SHOULD THEY SEE ROMANCE? OR SHOULD WE SEE THE CHANGE?

A wise man once told me that change cannot be inflicted upon people – it must be infected. A head-on confrontation will invariably face resistance from those who are set in their ways; for change to truly occur, it must be seeped in gradually, pushing the envelope one inch at a time.

I was reminded of this last weekend, when I was watching the delightful Shuddh Desi Romance. This is a film that, even if it doesn’t create change, will certainly create ripples. This essay is not a review – rather, this is a discussion about films (and this one in particular) as a barometer of changing attitudes amongst young Indians. Films are often said to be a reflection of society – but films need not limit themselves to mere reflection. When done correctly, they can lead, they can teach; they can force society to think, to believe, to question and sometimes even change.

WHY THIS FILM MATTERS

This film is remarkable for the way writer Jaideep Sahni and director Maneesh Sharma create a world in which daring, revolutionary events occur, but so subtly and casually do they take place that instead of affronting sensibilities, they seem like the only natural course of action. Mr Sharma had shown sparks of this earlier too, in his near-perfect Band Baaja Baraat. In that film, Anushka Sharma and Ranveer Singh play business partners from lower middle class Delhi who run a wedding planning agency together. In an almost throw-away scene, she calls her mother after a hard day’s work and casually informs her that she will be staying over at Ranveer Singh’s house. They eat while watching TV, after which she promptly goes to sleep next to him in his bed. And that’s it: there is no drama created about what people will think, no scandalised reaction shown from her mother, no palpitations on sharing a bed, not even a “you sleep on the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor” discussion. The act itself was a big deal considering the social strata they were dealing with, but what made it all the more interesting is the steadfast refusal by all the parties to not create any fuss about it.

What is special about Shuddh Desi Romance, beyond the fine writing and pitch-perfect direction, is its insistence on not succumbing to the traditional behaviour and pay-offs associated with most Bollywood cinema. Prima facie, this is a film that deals with live-in relationships – which is hardly revolutionary new ground. An increasingly common phrase being brandished about today by mass media, advertising and TV serials, live-in relationships were introduced to mainstream Bollywood seven years ago, via a reasonably entertaining rom-com called Salaam Namaste. It was the story of a couple who were in a live-in relationship simply because, due to their different work schedules, they had no other way of spending time with each other. Since then, many films have shown couples who chose this lifestyle out of willingness, not as the last resort. However, Shuddh Desi Romance pushes this to a whole new level, and in the process challenges a lot of the classic Bollywood conventions – as well as those of the traditional Indian mind-set.

LIVE IN. DRAMA OUT.

Live-in relationships in this film are approached with a refreshingly frank casualness. This becomes doubly important because this story, unlike Salaam Namaste, is not set in Australia. It is not even set in Mumbai or Delhi. The story takes place in a very middle class neighbourhood in Jaipur. The couple embarks on this living arrangement with an incredibly nonchalant attitude, wasting no time in bunking together literally from the second time they meet, and not for a second are they concerned about society, parents, etc. Sure, he is officially still introduced as her ‘brother’ in order to not offend some social fabric, but the film acutely observes that this fools no one; while simultaneously pointing out that the couple do not let the society comment on or intrude into their living arrangement. It tells us two things: living in is only as big a deal as you make it, and society will only matter if you let it.

MARRIAGE IS NOT THE ONLY HAPPY ENDING

The film is traditionally mainstream in that the characters eventually do succumb to love and progress towards a happy ending – however, these characters don’t necessarily believe that their happy ending should be the same as yours, or any of the ones we have been fed by films. Once all the romantic complications are resolved and the central couple has decided to settle down with each other, the film casually, almost inevitably, threatens to veer towards a ‘they-get-married-and-live-happily-ever-after’ conclusion – and then, in a reassuringly, blessedly confident ending, it shuns the entire notion of marriage as the only eventual destination. This is behaviourally consistent with these characters: after all, both the parties in this commitment-phobic couple have run away from weddings earlier, and the film thankfully does not try and accommodate a traditional happy ending by piling on a last-minute reversal of beliefs for them. This modern couple sees no reason for a marriage – they are in love, they are together, they are happy: where is the need for a big, exhibitionist wedding or the impositions of a marriage? If it is argued that the eventual aim of a marriage is to live together happily, then this couple is already doing that, without all the other unnecessary trappings.

The boldness of this ending cannot be understated. In all the films that have ever depicted a live-in relationship, it is viewed almost as an apologetic precursor to the eventual wedding. However, to this couple, and perhaps to many urban lovers in India today, living-in is not a rehearsal for marriage: it is the real thing; an equally valid life choice. The argument is simple: get married because you want to, not because you have to.

WHY THE FILM-MAKER MATTERS

It must be remembered that this film comes from the house of Yashraj Films. Yashraj Films, in the world of Indian cinema, is effectively the embodiment of the establishment. It is a company which, for over thirty years, has fed us one wedding video after another. It is impossible to go to any wedding today without feeling like an actor in a ‘Best of Yashraj’ music video. Then again, it was this company that also brought us Salaam Namaste.

People often believe that Hindi Cinema will change because of the wild, experimental film-making of the outsiders in this industry: the Anurag Kashyaps, the Dibakar Bannerjees, etc. But that is a misconception – these film-makers live on the fringes on the industry. Those on the fringes can never bring change at a mass level. If an industry must change in anyway, change has to happen at its fulcrum, by people with substantial mass, and who can genuinely affect things – people like Yashraj Films. The fringe players at most are the missionaries – their task must be to convert, to infect; they must inspire change at the fulcrum. Arguably, this is starting to happen – not only are their films starting to affect the films of the Goliaths (be it in terms of actors, technicians, subjects or story-telling techniques) but the fringe players are increasingly collaborating with the latter to create change at the fulcrum. In fact, Dibakar Bannerjee’s next film is a co-production with Yashraj Films, starring Sushant Singh Rajput.

Thus, rather than the harbingers of change, the fringe players and the outsiders must be the missionaries – because real change will only happen when those in the fulcrum have been infected.

Someone told me that for a film that is so eager to severe ties with the conventionalities and coy-ness of the traditional Hindi film romance, it is ironic that the film is called Shuddh Desi Romance (Pure, Indian Romance). Perhaps. Perhaps it was intended as irony. I see it as extremely acute: when India is changing, why should the definition of the pure Indian romance stay the same?

The Land Of Questions

Mr Aamir Khan, whose recent output ranges all the way from Mangal Pandey to Dil Chahta Hai, has often been hailed as a genius because of the quality of his work. His consistency in hitting the bull’s eye over and over again, by making films which connects with the nation, has been heralded unanimously. It seems like the man only goes from height to height: if being a part of Indian cinema’s biggest success story, 3 Idiots, wasn’t enough, he is now making people all over the country weep every Sunday through Satyamev Jayate.

Obviously, I have a slightly different take.

Mr Khan’s success has nothing to do with quality of the output: if quality work was the only criteria, we would not have witnessed Aamir Khan in Sunny Deol mode in that woeful remake, Ghajini. And like I have done over the past decade, I will continue to pretend that films like Fanaa and Mela do not exist.

The reason he seems to be so unerringly consistent is because of an altogether different – and in these marketing-heavy times, perhaps more important – reason: his razor-sharp understanding of the Indian audience.

He understands that the Indian audience is a particularly emotional one. Indian films are the only thing, besides cricket, that provide our people with a collective, common conscious – one which allows us to both take out or frustrations, as well be inspired to carry on with our daily struggles. Hence, his films always deliver on the emotional quota: they’ll make you laugh, they’ll make you cry, and, crucially, they’ll make you think an important point has been raised.

That is the fulcrum of his success.

Examine the spread of issues he has dealt with in the recent past: the faulty Indian education system (3 Idiots), the faulty Indian media (Peepli Live), the faulty parenting styles (Taare Zameen Par – let’s face it, more than dyslexia per se, it was a film urging you not to force kids to conform) and now the many faulty things in our country. In each of these, he has made a point about how wrong things around us are. And we, burdened with the unimaginable weight of survival in our country as well as the stifling inability to do anything about our problems, have vigorously nodded in agreement. In the process, Aamir Khan has been hailed as a genius for the ‘insightful’ manner in which he confronts us with ‘uncomfortable’ questions.

Yes, he is certainly a genius – but of an entirely different kind. He is a genius because he has understood a peculiarly idiotic thing about us: we seek neither insight, nor discomfort. We like affordable, comfortable revolutions, ones which demand nothing more from us than to murmur outrage. While we are smart enough to understand our issues and start uproar over injustice, we are too lazy and near-sighted to seek a resolution. To us, the uproar is the resolution. Once an issue has been raised, we are content to mull over it, express our agreement, voice our conviction that something must be done, and then patiently wait for the next issue to be raised. Brought up in a country where we continuously rely on others to solve our problems, not one of us notices that we have conveniently skipped over the resolution.

Think about it yourself: in which of the afore-mentioned works has he ever provided a viable, practical solution? No. But has that lack of a possible way out being shown ever disturbed us? Not at all – seeking solutions is not a part of our nature, and he knows that. He knows that we are content that someone has raised the question. The more populist and obvious the issue, the more we appreciate it. Honestly – did we need Aamir Khan to convince us that there are faults in the Indian education system, or that dowry is a widespread disease? What we needed was information on how to change – something that is unavailable. And I’m sorry – it is a ridiculous argument to say that at least someone has raised the question. These questions have always been raised, standing tall and erect in our hazy collective conscience, always relegated to the distant horizon, where they will be promptly returned to once we find a newer question.

We are worse than armchair activists – we are philosophical hypochondriacs. We love discussing all the things that plague us, but somewhere are morbidly afraid of finding a solution. Which is why films like Swades and Yuva, which have offered semi-practical solutions to our national problems, never work here. And Aamir Khan, the ambassador of psudo-transformation, has understood this better than anyone. Aamir Khan is simply the man who looks at his neighbor and says that the streets are too dirty. He is never going to pick up a broom – and neither are we, so we nod in agreement, convinced that having nodded, our part in this revolution is complete.

iCrib

In James Cameron’s sci-fi classic “The Terminator”, we are warned of an impending future when the machines will take over and rule us. Well, for what it’s worth, I don’t think the machines are waiting for the future anymore.

Technology was created by man with a very simple aim: to help him reduce his work. Telephones, refrigeration, automobiles, air travel, microwave ovens, the internet – all were supposed to reduce his efforts and enrich his life. So at which point of time did they start governing our lives?

Certainly, life is easier today than it was a hundred years ago because of technology. Travelling is easier, health care is better, communication is simpler. Yet look deep into your heart and tell me – when was the last time you felt the Facebook actually lessened your work; or has browsing through it become another addition to your daily tasks? Has your Blackberry made your life comfortable by bringing you e-mails everywhere, or has it allowed the ghost of your office to haunt you anywhere, anytime? Has the microwave made heating food up less of a hassle, or is it creating a lazy generation who is always on the hunt for a quick solution?

In case you have not been able to guess so far, I am not really a technophile. I like books that are made of paper, I like seeing lips and teeth convey a smile rather than a colon and a bracket, and I can’t imagine how cloud computing functions in the monsoon. And, at the risk of being slaughtered, I must confess that I don’t worship Steve Jobs.

I believe that technology, instead of making life simpler for us, has created a whole new system of rituals, customs and manners that has superimposed itself over our existing order of codes and conduct. Life isn’t necessarily simpler – it is just different, albeit equally complex.

The truest proof of anyone getting engaged is the facebook relationship status changing. We only believe someone is married when we see the photos on facebook. More than the holiday itself, we look forward to the comments our holiday photos will get when we post them online on the first day back at work.  My weekend must have better than yours because my photos got more ‘likes’. The mid-morning stroll to the water cooler to chat up our colleagues has given precedence to the quick mid-morning scan through facebook updates when our bosses are busy – probably doing the same.

Yes, I concede that technology has certainly made life quicker. However, the trouble with finishing off tasks in increasingly lesser spans of time is that we then have to struggle even harder to occupy what we have left over. A frenetic lifestyle leads to an even more frenetic search for newer, crazier experiences – because we get tuned to a perpetually rising bar. And after we are exhausted by the insane pace of our lives, we all pop for a quick break into a relaxation or meditation spa, and pay to slow our lives down.

My friends have often me that I am inherently an old man. I have never bothered to understand the reason behind that. Perhaps because I can sit in one spot for over half an hour, patiently, without talking, getting frustrated, or – God forbid! – checking my phone. Perhaps because I can get through a journey by looking out of the window, instead of depending on my mp3 collection. Perhaps because when the internet breaks down at my house, I don’t feel an empty, endless void in my life.

I am not sure where this leaves me. I understand that I am a member of an increasingly endangered species of people who don’t aspire for things that are prefixed with an ‘i’. I realise that I am perhaps one in very few who still cringe at grammatical and punctuation mistakes in an SMS. I know I am the only person left who misses the kitschy value of a perfumed love letter.

Don’t get me wrong – this is not a “good old days” rant. I have no hesitation in admitting that technology has improved our lives in innumerable ways. However, I often have incredible difficulty in calming a nagging feeling that we may be paying too high a price.

When My Girlfriend Met Holden Caulfield

“If you truly want to understand me,” I said to my long-term girlfriend one day, “you must read ‘The Catcher In the Rye’”.

She stared at me blankly. We had been together for about five years by then, so a peek into my tortured soul probably wasn’t a particularly effective incentive. Then again, in my defense, Salinger’s masterpiece does not really need one.

A story without a plot, the novel follows the iconic Holden Caulfield over four days as he travels around New York after being expelled from his boarding school. In four days, his holidays begin, and going home before that would mean telling his parents why he is home. So he whiles away time in various places across New York, and we travel with him, watching films, meeting people, going to bars and generally watching life. And by the time the novel reaches its conclusion, we realise that we have grown up in many ways – even though Holden may not have.

Essentially a rites-of-passage novel, ‘The Catcher In The Rye’ virtually defines the phrase ‘bildungsroman’ in modern literature – and with good reason. Observing a boy trying desperately to grapple with the complexities of life, while constantly letting his frustrations out on the people around him, we see ourselves in every one of his dilemmas.  The genius of the novel lies in creating a completely irreverent yet not totally unsympathetic character as its protagonist and narrator. He is not a bad person – he believes in charity, loves his family – but is rebellious, insolent, extremely judgmental and believes himself to be above almost everyone around him. So while we see him go through many a life lesson, his sheer refusal to learn them, along with a strict contempt for pretty much anyone around him, simultaneously creates a distance which avoids uncomfortable sentimentality while actually underlining the growth even more acutely. Salinger does not need to explain the morals of the story – Holden’s scorn for it, while lampooning them, ironically highlights them also. In the process, although he may not have really matured, we witness a much better, un-manipulative and thought-provoking story than can be expected from this genre.

The novel is peppered with incidents that illustrate this complex, confused character, without having anyone explain him to us. We see him urge a prostitute to have a conversation with him before the night progresses; we see him feel sympathy for nuns; we see him watch ducks blissfully with his sister; and gradually we begin to recognize this confused boy, raging a war against the world, as a former shadow of ourselves.

Teenage years are a particularly difficult time in everybody’s life. While we don’t actually have more problems at that time, we seem to think we do. Every high is higher, every low is lower. Our gross misjudgment of our problems comes partly from our incomprehension of their long-term magnitude and partly from our frustrating inability to articulate them in such a manner that they can be resolved. This is apparent in every one of Holden’s quirks: he hates most of the people around him, but he cannot explain why. He gets irritated and restless at a party, but is at a loss of words when asked for a reason. He hates hypocrites (‘phonies’, as he calls them) but does not really understand the term.

Salinger’s brilliance is that by having such a narrator, he does not need to – and honestly, cannot – explain these feelings. And yet, somehow, we know. We understand. We shake our heads, smiling ruefully, recognizing our younger selves in Holden’s desperate rants and confusions. We relate to his idiosyncrasies, because we have also had them. And we know that one day he will leave all this behind, and grow up to become a more sorted, balanced individual. We don’t know when – it may not happen by the novel’s end, or by the end of the year, or maybe even in the next ten years. But we know that he will one day, eventually, grow up.

We know that because we did.

I had the privilege of reading this fine work of art when I was a teenager, and, over fifty years after it was written, I felt this novel was written just for me: it spoke in my language, it voiced my feelings, it gave shape to my teenage angst in a manner I could not. Ultimately, it helped me understand and control my inner Holden, and become a more mature and sensitive person.

And for that, Mr Salinger, my girlfriend will forever be grateful.

In Her Eyes...

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

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

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...

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

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.