeans

2008-06-28T13:54:00.000+05:30

Isn’t it strange how your beauty never goes out of fashion?

You no longer wear that hair-do that was such a rage,
You have thrown away clothes belonging to another age,
The standard tees, tops and jeans still remain,
If only to prove to this world you are still sane.

Yet the smile blazes with the age-old kindness,
Eyes sparklingly clear with life that I have always known,
Your touch never let go of that nostalgic warmth
Your words still ring with love, making me your own.

There are things that don’t last through the night,
Then there are things which never go out of sight;
Black suits and blue jeans will always hang in my room,
And just like your beauty, always in full bloom.

Stage Wizardry

2008-05-02T10:47:00.000+05:30

Theatre is a strange thing.

Forget, for a second, lights, sound, curtains, sets and fine costumes. Forget also, if you can, a grand stage. Theatre is perhaps the only art which, stripped bare of all its accoutrements, can still function, entertain and make sense. Sitting in a corner of a park yesterday, surrounded by children, watching witches, monkeys and five travellers enjoy themselves to the hilt, I realised how, bereft of all possible production values, complete the play was.

Unlike cinema, theatre does not need to be confined to a space. This not only reflects the fact that it is an age-old tradition (and does not, therefore, require the use of an auditorium, but can be performed simply in the middle of a crowd), but also a growing recitence among modern dramatists to restrict their plays to a physical stage. Since theatre can so easily go beyond the physical confinements of a stage, they are increasingly trigger-happy to explore further arenas to enhance the experience. A fine example of this is how EVAM, a small-but-successful theatre group in Chennai, blacked out the stage in the middle of the play and, announcing an interval, urged everyone to go out to the coffee stall. When the audience went there, they were both surprised and intrigued to find members of the cast enacting the next scene at the cafe. The play continued for a while at the cafe, before the audience was guided back inside, thereby not only exploring a whole new arena but also showing a remarkable desire to break the monotony of the wooden stage.

AKVARIOUS's adaptation of 'The Wizard of Oz', staged yesterday in the Horniman Circle Garden and innovatively titled "SHAHENSHAH OF AZEEMO" (there were moments when I expected the cast to start singing 'azeem-o-shaan shahenshah') was a fun, peppy excercise in showing just how simple, yet complete theatre can be. Using barely a curtain, a wooden frame and a tree (ingeniously lit up with a single light bulb to draw attention there when required) the team provided 100 wonderful minutes of pure fun and joy, as I watched some fine actors enthrall numerous little children with songs and jokes. That's another thing- if you ever do go to watch a children's play, make sure you sit between a lot of children. I guarantee you an unforgettable experience, thanks to some incredibly infectious laughter.

Yesterday I realised something very important. Theatre, ultimately, is not about sets, sound effects or dramatic monologues delivered with spotlights; theatre is simply a delicious and heady broth concocted of a strong connection between two- and only two- necessary ingredients: the actors, and an audience. If that connection is absent, no amount of production values, money or lighting can save you.

However, if you can get that connection, then we have possibly the closest thing to what we muggles know as magic.

Funny thing is, it took a 'Wizard' to show me that.

Yeh Woh Jagah Toh Nahi...

2008-04-22T17:58:00.001+05:30

Haan, yeh shahar toh ab bhi wohi hai
Yahaan ke log, ghar sab wohi hai
Lekin jisse main kabhi chhod kar gaya tha
Yeh woh jagah toh nahi.

Hawayein toh ab bhi chalti hai yahaan
Magar mere baalon ko sehlati nahi,
Logon ki chehel-pehel aur hansi bhi hai
Par mere mann ko behlati nahi.

Ghar, baahar, ados, pados mere yahaan
Gair toh koi nahi par ajnabi sabhi hain,
Sadakein, deewarein sab jaane-pehchane se
Paraya toh kuch nahi par achanak door sabhi hain.

Fark nazare ka hai ya phir nazariye ka,
Behoshi mein iska ilm toh nahi raha,
Lagta hai aakhir yeh shahar hi badal gaya,
Ya phir shayad main woh nahi raha...

About A Girl...

2008-04-21T16:17:00.000+05:30

I saw “Good Will Hunting” for the first time when I was very young and found it a dull, slow film. Recent viewings, however, unearthed spectacularly touching layers in it, catapulting it to the list of my favourites.

One of the best moments in the film comes from the following, seemingly casual exchange between Sean (played by a restrained Robin Williams as only he can) and Will (Matt Damon- thank you for that script!). It is a conversation that suddenly, strikingly exploded into my life once again.

Will: So, when did you know, like, that she was the one for you?
Sean: October 21st, 1975.
Will: Jesus Christ. You know the fuckin' date?
Sean: Oh yeah. Cus' it was game six of the World Series. Biggest game in Red Sox history.
Will: Yeah, sure.
Sean: My friends and I had, you know, slept out on the sidewalk all night to get tickets.
Will: You got tickets?
Sean: Yep. Day of the game. I was sittin' in a bar, waitin' for the game to start, and in walks this girl. Oh it was an amazing game, though. You know, bottom of the 8th Carbo ties it up at a 6-6. It went to 12. Bottom of the 12th, in stepped Carlton Fisk. Old Pudge. Steps up to the plate, you know, and he's got that weird stance.
Will: Yeah, yeah.
Sean: And BAM! He clocks it. High fly ball down the left field line! Thirty-five thousand people, on their feet, yellin' at the ball, but that's not because of Fisk. He's wavin' at the ball like a madman.
Will: Yeah, I've seen...
Sean: He's going, "Get over! Get over! Get OVER!" And then it HITS the foul pole. OH, he goes apeshit, and 35,000 fans, you know, they charge the field, you know?
Will: Yeah, and he's fuckin' bowlin' police out of the way!
Sean: Goin', "God! Get out of the way! Get 'em away!" Banging people...
Will: I can't fuckin' believe you had tickets to that fuckin' game!
Sean: Yeah!
Will: Did you rush the field?
Sean: No, I didn't rush the fuckin' field, I wasn't there.
Will: What?
Sean: No - I was in a bar havin' a drink with my future wife.
Will: You missed Pudge Fisk's homerun?
Sean: Oh yeah.
Will: To have a fuckin' drink with some lady you never met?
Sean: Yeah, but you shoulda seen her. She was a stunner.
Will: I don't care if Helen of Troy walks in the room, that's game six!
Sean: Oh, Helen of Troy...
Will: Oh my God, and who are these fuckin' friends of yours they let you get away with that? Sean: Oh... They had to.
Will: W-w-w-what'd you say to them?
Sean: I just slid my ticket across the table and I said, "Sorry guys, I gotta see about a girl."
Will: I gotta go see about a girl?
Sean: Yeah.
Will: That's what you said? And they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh yeah. They saw in my eyes that I meant it.

It was a great match, the IPL premiere- stars, pomp, razzmatazz, glamour- and, perhaps first and foremost, McCullum and his 158 not out. A match that everyone I know made sure they did not miss- including me. I think Ananya will forever hate me for dragging her out of office- almost physically- well before the official end of the day and rushing to the station by auto. But that was necessary- I was set to view it at a sports bar on Grant Road, over an hour away from the office. I made it there too, just in time.

If Ananya minded my dragging her there, she will certainly not forgive me when I tell her I didn’t see any of it.

You see, I too had to go see about a girl.

Hope that makes sense, Ananya.

Where Hearts and Minds Meet...

2008-04-17T17:38:00.000+05:30

When I was very young, I had a teacher who taught me not to be impulsive. Decisions, he said, should be taken with utmost care and after a lot of introspection. Well, so many years down the line, with enough instances of introspection and plenty of care taken, I have to say- Sir, you were wrong.

See, I am sick of all those SRK films that keep telling you to listen to your heart, and your brain. Frankly, when I think of something, that thought doesn’t exactly come with the postmark of my heart. Therefore, it is quite difficult for me to decide whether the swamp where the thought bloomed was my heart or my mind. Thus, I am never sure whether to listen to myself or not.

Over the years, though, I have realized that the heart and the brain are like two trains that start off at the same station, but while one is going to Ahmedabad, the other goes to Patna. In simpler words, with time, they are bound to increasingly diverge from each other. Hence, if you need to make a decision without any doubts or second thoughts- make it quickly!

Many decisions I spent ages pondering over have proven themselves to be not only incorrect, but also clearly undeserving of the time allocated to them. Hey- when you are at an airport, and have barely a few minutes before somebody very close leaves for months, do the 15 minutes you spent deciding what to have for breakfast make any sense?

Admittedly, I have found that there have been several decisions I made on the spur of the moment which have turned out to be questionable- and extremely troublesome. For instance- in hindsight- the decision to do MBA perhaps warranted more than the cursory 20 seconds I gave it. However, at the end of the road, I am glad that I didn’t allow further thought to interfere with my decision: imagine all the friends, fun and growing up I would have missed out on. Not to mention the suffering- and, as Steve Carrell says in ‘Little Miss Sunshine”, suffering is what makes you who you are.

Whatever a person is at any point of time, is ultimately a result of his or her decisions- and not abilities, to paraphrase J.K.Rowling. In that case, then, I am pretty glad I took some of those decisions.

Decisions I will always live by and hold close to my heart- and my mind…

Decisions taken in an instant, with one vision of somebody on a stage…
Decisions taken at the IHC, sitting and looking into somebody’s eyes…
Decisions taken walking in the dark, aimlessly, cluelessly…
Decisions taken while sitting alone, staring into the distance, seeing nothing.,..
Decisions taken outside someone’s house, with a thumping heart, and a sudden moment of clarity…
Decisions taken at the seaside, holding somebody’s hand, walking with feet flirting with the tide…
Decisions taken in love, with alarming calmness and total knowledge of the storms coming…

Decisions.

Taken in the spur of a moment. Sometimes looming over your entire life.

Moments where your heart and mind meld into one and in one, blinding flash, illuminate your entire being.

I am talking of those decisions. And Sir, they don’t need care or introspection.

Shikayatein...

2008-03-26T03:45:00.000+05:30

Ek daag hai mere haath pe
Yaad hai ek chot ki
Kisi ki hansi ki goonj
Aur unko hansane ke zid ki.

Jab thamayi thi dor kisi ke haath mein,
Tab khwaab bun rahe the hum.
Bunaai mein jab gaanth pad gayi,
Toh haunsle bhi ho hi gaye kum.

Jo shikayatein hain duniya se humein,
Humari hi hai aur sambhalenge bhi hum,
Aakhir humara idhar aur hai hi kya,
Sirf thodi yaadein aur aise hi kuch nazm?

Kyun batayein kisiko humein kya lagta hai?
Zaroori hai bayaan karna apne ehsaas lafzon mein?
Unhe batao dard humara hai aur sirf humara hai,
Kyun aur kis haque se unhe hissa de uss mein?

Koi humein idhar kheenche koi unhe udhar,
Thak chuke hain hum ab iss jaddojehad se.
Haar gayein hain hum iss rozmarra ke kashmakash se,
Tang aa chuke hain hum pe haque jamane wale iss zamane se.

Thaan liya hai aaj aaina dekh kar humne
Ab bas yeh aankhein nam na hongi,
Lekin zindagi shayad ab humein chain na de,
Kyunki yeh shikayatein bhi toh kam na hongi…

My Favourite Lyrics... My State of Mind.

2008-03-22T16:21:00.000+05:30

Something about songs of disillusionment and pain always ring true with me... Yet no song captures the essence of our temporariness like this song. Sahir Ludhyanvi- God bless his soul- was matchless when it came to pouring bitterness and anger into words- be it this song, be it "Chalo Ek Baar Phir Se Ajnabi Ban Jaayein Hum Dono" or any of the classics from PYAASA.

This song has always been special to me perhaps because I have always felt that me, my writings, my love, my feelings are all extremely ephemeral. Good or bad, high or low, it shall pass soon whether we like it or not. And so shall we. Read the last verse carefully- there's no better way to put my biggest fear.

Aaah. Main Pal Do Pal Ka Shayar Hoon... Aren't we all?

"Main pal do pal ka shaayar hoon,
Pal do pal meri kahaani hain
Pal do pal meri hasti hai,
Pal do pal meri jawaani hain...

Mujhse pehle kitne shaayar, aaye aur aakar chale gaye
Kuch aahein bhar kar laut gaye, kuch nagmein gaa kar chale gaye
Woh bhi ek pal ka kissa the, main bhi ek pal ka kissa hoon
Kal tum se judaa ho jaaoonga, Joh aaj tumhara hissa hoon...

Kal aur aayenge nagmon ki khilti kaliyan chunne waale
Mujhse behtar kehne waale, tumse behtar sunane waale
Kal koi mujhko yaad kare, kyon koi mujhko yaad kare
Masroof zamana mere liye, kyon waqt apna barbaad kare..."

Most Eloquent Expression of Disillusionment Ever...

2008-03-22T16:14:00.000+05:30

Jalaa do isse, foonk daalo ye duniya

Mere saamne se hataa lo yeh duniya

Tumhari hain tum hi sambhalo yeh duniya

Yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaaye toh kya hai...

~ Sahir Ludhianvi... R.I.P.

Of Dead Clocks and Evanescence…

2008-03-19T23:38:00.000+05:30

If Ashutosh Gowariker ever decided to make a sequel to SWADES, I will perhaps be the best candidate for the lead role. Born and brought up around the world- with a ridiculous accent and strange mannerisms to prove it- I was always the classic outsider here, trying desperately to fit in. I am also the quintessential urban cowboy, having spent my life in metropolitan centres of this world. It is strange, therefore, that halfway through my MBA, I would find myself wandering around a village, trying to speak Gujarati to domesticated housewives.

As a part of the YI-Net here, I was sent to Telav village to try and coax as many women as possible to come for the Women’s Day celebration that we were organizing. But that is not what this is about. This is about the three little local boys who were accompanying us, guiding us from house to house, speaking to those who were unable to understand us.

While making petty conversation to get to know them better, I asked them what they wanted to become when they grew up- yes, yes, I know, very irritating, very clichéd, but I am not sure what one says to a 13 year old. We had already discussed movies and cricket.

Now, all my life, I have been a pretty directionless, clueless, lost kind of person. So whenever some representative of the adult world decided to develop an interest in my future, I would usually tell them that I had no idea. Which, admittedly, they found strange of a 20 year old. Hence, I felt all the more hypocritical. But I wasn’t ready for their responses.

One, the eager-to-please kid, just smiled, while the other said, very prophetically, “Jo bhi banna hoga, ban jayenge”.(We will become whatever we are to become). The third, the most serious one, simply said “humein aapki tarah English mein padhna hai” (we want to study in English, like you).

The child-prophet was perhaps simply trying to sound smart, he may have only meant it as a throwaway comment, implying that he will decide when the time comes, but it is nevertheless a very strange feeling to have a thirteen year old stranger echo your feelings. He probably had no idea how limited in scope his future might be, given his economic and social background, but here he was, at peace with the fact that he will be what he is to be. I doubt if he got this attitude from his parents- I can only wonder where his thoughts come from. I am not trying to hint at any deep, life changing truths here- I am simply trying to articulate what I felt at that point of time.

What struck me most, however, was the third child’s desire to study in English. Now, when you live in India, you kind of get used to the fact that even though you are paying nine lakhs to sit in an air-conditioned seminar hall, two kilometers down the road hundreds are studying in small dusty classrooms with clocks whose dead batteries have not been replaced for months. In such a scenario, millions grow up wishing to speak English, recognizing the language as both a passport for upward mobility as well as a status symbol. But this child was not content with that. Like millions of others, he wanted to learn to speak English, but that wasn’t the end of the road for him. He wanted to go one level beyond all that. He wanted to study in English. Now, that was a kicker.

I think living in Indian metros somehow desensitizes us to the presence of these dusty classrooms two kilometers away from us, the eager-to-learn students who probably will never get an opportunity to, and all the dead clocks. The existence of millions of such desires sprouting all around us is also something we have happily blocked out of our conscience. Our English medium educations, too, are easily taken for granted by us. It took a thirteen year old and his prophet friend to disorient me- temporarily, of course- from my secure cocoon.

It has been several days since my trip to Telav. In the meantime, I have happily settled back into my wonderfully materialistic existence, surrounded with good food, funny movies and plans of bunking classes. I am not really sure what I have been trying to say in this piece. That we should do something for these children? No, I don’t think so. That’s just a cliché. Certainly, I thought about it, as does everyone else who is confronted with all this, but just like cigarette smoke, it is a fast evanescing thought, prone to getting overshadowed by various other, more immediate issues like what to have for dinner.

My determination to change the lives of these children was lost almost as soon as I came back. Yes, that sounds shallow, but I can live with that. Dishonesty- particularly with myself- is what I cannot accept. I think my only aim in writing all this was to sort out the millions of feelings and thoughts that passed through my miniscule mind that day, and for various days since then.

I have not done anything for those children yet. Somehow, I don’t think I will end up doing much either. Nor will anyone else. No matter how much we try, one day these children will wake up and find themselves alone. That day, perhaps, they will try and become comfortable with their existence, and I will be at peace with my conscience. As that prophet-child said, whatever is to be, will be. Until that day, all he and I will do is wait. Nothing more, and nothing less.

I do not know how long we will be waiting. This might be a good time, then, to replace the clock batteries. Or I might do that for them.

That, at least, is something I can do.

Frozen Images…

2008-03-19T01:14:00.000+05:30

Bullets shatter the eardrums, as pellets spear through a million bodies at a time. In a bed decorated with corpses and fertilized with blood, a butterfly lands next to a trench on the Western Front, and slowly, slowly, a hand comes out from the trench. A hand that craves for freedom, for happier days, for the comfort of his home, for the love of his family… A hand that just wants to touch the elusive, beautiful butterfly, even if it means disclosing his position on the battleground... And the hand progresses, further and further, inching closer to one last moment of happiness…

An Indianised NRI lover steps onto a gently moving train, destined for a place far, far away, as his lady love and her fierce father look at him from the platform. Slowly he turns around, and looks right into his would-be father-in-law’s eyes. The train is gradually gaining speed, the girl is hysterically weeping, and two men simply stare at each other. A thousand words, a million promises, a billion agreements pass between them- and not a word is spoken. And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, the father lets the girl go.

“Jaa, Simran, jaa- jaa jee le apni zindagi.”

Millions endorse a book launching; an anthology by a poet whom no one ever gave due recognition, who they all believe is now dead… A door opens, and, framed in a harsh, bright background light, he stands, wrapped in a shawl, hands spread out, shrouded in the darkness that has engulfed his entire life. He then looks up, slowly, gradually, full of disgust and pity for the people around him- and, in words glittering with poetry that no one has ever matched since, spits out his fury, his frustration and his disillusionment with this world.

“Yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaaye toh kya hai…?”

A deaf-blind girl, after years of perseverance and persistence, finally graduates. In what must be the happiest moment of her life, she comes back to meet the one man who taught her everything, including the ability to live and fight. That man, however, is now in the depths of Alzheimer’s, and, confined to a hospital, has not recognized anyone for ages. Yet she believes her achievement will mean something to him, and, dressed in her graduation robes, she hands him her degree. Like light tip-toeing into the night at dawn, recognition slowly dawns- he touches her robes, her hat, and in a moment so sublime that it transcends all celebrations, he dances.

“Come… Into… The light.”

An intensely lonely man stands in front of a mirror, armed with a gun and believing it to be his destiny. He has spent years alone, irreparably scarred in Vietnam, and has spent hours and hours alone in his room working out and writing his thoughts down. In a moment of inspiration and full of attitude, he cockily talks to himself in the mirror- for he’s the only one there.

“You talkin’ to me? There ain’t no one else here.”

Confronted with overwhelming evidence, a strong-willed, concerned wife asks her husband if he is involved in his family’s crime business. He is reluctant with his answers initially, and soon graduates to full blown retaliation, warning her never to ask him about his business again. Then, after much insistence and a very long, pregnant pause, he looks right into her eyes and- unexpectedly, unbelievably- denies all we know to be true. She leaves the room, a relieved, rejuvenated, satisfied woman, but suddenly turns around- only to find a door being closed on her face forever.

“That’s my family, Kay, that’s not me.”

I sit at the table with her, holding her hand under it, facing her mother. Her mother has known about us for some time now, and decides its time for a tete-a-tete. Gradually, over the course of a meal in Lajpat Nagar, she tells me all about her husband, his life, his ideologies, his dreams. And what we must do if we want our dreams to be realized. It’s not an easy task. As I look at the girl next to me, however, she and I are both filled with an inexplicable and surprisingly clear sense of purpose and calm: armed, finally, with the knowledge that no test is too difficult; no mountain too tall. If this is what we must do to continue holding each other’s hands, then this is exactly what we will do- and more.

“Aapni chinta korben naa, Aunty.”

She refuses to be seen with me when I wear my favourite dark green shirt. My limited eye for aesthetics hides anything hideous in that marvelous garment. We have had numerous arguments about it, and it still creates ripples. Then I find myself penniless before our anniversary, and, in a moment of sheer lunacy and true filmi inspiration, I gift her my shirt, with only a smile and a simple logical statement to clear her evident confusion- as long as she has it, I cannot wear it. Clouds part somewhere and sunlight bursts through- she smiles…

I walk into my kitchen and see her frying puris with my mother and sister. They laugh together and my mother curses the ever-absent housemaid. It’s not a sight I expected to see- and yet, somehow, it seems so… right. They don’t notice me, and I just stare, enveloped in bliss. This is my life. And I like it.

These are not moments which have altered my life in any way, nor have they changed me as a person. True, they are discontinuous and disjointed; each is a part of a larger continuity which gives it meaning. However, as I sit alone in darkness, submerged in reminiscence, I find- more than anything else- these images recurring in my mind. They have all given me momentary happiness. And in a world where happiness has to be snatched from every single fragment of every single breath, they have taught me one thing- happiness lies in seemingly insignificant, inconsequential moments.

Each of these moments have one common thread running through them that bind them to me- somehow, at certain junctures of our being, our meaningless little lives are so filled with love and happiness, that what happens next is absolutely irrelevant.

Happiness is here. Now.

A Thousand Deaths...

2008-03-19T01:06:00.000+05:30

Will we ever wish for them,
Does it ever bother you and me,
That we have never really missed
Things that were never meant to be?

Roads we have never crossed,
Places we have never been,
Windows we have never opened,
Sights we have never seen.

Words we have never spoken,
Things we have never said,
Hands we have never held,
Promises we have never made.

When the morning will not find us awake,
And our names will only bring tears,
Will we be remembered for being strong and noble
Or for our regrets, our doubts and our fears?

Give us a thousand deaths,
I would still wish we had lived,
I wish we had lived,
I wish we had lived…