Words' Worth

The Dirty Picture

2011-12-04T00:22:00.002+09:00

Indian commercial cinema has begun to search its roots in stories. The Dirty Picture tells us one. Albeit in a seen before style, however the intent is clearly visible.

Under the verbose dialogues and the explicit sexual innuendos lies a narrative, however dealt with less sensitivity than was required to make a film that would have been extraordinary. With an actor like Vidya balan, who has submerged herself completely in the character, the film just doesn’t do justice to her craft, capability and the astonishing human portrayal she brings to her character. The narrative is predictable and therein lies the drawback.

'Filmein aaj bhi hero ki wajah se chalti hain' is what was said in the 80s. Which clearly here is Vidya Balan. She is fiery, uninhibited and blatantly realistic in her role as Silk. She carries the film on her very able shoulders, not once making us feel that we are watching merely a skin show repackaged. She takes us through various emotions in the film, whether as the wide eyed extra who cries when she doesn’t see her song in the film after it has unceremoniously been dropped, the pangs of hunger when she lives on sugar, and the frustration she faces when every attempt to realize her dream gets thwarted. And then across the spectrum when she is the star who is confident, and proud of her ability to shock. But what makes Vidya’s portrayal stand out, is the innate endearing quality she retains as the small village girl, sure of her abilities. She is honest and unpretentious of getting success in the way she does. Vidya breathes a human in the sex siren’s character.

Most of the dialogues of the film are unnecessarily verbose, however some stand out for their truth. Silk’s acceptance speech at the awards makes one want to stand and clap as the screen unfolds the ‘intermission’, and she promises to continue to be the way she is.

The second half of the film drags at several points, and the two songs there seem completely forced. The narrative could have delved more on Silk’s frustration, and the zid that she possesses to continue to fight till she finally gives up, glamorously. The last scene with Silk getting ready finally before she takes death’s welcoming arms as a refuge, is particularly powerful. And as the end credits roll, you understand that you too are a part of that fickle empty theatre that cost a feisty girl’s life.

Naserruddin Shah excels. As every single time. His portrayal of Suryakant, the superstar who has stayed, and used various victims as they came along, makes you want to hate him. His eyes speak volumes, expectedly. Tusshar Kapoor’s character graph was patchy, and his role unnecessary. His rendering of it however, is unworthy of criticism. Emraan Hashmi lent is character a visible restraint as Abraham who loves the art for cinema and is forced to give in to the demands of commercial entertainment. He surprises in his un-physical love for Silk.

Oo La La, brought back the 80s magic. And subtleties of Silk’s face becoming increasingly prominent in film posters etched her rise to stardom beautifully.

My last word still for Vidya Balan. You don’t feel you are watching anyone but Silk. From the authenticity of the weight she put on, to the expressions of self loathing, to pathos ridden laughter, she excels. It’s a pity the film didn’t. She comes as a relief in today's commercial Indian cinema, where actresses sell only on their looks. One of the few actresses who know and push the limits of their craft every single time, she astonishes in every frame. She is bold. Yes. And she is an actor. Yes. And Thank God for that.

Kho Jaao

2011-11-27T03:41:00.002+09:00

Waqt ki taseer aaj kuchh meethi si hai

Gehri khamoshi mein ek chubhan si hai

Andhera apni or kheenchta hai mujhe

Apni hi aankh se ojhal kar dena chahta hai mujhe.

Behad kush hai aaj hawa

Chandni ko saath le, naach uthi hai hala

Aaj le udenge woh sang ek saathi

Jo kai baar aakar laut gaya

Kho jaao, ud jaao

ruk jaao, tham jaao

chhod jaao, simat jaao

Aaj apne hi gham mein

Ek nayi duniya dekh aao.

Remembering Miranda- Year I

2011-10-10T00:12:00.001+09:00

I remember the systematic tallying of cutoffs and shortlisting of colleges basis the class 12 grades. And I remember the time my feet took me to the hostel gate of Miranda House, and I wondered how wonderful it would be to stay in that Victorian style building. Crazy form filling, mad ques, plenty of rolling eyes later I found myself at the submission window- acting as aloof as I could, pretending I was relaxed and casual, and as though my life did not depend on just this one college. I listened to girls as they talked of make-up tips, I listened to some others as they discussed boyfriend(s), I listened to some more who discussed subjects, till I found some who just stood there- exchanging warm, but hesitant smiles and casting dark looks at unknown faces. I joined the smiling clan, and encouraged the sentiment. And then as I was moving out, I found a girl dart up to me and tell me that additional forms were to be submitted for the hostel. She vied for the same seat. I loved the warmth and the simplicity of that friend, and I am proud to say she is one of the closest ones till date.

Admissions done, hostel admissions done. I was proud of the fact that I was a hosteler, I couldn’t wait to start that life. There were apprehensions of leaving Daddy’s comfort and Silky’s love, and mom’s scoldings. But I was that grown-up ready for the big bad world. July 15th dawned, and I found myself at the Department of History- where there was already some kind of faint respect being shown to the residents. Till I was addressed as ‘Hey White Shirt’. A frown creased my brow! ‘WHITE SHIRT’? Well, I do have a name you know, you black shirt!’, I thought. Oh well! I made a mental note- this one will just be one of those, I will ‘keep a distance from’. Fat chance. She is again, one of the best friends.

Night. Hostel. I meet my room-mate who I will have many fights with later. And even later become good friends with, and help form a theatre group later. Pink Shorts. Announcements. 7:00 pm, attendance. SENIORS. ‘Good evening maam’ met ‘Whats my name fresher?’ and ‘Get your facts right, fresher’. Its been 4 hours- how will I know everyone!! But that’s okay! This is still fun! Mess. And senior pounded a steel glass on the wooden table ‘GBM after dinner’. This met mad cheering. And I knew what it meant. But surprisingly I looked forward to it. It promised to be a lot of fun!

One day in that month- I sat next to a formidable senior. I took many gulps and attempted a conversation. ‘Hi didi, I am Saumya, I wish to join Abhivyakti, you are the lady who takes the auditions right?’ ‘Get the names right fresher, then lets talk’. I gulped some more, and caught up with her. ‘Sorry, Its room A-32, right maam?’. ‘READ the poster fresher, and don’t waste my time. I will see you at 8’. Damn! I got the society name wrong, the room number wrong. I saw my theatre dreams fade away. Till that night at 8. The next three years were to give me the addiction for life. All my time, energies, best friends and best memories were to come from the same bunch of mad mad mad people. Anukriti is what I breathed, lived and dreamt. Theatre found me.

A month later I was the cool fresher, had the awesomest friends. My black shirt friend came to the hostel. I became the formidable senior’s baby. I met some friends who reveled in madness. I became the responsible one! We threw water at each other, hollered in corridors, rehearsed till the wee hours of the morning, put oil on each other’s hair, wore each other’s clothes, discussed our love lives- or the lack of them, borrowed each others notes and criticized them, slept in senior’s rooms and were pampered to the hilt, finished balance in our phones, heard random announcements, joined various committees, borrowed money to make calls- many times phones to make calls, made people run errands, gave stupid SOSs! We screamed, we shouted, we sand, we laughed, and we cried. We were welcomed into the fold. We found friends for life. As many did before us, in that dream.

I met the women I would most admire. Vocal, formidable, frank and astonishing young women, who left an impact on me so great, also giving me friendships I would most cherish. They taught me how I never needed to pretend, and how beautiful I was from within. They allowed me to scold them and pamper them like my equals- despite being my seniors. They encouraged me in what my heart desired. They loved me when I needed them the most. And they gave me memories that I hold even 7 years later, as my first year of the three that were to be the most memorable by far.

I wish I could go back. Just this once.

Boond.

2011-09-09T16:23:00.003+09:00

Lelahatey patton ke beech se

Ek boond tapak jaati hai

Mitti ke seene se

Ek saundhi khushboo ke saath lipat jaati hai

Har zarrey mein

Ek ankahi daastaan hai

Pattey ke har reshey mein

Usi Boond ki kahani hai

Khush kar deti hai hawa

Jab kahin chehre se khe jaati hai

Kahin door se ek boond

Palkon par gir jaati hai

Aankhen band hotey hi

Door kahin ek sapna jaagta hai

Dil ke kone mein mehfooz

Ek chhoti si baat suna jaata hai

Khuli baahon mein

Baarish ke aagosh mein

Barastey aasman ke tale

Woh sapna haule se gungunaata hai

Bas wahin door uska

Chera nazar nahin aata hai…

Aankhen khultey hi

Sapna phir dubak ke baith jaata hai

Aankhon ka paani

Ashq banker usi boond se mil jaata hai

Ek chhoti si muskuraahat

Dil ke kone mein gum, us awaaz ko dhoondti hai

Aur aankhen ek baar phit

Band honey ka intezaar karti hain

.................

2011-07-11T14:32:00.001+09:00

Aashiqui mein marne ka jazbah sab mein nahin hota.
Khuda Yeh mauka bhi sabko nahin deta.
Yeh to mausam aur asmaan uski nahin suntey,
warna shayad janaze par rone waala bhi koi na hota.

Khamoshi

2011-05-25T14:12:00.003+09:00

The black and white frames restrain a rocking chair, and the haunt of the whistle in an iconic tune continues. Asit Sen’s Khamoshi, redefined the meaning of the word for me. While on one hand its almost romantic, on the other it is that one thing that can kill the very soul. The inability to vocalise, makes you claustrophobic. It’s the circumstances that compel you to hold back what you would most willingly say. It’s the feeling that’s closest to you, the one that almost makes you, that then engulfs you in despair. Through that despair, its impossible to breathe, think or break away. Its impossible to see, smile or cry. It’s a gut wrenching pain that you hold on to. Because without that pain you almost feel lost. Lost in the huge crowd of faceless bodies where you could well be one of them. Lost in a world of nameless identities running mechanically from shore to shore, clinging to their pain for recognition and acceptance.

What made me write all this? The beautifully crafted character of Waheeda Rahman in Khamoshi. He sensitive portrayal and her longing for the man she loved. The film gave me again, the undying power of a woman’s unconditional love, and no matter how hard she tries, she can never win a battle against it. It gave me what Khamoshi has always meant for me. A silent force that has made me restrain my thoughts into myself. Long after the film is over, the last visual of Radha (Waheeda Rehman) entering the same ward where she healed her two patients, with the soulful, pregnant voice of Hemant Kumar, refuses to leave me. The film reminded me, how patience, trust and love can win all battles. It re confirmed to me, my belief, that there is much more to the world than just plain selfishness. And it made me marvel and miss the time cinema was intelligent, strong and beautiful. The starkness of the scenes of the hospital contrasted the warmth exuded by Radha. The simplicity and innocence of the questions that Deven Verma asked, made me want to step out into the world and remind people of the simple existence we have all left behind. It is to the cinema of that time that I bow my head in shame when critics say Guzaarish was a great film. There was something about cinema of the time. The narratives were clean, and the characters well thought of. There was sensitivity and an incredible humanity with which our attention was drawn to the issues. There was a sense of being unapologetic when it came to repercussions. It was the time when songs meant poetry, much more than a mere love ballad. There was expression in the way notes were treated. The words were simple and stayed with you forever.

Khamoshi is a film to be watched. For its cinematic excellance. For Gulzar Sahab’s words that have been weaved through gossamer strands of music. For Hemant Kumar’s soul in the song that he lends his voice to, that will make you weep, even with your eyes closed. For Waheeda Rehman, who shone her brightest at the time. For Asit Sen and his vision. And for all those people outside in the world who need our help. Where compassion, sympathy and warmth will atleast help some make a headway into this cut throat world. Just for the simple reason, that there may be some humanity still left in the world.

Raat.

2011-04-26T22:21:00.001+09:00

Kali andheri raat ko, kis cheez ka darr hai?
Akele hi woh sunsaan sadkon ko, ek khaufnaak sapne mein badal deti hai,
Chupe hue dar ko, ek kapkape saaye mein nigal jaati hai,
Ankahi kahaniyon ko, chupke se ek ansune gaane meh ro deti hai.
Is kali andheri raat ko kiska darr hai?

Ek lau ka, jo jalne se nahin darti
Ek awaaz ka, jo sannate ko cheerti hui, zehen mein samaa jaati hai
Ek vishwaas ka, ki kali andheri raat, jald hi dhalegi.

Turning 25.

2011-03-25T19:36:00.004+09:00

So the clock chimes at midnight daily, but it is hardly ever accompanied by a jolt in the stomach. 25. It’s a pretty big number. Somehow pre 25, was like a license to your own carefree attitude and laziness. On the other side of 25, you are somehow expected to be more ‘responsible’, ‘aware, and yes, married. Basically in a few seconds where one hand crossed the number 12, you are ticking away to prepare yourself to get life’s terms dictated to you again.

‘Pachees saal ki ho gayi ho, aur kamra theek nahin rakh sakti. Apna ghar kaise sambhaalogi’ rings out every alternate day, with Daddy making a sullen expression and giving mom a Subah-Subah-kyun-pareshaan-kar-rahi-ho-usse look, and silently helping clean up the mess. ‘You have got to be more responsible towards yourself’ rings out the Mum’s voice in the evening. No daddy to help out this time, but just a defiant look that Silky (my closest companion during my growing up years- my Dog) gives Mum, while she snuggles next to me, as I shut my half open bleary eye, to watch the dream that was rudely interrupted by Mom’s uncanny untimely remark.

I love my existence. Tousle haired, carefree, full of a never ending list of everything I want to do before ‘settling down’. It’s a whirlwind around me, at work, theatre, other passions and personal life, all of which I juggle, with a ball or two stumbling off once in a while. Though 25 years have taught me a lot. Some pearls of wisdom that only experience could have taught me.

Mothers. Don’t ever take your mother’s remarks seriously. They are never meant the way they sound. The mothers are far more guilty than you think they should be. They are just awesome people, whose skills to annoy you increase just when you thought they couldn’t go any further. I-told-you-so never dies. And as many times as they might say ‘I will never discuss this with you again’, they will discuss it with you the very next minute, and you are safest if you just listen, and respectfully agree. Another good one that you here often is ‘When you become a parent you will know’. No exasperated looks permitted, just nod and say, ‘Mum you are just always right’.

Passions. Life is empty without them. You will hear, ‘Life is about making the right choices’. But who decides what is right? Its all about you, your choices, your passions. One feels strangely claustrophobic and immaterial when what you are most passionate about, is snatched away from you. Nothing else is ever the same. And you might realize that only years after you were drawn away, and then spend the remaining years in reconstructing your lost love and world. At the end of the day the desires are ours, the will to fulfill them is ours. The road we pave is ours, and so is the idea, should we act on it.

Being Vocal. There are just two ways to lead life. Either live through issues the way the world does, or take the responsibility of being the change that you wish to see. The easiest thing is to sit back and criticize, but ask yourself, what is it that we do to change what is incorrect. I am called ‘Naari Mukti Morcha’ by almost everyone I know. And trust me, it is a title I flaunt. In a world where people are ready to stab you should you disagree with them, I wear my viewpoints on my very in-your-face sleeve. I am vociferous, boisterous to a point of being intimidating. But I am proud of it. Because I am not prepared to live in a world that I have not at least tried to better, in case I don’t succeed.

So there. Yes I am 25. But not to get married and follow the norms that the society has laid out for me. I am 25 to now give back to the world I grew up in. To respect those who deserve it. To intelligently slap those who don’t. I am here to make those who think they own the world, feel ashamed, and I am also here to remind myself the reason for my own existence. Its me. My mind. My passion. My friends. And everyone who thinks that there is merit in looking beyond just one’s own self. I don’t carry baggage. I don’t give it. And I intend to keep things that way.

Till of course, Mom wins. And I end up getting married, to the man of her dreams, for me. I wish him all the luck in the world.

................

2011-02-15T14:07:00.003+09:00

Paani ki chhoti chhoti boondein dastak deti hain,

geeli mitti ki saundhi khushboo baalon se khel jaati hai.

Bijli kaale asmaan mein jhoomti, is rangkarm ko roshan kar jaatii hai

Aur wahin kuchh door is aas mein do aankhen intezaar kar rahi hain...

ke tum aaogey.

Recent initiative with PETA

2011-02-12T02:34:00.002+09:00

A single step, a single man, a single drop are insignificant,

As is a single thought, a single dream

And a single will to realize the dream.

It’s the power of together, that brings results,

It’s the power of together that helps make the change.

It’s the power of together that helps form a revolution.

It’s the power of together, that helps realize a dream.

I thank PETA and all those who came together, to help us realize ours. After many efforts we were finally able to get Lipton to pledge against unnecessary experimentation and brutal usage of animals.

This victory makes me feel, that I can repeatedly talk for those who can’t themselves. That I can stand up for justice for poor defenseless animals. That I can once again say, join us, to save animals.

......

2010-11-26T17:31:00.004+09:00

Dhundli raat ka ek saaya, kabhi karvaton mein hai kabhi sapnon mein,

Ek ehsaas hai, ek chuppi si hai,

Jo udti dhund ka saath chodd jaatey hai.

Kahin zarrey hain, kaii zarrey hain

Jo guzartey hue, ek kahani suna jaatey hain,

Dhund ke usi saaye ki, jise humney apne palkon tale chupaya tha.

Kaun hai yeh saaya?

Woh sapna, ki who bachi hui akeli khaali raat?

Kiski hai who chuppi?

Kiski hain who aanhe?

Kiska hai who intezaar?

Ab toh un aankhon mein, na nami hai na gaherai.

Sab kuch, wohi dhund, wahi saaya.......... apne saath jo le gaya.

Void

2010-10-19T19:31:00.003+09:00

It was a void where you used to be. It was painful but acceptable. It never felt final, it never felt lost. When the void became a realisation, I did not see. I thought it was what i meant it to be, a rock where you had been. An unfeeling, undented stone. But when I came back to feel peaceful in your absence, I realised that the stone really was just sparkles. Leftover of that realisation that I really would get past you. All I had left, were memories that you left me with. They spoke to me, often consoled me. Today they say nothing, they evoke nothing. They too lie alongside waiting to be buried. I stifled them. They sobbed but i didn't relent. I killed them, and along with them a little part of me that knew I loved you. That gut wrenching truth finally held me, that I could never be with you. Thats what you took away, my feelings, my peace and my love. And the void.

I wish you had left that with me. I could then, have found myself.

Memories

2010-10-19T18:28:00.003+09:00

Looking back at memories & enjoying those moments all over again. How precious are those memories. How they are just yours when you wish them to be, and everyone elses when they become anecdotes, incidents..stories. They make that comfort refreshing and the silence just so blessed. They make that loneliness vanish, like it was never there. These memories are final like nothing else. Thy don't change, even when you do. They become a part of your existence. They take you back to when emotions were simple and actions more celebrated. They take you back to when you really were you.

Conditional Patriotism

2010-08-19T16:25:00.003+09:00

Every August 15, the news channels tap into the general flavor of patriotism with specials on the movement, glorious fighters who died for the freedom of the motherland and the gems that were the songs of yesteryears that remind us of the sacrifice. There are street children at every crossing on Aug 13 onwards- whether in a rainstorm or scorching heat- they rush at the cars to sell national flags made of plastic- to earn their target of Rs 50 a day. Film channels run the films made on the spirit of patriotism. The newspapers charter the road to freedom and the years since then. The whole nation- politicians included, talk of how much they love the country and what it means to them. Aug 17. The front page of a popular daily talks of the level of corruption in the country, under the garb of the Common Wealth games, and how the CWG could turn into a worldwide embarrassment for the country, It’s a complete turn-around from the ‘proud’ statements being made just two days before.

Why is it, that patriotism is always conditioned- coming to the fore just on select 4 days in a year? Are we proud of sacrifices, and hold them dear only then? When corruption is being thrown to the limelight, is not the sacrifice and hardships of yesteryears being ridiculed? Should children not be freed of the struggle to live and be provided meals and education, through the year??? Then why is that these promises, and the very thought comes to the people in power only on Independence Day?

There are a lot of people here who want to take the responsibility of improving situations- but then we get steamrollered by those who look at only their personal advantage being in the corridors of power. Its appalling when we have double faced politicians wishing the citizens a happy Independence Day- when the independence really is curtailed by them. It is a disgusting example of this trait where the documents of the Emergency in India have gone missing. What is even stranger is that it took an RTI filing for the powerful to realize this.

The satire that is Peepli Live! showcases the indifference and selfish nature of Indians as a whole- I would not blame the media alone- the selfish nature could as well be the result of circumstances and majboori of their (our) very existence. But the struggle to survive is just so endearing, that it tends to overshadow everything else. Watching the film on Independence Day, brought in perspective the ideal vs the real.

Yes we are proud of the past. Is it not our duty to then uphold that honor, instead of just celebrating it? We need to understand the rural areas are a part of us and not to be marginalized. When farmers die, its because we, who are better off than them, do nothing to ease their plight. And yes, making Yojanas is no answer. Its high time that we take the reins in our hands. Criticizing like always is never an answer. Lets pick up the weapons we possess- will power, the pen, and determination to change what we believe is wrong.

Lets then celebrate Independence.

Heroism- And it’s changing face in India

2010-07-18T04:16:00.003+09:00

Heroism connotes ‘great’. The context is varied, and so is the definition and extent of ‘great’. However, what remains a constant glorification and worship of the hero. But is a hero always perfect or ideal? Is he always correct? Who is a hero then? How do we define him?

The concept of heroism seeps down to us from our sacred volumes like the Ramayana, Ram being the quintessential sacrificial, ‘good’ , righteous, ideal hero, the same depicted in the Mahabharata in Krishna, as the wise, practical and ideal one. The Quran and the Bible, talk of the Prophet and Jesus as the correct, ‘good’, leaders and ideals, who are worshipped till date and will be beyond. The depiction of the superheroes in comics and films is that of those who fight crime or the ‘evil’, whether its characters like Superman or Batman or Krissh. Good exists only when it is against evil, as does better against worse. To create and understand a hero, first the existence and importance of the anti-hero is crucial to be appreciated.

In Greek mythology, heroes like Hercules, and Odysses had to by the will of their uncles, embark upon impossible quests and fight irrepressible monsters. In narratives from the Bible, where God put down rules, heroes were those who upheld the law despite odds, and villains were those who succumbed to temptation. In the Hindu narratives, the good were given a reason to fight by the evil. So if a Lord Rama, is credited with being the savior, its hugely because Raavan’s deeds gave Rama a reason to destroy the latter. The ‘evil’ is hugely a creation of and by culture and villainy is what society believes is evil. So while the good destroyed the evil, the debate of its being evil in isolation remains intact. So quoting from the Mahabharata, while the first of the Kaurav’s is detested for having attempted the cheer haran on Draupadi, the very act of betting her is kept aside. Was that not an act of villainy? Or while Rama rescues Sita from Raavan, asking her to undergo the Agnipariksha was the biggest act of ridicule. How could that be a justified action of the righteous lord? Cultures perceive their heroes differently. While the Hindus call Raavan a rakshasa, in the Jain mythology he is a respected figure, as the 10 headed man, who had knowledge enough for 10 people. He was a figure who committed just one mistake. How is he different from Rama? The hero cannot exist without the anti-hero and both in their own right are imperfect.

Stemming away from mythological references, within the Indian history are stark examples of the ‘right’ committing the wrong, which brings me to my second point of subjectivity of the concept of heroism, and its glaring loopholes, a trend that has not changed. Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, is unanimously considered the Mahatma, ahimsa and the truth being his only weapons. But then how did a man, always correct, let three 23 year old boys get hanged for their exhibition of opposing oppression and fighting against the British? Facts in the National Archives of India and umpteen researches prove that while Gandhi could have avoided the hanging of Bhagat Singh, Rajguru and Sukhdev, he chose not to for different reasons that are debatable in their own right. Bhagat Singh, Rajguru and Sukhdev, and many more revolutionaries, were heroes. With cases like the Lahore Conspiracy Case, the murder of Saunders and the Kakori Conspiracy Case, to many conventional leaders of the Congress (heroes in their own right) these were trouble makers, while to many others they were the definition of the new age India then, aggressively wanting to fight for their independence.

Ideologies are different, and they hugely determine the action. One cannot question Gandhi’s contribution to the country’s Independence; however taints such as the one above will continue to haunt the pages of history, wherever he is mentioned. Do those make his acts for the country any less important? In various documentations of his decisions, both personal and professional, there are distinct facts that hint at selfish nature. Is he still a hero then? The answer is, Yes, he is.

'Lack and magnification' is a fancy way of describing a person who has very little to work with, but uses what he or she has to do the unexpected and extraordinary. Heroism, is really that simple. The existence unconventional hero, is the best way to identify this aspect. For years, the dark, brooding Heathcliff has been a hero because of his undying love for Catherine. Joe Gargery and Herbert, win hearts purely on the basis of the respective natures given by Dickens to both these characters in Great Expectations. Their acts towards Pip, instantly create that aura around them.

Cinema and its journey, is the one of the best tools one can use to study economic, social, and political changes in an era. The transition in beliefs and changing modalities and perceptions, come forth in Cinema most clearly. The depiction in most films from the 40s and the 50s, saw the hero as a struggler, a school of thought that we saw in commercial successes like Anari, Do Bigha Zameen, Pyaasa etc. He would stick to his principles and fight his battles. Many times successfully so, many times not. Films subsequently went on to depict the hero as a rebel. With the end of the studio era within the film industry, the individualistic streak of directors became more prominent, and individualism as a thought, garnered increasing respect. So if Naya Daur showcased Dilip kumar voicing against and crumbling under pressures that industrialization brought, we also had a doctor wanting to marry an innocent prisoner in Bandini, because he felt he was right in doing so. The rebel stood up for what was right, not necessarily what the society thought was correct, but he was still a hero, since he voiced and carried out what he believed in.

The 60s saw more suave men, flawless and intelligent forming the heroes. The real shift in trend came with the 70s where being the anti-hero was suddenly more acceptable, and fetched more collective empathy. So blockbusters like Deewar, that brought to the fore the ‘Angry young man’ also mirrored the then youth, where the definition of the hero was dramatically changing and the audience was becoming more and more receptive to the mindframes and logics of the anti-hero. Unconventional heroes of ordinary origin, also found expression at this time. These were characters who became heroes because circumstances forced them to be. Amitabh Bacchhan in Kaala Pathar, is the perfect example. (Literatre too throws up some examples-Frodo Baggins, the ring bearer of the Lord of the Rings, is an example, of circumstances pushing the ordinary to perform the extraordinary. The recently, hugely popular series of Harry Potter, showcase the same thing. )

With directors like Hrishikesh Mukherjee and Gulzar directing some widely acclaimed films like Chupke chupke, Golmaal, Guddi, Bawarchi, Abhimaan, Khushboo and Parichay the heroes became more believable, and those had stepped out from between us. Films like Masoom further highlighted the complexity of human emotions and provided the perspective of the fact that heroes too could make mistakes. The 90s saw the upholders of Indian values gracing the screen, but again not being perfect. So while Shahrukh Khan in Dilwale Dulhania Le Jaayenge, refused to be serious about anything but love, his Indian values were firmly intact. Yashraj and Dharma banners, emphasized on the justifications of actions, not so much on the actions themselves. Films like Roja, Bombay, and Dil Se (essentially the Mani Ratnam school of thought) brought clearly the fact that the most ordinary could become the epitome of extraordinary if circumstances bade them. The heroes were also those who resurrected themselves. So while films depicted all of this, the youth woke up to these, and also many brands that spoke the similar language.

Films like Rangeela and Ghulam, showcased Aamir Khan as a street hero, far from perfect, but his sincereity towards his love was applauded in both characters and the films went on to be superhits. 2000s have seen a definite leniency in the definition of our heroes. So whether it is a Munnabhai who loves to drink and is the typical Mumbai tapori, as long as his heart is in the right place he is our hero. Today a figure could be a hero for one cause and an ordinary man for the next. So while the world worshipped Micheal Jackson for his genius in the realm of music, it also reprimanded him for his eccentricies. Rang de basanti, widely acknowledged as a cult, brought heroes from amongst us. The repercussions of that film saw many media trials culminating in justice, and the youth waking up to their surroundings, becoming a little less selfish. Leading a change became a norm, following a leader a thing of the past. Now we believe that the only thing required to be a leader is conviction. The apprehensions are less and the belief stronger. The heroes are now one of us. Leading is the trend, and the willingness to follow palpable.

.....

2010-02-11T01:08:00.002+09:00

Looking up at the sky, as the first drops of rain caress my face. Humming a little tune of a forgotten song, walking down an empty road as time holds still, allowing me to rejoice in it's wake. A dark night, and a gush of wind. My hair gets blown to one side as I force my eyes to open. The rain becomes stronger and the night darker. There are secrets each drop brings, there are whispers in the footsteps. I let the rain talk, I listen to it's damp stories. Little puddles break under my feet, little drops of water mock my eyes as they brush against the lashes. The world is wet and so are the dreams. I drape my dreams around me, I cling to my memories. I still let the rain talk, and this time I share with it, my wordless stories.

Pehli Baarish

2010-02-11T00:56:00.003+09:00

Pehli Baarish,
Ek bheega dupatta,
Usmein lipta ek maasoom chehra...
Badal ne chand ko gher liya,
Baarish ne raat ko samet liya,
Boondein palkon par tapki,
Ek hasi sharmaatey hue us pal ko door le gayi...
Ek yaad jisne hasi udayi,
Use dekh kar humne palken jhukain,
Chand ne jaise kehkaha lagaya,
Humne geeli mitti mein gharonda banaya...
Kaash kuchh aisa ho...
Aur tum aao.

Random

2010-02-02T14:29:00.002+09:00

A little whisper, a little shadow. Curled up on a chair cozy in a blanket, I gaze into the moon while the night rejoices in its rays. Playful fingers brush against my face, and I turn around to see silence, and a gorgeous gush of wind. My hair dances playfully on my face, and flirts with my eyes, that try to shut them away. A whisper, a sense of someone overwhelms me. A pen and a paper, and I continue to write. A sudden movement, a soft murmur, a warm cuddle, and a beautiful hug. It’s a reassurance that he is there. I sip my hot chocolate and continue to try and put my hair behind my ear. Doesn’t work. I continue to gaze, think and let myself melt in the moonlit night, to become a part of it and its stories. The night whispers, the rays dance, the wind enacts, and I write, watch and smile. I get up to go to bed, and my hand brushes against something. It’s a note. Let the hair be, let the night dance, for never again will you be as beautiful, and never will I be as much in love!

2010-01-03T14:03:00.002+09:00

Safed chaadar odhe, ek sapna mujhse mila
Dhuli ret ka tukda tha, ya tha ek pal
Shayad who tha, jo peeche reh gaya, ruh ke jaane ke baad.
Kya chahta tha woh, kyun lauta hai woh?
Uske chehre ne mujhe who dikhaya,
Jo meri ruh le gaya.
Dhund.

2010-01-03T14:01:00.003+09:00

Palko ne use chupa kar rakha tha
Jab tak usne tumhe na dekha
Tumse milkar, tumhe jaankar, woh tumhara ek hissa ban gaya
Arse beetey, ya kuch lamhe, us intezaar ko woh jeeta gaya
Kab tum aaoge aur use woh kahoge
Jo who sunne ko taras gaya
Tum the bhi ya nahin, woh samjha nahin
Par agar tum ho, to khush ho, woh yahi sochta raha
Dheere dheere apen aap mein hi simat sa gaya
Agar tum ho, to khush ho, yahi maanta raha
Us Paani ki boond ki thi yeh kahani
Jab palke band huin, toh chalak kar gir gaya
Yehi yaad rakh kar, ki agar tum ho, toh khush ho, apne aap ko bhool gaya.

Habib Tanvir- A Tribute.

2009-06-24T02:16:00.006+09:00

The wooden platform is one that most artistes revere . But, what really is the stage? It’s the only thing that allows us to live another life, as we live and breathe a character, to make it come alive from the pages of a book. It allows us the escape and feel the fulfillment of being an artist. I dedicate this post, to pay tribute to a name, synonymous with the stage.

I had the fortune of working with Habibsaab, 5 years ago. At 3:30am on a cold winter night of December, the grand old man of theatre sat with his back towards the chairs of the auditorium, smoking his pipe, while a white halogen spot fell on him from the left and a red one on his right. The smoke that dissolved in the air added to the regal mystique of the legend. The image itself exuded so much energy, that we all worked with double enthusiasm for the performance scheduled for the next day, despite the lateness of the hour. Habib Tanvir was 80 years old then.

It is seldom that one becomes a legend in his own lifetime. Habib Tanvir’s contributions to contemporary Indian theatre remain unmatched to the day. In popular mind, the name of Habib Tanvir is closely linked to the idea of folk theatre. However, when he began his career, "folk" had not yet become a major preoccupation in contemporary theatre practice. He is regarded as one of the pioneers of the interest in folk forms and traditions of performance.

Habibsaab’s twin interest in poetry and music found its first major expression on stage with Agra Bazar, which he wrote and produced soon after moving to Delhi in 1954.

His plays have a structural coherence and complexity which one does not usually associate with the "simple" form of the ‘nacha’. The songs and dances are closely woven into the fabric of the action and function as an important part of the total thematic and artistic structure of the play. The founder of Naya Theatre, Tanvir worked with Chhattisgarhi tribals in Bhopal. The troop is nothing less than a family. The warmth with which they treat one another, as well as those who appreciate their art is lovable. They exemplified the joy of doing things together. Habib Tanvir with Naya Theatre then went onto create milestones such as Agra Bazaar, Uttar Ram Charitra, Bahadur kalarin, Ponga Pandit, Jis Lahore Nai Dekhya and Kamdeo ka Apna Basant Ritu ka Sapna. A man who was constantly at work, immersed in his craft, Habib Tanvir was an extraordinarily humble man. He refrained from wearing his achievements on his sleeve. What was important was that moment, that play, that performance and excellence. He set the pace of his life, and all everyone could do, was catch up with it.

Charandas Chor, often hailed as Habibsaab’s masterpiece, won the top award at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in 1982. "Who're you?' 'A man.' 'I can see that. I'm asking your name and what you do". My name is Charandas and my profession thieving. Taken together that makes me Charandas the thief.' Impudent and irrepressible, Charandas is a thief with a difference. Having vowed never to lie, he manages to keep his work while robbing the rich blind. A typical folk hero, street smart and savvy, he runs rings around the forces of law and order till he comes up against one wall he cannot scale– his own commitment to the truth. In this journey he realizes the paradoxes in life. The unexpected twist at the cud of this heart-warming comedy lifts the play onto another plane.

In conclusion of my tribute to the maestro, I quote Emily Dickinson-

Because I could not stop for Death-

He kindly stopped for me—

The Carriage held but just Ourselves---

And Immortality.

Nothing

2009-06-04T04:46:00.003+09:00

A state of being where everything seems like a flurry of activity. Where you watch as a spectator, occurences in your own life.

It could also be an opportunity for blissful existence, where nothing is important, nothing makes a difference. Its just an empty you, content with the void.

Its the word that encompasses all, and yet when you open your fists to find what remains, it leaves you, with nothing.

It means nothing, it stands for nothing. Or maybe everything.

Revisiting Mehboob

2009-02-23T16:59:00.003+09:00

As I move through the streets of Mumbai, I get the distinct impression of a city that’s bigger than the dreams every individual has, living in it. As the car pulls in front of the entrance of Mehboob studios, one recognizes the place where dreams are crafted, and broken almost everyday. The fate of which are announced every Friday.

It’s the unexplainable feeling, and a thrill that runs through, as you pull into the entrance of Mehboob. As though time stops, a phrase often used. With a dilapidated, burnt down stage on the right, the whiff of the movies engulfs any lover of the art. Slowly and steadily, one even comes to appreciate the fact of how things change, and yet some remain constant. The studio has seen faces change, films and stories change, but the art of storytelling, the fascination with motion pictures, the 8 hour shifts, the sounds of ‘cut’, the setting of lights, the constructing of the sets, the rolls of film, the walls of the studio, all remain just the same. The apparent weathering of the place that has seen classics being filmed, completes the old world charm. The green rooms, with the stained mirrors, the otherwise barren high ceilinged halls that get transformed into fancy hallways complete with shimmering chandeliers, each have a story to tell. The story that can be heard far and above the chatter of the usual work being carried on at the studios. One just has to listen. The tales that the studio has to tell are greater than any ever filmed here.
The world of the movies, often explained in repetitive and cliché words like, fickle and glamorous, seems almost real and believable at the studios. Wide eyed dreams are realized here. And it’s the simplicity of the realization that makes it fascinating. The scene before my eyes makes me imagine the splendor of filming in the era of black and white. When the producers and studios decided the fate of directors and actors; when the film was bigger than those performing in it. When the reel went on in the background, to film a drive in open airy outdoors. The huge fan used to provide the make-believe breeze, stands rusted quietly in the corner. As we decide to use it for our shoot, it roars to life.
As chickens move around the open space in front of the stage 4, a lorry unloads the basic structures of a seemingly elaborate set to be constructed at Stage 6. Parallel stories run, parallel films are being made. And I suddenly appreciate the meaning of a ‘film being a team’s labor of love’.
As my shoot proceeds, I repeatedly get the urge to move around the studio by myself, to allow myself to become a part of a day in the life of the studio. I want to listen to the stories and allow myself to shine in the left over sparkle of the make-believe fascinating world. In the world of motion pictures, where everything is believable. And yet, many times not.
As I leave the studios, I realize that I have been smiling at the skeleton of the buildings time and again I might be the fool who likes to live in her imagination. But then, as I was driving out, I kept turning back to absorb all I could of the studios, and then I realized, how much I wanted, to become a part of this world. Whether big and bad or other wise, it still is the only world, where dreams can turn real, as real as they can get. To many, the studio will appear, a number of weathered buildings in a cluster. But to those who love the movies, it’s the only constant, that has seen the transition in cinema, and has its own memories etched in it, allowing only those who truly see its worth, to feel, listen and read them.

Someone I was, something was mine

2009-02-04T23:23:00.003+09:00

The wooden surface, with wings on the sides, concealing the sometimes apprehensive performers reciting their lines over and over again, sometimes confident artistes settling their costumes, sometimes others, helping the performers get their tone and expressions right, or desperately dealing with a fiasco that occured backstage. That surface, allowed me to live so many different lives, even if it was just for those few limited minutes. It allowed me to sing, dance, rejoice, cry, like I was someone else. Once the lights fell onto the stage, they provided the energy like nothing else, any pain would vanish,fatigue would not be visible, and the only thing that was, would be the empty seats of the auditorium, which would be full of people willing to believe what we showed them, the next day. So many times, when silence did wonders, when music mirrored the mood, where just the eyes spoke and everyone understood. My feet would dance when I wanted to laugh.

The most beautiful memory, the stage has given me, has been the time, when people referred to me by the name of the character I played, and not by my real name.

The stage transforms actors and dancers into performers. The thrill of improvising on the spot, knowing there is no second chance to convince the audience of the portrayal of a particular character. The sheer thrill of having the audience captivated by a particular scene or song……. I cannot articulate it, and those who have felt it, will understand why.

I can’t wait to touch the surface with my hands again, I can’t wait to live another life, I can’t wait to dance, I can’t wait to cry……..

I can't wait to be me, once again.

Slumdog Millionaire

2009-01-27T14:36:00.003+09:00

The film that the world is talking about. Slumdog Millionaire has finally arrived, and how. With a million expectations, and equal number of discussions surrounding the film, whether it is Amitabh Bhacchan’s take on it, to whether it is an achievement of Indian cinema, Slumdog Millionaire has been making news. The much awaited film, finally opened to cinema houses, on the Friday gone by.

So what makes the film so special? Apart from the storyline based on the book, the film has been superbly crafted. The flashbacks that take us back to Jamal’s life instances, owing to which he knows the answers to the questions on the popular game show, is a brilliant way of linking the film together. Its because of these brilliant interlinks, in the sheer art of story telling, that make the film a delight to watch.

The simplicity with which the story has been dealt with, is refreshing, in the era of unnecessarily complicated storylines. The ‘rags to raja’ story, has the potential of winning hearts, of each who watches it. Dev Patel, is sincere as Jamal, whether it is looking for his lost love Latika, or answering honestly, every question that is put to him. Irfan Khan, as the inspector doing his duty, yet lending an ear to Jamal, is convincing, and as always, a phenomenal actor. Mahesh Manjerekar as the gangster from the slum has done a good job. But the cake is taken away by the six child artistes who play Jamal, Latika and Salim respectively, at their various age groups during the film. They are absolutely awesome in their depictions as the children from the slum, and it no pint in time during the course of the film, do they allow any viewer to think otherwise. Tanay and Ayush, as the young Jamal, are brilliant, keeping intact the simplicity of the lovable character of Jamal. Azharuddin, as the young Salim, as the aggressive elder brother, has done a brilliant job, and so has Rubinal Lal, who plays the young Latika. The transition from one age to the other has been handled very well, bringing each innovatively to the audience. Anil Kapoor, as the host of the game show, who wants no one to become bigger than him, is also impressive.

The film deftly handles the discrimination factor, with the boy who comes from the slum facing it every single time, whether its on the show, at the police station or otherwise. The scenes in the slums of Mumbai are as real as it gets, whether it’s the children being trained to beg, or the religious fanaticism hitting them the hardest. The USP of the film is that its real, and has been showcased with no packaging.

Technically, Slumdog Millionaire is fast paced and unpredictable. The cinmetography is extremely impressive, with a gamut of varied camera angles have been used to convey the emotion.

The background score blends seamlessly with the situation in the film, having the perfect blend of quintessential instruments, with the rhythm required as per the situation. Rehman out does himself completely. Whether ist the song during the escape, or when Jamal and Salim finally fing Latika, each piece has been crafted for the situation showcased. The Golden Globe is definitely deserved, and fingers are crossed for the Oscars.

To conclude, Slumdog Millionaire is a stark, real, unpretentious film. For those who say that India is not just about slums, well they have got the perception of the film wrong. India is all about hope in the darkest hour, its about unpredictable circumstances, its about simple emotions in simple people. Slumdog attempts to showcase all of this, yet keeping the film extremely real. Hats off to the film. We wish to see it win at the Oscars.

Resilient?

2008-12-01T16:24:00.002+09:00

26^th November 2008. Mumbai burns. 183 people dead and still counting. Over 300 injured. And yet, as we all witnessed the worst 72 hours in India’s recent past, life in Mumbai,will resume to as normal as it can, as a new week opens up.

The city was not new to terror, and as the eminent people of the city repeatedly discuss the ‘Spirit of Mumbaikars’ and their ability to ‘bounce back’, lets pause and think. The fact that Mumbaikars bounce back, is a compulsion. The common man, still has to go to work to earn his bread and butter, and it is that force of survival has made the people resilient, not the choice of being so. It has been far too long, and far too many incidents have taken place, the lack of action whether in retaliation or investigation, lack of answers have all been hidden behind the ‘Spirit of Mumbai’ which is that people accept what has happened and moved on. Yes they have and Yes, they will.

As we watch our television screens in shell-shocked silence, as we hear one of the politicians say ‘Chalta hai’ and bade deshon mien aisi choti choti baatein hoti hain’ there is a desire to do something, that burns inside each and every one of us. We watch disgusted, as more and more vivid and gory details of the horror that occurred, unfold before us. And there is a voice, that says ‘Enough, really is enough’. More that the repercussions of the attack on the tourism industry, the stock market or international relations, it is the helplessness, and the anger at that helplessness, of the citizens of India, that should worry the ‘leaders’ at the helm of affairs.

It appalls each and every one of us, when we watch a tragedy like this, being politicized, or atleast attempted to be, for a particular political parties’ gain. Why did the respectable minds of the government, have to wait for a situation of this magnitude to occur, to ask their puppets to sit up and take notice? It appears to be nothing more than a political gimmick, when despite a series of attacks, the home minister was kept in power, whereas now, in the face of public unrest, he has been asked to resign. Mr. Prime Minister, you are not dealing with fools here. Sacking the home minister, or in better words, accepting his resignation, is not the answer to repeated sufferings of the common man. Whether it is floods, terrorist attacks by various terrorist groups, derailments, murders, it is the common man that suffers. The common man, till now, that had been resilient by force and not by choice.

Our strength today, often termed our weakness, is our numbers. The candlelight marches that currently take place all around the country are not symbols of peace, but that of anger. Anger at the lack of action. Anger at the fact that every decision in the country, including whether the NSG is to be deployed or not, rests with the politicians. Anger, at the condition, that even after the NSG get an okay for the operation, they reach the scene of the attack 9 hours after the order, due to lack of adequate resources.

However, it is unfair to blame the politicians entirely. It is us who are to blame. After all, in this democracy, we chose who comes to power. However, the irony is, we have to vote only for the lesser evil. We have to understand, that for the system to change, we have to get into it. And we, the youth, are ready to do what it takes, to make a difference.

In this moment of tragedy, grief and peril. We all stand with Mumbai. We all stand with one another.

Soumya Vishwanathan

2008-10-03T16:58:00.001+09:00

An unassuming, fun-loving, hardworking girl, who had set priorities in life. I had heard of her, time and again, from a common friend, more so since we had the same name, which often led to confusion in various conversations. Shot dead, in the wee hours of the morning, approximately 10 minutes after she had informed her parents she would be reaching home.
We are all cued in on the story, flipping channels and reading various newspapers. It has shocked almost everyone who has heard/read or watched specials on it. Whether you knew Soumya or not, it has somewhere made you feel sorry for the family, unnerved at the state of security in the capital, and shocked you numb at the sad demise of a young journalist.
As students take to the road in protest, demanding justice for Soumya, it brings back rushes of past unsolved cases of rape and murder. It’s a shame that the word numerous can be used for the unsolved cases. It takes our system decades to sentence a murderer. The system is flawed with gaping loopholes, many cunning people also use to their advantage. With incidents like these, the reality of the system faces us, the lack of law and order, the constant insecurity we all live in.
But who are the people in power? Those who think that Soumya was being ‘adventurous’ returning home after a hard days work? What is the solution to such a problem? Women in this city cannot be assured of security in broad daylight, so why is the time of travel an issue? Have we forgotten the Safdurjung rape case that occurred in the day time? This is just one example of the many cases that have happened in this city. It surprises me, that working till the early hours of the morning is being thought objectionable, and not the fact that the city is so unsafe, that now a lot of working women are thinking twice about the timings they keep in their own various professions. The police is still investigating the case, and while we watch proceedings and statements given by various officials, we parallely see a ticker that tells us, that the prime accused in the Aarushi murder case, are returning to Nepal. What is the state of security here, and the judgments on crimes of such gruesome nature?
Can we as an educated set of people do something? We are the only ones who can.

Sleep.

2008-09-16T00:45:00.001+09:00

Sleep is blissful. Where the mind does not rear its head to remind you of what your heart tells you. Your heart does not get your eyes to well up, because there is no solution to what it feels. The lips are silent out of compulsion, not out of the will that nothing should be divulged. I talk everyday when am awake, in the attempt to drown what is fighting to be spoken of.
Am I accepting defeat in the face of angst. Or am I? Giving words to feelings, makes them absolute. Am not sure whether I wish to face that storm within me. I pretend it doesn’t exist. I wish.

2008-09-08T22:45:00.003+09:00

A parched throat, that yearns for water.
Even tears will do.
A voice that strains to throw words that get formed.
Even a muffled sound will do.
Feet, which were once adorned with ghungroos, are now silent.
Even a whisper will do.

2008-07-02T15:49:00.002+09:00

Bheegi hui palken, har baar us boond ko rokti hain
Ghabrayi aankhen, poori koshish karti hai, ke use wahin band kar len
Har baar ek nayi wajah
Ek aur khwab ka tootna
Par hum khwabon ke tootne ke dar se, unhe dekhna nahin chodte
Hum tab bhi unhen dekh kar, ye shart rakhten hain ki who poore hon
Kyunki unhi khwabon ke sahare hum apne aane waale kal ka saamna karte hain, jahan ek aur khwab tootta hai, aur humein apne hone ka ehsaas dilata hai.
Woh humein batata hai, ki har khwab sirf ek pal ka mohtaj hota hai.
Aur phir ek yaad ban kar simat jaata hai

An attempt in Hindi

2008-07-02T15:48:00.000+09:00

Raat ka saaya ek humsafar sa hai
Har pal ka katna ek sadi ki tarah hai
Waqt ke guzarne mein bhi ek ajib se masti hai
Ek akelapan hai, jise hum tanhayee ka naam bhi nahin de sakte
Raat chahti hai , ki hum waqt ki unkahi kahaniyon ko shabd dein
Bepanah raazon ko sune, aur unhe samajhne ki gustakhi karein
Use kya maaloom ki woh wahi raaz hain, jo humne kabhi waqt ko,Ek aise hi bezumban eshare mein bataye the

2008-05-29T03:39:00.000+09:00

When you turn around to look

At the people you thought were standing behind you, waiting for you to come back

It hurts when you realize, that what exists is but a lie….

And what you thought were people waiting, are just lies staring back at you .

2008-05-26T20:01:00.004+09:00

Dense black skies with hues of grey. A wanderer seeking shelter from the night, that has none to offer. Bones of a tree, are as cold as the night. They stand there,for the night to end. It has been, a wait, for a lifetime. They wait...for daybreak.

The Navrasa

2008-05-06T18:00:00.002+09:00

‘Thand bahot hai’. An expression of sorrow, of longing, of acceptance. The eyes stare into space, while the silence is interrupted by applause, and the applauding hands shielded by the maroon of the curtain, obscuring the still frame from sight. The play ends, to a standing ovation, to some tears, to some expressions of incredulous surprise, on how people emote so well.

Well, how do people emote so well? Is it a gift? Well, yes. Acting, the talent is a gift. It requires immense effort to understand the character that is to be portrayed, and then live every moment with it. Think the way it does, talk the way it does, feel the way it does. The character, does not just get separated from you, once you finish the play. It continues to linger, in one way or another. It is only acting, that gives you the golden chance, to experience a different life, a different situation every time. But, this article seems to feature the highs of acting, what does ’Navrasa’ have to do with it? Everything.

The science and art of acting, of feeling each emotion thereby emoting it, is woefully incomplete without the Navrasa. Neither can they be understood, nor a performance become one without them. The Navrasa, or the nine emotions as they are called, are the pillars of any performing art. We do not restrict the term only for acting, but use it for dance as well. Indian classical dances, are performed in various languages, and the music for each is also distinct. However, the ‘bhav’ for each part of each dance is expressed through the eyes. In any performing art, the eyes are the most important ways to connect with the audience, irrespective of the fact if it is a dance recital in a proscenium format, or a nukkad natak, the eyes have to correspond with each dialogue spoken, as only then can it be considered felt. That is, of course, the science of acting; the art however, is far more imprecise, where the performance is judged as per the feeling evoked in the audience. It is imperative to study the nine emotions, in order to be able to understand the basics of performing arts.

The Navrasa or nine emotions are: Shringaara-love, Hasya-laughter, Karuna-compassion, Roudra-anger, Veera-courage, Bhayaanaka-fear, Bheebatsya-disgust, Adbutha-wonder, Shaantha -peace/tranquility. Each of the nine emotions, as afore mentioned are distinct from one another, and the basic emotions felt by humans in varied situations. The Navrasa, provide the terminology and definition to each of these. Different combinations of the emotions denote and project complexity of reactions to situations and the circumstances in which they occur. Pillars of any performing art, each can be demonstrated with facial expressions along with the body language of the performer. The music (optional) helps in enhancing the same.

No scene or a particular part emoted can be clearly compartmentalized into the nine emotions. Many additions have been made to the quintessential nine emotions, The 10th emotion, is the ‘vriha’ or longing. It is one of the most fascinating of the rasas, as longing is one of the most beautiful and difficult emotions to portray. A dancers’ favourite, the emotion of longing, is a combination of sorrow, ‘sringara’ and happiness, that would result in being reunited with the beloved The ‘vriha’ is impersonated in multiple poetic verses time and again.

The importance of emoting the rasas is best exemplified in mime acts, where only the music (which is optional) is a support to the eyes. For any actor/dancer, it is important make the requirement of dialogues or music redundant, and yest convey the emotion to the audience, so as to evoke the desired response. The performer needs to understand the complexity of situations and simplicity of human reactions, to emote them successfully.

The knowledge of the Navrasa, is truly a tool in more ways than one. Not only do they help the performers understand the basic emotions to be emoted, but also make combinations as required by situations to be enacted. Even more, the understanding helps in conveying what needs to be, in a measured way. However, a performance is one, only when the situation has been felt, and the performance appeared genuine. No amount of in-depth knowledge of tools can help nurture a line-recitation to a performance. That is where the truly fascinating nature of acting, that is imprecise, rears its head, raring each performer to perform better than his/her previous performance, to get obsessed with the character that needs to be played, to eat drink and sleep the emotions that need to portrayed convincingly. Performance is truly an obsession. Truly.

2008-01-29T18:21:00.000+09:00

I watch as a puff of smoke dissolves into nothing.
In almost a fluid motion.
Almost.

A snatch at a moment gone by,
that dissolves within the clammy palm.
Vast nothingness is all that is left.
And a wistful gaze.

The smoke had existed.
Almost.

Ashes that burnt the moment.
Left the clammy hands, clinging to nothing.

The smoke that vanished.
Taking with it the moment I lived.
Almost.

2008-01-19T00:53:00.000+09:00

Checking my phone…
Every five minutes…for the past hour and a half.
Waiting to hear the standard beep of a text message, or the particular tone set on his number.
Would there be a reply? Would he even bother? Or maybe he is asleep, will see it and reply later…
Still a blank screen…
I continue looking out the window…clutching the phone in my hand.
It suddenly beeps…'I love you'
I type just two words…'I know'.

........

2007-12-11T00:26:00.000+09:00

The world I live for, is the world in which I die....every moment of everyday.
Its what the world has made of me, and I of it......
A vicious circle, I wish to break, and in the attempt......I lose myself.

...........

2007-12-01T01:18:00.000+09:00

A Stone. Draped in Black. Whites of eyes, with floating tears. The face impassive, having compromised with fate, yet not defeated by it. A hoarse scream, shatters the silence. Time.....builds it yet again. The sound fades away, but the mouth remains open.....

A reflection that symbolizes dichotomy. A prism that shows only red......

........

2007-11-14T22:00:00.000+09:00

Running Away. Where from? Where to? Who from? Who to? Why?
They are all faces painted black. I can’t tell one from the other. Disillusioned. Cannot trust. Cannot breathe. My arms reach out, only to feel a wall…all around me. A self-created, self destructive, introspective wall. Who am I? Where am I going? Who am I running from? What am I leaving behind?
Dense black pain. And a swoosh of silver…….

.........................

2007-10-31T20:18:00.000+09:00

A stroke of light, where dark is profound, a whisper of a murmur, in deafening silence.
A shadow in mist, a struggle to explode….every moment, of everyday.

Where the mind is without fear, and the head held high…..

Is where, is forced subservience, and the suffocation of life.

Where the mind is without fear, and the head held high…..

It’s a tough and lonely road…..in a blur of color, and pain
It’s a voice that is muffled……….

Laaga Chunari Mein Daag: The film

2007-10-22T14:36:00.001+09:00

A much awaited film, Laaga Chunari mein daag, tried to re-explore, the age old story of a small-town-young-girl alone in the big bad city of Mumbai, forced by the circumstances to turn to the worlds oldest profession for a living. What could and should have been a heart rendering narrative, considering a sensitive story teller like Sarkar, and the master of the craft Aditya Chopra had brought together, some of the best talent of the Industry (Rani, Konkana, Anupam Kher, Jaya Bacchan), the film failed to impress.

The pace of the film was staggering. Galloping in parts, and some parts being stretched for no apparent reason. Also, the characters were not etched out completely. The spineless mother, the indifferent father were just scraping the surface. Anupam Kher, with brilliant performances like Maine Gandhi ko nahin Maara, Saaransh etc behind him, was not allowed to prove his metal. Even towards the end of the film, the father’ reaction to his daughter becoming a prostitute, was far from convincing. The portrayal was not a fault of the actor, but of the script that limited his performance. Sushant Singh and his father, were there just to throw some weight to the ‘problematic’ circumstances. Though, his screen presence is commendable for whatever little screen time he got.

The biggest drawback of the film was its screenplay. Extremely predictable, the connect from one scene to the other was very lose. Also, gaping holes in the plot, for example, why a woman was convincing the protagonist to become an escort, how at the time of the wedding of the younger sister, the girl’s family meets the groom only on the wedding day, etc.

However, all said and done, the film is watch able for Rani Mukherji’s performance. The lady infuses life into her character, whether it the helplessness, the anger, and the complete insistence to protect her younger sister, the determination to help her parents out and so on. Konkana, did not have much to do, but she is a pleasure to watch as the innocent younger sister, her completely natural act, covers up for the way the roles have been written. The scenes with Rani and Konkana are beautifully done, both doing more than justice to the script and situation.

Abhishek Bacchan was to come fall in love, get married and thats it. But he too is a pleasure to watch as the quintessential innocent prince charming. Kunal Kapoor, as the messy creative director has also done a good job. The actors of the film have been able to carry a poorly written script forward.

All in all, a film that can be watched, but if missed, no harm done.

Ironical

2007-10-11T19:30:00.000+09:00

Arent many situations in life tremendously ironical? No, am not in a self defensive, reflective or wellowing-in-sadness mode. Neither is this an attempt at prolific writing with a cause. Am just wondering....and questioning. Everyday, we think that we are the ones with maximum troubles in the world, when we are stuck in the usual morning traffic jam. Somewhere else, someones' life has changed forever, or perhaps ended causing the jam.

It is truly ironical, when the leftisits are screaming from the rooftops for no nuclear deal, saving funds for the poor, and move around themselves in swanky SUVs. There are people in the same country, who have no choice but to move barefeet on the road in the scorching heat, blistering their feet, while people in sedans complain, that its too hot & the AC isnt powerful enough.

Why am I writing this, I really dont know. Could be a stark revelation, could be a wish to voice an observation. Have any of us, while stepping out of a McDonalds, with our carry-out order, so much as glanced sideways? There is a bin, under a tree for you to throw empty packs and left over food. But there are also a pair of hungry eyes, lurking in the dark, hoping that there would be a morsel of food left in the packs thrown away. Is it not ironical, that behind the poshest of clubs, best of hotels, lurk the largest slums of the city? Is it not ironical, that we take our families for granted, and some dont even have the privelege of knowing their own. Is it not ironical, that when a soldier in this country dies, he is given only four lines in a column, while a superstar's arrest goes on for more than 3 pages in the daily newspaper?
Is it not ironical, that the biggest slum of this city, is right behind the head office of the World Health Organisation?

The Potter Bug

2007-10-04T18:29:00.000+09:00

A little late in the day for this post, but here goes...So ends the series that has known crazy fan following, character worshippers, a 100 million dollar industry flourishing in the name of two words. Children and adults alike, lining up at the book stores at midnight to pick the copy of the book to be launched. Thousands of people posting at various interactive forums. Opinions on everything to do with these fascinating best sellers. Books, movies, merchandise, amusement parks, virtual games, online short games.....the world was literally penetrable by the muggles. Muggles that we hated to be, hoping that maybe groping through an ancient doorway might lead us into the world we have learnt to believe and grown with....where the wireless is the WWN, Doors pretending to be walls, Dragons, Goblins and butterbeer considered perfectly normal. It’s the unbelievably believable world of witches and wizards, the world of Harry Potter.These books saw the vehement reactions, only like those of Jeeves and Sherlock Holmes have seen.

Now that the series have ended I feel a little disappointed and a little sad. Sad that there wouldn’t really be another book to look forward to as much. The amount of speculation, endless discussions, coming up with theories and then negating them on the facts from the books, reading and re reading the books to form conclusions, look for hints, and solve the mystery. Disappointed with the way, the beautifully written series culminated.

The ‘Deathly Hallows’ was written, keeping in mind the movies, which made the book blatantly visual, and disappointingly fast. There were gaping holes in the plot that the ardent fans must have noticed, and some very apparent mistakes that jump out during the disturbingly smooth narrative. The epilogue at the end was uncalled for, and woefully short in its information of the characters future (or present). The bit where it’s the hallows vs the horcruxes is a typical example of Rowling’s brilliant imagination and fantastic writing, however Voldemort’s treatment of his enemies, seems heavily borrowed from the Nazi measures, and what is visually appealing. The expectations of many readers were floundered with the finality of the battle, to which two and a half books, and three years of wait were dedicated. My personal favourites remain the ‘Chamber of Secrets’ and ‘The half blood Prince’. Excellent series, but a sad end. Rowling kept Harry alive not wanting to repeat a showdown like those faced earlier in literature. Even then, including my disappointment with the final book…..Potternama reigns….and I love the fact that the sorting hat on one of the vitual games chose me for Gryffindor.

Consider this a constructive way of wasting time

2007-09-24T19:59:00.000+09:00

So, in my seemingly precious time....I have decided to update a hate list from my last blog

I hate a call from a close friend at 3:10 am, asking me...'Hi, kya kar rahe the...I wasnt feeling too sleepy' after you have had a particularly long day...

I hate the fact that I still smile and say in an exasperated voice that am glad to hear from him.

I hate people who insist on telling me that am wasting time rereading a book I have read 5 times already....

I hate it when I grudgingly admit that they are right.

I hate the fact that the weighing scale refuses to budge, despite my increasing attempts to live off boiled food

I hate it when people try giving each other a very warm welcome, though wishing each other nothing but ill.

I hate it when a friend calls and we painstakingly make a plan for a film...only to be cancelled later.

I hate parties where you have to talk in moderated volumes about some great stroke by some great painter.

I hate it when relatives come to you and say, 'arre...kitne bade ho gaye ho, tumhe tab dekha that jab tum chhote se the'.......so?

I hate it when other relatives come and ask you 'beta...pehchana'...worse still...if you say yes, they say...'batao kaun?' and then you stutter and hastily excuse yourself....spending rest of the time, avoiding that particular person.

I hate it when on Holi, just after you have spent an hour cleaning yourself...your best friend comes and smears your face with silver paint....grinning and saying...happy holi.

I hate it..when a friend you have confided in, about something incredibly secretive, embarrasing and stupid, tells the story to a crowd amongst gales of laughter.

I hate being woken up by a phonecall at 8:00am on a sunday morning.

I hate waiting for an hour for my best friend, who is still asleep after I have reached the decided venue, 20 mins later than the decided time...

I hate people who talk about Bryan Adams in the realm of rock.

I hate people who ask whether Pink Floyd and Roger Waters are one in the same thing....and they claim to be rock lovers.

I hate people who love rock, treat all other music like shit.

I hate people who keep their cell phones on when watching a movie, play or listening to a particularly fine music recital.

I hate it when there is a cricket final scheduled between India and Pakistan, and am waiting for my client to revert.

I particularly hate it...when people make an exceedingly long hate list...and expect other people to read it ;-)

Of Diamonds, Paintings and mindless chatter

2007-09-10T14:40:00.000+09:00

A cackle of laughter breaks out in the midst of clinking crystal glasses filled with deep red wine. Hands holding them are adorned with blue diamonds, designed in expensive settings. I sit listening to a discussion of connoisseurs of art, bedazzled by an exquisite work hung on the wall. Flowing chiffons, pastel shades, sparkling jewels, silver spoons scraping china plates, woodwork enhanced by crystal ware, sedans pulling in the driveway, conversations of high intellect, soft pleasant music from the speakers nearby. The walls adorned with beautiful paintings, thought provoking yet serene…The décor of the house has been tastefully done…but there is a certain snobbery in the air. The people are narrow, the chatter mindless. The conversations come across as deliberate attempts at intellect. I feel privileged to be a distant observer, strangely alienated and not part of the crowd. The tone isn’t genuine, the laughter saccharine, the greetings shallow. There is criticism on the country and the way it is run, comparisons with the way it was. There is comparison of an artist with another, a playwright with another. How books of Booker prize winners are trash, how scotch is better than other whisky, how art is a better investment than real estate, how one particular line written by Jalan is brilliant, how best the economic state of the country has deteriorated. How Politics is reduced to a simple game of power and hierarchy, how Swarovski crystals are better than any other. Many of these are well crafted arguments, and many of them refutations just for the sake of it. I feel lost. The conversations are interesting, but it is the tone, the manner and the expression that irritates. Being intelligent and well read seems to be married to snobbery and condescending. And as they say, take it all with a pinch of salt.

A typical high society do, where class is make believe, sophistication suffocating, greetings are cold despite a deliberate and apparent attempt at warmth. Genuine warmth and affection cannot be bought. As they say, there are somethings money cant buy…..

Guru Dutt: An underrated genius

2007-08-21T19:42:00.001+09:00

Because his stories were not we had heard earlier, or heard ever again. Because he explored emotions, did not mutilate them. Because he made mistakes, like every one of us, but was not, unlike all of us, forgiven. Because he gave hindi cinema, its greatest ode to beauty till date. Because, he gave us the pleasure of living despair. Because he had a keen eye for detail. Because he made such masterpieces in black and white, that, converting them to colour would take their charm away. Because simplicity was his greatest asset. Because he was honest and sincere towards his passion…..his cinema.

Guru Dutt, in my opinion was one of the greatest filmmakers of India. Not only did he explore diverse emotions with equal ease, but spanned across various cultures of India In different time frames. Whether it was filming Chaudvin ka Chaand in nawabi Lucknow, or Kagaz ke Phool in urban Mumbai, or Sahib Bibi aur Ghulam during the zamindari phase. His in depth knowledge of each stands out clearly in the precision of each detail. A man who respected innovations, intercepted fears, welcomed challenges and explored human intellect and emotions, pushed boundaries of Hindi commercial cinema like never before. From an abandoned wife, whose ambition in life was to serve her husband, to a director succumbing to the passing era of the majestic studios, to the dejected and wordless poet, to the friend who is ready to sacrifice his life and love for th e happiness of the other, each depiction of each character has been dealt with great detail, and been made extremely believable. One can see him actually living through his cinema.

A genius well before his time, his audience did not want to believe the flip side of the glamour world they religiously believed in, and he showcased. He was a man who understood emotions, and wasn’t ashamed of doing so. He was a man who understood the pulse of his audience, and knew how much he could innovate. His technical expertise coupled with his comfort both infront and behind the camera was par excellence. The real talent, and the underrated showman.

Another blog shall follow suit…..dedicated to Kaagaz ke phool.

A Chessboard

2007-08-21T13:15:00.000+09:00

A chessboard………..
With the majestic king to be protected……..
And the queen the key player…..
The squares stand evenly distributed……
In the greatest dichotomy of contradictory colors………………..
Black and White.

The players stand to face each other…
Patiently waiting to be guided……..
To eliminate the other….
Neither is different from the other…..
Yet the contradictory colours
Black and White.

The great knight
The queen and the bishop alike……
What is the difference between the two….
They pin the other down with equal ruthlessness……

I could be black…
And where I stand….a chessboard…..
But are you proud of being white???

Ask yourself…

Theatre:rising? or into oblivion?

2007-08-20T19:35:00.000+09:00

The stage....the lights and the music.....the curtains unfold to let the alien eye explore new lives, new situations...with new treatment. Imagination set up live, from difference of perspectives, beauty of art and grandeur of the platform. The wooden surface thrown nto the spotlight by one, strong enough to encompass and showcase the life and circumstances of another. What was once just mere dialogue on sheets of paper, brought out and conceptualised for visual appeal. The stage, that provides more opportunities than one, to re-invent, to explore, to celebrate and revel in the glory afterward. The halogens, the spots shine on the character, and provide energy of a different genre, an unprecedented magnitude.....it allows you, to live another life....for just that one moment.

Explorers and patrons certainly understand the 'junoon' that goes behind these words. it is an obsession....for a perormer, for a director or even a spectator....but is it all disappearing? Do we still have people who appreciate this form of fine art. The only performing art that really does justice to the word performance. The stage does not give two chances....it is the art that has to balanced with perfection....but this form, appeals to barely few people today. Theatre is losing out to 70mm, to flashy money, repetition of emotions, stereotypical acting and excellent packaging.....are we stepping into oblivion....the art form that gave birth to lauretes, actors, and most importantly provided the motivation for Cinema, is disgraced....

By the people who watch, not even respecting the platform.....keeping their cell-phones on