One Hundred Years Of Solitude

Here’s an old piece, rediscovered. I love this book. And the man behind it.

one hundred years of solitude

When human nature endeavors to survive the arid desert of Time with all its might, Time too brings out its most ruthless weapons to quell it. Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ most famous novel, One Hundred Years Of Solitude, dictates such a hopeless predicament, while bringing forth much more of the fantastic in the face of the gross mask of reality the world feigns to wear. The novel talks of the rise and fall of Macondo, a secluded civilization in a distant plain somewhere in South America. More specifically, it talks about the trials and tribulations of five generations of the Buendia family, who are the founders of Macondo as well as the last ones to die in its ruins. We are given a vivid description of characters such as Ursula Iguaran, an unlikely but powerful matriarch, under whose rule the Buendia family as well as Macondo prospered; Colonel Aureliano Buendia, who had 17 boys during his days in the war; Remedios the Beauty, who ascended to heaven (literally!) as her rightful place of being; and Aureliano Segundo and Jose Arcadio Segundo, the twins, who changed names in juvenile mischief and whose identities remained confused till their death as a consequence.
Macondo,a fascinating place, is endowed with all the characteristics of growth and existence and enriched by the imagination of the writer. Written in the post colonial form of writing called Magic Realism, the novel contains a myriad imagery, where storms of butterflies, clouds of yellow flowers, blue houses and incessant rain for four years seem more believable than the ugliness of civil war, the capitalism of a Banana Company, Guerilla warfare and a dictatorial government.

What is most fascinating, however, and what essentially is the crux of the novel is the final, irrevocable and endless solitude of each character of the Buendia family as well as of the whole community. Trapped in the cells of their minds, tortured by insomnia the characters seem to transcend the normal and exist on an exotic plane making them very enticing to the reader.

The novel is a masterpiece of read-between-the-lines revolutionary ideas, and what we as readers can enjoy is his somewhat satirical notion of a civilization. The existence of a strong political statement makes it intellectually stimulating and issues of life, love, identity and death are brought up without any answers. All in all, One Hundred Years of Solitude is a must read for all those who would like to indulge in a bit of contemporary reading. And otherwise.

…And more in the name of wishing Mr Muthalik’s health in pink!

a small, inspired moment of very naughty inspiration, and here we are today, garnering support from even the BBC. here’s a second opinion piece on the biggest movement of the year…

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/Subverse/The_power_of_pink/articleshow/4107798.cms

bloom(er) on!

Emotional Atyachar that liberates

red pickle

Disclaimer: This review is hugely biased, mostly because the critic (hah!) is totally, head-over-heels floored by the brilliance of the movie and has written from a slightly starry-eyed vantage, so all pointed-out flaws are purely coincidental.

“Do you touch yourself?” whispers Dev to Paro, over a long distance call between two countries, while in the back seat of a cab in London. And from the word go, Anurag Kashyap’s embodiment of Devdas makes you cringe with his absolute self-involvement, submission to desire  and with his utter disregard for others’ feelings.

The story progresses largely on the lines of the classic, but with a twist, a dash of lemon in a pretty damn tame cocktail, or in the way the traditionalists, romantics and fundamentalists would  have it. What our director has done, is to contemporise a story so outdated, that made Shahrukh Khan look laughable, probably even to himself, in Bhansali’s version about 5 years ago. To make a story like Devdas contemporary means a healthy dose of raw, animal passion, and admitting to the ’sin’ of raging hormones in one’s prime, peppered with drugs and alcohol and gross self-indulgence. And so, the driving force behind Dev D becomes a physical expression of a horizontal wish (to alter the line from Shall We Dance), and not sacrificing, soppy love, which, lets face it, hardly exists anymore.

That’s your post-modern touch, the honesty of which is a refreshing bloom – where contradictions, confusions and the ensuing pain is not in the domain of sentimentality, but in-your-face self-love and craziness which is painted in shades of grey and blue on every just-human face. The message is clear: Nobody’s a saint, howsoever much they might fall in love, not Paro, not Dev, not his father. And the irony of it all – there is still some redeemable good in everybody.

And then there is Chanda. An inspiring character, consistent and solid. Subject of scandal, daughter of a civil servant who shoots himself, and a mother who abandons her for her evilness, the 16-year old girl shows inordinary spunk and becomes a (surprise, surprise) randi, who can talk dirty in any language you want her to, in any getup you desire. And, she does this to put herself through college. So there – the good in the stereotypical baaad. There’s no plain surfaces in this one.

It is not just the characters in the movie who reflect a point of departure as alter-egos of purer selves intended by the author. The movie is a product of art – and finely engineered stuff at that. Beautiful shots of Chandigarh, the rustic village and Delhi, excellent cinematography (from close ups to the attempted making out session in tall grass), poignant moments – like the one where Chanda and Dev stand in her balcony, she’s painting his face into that of a joker and unmasking herself – and very good music. The Jonas Brothers make an impression too, acting as the chorus, Dev’s three-headed conscience, and comic relief, all-in-one. or three. The point is, such perfectionism usually gets botched up, but here, you get the feeling that he’s handled it very very carefully, like holding a still beating heart – his own – in his hands. You love it as much as he does.

And the final point of departure is from postmodernity itself – the happy ending. Lightning strikes, reformation happens. Sitting in a red tub, being scrubbed by the love of his life, our anti-hero’s self-love brings him back to his senses. So then, all’s well that end’s on a slightly less morbid note. And you’re allowed to fall in love with Abhay Deol for an excellent performance.   

Maybe a dose of this is what the likes of Muthalik need to shock them into their graves.

Reclaim Road

Now, check THIS out…

inspired rebellion. this, in addition to the Smooch Republic Rally that plans to descend at Anil Kumble circle this Valentine’s Day. Oh ,what fun. only the flowers in my head and the joint between my fingers shall be missing. oh, you can never have it all.

http://thepinkchaddicampaign.blogspot.com/2009/02/welcome.html?showComment=1234169880000#c6669848476604319330

The most disciplined eating I’ve ever done

Mavalli Tiffin Rooms, more fondly known as MTR, is most definitly a harbinger of the good old days of yore, when the pomp and fanfare accompanying dining was still a matter of importance. And this you can tell just by the larger percentage of gold-decked, gajra-ensconced, sandalwood-smelling gentry in the line that snaked almost till Lalbagh, waiting for the clock to strike 12.30 pm.
When the clock does oblige, an old white haired man shorter than me ( and I’m all of 5′2”, for the record)  in white dhoti and white shirt hanging loose opens the door and ushers everybody in to make another unending, rather silent line at the cash counter. And as he nudged and budged one and all to pin-dropness, he glowered down his long royal nose, and he informed us of the treat that awaited us.

So, we bought our coupons and were directed up a flight of stairs  lined with Thanjavur paintings, to be greeted by another old man perched on his wooden stool of authority, also maintaining the silence and strict discipline that is due to these esteemed halls steeped in spicy tradition. He pointed us to our table in a corner, and we obediently walked to our proximate destiny.

Looking around, it struck me that this unnatural behaviour wasn’t just specific to me, my mother and her sister. Most people seemed unsure of talking in decibels higher than a whisper. And consequently, even big moustached men seemed inordinately giggly. Thankfully, my prayers were answered and the food came around sooner than we expected.

And whatever misgivings I had about overly snobbish places, took flight with my taste buds as the men with buckets coaxed us into overeating like never before. Typical kannadiga food, complete with bisi bele bath and payasam, made for a very memorable meal. And even when you’re replete with satisfaction, and loving it totally, you’ll be dissed into eating some more. They’ll make sure they give you your money’s worth.

A must visit place for all those who visit Bangalore.