Many of you have asked me what the book was supposed to be all about. Had it been completed, it would have told the story of Hitler's relationship with Eva Braun.
Of course, it was meant for those who do not know about it:)
Thursday, October 19, 2006
UNFINISHED BOOK, CHAPTER TWO
During the days when Nazism was at its peak, the world shuddered at the very thought of the German dictator. Hitler: the name evoked fear in the hearts of millions who waited to hear what the man did next in his ambitious, actually insane, desire to change the way the world looked. Those who followed his ideological vendetta with apprehension had every right to think that he was completely preoccupied with his objective of being the monarch of all he surveyed. Not surprising, since he simply did not come across as someone who had an eye – and more importantly, a heart – for anything else.
Yet, since he did have more relationships than he might have remembered, did he simply go ahead with his women as if they were meant to be used, thrown or simply neglected? Interpretations are many. Most of them suggest that Hitler, while having a charm of his own, did not do justice to a single woman in his life. He could not have, since he seldom felt the need to be loyal and respectful towards the woman who was his object of attention at any given time.
One of his many lovers was Geli Raubal with whom he shared a turbulent relationship till it came to a close. Born in Austria on 4th June 1908, Geli was the eldest daughter of Angela Raubal, who was Hitler's half sister. It is said that she called him Uncle Alf, and that the only piece of jewellery she opted to wear was a gold swastika, a gift from the man.
As Hitler became politically powerful, rising like a meteor to become the leader of the Nazi party, he kept his niece under observation, a situation made possible because her mother was functioning as the housekeeper in his residence. So possessive was he that she was not allowed to mix with her friends. But, Geli was not somebody who could be controlled no matter how powerful the source of restraint might have been. She dressed simply, a matter of personal choice, and managed to let her individualistic spirit loose despite the watchful eyes of Hitler and his trusted ones. Geli even succeeded in having an affair with Emil Maurice, who had served as Hitler's chaffeur once and was also a founding member of the SS.
It was in 1931 that Geli passed away. She was just 23, that age in which people start living. Her body was discovered in Hitler's Munich apartment. A gunshot had pierced her heart, and her death was officially termed as suicide. Among the stories doing the rounds was that Hitler had killed her for being unfaithful. A second story was that she had killed herself because she was expecting Hitler's child, and yet another that she had been murdered by his right hand man Heinrich Himmler because she had intentions of blackmailing him. Speculations on how and why she had died continue to interest researchers even today, explaining the charisma of the man, if nothing else. But, nobody has been able to find a specific answer to end all the controversies surrounding her untimely death.
It is widely believed that Hitler was so passionately in love with Geli that he began to wither away after she died. Buried in Vienna's Central Cemetery, the most popular belief is that Geli shot herself because she could not handle the fact of knowing that Hitler was having an affair with a teenager. That girl was Eva with whom Hitler used out for drives in his Mercedes, a fact Geli resented.
Both of them used to have serious quarrels before the former died, and the reason could well be connected to her uncomfortable questions grounded in reality for which he had no answer. After her death, many were compelled to ask themselves: if he loved Geli the way he did, why is it that he fell for Eva whom he did not only marry but also die with? Hitler's affection for Geli is also explained by the story that he wanted to kill himself after she died, and that he turned into a vegetarian since the sight of meat reminded him of her corpse.
While such situations complicate the confusion manifold, what is beyond doubt is that Hitler was not a one woman man. For, another woman to have happened in Hitler's life was Renate Muller who lived for a few years more than Geli. Born in Munich on 26 th April 1906, Muller was an awesome beauty who entered the world of films in Berlin in the late 1920s. She made an instant impact and, along with the legendary Marlene Dietrich, was seen as someone who epitomised everything that could have made it to Page 3 in Berlin had the journalistic concept highlighting the rich and the famous been in existence at that time.
Muller who featured in around 20 films happened to come across Hitler in the mid 1930s. The meeting took place near the Danish coast where she was shooting for a film, resulting in movie roles that glorified Nazi principles. While the exact nature of their equation remains unclear, it is widely said that problems arose when her relationships with the Nazi leaders worsened because she expressed her unwillingness to star in propaganda flicks. She was also pressurised to let go of her Jewish lover. Muller turned into a morphine addict as she lived in fear, dying in 1937 sometime after a few Gestapo officers entered a hotel she was living in. She either jumped out of the window, or the officers threw her out of it, leading to a horrible death. The official proclamation was that epilepsy had taken her life.
Hitler was even at the centre of a scandal because of one Maria Reiter, a 16-year-old who perpetrated suicide as well. But he did not stop at merely three or four women. There were more. One attractive person who came into his life was Johanna Maria Magdalena Goebbels, who went on to act as the First Lady of the Third Reich. When the Red Army descended upon Berlin in May 1945, Goebbels is said to have murdered her six children, the most-talked about act of her life.
Although married to Joseph Goebbels, Hitler's Propaganda Minister, it seems that she and her husband, at some point of time in their lives, had agreed upon an open marriage. Both of them had their share of affairs, with she having a relationship with her husband's deputy Karl Hanke as well. After the Red Army invaded Berlin, she and her husband committed suicide. But, well before that happened, Johanna had admitted to the fact that she had agreed to a marriage with Goebbels only because she could be close to Hitler, the man who had decided against marriage since Germany, and not a woman, was the only thing he loved. How charismatic Hitler was can be understood if one realises that here was an intelligent woman who affirmed that she could give her life because of the man.
None of these relationships made the sort of news that his relationship with Eva did, and obviously since the twosome were together for the maximum time. Johanna committed suicide since left without a choice. But the others killed themselves – or appeared to have done so - in the youth of age when life might have offered so many other possibilities. As a matter of fact, Eva had tried to kill herself twice earlier, once by shooting herself in the neck, and again by taking an overdose of sleeping pills. It is said that Hitler became more protective towards her after her second attempt, and that he set his eyes on very few women thereafter.
Hitler once said that "a highly intelligent man should take a primitive and stupid woman," and certainly not somebody who dabbles in "politics." Through such a statement, his dictatorial mindset came to the fore most clearly. It also showed why those like Geli and Muller might have driven themselves to death, having realised that life will never be worthy of living again.
Torment. Uncertainty. Loss of peace. Humiliation. All that ended when Eva, like all others, paid the price for her passion with her life. That Hitler killed himself too might have made her less unhappy.
Yet, since he did have more relationships than he might have remembered, did he simply go ahead with his women as if they were meant to be used, thrown or simply neglected? Interpretations are many. Most of them suggest that Hitler, while having a charm of his own, did not do justice to a single woman in his life. He could not have, since he seldom felt the need to be loyal and respectful towards the woman who was his object of attention at any given time.
One of his many lovers was Geli Raubal with whom he shared a turbulent relationship till it came to a close. Born in Austria on 4th June 1908, Geli was the eldest daughter of Angela Raubal, who was Hitler's half sister. It is said that she called him Uncle Alf, and that the only piece of jewellery she opted to wear was a gold swastika, a gift from the man.
As Hitler became politically powerful, rising like a meteor to become the leader of the Nazi party, he kept his niece under observation, a situation made possible because her mother was functioning as the housekeeper in his residence. So possessive was he that she was not allowed to mix with her friends. But, Geli was not somebody who could be controlled no matter how powerful the source of restraint might have been. She dressed simply, a matter of personal choice, and managed to let her individualistic spirit loose despite the watchful eyes of Hitler and his trusted ones. Geli even succeeded in having an affair with Emil Maurice, who had served as Hitler's chaffeur once and was also a founding member of the SS.
It was in 1931 that Geli passed away. She was just 23, that age in which people start living. Her body was discovered in Hitler's Munich apartment. A gunshot had pierced her heart, and her death was officially termed as suicide. Among the stories doing the rounds was that Hitler had killed her for being unfaithful. A second story was that she had killed herself because she was expecting Hitler's child, and yet another that she had been murdered by his right hand man Heinrich Himmler because she had intentions of blackmailing him. Speculations on how and why she had died continue to interest researchers even today, explaining the charisma of the man, if nothing else. But, nobody has been able to find a specific answer to end all the controversies surrounding her untimely death.
It is widely believed that Hitler was so passionately in love with Geli that he began to wither away after she died. Buried in Vienna's Central Cemetery, the most popular belief is that Geli shot herself because she could not handle the fact of knowing that Hitler was having an affair with a teenager. That girl was Eva with whom Hitler used out for drives in his Mercedes, a fact Geli resented.
Both of them used to have serious quarrels before the former died, and the reason could well be connected to her uncomfortable questions grounded in reality for which he had no answer. After her death, many were compelled to ask themselves: if he loved Geli the way he did, why is it that he fell for Eva whom he did not only marry but also die with? Hitler's affection for Geli is also explained by the story that he wanted to kill himself after she died, and that he turned into a vegetarian since the sight of meat reminded him of her corpse.
While such situations complicate the confusion manifold, what is beyond doubt is that Hitler was not a one woman man. For, another woman to have happened in Hitler's life was Renate Muller who lived for a few years more than Geli. Born in Munich on 26 th April 1906, Muller was an awesome beauty who entered the world of films in Berlin in the late 1920s. She made an instant impact and, along with the legendary Marlene Dietrich, was seen as someone who epitomised everything that could have made it to Page 3 in Berlin had the journalistic concept highlighting the rich and the famous been in existence at that time.
Muller who featured in around 20 films happened to come across Hitler in the mid 1930s. The meeting took place near the Danish coast where she was shooting for a film, resulting in movie roles that glorified Nazi principles. While the exact nature of their equation remains unclear, it is widely said that problems arose when her relationships with the Nazi leaders worsened because she expressed her unwillingness to star in propaganda flicks. She was also pressurised to let go of her Jewish lover. Muller turned into a morphine addict as she lived in fear, dying in 1937 sometime after a few Gestapo officers entered a hotel she was living in. She either jumped out of the window, or the officers threw her out of it, leading to a horrible death. The official proclamation was that epilepsy had taken her life.
Hitler was even at the centre of a scandal because of one Maria Reiter, a 16-year-old who perpetrated suicide as well. But he did not stop at merely three or four women. There were more. One attractive person who came into his life was Johanna Maria Magdalena Goebbels, who went on to act as the First Lady of the Third Reich. When the Red Army descended upon Berlin in May 1945, Goebbels is said to have murdered her six children, the most-talked about act of her life.
Although married to Joseph Goebbels, Hitler's Propaganda Minister, it seems that she and her husband, at some point of time in their lives, had agreed upon an open marriage. Both of them had their share of affairs, with she having a relationship with her husband's deputy Karl Hanke as well. After the Red Army invaded Berlin, she and her husband committed suicide. But, well before that happened, Johanna had admitted to the fact that she had agreed to a marriage with Goebbels only because she could be close to Hitler, the man who had decided against marriage since Germany, and not a woman, was the only thing he loved. How charismatic Hitler was can be understood if one realises that here was an intelligent woman who affirmed that she could give her life because of the man.
None of these relationships made the sort of news that his relationship with Eva did, and obviously since the twosome were together for the maximum time. Johanna committed suicide since left without a choice. But the others killed themselves – or appeared to have done so - in the youth of age when life might have offered so many other possibilities. As a matter of fact, Eva had tried to kill herself twice earlier, once by shooting herself in the neck, and again by taking an overdose of sleeping pills. It is said that Hitler became more protective towards her after her second attempt, and that he set his eyes on very few women thereafter.
Hitler once said that "a highly intelligent man should take a primitive and stupid woman," and certainly not somebody who dabbles in "politics." Through such a statement, his dictatorial mindset came to the fore most clearly. It also showed why those like Geli and Muller might have driven themselves to death, having realised that life will never be worthy of living again.
Torment. Uncertainty. Loss of peace. Humiliation. All that ended when Eva, like all others, paid the price for her passion with her life. That Hitler killed himself too might have made her less unhappy.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
UNFINISHED BOOK CHAPTER ONE
BEFORE THE BEGINNING…
That it happened we know. Why it did can result in a brief history of mystery. Adolf Hitler, the man to have unleashed a spell of terror that had benumbed the entire universe. Eva Anna Paula Braun, the daughter of a teacher from a Bavarian family. Born in Munich, Germany, on 6th February 1912, Eva led what one would call a 'regular' life, studying in a lyceum, followed by a convent where she was an ordinary perfomer with an inclination towards athletics.
The year was 1929. While working as an office and lab assistant to Hitler's photographer Heinrich Hoffman when she was around 17 years of age, Eva is said to have met the man who was to be her lover not much thereafter. Hitler walked in, and noticed her legs which were in view because she had climbed a ladder. Interaction followed, and the twosome got attracted to each other, one story being Eva too found Hitler so charismatic that she managed to slip a love letter into his pocket at their very first meeting.
The inevitable was to occur not much later. She decided to follow Hitler, her decision evoking reactions ranging from outrage to disgust. But the girl of yesteryear had grown into a young lady who knew her mind. For 16 years that ensued, she was Hitler's mistress, forming one of the two angles of an unlikely romance.
Shrouded in ambiguity, dissected by diverse historical interpretations, the Hitler-Eva Braun relationship has played the temptress to both academics and laymen the world over. Why it has been so can be easily explained. Because of what he might have achieved, Hitler continues to be among the most intensely scrutinised individuals on earth even today. That Braun happened in his life, and not a lesser someone else's, is a good enough reason for one investigation after the other.
When the World War II was its peak, Braun was tucked away in a cosy world in which she could read romantic novels and watch the television. She was very fond of sunbathing, a passion that annoyed him no end. In April 1945, when the sun was setting on Hitler's turbulent life, she went down to Munich from Berlin to be with the man she loved. Times were getting from bad to worse and, after a small ceremony in which he married her (the date being April 29), the two of them committed suicide. The marriage lasted for a day, with he shooting himself while she swallowed cyanide.
When Braun ended her life, she was merely 33. For the overwhelming majority, her death assumed significance only because her lover had also killed himself. Since that happened, decades have gone by. With the passage of time, the commoner's interest in the Hitler-Braun romance has enhanced. While that had to happen once Hitler's political life had been understood in the best way possible, why do you think that the man who terrorised the world fell for Eva, and she for him?
There is no satisfying answer, one would intervene while you think. Some things just happen.
That it happened we know. Why it did can result in a brief history of mystery. Adolf Hitler, the man to have unleashed a spell of terror that had benumbed the entire universe. Eva Anna Paula Braun, the daughter of a teacher from a Bavarian family. Born in Munich, Germany, on 6th February 1912, Eva led what one would call a 'regular' life, studying in a lyceum, followed by a convent where she was an ordinary perfomer with an inclination towards athletics.
The year was 1929. While working as an office and lab assistant to Hitler's photographer Heinrich Hoffman when she was around 17 years of age, Eva is said to have met the man who was to be her lover not much thereafter. Hitler walked in, and noticed her legs which were in view because she had climbed a ladder. Interaction followed, and the twosome got attracted to each other, one story being Eva too found Hitler so charismatic that she managed to slip a love letter into his pocket at their very first meeting.
The inevitable was to occur not much later. She decided to follow Hitler, her decision evoking reactions ranging from outrage to disgust. But the girl of yesteryear had grown into a young lady who knew her mind. For 16 years that ensued, she was Hitler's mistress, forming one of the two angles of an unlikely romance.
Shrouded in ambiguity, dissected by diverse historical interpretations, the Hitler-Eva Braun relationship has played the temptress to both academics and laymen the world over. Why it has been so can be easily explained. Because of what he might have achieved, Hitler continues to be among the most intensely scrutinised individuals on earth even today. That Braun happened in his life, and not a lesser someone else's, is a good enough reason for one investigation after the other.
When the World War II was its peak, Braun was tucked away in a cosy world in which she could read romantic novels and watch the television. She was very fond of sunbathing, a passion that annoyed him no end. In April 1945, when the sun was setting on Hitler's turbulent life, she went down to Munich from Berlin to be with the man she loved. Times were getting from bad to worse and, after a small ceremony in which he married her (the date being April 29), the two of them committed suicide. The marriage lasted for a day, with he shooting himself while she swallowed cyanide.
When Braun ended her life, she was merely 33. For the overwhelming majority, her death assumed significance only because her lover had also killed himself. Since that happened, decades have gone by. With the passage of time, the commoner's interest in the Hitler-Braun romance has enhanced. While that had to happen once Hitler's political life had been understood in the best way possible, why do you think that the man who terrorised the world fell for Eva, and she for him?
There is no satisfying answer, one would intervene while you think. Some things just happen.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
COMING SOON: CHANGE IN CAST
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
(As you read this, I am completing my last working day in The Maharashtra Herald, Pune. For those of my friends who don't know already, I will be joining The Times of India, Pune, as the Editor of Pune Times from the 1st of July.
The copyright of the column rests with The Maharashtra Herald.)
As a kid, I was addicted to broadcasting on the radio. Sitting close to an antiquated radio with prehistoric speakers that gargled incessantly, I would listen to commentators describing Davis cup matches. A journey with every tennis match was a trek in trance. Shutting myself from the world, I would hear the commentator explain how Vijay Amritaj returned a Russell Simpson smash. All the while, I would visualise how Vijay must have looked while hitting the shot, having seen his pictures in the newspaper my uncle subscribed. Imagination was a vital tool of appreciation, that being an era when players did not escape from the newspapers' pages to turn into pictures that moved, spoke, played.
But, my dream of seeing my stars in action came true pretty soon. I did see Vijay play on the court, albeit a jaded Vijay who could produce very few flashes of his legendary genius. I saw Sunny Gavaskar wearing a skull cap; made sure that I watched the solitary soap Hum Log; and even checked out Krishi Darshan when I had nothing better to do. During that time, the common man's language of speech underwent a change. Out went broadcast, since not many knew that broadcast could be used to refer to transmission by television anyway. In came telecast, a popular usage signifying a package of what we saw and heard. Telecast was not just another new word in the dictionary. It epitomised how, because of the monopoly of a single channel, our lives had metamorphosed thoroughly.
It was only sometime ago that I bumped into a tech-savvy youngster. The boy held a tiny gadget, and discussed something that sounded like broadcast but was not. I soon figured out that he was talking of podcast, a new term I had never ever heard before. In this column, I have told several tiny stories through two narrators: one, Virus Locha, a VJ who always seemed to unearth a shocking reality while at work. The other was Trustosaurus, a dinosaur who couldn't acclimatise to the decadence in modern society. Because of what they experienced, Virus got upset from time to time. Much more emotional, Trust got consumed by depression, resulting in conflicts within his inner self that he handled very badly.
While hearing the kid talk about podcast, I felt as if I had a bit of both Virus and Trust in me. I knew nothing about podcast, and the fluency with which the kid used the term shocked me no end. I seemed to have lost all trust in my ability to stay in touch with most things modern. There was nothing gross about podcast, but I was really low since I had no idea of what it implied.
Why am I talking about my inability to understand podcast not long ago? Just as broadcast made way for telecast, while podcast became a popular way of life later, this space will see a different presence on this day from next week. There will be a new name, a new style, a new set of stories. Don't ask me why, since I know nothing more than the cliched fact of change being an inevitability we must accept. Call that living or, better still, life.
(As you read this, I am completing my last working day in The Maharashtra Herald, Pune. For those of my friends who don't know already, I will be joining The Times of India, Pune, as the Editor of Pune Times from the 1st of July.
The copyright of the column rests with The Maharashtra Herald.)
As a kid, I was addicted to broadcasting on the radio. Sitting close to an antiquated radio with prehistoric speakers that gargled incessantly, I would listen to commentators describing Davis cup matches. A journey with every tennis match was a trek in trance. Shutting myself from the world, I would hear the commentator explain how Vijay Amritaj returned a Russell Simpson smash. All the while, I would visualise how Vijay must have looked while hitting the shot, having seen his pictures in the newspaper my uncle subscribed. Imagination was a vital tool of appreciation, that being an era when players did not escape from the newspapers' pages to turn into pictures that moved, spoke, played.
But, my dream of seeing my stars in action came true pretty soon. I did see Vijay play on the court, albeit a jaded Vijay who could produce very few flashes of his legendary genius. I saw Sunny Gavaskar wearing a skull cap; made sure that I watched the solitary soap Hum Log; and even checked out Krishi Darshan when I had nothing better to do. During that time, the common man's language of speech underwent a change. Out went broadcast, since not many knew that broadcast could be used to refer to transmission by television anyway. In came telecast, a popular usage signifying a package of what we saw and heard. Telecast was not just another new word in the dictionary. It epitomised how, because of the monopoly of a single channel, our lives had metamorphosed thoroughly.
It was only sometime ago that I bumped into a tech-savvy youngster. The boy held a tiny gadget, and discussed something that sounded like broadcast but was not. I soon figured out that he was talking of podcast, a new term I had never ever heard before. In this column, I have told several tiny stories through two narrators: one, Virus Locha, a VJ who always seemed to unearth a shocking reality while at work. The other was Trustosaurus, a dinosaur who couldn't acclimatise to the decadence in modern society. Because of what they experienced, Virus got upset from time to time. Much more emotional, Trust got consumed by depression, resulting in conflicts within his inner self that he handled very badly.
While hearing the kid talk about podcast, I felt as if I had a bit of both Virus and Trust in me. I knew nothing about podcast, and the fluency with which the kid used the term shocked me no end. I seemed to have lost all trust in my ability to stay in touch with most things modern. There was nothing gross about podcast, but I was really low since I had no idea of what it implied.
Why am I talking about my inability to understand podcast not long ago? Just as broadcast made way for telecast, while podcast became a popular way of life later, this space will see a different presence on this day from next week. There will be a new name, a new style, a new set of stories. Don't ask me why, since I know nothing more than the cliched fact of change being an inevitability we must accept. Call that living or, better still, life.
Friday, June 16, 2006
WHILE MY GUITAR GENTLY WEEPS
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Almost three decades ago, I was viewed as a musical prodigy. I could play the bongo, the tabla and, above all, sing decently enough to be able to appear for a degree examination when 14. Pompous? If so, here is a confession. I didn't dare play a stringed instrument ever. Be it the guitar or the sitar, I kept off any instrument that had metallic threads as compulsory components. I was intimidated by the thought that I would miss the right note sooner or later, resulting in cacophony I did not wish to hear. And which, I was sure, no one else did.
That is why I hate Rishi Kapoor, Mithun Chakraborty and, yes, even the great Amitabh Bachchan once in a while. All these guys appear so effortless when they play the guitar onscreen, but their moving fingers tell horror stories. If the tune were to be Somalia, the fingers indicate England, Germany, every country on the international map except Somalia. The onscreen guitaring is an unending parade of mistakes, although what we hear is oh-so perfect. Why it is so, all of us know. But I ignore it, blaming it on God's inability to be kind to me in a way I wanted Him to be.
Have you seen Mithun play a singing-dancing axeman in Disco Dancer? I have, in a small town where coins aviated towards the screen when the actor made music onscreen, which was people's way of paying tribute to their Mithunda's genius. If the actor's dance was a copy of John Travolta, the way he held the guitar suggested he was idolising Jimi Hendrix. If that was an impossible reel-life combo, one special moment was when Mithun played the guitar but a different instrumental sound emanated from the background. Since one disco song from composer Bappi Lahiri's stable was Krishna, I guess that was divine intervention.
Zeenat Aman stole millions of hearts when she played the rhythm guitar and sang Chura Liya Hai. She must have been specially blessed for the sounds to come out the way they did. But, the man who played the instrument matchlessly was Bachchan. In Sharaabi, when he sat on the floor and lip-synched to Intehaa ho gayee, the expressions were superb. Every inch of the man's face conveyed histrionic skills in a scene where he waited for the heroine, singing a lullaby with romantic lyrics. I remember him shaking his head, closing his eyes, mumbling the lyrics, at times, simply forgetting that he was supposed to do a few things with the guitar he held close to his heart. But the background music continued, one of Bollywood's countless miracles.
It was a long time ago that I first saw an actor play the guitar onscreen, making it sound like a moaning saxophone. Since then, several years have gone by. Till today, I don't understand why most filmmakers don't engage specialists to direct actors in music-driven scenes. Could be that our makers view such exercises as a waste of money, while our actors are too busy doing too much work to think of such details anyway. As long as the masses are fooled, do they need to care?
Almost three decades ago, I was viewed as a musical prodigy. I could play the bongo, the tabla and, above all, sing decently enough to be able to appear for a degree examination when 14. Pompous? If so, here is a confession. I didn't dare play a stringed instrument ever. Be it the guitar or the sitar, I kept off any instrument that had metallic threads as compulsory components. I was intimidated by the thought that I would miss the right note sooner or later, resulting in cacophony I did not wish to hear. And which, I was sure, no one else did.
That is why I hate Rishi Kapoor, Mithun Chakraborty and, yes, even the great Amitabh Bachchan once in a while. All these guys appear so effortless when they play the guitar onscreen, but their moving fingers tell horror stories. If the tune were to be Somalia, the fingers indicate England, Germany, every country on the international map except Somalia. The onscreen guitaring is an unending parade of mistakes, although what we hear is oh-so perfect. Why it is so, all of us know. But I ignore it, blaming it on God's inability to be kind to me in a way I wanted Him to be.
Have you seen Mithun play a singing-dancing axeman in Disco Dancer? I have, in a small town where coins aviated towards the screen when the actor made music onscreen, which was people's way of paying tribute to their Mithunda's genius. If the actor's dance was a copy of John Travolta, the way he held the guitar suggested he was idolising Jimi Hendrix. If that was an impossible reel-life combo, one special moment was when Mithun played the guitar but a different instrumental sound emanated from the background. Since one disco song from composer Bappi Lahiri's stable was Krishna, I guess that was divine intervention.
Zeenat Aman stole millions of hearts when she played the rhythm guitar and sang Chura Liya Hai. She must have been specially blessed for the sounds to come out the way they did. But, the man who played the instrument matchlessly was Bachchan. In Sharaabi, when he sat on the floor and lip-synched to Intehaa ho gayee, the expressions were superb. Every inch of the man's face conveyed histrionic skills in a scene where he waited for the heroine, singing a lullaby with romantic lyrics. I remember him shaking his head, closing his eyes, mumbling the lyrics, at times, simply forgetting that he was supposed to do a few things with the guitar he held close to his heart. But the background music continued, one of Bollywood's countless miracles.
It was a long time ago that I first saw an actor play the guitar onscreen, making it sound like a moaning saxophone. Since then, several years have gone by. Till today, I don't understand why most filmmakers don't engage specialists to direct actors in music-driven scenes. Could be that our makers view such exercises as a waste of money, while our actors are too busy doing too much work to think of such details anyway. As long as the masses are fooled, do they need to care?
Sunday, June 04, 2006
ALIVE BUT OBSCURED
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Once upon a time, a long time ago, songs were heard. When the musical epics of geniuses like Naushad and Salil Chowdhury emancipated themselves from the visuals of films that could be only seen in the theatres, all that remained was the melody, the voice. If a listener were to approach a song outside the hall, therefore, he could have done so with his eyes plain shut. He got immersed in every tuneful phrase of the track, and it turned into a memory that refused to etiolate with time.
Today, such classics are hard to come by. The dominant notes of the day are those of Aashiq banaya and Jhalak Dikhlaja, and the voice (critics say, the nose) that preoccupies his countless fans is that of Himesh Reshammiya. Reshammiya's cuts that are reigning over the pop charts are like soft drinks and burgers, that is social realities brought about by a cultural change. Fast foods may be subversive, but they have a committed fan following which no amount of criticism can mitigate. Same with Aashiq Banaya, which has many more young devotees than critics in modern times. Courtesy such tracks, Bollywood's music has become more vulnerable to attack than ever before. Quality is dead, the critics can affirm. Is that true, one is entitled to ask.
Not really. Only, quality is getting eclipsed by factors such as flashy music videos of bad film songs. And of course, there are too many songs in too many films, the result being that good tracks are getting lost in a huge crowd where the number of heads is impossible to count. Songs from many small-budget multiplex films are so badly marketed that few except some lucky viewers get to hear them. In a visual-driven age, when films flop, many quality tracks disappear most abruptly. People seek them for a while but, living in times when choices are far too many, they move on to hear tracks that have a big presence simply because the film happens to have greater box-ofice appeal.
Some fine songs are heard by a lucky few like, say, a track named Guncha from the Chandan Arora flick Main, Meri Patni Aur Woh. Mohit Chauhan of the Indipop band Silk Route both composed and sang the track, relying on basic guitaring chords and hardly any arrangement. Music lovers who might have bumped into the track in the film need not have been able to access the song later, a big problem songs like Guncha face. The end result is disappearance, a sad outcome such uncomplicated but lovely melodies do not deserve.
Even big composers like A R Rahman and Ismail Darbar can suffer if a film bombs at the box-office. Kisna might have been a 2005 release, but how many remember the wonderfully buoyant title track? Yun Hi Chala from Swades can be one of the intricate compositions one has come across of late, with Rahman using the three diverse voices of Udit Narayan, Kailash Kher and Hariharan exquisitely. But the songs failed to create major ripples because the films did not work. At the end of the day, very few film songs manage an existence outside the film like Allah Key Bandey did. Kailash Kher will vouch for that.
A fine melody like Bheege Hont from Murder may not get the due it merits because most are more serious about either the song's lyrics or the film's visuals. Paheli's Dheere Jalna may have a haunting tune, but the song is condemned to confront the destiny of being heard by a select few. Even Piyu Bole, a gem from Parineeta that can be compared to the best from the past, can expect a long life only in the minds of listeners who have been mesmerised by the song's beauty and been strong enough to resist the temptation of lesser compositions.
Music composers, be it AR Rahman or MM Kreem, have to negotiate with too many obstacles unlike their counterparts from yesteryear. They must carry on despite knowing that none of their soundtracks will enjoy the life span of a Madhumati or a Guide. But let us not mistake that for mediocrity simply because a popular superstar isn't a cuckoo one might like to hear in the morning.
(The copyright of this article rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
Once upon a time, a long time ago, songs were heard. When the musical epics of geniuses like Naushad and Salil Chowdhury emancipated themselves from the visuals of films that could be only seen in the theatres, all that remained was the melody, the voice. If a listener were to approach a song outside the hall, therefore, he could have done so with his eyes plain shut. He got immersed in every tuneful phrase of the track, and it turned into a memory that refused to etiolate with time.
Today, such classics are hard to come by. The dominant notes of the day are those of Aashiq banaya and Jhalak Dikhlaja, and the voice (critics say, the nose) that preoccupies his countless fans is that of Himesh Reshammiya. Reshammiya's cuts that are reigning over the pop charts are like soft drinks and burgers, that is social realities brought about by a cultural change. Fast foods may be subversive, but they have a committed fan following which no amount of criticism can mitigate. Same with Aashiq Banaya, which has many more young devotees than critics in modern times. Courtesy such tracks, Bollywood's music has become more vulnerable to attack than ever before. Quality is dead, the critics can affirm. Is that true, one is entitled to ask.
Not really. Only, quality is getting eclipsed by factors such as flashy music videos of bad film songs. And of course, there are too many songs in too many films, the result being that good tracks are getting lost in a huge crowd where the number of heads is impossible to count. Songs from many small-budget multiplex films are so badly marketed that few except some lucky viewers get to hear them. In a visual-driven age, when films flop, many quality tracks disappear most abruptly. People seek them for a while but, living in times when choices are far too many, they move on to hear tracks that have a big presence simply because the film happens to have greater box-ofice appeal.
Some fine songs are heard by a lucky few like, say, a track named Guncha from the Chandan Arora flick Main, Meri Patni Aur Woh. Mohit Chauhan of the Indipop band Silk Route both composed and sang the track, relying on basic guitaring chords and hardly any arrangement. Music lovers who might have bumped into the track in the film need not have been able to access the song later, a big problem songs like Guncha face. The end result is disappearance, a sad outcome such uncomplicated but lovely melodies do not deserve.
Even big composers like A R Rahman and Ismail Darbar can suffer if a film bombs at the box-office. Kisna might have been a 2005 release, but how many remember the wonderfully buoyant title track? Yun Hi Chala from Swades can be one of the intricate compositions one has come across of late, with Rahman using the three diverse voices of Udit Narayan, Kailash Kher and Hariharan exquisitely. But the songs failed to create major ripples because the films did not work. At the end of the day, very few film songs manage an existence outside the film like Allah Key Bandey did. Kailash Kher will vouch for that.
A fine melody like Bheege Hont from Murder may not get the due it merits because most are more serious about either the song's lyrics or the film's visuals. Paheli's Dheere Jalna may have a haunting tune, but the song is condemned to confront the destiny of being heard by a select few. Even Piyu Bole, a gem from Parineeta that can be compared to the best from the past, can expect a long life only in the minds of listeners who have been mesmerised by the song's beauty and been strong enough to resist the temptation of lesser compositions.
Music composers, be it AR Rahman or MM Kreem, have to negotiate with too many obstacles unlike their counterparts from yesteryear. They must carry on despite knowing that none of their soundtracks will enjoy the life span of a Madhumati or a Guide. But let us not mistake that for mediocrity simply because a popular superstar isn't a cuckoo one might like to hear in the morning.
(The copyright of this article rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
JUST DREAM!
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
For a few people I know, only the past matters. About the present, the less said the better. One such guy is Roger Storywala, an elderly man with enough time at his disposal since he retired a couple of years ago. A bachelor out of necessity rather than choice - every woman Storywala happened to fancy had chosen someone else - this gentleman played cricket when young. Chinaman was the delivery he essayed to master, only to deliver innocuous full tosses that his opponents at the third division level butchered with ruthless glee.
However Googly, which is what his friends call him, is a self-employed cricket commentator who does not need any incentive to take off. Lifting his spectacles, he rolls his eyes, and talks about C K Nayudu's special shots. He does that so animatedly that anyone with no cricketing sense can easily believe that Googly saw the great Nayudu bat, sitting in a privileged seat inside the pavillion. If his listener is a truly ignorant species, Googly's habit of manufacturing lies is lethal. Those who trust his tales become susceptible to embarrassment. But then, that's what he is all about: a blend of fact and fiction in which names from the past do heroic cricketing deeds.
It is because of his fiction-mongering that I hadn't been too fond of Googly for a long time. Reasonably well-informed about the game, I would trap him on the wrong foot with his stumps all exposed quite often. "You know, Amar Singh was such a great pacer that Farrokh Engineer had serious trouble trying to keep wickets to him," he once said, setting forth a toothless grin. "As a matter of fact, Singh had knocked down the great Vivian Richards with a bouncer." None of the three had played together ever, I corrected him. Shamelessly, Googly modified himself, "I mean, those would have been genuine possibilities had Engineer or Richards confronted the sublime might of Singh." I did not pursue the conversation any further. Somehow, I thought I knew why he lied so much. He had nothing better to do and nothing else to talk about, a pity indeed.
So addicted to lying is Googly that he drifts towards fiction even while watching matches. The last one-dayer between India and the West Indies was one such occasion. When Ajit Agarkar bowled an incoming beauty to get rid of the clueless West Indian batsman Sewnarine Chattergoon, he mumbled, "Not bad, but Karsan Ghavri had once bowled three such deliveries in an over." When Virender Sehwag got out for 95, he affirmed, "Aggressive as usual, but there is nothing to beat the innings of Vinoo Mankad against a rampaging Wes Hall that I saw some 60 years back." When India lost once again, he gripped a cushion and grumbled, "The present Indian team is the weakest we have had. I remember the day when Sunil Gavaskar and Vijay Merchant had gone out to open against Michael Holding and Andy Roberts. It was...." The trauma of defeat preoccupied me such that I ignored what followed.
Sometime later, I switched off the TV and looked at Googly. Fast asleep on the sofa nearby, his face showed a soft smile. In his sleep, he seemed to be imagining a spectacular Indian triumph. After the loss of Agarkar's wicket when India chased the target, Kapil Dev had walked in and attacked a Dwayne Bravo delivery. The ball sailed out of the ground and stayed hit for a few kilometres. It finally landed in Brian Lara's house, a dream finish in a dreamer's world.
(The copyright of this article rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
For a few people I know, only the past matters. About the present, the less said the better. One such guy is Roger Storywala, an elderly man with enough time at his disposal since he retired a couple of years ago. A bachelor out of necessity rather than choice - every woman Storywala happened to fancy had chosen someone else - this gentleman played cricket when young. Chinaman was the delivery he essayed to master, only to deliver innocuous full tosses that his opponents at the third division level butchered with ruthless glee.
However Googly, which is what his friends call him, is a self-employed cricket commentator who does not need any incentive to take off. Lifting his spectacles, he rolls his eyes, and talks about C K Nayudu's special shots. He does that so animatedly that anyone with no cricketing sense can easily believe that Googly saw the great Nayudu bat, sitting in a privileged seat inside the pavillion. If his listener is a truly ignorant species, Googly's habit of manufacturing lies is lethal. Those who trust his tales become susceptible to embarrassment. But then, that's what he is all about: a blend of fact and fiction in which names from the past do heroic cricketing deeds.
It is because of his fiction-mongering that I hadn't been too fond of Googly for a long time. Reasonably well-informed about the game, I would trap him on the wrong foot with his stumps all exposed quite often. "You know, Amar Singh was such a great pacer that Farrokh Engineer had serious trouble trying to keep wickets to him," he once said, setting forth a toothless grin. "As a matter of fact, Singh had knocked down the great Vivian Richards with a bouncer." None of the three had played together ever, I corrected him. Shamelessly, Googly modified himself, "I mean, those would have been genuine possibilities had Engineer or Richards confronted the sublime might of Singh." I did not pursue the conversation any further. Somehow, I thought I knew why he lied so much. He had nothing better to do and nothing else to talk about, a pity indeed.
So addicted to lying is Googly that he drifts towards fiction even while watching matches. The last one-dayer between India and the West Indies was one such occasion. When Ajit Agarkar bowled an incoming beauty to get rid of the clueless West Indian batsman Sewnarine Chattergoon, he mumbled, "Not bad, but Karsan Ghavri had once bowled three such deliveries in an over." When Virender Sehwag got out for 95, he affirmed, "Aggressive as usual, but there is nothing to beat the innings of Vinoo Mankad against a rampaging Wes Hall that I saw some 60 years back." When India lost once again, he gripped a cushion and grumbled, "The present Indian team is the weakest we have had. I remember the day when Sunil Gavaskar and Vijay Merchant had gone out to open against Michael Holding and Andy Roberts. It was...." The trauma of defeat preoccupied me such that I ignored what followed.
Sometime later, I switched off the TV and looked at Googly. Fast asleep on the sofa nearby, his face showed a soft smile. In his sleep, he seemed to be imagining a spectacular Indian triumph. After the loss of Agarkar's wicket when India chased the target, Kapil Dev had walked in and attacked a Dwayne Bravo delivery. The ball sailed out of the ground and stayed hit for a few kilometres. It finally landed in Brian Lara's house, a dream finish in a dreamer's world.
(The copyright of this article rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
Saturday, June 03, 2006
THE WOMAN IN WHITE…
By Kavita Kane
Norma Jean. Marilyn Monroe. I don’t remember her as the voluptuous beauty with her swirling dress billowing behind a rapturous face, holding that tilted, sultry smile, but as that ‘woman’ who made my father’s eyes flare up passionately every time her name was mentioned. Or rather, whenever he got to glimpse her - be it tiny, black and white pix besides a yellowed newspaper clipping or a glossy blow-up off a raucous, heaving street or the beauteous lady herself - gloriously, magnificently, surely blistering the 70 mm silver screen. He watches her these days through thick glasses on a miniaturized 29” which doesn’t moderate her throbbing flamboyance - a restricting small screen cannot confine or contain her palpable sensuousness, her most dedicated devotee insists.
As a child who loved Robert Redford, Cary Grant, James Stewart and Ryan O’Neal, strictly in that order, and who later jostled comfortably with Kevin Costner, Alec Baldwin and George Clooney, I used to openly wonder why my constant companion and movie partner, Pater dear, adored the blonde bombshell so unabashedly, so unrestrainedly. I didn’t mind the Grace Kellys, the Hepburns (both Katharine and Audrey!), the Lauren Bacals or Ingrid Bergmans in his fervent cinematic experiences, but as a ten-year old, frankly doubted what he saw in “that fat woman”, as an annoyed me once angrily expostulated. Visibly fighting an inner apoplexy, he purred, breathing out a long, satiated sigh, “Grow up and you’ll find out one day!”
I did – through a fascinating journey. And every time I fell in love with her, over and over again. Be it, at her tinkling, seductive best in The Seven year Itch or deliciously devious in Niagra, or plain adorable and fun unmitigated in How To Marry a Millionaire. The Tom Ewells, Joseph Cottens didn’t distract my romantic senses – this lady did. A child-woman blossoming wondrously, a star blazing in full glory, an enigmatic legend draped in brutal mystery…
And then I hear her name again…my little girls are squealing out the twin magic Ms as they enact out a How To Marry a Millionaire in a noisy round of dumb charade, and I realize, like me once, they are growing up too, in the shadow of that everlasting enchantment called Marilyn Monroe…
Norma Jean. Marilyn Monroe. I don’t remember her as the voluptuous beauty with her swirling dress billowing behind a rapturous face, holding that tilted, sultry smile, but as that ‘woman’ who made my father’s eyes flare up passionately every time her name was mentioned. Or rather, whenever he got to glimpse her - be it tiny, black and white pix besides a yellowed newspaper clipping or a glossy blow-up off a raucous, heaving street or the beauteous lady herself - gloriously, magnificently, surely blistering the 70 mm silver screen. He watches her these days through thick glasses on a miniaturized 29” which doesn’t moderate her throbbing flamboyance - a restricting small screen cannot confine or contain her palpable sensuousness, her most dedicated devotee insists.
As a child who loved Robert Redford, Cary Grant, James Stewart and Ryan O’Neal, strictly in that order, and who later jostled comfortably with Kevin Costner, Alec Baldwin and George Clooney, I used to openly wonder why my constant companion and movie partner, Pater dear, adored the blonde bombshell so unabashedly, so unrestrainedly. I didn’t mind the Grace Kellys, the Hepburns (both Katharine and Audrey!), the Lauren Bacals or Ingrid Bergmans in his fervent cinematic experiences, but as a ten-year old, frankly doubted what he saw in “that fat woman”, as an annoyed me once angrily expostulated. Visibly fighting an inner apoplexy, he purred, breathing out a long, satiated sigh, “Grow up and you’ll find out one day!”
I did – through a fascinating journey. And every time I fell in love with her, over and over again. Be it, at her tinkling, seductive best in The Seven year Itch or deliciously devious in Niagra, or plain adorable and fun unmitigated in How To Marry a Millionaire. The Tom Ewells, Joseph Cottens didn’t distract my romantic senses – this lady did. A child-woman blossoming wondrously, a star blazing in full glory, an enigmatic legend draped in brutal mystery…
And then I hear her name again…my little girls are squealing out the twin magic Ms as they enact out a How To Marry a Millionaire in a noisy round of dumb charade, and I realize, like me once, they are growing up too, in the shadow of that everlasting enchantment called Marilyn Monroe…
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
FEMINIST FRIEND
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Jonathan considered himself unique. He was the only male writer he knew who wrote one feminist article every week. What's more, he, unlike many other scribes around him, actually believed in what he said. So convinced was Jonathan about his ideological positioning that some called him the chairman of SCUM, a term coined by a writer whose name he remembered no longer. Since SCUM stood for the Society for Cutting Up Men, who else but Jonathan deserved to head it, considering he took men to the cleaners once every seven days in some newspaper or the other?
For this protagonist of ours, the last two days had been pathetic. He had been lying on the bed with a high fever all alone. Most of his time had been spent hoping that someone would bunk his or her work, and chat with him for a while. As he flipped through the pages of a glossy, a familar voice made him look up. "Hi Johnny," Betty yelled as she walked in, her face barely visible behind a huge pile of books. From the corner of his eyes, Jonathan saw two familiar surnames on the books' spines. Faludi, Steinem: Betty, who was as militant a feminist as he was, had come equipped for some stimulating discussion.
But, he had got it all wrong, since this is what Betty did. She kept the books on the top of an almirah, and murmured, "Today, I want to see There's Something About Mary."
"Betty, I am down with fever," he replied, "Besides, why do you want to see such a stupid comedy?"
"Once in a while, I find stupidity most acceptable," she grinned, "I will keep my brain outside before walking in. Also, I think you should also see a fun film without taxing yourself too much."
To show just how disgusted he was, Jonathan reached out for the thermometer. After shaking it a few times, he put it inside his mouth. Exactly one minute later, he brought out the thermometer and looked at it. "Oh God," he mumbled, as if to show that his temperature was one thousand degrees above normal.
"I am sure you don't have very high temperature now," Betty chirped, "Can you dress up quickly please?"
"You seem to be obsessed with the film, " Jonathan groaned, "Don't you know that I have a serious problem with any movie that commodifies women?" He paused awhile and added, "I thought you shared my feelings, but it seems I am wrong."
"Why do you need to intellectualise on anything and everything?" Betty sounded irritated, and that she was. "What is wrong with enjoying mindless stuff occasionally may I know?"
"There is nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all, " Jonathan stared at her metamorphosed avatar, "The only problem, apart from my fever, is that today is the first day and we won't get the tickets."
"Chill, man, "Betty seemed to have a solution for everything, "I got the tickets while coming here, knowing I will convince you to come along. I stood in the ladies queue, and got the tickets very easily."
"You stood in the ladies queue?"
"Yes," she said, adding conspiratorially, "Don't worry. None of our like-thinking buddies saw me. Now, shall we...?"
Leaving his bed, Jonathan stood up slowly. Then, he reached out for a shirt lying close by. A few feet away, his friend sat, eyeing the tickets she had bought. There was something about Betty, he thought to himself, and may be since she was a special feminist who knew when to make the most of a ladies queue.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
Jonathan considered himself unique. He was the only male writer he knew who wrote one feminist article every week. What's more, he, unlike many other scribes around him, actually believed in what he said. So convinced was Jonathan about his ideological positioning that some called him the chairman of SCUM, a term coined by a writer whose name he remembered no longer. Since SCUM stood for the Society for Cutting Up Men, who else but Jonathan deserved to head it, considering he took men to the cleaners once every seven days in some newspaper or the other?
For this protagonist of ours, the last two days had been pathetic. He had been lying on the bed with a high fever all alone. Most of his time had been spent hoping that someone would bunk his or her work, and chat with him for a while. As he flipped through the pages of a glossy, a familar voice made him look up. "Hi Johnny," Betty yelled as she walked in, her face barely visible behind a huge pile of books. From the corner of his eyes, Jonathan saw two familiar surnames on the books' spines. Faludi, Steinem: Betty, who was as militant a feminist as he was, had come equipped for some stimulating discussion.
But, he had got it all wrong, since this is what Betty did. She kept the books on the top of an almirah, and murmured, "Today, I want to see There's Something About Mary."
"Betty, I am down with fever," he replied, "Besides, why do you want to see such a stupid comedy?"
"Once in a while, I find stupidity most acceptable," she grinned, "I will keep my brain outside before walking in. Also, I think you should also see a fun film without taxing yourself too much."
To show just how disgusted he was, Jonathan reached out for the thermometer. After shaking it a few times, he put it inside his mouth. Exactly one minute later, he brought out the thermometer and looked at it. "Oh God," he mumbled, as if to show that his temperature was one thousand degrees above normal.
"I am sure you don't have very high temperature now," Betty chirped, "Can you dress up quickly please?"
"You seem to be obsessed with the film, " Jonathan groaned, "Don't you know that I have a serious problem with any movie that commodifies women?" He paused awhile and added, "I thought you shared my feelings, but it seems I am wrong."
"Why do you need to intellectualise on anything and everything?" Betty sounded irritated, and that she was. "What is wrong with enjoying mindless stuff occasionally may I know?"
"There is nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all, " Jonathan stared at her metamorphosed avatar, "The only problem, apart from my fever, is that today is the first day and we won't get the tickets."
"Chill, man, "Betty seemed to have a solution for everything, "I got the tickets while coming here, knowing I will convince you to come along. I stood in the ladies queue, and got the tickets very easily."
"You stood in the ladies queue?"
"Yes," she said, adding conspiratorially, "Don't worry. None of our like-thinking buddies saw me. Now, shall we...?"
Leaving his bed, Jonathan stood up slowly. Then, he reached out for a shirt lying close by. A few feet away, his friend sat, eyeing the tickets she had bought. There was something about Betty, he thought to himself, and may be since she was a special feminist who knew when to make the most of a ladies queue.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
GARIB UNPLUGGED!
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
If Virus Locha had been a cricketing scoreboard, it would have read 32 all out. Indeed, such was the VJ's mental state that he had found himself grinning when he had woken up that day. After around ten immomentous TV shows in which he had spoken to big stars pretending to be good actors, he was thrilled at the prospect of interviewing Garib Shaan, India's solitary method actor.
In the studio sometime later, Virus stood daydreaming with his eyes half shut. But, the spell was interrupted by the brouhaha outside. "Uff, look at Garib...God, Garib...wow, there comes Garib...he still looks like a bachcha...." The VJ opened his eyes, and saw nothing. He heard a voice, "Hi Virus, I hope I am not late." Knowing how often he imagined inanities, he chose to ignore the voice, only to hear someone growl, "Virus...." The firm voice of his short lady producer stirred him into action, and he instinctively looked down. There was Garib, standing right next to the woman, smiling away. Virus squeaked a garbled apology, and ushered them in.
Inside, the crew was ready. Without wasting a second, Virus began his well-rehearsed speech. "Today, we have with us, the one and only Garib Shaan, the common man's favourite actor who played Bungle Pandey and, yes, even a Disc Jockey recently." Then, he turned around, looked at the actor, and said, "Can you tell us how you managed to play a student-Disc Jockey at 40 so brilliantly?"
"Tough," the actor replied, "Bungle Pandey, my character in my previous film, lived in 1857. To feel and act like he might have, I used to have a bath in a river at six in the morning every day. To make my character believable, I even visited a kotha to know how courtesans live." "A kotha?" "Yes," Garib affirmed, adding, "To impart authenticity, one has to apply one's self as well as one can."
"Turning into a Disc Jockey immediately thereafter must have been tough," Virus murmured, reminding Garib of the original question.
"You bet it was," Garib replied, sipping on Joke, his favourite drink. "I was living off wafers and soft drinks to get my attitude spot on. My wife and I had rows daily, but I managed to explain why that was necessary. You won't believe what I did later. I actually borrowed a toy gun, visited a radio station, and made sure that the jockey aired my songs."
"But your films have some great songs..."
"Huh, who is talking about my movies? I sang as many as six songs, and none of them was Mere liye thhanda la, my big ummusical hit. People must have been cursing the radio station," Garib laughed loudly, eyeing the bottle of Joke.
"What have you done for Fun Ah, your latest?"
"Sad ah, but I can't talk till you watch the film and frame questions. Can you act in a film without reading the script? Method, my friend, is what is important." Garib rolled his eyes, rose slightly from his seat, and shook Virus's hand abruptly.
Time to leave. That was the signal. Virus looked at the camera and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, that was Garib Shaan, the actor whose never-ending search for perfection makes him perfect."
When Garib was getting inside his swanky car, he heard someone whisper, "Did Virus even realise that you did method acting for the first time in your life a little while ago?" Shaken up by what he had heard, the VJ looked in the direction of the voice and saw nobody. I must have imagined a voice, he thought to himself as he walked inside to see the recording of his most honest interviewee ever.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
If Virus Locha had been a cricketing scoreboard, it would have read 32 all out. Indeed, such was the VJ's mental state that he had found himself grinning when he had woken up that day. After around ten immomentous TV shows in which he had spoken to big stars pretending to be good actors, he was thrilled at the prospect of interviewing Garib Shaan, India's solitary method actor.
In the studio sometime later, Virus stood daydreaming with his eyes half shut. But, the spell was interrupted by the brouhaha outside. "Uff, look at Garib...God, Garib...wow, there comes Garib...he still looks like a bachcha...." The VJ opened his eyes, and saw nothing. He heard a voice, "Hi Virus, I hope I am not late." Knowing how often he imagined inanities, he chose to ignore the voice, only to hear someone growl, "Virus...." The firm voice of his short lady producer stirred him into action, and he instinctively looked down. There was Garib, standing right next to the woman, smiling away. Virus squeaked a garbled apology, and ushered them in.
Inside, the crew was ready. Without wasting a second, Virus began his well-rehearsed speech. "Today, we have with us, the one and only Garib Shaan, the common man's favourite actor who played Bungle Pandey and, yes, even a Disc Jockey recently." Then, he turned around, looked at the actor, and said, "Can you tell us how you managed to play a student-Disc Jockey at 40 so brilliantly?"
"Tough," the actor replied, "Bungle Pandey, my character in my previous film, lived in 1857. To feel and act like he might have, I used to have a bath in a river at six in the morning every day. To make my character believable, I even visited a kotha to know how courtesans live." "A kotha?" "Yes," Garib affirmed, adding, "To impart authenticity, one has to apply one's self as well as one can."
"Turning into a Disc Jockey immediately thereafter must have been tough," Virus murmured, reminding Garib of the original question.
"You bet it was," Garib replied, sipping on Joke, his favourite drink. "I was living off wafers and soft drinks to get my attitude spot on. My wife and I had rows daily, but I managed to explain why that was necessary. You won't believe what I did later. I actually borrowed a toy gun, visited a radio station, and made sure that the jockey aired my songs."
"But your films have some great songs..."
"Huh, who is talking about my movies? I sang as many as six songs, and none of them was Mere liye thhanda la, my big ummusical hit. People must have been cursing the radio station," Garib laughed loudly, eyeing the bottle of Joke.
"What have you done for Fun Ah, your latest?"
"Sad ah, but I can't talk till you watch the film and frame questions. Can you act in a film without reading the script? Method, my friend, is what is important." Garib rolled his eyes, rose slightly from his seat, and shook Virus's hand abruptly.
Time to leave. That was the signal. Virus looked at the camera and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, that was Garib Shaan, the actor whose never-ending search for perfection makes him perfect."
When Garib was getting inside his swanky car, he heard someone whisper, "Did Virus even realise that you did method acting for the first time in your life a little while ago?" Shaken up by what he had heard, the VJ looked in the direction of the voice and saw nobody. I must have imagined a voice, he thought to himself as he walked inside to see the recording of his most honest interviewee ever.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
THINK OF THE DEVIL...
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
"No, no, no. I am not superstitious. I do not believe devils exist. I don't think ghosts are real. I am imagining noises, voices, sounds, pain...." Curled up on a bed in the Intensive Care Unit of a hospital, I was endeavouring to exorcise the music assaulting my senses repeatedly. But the musicians - a motley crew consisting of a trained voice, a shehnai, a violin, and a tabla that grew loud and louder - had other intentions. They wanted me to stay awake, to hear what they had composed which, in this case, was a chhota khayal in Raga Puriya Dhanashri that went on and on for two consecutive days.
At a time when I was in considerable pain, I heard the first strains of a composition for the first time. The melody was impeccable, and the violinist seemed particularly skilled. Half asleep out of sheer faigue, I found the tune really soothing and started humming softly. The vocalist leading the pack was a wonderful singer, and he was challenging me to make the best use of my voice that had been lying dormant for so long. It must have been around four in the evening when I had started humming. This went on till my attendant walked in. I checked the clock. It was well past midnight.
"Can you hear the way these guys are practising outside? They are perfectionists to the core," I remember telling him in a tone filled with admiration.
"Which song? Who is practising? It is absolutely silent," the fellow shot back. I opened my eyes fully, and stared at him. His face had a blank look which suggested he did not know what I was talking about.
"Can't you hear the riyaz outside?," I asked most impatiently.
"There is absolute silence sir. You must be joking," he replied. He must have been wondering how I was able to crack such sick jokes so late in the night when I was, it was abundantly obvious, very sick.
I just kept mum. Outside, the musicians continued to indulge in practice. I tried to sleep, but the tabla player had other ideas. He played the drums so loudly that the sound buried the vocals. I placed a pillow across my ears, and tried to sleep. In what was the most uneasy night of my entire life, I stayed awake till the nurse walked in.
"Sister, can you hear good music?" I asked the lady while looking at my attendant who was fast asleep.
"It is six in the morning. Who will sing now?," she responded, twitching her eyebrows as if to tell me how horribly wrong I was.
That afternoon, my uncle came to town to meet me. I told him about the sound that was good music to the ears and yet, had the power to hurt me because it simply did not stop. After hearing me out, uncle brought out a small portrait of Goddess Kali, and asked me to put it under my pillow.
When I started feeling sleepy that night, I took out the portrait from under the pillow and touched it with my right hand. I tried to concentrate, and kept on praying. Slowly, slowly, the sound disappeared. The tabla seemed to become more remote with every passing second, and so did the voice and the other instruments. Not much later...God, I am not superstitious. I am not guided by beliefs that cannot be understood. I had been imagining music all through. Or, am I what I think I am not? Don't know any longer, although once I thought I did.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
"No, no, no. I am not superstitious. I do not believe devils exist. I don't think ghosts are real. I am imagining noises, voices, sounds, pain...." Curled up on a bed in the Intensive Care Unit of a hospital, I was endeavouring to exorcise the music assaulting my senses repeatedly. But the musicians - a motley crew consisting of a trained voice, a shehnai, a violin, and a tabla that grew loud and louder - had other intentions. They wanted me to stay awake, to hear what they had composed which, in this case, was a chhota khayal in Raga Puriya Dhanashri that went on and on for two consecutive days.
At a time when I was in considerable pain, I heard the first strains of a composition for the first time. The melody was impeccable, and the violinist seemed particularly skilled. Half asleep out of sheer faigue, I found the tune really soothing and started humming softly. The vocalist leading the pack was a wonderful singer, and he was challenging me to make the best use of my voice that had been lying dormant for so long. It must have been around four in the evening when I had started humming. This went on till my attendant walked in. I checked the clock. It was well past midnight.
"Can you hear the way these guys are practising outside? They are perfectionists to the core," I remember telling him in a tone filled with admiration.
"Which song? Who is practising? It is absolutely silent," the fellow shot back. I opened my eyes fully, and stared at him. His face had a blank look which suggested he did not know what I was talking about.
"Can't you hear the riyaz outside?," I asked most impatiently.
"There is absolute silence sir. You must be joking," he replied. He must have been wondering how I was able to crack such sick jokes so late in the night when I was, it was abundantly obvious, very sick.
I just kept mum. Outside, the musicians continued to indulge in practice. I tried to sleep, but the tabla player had other ideas. He played the drums so loudly that the sound buried the vocals. I placed a pillow across my ears, and tried to sleep. In what was the most uneasy night of my entire life, I stayed awake till the nurse walked in.
"Sister, can you hear good music?" I asked the lady while looking at my attendant who was fast asleep.
"It is six in the morning. Who will sing now?," she responded, twitching her eyebrows as if to tell me how horribly wrong I was.
That afternoon, my uncle came to town to meet me. I told him about the sound that was good music to the ears and yet, had the power to hurt me because it simply did not stop. After hearing me out, uncle brought out a small portrait of Goddess Kali, and asked me to put it under my pillow.
When I started feeling sleepy that night, I took out the portrait from under the pillow and touched it with my right hand. I tried to concentrate, and kept on praying. Slowly, slowly, the sound disappeared. The tabla seemed to become more remote with every passing second, and so did the voice and the other instruments. Not much later...God, I am not superstitious. I am not guided by beliefs that cannot be understood. I had been imagining music all through. Or, am I what I think I am not? Don't know any longer, although once I thought I did.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
Sunday, April 16, 2006
SERIAL THRILLER
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
A look at Henning Mankell's latest novel The Man Who Smiled
Those who read thrillers, and by that I mean those who are addicted to crime fiction, would have surely come across the name of Henning Mankell. For those who have not, Mankell happens to be the creator of Inspector Kurt Wallander, one of the most popular mystery-solving protagonists in contemporary fiction.
Wallander has killed a man in the line of duty, leading to depression. Frustrated and low, he resolves to give up his job which is precisely when a friend comes to him, seeking assistance. This acquaintance works as a solicitor, and his father has been killed in a manner that is shrouded in mystery. Wallander wants to stay away from it but, three days later, the solicitor is found dead. That is when Wallander realises that he should have heard his friend out, and also that he is possibly on a double murder case. Amidst all this drama is a business tycoon, who has unfriendly secretaries and a very tight security at his disposal. Suspicions point towards him as Wallander pursues the case, and someone pursues him.
How good or bad is this offering from Mankell? The narrative is very well-paced, showing a master craftman at work. Similarly, Wallander is the sort of central character only those with some special talent for telling crime stories can hope to create. Whether he is simply drinking coffee or talking about a criminal act, he commands the reader's attention, something not many modern-day crime fiction writers can claim to have achieved.
Readers will be justified if they feel that Mankell is not a great writer of conversations which, at times, border on the pedestrian. But what keeps the reader hooked is the superb manner in which he builds the sub-plots, knowing exactly when to stop to generate speculations about what is going to happen next. The ambience is eerie, and every fresh twist in the tale only adds to its chill factor. Mankell, in brief, is a fantastic writer. And, the odd shortcoming of his will be happily overlooked because he has far too many strengths at his beck and call.
Reviewers the world over have been raving about this man's creative genius. I must take this opportunity to humbly add my name to that list.
A look at Henning Mankell's latest novel The Man Who Smiled
Those who read thrillers, and by that I mean those who are addicted to crime fiction, would have surely come across the name of Henning Mankell. For those who have not, Mankell happens to be the creator of Inspector Kurt Wallander, one of the most popular mystery-solving protagonists in contemporary fiction.
Wallander has killed a man in the line of duty, leading to depression. Frustrated and low, he resolves to give up his job which is precisely when a friend comes to him, seeking assistance. This acquaintance works as a solicitor, and his father has been killed in a manner that is shrouded in mystery. Wallander wants to stay away from it but, three days later, the solicitor is found dead. That is when Wallander realises that he should have heard his friend out, and also that he is possibly on a double murder case. Amidst all this drama is a business tycoon, who has unfriendly secretaries and a very tight security at his disposal. Suspicions point towards him as Wallander pursues the case, and someone pursues him.
How good or bad is this offering from Mankell? The narrative is very well-paced, showing a master craftman at work. Similarly, Wallander is the sort of central character only those with some special talent for telling crime stories can hope to create. Whether he is simply drinking coffee or talking about a criminal act, he commands the reader's attention, something not many modern-day crime fiction writers can claim to have achieved.
Readers will be justified if they feel that Mankell is not a great writer of conversations which, at times, border on the pedestrian. But what keeps the reader hooked is the superb manner in which he builds the sub-plots, knowing exactly when to stop to generate speculations about what is going to happen next. The ambience is eerie, and every fresh twist in the tale only adds to its chill factor. Mankell, in brief, is a fantastic writer. And, the odd shortcoming of his will be happily overlooked because he has far too many strengths at his beck and call.
Reviewers the world over have been raving about this man's creative genius. I must take this opportunity to humbly add my name to that list.
OF INCOMPLETE NOVELS LOST IN TIME
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Have you ever come across somebody with 23 unfinished novels? I have known one such person who, as far as I am concerned, is the biggest waste in the history of Indian writing in English. His ideation is fantastic, and his language even better. But, after he starts a novel, and I have seen him start about a dozen of them, he works on the plot with an enthusiasm that is almost child-like. After finishing some 20-25,000 words, he decides to abandon the idea and move on with something else. "Not happening, man," he grunts disappointedly.
Yes, you are right. He is, kind of, strange. About ten years back, I remember visiting his house when he was between jobs and, therefore, had some time to work on a new novel. In any case, he had been brought down by a speeding three-wheeler, resulting in bruises that were both ugly and visible. To check out how bad the injury was, I went to his place. He opened the door, looked at me through his Gandhian specs, and grinned. "Good to see you. Come on in. I was just about getting a new idea in place," he told me, his eyes glittering such that one became curious.
"It is about this man, you know, a crazy guy trying to discover his true self," he said softly, almost inaudibly. "Is it autobiographical? Then, it should be superb," I replied without making any effort to conceal my sarcasm. "Arey nah," he smiled, adding, "I am planning to call the book Fable of the 23rd century. The protagonist meets with an accident. Since he is a musician, he decides to do something unique. He does not allow the fractured bones to heal completely so that every injured part emanates a different sound once he taps them. That leads to music without any musical instruments, and the real story unfolds thereafter." Before I could ask him anything, he murmured, "I can't tell you what I have in mind of course."
The idea sounded very unusual, and it required special language and insight to turn into an acceptably decent novel. Both the gifts my friend had in plenty, yet I left the house wondering: will he finally finish a novel this time? Six months later, I heard the familiar statement, "Can't, man. Just can't. Am not convinced that it is going to shape up well."
What makes me remember this guy today? About a week ago, I signed a contract to do a book and promptly called him up. "Hey that is so nice," he said, "How many books do you want to write before you die, buddy?" "Has your wife knocked some sense into your head now that you have married? Are you going to finish one book at least?" I asked him. "Yes, I am trying to," he mumbled. "You know what," I almost yelled,"You are seriously incorrigible. You have it in you but won't write. You want to be a Shakespeare without being good enough, and so scared are you of comparisons with better writers that you refuse to finish the novel. Seriously, you are a loser."
After saying that, I hung up. I had screamed at somebody from whom I had learnt so much, which did not make me comfortable at all. But I did not regret what I had done. After all, somebody had to tell him that people like him had no business to sit back and criticise others when they had delivered nothing of consequence in life.
Have you ever come across somebody with 23 unfinished novels? I have known one such person who, as far as I am concerned, is the biggest waste in the history of Indian writing in English. His ideation is fantastic, and his language even better. But, after he starts a novel, and I have seen him start about a dozen of them, he works on the plot with an enthusiasm that is almost child-like. After finishing some 20-25,000 words, he decides to abandon the idea and move on with something else. "Not happening, man," he grunts disappointedly.
Yes, you are right. He is, kind of, strange. About ten years back, I remember visiting his house when he was between jobs and, therefore, had some time to work on a new novel. In any case, he had been brought down by a speeding three-wheeler, resulting in bruises that were both ugly and visible. To check out how bad the injury was, I went to his place. He opened the door, looked at me through his Gandhian specs, and grinned. "Good to see you. Come on in. I was just about getting a new idea in place," he told me, his eyes glittering such that one became curious.
"It is about this man, you know, a crazy guy trying to discover his true self," he said softly, almost inaudibly. "Is it autobiographical? Then, it should be superb," I replied without making any effort to conceal my sarcasm. "Arey nah," he smiled, adding, "I am planning to call the book Fable of the 23rd century. The protagonist meets with an accident. Since he is a musician, he decides to do something unique. He does not allow the fractured bones to heal completely so that every injured part emanates a different sound once he taps them. That leads to music without any musical instruments, and the real story unfolds thereafter." Before I could ask him anything, he murmured, "I can't tell you what I have in mind of course."
The idea sounded very unusual, and it required special language and insight to turn into an acceptably decent novel. Both the gifts my friend had in plenty, yet I left the house wondering: will he finally finish a novel this time? Six months later, I heard the familiar statement, "Can't, man. Just can't. Am not convinced that it is going to shape up well."
What makes me remember this guy today? About a week ago, I signed a contract to do a book and promptly called him up. "Hey that is so nice," he said, "How many books do you want to write before you die, buddy?" "Has your wife knocked some sense into your head now that you have married? Are you going to finish one book at least?" I asked him. "Yes, I am trying to," he mumbled. "You know what," I almost yelled,"You are seriously incorrigible. You have it in you but won't write. You want to be a Shakespeare without being good enough, and so scared are you of comparisons with better writers that you refuse to finish the novel. Seriously, you are a loser."
After saying that, I hung up. I had screamed at somebody from whom I had learnt so much, which did not make me comfortable at all. But I did not regret what I had done. After all, somebody had to tell him that people like him had no business to sit back and criticise others when they had delivered nothing of consequence in life.
WHY IS ARUNDHATI ROY FUMING?
BY KAVITA KANE
The past few days has made us, mere mortals, suitably daunted by the absolute power –call it star charisma - of the celebrity brigade. These non-terrestrial stars on terra firma shine, sparkle, glitter, glimmer, kill hapless black bucks and sleeping pavement dwellers – and we are dazzled enough to consistently forgive them their trespasses (“oh, that poor boy (of forty???) is being set up!”/ “he’s being judged too harshly!”) in the collective sigh of adulation, adoration and applause! Not that these overgrown babies are always insolent ingrates – watch how magnificently the Shirtless Khan (with his shirt and brave face on!) waved and kissed the roaring crowds? Warrior’s return that may be not, but a return to his world of sham-glam glory, it certainly was.
Another Khan is starring in another real-life drama, seasoned with more masala than your spicy potboiler and impressing an increasing audience. That Aamir Khan has thrown in his lot to support the 20-year old Narmada Andolan Bachao is creditable enough, never mind the more than many cynical eyebrows raised. One shapely eyebrow belongs to the singularly articulate Arundhati Roy who has wondered aloud how an MNC-endorser like Khan can turn a social crusader. Interestingly, a few years ago, this Booker-winning author of The God of Small Things decided to become one of the children of a lesser God herself, when she backed the fermenting farmers demanding rehabilitation. The good author left no listening ear indifferent to her fiery and elegantly eloquent call for her full support to the same movement, triggered off by the indomitable Medha Patkar two decades ago, much before the above-mentioned celebs basked in their respective glories.
Now it’s the turn of star Khan to twinkle. It is his turn to spout those fine lines, wonderful words and earnest pleas. The spotlight has been turned away from the crusading author to the crusading actor …and abruptly the star author finds herself paling in ignominious insignificance. Her truculent remark wondering aloud, how Khan as Coke’s long-time ambassador can fight for a people’s issue speaks volumes. Sounds almost sullen! Heartening is the fact is that a neglected crisis like the Narmada Bachao Andolan has, at last, got a star presence to gather mass appeal, and no one should appreciate this better than Ms Roy herself who is battling on the same grounds, fighting the same war. But she prefers to worry her pretty head about the potable water Coke is using (which is, anyway, a largely different issue!) instead. Or is it that she’s nervous about the Khan charm working otherwise?
Besides pampering enormous ego clashes our country has a generous host of heaving problems the fussy stars can pick and choose from. How about switching over to the farmers’ mass suicide?
The past few days has made us, mere mortals, suitably daunted by the absolute power –call it star charisma - of the celebrity brigade. These non-terrestrial stars on terra firma shine, sparkle, glitter, glimmer, kill hapless black bucks and sleeping pavement dwellers – and we are dazzled enough to consistently forgive them their trespasses (“oh, that poor boy (of forty???) is being set up!”/ “he’s being judged too harshly!”) in the collective sigh of adulation, adoration and applause! Not that these overgrown babies are always insolent ingrates – watch how magnificently the Shirtless Khan (with his shirt and brave face on!) waved and kissed the roaring crowds? Warrior’s return that may be not, but a return to his world of sham-glam glory, it certainly was.
Another Khan is starring in another real-life drama, seasoned with more masala than your spicy potboiler and impressing an increasing audience. That Aamir Khan has thrown in his lot to support the 20-year old Narmada Andolan Bachao is creditable enough, never mind the more than many cynical eyebrows raised. One shapely eyebrow belongs to the singularly articulate Arundhati Roy who has wondered aloud how an MNC-endorser like Khan can turn a social crusader. Interestingly, a few years ago, this Booker-winning author of The God of Small Things decided to become one of the children of a lesser God herself, when she backed the fermenting farmers demanding rehabilitation. The good author left no listening ear indifferent to her fiery and elegantly eloquent call for her full support to the same movement, triggered off by the indomitable Medha Patkar two decades ago, much before the above-mentioned celebs basked in their respective glories.
Now it’s the turn of star Khan to twinkle. It is his turn to spout those fine lines, wonderful words and earnest pleas. The spotlight has been turned away from the crusading author to the crusading actor …and abruptly the star author finds herself paling in ignominious insignificance. Her truculent remark wondering aloud, how Khan as Coke’s long-time ambassador can fight for a people’s issue speaks volumes. Sounds almost sullen! Heartening is the fact is that a neglected crisis like the Narmada Bachao Andolan has, at last, got a star presence to gather mass appeal, and no one should appreciate this better than Ms Roy herself who is battling on the same grounds, fighting the same war. But she prefers to worry her pretty head about the potable water Coke is using (which is, anyway, a largely different issue!) instead. Or is it that she’s nervous about the Khan charm working otherwise?
Besides pampering enormous ego clashes our country has a generous host of heaving problems the fussy stars can pick and choose from. How about switching over to the farmers’ mass suicide?
Sunday, April 09, 2006
YOU'VE GOT TO FACE IT
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
When did we have our first crush? When did we experience inexplicable unease while coming across a person of the opposite sex whom we liked for no particular reason? How did we explain our feelings to our friends, some of whom were going through a similar phase? I can't speak for others but, as far as I am concerned, it happened to me at the ripe old age of 13. My girlfriend, a neighbour, was 25 days younger. After restless days and sleepless nights, I had finally managed to stammer,"I lo-lo-lo-love you." "Me too, but don't tell anybody," she had cooed shyly. The first thing I did was go to school and speak to my close friends and, honestly, to some who were not even close to me. Those being uncool times, a romantic confession to my mom was out of question.
That is one reason why I admire my like-aged friends who are mothers today. Unlike our moms of 30 years ago - at least, most moms - they hear out what their kids have to say. It was only a few days ago that I was visiting the house of a friend with two lovely daughters. "Aai, I have a crush on my classmate. His name is Akio, and he is Japanese," the younger one chirped. "Is he your boyfriend?," the mom intervened mischievously. "Not really," the little one rolled her eyes, looked heavenward, and added,"but he is my dancing partner and spends a lot of time with me. I think he likes me too."
The other daughter who is 11, making her older by two years, was hearing the conversation all this while. Suddenly she, the quieter one, whispered, "Aai, even I have a crush. The guy, his eyes are so nice. He is too cute." It was quite a sight. The elder one, 11. The younger one, nine. Both sitting close to their mom, revealing their deepest secrets. "Since when did you fall for this friend of yours?," my friend asked patiently. "I have had a crush on him for the last two years, " the daughter said softly, "but I don't think that fellow likes any girl." Saying that, she put a hand across her forehead, murmured "his bad luck", and went back to watching the television.
In one day, within a few hours, a mom had been subjected to two romantic revelations. What should she expect tomorrow? I hope and pray that the admissions continue to be as sweet as the ones I heard the other day. And, how I wish I was born 13 years ago so that I could have walked up to my mom and said, "Know what ma? There is this girl I am totally in love with. Her house is close by, and she comes to the balcony and cleans her teeth with a toothbrush whenever her parents go out. That is when I go to her house and chat with her." "You mean to say a girl your age cleans her teeth at six in the evening so that you can...." I can hear my mom's annoyance as I write this. Understandable, she being like most other mothers of her generation. Need I add that today's kids are really lucky, thanks to parents my age?
When did we have our first crush? When did we experience inexplicable unease while coming across a person of the opposite sex whom we liked for no particular reason? How did we explain our feelings to our friends, some of whom were going through a similar phase? I can't speak for others but, as far as I am concerned, it happened to me at the ripe old age of 13. My girlfriend, a neighbour, was 25 days younger. After restless days and sleepless nights, I had finally managed to stammer,"I lo-lo-lo-love you." "Me too, but don't tell anybody," she had cooed shyly. The first thing I did was go to school and speak to my close friends and, honestly, to some who were not even close to me. Those being uncool times, a romantic confession to my mom was out of question.
That is one reason why I admire my like-aged friends who are mothers today. Unlike our moms of 30 years ago - at least, most moms - they hear out what their kids have to say. It was only a few days ago that I was visiting the house of a friend with two lovely daughters. "Aai, I have a crush on my classmate. His name is Akio, and he is Japanese," the younger one chirped. "Is he your boyfriend?," the mom intervened mischievously. "Not really," the little one rolled her eyes, looked heavenward, and added,"but he is my dancing partner and spends a lot of time with me. I think he likes me too."
The other daughter who is 11, making her older by two years, was hearing the conversation all this while. Suddenly she, the quieter one, whispered, "Aai, even I have a crush. The guy, his eyes are so nice. He is too cute." It was quite a sight. The elder one, 11. The younger one, nine. Both sitting close to their mom, revealing their deepest secrets. "Since when did you fall for this friend of yours?," my friend asked patiently. "I have had a crush on him for the last two years, " the daughter said softly, "but I don't think that fellow likes any girl." Saying that, she put a hand across her forehead, murmured "his bad luck", and went back to watching the television.
In one day, within a few hours, a mom had been subjected to two romantic revelations. What should she expect tomorrow? I hope and pray that the admissions continue to be as sweet as the ones I heard the other day. And, how I wish I was born 13 years ago so that I could have walked up to my mom and said, "Know what ma? There is this girl I am totally in love with. Her house is close by, and she comes to the balcony and cleans her teeth with a toothbrush whenever her parents go out. That is when I go to her house and chat with her." "You mean to say a girl your age cleans her teeth at six in the evening so that you can...." I can hear my mom's annoyance as I write this. Understandable, she being like most other mothers of her generation. Need I add that today's kids are really lucky, thanks to parents my age?
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
SAD, HE IS BAD
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
After Salman Rushdie became a major success in the West, Rukun Advani had coined a term for young Indians writing in English. Referring to Amitav Ghosh, Advani called this group the Ghosh Generation. Upamanyu Chatterjee belongs to the same period, although his manner of storytelling is different from most. Chatterjee's debut novel English August: An Indian Story became a rage everywhere. A young urban bureaucrat forced to face a new set of social realities in a small town, the plight of his protagonist Agastya Sen was something many identified with. After just one novel, Chatterjee had turned into a household name among those reading fiction in English.
Many years have gone by. Weight Loss is Chatterjee's fourth work and, it must be said, his most ambitious till date. The wonderfully designed jacket tells us that the novel is only "tangentially about weight loss", and that it is a "comedy of sexual and spiritual degradation." At the centre of all the action is Bhola, and there is nothing bhola (implying, innocent) about the guy to begin with. A licentious pervert since childhood, he fantasises about anybody and everybody, be it men, women or eunuchs. While at school, Bhola's delinquent ways are such that most readers will take some time to accept the character for what it is.
In some ways, this is a horror story. The young lad gets passionately attracted to people from the lower strata of the society. He has a relationship with a couple that sell vegetables: both the man and his wife. After being expelled from school, he eventually goes off to study in a faraway place. He scores fantastic marks in his school final exams, but that does not matter to him. He wants to return to Titli and Moti, the vegetable-selling couple. That's all. Because of the way Bhola leads his life, he seems destined to die in the end. At 37, after eight relationships, four with men and the rest with women, his life ends in an unusual manner that need not be described here.
So, what is so remarkable about a book that tells the story of a pervert? Bhola's character is such a shocker that nobody in his senses would pray for a son -- or a neighbour -- like him. But apart from his obsessions, one with jogging for weight loss and the other with sex, he comes across as a sensitive guy with a deep understanding of the finer things in life. He goes through a disastrous marriage but, when his wife practises music, he thinks, "What kind of song do you sing in the mornings, Kamala, and why a different type in the evenings? Where do they connect -- the brash rock that I've enjoyed for decades and your heavenly melody? Is a khayal a thought and a thumri a lilt? And an alaap an appetizer or the precursor to the mood? Is it too late for me to sing with you?" Exquisitely phrased thought, which makes one wonder what Bhola might have been if he had been able to tame his sexual impulses.
Till the last day of his life, he believes that he has been a non-achiever with nothing to talk about except a series of misadventures. Yet, he is miserably human in his inability to conquer his foibles. Somewhere, he knows he is just drifting through the ocean of life. But he seems to have reconciled to the fact that he will never change. Or rather, he never ever can. He is crippled by subversive flaws that eclipse whatever good qualities he has.
While experiencing the last moments of his life, he contemplates, "Do people really weep for God as they do for their wife and children? Now, who had asked that? Sri Ramakrishna? And why on earth should they?" Once again, the thought shows that he possesses a reflective mind. But what that does not mean is that the reader will be charmed by the character. So hopelessly enslaved to his weaknesses is he that one can, at best, pity him. And one would, despite knowing that deviants like him can defile an already corrupt society even further. This is where Chatterjee's triumph lies. The theme is complex and, therefore, the protagonist. At no point in time do we relate to Bhola. But we do realise what makes him flawed, and why he should not exist.
(The copyright of this article rests with The Maharashtra Herald )
After Salman Rushdie became a major success in the West, Rukun Advani had coined a term for young Indians writing in English. Referring to Amitav Ghosh, Advani called this group the Ghosh Generation. Upamanyu Chatterjee belongs to the same period, although his manner of storytelling is different from most. Chatterjee's debut novel English August: An Indian Story became a rage everywhere. A young urban bureaucrat forced to face a new set of social realities in a small town, the plight of his protagonist Agastya Sen was something many identified with. After just one novel, Chatterjee had turned into a household name among those reading fiction in English.
Many years have gone by. Weight Loss is Chatterjee's fourth work and, it must be said, his most ambitious till date. The wonderfully designed jacket tells us that the novel is only "tangentially about weight loss", and that it is a "comedy of sexual and spiritual degradation." At the centre of all the action is Bhola, and there is nothing bhola (implying, innocent) about the guy to begin with. A licentious pervert since childhood, he fantasises about anybody and everybody, be it men, women or eunuchs. While at school, Bhola's delinquent ways are such that most readers will take some time to accept the character for what it is.
In some ways, this is a horror story. The young lad gets passionately attracted to people from the lower strata of the society. He has a relationship with a couple that sell vegetables: both the man and his wife. After being expelled from school, he eventually goes off to study in a faraway place. He scores fantastic marks in his school final exams, but that does not matter to him. He wants to return to Titli and Moti, the vegetable-selling couple. That's all. Because of the way Bhola leads his life, he seems destined to die in the end. At 37, after eight relationships, four with men and the rest with women, his life ends in an unusual manner that need not be described here.
So, what is so remarkable about a book that tells the story of a pervert? Bhola's character is such a shocker that nobody in his senses would pray for a son -- or a neighbour -- like him. But apart from his obsessions, one with jogging for weight loss and the other with sex, he comes across as a sensitive guy with a deep understanding of the finer things in life. He goes through a disastrous marriage but, when his wife practises music, he thinks, "What kind of song do you sing in the mornings, Kamala, and why a different type in the evenings? Where do they connect -- the brash rock that I've enjoyed for decades and your heavenly melody? Is a khayal a thought and a thumri a lilt? And an alaap an appetizer or the precursor to the mood? Is it too late for me to sing with you?" Exquisitely phrased thought, which makes one wonder what Bhola might have been if he had been able to tame his sexual impulses.
Till the last day of his life, he believes that he has been a non-achiever with nothing to talk about except a series of misadventures. Yet, he is miserably human in his inability to conquer his foibles. Somewhere, he knows he is just drifting through the ocean of life. But he seems to have reconciled to the fact that he will never change. Or rather, he never ever can. He is crippled by subversive flaws that eclipse whatever good qualities he has.
While experiencing the last moments of his life, he contemplates, "Do people really weep for God as they do for their wife and children? Now, who had asked that? Sri Ramakrishna? And why on earth should they?" Once again, the thought shows that he possesses a reflective mind. But what that does not mean is that the reader will be charmed by the character. So hopelessly enslaved to his weaknesses is he that one can, at best, pity him. And one would, despite knowing that deviants like him can defile an already corrupt society even further. This is where Chatterjee's triumph lies. The theme is complex and, therefore, the protagonist. At no point in time do we relate to Bhola. But we do realise what makes him flawed, and why he should not exist.
(The copyright of this article rests with The Maharashtra Herald )
IT'S NOT JUST CRICKET ANYMORE
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
In the recent one-day match between the South Africans and the Australians, the latter posted an incredible 434 for 4 in their allotted quota of overs. In response, South Africa posted an even more incredible 438 and won. The subsequent euphoria surpassed all expectations. Many termed the match as the greatest one-dayer ever. After all, how many times can one hope to see 872 runs being scored at an average of 8.72 runs an over? Doesn't it require some really special batting effort to ensure that the best bowler who completes his spell concedes 6.7 runs an over? Superb. Mind-blowing. Those who do not view the game as a form of art must have exclaimed that way.
Now that the ecstasy has subsided somewhat, it is important to take a serious look at a match that gave no chance to the bowlers at all. Even if the pitch was batsman-friendly, the shot selection by the Australians that enabled them to post such a huge target showed that the batters were operating on a very basic see-and-hit principle. Even decent deliveries were being smacked out of the park, and the ball soared high enough to meet the clouds once every second over. Such a simplistic approach to batsmanship isn't what cricket is meant to be. One cannot question the South Africans. Displaying unbelievable courage, they went after the Australian bowling, using the same formula that their opponents did. Herschelle Gibbs played a blinder of an innings, but the player who gave an indication of the signs of things to come was the lower order bat J J van der Waath. The manner in which he butchered the bowling, ignoring every rule in the book, suggested that a Dennis Lilee could have turned out for the Australians and suffered the same fate.
Times have changed. So has cricket. Commercialisation has ensured that the game has to be packaged and presented in a manner that is viewer-friendly. When cricketers wear coloured clothing and play under floodlights, the situation does not seem outrageous any longer. When a lower order bat walks out to bat at number three so that he can hit, what they call, a few lusty blows, nobody gets surprised by the sudden change in the batting order. With concepts like super subs coming into being, the shorter version of cricket is all about quick thinking and calculations to outsmart the opposing team.
But the one change that is hard to swallow is the complete disregard for technique. In many ways, today's cricket has become like modern-day tennis. During the good old days when players like Bjorn Borg made such a significant impact, the game was characterised by a certain artistry that is rarely seen today. Even lesser players like Vijay Amritraj dazzled in the courts when, for instance, the Indian rushed to the net to meet a lob. Everyone expected a safe smash that the opponent could not have returned. Instead, Vijay touched the ball so slightly that it just about crossed the net and fell on the other side. That kind of control was sheer class, as opposed to the modern game when most players use power to outpace their rivals. Because of his deft touches, Ramesh Krishnan was nicknamed 'Surgeon' in the tennis circles. In today's times, an artist like Krishnan would not have survived beyond the first round. This is not because he was any less skilled, but since his serves lacked power and would have been put away by the most mediocre of players.
Cricket, sadly, is going the tennis way. With competitions like Twenty Twenty becoming more and more popular, power hitting will dominate the game in the long run. Very few would like to take up bowling, because good deliveries will not get the sort of respect they deserve. When batsmen like van der Waath come out to bat, all one will get to see is the ball flying out of the ground. As long as a bowler doesn't deliver a hopelessly wide ball, such batsmen would not favour the idea of leaving the delivery alone.
There was a time when Sunil Gavaskar's best cricketing skill was the art of leaving the ball. Playing without a helmet, he would move away from the line of a delivery and watch the ball go into the wicketkeeper's gloves. That is when one knew how technically skilled Gavaskar was. But, what would he have done had he been asked to chase a target of 500 runs in 50 overs? If a more recent player, he would have surely adapted to the needs of the one-day game reasonably well. Why he did not do so is because, and I seriously think so, Gavaskar did not take his one-day cricket seriously. Besides, one-day games were looked down upon by many then. So, he did not need to do so anyway. Today, things are different. A huge number of one-dayers are being played. So, even if Gavaskar had acclimatised to the format, the Little Master's attempt to play a cross-batted stroke would have been an ugly sight. The ball might have gone for a four, but one's love for the game would have died an instant death. Yet, most modern-day lovers of the game would have cheered and cheered. Won't blame them. They are used to the idea of not watching cricket.
In the recent one-day match between the South Africans and the Australians, the latter posted an incredible 434 for 4 in their allotted quota of overs. In response, South Africa posted an even more incredible 438 and won. The subsequent euphoria surpassed all expectations. Many termed the match as the greatest one-dayer ever. After all, how many times can one hope to see 872 runs being scored at an average of 8.72 runs an over? Doesn't it require some really special batting effort to ensure that the best bowler who completes his spell concedes 6.7 runs an over? Superb. Mind-blowing. Those who do not view the game as a form of art must have exclaimed that way.
Now that the ecstasy has subsided somewhat, it is important to take a serious look at a match that gave no chance to the bowlers at all. Even if the pitch was batsman-friendly, the shot selection by the Australians that enabled them to post such a huge target showed that the batters were operating on a very basic see-and-hit principle. Even decent deliveries were being smacked out of the park, and the ball soared high enough to meet the clouds once every second over. Such a simplistic approach to batsmanship isn't what cricket is meant to be. One cannot question the South Africans. Displaying unbelievable courage, they went after the Australian bowling, using the same formula that their opponents did. Herschelle Gibbs played a blinder of an innings, but the player who gave an indication of the signs of things to come was the lower order bat J J van der Waath. The manner in which he butchered the bowling, ignoring every rule in the book, suggested that a Dennis Lilee could have turned out for the Australians and suffered the same fate.
Times have changed. So has cricket. Commercialisation has ensured that the game has to be packaged and presented in a manner that is viewer-friendly. When cricketers wear coloured clothing and play under floodlights, the situation does not seem outrageous any longer. When a lower order bat walks out to bat at number three so that he can hit, what they call, a few lusty blows, nobody gets surprised by the sudden change in the batting order. With concepts like super subs coming into being, the shorter version of cricket is all about quick thinking and calculations to outsmart the opposing team.
But the one change that is hard to swallow is the complete disregard for technique. In many ways, today's cricket has become like modern-day tennis. During the good old days when players like Bjorn Borg made such a significant impact, the game was characterised by a certain artistry that is rarely seen today. Even lesser players like Vijay Amritraj dazzled in the courts when, for instance, the Indian rushed to the net to meet a lob. Everyone expected a safe smash that the opponent could not have returned. Instead, Vijay touched the ball so slightly that it just about crossed the net and fell on the other side. That kind of control was sheer class, as opposed to the modern game when most players use power to outpace their rivals. Because of his deft touches, Ramesh Krishnan was nicknamed 'Surgeon' in the tennis circles. In today's times, an artist like Krishnan would not have survived beyond the first round. This is not because he was any less skilled, but since his serves lacked power and would have been put away by the most mediocre of players.
Cricket, sadly, is going the tennis way. With competitions like Twenty Twenty becoming more and more popular, power hitting will dominate the game in the long run. Very few would like to take up bowling, because good deliveries will not get the sort of respect they deserve. When batsmen like van der Waath come out to bat, all one will get to see is the ball flying out of the ground. As long as a bowler doesn't deliver a hopelessly wide ball, such batsmen would not favour the idea of leaving the delivery alone.
There was a time when Sunil Gavaskar's best cricketing skill was the art of leaving the ball. Playing without a helmet, he would move away from the line of a delivery and watch the ball go into the wicketkeeper's gloves. That is when one knew how technically skilled Gavaskar was. But, what would he have done had he been asked to chase a target of 500 runs in 50 overs? If a more recent player, he would have surely adapted to the needs of the one-day game reasonably well. Why he did not do so is because, and I seriously think so, Gavaskar did not take his one-day cricket seriously. Besides, one-day games were looked down upon by many then. So, he did not need to do so anyway. Today, things are different. A huge number of one-dayers are being played. So, even if Gavaskar had acclimatised to the format, the Little Master's attempt to play a cross-batted stroke would have been an ugly sight. The ball might have gone for a four, but one's love for the game would have died an instant death. Yet, most modern-day lovers of the game would have cheered and cheered. Won't blame them. They are used to the idea of not watching cricket.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
STORIES OF PASSION
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Most memories fade with time. But a few refuse to vacate the mind and go away. One such memory had catalysed the possibility of an accident a few months ago. I was in a taxi in Mumbai, and the car stereo was playing the cult classic I Am A Disco Dancer from the film Disco Dancer that had turned Mithun Chakraborty into an overnight dancing sensation in 1982. While humming the song, the driver changed gears so excitedly that he almost hit an auto-rickshaw. Out of sheer disgust, the rickshaw driver churned out some awful unprintables. After sanity returned, my cab fellow told me apologetically, "Sorry, saab. But I really love the song. I have been hearing it ever since the film got released." I wasn't prepared to grant him unconditional apology, since the experience had shaken me up thoroughly. But I understood him. As someone who had witnessed the Disco Dancer mania at its peak, and that too in a small town, I knew that the driver had turned into Mithun for a brief while.
There are so many books on Bollywood and its stars, but I am yet to come across a serious yet popular work on the enormity of its impact on the commoner's lives. Although I am a great Amitabh Bachchan fan, I was astounded when the Big B came to an awards function in Mumbai last year. Till the superstar arrived at the arena, the Vivek Oberois of the world were hijacking all the attention. But once he did, about eight persons climbed on a ledge to have a look at the man. While trying to wave at him, all of them fell down. With big grins on their faces, they wiped the dust off their clothes and returned to the seats. Had I not been working for the company that had organised the awards ceremony, would I have acted like those fellows? Don't know. Won't speculate. Actually I might have, considering I had once watched Shahenshah every day for one week or more. Even today, I tend to find millions of merits in Big B films like Ek Ajnabee that the critics pan and the box-office rejects. And, while I am sure that no critic will sympathise with my perspective, it is equally true that are at least a few thousand fans out there who think Ek Ajnabee is a flawless masterpiece unlike me.
When a star is at his or her peak, fans mimic their dress sense in a big way. I have been fortunate enough to see people wearing yellow shirts, yellow trousers and, of course, white shoes when Jeetendra's Hindi forays shot down South were huge hits. Amitabh's hairstyle was copied by thousands and, here I have noticed, mostly by short men. When Mithun Chakraborty became a rage, many shaved off their sideburns. In parts of the cow belt, 'disco lights' were available for Rs 20 which people attached to their belts. The lights went blink, blink, blink, as the proud owners walked up and down the streets, trying to look like their beloved disco dancer. In a small-town theatre, I have seen people leave their seats and go down on their knees, imagining they had guitars in hands when Amitabh Bachchan played the instrument onscreen in Yaarana or Mithun did in Disco Dancer.
If you visit an awards show, just make sure you see how people move their necks every time a new star comes to the venue. Eastward, Westward: that movement is to catch a better view of Abhishek Bachchan who makes an entry from the front. Westward, Eastward: that is for Rani Mukherji who walks in from the rear. Don't the necks hurt because of the sheer number of times everyone moves them? Not at that time, although one is quite sure many feel the sting once they are back home and dealing with the demands of everyday living.
Many feel that people flock to Mumbai in huge numbers every year to work as extras because they have no job opportunities back home. I can understand if the reference is to cab or rickshaw drivers, who earn a lot more than they can back home. But most who work as extras do so because they are besotted with the idea of being close to the stars they adore so much. Some of them continue to dream of becoming minor actors till the last days of their lives. With such aspirations in mind, they work for 16 hours a day, eating unpalatable unit food, earning hardly anything, unsure of what tomorrow has in store. But then, such is passion.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
Most memories fade with time. But a few refuse to vacate the mind and go away. One such memory had catalysed the possibility of an accident a few months ago. I was in a taxi in Mumbai, and the car stereo was playing the cult classic I Am A Disco Dancer from the film Disco Dancer that had turned Mithun Chakraborty into an overnight dancing sensation in 1982. While humming the song, the driver changed gears so excitedly that he almost hit an auto-rickshaw. Out of sheer disgust, the rickshaw driver churned out some awful unprintables. After sanity returned, my cab fellow told me apologetically, "Sorry, saab. But I really love the song. I have been hearing it ever since the film got released." I wasn't prepared to grant him unconditional apology, since the experience had shaken me up thoroughly. But I understood him. As someone who had witnessed the Disco Dancer mania at its peak, and that too in a small town, I knew that the driver had turned into Mithun for a brief while.
There are so many books on Bollywood and its stars, but I am yet to come across a serious yet popular work on the enormity of its impact on the commoner's lives. Although I am a great Amitabh Bachchan fan, I was astounded when the Big B came to an awards function in Mumbai last year. Till the superstar arrived at the arena, the Vivek Oberois of the world were hijacking all the attention. But once he did, about eight persons climbed on a ledge to have a look at the man. While trying to wave at him, all of them fell down. With big grins on their faces, they wiped the dust off their clothes and returned to the seats. Had I not been working for the company that had organised the awards ceremony, would I have acted like those fellows? Don't know. Won't speculate. Actually I might have, considering I had once watched Shahenshah every day for one week or more. Even today, I tend to find millions of merits in Big B films like Ek Ajnabee that the critics pan and the box-office rejects. And, while I am sure that no critic will sympathise with my perspective, it is equally true that are at least a few thousand fans out there who think Ek Ajnabee is a flawless masterpiece unlike me.
When a star is at his or her peak, fans mimic their dress sense in a big way. I have been fortunate enough to see people wearing yellow shirts, yellow trousers and, of course, white shoes when Jeetendra's Hindi forays shot down South were huge hits. Amitabh's hairstyle was copied by thousands and, here I have noticed, mostly by short men. When Mithun Chakraborty became a rage, many shaved off their sideburns. In parts of the cow belt, 'disco lights' were available for Rs 20 which people attached to their belts. The lights went blink, blink, blink, as the proud owners walked up and down the streets, trying to look like their beloved disco dancer. In a small-town theatre, I have seen people leave their seats and go down on their knees, imagining they had guitars in hands when Amitabh Bachchan played the instrument onscreen in Yaarana or Mithun did in Disco Dancer.
If you visit an awards show, just make sure you see how people move their necks every time a new star comes to the venue. Eastward, Westward: that movement is to catch a better view of Abhishek Bachchan who makes an entry from the front. Westward, Eastward: that is for Rani Mukherji who walks in from the rear. Don't the necks hurt because of the sheer number of times everyone moves them? Not at that time, although one is quite sure many feel the sting once they are back home and dealing with the demands of everyday living.
Many feel that people flock to Mumbai in huge numbers every year to work as extras because they have no job opportunities back home. I can understand if the reference is to cab or rickshaw drivers, who earn a lot more than they can back home. But most who work as extras do so because they are besotted with the idea of being close to the stars they adore so much. Some of them continue to dream of becoming minor actors till the last days of their lives. With such aspirations in mind, they work for 16 hours a day, eating unpalatable unit food, earning hardly anything, unsure of what tomorrow has in store. But then, such is passion.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
Friday, February 10, 2006
TALKING OF LOVERS
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
She is a friend. A very dear friend. She called me up the other day and said,"I am low."
"Why?" I asked.
"My hubby is going away on Valentine's Day. This is the first time we will not be together in years," she said.
Is my friend a young girl? If 35 is young, yes. But I can understand why she feels so. She and her hubby share a beautiful relationship, and it seems that they have been married only yesterday when you see how many beautiful moments they share, just talking and smiling away.
So, she was sad. What did she plan to do, I asked her. "What will I do?," she thought for a while and added, "I guess I will dedicate an hour to him and sulk." Then, she started giggling away like a teenager. She sounded happy at the thought which I found quite mad, and nice.
When I see such relationships, I learn just one thing. And that is what I told her. "Whenever you speak to him daily, it is a Valentine moment. That is because you guys are in love. Isn't it so much better than being in a sick relationship in which, even if you go out on Valentine's Day, you do so to mourn because the occasion exists and that formalities need to be fulfilled to carry on with life?"
That was a long unpunctuated one. Wordsworth might have said that it was a "spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings." Only, unlike the great Romantic, I did not wish to recollect them in tranquility.
She is a friend. A very dear friend. She called me up the other day and said,"I am low."
"Why?" I asked.
"My hubby is going away on Valentine's Day. This is the first time we will not be together in years," she said.
Is my friend a young girl? If 35 is young, yes. But I can understand why she feels so. She and her hubby share a beautiful relationship, and it seems that they have been married only yesterday when you see how many beautiful moments they share, just talking and smiling away.
So, she was sad. What did she plan to do, I asked her. "What will I do?," she thought for a while and added, "I guess I will dedicate an hour to him and sulk." Then, she started giggling away like a teenager. She sounded happy at the thought which I found quite mad, and nice.
When I see such relationships, I learn just one thing. And that is what I told her. "Whenever you speak to him daily, it is a Valentine moment. That is because you guys are in love. Isn't it so much better than being in a sick relationship in which, even if you go out on Valentine's Day, you do so to mourn because the occasion exists and that formalities need to be fulfilled to carry on with life?"
That was a long unpunctuated one. Wordsworth might have said that it was a "spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings." Only, unlike the great Romantic, I did not wish to recollect them in tranquility.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
ANOTHER BLOGGER'S BOOKLIST
Just decided to do some excavation and turned out to be a favourite with another blogger.
http://spaces.msn.com/Rosefari/Blog/cns!1pqBmmVlGwuPBohLnKbm_i4w!125.entry
Wow!
http://spaces.msn.com/Rosefari/Blog/cns!1pqBmmVlGwuPBohLnKbm_i4w!125.entry
Wow!
Monday, February 06, 2006
THE NIGHT MISS SERENITY BECAME HER HIGHNESS
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Uncle, uncle, I want to watch Narnia once again," my 11-year-old buddy Miss Serenity told me excitedly over the phone, adding, "I have been dreaming about the film all night." Serenity and I have been good friends for about a year, but this was the first time she had asked for something on her own. Because of the way she spoke, I sensed that she could run up to me at that very moment and drag me to the theatre if I could spare a couple of hours on a working day. For a while, I wanted to make that possible. But when I looked at all I had to do, I knew that dreaming of such a possibility was the closest I could get to watching The Chronicles of Narnia that day.
Watching children's films with children is a very special experience. For they have thoughts and ideas which we, as adults, can never have. Their understanding of films made for them exceeds ours, although they may not express themselves with the kind of clarity or cold logic (discussions on cinematography, quality of special effects) that we can. They get transported to the make-believe worlds much faster than we do. Once there, they become permanent residents of that unreal place till the film ends and they walk out, eyeing the soft drinks stall, hoping their adult friend will buy them another packet of popcorn. The smart ones don't ask for it. They just look at you and smile from ear to ear, hoping you will get the signal. The odd dumb one looks at you and says, "Uncle, one more popcorn please." No matter what happens, they help me enjoy a complete cinematic experience, which should include a popcorn of course.
But Serenity is different. She and I had gone out a few times, but she had never asked for a popcorn ever. She did not even look at a soft drinks stall, as a result of which I always had to ask her what she wanted. Shyly, she answered. Almost uncomfortably. So why was she requesting for a second visit to the theatre for the same film? The reason is the wardrobe, I think. In the film, four kids get transported to a new world by walking into, and out of, a wardrobe. Peter, Susan, Edmund, and the oh-so adorable Lucy: they set their feet in a world that they are destined to emancipate from a witch's vicious clutches. I thought of Serenity, and wondered why she had been thinking of that film.
In her dreams, I think she walked towards the wardrobe, and entered it quietly after checking out that her parents were fast asleep. She stepped out of it, and found the gang of four sitting near Aslan, the majestic lion. She grinned at Lucy who smiled back with that innocent radiance of hers. Edmund looked at her with scepticism, understandable since he was feeling guilty after giving out some important details to the witch. Peter had a bit of attitude, but he was okay with her presence. Susan did not say anything, but she seemed fine with her, as was Aslan.
Suddenly, a male beaver trudged up to Serenity and told her, "His Highness the Lion King was expecting you. The five of you had to come together to eliminate the witch." The beaver's wife joined in, and even offered Serenity a hot drink. The child needed it, since Narnia was freezing and she had left her fur coat back in her bungalow. Suddenly, she noticed a faun who walked up to her with a jacket in hand. It had been made out of some strange material that seemed like a mixture of wool and jute. He gave it to her, and she accepted it happily.
After countless adventures, the witch was finally eliminated. Aslan, the father figure, declared that Narnia would be divided into five equal parts that would be ruled by the five youngsters. Serenity sat right next to Lucy and, when she was crowned the queen, she just could not resist smiling away.
All through the night, Serenity must have been grinning in her sleep till morning dawned. While adults would have taken pride in exchanging information like Liam Neeson lent the voice for Aslan's character, Serenity must have been upset to find that she was not in Narnia but Pune. She must have explored every wardrobe in her house, and even entered a couple of them to see if there was a passage to Narnia somewhere. Once she realised that she had been dreaming, Serenity did the best she could have. She spoke to me about seeing the film again so that she could return to a world that doesn't exist.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald )
Uncle, uncle, I want to watch Narnia once again," my 11-year-old buddy Miss Serenity told me excitedly over the phone, adding, "I have been dreaming about the film all night." Serenity and I have been good friends for about a year, but this was the first time she had asked for something on her own. Because of the way she spoke, I sensed that she could run up to me at that very moment and drag me to the theatre if I could spare a couple of hours on a working day. For a while, I wanted to make that possible. But when I looked at all I had to do, I knew that dreaming of such a possibility was the closest I could get to watching The Chronicles of Narnia that day.
Watching children's films with children is a very special experience. For they have thoughts and ideas which we, as adults, can never have. Their understanding of films made for them exceeds ours, although they may not express themselves with the kind of clarity or cold logic (discussions on cinematography, quality of special effects) that we can. They get transported to the make-believe worlds much faster than we do. Once there, they become permanent residents of that unreal place till the film ends and they walk out, eyeing the soft drinks stall, hoping their adult friend will buy them another packet of popcorn. The smart ones don't ask for it. They just look at you and smile from ear to ear, hoping you will get the signal. The odd dumb one looks at you and says, "Uncle, one more popcorn please." No matter what happens, they help me enjoy a complete cinematic experience, which should include a popcorn of course.
But Serenity is different. She and I had gone out a few times, but she had never asked for a popcorn ever. She did not even look at a soft drinks stall, as a result of which I always had to ask her what she wanted. Shyly, she answered. Almost uncomfortably. So why was she requesting for a second visit to the theatre for the same film? The reason is the wardrobe, I think. In the film, four kids get transported to a new world by walking into, and out of, a wardrobe. Peter, Susan, Edmund, and the oh-so adorable Lucy: they set their feet in a world that they are destined to emancipate from a witch's vicious clutches. I thought of Serenity, and wondered why she had been thinking of that film.
In her dreams, I think she walked towards the wardrobe, and entered it quietly after checking out that her parents were fast asleep. She stepped out of it, and found the gang of four sitting near Aslan, the majestic lion. She grinned at Lucy who smiled back with that innocent radiance of hers. Edmund looked at her with scepticism, understandable since he was feeling guilty after giving out some important details to the witch. Peter had a bit of attitude, but he was okay with her presence. Susan did not say anything, but she seemed fine with her, as was Aslan.
Suddenly, a male beaver trudged up to Serenity and told her, "His Highness the Lion King was expecting you. The five of you had to come together to eliminate the witch." The beaver's wife joined in, and even offered Serenity a hot drink. The child needed it, since Narnia was freezing and she had left her fur coat back in her bungalow. Suddenly, she noticed a faun who walked up to her with a jacket in hand. It had been made out of some strange material that seemed like a mixture of wool and jute. He gave it to her, and she accepted it happily.
After countless adventures, the witch was finally eliminated. Aslan, the father figure, declared that Narnia would be divided into five equal parts that would be ruled by the five youngsters. Serenity sat right next to Lucy and, when she was crowned the queen, she just could not resist smiling away.
All through the night, Serenity must have been grinning in her sleep till morning dawned. While adults would have taken pride in exchanging information like Liam Neeson lent the voice for Aslan's character, Serenity must have been upset to find that she was not in Narnia but Pune. She must have explored every wardrobe in her house, and even entered a couple of them to see if there was a passage to Narnia somewhere. Once she realised that she had been dreaming, Serenity did the best she could have. She spoke to me about seeing the film again so that she could return to a world that doesn't exist.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald )
Thursday, February 02, 2006
WHEN CRITICISM BECOMES A HATCHET JOB
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Criticise since you must. Criticise if you should. The line of demarcation between the two is so very thin that it becomes impossible to segregate them. I am, of course, talking about the media’s analysis of films, music and literature. Our quintessential critic tends to forget that a creative artiste is human too. Humanness being a reality common to all, it is understandable that one might err while working on a product, be it a film, a music album or a novel. The critic’s task is to say what the flaw is and this, I believe, should be done in a tone of soft understatement. But what most do, and I wonder why, is that they murder the creative product with sustained malice. That’s inexplicable. They are doing their jobs, they might affirm in unison. That they are finishing off sincere people with great potential and pertinacity is the way I see it.
There is this film critic I really admire, for instance. Why I do so is not because of his reviews, since I believe that he fills his quill with a viper’s venom before his day begins. What I admire is the way he uses the language: his choice of words, his sentence structures and, most importantly, his fabulous command over punctuation marks, which make his reviews very readable. Not that his knowledge about films is any less admirable. He has been studying world cinema for years now, and that explains why he can identify acts of plagiarism like few others.
But what I do not understand is why he indulges in destructive criticism when a little bit of magnanimity can help a sincerely made product. For, when the average reader approaches a review, there are occasions during which he gets influenced by what the reviewer has to say. And when the reviewer enjoys the sort of stature that the film critic I am talking about does, his voice can have a serious impact on the readers. Overwhelmed by the language, stumped by the vicious perspective, quite a few might choose to avoid the film the reviewer butchers without any qualms. That is not the function of criticism, or am I getting it all wrong?
One rather famous book reviewer I had to endure for quite sometime would walk up to me and ask, “Hey man, you’ve got any book that you want me to massacre? If so, I am right here.” A little apprehensive about this approach even when I was very young -- that age when aspiring critics rubbish anything and everything -- I remember giving him a couple of sad bestsellers to check out what he meant. He was funny, enjoyable, and his vitriolic tongue seemed to be just right for those books.
But then I made the serious error of giving him a quality literary work. When he sent his review to me, I, to my horror, discovered that the article had the same sarcastic tone that he had used to guillotine Harold Robbins-like gibberish earlier. Years later, that would have been unacceptable to me. But not then. I could not have asked this fellow to rework his article.
Such critics are forced to genuflect when a Salman Rushdie comes along. After having started out with a less-than-ordinary novel Grimus, Rushdie went on to write the path-breaking Midnight’s Children. Grimus had -- what most had preferred to ignore -- a few stunning passages that showed what Rushdie was capable of. With Midnight’s Children, Rushdie managed to silence all those who chose to believe that he was a terribly inconsistent writer.
But the question is: what if a debut-making novelist is good without having the talent to become a Rushdie? Does one have the right to cause serious damage to those who might have had a decent future if critics had been kinder? One must not forget that even publishers are influenced by such criticism, and that this might dictate their decision on the writer’s next work. But the critic goes on till he decides to submit his own manuscript to a publisher. His voice becomes gentle. Suddenly, he becomes aware of human follies and foibles as he awaits the verdict of the media. This time, for the many crimes he might have committed himself.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
Criticise since you must. Criticise if you should. The line of demarcation between the two is so very thin that it becomes impossible to segregate them. I am, of course, talking about the media’s analysis of films, music and literature. Our quintessential critic tends to forget that a creative artiste is human too. Humanness being a reality common to all, it is understandable that one might err while working on a product, be it a film, a music album or a novel. The critic’s task is to say what the flaw is and this, I believe, should be done in a tone of soft understatement. But what most do, and I wonder why, is that they murder the creative product with sustained malice. That’s inexplicable. They are doing their jobs, they might affirm in unison. That they are finishing off sincere people with great potential and pertinacity is the way I see it.
There is this film critic I really admire, for instance. Why I do so is not because of his reviews, since I believe that he fills his quill with a viper’s venom before his day begins. What I admire is the way he uses the language: his choice of words, his sentence structures and, most importantly, his fabulous command over punctuation marks, which make his reviews very readable. Not that his knowledge about films is any less admirable. He has been studying world cinema for years now, and that explains why he can identify acts of plagiarism like few others.
But what I do not understand is why he indulges in destructive criticism when a little bit of magnanimity can help a sincerely made product. For, when the average reader approaches a review, there are occasions during which he gets influenced by what the reviewer has to say. And when the reviewer enjoys the sort of stature that the film critic I am talking about does, his voice can have a serious impact on the readers. Overwhelmed by the language, stumped by the vicious perspective, quite a few might choose to avoid the film the reviewer butchers without any qualms. That is not the function of criticism, or am I getting it all wrong?
One rather famous book reviewer I had to endure for quite sometime would walk up to me and ask, “Hey man, you’ve got any book that you want me to massacre? If so, I am right here.” A little apprehensive about this approach even when I was very young -- that age when aspiring critics rubbish anything and everything -- I remember giving him a couple of sad bestsellers to check out what he meant. He was funny, enjoyable, and his vitriolic tongue seemed to be just right for those books.
But then I made the serious error of giving him a quality literary work. When he sent his review to me, I, to my horror, discovered that the article had the same sarcastic tone that he had used to guillotine Harold Robbins-like gibberish earlier. Years later, that would have been unacceptable to me. But not then. I could not have asked this fellow to rework his article.
Such critics are forced to genuflect when a Salman Rushdie comes along. After having started out with a less-than-ordinary novel Grimus, Rushdie went on to write the path-breaking Midnight’s Children. Grimus had -- what most had preferred to ignore -- a few stunning passages that showed what Rushdie was capable of. With Midnight’s Children, Rushdie managed to silence all those who chose to believe that he was a terribly inconsistent writer.
But the question is: what if a debut-making novelist is good without having the talent to become a Rushdie? Does one have the right to cause serious damage to those who might have had a decent future if critics had been kinder? One must not forget that even publishers are influenced by such criticism, and that this might dictate their decision on the writer’s next work. But the critic goes on till he decides to submit his own manuscript to a publisher. His voice becomes gentle. Suddenly, he becomes aware of human follies and foibles as he awaits the verdict of the media. This time, for the many crimes he might have committed himself.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
CONVERSATION WITH A PATRIOTIC INDIAN
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Just the excerpts, friends. Would not bore you with the details. Pakitan are leading by 518 runs, yet some believe India can pull it off. At least get an honourable draw, that is. Never mind if Faisal Iqbal has scored a century and looks hardly ruffled. Never mind if Razzaq is giving him good company while Kamran Akmal, who gave so much grief to the Indians in the first innings, is yet to come.
BG: We are dead and gone. We have been murdered by a smart gameplan.
PATRIOT: Cricket is a game in which everything is possible. Remember that records are made to be broken.
BG: But a lead of 518 runs with two days to go? And, Pakistan still have five batsmen left.
P: If they can do it, why can't we? Our batting line-up is better than theirs.
BG: Too many problems, boss. Sehwag has a bad second innings track record, Sachin has not been in the best of touch to say the least. So, who will do the magic for us?
P: Dravid and Laxman. Don't you dare forget what they did to Australia. Then, there is Yuvraj. He has played some great innings. And Ganguly of course.
BG: Ganguly? But two days back, you are the one who called him a liability, a good for nothing, a man who does nothing but politics.
P: That was then. This is now. After watching him play the way he did in the first innings, I seriously feel he is all set for a big one. He will save India from losing the match and the series.
Dear readers,
You think this posting is fiction? Even I would have thought so had the person had not spoken to me just about 15 minutes ago. Anything for India, the winning team, what say you? Even if that means having to watch Sourav Ganguly score a century and bail India out.
Patriotism: we, the Indians, can redefine what the word means every week. One connotation, as of now, is that some serious Ganguly haters are ready to suffer him for the time-being.
Just the excerpts, friends. Would not bore you with the details. Pakitan are leading by 518 runs, yet some believe India can pull it off. At least get an honourable draw, that is. Never mind if Faisal Iqbal has scored a century and looks hardly ruffled. Never mind if Razzaq is giving him good company while Kamran Akmal, who gave so much grief to the Indians in the first innings, is yet to come.
BG: We are dead and gone. We have been murdered by a smart gameplan.
PATRIOT: Cricket is a game in which everything is possible. Remember that records are made to be broken.
BG: But a lead of 518 runs with two days to go? And, Pakistan still have five batsmen left.
P: If they can do it, why can't we? Our batting line-up is better than theirs.
BG: Too many problems, boss. Sehwag has a bad second innings track record, Sachin has not been in the best of touch to say the least. So, who will do the magic for us?
P: Dravid and Laxman. Don't you dare forget what they did to Australia. Then, there is Yuvraj. He has played some great innings. And Ganguly of course.
BG: Ganguly? But two days back, you are the one who called him a liability, a good for nothing, a man who does nothing but politics.
P: That was then. This is now. After watching him play the way he did in the first innings, I seriously feel he is all set for a big one. He will save India from losing the match and the series.
Dear readers,
You think this posting is fiction? Even I would have thought so had the person had not spoken to me just about 15 minutes ago. Anything for India, the winning team, what say you? Even if that means having to watch Sourav Ganguly score a century and bail India out.
Patriotism: we, the Indians, can redefine what the word means every week. One connotation, as of now, is that some serious Ganguly haters are ready to suffer him for the time-being.
WHOSE IDOL IS ABHIJIT SAWANT ANYWAY?
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
While visiting Pune, veteran music composer O P Nayyar said that shows like Indian Idol did not mean much to him. Nayyar should know. After all, he is the man who crafted some of the most beautiful tunes Asha Bhonsle has ever sung in her entire career. Nayyar explored the Western idiom often, yet his songs had an unmistakable Indian identity, one of the reasons why Nayyar's originals are still heard in the 'real' India while in the confused cosmos, people indulge in the retro remixes of his tracks and jive with them at nightspots.
Why should Nayyar not be critical about such talent hunt shows is a question one must ask. Firstly, most of these guys who come to the shows are seekers of limelight, not expertise. Lots of money and incentives are on offer. The programmes are telecast, and re-telecast, on major channels. Those with mediocre voices get past those with bad voices. They become celebrities overnight.
Think Abhijit Sawant, Qazi, Ruprekha Banerjee. Their discs might be circulating in the market, and I am sure have been picked up by many hopefuls who feel that if guys with such voices can make it, why can't we? But, does that make them good singers? No way. The only person who has proved to be a serious exception to this reality is Shreya Ghoshal. But then, Shreya did not need to have a great personality to make a musical point. She had to sing which she did very well, and today, she is one of the better talents in the country.
Eventually, somebody like Qazi will have to hardsell himself as a singer if he is not looking at a career in acting. But, is Qazi prepared for it despite being splashed on the cover of leading magazines? He is not, if one goes by what one heard in his album Jodi No.1 with Ruprekha. He needs some serious practice, he needs to try out a variety of tracks, possibly even undergo some regular classical grooming to get his basics right. Or else, he will be just one of those guys who came out of nowhere and disappeared in nothingness.
A veteran music composer like O P Nayyar knows the perils of premature superstardom. Anybody who views music as something that is meant to be heard and not seen will agree with him.
While visiting Pune, veteran music composer O P Nayyar said that shows like Indian Idol did not mean much to him. Nayyar should know. After all, he is the man who crafted some of the most beautiful tunes Asha Bhonsle has ever sung in her entire career. Nayyar explored the Western idiom often, yet his songs had an unmistakable Indian identity, one of the reasons why Nayyar's originals are still heard in the 'real' India while in the confused cosmos, people indulge in the retro remixes of his tracks and jive with them at nightspots.
Why should Nayyar not be critical about such talent hunt shows is a question one must ask. Firstly, most of these guys who come to the shows are seekers of limelight, not expertise. Lots of money and incentives are on offer. The programmes are telecast, and re-telecast, on major channels. Those with mediocre voices get past those with bad voices. They become celebrities overnight.
Think Abhijit Sawant, Qazi, Ruprekha Banerjee. Their discs might be circulating in the market, and I am sure have been picked up by many hopefuls who feel that if guys with such voices can make it, why can't we? But, does that make them good singers? No way. The only person who has proved to be a serious exception to this reality is Shreya Ghoshal. But then, Shreya did not need to have a great personality to make a musical point. She had to sing which she did very well, and today, she is one of the better talents in the country.
Eventually, somebody like Qazi will have to hardsell himself as a singer if he is not looking at a career in acting. But, is Qazi prepared for it despite being splashed on the cover of leading magazines? He is not, if one goes by what one heard in his album Jodi No.1 with Ruprekha. He needs some serious practice, he needs to try out a variety of tracks, possibly even undergo some regular classical grooming to get his basics right. Or else, he will be just one of those guys who came out of nowhere and disappeared in nothingness.
A veteran music composer like O P Nayyar knows the perils of premature superstardom. Anybody who views music as something that is meant to be heard and not seen will agree with him.
Monday, January 30, 2006
AAMHI ASU LADKE, ANYONE?
JUST CHECK OUT KAVITA KANE'S BLOG JOKERTALK FOR A REVIEW OF AAMHI ASU LADKE, THE MUCH-APPRECIATED MARATHI FILM RELEASED RECENTLY.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
WAKE UP BUDDIES
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Rang De Basanti takes the viewer by complete surprise. For, here is a story of five young men who are completely disillusioned with the nation itself. They see no hope, no present. As DJ (Aamir Khan) says in the film, one leg of every Indian is on the past, the other on the future. And, the person is happily peeing on the present!
Have you read Hanif Kureishi's Black Album, a novel in which the writer says there was nothing the people could seek inspiration from? There were no politicians, no statesman, nothing at all except The Beatles. In Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra's Rang De..., even The Beatles are missing. All you have are a bunch of students who hang around in the university, having chai while watching a television which needs the occasional slap to work properly.
Not that Mehra has got everything right. Atul Kulkarni's character of Laxman Pandey, a right wing activist, is marred by a grave foible. Kulkarni does a fine job, but where the script goes wrong is when he comes forward to play the role of the patriot Ram Prasad Bismil for a documentary on Indian revolutionaries being made by Sue (Alice Patten). One would have understood if he had reacted to the death of the fighter pilot Ajay (R Madhavan) and joined hands with the five young men in a plot to eliminate the defence minister (Mohan Agashe). But Laxman Pandey as an actor? Wrong choice.
Where Rang De really scores is firstly because of the wit. Although the bit about Aamir Khan and his method acting has been stretched too far, the fact remains that Aamir plays the role of DJ brilliantly. Right after the debacle called Mangal Pandey, and despite the fact that he plays a guy who is supposed to be 15 years younger than him, he successfully manages to finish off any cynicism that people might have had due to the age factor. He speaks in a rustic Punjabi accent all through, making an unexpected shift to regular Hindi just once when his friend's mother (Waheeda Rehman) is rushed to the hospital. But when he cracks a joke, the entire auditorium laughs with him.
Among the others, Sharman Joshi who plays the joker of the gang (Sukhi) is superb. Not many thought that Sharman was any great shakes as an actor, not surprising because his body of work had nothing to write home about. But here, he comes up with a first-rate performance, matching Aamir frame for frame in a scene when he wants to avoid doing the seemingly impossible. Siddharth who plays Karan is wonderful when he expresses his anguish through silences. But when he turns into an announcer to describe a huge bit of news to listeners, his voice lets him down.
Kunal Kapoor has the gravity required for the character of Aslam, while Madhavan does a great job with the small role of the fighter pilot whose death catalyses an act that stirs the entire nation. A few words about the two ladies, Alice Patten and Soha Ali Khan. Although this film is dominated by the guys, Alice as Sue and Soha as Sonia have performed most commendably.
The emotional exchanges between Sue and DJ are as subtle as possible, while Ajay and Sonia share an equally beautiful relationship. Mehra hasn't gone overboard while depicting either, thereby making it clear that he did not intend to make a romance but a film that deals with the harsh truths of life. These truths are camouflaged by humour and light moments, but we all know that the director isn't seeking an escape route. Only, he is trying to make the experience of watching it as comfortable as possible.
By now, the climax of the film is well-known. The young men kill the defence minister in a reaction to the death of the fighter pilot because the minister has been guilty of buying cheap parts, thereby endangering the lives of pilots. Such transactions are just one of the problems crippling the nation, and that one needs to deal with them is the message that resonates all through the plot. Is killing the ministers a solution? Certainly not, since it seems like radical Syndicalism that no modern social system can accept.
What it means is that the youth of the country need to come forward and act if the ailments are to be eradicated. Significant message, very well told and, hopefully, a handful will respond to the need for acting. For, sadly, the nation has been chug-chugging towards complete anarchy, and we have been guilty of accepting the state of affairs because we have been sleeping all through. When we have acted, it is as if we have practising somnambulism.
We have suffered far too much, and for far too long. Seriously.
Rang De Basanti takes the viewer by complete surprise. For, here is a story of five young men who are completely disillusioned with the nation itself. They see no hope, no present. As DJ (Aamir Khan) says in the film, one leg of every Indian is on the past, the other on the future. And, the person is happily peeing on the present!
Have you read Hanif Kureishi's Black Album, a novel in which the writer says there was nothing the people could seek inspiration from? There were no politicians, no statesman, nothing at all except The Beatles. In Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra's Rang De..., even The Beatles are missing. All you have are a bunch of students who hang around in the university, having chai while watching a television which needs the occasional slap to work properly.
Not that Mehra has got everything right. Atul Kulkarni's character of Laxman Pandey, a right wing activist, is marred by a grave foible. Kulkarni does a fine job, but where the script goes wrong is when he comes forward to play the role of the patriot Ram Prasad Bismil for a documentary on Indian revolutionaries being made by Sue (Alice Patten). One would have understood if he had reacted to the death of the fighter pilot Ajay (R Madhavan) and joined hands with the five young men in a plot to eliminate the defence minister (Mohan Agashe). But Laxman Pandey as an actor? Wrong choice.
Where Rang De really scores is firstly because of the wit. Although the bit about Aamir Khan and his method acting has been stretched too far, the fact remains that Aamir plays the role of DJ brilliantly. Right after the debacle called Mangal Pandey, and despite the fact that he plays a guy who is supposed to be 15 years younger than him, he successfully manages to finish off any cynicism that people might have had due to the age factor. He speaks in a rustic Punjabi accent all through, making an unexpected shift to regular Hindi just once when his friend's mother (Waheeda Rehman) is rushed to the hospital. But when he cracks a joke, the entire auditorium laughs with him.
Among the others, Sharman Joshi who plays the joker of the gang (Sukhi) is superb. Not many thought that Sharman was any great shakes as an actor, not surprising because his body of work had nothing to write home about. But here, he comes up with a first-rate performance, matching Aamir frame for frame in a scene when he wants to avoid doing the seemingly impossible. Siddharth who plays Karan is wonderful when he expresses his anguish through silences. But when he turns into an announcer to describe a huge bit of news to listeners, his voice lets him down.
Kunal Kapoor has the gravity required for the character of Aslam, while Madhavan does a great job with the small role of the fighter pilot whose death catalyses an act that stirs the entire nation. A few words about the two ladies, Alice Patten and Soha Ali Khan. Although this film is dominated by the guys, Alice as Sue and Soha as Sonia have performed most commendably.
The emotional exchanges between Sue and DJ are as subtle as possible, while Ajay and Sonia share an equally beautiful relationship. Mehra hasn't gone overboard while depicting either, thereby making it clear that he did not intend to make a romance but a film that deals with the harsh truths of life. These truths are camouflaged by humour and light moments, but we all know that the director isn't seeking an escape route. Only, he is trying to make the experience of watching it as comfortable as possible.
By now, the climax of the film is well-known. The young men kill the defence minister in a reaction to the death of the fighter pilot because the minister has been guilty of buying cheap parts, thereby endangering the lives of pilots. Such transactions are just one of the problems crippling the nation, and that one needs to deal with them is the message that resonates all through the plot. Is killing the ministers a solution? Certainly not, since it seems like radical Syndicalism that no modern social system can accept.
What it means is that the youth of the country need to come forward and act if the ailments are to be eradicated. Significant message, very well told and, hopefully, a handful will respond to the need for acting. For, sadly, the nation has been chug-chugging towards complete anarchy, and we have been guilty of accepting the state of affairs because we have been sleeping all through. When we have acted, it is as if we have practising somnambulism.
We have suffered far too much, and for far too long. Seriously.
THIRD-DEGREE TORTURE FOR BOWLERS
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Is this cricket? One was forced to ask this question after watching the first two Tests in the highly awaited Indo-Pak series. Most batsmen had a ball, almost everyone seemed capable of scoring centuries, while the bowlers toiled endlessly. And it seemed, rather needlessly. So 'batsman-friendly' were the pitches that, believe me, even Sourav Ganguly could have hammered a hundred if he was given an opportunity. After all, he is known to make the most of favourable situations, isn't he? Tons against Namibia, Holland -- they are too recent to be forgotten.
The idea is not to make a scapegoat out of Ganguly. That must be left to Greg Chappell and company, who are doing a spectacular job anyway. What needs to be emphasised is that the brains behind the cricketing pitches have no business to reduce quality bowlers to jokers. In the first innings of the first Test, Pakistan posted a formidable total of 679 for seven declared. Younis Khan, Mohammed Yousuf, Shahid Afridi and Kamran Akmal scored centuries, while the Indian bowlers suffered, just suffered. The situation was loaded in Pakistan's favour, while most went on and on about how badly our players bowled.
Tongues stopped wagging when the Indians went in to bat. Virender Sehwag just went after the Pakistan bowlers, and smashed them to every possible corner of the park. In the role of an opener, Rahul Dravid played the perfect foil as the Indians put on 410 runs before losing Sehwag. They were closing in on the world record for the opening stand held by Vinoo Mankad and Pankaj Roy, while the Pakistani attack looked much worse than India's all through. The much-hyped aggression of Shoaib Akhtar, which was being spoken about as the difference between the two teams, did not even threaten our batsmen mildly. The fault was not Shoaib's though. What could he have done when the pitch did nothing to assist him?
The second match followed the pattern of the first. Apart from an inspiring spell by Zaheer Khan, who picked up a few quick wickets in the Pakistan second innings, never for a moment did the match seem like serious cricket. The batsmen plundered each other's attacks, and improved their averages. The bowlers got murdered. In the Pakistan first innings score of 588, Inzamam-ul-Haq and Afridi scored centuries while Younis Khan missed out on one. When the Indians responded with 603, Mahendra Singh Dhoni and Dravid scored centuries. VVS Laxman and Irfan Pathan made 90 each.
Because Inzamam and Shoaib Malik did not bat, the Pakistan second innings folded up very quickly. Seriously. Despite centuries from Younis Khan and Mohammad Yusuf, the team could manage merely 490, the worst of the series. The match ended without making any vague promise of a result. The batsmen went back home happy. The bowlers left thinking why life was giving them such a bad deal. Nobody can blame them.
Why this Indo-Pak series is a horror story is since fans from both the countries expect to see serious duels on the cricketing ground. They wish to experience nail-biting moments such as those in which the pacer makes a batsman evade the cherry with short-pitched deliveries, or when the spinner deceives the batsman into playing a false shot with sublime guile. Each fan wants to see his country win, and very badly at that. One victory for India, and the entire country becomes ecstatic. One triumph for Pakistan, and everyone starts mourning.
Indo-Pak outings being emotionally charged affairs, it was highly essential that the pitches were made in such a way that they yielded results. They had to help the bowlers from time to time so that they had some hope in their hearts when they ran up to bowl. Both the teams have fine bowlers. But they needed opportunities to display their skills, which they simply did not get. What they got instead was third-degree torture on the cricketing ground.
The two Indo-Pak tests will be remembered for a long time because fans lost track of centuries. They will be even better remembered for being cruel run feasts that ended up raising the bowling averages of players from both the countries. Very sad indeed, but then a select few chose to spoil the party of millions. Guess they know why. +
(The copyright of this article rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
Is this cricket? One was forced to ask this question after watching the first two Tests in the highly awaited Indo-Pak series. Most batsmen had a ball, almost everyone seemed capable of scoring centuries, while the bowlers toiled endlessly. And it seemed, rather needlessly. So 'batsman-friendly' were the pitches that, believe me, even Sourav Ganguly could have hammered a hundred if he was given an opportunity. After all, he is known to make the most of favourable situations, isn't he? Tons against Namibia, Holland -- they are too recent to be forgotten.
The idea is not to make a scapegoat out of Ganguly. That must be left to Greg Chappell and company, who are doing a spectacular job anyway. What needs to be emphasised is that the brains behind the cricketing pitches have no business to reduce quality bowlers to jokers. In the first innings of the first Test, Pakistan posted a formidable total of 679 for seven declared. Younis Khan, Mohammed Yousuf, Shahid Afridi and Kamran Akmal scored centuries, while the Indian bowlers suffered, just suffered. The situation was loaded in Pakistan's favour, while most went on and on about how badly our players bowled.
Tongues stopped wagging when the Indians went in to bat. Virender Sehwag just went after the Pakistan bowlers, and smashed them to every possible corner of the park. In the role of an opener, Rahul Dravid played the perfect foil as the Indians put on 410 runs before losing Sehwag. They were closing in on the world record for the opening stand held by Vinoo Mankad and Pankaj Roy, while the Pakistani attack looked much worse than India's all through. The much-hyped aggression of Shoaib Akhtar, which was being spoken about as the difference between the two teams, did not even threaten our batsmen mildly. The fault was not Shoaib's though. What could he have done when the pitch did nothing to assist him?
The second match followed the pattern of the first. Apart from an inspiring spell by Zaheer Khan, who picked up a few quick wickets in the Pakistan second innings, never for a moment did the match seem like serious cricket. The batsmen plundered each other's attacks, and improved their averages. The bowlers got murdered. In the Pakistan first innings score of 588, Inzamam-ul-Haq and Afridi scored centuries while Younis Khan missed out on one. When the Indians responded with 603, Mahendra Singh Dhoni and Dravid scored centuries. VVS Laxman and Irfan Pathan made 90 each.
Because Inzamam and Shoaib Malik did not bat, the Pakistan second innings folded up very quickly. Seriously. Despite centuries from Younis Khan and Mohammad Yusuf, the team could manage merely 490, the worst of the series. The match ended without making any vague promise of a result. The batsmen went back home happy. The bowlers left thinking why life was giving them such a bad deal. Nobody can blame them.
Why this Indo-Pak series is a horror story is since fans from both the countries expect to see serious duels on the cricketing ground. They wish to experience nail-biting moments such as those in which the pacer makes a batsman evade the cherry with short-pitched deliveries, or when the spinner deceives the batsman into playing a false shot with sublime guile. Each fan wants to see his country win, and very badly at that. One victory for India, and the entire country becomes ecstatic. One triumph for Pakistan, and everyone starts mourning.
Indo-Pak outings being emotionally charged affairs, it was highly essential that the pitches were made in such a way that they yielded results. They had to help the bowlers from time to time so that they had some hope in their hearts when they ran up to bowl. Both the teams have fine bowlers. But they needed opportunities to display their skills, which they simply did not get. What they got instead was third-degree torture on the cricketing ground.
The two Indo-Pak tests will be remembered for a long time because fans lost track of centuries. They will be even better remembered for being cruel run feasts that ended up raising the bowling averages of players from both the countries. Very sad indeed, but then a select few chose to spoil the party of millions. Guess they know why. +
(The copyright of this article rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
Friday, January 27, 2006
RANG DE BASANTI: A UTOPIA WE MUST SEEK
BY KARISHMA UPADHYAY
Latest computers, the coolest phones and the newest designer brand to hit the Indian market… these are some of the things that 99.99 percent of today's youth is clued into. Oh! And, their biggest concern is also getting the highest paying job possible. After all, who cares about Bihar or Nagaland (is that in India?!)? While I was watching Rang De Basanti on the country's 56th Republic Day, the thought struck home. No one cares.
The politicians or the civil services definitely couldn't be bothered(and unfortunately no one expects them to), but what is really, really sad is that neither do the people who live in this country. The same people who complain about everything and anything in the country, wouldn't spare a minute to think about what they can do to make things right.
A simple example of this can be seen every day in Mumbai, one of country's premiere cities. Whether it's a businessman in his shiny Merc or an advertising executive in a local train, neither will think twice before littering the city. After all, how many will take the pain to carry the rubbish to the closest dustbin? Or as my husband and other friends insist – 'The city is one big dustbin, another chocolate wrapper or plastic bag will not make a difference'.
Life came to a standstill in Mumbai on July 26th, 2005 when the city was flooded after unprecedented rains. While the blame game started the next day, Mumbaikars refused to take any responsibility for the tonnes of garbage that clogged up the already inadequate drains in the city. After all, it's the government's job to clean up the city and we pay our taxes (at least most of us to). So why should we act? That was the government's job.
Getting back to Rang De Basanti, the film essentially talks about a group of five friends who have given up on the country. A simple twist in the script changed life as they know it and suddenly their passion for the country takes centre-stage. Wonder what it would take for the DKNY wearing 20 somethings in the country to wake up? I believe that the film is a must watch for young India. Even if hundred youngsters look beyond the film's basic entertainment value and think about it's
message, it would be worth all the effort that went into making the film.
It's not just about something as basic as keeping your city clean but it does start there. Bigger issues like poverty, corruption, illiteracy or unemployment can be tackled at a macro level but do anyone of us do anything at all for the city/country that we call ours. Don't need an oracle to answer this one.
Just ask yourself. And, be honest.
Bee Gee's note: Karishma works with the DNA. Having worked with her before, I have had the privilege of spoiling her birthday and making her file articles all through that special night and the next! We continue to be friends therefore. And she continues to be as mad as ever.
Latest computers, the coolest phones and the newest designer brand to hit the Indian market… these are some of the things that 99.99 percent of today's youth is clued into. Oh! And, their biggest concern is also getting the highest paying job possible. After all, who cares about Bihar or Nagaland (is that in India?!)? While I was watching Rang De Basanti on the country's 56th Republic Day, the thought struck home. No one cares.
The politicians or the civil services definitely couldn't be bothered(and unfortunately no one expects them to), but what is really, really sad is that neither do the people who live in this country. The same people who complain about everything and anything in the country, wouldn't spare a minute to think about what they can do to make things right.
A simple example of this can be seen every day in Mumbai, one of country's premiere cities. Whether it's a businessman in his shiny Merc or an advertising executive in a local train, neither will think twice before littering the city. After all, how many will take the pain to carry the rubbish to the closest dustbin? Or as my husband and other friends insist – 'The city is one big dustbin, another chocolate wrapper or plastic bag will not make a difference'.
Life came to a standstill in Mumbai on July 26th, 2005 when the city was flooded after unprecedented rains. While the blame game started the next day, Mumbaikars refused to take any responsibility for the tonnes of garbage that clogged up the already inadequate drains in the city. After all, it's the government's job to clean up the city and we pay our taxes (at least most of us to). So why should we act? That was the government's job.
Getting back to Rang De Basanti, the film essentially talks about a group of five friends who have given up on the country. A simple twist in the script changed life as they know it and suddenly their passion for the country takes centre-stage. Wonder what it would take for the DKNY wearing 20 somethings in the country to wake up? I believe that the film is a must watch for young India. Even if hundred youngsters look beyond the film's basic entertainment value and think about it's
message, it would be worth all the effort that went into making the film.
It's not just about something as basic as keeping your city clean but it does start there. Bigger issues like poverty, corruption, illiteracy or unemployment can be tackled at a macro level but do anyone of us do anything at all for the city/country that we call ours. Don't need an oracle to answer this one.
Just ask yourself. And, be honest.
Bee Gee's note: Karishma works with the DNA. Having worked with her before, I have had the privilege of spoiling her birthday and making her file articles all through that special night and the next! We continue to be friends therefore. And she continues to be as mad as ever.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
THE PROBLEM WITH WRITING ON SALMAN
Among the four star biographies I have written -- all unauthorised or else I would have ended up writing a lot of goody goody fiction -- the one on Salman Khan did the worst. Barely one edition managed to move off the shelves as opposed to the one on Shah Rukh Khan that sold in places as remote as Nigeria and did around six-seven editions in English and Hindi. The criticism I had to confront regarding Salman was that he did not merit a place in the 'Hall of Fame', which is what the series was called. After all, he was known to be violent, he had been bad to all his girlfriends right from Sangeeta Bijlani to Somy Ali to even Aishwarya Rai. Yeah, even Aishwarya Rai. So, who the hell was I to write a book on Salman and pedestalise him alongside SRK, Aish and Hrithik?
But, there was a second view which I respect. Many film buffs who had read all the four books actually found a way to get hold of my email id, and tell me that my book on Salman was the best of the lot. I wouldn't say the best, because that would imply that the others were good which was not the case. The one on Hrithik was very average to be honest, not only because of a taxing deadline but since there was very little material on the guy who had just started out.
Why I think my book on Salman was the only good one was since it was an awfully tough challenge. The superstar's body of work was huge, and everything about his life was eventful including his childhood which was not particularly bliss-laden to say the least. His father Salim Akhtar was really hard on him. So much so that when the walls of his house had marks because Salman and younger brother Arbaaz had missed each other while trying out Kung Fu after watching a martial arts film, the dad thrashed them with a hockey stick till it broke.
Briefly, when I started out, there seemed to very little good about Salman's life which could have made for comforting reading. There was action, violence, injustice, two-three-four-timing. But as I began to explore the guy's life, I realised there were positives which few bothered to report, the reason being Salman had a particular image which was a hot seller. Salman as a man who tormented Aish --whether or not he did is a different story -- was sure to sell. But will a story that Salman was supporting 35 widows of Matheran sell? No, because none of them happened to be an Aish or even a Somy Ali. Besides, Salman seldom spoke about his personal life which only helped the media to get away with anything when it concerned his own life. He did not care. That was his biggest weakness.
When Salman's girlfriends hit out against the guy, he just kept shut, making vague statements like "Aishwarya is a good costar. It was great working with her in Hum Dil Chuke Sanam." He was the happiest guy on earth when Hrithik Roshan became a megastar after Kaho Na Pyaar Hai. He asked Somy to go ahead and sign a film with Suneil Shetty when the latter was a nobody. For years, he had been working for cancer patients while making sure that the media did not report about it. His bad side was made worse by the media's repeated assaults on the guy. But his good side was less than obscure because of his belief that if you did something good and spoke about it, what you did ceased to be good then and there.
Doing a balancing act with Salman's life was tough. Bloody tough. I would have been happy to pull that one off even if just one of my books had sold. And that too, because I had bought it.
But, there was a second view which I respect. Many film buffs who had read all the four books actually found a way to get hold of my email id, and tell me that my book on Salman was the best of the lot. I wouldn't say the best, because that would imply that the others were good which was not the case. The one on Hrithik was very average to be honest, not only because of a taxing deadline but since there was very little material on the guy who had just started out.
Why I think my book on Salman was the only good one was since it was an awfully tough challenge. The superstar's body of work was huge, and everything about his life was eventful including his childhood which was not particularly bliss-laden to say the least. His father Salim Akhtar was really hard on him. So much so that when the walls of his house had marks because Salman and younger brother Arbaaz had missed each other while trying out Kung Fu after watching a martial arts film, the dad thrashed them with a hockey stick till it broke.
Briefly, when I started out, there seemed to very little good about Salman's life which could have made for comforting reading. There was action, violence, injustice, two-three-four-timing. But as I began to explore the guy's life, I realised there were positives which few bothered to report, the reason being Salman had a particular image which was a hot seller. Salman as a man who tormented Aish --whether or not he did is a different story -- was sure to sell. But will a story that Salman was supporting 35 widows of Matheran sell? No, because none of them happened to be an Aish or even a Somy Ali. Besides, Salman seldom spoke about his personal life which only helped the media to get away with anything when it concerned his own life. He did not care. That was his biggest weakness.
When Salman's girlfriends hit out against the guy, he just kept shut, making vague statements like "Aishwarya is a good costar. It was great working with her in Hum Dil Chuke Sanam." He was the happiest guy on earth when Hrithik Roshan became a megastar after Kaho Na Pyaar Hai. He asked Somy to go ahead and sign a film with Suneil Shetty when the latter was a nobody. For years, he had been working for cancer patients while making sure that the media did not report about it. His bad side was made worse by the media's repeated assaults on the guy. But his good side was less than obscure because of his belief that if you did something good and spoke about it, what you did ceased to be good then and there.
Doing a balancing act with Salman's life was tough. Bloody tough. I would have been happy to pull that one off even if just one of my books had sold. And that too, because I had bought it.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
IF WESTERNS ARE ABOUT GAYS, CALL ME JOANNA
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Yul Brynner and Queenie Cross have a job to do. They have to confront a bunch of brutal nuisance-makers. They take out their guns, look into each other's eyes, and kiss. Lovers, they are. And, professional killers, who may never ever get to spend intimate moments later. Used to Bollywood masala mixes with "action, emotion, drama and melodrama" -- the classic one-liner used to promote Hindi films through the radio once -- the heart weeps for them. How one wishes the guy was a tailor, and the girl a maidservant, so that they could have married and lived happily ever after. But here, in this Hollywood Western The Magnificent Seven, they have to deal with rugged criminals whom they must kill, failing which they will be dead.
Liar, cut the inanity. Stop fooling readers with your gibberish. You haven't watched The Magnificent Seven. Queenie Cross acted in just one film (Ginger Mick, 1920) that was released five years after Yul Brynner was born. Brynner's partner in crime in the film was Steve McQueen, you fool. That is right. The edit page being sacrosanct, I do not wish to misreport here, although cooking up fiction is pretty much up my street. Brynner and McQueen were the pair who were all set to hunt and, naturally, there was no Queenie. Both were great killers, and greater gay lovers.
God! This fellow cannot stop fabricating, which is natural. He has worked for a company that produced a gossip glossy, after all. I can hear the angered reactions of a few who have watched The Magnificent Seven a thousand times, and intend to double that figure. These are the same people who know their Westerns frame by frame. They are aware that Ang Lee has done a brilliant job in Brokeback Mountain, a love story of two cowboys, but refuse to believe that Westerns have a gay subtext just because some say so.
So, am I regressively anti-gay or plain homophobic? Or, is my perspective a ploy in disguise to attract attention that I badly need? All these questions have a common answer. No. For, a Western is a guy thing. Most fellows who act in it are men. Most viewers who adore it are men too. It is the antithesis of Mills and Boon which very few guys read but which most girls cannot do without at a certain stage in their lives.
How can one describe the atmosphere in the average Western? Mentally retarded. The characters are unidimensional cardboard cut-outs seeking action in life. Why so, only God knows. These characters inhabit a territory in which laws are meant to be broken. Rewards are announced for mindless crimes, and the good criminal (see Westerns to figure out what that means) triumphs over bad criminals. Women pop in and out, but the filmmaker is usually too preoccupied with the tussle between the good bad guy and the bad bad guy to show any serious human relationship.
Where there is a Western, killings are inevitable. How the criminal commits the murder is a major directorial concern. The bad bad guy, for instance, has a gun in his hand. The good bad guy, who seems unarmed, looks troubled. But before the former can lift his gun, he bends down and pulls out a knife from his boots. The knife hurtles towards the enemy, and penetrates his chest. The fellow moves around in great agony, and slowly, slowly, falls down. He is dead. The gun lies next to him. It could have been an old man's walking stick. The good bad guy walks off. Next scene.
Logic. Don't look for it. Sadness. Experience it occasionally when a weak person is brutalised. Thrill. Feel it whenever the hero occupies screen space. You know action will follow. A few lesser mortals will be shot. You are also cushioned by the comforting feeling that none of these blokes have actually died. After the scene had been shot, they must have been walking around with bright red paint on their chests and thighs.
In a ruthless world where men are pitted against men, it is but natural that some men become friendly with men as well. After all, their goal is to either find some hidden treasure or kill somebody. Relationships with women are shown briefly, because indulging in them would dilute the plot of the film. The pace will slacken, sob stories for untimely deaths have to be incorporated, killing the film altogether.
Brokeback Mountain is not your average Western. It is an emotional film with cowboys as heroes and lovers. So, it is a pity that suddenly, a few are using the film to say how Westerns have gay subtexts. Actually, there is a grave problem with political correctness. Some use it as a device for bulls*******.
(The copyright of this article rests with The Maharashtra Herald, Pune)
Yul Brynner and Queenie Cross have a job to do. They have to confront a bunch of brutal nuisance-makers. They take out their guns, look into each other's eyes, and kiss. Lovers, they are. And, professional killers, who may never ever get to spend intimate moments later. Used to Bollywood masala mixes with "action, emotion, drama and melodrama" -- the classic one-liner used to promote Hindi films through the radio once -- the heart weeps for them. How one wishes the guy was a tailor, and the girl a maidservant, so that they could have married and lived happily ever after. But here, in this Hollywood Western The Magnificent Seven, they have to deal with rugged criminals whom they must kill, failing which they will be dead.
Liar, cut the inanity. Stop fooling readers with your gibberish. You haven't watched The Magnificent Seven. Queenie Cross acted in just one film (Ginger Mick, 1920) that was released five years after Yul Brynner was born. Brynner's partner in crime in the film was Steve McQueen, you fool. That is right. The edit page being sacrosanct, I do not wish to misreport here, although cooking up fiction is pretty much up my street. Brynner and McQueen were the pair who were all set to hunt and, naturally, there was no Queenie. Both were great killers, and greater gay lovers.
God! This fellow cannot stop fabricating, which is natural. He has worked for a company that produced a gossip glossy, after all. I can hear the angered reactions of a few who have watched The Magnificent Seven a thousand times, and intend to double that figure. These are the same people who know their Westerns frame by frame. They are aware that Ang Lee has done a brilliant job in Brokeback Mountain, a love story of two cowboys, but refuse to believe that Westerns have a gay subtext just because some say so.
So, am I regressively anti-gay or plain homophobic? Or, is my perspective a ploy in disguise to attract attention that I badly need? All these questions have a common answer. No. For, a Western is a guy thing. Most fellows who act in it are men. Most viewers who adore it are men too. It is the antithesis of Mills and Boon which very few guys read but which most girls cannot do without at a certain stage in their lives.
How can one describe the atmosphere in the average Western? Mentally retarded. The characters are unidimensional cardboard cut-outs seeking action in life. Why so, only God knows. These characters inhabit a territory in which laws are meant to be broken. Rewards are announced for mindless crimes, and the good criminal (see Westerns to figure out what that means) triumphs over bad criminals. Women pop in and out, but the filmmaker is usually too preoccupied with the tussle between the good bad guy and the bad bad guy to show any serious human relationship.
Where there is a Western, killings are inevitable. How the criminal commits the murder is a major directorial concern. The bad bad guy, for instance, has a gun in his hand. The good bad guy, who seems unarmed, looks troubled. But before the former can lift his gun, he bends down and pulls out a knife from his boots. The knife hurtles towards the enemy, and penetrates his chest. The fellow moves around in great agony, and slowly, slowly, falls down. He is dead. The gun lies next to him. It could have been an old man's walking stick. The good bad guy walks off. Next scene.
Logic. Don't look for it. Sadness. Experience it occasionally when a weak person is brutalised. Thrill. Feel it whenever the hero occupies screen space. You know action will follow. A few lesser mortals will be shot. You are also cushioned by the comforting feeling that none of these blokes have actually died. After the scene had been shot, they must have been walking around with bright red paint on their chests and thighs.
In a ruthless world where men are pitted against men, it is but natural that some men become friendly with men as well. After all, their goal is to either find some hidden treasure or kill somebody. Relationships with women are shown briefly, because indulging in them would dilute the plot of the film. The pace will slacken, sob stories for untimely deaths have to be incorporated, killing the film altogether.
Brokeback Mountain is not your average Western. It is an emotional film with cowboys as heroes and lovers. So, it is a pity that suddenly, a few are using the film to say how Westerns have gay subtexts. Actually, there is a grave problem with political correctness. Some use it as a device for bulls*******.
(The copyright of this article rests with The Maharashtra Herald, Pune)
Friday, January 20, 2006
WORKING IN A RED-LIGHT AREA
Have you ever worked in a red-light area? Should you do so, the experiences you might go through can be hilarious...mostly.
Late night. One day. I board an auto-rickshaw. Have just finished my work. The rickshaw guy looks at me, and tells me with a straight face in broken English,"Saab, do you want an item?" (Item is a ribald way of referring to a sex worker). I tell him I work in the red-light area. Am a scribe. He replies,"I do two jobs. In the morning, I drive auto like anybody else. In the night, I do delivery. I thought you wanted item also." I say I do not, leave the rickshaw, and walk off.
Buddhahood, Chapter 1 over.
"Saab, you have come to this area at the right time,"one rick guy tells me another day. "Right time?" Am confused. Have to come daily for work. "Yes, right now it is the government's budget season. So, items are giving discounts." It is ten in the night. How can I convince him I am a journalist? I keep shut. He says nothing too. I reach home.
Buddhahood, Chapter 2 ends.
In front of my house. Another day. A third rickshaw guy asks me,"Do you get girls here also?" "How the hell do I know?" I shoot back. "I thought you had gone to a red-light area, so you would know."
I stare at him, and leave the place.
Buddhahood, Chapter 3 complete.
A festival. I am walking on the crowded streets of the area to write an article on the atmosphere, the celebration to be precise. Families are enjoying every moment of the celebration but, at a distance, I see some plastered faces. A bunch of girls have put on what seems like cheap talcum powder on their faces to look attractive. The red lipstick they have applied seems to accentuate the pain on their faces. They are looking for work when people are enjoying.
Is this life?
Budhwar Peth Buddhahood. Last chapter ends.
Late night. One day. I board an auto-rickshaw. Have just finished my work. The rickshaw guy looks at me, and tells me with a straight face in broken English,"Saab, do you want an item?" (Item is a ribald way of referring to a sex worker). I tell him I work in the red-light area. Am a scribe. He replies,"I do two jobs. In the morning, I drive auto like anybody else. In the night, I do delivery. I thought you wanted item also." I say I do not, leave the rickshaw, and walk off.
Buddhahood, Chapter 1 over.
"Saab, you have come to this area at the right time,"one rick guy tells me another day. "Right time?" Am confused. Have to come daily for work. "Yes, right now it is the government's budget season. So, items are giving discounts." It is ten in the night. How can I convince him I am a journalist? I keep shut. He says nothing too. I reach home.
Buddhahood, Chapter 2 ends.
In front of my house. Another day. A third rickshaw guy asks me,"Do you get girls here also?" "How the hell do I know?" I shoot back. "I thought you had gone to a red-light area, so you would know."
I stare at him, and leave the place.
Buddhahood, Chapter 3 complete.
A festival. I am walking on the crowded streets of the area to write an article on the atmosphere, the celebration to be precise. Families are enjoying every moment of the celebration but, at a distance, I see some plastered faces. A bunch of girls have put on what seems like cheap talcum powder on their faces to look attractive. The red lipstick they have applied seems to accentuate the pain on their faces. They are looking for work when people are enjoying.
Is this life?
Budhwar Peth Buddhahood. Last chapter ends.
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