Muse

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

2011-01-23T20:22:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-28T17:22:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-10-27T11:14:00.000-07:00

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

2010-01-31T17:33:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-28T10:11:00.000-08:00

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)

2007-11-19T18:12:00.000-08:00

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

2007-09-17T15:22:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-17T15:16:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-17T14:05:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-08-02T20:19:00.000-07:00

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...

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

"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

2007-07-25T15:43:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-25T15:31:00.000-07:00

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?!

The Fiery Masala Of Female Sexuality: Mira Nair & Her Bold Female Protagonists

2007-07-05T15:38:00.000-07:00

"Wish me a happy birthday" whispered the sultry Mina to her lover after a long night of leisurely love-making.

This is a scene from Mississippi Masala, the love story of an interracial couple starring Sarita Chaudhary-Denzel Washington. While the affair brings to boil the cultural stew, the delicate handling of the love scene heats up the raw chemistry between the two actors.

In a seemingly simplest of scenes the two lovers speak softly over the telephone. Mina's thigh lays exposed from under the sheets, her bronze skin catching just the right shades of yellow light, her shy smile lighting up the scene.

The strong sense of sexuality that the female protagonists of Mira Nair's films portray was unmistakable in Mississipi Masala as with her other movies.

Monsoon Wedding had two shades of female sexuality each of which spelled emancipation in contrasting manifestations. In this wedding-family drama, while the bride Aditi comes to terms with a pre-marital affair before moving on to a life of conjugal bliss, cousin Ria finally faces the ugly demons of early sexual abuse by an uncle.

In Salaam Bombay, the two lives of prostitutes in Bombay are explored. While Rekha is on the brink of escaping the depravity of the flesh trade, Sola Saal is sent out to entertain her first client thus beginning a journey down an abysmal path.

In The Perez Family, the wildly sensual Dorita Perez brings color, spice and zest to a great storyline. One doesn't know whether to credit Mira Nair's directorial abilities or the script for the juxtaposition of young versus mature sexuality in this film but the sheer contrast of these two facets made it a more appealing story.

Ashok and Ashima Ganguli the characters of Mira Nair's The Namesake, arrive in the United States as immigrants, their new betrothal a product of a traditionally arranged alliance. The handling of the scene of their first awkward night of coupling is near perfect. The audience can feel the inhibitions giving way and the intimacy building. Moushmi, Gogol's love interest explodes onto the screen, her pouted lips and insolent admissions of ex-lovers, exuding bold sexuality made more apparent by the clever camera angles than merely by her body language.

In a discussion about Ms.Nair's handling of female sexuality, one cannot leave out Kama Sutra, A Tale Of Love, the story of the sensual exploration of two women, a princess and her servant. It reminds us that sexuality, treated as a taboo in Indian society, was in ancient times an art worthy of exploration.

It is said that art imitates life and I have often wondered why female sexuality is so blatantly ignored in films. Popular Indian cinema exploits the lowest form of female sexuality by incorporating exposed bodies and cheap meaningless lust that serves only to plant misconceptions into the impressionable youth living in a society that regards sexuality like somewhat of a forbidden fruit. In a laughable display of ignorance, effigies are burnt and protests are voiced when a filmmaker chooses to deviate from what is considered proper and accepted.

Male filmmakers, no matter how liberal in their thinking, often lose out on the effervescence of the more sensationalist approach of a female firecracker by sticking to the trodden path. A female protagonist who is outspoken, confident of her abilities and displays self-assured body language would be deemed too threatening and is rarely seen.

A shy, blushing damsel is usually gets credited as the lead. As a result most films portray men as the ones making the first move and are assumed to be the sexually aggressive ones. The propriety of a love scene is determined by the intensity with which a man kisses a woman before the curtain falls. Mira Nair in her films brings a refreshing sense of power in her subtle yet bold undertones of female sensuality.

In Mississippi Masala, when Denzel Washington crooned "Happy Birthday", he could've put Marilyn Monroe's birthday song for Kennedy to shame.

Shootout At Lokhandwala A Cop Out?

2007-07-04T07:05:00.000-07:00

There was a time when Bombay's underworld had a presence that could put the Italian mafia to shame. Right from the slum thickets of Dharavi to the posh locales of Lokhandwala, the bhai-log reigned. They wielded pistols, AK-47s and at times even the hooked Ram Puri. A single call from Dubai executed threats, quick extortions and even death sentences. Money was delivered in "petis" and "khokas" and the "ghoda" arrived tucked under the belts of trigger-happy men who figured that a hafta would pay their bills better than the humble salary of a hawaldar.

From the paan-wallahs' tiny shanties to the builders' air-conditioned offices, all fractions of Bombay quaked at the mention of bhai's name. I remember a time when a few struggling young men would, one fine day, buy a flat in one of Bombay's elite complexes and within a matter of months move their families out of the shoddy chawls where they had spent their frustrated lives.

While everybody wondered about how they had made it big, their naive mothers spoke of how their sons' fortunes had changed overnight ever since they joined the "company". Restaurant owners, bhajiwallahs and even jewellers offered their goods for free when bhai's family went window shopping. It has been difficult since then to guage who really makes or marrs the law in Bombay.

Shootout At Lokhandwala brings us the story of Maya Dolas (played by Vivek Oberoi) and Dilip Kokak alias Bhuva (played by Tusshar Kapoor) who were killed in a Lokhandwala encounter in 1991. Controversy still shrouds this encounter and like most police encounters, its legitimacy and intent is questioned every now and then.

Inspired by true events but highly dramatized as is expected of the Bollywood factory, this film surprisingly evokes neither empathy nor awe. It brings us a farcical version of Bombay underworld dramas like Satya and Company. What was director Apporva Lakhia thinking, I wondered through several exaggerated scenes.

I rolled my eyes when Amitabh Bachchan banged his desk rudely bellowing "Shut Up!" for no apparent reason. Thankfully it shut-up Suniel Shetty whose sluggish dialogue delivery, I concluded in hindsight, might've been the reason for Mr.Bachchan's sudden outburst.

Sanjay Dutt's role was elevated to that of a police demigod. Dramatic background scores played as Sanju Baba walked in slow-mo towards the site of the shootout, nudging away a bullet-proof vest offered to him by officers. Stray, half-done snippets were scattered throughout the storyline as a poor substitute for windows into some of the characters. These attempts barely scratched the surface and left the plot seeming even more inadequate than it would've if these peeks had been left out altogether.

A single bosom heaving session in one odd drunken song could've been left out for a relevant scene but no! A Bollywood film without the right doses of naach-gaana is like bhai-giri without a pistol.

The story narrated from the one-dimensional perspective of the police officers being interviewed in an enquiry session brings no insight into the complex personas of the three most interesting characters that this film could've potentially explored further: Maya, Bhuva and Maya's mother Aai.

Vivek Oberoi sports not only the same unshaven look but even the exact disposition that brought him fame with Company. He is somewhat of a natural at being the bhai though. Tusshar Kapoor does very little justice to what is known through police files and crime records about Dilip Bhuva, one of the most ruthless and cold blooded henchmen of the D-Company in Bombay. His gruff appearance did very little to mask the high-pitched, boyish voice and one wonders if his acting efforts were hampered by the film partly being a mummy-didi home production. Also, I had trouble deciding which one of the two was wasted, Amrita Singh or the character of Aai which could've used a few more poignant shades.

Honestly, a few years ago I would've been thoroughly impressed by Shootout At Lokhandwala simply because it wasn't yet another love/ wedding story and because it atleast tried to capture a true story. In the intervening years, however, films like Black Friday, Satya and Company have raised my expectations of films based on Bombay's underworld. Scenes of a car being blown up, a hundred rounds of ammo being fired and a script garnished with foul language just doesn't evoke any acute emotion. Meaningless action falls off one's pysche by the sheer lack of a storyline.

Come to think of it, what could've been more powerful than the true story of ruthless gangsters all under the age of 30 who were so taken by the conscienceless life of the underworld that they did not see their own doom over the glitzy horizon? But overdramatization, the trademark of mainstream Hindi cinema, is a cruel cop out that takes away the raw and moving realism that is characteriztic of stories inspired by true events.

Sadly, dried blood being sweeped off the Lokhandwala complex and the bodies of dead gangsters piled up after an encounter does not tell the audience what to feel. The goosebumps stayed locked in the stories behind the dead faces; the stories that were left unexplored by this film.

Horn Ok Please!

2007-07-02T05:41:00.000-07:00

The rains began coming down in torrents. I rolled down my window and took in the fresh smell of wet soil and a few pleasant drops. The breeze rushed in, bringing the tangy aroma of chaat from nearby stalls and stopped abruptly as the traffic brought us to a standstill. A long queue of cars, buses, trucks, rickshaws waited in the rain, scooters and motorcycles occasionally weaving in and out of the dense mesh. Everybody honked once in a while as if to make their presence felt. The shrill notes of a rickshaw mingled with the low boom of a honking truck.

Our car too let out a delicate squeal and contributed towards the growing traffic symphony.

"Why did you honk?" I asked our driver and his usually neutral, shy face gave way to a sheepish smile. He shrugged and I felt bad about having put him on the spot.

"I just asked out of curiosity" I persisted. A few, long seconds of silence passed and then just as I was about to make yet another attempt at breaking the silence, he cleared his throat.

"Madam, what to do?" he began in a thick Bihari accent, "The rickshaw-wallahs need passengers and so they dilly-dally looking around for their girahik. If I don't honk they don't move."

"Yes, but this is a whole line of stalled vehicles" I asked almost wanting to kick myself in the ass for sounding so argumentative. I couldn't believe I was making my driver feel bad when cars all around us were sounding random beeps. He sank into the silent mode again. A hush fell around us as people settled down into the jam and stopped voicing their impatience with honks.

People were done honking and were now waiting silently hoping for a traffic policeman to come save them from this mess. A few cars down, a truck driver and a bus conductor were arguing relentlessly over who should budge.

To my great astonishment after a couple of minutes, my driver began to giggle.

"You want to see something funny, madam?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.

"Sure" I said. Entertainment in a traffic jam was more than welcome.

Suddenly and without warning our driver hit the center of the steering wheel and the car let out a sharp, long peal. Immediately, the cars in front of us honked and soon everybody in the line was honking.

"Chain reaction" my driver softly muttered in satisfaction, pointing over to a tea shanty. I looked around trying to figure out what it was the he was showing me. And then I saw him. Under an umbrella tied to a chair was a traffic policeman snoozing with his cap over his face. He stirred a few times and the sudden and insistent honking finally roused him from his deep reverie. He wiggled out of the chair, his face a picture of chagrin. He pulled up his trousers over an inflated belly and surveyed the scene while getting into a yellow raincoat. His red lips were rotating furiously over a mouthful of tobacco like alike a clockwork being unwound. He slowly and very self-importantly sauntered over to the front of the waiting traffic and waved his hands about, till the truck and the bus that had been clogging this intense bottle-neck finally moved. The vehicles began to inch forward and in a matter of minutes, the jam disloged. We were on our way, the breeze toying with my hair again and stray raindrops tickling my nose.

I looked over in awe at our driver who was beaming. He honked playfully and looked over at me.

"In Bombay, this is not a horn, Madam. It is an alarm clock for Mamu-log", he said, his shoulders bobbing in mirth.

Note: For those unfamiliar with Bombay lingo: Girahik: Passenger/ Customer, Mamu-log: Traffic policemen, hawaldars, police or anyone really! Also, the title "Horn Ok Please" is a message commonly found as bumper stickers on trucks that have an atrociously wide blind-spot.

Mumbai Se Aaya Mera Dost-1

2007-06-30T07:44:00.001-07:00

My recent visit to India was wonderfully gratifying and deeply disturbing all at the same time. I was shooting a documentary film and got to witness a part and people of Bombay that I hadn't scrutinized before.

These faces and places had been lost to the busy commute and bustling crowds when I lived in the city some years ago but as we focused our lenses on them, they became more and more interesting and the crowd fell away. What stood out then, is the medley of contradictions that Bombay has now become.

Odd juxtapositions are now more noticeable than ever. Tall skyscrapers fringed by an abysmal slum area, large malls coming up beside rows of chawls and glitzy showrooms right next to the humble furniture workshops that work in the light of a single yellow bulb. Bombay's own sophisticated versions of Costco towers above harassed heads of the city's loyal bhaaji-wallahs and vendors. Simple, cotton kurtas hang forlorn from the street shanties at Linking Road and Dadar, the mirrors and sequins on their soft fabric winking at the spotless windows of a shopping center where similar ones are sold at thrice the price.

I heave a sigh of relief on noticing that the pav-bhaaji shack is still intact beside a brand new Pizza Hut. In the United States, McDonald's is a fast-food chain and in Bombay it is a family restaurant where people eat a less delectable version of the city's staple "vada-paav" for at least ten times its price.

While the middle class struggles for basic amenities, the malls have twenty-four hours of electricity and running water. On the day of a power outage, these malls stand magnificently lit up, their rich and arrogant frames looking down on the darkness of the city.

The chasm between the rich and the poor has widened dangerously and the pit of crime that bridges the two, threatens to swallow the frustrated. There are street kids doing drugs on railway bridges and rich brats doing drugs in dim lit discotheques. Kamathipura continues to exist like a parallel city mocking those of us who still believe in the power of the legal system.

How inured have we become, I wonder, as I watch children frolicking on a swing tied to the pillars of the busy Andheri flyover. By the time one flyover is done being constructed, work will begun on yet another and Bombay will always move in slow motion while contractors and political moghuls pull in the riches. There is an upside to all of this. The poor then find a new concrete roof above their heads. One day, the monsoons arrive like they did last year on 26th July and flood these lives, trying in their own cruel way to purge the city.

When I want to click pictures of a wide-eyed street child I am glared at.

"Why don't you click pictures of the Taj, Madam?" a man asks me, "Why you want Amrikka to see beggars?" he chides, as he fills paper cones with spiced gram and chopped onions.

"Channa chor garam," he calls out to passers-by and if it weren't for my intolerance of denial, I realize, I probably would've been thoroughly impressed by his sense of pride.

Our driver who witnesses this exchange has an entirely different take. He shakes his head vehemently as he pulls the car deftly in and out of potholes, barely missing the rickshaw ahead.

"Who cares if Amrikka sees the rip in our vest?" he snaps matter of factly, wiping his brow, "We know it is torn, no? We hide the hole and ignore it, it keeps getting wider. Nahin madam?" he asks me and I am stirred by his profound analogy.

I hear people brag about the technological advances even as the city's youth sleeps through the day and wakes up at night to disappear into call centers. I see them in Tata Sumos and Qualises, huddled, waiting to get to their night shift. I hear people proudly declare that India is turning into a hub for clinical research even as my heart sinks with the realization that a "hub for clinical research" for pharmaceutical companies translates to "a country with a large population and plenty disease for drug trials". Not something to be proud of, is it?

The one bearing in which the curve of economic status collapses is in a traffic jam, the city's greatest equalizer. The rich in their chaffeur driven cars, the middle class and the poor in the buses, taxis and rickshaws are all trapped in the serpentine queue of bright red, brake lights while traffic policemen wave their hands around inconsequentially for a little while. They then give up and sit back to watch this dazzling evening show ruminating on mouthfuls of tobacco. Nobody gets to work or reaches home on time irrespective of their socio-economic status. The faces at the traffic signal are scattered snippets from Madhur Bhandarkar's last film and there is nothing one can do about them, I am repeatedly told, except look away or roll up my window.

When I voice some of my concerns, wondering if there was something people could do, I am swiftly shushed, reprimanded, my N.R.I arrogance mocked. On the day of my return, I sit in the car on my way to the airport, finally silenced, behind a large, overloaded truck that looks like it could topple over any minute. "Mera Bharat Mahan" ("My India Is Great") it tells me. A noose hangs near it.

Tagged! Indian Authors: Of Experiences & In Anticipation

2007-05-26T13:33:00.000-07:00

When Amrita Rajan, a fellow author at Desicritics informed me that I had been tagged, I was overjoyed to see the topic of choice: "Indian Authors That I Had Read Or Wanted To Read". Finally! Would this include Indian Poets too, I wondered, as I sat down pulling out of memory every delightful book I had ever read. I decided I would make this slight variation myself and add a few poets to the mix; I am sure Amrita won't mind. For after all, every beautiful string of words is worth a thought and every creative exploit deserves analysis. Moreover, I personally believe that the more successful of authors have the ability to inculcate poetry into their prose.

In addition to the legendary greats, this list will also include a few poets and authors whose work, may not commercially popular but very different and enlightening on several literary levels. Some of them don't have portfolio of works but a single piece managed to make an impression on me. Each author or poet that I list has a story that somewhere along the line merged with my own:

NISSIM EZEKIEL:

My mother finished her English literature thesis at University of Mumbai (then Bombay University). One of her favorite professors was Nissim Ezekiel and she had a book of his poems tucked away near her nightstand. I remember giggling away as she read "Goodbye Party For Miss Pushpa T". These poems light-heartedly mocked Indian-English. Not the accent but the direct translation of Indian phrases. I have never seen such a direct and simple source of humor as the Ezekiel poems. Years later I read V.S.Naipaul's "The Mystic Masseur" and the rib-tickling phrases had me reminiscing of Nissim Ezenkiel's style. As is known, Indians translate Hindi or other Indian languages into English with amusing results. A question as simple as "What are you doing?" gets flipped around into "What you are doing?", "How you are doing, what you are doing?".

Mr.Ezekiel's poetry was the first to show me how cultural faux-pas could contribute to literature without being grammatically accurate. What a unqiue and informal way of inculcating culture into poetry! My mother had promised me that she would take me to meet Mr.Ezekiel but sadly he passed away in 2004 after a long drawn battle with Alzhiemer's. Even as I shed the rhymes of verbose and romantic English poets, Nissim Ezekiel's simple, lucid and rich language settled over my first attempts at free verse.

Recently, my mother and I shared a laugh trying to imagine what Mr.Ezekiel would've thought of the catchy "Beedi Jalay Le" number from "Omkara".

"It is so cold, get somebody's glove. Go get fire from the neighbour's stove", he would've said and guffawed.

DILIP CHITRE:

Bilingual writers fascinate me. They get the best of both worlds and with good reasons; the puns, the verbal gymnastics (as I like to call figures of speech), the metaphors that get lost in translation, are all in the perception of these writers. Kudos to these few literary beings for translating the wisdom, the humor and the insight of one language into another. They are the ones who truly share literature while the rest of us selfishly indulge.

Do people remember Smita Patil and Om Puri's riveting drama, Ardha Satya? The verse that summarized the film was Mr.Chitre's poem by the same name.

"Ek palde mein napunsakta, doosre palde mein paurush, aur theek tarazu ke kaante par, ardh satya"

There have been people who have translated this poem based on their own interpretations or sometimes very literally. But to me, these lines have a universal meaning. Literally translated these lines mean the following:

"On one side of the scale is the weakness of neutrality, on the other side, the strength of man, And on the needle of this fine balance, the Half Truth"

"The Half Truth" to me is an interesting concept because it leaves room for interpretation. It means that it is not just our angle, our perspective but our positions in this cosmos that determine our vision of the truth. Mr.Chitre might just shake his head and dismiss my far fetched interpretation but since this is the meaning that makes the poem sublime for me, I will stick to it. This is one of the reasons I would like to read more of Mr.Chitre's books. Reading more than one book by an author provides greater insight into the author's thinking and outlook. He has translated works by some of the exalted Marathi saints, Sanata Tukaram, Santa Dnyaneshwar and my literary psyche tingles in anticipation of a poet's view on religious verses.

MIRA BAI:

Ok, before people roll their eyes and wonder why a religious bhajan writer of the 16th century is listed among Indian authors, let me clarify. I have forever been in awe of Mira Bai's poems and have wanted to translate them from the perspective of an Indian woman of my generation. Most of the raw sensuality in these poems has been doused by the religious connotations, which is a good and a bad thing. Good, because it allowed the poetry to be preserved in spite of the stringency and taboos associated with sensuality and especially female sexuality. Bad, because what literature wants to explore with passion, is now married to religion. Any translator venturing into the sensuality aspect will probably face the irrational wrath of political parties. I can almost picture my effigy being burnt.

An example of the beautiful, romanticized and sensual poetry is as follows:

"Chhandon langar mori bahiyan gahaun na
main to naar paraye ghar ki, mere bharose gupal rahau na,
Jo tum meri bahiyan dharat ho, nayan jor mere praan harau na,
Vrindavan ki kunjgali mein rit chhod, anriti karau na,
Mira ke prabhu Giridhar naagar charan kamal chitth tare tarau na"

Literal translation-by Aditi Nadkarni (Do Not Duplicate)

"Leave, naughty one, don't hold my hand,
I belong to someone else, do not trust me at all,
Even if you do hold my hand,
don't conquer my soul through my eyes,
In the forests of Vrindavan, do not abandon convention,
Do not accept wantonness,
Mira's Lord Giridhar, do not take away the lotus of your feet,
That resides in the depths of my heart"

The above literal translation hints towards the naughty banter between lovers and although the mention of Lord Giridhar (Krishna) brings in religious connotation, this verse has a lot of lovelorn references that use wanton lust as a metaphor for devotion.

Mira Bai's verses are on my list of poetry readings for this year!

KIRAN NAGARKAR:

Speaking of Mira Bai reminds me of Kiran Nagarkar's 'Cuckold', the story of the prince of Chittor, Maharaj Kumar who was married to the saint Mira Bai. This reference shifts the focus a bit from ancient to contemporary and from poetry to fiction.

Mr.Nagarkar's much talked about work, for me, more than anything else is an exploration of the male psyche; something women have always scrutinized with great interest. He too is a bilingual writer who has published works in both English and Marathi. Sadly, believe it or not, I have read only book reviews of 'Cuckold' and plan to read it this year.

I like to be in the story, if you know what I mean. If the story is about someone, I immediately find a character who I could be and then take great delight as that persona is explored and mourn when they are killed or eliminated. With 'Cuckold' I want to find myself in the 16th century and be there to witness what the Maharaj Kumar thought. For after all, fiction allows us the liberty of escape.

R.K.NARAYAN:

This man wove the touching tales around which my childhood revolved. Practically every Indian belonging to my generation, remembers 'Malgudi Days'. Deftly exploiting my eagerness to watch the 'Malgudi Days' television series, my mother has had me wolf down many a leafy, green vegetable, that I would've otherwise promptly turned up my nose at.

In Malgudi Days, the 'coming-of-age' plot was dealt with such sensitivity that I now feel I knew Swami and his friends and have actually been to Malgudi. The informal style and the lack of rich vocabulary that is characteristic of R.K.Narayan's classics has been widely criticized. However, I feel, that is precisely what makes each of his characters so endearing. The protagonist is always someone who Indian readers can identify with. Not many people know this but the Dev Ananad starrer, 'Guide' was based on R.K.Narayan's book by the same name. Every story has a moral, a social message and at the center of it all, a character who we can empathize with. R.K.Narayan is undoubtedly, one of my favorite Indian authors.

RUSKIN BOND:

An Indian author from the days of the British Raj, Bond's writing describes in great detail the picturesque northern India. I have to admit, I liked his short stories more than the novels. His style is what I adapted when I first started writing short stories. Set the scene, identify the characters, set a routine for each of the characters and then one day have something happen that changes everything. Rsukin Bond I think is best at imagery. Once I began reading his book I could never quite step outside the scenes he created with his words. The plots were simple but the characters were so well-developed that the intensity of events left you riveted. His description of the natural beauty of India's foothills makes me want to visit and find those places. As the story starts, one can imagine an old caretaker, the small bungalow in Kasauli, the darkness of an evening as shadows swallow treees and hills in their wake, the rustling of a thick forest, the quiet railway stations where a traveller has just arrived and our journey will now begin with his.

Ruskin Bond's 'The Blue Umbrella' was recently adapted to a film by Vishal Bharadwaj ('Chhatri Chor'). Below is a scene from the film.

VIJAY TENDULKAR:

I credit one of my earliest feminist influences to Mr.Tendulkar's story, 'Umbartha' starring Smita Patil. There wasn't a single point during that story where I didn't have goosebumps. His contributions towards non-mainstream cinema that brought attention towards social issues are particularly noteworthy. Screenplays of poignant Hindi films such as 'Ardha Satya', 'Manthan', 'Nishant', 'Akreit' and 'Kamla' were written by Vijay Tendulkar.

When I was younger, my parents warned me against being selective towards English authors. I read Marathi books but by the time I reached an age when I could read Vijay Tendulkar's books, my reading, quite regretfully, had skewed much towards English authors. When I was fifteen or so, my father bought us tickets to the Marathi musical 'Ghashiram Kotwal' and that is when I truly was able to appreciate a Vijay Tendulkar play. I hope someday to rejuvenate my Marathi reading and treat myself to some more of Mr.Tendulkar's stories.

RANI DHARKER:

I read one book by Rani Dharker and was bowled over. Her 'Virgin Syndrome' left me laughing, raising my eye-brows, turning pages eagerly and then wanting more. I am not sure if Ms.Dharker wrote any more such noteworthy books but her one literary exploit delved into the female sexuality of an Indian middle-class woman with subtle shades of autobiography that I so love.

SHOBHA DE:

Yes, I know, she has had plenty commercial (some times undeserving you say?) success thanks to generous inclusions of sensationalism and sexuality. I also realize that she isn't the kind of author you would expect to find in the list such as this one. I can almost feel Vijay Tendulkar glaring at me for including his work with Shobha De's racy novels. But let me explain.

I have read two types of De Novels: Ones that were heavily tinged with the Jackie Collins style and then ones that weren't. Her 'Speedpost' surprised me quite pleasantly. I must say that Ms.De's 'Speedpost' is something I would recommend as a Mothers' Day gift for, ahem...daughters. Yes, you heard me right.

Unbeknownst to many, Ms.De was Ms.Rajadhyaksha before marriage and that makes her a Saraswat Brahmin like myself, before she married into a Bengali family. So some of the references she makes in 'Speedpost' were identifiable for me. Description of her mother's coconut aamti, the environment in her home when she was growing up in Bombay and the little, stray things that are so characteristic of the Bombay middle-class, made me nostalgic. This book of hers, confirmed my hypothesis that the success of a book depends largely on how much of themselves, authors reveal within the story. So if there's a De non-fiction in sight, I'd say try it out.

ANURAG MATHUR:

I would love to have feedback (and free copies!) of Anurag Mathur's 'The Inscrutable Americans'. I have heard so much about this book from fellow-desis in the U.S that I HAVE to read this one before 2008. Yes, I am starting to give myself deadlines; unfortunately between writing and research, reading does take a backseat.

SUKETU MEHTA:

On my last visit to India, I started reading 'Maximum City' and left it behind. Exploring Bombay's under-belly without evoking grimaces is a truly diffcult task. The packed railway stations, the harassed middle-class, the crumbling chawls, the happy brown faces of street children, the traffic jams and the quiet ocean that fringes this sublime craziness are all part and parcel of the city's unique spirit. I wouldn't trade it for anything. This side of Bombay is as endearing or possibly more than the glitzy face and it always leaves me a little disappointed when people treat it with excessive criticism. What city doesn't have issues that need attention? Bombay, has more than just those. It has a soul. If as critics say, Suketu Mehta has managed to capture this soul, then he definitely has my respect.

An autobiographical account as a first book, however, I find a bit worrisome because it makes me doubt whether the author will be able to follow it up with a second one that can match expectations. Nonetheless, 'Maximum City' has been touted as one of the best travelogues and I plan to get back to reading it on my upcoming India trip.

I can hardly wait to visit my beloved book stores near the Fort area, where out of sheer habit, I will happily haggle with book vendors even in the rain, something I miss doing at Barnes & Nobles here. Ha! The things we miss!

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

I could go on and on and write about a few more authors that I haven't mentioned in this post but as Tagore would say "Love does not claim possession but gives freedom". So I will now scour blogs looking for an appropriate person to pass on this very fortunate tag. Thank you for the opportunity Amrita. I had a blast writing this one!

UPDATE: For those of who read this post, the follow-up of the tag is available on Vivek Sharma's Blog:

http://viveksharmaiitd.blogspot.com/2007/05/indian-authors-ive-read-and-plan-to.html

It is a very comprehensive list. Hope you guys have fun reading it!

My Dad, The Feminist

2007-05-18T08:53:00.000-07:00

It is my father's birthday today (May 17th) and my first, very pungent post about feminism went up on Desicritics.

Last night after I sang a lengthy "Happy Birthday" rendition for him over the phone he very sweetly asked me why my mum received so many honorable mentions in my articles while he didn't. I told him it was because I wrote about feminism. "I'm a feminist too" he answered in all sincerity and I chuckled but it did make me reminisce about how and why my own early opinions of feminism, man-woman relationships and marriage in general, blossomed.

My dad, I suddenly realized, had a lot to do with my own expectations from men. When I tell people that I expect a man to respect my intellect, my social status and not be threatened by it, they shake their heads incredulously. The only reason, I still continue to believe that men like that exist is simply because of my father.

On a rainy afternoon, when I was in kindergarten, my father told me that every person should be able to describe themselves in one word.

"Just one?" I asked, immediately starting to think of all the wonderful things that defined me.

"What word describes you?" I suddenly asked my dad.

"Self-made" he said without missing a beat.

"You made yourself?" I asked in amazement and he smiled nodding.

As I grew older I found out what "self-made" truly meant. At my sixteenth birthday, I told him that I remembered the incident.

"You do, huh?" he asked with a frown, "Then we are going to have to find me a new word to describe me."

"Why?" I asked slightly taken aback.

"Because I might've been self-made before I met your mother, but after that she's had a lot to do with my achievements and success" he said with a smile as we sat back, watching my mother put icing on my birthday cake.

My mother completed her thesis after marriage, while my sister and I were still toddlers. My father would babysit us on days that my mother took her exams. By the time we were in school, my mother was a full professor. I remember the quiet nights in Bombay, when I would get up in the middle of the night, thirsty and walk towards the dim light in the kitchen. From behind a curtain, I could see my mother calling out numbers from marksheets as my dad deftly entered each digit onto the calculator and tallied the totals. I could see how sleepy they both were and yet how much fun they seemed to be having over this little midnight project they had teamed up on. My father could've easily left my mom to tally up her report cards and gone back to sleep so he could be rested before the morning's early shift. But he sat there making jokes to keep her awake and wiping her glasses for her as she yawned widely. For some reason, that scene has stayed with me and sums up the kind of support that a wife expects from her husband.

There were times when my father's effusive pride over my mother's achievements caused my sister and me a great deal of amusement. My mother once directed a play in the college she taught. At the end of the play, when she was called on stage and the audience applauded, my father stood up and clapped, as my sister and I ducked our heads in embarrassment. He was oblivious to our discomfort as he gave her his own singular standing ovation.

The very first time he read my poetry he told me he liked my confessional style.

"You get it from your mom, you know," he told me, "I could never write like her. Her English is amazing..." My sister and I rolled our eyes and giggled while he continued raving about my mother's literary skills heedless to our mirth.

When my mother tried a new recipe, he would have us mete out compliments so she would feel rewarded. He himself never cared much about television but if one of her favorite films was coming on, he would fight us girls relentlessly for the remote control. If she'd had a late night, he would make us breakfast and ask us to be quiet around the house. During our rebellious teen years, my sister and I would get periodic long lectures from him about how we should be appreciative towards her since she does so much for us. On numerous occasions my parents would engage in fiesty debates about political or social issues and we would watch with interest as they exchanged ideas, logic and even some occasional humor. Never did he express offense at my mother having contradicted him in front of friends or relatives. Financial decisions and queries, my dad had made very clear, were to be handled by his beloved "home minister". He raised us two girls with the very ideals and philosophies that he would've imparted, had we been boys. He taught us to have the same strength of character, ambition and determination that he himself had applied to life. All this while, he had a successful career, a business and never seemed threatened by my mother's very distinct individuality.

When friends asked me why I even expected to ever find a man who could be secure, confident, supportive and yet ambitious, I always said that it was because I grew up watching such a man.

I called him up this morning to ask him how he celebrated his birthday and before I hung up, I made my admission.

"Dad, I thought about it", I said, "You really are a feminist".

"Maybe that is the one word that describes me" he answered laughing.

Casino Royale: Has James Bond Finally Met His Match?

2007-05-12T07:55:00.000-07:00

Bond girls have forever been the hapless victims, the quintessential 'damsels in distress' who just happen to be stunningly beautiful. Feminists and film critics have vehemently criticized Bond-makers for their shallow portrayals of these women.

Researchers have insinuated that the author, Ian Fleming modeled the character of James Bond after his own personality of a womanizing jet setter, which may explain the nature of Bond's love interests. What was he thinking, one wonders, when naming one of his Bond girls, 'Pussy Galore'! Ironically, however, the fiesty Vesper Lynd of Casino Royale was his first Bond girl creation, leading me to believe that it may have been the filmmakers who slowly catered the portrayal of Bond girls, for the masses. In short, these sirens became the eye-candy assisting a film spiked with testosterone.

Quite refreshingly, the female lead of Casino Royale (2006) went above and beyond just being a Bond-girl. The beautiful Ava Green as Vesper Lynd in Casino Royale, brought intelligence, sensitivity, strength and yet shades of vulnerability to the usually uninteresting and one-dimensional persona of a Bond woman. Her spunky and quick-witted character added to the pulsating drama of the latest Bond release, a touch of intellectual feminism by impressing the suave James Bond with her wit as much as with her breathtaking beauty.

Now, let me confess, there was a time during my teen years when I used to consider myself a die-hard feminist. I was under the impression then, that feminism was a man-hating, sexist scheme and only until much later did I realize how extremist, immature and illogical my beliefs were. I have now come to the conclusion that differences between sexes are irrefutable. In fact, I would go so far as to say, that they are even essential for a smooth running social machinery. These gender based individualities are not something we could bridge by rallying and debating endlessly. Modern feminism has been largely tainted with the denial of the differences between the two sexes.

Women are intelligent, beautiful, intuitive, nurturing and sensitive beings and feminism should probably accentuate these unique feminine characteristics. 'Equality of sexes' was not a concept that urged rejection of the inherent character differences between the two genders but instead advocated equal treatment of the two in society. Somewhere along the line, extremism crept in and ill-defined feminism resulted in the rejection of feminist ideas by the majority of the male population, who have now sadly begun to associate the label 'bitchy' with feminism.

I have always felt, that the smarter and the more independent, the woman he loves, the more secure and confident, a man seems to be. As I watched Casino Royale, the new James Bond somehow elevated himself in my esteem, by the smart woman he was drawn to. When Daniel Craig became the first actor ever to receive a BAFTA nomination for a performance as James Bond, I was reminded of the saying, that 'behind every successful man is a woman' to which, over time, I have made a slightly wordy addendum: 'Behind every smart and successful woman is a man who is confident enough of his own abilities to not be threatened by her intellect.'

The persona of Vesper Lynd in this new Bond film has been very smartly designed. In addition to being gorgeous, she has the charisma to win the favor of the new generation. She is a woman one could see being as popular among the men as with women. Her intellect and wit, quite realistically tempered by her feminine gullibility, ultimately brings out the tender, unguarded side of the one man known in cinematic history for his ruthless, detached and sexually driven regard for women.

And for the first time in Bond history, like a phoenix rising out of the ashes, a new James Bond emerged from the ocean, glistening, in a pair of skimpy swimming trunks.

Hallelujah! Finally, some eye-candy for the girls!

Let's Be Fair!

2007-04-29T11:10:00.000-07:00

The current online Indian matrimonial advertisements surprise me with their adherence to the age-old "Fair & Slim" requirement. Have they seen Bipasha Basu lately, I wonder. I don't mean to suggest that people should set "Dark & Overweight" as their standards. However, I do disagree with the instant labelling of fair as beautiful in Indian society. Over time, I have seen, beaked noses, thin lips, bushy eyebrows, lacklustre smiles and even a slight squint, being dismissed in the face of fairness, quite literally.

When I was eleven years old, browsing through the daily newspaper's matrimonial classified section caused me great anxiety. I was not fair and according to the 'Brides Wanted' column, was probably going to end up an old maid. Everybody wanted a fair bride!

Around this time a supposedly magical face cream called Fair & Lovely was sweeping the classrooms at my girl's school.
Television commercials for Fair & Lovely had led me to believe that my wheatish complexion would not only damage my chances at romance but could even hinder my career. According to the advertisements, being light skinned was a professional credential as well. Alarmed, I begged my mother to let me buy a tube of Fair & Lovely. But my well-established and customary argument of "Everybody uses it" was not good enough for my mother.

She pursed her lips and looked at me from above her glasses as she graded exams.

"Find three things about yourself that matter more than the shade of your complexion and write an essay on them" she commanded firmly, like the teacher she was, even as I groaned my reluctance.

"Do it," she said, "Someday you will thank me"

The following week, I gathered evidence to convince my mother of how buying Fair & Lovely was going to ensure my future happiness.

1. The matrimonial classified section was Exhibit A.

2. A pamphlet of Fair & Lovely that showed a gradual lightening of skin color in a very demonstrative picture was Exhibit B.

3. And of course, a few pictures of Bollywood actresses, were Exhibit C.

One by one, my mother steadily demolished my case.

"The matrimonial section is not the only place to find a groom and besides, that should not be reason enough for you to try and change yourself" she stated in one breath.

Exhibit B was thrown out faster than I could say Fair & Lovely.

"Skin pigmentation cannot be reversed" she scoffed, flicking the pamphlet aside.

Then came the Bollywood actresses. Honestly, as my mother looked at each of their pictures and commented, I felt less sorry for myself and more so for them.

"That", she said pointing an incriminatory finger at one of the pretty faces, "is war-paint!"

I could almost see the actresses' lips begin to quiver and quickly returned them to my drawer.

"I am not beautiful", I bawled, finally giving way to the tears I had been holding back.

"Yes, you are!" my mother said looking genuinely surprised at my sudden outburst, "And you don't need a face cream pamphlet or a classified section for brides to tell you that."

"But I am dark!" I protested vehemently.

"Dusky" she said, raising her eyebrows enigmatically, making it sound so much better than it really was.

A few years later, in the early 90s, Karishma Kapoor made her debut and all everybody could talk about was how fair she was and of course the light eyes were just gorgeous. This was also the year, in which I inadvertently formed my first independent opinion, irrespective of what of my classmates and chummies thought. Unfortunately, Ms. Kapoor, through no real fault of hers, was at the receiving end.

"I don't really think she's very pretty", I announced to the study group gathered at my house.

They were stunned. From the corner of my eye, I could see my mother begining to look in our direction with sudden interest.

"Well, my mother says she is fair and pretty", one of the girls added, in an attempt to influence my opinion.

"I think she looks like Randhir Kapoor without a moustache", I said, a tad cruelly and not willing to back down.

The girls exchanged glances.

"But she is so fair", one of them tried, puzzled by my obvious dismissal of her skin color while assessing her beauty.

I simply shrugged. The rest of the study session continued uninterrupted by the usual banter about films, actors and actresses.

After the girls left, sulking a little, my mother and I sat in our living room, munching on samosas and watching with growing interest as a sultry Sonbai became the object of a lecherous tax collector in Mirch Masala.

"So who do you find beautiful?" my mother asked her voice heavily tinged with curiosity.

"Her", I answered, gesturing towards the screen just as Smita Patil's kohl-lined eyes appeared.

I was over to the dark side.

Cinema, Cinema

2007-04-20T08:45:00.000-07:00

Comedy is dangled,
A rare delicacy, when well done,
at the hungry mouth,
Of my humor;
Quirks, habits,
Small joys that crinkle eyes,
And the horrific truths that unravel faces,
Pull lose, the knots of my brow.

Childhoods, in flashbacks,
and the mothers,
that made these characters,
Make appearances often
In sessions with therapists,
As they lie on a couch, defenseless,
While I sit up, suddenly interested,
In this undeniable common ground.

The fiddle of a violin,
Ocassionally takes, a tricky, long drag
At the strings of my heart,
Only to be hooked, painfully,
On a throbbing vessel,
Mid-note.

Odd angles, fixated on
Jutting temples and relentless jaws,
Tears, wrinkles,
A single unsaid word, hangs uncertain
In the excruciating silence of my rapt regard,
Seizing and freeing my imagination,
all at the same time,

Orgasmic peals of abandon,
Rush, like blood, to my cheeks,
Failed experiments with love and sex,
All tumble out and take shape,
right here, in my living room,
In a palpable silver haze,
That falls on my face like a spotlight,
Bringing me their stories,
And somewhere in them,
My own.

It is then
that I am no longer looking at a screen,
But at the most spellbinding
Mirror of sorts.

The Shapiro Writing Festival In Snapshots

2007-04-16T10:01:00.000-07:00

An evening in the midst of some of the most fascinating people one could find within an academic setting, was more than I could ask for when I was selected for a workshop at the University Of Toledo's Shapiro Writing Festival. At Libby Hall, the stone building with its old world feel, a fire smoldered in the back of the room, as the literary and creative minds at the University started arriving.

On the very first day at dusk, we were treated to a poetry reading by Mr.Tyehimba Jess. He read with passion and fervor, some beautiful poetry from his National Poetry Series award winning collection titled, 'leadbelly'. His poems traced the history of blues legend, Huddie William Ledbetter (Leadbelly) and the music that tempered his violent life. This was my first experience with 'performance poetry' where biographical allusion brought out the truth in each monologue making them as real as words could ever be. In particular, I was in awe of the monologues where Mr.Jess's poetry employed a woman's voice to recount some of the poignant events in Leadbelly's life. His tone, the unfeigned articulation of the dialect, made the poetry sublime and palpable at the same time, evoking goosebumps throughout the reading. Each poem was followed by resounding applause.

The second day, was an inspiring talk by Ms.Lisa Lieberman Doctor whose career as a development and production executive in Los Angeles at Universal Pictures, Warner Brothers and Tristar Pictures, brought eager students, some much needed insight into professions in the television and film industry. She read out pointers and letters outlining the pathway to success for budding writers, from her associates, all of whom are established executives and producers in the industry. Her warmth, approchability and experience, made the talk and the Q&A session, especially engaging.

The talk by Ms.Lieberman Doctor, was followed by an open mic poetry reading where I had the opportunity to read three short poems from an unpublished collection, that I will be sending out for publication in June. The feedback I received at the end of my reading was heartening and this experience also familiarized me with the styles of some of the other poets who read their work that evening.

The gala event hosted on Saturday saw snowfall in April. In the cozy ambience of Libby Hall, participants of the 24-hour Shapiro play-writing workshop performed their play for an open audience. The acclaimed actress and Interim Dean of Arts and Sciences, Ms.Sue Ott Rowland, performed a dramatic monologue titled 'Nostalgia'. Dinner was accompanied by the soulful music played by guitarist Ed Levy, the coordinator of the guitar program and Lecturer at the University of Toledo.

On Love, Marriage & Flannel Pajamas...

2007-04-13T21:07:00.000-07:00

Does life ultimately teach us that the portrayal of love and marriage in films, is far from accurate? Yes, it does, cruelly so. But finally, we have a film that gives us that long overdue and honest look at relationships. Jeff Lipsky's 'Flannel Pajamas' does not stop at the 'girl meets boy and sparks fly' scenario and actually goes on to explore the uncomfortable albeit real dimensions of a relationship that are so often lost to romance in conventional cinema.

Director Jeff Lipsky sketches some very authentic characters who draw you in immediately and keep you intrigued till the very end. The script is remarkably interesting, considering the wordiness of some of the dialogues. Mr.Lipsky uses prejudice, religion and human flaws to temper and add believability to the romance. Interestingly, he uses as the story's setting, New York city, the birthplace of several Hollywood romantic flicks.

Stuart (Justin Kirk) and Nicole (Julianne Nicholson) meet on a blind date and their relationship follows the gradual culmination into a steady romance and then, of course, into marriage. While portraying a couple that is blissfully oblivious to their evident differences, the director has managed to provoke cynicism in the audience by putting out some very apparent issues that they are ignoring, blinded by emotion, just as we do, when we are the ones in the middle of the emotional circus and friends and loved ones are hollering at us to beware.

Stuart and Nicole have very different careers and temperaments; like all couples they come with their share of baggage. While Nicole is a homely girl whose many associations with friends and family define her, Stuart is a man who wants to protect her, live with her in an insulated world where he can be, in his own words, her 'knight in shining armor'. This works well, until of course, Nicole no longer needs to be saved, especially from the people who she loves to surround herself with.

He dislikes sharing her with her friends and she is bothered by the lack of emotional openness he so valiantly shrouds with voluble and self-descriptive monologues. When they first meet, Stuart is a guy who loves to talk about himself and is happy with his line of work. Nicole on the other hand is at a stage where she is dissatisfied with her present career but has some dreams she wants to pursue. This I found quite interesting. I believe, that as human beings we are not ourselves entirely until we find that niche in life, in term of careers, hobbies, friends, social lives, or anything that influences us fundamentally at a personal and emotional level. If these aspects of our life are still unripe, we change and the people who fell in love with us when we were twenty, are left wondering what the hell happened.

Self-actualization for a man is very different from that for a woman. A woman derives her confidence or self-worth from her accomplishments whereas men, I think, are able to compartmentalize and distinguish between material or personal investments. Hence, it might actually be a good idea, to say the least, for men to find a woman, who has in essence, achieved a majority of what she would like to do with her life.

This film made me think. Does giving a lot of yourself neccessarily ensure the success of the relationship? I also wondered about how people fall into relationships without having solid discussions regarding religion, children, home, lifestyle and careers. Stuart and Nicole display some identifiable reactions to some very probable circumstances. Their intimacy, their flaws and even their beliefs are all ones we can relate to. Watching their relationship metamorphosize through a range of complications such as emotional demands, a suicide in the family, parent's illnesses and a miscarriage even, suddenly brings home the responsibility and depth of marriage.

A friend of mine once commented that couples who meet when they are older, are more likely to have a successful marriage. She rationalized that since they have been alone and independent long enough, they would know what is important to them and hence are likelier to discuss these issues before the 'I Do's'. I wasn't convinced. It could also make them less willing to compromise, I argued. I found myself wondering why it is that we see people go through similar experiences and yet never seem to learn from them.

And then suddenly, it happened. I caught within this film, the cleverly inserted, poignant metaphor for marriage, in a seemingly simple scene. Looking out of a 36th floor window, Nicole's sister comments to Stuart about how beautiful the view of New York city is. "It is a contradiction", he replies, "the view from the 36th floor, versus what it looks like, standing in the middle of the street". This is when I realized that the view from within a relationship is quite different from that on the outside. As bystanders, we can all rationally evaluate other people's decisions and choices. However, once our emotions come into play, our reasoning somehow gets sadly but understably hindered.

I recommend this film for all those who plan to be in relationships that they hope will eventually culminate into marriage, for all those who have a starry-eyed view of love and might be setting themselves up for a rude reality check, for those who think of themselves as pragmatists but have a vulnerability that could steal that solid practicality from right under their rooted feet, for those who have borrowed their ideas of love and marriage from watching movies or their parents' marriages and for those who belong to none of the aforementioned categories but are looking to watch a story about love, that holds true in the real world. Now, that is essentially everybody, isnt it?

Watching 'The Namesake' in Ohio

2007-04-11T15:45:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I happened to see a preview of 'The Namesake' and having read Jhumpa Lahiri's book I now wanted to see what the story looked like to director, Mira Nair. I skipped laundry on Sunday and at seven in the evening found myself in a movie theatre in Ohio watching the journey of an immgirant couple who arrived in the US after an arranged marriage in Kolkata, India. My friend, Seema, who was born and raised in California, accompanied me to the theatre and sat unaware of the effect this film would have on her. This entry is more than just a review it is a personal chronicle detailing my experience of watching 'The Namesake'.

The male protagonist of this film, Gogol Ganguli (Kal Penn), suffers from a common malady, an identity crisis. Born in the US, to Bengali immigrants, Ashok (Irrfan Khan) and Ashima (Tabu), he shirks from all that in reality defines him. Having witnessed Gogol Ganguli's journey of self-acquisition, I decided that I would not review this movie and instead would describe what it was like for me, as an immigrant to watch that film in a theatre surrounded predominantly by elderly white Americans and non-Indians. I felt like I was in a crash course where people were finally forced to learn a little about my culture. The love story of an arranged marriage, the immigrant struggle and the traditions that I so often get asked about were all there in one entertaining story.

I have lived in Ohio for almost five years now. Our city has one Hindu temple and three overpriced Indian grocery stores. Approximately two hundred Indian families reside in this small city and most of them are doctors at the University Hospital in town. Nonetheless, when United 93, the movie about the September 11th plane hijacking was released, I was dealt angry and bitter glances as I exited the movie theatre amidst comments about 'Arabs'. I was very confused and it took me a few minutes to realize that being brown and dark haired in Toledo, qualified me for being an 'Arab'. No matter how much I travel and how many people I meet, ignorance still startles me. I have always felt that experiences lose their relevance when spent on ignorant minds. Hence, I felt oddly exposed as the film reeled in Ashok's arrival as a graduate student in America, his quick arranged marriage to Ashima and their years of acclimatization to life in the US. I was afraid that the message in the film would be lost on the audience.

Irrfan Khan, Tabu and Kal Penn have each given real and honest performances leading the audience to believe that somewhere in New York is the Ganguli residence where these characters actually exist. To those who have read my earlier, entries, it is no secret that I regard Mira Nair as one of the most talented contemporary film directors. Her use of the airport digital displays and flash animation to convey metamorphosis was clever albeit overused. Her execution of applying the implicit to convey emotion was as always, flawless. But at the end of the movie, the one character that makes you laugh and cry with his intelligent portrayal of a reserved but sensitive man, was that of Irrfan Khan's. Through expressions and body language he brought a range of dimensions to the character of Ashok Ganguli.

Although, I thought the portrayal of Moushumi (Zulieka Robinson) was over-villainzed, compared to the one in the book, I believe it is a forgivable flaw considering a two hour film doesn't allow in-depth analysis of each character's psyche. Inspite of this limiting aspect of converting a book into a film, I thought 'The Namesake' did a fine job of exploring character pyschology without losing out on the pace of the movie.

Watching 'The Namesake' in Ohio was such a complex experience in itself, that I would not be able to review the critical and technical aspects of this film as thoroughly as I would like. I could, however, for the pleasure of the reader, describe in great detail, the enlightened expressions on my friend, Seema's face, as she recognized her own personal conflicts in Gogol's character. She laughed as she saw the quirks her parents shared with the Gangulis and cried uncontrollably as she recognized in their simple, hardworking and warm faces, the familiar ones of her immigrant parents. She walked out of the theatre aware and more respectful of the journey her parents had made long before her arrival on the scene.

Seema and I, were the only Indians in the scantily filled theatre and occasionally we could feel a glance or a stare cast our way. At other times, such a situation would've made me uncomfortable or conscious. But Gogol's journey has a message entwined in its story that even the most shallow ones among us couldn't have missed and having wrapped my thoughts around that message, I sat somewhat content and unaffected by any scrutiny. "The Namesake' made me feel like I was home for a while and as the film's tag line says, "The greatest journeys are the ones that bring us home".

Where Art Thou'?

2007-04-08T08:28:00.000-07:00

Has anybody ever wondered, where that entire genre of offbeat Indian films disappeared with the advent of the nineties?

The protagonist of these films was somebody, I always felt, I had just met on a train ride in Bombay or had crossed paths with on the busy streets of the city. His love story was not set in the snowy hills of Switzerland and his love interest thankfully resembled somebody I actually knew or would most likely become when I grew up. Where did that common man go and why did he take with him that glorious period of what I liked to call 'the middle-class films'.

It was the late eighties and I was ten when Chashme Baddoor first made its way into the evening feature film slot. This was before the arrival of entire channels that ran back to back movies; it was when Saturdays and Sundays for the middle class meant an evening movie for the family. Doordarshan was the only channel and I can still see my family gathered in the living room as our endearing Crown black & white television set, brought us our precious weekend entertainment. Deepti Naval's homely appeal and Farooq Sheikh's exquisite Urdu coupled with the earthiness of the story's setting left its mark on my impressionable mind. But this was before the cable guys took over town.

Amol Palekar and Vidya Sinha in 'Chhotisi Baat' played out what could only be described as a middle-class love story from a time when arranged marriages were the norm and falling in love was something only actors did on the silver screen. The believable characters of Arun and Prabha brought hope to all the weary Romeos who pursued the objects of their affection on crammed buses during their daily commute to work.

In Golmaal, Amol Palekar quite deftly parodied the 'twin-brothers' (judwa bhai) story that had been hounding Bollywood for quite a while. Utpal Dutt brought the rare physical comedy to simple storylines and his moustached, pompous persona became a legend in these middle-of-the-road features.

Naseeruddhin Shah displayed a magnificent range from Masoom to Mirch Masala and even gave Hindi film history, its cult classic, 'Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron' tinged with satirical shades of dark comedy. Shabana Azmi as the betrayed wife in Arth and as the disloyal albeit vulnerable wife in Ankur, went on to receive attention in both parallel art cinema as well as commercial films, which makes me wonder why actors choose not to do both if it is possible.

There was a time when commercial actors did their share of films that weren't exactly art films but did deviate from the mainstream cinema of the time. For example, Anil Kapoor (Chameli Ki Shaadi), Rekha (Khoobsurat), Tina Munim (Baaton Baaton Mein), Parveen Babi (Naram Garam) and Sanjeev Kuman (Koshish) were all commercially established actors in unconventional roles.

And then there was the sublime Smita Patil who arrived on the scene and demolished the 'fair, light-eyed' stereotype of Indian beauty standards. With kohl-lined eyes, chiseled features and a dignified manner, she portrayed women in a stronger and independent light. She became the female protagonist and brought to Indian cinema, intellectual feminism.

Today, years later, sadly, we are back to square-one, as Aishwarya Rai's physical appearance somehow entitles her to portray the sensitive and articulate character of an Urdu poestess, Umrao Jaan. Her grey eyes and lacklustre smile have made their way into roles that could have been more powerful, had a less glamourous face actualized those characters. In the late 80s, Rekha's portrayal of this very character made her name one with that of Umrao Jaan Ada and Ms.Rai, though very pretty, couldn't have erased or displaced that essence.

Lately, I have had debates with friends and colleagues who argue, "Why should the Hindi film industry cater to Oscar standards?" My point is, what about the standards of the Hindi film industry itself. Let us for a few moments put aside Oscars or even International Film Festivals; how many of us feel comfortable with the portrayal of women and sex in Hindi films? We speak of censor boards and cultural lines, while bosoms are heaved and bottoms are gyrated on the big screen like there was no tomorrow. While the men play brave soldiers, the women are the weeping damsels left behind; while the men are crime fighting heroes, the women are dancing in costumes that leave very little to imagination. Where is the female protagonist? Shouldn't the art of a nation be indicative of its progressive times? Shouldn't we want to have timeless masterpieces that are known for more than just the catchy numbers or the pretty faces? The last time I checked, wholesome entertainment was not equivalent to titilation. One doesn't know who to blame, the filmmakers who don't consider it worth their while to make such entertainers anymore or the artists themselves who shirk art cinema for its richer mainstream counterpart. Is it not obvious that though commercial films bring attention and money, art brings immortality. When crores of rupees are being spent on sets and locations, wouldn't it be only fair for the eclecticists or the few film connoiseurs to be treated with films and stories that bring thought provocation to accompany the stirred senses?

I do believe that every genre has its charm; right from the the rib-tickling Govinda comedies to the masala movies with their tailormade love stories, but I am now realizing with growing dismay that a whole movie genre catering to the middle class, will soon be lost to time. We can only reminisce about films like 'Ek Doctor Ki Maut', 'Rajnigandha' or 'Katha' that dealt with such a gamut of issues but had two major aspects in common: realism and a good story. I long to watch a film that brings me a story I can finally relate to, a story that has the appealing, quirky and yet lovable faces like those of Amol Palekar, Farooq Sheikh, Smita Patil, Shabana Azmi, Deepti Naval and so many others, who entertained us during the 70s and the 80s. I have just about had enough of mega-starrers where the villain is a father opposing his son's/ daughter's marriage. Really? Are we still stuck on that issue?

For me this is more than just about entertainment. It is about role models and the influence of a nation's art on its younger generation. Our nation represents some of the best creative and technological intellect in the world. Then why does our film industry, the world's largest, refuse to cater to this intellectual audience? The portrayal of romance, marriage, love, relationships and people are skewed alarmingly towards the improbable in the majority of present Hindi films. Sure, we don't all look to the movies for advice in these matters and yes, the common man does go to the movies to escape his own life, but when it is so widely declared that art imitates life, who is to say that the converse wouldn't be true. Now, that's a scary thought considering the current popular film genres, isn't it?

***Having said that, I would like to acknowledge the valiant efforts of contemporary filmmakers such as Mira Nair, Aparna Sen, Farhan Akhtar, Vishal Bharadwaj, Onirban, Nagesh Kukunoor and a handful of others in bringing some unique perspective to Indian cinema.***

The Perez Family : A Film By Mira Nair

2007-04-07T20:55:00.000-07:00

'The Perez Family' is a story delightfully packaged in some lush colors and spicy sensuality. The people who make up this story, all display in their traits, an array of realistic and interesting foibles whose dimensions director, Mira Nair, generously explores through her keen sense for culturally rich settings.

The film begins with an aristocratic Juan Raul Perez (Alfred Molina) watching his wife and little daughter drift through the ocean as a crab ominously clings to his foot. His reverie is interrupted and we find out that he is in prison during the Castro regime in Cuba in 1980. Juan Perez's sad life is about to change with the entry of Dorita Evita Perez (Marisa Tomei), a Cuban woman who longs for the John Wayne movies and Elvis numbers that fringe American culture. Their journeys converge on a boat to the US where they meet as political refugees heading for freedom. Juan Perez seeks to be reunited with his wife, Carmel (Anjelica Huston) and daughter after 20 years and Dorita Perez seeks the land of rock and roll. As Juan Raul and Dorita Perez feign a marriage to find immigration sponsors, there begins a fun romance with love triangles, mistaken identities and immigration frauds. The pace of the movie is pleasantly controlled without hampering either the flow of the story or the deliberate development of each character.

As always, I will refrain from narrating the whole story since I am hoping the little gist above will have piqued the reader's curiosity. Tomei's wildly sensuous performance coupled with Molina's suave and restrained persona, makes this love story absolutely worth a watch for those who like their romance sufficiently tempered by authenticity and realism. Mira Nair has been most artful in incorporating humor without the farcical buffoonery that plagues romantic comedies. The laughs in this film are summoned most often by the sometimes exasperating but mostly entertaining quirks of each superbly showcased character.

The cast is well-known and yet they bring earthiness to the personas that require it. While the guys will surely fall for the carefree and sentimental Dorita Perez, the gals will find it almost impossible not to swoon over the aloof Juan Raul. And to keep the ocassionally mercurial audience rooted, there are quite a few twists and turns during the course of this film. Mira Nair finds the nooks within a story where humor, drama, raw sensuality and soft romance, all find an appropriate place without making the film excessive and managing somehow to add more definition to the story.

It has been a while since I saw a romantic comedy which wasn't just another 'chick- flick'. So watching 'The Perez Family' was like hungrily biting into some delectable Cuban croquetas while the waves kissed my feet.

What Could Be More Important Than Cricket?!

2007-04-05T08:03:00.000-07:00

I have always felt that a nation's mind lies in politics and its heart in its popular sport. Considering this analogy, cricket has always dominated the social scene in India and the players adored like family. Whenever a large populace is so passionate about a game, the players carry the weighty moral responsibility of living upto the expectations of these loyal but reactive enthusiasts. This year, the Indian cricket team bore the brunt of breaking the hearts of an entire nation with their recent ouster from the World Cup Finals. Having turned my back to the cricket scene after the 'match fixing' scandals, I was just starting to trust the game again and this loss was too much for my already compromised convictions about our team. So when I found a relatively unknown movie about cricket peeping from the shelves of a movie rental store, I was reluctant. Nonetheless, I don't know many Indians who could resist a film about cricket and I duly succumbed to those instincts.

Set in the 1960s, in London, 'Wondrous Oblivion' is a film that captures the rare friendship between the an eleven year old Jewish boy, David Wiseman and his new West Indian neighbours. The boy hails from a family of Jewish immigrants himself and upon watching a glorious cricket net being put up in his neighbour's yard, he is drawn towards their home, oblivious to the social issues brewing around him. His love for the sport takes precedence over the bigotry that is hounding his neighbourhood due to the arrival of this fun-loving and large-hearted Jamaican family in a largely white community.

As I watched, I realized that this film was not just about the sport, but more so about how man-made prejudice affects society. The sport was portrayed as the medium that induced the state of 'wondrous oblivion', which I believe has the power to prevent the ethnocentrism that marrs civilization. Moreover, this film was about the parallels in life. The little boy and his love for cricket were representative of the unbiased and indiscriminate acceptance that adults could learn from children.

Cricket is one sport where some of the great names in the history of the game belong to West Indies, South Africa and Asian countries and the Englishman can no longer claim dominance. This sport has on ocassion taken a noteworthy stand on racism and cases of apartheid (Reference: The Basil Lewis D'Oliveira case that resulted in the banning of South Africa from international cricket). Cricket has come along way since then and so has racial equality. 'Wondrous Oblivion' is a heart warming film that does justice to this indomitable spirit of the game and is worth a watch for not only cricket enthusiasts but for anybody who loves a wholesome and entertaining family film.

Having watched this film, while still peeved with the Indian team's performance in this year's World Cup, I learned a few important things from this story. I learned that as human beings we cannot be either entirely guilt-free or completely culpable. At the end of this movie, when the little boy misses his big game at school to lend support to his neighbours, his teammate asks him, "What could be more important than the Cricket Cup?". The eleven year old only smiles. There are things that are a lot more important than the actual sport that make up the integrity of any game. These things may seem idealistic and dismissable but ultimately, our personal victories are defined not by how high we hoist our trophies but by the lessons we learn from our losses.

Blood Diamond

2007-04-02T20:04:00.000-07:00

In a few of my past blog entries, I have spoken of the poetry in cinema and the delicate use of metaphors. Last night, I saw a raw and unadorned film; no metaphors, no euphemisms, just the fearfully contorted, bare body of truth that makes us all squirm with unexplainable guilt.

'Blood Diamond' brought to my attention a political situation, I shamefully have to admit, I was unaware of. I have always thought of Africa as a continent blessed with abundant natural resources, lush forests, and sadly, equally cursed with disease and turmoil that has been eating away at its core. 'Blood Diamond' is set in the period of the Sierra Leone Civil War that left an entire nation one of the poorest in the world in 1998. I have seen films that address political unrest, corruption and illegal trades before. What makes 'Blood Diamond' a unique film is that a bias, if any on part of the filmmakers, was almost undetectable. It simply captured each story and delivered it to our attention.

This film delivers the stories of a diamond smuggler, a fisherman and a journalist caught in the tense civil war.

Djimon Hounsou plays the role of fisherman Solomon Vandy whose idyllic life with his family is disrupted by an RUF attack and his son taken away by the rebels as a trainee. While working for the rebels in a diamond mining valley, he finds a rare, pink diamond and conceals it. In a pulsating moment of drama, Vandy is seen by the the rebel captain just before government troops launch an attack.

Leonardo Di Caprio plays Danny Archer, a mercenary who trades arms for diamonds and thus is one of the key players in the 'conflict diamond' equation that funds wars within such nations. The two stories of Vandy and Archer collide in prison when Archer hears the mention of the extraordinary stone that Vandy has possibly buried before his capture by the troops.

Jennifer Connelly in the role of Maddy Bowens, the spirited journalist, is extremely believable and may if I may add quite beautiful sans maek-up. While investigating the illegal diamond trade and covering the war, Bowens meets Archer and their journeys become one.

Above all, this story is about motives. Archer seeks to pay off his debts and leave the continent forever, Vandy wants to find the son he lost to the rebels and Bowens seeks the investigative pieces that make up this drama. This film keeps the audience on their toes as the characters run into government troops, RUF rebels, guerillas and most disturbingly boy-soldiers, at every corner.

Director Edward Zwick nails the extremely difficult task of taming emotion in what could have otherwise been an action thriller. It was imperative that he evoke an emotional response during such a high-power page-turner to make sure he did not lose out on the take home message that needed to be incorporated in the film. Vandy's desperate search for his family, Archer's constant struggle with what he is and what he could be and Bowen's inquisition marred by the bloodshed and corruption around her, made these characters identifiable. The cinematography deftly captures the natural backdrop of Africa without interrupting the film's rousing pace.

During the course of every film, there are what I like to call, 'movie moments'. This film was full of such moments. The script was well written to say the least and made for some very thought provoking dialogue between the characters. The brief appearance by the character of Benjamin, a teacher who runs shelter for the children of war, added ingenuity and guilelessness to a scene so full of strife. An action thriller that provokes sentiments, is rare and at times Zwick did portray what could be interpreted as a historic recount. However, Di Caprio and Hounsou delivered the absolute plausibility of Archer and Vandy's characters and thwarted the possible overdramatization of events.

The candor in this movie hits you rudely in the face on numerous occasions. Vandy asks Bowens if by looking at her coverage of the bloodshed, people in America would come to their aid. "Probably not", she answers plainly and truthfully. For a film that dealt with such a serious issue, humor was surprisingly plentiful. The cynicism in Archer's character and the director's own bitter humor tinged the dialogue. The pertinence of this story in todays' time is brought home with wit during the film when an old man stranded in the middle of a war oddly funded by diamonds, comments, "Let us hope they don't find oil here."

Stories are always made more beautiful and more vital by interpretation. 'Blood Diamond' is the kind of film that shouldn't leave our consciousness when we leave the cinema theatre. Once we are made aware of the facts, what do we do with that knowledge? Introspective questions like these make such films, powerful determinants of our sensitivities as human beings and of the depths of our consciences. Like Benjamin says to Archer, "We are all just people. It is what we do that makes us good or bad."

The Pursuit Of Happyness

2007-03-31T14:43:00.000-07:00

The world of films has brought me some fantastic tales. I have watched relationships evolve from a million angles in two brief hours. A sad scene on an overcast day has transported wistful grey clouds onto my couch and impending rain into my brimming eyes, while glorious success stories have duly planted hope into my day. 'Pursuit of Happyness' is a film that brought me all of those things in the one moving memoir of a hardworking, honest man, a father and a dreamer, Chris Gardner, played by Will Smith.

There are people who smother their dreams with acute pragmatism and then there are those who use that very pragmatism to bring certainty to their dreams. Chris Gardner worked his way through poverty, homelessness and applied his limited qualifications towards accomplishing his goals not only as an ambitious and driven man but more importantaly, as a loving and nurturing parent, a balance that is very hard to achieve.

I have always associated Will Smith with movie characters that are a few notches above real. With this film, he could not have chosen a more real character to play than the one of Chris Gardner's. He has finally established that his boyish good looks and mischevious grin do not get in the way of his playing a middle-aged, struggling man in the pursuit of happiness. Little Jaden Smith in the role of Chris Gardner's five year old son was cast very appropriately considering that the bulk of emotion in the entire film rested on the delicate shoulders of this father-son relationship between the two characters. Thandie Newton nails the persona of a woman torn between her need to walk away from a harsh, stagnant life and the love for her son. I did feel however that her character was written with a very one-dimensional view that makes the film's bias in favor of Gardner a little too obvious. Her criticisms of Gardner and her frustration at having to work two shifts while her man pursued distant dreams was quite justified and was not reason enough to automatically portray her as the villain in Gardner's story.

Italian director Gabriele Muccino brings the kind of sensitivity to this film that doesn't sink heavy into melodrama but rises high enough to stare us in the face. Simple sequences involving banter between father and son depicts contrasting ideas when the little boy tells jokes and quips to a father distracted by his hardships.

Movies that showcase an earlier time period face the challenge of making their story relevant for the present generation. President Reagan's speech during this film shows a time in America's history when unemployment and economic instability was rife. Considering the current shifts in economy, this story brings true inspiration in the form of one man's struggle and ultimate success making it quite pertinent in today's time. By incorporating a phrase from the Declaration of Independence in its title, this film also attempts to revive the spirit of a hardworking and persevering nation.

My favorite scene was the one in which Chris Gardner turns to his young son after having belittled the boy's basketball fancies and tells him "Don't ever let somebody tell you you cannot do something". This film did not just alter the way 'happiness' is spelled, it changed the way it is perceived.

Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring

2007-03-28T10:17:00.000-07:00

Recently, I had the good fortune of watching a film that flooded my living room with much needed serenity. For those whose movie pallates require incessant zing or adrenaline highs, let me begin by saying this movie is not for you. There are pondersome moods that we all experience when we question the very essence of life and the reasons why we go through some of the most disturbing upheavals. This Korean film titled 'Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter and Spring' (Bom Yeoreum Gaeul Gyeoul Geurigo Bom) is a simple Buddhist fable, elegantly wrapped in the picturesque folds of cinematography that brings us some profound messages. Director Kim Ki-Duk has used nature to simplify life's lessons.

In the midst of a magnificent landscape is a tiny Buddhist monastry owned by a reclusive monk. His little protege is fast learning the lessons of life by experiencing all that defines human emotion and pysche. He is at the Spring of his life when foliage lends its untouched face to season. Here begins the journey of man, a series of novel experiences that brings him face to face with desires, hope, despair and ultimately salvation. Like the best of teachers, the old monk only nudges his pupil in the right direction, never tripping his stride or skewing his direction. And as this charming little boy learns his way, we learn too. What truly touched me was the helplessness of an older generation when they watch us repeating their mistakes and sinking blindly into the very pitfalls that taught them their lessons. But these lessons have to be experienced to be owned and all the old monk can do is watch, pick up the pieces of a crushed spirit and salvage what he can. It depicts the inner struggle of being a parent or a dedicated mentor.

Seasons have always brought us full circle and reminded us that our journeys are concentric. Among the many lessons that life teaches us, the one that makes most sense to me is that of Karma. Scientifically, energy does not cease to exist but only changes form and hence it is only concievable that negative energies will make their way back to the source, altered in form perhaps yet dangerously similar in magnitude.

This film has very few dialogues and most of the drama is restrained by the flow. Only those who can appreciate the art of a visually illustrated message should take the trouble of watching this movie since this film is not remarkable for its pace but for the lucidity of expression. As the film's tag line says "Life brings us lessons, one season at a time." And seasons cannot be rushed, can they?

Eklavya, The Royal Guard: A film by Vidhu Vinod Chopra

2007-03-26T07:14:00.000-07:00

Vidhu Vinod Chopra has always had my respect. From 'Parinda', the compelling drama to the rib ticklingly funny 'Munnabhai M.B.B.S', he has always brought an altering genre to Hindi filmdom. With the exclusion of a couple of films, I believe all his movies contain a rare sensibility which is very difficult to portray alongside the rest of the Hindi movie package (songs, dance, romance). His screenplays are very well written and if ever his films bomb at the box office, it is either because the pace of the movie was slower than necessary or because the general public did not find the intellect essential to empathize with his cinematic philosophies. After a seven year hiatus Mr.Chopra finally brought his fans a much awaited feature that bore the stamp of his direction.

I avoid giving away the plot of a film while reviewing it because I would be doing the makers a great disservice by compressing their efforts into one blog entry.

Eklavya is a movie that definitely has a unique story. The cinematography is exquisite. Shot among the sand dunes and sunsets that cast golden hues over the deserts of Rajasthan, this movie reels in the tale of a royal family caught in a scandal and a series of murders. An estranged son (Saif Ali Khan) returns to the royal regime that has been plagued by unrest among the villagers and recently faced the death of their queen-mother (Sharmila Tagore).

Eklavya, the royal guard played by Amitabh Bachchan, has for years protected more than just the royal family. He is guarding a secret that has long been the bane of the king's existence. Revenge, jealousy and greed are explored without histrionics or fight sequences, simply and sufficiently by the plot. The implications of each plot and every revellation are carefully handled. Such controlled performances are very rare in Bollywood and hence worthy of appreciation. Saif Ali Khan has definitely won me over by his restrained renditions over his past few films. Vidya Balan is grace personified and the chemistry between the two actors is unmistakable.

In recent years, actors such as Amitabh Bachchan, Boman Irani and even Jackie Shroff have brought much attention to the formerly neglected character artist's persona in the Hindi movie scenario. Amitabh Bachchan having spent his heydays basking in the public's appreciation as a typical Hindi movie hero is now contributing his returns to the artistic world of cinema that deviates from glamor and focuses mainly on performances and storylines. Ultimately, I believe that he will be remembered by the array of characters he has played during his long tenure in the movie industry.

Although this movie is definitely worth a watch I will come to the area of the film I found most lacking: the pace. Whenever a dark plot is being illustrated, technical aspects of the movie such as editing and background score become crucial towards adding momentum to a plot that could fast become dull as every knot in the tangle comes loose and the audience don't have much to look forward to. For quite a while now, I have hoped that there will come a commercial movie that depicts a good, strong story in a small time span. The 'three hour rule' that has been plaguing the Hindi movie industry for so long should be re-evaluated. Attention spans of the genral public are getting shorter. The world is moving faster and gone are the times when the middle class made an entire day-out for a three hour matinee show at the movie theatre. If the story requires an hour of the public's time and is most entertaining within that first hour, why stretch it and have them believe that they are getting a three-hour long drama? It compromises the entertainment value of the film.

Among the actors, I felt that Boman Irani's get-up was extremely distracting and was not believable. He could have done without the hideous wig and the Maharaja costume. Jackie Shroff and Jimmy Shergill were wasted and could've been played by lesser known actors who might've added that much needed sense of evil that villains need to project. In a film that had so many quiet and listless moments, Sanjay Dutt's humorous character could've been further used to add energy. The story could have been made upto more contemporary standards so as to not lose out on the younger audience.

Sadly, the later half of the story defied all logic when the police officer (Sanjay Dutt) pitched in and falsely packaged two gruesome murders as suicides. How a man could stab himself to death and then proceed to jump before a speeding train is beyond my understanding. No matter who the good guys are in a movie, I can never relate to lawmakers joining hands with murderers even if it means giving up a typical Bollywood 'happy ending'. The name Eklavya has mythical relevance which was briefly addressed and then left hanging some where along the storyline.

I wonder if filmmakers watch their movie from the perspective of an audience once they make the entire film or as artists, do they fall in love with their own work to such an extent as to ignore some grave flaws? Either way, whenever the audience watches a movie there are points during which they sit up and actually take notice of certain key characters that add enigma or humor to the unfolding story. I believe it is only wise then to propel the movie's direction by incorporating more such gripping moments during the film to hold the attention of the fickle audience. "True Dharma, religion or consciousness of duty, is one that is dictated by intelligence" are the enlightened words of the protagonist in this film. And so I think, is true art.

Nonetheless, I hope Mr.Chopra will not leave his fans waiting for so long for his next directorial venture.

A Little Trip To Heaven

2007-03-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

A dark thriller is never a good way to start the first weekend of Spring. But 'A Little Trip To Heaven' was worth the trouble. It is set in 1980s Minessotta and follows the story of the conniving world of people whose opus comes to life when death walks in, life insurance companies and those fraudulent few who sling their necks through the loops of this cold business.

The opening scenes evoke a gamut of emotions. The slideshow of bereaved families bamboozled by clever insurance agents when they have hardly come to terms with their losses and the petty scam artists who make it mandatory for these agents to survey devastation with doubt and insensitivity, renders it humanly difficult to assess who the victim is making them all just characters, their sensitivities shackled by the roles they play.

Mr.Holt is an insurance agent who goes through the procedures of his job with a grim faced neutrality made visible quite remarkably by actor Forrest Whitaker. A car accident brings to the forefront, a suspiscious insurance conspiracy. It is upto Investigator Holt to unravel this intricate plot and go beyond the ambit of his detached duties. Caught in this story are the blameless faces of Isolde and her son Thor, who bring conscience and sensitivity into a series of morbid events. To me these two characters embodied the woman and the child so often trapped by their vulnerabilities in the bleakness of a violent crime.

What struck me most about this movie was the direction and the carefully set pace of the storyline. It was very easy for this dark plot to have shifted into dullness. The cinematography is quite dingy since the story is set in a unfavorable economic setting where simply by virtue of circumstance it is difficult to sympathize with any one character. But the direction is what keeps this feature progressing. Several corners are turned during the film as the tortuous underbelly of something as coordinated as an insurance fraud is scrutinized. The story delves into the different dimensions of Investigator Holt's sometimes dubious and ultimately likeable character. Director Baltasar Kormákur has planted several deliciously subtle cinematic metaphors in the film (a ripped roof, a neon sign with an ominous arrow pointing downwards, images of fire, just to name a few), not to mention the meaningful background score composed by Icelandic musician Mugison.

"Why is heaven in the sky and hell on the ground?" little Thor asks his mother. "Because it is easier to lie down than it is to fly." is her startlingly profound reply. I hope in all sincerity that more filmmakers find the dynamic wings of such creative empiricism.

L'Uomo Delle Stelle: The Star Maker

2007-03-22T19:49:00.000-07:00

L'Uomo Delle Stelle (known as The Star Maker but correctly translated as The Man of Stelle) was the Italy's 1995 entry for the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film. It was nominated in that category on the big night but didn't win. I didn't know these details until I looked up the movie online. So in short I watched the movie without any expectations on a dull rainy afternoon today in Ohio and for the first time witnessed a film that had countless characters, all relevant to the plot and each one explored quite exquisitely by Giuseppe Tornatore. Until today, I didn't think that was possible.

The movie begins with the gruesome sight of a dead body floating face down in a river. This scene cuts into Joe Morelli's arrival in a small village in Sicily where he puts up a white tent, a camera and some other recording equipment announcing that he is a talent scout who gave many of the famous names in the movie industry their very first break. In two scenes, this film juxtaposes the tense political situation in Italy at the time with the illusory world of movies.

"You could be the next one!" Joe Morelli claims. The people of war ravaged Italy are in dire need of hope. Joe Morelli brings them much needed reason to believe that there is a glamorous place faraway where they could be when they finally left their mediocre lives behind. With his plush tales and gift of the gab, he whisks stardust into the dimmed eyes of these villagers and draws in large crowds of gullible individuals for a screen test. Each test costs them money and every time the camera runs, it captures a story that comes to life, not by dramatic performances or background scores but by a simple narrative.

The people that sit down in front of the camera are all characters and their stories unfold in front of an unlikely vent. Their truths, their wishes, the small things that bring them pleasure, their dreams, all surface with the conversations they have with the camera. Some remarkable scenes include that of a war veteran who speaks for the very first time in front of the camera, the shepherd who looks into the camera and proclaims "Being a shepherd gives me the chance to gaze at the stars", an unmarried woman who at thirty finally spews the uncomfortable truths that have held her back from living her life. And when least expected, one sees undertones of humor.

Never before have I seen beautiful poetry etched into such grave monologues. The cinematography captures dusty hues of a countryside demolished by war. The camera moves at angles where a broken smile, wrinkled hands, a twitching jaw and weary eyes add character to the stories. My favorite scene was where shadows played parts out as light shone upon Joe Morelli's white tent. It looked like art in motion.

An orphan girl falls in love with Joe Morelli for giving flight to the fancies of starstruck crowds. And just as we are about to fall for him too, he turns out to be a conman.The honest eyes and disarming innocence of this enamored young girl follows Joe Morelli in his travel in stark contrast to his guile. For me the realization that the reel which bore witness to such arresting stories was just dead film all along, was a truly sinking feeling. But I realized that this movie is not about the black and white of human nature, it is about the grey nuances, the 'in-betweens' where flawed individuals make their own journeys, oblivious to the effect they have on people aroud them. Joe Morelli dents his own story beyond repair while duping those who gave up their own chronicles for his camera.

Ultimately we all want an unjudgemental eye to look into and profess; and that eye could very well be the unblinking one of a purring, coaxing camera. We want a clear mirror that sometimes lets us face who we are so we can then give into the stories that age our eyes. This movie holds one such magnificent mirror to life.

Black Friday-a film by Anurag Kashyap

2007-03-18T08:33:00.000-07:00

Just as my friends and family were begining to wonder if I had turned into a cynic as far as movies were concerned, I finally found the opportunity to write a positive review.

Anurag Kashyap's Black Friday blew me away. It made me relive a time in Bombay's history I hadn't particularly wanted to revisit but probably needed to. Bombay has always been home, a safe haven; the sounds of the public and the traffic are like the sounds of a hovering mother, familiar and reassuring. The humidity and bustle of the city are like a security blanket, the absence of which I feel now, miles away in the arms of Uncle Sam. Black Friday brought back a time when Bombay looked in the face of unimaginable terror. But does the stark flashback alone hold this movie together? No. It has a lot more to offer...a story wrapped in the believable folds of reality. It has all the elements that I found lacking in a few other movies I reviewed in my earlier entries. It follows the story of the Bombay blasts in what can be described best as a journalistic chronicle that uses the slideshow of events from history but zooms in on an episode we hadn't thought of or pondered over before.

Whenever I think of the Bombay blasts that sieged the city one afternoon on March 12th 1993, almost exactly 14 years ago, all I remember is how suddenly eveybody became either Hindu or Muslim. Before the explosions they had been for me just the people of Bombay. Another episode branded into memory is that of my father disappearing amidst the chaos that followed. None of his colleagues knew where he could be reached and he had been seen last, near one of the buildings that had crumbled to the ground after a bomb explosion. Time has never felt so heavy again since then. The moments had crawled over our cheeks along with our anxious tears as we prayed for just a phone call while neighbours kindly made up numerous heartening scenarios as to why he might have gone missing. My father had suddenly appeared in the doorway, a large watermelon in his hand, which now, thinking back I find funny. He entered, scrutinizing the crowd that had gathered in his home, confused by why we would be panicking. "If something were to go wrong I would call you, wouldn't I?" he asked nonplussed and we didn't bother to correct him with what the alternatives could've been, as we laughed and cried with relief. But even before our own relief permeated, news started pouring in about our less fortunate friends, schoolmates and aquaintances who had lost someone in that horrific tragedy. Those were are our stories. The stories we lived in. The stories we knew and thought about.

Black Friday zooms in on the stories of people who made up the larger canvas of that catastrophe, of those who were involved in the hateful conspiracy and of those who finally found the ugly roots of the cackling fire that left our city scarred. It follows the journey of Rakesh Maria (played brilliantly by actor Kay Kay Menon), then assistant police comissioner, whose incessant efforts uncovered the details of the conspiracy. It follows the psyche of Badshah Khan (played by Aditya Shrivastava) who assisted this hateful crime in the name of religion and finally having realized its magnitude, confessed, revealing the kings and pawns of this plot. His confession is still regarded by Police Comissioner Maria (now Inspector General) as one of the most detailed and elaborate leads that helped them crack the case.

I watched this movie, riveted. I related to the pyschology of some of the characters and saw the subtle metaphors, director Anurag Kashyap has so wisely used to set the pace of the movie. My earlier entry "The Poetry of Cinema" addresses the use of metaphors in scenes where the pysche of the character cannot be portrayed by words or dialogue and is instead illustrated by external elements. A scene where Badshah Khan finally realizes that his underworld kingpin has left him running from pillar to post when the law comes knocking, is cleverly rendered by Mr.Kashyap, with the image of a dog doing tricks for a treat. Cinematographer Nataraja Subramanian has captured the most dramatic scenes without affecting the news-broadcast-like coverage of the events. Even the few stillshots of the bloody aftermath that followed the blasts evoke extreme emotion.

After days of empathic barrenness, finally, having watched this movie, my skin bloomed, into those much needed goosebumps that appear when you connect with a storyteller's philosophy. His vision and his characters then walk beyond the shackles of the silver screen and into our musings and discussions

****Disclaimer: This blog entry in no way supports or subscribes to the authenticity of the events portrayed in the movie and merely reviews this story as a film.****

Nishabd...speechless (??)

2007-03-13T13:57:00.000-07:00

The sensationalist approach director Ram Gopal Verma has been taking recently brings me much dismay. The movie Nishabd (meaning: speechless) did, as its name suggests, leave me speechless but in no good sense of the word. I was numbed by the disconnected plot and incomplete portrayal of each character. I will not divulge details of the plot which are available on other websites as well as Wikipedia.

What I know about the characters: A misbehaved and rude 19 year old Jia with flimsy shorts making up most of her wardrobe. A pseudo-intellectual sixty-four year old Vijay going through a slightly overdue mid-life crisis, obviously unappreciated and easily flattered. And yes, of course, the matronly wife who seems like a good mother, a diginified character who has been married to Mr.64 for 27 years. Would one predict love story? Nah! But Ramu does it....why? So that we all are watching struck, our jaws to the floor, the men drooling, the women clucking their disapproval, the teenage girls aping the female protagonist. But is it good cinema? Nah!

Why would anybody take the Lolita concept and try to portray it as a love story. Lolita portrays the tragic consequences of an old man's obsession with a much younger girl and the sad downfall of innocence. If indeed Mr.Verma was going for the Lolita image he has not only failed miserably but insulted a classic.

Character development and background for the main individuals in the plot were seriously lacking leaving the audience not wanting to empathize or identify with any one of them. I do sincerely hope that India's current delusional youth, hell-bent on aping the West (which is deranged as it is) does not pick up on the "Take Light" tag line that is repeated by Jiah Khan to the point of provoking extreme annoyance and chagrin. "A star has been born" was the comment about Jiah Khan, on one of the reviews for this movie. I wonder how they knew....the camera was on her legs most of the time.

Mr.Amitabh Bachchan seems misplaced, uncomfortable and there are points during the plot where you just want to go "Aww, just let him be the dad she wants him to be and he so is!!" His body language and expressions are those of a father. For his sake and my own, I would have liked the story much better if the female protagonist were to be the young and confused seductress who misdirects her affinity for a father figure only to be treated by him as a child or a protege. If the story would have culminated into a more realistic depiction where the older man by virtue of his maturity would have guided the young woman's unconscious need for a missing father figure in the right direction one could've identified with both characters: a misguided and cocky youth and the nurturing essence of a father. But that wouldn't have allowed Ram Gopal Verma to exercise his trademark provocative sensationalism that I refered to at the very start of this review. He doesn't seem to realize that drawing attention is not difficult, keeping the viewer hooked is where the true challenge lies.

My biggest disappointment was Revathy's character (the wife). How shallow of Mr.Verma to project such a promising female character in a one-dimensional light. As a woman I find it upsetting to see an actor such as Revathy being cast in a role that illustrates the "poor, matronly wife" stereotype.

Worth mentioning here, are two previous contemporary efforts to showcase a similar concept that were a lot more effective sans the disturbing sleaziness of Nishabd: Sur and Jogger's Park. Those who belong to my generation might not recognize the movie that first introduced me to a relationship between a younger woman and an older man. This movie was Seema (1955, starring Nutan and Balraj Sahani). It developed the characters and their personalities so beautifully over the course of the movie that the culmination of that relationship was not only a welcome transition but an anticipated one.

I wish Nishabd would've brought me to 'speechless' and left me there...but it went a step further and added a bitter taste to my movie palate.

The Poetry of Cinema

2007-03-12T09:45:00.000-07:00

I have been on a writing spree lately. After a hiatus I finally have a lot to say. For the past few days I was not well and spent some time writing or taking some much needed naps. I haven't felt this rested in a while. Moreover after having experienced in the past the wicked joy of writing when in turmoil, I am now enjoying the serene pleasure of penning down my leisurely thought-escapades.

During this time my roommate brought home movies practically every day to keep me entertained. Thankfully she did not discriminate in language while renting the movies and I got treated to some foreign films with excellent stories and directorial art. I could see a distinct difference in the way French, South American or Chinese movies are made. The backdrop is an obvious distinction but the way some of the main characters react to situations and their vulnerabilities were all so very different for each nationality. I had never before thought of human portrayal of human fallibilities being influenced by cultural disparities. I have watched foreign films prior to this but only those that had received international acclaim. The movies I watched over the past few weeks however were small budget movies with an original albeit slightly slow storyline that did not fit into the usual drama, romance, biopic genres and were just simple narratives. Somehow they reminded me of poetry and I decided to write this blog.

Over a course of time I have witnessed scenes in films where a galloping horse, the arms of a clock, a soaring bird or wheels in motion are used as symbolic references for unfolding plot, much like my favorite figure of speech, the deliciously crafty and implicit metaphor. A backdrop if woven around the storyline can be compared to the imagery that is employed so successfully in narrative poetry. If the backdrop were missing, the story would seem disconnected. Hence cinematography, colors and even seasons are often used as a means of setting the tone for a particular storyline. I don't know why, but every time I see rain, power outages or extended moments of silence in a film I feel I could almost cut the tension with a knife. But just like in poetry, it is easy for such illustrations to join the ranks of cliches (reference: the sudden frame shift to budding flowers or crashing waves that used to appear instead of what would've been a love scene in a Hindi movie). I sometimes wonder if censorship and obscenity were an issue, why didn't they find such symbolic substitues for the buxom, bosom heaving nautch girl who has been promoted to the lead in recent films.

Coming back to the experience of watching these delectable pieces of art over the past few days, I realized something about myself I hadn't known before. I found out how much I liked deciphering the sly metaphors tucked into a scene, how gratifying I find interpreting the symbolism that reveals so much more about the characters whose stories make up the plot.

The other day my mother and I were discussing art movies and at the end of our exchange I concluded that every person watching a movie finds in its characters someone that resembles them, somebody who they can relate to. This has led me to a theory as to what might just be a factor in determining the success of the movie and like every scientist, I have devised a cruelly mathematical way of putting it:

***I hypothesize that the success of the plot is directly proportional to the number of main characters that have been adequately or justly explored and hence inversely proportional to the total number of characters in the movie provided of course a minimum number of characters required to actuate the plot are included.***

When people watch the movie and walk away from it convinced or persuaded by the one character who they identified most with, they are more likely to have enjoyed the story (unless they sadly identified with the villain in a commercial Hindi movie). Character analysis must therefore form an integral part of the moviemaking process as it is in poetry.

My very early writing was extremely didactic in nature. I wrote about life, sorrows, goodbyes, friendship, nature and other such generalities that are seen most in what I like to call 'greeting card verse'. Of late I have noticed that the art of writing poetry like wine, matures with age. I add a touch of confessionalism to the poem because I have a lot more of my own experiences to give to those stanzas. Now the generalities in my writing have found a particular episode in my own story to belong to; those moments and frames have now taken the form of metaphors for the impalpable abstractions I so doggedly pursued through my teenage writing exploits.

Nonetheless, too much of the poet's or director's imagination in poetry or films respectively might not leave room for the fertile imagination of the reader or the audience. My early training in poetic technique was forged with the motto "To evoke and not to show".

The professor at my poetry workshop was once exasperated by a student whose every piece told you exactly what you needed to hear to understand the poem. The professor scratched his head manically alarming some of us and finally wrung his hands up in despair wildly exclaiming "For God's sake's, trust the intelligence of your patrons!" I wish some of our filmmakers could be made privy to that piece of advice.

I hope that if I ever had a choice between making a lot of money and becoming an esteemed part of art history, I choose the later. History remembers those who rose above mediocrity and did not allow their art to be defined by popularity. One of these days I might get to updating my blog with a list of what I think are the best employed poetic techniques in contemporary films as an ode to such artists. That should be a fun project. After all it is probably the subtle minutiae in a simple plot that makes it believable and appealing.

A colleague of mine who's not a huge fan of poetry once quite frivolously dismissed the profound art, brazenly declaring, "Poets should just hurry up and come to the point!"

I could think of a few dozen retorts (including a mean little "Well, we now know your views on foreplay") and instead settled the matter with: "Why come to the point when there is so much fun and exploration in detail?"

Living In A Fish Bowl

2007-03-10T23:42:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago a gold fish in our department secretary's office looked me in the eye and dropped dead and that scared the hell out of me. I am not sure if it was reading too much poetry that made see metaphors in ordinary events but the gold fish's short life and sudden death seemed ominous. I was suffering from a severe writer's block at the time and that may also have led to the connection I found between my mental inertia and the restricting globe, the site of that fish's sudden demise. The poem I wrote that night unleashed a rare streak of poetry writing and hence was special for me. However I wrote it with a sense of humor that seems to be lost on some of my readers who saw a sense of gloom in the stanzas. Although I admit that the comparison between the gold fish's insulated, stagnant world is a reference to my choking writer's block, the imagery was meant to add a certain wit. Those who have seen a gold fish wordlessly mouthing at them from behind a glass bowl will know exactly what I mean. I drew a little illustration to go with the poem in an attempt to draw out the undertones of humor in the poem especially since my gold fish looks more like Nemo than like a gold fish. Ha!...

Fish Bowl

I'm a gold fish,
Big eye-balled,
A finned, palm-sized baby,
Awestruck in permanancy, through time,
And my journey is concentric,
At best.

My world, a transparent globe,
A thought-bubble,
like a sleeping Earth,
That does not revolve.

My blood has turned white over time,
From forced neutrality and disconnection,
A cry is stuck in my gills like a stinging hair,
And age has knocked out,
The gritty teeth of aggression,
Down to a full-lipped, mouthy and yet,
Ever so soundless rebellion.

Don't knock on my bowl, I beg,
My walls though dense are brittle,
They echo with each thoughtless,
Strike of your knuckle,
And eddy my small yet precious,
Inscrutibilities.

Traffic Signal; A Personal Review

2007-03-08T10:54:00.000-08:00

Traffic Signal; A Personal Review

Whenever I review a movie, I usually comment on how it influenced or failed to influence my own thinking and find it useful to put out a disclaimer that my views and opinions will not always agree with everybody else’s. Nonetheless I do hope that Bombay-ites read this review and at least relate to some of my views. I watched Traffic Signal last night and when the movie began I marveled at the cinematography and at some of the actors. I hope Kareena Kapoor very intently watched and took notes on Konkona Sen’s portrayal of Noori, the street-side prostitute. Ms.Sen has successfully demonstrated that walking ungracefully with a cheap sari and a dire lipstick shade is not an adequate illustration of a prostitute (now if you belong to the Kapoor family minimal efforts at acting are widely appreciated. Hint: Chameli).

Thirty minutes into the movie I was still rooting for the dialogue and the realistic portrayal. I nervously glanced at the watch after two hours of what seemed like a very in-depth coverage of the lives of people who make their living by selling goods and by begging at traffic signals. As a young girl living in Bombay I was involved in some social work. So unconsciously I was looking for some answers in the movie and was hoping to find them during the course of the story. What I didn’t understand after having watched the movie is why do some of the people at the traffic signal resort to begging or prostitution in spite of the several NGOs in Bombay that are striving to provide educational, vocational and even rehabilitation services for free.

Now I am no longer in India and my opinions are very unceremoniously dismissed as the ranting of a snobbish NRI. I have moved away from any active social work but as a Bombay citizen, watching this movie brings back the frustration I felt then at failing to understand why it is that we should feel sympathy or even empathy for people who choose to beg in spite of being given a functioning mind, limbs and good health that if put to use can do so much more. I have more sympathy for the coolies, the relentless middle class and the labor working class whose tenacious hard work has made Bombay the commercial capital.

This movie is enlightening only for those who have never looked outside their window and lamented the dearth of the city ironically juxtaposed against a backdrop of glitzy buildings and shiny cars. Being born and raised in Bombay I have not met a single person who has failed to notice that there are several hearty, healthy and able individuals who beg for no apparent reason and this movie did very little to explore why. The movie lacks culmination and does not have a story that hasn't been told before. The context might be different but corruption, bhai-giri, poverty, prostitution, meaningless assassinations of honest government officials are all ultimately plots we are familiar with. We have always known that these exist, haven't we? Repeated portrayal of these abysmal realities by filmmakers, no matter how authentic, have brought them critical acclaim but bring their viewers a sense of hopelessness when it comes to the condition their city is in. Politicians, police, lawyers even publics service workers have all let us down and the law breakers and law makers have joined hands in Bombay and we know it. The film producers might not realize this but we are the common people of Bombay; we know this life, it is right outside our windows. One can make several movies called ‘Railway Station’, ‘Bus Stop’ or even ‘Under the Flyover Bridge’ and show the same abject lives with so much as a video camera installed in a nook somewhere.

But when the common man takes his family to watch the very realistically depicted life of beggars, hawkers and prostitutes at a traffic signal, what does he do? When he realizes that the child he had been dutifully giving alms to, during his daily commute in spite of his humble salary, is just part of a flourishing industry that abuses people’s goodwill and sympathy, what should he think? Now I am not trying to suggest that moviemakers should bear the responsibility of social reform however I do sincerely believe that they should focus on an original plot and a novel storyline rather than capturing what a documentary film probably could, more effectively and without the parallel romantic angle. I think moviemakers in the Indian film industry have wrongly associated art cinema or directorial genius with gory depictions of everyday life. Harsh reality can bring a good story to life but a lack of a storyline fails to make a point no matter how convincing the backdrop is. The impact of candor, I think is evident only in its ability to bring about change. How will we ever have change by showing the public what they can already see?

Traffic Signal took me back to what my grandmother once said very simply after having watched an excessively long movie that ended quite abruptly, “If it is a movie it should have a story and if it is a story it should have some moral, shouldn’t it?”

Dor- A Film by Nagesh Kukunoor

2007-01-15T12:23:00.000-08:00

I do not consider myself a film critic by any means, atleast not in the technical sense. I am however quite an ardent connoisseur of the few, choicest Hindi movies that have a gripping story to tell. I find myself identifying with the characters and even songs start to seem like they fit right into the scenario. "If I were her", I find myself thinking, "I would probably belt that number out too!".

Recently one such movie, Dor (a string), captivated me by its simple, clean storyline and the believable characters who inspite of their very human flaws and vulnerabilities were endearing. This movie was the creation of one of my favorite movie-makers, Nagesh Kukunoor. Having watched his Hyderabad Blues and Teen Deewarein, I have decided that he is more of a story-teller than a movie maker and hence his imagination is more lucid in nature. It comfortably lacks the larger than life fakeness of commercial Bollywood movies and yet captures the essence of a story with some of the key Hindi movie essentials such as love, romance and even the usual song, music and drama. The only difference is he sticks to realism while applying the very elements that if over-used would've made the story seem made-up or exaggerated.

I am writing this blog, not as a review of the movie but as a testimony to what it meant to me. Hence I will not divulge details of the plot which has been summarized by quite a few Hindi movie review websites and even Wikipedia. Briefly, reviewers describe this movie as the tale of a simple Rajasthani woman, Mira living within the harsh conservatism of a patriarchal society and a Muslim woman, Zeenat from Northern India who lives life on her own terms. These two independent stories spiral together and fate connects their lives like a string, a Dor, of destined events that often binds the existence of mortal beings separated due to the by-products of civilization such as religion, cultural differences and lifestyles. And like the comical, sometimes exasperating detail of life accompanying every wanderlust pilgrim, there is the village con-man whose character abundant with humor and fickle disguises, makes this journey an interesting one.

Now coming to the aspect of this movie that I identified with: During the course of this story, a rare friendship is established between the three main characters. Like most friendships this one is characterized by a strange, liberating experience for all three people. There are differences of opinion and arguments and even the moments of uncertainty and self-doubt that often tint the rare male-female friendship.

Truth be told, I am at a stage in life where my friends have at times, proven to be closer than those that I had considered my kin; their relentless support and even their tough love has pulled me through testing moments in recent years. Of all interpersonal relationships, I have learned that a good, healthy friendship has the quiet understanding and a lack of the smothering expectations that can potentially marr most other bonds. A rib-tickling song sequence, shot among beautiful sand dunes was my favorite scene in Dor. The three characters define the beginings of their unlikely friendship by this spontaneous dance to a catchy number being played on a small radio from a previous Bollywood hit, making it the best employed dance routine in a Hindi movie I have ever seen. I could see myself doing something equally crazy when I Iet my guard down only in front of the few that I call my closest friends. I could feel the exhilaration of those three characters as they performed this empancipating jig that with every beat seemed to loosen the gnawing shackles of social expectation.

I dedicate this blog to my wonderful friends...the ones that walked in everytime it felt like the world was walking out on me. You know who you are, don't you?

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

How To Be A Butterfly

2007-01-04T20:43:00.000-08:00

How To Be a Butterfly

Light caught in the
Shallow web of my wings,
Has now taken the color
Of beautiful things.

I sit eager
On a flower's silent lip,
And sink blind
Into each little drowning sip.

If desire is just an endless sin,
Then I say, so be it;
But I shall now seek and love
Every consuming bit.

I show my bold face thus
In the starkness of noon.
For I have known the dark hours
Of a stifling cocoon.

Christmas is around the corner!

2006-12-16T14:42:00.000-08:00

In addition to Diwali and other Hindu holidays, my mother somehow decided to include Christmas among our annual festivities while my sister and I were growing up. My mother had lived her formative years in Goa and to her celebrating Christmas meant reliving some of her happy memories rather than a religious festivity. She would bake an enormous cake and we even had a tree sometimes (not a real one but a plastic one). We would make cards under our mother's supervision and even hung stockings above our beds. My father was a willing participant as long there was a cake waiting at the end of all the gift-wrapping.

We spent quite a few Christmas vacations in Goa partying on one of those fun cruises. What I remember most is that every year on Christmas our parents would wrap our gifts in bright red and green paper. Whenever Christmas is around the corner I remember those festive moments and the bright colors it brought.

Today I am miles away from home, its the start of winter in Ohio and everything is gray. The trees have been stripped off their leaves. But among the bramble when I spotted this tiny bough of green and red the spirit of Christmas came back to me. Taking the picture was quite an experience since I had to try to eliminate quite a lot f the drying thrush around the pretty little piece of glowing foliage and the red berries. It was fun as always.

Happy Holidays!

A Pencil Sketch: Experiments With B&W

2006-12-15T13:00:00.000-08:00

Recently I tried resurrecting my old love for pencil sketches. The black & white picture of the berries (see entry: Black's Bright Borrowed Faces) was an inspiration to try this particular art that doesn't employ colors and instead chooses to add life to a pencil sketch using deft shades of black and white.

My roommate Seema was the first ready and available model. Making the sketch took approximately half an hour and I spent some additional time adding a little extra to the eyes. What really disappointed me though was that when I took a photograph of the sketch, the uniformity of the digital picture due to the flash and the angle, slightly undermined my efforts at giving her eyes a lit-up look. Also the dimensions were a little awkward considering the picture is on paper and the camera captures a flat image. I tried some editing and it seems to have worked a little. I do wish her eyes wouldn't have appeared slightly angled like that. Nonetheless Seema is exhilerated at seeing her smile materialize on paper.

One of the things I find hardest in charcoal/ pencil sketching is drawing limbs, so I tend to stick to faces and expressions. I decided to start off a little easy since charcoal pencils are hard to handle. They smudge if one's moves are awkward. I drew an outline with a liquid graphite #2 pencil and then used a simple husky pencil (HB#2) which smudges but gives that unfinished charcoal look....I used my fingers quite a bit in trying to frame the face, the smile and Seema's wild curly mop.

I'm quite satisfied with the results and I think I will continue experimenting with B&W sketching some more.

Sunset

2006-12-07T14:11:00.000-08:00

Sun

When his flaming eyes
melt over still waters,
And his wings dissolve
In an amber sheen,
Among the effervescence
Of curly waves,
I imagine
How weary he must be,
Untwining himself,
From the delicate fabric,
Of a million things
That were caught
in his rays,
All day.

Black's Bright Borrowed Faces

2006-12-05T20:36:00.000-08:00

I had originally taken this picture in color and while editing tried to see how it might look in black and white. To my amazement the berries seemed more luscious and vibrant inspite of being stripped of their colors. The pitch black had borrowed light and was making a few stray rays its own.

Dreams take their,
Nocturnal flight,
And the reins
Of imagination,
Escape into oblivion,
Like silt
From my clutches,

It takes a moon,
An eyeful of stars,
And the pitch black,
Mouth of a sky,
To churn
In its blinding canvas,
the morning's sudden
Wakefulness.

A Walk in the Woods

2006-12-02T14:05:00.000-08:00

These blinding turns,
Have open mouths,
that scatter the woods
In their wake.

These winding paths are like
The solemn, weathered faces
Of wise, old men
Who wait patiently,
To take me by the finger,
On a journey toward the
mysterious unknowns,
Of Life.

Wild Berries in Fall

2006-11-11T00:32:00.000-08:00

I took this picture during a walk through a metropark. These berries had set the forest ablaze with their wanton colors and I couldn't help writing an ode to them.

Wild Berry

Give me the formidable,
blazing yellow,
Of a Sun,
The warm, the live,
the gleaming red,
Of Blood,
And I shall be
That one fiesty berry,
Smiling from among,
The mediocrity of a shrub,
Like the mutiny of Season.

So Dark The Con of Man: Mickey's Story

2006-11-10T12:06:00.000-08:00

A week ago my roommate and I realized we had a mouse in the apartment. We saw him scurrying behind the entertainment center once and then again jumping out of the trash. My roommate's violent interjections and sporadic screams did not make life any easier for me...or the little rodent. Being a researcher, I have worked with mice; the kind of mice that snooze peacefully in a lined cage and wake up for their well-balanced chow; they are spoilt mice. But this mouse was the street kind, the ones that have to fend for themselves and loot by night just to stay alive. He was Mickey, the hustler.

Now we were, by proportion, much bigger and hopefully smarter than the mouse, nonetheless we were scared. I was more worried than scared. See, I don't mind sharing miniscule amounts of food, but clothing, leather jackets, garbage bags, wires etc. would also eventually be targetted, I thought nervously. We called our apartment management and two muscular guys appeared in a doorway, like knights with glue traps. They were at their chivalrous best. "So did the li'l guy scare ya sweetheart!!" they fretted and my rommate, ever the damsel in distress, dramatically fluttered her eyelashes. I am sure even the mouse, if he were watching the cloying scene from somewhere under the sofa, must've rolled his eyes skywards.

The traps were set. They were straight pieces of thick card paper with a layer of the stickiest glue. They were laid in areas where our little house-guest had been seen hiding. After a couple of days of no sightings we began to wonder if he had left. Our next door neighbour reported seeing a mouse in her home and I secretly wondered if it was our own Mickey that had made its way into her home. Why?, I found myself wondering; didn't Mickey like our food. Was I jealous?, I thought, feeling a bit silly. And just as I felt my first pang of missing the unwelcome pet in our house, I saw his furry body make a dash toward the coat closet. The chase was back on.

On the third day of this unfolding drama, my genius of a rommate (bless her!), got her hand stuck on the extremely tricky glue. The trap had worked alright, just not on the right target. Having disentangled her arm, questioned our own intelligence and pondered over a more solid plan of capture, we set out to seek help from the kitchen. A bait would have to be used. Crackers and peanut butter (the one with yummy swirls of jelly and crunchy peanuts that just goes really well with bread, ummm, what was I saying...sorry, food always throws me on a tangent). Anyways, this piece was set on the three traps. One of the pieces was on the very edge, sitting between the layer of glue and the floor. The next morning we woke up to find that piece gone! The mouse had dragged the delicious snack off the glue, keeping his feet on the floor. The little Houdini!! It was war now!

At the break of dawn we were awakened by high pitched little squeals coming from behind a wall in our kitchen. The trap! It had worked. Finally! We gingerly walked toward the trap, armed with a shoe, eager to meet our tiny adversary. And there was Mickey, his fur stuck on the stiff glue. He had finished his meal and smacked his lips, only to realize that he was cemented by the gummy white surface under him. I walked toward him expecting myself to feel satisfied, at having captured him. And as I bend over to examine our prisoner, he looked up at my face, his black eyes, his alarmed pout pointed at me. There was a pleading look on his face. It just moved something in me. Animals have this look in their faces that sometimes makes me wonder how people hunt or how vets put them to sleep. We have a dog called Aibo who might just get away with murder if he titlted his head and gave us his melting brown-eyed, puppy-dog look. It is heartbreaking.

When the maintenance guys came to collect the haul of their trap, we had been agonized for over four hours by the piteous squeals coming from the trap. The guys assured us they would find a way to let Mickey loose, and as much as I wanted to believe them, I didn't think he'd survive being ripped off the gooey surface. I sobbed a little in the shower this morning but like everything else time will heal this too.

For what its worth, I decided to write this little piece as a tribute to little Mickey and his short but adventurous life in our apartment. He was a hero who got caught by human con and did not deserve to die. He will be missed by man and mouse alike.

Of Eternal Love...

2006-11-06T12:45:00.000-08:00

It was almost sensuous, the way this bee was perched atop the yielding flower. Like in an all consuming act of love, it was feeling the nectar, intoxicated for a brief moment. I could hear it humming to the flower and see it holding the petals open to the sun, moving in rhythm with its fragile sway, as if making love to it. The pollen on the bees' searching proboscis would be carried into eternity, joining the cascade of conception and procreation. And thus, despite its fickle ephemerality, I marvelled at how perpetual this act was.

Bollywood

2006-11-05T21:51:00.000-08:00

I am from India and our film industry is the largest world-wide, known for its bright colors, catchy numbers and heart wrenching love stories. Sometimes criticized for the the prancing heroes and the voluptuous heroines who shake their booty at the drop of a hat, Bollywood is actually what teaches us Indians not to take everything so seriously and maybe once in a while to just chill! You know, this may be why you will probably never meet an uppity or snooty Indian.

A trip to the movie theater is not just about an hour of fun interrupted by popcorn...No! The airy popcorn is just no match for the solid samosa. The movie usually goes on for three hours and sometimes the fun part is the 'Interval' for two reasons, one coz biting into luscious samosas while watching a Bollywood hit is so very gratifying and two coz the interval usually means "Kahani mein twist!" (A twist in the tale!).

2006-11-05T14:19:00.000-08:00

One never knows what could bring light into their day...for me it was this solitary flower holding its own among the grim changes of season. Fall had flamed the leaves and toasted the grass. But this little misplaced star twinkled bravely from among the bramble and my lenses begged to capture this being in the blink of their flash.