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!).
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Ocean's Thirteen
I guess I like being in touch with my masculine side. Not only do I hate the mushy chick-flicks but j'adore the other four: drama, thrillers, comedy and even action. If there ever was a movie that could have encompassed all four in its theme, it was the Ocean's series.
Danny Ocean and his gang are back, reportedly for the last time in Ocean's Thirteen.
The impressive ensemble star cast, I will not list and if I reveal the plot, I will be doing you movie buffs, a great disservice. So this should be a pretty short review, right? Wrong!
Deceived by his associate Willy Bank, Reuben, of the Ocean's crew suffers a heart attack. Being swindled out of the partnership for a new Las Vegas Hotel & Casino renders him mum and bedridden. The Ocean's team gathers around like true friends do, to survey the losses ready as ever to get even. And they do it in such style.
As each member is assigned a casino game to rig or ruin, the plot gets busier. The many facets of the strategy only add to the electric drama and surprisingly, do not interfere with the pace of the film. While the first half of the movie builds the momentum, the latter half unleashes the plot bit by delicious bit.
The Clooney-Pitt rapport, blithe as always, adds to the humor and so does Matt Damon playing the eager thug-in-training. Andy Garcia with his smoking Cuban and an equally smoking smile, add the right touch of pazzaz to this film.
The cinematography is rich and fulgent like the Las Vegas casino where most of the film has been shot. The sets are beautiful, the men are gorgeous and there is no greater high than the one of sweet revenge as Willy Banker's dream casino is played ruthlessly to the ground by the Ocean's trifling thirteen.
Whoever said 13 was an unlucky number?!
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?!
Thursday, July 05, 2007
The Fiery Masala Of Female Sexuality: Mira Nair & Her Bold Female Protagonists
"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.
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.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Shootout At Lokhandwala A Cop Out?
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.
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.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Horn Ok Please!
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.
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.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Mumbai Se Aaya Mera Dost-1
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.
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.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Tagged! Indian Authors: Of Experiences & In Anticipation
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!
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!
Friday, May 18, 2007
My Dad, The Feminist
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.
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.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Casino Royale: Has James Bond Finally Met His Match?
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!
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Let's Be Fair!
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.
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.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Cinema, Cinema
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.
Monday, April 16, 2007
The Shapiro Writing Festival In Snapshots
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 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.
Friday, April 13, 2007
On Love, Marriage & Flannel Pajamas...
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?
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Watching 'The Namesake' in Ohio
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".
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Where Art Thou'?
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 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.***
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