Tuesday, March 31, 2015

The Simple Story of a Little Girl Who Waited

A travelling circus once marched into
a quiet town, predictable and unsuspecting.
The circus put on a spectacular show, 
and there she was.
A little girl in the front row.
Beautiful acrobats and funny acts,
the speakers blared and the crowd cheered
only much louder.
The little girl sat still as she stared aghast.
In a neglected corner of the stage,
was a lion in a cage.
A majestic beast chained and broken,
she was drawn to it instantly.
Called up on stage she was to pet it,
she did it with surprising familiarity.
They had crossed paths before,
this she was sure of.
They would meet again, and this time
she hoped he weren't cuffed.
The circus will return soon enough,
she was told it was to be a regular thing now.
So she waited for a day and then a week,
and till waiting became the new regular thing.
She would walk to the town’s gates each day.
You weren't there to bring me in,
she didn't want to hear the lion say!
One day she didn't make it back into town, and
some thought that she had lost her way.
But there were some romantics who could swear
that the lion came back and took her away.

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Spirits

His spirit was transparent.
His spirit was dark.
Camouflaged in dim lights,
muffled by screams louder than his own,
his spirit was stark.
It was his spirit that had convinced him,
that he could jump off great heights.
That he would land on his feet, and he had.
I wish coincidence wasn’t his ally so;
I wish he had fallen down, broken a bone,
and some more.
An artist like no other, he would sing for her;
an artist to no one but her, he could read her.
His spirit condemned, she once hid from him.
And I blame her still, for then
his spirit compelled him to hide from me.
His screams silent today, his songs an echo.
A forgotten memory, but are you really?
For ‘read more books’ weren’t
words by anyone famous.
Know that a decade later, I live by them;
they were words by my alcoholic anonymous.

Saturday, January 17, 2015

My Two Cents

People are always on about living each day like you don’t have another. For about a decade now, I’ve been living like there’s no tomorrow. But it hasn’t been fun. It has been sad, really. Because at the end of the day, I wouldn’t have achieved my goals. I wouldn’t be sitting on a swing set in the clouds. And so I would cry. I wish someone had told me instead that the foreseeable future was a longer time frame than I thought it to be, and so wanted it to be.

I wish that for the past decade, I had waited for that one thing that I wanted, that one person that I wanted, for another six months. I wish someone had taught me patience. This year, I am going to be patient. And I’m going to preach patience.

I’m not old, but there’s always someone who’s going to be younger than me. To that person, this year, I’ll say this- wait. True, you only live once. But tomorrow is going to be a today too. And if you wait, it might just be a better today than today is. So be patient. Don’t wait for everything to come to you with the setting of the sun today. Instead, work towards it so that when it does come to you the next day, you can enjoy it. Breathe. Smile. And wait. Live. Live with patience and I promise you that that thing you wanted, will come. That person you wanted, they’re already on their way to you.

Thursday, January 1, 2015

Stereotypes

I walk straight into stereotypes.
I cannot lift that heavy parcel.
I can’t parallel park too well, either.

I walk straight into stereotypes, for
my smartphone is no more than paperweight to me.
And speaking of weight, was that bread I just ate?
Late night Skype. Tears over my body type.

A literature student. I must hate Shakespeare, and I do.
Sue me. But first, why not have a conversation or two?
I walk straight into stereotypes, ghosts of reflections past.
A curse over my head, I was sleeping when this spell was cast.

I walk straight into stereotypes.
I live in a massive pink tent,
with teddy bears and pillows and a heart with a dent.
When I’m alone, I’m lonely; I want someone to hold me.
Only then do I think of you.

I walk straight into misunderstandings.
My humour is not a place where you want to thrive.
But my volatility is no excuse for you to hide.

I may walk into stereotypes,
but so do you, dear lover.
One thing that I should have done
is judge a book by its cover.

Monday, June 23, 2014

Silhouette

She admired it, that silhouette; 
she wanted it, that silhouette.
She thought she knew 
its tints and shades.
So she chased it, that silhouette.

Dark and still, 
it was what she wasn’t; 
from a land so far,
where she been hadn’t.

The closer she went,
closer she wanted to go;
the closer it came,
farther she wanted it to go.

Many attempts of
calling out to it later,
she found that it didn’t notice her;
she realised, much to her amusement,
that it may have seen her,
but as a silhouette.

Friday, March 28, 2014

Envelope

Under the weight of a glue stick, 
it played dead; 
stomaching someone else’s story, 
tears it bled.
But worry not, sir, 
for the tears no one could see; 
silent and invisible, 
they happened to be.

Soon, the poisonous ink
had maimed its face;
soon, the poisonous ink
had written its fate.

Unable to fly,
it waited to dive to the pits;
a futile exercise, for
back under the glue it now sits.

Saturday, January 25, 2014

The Sniff-Proof-ness of Disloyalties

Dogs, I believe, are like women in that if you play, in their absence, with another of their kind, one sniff and they’ll know you’ve been infidel.

What they decide to do once they’ve learnt of the betrayal, cannot be said:
  • They may choose to ignore it.
  • They may not choose to ignore it, but still do.
  • They may bark at you and THEN ignore it.
  • They may bark at you and THEN ignore you.
All I’m trying to say is this- disloyalties can never be sniff-proof.

Friday, January 24, 2014

Cactus

She wore her red lipstick,
that particular day.
She walked in with a cactus,
that particular day.

Nothing remarkable had happened just then,
nothing remarkable at all;
it's a wonder how I remember so well,
the nothingness of it all.

Friday, January 10, 2014

This Week


This week has been quite an eventful one:
  • I wrote a poem on that one topic on which I've wanted to write for a while now.
  • I learnt that I can get back home, a hot Starbucks with whipped cream and the cream would not have melted.
  • Hugo learnt the 'stay' command.
  • I got a call from this really big firm, saying I could start interning there, the next day onward.
I like to evaluate, from time to time, where I stand in comparison to my desolate, ill days not very long ago. More often than not, the results of this evaluation leave me with a raging fit (which, I believe is an absolute entitlement of the once hospitalized). But then, there also come along weeks like this, with an assurance that the wait for a prettier horizon is not a long one.

Or, simply put, just like my darling Hugo, the happy days are about to learn the 'stay' command!

Thursday, January 9, 2014

Fortitude

A broken bird, she came to me
gasping for the world that had betrayed her,
for a sky that never had room for her.

Her eyes twitched when I thought they wouldn’t;
they had me convinced that
her wings would follow suit, but they didn’t.
Perhaps they couldn’t.

The brains told me that her case was lost,
that she had gone like the many before her
to the land of the black waterfalls;
I told them that long before had she
visited this dreadful place, and liked it too,
for she is a wanderer and she had been wandering.

No, she did not test the waters like
the many before her;
she trusted them instead.
The impressed current which either swallows or blesses
did what it had not done to the many before her.
Back home, wriggling herself dry
she saw a plant near by suddenly grow
with astonishing poise and pace.

Gone now she was, to this same place,
her mind, and not her wings, helping her to soar.
She would be let to return once more,
unlike the many before her,
who could not be her and she, them.

And I was right for here she is come now,
with strength new and a purpose too.
She tells me that she heard the songs that I
sung as a last resort.
She tells me she will give me, and only me,
an account of the universe she has just been to.

With dignity, she props herself up;
soon she will fly back
to the same sky that never had room for her.
And I will be left, a woman wiser for
she taught me things and I saw for myself why
she was called Fortitude.

Saturday, January 4, 2014

Yesterday's Whoopsies

My goof ups from yesterday are insignificant and I would have probably forgotten all about them had I not decided to blog about them later. Having taken place at two different times of the day, what is similar about both of these 'whoopsies' is that each left me with a giggle minutes after it happened. So, I was that girl on the train and that girl in the general store who smiles to herself!

***

In the morning, I offered to carry the bags of a random old lady on the road who was walking, with much effort, in the same direction as me. Post the small talk about the weather and her arthritis, she randomly asked me my caste. Never having been asked this before (the only other time being in print, on form filling days), I was taken aback.

Something told me that no matter what I said my caste was, it wasn't going to make the woman happy. I didn't know if she would like it that I don't belong to a 'backward class', or if she would hate me for having an, let's just say, affluent bloodline. I was so scared of disappointing this nosy stranger, that I told her I didn't know what caste I belonged to.

From the scowl on her forehead I knew that I had managed to anger her nonetheless!

***

I love my father. But yesterday evening I thanked God my father and me don't share a relationship where I'd want to surprise him with a hug from the back every so often. Why? Because my eyesight isn't spectacular!

From about twenty feet away, I thought a neighbour, standing in the dark corners of our residential complex, was my father! When about four seconds later I realised it wasn't him, I was a little more than relieved that my impulses hadn't been very 'daddy's-little-girl'!

So there it was, an almost-blunder, my second whoopsie moment of the day. And then, luckily, the curtains dropped on the day.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Here's to Change!

How's today different from yesterday? Well, since yesterday, the following things have changed: my dog's collar belt and a few relationship statuses on Facebook. The reason for this is the changed calender. 2014, the year of the water snake, does not hold much meaning for me personally. It's just another year that I have convinced myself I should sail through.

Losing weight as a resolution is a given, and I don't even consider it as being a resolution any more. It is as if I didn't have any resolution at all this year. I believe that there are only two types of people who don't have resolutions. The first type comprises those who are so comfortable and content in their present state of being, that they don't see the need for a change in their lifestyle. The second type of people are those who have given up on life as a whole. They believe that no change, big or small, is going to alter their current or eventual circumstance. Somewhere between the worlds of these two categories of humans is the kingdom that I call home.

I didn't do anything special today. I did, as always, one good, one bad, and one stupid thing. But during the course of the day, if there's one thing that I realized, it is that whether you like it or not, change is inevitable. You are going to meet new people, and they are going to teach you new things. New ways of living. You're going to make new decisions.

The point of this blog post, finally, is that no matter how aloof one is from the midnight celebrations, or how little they acknowledge the crisp new calender on their work desk, the truth is that in the coming 365 days, the world is going to change. And so are you.

Saturday, December 28, 2013

Let's Just Call It 'The Ageless Beauty Diaries'

The thing that I have always wondered and was reminded of today is this: at what age should one ideally start taking "you look younger than your years" as a compliment? The reason behind this thought is the fact that I have been getting this for as long as I remember. Sometimes, I joke that I wouldn't be surprised if someone told me that at three months of age, I looked two months old!

The first memory that I have, however, of being told something along the said lines, is from my early teen years. At 14, I would wonder if that meant that I at least looked 13! Looking like a teen, when you are a teen, was somehow, a top priority.

A couple of years passed and I grew a couple of inches in height, only to have, once again, some variation of that one dreadful sentence blurted out to me. What ensued then, was what I like to refer to, as The Lipgloss Phase.

Being 18 is like being 13 again. You want to look your age! There definitely is a certain amount of thrill in producing, before that movie theatre security lady, your driver's licence that says you're an adult. But then there's also the irritability from the realization that you shouldn't have to miss out on movie trailers and poorly made commercials before the movie starts, only because you're not 5 foot 8!

21 today, I have less of a problem with being told that I don't look my part. (It might have something to do with the fact that waiters give me the vibe of not expecting too large a tip from me!) The question, however, still remains: do I want to look 18? Yes. And no. A few years ago, I thought I'd definitely want to pass off as an adolescent when I'm in my early twenties. Why? Because 20 was old. It's a different issue that I don't feel particularly old as yet!

If I were to answer my own question at the spur of the moment today, I would probably go on about how wanting to "look" young shouldn't be one's aim as they age, as much as wanting to "feel" young should. But the truth is, I'm just counting the seconds till they at McDonald's realize they needn't give me a free toy with my Happy Meal!

Friday, July 12, 2013

Therapy

When your body is maimed
and your ego too,
your mind is your army.
Standing strong, weapons drawn,
"I'll harm you if you harm me."

When they try, they fail
the winner is you,
yet you feel the bruise.
For head down, far away,
is the one man you did lose.

It is then that you doubt
the worth of your battle,
the sweetness of your victory.
When you try, you fail
for you cannot change history.

Friday, June 7, 2013

'Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani' reviewed by me

        With his first directorial feature film, Ayan Mukerji pleased. He did more than convince the simple-minded ambitious girl she has a shot with someone who looks like Ranbir Kapoor. He brought to the lime-light topics such as conversational chemistry, following one's dream, the hidden truth behind conflicts between father and son and the body image issues of the lively girl behind the goofy smile. It was refreshing because it was obvious it was made with a lot of heart. After such a debut, Mukerji shocks with the hullabaloo that is 'Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani'.
        This film has all the cliches with which Bollywood fims (old school as well as new age) are associated. It has a good looking cast, snow peaked mountains, a destination wedding, an item song, the celebration of an Indian festival through a song, a song for the wedding 'Sangeet', some more songs and a flashback. While the music by Pritam is upbeat and mostly catchy, it seems like Bollywood is not going to get rid of its choreographed dance routine, with its over-enthusiastic back up dancers, any time soon.
        Ayan Mukerji, probably considering them as his lucky charms, has tried to recreate certain aspects from Wake Up Sid in YJHD, such as the protagonist's love for photography, a parent keeping aside mangoes for him, a trio of friends (two boys and a girl) living it to the T and the two boys falling out and bursting into uncontrollable laughter after having sorted out their issues. While these factors worked well for him in his maiden directorial venture, they don't do much for him in YJHD.
        I have a problem with the difference in treatment of its two female actors. Bollywood has accepted Kalki as the petite but loud, energetic second lead because of her zingy looks and she has succumbed to this expectation from her. But why can this notion of judging an actor's acting prowess on the basis of their looks and then giving them roles accordingly not extend to Deepika Padukone? I would like to know what the makers of this film were thinking while casting Deepika as a plain Jane in this movie, other than the fact that the audiences will love the lead pair and so the movie will make money at the box office? Money? Is that the only thing film makers think of/are made to think of anymore? You cannot pass Deepika off as a plain, simple girl, even if you are Ayan Mukerji. And to think, her character is not 'plain' enough too. Simple girls do more than wear loose cotton lehengas as night wear and repeat their outfits (she really has repeated an entire look twice in the film)! Simple girls wear unflattering denims and their attires are not quite so well contrasted. Naina (Deepika's character's) wardrobe is instead filled with skirts, dresses and short shorts! Whether she is sleeping on the top berth of the train, hiking or just strolling in the Kashmir Manali market, her long pins are always exposed and because of how eye-catching they are, they seem to take over the scene.
        While the supremely talented Dolly Ahluwalia is reduced to a stereotypical nagging Indian mother, Tanvi Azmi's portrayal of Ranbir's character Bunny's step-mother is honest and reminiscent of Supriya Pathak's role in Wake Up Sid. Farooq Sheikh, as Bunny's father, holds his own too.
        There for comic relief, Evelyn Sharma plays the caricature character of the sexy but dumb Lara. She is borderline horny and though mildly annoying, I couldn't be much bothered by her. Another caricature character is the one played by Kunaal Roy Kapur. He plays Aditi's dufus bespectacled engineer fiance who dances funnily and jumps into the pool fully clothed. Props to Kunaal for making the character lovable.
        The cast of this film is far better looking than Wake Up Sid's, but YJHD has nothing else going on for it. While Wake Up Sid's Laxmi and Rishi were realistic and believable, this film's Aditi and Avi weren't, despite Kalki Koechlin and Aditya Roy Kapur being good actors.
        Deepika looks ethereal and this distracts the audience from her dismal acting. Whether her faith in God in the first half is shown to establish her simplicity of character or not, this trait is completely missing in the second half where she is seen donning skimpy shararas. It is not very right to assume simple girls are God fearing/loving too. They may not always be while not-so-simple girls can, as well.
        The 'gundon ki pitayi' scene is ridiculous and looks as though it was lifted straight out of one of the movies from the Golmaal franchise, no matter how much Kalki's fun voice and acting try to salvage it.
        The makers of the film have taken their creative licence to the limit of showing Naina, who once loved Bunny, talking to him 8 years later with the comfort one may have while talking to their unattractive but loved aunt. While the depiction of her chilled attitude towards him when they meet at the wedding all those years later is a blunder, I am willing to let it go.
       Another error in the script is Deepika's character, who has never had alcohol before as a principle, asking for it because she was cold on way to the mountain top where there once stood a shrine of a much sought after deity. A girl who is constantly praying, would never visit a place so holy, drunk. To show the passage of years, Ranbir sports a beard five minutes before and after the interval and Kalki's hair is longer in the second half of the movie.
        I would have liked it more if certain dialogues such as Bunny sharing with Naina his surprise over the fact that he can open up to her like he can to no one else, were felt, rather than said out loud.
        The fact that this movie earned 62 crore in its opening weekend can be attributed to the sole good looks of the lead pair. My congratulations for the same go out to the makers of the film. While most of the audience (especially the teenaged part) have given the film their nod, there is a certain section who expected more heart to it. This expectation stems from it being directed by Ayan Mukerji. The cinematography as well as the youthful language used in the film need special mention. While many love to see Ranbir Kapoor play the chocolate boy in coming-of-age films, I personally hope he graduates to something more and Ayan does too. Hoping the next ventures of both these talented men be better in tune with my liking, I remain.        

Thursday, June 6, 2013

‘Train to Pakistan’ as a Postcolonial Novel

        A saying as personal as ‘one does not find faults in themself until someone else does’ holds great political relevance too. From the seeds of separation sown into the hearts of the indigenous people by those from the ‘Mother Country’, grew the enormous Indian tree of self-doubt and unease. In the midst of the obvious bias of most historical texts, the brutally frank narration of Indian novelist and journalist Khushwant Singh stands out. His acclaimed historical novel ‘Train to Pakistan’ paints the not-so-rosy picture of the events following India’s partition in 1947. Written with the precision and purpose of a survivor, this novel is chilling.
        The linguistic abrogation in the novel does not only make it relatable to its twenty first century readers but it also better highlights the mental state and notions of its various characters. Urdu origin words like ‘budmash’ (rogue), ‘zulum’ (injustice), ‘punkah’ (fan) and ‘shabash’ (well done) frequently occur during the course of the book. What is obvious is that the way to incite one’s enemy was either by making lewd remarks about their female relations or publicly making assumptions about each other’s potencies. This also serves as the source of some comic relief, especially if the altercation is between village rogues Jugga and Malli.
        The novel gives space and time for the unfolding of stories of some of its characters like the police inspector Hukum Chand, the mischief-maker Jugga Budmash and the ‘religion-less’, foreign return Iqbal whilst keeping with the description of the atrocities of the partition.
        Though set in the fictional town of Mano Majra, the events narrated in the book are real and typical to any other village in Punjab at the time. Setting the mood of the village is the common site of horse ridden tongas and the charpoys in the yards of houses. Most of the residents of the village are farmers with their hopes of a good harvest hung on the whimsical monsoon. Located at the banks of the river Jhelum, this village is prone to flooding and the only warning of an upcoming flood is the one issued by those on the river watch. The residents of this peaceful village are made aware of the time of the day by the periodic passage of the goods train through it. The humdrum affairs of Mano Majra are disrupted on the arrival of a trainload of corpses.
        The words of the mischievous Jugga, though added intending to add comic relief to the text, introduce the new age readers to the notions and mannerisms of their mid-twentieth century counterparts. He says, “There is no fun in marriage, Babuji. Where is the time or place for fun? In summer, everyone sleeps out in the open and all you can do is to slip away for a little while and get over with things before your relations miss you. In winter, men and women sleep separately. You have to pretend to answer the call of nature at the same time at night.”
        Not aware of the reasons and need for separation as well as independence, the villagers are indifferent to it. In the portrayal of their attitude towards the same, Khushwant Singh brings the plight of the native bourgeois to the forefront, thus proving to be one of the few writers with authentic description of the event. Dialogues like “(…) freedom is a good thing. But what will we get out of it? Educated people like you, Babu Sahib, will get the jobs the English had. Will we get more lands or more buffaloes?” strike a chord with the reader and give them something to ponder over. It talks about issues such as the benefits of colonization to certain sects of natives, namely, the educated and the compradors.
        A postcolonial perspective, though a study of the dominance of the coloniser and the resistance of the colonized, the hegemony of the colonisers is not obvious here. The author, instead, chooses to throw the limelight over the ambivalence of the aboriginals toward the partition and this emotion is the main protagonist of the novel. The book proves that colonialism still existed after the foreign colonisers were driven out. It insists that the concept of colonization is not limited to the universal idea of one nation colonising the other but that any group, society or individual exercising power on the other can be said to be a coloniser. At a time such as the partition, any individual with oratory skills is shown to be able to sway public opinion.
        At one point, a hot headed teenager from another village, who no one knows, is seen walking into the Mano Majra gurudwara and motivating his fellow Sikhs to brutally kill the Muslims leaving on trains to Pakistan, so that Pakistan too receives a trainload of corpses. He states, “Do you know how many trainloads of dead Sikhs and Hindus have come over? Do you know the massacres in Rawalpindi and Multan, Gujranwala and Shekhupura? What are you doing about it? You just eat and sleep and call yourselves Sikhs- the brave Sikhs! The martial class!” Such violence under the name of religion also goes to show that the blame of the massacre could not be placed on one group and that all were responsible.
        What is especially interesting to learn is the difficulty of the masses in getting used to the new life they had not much earlier hoped for. Fearing their own lives, the Sikhs of Mano Majra had driven all the Muslim occupants out. But near confessions like ‘(…) since the Muslims had gone, their deserted houses with doors swinging wide open had acquired an eerie, haunted look’ pull at the reader’s heartstrings.
        With its experimental language, eye for detail, surprising climax and unconventional protagonists, this novel is an eye opener. An enlightening read, ‘Train to Pakistan’ not just educates its readers but it also stays with them much after they have turned the last page.  Whether it is taken up by one in order to seek answers regarding the manner or reason of their ancestors’ deaths or by just someone looking for a great read, it informs them of the gore that has been caused in the history of India and somewhere in its subtext, pleads with the present generation to let history not repeat itself. A postcolonial writer writing about the immediate reaction of the colonised country to post colonialism, Khushwant Singh shoulders his responsibility well and sets the tone for other Indian postcolonial writers.

The Popularity of Masterchef Australia with the Indian Bourgeois

        George Bernard Shaw once said that there is no sincerer love than the love of food. One would not be in the wrong to go further and declare Indians as some of the truest examples of this love. ‘Indian’, being considered as one of the major cuisines of the world, is much appreciated. Humble food items such as the samosa, the idli, the pani puri and the gulab jamun have found themselves a spot on the international food map. This recognition of the novelty of these delicacies is not just evident on a worldwide scale, but its presence can be felt within the country as well. With the Indian acceptance of one another’s regional and communal disparities comes, gradually, the acceptance of another community’s food. Inquisitiveness, along with the love of food, drives within Indians an urge to know of new types of food forms from within as well as from outside the country. This can be evident from the increasing number of food shows, and more recently food channels, hitting the television.
        One such food show is MasterChef Australia, a competitive cooking game show produced by FremantleMedia Australia. Based in Australia, this show has an Indian fan base so large that it had two of the judges shoot a commercial just for this Indian audience. Here, one can hear them mouthing words such as ‘namaste’ and phrases like ‘bahot maza ayega’ (it will be fun). The judges are food critic Matt Preston, restaurateur and chef Gary Mehigan and chef George Calombaris, a rather jovial trio. The food prepared by the contestants is judged not just on the basis of taste, as Indians are used to, but also on the basis of texture and presentation. Comments such as ‘the meat is cooked rare’ or ‘the main component does not stand out in the clutter on the plate’ are met with fascination by this audience.
        Though a little baffled by the Australian accent, choice of food and vocabulary, Indian audiences are certainly not repulsed by it. Use of proteins such as kangaroo or rabbit meat though unimaginable to the mostly chicken and mutton eating mind, is intriguing. The omission of scripted dramatic scenarios aimed at increasing Television Rating Points is what sets this show apart from other shows of its kind. With contestants being shown releasing stress hormones only over the success of their dish, this is one of the few shows that restore one’s faith in reality television.
        While talking about the willing acceptance of the show in India, it is essential to mention the dress code of the contestants, judges and mentors on the show. The most common complaint that Indians have with most of the other countries is that its citizens dress provocatively. With the main focus of the show being culinary talent, the contestants, both male and female, are always seen donning a basic tee-shirt and pant attire. The only variation to the crisply ironed suit uniform of the judges is Matt Preston’s colourful neck scarves and visiting judge and host Anna Gare’s bright dresses. The mentors arrive mostly in their formal white uniforms. With the absence of bare skin and cleavage display, the show promptly finds itself a spot in the ‘Indian family programme’ slot.
        Another factor that captivates the Indian bourgeois is the unique Australian vocabulary and sense of humour. A refreshing breath of air amidst the American shows that dominate English channels in India, this show stands out. The camaraderie of the contestants despite the tough competition for the ‘MasterChef’ title appeals to the soft Indian intellect that has been trained to dance to the tunes of the romanticism of Bollywood. What is also evident is the inspiration one gets to try out new recipes after watching the show. Watching even kids executing complicated recipes such as those of cakes and cupcakes convinces the ever experimental Indian middle class citizen to not shy away from doing the same. The general social and political response of this category to globalization has been welcoming and this also proves to be beneficial as far as accepting foreign food items goes.
        One sees on this show men and women cooking with equal gusto. This as a concept is new to the country where the reigns of the kitchen are singlehandedly pulled by a woman, whether it is the mother, the wife or the maid. What is also inevitable is the passion for food amongst the contestants. An electrician by profession is seen just as able to produce before the judges a remarkable dish as a lawyer or a student. This desire of pleasing one with their cooking prowess rings a bell with the country for which food has been the conversation starter and ice breaker for centuries.
        The grandeur on which the show is conducted leaves its Indian audience lusting and sub-consciously comparing its extravagance to its Indian counter-part which is nowhere close to the same. The time and resources put into the show’s being as well as the meticulous eye for detail is obvious. Special mention needs to be given to the set designers for putting up such a commendable set as well as the producers for making the use of such an infrastructure such the contestants on the show do, possible. What is also endearing is the approachable and non-celebrity air maintained by the judges, unlike the ones on most competitive shows. The role of mentoring and guiding the contestants played by them is vital, with their inputs being important value add-ons and not just comments for the sake of keeping with the show’s format.
        The absence of unnecessary movie pre-release promotions like Indian and American reality shows is obvious and the only notable guests invited are from the cooking circuit from Australia and abroad. The time of the day during which the show is aired in India is the comfortable time-slot of 9-10 pm, when most families scout channels for some refreshing dinner or post-dinner time television. The quick succession with which all the seasons were aired in India only helped in hooking Indian fans further to the show.
        Speaking about aesthetically arranged food, footballer Andy Rooney once said, “I don’t like food that is too carefully arranged. It makes me think that the chef is spending too much time arranging and not enough time cooking. If I wanted a picture, I’d buy a painting.” Like him, there are inevitably few people who aren’t fans of what the show offers. But its number of fans is by large more than its number of critics. Cooking maestro and TV personality Jamie Oliver believes that there is always something new and amazing to learn when it comes to cooking and the show’s Indian fans wouldn’t disagree.
        Whether it is an invention test, a mystery box challenge, an immunity test or just the contestants toasting and dining with the judges at the end of the day, the viewers find themselves going through the same emotional roller coaster as the participants. As per American journalist Dorothy Day’s saying ‘food for the body is not enough, there must be food for the soul’, this show offers its viewers just that. Watching the show, an Indian merely looks forward to the day when ‘curry’ is appreciated not just as a food item amongst other Australian foods on menu cards but also as an individual amongst the population of the country.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

100 Years of Indian Cinema- My Take

Slovene philosopher Slavoj Žižek has very rightly called cinema the ‘ultimate art’ saying ‘it doesn’t give you what you desire, it tells you how to desire’.  Indian cinema, born in 1913, has been doing just that to its faithful audience for a century now. Introduced in India by Dadasaheb Phalke, the motion picture has not just survived the tests of time and Indian cultural differences but also emerged as a victorious hero admired all over the globe.
Indian cinema has come a long way from the era of silent films spearheaded by ‘Raja Harishchandra’ to its present day alter-ego.  While an upgrade in technology has introduced better light, sound and visual effects, an upgrade in mindset has introduced actual, boldly clad (or unclad) women rightly playing female characters.
But not all aspects of film-making can be said to have changed for the better. As decades passed by, the themes on which movies were made, changed. Romance started to take the place of religion in movies and while comedy was present in Indian cinema right from its inception, comedy film makers started to take themselves less seriously, an act that would probably be frowned upon by the puritans of Indian cinema.
The age old Indian school of thought not only condemned professions in performing arts as taboo and meant for impotents, but also did not allow female participation in the few displays that were put up. The people, a few years later, more open-minded than now, did walk the path less treaded by accepting women on stage indulging in regional folk dances, but the stigma of prostitution was attached to such women. The truth behind this accusation cannot be easily discovered after three-fourths of a century. The evolution of women in cinema is interesting under such circumstances.
The whole country was left in a frenzy following Raja Harishchandra. By 1920 the film scenario in Madras looked promising with Raghupathi Venkaiah Naidu, S. S. Vasan and A. V. Meiyappan setting up production houses for Tamil and Telugu films to be shot here. The many cultural differences in India make it difficult for audiences all over the country to understand, enjoy and relate to cinema of just one particular language. When the Ardeshir Irani produced ‘Alam Ara’ hit select theatres across the country, the naïve audience was drawn to the novelty of the talkie. Producers all over the country took cue to produce movies in their respective regional languages. This was the birth of the various brackets of cinemas produced within the political boundaries of India which exist even today and go on to cater audiences beyond these borders as well.
Music soon became an almost obvious part of Indian cinema with actors having to sing their own songs in the early half of the twentieth century. This trend changed over the years with the introduction of playback singers (and more specifically, Lata Mangeshkar) to Indian cinema.
The trends of films were, more often than not, affected by the socio-political scenario of the nation. Movies on patriotism started to be made in the mid-forties to instill a sense of brotherhood and generate public opinion among the masses, for as American film director Martin Scorsese has said, ‘cinema is a matter of what’s in the frame and what’s out.’ During this period Indian cinema did not just speak out against oppression and exploitation against the Whites, but also reached puberty of sorts with Ashok Kumar’s ‘Kismet’ in 1945. With Kismet, audiences got a first glance of an anti-hero and openly accepted the topic of unmarried pregnancy that the film discussed. The movie went on to be one of the biggest hits in the history of Indian cinema.
This period could be referred to as the Golden Age of Indian cinema as it gave birth to film-makers such as V. Shantaram, Bimal Roy, Raj Kapoor and Mehboob Khan followed by Satyajit Ray, Ritwik Ghatak, Guru Dutt, K. Asif, K. V. Reddy L. V. Prasad and Ramu Kariat. Meanwhile, French film critic and theorist Andre Bazin’s saying ‘the cinema substitutes for our gaze a world more in harmony with our desires’ can be proven right by the well-built Tamil and Telugu actors playing larger than life characters. These actors include N. T. Rana Rao, M. G. Ramachandran, Sivaji Ganesan, Raj Kumar, Prem Nazir and later, Rajnikanth, Kamal Haasan, Manmooty, Mohanlal, Chiranjeevi and Balkrishna.
In the following decades, the film market was completely taken over by the angry young man Amitabh Bachchan and his ‘masala films’ such as ‘Sholay’, ‘Zanjeer’ and ‘Deewar’. Rightfully called a superhero, he showcased an array of facets of his personality, sometimes playing an action hero, sometimes an ill-fated drunkard, sometimes a wronged coolie and sometimes, even a soft-hearted romantic. What was inevitable about Amitabh Bacchan movies were the desirable female actors who worked alongside him, right from the sultry Rekha and Zeenat Aman to the innocent looking Jaya Bahaduri.
Male actors such as Dev Anand, Rajesh Khanna, Jitendra and Dharmender and female actors such as Savitri, Vyjayanti Mala, Nargis, Waheeda Rehman and Sharmila Tagore found a strong audience in the young and the restless. The Smita Patil- Shabana Azmi duo was much coveted by film-makers. The heart-warming comedy of Sridevi and Hema Malini was a refreshing breath of air too. It would be safe to say that was an era of the women as it is also when woman film-makers such as Vijaya Mehra, Aparna Sen, Sai Paranjpye, Kalpana Lajmi, Prema Karanth and Meera Nair came into the limelight.
The nineties was a Renaissance of sorts of Indian cinema with movies without an educative moral and purely meant for entertainment, were made. This was not the set norm. Sanjay Dutt and Govinda co-starred in many a comedy movies together and so did Salman Khan and Karisma Kapoor. The fame of Shah Rukh Khan, Aamir Khan, Madhuri Dixit and Kajol saw an upward trend too.
With six-packs, bikinis and cleavages being all over cinemas in the twenty-first century, there is a notable rise in the demand for gyms and over-all increased health and physique awareness. Whether it is Vidya Balan spearheading the causes, needs and desires of women in her films or Anurag Kashyap, Vikramaditya Motawane, Imtiaz Ali, Karan Johar or Raj Kumar Hirani bringing new topics to be discussed through their films, Indian cinema, like always, continues to give its audiences a thing or two to ponder over. Indian audiences are witnessing for the first time, animation and 3D in films.
While more has changed in Indian cinema than we know, much is still retained itself such as its entertainment value, large audience and the Kapoor family. Now looking as steady as ever, Indian cinema is nowhere close to fading into oblivion and it marches on, typically, bolder than the times.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Scars

Scars, I say, are like people in that they come in every imaginable shape, size, colour and position on one's body (sorry, I just had to)! There's no questioning that. The question to be asked here however is, are they aesthetic at all? On one hand are those who run to the open gates of plastic surgeons to get their scars less pronounced, and on the other hand are those who have it in them to pull a ‘Tina Fey’.

 A couple of months ago I left the hospital with a rather prominent scar on my neck. A neck scar is one thing that I have in common with Elizabeth Taylor and Catherine Zeta Jones, the other thing being our flawless beauty, of course. Now how I ended up with it is an entirely different (and important) question to answer which I can write a book! While I have lots to say about the history of my scar, I find myself at a loss of words when I think of its future. Certain questions regarding it, of which I am both the addressee as well as the addressed, are brought to the limelight every time I face a mirror. These questions being ‘am I going to keep it’, ‘am I going to get rid of it’ or ‘am I going to fidget with the scar enough to let it be visible but not let it seem like I have a problem with it’!

 My other prominent scar is the one I got done intentionally. A tattoo is what I am talking about here and not some evidence of masochism. This tattoo, on my right arm, reads ‘fortitude’ and means courage in adversity. They say your scars tell your story. Sure, together mine tell a wonderful story too. But whether or not I want to let these scars do all the talking, I remain unsure of.

Friday, May 11, 2012

Men

They are inevitable and they are everywhere. It doesn't matter what your job or designation is. You run into them on railway platforms, in queues for payment of bills and sometimes, by mistake, they enter the ladies' washroom at work while sunken in deep thought, before running out abashedly. Men. The ultimate specimens of confusion, humour, annoyance, but mainly, of juxtaposition. True to every top notch product in the market, they are available in various different sizes, shapes and colours. Agreed, objectifying men is wrong. That is one right they hold over us ladies. The point that I’m trying to drive home here is, hate them or love them, but you cannot ignore them. The following are examples of some specific categories of men that I have come across in my almost two decade long existence on this planet.

The Brother from another Mother:

You’re 10 years old and he is the new kid in school. He was rocking the ‘silky smooth hair swept across the forehead’ look years before the Biebs. You are instantly drawn to him. Your girlfriends convince you he’s your first crush, but the voice in your head says otherwise. On Raksha Bandhan day, your art teacher tells boys to draw the sketch of a girl from the class they would like to be their sister and vice versa. You draw unflattering caricatures of one another and thus your story begins. Over the years, he calls you names, teases you to death with boys you don’t even like. He kicks you from under the table in tuition just to distract you as it’s your chance to answer the question. He argues the Bhaji Pav stall owner gave you more Bhajis in your Pav out of partiality and snatches the one in your hand, replacing it with the one that was originally given to him. Years after school too he feels it important that you meet his girlfriend. He updates you on his life from time to time. Looking back, you think of yourself as a fool for complaining you didn’t have a brother (sibling or cousin) close to you in age, relation or distance. You were wrong because you had one all along. It’s just that he was from another mother.

The Resident Heartbreaker:

There’s one of those in every co-ed school. And what too seems to be the set norm is the fact that when you proudly show a picture of him to your girlfriends from other schools, they don’t think he has a morsel of cuteness in him. But that doesn’t matter. In your school, he’s the ultimate jock. He gets given the role of the King in every play every year while others give in to their fate and stand with mount board cut outs of trees and mountains year after year. The other boys refer to him as their future brother-in-law because they are convinced the closest relation they themselves can have with the girls is that of a brother and sister and this jock is going to end up marrying either one girl or the other from class. No, he is not haughty or imposing. But give it some time and another half a dozen girls and he’ll get there. Dating him was kind of a Right of Passage and if you missed out on the opportunity, something terrible is going to happen with you in your future life to come. Now you know why your chappal broke while crossing the road at Linking Road yesterday.

The Man of Your Dreams:

He is the said Resident Heartbreaker’s buddy and you know in your heart that he is a better looker too, but you’re too scared to say it loud in front of the girls. That doesn’t mean you can’t dream about him. Dimples intact and mischievous grin at the ready, you dream of playing tic-tac-toe with this unconventional hero or pray that the paper plane he makes and throws around lands at your desk. Years after school ends too you get juvenile dreams of which he is the centre. Today you may not exactly be in touch with him, but you can without doubt call him a good friend whilst keeping constant tabs on his love life via the internet.

The Rich Spoilt Brat:

This one is a hero in the true sense of the word. He has learned to drive before he’s even of legal age and but of course, drives himself to college. “Oh my God, he was talking about Pokemon in the lab today. How cuutteee,” you hear girls squeak on campus. Everyone knows his name and some girls even know the number on his car plate by heart. He is in the constant company of rugged and sometimes, shady men. If you are a girl who hangs out with him and one of these shady men get too close for comfort, he steps in and like a true knight in shining armour, he saves the day. He is scared of no one. Except his grandmother.

Ode to a Toad:

He is the one you made the mistake of going on a date with. He asks you what you like to talk about so that he could talk to you about that. Everything that comes out of his mouth seems rehearsed in front of a mirror not less than twenty times. In his defence, he hasn’t noticed the awkward silence. So how can we expect him to cover it up? He’s clearly a virgin with silverware and you casually offer to eat the pizza by hand and he gives a disgusted expression that is so strong that you regret saying anything at all. You notice his hands are a little small as compared to his body. But that’s beside the point. The date is coming to an end and he calls for one sizzling brownie with vanilla ice-cream. “Won’t you have one as well?” you ask. To this he replies saying you’re going to share one. SHARE a sizzling brownie? I can have one entirely on my own! Heck, I could have TWO on my own. But for now you just want to pore the one that comes on his head.

The Social Nitwit:

You are really flattered that this one guy at college or work is talking to you for quite a while. He may comment on each of your Facebook activities and you sense something brewing here. But a deeper look may reveal he shares the same level of compatibility with many other girls as well. Now if there is anything at all that I have learned from a chick flick and taken seriously, it is a quote from the movie ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’. Justin Long’s character Alex says, “If a guy wants to be with a girl, he will make it happen no matter what.” Play the same game he is playing and keep your options open.

The One with Suppressed Chivalry:

This category may include even those men who we do not know. There are some men who will let you enter the lift first and act as though they would have to enter after you anyway as they were standing away from the lift. Then there are those who are nice enough to let a woman driver cut them in line at the petrol pump. But they make it look like they weren’t paying attention when they were told to move ahead. THIS category of men, I personally don’t get. What they want to prove by these ambiguous mannerisms is yet to be deciphered. To them I’ll say just this- Chivalry is a good thing, sillies! Why hide it?

And finally… The ONE:

He will come.