Nazis, each of us

The Jew's Song

(Inspired by 'The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas' )

My eyes still sting in shame

I fear to utter my name

Lest I be branded

Unsung and unhanded

Unmanned and unlanded

Just for being a Jew.

My history lies in ruins

My children sing no tunes

Lest I be taken away

Torn and turned astray

Battered into a block of clay

Just for being a Jew.

My breath chokes out of a chamber

A nightmare none shall dismember

Lest I be applauded

Mourned, mined and lauded

Divined and defrauded

Just for being a Jew.

----- GARGI MANDAL-MUKHERJEE

22-06-2011

MIRCH : the Film

(Photo courtesy : Wikipedia )

MIRCH : A film worth watching.

Humour, pathos, suspense, sexuality...in short, an aesthetic feast. Wonderful performances from all concerned (Arunoday Singh's a revelation !): Raima, Konkona, Ila Arun, Boman Irani, Shreyas Talpade, Shahana Goswami, Sushant Singh...an ensemble cast who complement each other to perfection and compliment the director's faith in them. Tisca Chopra in a brilliant cameo. Great cinematography, amazing dialogues, intricate and compelling sets, visual delight in the form of costume selection and sweeps of landscape and especially the presentation of "Kaare kaare badra".

Those who interpret the 'A' certification as offering a lot of lurid sexual excitement would be in for disappointment. Sex is a character by itself and one that infuses vibrant life into the characters, stories, dialogues, landscapes, sets and scenes. The film, however, is more than just four stories. Each is a carefully executed little gem. My personal favourite is the third one, I have to confess. And I can't recall Raima looking as exquisite as she does in this one.

I was especially taken by the director's careful use of colour (black & white vs rich colour) to separate the connecting narrative to the stories narrated. It is evident that a lot of hard work has gone into making the film since it translates into considerable visual subtlety.

Music has been used sparingly but to excellent effect, speaking for the characters when it would not do to say much for themselves. I just can't get over Shankar Mahadevan's "Kaare kaare badra"...it is the song of the moment, walking about the corridors of my heart-heavy mind.

And I hope people don't find gender issues in the film. The complexities of a human mind have been evocatively portrayed and I personally feel that sexual biases would mar the intended empathetic depth of the viewer. Just go with the flow of the film and it should please you. If uncertain, just remember, the direction is by Vinay Shukla.

Well then, what are you waiting for ? Go watch it !

'Autograph' vs 'Angshuman er Chhobi'

Well, we've just finished watching 'Autograph' and 'Angshumaner Chhobi' back to back. A happy coincidence, since both films deal (although in drastically different ways) with the Bengali film industry and the inner lives of its fraternity. I am not planning a comparative review of the two, though. Just jotting down a few things that struck me while watching each of them.

'Autograph' was technically sound. Not that I'm the last word when it comes to the former. But yes, being an avid cinema-goer since God knows when in the past, I can distinguish a good film from a mediocre one. Mediocrity being a relative term and one that in my dictionary, deals exclusively with the gulf between the potential and the actual. The treatment also matters. I watch from a layman's viewpoint and often think in a similar manner. I only note the tightness of the story, the smartness of execution and the ability to involve the spectator. Not too much to ask for, what say ?

Well then. 'Autograph' scores everywhere. Simple storyline. Great music, meaningful lyrics, poetic thought. Well-etched characters, solidly structured, effectively executed. The inner life vis-a-vis the outer life reflected in dialogues, dreams, sets, songs and the cinematography in general. Sharp editing, leading to a slow exploration of the characters' minds and emotions, without any painful slowing down of the pace of the film. A great homage to Ray's 'Nayak', as it claims to be.

'Angshumaner Chhobi' is inconsistent. There is enough to make a good story but the treatment is flaccid in parts. There are bits and pieces that don't hold the fabric together tightly, after all. Places are unnamed, incidents half-heartedly depicted and a lot of things never logically accounted for. Who is the supposed gym health-products salesperson after all ? Is Neel's love really perversely intense enough to kill Madhura's husband ? Why is the CID lady dressed like a corporate executive. with bizarrely heavy eye make-up ? How does the film direct the course of its director's life ? Where is the development in the Neel-Madhura relationship portrayed ? And the worst part is the stilted, hesitant acting of most of the characters. It is as if they are into an episodic understanding of the scenes but never able to weave everything together into a consistent whole because of an inability to grasp the director's totality of vision.

And if you are someone to whom music is the food of love, you must listen to the songs of 'Autograph'. They inspire. They bring back the poet in the Bengalee.

Peepli [Live]

Watched 'Peepli [Live]' last Sunday. The film's still going housefull. But somehow I'm still brooding over it.

There's something curiously detached about the film. It touches a chord and you have that 'this is so true-to-life' feeling several times, which makes you nod gently to yourself. But it's very Dev D in its execution, by which I mean 'no nyakami and no out-to-grab-the-eyeballs-by-in-your-face-realism'. I had received feedback that it was a 'sad' film but surprisingly, I remained unmoved. I was touched, of course by the maturity of the art and the brilliant directorial vision that brought the media and political world together in their larger-than-life roles. But the fact remained that it was exactly what it sought to be : something sad and stoic. sober and subtle. Almost Tolstoy in its breadth of vision and range of characters but very Shirshendu-like in the portrayal of their foibles and eccentricities. The note on farmer suicides at the end anchored it in grim reality and ironically extrapolated any compassion it might have aroused onto yourself. It shook you with the realisation that there was nothing to enlighten us about, nothing that the print and broadcast media had not already told you. And yet, you hadn't done your bit to remedy whatever you could have. Instead, you came to a multiplex, paying for a Rs 180-worth ticket to watch a film that made you feel that you were part of the 'thinking' middleclass.

A slap on the face. Yup. That's what the film was for me.

Alzheimer's

I'm halfway through Iris. And scared.

What if it happens to me ?

John Bayleys are hard to find nowadays, you know.

Inception : The film

The review of Inception by Time magazine's Richard Corliss echoes my first thoughts while watching the closing credits roll :

"Finally, its noble intent is to implant one man's vision in the mind of a vast audience ... The idea of moviegoing as communal dreaming is a century old. With Inception, viewers have a chance to see that notion get a state-of-the-art update".

After a long time, I think I watched a film that actually challenged my intellect and stimulated it and even caused me to struggle to keep up with the intensity and complexity of perception that went into structuring it. Of course, it's true that I was so conversant with dreams , the unconscious and their interpretation in my psychoanalysis phase in JU that I was mentally equipped to interpret the dream world and its logic (or lack of it). Which is not the case now. But yes, I could recognise the fact that years of research and reading had gone into planning and perfecting the aesthetics of Inception and much hard work underlay its deceptively fluid appearance. And at points, take delight and pride in the fact that my months of non-purposive (and to all appearances, esoteric) reading was finally finding importance somewhere : namely, in understanding the film.

Not that the film wasn't lucid at the level of narration. Although not having had any previous notion of what the film might be about, I did struggle with the opening dream sequences and was as perplexed as Ariadne (Ellen Page) might be when her practical knowledge of architecture had to be restructured radically following the stringent and often logically irreconcilable demands of Cobb's mission. But I learned with her and almost at her pace. By the time she was about to suggest the unplanned and risky fourth level of dream terrain, I had mentally predicted it and was only wondering whether the time differences at the respective levels and the strength of Yusuf's sedative would allow it to be implemented without the danger of limbo overtaking the dreamers.

There were mental hurdles, of course. The appearance of the dream-box (the technical equipment of Cobb's team, stored in a briefcase-like container) at each and every level was too solid and concrete a possibility as well as a coincidence, even for lucid dreaming. And of course, the forging of identity by Earnes (Tom Hardy) to assume that of Browning (Tom Berenger) was very sci-fi like in that it strained credulity to an extreme. And yet, not once did it seem that the entire film was an exercise in suspension of disbelief, despite the awe-inspiring amount of theoretical knowhow it drew on, be it Freud or Jung or Borges. There were only multiple narratives and the Lacanian premise of the truth that is never true - altered, filtered and faltering as it is in entering the perceptive level of each individual. And why not ? What is reality but our constant adjustment to our environment and its immediate demands ? Nolan must be lauded not merely for his film, a work of art, but also for the questions, theories and discussions it should necessarily trigger off. The trajectory of the film is a remarkable one, moving on from one certainty to another and yet, beginning and ending in ambivalence - suggesting rather than telling tales, the true-blue mark of a classic.

I disagree with Barnali's review ("it fails to show the profundity of human emotion") at certain points, although it is a brilliantly graphic one. I couldn't but be moved at Ariadne's growing and obsessive fascination with the compelling projection of Mal (Marion Cotillard) in her dreams and by extrapolation, with the 'real' nature of Cobb's relationship with his invincible-even-in-death wife. Similarly, the need for Cobb to accomplish 'inception' as a special ("it's not exactly legal", as he prosaically informs Ariadne) assignment with a definite goal in mind is a poignant parallel exercise in self-justification, scarred and sobered as he is by the guilt of fashioning his wife's death. There is nothing as sad as the anagnorisis of the tragic hero and Dom Cobb is no less than one, wracked in an unrelenting remorse, although his exile isn't exactly self-imposed (or is it ?) The playful banter between Eames and Arthur (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is also an endearing instance of a pair of incisive minds, each trying to outdo but secretly in awe of the complementary other. Further, I cannot but beg to differ on the topic of the other characters being "mere shadows with exceptional ability". Surely we cannot have multiple focal points in a narrative already taking risks with multiple levels of reality and dreams and shifting, mutating viewpoints and dreamscapes. It is commendable that Nolan creates memorable characters with true-to-life eccentricities and foibles, including the almost ethereal Mal whose character could easily have lapsed into cliched idealism.

As for the sets, I'm still lost in wonder at the sheer sweep and scale of it all. A lot of informed visualisation has resulted in the sets that we can only gape at. The wikipedia entry tantalises one's curiosity in this aspect but doesn't quite exhaust it. I need to surf around diligently to satiate my own particular interest in it all. Even the background score was brilliant, still playing in my head insistently, unobtrusive yet unmistakably there.

Much has been said about how The Matrix provides a substantial starting point for the film. It might, of course, since the former is as much of our collective consciousness as we would allow it to be. But from the maker of The Prestige, you cannot but expect an original. He is only moving from strength to strength.

Nolan reminds me of Hamlet's soliloquy (used somewhere in the film, if my memory isn't at fault) :

"What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how/ infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and/ admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like/ a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals..."

Indeed.

Raavan !!!

This is about the spur-of-the-moment decision we are still rueing. Namely, turning a purposeful visit to the nearby Metropolis Mall to order a new pair of spectacles into an evening of fun at the multiplex. While on our way, I was wondering if we could meet some friends at the food court and catch up and K obliged by calling up his college friend A and his wife D. It transpired that they were in the parking lot of the mall by a happy coincidence, having already bought tickets for Mani Ratnam's Raavan. Although we had been wondering whether it'd be possible to catch a show of the film that evening and yet not be too late for dinner back home, we had till then not planned anything definite. By a dismal twist of fate, we decided to go for it. GKB citing exorbitant prices for the spectacles wouldn't have spoilt our evening. Raavan ended up doing just that.

What I remember about the film :

1) Beera smeared in shades of white, yellow and black.

2) Shrieks and screams, both of men and women. Mostly superfluous ones.

3) Ragini dancing whenever she's in the company of her husband. As if that's the way to build a real relationship with one's husband.

4) Some memorable acting by Ravi Kissen as Beera's brother. After Hello Inspector on Doordarshan, this is the second time that I like him.

5) Govinda as the forest guard. As if he was born to play that role.

6) Priyamani as the sister whose doomed marriage started it all. Very refreshing to all the senses. Hope to see more of her in future.

7) The lush, virgin green of the forests and hills, the frothy white of the majestic falls and the panoramic sweeps of the camera that took our breaths away. It was better than any of the 'Incredible India' ads we get to watch on TV sometimes.

8) Mediocre music by A.R. Rehman. He broke my heart.

9) A frustrating first half in which nothing was comprehensible, including Beera's 'Chaka chaka chaka chaka' and why the actors decided to do this film in the first place. I would like to believe Big B when he blames the editing. There's a lot of abrupt scene movement and it doesn't feel right somehow.

10) A somewhat more comprehensible second half and a Mani-esque end. Which makes me want to watch the Tamil version to excuse him and the film itself. It's supposed to be way better. And of course, lucid.

A little bit about publicity stunts related to the film. I find it disgraceful that Abhishek Bachchan should try to highlight his supposed mega dive from the hilltop just to grab the limelight. The former diving champion who actually did the stunt is evidently disgusted. Abhishek apparently even insisted on repeating the same story on CNN-IBN, narrating how his insurance people had refused to cover the whole thing, considering him to be taking an unnecessary risk and how even Ash dear didn't know about it until it was over and done with. Well, it was definitely an 'unnecessary risk'. Although my logic for saying that isn't quite what Bachchan Junior would like to be confronted with. The truth will out, sometime. I mean, does he seriously think his countrymen will swallow all that he says ?

As for Papa Bachchan slamming Mani Ratnam on Twitter...wellllll. When will the man grow up ?!

For once, I must confess here, I had believed in Pratim D.Gupta's review of the film in The Telegraph. Although I don't care a fig for what this man usually writes, sneering at anything and everything not quite upto the mark (come on ,it's Bollywood, for heaven's sake !!!), this time I had a sinking feeling that he was right. Especially since it's so pathetically evident that he's a huge fan of the director and would have liked to write a proper 'review' of this film at least (for a change).

Btw, you might want to check out all these reviews of the film.

As for me, I'm hoping to watch the Tamil version soon. Especially since I liked the photos of Vikram I found on the net. Without that strange haircut and without the grisly bear moustache, of course. He might have had tremendous screen presence but I wouldn't have fallen for a man with hair issues (pun definitely intended).

A much more presentable Vikram, methinks.
Photo source : the net.

So long.

Reality Bites

K was upset last night when I observed that he seemed to be having fun watching films like 'Mumbai Meri Jaan'. It wasn't meant to be taken personally, of course (although my bluntness always does end up making things sound offensive). What I was trying to understand was why we think we're doing something commendable by watching these serious 'arty' films when we end up miserable and disillusioned at the state of things in our country.

K, after calming down, considered. He was of the opinion that he personally felt the need to know what was actually going on around him currently. The point then is that are these films are realistic as they seek to be or is reality cinema a carefully packaged product to assuage our aesthetically sensitive yet coercively conscientious minds ? Are we not perhaps unwitting voyeurs of the filmi version of someone else's actual grief ? Would we actually be able to digest the raw uncensored truth underlying incidents and issues that make headlines every often ? Or is watching such films just a consolation to our nuclear-family oriented, flat-residing, basically narcissistic selves : aiding our attempts to go to sleep each night knowing that all we are doing each day is mostly catering to our personal needs, our carefully cordoned-off solipsistic planes of existence ?

LUCK (2009)

I'm really looking forward to Luck (2009). Of course, it may prove to be quite a dud, after all. But it doesn't hurt to be optimistic. And then, there's Imraan Khan, who makes my heart flip with ecstasy every time I spot him. Aamir was quite the chocolate hero at this time of his own career, but Imraan is quite the package, I feel. The looks, the intensity, the voice, the understated acting, the vulnerability, the physique...well, I could go on all day. But in short, I'm really hoping 'Luck' proves lucky for him !

And then, there's debutante Shruti Haasan, Kamal Haasan's eldest daughter. Quite a headturner, if we go by her photos, having inherited her father's angular face structure and dark good looks. Looks like she's got potential, combined with her soft, vulnerable features and refined, subtle expressions (judging from the promos, of course). Well, no harm in having expectations, I suppose, being born of such illustrious parents. Also a trained music artiste, from what the net news articles claim. Her sister Akshara, looks equally if not more promising, from the several photos I've chanced upon. Vasundhara Das-ish looks with Sarika's eyes and face. Reminds me of the teenage Kareena. No idea whether she'll be walking the film road too but yes, in the photos there is a certain poise and keen-ness about her that struck me. An interesting prospect.

Mithun and Sanjay Dutt seem to be getting typecast, however. The 'bhai' or 'don' or 'villain' or 'evildoer' or 'antihero' or 'bluff big brother' or 'bitter-not-so-young-man', you are welcome to your choice of term. I mean, you might love or hate them, but then you are also comfortable in their doing those roles, simply because you know you've seen them being there, doing that. Nothing very original or promising, I suppose, but goes down well with the filmgoing crowd, who are sure to cheer or whistle at their respective entries on screen. A pity, though. They are fine actors and need to land better deals than they are getting meted out at present. I'm not too sure about Ravi Kissen though. Big Boss made me sick of his general coarseness and in-your-face body hair and I'd have preferred someone else, although anyone as a rapist could seem equally revolting, I suppose, after all. Danny is always welcome and Chitrashi Rawat sure to prove refreshing, post Chak-De.

The action scenes in the film had better live upto the hype. All those sharks, blind shots and train/helicopter jumps do sound exciting, but we're so used to rip-offs from originals that the Bollywood remakes always seem considerably bland and dilute versions, after all. And there are so many reality shows out there anyway that a film premised on that doesn't sound too promising, in any case. Of course, you never know when an underdog vindictively turns up trumps all of a sudden, but I'm not too sure that's going to happen soon.

Here are a couple of promos of the film : have a look. The second one is a novelty.





And don't forget to check out 'Khudaya Ve', it's the best song of the lot.

AWARD CEREMONIES

A few months back, we had been watching the 15th Annual Star Screen Awards 2009 on Youtube. Later, we watched the 81st Academy Awards on the ABC Family channel, here, in USA. And not to mince words, the contrast between the demeanour of nominees and participants at the two awards ceremonies could be best summed up in the adjective 'stark'.

When I contemplate the Star Sceen Awards, I cringe at the way Ashutosh Gowariker publicly insulted Sajid Khan at that occasion, paving the way for the media to mire the incident in controversies that leave a bitter taste in the mouth. Ensuring one would remember that ghastly moment first of all when one recalled this year's function. Not others that had eminently more recall value, such as Akshay Kumar's abdication of his most popular actor's trophy in favour of Aamir's role in 'Ghajini' (however cynically detractors may dismiss or decipher that) or the sensation that a relatively low budget (and certainly less hyped) film like 'A Wednesday' created by director Neeraj Pandey getting to share stage space and acclaim with the best director of the best film 'Jodhaa Akbar'. Or how 'Rock On' really did rock the Bollywood community, sweeping off several successive awards (Best Editing, Best Cinematography, Best Art Direction, Most Promising Male Newcomer, Best Male Actor in a Supporting Role, Best Female Actor in a Supporting Role). It's a different issue that Sajid's jokes did often sound forced or insipid and even seemed to border on the inane or farcical at times, but even an audience of laymen would vouch for his disarming non-malicious good humour at any point of time. If you are part of the 'acting' industry but cannot laught at jokes directed at your actor's persona, then you're in the wrong place at the wrong time and need a reality check pronto. It was all fine when Gowariker, coming up to accept his prize for the best director, began to express his grief at how he felt Sajid and Farah were capitalising on box-office collections as a means of dismissing films like 'Love Story 2050' or 'Tashan' that saw a whole film crew's vision falling flat on its face. But those in the audience secretly lauding his representative humane side received a rude jolt when he threw a crude "shut up" at Sajid and proved to be as bad as Sajid, if not worse, using the podium to make a mockery of the sponsors' goodwill, effectually jeopardising the reputation of this annual event. The trepidation on the face of Suzanne Roshan or Hrithik or Priyanka Chopra sufficed to suggest that Gowariker would do better to limit his philanthropism to directing films.



I couldn't but help compare this bizarre turn of events to the poignant cameraderie that bonded nominees for this year's best actor and actress awards at the Oscars. It was a moving moment when yesteryear's awardees were called on to announce and accolade this year's shortlisted few. Be it Anthony Hopkins on Brad Pitt, Nicole Kidman on Angelina Jolie or Sophia Lauren on Meryl Streep, the warmth and emotional connect in the film fraternity was evident from the body language of everyone present. The actor giving away an award seemed to be as proud of his role at that point of time as the awardee him/her-self . Everyone seemed to subtly sense that the occasion was one that highlighted the entire Hollywood film industry and was more about them all than any particular winner as such. Their behaviour happened to be commensurately classy.

And now this , this , and this !



Bollywood, er, Ashutosh Gowariker I mean, is getting bizarre by the day. And I so agree with Subhash K. Jha's conclusion, although that could be applicable to himself too. On mumerous occasions, he has received verbal brickbats from newspaper readers for dismissing /dissecting/ detractive statements on actors of known stature and calibre, which have indeed called his integrity as a critic into question. But let that rest for the moment. The question is why AG needs to portray Bollywood as a squabbler's h(e)aven to the rest of the world. At the rate he's endearing himself to the film fraternity, he might soon have to contend with a premature termination of his career due to all the lead actors making themselves scarce to him !

'UP'

While taking a walk one evening, a couple of days ago, K and I were discussing when would be the most opportune time to die. It does sound a tad too premature, I concede, but then on some days, the weather’s so fantastic, you feel you’d like to live forever but know it isn’t possible and then, abruptly, you’re beset by the contemplation of mortality and human existence. Besides, we were both a trifle ‘senti’ that day, having shed tears (me, mostly) at several points while watching the film ‘Up’ that morning in the theatre and feeling like we needed to re-examine the nature and purpose of our respective trips through life.

Well, then. I brooded over the topic for a while and announced that my fears of old age were mainly related to loss of independence. In all senses. Not only in the crudest sense of the slowing down or disruption of one’s bodily functions but also that of feeling infinitely more vulnerable and irrelevant all the time. Of being too old to be in sync with trends any more, of leading too solipsistic a lifestyle to allow the current events and incidents taking place elsewhere in the world to matter or work me up into a reaction of any sort any more. An indifference towards knowledge in any form. A relentless wait for the inevitable. That seems like time to make a graceful departure.

K’s attitude was distinctly different. In fact, his thoughts were not half as complex as mine. He put it very simply : he wanted to live as long as his partner did. He wanted to be able to bask in the comfort of the thought that he was there to care for me and me to care for him. Otherwise, life would seem rather hard.

That set me into rewind mode. ‘Up’ (2009) had reinstated our faith in our relationship, somewhat indirectly. A very ordinary child who grows into a very ordinary adult and then a very ordinary old man, receives a fresh lease of life when his wife’s ‘Adventure Book’ (a scrapbook) reveals to him how their fun-filled personal life had been adventure enough for her. From the realm of death, she succeeds in convincing him that their humdrum life together had been as good as a historical romance, where love had helped to enhance each experience and endow it with meaning. They had had no children, but towards the end, Fredricksen realizes that any child may be your own child, it’s your approach to life that makes someone family. The realization is reinforced in a brilliant sequence, where Fredricksen begins throwing out all the furniture Ellie and he had carefully created, collected and cherished over their years of marriage to decrease the weight of the house and set off to rescue Russell. Ellie’s last autograph, persuading him to embark on a fresh adventure, convinces him that it’s the emotions that make a home and not the furniture it contains. The grumpy, grizzly Fredericksen finally emerges as a hero in someone’s life : in Russell’s life.

The lesson’s simple : life is as exciting as you make it out to be. Every moment is an adventure, ticking away all the time, while one is foolishly pining away for more thrill, envious of the lot of others.

Who can tell what’s in store for us tomorrow ? Right now, we are together. That’s what matters, right ?

Carpe diem !

MOHE MOHE TU VOTE DE

I was just reading the most recent buckets of rain post and happened to recall an article that I'd written for The Telegraph way back in April 2006. Ahh, nostalgia seeps in...

MOHE MOHE TU RANG DE BASANTI

Jo log uncha sunte hain,unhe dhamakon ki zaroorat hei.

- -- Karan in Rang de Basanti

They say the youth are the backbone of our country. Well, unlike the friends of Rang de Basanti, I cannot conjure up any miraculous, not to say radical idea to make our politicians sit up and take the notice long overdue of our collective grievances. Honestly speaking, I don't see how we can make any overnight difference in the moribund political machinery of Bengal. Assassinating a minister doesn't really appeal to me. Bengalis are notorious for their inertia anyway. Neither will any of the local TV or radio channels care to put me on air to air my views (literally) since I don't resemble a celebrity, actually or potentially. Nor do I wish to die prematurely like Flight-Lieutenant Ajay Rathore in Rang de Basanti. Who knows – maybe I'll be remembered for my bad deeds rather than my good thoughts ! Not implausible, considering the fact that Veerappan and Abu Salem get more media mileage than the recent research proposals of Jadavpur University, where I occasionally take the trouble of attending classes. And of course,please don't offer me the alternative of student politics. Been there, done that. A rare SFI supporter in my graduation years, I soon suffered the shell-shock of Lakshman Pandey during my apprenticeship period and withdrew just in time to save my ideological spine. The shock of disillusionment was more severe perhaps since I had hitherto been cushioned from day-to-day actualities by the solipsistic Romantic poetry of Keats and Coleridge. I realized that I had been too estranged from practical possibilities. Like DJ, Sonia or Karan, I needed a Rang de Basanti to jolt me out of my complacent stupor into an urgent desire to matter, to shape (however ineffectually) the course of events rather than just be shaped by them. To be a good citizen and not merely a good student. Maybe, I thought, I should just vote.

Hold on. I'll pre-empt the arguments you'll offer to invalidate my choice. One vote cannot make or mar a government. True. If fake ration cards abound, so do false votes. True. Besides,the option of not voting for any of the projected candidates, a 'neither of the above' alternative is yet to materialize. (My mother's suggestion of 'not feeling like venturing out in the heat' doesn't count, by the way.) But the problem is tha tif each of us come up with similar excuses, as a mass, we are being apolitical and that itself is undoubtedly a dangerous political stance. Remember the proverb 'united we stand,divided we fall'? It still holds good, I've learned from my limited political experience. Neither Gandhi nor Bhagat Singh could show the path to utopia in Rang de Basanti. The passive protest before India Gate wasn't allowed to take place peacefully. Neither did the murder of the defence minister ultimately qualify as a cause for glorious martyrdom. What held the eye instead was the shot of multiple TV screens offering a collage of students voicing their disturbed diatribes on the immediate issue. In terms of ground realities,this would translate into voting. Change, like charity usually begins at home. And I for my part am still idealistic enough to speak through my vote. Maybe you could join me. Maybe we could create our own dhamaka. Think about it.

Well, it's a bit late in the day to comment on this perhaps, but I'd still say we do need a lot of fresh and young blood in the political arena right now to make a real difference. So I'm with you all the way, buckets , if you think my cheers would help urge you onto implementing your idealism some day soon !

Stumped

K and I just finished watching Mulholland Drive...never been more stumped in our respective lives...seems like someone's unconscious came to faithful life in creating (?!) this David Lynch film. Man...are we frustrated !


P.S : Well, at least there was the much-hyped erotica. If that's any consolation at all.


And yes, I'm not going to give away anything for those to whom the film's still unfamilar territory. So there. Looking up the links isn't much fun if you have no idea about whatever happened in there. You have to watch it to really make sense of what I've just been saying !

Paradise Lost

I was just wondering how we react to changing circumstances and whether that really makes us master of our own fortunes to the extent we'd like to be. A friend put up photos of her sister's newborn baby yesterday and that was the trigger for these reflections. I just can't get over the wonder of the process of growth of a newborn into a full fledged adult and then actually leaving the nest to discover life. The sheer contrast between the helplessness of the infant and the ruthlessness of the adult astounds me. I was watching 'To Kill a Mocking Bird' yesterday and the experience of innocence transforming into experience was a marvel indeed. It's been going on for ages, this metamorphosis, and yet one wonders. At the cycle of life that fuses good with evil and makes us embrace both to attain wisdom. No use grieving over the once trailing clouds of glory and the angelic (if limited) existence that we were cocooned in. Much as they might have wanted to, parents have never been able to shield their children from the darker, baser side of life. It will happen. One way or the other. And they all (even the victims, at times) remain unhappy onlookers (and even participants) of that momentous occasion.

Ma slipped and fell down the stairs of our home on 17th Feb, 2009. Her nightdress and chappals caught on the rails of the collapsible gate that looms midway between our ground and first floor and dragged her down several stairs, taking her by such shock that it was all over before she realised that something had happened, and further, not being able to get up indicated at some unpleasant development. Mitu called me up frantically here and I ransacked my address book to locate the phone numbers of a couple of neighbours and relatives who might be able to reach the spot fast before the situation took a turn for the worse. Both Mitu and K tried Baba's cellphone but it went on ringing without any vocal response. It was 11.45 here at night and we had just been about to turn in for the night. Finally, we managed to communicate with Dr Sur, our neighbour (a very old gentleman) and Pranab Kaku. They promised immediate aid. A couple of hours later, K woke up a headache-treated-with-crocin-groggy me to offer the information that Baba had arrived and they had reached Baba's hospital to get an X-ray done. Ma had torn 60 of the 1000 ligaments of her ankle, the condition being serious enough to be bracketed as a simple fracture and impair normal movement for more than 21 days. Three whole weeks has now been extended to a month, Mitu tells me. The whole world has gone topsy turvy at the small Mandal microcosm and I'm just sitting here and drowning my helplessness and pain in words. I now realise what most women in patriarchial society lose with marriage : the solace of happily executing their own small but well-demarcated duties to parents and siblings in an oh-so-familiar world. My own situation is not the general one perhaps. Not everyone is living in a different land after marriage. But you can't but concede that yes, it has the potential of developing into the permanent and general situation some day in this era of mass migration and globalisation. The trauma of being a hapless (n)on-looker of the trials & tribulations of one's immediate family and too far away to be of much practical aid is an agony I don't possess the audacity to express in words.

This is the same parent that carried me in her womb for 9 months and nurtured me for God knows how many sleepless nights and days. Maybe she continues to do it even now. And here I am. A sphinx of solipsistic splendour.

Of Slums & Slum-Dogs

Life even after 'Slumdog Millionaire' (from an email forward):

The more things change, the more they remain the same, it has been said.
Ironic.

Do we still feel like celebrating ?

Sense & Sensibility : The Film (1995)

I read the novel way back in school simply for the sake of the story and then in JUDE, during my B.A., more perceptively, savouring the irony and gentle humour, the variety and quirks of character, the complex consequences of emotional and social pressures. And now, as I watch the film, I'm glad that I've been able to grasp a yet better understanding of the sense and sensibility that run like a leit motif throughout the film and endow the source with enough life to enjoy the essential timelessness of an Austen novel without subtracting anything from its substance and subtlety. For a change, the film lives upto the standards set by the novel it sought to realise, and yet, succeeds in establishing its own niche in the cinematic repertory.


After marriage, which helped to catalyse maturity in my own humble self, it is easier to empathise with the finer nuances of a well rounded temperament that Austen sought to unify in the dichotomies embodied by Elinor and Marianne. The conflicting but necessary qualities of restraint and spontaneity, reserve and romanticism, prudence and passion, are reconciled by their being nurtured in equal amounts in one's self so that one knows how/when to choose to exercise the most appropriate emotion. It may seem or sound artificial, as if one should react to life rather than fashioning one's own fate for oneself. But on much reflection, I consider that circumstances in life, particularly the character and intentions of other people being far beyond the abilies of our mostly well meaning selves to manoeuvre, it does make sense to be at least in control of what we ourselves can or may make of them. Willoughby's expectations from life or Edward's past are areas that lie beyond the veil of the narrative environs, but Marianne's poignant attempts to translate Shakespearean idealism into reality or Elinor's efforts at altruism are plausibly controllable, despite narcissistic extremisms mirrored in the respectively mean, mercenary or mundane orientations of Fanny Dashwood, Lucy Steele or Charlotte Palmer. Life can still be started anew, fortified by a Blakean experience embodied in Colonel Brandon or comforted by the commitment evidenced in Edward's actions or nurtured by the cheering knowledge of possessing meaningful friends and neighbours like Mrs Jennings or Mr Palmer. Elinor and Marianne recognise what they respectively lack just in time to retrieve their respective selves from anguish and disillusionment and revise their lessons of life with greater wisdom and worth. Theirs is a realistic reassessment of life, reinforcing not the negative quality of resignation but rather the positive one of reconciliation.


As for histrionic skills, the film boasts a quality cast, of which the finest and most heartwarming would easily be Emma Thompson as Elinor Dashwood. Understated and subtle, she delivers an outstanding performance. If her unforgettable "Don't leave me alone..." at Marianne's impending death stirs the very soul with the intangible fear and horror of imminent self confrontation, her emotional outbursts before Marianne after Edward's past becomes public property, and finally towards the end, when Edward shocks the Dashwoods with the assertion of his self-imposed bachelorhood, are too subtle to arrest in words. They must be watched and felt for oneself to gauge the totality of their impact. Winslet is brilliant as the vivacious and effervescent Marianne, impulsive and irrational, coy and coquettish, rash and remorseful, beautifully in sync with the demands of the changing storyline. Hugh Grant brings the somewhat colourless Edward to remarkable life with his own brand of beatification, the very personification of shyness and simplicity, confusion and charm, chivalry and courtesy. Alan Rickman, essaying the role of Colonel Brandon, stirs and shakes with his portrayal of the reserved and refined man who stands as stolidly as a lighthouse by the women he loves, come snow or shine. Hugh Laurie renders a memorable cameo as the astringent yet sensitive Mr Palmer while Harriet Walter arouses just the right amount of revulsion in the audience with her manipulative moves and calculated courtesies. Greg Wise manages to do justice to the pivotal role of Willoughby, the sincere lover with an insencere temperament. Imogen Stubbs does a wonderful job of realising the mercenary minded Lucy Steele while Elizabeth Spriggs gives the right finishing touches to the benign matriarch Mrs Jennings. Emilie Francois is a mini sensation, adding truth and tangibility to the fragile Victorian microcosm with her abrupt allusions to geographic entities and the destructive dimensions of gossip mongering that loom large beyond the sheltering horizons of home and family. Her abrupt reference to the characteristics of the weather renders just enough comic distraction to relieve the evidently strained atmosphere within Barton Cottage precipitated by Edward's unexpected arrival and herald a season of hope and harmony.

Be it Shakespeare's sonnets or Marianne's mellifluous piano recitals, the characteristically fickle British rainfall or the sudden shift of scene midway to London, each play their respective parts to perfection in helping the story to progress and drawing out the attributes of the highly individualised characters. The film is an iridescent collage of sorts that cleverly complements and highlights one of the best samples of Austen's craftmanship.

Making an effort...

Have finally taken Barnali's advice and emailed a couple of poems to a couple of e-magazines of a good standard and reputation. Have also mustered enough courage to send a photograph I took to another e-magazine of a slightly more multifaceted nature. Am keeping my fingers crossed.

Tried my own version of rajma yesterday night as K was dead tired, having had a long day at work. It didn't taste as good as the one K prepares, more so as I decided to experiment with it, leaving the methi out at the end. I think I'll leave this particular dish to K, in future.

We've been watching 'Oye Lucky Lucky Oye' in instalments (we are so lazy, OMG) over the past two days. Couldn't care less whether it turns out to be a hit or a flop. It's racy and ridiculous and roaring fun. Am loving it !

Am reading Coetzee's 'Slow Man'. I have a bit of trouble concentrating when a concrete plot goes abstract, but then, having read 'Foe' during my MA has managed not to totally unnerve me. Plan to finish it soon. Hope it ends as brilliantly as the other novel did. I remember having been impressed enough to churn out an appreciably large term paper on 'Foe' for our PoCo classes. I must have been really inspired, now that I think about it.

A huge heap of weekly shopping illustrateds await my inspection. This time, there's also a Holiday Gifts Special booklet from Walmart. I guess their Christmas is equivalent to our Durga Pujo. In terms of meaningfulness, I mean. I just realised my vocabulary is getting limited. Must catch up on my reading. The more you read, the better you write, I've always noticed.

Jhinuk has written a funny post on Srinwanti's orkut-related problems on our group blog. Had fun reading it. To think Srin hadn't know so long how to change her profile photo when we people have been vain enough to change ours several times in a week itself. Come on Srin, all you need is just ask ! LOL.

Have been GTalking with Ma and Mitu for the third day in a row now. Am on top of the world. Nothing like family gossip to cheer you up when you're alone at home.

Took some new photos of this place (home) and uploaded them on orkut (where else? !). They look much better, now that (1) we have a few more things to fill up the rooms and (2)I had the intelligence to use the flash.

Rony-Tanima and Pintu have finally been able to see both the photos and videos of Siddhant that we took during our recent trip to Atlanta. Picasa seems to have introduced a new set of options in terms of album accessibility. Well, at least they made sense to me. What with the new Gmail themes, introduction of video chat by Google and now this, I love the very name of Google. Oh, and I even managed to locate our block in Salt Lake in Google Maps. The place has finally received its due in the virtual world. Hurrah !

Before I leave...

Yesterday we completed watching the last instalment of Dasvidaniya. I have been thinking ever since about my wish list. So many things that I should have to do in order to settle my accounts in case I need to leave before time. I certainly won't be able to limit my list to a mere 10 things, unlike Amar Kaul. So many debts to own up to, so many apologies to acknowledge, so many moments to rewind to and re-create. To learn Spanish. To learn salsa. To publish an anthology. To become a Rabindrasangeet singer. To complete reading the entire Agatha Christie collection. To have a child of my own. To resolve my parents' conflicts forever. To listen to all the secret sorrows Mitu (my sibling) has been piling up against the world and would only care to share with me. To take my mother on a long holiday to some beach. To confess to Baba the tears I've secretly shed every time I've argued with him. To tell Brinda, Sanjukta, Sohini, Sharmistha, Shobhana, Indranil, Rashi, Pooja, Tua, Ayantika, Shonali, Swarnadeep, Nilanjana, Debarati, Barnali and Moumita how they have all somehow contributed to making me a better person. To tell Bubun/Angshuman (my cousin) what a difference his mere presence or absence can make in my life. To tell K what he means to me. To just let life know how much I enjoyed the warmth of its embrace.

I think I'd better get down to it before it's too late.

Shopping and Ethics

Backlogs scare me, especially as they are second nature to me when it comes to things which I'm passionate about and yet have managed to neglect completing. I keep on coming up with all these silly defences, like one needs distance to gain perspective, in the spirit of Wordsworth's 'emotions recollected in tranquility'. Unfortunately, too much of tranquility doesn't seem to leave me with any emotion at all. LOL.

We watched 'Quantum of Solace' last Saturday and I must admit, it was definitely more than a mere quantum of solace on a very rainy Saturday, when the only other consolations were a lunch consisting of paneer paratha (yippee) and my latest creation, a chicken korma (well, it was described as a 'mild chicken korma' in the net recipe, but I don't think that sounds very gastronomically tantalising, so I'd leave the mildness out) besides a round of shopping at Walmart, seeking a gift for a not-even-a-month old baby (Siddhant, of course).

Shopping first, I think. Apart from bread and desserts (which I'm perpetually mystified as to how we manage to consume so much so fast), there were two important things on our mind this time, trackpants for K (thanks to our extreme show of torpor which explains the monthly visit to the laundry) and a befitting present for baby Sid, my latest preoccupation (I so need a child of my own). The first was hard enough to locate since we wanted low prices and tasteful designs (in a trackpant?...I know, I know...but...er...that's so me) and flannel, so it took quite a bit of time. Turns out that buying gifts for children is a challenge. I mean, you have to know exactly what you want, otherwise there's too much variety out there for the not-so-ingenious (and the not-so-patient, by which I defintely mean K) to get anything at all at the end of the day...er...search. I don't recall so many options when we were children ourselves. Well ok, that was some twenty odd years back but children still are children aren't they? How much change could they possibly have undergone in just two decades.

A hell of a lot, it seems. My jaws dropped at the sight of the huge space and several aisles that were devoted to children at the W. Toys, games, board games, books, cards, dolls, rides, gadgets, musical paraphernalia...wow. K seemed literally dumbfounded (not that it's hard to say that about him on most occasions) and was all in favour of coming back another day, especially since Moumita called to say they were running late and to ask whether it would be possible for us to get the movie tickets. I voiced a vehement no.I don't think I could have taken the trouble of patiently exploring each and every single one of all those aisles and after that, lived to face an empty-handed me. Well, you may naturally ask, since there were so many options, what was the problem. Aha. That was the problem. Too many choices and two clueless adults. There seemed to be so much for children but not much for babies (obviously it had to be that way, since that was what we were looking for in particular). And certainly not for babies less than 6 months old. Hello? What are they supposed to be, non-human? I suppose the manufacturers think that the only things that would suit them are clothes and adult-chosen toys. Don't even ask what we ultimately bought. (It's a surprise in any case for the Baby, so hold your breath till post-Thanksgiving,will you ?) Just a hint. Something that K seems to want to be allowed to play with, too. I know I would so love the expressions on your faces if I could see them !

Now for 'James Bond'. I know that that's not really the name of the movie, but several people at the Reading Cinemas ticket counter seemed happy to think of it that way. Fortunately, the tickets were not very expensive. That would have triggered on dollops of guilt in me, I being the half of the Mukherjees that was extra-hyper about watching the film on the big screen. Well, it was definitely worth the hype (and the 400 odd rupees spent respectively). I am totally converted to Craigomania and over Brosnan (who looked a tad too flirtatious, I always thought). Olga whatever was a great performer too. I loved the action sequences especially the airborne one and the initial chase. The opening song was slightly misleading, I thought. It looked like Bond was going to be The Man in a film where all the heroes, villains etc consisted of solely women and the action sequences were all likely to take place in bed. And the principal issue, the question of the ethics of revenge, made me very happy. It called back memories of all the ecstatic hours I'd spent in JUDE days, contemplating Hamlet. For the forgetful many, I reproduce the classic soliloquy :

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.


(Act III, Scene 1)

Of course, it always seems to be easier to preach than to practise. But with time and determination, I have learned not to hold malice.I am not saying I forget, I only forgive. And the most important thing here is to remember that revenge destroys you as much as it would the potential victim. It's not important who started it all. It's so much more meaningful to be the magnanimous one who learns a lesson from the past and simply moves on. And lets go. You must exorcise your own demons at the end of the day. For as Hamlet saw it, murdering the murderer would be akin to stooping to the murderer's own level. Therefore, he simply could not initiate action until Laertes had dealt him the death blow. Being attacked, he could retaliate, knowing that Laertes and he forgave each other even as they died. But Claudius' death does remain controversial as the question of ethics still hold. A modern day Hamlet, Bond works at the Freudian cure, reliving his past and thus overcoming it. I'm glad I did watch the film. I'd been going through a traumatic experience myself and it kind of purged me of my hurt. I'm no longer in rewind mode.

K says I think too much. On this occasion, I think he would be glad I did since the results are so positive in nature. As for the person who tried to hurt me, his/her dwelling on the past while I live in the present is ample punishment. What say you?

Btw, here you will find a simple and sensible essay on the theme of revenge in Hamlet, for those interested.

Film and fiction plus a rainy day

We got our new numberplates on Saturday and I came home while K got the car inspection done at a govt-authorised private inspection centre, dropping me off on our way back from the dealer's centre at Raritan. I prepared lunch, a simple repast really but a rather gloomy one, if you take the weather into consideration. The latter is becoming moodier by the day, so that we are rolling our trackpants into shorts one evening and freezing under the comforter while watching TV, the very next day. And it's not really so bad unless it's raining. Then it's properly depressing. It makes you just want to go back to bed, wanting to wake up to a clear blue sky, lush greenery and sunshine streaming onto your warm face. Anyway, we settled down to watch a movie after that. 'Shoot on Sight' seemed rather cliched in terms of storyline and slow in terms of narrative progression, so we moved onto something more light and lively, namely 'EMI'. Unfortunately, the last part didn't seem to be available but what the heck...we got to watch the film first day, first show (well, not exactly perhaps, but it felt like that) and we liked it. Or as much of it as was within our access. Of course, we were lucky enough to locate the last part the very next day. It was a bit of a letdown. The slowly and smartly built up quartet of drama and crises seemed to resolve itself all too hurriedly, so that what was gained in terms of time was definitely lost in terms of credibility and audience satisfaction.

That reminds me. I've been reading a collection of 5 Agatha Christie novels entitled: ' Murderers Abroad' : Five Complete Novels'. Three of these novels (They Came to Baghdad, So Many Steps to Death and Passenger to Frankfurt) run concurrently on a fairly complicated plot against a bizarre backdrop, anarchy and conspiracy in and around the times of the post-cold war and in the sombre aftermath of the first world war. One motif is strangely similar, the inconspicuous - because plain and naive looking - woman getting to the bottom of it all by simply letting the villainous lot interpret her in the most obvious manner, thereby underestimating the worth of her solid common sense. This struck a chord with me as it reminded me of several instances when my mother/sister or a certain friend insisted on a particular person or incident making them feel uneasy and I had just shrugged it off as nerves. They were almost always annoyingly right. Whereas my father always overlooked these gut feelings, dismissing them as feminine fears and now K seems to do the same, as if concrete evidence could always account for something that later goes irretrievably wrong. I think all these people (the nervy ones) might have one thing in common, the fine power of perception combined with an instinct for survival that unconsciously alerts them to a potential crisis , thereby making it easier to react to people and situations who/that may be too opaque to the rest of us, futilely trying to balance the logical and the lyrical.

I never respected the Kolkata weather until I had to be at the rceiving end of snowfall in Oct and minus temperatures dropping sharply in Nov. Titai, my nonod informs me that it's still hot and humid there and that's a saving grace when you consider all the successive outdoor festivities, where the weather does make a marked difference to the extent people do or do not enjoy themselves. Here it's a bit scary as influenza is secretly at large and flu shots have been made available at your nearest pharmacy for $30.

It's tough if you have long hair. You get dandruff both when you wash it and it doesn't dry fast due to lack of sunshine and even when you don't wash it often enough. It's just a matter of choosing what type of dandruff you'd rather have. The hairfall is equal for both dry and oily dandruff, by the way, FYI. I was all for cropping my hair short and growing it back after winter here, which would mean post-March (post-April, if I'm singularly unfortunate). It wasn't a happy thought, considering the frustratingly long time my hair took to reach the mid-back length and I was petrified at the thought of all the oiling, shampooing, conditioning, seruming and hair-spaing I would have to do to regain the lost treasure...er, I mean tresses. K was traumatised at the very notion of re-trimming my hair (I had subjected him to that torture a month and a half back) and bought me a hair-dryer at the very next opportunity. Now, I wash my hair twice a week and dry it immediately afterwards. It seems I might not go bald after all.

We also watched 'The Omen' on Saturday evening. This was my latest sortie into the arena of apocalyptic reel fiction and I must admit that it was scary enough to satisfy my gargantuan appetite for the supernatural in Christian religious mythology. It took me back to my 'Exorcist', 'End of Days' and 'Stigmata' period, which I didn't recall with much nostalgia until now. I guess I haven't paid my preferences much of their dues. But I think I can afford to do that now, with a 100 mb/sec net connection at my service. I love the thought of being scared !!!