Guzaarish.....and why I did not like it

When Bollywood filmmakers attempt to make a film on a serious subject with a commercial packaging, they end up producing what seems like a long drawn farce with a thorough lack of verisimilitude. Sanjay Leela Bhansali attempts to manufacture poetic sagas that will pull at your heart strings. He is an emotional director with no investment in the realism of the film, no matter how serious and deep the subject. Here the protagonist played by Hrithik Roshan is a paraplegic who has a seemingly full life but has never ventured out of his home. When he finally does go out, it is to the Indian court with an appeal for euthanasia. He used to be a magician and now feels suffocated because of his paralysis and he tries proving this point to the court by locking the opposing counsel in a small box. He has lived like this for 12 years, written an inspiring book and delivered motivational speeches to other quadriplegics and yet now he suddenly wants to die. One cannot not empathize with the protagonist simply because his death wish seems unjustified. The subject of euthanasia is such a debated one--but the director treats the theme with the self-indulgent neglect of a drunk poet wallowing in depression. I do not understand why the man insists on taking such weighty subjects which deserve more research and reduces them to superficial melodramatic musicals.


Hrithik Roshan, bless him, portrays the body language and posture expected of a paraplegic & does his best to bring credibility to a poorly developed character. Aishwarya Rai on the other hand is a superlatively poor choice for playing the role of a temperamental, pouty nurse. Her character seems self-absorbed, eccentric and very testy for a nurse who you expect to be an epitome of compassion especially for a paraplegic. The scene where she forcibly injects the patient with sedative when he insists on being allowed to think makes one wonder if this nurse trained with Dr.Kevorkian. Neither the court, nor the doctors request a psych-consultation which would be absolutely necessary for a patient requesting euthanasia.

But what confused me most is the detail of each scene...none of it was believable. The magic did not evoke awe and the supposed tragedy did not evoke grief. Secondly, where are these people living---in Bhansali's imaginary city which has palatial museum-like homes with leaky roofs and cities with retro-night clubs and flamenco dancers? Why is Aishwarya Rai, the nurse, wearing a flamenco dancer's costume throughout the film? I commend and pity that poor cinematographer who had to fit scenic Goa and an imaginary fantasy home into one film. Alas, his picturesque and poetic attempt still could not hold this film together. As an audience it is very hard to connect with a story and feel for the characters without the necessary depth or realism that such a sad story deserves. The film sits between a fantasy tale and a Bollywood saga infused with Ms.Rai's histrionics and a Broadway musical-like ambiance. It is like a really bad play that might have been better if Bhansali had taken his anti-depressants.

Here is what bugs me most: The Indian film industry---which is basically now a family business---that Karan Johar keeps referring to as a "fraternity" is all praise for this film. The film has now received the Presidential Guild Apsara Award. I am just appalled. This year there were some glorious films that came out unexpectedly from this industry: Udaan, Peepli Live, Well Done Abba, Ishqiya, to name a few. Even Dabangg was a well-done parody, a quirky Bihari western that finally showcased Salman Khan's comic timing without making him seem like a mentally unstable person. The two award shows that I watched did give these films some recognition but also made sure that the Khans and Queen Rai were also awarded. If everyone is going to receive a medal why have a race...just give them out. Or even better: send the trophies to Yash Chopra and he will distribute them to his favorite "puttars" and "putris".

Kyunki Saans Bhi Kabhi Ghar Ghar Kheli

Recently, I got some Indian channels hoping they'd make me feel like I was in India while I hibernate in front of the TV in an evil Minnesotan winter. The mid-western cable guy who showed up in his overalls, sat and watched for a few minutes, wide-eyed at how colorfully dressed everyone seemed. "They cry quite a lot, don't they" he exclaimed innocently. It's been about two weeks and I have been watching, out of plain curiosity, these Hindi TV serials where the primary villain is this wicked daughter-in-law who insists on wearing jeans, does not want to cook, eats meat and wants a nuclear family rather than the drama-rich joint family that has kept this TV series going. So now I feel like I am in India...but in a rich Gujarati family of the 60s.

India has moved into the 21st century (I think) and so has our use of technology and standards of living. Mumbai (Bombay) is a jungle of high rise apartments and rickety shanties which all have in common the mighty television. Working women, girls in mini-skirts and denim capris are a common sight. Yet the television series for some reason insist on showcasing family dramas that seem to belong to the 1970s or perhaps even earlier. One might argue that this scene still plays out in some parts of India. But quite honestly, I have known people from all parts of India from Lucknow to Rajasthan and have yet to meet a single person who can relate to these serials. Yet, the producers claim that these series are commercially successful. I guess when one has nothing to watch on TV except for these similar family-drama type series on all channels then what else can one do.

Interestingly, this trend was started by Ekta Kapoor of Balaji Telefilms, who is a successful Indian TV creator and quite an enterprising woman who has made a mark in television production. Her persona is far from the saree clad bahus of the series she has spawned. With the arrival of the saans-bahu circus, gone are the glorious years of television when series like Udaan, Nukkad, Fauji, Tenali Ram and Karamchand where the story was new and refreshing with every episode.

Tingya...a film about a boy and his pet

Cold Minnesota weekends have led me into the arms of Netflix. Here I can order films from all over the world and watch stories with universal appeal. Over time, having seen cinema from Israel, France, China and even Iraq I have begun to appreciate a world outside of Bollywood escapism. This weekend I watched Tingya, a small budget Marathi film, director Mangesh Hadavale's debutant effort. It is a Marathi film and I could not get subtitles to come on. I watched it with an American friend who does not really understand Marathi and yet she was able to empathize with and appreciate every aspect of this remarkable story.

The story is of a little boy, Tingya, who loves his bullock. This bullock, for the rest of the family is a means of survival; for them he is livestock, he ploughs their fields and the little money that they earn from the yearly crop keeps them going. They live a humble, hand-to-mouth existence in rural Maharashtra where farmers are known to commit suicide when the rains refuse to grace them one fateful year. When the bull falls into a leopard trap and breaks his leg, overnight, he becomes useless to the family of poor farmers. But not to Tingya. To Tingya the bull is a beloved pet. When his parents contemplate selling the injured bull to the butcher, the little boy begins a battle to save his pet's life. In this endeavor he has the sole support of his little friend Rashida. When the film was over, we still had in the room, those characters living with us, their smiles and their tears and their struggles hanging heavy over our shoulders. I have been starved of Indian films that make me feel this way.

Currently, a look at the big releases reveals that most commercial Hindi films are made by rich film families, the big banners, as they are popularly referred to. Every second commercially viable blockbuster has a Kapoor or a Bachhan associated with it. Our Indian populace, so used to deity worship, promotes films like these and in their zeal to uphold their existing heroes ignores new talent that does not have the money to market their creativity. In the current scheme of things, films made by a small-time, struggling director get shoved into a corner, neglected because our masses are so taken with the idea of escapism that they do not want to see the depth and meaning in the stories of our reality.

I tried looking up Tingya online and could not find any major articles about this film in any Indian news dailies. Only bloggers seemed to have covered this film extensively in 2007 when it was released. While the film has a short Wikipedia page, it does not have a website, using instead a blog to promote themselves. The film has received only local film festival awards and I doubt they were taken to bigger festivals for sheer lack of funds. And yet big budget films like Devdas and Jodha Akbar receive unwarranted attention at international festivals because they have money and big names driving their efforts. This movie lost out to Taare Zameen Par for an Oscar submission. I am certain that if it were chosen it would have definitely been nominated. The western world may have seen a child's struggle with dyslexia but I can guarantee you the story of Tingya would have struck them as unique. But Tingya didn't stand a chance against Aamir Khan's directorial debut. I can only wish that I could have conveyed my appreciation to Mr.Hadavale personally.

I want my friends and readers to watch this film and talk about it. I know some of you may not be Marathi speaking but this film and its story is driven by scenes and not dialog. Some of you are animal lovers and I can tell you that this story will move you to the core. Help this little piece of genius along and in some little way encourage such talent instead of just going along with the blatant nepotism and cronyism that is plaguing our film industry back home. Mind you I do not mean to put down our commercial film industry. They have earned a place in people's psyche. But there is more to India than the glossy, commercially viable, rich lives portrayed by the Johar, Chopra factories. In a world plagued by superfluous, fleeting and material content, there are stories that have the power to move us and see the joys that lie beyond what's on the surface. These stories might not highlight our affluence but they tell people of how much happiness there can be without it.

My City Burning: Scaling the aftermath of the Mumbai attacks

I grew up watching with envy the gleaming cars that lined up outside the Taj Mahal Hotel. As a child, I was dwarfed by the Victorian ceilings of the majestic VT station. The Oberoi Hotel stood at the other end of Queen's necklace which fringed the ocean like a string of lofty dreams, cast over the horizon, tempting Mumbai's middle class. The city that has, year after year, risen up the day after every terrorist attack was too weary to do so today after watching the imposing Taj burn for hours, the smoke emerging from its dome stinging the pride of every citizen, the ashes bearing down heavy on people's already burdened psyches.



All is real and painful about every terrorist attack and yet Wednesday night's incursion was like none other before. The gunmen seemed young and brazen, inspiring an odd gamut of emotions. I felt shock at their callousness, rage at their stupidity and grief at their young lives wasted, misled. The innocent civilians killed by the indiscriminate shooting reminded me of my own helplessness; it is not every day that we ponder about what might happen if someone decided to rain bullets when we go about our lives, shopping, dining out, sightseeing or sleeping. Snapshots of bloodied bodies strewn across VT station brought home the fragility of life and the abrupt finality of death. The pictures I saw, left a rigid lump in my throat. A child was being offered a drink of water by a policeman and I worried like a crazed woman about where her parents might be and if they were still alive. The police officers in their tragic death makes us Indians want to trust law enforcement again, acknowledge their unimaginable sacrifices, grieve with their families, respect them in death like we never could if we had ever seen them before somewhere in the city in their uniforms. The inconsolable mother, the orphaned son, the shock frozen in the blood-shot eyes of a widowed wife will haunt me for days to come.



The international media may be just noise we want to fill ourselves up with, I think, to hold at bay the real questions about how safe we are, wherever we are. Reporters look to every political analyst they can lay their hands on and even questioned Deepak Chopra and Vijay Mallaya, of all people, to find out more about what organization may have done this. Maybe in our desperate need for simple issues with quick solutions, we all recognize but will not acknowledge the faceless arms of ignorance, poverty and frustration that drive people into religious extremism and cultivate terrorism. We don't want to hear this answer because that would mean we can no longer solve the issue, not as easily as we had hoped at least. Nations have formidable armies and technologically savvy intelligence. But with these in hand, nations cannot lift people out of their dismal, hopeless, alienated lives before they are recruited by extremists looking for easy candidates to execute their own agendas. Nations cannot get to people in time before someone else comes along, hands a frustrated teen a loaded gun and points to the opulent dome of the Taj Hotel that seems to him, in its plentiful glory, mocks his misfortune.

India was not in the global news for more than a day when our flag recently found its place on the moon. India was not mentioned more than twice in international media when we won our first Olympic Gold earlier this year. Even the nuclear treaty with the U.S did not bring for India a noteworthy mention in the mainstream media. Today, I heard the words "sophisticated, calculated, organized and carefully planned" used in describing none of our triumphs but the attackers who held Mumbai hostage. I watched the name of the beloved city I grew up in, flash repeatedly across television screens. I saw the tragedy of my city ignored, kicked into a corner as news reporters crowded all discussion with repeated mentions of American and British hostages. I watched from miles away, the ghost of my city, its voices snuffed out by a curfew and I could not tell if the silence was that before or after a storm.

22 Things A Guy Wants To Know About Women (when he's not so absorbed with himself)

People,

I know I haven't been treating my blog right for a while now. Hopefully this post will help kick start things. I was tagged recently by fellow-editors Sujatha and Deepti Lamba with this very interesting set of questions titled "22 Things That A Man Wants To Know About Women"(The "when he is not so absorbed with himself" quip was my own addition).

Since I was tagged by the two ladies I wondered if maybe I get to put up 44 answers, but then decided that since men were confused as it is when it comes to this subject it would be a great disservice to the tag if I were to mislead these confounded beings even more with my heartless ambiguity.

So here are my answers:

1.How do you feel after a one night stand?
If you are a desi dude, I am a coy, squirming virgin.

2.Do you ever get used to wearing a thong?
I don't floss my teeth, so flossing my ass is out of question.

3.Does it hurt?
Do you want it to? (insert wicked giggle and BDSM style whip)

4.Do you know when you are acting crazy?
Nah, its never me. Its always the other person.

5.Does size really matter?
If you are small then it does...but if you are big then its the technique ;)

6.When the bill comes are you still a feminist?
I dunno, kinda depends on how Bill looks

7.Why do you take so long to get ready?
Takes a while to create a look that will hopefully take attention from your sloppy dressing sense and the mustard stain on your tie.

8.Do you watch Porn?
More into erotic stories really. Besides it is painful to find out that there are men out there with dongs bigger than yours.

9.Will something from Tiffany solve everything?
On the contrary, it won't solve anything at all.

10.Are you guys as big a mystery to yourself as you are to us
No, we've gotten ourselves all figured out. You are slower and therefore stumped.

11.Why do you sometimes think you are fat?
I also sometimes think you are stupid.

12.Why are you always late?
Cause you make me "come" late. (if you get the drift) ;)

13.Does it bother you when we scratch?
Depends on where the itch is.

14.Do you wish you could pee standing?
Nope...if a genie appears in front of me I cannot see myself going "I wish I could pee standing up"

15.Why do so many women cut their hair as soon as they get married?
I had no idea they did.

16.How often do you think about sex?
More than you think.

17.What do you think about women who sleep with men on their first date?
I try not to think about them

18.Would you?
Nah, there's a lot going on on a first date.

19.Do you realize every guy wants a girl like his mom
Do you realize every girl wants a guy like her dad?

20.Why does every woman think she can change her man?
I don't...so there goes the "every woman" theory

21.Does it matter the kind of car I drive?
If everything else about you is questionable then yes it does.

22. Do you ever fart?
I'll just let you be surprised...why kill the suspense?

A Tribute To Hrishikesh Mukherji

Very few films can be watched with the family. Even fewer films have the charm that draws an audience to them more than once. Such films remind one of themselves. These stories have the shades of realism that make the plot identifiable, a moral that makes the tale more than just about entertainment and a character who is hard to forget. Such were the films that Hrishikesh Mukherjee brought to Indian cinema.

A film with Hrishikesh Mukherjee's name ensured a new and original storyline in an industry plagued by unoriginal plots. His stories put relationships under a microscope and life in front of a mirror.

Abhiman, the Amitabh and Jaya Bachchan starrer. explored the fine angles of a marriage and the devastation resulting from a bruised male ego. Anand, brought us the memorable cancer patient who was remembered by his zest for life and the delightful “Babu Moshaiy!” “Life” Anand told us, “should be big, not long”. Guddi, starring Jaya Bachchan, dealt with the coming of age plot of a young girl fascinated by a filmstar. For the first and only time in a Hindi film, the unrealistic and fanciful world of films was challenged and scrutinized within a film itself.

Directors often use symbolism, camera angles and other intricate apparatus to convey subtle emotion within a story. Hrishikesh Mukherjee however used contrasting shades of the simplicity and complexity of the film’s central characters to do so. The song and dance sequence has for a long time stolen the flow of realistic depiction from Hindi cinema. But Hrishikesh Mukherjee managed to use music, background scores and songs to add to the story.

The female protagonist found an intellectual, strong and opinionated facet in Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s films. The range of female characters and personas he explored through his stories is astonishing. From the submissive and subdued Anupama played by Sharmila Tagore to the outspoken and rebellious Manju of Khubsoorat played by Rekha, his films put the female protagonist in the spotlight.



His characters were quirky. They were real. They were honest. Most importantly, they had a little of each one of us in them. While watching a Hrishikesh Mukherjee film, one inevitably found in there a character to relate to. The love stories were not just of larger than life, brawny heroes. The romances were of the endearing common man. The struggle, the dreams and the humor were all borrowed from the middle class. The glitz of glamour was deftly replaced by the more fascinating sincerity of truth.

The lack of violence and the ample inclusion of realism favorably tempered by tasteful romance and wholesome humor make a Hrishikesh Mukherjee film one that the whole family can enjoy together. I could go out today and rent a DVD of Anand, Guddi, Abhiman, Khubsoorat or Gol Maal, knowing well that I have watched it several times before and sure that I will still enjoy it yet again.

Ganesha & The Globe: An Eco-Friendly Ganesh Chaturthi

Ganesh Chaturthi is one of my favorite festivals. Even now, away from home I can still remember the eve of Ganesh Chaturthi when the beautiful Ganesh idols would be welcomed into homes and residential communities. It marked the beginning of the festive season leading up to Diwali.

In Bombay, a lot of Ganesh idols are made by the humble artisans whose workshops come to life in the days leading up to the festival. The colors range from the orange hues of the majestic Siddhivinayak or the ornate, little Ganeshas all dressed up in pink dhotis and golden crowns. The Ganesh stays in the house like a much-loved guest. The homes that welcome the idol constantly carry the scent of incense and camphor. A corner of the house where Lord Ganesha sits looks all lit up and decorated. There is the rare abundance of modaks, the sweet cardamom flavored dumplings with a coconut filling that melts in your mouth. And then one day amidst melodious aartis and impassioned cries beseeching Ganpati Bappa to come again next year, the idol is immersed into the sea.

When this tradition first began the idols were made of clay which when immersed in water would dissolve, returning the spirit of this deity to the depths of nature. But lately, especially in Bombay, this festival has gained commercial significance. Public celebrations have created a competition where communities are seen vying each year to hoist the biggest idols on their pedestals. Enormous funds are gathered by the locals and the largest, most colorful of sculptures is put up, much like an exhibit. While this practice has helped cultivate a sense of community, the idols themselves are no longer made from environment friendly clay. The murtis (idols) that are placed for the visual delight of the crowds are now made from Plaster Of Paris.

Plaster Of Paris is easier to mould and the several intricate patterns that go onto a Ganesh idol are easier to carve on this material. Moreover, the increasing demand for Ganesh idols and the large sizes that are so popular make the artisans look towards the cheaper option. Plaster Of Paris is much cheaper than clay but unfortunately less soluble in water. As a result the Ganesh idol that has been treated like a beloved houseguest by so many faithful devotees, sits at the bottom of the ocean, slow disintegration of the plaster releasing toxic elements into the water. The chemicals used in painting the idol contain hazardous mercury and cadmium metals. As the magnificent four arms, golden crowns and loving brown eyes of the elephant god crumble into the seawater, the ocean's flora and fauna suffer from the sudden increase in acidity and toxicity of the water. For years this issue has been tap-danced around to protect religious sentiment. But the urgency of protecting the environment should probably hold more importance and urgency than people's religious sensitivities. Surely, educated men and women understand that to abuse the divine gift of nature is in no way a means of paying obeisance to a deity.

Those whose religious sentiments are hurt when it comes to protecting the environment have never taken a walk along the beaches in Bombay a day or two after the immersion (Anant Chaturdashi). A collection of pictures by Manish Vij shows the large disfigured, broken, scraped and dismembered Ganesh idols that float in with the sea debri onto the shore. A municipality truck arrives, gathers this debris like it would gather garbage and disposes it. Along with this debris are dead fish killed by the toxins and the high acidity of the seawater. So much for religious sentiment.

The Ganesh Chaturthi festival is a time when communities unite and celebrate together. Nobody wants to lose out on the festive occasion. But finding a way to be kind to the environment while indulging in the festivities is a responsible thing to do. There are always devotees who want to have an environment friendly Ganesh Chaturthi and wonder what their options are. There are various options to buying a large Plaster Of Paris idol. In fact, Wikipedia outlines a few easy and feasible solutions to addressing this issue:

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1. Return to the traditional use of natural clay idols and immerse the idol in a bucket of water at home.
2. Use of a permanent idol made of stone and brass, used every year and a symbolic immersion only.
3. Recycling of plaster idols to repaint them and use them again the following year.
4. Ban on the immersion of plaster idols into lakes, rivers and the sea.
5. Creative use of other biodegradable materials such as paper mache to create Ganesh idols.
6. Encouraging people to immerse the idols in tanks of water rather than in natural water bodies.

The Girgaum area is famous for skilled artisans who use traditional and environmental friendly clay to make the idols. There are famous Ganeshotsav mandals that choose to make creative Ganesh replicas from flowers, paper mache, coconuts etc. The Ganeshotsav mandals can choose to give out a prize for the one who comes up with the most environmental friendly design for a Ganesh idol every year. Families can buy a smaller, clay Ganpati for their home. A small idol can be prayed to. Faith should not be incumbent on the size of the idol, should it?

Commercialization of religious festivals likely has a positive influence in nurturing communal sense but when the celebration ends and the environment suffers, people need to evaluate this problem and treat it like their own. After all, Lord Ganesha would not want the beautiful gift of natural resources to be exploited and abused in this manner. Surely our devotion should not be blind towards God's fine creations in our zeal to uphold his idol.

Happy Is What Happy Does: Job Satisfaction, Creativity & Happiness

There was a time when getting a job and buying a house were the landmarks of "stability" that people sought. Planning a family, making sure the paycheck covered everything from diapers to electricity bills and then setting some aside for a rare vacation was the ideal life. The middle class made ends meet and left a few overhangs for the luxuries. The rich, it was assumed, had money and didn't really need a job to make them happy. In the bustle of cosmopolitan life, job satisfaction had little place.

In Bombay, I grew watching people worn out by the commute and the work hours. Work was work and was not meant to be fun. Lately, however I have noticed a change, a change for the better. People are growing more explorative. They want to go after the dreams that would've been put onto the backburner, somewhere under the smoldering heap of responsibilities and duties. Now as the world becomes more accesible, a growing sense of aspirations and adventure is detectable among the younger generation. I hear of students venturing into fields such as mass communication, multimedia, fashion designing, journalism, life sciences, theatre arts, graphic design etc. It brings back memories of when I was at a juncture in my career, ready to make such choices.

I must've slept a total of two hours per day during my higher secondary school examinations in India. When the hard work finally paid off, social pressure was on again; this time scrutinizing my decisions for a lucrative career. Against all expectations, I joined the Pharmaceutical Sciences program in spite of securing the much coveted medical seat and admission into biomedical engineering, a field gaining momentum at the time. How much one scored became a matter of prestige and not just self-actualization. One's percentage, class, marks, grade was their label. Exam results hovered above our young, weary heads like a halo defining our future. People clucked at those who chose Arts over Sciences and shrugged in disbelief at the few who choose Life Sciences over Engineering. "Look, everybody is going to the US on the software bandwagon!" I was told. By the time I finished my undergraduate training, the software hype had fallen on its face and Silicon Valley was less lit up. Software engineers are still considered quite accomplished but only if they managed to find a niche that didn't get sweeped away when the boom collapsed. The social burden surrounding career choices still has not changed.

I remember the few bold ones who had ventured into the Arts when I had given in to social expectations and chosen the Sciences. Today I envy them for the diverse and creative fields they eventually received their calling in. Some are foreign language instructors, some theatre artists and a few others have mastered the culinary arts. I find myself constantly wondering what my life would've been had I picked poetry over public opinion.

Every year when the SSC and HSC results are announced, suicide rates among teenagers escalate. A significant portion of the parents' salaries is invested in tuition classes and competitive practice tests. A friend of mine who moved from India to the US, narrowly escaping the SSC fever once remarked that these exams were like "SATs on sterioids". I remember the pressure I felt eventhough my parents never pushed me into studying. I never had anyone breathing down my neck making sure that the grades didn't fall. My parents were more worried about the kind of person I would turn into. Principles, ideals, values and even sports took precedence over grades. In spite of this, I felt the heat. Neighbours, friends, their parents, newspapers, media, teachers, everybody seemed to be zooming in on the one aspect that apparently determined one's intellect and level.

I might get some flak for bringing this up but I believe that India's exam meritocracy has swallowed many a talent. People find it hard to digest that I as a cancer researcher with a biology background also take literature classes and am a creative writer. While one of my manuscripts is lined up for submission to a biomedical journal, yet another is a full-length chapbook for a poetry collection. While I edit pictures of cancer cells in lab one morning, I edit at night my beloved documentary films. They both bring me immense pleasure and whats more if I were ever to be frustrated or bored by one aspect, I always unwind by indulging in the other. This I say not to blow my own trumpet but to bring attention to the fact that I always find a few people who don't think there is something quite right with this odd miscellany of activities that keep me pleasantly occupied. It might as well be a coincidence, but most of these people are Indians. A couple of Indian professors once remarked quite pointedly about how my passion for poetry and literature could take away from the keen focus that is required in science. I asked them to recommend a manner by which I could instruct my brain to let the creative juices flow in a scientific direction while thwarting the ones channelized towards the arts. They could not answer that one.

The other day I happened to be home to watch an episode of the Oprah Winfrey show. A woman who looked barely thirty was talking about how she had pursued her dreams and stayed young as a result of the happiness she derived from doing this. She had started taking classes at a much later age and managed to successfully pursue a direction which she'd been told was a challenging one. How much later could it have been, I wondered. She looked so young. As if reading my mind, Oprah asked her how old she was. Sixty three, she replied and my jaw hit the floor. I wouldn't have gone so far as saying that her lack of aging was entirely due to her happy occupation but then they showed pictures of her from when she was unhappy in her work environment. If job dissatisfaction could be measured by wrinkles, let me just say, she was extremely dissatisfied and her face was a mirror of that discontent. It was then that I realized how much of that had been true for me. Ever since I have started writing, attending literary workshops and filming, I had been feeling happier, a lot more confident and content.

Plenty of success stories have been associated with calculated risk and diverse interests. Rohit Vishvanath, winner of CNN's Young Journalist Of The Year Award, an established business writer is also known for his interest in archeology. Few people know that Nana Patekar, the intense and passionate actor is also an expert sketch artist. R.K.Laxman, the noteworthy cartoon artist, was rejected from the J.J School of Arts. Lata Mangeshkar's first attempts at playback singing were dismissed by a film producer who criticized her voice of being "too thin". Satyajit Ray received his degree in Economics although his first love was fine arts. Fine arts ultimately was what led him to fame through his poignant films.

Putting job satisfaction above finances is impractical. But assuming that a creative occupation would automatically be less lucrative is an error in judgement. More often than not I see Indian parents encouraging their child to pursue a trodden path, devoid of risks, potential pitfalls. An adult who has been cushioned in this manner is least likely to respond well to an unexpected failure such as is common in a shifty economy. Intellect is not just defined by one's grades, percentages, marks and test scores. Intellect has greater bearings in creativity, expression and unique perspective. These manifestations of intellect put people above mediocrity and beyond the judging hum of the masses. You may very well be a university ranker, a class topper, a distinction holder, a summa cum laude with five degrees next to your name but the kind of immortality that creativity and individuality brings is far greater than having a value put to your intellect.

When children are asked who they want to become their answers range from pilot to gardener. Somewhere along the line this adventurous sentiment gets replaced by adult sensibilities. One of my very best friends used to tell me when she was hardly twelve that she wanted to speak German. Today she is a foreign language coordinator at a leading University and guess what? She speaks German and loves it. I admire her for doing what she truly wanted to do without letting adult interference affect her decision.

My father once told me of a boy in his neighbourhood who wanted to become a kite-maker while everybody else made plans to pursue engineering, physics, accounting and other such lucrative careers. My father narrated with a sheepish grin of all the times that he and his friends made fun of this boy for his child-like aspiration and his fascination with kites. When I grew up I came to know this man as the kite maker whose astounding collection of kites could be seen decorating Bombay's skies every Sankranti festival. Political party leaders came to have their emblems and logos printed on his kites during election season. Lovers would pay him to make a kite that proclaimed their love to the world over the majestic Arabian sea. His kites were not just kites. They were beautiful pieces of shimmering art. They had faces and personalities. There were sequined mermaids, cricket personalities, a map of India, birds, planes, fire engines and even lanterns built into the kite. He probably made enough money and was always in a cheery mood. His wife, children and brothers all worked in a tiny workshop crafting the wedding decorations, the styrofoam blimps, posters and of course the seasonal kites.

Believe me, I have met a lot of people with good salaries and impressive credentials whose names I will eventually forget but I will never forget the sight of that brilliant, life-sized kite that made its way into the sky, a fluorescent lamp in its belly, animating a sky during a starry Diwali night all those years ago. It soared across the sky like aspirations should.

Tagged!: Do I Love You, Billy, Or Do I Hate You?

This story is a continuation of a tag. Fellow author and Desicritics editor Amrita Rajan passed the tag on to me. While I have never written fiction that does not have a first person address (Personal history chronicle tone) before, it was kind of fun writing this post. What I did differently with the story than what has been done in the first 3 parts is, I brought in new characters and added to the story a piece of computer art which is like a trademark that goes with my creative writing exploits. I do hope I don't disappoint those who have been following this tag. Available here are: Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3

Just a WARNING…do NOT scroll through the entire stretch of the post before you begin reading because I include some computer art with my fiction/ poetry that may act as a spoiler! Beware!

Story begins here...


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"Bonnie, wakie wakie, Come on, Bonnie, its time for breakfast" a shrill voice called out like it did every time sunlight flooded the room. It was quiet in here; too quiet. The air smelled of chlorox and bleach and if you stuck your tongue out for too long it tasted bitter. It wasn't the air that was bitter, she realized as she felt the small trickle from a gash on her lip. The petite woman in flowe-print scrubs rolled in a trolley.

She felt a retch building up in her throat as she saw the yolks wiggle on the egg whites as the woman pulled the trolley upto the bed. She started rolling up the bed to an incline.

"Come on now. Up you go. You must eat, you know...otherwise we cannot give you your medications" the woman said in a high-pitched saccharine voice.

"No shit, bitch!" a shrill voice said rang inside Bonnie's head, startling even her. The woman turned around.

"Umm, did you say something hun?" the woman asked with a frown. Bonnie mumbled and shook her head. She wondered if this recurring dream would end soon. Sometimes she felt this was the real world and her life with Billy was the dream. She could never tell.

"You will be seeing Dr.Weldy at 2 pm today" the woman said as she shut the door behind her just after Bonnie took a peek at her badge. 'Nurse Linda White' it said in blue letters, followed by 'Mercy County Psychiatric Facility'.

Bonnie could feel panic rising to her ears with the rush of adrenaline and a horrible pit was growing in her stomach.

"What am I doing here?" she thought, her eyes scanning the steel door, nervously, her breath inhaling the cold sterile smell, her mind resounding every fearful question in the hum of silence. The white walls were closing in as a slideshow flashed in front of her. The needle jammed above her wrist now suddenly stung. The steady drip of sedatives seemed to climb to her forehead, numbing her eyelids and bringing thick black curtains of sleep that finally pulled her in.

"Ma'am, do you know what happened to the dog?" she heard the booming voice and the unshaven face of the detective made its way out of the fog.

"No" she said in a strangely toneless voice. She could see herself slouched in front of the detective, in a cotton nightie doused with crimson stains that were darkening with every passing minute. He pushed a glass of water towards her.

"Are you cold Ma'am?' the detective asked, offering her a jacket and she didn't even look up as she shook her head.

"Could you tell us where you were last night. How did you get those bloody gashes on your back? Ma'am, you know we can't let you go home unless you tell us something" the detective prodded, his voice still calm and unthreatening.

"I said I don't know" came the toneless voice again, this time with the slightest hint of anger.

Questions were suspended inside her own mind, floating about even as the detective looked towards the glass partition and shook his head, shrugging one last time before he left. As the door shut behind him in a soft thud, she watched her own face change, a hint of a smile was playing in the eyes that had been expressionless for so long. Was she having an out of body experience, she wondered as she watched her own face look like that of a stranger. Was this really her, being interrogated by detectives?

Behind the glass partition, the baffled members of the district attorney's office and the detective stood sipping coffee awaiting Dr.Weldy and his psychiatric team to come evaluate the woman they had found clutching a dead terrier in her neighbour's backyard. The scene had gotten gory as they approached the house that neighbours had pointed out. While two children slept in the bedroom upstairs, a large man lay sprawled face down in a pool of blood in the hallway to the kitchen. His hair had been sheared with a knife which lay bloody and strewn and words neatly carved into his back. "Yours, Delilah" it said when the blood had been wiped and the body lay cold and glistening under scrutiny on the forensic examiner's table.

Long after rigor mortis set in, the stunned expression on that man's face was still as agonizing as it had probably been when the knife first went through his heart.

"Bonnie, are you there? Bonnie?" the deep voice cut through her oblivion and she opened her eyes taking in the kind face of a man she knew she had seen before.

"Good afternoon, Bonnie. How are you feeling today?" he asked as sat down in the chair across from her. She mumbled and tried to sit up.

"Where are the kids?" she asked. Her head was throbbing and she couldn't get the image of Billy's cold body lying on the examiner's table. Had that been a dream, she wondered quietly, her eyes unconsciously glancing over to the name plate on the desk. "Dr.John Randall Weldy" said the golden letters.

"Where are my kids?" she whispered, this time the urgency clear in her voice.

"Do you remember their names?" he asked looking over his glasses.

"What do you mean do I remember their names?!" she began her voice rising, "Billy Junior and Jean....after my sister" she answered composing herself.

"Good, that is very good" Dr.Weldy said encouragingly. His tone was making her drowsy.

He went behind his desk and returned with what looked to her stinging eyes like a large black snake. He unwound it and the belt at once gleamed in the dim yellow light of his office. She remembered that buckle, her skin had felt the nook of its metal, she had tasted the cold blood that trickled out of her back when that very buckle had hit her square across the spine.

"Do you recognize this, Bonnie?" Dr.Weldy asked.

"Yeah, yes..." she began softly but the tears were making it hard to speak.

"Are my kids ok?" she asked through a gulp, "Did I..." she began, too afraid to go on, "Did I kill him?" she finally asked, tortured by the finality of that question. Dr.Weldy surveyed her for a brief moment.

"Well, Bonnie, did you?" he asked studying her expression carefully.

He started walking towards her the belt in his hand. The buckle was mocking her now as it caught light and a reflection danced wildly on her face. His slow, determined footsteps echoed inside her head and a low toneless voice was resounding in her ears. She had heard this voice before. It was the voice she had heard in the interrogation room, it was the voice that had rung inside her head when the nurse had come in that morning.

"Back off asshole" she heard the voice say, her white knuckles clutching the arm rests.

"Bonnie" Dr.Weldy said bending down.

"Bonnie!" the voice mocked him, "You get that filthy thing away from me, asshole. Bonnie's the weakling. You're dealing with Delilah now."

"Bonnie, how are we doing?" he asked, "Does this scare you Bonnie?" he was holding the belt out.

"It might scare her but you know what...nothing scares this one here" the voice said breaking off into a high-pitched laugh. Dr.Weldy watched at once fascinated and fearful of this creature that had emerged from Bonnie's face. This face, this voice, this demeanour was not that of a woman or a remorseful wife, but that of a bully.

"You get that thing near me and I will wipe that smile off your face, baldy" she now reached out and flung the belt.

She lunged out of her chair and almost immediately felt a needle sting into her arm, subduing her voice to a gasp. The eyes changed and the smirk left her face.

"My kids...where are my kids?" she said, her expression relaxing, as her eyes closed yet again and they wheeled her out of the office.

********************************************

Dr.Weldy sat in his office studying the verses Bonnie had been scribbling every time she woke up from her deep sedation. He had emailed Dr.Drury at Princeton to see if the verses matched any known literature. Dr.Drury's reply was now in front of him, the answer presenting only more questions than before.

John,

Sorry about the delay in replying. I had trouble looking through the scanned pages you sent me. While most of it was illegible, one verse did seem quite clear. Despite a few spelling errors I was able to crack the stanza. The verse was as follows,

"To the bodies wounds and sores
With maladies innumerable
In heart, head, breast, and reins;
But must secret passage find
To th' inmost mind"

They belong to a tragic poem by Milton, titled Samson Agonistes which dramaticizes the story of Samson from the Old Testament.

Let me know if you need any more information.

RD

The email didnt shed light on much. John Weldy immediately wrote back his questions, at least a few of the odd million that had crossed his mind.

This case had been as obscure as one pulled straight out of a movie. John Weldy's life had come to standstill after having met Bonnie. He couldn't get her face out of his head. Each time he saw her, her eyes had sunk in some more. All she asked him about now was her kids. He had been instructed by the police to not inform her about their location for the sake of the children's protection. And then there was the bleak face of Delilah which emerged every now and then from Bonnie's soft features, like that of an abused, angry animal. The same eyes, the same frail face, but such a contrasting countenance. Each time he wanted to tell Bonnie that her children were safe with their grandmother, Delilah's angry face flashed before him and told him not to.

Weldy had been shocked at the scars and bruises all over Bonnie's back. Evidence indicated that the abuse had been long and traumatic. This would be his first case of dissociate personality disorder and he had been reading and researching all day to try and understand the psyche of this woman, who the police had said was their only suspect.

It was time to call it a night, he finally decided. It was after midnight, way past his bedtime. And just before heading off to bed John Weldy decided to test his luck. A quick search on the internet won't take too long, he told himself. 107,000 pages of information came up, on his first search for Samson Agonistes. He clicked on the first link not hoping to find much and then something caught his eye. As his eyes skimmed the details, he found the one detail that stood out, clear as daylight. Weldy pushed his glasses back and slowly took in the details in disbelief. Goose bumps began to scale his arms. Everything seemed to fit.

"Delilah, the wife of Samson who had betrayed him...his locks had been sheared, his strength had been stolen...a death had to take place -- his death, Samson's death"

********************************************

As she was wheeled into the lobby, she noticed new faces, faces that had not been there.

"Where is Nurse White?" she asked the young nurse who was wheeling her through the glass hallways.

"Umm, I'm sorry, I don't really know a Nurse White" replied the young girl. She seemed barely out of college.

As Bonnie turned to look into the glass panels, an old weary face looked back at her.

That couldn't be me, she thought as she squinted and touched the hair on her head. It had been days since she'd been rolled out into the lobby. The day of the trial was the last she remembered. Her mother-in-law had dropped off a letter and pictures of Billy Junior and Jean. She had worn a lavender suit and sat sedated through the trial, faces of the jury weaving in and out of her delusions.

The glass panel ended and at the far end of the hallway stood a tall man in a dark suit. He seemed familiar. Even from this far, his frame and the way he stood seemed to move something inside her. The slideshow that had mellowed over the years came back again. Those were the eyes, she realized as she came closer. that had looked at her in shock when she dug the knife deep into his heart. Light caught the brown hues of this man's hair bringing back memories, of the locks she had once put away in her musical jewellery box. How they had been strewn mercilessly over the floor of the hallway that fateful night. God alone knew how much time had passed but she could still hear the neighbour's terrier barking even now as if it had been last night. His paws scraping the glass windows, his whining boiling inside her head, turning things to a blur.

Her wheelchair was nearing the beige lobby. The man that stood at the end of the hallway was now walking towards her. His face caught her like a sudden gale and she could feel her throat clamming shut. His footsteps were burning her ears sending a wicked chill through her spine. How was this possible? Could he still be....was he still alive, she thought. The memory of the wound on her spine came back like a ghost as she stared into the same blue eyes. Those were the eyes that had widened and then frozen in shock, when metal had snuffed his heartbeat that night. The blue eyes that had looked at her one last time, like two haunting mirrors in the face of her betrayal, were now looking down at her, brimming with a smile, with a mysterious sorrow.

"Billy!" she gasped, touching the face that had lived now only in her dreams. Gone was the desolate look that alcohol had poured into the beautiful blue eyes. They were as clear as they had been on the night of their last kiss. These eyes were the ones she had fallen in love with, before all the bitterness began. Her lips could not move. She was back in the throes of that one night when they had made love, for the very last time. She was falling fast through the scenes, a white wedding, the two beautiful babies, the laughter. She clutched the fabric of his shirt.

"Oh Billy" she whispered, her mind answering to a different world.

"How've you been?" he said finally, peering into her brown eyes, his voice hoarse from holding back his own tears.

"How've you been, Ma?" he repeated,louder this time, trying hard to break through her glazed look, as she crumbled into his arms yet again, lost, like she had been every time she saw him.

"Do I love you, Billy?" she whispered, as he buried his tears on his mother's shoulder, "Or do I hate you?"

Adventures Of Mahasahasrapramardini Namboodiripad: A Confused Desi In Bombay

I don't like the term ABCD (American Born Confused Desi). I really don't. Most of my American Born Desi friends are a lot together at times than I am and it makes feel sheepish when they are called "confused". One of my closest friends is an American Born Desi (ABD) and has had Indian graduate students, fresh off the boat, greet her very politely and ask "Oh, are you an ABCD?".

"Well, I'm not that confused....most times," she replies through her teeth, trying to blow off the unintended insult with some humor while the student blushes at the faux-pas.

But the one area in which the "C" probably does apply, is to all things Desi. My ABD friend has some of the most interesting questions about things that are quite obvious to me. For the entertainment of desi readers I am about to list some of the most interesting, and may I say hilarious, questions that my friend, Mahasahasrapramardini Namboodiripad (**name changed upon request**) has managed to ask me thus far. Most of these questions were posed on a recent visit to India, MN's very first trip to Bombay. And we all know, Bombay's no place for a novice, now don't we?

So here goes:

1. While watching a boxer short clad Shakti Kapoor dancing in David Dhavan's Raja Babu, we had the following exchange:

MN: He looks SO much different than the rest of his brothers.
Me (quite impressed that she knew Shakti Kapoor had brothers): Umm, really?
MN: Of course! I mean Rishi Kapoor is quite good looking and he looks nothing like any of the other ones.

2. While watching a scene from a 70s movie where the heroine's blouse has been ripped and the villain switches off the light:

MN (suddenly yelling): What? What? WHAT?
Me (alarmed): What happened?
MN: I don't know what happened? He switched off the bloody lights!

3. Looking out of a building window at jam packed local trains:

MN: Are those people hanging outside because its too hot inside?

4. This particular incident amused my driver no end. We were stuck in a traffic jam and had a Shiv Sena van in front of us with Balasaheb Thackeray's life size picture on the back. In the picture, Shri Thackeray was wearing a flowing saffron kurta and tulsi beads around his neck as always. A phone number for the Shiv Sena office was printed underneath.

MN: Oh, lets try calling that number.
Me (baffled): Why would you want to do that?!
MN: I wanted to get my horoscope read on this India trip.
Me: Yeah, so?
MN: Well, isn't that a babaji? (pointing to the picture)

5. I received a letter from my friend Preetiman (a Bengali name, I believe).

MN: Does he put Man after his name because Preeti is a woman's name?

6. While handing over alms to a little beggar boy:

MN (to the little boy, much to his confusion): You won't give this to the underworld dons like in the film Traffic Signal, will you?

7. Our driver told her of all the impressive real estate values and how people spent obscene amounts of money in malls etc. After listening to him speak for at least fifteen minutes or so:

MN: What is lakhs? Is that like a piece of gold or something?

8. Having heard about Goregaon and the Aarey milk colony she reached Bombay with quite a list of things she wanted to see. My dad, ever the eager tourist guide, asked what all she wanted to see.

MN: Would it cost too much to see buffaloes being given a bath? I want to take pictures.

9. To the paani-puri wallah who handed her her first puri with the spiced water:

MN: Ek hi milta hai ke aur ek milega? (Do I get just one or can I get one more?)
Paani-puri wallah: Madam, aap bologe to pura theila de doon? (Madam, if you'd like I could give you the whole sack of puris.)

10. On her must-see list was the Gateway Of India and when we reached the place, she got out of the car and turned to me, her brows knitted:

Me (a bit irritated): What? You don't like the Gateway of India? They can't revamp it you know.
MN: Are you sure this is it?
Me: Umm, yeah (starting to get mad). Why?
MN: Where is that flame?
Me: What flame?
MN: The flame of the eternal warrior...Amar Jawan Jyoti?

10. After we got off a crowded train in Bombay:

MN (trying to sound casual): Is it normal for people to pinch your bottom here?
[I stopped dead in my tracks and threw her an exasperated look.]
MN: I mean, should one protest if somebody pinches your bottom...I wasn't sure what the system was.

11. Our driver was very happy to show a foreigner around town. He happily pointed out the majestic Haaji Ali in the middle of the ocean:

MN: Do they give prashaad there? I'm hungry.

12. On our return flight to the US, we had a man clad in a Madrasi lungi folded twice upto his upper thighs. MN stared at him long and hard and then turned to me.

MN: Can I have the camera?

13. There was a major water deficit in Bombay during the month of our visit and when MN turned the tap on and nothing happened, she bit her lip and started walking towards the second bathroom:

MN (gesturing us to follow): Come on, maybe there is water in the other tap.

14: To a harassed looking paav bhaaji stall owner at Juhu chowpatty

MN: Do you accept credit cards?

15. Having waited in the rain for a while, MN finally got into a taxi.

MN: Siddhivinayak Temple
Taxi driver: Nahi janeka hai (I don't wanna go there).
MN (not accustomed to having public transport providers refuse passengers): Lekin mujhe jaana hain! (But I wanna go there!).

Ocean's Thirteen

I guess I like being in touch with my masculine side. Not only do I hate the mushy chick-flicks but j'adore the other four: drama, thrillers, comedy and even action. If there ever was a movie that could have encompassed all four in its theme, it was the Ocean's series.

Danny Ocean and his gang are back, reportedly for the last time in Ocean's Thirteen.

The impressive ensemble star cast, I will not list and if I reveal the plot, I will be doing you movie buffs, a great disservice. So this should be a pretty short review, right? Wrong!

Deceived by his associate Willy Bank, Reuben, of the Ocean's crew suffers a heart attack. Being swindled out of the partnership for a new Las Vegas Hotel & Casino renders him mum and bedridden. The Ocean's team gathers around like true friends do, to survey the losses ready as ever to get even. And they do it in such style.

As each member is assigned a casino game to rig or ruin, the plot gets busier. The many facets of the strategy only add to the electric drama and surprisingly, do not interfere with the pace of the film. While the first half of the movie builds the momentum, the latter half unleashes the plot bit by delicious bit.

The Clooney-Pitt rapport, blithe as always, adds to the humor and so does Matt Damon playing the eager thug-in-training. Andy Garcia with his smoking Cuban and an equally smoking smile, add the right touch of pazzaz to this film.



The cinematography is rich and fulgent like the Las Vegas casino where most of the film has been shot. The sets are beautiful, the men are gorgeous and there is no greater high than the one of sweet revenge as Willy Banker's dream casino is played ruthlessly to the ground by the Ocean's trifling thirteen.

Whoever said 13 was an unlucky number?!