Annus Mortabilis of 2011

Folks die. There’s nothing fancy or novel about it. Living organisms have been dying since era immemorial. The luckier ones die only once. Even the dinosaurs perished so as to make sure Steven Spielberg become the most powerful Jew in cinema. But 2011 seemed a bit too crowded with dead famous people. And in this piece, I’m going to drop a few names who have already dropped dead. Some of them were not only close to my heart (mainly because they are no more now) but also occupied a lot of space in my head (mainly because it’s empty).

The year kicked off with Kobayashi’s death. Yeah, the one from The Usual Suspects. For the record, no other British bloke could have gotten away with a Japanese name and an Indian accent in a movie. Well, Pete Postlethwaite did. One of my all-time favorite actors.

A few days later, a personality I used to mock on Twitter for his staunch anti-India tweets got killed by his own security guard. Salmaan Taseer turned out to be a true martyr in a nation obsessed with religion. After all, not many voices are heard in support of Pakistani minorities. Bullets silenced him but the message was out. A month later, Shahbaz Bhatti, the only Christian cabinet member, was gunned down for his outspoken stand against blasphemy laws.

Meanwhile, a 26 year-old Tunisian street vendor named Mohamed Bouazizi set himself on fire. This event eventually exploded in the form of Arab Spring. Years of resentment against elite [read: corrupt] ruling governments expressed itself on the very street this young man immolated.

In India, Bharat Ratna Bhimsen Joshi passed away leaving behind a legacy of music and humility. He was 88 so one can’t employ the word ‘unfair’ as was the case in the aforementioned deaths. But I have a deep grudge against our media who were hell-bent on using a mugshot of his during a performance where he appears to be suffering from asthma or something. Kindly don’t tell me they couldn’t find a better snap. And the worst part is almost ALL newspapers carried the same photograph! Hmmph.

Another famous Indian who taught me the pleasure of reading decided to call it a life. I owe to Uncle Pai inasmuch as I do to every teacher I came across in my otherwise miserable life.

In the month of March when Mumbai was preparing to swelter, Knut drowned and killed himself in Germany. He was to polar bears what Paul was to octopus. With his departure, humankind learned an essential lesson – polar bears belong to polar regions, not zoos.

Actress Elizabeth Taylor, who managed to bag an Oscar while walking the aisle eight times, left us an impossible beauty and unfortunate marriages to ponder. Following suit, another exceptional personality from Hollywood, director Sidney Lumet bid farewell.

Coming back to Pakistan, Syed Saleem Shahzad went missing only to be found dead in a canal with apparent signs of ISI-marked torture on him. Maybe journalism pays way too high a price for courage. Similarly, MiD-Day’s crime editor Jyotirmoy Dey was bumped off in road daylight by Mumbai underworld.

As monsoon started approaching India, news about Ilyas Kashmiri’s probable death amid US drone attacks in Waziristan caught world attention. He wasn’t just another two-bit Islamist militant. In fact, he was in line to replace Osama bin Laden – who got mauled by U.S. commandoes *vacationing* just a few kilometers away from Pakistani military HQs – as the head of Al-Qaeda. Conclusion: Jihad works in mysterious ways.

Talking of death, Jack “Dr. Death” Kevorkian expired, leaving Kim Kardashian the most famous Armenian-American I’m aware of. He made euthanasia cool and even served prison for his beliefs. Those who don’t know him should watch the movie You Don’t Know Jack starring Al Pacino.

MF. Husain, a born Maharashtrian, went away twice. Once when he left India. Secondly, when he left Qatar. We lost a great painter thanks to our intolerance and lack of gumption. He lost an ancient country thanks to his reluctance to appease Hindus by painting Prophet.

In the month of July, Amy Winehouse became the latest member of the infamous 27 Club. I felt bad for her. She had a unique voice and makeup. All things sung and OD-ed, she deserved to live more. Maybe we don’t want the entertainers to leave us. They are the ones who fill our psyche with hope and color. Likewise, Shammi Kapoor’s exit widened this popular sentimentality. Watching him play that shehnai in Rockstar with those deep eyes a la Ustad Bismillah Khan was soothing, to say the least.

No matter how disparaging it may sound, no death list is complete without a mention of a Parsi. Painter Jehangir Sabavala filled the spot this year. Jagmohan Mundhra who made Nandita Das in Bawandar and Aishwarya Rai in Provoked look vulnerable packed up.

Death winked at Mansoor Ali Khan Pataudi so the latter had no choice but to close his eye. Wangari Maathai who won a Nobel for her contributions towards environmental conservatism returned to soil. In related news, I admired her a lot. I still do.

With Steve Jobs joining the Dead Club much to digital world’s utter grief, things speeded up. A few days later, Dennis Ritchie who spearheaded C Programming (and compelled me to give up engineering) gave up the ghost! But compared to Jobs, he made a bigger contribution to technology by not patenting C.

Though being a teetotaler sucks but Jagjit Singh’s poignant songs never do. He shall be remembered as long as sorrow is in this world. In simpler word, forever. The same is true about Bhupen Hazarika.

On the other hand, people won’t miss Gaddafi much. Even the ones who named that Lahore stadium after him. The only rue I hold is against the way he was treated during his final moments. They could have at least had the wisdom to not record it on a video. Sadistic morons.

A young man aged 24, Marco Simoncelli, got killed doing something he loved – motobiking on the race course. Perhaps he was too young and fast to live. In the same vein, an entire ice hockey team vanished in the form of Lokomotiv Yaroslavl. Too cold. Too bad. Too many.

As the year neared its curtain, some former sportsperson quit. Joe Frazier was one of them. I haven’t seen him box but I’ve watched him break down in a documentary while talking about his once archrival Muhammad Ali. The kind of respect he showed immediately struck a chord. Yes, cancer is more than just a bitch.

Being a former cricket fan, I must admit I always enjoyed reading Peter Roebuck’s articles. An English county cricketer who later became an Australian newspaper columnist chose South Africa to commit suicide. If this is not intriguing enough, then the fact that his Facebook account was involved in this suicide is.

In the non-sports arena, India’s most wanted Maoist (a softer term for terrorist) Kishenji was killed by CRPF in West Bengal. No one complained as such except the Mao-loving Communist gang.

December arrived and carrying on. Bollywood is still reeling under the loss of its legend Dev Anand. For his credit, he was part of some of the finest cinema and much to his discredit, worst, too. I’ll remember him for unabashedly promoting smoking in the Har Fikr Ko Dhue Mein song. Cartoonist Mario Miranda, known for his honest caricatures of Goa (or the Goa that once was) sketched himself away a few days later.

Last week, one of my role models, Christopher Hitchens, gave into cancer. He didn’t believe in God but to most of his fans, he was THE God. One the very day, Gadzhimurat Kamalov became the 18th Russian journalist to be assassinated since 2000. This morning, the buzz about two totally contrasting personalities, Czech Republic’s first President Václav Havel and North Korea’s Kim Jong-il, departing, broke out.

As we speak and read, there are millions protesting against the authorities. A considerable nameless lot got killed in Tunisia, Syria, Yemen and other distressed regions on the planet. No wonder Time selected 'The Protester' as the person of the year.

We’ve got 12 more days to go for New Year's Eve. In the meantime, let’s see how many names squeeze in onto this list.

A melancholic cede to surrealism

Lars von Trier is the director of this movie. The reason why it’s specified at the very beginning is because of the kind of films he creates. Or perhaps, only he creates. Melancholia is one such piece of art. Having said that, it’s not for the everyday crowd. Those who are familiar with his work know this. Or perhaps, only they do.

Melancholia begins with graphic visuals that occupies considerable amount of time and mind. If one pays close attention, the entire storyline is depicted in these 3D sci-fi mélange. Almost every single act is a symbol layered in mystery that unravels itself as the screen moves forward. The real world cinema begins much later.

The drama basically revolves around Justine (Kirsten Dunst) who is getting married. The trouble is she’s hardly excited about it and is visibly losing her will to live. Later it turns out that she is not only depressed but also quite assertive of her delusions about the realities surrounding us. Anyway the marriage may not even last a night. Thankfully, her sister Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg) plays stoic and cares for her. Likewise, her brother-in-law John (Kiefer Sutherland), though highly irritated with her incomprehensible behavior, chooses to stay hospitable.

Against this already disturbing background, the world is coming to an end.

A planet named Melancholia is about to crash with Earth. But unlike in most other movies, nobody does nothing about it – no one is saving no one! Everyone involved is just awaiting end in his or her unique ways. The purposelessness of life is effectively emphasized from the beginning till the credits roll.

All the lead actors did a remarkable job, especially Dunst who essayed a similar role in All Good Things. You almost get that uncomfortable taste on the tip of your tongue when she cries: "It tastes like ashes!" Charlotte Gainsbourg proved once again why she is von Trier's favourite.

Cinematography and the background score is the key here. As for some directors like Terrence Mallick, Jim Jarmusch and Lars von Trier, of course, an image carries more weightage than a dialogue. As expected, they are often accused of indulging too much, leaving the audience exasperated. But then we are not supposed to crib as they are the torchbearers, post-Bergman. No wonder one will always find restless long shots with shaking cameras and crisp optical illusions in movies like The Tree of Life and Melancholia. A lot.

This flick is worth every single minute of its 136 runtime but your patience shall be severely tested. Must watch for the cinephiles!

Help yourself with this one!

Calling The Help a ‘fair’ movie would be racist. At least in the 1960s of USA. More so in Mississippi where the movie is peculiarly set. But the notable part is it’s not only entertaining and educative but also inspiring and poignant at the same time. Adapted from a book titled the same, it deals with an era where the demarcation between the blacks and the whites in America was redoubtable. Mason-Dixon line was the norm. Despite all these not-so-modern day aberrations, one aspect was striking: almost all white kids in the town were nurtured by black maids.

Directed by Tate Taylor, who also happens to have written the screenplay, displayed intense sparks of genius in terms of storytelling. In this racial drama, Skeeter (Emma Stone) wishes to be a journalist-cum-writer. Running along this pursuit, she goes out of town only to return back and find her childhood maid Constantine (a powerful cameo by Cicely Tyson) sacked by her parents. This sets the tone for the movie. With the civil right movement gaining strength in the background, she decides to write a book so as to deliver the maids’ “side of stories”.

This is where Aibileen (Viola Davis) and Minny (Octavia Spencer) enter the picture. Both are maids with emotional hardship to match as well as courageous enough to do what other maids aren’t prepared for – share their experiences with Skeeter. The former works for a somewhat indecisive Elizabeth (Ahna O'Reilly) whereas the latter, for a rather rude Hilly (Bryce Dallas Howard). The book starts writing itself here onwards with Aibileen’s soothing voice in narration. But only two stories won’t do. Skeeter needs more maids to volunteer but who will rise against the white neighborhood’s imminent fear? Well, as the movie proceeds, many do. Willingly.

The Help touches the sentiment’s chord with a measured restrain. And that’s what works for it. It doesn’t try to vilify one group against another. No doubt it exposes the nexus of disdain among blacks for their apparent subjugation in the form of separate toilet and such. But then it also includes cheerful white characters Celia (Jessica Chastain) and Hilly’s liberal mother (played to perfection by Sissy Spacek). Furthermore, the movie strikes a right balance between comedy and tragedy.

Emma Stone has been the biggest surprise here. Her act does to this movie what Sandra Bullock’s did to ‘The Blind Side’. On the hindsight, 2011 hasn’t been very American for Hollywood due to the lack of race-related screenplays. The Help considerably fills that gap. It’s worth a watch.

Falling in snow with Bombay

No one seems to get enough of this city. Everybody who’s here remains confined under its unrecoverable spell. They may not completely like it but they won’t quit either. Not all of them may turn out as winners but they don’t mind keeping up with the joneses. Meanwhile, there is a strong sense of aberration that never goes unnoticed though... the ever-expanding crowd and the asphyxiating smells are prime examples.

And at the end of the day, Mumbai is sinking. Metamorphically, at least. The huge rubble of filth that we are helping accumulate on its surface, on land, into sea and in air, would hopefully do the deed. Someday.

Until then, we’ll survive. Anyhow. For this, we’re prepared to come along as dehumanized primates in bursting trains or honking lunatics while surrounded by an inordinate traffic. Also, we’ll litter, hock a loogie, cut queues and stage civil disobedience at individual level wherever and however possible. Despite all of this, we still manage to avoid the much-deserved self-loathing – creating a not-so-smug city full of smugger inhabitants – one day at a time.

Over the past many years, our excuse has been the cliché: chaltha hai toh chalne doh! After all, expecting anything different from us would have been a bit preposterous too given the undermining circumstances a majority of the city-dwellers survive in. There is an utter disregard for law and order, yes. But there is failing governance, rumpled administration and crumbling infrastructure to balance the blame beam. It’s a unique case of two clenched fists shaking hands to make ends meet.

So here’s what I think will put an end to this miserable crap. Snowfall. Yup. Mumbai requires snowfall more than anything else. This city burns throughout summer but then which Indian city doesn’t! The only difference is the excruciating humidity. Expectedly, rain happens every monsoon that leaves us asking for less. Soon afterwards, winter takes place. Now, winter is supposed to be cold but Mumbai has a rather warm winter so basically what we get is a raw deal from Weather God. We are supposed to shiver and enjoy the whims of supercool wind (as long as no one’s homeless) but that’s not part of the ongoing reality.

A regular snowfall might change the whole scenario.

• First of all, it will keep more people off the street and in their school, home and office.
  
• Secondly, as the roads would be layered with snow, the chances of littering and defecating on them shall drop axiomatically.
  
• Thirdly, and most importantly, unchecked immigration may take a belated pause, if not complete shutdown.
  
• Fourthly, India as a nation will wake up and realize that Mumbai alone can’t carry the economical burden of the entire country.
  
• Fifthly, global warming will turn out to be just another myth inspired by Iraqi WMD.
  
• Sixthly, politics might suffer as an eventual byproduct.
  
• Seventhly, Kashmiri snow could end up facing inferiority complex.
  
• Eightly, miracles will be back in business.
  
• Ninthly, Mumbai may not sink, as I SO want it to.
  
• Tenthly, I might score better (read: sensible) topics to write on.

I’m sure there are more than ten reasons/outcomes why we should be having snowfall in Mumbai but I don’t know what.

Write whatever is left

Last week, I found myself in a conference room with an elegant lady sitting across the table asking me “Why do you want to write?” That question caught me off guard and I did what I do best – gape with a patented awkward look. Then I mumbled trying really hard to make sense in my fluent Nonsense. Obviously, she didn’t buy them. Neither did I.

But now that I have ample time to improvise on my answer, I’ll sit back and type what I believe are the reasons why I want to write. For a start, I’m neither mundane nor skillful. And this reality is attested by my absolute disregard towards learning something as basic as replacing empty cooking gas cylinder with a filled one. It goes without saying that I’m darn lazy. But when it comes to writing, I guess I’m a different person. I can write. No matter how rubbish my thoughts are, I can truly write.

A: "I want to be a writer."

B: "You mean you want to die of hunger?"

A: "Nope. I want to be a writer."

People usually wait to break in. Like actors have their break with a certain movie. Or an IT professional with a remarkable project. But a majority of us often forget that we had our first break with education. We were lucky enough to grow up as literates. And the ugly fact that there are still billions who don’t receive the kind of exposure to knowledge the way we did is preposterous. No matter how big a Pink Floyd fan one is, s/he can’t disagree that that cult song couldn’t have been penned had the band members been illiterates.

Having said that, not everyone can write. Everyone has a story, yes. But not everyone can write, no. There is a widespread misconception among literates that they are always write. In simpler words, some of the brilliantest writers who lived never had the fortune to write. There are zillions of thoughts enveloped in an idea but very few are able to draw them down to alphabets and let it flow on a page or screen. Besides, it’s rather tough to find an excellent writer as they are mostly lost in thoughts. On the other hand, some of the greatest writers will remain so as long as we don't get to read their books.

I want to be a writer too but while I’m at it, I wish to get paid. Though I don’t harbor Indian middle class’ (read: parents’) ambition of getting married and settled, I don’t desire to be broke either. You know the awkward moment when you and the ATM screen engage in a staring contest and you always end up blinking first. Yeah, that.

My love for writing is conceptualized in a simple philosourphy – don't bother whether you're wrong or right, simply write whatever is left. In a not-so-ideal world, a writer is the pauper who writes on his own, of his own, but nothing to own. Well, that may be the harsh reality but a writer is not someone who writes but someone who gets paid for doing so.

For instance, have a look at Twitter. Some of the brightest thoughts disguised as jokes are relegated from public memory in the name of tweets. These lines get circulated far and wide but eventually they don’t carry the name of the person who wrote them in the first place. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with it as plagiarism and attribution don’t sleep with each other on Internet. In any case, pro bono tweeting is rubbish for charity. And to help this illation, there are remnants of a failed writer in every tweep.

Fair enough.

Coming back to the HR’s question, I thought I’ll be able to express why I want to write in this blog piece but I digressed and got carried away as usual. Perchance I need to abandon one-linerism and go back to poetry. Back to a boundaryless world where the poet and his poems are meant for each other. He writes them. They read him. Or maybe I just need to STFU and then write a book on how.

Lost and found... in childhood

No matter how tough we think we are, we aren’t as tough as our childhood memories. There is something about them that grows on us. And then we reach that point in our life where it's impossible to go back. And then we die. And then they return to the womb of nature.

Childhood memories are untouchable. I mean, in a good way, not in the Indian casteist context. Of course, you may not remember every single detail of what happened thousands of days ago but still. Your childhood memories will never forget you. If you think about it, memories are what we are left with at the end of the day. Or for that matter, at the end of our existence. And what can possibly beat the era when we had no idea what we are getting ourselves into. Everything little incident was a surprise and continued to be so.

My childhood lacked imagination as I never had a friend like Hobbes. It wasn’t epic. The primary reason being that I can recollect quite vividly most parts of it so the veneer of mystique remains missing in my case. Though there were folks from those days who threw permanent color on my psyche when we passed each other. Such people somehow fail to perish. They just linger on in the nous triggering your nostalgia button every now and then.

One such personality was my grandma. I miss her as she was the only one I knew who loved me expecting absolutely nothing in return. She was a wise angel who weaved and narrated ceaseless yet brilliant stories. She used to tell us, “At any give time, you can be a lot better human being.” At that age, we had vague understanding of what she was trying to convey but those words, along with myriads other words, remain etched in my Tulu mind.

My cousin was another such person who made a huge impact. He was a free spirit – someone who won’t lay manacled to societal (dis)order, especially bunt community’s endogamic mores. He dropped out of medical college. I still wonder why he did that. After all, he was the one who told me, “A doctor saves life. It’s a rare gift.” I too wanted to become a doctor when I grow up but that phase didn’t last long. All things said and not done, he passed away at the age of 29. Unfulfilled potential, withstanding.

We basically miss the childhood we never had. Exaggeration is a pain reliever against our present state of affairs. The shy child in us is what makes us act all grown up. Sometimes, there is not only a child but an entire kindergarten in each one of us. Funny how our species is programmed to grow! By all accounts, one stops growing the moment one avoids being childish and begins to perceive others as childish.

I reminisce all the stupid things I committed when I was very young and how little I’ve changed since then. I guess it’s my karma to be an aching two-legged creature who failed to become a superhero despite being bitten by spider on numerous occasions. Perhaps selecting a proper childhood hero makes a hell lot of difference. Hence I blame Mowgli for whatever I am today.

I blame God too for not existing nor pretending to listen to my childhood prayers. I’m convinced that if at all there is a God, he'd be a lot like Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory. Only a bit more childish and with severe OCD.

Diwali is Jack's utter lack of darkness but noise

The smoke has settled. The noise is dead too. By this, I mean nobody is bursting firecrackers nor feeling jubilant about not getting burned in the process. All in all, Diwali is no more. At least for now. Just two nights ago, I wished folks in my neighborhood took a break and while they were at it, donated their ammunition of firecrackers to Army or something.

Yeah, I must be sounding like a party pooper here with an anti-festival stand but that’s only half of the truth. What I am versus are these morons who sadly belong to the very same species I come from. Now that’s not to surmise that I’m wise et al but considering the present situation, I won’t give into invisible peer pressure and create unnecessary din.

Early Stone Age men who discovered fire must have been Hindus. Perhaps that could have explained our infatuation with firecrackers. Or maybe not. Anyway, show me one person who enjoys the noise these firecrackers produce. Just one person. You can’t, can you? Well, those who fired crackers are the only ones who derive sadistic pleasure from them while the bystanders’ eardrums wish the commotion end as quickly as possible. This is the other half of the truth I was referring to earlier. The government has already levied a noise curfew but not everyone adheres to it and to top that, the power-that-be hardly reacts to such disobedience.

You see, it’s quite interesting to note that Diwali is a festival of lights, not chemicals. I’m pretty sure no one exploded loud irritating bangers when Lord Rama returned to Ayodhya crooning ♫ ♪I’m coming Ommmmmmmm♫ ♪ a la Ozzy Osbourne! But what we witness today is a chaotic aberration of how things should have been but are somehow distorted by overt commercialization of an event. Correct me if I’m wrong but Diwali should be more of diyas, sweets, lanterns, rangolis, social gatherings and noiseless-firecrackers-bursting-in-the-sky, if you will. But that obviously ain’t the case.

Though it’s not specifically a Hindu festival, so to speak, considering the fact that Jains, Buddhists and Sikhs celebrate it too according to their assorted legends, the diyas are nonetheless missing in numbers in urban India. Diwali has become an Indian festival celebrated with made-in-China lanterns. Blame it on globalization. Of course, everyone have their own way of celebrating as well as celeberating and one can’t superimpose their beliefs on others. End of argument.

I love Diwali too as millions out there do. Especially when I’m not wondering how Sri Lankans feel about this hyped festival of ours. My mind may not comply with religious byproducts but my tongue holds nothing against delicious festive food. I have a soft corner in my mouth for sweets. My decaying sweet teeth can vouch for that! But you get sick of sweets after a while. This is how it works – you crave Diwali sweets; you devour 'em; you get bored; you run out of 'me; and then you miss 'em. Tada. Diwali has ended. You know the drill.

I also like to see my house spick and span though (unlike my amma) I resent the painstaking procedure called cleaning. Just to put things into better perspective, the reason why I hate firecrackers so much is I can’t possibly make more noise than they do. And for the record, in an internet-less parallel universe, each one of us must be busy participating in criminal activities like bursting firecrackers be it Diwali or not.