Even as I write this, Burkha Dutt is writhing in orgasmic fervor on the TV screen in front of me. Revelling in the drama of the situation and getting into her zone, with her voice breaking almost at will and her vocabulary scaling new heights in dramatization. This is her thing!
As I watch this newscast from my couch all weekend, I think to myself....'isnt this a dream newscast for a terrorist'? Isnt this how they would have exactly wanted to script it?.....20-30 of the best journalistic minds in the country fighting between themselves to prove who can 'magnify the fear' better and who has the best 'drama' on offer?.....for heaven's sake, they even have a 'highlights' sorta music video every hour or so....just in case you had forgotten any of those images.
I rewind back to the early morning hours of Thursday, when I got out of my hotel room in Mumbai after being huddled in front of the TV all night. Though I was ridiculously far away from all the 'action' of the previous night, I ask the bell boy something I have never asked in my life before "Is it safe to go out now?".
30 minutes later, I reach the domestic terminal and it was a shocking sight. Not because something changed, but because Nothing did. It was exactly the way I left it two days back. Well, actually no. There was a lone cop standing with a semi-automatic.
Ten minutes later, I pass through security and for the 22nd time in the last 2 months, my super-large shaving cream canister, my 500 ml Davidoff and packs of matches - all in the front zipper of my laptop bag, make safe travel through the X-ray tunnel, without tickling the attention of the guard. My mind is shouting out to him "common!! see it! See it atleast today.....this is the morning after a terrorist attack and there is enough room in that canister to blow up the plane I am taking". But No. He gets out the rubber stamp, and mid-way over sharing a joke with his colleague, brings it down on my tag.
(Even as I write this, Arnab Goswami has just repeated the words "These are visuals that are coming to you exclusively on Times Now and no other news channel" for the 104th time in the last 48 hours.)
As I board the plane, I am convinced about one thing. You dont need an international conspiracy to blow this country up. You dont need a meticulous plan. You dont need a terrorist ourfit. You can do it at will. All you need is just a desire to die and a few hours of your time. So, lets not pretend that something has been breached. There was nothing to be breached. No fucking thing.
The Director of HR of Infosys just popped on screen, demanding the right to bear arms. Fair enough (are you listening Mr. Terrorist? Is this panning out like you planned?). And Milind Deora pops on screen talking about Mumbai like as though it is a neighbouring country. Dude, you are the MP from South Mumbai, for cryin out loud!! But the most appropriate sound byte in all these 4 days came from RR Patil. Surprisingly, everybody is calling it a gaffe. Absolutely not! I think it is the most honest, objective and pragmatic assessment of the situation. A masterstroke.
"Aise bade bade sheharon mein aise choti choti baatein hoti hai".
Bravo, my man! He is right. A much much larger thing could have happened. And no, the cop in the police station in my vicinity, weilding a lathi and a modified version of the 1880 ".303 Musket" is not gonna stop it. The fact that the ".303" was a big hit in both the World Wars, notwithstanding.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
White tiger...
you know the feeling....of running in sweltering mid-day heat, at the peak of chennai summer, listening to death metal on your walkman in full volume? (ok...before you think am demented, I would like to confess that I have not tried it post high school)
anyway...back to the run....its pain and ecstasy at the same time, with all that adrenalin pulling you through, long after your body has given up.
Reading the white tiger was pretty close - just replace the adrenalin with anger. It is a story that is so disgusting, filthy, rotten and raw that you can feel the stench emanating from the pages. The stench will no doubt disgust you at the beginning; but by page 200, you will not just get used to it, but in fact look forward to it indulgently.
If you have ever flown into Mumbai on a window seat, you would have no doubt seen the miles of blue taupaulined slums that the plane sails across, before depositing you int the marble floored, air conditioned, interior-decorated confines of the Chatrapathi Shivaji terminal. The strange thing is that the 'tarpaulined' and the 'terminal' are two mutually exclusive worlds - totally insulated from each other. While members of both these worlds meet everyday and even need each other to stay alive, they know so very little about the other's world that it could have as well been in a different planet.
Anyway, the book has nothing to do with Mumbai and so I havent spoilt anything for you ;) But it is about these two worlds and if you have ever stopped in your tracks once, angered by this rude, dualistic joke that is our nation, then you Will love the book.
Friday, November 21, 2008
K cant get enough MC Solaar...
Strangely enough, of all the videos ever made on this song, this one works best ;)
Sunday, November 16, 2008
A thousand elephants
So....
A title picked from Andal's 'Nachiyar Thirumozhi'. Is it gonna be erotic spirituality (as Thirumozhi's genre is) or does the literal translation of 'a thousand elephants' mean this is gonna be an action flick?
Harris's best work till date was an enigma by itself. An overwhelming 'rock' feel in couple of the numbers; A flat Sudha ragunathan crooning a disturbingly emotional melody; and a slow folk number that I was hoping will not make the final cut.
Gautham has a history of rip-offs. He has already made two films inspired by 'Seven' and one inspired by 'Derailed'. Lately, he has been talking to the media about how 'Forrest gump' inspired this one. So is this gonna be a straight rip off?
There was also the 'father & son' talk. Does Gautham Menon now becoming Gautham Vasudev Menon mean that this was going to be a 'Thavamai Thavamirunthu' redux?
And then there is also that critical factor of Sameera Reddy's shoulders and lips.
So, I had more reasons than one to look forward to Vaaranam Ayiram.
The only place I managed to get tickets was the drive in. And it was a cloudy evening.
But the weather held up mostly and the film did as well. The best part was, it surprised the hell out of me.
An honest, straight from the heart film. Now that by itself is surprising in Tamil these days. Add to it:
- an earth shattering performance by Simran.
- an intriguing background score
- a gimmick-less, narrative based editing
- minimalistic, but very effective make-up (u gotta have seen Dasavatharam atleast once to fully appreciate this)
- dialogues that actually strike a chord
- Imagination in most of the frames
you gotta winner.
Now, the other thing about this film is that Surya is in every single frame (no, am not kidding. Every frickin frame). In fact, most times, there are two Suryas in a frame. So, it takes some performance to pull this off, without pissing off the audience even once. He does it pretty well.
Its obvious that a lot of imagination and heart has gone into sketching the father character. It shows! Also, Gautham has always been amazing with relationships. There is a dignity and an intimacy that be brings to them, which makes you love the 'couple', more than you do the individual. You get into a bit of Deja vu many times.
And oh...the shoulders and lips dont disappoint you one bit. And that folk number is actually interesting.
Of course there is the length of the film, some scenes that tire you, the overtly episodic nature of the film, some monochromatic characters, Gautham's penchant with extending his films for 10 minutes after it is technically over, blah blah, which the critics will throw at you. Its all true.
But then at the end of the day, there is the heart thats been put into this. And thats in fantastic health ;)
A title picked from Andal's 'Nachiyar Thirumozhi'. Is it gonna be erotic spirituality (as Thirumozhi's genre is) or does the literal translation of 'a thousand elephants' mean this is gonna be an action flick?
Harris's best work till date was an enigma by itself. An overwhelming 'rock' feel in couple of the numbers; A flat Sudha ragunathan crooning a disturbingly emotional melody; and a slow folk number that I was hoping will not make the final cut.
Gautham has a history of rip-offs. He has already made two films inspired by 'Seven' and one inspired by 'Derailed'. Lately, he has been talking to the media about how 'Forrest gump' inspired this one. So is this gonna be a straight rip off?
There was also the 'father & son' talk. Does Gautham Menon now becoming Gautham Vasudev Menon mean that this was going to be a 'Thavamai Thavamirunthu' redux?
And then there is also that critical factor of Sameera Reddy's shoulders and lips.
So, I had more reasons than one to look forward to Vaaranam Ayiram.
The only place I managed to get tickets was the drive in. And it was a cloudy evening.
But the weather held up mostly and the film did as well. The best part was, it surprised the hell out of me.
An honest, straight from the heart film. Now that by itself is surprising in Tamil these days. Add to it:
- an earth shattering performance by Simran.
- an intriguing background score
- a gimmick-less, narrative based editing
- minimalistic, but very effective make-up (u gotta have seen Dasavatharam atleast once to fully appreciate this)
- dialogues that actually strike a chord
- Imagination in most of the frames
you gotta winner.
Now, the other thing about this film is that Surya is in every single frame (no, am not kidding. Every frickin frame). In fact, most times, there are two Suryas in a frame. So, it takes some performance to pull this off, without pissing off the audience even once. He does it pretty well.
Its obvious that a lot of imagination and heart has gone into sketching the father character. It shows! Also, Gautham has always been amazing with relationships. There is a dignity and an intimacy that be brings to them, which makes you love the 'couple', more than you do the individual. You get into a bit of Deja vu many times.
And oh...the shoulders and lips dont disappoint you one bit. And that folk number is actually interesting.
Of course there is the length of the film, some scenes that tire you, the overtly episodic nature of the film, some monochromatic characters, Gautham's penchant with extending his films for 10 minutes after it is technically over, blah blah, which the critics will throw at you. Its all true.
But then at the end of the day, there is the heart thats been put into this. And thats in fantastic health ;)
Saturday, November 15, 2008
After...
Tenth day after the death of a Grand uncle.
I drive dad to a house that I have never been to, before. You don't have to ask for directions when you are going to offer condolence. The house usually sticks out.
Women clad in wet, nine yard sarees cross your path without a second look at the visitor entering their house.
A 'sasthrigal' talks into his iphone, leaning on his Santro parked outside. Another client.
Dad leaves me behind in the living room and walks inside. As is always the case, I find myself surrounded by relatives who know everything about me and whose names I fear I cant remember.
The wife of the deceased - my mom's cousin, holds my hand and breaks down. Nobody in the room reacts. Evidently, they have seen her go through this many times in the last ten days. Age and an overwhelming depression weighing on her, she makes a sign with her hand. I dint need anybody to translate that - "It feels like yesterday, when you were a baby this small". A lump gathers in my throat and it has nothing to do with the death.
Breakfast is being served. The visitors have to be fed properly. I nibble and then get up, refusing an additional serving for the fifth time.
Somebody has brought a package from a Kodak store nearby. The image cut from a group photo and enlarged by the wonders of technology. The sons and daughters gather nearby to admire it in a fatalistic sorta way. The image that will adorn the walls in that house for decades to come and then get discarded by a generation that will no longer give a damn. I make a mental note to click 'that' picture when am 45 and keep aside.
We run into the daughter. She knows I have relocated back from San Francisco. I dont know anything about her. I wish my sister was around. She always knows. Somebody else joins the conversation. Both take time away from the grief to congratulate me on my career decision and take my opinion on the sub-prime crisis.
The grand children are playing cricket in the backyard, oblivious to grief. For now.
When we are done, my dad walks out abruptly. It dawns on me after a few seconds. You dont say goodbye.
The drive back is silent for the first minute. Dad stares blankly at the road for a while. Then he switches on 'Radio Mirchi'.
The show resumes for the rest of us.
I drive dad to a house that I have never been to, before. You don't have to ask for directions when you are going to offer condolence. The house usually sticks out.
Women clad in wet, nine yard sarees cross your path without a second look at the visitor entering their house.
A 'sasthrigal' talks into his iphone, leaning on his Santro parked outside. Another client.
Dad leaves me behind in the living room and walks inside. As is always the case, I find myself surrounded by relatives who know everything about me and whose names I fear I cant remember.
The wife of the deceased - my mom's cousin, holds my hand and breaks down. Nobody in the room reacts. Evidently, they have seen her go through this many times in the last ten days. Age and an overwhelming depression weighing on her, she makes a sign with her hand. I dint need anybody to translate that - "It feels like yesterday, when you were a baby this small". A lump gathers in my throat and it has nothing to do with the death.
Breakfast is being served. The visitors have to be fed properly. I nibble and then get up, refusing an additional serving for the fifth time.
Somebody has brought a package from a Kodak store nearby. The image cut from a group photo and enlarged by the wonders of technology. The sons and daughters gather nearby to admire it in a fatalistic sorta way. The image that will adorn the walls in that house for decades to come and then get discarded by a generation that will no longer give a damn. I make a mental note to click 'that' picture when am 45 and keep aside.
We run into the daughter. She knows I have relocated back from San Francisco. I dont know anything about her. I wish my sister was around. She always knows. Somebody else joins the conversation. Both take time away from the grief to congratulate me on my career decision and take my opinion on the sub-prime crisis.
The grand children are playing cricket in the backyard, oblivious to grief. For now.
When we are done, my dad walks out abruptly. It dawns on me after a few seconds. You dont say goodbye.
The drive back is silent for the first minute. Dad stares blankly at the road for a while. Then he switches on 'Radio Mirchi'.
The show resumes for the rest of us.
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