A new age political Aesop's fable of the Tiger of Mumbai and the Lion of Gir.

               There was once a Tiger of Mumbai whose roar was enough to make everyone quake. He was the uncrowned King of Mumbai, so powerful, he had gangsters and entertainers and industrialists bowing before him in servility. He was revered like a God by not only the tigers, but all other animals. Nobody said a word against him, either out of reverence or fear. Mumbai was his territory, but his reign spread all across Maharashtra. The lions who were kings of all other jungles had to play second fiddle to the Tiger when they entered the border of Maharashtra. After all it had taken the deaths of 105 tigers to free Mumbai from the clutches of the lions. The lions were defeated and the coveted Mumbai became a part of Maharashtra, the land of the Tiger. Many lions resided all over Maharashtra but were quick to accept the Tiger as their undisputed King.

               Years went by. The Tiger roared and ruled with a heavy paw whose claws would kill anyone who’d dare to disagree. All along he had a remote control which would determine the fate of all animals. Any other race or clan was considered an enemy and many such ‘enemies ’ were killed by his fellow tigers at a mere nudge of the remote control button. But one thing worried him; his tiger cubs! They were puny. They weren’t showing the same stripes and their roar was a mere whimper. His nephew however had stripes just like his and sometimes when he roared people said he sounded just like his all- powerful uncle. That scared him even more. The Tiger, who always criticized other rulers for crowning their unfit offspring due to nepotism and dynasty-politics didn’t think twice before crowning his incapable tiger cub as the next King-in-waiting of Mumbai. His nephew, slighted by this insult, broke away and marked his own territory in the heart of Mumbai. Many tigers broke away from the Tiger to follow his nephew. But the Tiger was unfazed. He had put blinkers on his eyes. Because however powerful you may be, you are always blinded by love! The Tiger pushed his loved cub in front of the sea of animals, coaxing him to roar like him. The gentle tiger cup tried his best for he really revered his father. He filled his lungs with air and roared out loud. The gaping crowd heard a ‘meow’ and looked at each other in horror and embarrassment. Unfazed the Tiger prompted the cub to roar again. The cub filled up his lungs again and let out a little bit of air. But the Tiger had roared along with him and the sea of animals echoed the roaring with a frenzied roar of their own, reassured by the presence and strength of the Tiger.

                But when he was alone the Tiger was upset, worried. Would his cub ever learn to roar? Would it be soon enough? There was already some talk of a certain Lion of Gir who was in the news for doing the same vicious things that he, the Tiger had done in 1993. And this Lion of Gir had one advantage over the Tiger; he had no cubs. He was the most eligible alpha male in his territory and his territory kept spreading from Gir to many other parts of India. His favourite song was, "Every breath you take, every move you make, I'll be watching you". Because however powerful you may be, there is always something/someone you want but don't get!

              The Tiger's Maharashtra was not untouched by the persona of the Lion of Gir. The lions in Maharashtra were thrilled about this new messiah and were quick to swear allegiance to him.The Tiger, by comparison was old. Even goats and lambs had started protesting against him. He found he couldn’t roar that loud any longer, his coat had lost its sheen, his stripes were fading, his teeth falling and his claws had lost their sharpness already. He looked at his King-in-waiting. He had grown up alright, but he just couldn’t roar! Because however powerful you may be, you cannot govern nature!

                 And then one day the Tiger passed away! A wave of sorrow swept over not only Mumbai, but the whole of Maharashtra. Even many of his enemies were paying him glowing tributes. There were some sheep, lamb and goat who rejoiced quietly at the passing away of someone who had got away with a lot of undemocratic things. But not anymore. Because however powerful you may be, you cannot escape death!

           A year passed and the Tiger’s cub who was King-in-waiting was still King-in-waiting and had still not learned to roar. Even the Tiger’s nephew’s roar had become a mere growl. People had stopped taking the tigers seriously. The Tiger still didn’t have a memorial befitting him in his homeland. Because however powerful you may be, once you’re dead, you cannot have your way!

           The Lion of Gir was now the King-in-waiting of India. Ironically, he organised a ‘Maha-roar’ rally in the Tiger’s own backyard; just a stone’s throw from the Tiger’s residence. There were posters of the Lion as well as many other lions plastered all over what was once the Tiger’s Mumbai. But not a single tiger on those posters. Didn’t they have a tacit agreement about territories? If the late Tiger were alive, would any lion have the gumption to hold a ‘Maha-roar ’rally and not invite the Tiger or his clan? All the posters would have featured the Tiger towering above even the tallest lion! But now with the Tiger gone, with not even a memorial to his name, the tigers had lost their clout. To add insult to injury, the Lion of Gir, who was well known for “Modi-fying” history to suit his purpose, had forgotten to even mention the late Tiger in his speech. He kept slamming Maharashtra and praising Gujarat. Was it a mere oversight or a deliberate attempt to malign the Tiger's memory? Had he forgotten that Mumbai was snatched from the lions by the tigers a long time ago? Or was this an intentional pay back? The Tiger could do nothing now could he?  Because however powerful you may be, when you pass away, your ‘remote control’ goes with you!

          The Lion of Gir with his ‘Maha-roar’ is now racing ahead towards being crowned the King of India. But just a word of caution! He should beware of a certain fantastic Mr. Fox who has just usurped the throne of the capital of India from right under the noses of all other animals. He may be slight in size but he can make all the right noises. He can roar, meow, purr, bark, bite, bleat, neigh, and can even blow his own trumpet better than the Lion of Gir.  Nobody knows who he quite is, but everybody thinks he is their own. The arrogant Lion of Gir should watch out. Because however powerful you may be, nature has a way of teaching humility!

Ek Picture Aadmi ko Insaan banaa detaa hai!

THE SHIP OF THESEUS!

This Gandhi’s ‘experiments with the truth’ affected me deeply. That’s rare! There are some films I can talk of in terms of ‘wonderful cinematography’, ‘outstanding transformation’, ‘a tad long’, ‘could do with at least 25 minutes less’ etc. A case in point is ‘Bhaag Milkha Bhaag’, which I thoroughly enjoyed. (It obliterated the disaster that ‘Delhi 6’ was, in which the fantastic score by A R Rahman was criminally wasted!). So Rakeysh Om Prakash Mehra really made a good film about an Indian legend. The value of the film increases for me because our sporting legends are constantly being seen these days as being easily corrupted by money. Not all sporting legends would gladly give up the rights of a film based on their lives for Re.1/=. But then that’s Milkha Singh (and half the battle’s won by the film maker given the legend he has decided to base his film on….add to that he has Farhan, Pavan, Divya, Binod Pradhan, Shankar Ehsaan and Loy and the rest of his very talented crew and he has a winner). But this piece is not about ‘Bhaag Milkha Bhaag’.

This is about my response to Anand Gandhi’s ‘Ship of Theseus’. So much has been said about its virtues by people who are infinitely more talented, erudite thinkers and film makers the world over that it would be crazy of me to talk of the film’s merits in cinematic terms. The merits are abundant. But what I love about the film is the fact that it has a discourse. In our media very little is offered by way of a peaceful discourse between human beings. I stress peaceful because

1) There’s a paucity of respect for opposing viewpoints…period!

2) The causality of one’s actions is always glossed over by blame game.

3) Everyone talks and no one listens, therefore ANY discourse or ANY solution to even the smallest problem can never be arrived at.

The film starts with Aida who listens to everything around her very carefully. She is a photographer who is visually challenged, but she is not visionless just because she can’t see! You might not see as much once you get your sight back because then you lose control of the other senses that are helping you to compensate for the one you didn’t have. There’s also the relationship with the one with sight, Aida’s boyfriend. He is happy to relinquish control over her art allowing her to make the decisions because he also wants to compensate for her lack of independence. If she were sighted, would her boyfriend have been more honest and forceful about his impressions of her photographs? What stunning photos they are!

I can’t get her assured face, with those opaque eyes, and her eager ears, out of my mind. I can’t get the way she listens out of my mind. A whole new Mumbai opened up to me by the way she listened.

Maitreya and Charvaka form the next story. It is a haunting one. There is such depth in simplicity and starkness. It churns something deep down in your gut. The witty exchanges between the young Charvaka and the middle aged Maitreya make for some of the best exchanges I’ve heard in a long while and their wit is a great foil for the complicated thoughts and beliefs they are discussing. This is also the story that I personally related to the most because as a true believer of the Gandhian principles of non-violence, I keep asking myself hypothetical questions that severely test my moral fibre. When I see the buzzing fly and imagine what it could do to Maitreya’s bed sores I want to swat it that minute, non-violence be damned! If I react to fiction in this manner, am I truly non-violent in reality? Can we be faithful to our values and principles even under extreme circumstances? Does being rigidly non-violent end up being more violent in a way we hadn’t thought of? Does being rigidly independent end up making it more difficult for your significant others, making them suffer at times? Can extreme virtue be cruel? Is Maitreya’s decision of accepting a donated liver, a cop out or a higher understanding of truth?

A sea of lush green grass dancing at the whim of the wind separates Maitreya from Navin.

Navin is a person anybody could relate to. We’ve seen so many like him. He can’t separate himself from his stocks and shares. His world view changes when his activist Ajji makes him question his singular view of life. She is disappointed in his selfish living and feels one should go beyond oneself. Navin, like the aam aadmi wonders what the use of that is. But it sets him questioning himself. That is the first step to change. And Navin has a new mission. Navin discovers a sense of giving back to society. The compassion already exists in him (amply shown by the gentle, selfless way he gives his Ajji the bedpan) He also comes in touch with the harsh reality that sometimes your battle for a higher truth might not be looked upon in the same way by the person you are trying to help. At the end, this is all there is. I feel much better about 45% of my income being taxed now, though they don’t translate into any returns in terms of infrastructure. That’s all there is!

Sensing to Thinking to Feeling….the discourse is done through the body….a body common to all! Aida gets eyes, Maitreya gets a liver and Navin a kidney….all from the same body of that one brain dead man. Was he more helpful in his death than he was in his lifetime?

At the end, the sum of the parts of that one man, watch, as a shadow of the man who helped them live, goes deep inside a cave. Almost like a soul on the quest to eternal salvation, the shadow comes across beautiful sparkling stones in the cave and with the help of a lamp goes deeper and deeper.

Will he find a light inside the cave?

Will there be complete darkness, or riches, or happiness?

Will there be a new civilisation, the kind we can never imagine?

Will there be an end or will there be a beginning?

Thank you Anand Gandhi for this Ship of Theseus! Whether the planks are old or new, whether it is then the same ship or a different one, I loved travelling in it with a bunch of intelligent, witty, talented, compassionate, gentle, and above all, very humane beings. What more do I want from life?

LICENCE TO KILL!

This was an article I had written for my column "Flying Solo" for Mid-Day way back in 1999. And I'm posting it because it's relevant even today. Whatever happened to 'change is inevitable'??? Unfortunately, some things NEVER change in our country :-(

 

                                                      LICENCE TO KILL!

In the days when I didn’t own a car, it was not always easy to find a taxi to work.I would get late very often,something I really hated.

When I could finally afford it, I decided to book a Maruti 800 in 1993. My first car, I was really excited.

Since I didn’t know driving, I started looking for a driver. The search took a while, but I finally found the man who would be my driver. He was aptly called Musafir Singh.

My car was the best little car in the world and I was lucky to have found a driver who looked after my car like his own baby.

It was a pleasure travelling to work in my car. Musafirji was as particular about reaching on time as I was. I would even rest in the car after a tiring day at work. All was wonderful, till Musafirji fell ill.

My car stood wistfully while I looked for taxis. I was disgusted with my dependence on my driver and I made up my mind to end it.

The very next day I joined a reputed driving school.For a person who hadn’t quite mastered cycling, I had to overcome my mind blocks about driving. My instructor who wasn’t exactly trained in Psychology said, ‘Everything will be fine once you get on to the road’.

I was convinced by his confidence and thus began my driving lessons.

But the first BEST bus I encountered left me completely shaken. I practically put my feet up on the seat with fright and my hands were anywhere but on the steering wheel.

My instructor was unperturbed. He had pressed the instructor’s brake and had also taken charge of the steering.He didn’t bother to tell me that this sort of reaction will just not do.

My confidence increased by the day, but my driving skills didn’t.

The day dawned when I had to give my driving test. There were about ten students from our school, including me, giving the test that day. The instructors seemed nervous, but none of the students did.

When my turn came at the wheel, my instructor whispered to me, ‘ There are no safety brakes, please apply whenever necessary’. I didn’t understand the import of what he had said. I nodded confidently and smiled foolishly.

The RTO inspector sitting next to me ordered, ‘Start the car’.

I tried but the car just wouldn’t. After much coaxing it did. Once it did I found it difficult to do anything the inspector wanted me to.Not because I didn’t know how to drive, but because the inspector was ordering me around very rudely. None of the gears were doing the things I wanted them to and my feet kept pressing the accelerator, rather than the brake.

The inspector looked like a nervous wreck by the end of my test drive and asked me to stop immediately. My feet promptly pressed the accelerator and as I realised what I had done I just stopped putting pressure on either the brake, accelerator or the clutch, thinking this was the safest thing to do.

Finally when the car stalled and came to a halt, the inspector ran out of the car without once looking back.. I thought that was very rude of him.I looked at my instructor from the rear view mirror but didn’t find him on the backseat. He was crouching in a foetal position on the floor of the car. I thought he had stomach cramps.

 I offered to drive to a doctor, after all we had the car with us. He jumped out of his skin at the mention of a drive. That was when the first doubt crept into my mind. Maybe all was not well with my driving. I accused him of not teaching me properly. Not affected by this he said, ‘ Why are you worrying? We promised you a licence in one month and you will get it!’.

I wanted desperately for him to be proved wrong.While the others prayed for a licence, I prayed I  wouldn’t get one.The RTO inspector couldn’t be that corrupt. How could they give licences

to people who obviously couldn't drive? I could kill without being drunk.

I got my licence that day!

It’s lucky I have not used my licence to kill. But others do, everyday.

THE IRON(y) MAN!!!

 
" Either you die a hero or live long enough to become a villain"

Once upon a time there was an old man who had dreams of ruling Bharat; that is India! He set out in a chariot (in the 20thcentury if you please) to correct a ‘wrong’ committed in some bygone era. His band of loyal supporters spread their message of hate all along the route his chariot took. Like a King he was adored, his every word was worth its weight in gold. But he was not yet King. He would be crowned soon if things went as planned. As part of his grand design the to-be-King led a sea of men and women to destroy an old relic which offered very little resistance to human hate. That done, he seemed to feel as if they had wiped out the bad chapters of History from Bharat’s past; where marauders had taken over and ruled the land rightfully owned by the majority. The majority was constantly irritated by the sops doled out by the then ruling party to the minorities. They feared the minorities’ supposed loyalty to Bharat’s nasty neighbour and also abhorred their supposed fertility, where the minorities with their various lawful wives would procreate in a manner not known to human beings and eventually become the majority! This fear, this false sense of insecurity and the man who wanted to change this once and for all (he had a chariot too) paved the way for their party’s victory at the polls. And he was called the Iron man (a term only fit for Sardar Patel, but that’s only my opinion, and who cares about my opinion….I don’t have any chariot!)

Finally they were going to get their due and their temple! But on the day of the coronation the man with the chariot was in for a rude shock! He was all dressed up as a King and looked very splendid but to his utter dismay a mild mannered poet who had no part to play in the chariot race suddenly trumped him to the throne, because the party wanted somebody more ‘inclusive’ to rule Bharat. The Iron man suddenly lost his mettle. All his work was for nothing? And there was the court case and the commission! He was busy denying the very things that he had so proudly orchestrated and worked so hard to achieve. The Poet recited poetry, tried his hands at converting Bharat’s wily neighbour into a friend but had to go to war instead. And yet nobody wanted the Iron man, the King-in-waiting, on the throne! The temple was doomed.
But worse was yet to come! A motley group whose oratory was distinctly lacking, came to power in the next poll. The undisputed Queen of that party relinquished the throne that Iron man was still dreaming of sitting on, with an ease that shocked him and Bharat. People suddenly felt that a person who could do that would do wonders for Bharat. She put a very respected economist on the throne. He didn’t wear a crown, his turban was what he was comfortable in. He had to be reminded that he was the King, he had to be prodded to speak! What insanity was this! The Iron man waited, licking his wounds; some inflicted by his own people. His acerbic tongue still attracted a huge following. Among them was a loyal fan from the State of the Mahatma. When the Iron man had gone one step, the Fan Boy had gone two. In his state there was no question of which community was in power! When the Poet censured Fan boy, the Iron man patted Fan boy lovingly and assured him that the tide will turn in their favour. They waited. And it did! At least for Fan Boy! Fan boy ruled the State of the Mahatma with a firm hand and an autocratic manner. He had learnt it from the Iron man. His State prospered and he got the reputation of a man who delivers good governance, his detractors be damned! Meanwhile a consecutive win at the polls for the Queen and her Economist flummoxed the Iron man and his party. His magic seemed to be fading like the dress he had worn at the coronation long ago. The trunk that stored his dreams had a distinctly musty smell. Luckily for Fan Boy, the Queen and her Economist had completely lost the plot! They had forgotten that they were there to serve the people, not themselves, their relatives and friends. They introduced India to a lot of ‘gates’ (till then, Colgate only whitened teeth). The Queen’s party was inefficient, infamous, insufferable and the Economist wore his turban very, very uneasily as the years went by. The people of Bharat had had enough of the inflation,indecisiveness, lack of security, corruption and scams that were raising their ugly head by the second. This was the chance! The Iron Man would be King yet. He started polishing his chariot once again.

But not all stories have a happy ending.
When people started clamouring for an Iron Man, Fan Boy was the one they were referring to. Even before the next polls he was the undisputed crown prince. People who had dared oppose Fan Boy at one time suddenly clamoured for a look from him in their direction, even a disdainful or dismissive one. They were all looking forward to becoming his courtiers and turned into his most vociferous supporters. Today, the Iron Man is sick from the loss of his dreams. He doesn’t join his party at the tourist’s paradise of India. He knows that he has to lock away the clothes he had once planned to wear as King. He has nobody surrounding him with praises except a handful of his party members who don’t really matter to anybody. He cringes when people shout out Fan Boy’s name in adulation. He wants so much for him to at least seek his advice; at least thank him, his mentor, every time he conquers the crowd with his speech.  But Fan Boy is now his own man. He doesn’t need anybody. He believes others need him.

Suddenly Iron Man hears people shouting outside his residence. His heart overflows with joy. He thinks his supporters have come to carry him to the tourist’s paradise because he is unwell. He stumbles out to his balcony, one hand already raised to bless his adoring supporters. That hand comes in handy to stop the stone hurled by angry supporters of Fan Boy. They are protesting his lack of support to Fan Boy! He is shouting out to tell Fan Boy that with every sunrise there is a sunset and that there is many a slip between a crown prince and a coronation! But he is not heard. All that the Fan Boy’s fans want to hear is an apology for insulting Fan Boy! The Iron man sits down on the floor of his balcony to collect his strength. He walks out of his house with a purpose. The chariot in his garden mocks him. He walks to the house of the Poet. The Poet has not had any visitors for years. The Poet asks if everything is alright. The Iron man cries like a little child. He looks at the Poet and says, “You were right". They both sit in the Poet’s balcony watching the Sun set.

Archiving the Archivist! "The Celluloid Man"

Shivendra Singh's tribute to Mr P K Nair.

What a privilege it was for me to see “the Celluloid man” directed by Shivendra Singh Dungarpur. The film has got the award for best biographical film and best editor in the recently concluded National Awards. The film deserves all the awards possible because 1) The work of Mr Nair is very very important. It is because of him that we as film students or film buffs, have had the opportunity to see at least some of what Mr Nair could preserve of pre Independence Indian Cinema and some of the best of European, Russian and Japanese Cinema.2) Because what Mr Nair has done should not stop with him, but continue with the same passion and honesty (a thing which is not happening unfortunately). Because if we have a past and we don’t record History, it is lost forever or even more dangerously, can be distorted in the years to come.

Shivendra has told us the story of the untiring, passionate archival work done by Mr P K Nair, a legend at FTII and founder of the National Film Archives of India. What Hsuan Tsang did in terms of recording Indian History of the early 7^th century AD and introducing Buddhism to China, Mr Nair has done for the history of Indian Cinema. Because History, it definitely is. Today we remember Dadasaheb Phalke as the father of Indian Cinema because Mr Nair travelled to Nasik in the year 1969 and salvaged what he could of the film clips that the sons of Dadasaheb Phalke parted with. He visited the bungalow where Dadasaheb Phalke had shot Raja Harishchandra. And today when he goes to the site where Dadasaheb Phalke used to live he is sad and so are you. The house has not been preserved. There is only a large commemorative stone on the road in the midst of small shops jostling for their daily business, which says that the father of Indian Cinema lived here once. So without Mr Nair we would still be fighting about who made India’s first film. Unfortunately in our country, giving credit to where it belongs almost always means taking it away from another person. In the bargain nobody is allowed to be celebrated at all! Let’s face it, archiving or preserving has never been our forte. We have allowed many an art form, folk form, Indian craft to become extinct because of lack of Govt. patronage or lack of a collective will. Many heritage monuments face disrespect from our country men daily. Our natural resources, flora and fauna have also not been spared. In this respect, Mr Nair’s childhood passion of preserving and recording things meticulously as well his mad love for Cinema, has helped scores of us directly as students of Cinema and many more film buffs who’ve watched the regular screenings that he threw open to the public so that we could be proud of our History. An audience for good Cinema has to be nurtured. He is not a hoarder who wants things for himself, he is a nurturer who wants to share. Therein lies his greatness. If he saw a genuine thirst in you, he would go out of his way to give you access to the many treasures lying behind the locked vaults of NFAI. A point brought about beautifully by the scores of film directors and actors who’ve graduated from FTII like Saeed Mirza, Naseeruddin Shaha, Kumar Shahani, Jahnu Barua, Hariharan, Adoor Gopalakrishnan, Shaji Karun, Ketan Mehta, Girish Kasarvalli, Shyam Benegal, Shabana Azmi, Vidhu Vinod Chopra, Raju Hirani, Santosh Sivan, Balu Mahendra.

His evocative description of how he felt very royal sitting on the floor of the tent house Cinema to watch films as a child in Kerala; royal because the white sands of Kerala were associated with splendour, rituals, festivities and Cinema for young Nair was an expression of all that and much more. It was and still remains a fascination, a passion and an obsession with him. The film shows us so many rare sequences of old black and white films, it’s a film aficionado’s dream! It starts and ends with two of my favourite films, ‘Citizen Kane’and ‘Kaagaz Ke Phool’. Raja Harishchandra, Kaliya Mardan, Devdas, Meghe Dhaka Tara, Kismet, Achhut Kanya, Chandralekha, Kalpana and the Lumiere brothers’ “An Arrival Of A Train In A Station”, a film which fascinated Dhundiraj Govind Phalke and fuelled his passion for making moving images or movies.

Mr Nair can say the dialogues of Citizen Kane even without looking at the film running behind him. He can rattle of which reel the Odessa step sequence in ‘The Battleship Potemkin’ is or which reel the song “Door hato o duniya waalon Hindustaan hamaaraa hai” from the immensely popular black and white film “Kismet” is or many many more; the list just goes on. The thing which strikes you most is the effort to get films from all over India. Everything has become so Hindi film centric these days that many people forget the contribution of regional films like Bengali, Marathi, Malayalam, Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, Assamese, Oriya etc. to the History of Indian Cinema. But for Mr Nair Cinema is Cinema and has its own language and it needs to be preserved at all costs.

As one sees Mr Nair’s dissatisfaction at the way things are being run by callous people who have taken over from him in the years after his retirement in 1991, I remember a time I met Dr Kurien, (the father of the white revolution and founder of the first milk co-operative in Anand, Gujarat, popularly known as Amul) after he had just retired. I saw the dissatisfaction of a man whose entire life was devoted to this endeavour and the people who were meant to carry his legacy forward were busy discrediting him. I see the same sadness and pain in Mr Nair’s eyes. Those reel cans are his babies. He knows them better than he knew his own children for the most part of their growing life! There is a pain in his eyes about so many films that were not preserved by the people who made them; they were not stored or they were sometimes even sold for the silver in the negatives as happened in the case of India’s first talkie “Alam Ara”. That is lost! And what a loss it is! But Shivendra’s film is about a celebration of what is not lost because of Mr Nair. It is a celebration of what has been passed on to the most unlikely film audience. A wonderful account of common villagers, areca nut farmers in the village of Heggodu in Karnataka proves this point amply. A simple people without a Cinema hall were exposed to the best of Indian and World Cinema by the founder of Ninasam in Hegoddu, B V Subanna. He, with the help of Mr Nair showed films as diverse as Wild Strawberries, Pather Panchali, Rashoman to a film illiterate audience. Mr Subanna would translate what is going on in the film into Kannada for the villagers. These simple folk were so drawn into the films shown to them that they can still recall their favourite Bergmen film or discuss the impact of Kurosawa and Ray while getting the areca nuts out of the fruit. Wow! This reminded me of Arun Kaka( Khopkar) telling me after one of his visits to Russia how the Russians are so clued in to their culture that even a taxi driver can recite Pushkin or discuss Eisenstein.

In today’s world where more and more film makers are switching from shooting on film to shooting in a digital format, Mr Nair’s wistfulness about the smell of the negative and the magic of celluloid makes a very strong impact. It leaves you feeling sad for a magical era slowly dying before your eyes. It makes your heart ache for the subjects of honesty, hope and compassion that were told in that bygone era. It makes you wonder why there aren’t any people like those film makers or Mr Nair any longer. In a country where incompetence, crassness and stupidity is what constitutes political power, niceness and honesty are no longer values people hold. Compassion just doesn’t exist. And pride in one’s job is unheard of. Only egos exist over jobs never done and corruption has spread faster than termites at a piece of wood. People in power break laws, get away with murder and build castles on the blood and tears of their less privileged and helpless fellow beings. Trampling on the rights of tax paying citizens is rewarded every day. The end has to be money, whatever the means, is the motto today. Selflessness and sharing are almost looked upon as a sign of madness. And Cinema has become a prisoner of monetary gain or the over touchiness and lack of tolerance of violent people quick to ban, protest and torch.

In all this inhumanity, Shivendra’s celebration of the celluloid man, Mr Nair acquires a significance that is not limited to the fascinating subject he is presenting. It is a cry to bring back all the goodness that our country once had and to preserve it. Yes! Preservation is the key! Thank you Mr Nair. And thank you Shivendra for preserving on celluloid Mr Nair’s great celluloid contribution. It’s a fitting tribute indeed in the centenary year of Indian films. But an even more fitting tribute to the man whose work undoubtedly established Dadasaheb Phalke as the father of Indian cinema would be to honour Mr Nair with the Dadasaheb Phalke award. Anyone in the Government listening?

Daam ek fillum anek! Bombay Talkies.

Bombay Talkies

One thing must be said, we have four of India’s best directors directing 4 shorts as a tribute to 100 years of Indian cinema. One goes in the theatre with a lot of expectations and some are fulfilled, others are not.  At the end comes a pathetic excuse for a song which should be shown the trash can immediately….did nobody hear this song before unleashing it on the poor audience? What a history we have of great Indian film music and we come up with this insipid tribute? It’s a shocking spoiler. But what precedes it is definitely worthwhile. Instead of the usual scenario where you have a lot of sound and fury and many crores of rupees spent on a length of 2 and ½ hours, signifying nothing (sorry Shakespeare) we have 4 delightful shorts succinctly told. I hope Bombay Talkies is a success just for the fact that more producers would back directors who would like to make a collection of short stories.  So here’s what I thought of them

Ajeeb Dastaan Hai Yeh…. Karan Johar.

I’m impressed with the tackling of a story with a gay protagonist. Though Saqib starts off on a great note, he falters a bit in his first scene with Rani, coming across as too glib. If I was his boss I wouldn’t have given him a trial run. But Rani’s character is more indulgent. Their friendship is fresh and I love her unquestioning, non-judgmental acceptance of his being gay. We need more sensitive portrayals of LGBT issues in the mainstream. Saqib gradually grows on you, it has less to do with his acting and more with the relationship he shares with Rani. And then, like all relationships, it becomes complicated. Rani I adore….even in films that are bad, she’s done a good job. Because she’s one of the best actresses we have. Maybe I’m biased.  Randeep shows the way to all actors who don’t know what to do in certain roles. When in doubt, play it down. He’s brave too, to play a character who finds his real self, discovers his alternate sexuality after years in a marriage that is pleasant, but one without passion. The use of Madan Mohan’s poignant “Lag jaa gale” is soul stirring. It makes you nostalgic and gooey eyed. The casting of the young street singer is wonderful. What I don’t like is the obvious studio recording of the young girl’s singing which just doesn’t match the rawness of the little girl’s situation.  Both the rendition of “Ajeeb Dastaan Hai Yeh”and “Lag jaa gale” suffers from the same studio sterility. But the first film has shown me a side of Karan Johar that has raised my expectations of him in his further works. Welcome Karan to the 1 and a ½ crore club :D

Star….Dibakar Bannerjee.

The story begins with amazing visuals. Just seeing the solitary mill chimney through the grills of the protagonist's window, brings on a nostalgia for the Bombay that was. Now the 'i'in the mill has changed to 'a'everywhere and the city is just not the same. The actress playing Nawazuddin’s wife is so real. So are the other women who banter with Nawazuddin. The casting director is really a star in this film. Dibakar got an Emu? Wow! It’s surreal….just like what happens to the protagonist (Nawazuddin) in this story based on a Satyajit Ray short story “Patolbabu filmstar”(I want to read the story)

An actor in search of any job (not necessarily acting), lands a walking part in a film shooting. He is given a dialogue  “Ae” to say as he bumps into the hero. And he has to walk away, that’s it! During the waiting period between being selected for the shot and the shot commencing you get to see his attempts at histrionics. You realise he’s a failed actor. Suddenly out of the garbage bin rises Sadashiv Amrapurkar and raises the film to another level altogether. He appears in the guise of an aged actor(who’s died long ago) playing  Vi Va Shirwadkar’s iconic “Natasamrath” in the Marathi play with the same title. Amrapurkar’s is a master class in acting. The energy, pitching, integrity and sheer talent just hits you in the gut. You want to stand up and applaud him and all the unsung heroes of theatre who have immense talent but gain very little in terms of money or fame. His scene with Nawazuddin is the most paisa vasool one for me in all the stories. And pardon me but Nawazuddin really struggles in this scene and also with the Marathi (Marathi bolnyaachaa attaahaas ka?) The scene in which he has to perform the iconic monologues of Amitabh Bachchan and Dharmendra, just left me cold. (Many people might disagree with me on Nawazuddin’s performance, because it’s not a politically correct thing to do. Even if you are the most powerful critic you NEVER say bad things about the bad performances of Bollywood stars AND star children, but you definitely DON’T talk ill of trained actors who’ve become stars in the event that you come off looking like a fool. But I maintain that even trained actors who have put up consistently good performances can fail if taken out of their comfort zones. And in any case I’m not a critic!) Nawazuddin really works when he doesn’t open his mouth.  And that’s not a compliment. His wife in the film has performed really well. He should have spent more time with her before the shooting perhaps! And of course the Emu leaves you wonderstruck. You are as wide eyed watching Dibakar’s short, as the Emu is watching everybody around it. Dibakar’s film is really magical and the only one out of the 4 that has stretched the brief. What a tribute to our cinema centenary and a tribute also to a man, a master, a genius, one of the greatest film makers in the world Satyajit Ray. And now I’m hungry for more. But it’s interval time. Sigh! When will we do away with intervals?

Sheila Ki Jawaani…. Zoya Akhtar.

The most disappointing of the 4 stories was Zoya’s “Sheila ki Jawaani”. There was so much potential in the story and the superb performances by the two child actors were to die for. But it was like an unfinished dream. Something was missing. I also didn’t like the choice of the horrid “Sheila ki Jawaani” as a song to gyrate to at the end of the film. As a parent I was disturbed. Not because the boy protagonist wanted to dress up like a girl and dance, but because I wouldn’t want even a young girl to gyrate to this adult song.  I felt the subject of gender specificity was not really tackled well. The story boiled down to a pair of really bad parents who had a pair of sensitive, creative children. The brother-sister relationship was so beautifully written and performed; Zoya needs to be lauded for that. Unfortunately she doesn’t seem to extend the same standards of acting to her adult cast of Ranveer Shorey (one expression throughout this film and in fact in most films he’s acted in), the actress playing his wife (totally forgettable and sorry, don’t know her name) and Katrina Kaif. I’m flummoxed by Zoya's choice of Katrina to tell one and all in an interview, that you can achieve your dreams if you believe in them strongly enough….all of us know if she was not associated with one of the biggest stars in Bollywood and he hadn’t taken her under his wings, she would be still walking the ramp after doing Kaizaad Gustaad’s forgettable “Boom”. To give it to her she looks every bit the fairy and I know kids adore her. Like Nawazuddin in Dibakar’s film, Katrina is most effective when she’s not speaking.  Theek hai…..at least one got to see two delightful children who performed with a rare maturity…..

Murabba….Anurag Kashyap

I expect a lot from Anurag who according to me is the ‘God of small films’ (sorry Arundhati Roy). I mean he is connected to 4 (or is it 5?) films showing at Cannes this year? That’s no small feat and should be applauded loudly. Here’s a maker who the French take seriously! (That’s saying a lot!) But as Spidey says, “With power comes responsibility” and I would add, “Expectations”! Is Anurag’s Murabba sweet? I would say, “Yes” for the most part, par rass kaa mazaa nahi aayaa! Rass thhaa hi nahi! There are some painfully contrived parts in this short that really made me wince,especially the breaking of the murabba bottle in the train. But the flaws that Anurag fails to cover up in terms of the flow of the narrative, he amply makes up for in the way he has shot the film and his complete command over the milieu, language and subject. Finally in the film, when Mr Bachchan meets the young fan from Allahabad, my jaw dropped more than the lucky actor playing that fan.  And he has really played the part well. I also loved all the other actors playing their small parts to perfection, especially the actor playing the security guard outside Prateeksha. This film is the sum of all these small parts. Finally,I have seen the crowds outside both Prateeksha and Jalsa a thousand times. And this story reflects the dream that brings so many people from all over India to Mumbai; a dream that very few realise. But in this khatta-meetha murabba there is a teekha ending when the half eaten murabba ends up in an achaar ki botal and one wonders why the father of the protagonist sent him on a painful mission to Mumbai at all? But then, how many people get to meet Mr. Bachchan in person? Magical? Just the thought….definitely!

Don’t stop here guys….bring more and more of it on….show the way for the next wonderful, exciting, path breaking 100 years of Indian cinema. Happy 100! J

Watch at your own risk!

What kind of love is this?

There is an ad for a new TV show which is showing on Life Ok Channel these days. It uses the very attractive ditty from the film ‘Mere brother ki dulhan’ “Kaisaa yeh ishq hai ajabsa risk hai”. A very cute couple is shown undergoing strange work outs. The sweet curly haired modern heroine tries walking on the treadmill balancing a ‘matka’on her head and her well- scrubbed, well- mannered boyfriend supports her endeavor literally as well as figuratively. At the end of trying to balance many pots which keep breaking and trying to wear a saree etc. the girl turns to the camera and says, “Sasural hai traditional, difficult hai situation” and the couple goes on to find a “solution” together. I am already dreading this teeny bopper romance because I can spot the germs of five years of worthless story unfolding in a manner which is similar to so many other regressive soaps running on TV today. If the heroine already knows how to keep the house well and cook for 100s of hungry sasuralwaalaas through the day with a “Ram” like beatific smile, the other ladies in the sasural instead of being happy will try their best to foil all her attempts, making life difficult for her. The other type of heroine who has been pampered all her life (read rich) and has not gone into the kitchen ever, falls in love with someone whose family will only respect a girl who can slave her ass off in the kitchen and feel happy to face their abuses at the end of it. Therefore this brand of heroine needs to be tamed and taught into submission so that all family members can be happy (usually at the end of 3-5 tedious long years). And in all this, nobody seems to do any work (I guess they survive on Mr Montek’s Rs 32/=). They are just floating around trying to cause distress to the heroine (wonder what their pet project was before the heroine arrived). What gets my goat is that these sasuralwaalaas have not reared their children, both male and female, with good manners or education. Yet they have the right to question, complain, abuse, torture the heroine-no questions asked. Who gives them this right? The girl’s parents, however well-educated and well-mannered they are have to bend backwards to please these crass sasuralwaalaas. Why? Because so says patriarchy! Why can’t the son in “Kaisa yeh ishq hai”say to his parents that it is high time you grew up and smelled the coffee of change. He should support and respect his sweetheart for what she is rather than what-she- will-be-once-she-is-tamed-and-becomes-traditional. After all he has fallen in love with a modern educated girl who has been brought up and taught to respect herself. It is time to do away with the ghunghats and the matkas on the head. It is time we show stories that are real. It is time to show respect for the education of girls, for the struggles of so many working women both rural as well as urban, who are trying to balance work and family. It is time to take for granted women’s roles which go beyond the kitchen. It is time our stories changed. Till then crassness will be considered a virtue; a fact brought out by all the violence against women and children in our lives today. No sir! Life like this is not ok and Life will not be OK unless we change what we are showing!Make Life Ok, at least in fiction!