I didn't really have a subject to write about today. So I thought of writing about me. The first thing that came to my mind was my clumsiness. And so be it.
I seem to have an uncanny knack of attracting clumsy situations. Everyday, when I walk on the road, be it an uneven tar road or the smoothest of asphalt cemented concrete roads, I end up tripping atleast once. For as long as I have been walking, there hasn't been a day without a tripping event. Cobblestoned-like paths in Mumbai have only made my life more difficult - they're often not laid properly and come off easily; I don't really need a reason to fall, do I?
While I was in SIES, my junior college in Sion, my large group of friends and I were walking towards the station when suddenly a cow came running to me. For all my vanity about not showing my fear, I just stood there for a minute trying to be brave and then yelled aloud and ran for dear life - later, I was told, I was standing on the grass that the cow was waiting hungrily for. Few years later, on a hike to the Rajgad fort as we were returning to base, my gang of girls broke away from most of the class and were walking by ourselves. We came to a really narrow path flanked by trees that didn't allow us much space to walk together and so we divided ourselves into two. My friends were walking ahead of me when we came to this slope while I was distracted by my attention to the fauna of the forest.
My shoe laces had come undone (as usual) and as I bent down to tie them, I was suddenly faced with the prospect of a charging bull bellowing his challenge to flatten me in less than a minute. My ears can never forget the rage in the bull's mooing (?) and my heart still thumps aloud everytime I think of it. I honestly thought that I was going to face a similar fate as one of those unlucky matadors who got themselves killed in that ghastly activity that they call sport! I closed my eyes and began praying aloud and it definitely wasn't raw courage when I screamed 'Help' in all the languages I knew. Lord Shiva definitely heard my now-desperate prayers and came to my rescue in the form of an old lady and calmed his Nandi incarnate. The old lady (I'll never forget her face) could barely stifle a chuckle and broke into rural Marathi dialect claiming how we city-bred were incapable of sterner stuff.
I think I've definitely had enough of cows and bulls for the rest of my life.
I've fallen down all the staircases I've used regularly - in my building, at school, at SIES (it was an everyday story, with Apu actually waiting for me to trip), at Agrawals, at GS even at Johns Hopkins. Everywhere. Infact, the Agrawals kissa was actually really funny. For the uninitiated Agrawal Classes are 'world-famous' coaching classes in Mumbai as the flower attracting the SSC high-scoring bees for excellent tutoring for the HSC examinations. While I didn't particularly enjoy the stifling and suffocating claustrophobia of the air-conditioned room with crowded benches for 8 hrs everyday, being with friends for that long is one of my favorite memories. So I belonged to the afternoon batch and we had a break at around 5 pm for about half hour. Aarti, Jinal and I decided to hit Damodars (a snack outlet) below the the classes and soon we were caught up in some entertaining exchange of anecdotes; so much so that we didn't realize when the rest of the crowd had made its way back into the classes. A glance at our watch and we realized we were late and so we ran to enter the classes before the lecturer did.
Now the building that houses Agrawals was really old and the wooden staircases are narrow and steep. Moreover at the end of the first flight of the stairs would sit Ramu, the watchman, peon, clerk, handyman, man-friday for the staff. Ramu was actually a cute moustached, bespectacled old chap with a toothy grin that he flashed sheepishly everytime he caught some coming in without their ID cards. That he would report these trivial mistakes of memory to the higher authority irked many and was responsible for the downfall of his popularity. (Though, according to me, he was and hopefully still is cute). So as on any other day, Ramu was standing up there (grinning widely with his 32 teeth shining brightly hoping to catch his latest prey) and the three of us were running up the stairs. I took the lead and leapt from one stair to the one-above-the-next. Bad idea. For when I reached the last few stairs, my clumsiness got the better of me, and I tripped and with my arms raised above my shoulders circumscribing a 90 degree arc from an erect posture to a flat one. In the next second, I heard Aarti and Jinal squealing with uncontrollable laughter and looked up to find an absolutely stunned Ramu staring at me in disbelief.
As I grappled with my situation, I realized that I was lying before him in prostration (the way Tambram men do) as if seeking his blessings. Never before and never after, I suspect, did anyone actually fall at his feet and elevate him to demi-god status. Since that day for the rest of the year, an embarrassed Ramu avoided me completely - and I was spared of an ID check for the rest of the year.
In my defence / defense, it's definitely a family trait - a dear cousin and a dear grandpa also are known to be klutzy souls. My cousin and I have been known to roam around the city wearing our salwars inside out, I have also risked infamy by doing it with my kurtas and tops. We're obviously blind too. As a warning to my future friends and a thank you note to all my friends this far, I am also scatterbrained and leave my bags and purses absentmindedly to the mercies of my friends. (Thus far, I have been lucky that one of my dear ones has always managed to notice my missing belongings and return them to me). I don't mean to brag about it, no I'm hardly proud of being so foolishly absent-minded. Believe me, I have tried and will keep trying to be more careful of my belongings and my whole self too.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Love in a Torn Land
I just finished reading a book today - Love in a Torn Land - by Jean Sassoon, an American author who spent twelve years in the Middle-East and chronicles the lives of women there. The first book of hers that I had read was Princess - a biographical account of a woman belonging to the Saudi Arabian royalty, Princess Sultana. The book described the oppressed, suppressed and repressed lives led by the women in the Muslim oil-rig amidst an environment of chauvinism, sexism and plain favoritism towards the male child. It spoke of young girls wedded away to men old enough to be their grandfather, of women who who bore their husbands many children only to find themselves cast way for a younger concubine, of fathers who married girls who were once their daughters' best friends, of brothers' friends who terrorize others with their apparent moral policing authority and then go about raping 11 year old girls just for the thrill of it!
Love in a Torn Land was the story of Joanna and her Kurd (a native tribe in the northern mountainous part of Iraq) family and their travails of being a Kurd in a country ruled by a Kurd-hating-megalomaniac (in)famous to the rest of the world as Saddam Hussein. Born to deaf-mute Arab father and an exceedingly beautiful Kurd mother and living in Baghdad, Joanna was always fond of Kurdistan and longed to be one with her Kurd relatives. She describes how Kurds were looked at with disdain by the rest of Iraq and were even fighting for survival against Saddam's desire to wipe them out completely from the face of the earth. A fiesty girl, unlike her timid sister Muna, she often voiced her desire to fight for Kurdistan freedom. When she was fifteen, she fell madly in love with Sarbast, a Kurd revolutionary and a cousin of her sister Alia's husband Hady. Infact the warm relationship that she shares with Hady is really charming. The book talks about the humiliation that her brother Ra'ad and Hady that to go through during their unwarranted (pun intended) arrest - their only crime being that they were born Kurds.
The story then goes on to Iran's attack on Iraq in the late eighties that led to daily bombing at Baghdad. The Kurds sided with Iran in their fight against Iraq (much like Bose trying to garner German for the Indian freedom cause). It was around this time that Sarbast also fell in love with Joanna and through letters sent her a proposal for marriage. The centrepage of the book consists of photographs of Joanna's family and Sarbast. The rest of the story is about how Joanna joins Sarbast in Kurdistan where they lead a difficult life of a revolutionary (peshmerga), in difficult climates and difficult terrain. The crux of the book is the chemical attack (chemicals released from bombs and canisters by enemy planes)all over Kurdistan (a plan masterminded by the devious Chemical Ali, Saddam's cousin) that leaves Joanna temporarily blinded and her devout Aunt Aisha murdered. Times are dangerous for Kurds and treacherous too - with many Kurds turning informers for the Iraqi Arabs (jahsh). But Joanna shows extreme courage and valour in supporting Sarbast (who drafts propaganda for the Kurdish freedom movement) and his belief and finds herself contributing to the cause in her own way.
But things worsen and the couple have to leave their hut (a transition from the comfortable and relatively luxurious life she led at Baghdad) and are on the run to save their lives. Enroute to Iran, they face continuous bombardments, terror of being caught by jahshs, a miscarriage of their unborn fetus and rocky, unfavorable mountainous climb on the Kandil mountains. But Joanna describes how her love for Sarbast and his affection for her enable her and strengthen her to pull through this trial. Finally, with the help of an old Kurd revolutionary and sitting on his mule, Joanna reached Iran with the love of her life Sarbast and his jovial cousin Kamaran.
In Iran, Joanna delivers their son Kosha (meaning struggle) in a hospital that is hostile to Iraqi refugees - the nurse-midwife tells Joanna rudely that Iran cannot afford anaesthesia for Iraqi refugees and proceeds to suture her torn vagina without local anaesthetics. (Having been a witness to a similar situation in our very own Mumbai, I shuddered to think of the pain that poor Joanna must have endured stoically).
In the epilogue, Sassoon writes about how most Iraqi Kurds including Joanna's family have left the country and are scattered all over Europe. Joanna, Sarbast and Kosha themselves seeked and received political asylum in England.
I was telling one of my friends how I like to read books with geo-socio-political themes. It is not about reading the atrocities that women face in these Muslim nations - gender discrimination, female infanticide, honour killings and dowry deaths are still very much a part of our comparatively progressive Indian society even today. It opens my eyes to different realities across the world. I doubt I would visit any of the Middle-eastern countries for a long stay and these books give me a peek into the lives of the women there.
Here I must say, while The Princess painted a very negative picture of men in Saudi Arabia, Love in a Torn Land does exactly the opposite. It describes men who are extremely sensitive to their women, love their women with all their heart and most of all give respect to their women and treat them with equality (well almost). The book pictorially depicted an Iraq where women were allowed to frolic in frocks and skirts and colorful scarves - only later when they grew up, did the religious and conservative Sa'ad insist on his sisters donning the hijab. Women were allowed to educate themselves, even seek a professional degree in engineering and work alongside men.
Those were the seventies and eighties. Today in 2008, the Times of India carried a small article of a Pakistani Canadian father killing his daughter for not adhering to the conservative dress code. The early 2000s had the Taliban relegating women to the status of an object. (The Kite Runner gave an insightful account of life in Taliban times). Kashmiri girls today are faced with threats for not covering themselves in a burqa. Tamil actress Khushboo has her effigies burnt when she sensibly advices girls to indulge in pre-marital sex only with protection - who is society kidding when it denies that its girls and boys do not succumb to their lust? Hindus hate Muslims who hate Hindus and Sikhs who hate Christians - we say we're secular, but tell me, how many parents would agree to their Hindu daughter marrying a Muslim.
Was society intolerant earlier or are we getting intolerant now? Only time will tell.
Love in a Torn Land was the story of Joanna and her Kurd (a native tribe in the northern mountainous part of Iraq) family and their travails of being a Kurd in a country ruled by a Kurd-hating-megalomaniac (in)famous to the rest of the world as Saddam Hussein. Born to deaf-mute Arab father and an exceedingly beautiful Kurd mother and living in Baghdad, Joanna was always fond of Kurdistan and longed to be one with her Kurd relatives. She describes how Kurds were looked at with disdain by the rest of Iraq and were even fighting for survival against Saddam's desire to wipe them out completely from the face of the earth. A fiesty girl, unlike her timid sister Muna, she often voiced her desire to fight for Kurdistan freedom. When she was fifteen, she fell madly in love with Sarbast, a Kurd revolutionary and a cousin of her sister Alia's husband Hady. Infact the warm relationship that she shares with Hady is really charming. The book talks about the humiliation that her brother Ra'ad and Hady that to go through during their unwarranted (pun intended) arrest - their only crime being that they were born Kurds.
The story then goes on to Iran's attack on Iraq in the late eighties that led to daily bombing at Baghdad. The Kurds sided with Iran in their fight against Iraq (much like Bose trying to garner German for the Indian freedom cause). It was around this time that Sarbast also fell in love with Joanna and through letters sent her a proposal for marriage. The centrepage of the book consists of photographs of Joanna's family and Sarbast. The rest of the story is about how Joanna joins Sarbast in Kurdistan where they lead a difficult life of a revolutionary (peshmerga), in difficult climates and difficult terrain. The crux of the book is the chemical attack (chemicals released from bombs and canisters by enemy planes)all over Kurdistan (a plan masterminded by the devious Chemical Ali, Saddam's cousin) that leaves Joanna temporarily blinded and her devout Aunt Aisha murdered. Times are dangerous for Kurds and treacherous too - with many Kurds turning informers for the Iraqi Arabs (jahsh). But Joanna shows extreme courage and valour in supporting Sarbast (who drafts propaganda for the Kurdish freedom movement) and his belief and finds herself contributing to the cause in her own way.
But things worsen and the couple have to leave their hut (a transition from the comfortable and relatively luxurious life she led at Baghdad) and are on the run to save their lives. Enroute to Iran, they face continuous bombardments, terror of being caught by jahshs, a miscarriage of their unborn fetus and rocky, unfavorable mountainous climb on the Kandil mountains. But Joanna describes how her love for Sarbast and his affection for her enable her and strengthen her to pull through this trial. Finally, with the help of an old Kurd revolutionary and sitting on his mule, Joanna reached Iran with the love of her life Sarbast and his jovial cousin Kamaran.
In Iran, Joanna delivers their son Kosha (meaning struggle) in a hospital that is hostile to Iraqi refugees - the nurse-midwife tells Joanna rudely that Iran cannot afford anaesthesia for Iraqi refugees and proceeds to suture her torn vagina without local anaesthetics. (Having been a witness to a similar situation in our very own Mumbai, I shuddered to think of the pain that poor Joanna must have endured stoically).
In the epilogue, Sassoon writes about how most Iraqi Kurds including Joanna's family have left the country and are scattered all over Europe. Joanna, Sarbast and Kosha themselves seeked and received political asylum in England.
I was telling one of my friends how I like to read books with geo-socio-political themes. It is not about reading the atrocities that women face in these Muslim nations - gender discrimination, female infanticide, honour killings and dowry deaths are still very much a part of our comparatively progressive Indian society even today. It opens my eyes to different realities across the world. I doubt I would visit any of the Middle-eastern countries for a long stay and these books give me a peek into the lives of the women there.
Here I must say, while The Princess painted a very negative picture of men in Saudi Arabia, Love in a Torn Land does exactly the opposite. It describes men who are extremely sensitive to their women, love their women with all their heart and most of all give respect to their women and treat them with equality (well almost). The book pictorially depicted an Iraq where women were allowed to frolic in frocks and skirts and colorful scarves - only later when they grew up, did the religious and conservative Sa'ad insist on his sisters donning the hijab. Women were allowed to educate themselves, even seek a professional degree in engineering and work alongside men.
Those were the seventies and eighties. Today in 2008, the Times of India carried a small article of a Pakistani Canadian father killing his daughter for not adhering to the conservative dress code. The early 2000s had the Taliban relegating women to the status of an object. (The Kite Runner gave an insightful account of life in Taliban times). Kashmiri girls today are faced with threats for not covering themselves in a burqa. Tamil actress Khushboo has her effigies burnt when she sensibly advices girls to indulge in pre-marital sex only with protection - who is society kidding when it denies that its girls and boys do not succumb to their lust? Hindus hate Muslims who hate Hindus and Sikhs who hate Christians - we say we're secular, but tell me, how many parents would agree to their Hindu daughter marrying a Muslim.
Was society intolerant earlier or are we getting intolerant now? Only time will tell.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Red as red can be
Dedicated to all victims of abuse irrespective of gender, age, caste, class, religion and country.
Bound by chains of propriety
Of sublime chastity
Of purity
as pristine as the waters of the Gangotri
How could I reveal this blemish on my café skin
That left a mark on my soul as dark as sin
The wrath of the fury incurred
Left me all but shattered
Can you now forgive me
For not opening this cupboard
Of my dark past.
Their fingers still browse my body
Making me feel like some cheap commodity
Up for sale, cheap bargain
Oh, am I really going insane?
I hear the voices whispering and screaming
Telling me they know me inside out
That no one knows every cell in my body as do they
And I should only follow their bidding every way
The white walls here are stark reminders
of how pure childhood innocence used to be
but came those devils with arrogant quivers
to pierce and color me red as red can be.
Do you hear them telling me
The world is not such a good place to be
That mom and dad pretend to love me
Siblings and friends change moods with time
That my love is soon going to be history?
Sarkar Raj
The last movie I saw before the subject of this post was 'Sex and the City' a frivolous story of four girlfriends, four fashionistas in the fashionable New York City driving crazily through the bylanes of life - love, friendship, ambition and family. Frivolous because of the protagonist's and her pretty assistant's (Jennifer Hudson) obsession with labels heightened by Carrie's gift to Hudson of a pretty Louis Vuitton bag. I shouldn't speak further here, because I also suffer from a fetish for bags (beknownst to all close to me) and I was going green with envy. It was a fun movie, though panned by critics for not being as good as the televised series. I, however, beg to differ. To me, it was a fast paced 2 and a half hour finale to the finale of the last season of the show. The icing on the cake was a Rs 70 ticket, unbelievably priced, for the morning show at PVR Cinemas - a theater with the cushiest seats in lush purple. THAT was Paisa Vasool for me.
Now for Sarkar Raj. For some reason, I didn't go with any expectations. No, it did not stem from RGV's catastrophic RGV ke Aag version of the Sholay or burning his fingers with his other movies. Sarkar was a brilliant movie according to my standards - excellent screenplay that also left most dialogues in to be spoken with intense eye expressions and pregnant silences interspersed regularly throughout the movie. The drums uplifting the chant of 'Govinda Govinda' in the background score especially during Shankar Nagre's escape from an attempted assassination or his supervision of Rashid's cold-blooded murder left me gasping in awe. That was RGV at his best. I haven't seen Shiva (Nagarjuna version) at all and I haven't seen Satya completely. I am told that they are probably the best he has offered the cinema world. Sarkar was close to his best.
So I went today morning for a 11 am show at IMAX Wadala to watch Sarkar Raj with my friend Amol. Having already read the plot (I did not anticipate watching the movie) I was aware of the most important turn the movie would take (or so I thought). Amol threatened to reveal the plot and in turn, I blurted out what I knew already in an effort to thwart his attack - turned out he actually was bluffing and I had ruined the thriller for him. :) No, this is not something I do usually, revealing the plot of the movie to spoil it for others is just not my style. So Mole, this is a very public apology for spoiling half the show for you.
So the movie starts with two bungling buffoonish politicians trying to bump off Shankar Nagre (Abhishek Bachhan) who has now officially taken over the mantle of Sarkar Raj and Sarkar himself (Amitabh Bachhan) is reduced to being a mere spectator of the daily ongoings. Vishnu's widow and son live in Nagpur while Avantika (Tanisha) is happily married to Shankar. The irrepressible Chander and a contrastingly reticent Bala form the close coterie around Shankar. A new Nagre, new cronies and new enemies.
As much as RGV denies it, the obvious reference to the disastrous Enron sponsored Dabhol Power Project headed by Rebecca Mark meets Michael Corleone / Uddhav Thackeray cannot be missed. So Aishwarya Rai Bachhan in the role of the ruthlessly ambitious Anita Rajan comes to Sarkar with a proposal of setting up a Rs 200,000 crore (correct me if I quote the wrong figure) power plant in Maharashtra that in its wake would displace 5 villages and a populace of 40,000 people. I was pleasantly surprised that RGV did not bring in environmentalists and a Medha Patkar mimic into the picture. But as it is, the Chief Minister is a mere puppet whose strings are pulled by Sarkar and thereby, any policy decision must be reviewed and passed by Sarkar before the democratic Government can execute it. I could not help but smirk and attest to a line about Nagre - "neta ke bhes mein goonda hai".
So the film takes us through the rigmarole of how Anita Rajan with the help of Hassan Qazi (Govind Namdeo - brilliant as always) takes Shankar Nagre into confidence and manages to seek Sarkar's approval. But the roadblock here would have to gain clearance by Sarkar's political mentor Raosaheb (Dilip Prabhavalkar - one of our most versatile actors - in the screen space he shared with AB, he held his own confidently) and his hot-blooded grandson Shankar Somji (Rajesh Shringarpure in a garb extremely resemblant of Raj Thackeray).
The rest of the story for most part is about how the Shankar tries to gain the confidence of the villagers and convinces them about the power plant while Somji goes about ruining Nagre's dream. Until, that is, Shankar's pregnant wife is blown up by a car bomb just yards away from he was standing. This leads to Sarkar suffering a heart attack, (or as a medico, should I say acute myocardial infarction), Shankar's severing ties with Chander for failing to look into the breach of security and finally an abduction of Somji. There is again an attack on the "soch" or the ideology that the Nagre family preaches and they're left to defend themselves against mounting accusations.
Abhishek is absent for the last 15 minutes of the movie that focusses entirely on AB and Aishwarya. Sarkar is back in action here avenging the death of his closed ones and closing-in on the one person who killed the ones he loved. He finds his family drawn into a web of lies, betrayal, mistrust, estrangement, unrequited loyalty and most of all raw ruthless ambition. The last 10 minutes is a dialogue (rather more of a monologue) where Sarkar explains the ground reality of the precarious situation to a stunned and visibly shaken Anita Rajan.
So what did I think of the movie? Well for starters, Amitabh Bachhan is the weak link for most part until he comes into his own in the last part of the movie. But he excels even in this role. The vulnerability in his face cannot be missed and the myasthenia gravis affected drooping eyelids convey the suffering of a father missing his dead devious son. What is it about AB that makes him a better actor with every movie of his? I am not an AB Bhakt but I think he really shone in this role.
Abhishek left much to be desired. With an extra buccal pad of fat, he was hardly a patch on the earlier gaunt version of Shankar Nagre. Wooden expressions... he could have digressed from the stern frowning face to convey the seriousness of a Don living in continuous fear of assassination. But most of all, it was obvious that he has miles to go before he can achieve the stature that his father has achieved - he could hardly retain screen presence when sharing the frame with the older AB. Abhishek was far more impressive in the earlier Sarkar although he had a much better author-backed hard-hitting role in this movie.
Aishwarya seems to give her best shot when shooting with her marital family. However the catwalking was a lil difficult to stomach for the role of a cold blooded business tycoon. However the tycoon soon mellows to the ideology of the Sarkar and begins to view life differently after heart-to-heart discussions with Shankar. Her portrayal of the fragile Anita in the latter part of the movie was good especially her breakdown after Shankar gets shot, but I think the end depicting her as the new face of Sarkar didn't go down well with me - I thought it was hideous.
What I liked - the cinematography with muted shades and unique angles for the important scenes in the movie. (But even excess dependence on sepia tones was overdone). What kept me rivetted to the movie was the undercurrent theme of the nexus of geo-socio-politics, deceptive rural ignominy and individual upmanship that proved to be the undoing of all involved. I liked the fact that Sarkar himself was back in his throne dictating orders and discovering the gross betrayal of his trust. I liked the scene of Sarkar's final confrontation with Raosaheb and his anointing of the new successor to Shankar. (The scene preceding this was undoubtedly the most engrossing one in the whole reel)
Unfortunately for me, the film failed to keep me glued to its plot for the entire 2 and a half hours. I was shuffling in my seat (which was really comfortable) and looking around distractedly for most part of the movie until the final climax. The direction and story wavered in speed - where Sarkar was fast paced and racy, Sarkar Raj took too long to establish the roots of its plot. I probably would recommend a DVD viewing or a TV viewing. It's probably going to take a lil longer for RGV to rediscover his lost magic. I hope he finds it before he starts to film the purported third movie in the Sarkar trilogy. I will wait for it.
Footnote: For a more revealing post about the actual plot of the movie, you can read Abinav's post in his blog E-Talk. :)
Now for Sarkar Raj. For some reason, I didn't go with any expectations. No, it did not stem from RGV's catastrophic RGV ke Aag version of the Sholay or burning his fingers with his other movies. Sarkar was a brilliant movie according to my standards - excellent screenplay that also left most dialogues in to be spoken with intense eye expressions and pregnant silences interspersed regularly throughout the movie. The drums uplifting the chant of 'Govinda Govinda' in the background score especially during Shankar Nagre's escape from an attempted assassination or his supervision of Rashid's cold-blooded murder left me gasping in awe. That was RGV at his best. I haven't seen Shiva (Nagarjuna version) at all and I haven't seen Satya completely. I am told that they are probably the best he has offered the cinema world. Sarkar was close to his best.
So I went today morning for a 11 am show at IMAX Wadala to watch Sarkar Raj with my friend Amol. Having already read the plot (I did not anticipate watching the movie) I was aware of the most important turn the movie would take (or so I thought). Amol threatened to reveal the plot and in turn, I blurted out what I knew already in an effort to thwart his attack - turned out he actually was bluffing and I had ruined the thriller for him. :) No, this is not something I do usually, revealing the plot of the movie to spoil it for others is just not my style. So Mole, this is a very public apology for spoiling half the show for you.
So the movie starts with two bungling buffoonish politicians trying to bump off Shankar Nagre (Abhishek Bachhan) who has now officially taken over the mantle of Sarkar Raj and Sarkar himself (Amitabh Bachhan) is reduced to being a mere spectator of the daily ongoings. Vishnu's widow and son live in Nagpur while Avantika (Tanisha) is happily married to Shankar. The irrepressible Chander and a contrastingly reticent Bala form the close coterie around Shankar. A new Nagre, new cronies and new enemies.
As much as RGV denies it, the obvious reference to the disastrous Enron sponsored Dabhol Power Project headed by Rebecca Mark meets Michael Corleone / Uddhav Thackeray cannot be missed. So Aishwarya Rai Bachhan in the role of the ruthlessly ambitious Anita Rajan comes to Sarkar with a proposal of setting up a Rs 200,000 crore (correct me if I quote the wrong figure) power plant in Maharashtra that in its wake would displace 5 villages and a populace of 40,000 people. I was pleasantly surprised that RGV did not bring in environmentalists and a Medha Patkar mimic into the picture. But as it is, the Chief Minister is a mere puppet whose strings are pulled by Sarkar and thereby, any policy decision must be reviewed and passed by Sarkar before the democratic Government can execute it. I could not help but smirk and attest to a line about Nagre - "neta ke bhes mein goonda hai".
So the film takes us through the rigmarole of how Anita Rajan with the help of Hassan Qazi (Govind Namdeo - brilliant as always) takes Shankar Nagre into confidence and manages to seek Sarkar's approval. But the roadblock here would have to gain clearance by Sarkar's political mentor Raosaheb (Dilip Prabhavalkar - one of our most versatile actors - in the screen space he shared with AB, he held his own confidently) and his hot-blooded grandson Shankar Somji (Rajesh Shringarpure in a garb extremely resemblant of Raj Thackeray).
The rest of the story for most part is about how the Shankar tries to gain the confidence of the villagers and convinces them about the power plant while Somji goes about ruining Nagre's dream. Until, that is, Shankar's pregnant wife is blown up by a car bomb just yards away from he was standing. This leads to Sarkar suffering a heart attack, (or as a medico, should I say acute myocardial infarction), Shankar's severing ties with Chander for failing to look into the breach of security and finally an abduction of Somji. There is again an attack on the "soch" or the ideology that the Nagre family preaches and they're left to defend themselves against mounting accusations.
Abhishek is absent for the last 15 minutes of the movie that focusses entirely on AB and Aishwarya. Sarkar is back in action here avenging the death of his closed ones and closing-in on the one person who killed the ones he loved. He finds his family drawn into a web of lies, betrayal, mistrust, estrangement, unrequited loyalty and most of all raw ruthless ambition. The last 10 minutes is a dialogue (rather more of a monologue) where Sarkar explains the ground reality of the precarious situation to a stunned and visibly shaken Anita Rajan.
So what did I think of the movie? Well for starters, Amitabh Bachhan is the weak link for most part until he comes into his own in the last part of the movie. But he excels even in this role. The vulnerability in his face cannot be missed and the myasthenia gravis affected drooping eyelids convey the suffering of a father missing his dead devious son. What is it about AB that makes him a better actor with every movie of his? I am not an AB Bhakt but I think he really shone in this role.
Abhishek left much to be desired. With an extra buccal pad of fat, he was hardly a patch on the earlier gaunt version of Shankar Nagre. Wooden expressions... he could have digressed from the stern frowning face to convey the seriousness of a Don living in continuous fear of assassination. But most of all, it was obvious that he has miles to go before he can achieve the stature that his father has achieved - he could hardly retain screen presence when sharing the frame with the older AB. Abhishek was far more impressive in the earlier Sarkar although he had a much better author-backed hard-hitting role in this movie.
Aishwarya seems to give her best shot when shooting with her marital family. However the catwalking was a lil difficult to stomach for the role of a cold blooded business tycoon. However the tycoon soon mellows to the ideology of the Sarkar and begins to view life differently after heart-to-heart discussions with Shankar. Her portrayal of the fragile Anita in the latter part of the movie was good especially her breakdown after Shankar gets shot, but I think the end depicting her as the new face of Sarkar didn't go down well with me - I thought it was hideous.
What I liked - the cinematography with muted shades and unique angles for the important scenes in the movie. (But even excess dependence on sepia tones was overdone). What kept me rivetted to the movie was the undercurrent theme of the nexus of geo-socio-politics, deceptive rural ignominy and individual upmanship that proved to be the undoing of all involved. I liked the fact that Sarkar himself was back in his throne dictating orders and discovering the gross betrayal of his trust. I liked the scene of Sarkar's final confrontation with Raosaheb and his anointing of the new successor to Shankar. (The scene preceding this was undoubtedly the most engrossing one in the whole reel)
Unfortunately for me, the film failed to keep me glued to its plot for the entire 2 and a half hours. I was shuffling in my seat (which was really comfortable) and looking around distractedly for most part of the movie until the final climax. The direction and story wavered in speed - where Sarkar was fast paced and racy, Sarkar Raj took too long to establish the roots of its plot. I probably would recommend a DVD viewing or a TV viewing. It's probably going to take a lil longer for RGV to rediscover his lost magic. I hope he finds it before he starts to film the purported third movie in the Sarkar trilogy. I will wait for it.
Footnote: For a more revealing post about the actual plot of the movie, you can read Abinav's post in his blog E-Talk. :)
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Dotted bricks
"The brick walls are there for a reason. The brick walls are not there to keep us out; the brick walls are there to give us a chance to show how badly we want something. The brick walls are there to stop the people who don't want it badly enough. They are there to stop the other people!" - from The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch, Professor of Computer Science, Human Computer Interaction and Design at Carnegic Mellon University on September 18, 2007.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ji5_MqicxSo
"Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life." - Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple Computer and of Pixar Animation Studios, delivered on June 12, 2005 while addressing graduating students of Stanford University.
"Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish." - From Steve Jobs' same speech but originally from Stewart Brand's final issue of The Whole Earth Catalog.
http://dreamtopia.blogspot.com/
Monday, June 16, 2008
Bai
I don't have a hero. There is no one person in the world who singularly inspires me to reach for greater heights. That probably pretty much rules out my already-remote chances of winning a beauty pageant. I respect Mother Teresa but not convincingly enough for the judges to crown me Miss Beauty with Brains.
I have heroes. Many of them. Some of them famous, some of them averse to fame, some of them just common people. I look for inspiration in those around me and in those who're around those around me. I find inspiration in mundane chores (like I realized about finding the right balance while cooking), polite small talk that sometimes ventures out of the fence of discussing the unpredictability of the weather, in the old woman who until recently came home everyday irrespective of scorching, biting cold or stormy weather for 21 years to keep our house clean, was a second hand to my mom and who I fondly call 'Bai' while looking up to her as my surrogate paternal grandmother.
An extremely capable, and agile multi-tasker, my Bai (her real name is Laxmi) is the epitome of steadfastness or obstinacy depending on the way you look at it. She supports my mother blindly while looking disapprovingly at my father's rebukes of my mom (even if he is justified). It's a running joke in the family as to how she is my father's second mother-in-law when she reports his mischief to my mom and asks for the culprit rhetorically when my dad messes up with the grocery lists. Despite being dependent on her children, she has saved a lot of self-respect for herself - that makes her support her daugher-in-law against her wayward son and that alienates her from her close ones who try to reason out and criticize her for her own good. But I love her for her high self-esteem. Of very diminutive build, she walks with her head held high. Bai pampers me as if I were her own grandchild, she knows what I like and what I dislike more than my dad does - like knowing how much froth I like over my coffee and how I like my lunch plate to be.
Her husband left her for another woman, fathered children with her too and never really returned. But Bai (albeit never forgiving him) single handedly took family matters in her hand and supported her daughters and their families too. (It's a different story that it was usually my family supporting them, but she atleast had the courage and humility to ask for help without ever feeling inferior about it).
That's what she taught me - I realize this after so many years - to take help when you really need it and not feel small about it. I didn't use this lesson when I should have, but henceforth I will.
She has taught me what dignity of labour actually means.
Bai was my mother's right hand. Our house would run like clockwork when she was around and the days she didn't show up, it would be utter pandemonium in the mornings. I know in saying this, I speak for most of our pampered Indian households who're so used to the benefits of gross economic disparity. Looking back, I remember my mother often dreaded the day when Bai would retire. Bai was already a grandmother when she joined our household in 1986. Over the past few years, her own health was failing her. She gave up on many of her other jobs and stuck to our home eventually. But age has its own way of creeping up and enforcing rest. So repeated attacks of arthritides prompted mom to offer bai long-delayed VRS with assured monthly pension and other benefits. She was a great-grandmother when she retired.
We wondered how we would manage without her, though Bai had long arranged for her daughter and grand-daughter to take over; yet, it would never be the same as it was with her and it really isn't. The old has given way to the new.
And what did I learn - No one is indispensable. No one at all.
I have heroes. Many of them. Some of them famous, some of them averse to fame, some of them just common people. I look for inspiration in those around me and in those who're around those around me. I find inspiration in mundane chores (like I realized about finding the right balance while cooking), polite small talk that sometimes ventures out of the fence of discussing the unpredictability of the weather, in the old woman who until recently came home everyday irrespective of scorching, biting cold or stormy weather for 21 years to keep our house clean, was a second hand to my mom and who I fondly call 'Bai' while looking up to her as my surrogate paternal grandmother.
An extremely capable, and agile multi-tasker, my Bai (her real name is Laxmi) is the epitome of steadfastness or obstinacy depending on the way you look at it. She supports my mother blindly while looking disapprovingly at my father's rebukes of my mom (even if he is justified). It's a running joke in the family as to how she is my father's second mother-in-law when she reports his mischief to my mom and asks for the culprit rhetorically when my dad messes up with the grocery lists. Despite being dependent on her children, she has saved a lot of self-respect for herself - that makes her support her daugher-in-law against her wayward son and that alienates her from her close ones who try to reason out and criticize her for her own good. But I love her for her high self-esteem. Of very diminutive build, she walks with her head held high. Bai pampers me as if I were her own grandchild, she knows what I like and what I dislike more than my dad does - like knowing how much froth I like over my coffee and how I like my lunch plate to be.
Her husband left her for another woman, fathered children with her too and never really returned. But Bai (albeit never forgiving him) single handedly took family matters in her hand and supported her daughters and their families too. (It's a different story that it was usually my family supporting them, but she atleast had the courage and humility to ask for help without ever feeling inferior about it).
That's what she taught me - I realize this after so many years - to take help when you really need it and not feel small about it. I didn't use this lesson when I should have, but henceforth I will.
She has taught me what dignity of labour actually means.
Bai was my mother's right hand. Our house would run like clockwork when she was around and the days she didn't show up, it would be utter pandemonium in the mornings. I know in saying this, I speak for most of our pampered Indian households who're so used to the benefits of gross economic disparity. Looking back, I remember my mother often dreaded the day when Bai would retire. Bai was already a grandmother when she joined our household in 1986. Over the past few years, her own health was failing her. She gave up on many of her other jobs and stuck to our home eventually. But age has its own way of creeping up and enforcing rest. So repeated attacks of arthritides prompted mom to offer bai long-delayed VRS with assured monthly pension and other benefits. She was a great-grandmother when she retired.
We wondered how we would manage without her, though Bai had long arranged for her daughter and grand-daughter to take over; yet, it would never be the same as it was with her and it really isn't. The old has given way to the new.
And what did I learn - No one is indispensable. No one at all.
Kitchen Cuttings
Since last week, I've resumed my tryst with the culinary arts.
I am, have and will always be a food fanatic. A complete foodie at heart, I love all kinds of cuisines that dish out vegetarian plates and consume all my senses alike. My dad is a connoisseur of food, my mom is an excellent cook and my sister R - a combination of both and therefore my favorite chef. We have a 8 yr difference in our ages and she was pretty much a surrogate mom for me. (scolding me more than my mom ever did... but pampering me just as much :) ) I think R started experimenting in the kitchen after she finished school and entered junior college that gave her ample time to spend mastering the splendid and lifesaving art of cooking. Moreover, it was around this time that we experience a Cable TV invasion into our lives and on Sunday 12:00 noons we succumbed to the charms of the ever-smiling Sanjeev Kapoor. Scribbling notes in her book, my sister would pay close attention to his instructions and revise it with a recap of the recipe.
Undaunted by the levels of difficulty of his recipes, R set about to treat our taste buds to exotic and exotically-prepared simple dishes. Of course, when she decided to venture on her own, I was a ready guinea pig - Always! One of my all time favorites is the Masala Papad that she used to make - I remember being in awe of her just because of that dish which consists of garnishing fried papad with tomatoes, onions, red chilli powder, salt and a whole lot of coriander. Though now I realize that it is so simple to make, yet I relish the memories of her cooking even today.
So my point being, with R and my mom around treating me to yummy food all the time, I never really had to set foot into the kitchen. And to make things worse, medical school hardly gave me time to breathe. So till I was 24, I had never cooked - I don't consider making Maggi, coffee and toasting bread as cooking.
Finally when it was time to leave home, I realized that I couldn't survive without good food. So I donned my kitchen apron and entered the kitchen amidst much fanfare (with my mom and dad excitedly watching over my initial attempts). I think I first learnt to keep rice in the cooker, then make tea, make dal and finally bhindi (okra/lady's fingers) and beans (something that I am not to fond of, but since it was really simple it became one of my favorites). Spurred by the success stories, I decided to attempt more complex procedures like making "sheera" and a yummy rice dish called Baoli Handi.
But things happened over the last one year that broke my momentum in the cooking spree. So now, after exactly a year, I entered the kitchen again - this time with more enthusiasm and energy than before. I started with the seemingly ostentatious but absolutely simple "Baoli Handi". It's a Sanjeev Kapoor recipe that my mom recommended last year - combines rice, moong dal (split green gram), soya chunks and a whole lot of vegetables. It is extremely nutritious (when you cook rice with dal in the same dish - it completes the amino acid profile of the dal), spares the need for preparing a side-dish (can easily have it with simple plain dahi) and most of all makes for a sumptuous meal. Maybe the next time I make it, I'll post the recipe along with a picture of the dish (inspired by my sister).
Needless to say, the dish was a hit with everyone at home! Universal unanimous affirmative praise - including my patti (grandmom) who prefers sattvic food - without potatoes, onion and garlic. This was nearly sattvic - it did have lots of aloo (potato) in it.
Encouraged by this reaction, I decided to don the chef's invisible cap and took over the reins of my mother's kitchen. I've been cooking both meals for the last 4 days now and I can proudly say that I'm lovin it! I think I've discovered a new hobby in cooking. I love to cut and chop vegetables, I love the spluttering and crackling of mustard and jeera (cumin seeds), I love to sprinkle red chilli powder and yellow turmeric to give it rich colour, I love the aroma imparted by the addition of dhania-jeera powder and the tangy taste of aamchur powder and finally I absolutely love the green garnish of a sprig of coriander leaves.
I always resisted kitchen chores, especially the actual task of standing in the sauna-like kitchen and stirring the dal to completion. Subconsciously, I also think, I was scared of not living up to the high standards set my mom and sis. And peeking even deeper into the subconscious, I mistook 'refusing to cook' as a sign of female emancipation! (I know it sounds ridiculous, but I think I have to admit it - at the same time, I also feel that cooking is a science that both men and women should learn for their own good).
Today, I am grateful to myself that I decided to take the ladle and spoon in my hand and learn to create edible magic from a few raw foods. I honestly feel like a magician when I finish cooking and my dad comes with a bear hug and wishes wistfully that he could dress me up in diamonds. (Of course, my dad is known to exaggerate when it especially comes to his younger daughter; I single myself out because my sister is absolutely brilliant when it comes to serving us a meal fit for kings on a steel platter).
Cooking is not just about enabling us to survive. It indulges the senses, teaches us proportions and gives us an important life lesson - to learn to strike the right balance in life so that we can enjoy every morsel and every minute with equal relish.
I am, have and will always be a food fanatic. A complete foodie at heart, I love all kinds of cuisines that dish out vegetarian plates and consume all my senses alike. My dad is a connoisseur of food, my mom is an excellent cook and my sister R - a combination of both and therefore my favorite chef. We have a 8 yr difference in our ages and she was pretty much a surrogate mom for me. (scolding me more than my mom ever did... but pampering me just as much :) ) I think R started experimenting in the kitchen after she finished school and entered junior college that gave her ample time to spend mastering the splendid and lifesaving art of cooking. Moreover, it was around this time that we experience a Cable TV invasion into our lives and on Sunday 12:00 noons we succumbed to the charms of the ever-smiling Sanjeev Kapoor. Scribbling notes in her book, my sister would pay close attention to his instructions and revise it with a recap of the recipe.
Undaunted by the levels of difficulty of his recipes, R set about to treat our taste buds to exotic and exotically-prepared simple dishes. Of course, when she decided to venture on her own, I was a ready guinea pig - Always! One of my all time favorites is the Masala Papad that she used to make - I remember being in awe of her just because of that dish which consists of garnishing fried papad with tomatoes, onions, red chilli powder, salt and a whole lot of coriander. Though now I realize that it is so simple to make, yet I relish the memories of her cooking even today.
So my point being, with R and my mom around treating me to yummy food all the time, I never really had to set foot into the kitchen. And to make things worse, medical school hardly gave me time to breathe. So till I was 24, I had never cooked - I don't consider making Maggi, coffee and toasting bread as cooking.
Finally when it was time to leave home, I realized that I couldn't survive without good food. So I donned my kitchen apron and entered the kitchen amidst much fanfare (with my mom and dad excitedly watching over my initial attempts). I think I first learnt to keep rice in the cooker, then make tea, make dal and finally bhindi (okra/lady's fingers) and beans (something that I am not to fond of, but since it was really simple it became one of my favorites). Spurred by the success stories, I decided to attempt more complex procedures like making "sheera" and a yummy rice dish called Baoli Handi.
But things happened over the last one year that broke my momentum in the cooking spree. So now, after exactly a year, I entered the kitchen again - this time with more enthusiasm and energy than before. I started with the seemingly ostentatious but absolutely simple "Baoli Handi". It's a Sanjeev Kapoor recipe that my mom recommended last year - combines rice, moong dal (split green gram), soya chunks and a whole lot of vegetables. It is extremely nutritious (when you cook rice with dal in the same dish - it completes the amino acid profile of the dal), spares the need for preparing a side-dish (can easily have it with simple plain dahi) and most of all makes for a sumptuous meal. Maybe the next time I make it, I'll post the recipe along with a picture of the dish (inspired by my sister).
Needless to say, the dish was a hit with everyone at home! Universal unanimous affirmative praise - including my patti (grandmom) who prefers sattvic food - without potatoes, onion and garlic. This was nearly sattvic - it did have lots of aloo (potato) in it.
Encouraged by this reaction, I decided to don the chef's invisible cap and took over the reins of my mother's kitchen. I've been cooking both meals for the last 4 days now and I can proudly say that I'm lovin it! I think I've discovered a new hobby in cooking. I love to cut and chop vegetables, I love the spluttering and crackling of mustard and jeera (cumin seeds), I love to sprinkle red chilli powder and yellow turmeric to give it rich colour, I love the aroma imparted by the addition of dhania-jeera powder and the tangy taste of aamchur powder and finally I absolutely love the green garnish of a sprig of coriander leaves.
I always resisted kitchen chores, especially the actual task of standing in the sauna-like kitchen and stirring the dal to completion. Subconsciously, I also think, I was scared of not living up to the high standards set my mom and sis. And peeking even deeper into the subconscious, I mistook 'refusing to cook' as a sign of female emancipation! (I know it sounds ridiculous, but I think I have to admit it - at the same time, I also feel that cooking is a science that both men and women should learn for their own good).
Today, I am grateful to myself that I decided to take the ladle and spoon in my hand and learn to create edible magic from a few raw foods. I honestly feel like a magician when I finish cooking and my dad comes with a bear hug and wishes wistfully that he could dress me up in diamonds. (Of course, my dad is known to exaggerate when it especially comes to his younger daughter; I single myself out because my sister is absolutely brilliant when it comes to serving us a meal fit for kings on a steel platter).
Cooking is not just about enabling us to survive. It indulges the senses, teaches us proportions and gives us an important life lesson - to learn to strike the right balance in life so that we can enjoy every morsel and every minute with equal relish.
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