Death, Debt and Decay
Except for the instalments on his loans, nothing in V.M Subramani’s life has been ‘outstanding’.
In the last six years, in fact, the 52-year-old has aged fast. The premature lines on this cobbler’s leathery face speak of a harsh tryst with both debt and injustice. The traditional career of this man has come to an abrupt halt and though he was recently appointed as village waterman, the paltry Rs 700 salary does not assure two square meals. The walls of 176/4, his squalid house in Adi Dravida colony in rural Dindigul, seem to be crumbling, as if tired of bearing his burdens.
It started in May 2005 when his elder daughter Jyotimani was brutally killed by her husband Sounderaj. The painter, who used cigarette butts to torture her before the murder, was sentenced for life in 2006 but was freed three months later. Following this, the Poothampatti Panchayat Office offered the family Rs. 10,000 but only if they produced the murderer’s signature. “We returned without the money.” Subramani has since been looking after the grandchildren, 13-year-old Indira and Masandichelvan, 8.
Times were happier two decades ago, when he moved into the colony with his “love marriage wife” Karthumani and two children, Jyotimani and Jayaram. A third child, Veeramani, was born in the settlement built by the government for backward communities. “Our daughters were our ‘manis’ (gems),” he says, breaking down at the sight of old photographs. They are black and white, just like his hair now.
Subramani wishes he had defeated poverty in his youth because “to be heard you have to be rich or educated.” Instead, he made peace with a Class 10 education and the cobbling business which he has now given up as his calloused feet do not allow him to sit for long hours. The panchayat then gave him the waterman’s post. Four times a year, he sings with a folk theatre troupe for an added income of Rs 400. Karthumani earns 80 rupees for each gruelling day of labour in a field near Vedasandur.
Last year, Subramani gave away his younger daughter in marriage along with a tedious dowry. He has managed to pay the first instalment of 1500 out of the 70,000 rupees he had borrowed. But a burgeoning cloud of debt still stands adamantly above him.
His grandchildren, who learn at a government school in Devanaikanpatti, are now the carriers of his dreams and their education is top priority. He has not stopped blaming himself for Indira’s poor scores in a Science test. “I could not afford one of the workbooks she needed,” Subramani rues, adding that he has now saved enough for a trip to the Dindigul bookstore. “Usually, they stand among the top 5 in their class,” he observes, the guilt in his eyes replaced by pride. Accepting money from his son Jayaram, an agricultural labourer, is out of the question because “he has his own family to support.”
Despite attempts to give them a protected life, the children are growing angry and curious as time passes. The aging couple’s will was tested when they found Jyotimani’s photo tucked neatly in the siblings’ notes. “They said she helps them through tough exams,” Karthumani recalls. “And sometimes I catch them crying quietly.”
Subramani has not fully let go of memories either. The carefully preserved ration card with his daughter’s name and newspaper clippings about his son-in-law’s arrest are testimony. But he will not pursue the court case. “We cannot afford it,” he declares, adding, “Let natural justice take place. My only aim is to not let that animal anywhere near my family.”
Music has helped him tide over difficult moments. After breaking into a Tamil ‘karuthu’ (moral) song, he stops to explain, “A meal can give you the will to live. At other times, it can drive you to take a life. The difference is in the decisions we make.”
As he walks towards the water tank with determined strides and purposeful hands folded behind his back, he seems like a man with a plan.
The Man Who Was Sold To The World
Authored on August 6, 2010
With clockwork regularity, the more conservative nations of the world have banished artists who played with the illusion of artistic freedom. Perhaps Iran’s most fancy hand-me-down to the West, Abbas Kiarostami is a recent victim of such an aesthetic cleansing.
The filmmaker was forced into a creative exile after his Cannes Palmes d’Or winning film Taste of Cherry (1997) shocked the regime with its lusty exploration of suicide. Screening of his films has been banned in Iran since and this became the turning point of his career; clearly distinguishing what preceded from what was to follow.
Kiarostami’s dark glasses, a result of a medical condition he suffers from, have never shaded his views of the world and cinema which remain eerily clear. He was among the first products of the New Wave in Iran and formed a department of films in the Institute for Intellectual Development of Children and Young Adults. The shorts and documentaries produced by the department are just as relevant and delightful today as they were in 1969.
With the release of ‘Where is the Friend’s Home?’ in 1987, Kiarostami found international recognition. He shot two more films in the same village creating, what is now known as the ‘Koker trilogy’. The second movie in the sequence documented a real search for the young boy who played the lead in ‘Where is the Friend’s Home’, undertaken after a devastating earthquake hit Iran in 1990.
“I don’t like to engage in telling stories. I don’t like to arouse the viewer emotionally or give him advice.” Not a fan of deeply disturbing films, he prefers the ones that are “at least kind enough to allow you a nap and not leave you overwhelmed.” He is also clever in critiquing the Tarantino brand of gory cinema, “Since violence will never leave American film, what Tarantino has done is find a way to make fun of violence, and that brings down the tension of violence.” But when the two shared space on the jury of the 2006 edition of the Cannes Film Festival, Kiarostami heartily praised the American for backing a small film from Kazakhstan.
Cinema may be his strongest love now but there were several other influences like poetry and art. Harvard University Press published ‘Walking with the Wind’, a collection of 200 poems by Kiarostami in Persian and English. His reverence for the art is also evidenced by the effortless weaving of Khayyam’s verses in ‘The Wind Will Carry Us’ (1999). He is also a painter and photographer. It hardly comes as a surprise that Kiarostami’s younger son Bahman directed his first documentary at the age of 15 (Journey to the land of the traveller).
The award winning director discusses the finer points of film making in ‘Ten on Ten’, while also explaining the cinematic quirks he indulges in. This documentary as well as the experimental film ‘Ten’ made in 2000, were shot entirely inside cars with the camera positioned on the side view mirror. ‘Through the Olive Trees’ in 1999 which had Mohamad Ali Keshavarz playing a director, presented a striking picture of the veteran’s film making methods. Shortlisting untrained students from village schools for lead roles borrowing props from locals are prominent Kiarostamian quirks featured here. Close-Up (1990) was another film where Kiarostami referenced himself by talking to his actors from behind the camera.
Kiarostami often likens his films to windows. They come with an uncomplicated view outside of your life and the freedom to look calmly away if you please. In a way, the 70-year-old is a rather romantic journalist, who lends a lyrical beauty to inconvenient truths. The constant switches between fact and fiction in his cinema often leaves the audience feeling like confused voyeurs.
Liberty was never a perk for Kiarostami who maintains that the best art is born “when artists operate in unfavourable circumstances.” In keeping with the law, he would choose non-controversial plots. Usually against a backdrop of quaint villages, his films were innocently modeled around children. Not out of fear of the establishment, but those were the stories he wanted to tell. Curiously, he has always defended the political restrictions in his country, “In the West when I’m asked about censorship, I am offended. They think we are a third world country, with incredible restrictions and we work in terrible conditions. We’ve always had the problem of censorship not just as filmmakers. We deal with it and talking about it in another nation will not solve anything.”
Akira Kurosawa once said of Kiarostami’s films, “Words cannot describe my feelings about them and I simply advice you to see his films. When Satyajit Ray passed on, I was very depressed, but after seeing Kiarostami’s films, I thank God for giving us just the right person to take his place.”
Increasingly, though, his films have lost that neo-realist, documentary style of narrative. Fiction is now accentuated and he uses seasoned actors, bound scripts and exotic locations. In new-found safety, his leading lady can lay her head on her lover’s shoulder, minus the headscarf. And the film would not be banned for it. A case in point is ‘Copie Conforme’ (Certified Copy), his latest venture set in Tuscany and starring Juliette Binoche. The film has invited comparisons with Roberto Rosellini’s ‘Journey to Italy’, a signal of grim change. Selling out to Europe hardly sits well beside this man who is known to have stamped simplicity onto celluloid. With his dapper looks and fine clothes, he looks comfortable rubbing shoulders with global greats but his best-loved works are still the ones perfumed with an interminable love for Iran.
Using the global media glare to good effect, he turned spokesperson for his friend and colleague Jafar Panahi who was arrested by the Iran government under suspicion of planning anti-national films. “When a filmmaker is imprisoned, it is an attack on the art as a whole. We need explanations. I don’t understand how a film can be a crime, particularly when that film has not been made,” he observed. He even wrote a well publicised letter to the administration that hastened Panahi’s bail procedure.
Kiarostami is a target of mindless rules laid in an erratic system, but we hope he will not give in to wicked voices that may suggest that he quietly resign to “life, and nothing more”.
The Colour of Submission
For years, Chennai’s walls captured the quirks of its favourite faces in garish hues, bestowing the city with exclusive rights to exhibitionism. Green-yellow film stars and black-red politicians beamed down from hand painted billboards. Where the cut outs ended, the sky began. Wars of the ballot and box-office alike were fought in technicolour. At the turn of the decade though, the Eastman style paints that ran in the city’s veins began drying out.
C. Sivakumar at his T. Nagar based "Chella Arts".
C. Sivakumar of Chella Arts, T.Nagar believes everything is digital now, even affection. The 59-year-old is only one of thousands of former cut-out painters. Reluctantly, he reminisces of a time when he got steady orders for portraits but “lately they stick digital images of deceased relatives behind a fancy frame. It is cheaper.”
Seated in the dingy confines of the vinyl printing store cum PCO, he seems disconcertingly comfortable with the state of affairs. “I have not held a brush in five years but I am lucky. Those who couldn’t afford vinyl machinery are still suffering.” Like him, many have embraced the printing industry that stole their jobs.
G. Venkatesan of Jayaram Arts is also representative of the resignation which defines the life of former painters. “The last big projects were when Rajini and Kamal were at the helm of their career. After that, painting assignments grew very rare,” he says. Six years ago, he switched to digital printing and dismissed nearly 30 painters from his 58-year-old establishment at Mount Road. Some of them are now vegetable vendors, security guards and masons.
Rare murals like this one at Adyar Junction are surviving signs of unsanctioned hand-painted art. Other political and cinematic imagery has been done away with.
Few artists like G. Kumar of Saidapet have found ways not to let go of the art. After the lay-off, he broke into the “cine field” and began assisting set designer Rajeevan. Though work includes designing and furnishing, he best loves painting portraits and name boards to use as props. S. Ramesh started an art class in West Mambalam that now has seven students. Returns are nominal, but he is happy to teach the skill even if most students only pursue it as a hobby.
Local arts come with a looming expiry date. The terminal illness that struck cut-out painting was triggered by technology and policy. A 2008 order banned unauthorised hoardings and displays on private walls. The recent municipal wall paintings project seemed an opportunity for painters to shine but Sivakumar discloses, “Pay has moved from the original 30 to as low as four rupees per sq. ft.”
The forthcoming elections too will employ only printed ad campaigns. A hefty boost to vinyl printing is expected. “They prefer vinyl cut-outs which are made fast but tear within days. A painting could take between 10 days and three months to make but they last for years,” rues Venkatesan.
“A photo is a dull recreation of reality. In paintings, we would add shades of pink to the cheeks and green around the sideburns to give a unique finishing,” he observes with a hint of pride. Among his clients are AVM and Ananda Pictures but “they opt for the quick-fix digital cut-outs.” Shops and offices also prefer neon or glow signs.
Bollywood-style painting
Long after its death, Bollywood-style painting has found takers in rich youngsters and expats for whom the art holds kitsch appeal. For 1000 rupees a sq. ft., artists from Mumbai and Delhi create customised posters with the niche buyers painted alongside Bollywood superstars. The trend is yet to unfold in Chennai but Venkatesan doubts that it will, “We have never received such requests.”
Revival sounds a tad romantic even to these men who designed destinies and etched Tamil figures into the viewer’s consciousness. “Renewing this industry will be an uphill task. Artists have lost interest,” says Sivakumar. Then, with strange conviction, he adds – “Still, it will make a comeback.”
You want to believe him till a row of digitised boards confronts you outside the shop, confirming your worst fears.
insensitive index
While equity indices are often touted as good indicators of growth in an economy, a simple study of their sectoral composition establishes otherwise.
India’s two leading stock exchanges, BSE and NSE, maintain that their standard indices are designed so as to represent changes in the real economy. However, just two sectors — oil and gas and financial services — cover nearly 40% of the Nifty-50. They account for 43% of the Sensex. Along with capital goods and basic materials, the four sectors together cover as much as 60% of the benchmark index. In contrast, the consumer goods makers find low representation –15% in the Sensex and 11% in the Nifty. The food sector, hospitality, retail, logistics, media & entertainment, textiles and chemicals form large part of the economy, but find no mention in the indices.
The Indian economy is consumption driven. According to reports of the Central Statistical Organisation (CSO), consumption demand has accounted for almost 60% of India’s GDP since 2008. Even during the economic downturn of 2008-09, the consumption sector was more resilient than investment demand. FDI inflows were also buoyant during the period. But, this was not reflected in the Indian equity markets since they favour interest rate sensitive stocks which create volatility.
A boom or bust in the Sensex and Nifty only reflects the price movement of 30 and 50 companies respectively. Relative movements in the indices do not signify changes in the health of the real economy. In order to be truly representative, the indices should apportion fair representation to all major sectors of the economy.
With a little help from-
global goes local
“Have you seen ‘Russian Ark’?” a salesman quizzes curious customers outside Shop No.188 in Burma Bazaar, waving a CD packed in plastic. Their ‘No’ meets a look of disappointment and he goes on to say that the ‘beautiful’ film was made entirely in a single shot. “The cameraman followed the actors with a camera strapped to his body. You simply cannot count the number of rooms they move in and out of,” the short, jolly man exclaims. Interest suitably piqued, they decide to enter.
‘Sihabu World Cinema Collections’ appears like any other in a multitude of roadside DVD stores in Burma Bazaar – small, shady and cramped. A closer look reveals that both the shop and its salesman Shabbir Mohammad aka “DVD Shabbir” are far from regular. The writing on many of the 3000 DVDs is alien. This unique store, owned by Shabbir’s uncle, stocks the rarest shorts, feature films and documentaries from over 25 countries. Most are replicas of festival copies, sourced mainly from Malaysia and China.
Along with each DVD priced between 40-150 rupees, Shabbir offers his two pence worth. He is the poor man’s IMDB. Even a speech impediment does not deter the 32-year-old from rattling off director’s names, year of release, quotes, plots or making informed recommendations. He stops only to apologise, “I talk too much – a disease that comes with the trade.”
What started as routine 10 years ago steadily turned into passion. Instead of speed checking DVDs for glitches, Shabbir began pausing and watching whole scenes. “I was glued to action flicks before a friendly old customer introduced me to Majid Majidi’s work. The love for foreign films started then,” he recollects.
On a little TV beneath the counter, Shabbir watches films throughout the day. Despite the lack of college education and only a broken understanding of English, his grasp of cinema betters that of some present day critics. In his opinion flops should be watched to understand why they failed because “money and effort go into making them too.”
The generously shared trivia comes from careful accumulation of facts from CD back covers, books that customers show him and videos of the ‘making’ of various films. His constant advice is to remember the director’s name because, “He is the boss. There can be a film without actors but not a director.”
His love for direction is evident in the way he calls shots at the shop, skilfully guiding shoppers through the works of Bresson, Almodovar or Makhmalbaf. Shabbir’s profession often requires him to act but he harbours muted dreams of film-making, “I want to work with Majidi.” Then, launching back into the cubbyhole reality of his job, “Do you know he started out as an ice-cream seller?” he adds.
By a process he calls ‘brainwashing’, Shabbir convinces buyers to try new kinds of cinema, “Most people are restricted to one genre — action or romance or comedy. I encourage them to see something different.” The only customer he has not managed to outdo is Nasrin, his wife of three years. “If I watch films at home, I have to do without meals,” he laughs before adding, “But my wife is the greatest gift God gave me.”
Students of cinema form the major chunk of his clientele which also includes dealers from other states and foreign tourists. Shabbir once sold an American professor as many as 300 DVDs. But business is unpredictable, ranging from low sales to bulk orders. While online download sites threaten profits, he remains unperturbed. “Every trade is bitter-sweet. From inside this shop I get a chance to see other countries,” he shrugs.
Though he would like to launch his own business, he refuses to make plans. “You can never plan enough because things will happen when they have to. I try not to think too much.”
This is perhaps why DVD Shabbir is a happy man.
The dynamics of Indian cult films
Last updated on September 2, 2010 at 1600 hrs IST
RANJITA GANESAN________________________
There is much contention surrounding the existence of an underground film scene in India. Though not in the form of a focused movement, underground filmmakers do operate here. The dynamics of Indian cult films are murkier than those of the west – not in terms of quality but because of the multi-layered conditions that govern them.
Since they cannot proliferate in a society possessed by well-produced formula films backed by hefty promotion, some filmmakers in India lie low by choice. For an audience uninitiated in the art of film appreciation, hard-hitting cinema that transmits macabre truths is never more desirable than mainstream flicks, where even sorrow shines prettily. Big banners are unwilling to touch alternate subjects which seem either too drab or dark for mainstream consumption- ‘Ek Cup Chya’, a film about the Right to Information (RTI), is a case in point. On the rare occasion when producers oblige, the director’s freedom is contorted.
Disconcerted by the tyranny of commercial forces, an organisation called Little Fish Eat Big Fish released a DVD set of 5 Bengali ‘no-budget’ films in 2008. They write in their blog, “We view the producer as an unwanted intervention of the consumerist culture to control and, thereby, subjugate the auteur.” They stick to independent film-making, and invite film-lovers “to come and see what kind of quality a no budget film can deliver.” Short film clubs like Shamiana too are promising initiatives. Student film-makers with low resources form a big chunk of the unknown underground. The Magic Lantern Foundation has been lending support to small socio-political film projects since 1989.
Modern documentary makers try to keep up the political underground film-making tradition of post-emergency India. Since anti-establishment films are confrontational, they become a censor’s delight. So filmmakers have to shoot, edit and produce their work from the sidelines. Anand Patwardhan‘s ‘social action’ films have screened more times in court than in cinema halls, but he still attempts to pitch his films among the masses. The ban on ‘War and Peace’ (2002) (see video) was revoked but not without 21 cuts. After a long struggle, the Bombay High Court finally cleared the entire film for multiplex screening in 2005. Yet it remains relatively unknown.
Little or no money can be spared for publicity. Piracy, therefore, is an approved form of distribution in the underground. Owing to the audacity of Pradip Krishen’s ‘In Which Annie Gives It Those Ones’, it was aired just one night on Doordarshan. Only recently the forgotten work was revived by propagation online. ‘Paanch’, Anurag Kashyap’s controversial debut film, was distributed through file sharing websites with the director’s sanction.
Popular recognition eludes independent films here but they are received well abroad. Also, within India, curiosity about regional films is limited. So they live and die in film festivals. Murali Nair’s Malayalam film ‘Marana Simhasanam’ won the Camera d’Or, but it is barely known within Kerala, let alone outside it. Few have heard of Partho Sengupta but his first feature film ‘Hava Aney Dey’ was selected for Global Lens 2008 and his next venture is being funded by Hubert Bals. Self proclaimed underground auteur Quashik Mukherjee’s ‘Bishh’ (Bengali) which released statewide with 2 cuts was watched by few and thrashed generously by mainstream critics. But he finds a growing fanbase among Bengalis in parts of the US. His documentary ‘Le Pocha’ is a big hit with alternate music lovers (see video).
It is interesting how blue films (underground porn) find a meticulous distribution through dedicated networks. Independent auteurs too must start a strong underground movement and use means like the internet or open public screenings to create a stir in the Indian mainstream.
the brother i never had
Often, at the silly age of 11, I would lie awake under the bedsheets and listen to the sounds around my house. I relished this secret nocturnal exercise, with my eyes closed and a smile playing on carefully pursed lips. On that particular night in the year 2000, however, I wish I had simply succumbed to sleep.
I caught snatches of my parents’ conversation. “…you’ve forgotten two years before Ranji? When our boy was born dead?” Amma asked Appa in Tamil. Instantly, my eyes flew open. I became still, breathing as quietly as I could in the light of this disturbing revelation. ‘Perhaps I had heard wrong?’ I hoped. But the pained silence that followed and later, mention of the word ‘miscarriage’ (which I looked up in the Oxford dictionary the next morning) confirmed otherwise; I had almost had an elder brother.
Fearing that she would tell on me, I did not confide in my elder sister about that night’s discovery. Instead, my mind drowned in a deluge of questions. How could he have died? Who would he have resembled? I wondered what they might have named him. Was he a ghost now? And the inevitable- would my parents have had me at all after Akka and a son?
Years later, when my mother decided to let us know, it was hard to feign shock. Amma probably attributed my calm intake of the news to the wisdom of adulthood. But the fact is, I had healed. For Akka, the knowledge was fresh and difficult. She and I had, on countless occasions, wished aloud for a brother. We knew now that he had always been there. Somewhere between us.
I like to believe my brother died so that I may be born.
i-deal not
Idealism makes my skin crawl. That it makes my skin crawl, makes my skin crawl. But not so much.
For Nita,
Drafted well past midnight on June 4/5 (it will never be half as good as the poems you wrote me woman).
Hey, the birthday bumps are still due.
CAN OF WORMS
Something about that week’s edition of ‘Top Chef’ caused enough upset for me to throw up this post. I may be over reacting. My rambles shall be conveyed nonetheless.
One of the tasks on that episode was to put together breakfast using ingredients from an enormous range of canned food, within 15 minutes. The contestants were visibly distressed, mortified even. I’m talking furrowed eyebrows, heavy gasps, bleeped out expletives and muffled screams. You might think that’s the archetypal reaction to any task on any reality show. However it was not so much the smallness of the deadline that bothered them, as the prospect of dealing with canned food.
Sure, I understand that they are culinary geniuses in the making. But genius must not have to frown on lesser mortals who may resort to cooking out of cans. “They’re not trash cans! There’s a difference right?” I scoffed, looking over at Mum. She didn’t return my doubtful laughter. Instead of it came the dry observation, “That food does taste like trash.”
The reason I mulled over this at all is because of the deeper nature of the problem. I could foresee an impending crisis.
You can count the dishes that I can make on fingers of one hand and you would still have fingers to spare. ‘Instant, ready, canned, packaged…’ that stuff is designed with the likes of me in mind. Until that fateful day of reality TV viewing, the tin and plastic packets had appeared almost friendly and handy. Now, I won’t be surprised if images of screeching Top Chef contestants haunt me whenever I decide to take at shot at convenient cooking.
Alright, I have to stop pretending that I knew nothing of the hazards of canned food- not only does it taste like the regurgitated version of real food but also poses serious health risks. There is no escaping the facts, no matter how much one may fake oblivion. Yet I feel freshly cheated by this stale world where everything happens in 2 minutes. Maybe some sick part of me was still seeing hope.
Nothing that happens in 2 minutes can be anything except an atrocious charade. How can one simply dismiss all the steady processes involved? For, in the process lies the magic. And what is already processed is only a done to death magic trick. I imagine nobody has said that before.
Screw Popeye for having us believe that all ye really needs is a can opener. I know it would have been ridiculous for him to handpick spinach, clean it, chop it, steam it and stir it while Bluto scored with Olive. Still (thanks to a quick Google search) I can safely assume that while he beat the big man silly, the Bisphenol A of the tin containers would eventually have left Popeye with increased chances of fertility/reproductive problems, cancer, heart disease, diabetes and liver problems.
On an even unhappier note, all the magic processes of the kitchen will have to be learned.
befoodled
I haven’t since deserved a meal as well as on that summer’s day in Ghatkopar. It commands a lasting place in my memory and this blog-
Among others, voting time in the city last year meant one important thing for us interns- a field day. It also meant strong chappals and six hours on the road, a sling bag and camera. I could have been a tourist. I was perhaps. I didn’t cast a vote anyway. Choppy train rides, amla sherbet that tasted a lot like peace at Prachi’s home and another chance to test my Marathi skills. A hundred faces, questions, shrugs, election jokes, sidey smiles and raised eyebrows later, I broke out in a sweat. Then the ‘partner in crime’ called.
In typical newbie fashion, we had overworked. Priya and I. Despite being posted in a low activity constituency where adventure is an hour-long power cut. This is what we planned to take back to office. Not before that royal meal though.
We spoiled ourselves rotten in the first big looking restaurant Ghatkopar had to offer. We would have nothing less than air conditioning, burying ourselves deep in the red of the Maharaja-style couches. Nobody could touch us here. The world seemed ridiculously powerless.
I don’t remember what we ate. Only that it was heavenly. Comfort served on a clean, white plate. The waiters let us be. And be, we did.
The rest of that day is a blur. People in a newsroom are painfully pleased around polling time. I sipped on coffee and watched the fun.
I distinctly remember food from that summer because we considered it a vulgar luxury. Lunch at ‘Aaram’: where one fellow waited on all tables and yelled at us for being indecisive. Domino’s: much craved pineapple on pizza. Street side bhel and chana chor garam and chai downstairs with Serena.
Having an overdose of random nostalgia and blaming it on the times. The run up to the end of final year seems quite like PMS.
SYBMM- Roll No. 9213
Struck gold today while sifting through old projects. SY Introduction to Journalism assignment. We elected Pralhad as our ‘personality’ for the profile. P-Man, I made you seem half brilliant. In memory of the good times-
Pralhad Tipnis’ manner is as relaxed as his clothes. Dressed in a white t-shirt and baggy jeans, the second year media student from Ruia College has a ready, almost rehearsed answer to everything.
What could easily be mistaken for coldness is really his composure. The youngster with a passion for music is mature beyond his 20 years and gives off the impression of a wise hermit one might find on a remote mountain. His skinny, gangling frame only adds to that idea. Pralhad was not always all-knowing though. He confesses, “There was a time after my 12th standard, when I didn’t know where to go and what I wanted to do. BSc IT, BMM, the options were varied and I was flummoxed. This state of confusion was the worst phase of my life.”
Music acts as a drug for the reticent lad who swears by his guitar. “I remember the first time I learnt and played a song- it was Day Tripper by the Beatles, a happy song that I didn’t like much. But that feeling is unforgettable, my happiest moment,” he recollects. Heavy metal and classic rock are his preference. He also enjoys some classical music.
Apart from music Pralhad also cherishes his family, collection of movies and his close friends who have taught him valuable lessons. Another person who appears to have taught him lessons is Ayn Rand, his favourite author. “In addition to the timeless generic mystery novels, I love Ayn Rand’s works,” he quips. His approach to life is similar to the one upheld by the characters in her books. Though he admits that Rand’s idyllic objectivism cannot be practiced to the word, he believes in living for oneself. “Ultimately you make yourself; no one else is worth living for.”
A question about his ideal match is met with a nonchalant grin. He rubs his uneven, three-day-old stubble thoughtfully and pronounces that she should be someone who is “intelligent, with a sense of humour and who can overlook my quirky behaviour.” His future plans are to be an independent and established ad-man and settle down professionally. As for his personal life, he has no plans. Perhaps a wife, home and music on the Himalayas, one imagines.
A Funny Film
My short, unprofessional recollection of the latest offering from Ethan and Joel Coen- ‘A Serious Man’ (2009), nominated for an Academy Award for Best Picture:
Larry Gopnick is not an evil man and he is trying to be serious. Mostly, he is a man you want to hug and wish well. This is hopefully why Sy (Fred Melamed), the man Larry’s wife is about to leave him for, holds him close every time they meet.
You shouldn’t lose sleep if you “did not ‘get’ A Serious Man” because that is the point the Coen brothers seem to be making. It is not important to get, understand or even search for answers to everything. That is also the point the protagonist refuses to accept. To him, everything is mathematics, including Physics. All events must have an absolute and tangible explanation. You are sure to have known at least one figure of reference whose personality matches Larry’s exactly.
There can be no spoilers here for revealing all would still mean revealing nothing. As the ‘dybbuk’ scene that it opens with would testify, the film is as random as the probability theory.
The Gopnicks are fully dysfunctional – Larry is boring with a surly wife who wants out. He has an anti-social brother addicted to gambling, a beauty obsessed daughter and junkie son. Even their neighbours are ungodly.
Murphy’s Law seems to have taken over the wannabe-permanent-professor’s life.So help from the Gods is soon to be sought. The quest for enlightenment that follows provides consistent laughs, one Rabbi after another. Again, you shouldn’t lose sleep if you do not find the sequences funny. Humour in the works of this duo has never been universally approved.
Micheal Stulhbarg (as Larry), slightly reminiscent of Robin Williams, comes out of nowhere with a stellar performance. Whoever designed the quirk of him walking daily into school with briefcase clutched tight to his chest is genius. The rest of the cast too is relatively new and brings along fresh talent. Aaron Wolff as a jaded and reckless teenager (Danny Gopnick) is particularly impressive.
The art and cinematography crew make the 60’s come alive such that you ache to be there. Jefferson Airplane has been resurrected in style, and the band’s music woven effortlessly into the script.
The wide open ending makes you wonder first, and then nod in partial realisation. Of nothing in particular. ‘A Serious Man’ is existentialism explored.
baxbillant boy
He lives next door to me-
A little boy of five,
Sprightly, with a pair of happy eyes,
His tears are rare, unlike the smiles.
He lives next door to me-
Unaware that his father is no more,
He was sent away during the last rites, you know,
So he didn’t watch his dear Baba go.
He lives next door to me-
He senses something is amiss.
When his mother now tucks him into bed,
He wonders when Baba’s holiday will end.
He lives next door to me-
And the boy will soon figure out,
When he can’t answer an innocent ‘what’s your daddy do’?
I’m ‘fraid he’ll put together two and two.
He lives next door to me-
Much protected and loved,
by his Aai, Aaji and all others who know him.
He will never feel alone,
For we’ll teach him how to cycle,
We’ll cheer at his recital,
Buy him ice-creams with swirls,
We’ll warn him about the girls,
And by the time he’s ready to take off the training wheels,
Even the rare tears will have been switched with joyful squeals.
‘Baxbillant’ is what 5-year-old Manas says everytime you say ‘Excellent’ which is often because he is just that. Another weak stab at poetry…but I really hope his life brims with sweet joy. Please make a wish for anyone who has lost a loved one lately.
too much
Everyone says life is no bed of roses. They all say it. They say it all the time. So often that we’ve forgotten who said it first. Maybe it doesn’t matter who said it. If everyone agrees then it must be true.
Here’s what I think.
The ‘I’ had to come somewhere right. I re-watched part of Princess Diaries when it played on Star Movies last week. I watch trash. The part where pretty Anne Hathaway goes – “And then I thought about how many stupid times a day I use the word ‘I’.”
For unfathomable reasons, that line made me feel guilty. But where you’re at is my blog. So I am allowed to say I. Guilt thus suppressed I will continue. Yes, I.
Going back, I’ve been thinking about ‘life’. Funskool made a load of cash by making us play a game by that name. Robert Benigni thinks life is beautiful. The Mintrox ad folks have you believe it ‘eej hard’. They say here after any disaster, natural or otherwise, that life has to go on.
Now this life is taking me to a juncture where a decision will have to be made. It is not going to be an easy one and I’d like to buy time. Time is fast running out though. Because life is no bed of roses.
But who cares for flowers? Not me. I’ll just run headlong into this decision when the moment comes. I never liked roses.
old and beautiful
Udaipur is like an aging woman of exquisite beauty.
To the outsider she seems divorced from reality, her present funded by alimony drawn from an eventful past. Now her days are spent in lazy hope. She is longing for change while still working her old charms to survive.
The historic town grapples with problems that most emerging conurbations in India are privy to; coming to terms with nascent modernity in the midst of royal palaces and countless temples. Water needs to be managed. Electricity needs to be continuous. Traffic needs to be organised. Garbage needs to be collected. Cows need to be moved out of the now busy streets.
Yet it is these cows, dung, garbage and crowded lanes that attract riches which will ultimately sponsor the city’s development. It visibly delights tourists to see monuments decorated by filth and neglect. And they, like me go back and blog about it. The romance of going to a place where poverty squats by the roadside, guides try to bait you in broken English, flies buzz around little sweet shops, where Srinathji was born and where Maharana Ranjit Singh kept his 1600 wives.
People are tired of this make believe royalty. Royalty in no way defines the everyday reality of this place. The vicious circle is so clearly defined in Udaipur now, it screams at you. It will be a while before the fog clears and catharsis happens. A while before the old woman decides if she wants to age gracefully or invest in botox.
Meanwhile shopping is fun and cheap. Bags/shoes/earrings for 150. I think I’ll be heading there again soon.
It’s complicated.
All the universe is a social networking sham. Today it is Facebook. Yesterday it was Orkut. Tomorrow a different site will call the shots.
The power they command is unreal. Why do humans rely so much on a virtual reality? The writing it seems is on the ‘wall’- virtual is bigger, better, cheaper and less trouble.
But imagine a scenario where husbands wish their wives good morning via Superpoke. They will have fights on FB too.
Husband- hello wife
Wife- Why didn’t you ‘like’ my status today?
Husband- the damn server was down so I didn’t see it.
Wife- It’s another woman isn’t it? Take that.
Husband- Stop throwing eggs at me! Can we talk about this at home?
Wife- Oh no. I’m never poking/talking to you ever again. Also, you are no longer my neighbour on Farmville.
Then husband sends wife some petunias and cherry cola through some gift application that makes it all good.
Detestable. The mass hysteria has to stop…before my mum starts boy hunting for me on these sites.
Fellow humans, it is okay to be social networking so long as you don’t forget to do it in the actual world. Call and meet people some time. Tell your thoughts instead of tweeting them. In conclusion, nothing’s quite like a real world hug.
And this I choose to say on a blog.
The cheek of me. And you. Get offline loser.
Meri rai me, Red is the best.
Yes, I have a mobile phone. A Nokia something something.
I named it ‘Red’, but commonly refer to it as ‘the damned thing’.
It’s a curse to not care about cell phones when you belong to a generation that swears by them. By default you are counted among those who are glued to the gadget, talking for hours, furiously texting minute-by-minute updates of their life to friends. And friends of friends.
Sorry if I break the monotony…but I don’t make lengthy calls or message/forward jokes to even chuddie buddies regularly. In this respect I feel united with the previous generation who are proudly technology-impaired. The thumb numbing cell phone culture does not impress me. The idea of being so accessible is disturbing and adhering to it would make me feel vulnerable.
Why do I own a phone then? Some would rate this mystery on the same scale as the bermuda triangle. My popular explanation- “for emergencies” (read- my folks like to know when I’m getting home and if I’m going to eat dinner)
The scant attention the lal dabba gets from me is hardly a secret. Silent mode is my favourite thing in it. I forget to recharge. Balance has been 0.63 since the last call that was made over a week ago. Also I prefer dumping it in my bag instead of carrying it on my person…which explains why I miss calls. I have lost Red on more occasions that I can remember and incredulously, it has always found its way back. At such times, I admit I have sensed a reluctant camaraderie between the two of us.
The act of writing the above ticked me off but I owe my trusty piece of junk this much. Gah.
To Red, who has withstood my less than gentle handling, who hides in unseen corners of my bag when I need peace, who waits patiently for those rare Vodafone top-ups, who has died several deaths and come through singing a bright song, I dedicate this post.
In a weird way, you understand me. Someday, I’ll figure you out.
the post without a title
It was an hour into the exam and a painful hunger pang began eating at my insides. Writing with a slow pen and a tired mind, I also became very conscious of several mistakes I had made in the answers.
I could either (a) correct them now or (b) pretend there are no mistakes and simply complete what remained of the paper.
Unlike Forrest Gump, I didn’t turn back and set things right. I moved ahead, doing a consistently mediocre job.
That choice came out of something my favourite professor had discussed in class last year- The dictatorship of mediocrity.
In our search for acceptance we have all played with this idea. Some of us who studied with Sanjay Ranade will recognize and comprehend it. Others mechanically deal with this itchy truth.
The truth is that 2 hours do not always suffice to write a flawless paper, a result of which is the hurriedly compiled bunch of mostly inaccurate answers. And somehow this arrangement seems to substantiate the errors. The world works like that. Hence, we act with guilt free imperfection.
Another truth may be that your boss is mean to you only because he knows you’re a lot better than he was at your age. Or that you should have got the lead role in that school play so many years ago. Surely you know more than the pest who raises his hand and yells out answers in class (after overhearing you while you uttered them quietly) Really how many times have you smiled through the selection of the worst idea as the topic of a group assignment, thanks to social pressure and general amusement at the freaks you got stuck with? Right, maybe that’s just my life but substitute it with whatever you might have faced. I’m not doing all the thinking for you.
We know mediocrity sells. Credit does not reach the one who works hardest. It is awarded to the one who works loudest or whoever is prettiest. In conclusion, mediocrity is not merely accepted, but put on a pedestal and applauded.
Rarely about how much you know than how much you show. You might not like to admit it but you’re in the game. You either play it with vigour or watch and cheer. Still you’re there.
So I think I made a smart choice.
You’re not still reading this are you?
No seriously.
Get a job.
the song of sparrows
Most Sundays allow me the liberty to stay late in bed. Most Sundays I wake up to the screechy voice of the maid, dishing out gossip to an impassive audience. My sis and I fondly refer to her as ‘the sparrow’. My maid is a smart woman and like everybody, she has a story.
Leave her drunken waste of a husband and come to the city, she did. She lives with her folks now and provides for her 12-year-old daughter, besides dealing with stigma that is ruthlessly attached to her. Does backbreaking work so she can give her child a decent education. Very admirable stuff.
She could have been a woman of supreme substance if she had stuck it completely in society’s face though. But the sparrow chooses to practice her own discrimination. In hushed tones, she calls my neighbours an inferior lot since “they belong to a lower caste”. Much of the respect hitherto garnered comes crashing down.
This caste-crossing-into-class war makes a convoluted and, for me, a disturbingly remarkable picture. As is ritual, my stream of grimy consciousness flows and I try to derive sense from it.
Perhaps for those that suffer at the hands of disdainful people, the simplest way to get back is to join in disdaining another. Like when we play down our problems by pointing out that people in Africa are in more troubled waters. Or like the brown man calling the black man dark. Caste won’t buy anyone a nice house in a good neighbourhood. And even when you work your way into that neighbourhood, class won’t fully defeat the communal judgment one is destined to face.
We all find a comfortable brand of bias to live under. The sparrow will chirp. And maybe it’s justified because an owl probably hooted at her.
doing the Right thing.
I still do not have a voter’s card. I might get one made since I am told it is useful as identity proof. Plus I like cards with my picture on them.
The recent elections passed without me exercising my shiny new right to adult franchise. I am not proud. Even if I had voted though, what was to be proud of? Show me which party or candidate in my constituency was worthy of approval. To select the lesser of the evils seemed like an evil thing itself. Asking me to judge which shit looks prettier is unreasonable.
The 49-0 campaign ended in disaster. Big chunk of voters did not know of the procedure and others who knew were met with clueless election officers.
To make your disapproval felt, you had to ask for and fill a separate form so that you may lawfully show all the candidates your middle finger. It makes no difference to the outcome though. What is the blasted use of this? It’s like hating cricket, still going to the game and closing your eyes or sticking out your tongue as a sign of protest. The cricketers will still have the last laugh. And they will laugh loudest at you.
In hindsight, maybe the election officers are not uninformed at all. They know all the rules in the book. Imagine what a tough job it must be, supervising those many folks through the day. Adding to that, you tell them to fish out special papers for a mere 20-30 people and clear their doubts, wait while they write out details, fold the forms when they are done and safeguard them. When, in fact, their no-vote will have as much utility as my pet amoeba. It is little wonder then why the smartypants officers fake ignorance. Bless them.
This rant is only a figment of my stunted thought process. You must not subscribe to it. To those who are still reading, my decision is that I will wait on the world to change. Let 49-0 become a part of the secret ballot. Let it become a button on the damned machine and be counted so that thug-like candidates are not allowed to contest in further elections. Allow me a right that will help stem the damage.
Then I will gladly make a trip to the polling booths, and not as a spectator.
time is passing
Five submissions. Two tests. Two assignments. One presentation. One letter. One task. Ten days. Tick. Tock.
selling out
A mood assignment had landed me in Byculla to profile BMC’s dangerous buildings. Let me take you there-
Year 2009. The month is May and a mid morning sun is beating mercilessly down.
Somewhere past Rani Baug, the photographer and I get off the cab to ask for directions. The address reads Botawala Chawl. “This only,” mutters a lean boy of around 18 darting his eyes over to a nearby structure. Then he sizes us up with both curiosity and a hint of irritation. He does not smile when we thank him. With a swift turn he is gone. I watch him walk over to his friends and hear his intentionally loud comment.
“Poor India, hungry India dekhne aaye hain.”
The words stay with me long after I have left the chawl. I file my story quietly and lay in bed later that night wondering why poverty has been reduced to newsbits that go well with a cup of coffee the next morning.
To earn the bread and butter that completes this breakfast, I have sold out.
PS- A daft part of my 20-year-old rookie reporter’s mind still wants to do meaningful work that impacts society. Blergh.
You are I
You are bored.
You don’t notice people.
You are inattentive.
You kill much time.
You need a haircut.
You don’t read enough.
You must learn to save up.
You have to clean your room.
You need to meet deadlines.
You drink way too much coffee.
You never wake up on time.
You are late for everything.
You wish you were evil.
You are really too tolerant.
You have to stop typing.
You are I.
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