An agenda against procrastination

I’m sick of everything I am as well as I’m not. But things will change very soon. From tomorrow onwards, I’ll be a new person. With a broader outlook, no-nonsense attitude and a better vision. To begin with, I’ll wake up with the cold sun and go for jogging. (The reason why I've never attempted this stunt before is I feared I may not come back and keep running the way Forrest Gump did.) Then I’ll return home and practise some breathing exercises that I used to when I was an amoeba. This will be followed by a soul-rinsing hot bath. If I survive that, I’d be having an intelligent breakfast in place of the regular healthy one. And by this, I don’t mean idli. Trust a South Indian when he postulates, “Idli doesn’t make you anymore idligent than you already are.” After this, I’ll read aloud any Rimbaud poem at hand and pretend to understand its depth. I won’t pay attention to the newspapers lying on the table. They aren’t worth my short attention span. I’ll then change the course of human history by promptly leaving for office in my usual blue cap, blue tee, blue jeans and blue sandals. In the crowded train, I’ll try to help someone get off the bogey against his wish. I owe people this much kindness. In the meantime, my mind will be an orchard bearing fruits of sanguinity with a scent of humility. I won’t be moved by the depressing sight of a beggar nor would I care to bargain with him. I haven’t figured out how but I’ll avoid ricocheting every obstacle that appears on my path. Once in office, I’ll offload my creativity onto the desk instead of Twitter or Facebook. I’ll smile less and laugh more at colleagues from other departments who ponder why I do that in the first place. (For the record, so do I!) While leaving, I’ll be the face of productivity. And on reaching home, I’ll make sure I don’t waste time going through what tweeps think are opinion or what facebookers believe is cool. On the contrary, I’ll watch at least two movies back-to-back, intervaled by a warm lonely dinner. And then I’ll go to sleep hoping for a nocturnal emission with Malèna in lieu of the usual Tristana. All the aforementioned plans are prone to alterations but overall, they shall prove my existence more meaningful and organized. Like always. From tomorrow onwards.

Thick, not Fat

A: “How fat is your middle finger?” B: “Fat enough to salute.”

Not funny? Hmm. Trust me, it was deliberate. All right. Now move your head from side-to-side. Go ahead, do it. You won’t be surprised to learn that we are surrounded by obese folks. There is a fat chance you might be one of them. Whatsoever you are like, you can’t crack jokes on them. Nope. No way. Why? You just can’t. Turns out people have a lot of sentiments too along with regular junk food. And we can’t afford to offend such beanbags of lard. It’s considered sacrilege by the politically-correct (read: calorically-incorrect) people. On a personal level, I’ve got nothing against those out of shape. And this is not my invisible six-pack abs speaking. Seriously, I adore ‘em. There is so much more to love about fatties. Na, it has nothing to do with the space they occupy. OK. Maybe it does while traveling economy class. Otherwise, there’s hardly anything wrong with them trying to make the most of the available space. But they’ve got to exercise their flabby neck more often.

I am what I ham

Hindi filmmakers make bad movies with good songs. Nobody seems to be complaining though. And those who are, don’t matter. Regardless, music is always the undisputed winner thanks to the industry’s overindulgence in Sufi elements. Now, if only our celluloid had a similar narrative to carry. In case no one else has noticed, Bollywood is in dire need of a Renaissance. In fact, it requires much more than that.

Commercialization had made a brutal mockery of art. Of course, it’s always easier to pinpoint Hindi cinema’s shortcoming but that’s not THE point. We need to pause for a second and ask ourselves a very authentic question: “What the fcuk is going on?”

Iranian cinema churns out just a handful of flicks annually but their simplistic approach can teach even one of the largest film industries (yup, that's us) a lesson or two. Europeans keeps challenging the boundaries. Even the Chinese are tired of exporting martial art. Gory never looked mesmerizing before Koreans entered the scene. When Hollywood runs out of ideas, it turns towards their legends — colorful characters from history — to binge on. When we face a similar quandary, what do we do? We steal. Unabashedly. Awarding no credit, whatsoever, to the original copyright. Or worse off, we create modern remakes of our classics… and fail miserably.

This piece is sounding harsh but it’s alright. Those who can make a difference are pretending to be indifferent anyway. In this coffer-obsessed tinseltown, writing appears like a dying profession. For instance, Ra.One employed what they call state-of-the-art technology for special effects but missed on that basic ingredient – a good script. This is precisely the reason why we fail to come up with woman-centric storylines as often as we rather should. The filmmakers and producers have somehow convinced themselves that it’s not worth the risk. Or for that matter, a decent horror movie. To make things despicable, almost all the attempts to scare audience make them laugh their ass off.

In the same vein, for a nation with a landscape as diverse ours, there hasn’t been a single cross-country road movie. Na, DCH stopped at Goa and came back. 3 Idiots was in such a haste to reach Ladakh that it couldn’t enjoy the beautiful journey. And ZMND helped boost tourism of a country going through its worst economic crisis. In addition, North-East India is yet to get under Bolly’s myopic radar.

We don’t get to see courtroom movies either. (Shaurya was a brilliant try but lost ground in mimicking A Few Good Men.) Similarly, a generation that was nurtured by Amar Chitra Katha ought to produce a better front on animation. It doesn’t. Luckily, Bollywood can't afford to bother remaking Hollywood animation flicks!

Over the past decades, world cinema has witnessed a paradigm shift in its attitude towards each other. Freedom of expression is the language. But in our industry, things are where they were. Insofar, due to years of flowers making out instead of actors in the song, sex is still the F-word. Ignorance is not only bliss but also an unconventional scapegoat.

There is a depressing trend by which models switch to acting without walking through a very important tunnel: acting school/theater. Something tells them they are born actors. Whatever that ‘something’ is, it mustn’t be trusted. Hollywood, despite its over-glamorous skin, keeps strengthening its core because of their professional mindset. Unlike our so-called superstars, actors out there work hard on their art rather than stardom.

Salman is not a bad actor. He simply prefers not to act. The last film in which he genuinely acted was Tere Naam. In the rest, he stopped being human and was busy being Salman. Even SRK suffers from this malady. In spite of being such a fabulous showman, his big screen presence always leaves something to be desired. Of course, his millions of fans may more than just beg to differ. But to me, his last great act was Chak De and before that, Swades. Aamir deserves applause for turning into a perfectionist and putting his arrogance to good use. Saif proved his thespian mettle in Omkara and has what it takes to be a good painter… of portrayals. Akshay, being the loudspeaker that he is, would prefer to make a bad movie with John than make a good one with someone who can emote. Hrithik redefines fabulous and is the Nadal of Bollywood due to the evident hardwork he puts into each role he chooses. Ranbir has to be the finest actor of his generation but sadly, he's mostly paired with actresses who can't balance his acting scale. On the other end of the spectrum, except for the few 'actresses', a dancing majority are overpaid nautch girls.

Some weeks ago, there were talks of reopening cinema halls in Kashmir following a long lull. After all, why should Kashmiris be exempted from all the terrible Hindi movies the rest of the country inadvertently tolerates?

No City for Old Folks?

Demographically speaking, for a city of migrants with the population exceeding two crore, the words ‘senior citizen’ should ring a loud bell. But it seldom does. With everybody getting themselves in an inexplicable hurry, none can blame none. Unless one converse with them to learn more about their concerns and endless plight. And we are not referring to the 17 senior citizens who got murdered in Mumbai last year – effectively underscoring their vulnerability. If we include the rampant burglary and chain-snatching incidents going on, matters only get murkier.

Having said that, indoor situation could well be more miserable than outdoor. There are lots of aged souls who aren’t taken proper care of by their children. Even though they are on the right side of law thanks to legislations that entitle them maintenance from their offspring in case of negligence. In spite of this provision, not many choose to pursue legal course of action. They’d rather prefer to ‘adjust’ and are compelled to take it way too far. As expected, they are mostly reluctant to share the details.

Like this octogenarian widower I met whose family doesn’t want him in the house except during mealtime and at night to sleep. He spends his day roaming around or sitting outside a nearby retail store. Similarly, there’s an old lady whose daughter-in-law makes sure she looks fine when escorted to bank for withdrawing her pension money. Needless to say, her son pockets the cash and she doesn’t make a sound about ill treatment. Maybe it’s a rare urban Indian thing to do. Maybe not.

Even though a majority of them aren’t treated as good as they should be by their own family members, nobody is prepared to state the obvious against their kin. This defense mechanism apparently saves them from filial repercussions. Moreover, their feeble limbs don’t appreciate heroism. They are living one day at a time and seem to have accepted the norms of a thriving city that almost borders on inhumanity.

Mumbai streets aren’t very famous for warmth towards them. Buses may allow ‘em to board from the front door but there’s no guarantee that someone will offer them a seat. At moments such as these, kindness depends on the distance to be traveled. Conditions worsen when it comes to trains. The overcrowded vehicle proves way too fast and cruel. Like a 73-year old I spoke to remarked, “They have ladies’ special now. Shouldn’t there be senior citizens’ special too?”

Elders assembling in garden every morning as well as evening is a common sight. They share a bond with each other primarily due to common difficulties and joy they experience. On paying close attention, a sense of humour is evident throughout the conversations they indulge in. One 82-year old explains, “Gathering here extends our life...” to which his 76-year old self-confessed alcoholic neighbor interrupts, “Na, it doesn’t. This simply helps us kill our time.” Laughter follows only to get noisier when their 88-year old ‘captain’ calmly adds, “At least it doesn’t kill us!”

They crib a lot, too. The transition from strength to fragility has clearly left a bad taste. Their absolute dependence on medicine is frustrating at times. Finding respite in old Bollywood songs and dismiss today’s movies as crass is a trend. Furthermore, they find modern culture deplorable while pinpointing on ‘lewd’ acts showcased by lovestruck youngsters. And while they are at it, they hope their grandparents “are not like this.”

Over the years, they’ve been a witness to this transformation called Mumbai. Fortunately, not all of them are unlucky. Many are blessed with nice folks at home. For others, life is not a pushover. On being asked why then they don’t shift to their laidback villages if it’s so difficult out here, nearly everyone repeated the same thing in different words: “Having spent almost my entire life here, it’s quite late now to go back. Besides, I’m a part of Mumbai whether those in hurry accept it or not.”

The ball is stuck in Bolly's court

Hindi film industry never ceases to surprise us. While at some point we feel that it has moved ahead with leaps and bounds, at certain other points it feels like it is rapidly regressing. We have some wish list for Bollywood to help it squirm out of the shackles of ghisa pita formulae and take some risky steps forward…

NURTURE INDIE ATTEMPTS: Throughout the calendar year, we barely notice any independent work hitting the theatre. This situation can change if big movie banners throw their weight behind these small-budget filmmakers without interfering much in the creative process.

GO RURAL: Since the majority of India resides in villages, Hindi cinema can always tap this part of the country for stories. A fully rural- based work like Lagaan, Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi, Swades, Welcome to Sajjanpur, I am Kalam happens far and between. With Peepli Live, Aamir Khan proved that marketing skills makes all the difference at the Box Office.

DESI ANIMATION SOMEONE?: A majority of the animation we consider worth watching are imported from Hollywood studios. The reason behind this trend is pretty naïve: Our industry can’t match their standards nor wish to catch up with them. Intriguingly, Japan’s anime industry doesn’t ape the West in this regard as they created a niche for themselves with indigenous work like Ponyo, Spirited Away and Akira.

WHERE ARE THE DOCUS?: We have issues. Lots of them in fact. The reality is that there are documentary- makers out there whose work never hit the theatre due to absence of financial backing. This is precisely where Bollywood stars can step in. They can take a leaf from Leonardo DiCaprio who produced and narrated The 11th Hour. George Clooney did the same with Sand and Sorrow. Matt Damon asked all the grinding questions in the muchacclaimed The Inside Job.

BACK TO BLACK AND WHITE: We aren’t tired of colours but what’s the harm in churning out reels in monochrome or sepia for a change? The world cinema, if not just Hollywood, have done exceptionally well by reliving the good old charm. To boost this argument, flicks like The White Ribbon, Sin City, Good Night, and Good Luck and most recently, The Artist, were appreciated.

SAY AYE TO GAY: In the last few years, there have been commendable attempts by some filmmakers to bring homosexual characters to the forefront of screenplay. This trend is worth encouraging. So superstars, drop your inhibitions and say yes to a gay role.

RECLAIM THE ERA OF SILENCE: Silent cinema was considered to be passé. Until The Artist took place. With the kind of reviews it is earning and the number of awards it’s picking up, one can safely say that perhaps we need to think twice before calling this genre passé. If our memory serves us well, Pushpak ( starring Kamal Hassan) set the tone right for modern silent movies in India but unfortunately nobody followed the trail. Maybe it’s time.

WORK IN PROGRESS: Western cinema adheres to a concept yet adopted by ours — suggestions from peers during production phase. The producers there conduct trial shows the movies they’re working to get a better perspective from experts. Why not take off blinkers and ask an outsider’s honest point of view before release?

Bollywood could reach greater heights if only it stepped out of its safe cocoon more often. Everything said and done, as beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, cinema too lies in the eyes of the viewer. Ideally, Bollywood will surprise us. Hopefully, Bollywood won't disappoint us.

PS: MiD DAY puts the on in office when it publishes a hypothetical article such as this.

A letter without an address

Dear Soulmate,

I’m penning this missive with warm discontent against you and the circumstances that surround us. You may not be aware of me but I’ve been looking for you since I came to know of your existence. You simply couldn’t be found though. There is something about you that’s been cruelly invisible. Perhaps it’s your face. If not, then it’s my mind. In any case, I wonder about the lack of ‘us’ in the foreseeable future. Not a day goes by I don’t wish we were known to each other. It seems as if you just aren’t anywhere close. Most probably, I am searching in all the wrong directions. That must be one of the reasons why we are still strangers. Out of desperation, sometimes, I fancy you on social media; but then common sense prevails and I pray hard this isn’t the case! The only positive outcome of this excruciating delay is that with every passing day, we are only getting older and a bit wiser (if you may). So the experience accumulated in the meantime will tend to enrich our soul. Speaking of which, I worry about you. I admit it’s almost bizarre to do so especially when the person in question is incognito. But still, that’s true. Every once in a while I think about your well-being. I do strongly hope you are healthy, optimistic and all the blah associated with Viva la Vida. But as long as I don’t get to see you, I can only speculate. Trust me, I ain't good at it – I always guess wrong. And right now, I’m guessing that you’ve found your soulmate and are happy with him/her.

Yours,

Soulmate-to-be

The Princess Who Got Charmed

In a faraway land (no, not the planets Mormons believe in), there once dwelled a vain Princess who had nothing to do except look forward to her Prince Charming. She was hypnotized to do so by some creepy writer who thought it was übercool to dictate a lady whose only claim to distinction was her fair smooth skin and long golden locks.

As scripted, she patiently waited by the French window day in and day out. She hoped PC would arrive someday on a white horse (which aptly makes her a bit racist!) and help escape her moribund existence. Of course, she wasn’t sure what kind of life PC might provide her once she hops on to sidesaddle him. But the fact that she didn’t know how to clean or cook kept her confidence high and expectations low. More or less, the future was bound to be better out there on the wrong side of window.

Holding all these reasons in her empty head safe, she persisted. In the meantime, PC took a lengthy detour and got killed in the ensuing freak accident which involved his horse and a mare.

End result: He didn’t show up.

The poor Princess, unaware of this bone-breaking news, kept her faith. While she was at it, she lost some weight too. No one bothered though as she wasn’t suffering from anorexia. Besides, the worst that could happen was some modeling agency landing up at her doorstep and window-shopping her. It didn’t matter who rescued her as long as she was loved by the idea of freedom. Whatever that means.

Meanwhile, weeks grew into months and months got substituted by years and eventually time lost track of itself. Neverthemore, the frail Princess was still lonely with no Twitter timeline to pour her frustration on nor Facebook friends to photoshop her emotions with. It was advisable to learn something new like cooking, gardening or knitting but she simply wasn’t interested. Her thoughts were with PC (who should have been alive had he respected equine privacy) and prayed the feeling was mutual.

One afternoon, a frog gatecrashed this story and startled her. He croaked, “Sweetheart, this is me – the one you’ve been waiting for all these years.” On witnessing a frog that spoke fluent English, the Princess turned pale and was about to faint before she blurted out, “Are you my PC?”

This abbreviated question knotted frog’s long tongue and infuriated him, “Now who the fcuk is PC?” Having a pair of ears that weren’t subject to harsh words, she got scared and instantly replied, “Prince Charming!” The frog smiled like they aren’t supposed to on Animal Planet and was relieved to say, “Yeah! That dude’s me.”

There was a long silence and a longer staring contest between the two before the restless frog interrupted: “Well, this is the part where you kiss me and we live happily ever after.” Taking the cue, she lifted him up on her soft palm and closed her to eyes to oblige. At this very instance, the inevitable happened. She turned into a frogess and there was no way to go back other than live croakily ever after.