Political beings

I used to be one of those who blamed politicians for everything that’s wrong with our society. This was before i wised up a bit. The so-called apolitical people do a lot of damage in the name of fencesitting. Turns out blaming politicians—or in that vein, politics—is like blaming oxygen for slowly killing us. Politics is everywhere around us. It begins in the kindergarten playground where kids form their own little groups. It never ends though. We are, for lack of a finer term, political beings. The sooner we accept it, the better. For some reason (let’s call it ignorance), we tend to associate politics and politicians only with corruption and debauchery. When we do that, we are only asserting our unwillingness to make a difference by staying unaware. It’s quite similar to standing on the side of the road ostracizing the monsoon for causing an accident instead of helping the guy whose motorcycle slid. Moreover, the weather isn’t in our control but our future certainly is. Being aware of the guys who are running for office and the kind of work they are doing at the local level could be a good start. But then, we don’t even want to know who the corporator in our neighbourhood is, let alone confront him/her on issues that is close to your heart. We only want to crack jokes on the NaMos, RaGas and Kejris of the world. Democracy might not be perfect but it has proved again and again why it’s the least of all evil systems out there. If people show as much interest in knowing/discussing the powers-to-be at a level that’s closer to home, we’ll certainly reach a stage where the government would consist of people who genuinely care. Right now, it’s defined by people who stand in the queue because they don’t have a voice and are so helpless that they feel only a ballot or a bribe can change their lives for better. And that’s the political order we should be aiming against.

Naan thaan Chennai

Remember that India-Pakistan test cricket match in Chennai which India lost narrowly? Yes, the one in 1999 at Chidambaram stadium. The entire stadium gave the winning team a standing ovation as Pakistani players reciprocated with a victory lap waving at the crowd. Something that never happened before. Something that never happened later in our country. I even remember watching the video of that crowd standing there. One guy with bloodshot eyes even had tears rolling down his face while his hands clapped. The atmosphere was soaked in dejection but still they did what needs to be done. [An attitude Chennai folks have displayed during the ongoing crisis there. Instead of whining about the lack of infrastructure, they've gotten down to solve the problem by chipping in whatever ways they can.] I'm fully aware of the emo-ness of this post but our planet needs more of such emo moments to go forward instead of backward.

Last month, we went overboard with Je suis Paris (justifiably so because we didn't feel for Paris overnight; it was a result of years of effort to make us fall in love with it) but you don't need a Naan thaan Chennai to love this city.

The unbearable lightness of Diwali

It's that season when firecrackers are back in fashion. In a nation like India, you don't really need a festival to make some noise. Noise happens to be the most followed religion in the country anyway. Regardless, it's that time of the year when we begin to hear some people advocating noiseless Diwali. I wrote a piece four Diwalis ago on the same subject and it seems like not much has changed. Everything depends on how one looks at things and for that to materialize, one requires light. Ironic as it is, this is a festival of lights despite the ignorance surrounding it! It has never been about sound. Even if one follows the recorded history, Ramayana was written around 5 BC and firecrackers weren't invented by Chinese until the 12th century AD. So, the logic behind firecrackers is pretty much global. We crack them for the same reason that the Olympics does on its inauguration day. There's nothing religious about it. The association of firecrackers with Diwali took place thanks to Hindi cinema, which for dramatic reasons, used shots of firecrackers to signify revelry in movies. Something the entire nation (not just other vernacular cinema) picked up over time. But you can't make that argument with sensitive Hindus—well, Jains, Sikhs and Buddhists celebrate this glorious festival too but aren't known for their noisiness—who prefer overlooking facts. So much so they feel their freedom of practice is being hampered by those who expect them to avoid firecrackers during Diwali celebrations. In their defense, they'll make lame arguments that Muslims broadcast their prayers (azaan) five times a day and nobody seems to have a problem with that. First thing first, Muslim festivals are noiseless by default if you don't consider the bleating call of death that's pretty bloody and distasteful. Going back to azaan, it's a technological shame that they use loudspeakers to relay prayer when it's clearly stated in Qu'ran that muezzin's voice should be enough to make a believer take notice. But still, isn't the infamous loudspeaker a thing of exclusivity in Muslim-dominated neighbourhood? And can the same be said about the noise that keeps emanating from a temple throughout the year—as you know, we Hindus love celebrating life—for one festival or the other irrespective of the neighbourhood? Let me answer that for you: No. Besides, it's ridiculous to compare human voice with firecrackers, especially in the times of Yo Yo Honey Singh. 

But then, again, firecrackers aren't about religion. It's about environment. People are bound to pounce on this by saying that pollution is a common thing in the country and a week (yes, the neighbourhood kids make sure that the Great Noise lasts at least seven days) of chemical cloud won't change the status. Guess what? It does. Due to blatant ignorance on the part of urban India, Diwali has become a festival of chemicals celebrated with lanterns made in China. In an ideal world, we would be decorating the entrance with rangolis and placing diyas on every windowsill of the building. But no, that's not what happens. It looks like we are celebrating Christmas with fashionable neon lights that twinkles on and off! Technology breeds laziness but it shouldn't make us forget who we are and where we come from. My parents aren't vastly educated but they had the gumption to teach me at a very young age that it's all about lights (and sweets, of course!). Also, it's only when you have pets at home that you realize how difficult (read: traumatic) it can get for them when firecrackers burst in the vicinity. Shock is too weak a word to describe how they behave. The situation gets worse for the street dogs who have no place to escape to. Now that i've mentioned the so-called animals, i'm tempted to mention heart patients, pregnant ladies, oldies and people who are vulnerable to startling sounds here but you get the picture. The only funny part here is that the innocent being called kids are responsible for a majority of this chaos.  

But then, again, Diwali is not about the props. It's about spreading the light and happiness. In a simple word, sharing. Gifting those who don't have an excuse to celebrate the festival. But no, that's far from what's really going on in our society. The market dictates that it stays within the house. We share gifts with those who share gifts with us. It's a lot like asking "how are you?" to those we know are fine. We'd rather burn the world than see the light spread. We'd rather waste money on chemicals that's eventually going to choke us someday. We'd rather stay ignorant and feel better about ourselves. Worse still, we'd rather assume that making some noise leaves us powerful. We'd rather not question the need to gift toy-guns to our kids only to be surprised in the future how India copied America's culture of gun violence in college. OK. Let's not go there. 

Four Diwalis later, if i'm alive and typing, i'd write another piece on this subject. Till then, remember that noise affects only those who don't make them. 

PS: May the light in you shine brighter than ever before. Happy Diwali!

A business of bias

Other than helping us waste time in fashion, Twitter's greatest achievement has to be its exposure of hypocrisy practised by political journos in our country. People who otherwise hide behind lengthy articles in newspapers end up showing their agenda-based journalism in their 140-character tweets. The least one can expect from politico-journos (given how much they help shape the conscience of the country, unlike say a sports journalist) is fairness.  Maybe that's too much to ask for. Nowadays, different journalists have different leanings and their reportage are laden with personal opinion instead of recorded facts. Of course, they have every right to voice their beliefs but shouldn't they be sensitive before making blatant statements that reeks of prejudice? Their political standings reflect heavily on their outlook, which is quite dangerous when they are meant to be the messengers of reality, not harbinger of imagination. Secondly, they have to ensure that they know what they are talking about, especially online. One week, you defend burqa saying it's a woman's choice to wear what she wants and the next, you mock Karwa Chauth citing its patriarchal leaning. One week, you find everything right with China and the next, you are wondering why India's democracy is hollow. Seriously? 

Veto for a change

It's that time of the year when we exercise our rights to bring new crooks into the Parliament. Once they are in, they'll do everything except work. The numbers of bills and acts that are pending in our system is mindboggling. Smaller countries with bigger problems fare better in this regard. Be it Congress or BJP, certain ground realities don't change. It's not ideology but basic refrain from ethics. Not like they are public servants for real. They are not. They get paid in money and kind and insurmountable privileges. If you don't think too much, it doesn't require NASA to figure out where exactly the problem lies then: They don't want to work. Plain and simple. If you're getting paid to paint the wall, it's your duty—not the wall's. And that's something the Parliamentarians fail to understand (or pretend to fail to understand). Sessions in and sessions out. But it also begs the question whether we're paying the right kind of painters. In other words, do they know anything about painting? At all?

Wake her up

She was great once. At least that's what the stories imply. To her credit, she has always been benevolent to everyone who stepped on her land; even the ruthless marauders. However, over the past few centuries, she has slipped into a nauseating slumber. Unchecked selfishness cascaded with unscrupulous acts of corruption and utter abuse of power sedate her. Yes, there are infrequent sparks indicating every now and then that she is awake and willing to kick—a self-fulfilling illusion by any means. For an ocean of people that she somehow nurtures, she appears abject. Overall. And she deserves far better than what she's presently receiving from our end. A little bit of an attempt on an individual level might make a considerable difference to her well being and thus to the generations that shall supersede us in the future. Yeah, that's it. Just a little bit.

Across the boundary

Some friends i met last week, 
which happened to be the first time ever!
Though we've known each other for a long time.
— more than three years now, actually.
Would have been impossible to interact,
and keep in touch constantly,
recognize each others' face and voice,
share videos, verses and songs...
if it weren't for Internet.
Anywhichway, we finally came face-to-face
in a rather strange city.
No melodrama. Pure excitement. Simple broad hugs.
Silly jokes to start with and political debates to end.
Otherwise done via online messages.
It could have been home though.
If not mine, then theirs
— Bombay, Karachi, Islamabad, Pindi or Lahore.
But that's now how it works perhaps.
Bureaucracy sucks.
Big time.
As a subcontinental past scratches the present. 
By two nations separated at rebirth.
Sad.
So near, yet so far.
Too big a price paid for being neighbors.

Flying sinews

Let's get started with facts. Bollywood stars aren't very popular for completing their homework. Expecting them to lose weight or gain an accent or be anything but themselves is too much to ask for in most cases. This sad premise compels us to acknowledge the grit Farhan Akhtar employed to create  Milkha Singh out of him. Going by the black & white photographs, the celebrated athlete appears a lot leaner than Farhan. But then, why not capitalize on the rare chance to let one's sinews scream out? And they did as expected in Bhaag Milkha Bhaag (BMB). After all, the entire movie is a tribute to a man who wouldn't overestimate his ability to fail. So having a chiseled torso and arms wouldn't hurt. Rhetorically, at least. Furthermore, he strains and pains to succeed in a period independent India was barely waking up to international competition. The film is wonderful since Hindi cinema has been allergic to biopics in spite of having millions of candidates to run a script on. Having said that, BMB could have been much crispier. Just because your husband is the director doesn't mean you should chuck your editing job. (For the record, PS Bharathi did faaaaaaar better in Rang De Basanti which was directed by Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra too.) If the climax wasn't as intense as it turned out to be, the whole endeavour would have fallen flat before the finish line. Nobody wants to be a guinea pig of an excessive filmmaker's indulgences. Coming back to Farhan, his acting skills remain open to question but his commitment can't be interrogated. Sacrificing two summers for a role is genuinely something no actor in our country is heard for. Cricket doesn't need a film to continue its stranglehold in the country but other sports don't enjoy such luxury. From that perspective, BMB continues what Chak De! India and Paan Singh Tomar ignited. Our generation is in dire need of heroes. For the time being, even those from the world of celluloid will do. A biopic on Dhyan Chand next, someone?

Our city, my life!

The media keeps talking about Mumbai's spirit. Especially during tragedies. A bomb blast here or a falling bridge there. But nobody really knows what Mumbai's spirit is all about. It's like the word 'rehabilitation' in that epic movie called The Shawshank Redemption. Nobody really knows what they are talking about. Unless someone with a voice like Morgan Freeman's tells you what it really means. 

Here's a lowdown (in Naseeruddin Shah's voice, if you may) on what Mumbai's spirit actually stands for and how Mumbaikars inadvertently exude it in their daily life. These are just some of the many instances...

• When an overpacked train arrives at Kurla station, some poor souls alight demoting it from its overpacked to packed status. And amid this spatial trauma, somebody standing next to you on the platform says, "Yaar, andar jagah hai!" 
• When your mother doesn't speak Marathi and your neighbour doesn't speak Hindi. But that doesn't stop them from gossiping. 
• When it's hot like hell outside and still there's no place to stretch your limbs out.
• When vada-pav replaces a meal.
• When commuters quarrel for the imaginary fourth seat.
• When the potholes speak for themselves and Delhi rolls on the road laughing.
• When Mumbaikars read about rapes in the Capital and angry silence follows. 
• When it's too late to let others down and too early to give up. 
• When people fight on the street and more people gather around them because everybody can afford to miss their schedule but nobody wants to miss on live action.
• When couples (both married as well as unmarried) realize that the world is basically turning into Taliban. 
• When Bollywood is considered as a compliment, not a derogatory term.
• When the migrant in you doesn't feel lost. At all. 
• When you unequivocally acknowledge Parsis' benevolence.
• When you have no clue who the Baghdadi Jews were or what their contribution to our city is.
• When somebody asks you "Where are you from?" and you say "Bombay" as the question wasn't "Where are you to?". 
• When you cross track because time is more precious than life.
• When a person falls from a bus and your humanity runs towards him/her.
• When the rent is too high and your gumption, too low. 
• When you have a problem with Big B being a farmer in UP but no problem whatsoever with him endorsing Gujarat tourism.
• When you haven't attended your school reunion nor your school friends' wedding.
• When you wave your hand at the bus even though it's going to stop at the bus stop. 
• When you wave your hand at the approaching train because habits are habits.   
• When you won't get a house for rent if you don't follow the same religion the housing society does or come from the same region the housing society does.  
• When you get down from the plane and you know this is where home is.  
• When Sanjay Dutt is the only reminder of the '93 bomb blasts.  
• When chasing local trains is the only form of exercise you get. And you don't wish to miss it.
• When you respect the three defense forces but don't give a shit about the police force or the traffic policemen although these underpaid 'corrupt' people ultimately serve us more.
• When the heavy rain makes a guy offer to share his umbrella with you. And you're not a pretty girl. 
• When your Tamil colleague is celebrating Mumbai Indians's win against Chennai Super Kings.
• When you've made peace with the pace of life in this devilfostered place. 
• When a Maharashtrian knows there were six Marathi films releasing on a Friday (like it happened on April 19) and still opt for that one Hindi film (Ek Thi Daayan in this case).
• When you wonder why people in SoBo are fairer than you are. Also, you thank god for making them cloth-intolerant. 
• When Navi Mumbai is that fancy place with a lot more space than it actually has. 
• When you know Gateway of India but you don't know that the last unit of British Army walked through it, making us truly independent.  
• When the college students believe more in being socially cool than in being politically active.
• When you don't bother to know who the corporator is but you're damn convinced that s/he is not worth voting for. 
• When the city is crumbling and you're essentially busy doing nothing.

Borderline friendship

If she keeps on burning any longer, she won't survive. This line often rings in my head whenever i think of Pakistan. Every country deserves better. More so when i come across news headlines with some place in that Allahforsaken country having a blast. Of the horrible sort. When such discouraging buzz is doing the round, my memory runs through the gems listed below. Each one of them have a face and a story; some short, some longer. Depending on the kind of interaction i've had with them in the virtual world over the past few years. For the record, the only Pakistani i've ever met in person is Ali Zafar. Yes, the actor-singer. The people i've mentioned below are those whom i haven't had the good fortune to meet. Yet.     

Sahil. Furhan. Mehvish. Shiraz. Marvi. Umer. Osama. Akram. Anika. Fizza. Sana. Asma. Sohail. Aadil. Zeeshan. Nazia. Ahmed. Waji. Khawarbhai. Hasan. Kiran. Nada. Zyenab. Rabab. Hira. Burhan. Danish. Aneek. Hafsa. Haroon. Khaver. SMQ. Farhan. Obaid. Heena. Joanna. Rai. Kursed. Haider. Naukhaiz. Niza. Sara. Laeeq. MQazi. Rumaisa. Waqas. Zohaib. Muhammad. Heeri. Samaira. Maliha.

Though i'm not very good with names and i'm sure i must have missed some in haste, these are the ones who instantly clicked. They taught me something or the other about myself by expressing their views. Most of them belong to the ever-affable blogosphere (besides Twitterverse) and i share a good rapport—if not deep friendship—with each one of them. Someday, not very far away from where we are today, i'll be crossing the border to have a chat. Until that happens, i hope they are fine and separated from danger. Of any sort. Situations are so grim right now that when i ask a friend from across the border to take care—unlike with others—i specifically mean it.

Bengali trial

Something has been going on in Bangladesh for quite some time now. People spilled out onto the streets not because they are worried about their future but because they don't want their past to be falsely represented. It's not a revolution though. Far from it, in fact. It seems apt the honour it deserves. Without getting into the nitty-gritties of this South Asian aberration—if you will—let's look at the bigger picture. No matter what happens there, B'desh will always be known as a Muslim majority nation. Albeit it's true, we must acknowledge the ground realities and distinctions between a Muslim and the Arab culture. Most of the time, they are confused to be similar. (One doesn't have to look very far for a taste of this historical baloney. By the way, the country on our west is paying an exorbitant price for the same.) To rub it in, the case doesn’t help either when a lot of these so-called Islamic countries actually aspire to be counted as an extended version of Arabs themselves. On the very contrary, Bangladesh is firmly rooted in its indigenous culture, languages (yes, there are other tongues spoken too apart from Bengali) and outlook. The restless days and nights at Shahbag Chowk in Dhaka rechristened as Projonmo Chottor or New Generation Circle where mostly young B’deshis are craving for the death of the main 1971 war crimes accused is an example. Notably, most of them haven’t witnessed the ghastly acts that eventually led to liberation. And it doesn't matter as they are hellbent on removing the stains of the past. This movement shows that there's much more to come. Especially with the youth reasserting its identity and a not-so-pleasant election on its way.

Who moved my squirrel?

Wagah border is a strange place to be on our independence day. And by our, I mean India's and Pakistan's. On those particular days—evenings to be precise—a lot of unrestrained jingoism displays itself on either side of the gate that divides us. The whole arena is crowded and full of noise. As the official flags get lowered, soldiers lift their feet to heights that would make Ibrahimovic second-guess his wowsomeness. And while they are cocking around trying to shatter the concrete ground beneath them with their leather shoes, crowd add their bit to the unrehearsed show. Loud nationalist slogans can be heard and it's hard to find anyone who can stay untouched by such exhibition of harmless yet provocative emotions. Even the foreign tourists join in with 'Bharat Mata Ki Jai' or 'Pakistan Zindabad' depending on which country stamped their passports! I was there to witness all these aforementioned theatrics three months ago. To be frank, I wasn't interested in what was going on in front of my eyes. I was more into the ones on the other side. Call me a Paki-lover but I'm unapologetically fond of them. Having never seen a Pakistani in flesh before (which is the case with most of the Indians I know who hate Pakistanis indiscriminately), I was overwhelmed to witness SO MANY OF THEM at once. Most seemed upbeat with the watanfaroshi naraas on their lips. But then, you can't blame them for being in the jingoistic mood. Just like it'd be unpatriotic of me to expect anything different from my compatriots.... Amid this annual chaos, I noticed a bushy squirrel get down from a tree on *their* end and cross the border to climb up a tree on *our* end. I bet the ignorant rodent didn't know to which country it belonged. 

Naam ke liye kaam!

The worst part about being a two-bit wannabe film journo is you have to keep reminding yourself that you're a two-bit wannabe film journo. Though you can choose to be sincere about your job, one of the drawbacks of being an honest journalist is not many acknowledge your integrity. Furthermore, irresponsible citizenry is forgiven but irresponsible journos aren't. In the end, it all boils down to two genuine matters: byline and money. Now, byline is a word we use for credit but nobody actually cares about it except that guy who wrote the article. To common readers, it doesn't matter who wrote what. They don't bother with the lonely name stated at the beginning or the end of the printed piece. Talking of money, there's a reason why a journalist's job involves constantly changing jobs—apart from being a journalist! Money is always THE issue with any given publication. No wonder journalism, at present, somewhat lacks the urge in resurgence and ideal journalism is nothing more than an oxymoron. Nonetheless, writing shouldn't be confused with reporting. A writer doesn't have to tell you the way things are. Some tasks are better left to journalists. Khushwant Singh knows this perfectly well as he might be older than journalism. Notwithstanding the facts, my experience as a wannabe film journo has taught me one rhyming lesson: Your views aren't necessarily the news readers can use. And coming back to my financial status, I'm a poor man's journalist who wants to die rich. But at the same time, i also realize that the trick is to avoid trading one's invisible soul for visible bylines.

Questions

What do you desire from life? Other than happiness? Will greed always lead to Greece? Are you content with the fact that you're not dead yet? Where exactly do you see yourself 10 years from now? Heaven? Hell? Home? Dead in office unnoticed by the peon? How come Rihanna doesn't like my lies? Which year shall ultimately mark the unification of an idea called India? Whom do you love the most? Does money matter? Why are Naxals the villains when they don't even have malls to boot? Was that you who once thought Orkut was cool? Is that you who thinks Twitter is cool? What were you doing last summer? Aren't we supposed to be wise? Will you let poor people get near you without scaring yourself? Would you hold my hand even after my palms turn sweaty? Can you gift her an orgasm for a change? Do you believe in stars? Do you want to be a star? Won't you be glad if your enemies vanished at once? Will you miss them? Should Obama get a second chance? Shouldn't PM Singh retire for good? Isn't it funny to have a Bengali-speaking Bangladesh but not an Urdu-speaking Pakistan? Do you converse in Smile? When are you going to watch all the stuff you eagerly downloaded? Will your Facebook friends be your pallbearers too? Why are mothers the way they are? Why aren't we the way we should be? Shall Hinduism survive the lure of the so-called organized religions? Whom were you referring to in your terrible poem? How many tigers have you saved till date? You no me? Will Mumbai Metro operate before or after the world ends? Is Ryan Gosling where Brad Pitt once was? Are you so broke that you fantasize money while masturbating? Why are we alone when there are more than seven billion of our kind out there? Where are the Mayans when you need them? Does music leave you entranced or drained? Have you fallen for that very person who doesn't care about your existence? What happened to Monica Lewinsky? Is she still good at blowjob? How many migrants should be sent back to where they came from? Do you snore louder than you whisper? Is it fair to support Tibetan and Balochi resistance while conveniently overlooking Kashmiri aspirations? Will refugees ever have a roof to call their own? Is black the new brown? Who's going to bully China? Can you do what you always wanted to? What are politicians really excellent at besides human failures? How come I've got more Pakistani friends than Indian ones? Would you travel far and wide before getting lost in time? May a Bhaiya call you a Chinky when you're actually a Madrasi pretending to be a Ghati? Why is North-East not explored when it is not explored? Will Sheldon ever come out of his nonexistent closet? To what extent are we stupefied by Internet? Why is the eternal Gulzar growing older? At what instance disappointments transform into nostalgia? Who are you?

Blowing the trumpets

Since gods don't discriminate, faith—like dicks and breasts—comes in all sizes. They claim that it can move mountains but if you observe closely, it moves long restless queues ahead. With Ganesh Chaturthi being celebrated on full volume, one can understand how faith functions in this country. First of all, there are no set rules. Idol worship, not Hinduism (because modern Hindus have no idea what it's all about), allows us this liberty. You can decorate the statue, put up ugly political hoardings, collect unaudited funds, create ruckus on the streets, play Bollywood songs that have nothing to do with the Elephant God and get away with it. Even the otherwise sane people don't bother to question any of the above mentioned idiocies as the reason is pretty simple: Beliefs work in mysterious ways. I've got nothing against Lord Ganesha. He has always been my favourite superhero. Also, he's cute and keeps his lengthy nose out of my business. And unlike his devotees, He doesn't believe in rat race. Maybe this has to do with the fact that Kroncha is too fat to move! I simply adore him from the huge bottom of my heart. I wish i could say the same for those who worship him and then mercilessly kill elephants for their ivories. Experts often note that Al Pacino inspired Big B when the truth is Ganpati was the original angry young man who disliked his dad. Anyway, things aren't going to change anytime soon. In noisy times like these, i just wish The One With 108 Names was a Buddhist or something.

London is miscalling

It's that time of the year when it sucks to be an Indian. Also, that season when China points their little finger at us and chuckle in Mandarin. Sadly, blame game isn't part of the Olympics yet and Rajinikanth is too busy to participate in the other categories. I don't know how I've managed to live this long without a medal to my name. Ten years ago, i was *this* close to becoming a world-class diver (blame it on Louganis!). As of now, I'm *that* far away from sightseeing in London. Of course, there are folks out there in that city right now who dream of nothing but dangling this small yet heavy piece of ornament around their neck someday. No doubt there aren't committing any crime in doing so, either. On the contrary, they've slogged really hard towards their goal. (Speaking of which, they have a goal, unlike most of us.) With or without sponsors. In all probability, it takes more than just Horlicks and Boost to reach the stadium, let alone podium. A nation's pride is only as perpendicular as the athlete standing behind the flag. Besides, these ladies and gentlemen don't make compromises with pain. They own it. And that's what sets them apart. They run like their ass is on fire, jump like they never use elevators and swim like humans weren't meant to. In fact, these gladiators are the reason why aliens haven't attacked our planet yet. But not each one of them is going to win. Only those who shall put their best feet (if not hands) forward might. In the meantime, i pray none of them is doped. Because nothing ruins Games like ununiformity in steroids. Everybody ought to get the same performance-enhancing drug. Except Indians. Our contingent deserves something extra. After all, whining isn't everything at Olympics.

Mission Kashmir

A still from the film

     Over the years, several films have been shot in Kashmir but not many have been based on it. For obvious political reasons. By this cowardly yardstick, Harud (Autumn) has to be a welcome exception. Not only is it entirely filmed in the so-called paradise but also centred on those who indeed live there and speak accented Urdu. Appropriately, their struggle for dignity—if not freedom—can be seen documented throughout the movie. However, the initial commotion silently gives way to a relatively calculated pace of events that unfolds.

     Following a family that has lost a son and is on the verge of losing another, the plot draws parallel against the unstable ambiance. The protagonist’s father, sane as a cuppa, turns somewhat weird. His mother isn’t prepared to mourn her firstborn’s death yet. His friends hope to get out of the mess they are not responsible for. This may sound like a perfect melting pot for militant bullets and grenades, surprisingly enough, there aren’t enough explosions to rattle your eardrums. Perhaps the chaos prefers to manifest mentally than physically.

     Director-turned-director Aamir Bashir merits kudos for his perseverance given the fact that the film was made back in 2010; and most importantly, for choosing such a grave topic. No doubt Harud is his baby from beginning to end. Having said that, there are instances when he indulges too much in scenes that don’t particularly contribute much to the overall narrative. The characters could have been sharper. Other than the veteran Iranian actor Reza Naji, all other cast members are non-actors. And it shows. But what they lack in performance, Bashir tries to make it up with wondrous visuals.

     The tranquil images of pristine lakes juxtapose with the boy’s violent past. In the meantime, long shots continue to tease your patience and abstract references tests your ignorance. Metaphors flow in abundance. With the change in season, chinar’s leaves get busy leaving the tree. But the people are sticking to their roots, armed with technology. Maybe there is hope. Maybe not.

     If the purpose of a movie is to move you, then Harud does that pretty well. For mainstream regulars, this independent effort might come across as a bit boring. But then, boredom is a luxury where fear rules. Not everyone can afford it. The same is true about this rather brave film.

Mumbai

City. Diversity. Crowded. Migrants. Music. Local. Fear. Traffucked. Corrupt. Malls. Dust. Cricket. Office. Netas. Bollywood. Slums. Monsoon. Pigeons. Wonderful. Gully. Sweat. Honk. Parsis. Vadapav. Education. 26/11. Piss. Accidents. Kaapi. Welcoming. Pandu. Udupi. Death. Hatred. SoBo. Pickpockets. Heat. Filth. Smells. Tweetups. Sachin. Trains. BPO. Potholes. Dilapidation. Tourists. Multilingual. Blood. Superpoor. Dabbawallahs. Bandstand. Chaos. Fashion. Comedy. Midday. Goons. Sun. Radio. Crows. Prithvi. Eunuchs. Obesity. Reclamation. Teachers. Unwonderful. Love. Hawkers. Tolerance. Skyscrapers. Mysterious. BEST. Superrich. 26/7. Shit. Commoners. Time. Wordless. Nourishing. Queues. Chai. Hoardings. Friends. Smog. Gulzar. Noisy. Trepidation. Worst. Mongrels. Rave. Undersated. Overrated. Chinese. Network. Island. Kolis. Cuss. Festivals. Mangroves. Sparrows. Life. 

PS: A friend asked me to describe the city in 100 words. So 100 words it is. 

Ekla Chalo. Knot.

The recently inaugurated event Maitree Bandhan—a joint initiative by the Times of India and Prothom Alo, a leading Bangladeshi daily, to explore cross-cultural camaraderie—went more or less unnoticed. Understandably, it doesn’t have the aura that Aman ki Asha has (or had?) but it’s a brave campaign and a much-needed alarm. There is this undeniable call for deeper interaction with a country with which we not only share the longest land boundary but also linguistic and cultural ties. Hence it’s necessary to bring these aspects to a broader public consciousness, especially to the non-Bengali spread of India.

Also, typecasting Bangladesh as just a Bengali-speaking nation would be more myopic than tagging India as a Hindu state. B’desh, like us, harbours some very complex cells that presumably hinder her homogeneity. She hosts many ethnicities, common to both of us, including the indigenous Santals, Khasi, Garo, Meithei, Tripuri/Kokborok, Kuki/Mizo/Lushai, Chakma, etc. These commonalities better not to be overlooked. On the cultural front, both Rabindra Sangeet and Nazrul Geeti are wholeheartedly venerated on either side of the border.

So what needs to be done? A lot. Like enhance communication, trade and trust. But that’s not it. A lot more needs to be done. Likewise, the same goes for our other immediate neighbors: Pakistan, Nepal, China, Sri Lanka, Myanmar and Bhutan.

Bigotry: 1 India: -1

Since everyone’s talking about Salman Rushdie, let’s stick with him. The latest score indicates the bigots have won. Hands down. Once again. They generally do in our country but this time around the story’s a bit different. Legend has it that ultra-religious folks got furious at somebody who once wrote a humorous yet defiling book in 1989 that got banned across a majority of the Islamic world. (Why the so-called secular India decided to become the first nation to join the bandobast still haunts all non-political answers.)

Anyway this acclaimed writer was planning to attend an event in Jaipur which interestingly he had already been part of back in 2007 without the ongoing banfare. Now here’s the most intriguing facet: the ones who are enraged are Muslims and the one they are engraed at is also a Muslim. The only difference between them is that the latter has read the book by default.

So what gave rise to such a beautiful conundrum? Election. Yup. It’s around the corner so politicians got interested in a literature festival that they otherwise wouldn’t have. Vested interest and narrow vision has more to do with this hapless scenario than anything else. Whatever has happened, is happening and will happen is a lesson in progress for all. Human history has not only seen how religion makes people go crazy but also how bigotry makes them do worse. Add politics to the bonfire (or banfire, if you will) and try to imagine God praying heavily for our sanity.

The worst aspect about this current situation is we’ll never know who is right and who isn’t. At the end of the day, religion is a subscriber’s product and God, a belief system. One can join the party or not. It firmly depends on the given person’s sense of rumour. And as long as everybody is cool and nobody’s shouting “My imaginary God’s imaginary dick is bigger than your imaginary God’s imaginary dick!”, no one’s going to regret non-silence.

Excuse moi for digressing here but once upon a train, there was a little boy traveling with his granddad. He was pestering the elderly gentleman with ceaseless questions but with an unassuming innocence. One such query was related to the passing paddy the kid saw through the window. The wise old man was asked who created those green paddy fields. Instead of going into painstaking details, the former decided to snitch on God and stated, “God did.”

On hearing this, the zealous kid’s eyes got excited and started verifying everything they could set themselves on. “What about those trees?” to which the elaboration-free response “God did that too!” echoed. This enamoring charade went on for a long while. All of a sudden, God was the perfect answer to everything the boy had to ask. It didn’t even spare the non-living things either. With “And this train, grandpa?” getting “Who else? The almighty God!” on the conversational track.

It was at that very precise moment the idea of God was born in that child’s moulding mind. The very God who must be mighty pleased with those offended nincompoops’ ability to be well-versed in the tenets of Satanic blasphemy without even giving the godfatwa’d book a try.