Life of cinema

Talaash released today after innumerable delays making it the most-awaited Bollywood movie of the year but I'm still hangovering on the magnum opus that hit the marquee last week. Yeah, Life of Pi. This exceptional movie is so brilliantly made that you'd want to watch it over and over again at least 3.14 times. But you won't as it's in 3D and your wallet is basically cheap. In case you haven't watched it yet, there's not much i can do except one thing—ask you to do the needful before it's too late. You can't afford to witness the novel-turned-alive on a small screen and ruin the whole experience. Intriguingly, it's quite strange that this spiel is coming from a guy who shamelessly watches 9 out 10 movies illegally downloaded from internet in spite of being part of the media. Well, blame it on Ang Lee and his ambitious project for the change. After all, you don't make films like these (read: Avatar, Cloud Atlas) just like that. It takes years of meditation. In working class hero's words, hardcore labour makes all the difference. So many people coupled with equal number of minds bind together to come up with one coherent film. Isn't that magical enough? Count the number of people in your office team and then count the number of problems you face despite the relatively smaller group. Hmmm. Well, that's the undisputed beauty of cinema. Avatar pushed the cinematic boundaries. Cloud Atlas not only pushed those cinematic boundaries further but also screwed with our minds. Life of Pi did neither. What it does, however, is stand out on its own. There's no precedent to the kind of visual treat it offers. The sheer craziness of having a human, tiger, zebra, organ-tun and a hyena stranded on a cast away boat is more than what cinema is meant to gulp. Moreover, it's just the beginning. Things get more and more spectacular as the story proceeds. Speaking of which, there is no set plot. Everything is hazy and God is somewhere hidden within this gorgeous chaos. Speaking of chaos, Balasaheb would have related to Richard Parker. There were a few downsides too. Like in the early part, secularism is shown in a rather simplistic and seamless manner—something even Indians won't relate to. But by the time the credit rolls, you're in awe and don't want the movie to end. You literally find faith and your talaash ends.

Defending a dead noose

Dear oversensitive lesser mortals, this piece I'm about to write is basically an attempt at beginning a sentence with Kasab, pausing with mercy before ending it with killing. So please don't hold your moralistic breath and choke on it. Thanks in advance.

Last week, we got rid of Kasab. For good or bad, we're not sure yet. In all probability, we'll never be. Long live politics but more about it later. However, given the hype the whole secret hanging in Pune created, it seems like a major chunk of our populace is rather glad that the 25-year-old Punjabi (no, he didn't speak Urdu just in case you're one of those ignorant morons who think all Pakistanis are Urdu-speakers) is no more. According to them—and the obedient media in tow—his killing (yes, capital punishment is an euphemism for murder) provides an emotional closure to the grieving families of those who lost their lives on that fateful night of 26/11.
     First of all, it doesn't. People who lose their loved ones remain so till the end of the time. Nothing can possibly repair that damage. Nothing. As far as Kasab is concerned, the idiot visited our city with the sole intention of dying. He was on a suicide mission in case you've forgotten. Come to think of it, we were winning (if at all there was a contest) by keeping him alive. The diplomats who were fighting our case (terrorism is the word) at international forums would be better-equipped to explain the sheer delight of having a failed suicider locked in a high-security prison. But then, the public acts in a certain way. Let's call it the cowardly attitude. On witnessing a car accident, they go surround the car driver instead of helping the victim first. Something similar happened with Mumbai attacks. Nobody bothered to check on the 164 victims—forget the 308 wounded souls. We always look for the easy way out. We want action and it doesn't matter whether it fruition to a reasonable outcome. And in this particular scenario, what better effigy to burn than a warm-blooded young Pakistani? No wonder we gave into prejudice. For beginners, we merrily believed everything our newspapers spoonfed us about him. Not that it matters whether every little detail reeked of veracity or not but NOBODY questioned ANYTHING about him. There was way too little that ever came out of that little room he was interned in to start with. On the outside, it was cute how the otherwise cynical analysts readily convinced themselves that the government was diligently spending every single rupee of the alleged 29+ crore slotted to keep Kasab breathing. Just like we conveniently accepted that the deranged crook was being fed biryani on a daily basis. Yes, we may have taken our Atithi Devo Bhava crap way too seriously with him but then, he was also the only living proof of a Paki terrorist on Indian soil (Afzal Guru is one of us considering the possibility that Kashmiris are one of us). In any case, our scammed politicos have pushed numerical digits to such an extent that a few crore doesn't sound like a raw deal. Nonetheless, during the time he was in our jail, not a single Pakistan-sponsored terrorist attack took place in India. In the meantime, only a few over-smart local Muslims and over-stupid Hindus were involved in some recorded stray events, proving a point in how much we suck at terrorism!
     Going back to politicians, don't you think it's not a mere coincidence that they hanged the fall guy just a few days before the start of a turbulent winter Parliament session? For humour's sake, couldn't they have waited for five more days to coincide the hanging with the fourth anniversary of the dreaded day? Ahem. Just to be clear, I'm against death penalty. In my mind, eliminating one life in exchange of several lives doesn't add up well. We need to separate ourselves from our villain. Besides, for a nation of 1.22 billion, we've executed only two people in the last 15 years. Isn't that a shame? We are not even good at LEGALLY bumping off people. C'mon, don't tell me we don't have criminals who have committed deeds heinous enough to *deserve* death. Having mentioned that, i don't have a clue what we should have done with Kasab if he
were alive today. Maybe we should have given him the worst imaginable punishment... by sending him back to Pakistan! All things said and done, he was a misguided youth and the place where he comes from, there are dreamless kids raring to bask in his much-awaited martyrdom. Nothing can stop them from crossing an imaginary line, be it on water or on land. Anyway, I'm glad that Kasab was reportedly hanged. Since we've already lost Yashji to dengue, we couldn't have afforded to lose Kasab to mosquitoes. Image ka sawaal hai, boss. And as for the hanging part, it was just another day for Kasab.

A year in a tabloid

I completed a year in MiD DAY today. Having entered the IIT of Bollywood Journalism exactly one year ago, it's hard to believe that they haven't kicked me out yet! Time went by and all i could do was take printouts of my broken dreams. I don't know what i just said. Anyway, that's not important. What's worth noting, however, is the fact that i didn't do something I'm really good at: giving up easily. I stuck to this job even though I'm well aware that i lack the qualities of a typical journo. Pitched against the pace at which my colleagues churn out stories, I'm a snail but i console myself by convincing myself that I'm a better writer. Not that it matters. Also I'm damn honest and my integrity is an endangered species. Yes, it matters. And to top it all, i don't scream (out of agony) when i see my salary slip. On the brighter end, my editor—like my former editor who hired me in the first place—is one of the coolest people i know. The colleagues are wonderful too as they are kind enough to laugh at my silly jokes. But it would be a lie if i said that i knew where i was heading to when i joined this rag. It would be a bigger lie if i said that i know where I'm heading to as of now. Currently positioned as the entertainment reporter who covers movies along with music and books, i get in touch with people y'all usually read about. In all honesty, that's the only incentive of this otherwise unimaginative job. When you meet famous people in flesh, you realize how similar they are to us. Only the wall of fame separates us. I hope i keep hurdling this wall in the days/nights to come and more importantly, i get the raise i so deserve. Thank you, HR, for reading this exclusive piece of trite.

Hearing the unsaid

There's always something unsaid. That part of you dies with you. Lest that happens, we try to blurt it out and make those words survive a few more days. Perhaps verbal posterity matters in this ever-decreasing space. Don't believe me? Ask that guy who fell for this girl he saw on a railway platform. It was a bright day with mild wind teasing the otherwise humid climate. And like thousands others in the city, he was waiting for the local train. But before the serpentine stretch of boxes could arrive, somebody else did. This angel lookalike with her hair bouncing on her shoulders was walking towards him but not to greet him. The ladies section was a couple of steps behind the spot our hero was standing and this girl was sashaying at her own sweet pace to reach there. He just knew what to do. More importantly, he knew what to say. All he had to do was wait for the point when she's exactly linear to him. As soon as that happened, he leaned forward and whispered in her ears "You're beautiful!" while she brushed past him. Unfortunately, she didn't even look back or laugh or smile or wink or frown. Sometimes you don't hear the voice of emotions and sometimes you simply overlook. However, that afternoon, something else happened. Despite our hero's brave efforts, words remained unheard. Loud music on earphones often does that to humans.  

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. 

Well played!

     For an audience, the act of walking out in the middle of a play amounts to serious criticism. Both to the one who's leaving the room as well as the one who is witnessing the other leave the room. It's one of the factors that sets a play apart from a movie. In other words, it doesn't matter to anyone in a cinema hall—especially the actors on the big screen—if you feel like vacating your seat for nobody else. After all, you've bought the ticket so the damage is already done. But then, things work differently when it comes to theatre.

A still from the rehearsals

     I recently watched this play titled Mister Happy Maker and I must add that I totally loved the concept. Set in a home-cum-shop, the story focuses on the very idea behind happiness. What exactly is it? Who pays and to whom? How long will it last? Unanswered questions like these ring in the back of your head while almost a dozen characters perform in front of your eyes. Although ad/media seems to be at the receiving end, the message is conveyed in such a subtle way that it doesn't matter who the bad guy is.

    Speaking of actors, all of them did a likable job, especially Aseem Hattangady. He was incredibly convincing as an advertising executive. But for some reason Kaushal Anand, who played his son, seemed off the chart. Since he's essaying this pivotal yet highly disillusioned role who has everything against the world, I thought it was incumbent on him to go find a way out. Or at least get employed! But he doesn't intend to do any of that. Perhaps that's why the hollowness in his monologues were so dismally apparent. The only instance when a spark got noted in him was when he received a kiss from Divya Unny's sultry character! Perhaps it's not his fault. Blame the playwright.  

    The entire play could have done with a few more instances of genuine laughter. Absurdity is excusable but dullness isn't. There were moments of yawn because the novelty factor was lacking at moments.... crucial moments. Like an old sweeper is introduced in the later scenes but her dialogues betray her. Maybe it was the voice of hackneyed wisdom. Or maybe she was blatantly preachy. All in all, she failed to deliver the punch her character could have easily done because she represented the world outside the shop.

    However, thanks to beautiful lighting and props (the AV should have had better sound system), the play didn't come across as a wannabe. And quite memorably, the climactic chaos was the high point as it had the right mix of both tragedy as well as comedy. At that point, you thank yourself for staying back. But then, you can't stop those who want to leave in the middle of the act.

The real power of ink

Tattoos make skin speak for itself. And it has a lot to say given its status as the largest part of our body. It has seen way too much to keep quiet. However, it can't do anything on its own other than cry (perspire, if you like). We need to use our mind to make it our mouthpiece. So a tattoo artist becomes our partner-in-crime in this attempt to give voice to those who can't talk for themselves. But a tattooist doesn't see things this way. To him/her, your skin becomes a painful piece of canvas. They don't give a damn about how much the syringe hurts. After all, they have an advantage over God in this department. Birthmarks effectively prove that our Creator sucks at tattooing and hasn't got an inkling of design. What can possibly beat the joy of doing something to others that would, in a majority of cases, last a lifetime? Sadist much!