I stood in the yielding mud with my best shoes on. As my heels dug in with every step, my heart sank a little. I was just a regular girl in the middle of the horse stable in all my finery (floral, fitting dress and fancy shoes) and an irregular heart. But I sucked in my breath (and my tummy) and hurried behind Maanan - my host for the evening. He pointed at Blue Moon, a handsome guy with a shining coat and profound eyes, and declared him his favourite. I stopped before Blue Moon and made eye contact. If the favourite horse of the richest man in Uganda can wallow in the mud then so can your shoes, he breathed. I straightened my back, corrected my gait, and weighed on my heels. The awkward light-toed walk instantly disappeared. All was well in la-la land again.
Later that night as the guest sat by the sparkling pool in the teasing winds of Jinja, I relaxed with a glass of pinot-noir in my hand. Olga, Jill, Emily and I were staying in a nearby resort and had just missed the first ever organized polo match in the history of Uganda. As the sky above sparkled and the wine flowed, our excuses for missing the match became more animated. Emily arrived late from Entebbe. No, Jill was getting us fresh bagels. Actually, Ishita took forever with her hair dryer. You know what, Olga drove Jill’s car like a maniac and that’s why it smoked and smoked and we screamed and screamed. Amidst the lazy banter and the cheerful company, I etched in my memory my first brush with the rich and almost famous of Uganda.
After dinner, as we were driving towards the local lounge Jill’s car smoked and smoked and spluttered something indecipherable and finally died. Luckily I managed to pull over to the side of the road, Jill congratulated herself. The cars whizzed by, vaguely conscious of our bright parking lights and Olga made a quick call to Maanan. Damsels in distress, she SOSed. Minutes later, he was by our side taking complete control of the situation. He knew some people, he said. He left Jill’s car at the closest petrol station (it miraculously made the 50 meter journey) and shook hands with the owner in a significant way. Yes, Maanan knew some petrol station owners and car mechanics too. The distressed damsels piled into his SUV and made it to the local lounge.
The night ended uneventfully after a round of drinks and a repaired car. Jill drove it back to our resort with steely determination. We had breakfast the next day and sunbathed for a while and I didn’t think this particular weekend needed a special post. Because, it still hadn’t sunk in that the rich family in Uganda was really the richest family in Uganda. Or that the polo match was the first ever in Ugandan history. Or that it would make Tuesday’s national daily. All I understood at that point was that I had vacationed at a rather lovely resort and dined with some affluent people. Nothing significant.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
But things changed that weekend when the half English-half Japanese beautiful man fell in love with me at the sunglass party. You know, he whispered over the din, and this may sound very cheesy but you have the most genuine smile I have ever seen. I widened my smile at him and nodded vigorously. Yes, you are right, that was cheesy. My lower teeth appeared and joined in the gambit to flash a full blast of sparkling pearlies. The beautiful man staggered a little and leaned over to plant a kiss on my cheek. My jaw began to ache.
As the night wore on, we kept exchanging small talk. We also exchanged our sunglasses. The beautiful man told me that he had found his red pair in Tanzania. When a boda driver appeared out of nowhere and almost killed him, the beautiful man had asked for his fanciful shades. It is the least he owed me, he explained. I kept smiling my genuine smile.
But he didn’t forget his glasses. When it was finally time to leave at the magic hour, Olga and I said our goodbyes and started walking away. The beautiful man came running after me. My glasses! He shrieked. You know how precious they are. I nodded solemnly, remembering the barter of life and death. We exchanged sunglasses. And that was that.
But I never would have been invited to the private dinner party at Maanan’s house again had it not been for the beautiful man. And I never would have realized that Maanan was related to the who’s who of Bollywood. You mean, you are Mumtaz’s nephew, I asked. He laughed and whipped out his fancy cellphone with photographic evidence (not of Mumtaz, but Zayed Khan and Fardeen Khan). My red sunglasses and the boda driver, the beautiful man sniveled in the background. But I paid no attention. After all, are the stories of the lives equivalent to fake plastic glasses really significant?
And as I lay in my own bedroom in Maanan’s mansion that night, far away from the cheery conversations in the pool bar, I realized I was out of my element. Only minutes ago, Maanan had offered us a ride back to Kampala on his private plane. I pinched myself hard and realized that there was no way back. I now hobnobbed with jet owners and mansion masters. I now woke up to dancing peacocks outside my window. I now was on first-name terms with handsome horses. I now understood the rich and almost famous.
......................................................................................................................................................................
And I now effectively greeted and bid adieu to my fellow inmates with sprightly kisses on both cheeks.
But you just kissed me on one cheek, I had said to the beautiful man when we were saying our goodbyes.
Because I want to remain significant, he had replied. Two cheeks mean nothing special.
I gave him a sidelong look and continued to kiss the rest goodbye.
Yes, he murmured softly. Two cheeks is just one too many.
......................................................................................................................................................................
Here comes the President.
In the middle of Katwe our jeep sputters some and over. Traffic around closes in, the air becomes thicker and blacker. The heat does little to help. Why does everyone look dead? The humming flies zone in. Oh dear.
Suddenly Rashid springs to life. "There!" he raves, "There goes the president!"
Olga and I turn instinctively. A president sighting? I crane my neck some more to snatch a glimpse of majesty, magnificence or money. Or even a retinue of screeching sirens. But all I see is a newspaper seller staring back at me. Rashid's animated gesticulations stir something viral in him. He begins to move faster.
"That?" wonders Olga aloud, "That is your president?"
"Yes. He was president for a year." Gesticulate. Animate.
"Did people love him? Was he a good president?"
"Yes. Yes."
Olga and I look at each other. The newspaper seller/erstwhile adored president was now standing right next to our car now. We look at him and wonder.
"Well, at least he is flexible with his jobs?" Olga ventures.
I mumble. The heat seems unbearable now. The country feels hotter somehow. No, dear.
Rashid points at the newspaperman/ex-president who is no more adored, "He is dead. May his soul rest in peace."
Olga and I turn slowly, scared and stare at Binaisa's face on the newspaper. The air clears up and the airconditioning is working now.
Right, dear.
Suddenly Rashid springs to life. "There!" he raves, "There goes the president!"
Olga and I turn instinctively. A president sighting? I crane my neck some more to snatch a glimpse of majesty, magnificence or money. Or even a retinue of screeching sirens. But all I see is a newspaper seller staring back at me. Rashid's animated gesticulations stir something viral in him. He begins to move faster.
"That?" wonders Olga aloud, "That is your president?"
"Yes. He was president for a year." Gesticulate. Animate.
"Did people love him? Was he a good president?"
"Yes. Yes."
Olga and I look at each other. The newspaper seller/erstwhile adored president was now standing right next to our car now. We look at him and wonder.
"Well, at least he is flexible with his jobs?" Olga ventures.
I mumble. The heat seems unbearable now. The country feels hotter somehow. No, dear.
Rashid points at the newspaperman/ex-president who is no more adored, "He is dead. May his soul rest in peace."
Olga and I turn slowly, scared and stare at Binaisa's face on the newspaper. The air clears up and the airconditioning is working now.
Right, dear.
That night many years ago
The cruise had docked for the night and the air was balmy, but boisterous. There were lights and people a short distance away - melody and mirth coming together in a mad frenzy that could only be a bride in white and a groom in black surrounded by colour and chaos. I was just a hop, skip and swim away from an Egyptian wedding. And it all started when my mother came dashing through my door.
“There is a wedding a little distance away. I know two girls who are going. Quickly! Get ready!”
“What do you mean, get ready? I am in bed. On the Nile. I am in bed on the Nile! Do you realize what a rare luxury that is?”
“Stop being so boring! Get ready and go!”
Truth was I didn’t just want to walk into a wedding in Egypt without an invitation. I wondered how we would be received? Unsolicited wedding entrances was just something I hadn’t bothered to look up before I boarded that flight from New Delhi. But my mother stood at the door, waiting. Suddenly, I could feel her excitement begin to seep into my bones. I got out of bed and into my ensemble for the evening – jeans and a t-shirt. I grabbed some lip gloss, ran my fingers through my hair and stared at myself in the mirror. There was no danger of the bride turning purple with jealousy.
Irresolutely, I walked towards my partners-in-crime. They were French. And spoke just enough English. Which did away with eclectic starts to small talk, given that our short journey to the sewan was peppered with various phrases explaining where we would be sailing to yesterday. I blinked. They consulted. “We mean tomorrow. We will be sailing to Philae tomorrow.”
By this time we were standing before the entrance to the sewan. I took a deep breath and hurried after my co-wedding crashers, and walked right into the middle of the celebrations. There was music and dance and many, many people. Some of them noticed us right away and came to greet us with warm, wide arms. “You Indian?” “You French?” “You blonde?” “You Amitabh Bachchan?”
“I mean, do you know Amitabh Bachchan?”
“Not really. He moves in glitzier circles.”
“Well, we Egyptians love him!”
And with that he grabbed my hand and pulled me in to dance. Everyone had formed a circle around the bride and groom who were holding hands and dancing. But not for long, because they had to be informed about the foreign, exotic trespassers. The French and I went ahead to congratulate them. The groom was most excited to see us, but the bride (and I remember her face all these years down) had eyes only for him. She held onto him and gently swayed. I smiled. They were beautiful.
I will remember that night for more than one reason. I was being welcomed into an intimate celebration of love, welcomed amongst family and friends, welcomed with such adoration in a land where I had arrived only days ago. It was also a night where the French and I received our first marriage proposals. My suitor took me straight to meet his mother. She kissed my forehead and told me I should marry her son. I was worth every camel she could lay her hands on. I smiled apologetically.
Before we left, tired and content with our fill of an authentic Egyptian wedding, my suitor walked up to me. He handed me a coin. “This is for good luck. And because, I always want you to remember me.” I took it, thanked him and turned away.
But I had only taken a few steps towards the cruise, when I turned. I stood under the stars, surrounded by the calm of the night and the secrets of the river. I looked at the coin in my hand. And wondered.
My Man
Why do I love the man that I love? Because, he ran after that Sikh man clad in a half-sleeve shirt in the foggy, foggy nights of the wintry season that was. While I swerved the car into a calmer and lonely spot, my man, he navigated the honking cars and the twinkling headlights to find that Sikh man. I lost my man in the rear-view mirror. But I had lost that Sikh man five minutes before.
As that Sikh man with his trove of incense sticks had approached us, I had whipped out a tenner in a chronic demonstration of magnanimity. But that Sikh man had thwarted my gesture in a sweeping statement that made me stop breathing for a second, but only for a second. He said but didi, I will not accept your charity, buy instead some of my incense sticks. But how could I part with my bunch of tenners when I had others to hand them out to? I needed a second to think! But that Sikh man had handed over a box of sticks, taken the tenner and moved on swiftly while the signal stayed a searing scarlet. My face crumpled.
And amidst my heaving sobs that had eyes from without fixated within (but could they really see into me?) my man, he took a deep breath, asked me to wait for him at the corner, turned, opened the door, and walked out purposefully. I turned and waited in my calm, lonely spot. Headlights whizzed by, and the night sky pressed heavy onto my heart. I waited in anticipation. What might happen? Were more incense sticks destined to exchange hands? Or were they to stay firm in search of a more wanting home? What would I do with them anyway? Maybe part with them as an exotic souvenir? Maybe never light them and forget their purpose entirely? Or was the night sky in favour of that Sikh man? Was he going to end the day with a bolt from the vault? Was he finally going to buy himself some warmth? Or was he too far away already to be found in the crowded, chaotic confusion that surrounded?
My heart was beating, it was impatient. I peered into the rear-view mirror again and I spotted him, my man. He was walking towards my parking lights, he had seen me. But I couldn’t understand what his gait possibly communicated. Incense sticks? That Sikh man? Who won? Who lost? Was any of this really about that?
He opened the car door and slipped in. Handed me packs and packs of incense sticks. Rubbed his hands, it was freezing. I smiled. It was really about this. This very moment that melted my heavy, beating heart in a sweeping show of serendipity. I had my man beside me, and I wanted to stay just a while longer. Forever ,if possible with this kind, loving man that he is. I started the car.
The night sky was on my side.
THIS IS A LATE NEW YEAR RESOLUTION
Because, one is trying an experiment. To begin with - a post once every two days. But days that begin Indian time, and end two days later American time. Oh, but do you not realize? I am trying to hoodwink you. Now, how may I inflict my stellar intellectual vestiges on thy divine self? Do you want me to relate music drivel, sing cinematic praises, else reflect bookish platitudes? Or might I attempt to reveal my divine self to thee - little by little. But you see, I have so little to tell.
Suggestions welcome. But since you have been far and away for so long dear friends, I think this one just might be my call.
Suggestions welcome. But since you have been far and away for so long dear friends, I think this one just might be my call.
ZE HIGHER FORCES
Despite our rather grudgingly approved sabbaticals (by the higher forces of course) we have been awarded. An award. And we must pass it on.
But first, we wish to thank Mr. Lounger from the lounge of Imam Wapsoro. For his undying support and much looowe.
And we must pass on the cheer. Cheer that shall probably never be heard or seen. But cheer that will send ripples of positive energy that will affect somebody, something somewhere. Because you see, we believe in such things. The higher forces, of course. Cheering on then:
Jabberwock: We love him because he has good taste. And then there is nostalgia. And then there was none.
Szerelem, Szerelem: We love her for her passion. And her obsession.
High Heel Confidential: For teaching us big things. Expensive things. Oh-so-fun things.
Purely Narcotic: For being sensitive and flitsy-flootsy fantastic.
Imam Wapsoro: But of course. For trying. And triumphing.
But first, we wish to thank Mr. Lounger from the lounge of Imam Wapsoro. For his undying support and much looowe.
And we must pass on the cheer. Cheer that shall probably never be heard or seen. But cheer that will send ripples of positive energy that will affect somebody, something somewhere. Because you see, we believe in such things. The higher forces, of course. Cheering on then:
Jabberwock: We love him because he has good taste. And then there is nostalgia. And then there was none.
Szerelem, Szerelem: We love her for her passion. And her obsession.
High Heel Confidential: For teaching us big things. Expensive things. Oh-so-fun things.
Purely Narcotic: For being sensitive and flitsy-flootsy fantastic.
Imam Wapsoro: But of course. For trying. And triumphing.
Toodles then! Until next time :)
WELCOME ME
I shall call it a sabbatical. An unnecessary sabbatical. But here we are and back on the road.
Whatever prompted me back into the deliciously real world of blogging again? A class assignment. Yes you heard me right. If facts are to be believed then 80% of a 1 credit course dedicated to blogging shall contribute towards my final grade. And the first question is ‘Who am I?’ Easy? But, of course.
About as easy as back when I was preparing for my TOEFL examination, and the voice prompt egged me on to describe my room and dumped a 10 second timer on me for necessary preparation. And so I spluttered “My room is….erm…large. It is bright and colourful. I love my room. Uh…” Nervous laughter punctuated the monstrosity of a meaningless sentence. Describe my room? I can talk how digital technology is revolutionizing the microfinance sector, and how the Global North needs to stop monopolizing. Period. But describe my room? Splutter. And then some.
Since when did I become such a complicated creature that the details in my very own bedroom started escaping me? The deep magenta wall, flanked by light wooden wardrobes with inward ridges. The giant television set that still has cable, covered by frilly peach fabric. Just about worse than Nat Geo in Hindi. But just about. Because, really I watched MTV Splitsvilla all the time.
Therefore, ‘Who am I?’ will be answered. With much aplomb and symmetry. But it really isn’t as simple as I would imagine. For starters, am I a Grad student? A Post-Grad student? Did I just complete my under-graduation? Or those nights I spent away in a desultory daze courtesy copious alcohol, were they not really celebrating my graduation? Sigh. Welcome me to the United States of America.
Love.
'TWAS A GOOD PLAY
The light comes on to reveal a staid, wooden table. One of the legs, seemingly shorter, lulls the staid, wooden table into an inconvenient motion. Until suddenly it jerks her into conversation. She is sitting opposite him. And in their loose, daily attire they start talking about super-heroes.
She: Really?
He: Yes, I am serious. I posses actual superpowers.
She: Uh huh. And what might these superpowers be?
He: I cannot tell you. When I start telling people, they start...(emphatic pause, deliberate stare)...dying.
She: Err....
He: Yes, I kill people with my talk. That is indeed my superpower.
She: What do you mean? (darts a look here, darts another there.)
He: It can be quite gruesome if I so wish. It takes the beginnings of forming my lips into ovals, moistening my lips, and expending the slightest whoooooosh of a word. I can feel the world around me spinning, Yes, I can feel it. There is a sudden energy that suddenly grips me. I feel like my brain is aware of a brand new consciousness. A world with my victims, and a world without. I have the power, the simple power of only talking about this power. And then the schism penetrating my consciouness, vanishes into thin air, taking with it the victims as I so desire. It is devastating my power, in execution and in style. Such ultimate power, all contained in a little, itchy ball dying to escape my throat...
She: (yawns)
He: (looks away, defeated) Well, looks like my superpower is to kill people with my talk.
She: Really?
He: Yes, I am serious. I posses actual superpowers.
She: Uh huh. And what might these superpowers be?
He: I cannot tell you. When I start telling people, they start...(emphatic pause, deliberate stare)...dying.
She: Err....
He: Yes, I kill people with my talk. That is indeed my superpower.
She: What do you mean? (darts a look here, darts another there.)
He: It can be quite gruesome if I so wish. It takes the beginnings of forming my lips into ovals, moistening my lips, and expending the slightest whoooooosh of a word. I can feel the world around me spinning, Yes, I can feel it. There is a sudden energy that suddenly grips me. I feel like my brain is aware of a brand new consciousness. A world with my victims, and a world without. I have the power, the simple power of only talking about this power. And then the schism penetrating my consciouness, vanishes into thin air, taking with it the victims as I so desire. It is devastating my power, in execution and in style. Such ultimate power, all contained in a little, itchy ball dying to escape my throat...
She: (yawns)
He: (looks away, defeated) Well, looks like my superpower is to kill people with my talk.
DEAR FRIEND
Dear friend,
Once upon a time there was her, who promised with fancy. She beheld wistful glimpses into the future resplendent with gaiety and promise. Yet, she rued her failing friendships from the past and nodded solemnly.
‘One day we will leave. And you will be here and I will be there. It won’t be the same you know, and I cannot bear to think about that. I don’t know what I would do without you.’
‘Why? You will be here and I will be there. Once you are used to the difference, the distance won’t matter.’
‘It hasn’t worked in the past. Why would it work now?’
But it would. If only you had remembered me there, flung from a social extravaganza into a life less lively. Adapting to the old family that reared its brand new façade and grunted to enliven conversation. I didn’t laugh the same way, or cry the same way. I didn’t grant the same way, the way I did when you were my family.
What good really is nostalgia? What good, when you have chosen your life. Sometimes you curl up in your bed struggling under the heavy darkness alive with a strange kingdom, and you think of me. Your hand reaches to me amidst doubts and self-pity, but the blackness prevents you from seeing straight and you retract. I call the next day and you half sob. But my heart has become impervious and I strain it. But my heart has become impervious.
What good are these words that will never reach you? Dear friend, I remember you with a touch of mirth. But the pending has assumed the past. It would not work now.
Love,
Dear friend.KITHS KINS AND THE SHINS
There is an airplane waiting to whisk me away to distant waters. No, the airplane is not a metaphor for my warty frog waiting to receive a double dose of my minty mouth (for I do brush with minty toothpaste that promises to kill my plaque as well. Revolutionary toothpaste! Such a breath of fresh air.) No, the distant waters are not the gingerbread house made of gingerbread in ginger flavour that is cosy and comfortable and homely and fairy taley (and edible!) all at the same time. 'Tisnt.
I am expected to board the flying contraption and cross borders to alien countries with contentious space-folk stories and elaborate millitary plans. Oh but the Cold War is past and we are in the grip of a whole new horror. Obesity! Wait. And....anorexia! Well, I am expected to land in the midst of a dichotomy anyway. Excellent.
And one is gripped with an all-too-familiar feeling of the throat constricting, struggling to force our affected greetings while blinking rapidly. Because the new compatriots will not always understand. And will probably not take too kindly to your love affair with Nutella, tequila and the dream back in wonderla. And when you ask them if they know your kith & kin because the chances of knowing them from a billion strong is not entirely negligible, they will rationalize. And sometimes laugh. And then this love affair will dwindle away as a one-night-can't-stand.
Which is why I love The Shins.
Gold teeth and a curse for this town were all in my mouth.
Only, i don't know how they got out, dear.
Turn me back into the pet that i was when we met.
I was happier then with no mind-set.
And if you'd 'a took to me like
A gull takes to the wind.
Well, i'd 'a jumped from my tree
And i'd a danced like the king of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well.
Wish me luck. Please.
I am expected to board the flying contraption and cross borders to alien countries with contentious space-folk stories and elaborate millitary plans. Oh but the Cold War is past and we are in the grip of a whole new horror. Obesity! Wait. And....anorexia! Well, I am expected to land in the midst of a dichotomy anyway. Excellent.
And one is gripped with an all-too-familiar feeling of the throat constricting, struggling to force our affected greetings while blinking rapidly. Because the new compatriots will not always understand. And will probably not take too kindly to your love affair with Nutella, tequila and the dream back in wonderla. And when you ask them if they know your kith & kin because the chances of knowing them from a billion strong is not entirely negligible, they will rationalize. And sometimes laugh. And then this love affair will dwindle away as a one-night-can't-stand.
Which is why I love The Shins.
Gold teeth and a curse for this town were all in my mouth.
Only, i don't know how they got out, dear.
Turn me back into the pet that i was when we met.
I was happier then with no mind-set.
And if you'd 'a took to me like
A gull takes to the wind.
Well, i'd 'a jumped from my tree
And i'd a danced like the king of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well.
Wish me luck. Please.
NOSTALGIMMICKS
I know I haven't told you, but I have had rather intimate ties with theatre. While co-directing a play two years ago for the theatre group Dramanon (which incidentally has its reach in Manipal, Bangalore and Hyderabad if you are interested) I had written a heartfelt Director's note. I suddenly found it and am reproducing it here to gain your acceptance a tad bit more. I am kidding.
Here in it's original and undiluted form:
Sigh. Good ol' days.
Here in it's original and undiluted form:
It all began that bright, sunny afternoon when Dramanon converged at our revered rendezvous point; the script was decided upon, some dates finalized, designations nominated…and we were rolling again! And thus, ensued a recycled reaction of regular entertainment, daily jokes, frequent bouts of stress and screaming sessions, intermittent paranoia and the eleventh-hour chaos…
The script impressed me from the start. It was simple, warm and celebrated a wonderful intimacy between characters so real and so exaggerated. The humour catered to every genre-slapstick, cinematic, situational and even the pun patronizing types! The moral was not preaching, yet explained so much. And we had the pleasure of working with some very intelligent actors, who could interpret their characters beautifully and slide into their skins with the utmost ease. Even when we made them repeat their dialogues again and AGAIN, they flitted through with a smile on their faces. And when we would get down and dirty with the tiresome psyche of the characters they would listen patiently and improve tremendously. A truly talented bunch…my heartfelt gratitude.
The production team leaves EVERYTHING for the last minute, and in those last hours ticking away mercilessly, works day and night sacrificing sleep, food and mental sanity to leave no stone unturned. They are the real heroes behind the scenes…my heartfelt gratitude with whipped cream.
And finally my co-director. Dramanon had a bipolar-director-disorder going with Dhruv and me arguing over few things, and agreeing over fewer! But this guy is something! Immensely capable and definitely cooperative…my heartfelt gratitude with whipped cream and cherry on top.
And now presenting to you my swan song…
Sigh. Good ol' days.
JODHAA AKBAR
We expected fantastic stuff from a 40 crore budget and Ashutosh Gowariker. Because we all liked Lagaan and Swadesh, albeit their rather patience-testing durations. The former was a fictitious event based in pre-independence India and hence, Mr. Gowariker had his creative imprimatur to tweak a character here, to tune an emotion there, to finally produce Lagaan as it was. And Swadesh again was heartwarming. Modern when it had to be, rural when it had to be and entirely inspirational. And yes, we did overlook the obvious lack of chemistry between Shah Rukh Khan and Gayatri Joshi. And we lived.
But Mr. Gowaiker why-ever did you get so confused with Jodhaa Akbar? Were you thinking 'I want to direct an epic love story, a union of hearts, a union of minds, a union of skills and a union of religion?' or were you thinking 'I want to direct a period movie, resplendent in all its glory, intrigue and historical accuracy.' Because what you finally did deliver was a perfect pastiche of incongruous ideas.
If twas' a love story you were looking to depict, then I can digest that the infamo
usly lascivious Mughals' descendant became a one-woman man for his wife from an evidently political alliance (Of course, his grandson Shah Jehan did reject his ancestors' wanton ways for Mumtaz Mahal. Of course, Mumtaz Mahal also went ahead to die in childbirth, incidentally while giving birth to her 14th child. Our very virile Shah Jahan impregnated her more than once due to the lack of a most effective contraceptive - polygamy). So Mr. Gowariker, you wanted to create the perfect love story that our monogamous minds could accept and cherish. Love that arose from the darkened depths of political interests and religious discontent. That left behind deceit and conspiracy in its virgin wake. Love in the time of mughal-era. Marquez would be proud.
But then why would we have to sit through three and a half hours of historical events, all well-researched I presume? Because it was a love story right?
Oh but you wanted to direct a period film! Aaaaaaah. But then why no mention, however fleeting, of Ruqaiyya Begum or Salima Sultan, Akbar's 2 wives from before his marriae to Jodhaa Bai, and very much a part of his principal queens? Yes we know you included a rather prosaic disclaimer warning us that there are various names for Jodha Bai, but did you have to pander so much to the Indian sensibilities that you just dropped essential facts?
A Mughal epic was attempted at, but the Mughal era can never be created without a consistent portrayal of their stories on the battlefield, and their stories in the bedroom. The Mughal era that saw tolerance under Akbar, but if one version is to be believed, intolerance when it came to Jehnagir entering into wedlock with Anarkali. They saw the golden age under Shah Jehan, yet intense deceitry and conspiracy amongst his progeny. The Mughals just shouldn't be reduced to eye-gazing, coy-smiling lovestruck stars.
Ok, ok but yes we concede that Hrithik Roshan was better than decent. Aishwarya Rai looked pretty, dainty and all those wonderful adjectives. And hell Sonu Sood (do you remember him from Aashiq Banaya Aapne? No? I thought so) was pretty darn good. Give him some good films please, he has some latent talent that boy.
But Mr. Gowaiker why-ever did you get so confused with Jodhaa Akbar? Were you thinking 'I want to direct an epic love story, a union of hearts, a union of minds, a union of skills and a union of religion?' or were you thinking 'I want to direct a period movie, resplendent in all its glory, intrigue and historical accuracy.' Because what you finally did deliver was a perfect pastiche of incongruous ideas.
If twas' a love story you were looking to depict, then I can digest that the infamo
usly lascivious Mughals' descendant became a one-woman man for his wife from an evidently political alliance (Of course, his grandson Shah Jehan did reject his ancestors' wanton ways for Mumtaz Mahal. Of course, Mumtaz Mahal also went ahead to die in childbirth, incidentally while giving birth to her 14th child. Our very virile Shah Jahan impregnated her more than once due to the lack of a most effective contraceptive - polygamy). So Mr. Gowariker, you wanted to create the perfect love story that our monogamous minds could accept and cherish. Love that arose from the darkened depths of political interests and religious discontent. That left behind deceit and conspiracy in its virgin wake. Love in the time of mughal-era. Marquez would be proud.But then why would we have to sit through three and a half hours of historical events, all well-researched I presume? Because it was a love story right?
Oh but you wanted to direct a period film! Aaaaaaah. But then why no mention, however fleeting, of Ruqaiyya Begum or Salima Sultan, Akbar's 2 wives from before his marriae to Jodhaa Bai, and very much a part of his principal queens? Yes we know you included a rather prosaic disclaimer warning us that there are various names for Jodha Bai, but did you have to pander so much to the Indian sensibilities that you just dropped essential facts?
A Mughal epic was attempted at, but the Mughal era can never be created without a consistent portrayal of their stories on the battlefield, and their stories in the bedroom. The Mughal era that saw tolerance under Akbar, but if one version is to be believed, intolerance when it came to Jehnagir entering into wedlock with Anarkali. They saw the golden age under Shah Jehan, yet intense deceitry and conspiracy amongst his progeny. The Mughals just shouldn't be reduced to eye-gazing, coy-smiling lovestruck stars.
Ok, ok but yes we concede that Hrithik Roshan was better than decent. Aishwarya Rai looked pretty, dainty and all those wonderful adjectives. And hell Sonu Sood (do you remember him from Aashiq Banaya Aapne? No? I thought so) was pretty darn good. Give him some good films please, he has some latent talent that boy.
STRANGER THAN FRICTION
Meeting a stranger for the first time can be quite the daunting task. You might hope for stranger person to hold on tightly to a bright conspicuous sunflower, but stranger person might announce a dull, pedestrian sweater for tracking intentions. You might scan the ambient area for one black sweater and wave at quite a few black lovers. Oh, yes there are quite a few of them. Now you know.
Your accent might become more polished and purrry, your intonation deep and purposeful. Yet at the exact moment of ejaculating the purrrr-fect 'Hellooooo...', irritating cab driver might bombard you with calls and castigations because you forgot to inform him that you didn't require his services. Never mind that four other cab drivers called before him. Yes, there are quite a few cab drivers as well. Now you know that too.
You might bare your teeth a lot, with a desire to model your flashing 32. But conversation might dwindle as pearly whitened orifice might scare more than share. Inebriation might evade your tight purse strings, loose cigarettes might evade your very premises, knowledge might evade Ralph Waldo Emerson's transcendentalist works. Conversation threatens to burn an indelible improper impression.
And then you discover that investing in windmills might save you a whole lot of tax, that Bengaluru was crazier than you imagined, and that there are scarier things than two drunk souls driving a car without a license, getting caught by cops in the middle of the night.
Meeting someone for the very first time can be stranger than friction. Because sometimes there just isn't any.
Your accent might become more polished and purrry, your intonation deep and purposeful. Yet at the exact moment of ejaculating the purrrr-fect 'Hellooooo...', irritating cab driver might bombard you with calls and castigations because you forgot to inform him that you didn't require his services. Never mind that four other cab drivers called before him. Yes, there are quite a few cab drivers as well. Now you know that too.
You might bare your teeth a lot, with a desire to model your flashing 32. But conversation might dwindle as pearly whitened orifice might scare more than share. Inebriation might evade your tight purse strings, loose cigarettes might evade your very premises, knowledge might evade Ralph Waldo Emerson's transcendentalist works. Conversation threatens to burn an indelible improper impression.
And then you discover that investing in windmills might save you a whole lot of tax, that Bengaluru was crazier than you imagined, and that there are scarier things than two drunk souls driving a car without a license, getting caught by cops in the middle of the night.
Meeting someone for the very first time can be stranger than friction. Because sometimes there just isn't any.
INCREDIBLE INDIA
After a really, really long time I introduced some colour into my drab, corporate-corrupt life. I was contemplating exit routes in my soporific yet stay-put-till-it-is-time-to-go-home environment and fleeting through random sites when suddenly I hit the Incredible India website. Pause.
The site is attractive to say the least. There is colour of every possible hue and tone, all co-existing in a riot of contrast. And it makes such a difference to note that, our country with all its diversity is represented and packaged in a manner completely befitting.
What is certified genius though, is the concept of Microsites. We have entire portals dedicated to such offerings as Indian Heritage, Crafts of India, Come to Paradise…We are routed to striking interfaces complete with extensive facts, figures, fairs and festivals.
Incredible India is a very guided site. The home page itself offers you a composite view of pretty much all that the site has to offer. The photography is exquisite, the colours are vivid and rich, navigation is simple and a pleasure! I therefore recommend – traverse then travel. Incredible India will leave you yearning for more.
BOLLYWOOD MANIA I
No, but I love Bollywood. And recently I have been gorging on 'em so a post on. Yes.
First I must, must talk about Johnny Gaddar. Two factors drove me to watch a movie on a hot, weekday morning.
1. Neil Nitin Mukesh (Very good, very good guess. One golden star.)
2. A close family friend who looks god-o-god-o-why steaming hot in the item number Dhoka. (Can I have my golden star back please??)
A 'suspense thriller' say most critics. But I beg to differ. The movie was slow really, I was eating my popcorn (buttered yes, which is why I am NOT in Dhoka. Hmph.) faster then the story was advancing. And our praaji Dharmendra ji was tightening every muscle in his jaded body and struggling to deliver. Poor man. Not that he is a mediocre actor ordinarily, but his golden days are past. And his diction? Goodness! Disappointing choice. Really.
But have I given you the impression that I did not enjoy the movie? Oh, but I did I did! It deserved every star part of the 3 and a half rating that TOI awarded it. The casting (barring our bigamous praaji) was great, almost comparable to Chak De's actually. The performances were energetic, never once over the top. Yes, that includes Neil Nitin Mukesh. So what if I am being a tad generous, it's his first movie (and must I mention the weak-knee-me-be pink shirt and grey sweater combination? Yes? Fiiiine.)
More than being a thriller, the movie was all about how somewhere, sometimes things just don't work out the way you envisioned. It could have paced up, included some ambient OST to set your pulse racing, brought out the flashy cars, flashier women, showcased some tightballed fists and slick arms, oozed some blood and lots of tension. It could have tried to be plain, boring racy. But slow and steady sure does win the race, especially when you stick to some good ol' Vijay Anand and James Hadley Chase inspirations. I must mention Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy's awesome soundtrack. A-W-E-some. There :)
Worth a watch for a pleasant surprise. I vote!
I also caught Laaga Chunari Mein Daag recently. I am a sorry sucker for colour and some impressive cinematography (I looooove Sanjay Leela Bhansali movies. Sigh.) So I trotted along to catch the movie. But there was sooooooooooo much potential!! A Banarasi setting could have exploded the big, bad screen into a riot of clashing colours. But why were there jazzy, fake-y sets most of the time? Huh? Why? Too much light, too less capturing of true colour.
But what I loved about the movie?
1. Choosing two of the tallest, cockiest men in Bollywood to play the parts of blood-brothers? Perfect.
(Doesn't hurt that they are yummy-dummy-delicious too. When Kunal Kapoor kisses Konkona Sen, I swear my heart let out an inadvertent banshee wail. Woe please be me. )
2. Jaya Bachchan. Perfecter.
She is positively brilliant! After watching Dharmendra's exhausted act, Jaya Bachchan's indefatigable and near-perfect performance was wow! An established actress she is, part of the Bachchan we-are-perfect-actors-now-that-aishwarya-also-joined-us too. But watching her efforts translate into a natural ease on the screen was refreshing.
Especially when compared with Rani Mukherjee's performance. Whatever has happened to her? Brilliant often, but I cannot fathom how her effortless acting just did not rear it's pretty little head in this movie? Oh well I still have faith in her.
Konkona Sen wsn't bad. Acting wise. Her whole dancing-around-the-trees routine? The less said the better.
On the whole, the movie was a disappointment. It tries hard but just crosses the line over into too-melodramatic-to-digest land. The title OST was the clincher. The song, the picturisation, the trying portrayal of newfound pain - awful. And a pity too, because it really did have so much potential.
Well at least the buttered popcorn never lets me down :)
First I must, must talk about Johnny Gaddar. Two factors drove me to watch a movie on a hot, weekday morning.
1. Neil Nitin Mukesh (Very good, very good guess. One golden star.)
2. A close family friend who looks god-o-god-o-why steaming hot in the item number Dhoka. (Can I have my golden star back please??)
A 'suspense thriller' say most critics. But I beg to differ. The movie was slow really, I was eating my popcorn (buttered yes, which is why I am NOT in Dhoka. Hmph.) faster then the story was advancing. And our praaji Dharmendra ji was tightening every muscle in his jaded body and struggling to deliver. Poor man. Not that he is a mediocre actor ordinarily, but his golden days are past. And his diction? Goodness! Disappointing choice. Really.
But have I given you the impression that I did not enjoy the movie? Oh, but I did I did! It deserved every star part of the 3 and a half rating that TOI awarded it. The casting (barring our bigamous praaji) was great, almost comparable to Chak De's actually. The performances were energetic, never once over the top. Yes, that includes Neil Nitin Mukesh. So what if I am being a tad generous, it's his first movie (and must I mention the weak-knee-me-be pink shirt and grey sweater combination? Yes? Fiiiine.)
More than being a thriller, the movie was all about how somewhere, sometimes things just don't work out the way you envisioned. It could have paced up, included some ambient OST to set your pulse racing, brought out the flashy cars, flashier women, showcased some tightballed fists and slick arms, oozed some blood and lots of tension. It could have tried to be plain, boring racy. But slow and steady sure does win the race, especially when you stick to some good ol' Vijay Anand and James Hadley Chase inspirations. I must mention Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy's awesome soundtrack. A-W-E-some. There :)
Worth a watch for a pleasant surprise. I vote!
I also caught Laaga Chunari Mein Daag recently. I am a sorry sucker for colour and some impressive cinematography (I looooove Sanjay Leela Bhansali movies. Sigh.) So I trotted along to catch the movie. But there was sooooooooooo much potential!! A Banarasi setting could have exploded the big, bad screen into a riot of clashing colours. But why were there jazzy, fake-y sets most of the time? Huh? Why? Too much light, too less capturing of true colour.
But what I loved about the movie?
1. Choosing two of the tallest, cockiest men in Bollywood to play the parts of blood-brothers? Perfect.
(Doesn't hurt that they are yummy-dummy-delicious too. When Kunal Kapoor kisses Konkona Sen, I swear my heart let out an inadvertent banshee wail. Woe please be me. )
2. Jaya Bachchan. Perfecter.
She is positively brilliant! After watching Dharmendra's exhausted act, Jaya Bachchan's indefatigable and near-perfect performance was wow! An established actress she is, part of the Bachchan we-are-perfect-actors-now-that-aishwarya-also-joined-us too. But watching her efforts translate into a natural ease on the screen was refreshing.
Especially when compared with Rani Mukherjee's performance. Whatever has happened to her? Brilliant often, but I cannot fathom how her effortless acting just did not rear it's pretty little head in this movie? Oh well I still have faith in her.
Konkona Sen wsn't bad. Acting wise. Her whole dancing-around-the-trees routine? The less said the better.
On the whole, the movie was a disappointment. It tries hard but just crosses the line over into too-melodramatic-to-digest land. The title OST was the clincher. The song, the picturisation, the trying portrayal of newfound pain - awful. And a pity too, because it really did have so much potential.
Well at least the buttered popcorn never lets me down :)
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