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!
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 What our director has done, is to contemporise a story so outdated, that made Shahrukh Khan look laughable, probably even to himself, in Bhansali’s version about 5 years ago.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.
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. 
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.
The Pink Slip
As of last Thursday, the economic slump and its consequences suddenly seems much more real. They told us we’re not going to be the ones affected, after all, bad news is what we thrive on, or in any case, if anything, it’ll be retrenchment and not relegation to the streets.
They were either wrong or lying. Four days ago, six people across departments in the company’s Bangalore office got the ‘resign or you’re sacked’ ultimatum.
And now, talk flares of cutting costs by slashing heads. And we trainees, barely 8 months into the organisation, feel our stark dispensability.
And between jokes of how here’s another exodus, maybe we’ll have to go join the defence forces like American bankers, our HR managers seem to be taking cheap pit shots at us by laying down ‘The 10 Commandments: Dos and Don’ts In Times Of Recession’, and pasting it on the notice board.
The list includes Thou Shalt Not Take Vacations, Thou Shalt Not Ask For A Raise (Remember you’ve a job, and there might be people out there who have better skills than you), Thou Shalt Not Resist Transfers Or Pay Cuts, Thou Shalt Always Act Busy, Thou Shalt Do Everything In Your Power To Stay Employed, Thou Shalt Not Complain…amongst other curtailments. Basically, we’re supposed to act like the pet neighborhood pooch, now that we’re at the mercy of forces beyond our control.
Meanwhile, coffee goes from free to Rs 5 per cup between 1-3 pm and 7-9 pm (what’s the logic behind that?!) and toilet paper goes missing. Newsprint becomes expensive and of poorer quality, and we’re supposed to work harder to make amends in that division. And expect pay cuts and pick up new skills and be on-the-dot punctual and not complain EVER.
And now I think: the signs were always there, we just never paid attention to the small print.
Epilogue:
Obama’s now graduated from President-elect to President of the United States of America. He’s done it. Not all hope’s lost, really?
Lesson No. 556: you cannot empathise until it hits you in the face. You just cannot.
it'll never end
So, Preetha, Arpita, Sarah and I were standing outside our office building, on our daily one-person smoke ritual. And we’re chit-chatting, the usual twinkie stuff – shoes, clothes, arpita’s bro’s wedding, etc et al. Then two burly looking guys (one of which was cute for sure) came and stood not three feet away, and the non-cute one had a ‘fanny pack’ or something of the sort slung around his waist. Now these fellas were not Indian. They just stood there, smoking, and waiting for i do not know what. First thought that goes blinking in my head: What if they’re terrorists?!
And I’m not paranoid by nature, just a little neurotic. But it must’ve been something in the air that sent that shockwave of a thought through. A moment later, the horror of the thought sunk in: I, like every other tom, dick and harry (or ram, shyam and radheyshyam) in this country, was under the spell of that irrational suspicion that has whole gods and their believers raging bloody wars the whole world around…
My friend Lisa tells me that she’s been taking the bus from ITO to Gurgaon every evening after work since she heard of auto bombs. She also tells me of her three year old niece, who felt really ill when she saw a documentary on the 9/11 WTO extravaganza.
Sarah says her friend Kainaz, now posted as floor manager in Taj Westend, Bangalore, lost a whole bunch of her friends at Taj, Mumbai, staff whom she’d been working and laughing with uptil 3 weeks ago.
A certain public relations lady from Mumbai i was in touch with for a story, has not been in touch about the fate of her efforts. I don’t know for sure, but it seems uncannily coincidental that she’s just contracted insomnia in this day and hour.
A peaceful march down MG Road by NDTV to commemorate the loss of one of the armed forces, replete with candles, solemn expressions and slogans, had one lady encouraging bystanders to come and join. In the background, a certain undesirable element yelled “India Murdabad, Pakistan Zindabad”. Certain gentlemen tried to push him away, but he was quite uproarious, to say the least. Later, when it had all passed, I saw him high-fiving one of his auto-driver buddies, and still later, he was walking around muttering to himself about something that sounded very much like “Saale TV waale…”
A recent India Today edition carried “Inside the Mind of The Bombers” as their cover story. The boys held responsible for the Delhi bombings in July are exclusively interviewed by one of India Today’s ranks. What he finds out, if not sensational fiction of his own mind, is truly horrific. One of them wouldn’t mind bombing a market where his mother is shopping, because that’ll only send her closer to Allah. The other two, although not so convinced, or certainly showing signs of disillusionment, at this stage, still parroted the “Its all jihad, it’s a war for Allah”. They’ll probably hang to their death at the age of 23.
Barkha Dutt feels ”a sense of Deja Vu” through all this, and portfolios get juggled at the centre. Certain Tamil writers/journalists criticise TV channels for their elitist coverage of the Mumbai terror attacks, while ignoring the shoot out at VT station, and concentrating on the Taj, as THAT is the icon of India’s progress and hospitality. The markets quiver, but experts say that this will not have too much of an effect, the global meltdown, and the fact that US is now officially in recession, are still more important determinants. Terror, Riots, Arson clauses get added to life insurance policies. In a perfect parallel world, this would be hugely funny.
And yet, through grieving for friends, relatives, Leopold’s, the end of peace, the heralding of another holocaust, blah blah, we’d thank god for yet another day, yet another meal, just one job, cheaper petrol, simple joys of microcosmic, individual trajectories of life…
These few lines, penned in a few moments of weird homesickness, dedicated to my father…
You held me by the arms, so I could feel the thrill
As the waves crashed on us,
And you hung on to me while I fluttered
Like a dry petticoat on a clothes line,
And laughed and spluttered while
Salt water went up my nose.
You threw me into the air,
Only to catch me again in upturned arms,
And I’d giggle in mid-flight
Through my exhilaration at my freedom,
And be tickled by that unbearable lightness of being.
You’d make pens, watches, books, my dolls
Vanish into thin air.
And re-conjure them from under your arms
You’d laugh at my childish wonder
While I’d be ecstatic that you were a magician
And I’d laugh because I was your child.
You slapped me hard across the face,
You wanted me to concentrate –
Maths was my weakness, insincerity caused you anguish,
You taught me the subject with a number of blows
And I was happy when my report card read Maths: 94.
You sat me down while I bawled,
Because ma had just yelled at me “for no reason”
“its not fair!!” I shouted – “I want my life!”
Well, you said, you have it: go to your party,
But remember, you’ll know someday,
LIFE is hardly ever fair.
You held my hand as we took a post-dinner walk,
We talked of this and that; him and her
You gave me perspective,
You allowed me opinion, you did all you could,
To make me understand the value of both sides of the coin.
You sat at the edge of my bed,
With tears in your eyes – why did you lie to us?
Your disappointment poured out of your eyes,
We were all heart-broken at my deceit,
But you gave me my second chance,
You still let me leave.
Open your mind! Read! Look out the window!
No point staring straight ahead!
You’d be irritated when I showed signs of brain-deadedness.
This one life is a gift, you’d say,
Live it, my child, you’d implore.
For you, today, I see, feel, read and chronicle.
We stand waist-deep in the sea again,
We’re happy today, with blue water and white sand
All around us. Your troubled back makes you wary
Well, I’m just your girl pa, not your strong(er) sons,
But I’ll hang on to you, And we’ll ride the high crescent
And then scatter the Bay of Bengal
With broad smiles and our exuberance in the sun.
Have you seen Tata Tea’s latest ad? The one with that irritating looking guy attempting to wake everybody up, outside a cinema hall, and then the delivery of the killer line, with a killer look of condescension – “Agar aap election ke din, vote nahi kar rahe ho, toh aap so rahe ho“. It’s quite an ad, and it doesn’t take much to figure out that we’re all wincing in our couches simultaneously with the movie going woman, who earlier tried to put him in his place. And it is quite an effort, where Tata Tea and Janagrahaa, the Bangalore based NGO which is committed to increasing citizen participation in local government and whose initiative this is, are concerned. It is credible that Tata’s CSR wing is taking itself seriously and thinking out of the box, and that an institution like Janagraha is getting much-required exposure out of it.
But shame on us – we need a corporate with a strategy and specially formed institutions to remind us that it is our fundamental duty to enlist for our voters’ card, and that it is fundamental duty, as citizens of a democracy to exercise our fundamental right to vote.
And while we’re on the topic of the telly’s offerings of the day, i’m sure you’ve seen, or at least heard, of MTV’s blockbuster of last season – Splitsville. a house full of ‘twinkies’, all fighting their way to winning the hearts of two losers on previous editions of MTV Roadies. And then, the chance of becoming a VJ, oh the ultimate thing EVER in this universe! A whole nation of urban-homed kids across economic classes might be sitting up and watching this shit, and learning what? How To Be Bitchier Than Thou, How To Be Conniving And Eel-like, How To Land The Man That Everyone Else is Eyeing, How To Excel In Degrees Of Shallowness. Actually, the last one isn’t what they teach, it’s what gets inculcated by the undercurrent running through all that these women, and Ranvijay (OOOH He’s so HOT!), say. To think, most of us would find the shock of such a show being conceptualised, shot and actually aired, without Raj Thackeray and ideological clones swooping down on them, too much to take. And the trivialisation of a whole generation of Indian youth to this level would not go down well. But, surprise surprise!, it has not only been masala-d and digested, it was also quite the talk of the town.
Where are we heading, my lovelies? Janagraha has a lot of work to do, before it will manage to even scratch the crust of these zombies’ souls. and Tata Tea might have to knock on other doors, like ‘lets go green’, to show some positive social responsibility outcomes.
It’s dawn. And I am wide awake. Not because i have suddenly turned into a morning bird, but because i haven’t slept at all. Beside me is also wide-awake Preetha. For some reason, both women are in a deep meditative/contemplative/insomniac/talkative mode this day. You may want to attribute this to watching two admittedly chick flicks, but which are also soul-stirring: 50 First Dates and A Walk to Remember (Come visit Venus sometime!).
Watching Shane West turn into a miracle and Drew Barrymore battle with the reality of her life every single day can have its sobering effect on you (Yes it is possible!). And so, the contemplative mood goes in search of something to roost upon, and ends up with Chapter 420 – ‘Repression in this country!’ Not just in the sense of “O we can’t be open about boyfriends we can’t be open about sexuality we can’t wear revealing clothes like these American kids………..” strain. That got left behind with the ‘Hip Hip Hurray’ (remember the ’super-cool!’ series on Zee that was about a bunch of high school kids in short skirts and even shorter flings)stage passing by after creating mucho-flutter, at least in certain public schools in urban India.
The American Heritage Dictionary defines repression, in terms of Psychology, as: ‘The unconscious exclusion of painful impulses, desires, or fears from the conscious mind’. It also means ‘forceful subjugation’, and involves a defence mechanism somwhere down the line. A wee bit of analysis should get us thinking. keeping in mind the ‘colonial hangover’ that we’re all still striving to get over, the secularism that we’re still trying to imbibe, despite having proclaimed it half a century ago, but still fighting like grumpy children over nothings, still invariably finding something to step on and dominate in all respects – children, women, farmers, the less fortunate, the plants, trees and animals – despite also proclaiming the ideal of equality, i’d say it is surprising they don’t adopt repression, in the above stated senses of the word, as another clause of the noble constitution, since it is practiced freely, by all elements of the government and the civil society as well.
tears for fears
Wouldn’t you agree that it is repression that rules the roost in our much coveted 61 year old nation? repression-oppression-suppression of PDA, ideals, ideas, thoughts, beliefs, sexualities, emotions, euphoria, feelings, women, children, ‘the other’, temperatures, what-you-really-think, desires….it can go on forever. When whole lives revolve around, and are directed by, the mighty ’society’, repression becomes the unnecessary but natural offspring of “what will the neighbours say?!” and “this is not allowed in this country, even if it IS in the West!”
When living by rules, by perceptions and by God are just three examples of the shackles that we entwine ourselves in, when microcosms of envy, jealousy and greed become the governing monsters of our disbelief in each other and when the super-structures that we create in our mind, and unleash on (arguably) empty vessels of unresenting acceptance, it is a repressed organism that breathes through nasal septal perforations.
But then, in a place which calls the cow as its mother, but also feeds on its flesh in dark stinking alleys, it’s not metaphor or allegory that you need to give reality/truth a face. “We have too many religious textbooks here,” says sage Preetha, resting under her tree of knowledge. True. The multiple interpretations of which add still more spice to this saga of pushing the roots of change back underground. Then again, is it fair to blame the sacred pothas to this extent? they written with good intentions, by possibly good men, after all.
Why is it that we follow the Quran, the Geetha, the Bible more than our Constitution? If it is all about governing man to lead a better life, and if the end-product is happiness and all around growth of mankind, what stops us? Not that the costitution is infallible. Hypocrisy comes as a side salad there too. But anything that is unattempted remains impossible. Is it impossible to conceive of an open, liberated, truly secular India?
I don’t know. There is despair. They jail teenagers for ’coochie-cooing’ in parks, they beat up nuns for forcing ‘conversion’, they bomb market areas to make a rebellious statement about Islam, they protest against the Tatas’ project because the capitalists take away their lands, they don’t send their daughters to school but she is going to be someone’s ‘ghar ki lakshmi’ by bringing in all the dowry, they ……………
I guess when we begin to accept that it is ‘we’ and not ‘they’ that make it all happen, even as just a collective wilfulness, that ‘we’ might be able to move beyond it.
it’s another kind of double life – being victims and perpetrators – that we live. or maybe its just cyclic. like the destructive chakravyuha.
heh. - www.cafeultravioleta.files.wordpress.com
…And so it is saturday night, again. At a loss for what to do, there is always the fallback option, at least as far as i am considered. Pubbing. Pub - jumping – cruising – hopping. Whatever. And top of the charts is Peco’s, on Rest House Road. Just off Brigade Road, this beer spouting little tower has only recently acquired a neon signpost, since it might have finally penetrated the manor’s masters that not a few enthusiastic new patrons on the block are at a loss for its whereabouts…since it was expected that word-of-mouth alone would get you crawling up their steep creaking staircase, in search of your nirvana. Or your next hand-me-down maid/prince..if you like.
So once you do manage to locate it, sandwiched between ’fashion sense’ and another non-descript bar, and as you manage the crawling towards superior chambers than what first impressions might shock you into sensing, the greasy smiles of the chambermasters, thudding music and whiffs of the many kingfishers and fosters being downed, in addition to a certain ‘herb’ being rolled up and lit to flames, you might be transported into ‘relaxo-world’ (that of the chappal fame, possibly).
The darkness engulfs you, as does the evergreen (in more ways than one) crooning of Jim Morrison, begging you to assist him in his immolation (oh har-de-har-har!), and you can just about make out scattered popcorn, ash on wooden tables, chairs, floors. The ceiling is black as a moonless night, ie, if there is a ceiling. Mirrors and rock legends glare, and simultaneously wink at you, depending on your degree of intoxication, and no, you’re not subjected to a self-study on identity, or crises, or the like. Since, at this particular juncture in time and space, you’d rather fly, and the smiling wizards will help you do just that.
Bob your head, head bang, on tables, sing along, dance on table tops, do whatever you like – there are no rules. They’ll keep smiling through it all. It is another world, a much live-in-able one, despite the 50% diluted with water beer. And of course, they know how to make chilli beef, and keema dosas. If intoxication is not your thing, pay them a visit on a weekend morning, before noon, and you’ll get a reportedly fantabulous buffet. Reportedly, since i’ve never bothered to wake up at that ungodly hour. *shudder*.
|
Recent Comments