My Second Coming !!

It was today, thirty eight years ago ! The sound of a gunshot is more like a loud cracker than a resounding boom one hears in the movies. And barring Rajinikant no one can escape a 158 gram bullet fired from a .38 caliber revolver and heading towards you at 755 feet per second. In any case I was sitting on a bike and there wasn’t a chance in hell that I could adjust my position by even an inch. The slug entered my left flank, tore through my intestines and made a neat exit from the right. The bike fell and I slumped on the concrete pavement. A few more gunshots flew in the air and a lot of expletive laden shouts followed. Surprisingly there was no pain at first. The bullet felt like a sting and since it had not hit any bone there wasn’t a great impact either. I touched my side and saw my new blue shirt darkening with blood stains. I tried to get up but fell down instantly. The violence around me was over in five minutes. Two of my friends came and took me to the hospital, me again sitting on the bike sandwiched between them.

The trauma ward of a hospital is a little like a busy railway station and the one at PGI was among the biggest and busiest of them all. It caters to five neighboring states and unlike the referral institution it was envisaged to be it has willy nilly acquired the character of a big civil hospital with ever burgeoning OPDs and overcrowded wards. The trauma centre is a round the clock mad house teeming with hundreds of failed hearts, broken limbs and dysfunctional organs. Each agonized entrant deems his problem as the severest in the world and wants the doctors on duty attending to him before anyone else. It’s left to the harried residents, lowest in the hierarchy of the doctors, to quickly assess the severity of the problem and prioritize the order in which medical care needs to be given. If need be, a reference is made to the senior resident who decides the course of immediate treatment and further management. For the most serious ones a call is made to the Consultants. They waltz into the mad house, give a few withering glances to the cowering Residents, decide what to do with the patient who would be mercifully unaware of what is going to happen to his insides within a short while. But all that was for ordinary mortals, not me.

A little background is in order here. Politics has always been and forever will be an integral part of educational institutions until it is banned by law which in a democratic country is unlikely to happen. Hence in our University there were different political outfits which were different not because of their ideologies but because of groups headed by strong headed individuals who would never bow to anyone else. All of us were convinced by our respective affiliations and regarded the others as pretenders and self seekers. Loyalties were fierce and anyone who left the fold was condemned for life as a traitor who would burn in the purgatory for eternity. I was drawn to the university politics from day I took admission in the Law department and found my way to a group which was, at the time, the principal opposition to the ruling group. The measure of political success in the University was the result of the elections to the Students' Council which was the recognized body representing the students in the affairs of the University. The ruling group had been in power for many years and it was in 1980 that they faced some serious opposition. Over the next two years our group made steady progress and then in 1982, thanks to some unavoidable circumstances, it fell upon me to contest the election of General Secretary of the Council. We swept the elections. The victory however came at a cost. Rivalries became more intense, often resulting into avoidable violence which eventually claimed a few lives. There were others, including me, who would be scarred for life. Hence it was a known student leader (so much for modesty) and not an ordinary gunshot victim who was wheeled into the hospital.

On reaching there I was immediately put on a steel stretcher and wheeled in. Gunshot injury received an immediate response from the medical staff. My shirt was taken off and pressure bandages put on both sides of my abdomen to stem the flow of blood which to my surprise was very little. A sweet little nurse came and jammed a few needles in me. I was still on the stretcher and the pain was now beginning to test my resolve. Much to my surprise the pain was emanating from my back rather than my punctured abdomen. I was still waiting for the doctors to come and start doing something when the first of my well wishers started filtering in. Now mind you, the emergency ward is an area where the entry is severely restricted but my intrepid friends and well wishers scoured every nook and corner of the hospital and gained access to the forbidden area. It soon became a security issue for the hospital authorities until they were requested to leave by my close friends.

Another cute nurse came and started to shove a tube up my nose. I muttered...Sister, careful..my nose is very sensitive. Sweetly she chimed..don't worry, everyone's nose is like this only. I had little choice except to surrender. Soon I was wheeled to the operation theatre and I woke up a few hours later in the recovery room. I must have looked like an alien lying on a bed. From behind the oxygen mask I could see a glucose cum medicine drip in my arm apart from the draining tubes, three on each side of my abdomen and a large bandage on my then deflated tummy and of course that horrible Ryle's Tube jutting out of my nose. The recovery room is perhaps least conducive to the well being, mental at least, of any patient. There were groans and cries of pain all around me. Now I was in a lot of pain too, again in my back. I kept wondering what was wrong with it. Mercifully after a while someone came, gave me an intravenous pain killer and I drifted off to sleep. The next few days I kept hovering between different degrees of consciousness. I have faint recollections of hordes of students trying to sneak in a look and being scolded by the security staff. My younger sister and a few close friends kept a round the clock vigil by my side.

About ten days later when it was deemed that I was stable enough I was shifted to a private ward. It was there I learnt the extent of the damage to my insides. Miraculously none of the vital organs were affected but my intestines had suffered considerable damage which was taken care of by the surgeons. The doctors insisted that I walk around a bit to avoid accumulation of gas inside but the moment I took a few steps I would be racked by a severe pain and would collapse in the arms of my attendants. The next two weeks were sheer torture. I kept complaining of pain and the surgeons kept ignoring me thinking that being a VIP patient (in their opinion) I was just being difficult. I would go into spasms of pain and apart from the routine pain killers there was no other relief. Redemption came in the form of a friend who was doing his masters in orthopedics but had been on leave all this while. He examined me and found that something was wrong with my vertebrae. A call was sent to the ortho guys and I was finally relieved of the pain thanks to some skillful manipulation of the spine by an expert.

I spent three months in the hospital with a small interval between the two stays and another operation to kind of wind up what had been done in the first one (I'll spare you the gory details). What has stayed with me all the succeeding years is not the pain and the discomfort that I suffered but redeeming qualities of individuals who stood with me in the time of my crisis. My younger sis was there 24 hours a day, seven days a week throughout my incarceration. As were some close friends, all of whom took turns to ensure that I was never without a loved one by my side. So many of others came so frequently that I was constantly scolded by the doctors and nurses on the risk of infection but who was listening ! And then there were the "High Spirits", a group of four young ladies who were so christened so because the in house mafia that I was constantly surrounded with concluded that my otherwise low spirits took a northward leap every time they came into my room, high heels making the appropriate sounds of their arrival They were always a delight to be with. And of course another dear friend who came everyday and brought a different greeting card with her. I still have all of them.

 
Just before I was wheeled into the operation theatre I had asked my sister to send a telegram to Chammak Challo who was still in medical college. She wrote a letter instead which CC received two weeks later. The contents were enough to make CC board a train immediately and reach Chandigarh. She did not know in which ward/room I was in but still managed to find out, walk past the security and barge into the room where I was writhing in pain. It was for the first time my father came to know that I too had someone in my life and the moment he came to know that she was a doctor to be, he made up his mind that this was the daughter in law he wanted. And we had still not made any kind of commitment to each other yet.

 
There is this friend of mine from the University days (aren't they all from that era?) who has been wishing me a "Happy Birthday" every year on the 3rd September. It's a reminder of the benevolence of God who steered me away just a few inches from death and granted me a second shot at life. It also reminds me to count my blessings which came in form of friends and family who cared and continue to do so till date.
x

Guddo's Wait

It was time, wasn't it? She craned her neck towards the ancient clock hanging precariously from the crumbling wall behind her. Damn this train, she thought. Is it ever going to arrive on time? Her hand moved towards the cloth bundle in which she was carrying freshly cut cucumbers lovingly peppered with black salt. She knew Daar ji loved to nibble on them as much as he would do to her ears which now turned red at the thought. She quickly checked if in her reverie the thermos of lassi hadn't tipped over. Phew, it's fine but why the hell is the train so late?

The sun was blazing down on her and yet she refused to move towards the shade of the tree. She had to be the first one to greet Daar ji as he alighted from the steps of the compartment. Gulab Singh was a tall strapping young man with a long and flowing beard. His eyes always glittered with mischief every time he would gaze at her and twirl his moustache and she would invariably go weak in the knees as  he would walk purposefully towards her. I know, she thought, tonight is the night when Daar ji will once again sweep her from her feet and hold her close to his chest. And this time I am not letting him go away ever again.

Although one never realizes it but an ageing body responds differently to the elements. There were times when she would jump and walk under the blistering sun and yet be back home fresh as a morning jasmine. Now the warm wind and the prolonged wait made her sleepy and hard as she fought it her head slowly slumped forward and immediately carried her into that beautiful evening when  they had been crooning in each other's ears. His gentle words serenading her beauty almost never failed to amaze her. He was after all "Matric Pass" and could always dip from a vast reservoir of Urdu and Punjabi poetry. He could instinctively demonstrate his affection by words, gestures and touch. She would gasp as he held her hand and tremble when his fingers walked up to her slender shoulders. The world around her would cease to exist and all she saw was this rapidly moving flow of a stream of myriad colours which would so often explode with bursting stars. She was in love and hopelessly so. Daar Ji and Guddo ! Did a world exist outside their embrace? What was this distant rumble, she thought?

A quiet laid back village was unaccustomed to loud sounds. The rumble turned to a roar and rudely interrupted their moment. Gulab quickly went out to see what has happening and almost immediately rushed back into the room. Wide eyed, his face was flushed. What's happening, she asked? He reached for the sword under the bed and rasped at her "Lock the door and do not come out. Mirza and his family are in danger and I can't leave them at the mercy of the rioters". Mirza was a childhood friend of Gulab and the two shared a bond that sometimes even biological siblings are not blessed with. Despite Gulab's warning Guddo ran after him towards Mirza's house. He shouted "Go back" but she didn't listen. Resigned to her stubbornness he quickly asked her to fetch  Mirza's wife and daughter while he himself ran towards the rice field next to the house where Mirza normally used to be. Almost immediately he slipped in the cow dung spread next to the field. The squish squash sound of dung and water brought Mirza out of the field. He too had heard the sound of violence heading towards them.  

Run Mirza, roared a breathless Gulab.

"My child?..Sukham....she is in the hut with Nahid.

Shut up, shouted Gulab, they are with Guddo. Run as fast as you can..we have to reach the Railway Station before the rioters catch up. But, Daar Ji, what have I or my family done? Why should  I run? Gulab was stopped short in his run. For all of a second he paused to reflect on what was happening and what he should tell his friend.  He didn't have the time to explain the politics which was tearing their nation apart. Their mundane lives were about to be overtaken by the storm that had brewed from the coffee tables of self seekers. Ordinary lives are and have always been subservient to grand designs of rulers and wannabe greats.

Come my friend, whispered Gulab...the train to Layallpur is about to pass through the station. You must try and board it.. none of you are safe here. There will be an army guard on the train and you will be protected. Mirza understood and quickened his pace. Parallel across the field they saw Guddo and Mirza's family running towards the railway station too. Run run...faster.

Jo bole, so nihaal, rang out the battle cry from the frenzied mob which was now less than a hundred metres away. They had seen and sensed their quarry and like a crazed hunter were bent upon to satiate their blood lust. The soul brothers  and their families reached the edge of the railway station just as the train slowly chugged towards the platform. Looking for the armed British guards Gulab shouted, sahib sahib bacha lo ! There was no response. Gulab jumped on to a compartment and recoiled in horror. All he could see was lifeless, butchered bodies. He jumped out and shouted..next compartment...quick. The train was now picking up pace and the mob was closing in from behind. Run, run Mirza..next compartment..jump in it and pull up the girls. Mirza lunged at the door of the next compartment and reached out to his daughter. Sukham held her father's hand and was yanked into the train. As he reached out for Nahid two gunshots rang out. One hit Mirza on the shoulder. He immediately lost his grip and Nahid fell on the gravel. Gulab picked her up quickly and ran with her. The train was gaining speed and the mob was less than fifty yards behind them.  Nahid had tired and was falling back. Gulab's lungs were almost bursting but with strength which comes in extraordinary situations he lifted Nahid and ran faster towards the door of the compartment where Mirza was waiting with his good arm stretched out.

Guddo, exhausted as she was, tried to match the stamina of her Daar ji but fell behind. She was confident that Daar ji would be able to push Nahid to the safety of the train and now he was almost there. And then she was hit on the back of her head with an iron rod flung at her. Her eyes clouded as she clutched at her head. The last thing she saw was Daar Ji grabbing the door handle with one hand while lifting Nahid with the other. More gun shots, the roar of the train, a few kicks to her body and Guddo lost consciousness.

                                                ____________________________________

The Station Master bellowed "Bibi..o Bibi..get up ! You slept off again ? Go home now".  Guddo whispered "Daar ji?"  He hasn't come..probably the next train. I'll tell you when he does. The old lady let out a sigh and with leaden steps walked back home.  Who is she, an onlooker asked? Pagal hai, the Station master replied. She has been coming here every week for the past fifty odd years thinking her husband will come back.

Twenty kilometres across the border an old man with arthritic legs trudged towards the local cemetery with his wife and  daughter and lit a lamp on an unmarked grave.  Mirza sat down and said a silent prayer for Gulab, his soul brother. The rioters had made the last shots count.

Chammak Challo was muttering angrily under her breath which always sets alarm bells ringing. “Yo girl, what’s eatin ya” me asked. “All work and no pikcha makes me an angry babe” she repartees gangham style. It suddenly occurred to me that we had been ignoring one of our prime duties of patronizing Bollywood fables, may they be good, bad or downright stupid. Mattroo Bijli sounded delightfully off beat and so the babe and babe’s friend Ranu and babe’s friend’s friend..me.. muttered..oops motored off to nearest PVR hangout. The first thing that put me off was that from being a nice bright round Mattrroo, Ranu is on a serious diet and slowly turning into a pea. I kept tempting her with the various goodies on the display counter but she wouldn’t budge from her resolve. Very strict disciplinarian she is and her big eye look can stop the Shatabdi Express anytime. What is going to happen with the likes of me who never succumb to anything except temptation? Never the mind, I said to myself, and armed with a pop corn and a hot dog and a cola we went inside the hall for the shenanigans of the real Mattroo.

Much before the ilk of Ektaa Kapoor and company captured the idiot box with their moronic serials with their triple repeat style of dialogues of dumb bahus and scheming mater-in-laws, the much maligned Doordarshan sparkled with some iconic serials the content quality of which still remains unsurpassed. And the show that stole my heart was the comedy classic “Philips Top 10” hosted by the talented twosome Satish Kaushik & Pankaj Kapur. The bunny dunny exchange of barbs and humour had most of us potatoes falling out of our couches. Ever since I have been a regular fan of Pankaj Kapur and he has never failed to disappoint. But quirky as most passionate artists are he apparently took a long sabbatical and is now back with a super bang.

After the dark dramas based on Shakespeare’s stories Vishal Bhardwaj has dished out a comedy which is perhaps best suited to Punju tastes and the three of us laughed our guts out. The story is supposed to be set in the Haryana country side which is hardly distinctive apart from occasional usage of the Haryanvi slang. Pankaj Kapur plays Mandola, a millionaire alcoholic who shuttles from being a ruthless land grabber with concrete jungles in his eyes to a whacky nut case (sigh, so close to my heart) depending upon the number of liters of Gulabo (country liquor for the uninitiated) he has imbibed. Imran Khan, the Matroo, is his JNU educated man Friday and partner in crime who also moonlights as a desi revolutionary. The crazy trio is completed by Anoushka “Bijli” Sharma who takes her own sweet time in deciding where her heart lies and there are no prizes for guessing the right answer. After a long time one also has the pleasure of seeing Shabhana Azmi as a symbol of the corrupt builder politico nexus. She charms in her evil avatar.

The story dwells upon the attempt to usurp the mortgaged land of the poor villagers which is sought to be executed while Mr. Mandola is sober who promptly gently slips into his alter ego of a naughty buffoon do-gooder after a bout with bacchanalian debauchery. Not a very encouraging advertisement for the Alcoholic Anonymous but he manages to buckle you to your seats. His miserable attempts at sobriety only make him delusional to the point of paranoia prompting him to hit the bottle again. The rural back drop and the liberal usage of the colorful language which seems so in tandem with the dialogue only accentuates the basic gentility of the characters. (My dear friend Priyam, of course. would strongly disagree with that). The inter play of the corrupt politician, the inept bureaucracy, the classic one liners of the villagers and the roles of the principal players keep the narrative from slipping into boredom. The movie however totally rests on Pankaj Kapur’s ageing shoulders and the man has borne the burden with chutzpah. He is every bit the consummate charmer that I found him to be twenty five years back.  I wouldn’t rate the film as Vishal Bhardwaj’s best but it’s a terrific attempt and without Pankaj Kapoor’s powerhouse performance it would have fallen flat. However a great one time watch J

It takes a brave man to attempt to make features on issues which are sore points with a nation and where much could be argued for and against. It’s a given that where the issue per se is concerned the movie maker will rarely be able to make everyone happy, so the next best thing is to portray it in the most dramatic way possible. It’s easier to make movies on terror where Pakistan is the adversary since every one can readily identify the enemy. But what happens when the enemy is within? The boundaries between the perceived right and wrong get increasingly blurred as emotions will get invariably involved. Excesses occur on both sides and more often than not the sight of the original issue gets lost. The aggressor and the defender exist on both sides and each carries the sword of conviction which more often than not obliterates the defenseless and the ordinary individual. Violent cataclysmic changes in the existing order have had a long presence in the history of mankind but do not find favor in the post industrialized modern world. Hence no matter what the initial justification, all agents of change wrought through violence will have to face the wrath of the state. After a decade of bloodletting in Punjab, the nation faces its most serious challenge from the Maoists.

Although it fails as a telling commentary on a boiling issue but as a simple celluloid narrative of a series of events in the zone of conflict, the movie is racy and riveting and acquits itself pretty well. The story is loosely based upon a series of true events, as is claimed in the beginning but there is an obvious bias against the state where all politicians and businessmen are supposedly crooks and scoundrels. With the exception of the conscientious SSP, the policemen too are either spineless or a little better than criminals which I thought was a wee bit caricaturized. Even the DGP of the state police is portrayed more like a junior flunky. These guys are in a dire need of a lesson in conduct from the current chief of Punjab Police. However the SSP, creditably played by Arjun Rampal, redeems the image of the police by a professional approach to his job despite the fact that he frequently tries to shoot the entire MCC cadre all by himself and more than once tries to engage the enemy by charging in a huge group reminiscent of the Charge of The Light Brigade and rendering themselves as sitting ducks. The intelligence on the movement of the enemy is confirmed by a profoundly searching question “Khabar pakki hai?”. No wonder our boys in khaki keep getting knocked off at sickeningly frequent intervals.

Since the movie is based on the Maoist movement it is but natural that they be shown in a kinder and romanticized light. So you have a western educated ideologue in a kurta pajama, sentimental revolutionaries and wronged women all of whom exchange the red salute at the drop of the hat. Thrown in for a good measure is a profiteer among their ranks who meets with a predictable end. The focal point of the plot is the Trojan thrown in by the SSP who decides to switch loyalties after his lover to be is arrested. It’s a powerful combo and it works for the movie.

Despite the forgettable music I had no problem with the entertainment factor of the movie. You will enjoy all the action which is ridiculous at times but then Hindi movies are known for that. But by adding a song on the exploitation by big business houses and mouthing a soliloquy at the end of the movie why try and pontificate when you really have no position on the issue? Leave it open ended and let the viewer figure it out.

English Vinglish: A Reality Check

I had a friend in the University, an ex Air Force chap, who was some thirty plus and still not married. Whenever we would ask him about his marriage plans he would evade the issue but one day in a weaker moment he confessed that his choice of the ideal girl wasn’t meeting with the approval of his parents. And what was his vision of Miss Right? She had to be fair and beautiful of course, the logic for which was that if you didn’t know a person (as in an arranged marriage) you could at least exercise the choice regarding the looks. She had to be from a village, so that she is untouched by the bad influences of the cities which wasn’t so difficult then since village belles were more or less a cloistered lot (in a manner of speaking) and satellite television hadn’t invaded their lives and taught them how Saas and Bahus ought to be. And, amazingly, she should be illiterate. One may or may not agree with the first two conditions but illiterate? I had to ask why? The gentleman’s plan was to marry a piece of clay that he could mould to suit his concept of a wife. Irrespective of the pros and cons it sounded radical and hence interesting.


It left me wondering about the man woman equation which only got more complicated as one got into relationships, fell in love, got older, mature, married and not necessarily in that order. Most of us have had two decades or more of married life or relationships behind us and I am sure some us would have, at some stage, taken a stock check of what it means to us. What makes it work? What creates the magic? How does that chemistry come into being? Some are lucky to find compatibility while others struggle all their lives to find a meaning in it. Pretensions of married bliss are oh so common and yet the truth unveils itself in unguarded moments. The most frequent pearl of wisdom (a lament more likely) that is bandied about is that it’s all about adjustment. And who does that most of the time? An honest introspection would be interesting but the real question is why it should be more or less for either sex. And more importantly do we honestly assess and appreciate this so called adjustment of the spouse. Like my friend had sought to do somehow it always boils down to what you want the other person to be rather than appreciate what that person is and that to my mind is the root of frustration in married couples. Unfortunately the ‘adjustment’ reigns supreme and millions live on with their unrealized potential, suppressed emotions and fatalistic resignation to fate.

English Vinglish is an attempt by a woman to break that mould. A loving wife, a devoted mother and a proficient cook (the three ingredients desired by the seekers of the perfect wife) she is nevertheless the classic victim of a country obsessed with proficiency in the Queens language. Her comfort zone is shattered when she is required to fly alone to Uncle Sam to assist in her niece’s marriage. An alien environment heightens her insecurity but her desire to fight back leads her to train herself in the language. Her class mates are people with a similar quest but for different reasons. However she finds acceptance and appreciation for her abilities which results in redemption for herself in her as well as her skeptical family’s eyes. A simple story is brilliantly played out with a powerful message. Do NOT take you loved one for granted. Although the main protagonist is a female the lesson is for all to perceive. It is not enough to accept. It is not enough to adjust. It’s important to realize who you are but it’s equally important to let the other person be what he or she wants to be. The dynamics of life are never going to let it remain unchanged and therefore it’s vital that we grow together and in our respective spaces. Sri Devi has excelled as the demure, scared, insecure and yet a determined woman bent upon correcting what is perceived as a shortcoming by her family. Age may have marginally lined her face but she remains a fine actor. It’s totally her show and worth a serious watch. And of course, one could do with a revised reality check with oneself too.

Mughal-E-Azam Redux

This is the story of Cassius Clay, oops, Jalal-ud-din Mohammad Akbar whose name was changed to Mughal-e-Azam. He was always busy in conquering the country, marrying Rajput princesses and listening to Santa-Banta jokes of Birbal as result of which he was unable (despite his best efforts I am told) to sire an heir to the sprawling empire. On royal command an email was sent to the mandarins of Aastha Channel who deputed a full time mumbo jumbo man to invoke divine intervention. Finally, the joint and/or several efforts of royal exertions, mumbo jumbo man’s incantations, Vicky Donor’s ancestors bore fruit and a dude was born. My extensive knowledge of Hindi movies bears me out that this Salim dude took his royal privileges very seriously and had a keen eye for birds. The feathered kinds went into the cooking pot and the others moved to his boudoir. Then on a fateful day he saw one that refused to move or date him and like countless idiots since then who fall in love with the first girl who refuses to play ball, he too succumbed to her nubile charms. What’s your name babe, he asked? With a flick of her finger in her hair she pouted, I am Miss Pomegranate Bud and I don’t dance. The dude’s knees buckled and his pajama fell on the marble floor and with his tongue hanging out he panted his way to his dad’s study and blurted his wish to get married. The great Mughal gave an imperious look at his horny progeny and thacchhack, one tight slap landed on the royal left cheek. Salim’s undies joined his pajama on the floor. Salim wailed, I want Bomegranate Pud… I mean Stun Grenade..I mean the Puddy Bomb !! The King gave another suspicious look and thought; what kind of name is that? Looks like westerners have made an entry into India before they were supposed to. However seeing his little one’s ardour the father softened a bit and asked “How can you jump into bed with a gal with an unpronounceable name”. Salim quickly adjusted his undies and flashed his iPhone 10 (oh yes, everybody knows we were far more advanced in ancient days) and with tears of happiness reported “Jahanpanah, Google translator says it means Anarkali”. Thank God, Mughal-e-Azam thought, at least now I know whom I am going to bury alive. So, what’s it gonna be, Salim queried? Do I get the chic or shall I join Che Guvera? Akbar blinked, Che who? You know, the bearded rebel dude whose face is on everyone’s dress! ‘Bagaawat’ the King thundered, ‘are you going to defy I, me and myself for a roll in the hay’?

Salim crooned “She is beautiful and therefore to be wooed. She is woman and therefore to be won and Cupid, dear Jahanpanah, is a knavish lad, thus to make females mad”. Damn, Akbar thought, this is the height of the West meddling in my affairs. Even this Shakespeare fellow is in league with Che Guvera. But the man wasn’t a king for nothing and he knew how to take quick decisions. He took off Salim’s pajamas again, spanked his bottom with the iPhone 10, summoned a trusted general and dispatched both of them to the Sothern part of his empire with strict instructions that the only bird the prince would see is Chicken 65. While the prince’s entourage and his mood headed south Akbar summoned Anarkali and threatened her with a fate worse than death. She screamed ‘oh pullllease, anything but Ranjit & Shakti Kapoor’. But, Akbar stuttered, I only want to bury you alive. Oh cmon Kingling, she pouted, the days of mummies are over and women are about to be empowered and we are getting voting rights and I am going to sue you for gender discrimination and sexual harassment and tell me what’s wrong with me and by the way are you straight or bi ? The King of Kings, the ruler of a nation was flummoxed and at a loss of words and all he could mumble was ‘Anarkali, you gotta die”! Oh no, she replied, I am alive and I want to break free and I wanna love somebody. Having had enough of medieval pop for the day, Akbar sent her away and ordered a double Royal Salute.

Meanwhile down South Salim was up to his throat with Kingfishers and Chicken 65. Every time there was a call to arms he raised his beer and promptly flopped back on his couch brooding for Puddy Bomb. Since time immemorial it’s always been your friends who volunteer to help and ultimately get you into trouble. Seeing his friend wallow in beer and self pity one Mr Goody Singh from Rajasthan suggested that Salim ought to show some balls and revolt against his father. The royal dude was already seven bottles down and in his heightened sense of perception found the idea romantic. He got up from the couch, furiously shook his beer and yelled ‘Love shall prevail and Daddy I’ll be back’. An invitation was sent to Che Guvera with a carbon copy endorsed to Mughal-e-Azam and a blind carbon copy to Anarkali. Guvera took the next ship out from Cuba, Akbar started the march to the South with an army of a hundred thousand and Goody Singh took Anarkali out on a date to Chandni Chowk. The two armies clashed midway and a furious battle ensued. Akbar unleashed his 61^st Cavalry and the elephants of the 89^th Armoured Corps who ran rampant on the brave but lovelorn troops of Salim. The night before the battle he had made a long and a passionate speech for the cause of lost love which had the soldiers in tears. All you need is love, he cried and the troops ardently responded ‘She loves you; yeah yeah and with a love like that you know it can’t be bad’. However the tremendous motivation of love was no match for the might of the Mughal army and ultimately it came down to a one on one match up between the father and the son. Both the warriors were clad in iron armours and with razor sharp swords they let loose their primal instincts at each other. Salim lunged at Akbar with his sword who caught hold of it with his left hand and wrenched it out from the prince’s grip. And with the right hand, thacchhack, another tight slap landed on the face of the cheeky prince. The pajamas and the undies of the horse fell to the ground as well. Salim was promptly picked up, laid across Akbar’s horse who then spanked his bottoms all the way to Fatehpur Sikri.

EPILOGUE

Anarkali eloped with Goody Singh and became Miss Jaipur, Miss Mewar and Miss Chittorgarh in rapid succession and ultimately became a leading lady of the Bhandarkar Nautanki Company.

Goody Singh, who screwed his friend was last seen in Afghanistan having others do unto him what he had done unto others.

Che Guvera had his ship hijacked to Venezuela and was never seen thereafter.

Shehzada Salim struck a contract with Kingfisher which ensured his unending supply of beer and birds.

Jalal-ud-din Mohammad Akbar banned Aastha channel and started his own and guaranteed his place in the Mughal Hall of Fame. 360 years later he was immortalized in the movie classic Mughal-e-Azam but of course as you all know now, K Asif got all his facts wrong.

Heroine: The "Bai" Feature

One day Madhur Bhandarkar decided to make another movie. He racked his brain for a new story and after numerous ideas he decided on something new. The title of the movie-Heroine ! There must be some law in place which prevents you from naming a new movie with the same one you made a few years ago. And since this enormous effort of discovering a new title had already extracted the last vestige of original thought in his brain he decided to bring out the scripts of Page 3, Corporate and Fashion from his closet and gave them all to his “Bai” with the brief that in the time it takes for her to brew a cup of tea she will have to come up with a new script or else she will have to look for a new job. Please appreciate that those were the hard “policy paralysis” times and Manmohan Singh had not yet worn his reform crusader cloak to save this country from ruin. The US was going slow on outsourcing jobs and services to third world countries, read India, and the “Bais” were finding it hard to make ends meet. Desperate times need desperate solutions. Thus Heroine was born and a job saved. What the mentally exhausted director and writer (?) hadn’t accounted for was that the Bai was also an avid follower of Bollywood gossip and borrowing heavily from her sneak peeks into the tabloids she incorporated every juicy tidbit that she could remember into the new script. Hence in about five minutes flat the tea was brewed and the “Bai” delivered, a story you sensation seekers!

For an inexperienced Bai it may be a tremendous effort but for an experienced film maker it is a slap in the face. The film suffers from fatigue. You have the same neurotic, ambition driven characters whose search for God knows what makes them do strange stuff. I had always thought that the pill popping and alcohol soaking individuals ceased to exist after the Harold Robbins novels albeit with some notable Hollywood exceptions. You also have the same scheming men and women with their saccharine smiles and plastic features constantly trying to manipulate each other. With a few doses of sex and a hinted lesbian romp we are supposed to stand up and applaud the great travails of a slipping superstar although at no stage is it clear when she rose and fell from grace. I had to wait for about forty minutes before the story graduated from the prologue onto to the next level. Page 3 was a ground breaker and although it looked and sounded like a gossip magazine, which it was supposed to, it had its moments of quirky humor. No such luck here. It’s flat, monotonous and a rank bad effort.

The only good thing that happened to the film is Kareena. Playing a high strung I-want-it-all movie star she has given a creditable account of her histrionic skills. The weakness of course is that too much emphasis is laid on her reliance on drugs and booze to combat her insecurities rather than the under played war game that ought to have been the buzz word for her resurrection. It looked all too clichéd and Kareena, for all her talent, tries way too hard. It’s amazing how the television media is playing that up as her ultimate obsession. No doubt it is a promotional ploy but it sickens me to see how these guys are trying so hard to sell something which obviously stinks. They must believe that we are a bunch of idiots to lap up this piece of nonsense.

Unfortunately economics takes precedence over art. Hordes of people, me included, go to the movie halls on the basis of its curiosity value alone and it has already had a decent opening. Music and satellite rights must have been sold at a premium and at the end of the day it will be declared a commercial success. Wait for some rigged award function where everyone, saccharine smiles and all, will back slap each other and in between some listless performances declare the movie as a Bollywood classic. That would be the ultimate insult to the common movie goer.

Barfi-Life Celebrated

The pristine joy of innocence captured as poetry on celluloid ! Fresh like a breath full of fragrant air on a beautiful morning in the hills, Barfi will plunge you into a vortex of emotions from the word go. What makes it different from other movies of the same genre is that despite the physical & mental challenges the main leads are born with there is no room for mushiness or tear jerking. There is a joyful acceptance of the inevitable and there is celebration of life. There is so much spontaneity with which the characters deal with their lot that it evokes wonders and awe in the viewer rather than sympathy and that in my mind is the USP of the movie.

The story is not about disability but the amazing ability of the blessed individuals who see life as God’s gift. Just look around and you will see a zillion people, able in mind and body, make a trillion complaints about their luck, their jobs, their spouse, the system, the neighbor, the car, the list is endless and turn their lives into a miserable existence, something to be endured rather than enjoyed. Despite their normalcy it unfortunately makes them blind to all that life has to offer. The trick of experiencing joy or sorrow is the ability to sift through the challenges of life and identify all that makes us better humans. It takes a great deal of honesty with one’s thoughts and emotions and those who have it reflect in their faces. Barfi & Jhilmil epitomize that glow. Their handicap and their world within doesn’t deter them from reaching out for what their heart perceives as right for them.

After the fabulous portrayal of Rockstar, Ranbir Kapoor raises the bar further in a fantastic display of acting capability. Consider this; he has precisely three words to speak in the entire movie and the rest is an emotive roller coaster. His eyes and expressions render dialogues redundant. There is so much energy in his movement that he leaves you gasping. And Priyanka Khosla never ceases to surprise me. Portraying an autistic child woman, her innocent insecurity is heartwarming. Illena D’Cruz is another surprise package as the woman battling her emotions in split loyalties. The movie has been crafted with love. Beautiful hills of Darjeeling vie with the sights and sounds of Bengal.

An amazing love story, it is rich with laughter and replete with mischief and no, you will not slyly wipe your tears but your heart will constantly be tugged towards a beautiful cocoon of trust and innocence which somehow always redeems one’s faith in the goodness of creation. A masterpiece, no less !!

Gangs Of Wasseypur 2

So does lightning strike twice? Anurag Kashyap would have you believe that. The second part of the desi gangster saga is here. I was immensely curious to find out if the steamrolling drama would maintain the pace it had set. It takes a huge skill to do that and I came away with mixed feelings once again. The concept of GOW 1 was new for the audience brought up on a steady & redressed diet of Godfather clones; hence the visuals and appeal of the drama set in the small towns of Bihar had a tremendous impact. Happily the sequel effortlessly picks up the narrative but creates a direction of its own. The third generation gangster has evolved from being a fist fighter and an ice pick stabber to a Ganja smoking (a la Scarface) wielder of automatic weapons. The geographical boundaries of operation are redrawn but the principal protagonists in this story of vengeance and the struggle for dominance & power remain the same. The changed scenario understandably has new generation characters with quirky traits, hunger for money and power per se but lack the depth and conviction of the older set. Rather than a single minded pursuit of revenge as claimed in the promos and its logical culmination it seems more like a journey on the gravy train with the declared objective of eliminating opposition popping up only at periodical intervals. The game plan is missing and perhaps it’s the perennially stoned psyche of the hero which could be the reason.

Having said that, the roll out of the events is taut & gripping. Unlike its predecessor there is hardly any dull moment. One is also partially spared from the barrage of expletives and whatever is said sounds good. The love play between the main leads is superb and Huma Qureshi brings the house down with her rustic sexuality. I loved the mischievous and subtly erotic onscreen banter between the two. In fact the screenplay is the greatest strength of the movie. Not once does it lose pace or direction and constantly maintains fidelity with the background of the characters. The performances of almost everyone are exemplary. Richa Chadha effortlessly transforms from the hot blooded wife to a sedate widow. Piyush Mishra seems wasted in the what’s-he-doing-in-the-movie role. The new comers with crazy names like Definite, Perpendicular and Tangent look the part. And Nawazuddin Siddiqui as the lotus eater turned gang lord was amazing.

The single biggest difference is that it lacks the understated menace of latent violence. It’s much grosser here. Jean clad youngsters brandishing Kalashnikovs look a little out of place. I’ll prefer the ice pick Bajpayee any day. There seems less method to the wham bam action which gets gorier with the developing story. I hate to say this but the climax is overly bloody and reminiscent of the Kill Bill sequences of Tarantino. And since I am at it, the music was hugely disappointing. Piyush Mishra & Varun Grover slipped up here. Each song of the earlier version is potentially a cult classic but here with the exception of the old world sound of “Taar Bijli Se” and the incredibly loony and foot tapping “Chhi Chha Ledar” all others are forgettable. Of course these are isolated observations but as a package Kashyap has pulled it off again. It’s a great watch and effectively stitched but will remain in the shadow of the first born.

Tiger Unleashed

This has been a first for me. Here was me sitting through an entire Salman Khan movie without consecutively experiencing irritation, boredom, disgust and bewilderment and not necessarily in that order. Much as he is a favorite of Chammak Challo and a rage amongst his millions of wide eyed fans, his acting skills or rather his choice of roles always left me unimpressed. Combine that with his reported off screen persona which itself is a contradiction. A painter, a known charity promoter, darling of numerous beneficiaries of his generosity, he is also reputed to be a man walking on the fringes of the law. His supposed indiscretions may or may not be true but the image that I saw on the screen always came across to be shallow and unimpressive. The body of a Greek god and gyrations to silly tunes never helped me form a favorable opinion about his capacity to emote or hold my interest in his cinematic presence. Ek Tha Tiger changed all of that.

The plot of the story is nothing new. Bits and pieces have been picked from here and there from a number of Hollywood spy stories, woven together in a fabric of India-Pakistan’s never ending conflict of interests and played out across different exotic international locations. So after the cross nation tour courtesy Agent Vinod, we are taken from the savage streets of Iraq to the traditional Britain to beautiful Turkey to hold your breath, the never before Cuba. The photographer in me would have seen the movie just for the spectacular landscape of these places. The opening sequence of twenty odd Paki agents who couldn’t shoot straight at thirty feet and systematically got steam rolled by our home grown James Bond badly aping the free style running made fashionable by the original had me groaning. Not again, I said to myself and started getting ready to raid the snack shop. But hark, normalcy returned quickly. The tiger returns to his lair and is reassigned to another mission, of observation only as he is reminded, in the hallowed precincts of some intimidating academic institution in the Queen’s country. Then boy meets girl, sparks invariably fly, Pakis re enter to spoil the party which I am not going to do by revealing anything more.

What impressed me the most was the treatment of the razor thin plot. It’s a judicious mixture of high voltage action, romance and drama, the classic ingredients of most Bollywood pot boilers but Kabir Khan got the proportion right. Salman Khan is for once bereft of his meaningless comical avatar and has acted with remarkable restraint. His action prowess remains unchanged but he looks the part of the rock solid, caring, protective and oh so vulnerable romantic lover when the occasion demands. The girls are going to get ever so moony eyed just over this. Katrina, of course, looks like a million bucks. The background score is outstanding even though the main theme sounds suspiciously like King Khan’s Don. Sohali Sen’s choice of western classical strains of melody tremendously enhanced the depiction of romantic emotions of the lead pair and mine too. And after a long time it was a pleasure to see Roshan Seth as the eccentric professor.

The movie is a pleasant departure from the normal Bollywood action genre which is a great relief from the likes of head splitting Rowdy Rathore and Bodyguard. The action sequences, although sometime over the top, are still a visual delight but what really took my breath away was the cinematography which has lovingly captured the street life of UK as well as the romantic backdrops of Turkey and Cuba incorporating everything that the places are famous for. And apart from the initial buffoonery of the Indo-Paki protagonists it was a great relief to see them portrayed as competent professionals rather than crazed individuals shooting jingoistic barbs as each other. Well done Mr Khan, you have redeemed Sallu boy and I hope he doesn’t remain a one trick pony.

Movie Review: Gangs of Wasseypur

If one has led an eventful life then by the time one reaches my age there is enough accumulation of experiences to which one can associate with when encountered with new and different ones. Circa 1982-83, we had gone to the Union Territory’s Guest House to meet Chandrashekhar, one of the most enigmatic characters of the then Indian political scenario. The meeting with him was short and sweet but we got to meet and interact with some other polticos too. One was Rani Jethmalani. Man, her pictures do not do her any justice whatsoever. A very attractive woman! Another was Subodh Kant Sahay, an ex Patna University student leader, who has managed to survive in the political jungle till today. Since student politics was a common bond between us he was sweet enough to mingle for a while and treat our group of cocky youngsters to cold drinks. We were sipping on our Cokes when he called out to a gentleman who was quietly chatting with a couple of guys and introduced him to us. It was my first and the only meeting with Surya Deo Singh. I was a bit surprised to meet the unassuming man who was the unquestioned Don of Dhandbad. Soft spoken, humble and polite to a fault he did not in any way indicate the deadly background he came from. As I realized later on, men like him are difficult to judge on absolute moral values. Reactions to his kind of personalities often border on extreme on both ends. He was a Robin Hood to a large section of people who still continue to bestow their patronage to his surviving family. However the police record, journalist’s reports and some legends tell stories of his brutal and blood spotted political career. Irrespective of the loud disclaimers, Gangs of Wasseypur draws parallels from the lives of the Mafiosi of the coal belt. Suryo Deo Singh succeeded B P Sinha as the unchallenged boss of the Dhanbad criminal circuit after having him shot in his own drawing room. After the bullets were fired, if I recall correctly, in the rendition of the killing in the Illustrated weekly the exact words were “Sinha was dead before the first drops of the expensive whiskey he was sipping fell on the carpet”. Guns and goons always fascinate youngsters and we were no exception. Anurag Kashyap has suddenly revived those old memories.

I enjoyed the movie which takes off a bit like the Doordarshan documentary of the yore which is made tolerable only by the rasping narration of that genius Piyush Mishra. The historical narrative was really unnecessary and could have been dramatically played out in a shorter frame. It not only prolonged the movie but also delayed the development of the main plot, speaking of which I was a tad disappointed. A movie is an audio visual narration of a story. It needs to be different from a television serial. GOW’s progress is more of a series of interesting episodes rather than a firm plot. It’s another matter that Kashyap has managed to pull it off but at the end of it all one does start wondering about what one has just watched. There is a heavy emphasis on blood and gore and even heavier on profanities under the garb of realism. Oh yes, it had the audience freaking out especially when it’s the female character mouthing them. Of late there have been a spate of movies, all relating to the Indo Gangetic Plain, which have freely used the vernacular color to the language more as a shock value rather than depiction of common conversation. I am certainly not a prude but I do shudder to think of what would be the end product if the Punjabi movie makers were to follow suit. Poor Santa and Banta are like soap water to this strong refresher course in abuses. But picture abhi baaki hai dost! The second part, of which a long trailer is shown after the end credits, promises to raise the bar further. And that also brings me to the concept of two part movies. It would be great fun if a saga is played out in different time periods but then each part has to be complete in itself. GOW fails here. Just when you thought things were getting interesting you are left dangling with a promise for more. The extended climax was needless and not in sync with story line that you were following. Maybe redemption follows in the next part.

So what makes the movie work? For one it remains faithful to the milieu it is woven around. The spoken language, never mind the ear scorching expletives, does immense credit to the script writer. There is complete irreverence to the gross violence which is offset by the quirky and earthy humour. Extensively shot on location, the background of small towns, ordinary faces caught in extraordinary circumstances and racy dialogues combine to form an interesting potpourri. Mercifully the politicians and the gangsters have not been caricatured. The protagonists are the ordinary daal bhaat variety (okay, meat bhaat too), loving husbands and carnal adventurers who seek to justify every action as a fait accompli or divinely decreed. And that sets Anurag Kashyap apart as leading the pack of parallel cinema makers. He manages to combine high drama and recognizable realism. The other makers of gangster sagas in Bollywood (read Ram Gopal Verma) have never been able to get over their obsession with the Godfather series so I am particularly delighted at the prospect of developing our own cult series and I do hope it goes beyond the revenge theme.

The performances are power packed without exception. Manoj Bajpayee sizzles as the revenge seeking ordinary driver turned ganglord and his understated approach to the role is near perfect. Tigmanshu Dhulia dons the actor’s mantle to portray the character based on Surya Deo Singh and acquits himself as the calculating Mafiosi pretty effectively. The honors however must go to Richa Chadda for her feisty portrayal of Manoj Bajpayee’s strong headed wife who reluctantly accepts his philandering ways. She brought the house down when she exhorts him to eat well lest he “under performs” on his nocturnal trysts. Classic one liners like this keep the viewers interest alive just when the play begins to drag a little. I have to spare a few lines for Piyush Mishra. Maybe it’s a little premature to say so but for once I am going to stick my neck out and dare to compare him with the all round mad genius of Kishore Kumar. This man is extraordinary. A writer, singer and an actor to boot !! I first saw, nay experienced his genius in Gulaal and was completely taken in by the force of his talent. GOW only further strengthens my belief that we are witnessing the unfolding of a legend. Like the great Kishore, he too does not respect any boundaries to his creative abilities. Just take time out to read his lyrics (for Gulaal as well as GOW) and you will see what I mean. There have been attempts to compare Kashyap with Tarantino which I would think is an insult to our boy. The only movie that makes Tarantino worthy is “Inglorious Bastards”. But I have to admire him for the music selection for his films. And that is where he is comparable to our laddie. The music of GOW, so rustic in the Bhojpuri flavor, is a delight. I wonder if you have ever heard names like Sneha Khanwalkar, the Musahar of Sundarpur, Ranjeet Baal Party & Manish Tiwari. They are the guys who bring the tradition of minstrels of Bihar & UP alive. While Piyush Mishra transports you right back to the 50s with his soulful “Ik bagal” the catchy beats of “Hunter” and “O Womaniya” will have your feet tapping. And then there is the highly unusual “Bhaiyya” and “Tain tain tu tu” which are just rhythmic beats, at best a Bhojpuri trance fusion. Awesome stuff but everyone is going to talk about the risqué “Keh ke loonga”. If you can ignore the double entendre it is going to ring in your ears for a long time to come. I already have the entire album and am a repeat listener.

My write up is threatening to become as long as the movie itself but then that is the kind of effect Kashyap has on you. There is so much to like and/or criticize and so less to ignore. Kashyap is going to be liked by some and hated by others but he is never going to be ignored. Way to go !

Grab this Widget	Agent Vinod

By now most of you must have watched Travel Agent Vinod..err… I mean (and no, I am not mean) Agent Vinod. It was slated to be Saif Ali Khan’s magnum opus and I have to say that perhaps only the Nawab could have carried off the role with chutzpah it deserved. It is also a lesson to makers of spy movies with due apologies to John Le Carre, Ian Fleming & Robert Ludlum. While Le Carre’s Smiley is a wee bit outdated in the post cold war scenario, Bond is alive and well and the enigmatic Jason Bourne is currently everyone’s favorite spy. So take a little bit off the three classic gentlemen and combine ‘em into one bloke, add a sexy damsel, shoot and scoot across different continents but make sure the Pakis are the villains and viola, you have your desi spy thriller. I usually do not read about the movies that I plan to see and this was no exception. However for some weird reason I connected the title of the movie with the famous character having the same name in the Hindi Jasoosi novels of the sixties. Therefore in my imagination the action revolved in desi locales with desi babes. However with the opening staccato of the AK47 in the badlands of Afghanistan commenced a breathless journey across the world in three hours and twenty minutes. I can conceive of a million reasons for blowing up the world with an atomic device but why does it have to be only Mujahideen after the poor us Indian kafirs. Next time around how about a Guju Marwari blowing up a KFC joint or a group of carnivorous Punjabis storming an Udipi Tiffin. I am sure Saif will look cool swirling a drumstick before poking it in the eyes of the hapless turbaned waiter and simultaneously delivering a roundhouse kick to the pot bellied Tiffin manager. No amount of gloss can make up for lack of a strong story and I have been yelling about this since the day Adam & Eve ate the forbidden fruit. But very few have listened and certainly not Mr. Saifu. Since the story has been given a thumb down it was left to the special effects and action guys to retrieve the movie. The action excites as well as irritates. Experimentation with the upside down camera was confusing and eminently avoidable. We even gave a long and a hard look at the projector room wondering if the guy in charge had suddenly remembered Baba Ramdev and turned some switch doing his Vipreet Garud Asana. And when will I see the day when the hottie in the negative role will not justify her being so with some sob story? When will she be unabashedly villainous? When will she narrow her eyes, pout and say “I am bad but baby I AM good”. Until that happens you can admire Kareena who is now way past her zero size and aiming for No 10. But hey, let me tell you that I am a great though ancient fan of the dhishum dhishum movies and from that angle alone the experience wasn’t half so bad. What queers the pitch a tad little is if, like me, you too watch a lot of Hollywood movies because then the comparisons become inevitable and even accounting for the lower investment in the production the end result isn’t that great. But a good try Mr. Saifu. We haven’t had a decent spy movie in decades and I hope this launches a thousand Berettas.

Movie Review: Saheb Biwi Aur Gangster

Don’t confuse it with the classic original. Guru Dutt’s magnum opus only partially lends the title for this riveting drama. From the feudal Bengal landlords of British India, Tigmanshu Dhulia transports the action to the Hindi heartland amongst it’s relics of decaying royalty. There is this Saheb whose financial clout is tied to the strings controlled by his step mother. And he has a Vodka swigging bombshell of a Biwi suffering from an attention deficit and a roving eye, both of which periodically propel her into hysteria. In steps our laddie from the Jatland and slides his way into the heart and the bed of the Biwi. Wait a minute, he is the lover boy. So who is the Gangster? No prizes for correctly guessing that but actually there was a surfeit of gangsters in the movie, Saheb & Biwi included. The script of the movie is taut and each turn of the story unfolds with effortless ease. The story develops like it should and surprises you with nuances even when you are with the knowledge of what is about to happen. I loved the way the characters have been conceptualized. Jimmy Shergill as the blue blooded aristocratic strongman fits the role to perfection. He sums up the understated violence surrounding his troubled life. A neglecting husband, he kills and debauches with panache. His wife longs for fulfillment and sublimates her desires in alcohol. Mahi Gill looks the part. The political rivals of the Saheb introduce a mole in his household with an intention to eliminate competition but a heady brew of lust & ambition sees the Gangster pursue his own agenda. Randeep Hooda, as the wannabe banker turned jealous lover turned killer only seems to be improving with each movie but he had better come up with some star performances before age catches up with him. Deepal “Kanta lagaa” Shaw surprised me with her natural portrayal of a machinegun mouth village girl. The movie has an irresistible old world charm far removed from the familiarity of the multiplex & internet driven urban madhouse where disputes are quickly settled by a bullet and pursuit of pleasure takes precedence over discretion or propriety. The music is simple and superb, specially the Shreya Ghoshal’s rendition of “Raat Mujhe” which has a mystical & haunting quality which I normally associate with some of the Lata songs of the 60s. As a package the movie is a class by its own and a worthy successor to Dhulia’s student politics thriller “Haasil” but for a diehard romantic like me its stuff dreams are made of.

Speedy Singhs: Bhangra On Ice

First mistake? See the original. Never ever go for the dubbed version of a movie. Never mind “Slumdog Millionaire” which was an honorable exception since no western expletive can a match a vernacular one. And the second one? Never take Chammak Challo for a flick with a Punju story line. Only this time she had a bit of inside support. Two hard core Punjus had accompanied us but were only appreciative of the end title song, “Sheran di kuam Punjabi” belted out by RDB & Ludacris since it has this quality of enhancing the aggressive DNA of all Punjus. Well, Chammak Challo gets to her parochial best whenever good ‘ol Punjus are seen to be winning, which thrills me to no end but gets her goat. These conflicting loyalties usually result into a potentially tense & explosive situation inside the cinema hall and the inevitable fall out is that after furiously slurping away on her cappuchhino (low sugar, if you please) she attacks my Diet Coke and goes on to demolish it. At great risk to my life and future liberty I usually hold my ground and continue to make approving sounds on the antics of the never say die Punjus. After all, sheran di kaum Punjabi !!
The kind of presence the immigrants (read Punjus) have created in Canada and other parts of the world would have been enough reason for Akshay Kumar to encash the potential of the NRI audience. “Of course” says Chammak Challo, “They will do anything for money”. It’s a story of an NRI punju who has ice, sorry.. stars, in his eyes dreaming of being an ace ice hockey player but has a-play-it-safe-in-life father bent upon forcing him into the trucking business. A washed out player ( Rob Lowe, no less) spots the budding talent and decides to turn coach. The resident gora players build obstacles in the Punjus quest for glory. The Punjus lose initially but go on to conquer the world. Everybody lives happily ever after. So what’s new huh? It follows the story line of all great sports movies of triumph over tribulations but what I liked about the movie was that it was sans unnecessary melodrama which is the bane of most Bollywood ventures. It’s also a whacky love story without getting too mushy and replete with classic one liners which must have been more fun in the original version. The heart thumping, adrenalin rising action on the skating rink has been captured most professionally. Probably the firang production team had something to do with it. But the USP of the movie is that it effectively captures daily life emotions of ordinary people with small dreams, professional or otherwise. I would probably watch it again, but this time the English version, for the sheer joy of watching the whole Punju brood descending onto the skating rink and turn it into a bhangra fest of a wedding reception. Go Punjus go !!
On our way back from the multiplex I sneaked a glance at the sulking Chammak Challo and saw the hint of a smile. Ahhh, a chance ! So promptly I gathered the courage to ask if I could get a mutton curry packed instead of eating the ghia prepared at home. She said yes. I blinked. Yessss. She does love Punjus after all. I plan to write to Ludacris & Co to sing a song…. Shera di kaum Garhwali. Does it sound right? It had better !!!

Romancing The Tune

The Wind Flute, a traditional musical instrument of the Garhwal hills, played by a renowned exponent in his inimitable style

AddThis Chrome Extension

AddThis Chrome Extension

Movie Review-Yeh Saali Zindagi

Sudhir Mishra is not your usual run of the mill director and neither are his movies. If nothing else they do have a different flavour. They might not have the repeat watch values which used to define a hit but in any case in the age of multiplexes it’s a redundant concept. So herein is the paradox. You may not want to watch them again but his movies have a tendency to grow on you. The more you think about them the more you may like them. Having said that I do not consider ‘Yeh Saali Zindagi’ a worthy successor to ‘Khoya Khoya Chand’ but like I said it’s a completely different flavour.
From the romantic, chivalrous, moony eyed 50’s Bollywood Bombay, Mishra has shifted his canvas to the cussing, foul mouthed, criminalised, dog eat dog labyrinths of Delhi. And amidst all the uninhibited abuses of which there is a surfeit (I could see some red ears in the dark) there is an unrequited love which promises to bloom into a romance. But wait a minute, that’s not just the main plot. There is a romantic hero and a swinging heroine but the heroine is involved with a guy who is engaged to another chic who is the daughter of a corrupt politician who is the estranged master of an imprisoned gangster who engages a fellow inmate to avenge himself and kidnap the politician’s daughter and the guy involved with the swinging heroine but the fellow inmate (let’s call him the side hero) mistakenly kidnaps the swinging heroine which is witnessed by the romantic hero who decides to intervene and save his unrequited love. Whew! And that’s not all. In the sub plot this side hero who loves the easy money and thrills that the life of crime gives him is insecure about his pretty wife. So in between the killings and kidnapping and gangsta whirl he tries to find time to kiss and make up with her and probably in a convoluted display of affection gets slapped hard repeatedly. Sigh, so much for the macho gangsters of Delhi.

Powered by: Chakpak.com	Yeh Saali Zindagi

The movie has a racy narration. In fact it is so rapid that at times both the director and the audience lose track of what’s going on. It’s a situational thriller masquerading as a romance. There are the old fashioned flashbacks and then flashbacks from those flashbacks. It’s just after the interval than you will be able to put together the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle and may be enjoy it too. I think most of the charm (if one call it that) for the audience was in the earthy dialogues. The debate on the use of profanities apart, the audience seemed to be quite thrilled on the prolific usage of the nouns and adjectives of the words describing the nether parts of human anatomy in chaste vernacular. There was this lady sitting in front of me with a child in her lap who would throw up her arms in animated applause and shout “So cooool” every time one of the onscreen goons let loose one. I am not sitting in judgement here but it got me thinking if the audience tastes are finally changing and there is after all an acceptance of the cinematic licence to show the perceived reality. However in the department of profanity this flick wins hands down. The likes of Omkara, Peepli Live and No One Killed Jessica seem like soap water compared to this heady brew.
It’s unfair to judge the movie on only one aspect, howsoever all pervasive it may seem, so I will leave it at that. Make up your own mind. Chances are if you are a Delhite or from thereabouts you might love it. Those who mind their Ps and Qs need not waste their time. And those who enjoy their language mixed with the colourful hues of the Haryana heartland are in for a rocking time.

Movie Review-No One Killed Jessica

Powered by: Chakpak.com	No One Killed Jessica

A soul satisfying movie after a long time. Jessica’s story has been in the sub conscious of almost every news paper reading ordinary run of the mill , you hit me and I say sorry crowd and of course the couch potatoes who were for once stirred into something other than pressing the next channel button on their telly remote. It was easy to expect the routine tear jerker that everybody has read, heard about. I was surprised.
It ought to be the maturity of cinema development which showed restraint where the Manmohan Desai/Chopra Inc could not have conceptualised. Just when you expected an emotional outburst was a cut clip and a statement of what has transpired. Beautifully done was the deglam look of Vidya Balan and the outspoken, bad mouthing, in your face (that’s what the hot shot journos do) Rani Mukerjee. Some guys could have a problem with vernacular abuses but I and a horde from the Hindi heartland don’t. The narrative is understated and based on facts, which brings to the disclaimer of the story being a mix of fact and fiction. Legal issues could have been a factor but I could not identify the fiction apart from the christening of the characters. Hey, even the villain’s father looks very close to Vinod Sharma, the Minister. Of course the dilemma of a delinquent child’s parents could have been more realistic. However that’s a minor issue considering the gravity of the offence. Not to dilute the efforts of the media to highlight the miscarriage of justice I have to give credit to the makers of the movie for giving credit where it is due. Rang De Basanti happened to be released at the relevant time and was largely responsible for generating the public show of sympathy and demand for a retrial. For a change people reacted and the State responded and the rest is history.
The craft of the movie is appreciable but here it is the issue which needs to be procrastinated upon. Do we a need a Jessica to be killed before our collective conscience is roused into action? And do we need the stimulus of a Rang De Basanti to come to the streets over a blatant injustice? Why is it that we nod in acceptance over the daily and ordinary incidents of corruption which gradually dull our sense of righteousness? The end result of the sum of all this acceptance results into an environment wherein we prepare a world where human life becomes a remote entity. Easy to play with and easy to snuff. This is a way to sure disaster. The movie ought to be an inspiration of sorts. The fight for truth and justice has hiccups and trials of patience but the path is true. Pursue what is right. If we believe in the Devil then logically God is there too.

Movie Review - Aakrosh

Powered by: Chakpak.com	Aakrosh

The subject of “Honour killings” was waiting to be brought to the screen and Priyadarshan has taken the lead in the venture which also marks his departure from light comedies in Hindi cinema. It’s good to be first off the block but the movie lacks the staying power to finish as a winner. What totally galls me is that a veteran director of over eighty movies hasn’t researched his story or the characters with due diligence which in a way certifies the beginning where newspapers clips on the theme are stamped as facts and the word fiction heralds the narration of the story. The deep mind set which propels people to execute their own and others is replaced as a caste conflict which is not totally true. Perhaps a better understanding of a potentially powerful subject would have converted this effort as a monumental classic. I also feel that mere depiction of the problem is not enough. An opportunity has been lost to explore a solution or at least the audience should have been left thinking on what could be. Perhaps the writer actually couldn’t figure out what needs to be done and as a compromise a quick fix solution ends the movie.
As a cinematic experience for the non discerning viewer it’s not half so bad. The motley crew of the ‘Bahubalis’, scheming politicians and corrupt Government servants of the Hindi heartland which have been repeated ad- nauseum are back again. Again the treatment could have been different. Please tell me where in our country would you find IPS officers (SSP and IG, no less) sitting in police stations in various stages of undress and constantly mouthing vernacular expletives. These guys are supposed to be educated, trained in an academy of repute and professional. The depiction of these characters is more akin to the less fortunate constabulary. Also, I have never read or heard of an army officer (incidentally from ASC) in NSG deputed for an investigation conducted by CBI. I guess the tag of fiction takes care of these minor details. I also don’t understand why the bad guys always get the benefit of ‘Beedi Jala Le’ or ‘Munni Badnaam hui’ or instantly ‘Isak se Meetha’. There seems to be a case here for the libido comparisons of the heroes and the villains. In the next movie I want Munni dancing exclusively for the hero. And a CBI enquiry in this matter is warranted anyway.
What’s good here? A pioneering effort on a subject that is ducked all too often. A good narrative, it’s hard to get bored. Bipasha Basu is getting slimmer by the day. I think she needs to act in some Kung Fu movies with Jackie Chan.
What’s not? Bad research, but I have said that before. The Devgun dude is still wooden faced and his wife needs to give serious acting lessons to him. Junior Khanna will do well to stop hamming like a fresher from the Methodist school of acting and be more of himself. Bips is underplayed.
There needs to be a strong reaction to a system which tries to control normal human emotions in the name of caste, khaap, perceived honour. Unfortunately political expediency prevents any concerted legal effort. Therein lies the responsibility of the audio visual media to, for once rather than concentrating on needless sensations, take up a cause which could actually stop the smothering of innocent lives. On the social responsibility scale, Priyadarshan and his team fails.

Movie Review- Robot

Powered by: Chakpak.com	Enthiran

How dare you review Rajnikanth? So if at the end of all this I am hit by a bullet fired from a remote island in the Pacific which ricochets off the gleaming belt buckle of the superstar, it is not a coincidence. It must be the intended mode of my assassination (plain murder more likely). So at the risk of my life I do declare that Rajni’s Robot aka Endhiran is a must watch for everyone below the mental or chronological age of fifteen. To enlarge the scope of the audience Rajnikanth has reportedly ordered everyone to mentally reduce their ages to the desired level which I dutifully did only to find that the experience wasn’t disagreeable at all if you don’t count the two songs during which I actually went off to sleep.
It’s a sci-fi extravaganza which more than justifies being the most expensive movie made till date in India. The special effects are a first for an Indian film and perhaps they account for a handsome part of the crores lavished on it. It’s a pity though that money cannot be spent on improving imagination because all the effects seem to be a combination of Spiderman, Transformers, Power Rangers, Matrix and The Mask. The so called original stuff is in the classical overkill genre of Tollywood which has specifically been patented for Rajni. But hey, this is a pioneering movie so a minor glitch here and a major faux-pax there is entirely forgivable.
Surprise, surprise, the movie even has a story of sorts but the director could have safely cut the first half and no one would have known the difference. Perhaps there is a lesson here. The movie would have been a taut thriller but for the song and dance routine and the unnecessary love interest sub plot. Having said that what would you have Aishwarya do? I think she is being overpaid for just looking pretty and dancing a few numbers. Rajnikanth can neither act nor dance to save his life but then when was that a deterrent for him. And remember this is a science fiction special effects movie. Who needs to act? The borrowed Robot and Rajni’s two assistants did a better job. The best actor is of course Danny Denzongpa (I always loved the ring of his name) who is back after a long time and does an efficient job of looking menacing in his brief role.
Despite how I may be sounding it’s a good idea to watch the movie if only to watch the science fiction genre coming of age in Indian cinema. Its aeons ahead of the flying arrows in sets of three decorated by the constipated expression of Vijay Arora, a la Meghnath, in Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayan. It is also agreeable to sleep through a few songs if only to witness the climax which has been conceived on an unbelievable scale. And last but not the least for the coinage of a new word by Rajni, hold your breath...... “Robotsapiens”.
Lord, thou shall have to save me.