Don't sleep

She died. The girl who was gangraped in Delhi earlier this month. It’s a bit of a mouthful, but something in me balks at calling her Amanat or Nirbhaya or whatever name the media has chosen over the last few days. I don’t need to know her name and I don’t need a nickname. If one is too lazy to spell out who she is, one shouldn’t even be talking about her. I also can’t bear the hollow thoughtlessness of calling her India’s Daughter – if at all we must be viewed as someone's daughters or sisters, should that not apply to all of us equally? And Delhi’s Braveheart – isn’t the city full of brave people – men and women – who have faced crime, cruelty, injustice, terror? Frankly, isn’t every citizen of this country brave simply by virtue of living in it and dealing with its sometimes amusing but often cruel insanity? The people of Jammu and Kashmir, Manipur, Chhattisgarh, who see violence every single day; the people who live on the streets, who try so hard to make some kind of a living - are they less brave because they’re not on the news or trending on Twitter? Since this girl's story, we know of five or six more girls across India who were raped, even gangraped, and not one of them has been called a braveheart or been so readily "adopted" by the country – why? 

Yes, something about this girl’s story touched all of us. It could be the sheer brutality of the attack on her, the fact that it was not that late at night and she was not alone, the fact that the bus was going through South Delhi and past several police checkposts. But it could also be the fact that the media chose to highlight this story and so it seemed worse than any of the others. We don’t know what finally pushed us over the edge but we’ve been badly shaken and we all hope that this horrifying incident and its aftermath will lead to social and legal changes that will prevent such monstrous crimes from ever being committed again. Yes, it's a good thing that we were shaken. But again, I hesitate to subscribe to the popular media-sponsored laziness of calling this girl a hero, a martyr, a shaheed. She did not die for a cause; she died because she was so badly injured that she could not be saved. I also don’t think calls for a state funeral, the national flag flying at half-mast, or a bravery award are at all rational. Because by falling for such tokenism, we will be mistaking her trauma for bravery and patriotism, and we will be helping those in power absolve themselves of any further responsibility.

No, we don’t need to know her name or any personal details about her. We don't need to know anecdotes about her as a daughter, sister, granddaughter, niece, or friend. Let’s give her family and friends space and privacy to mourn their loss. For us, her story has been a wake-up call, and the best way to fight – for her, for those who’ve felt violated in any way, for those who feel the fear of being violated – is to not be lazy and not go back to sleep.

I've been lucky...so far

I’m a woman who lives in Delhi, who uses public transport on a daily basis. Who, till 2008, commuted between Delhi and Gurgaon for 5 years – at a time when public transport to and from Gurgaon consisted mainly of Haryana Roadways buses that were usually so crowded that one worried about falling out and the more frequent but very shady call-centre vans driven illegally and rashly. There was no metro and regular DTC buses were few and far between. So it was a choice between standing with people pressing in on all sides (and me approximately at the height of their armpits) and sitting in the world’s most terrifying contraption. In desperate moments, I have stupidly taken these buses and vans as late as 11 pm, when I should have just called my mother and braved her panicked yelling.  I remember being huddled in my tiny amount of space with my arms folded tightly across my chest, bag pulled up to my chin, staring straight ahead, not making eye contact with anyone. I remember being felt up, groped, "innocently" brushed past, stared at almost daily. I remember telling off the men in question, and their argument that it was a crowded bus, not my private car, so I should not expect space. I remember insincere apologies delivered with a leer. I do also remember many nice, helpful people (women and men) who gave me their seat, who held my bag for me, who argued for the women’s seats to actually be used by women. And today, I think I have been lucky.

Once I moved out of Gurgaon, I swore never to take those buses or vans again, and I haven’t. But the fear has not gone away. I still hesitate to argue with an auto-rickshaw driver who asks for more money at the end of my journey – because he has dropped me home and knows where I live. I think twice before telling my office cab driver to drive a bit more carefully – because I am the last person to be dropped back on my route. Even when I do argue, as is my instinct, I later regret it and thank someone up there that nothing happened. I have been lucky. But I am constantly afraid that my luck will run out. And that fear, that gnawing, ever-present fear, is what makes India no country for women. 

Farewell, magician

When I heard that Yash Chopra had died, among the many thoughts in my head was a line from the title song of Om Shanti Om – "Roya tha pyaar uski maut par". It came to me so suddenly and so clearly that I felt like it could have been written for him. Love wept when he died.

And so did I. I don’t think I’ve ever cried about the death of a movie director before; movies, especially in Bollywood, are usually spoken of in terms of the actors, so our association with directors is never as strong. But this man changed that. He became a brand, he changed the way we see human relationships, and he did it in such style. Busting the stereotype that sweeping romance and beautiful chiffon-clad women dancing in the Alps could only mean superficial, feel-good candyfloss, Yash Chopra dared, in the 1990s, to make Lamhe, with its shades of incest; and Darr, which had us all simultaneously repulsed by, and somehow, sympathetic to, an obsessive psychopathic lover. He made Veer-Zaara (one of my favourite movies), about the quietly selfless love between a Hindu Indian Air Force officer and a Pakistani Muslim – and he made it with no jingoism and a genuine appreciation of both countries and the similarities between their cultures. And these are just movies from my generation. For decades before, he’d been taking risks, making movies about illegitimacy, infidelity, bigamy, communal riots, economic disparity. He used every mainstream Bollywood cliché in the book to tell us the most non-clichéd stories about human nature. About what that one emotion, love, can do to us, what it can make us do. Not just the king of romance, then, but a progressive, unconventional film-maker.

As a producer too, Yash Chopra was a visionary who constantly encouraged new talent, whether in front of the camera or behind it. Yes there were many insufferable disasters from Yash Raj Films, such as Neal n Nikki, Pyaar Impossible, Jhoom Barabar Jhoom, Ishaqzaade. But there were also Chak De! India, Band Baaja Baaraat, Rocket Singh: Salesman of the Year, Saathiya, Hum Tum. And no superlative will ever be enough to describe Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, a movie that released 17 years ago and is still running at a theatre in Mumbai. But whether the films worked or not, no one could accuse Yash Chopra of not trying to do different things and work with different people. No one could accuse this 80-year-old of not moving with the times.

By the time I write this, every paper, every news channel will have said it all – an era, an icon, an institution, a legend. But for me, for anyone who loves movies and believes that they make the world a better place, he was, above all, a guy with a lot of love to give.

Movie Review: English Vinglish is heartwarming

You can teach a person anything except to be sensitive to other people’s feelings.

This one line, spoken in Hindi to a Frenchman who didn’t understand a word but still understood everything, is the central idea of English Vinglish. Debutante director Gauri Shinde uses a light, gently humorous touch to deliver a feel-good tearjerker that also happens to mark Sridevi’s return to films after 15 years. And what a classy return. As Pune-based Shashi Godbole - sheltered wife, mother of two, and maker/caterer of fantastic laddoos - Sridevi is graceful, dignified, and so, so endearing. It is impossible not to feel for Shashi when her husband and children repeatedly make fun of her for not knowing English. When her daughter says she doesn’t want Shashi to come to her school to pick up her report card because it would be embarrassing. When, on her first visit abroad (she travels alone to New York for her niece’s wedding; the husband and kids join her later), she needs to show the immigration officer a letter stating the purpose of her visit because she can’t remember the answer her husband taught her. When she breaks down after being yelled at by the Starbucks staff because she has trouble placing her order and is completely flustered by the unknown choices flung at her: still or sparkling water? Americano, cappuccino, latte? Bagel, wrap, sandwich?

Every time her husband belittles her and her work, every time her daughter snorts derisively at something she says, even when it makes perfect sense, it raises the question – why this obsession with English? Why is it necessary for everyone to speak English in order to be respected? Sure, if Shashi had the kind of job that required her to speak English, it would be a different story. But she doesn’t. And she is clearly an intelligent woman with the ability to make a go of things, she has her own thriving business - however little it may earn compared to her husband’s job - and she is a good, kind person who showers everyone around her with love. I’d call that pretty damn successful, wouldn’t you?

But years of ridicule from her husband and kids have chipped away at her sense of self-worth, and, bruised by the Starbucks incident, she decides to secretly sign up for English language classes in NY (her younger niece does find out, but keeps the secret and helps Shashi however she can). And here, special mention must be made of the script and direction - there is such good humour in the classroom scenes that one can’t help but smile even though her classmates are exactly the stereotypes expected in an American English language class – including a Paki cabbie (named Salman Khan, no less) who’s all about the bhai-bhai spirit and hitting on the pretty, single Chinese hairstylist; a Tam techie who misses idlis and his mother in that order and thinks the AIEOU written on the blackboard is Aiyyo; and a soulful French chef, Laurent. Through these classes, with the help of her new and very supportive friends and the romantic attentions of Laurent, Shashi learns to feel good about herself, to love herself again. Because the problem is not just the dismissive belittling of her job and her lack of English skills, it’s her feeling unloved, unappreciated, and unequal in her marriage. And again, the direction is so deft that one doesn’t even hate the husband. He is insensitive to how his barbs hurt her, but it somehow never feels intentional. He’s too busy to chat when she excitedly calls him at work to tell him about her massive number of laddoo orders for the day, but he will proudly tell everyone that she makes the best laddoos in India. When she tells him that people in the US call her an entrepreneur (a word she has proudly practised all the way home from class), his gentle teasing may not be what's called for right then, but it is clearly without malice.

For me, then, English Vinglish is not about Shashi learning English at all. The language part is just the backdrop to a larger, more universal story about how we treat people, even those we love; how we don’t realize that everyone has something to offer; and how we see ourselves through the eyes of those we love and whose love we crave, instead of just being comfortable with who we are. Shashi’s emotional speech at her niece’s wedding had me in tears because even though I’m not married and I've never had her language problems, I could still relate to how she did not feel loved, respected, or equal in her marriage.

Yes, the plot is a tad thin and stretches towards the end, moving along a predictable path. Yes, there are some amusingly jingoistic one-liners that seem solely meant to generate audience applause (which they did successfully) - especially at the visa interview and the airport (Amitabh Bachchan's hilarious special appearance is an absolute treat). Even the camerawork is a bit shaky at times, taking away from key moments that set up the conflict. And yes, the conclusion is a tad too warm and fuzzy to feel realistic. But ultimately, English Vinglish is a quietly strong statement about love, respect, and self-respect. And one that'll stay with you.

Don't mock, they'll block

Dear Indian Government,

I’m a little confused by your recent behaviour. The riots in Assam, the attacks on northeastern Indians in other parts of the country, the rumours of more planned attacks, the fear and panic among the people – all really disturbing and horrible. But your response? Myopic at best, dictatorial at worst. Blocking online content that is genuinely incendiary and arresting the people behind it is perfectly justified – democracy is not code for anarchy, after all. But restricting communication in general? Hello again, 1975.

Speaking of history, whom/what did you blame in 1947, 1984, 1992-3? Or did the entire world collectively hallucinate about those riots?

I think it all boils down to one simple fact – debate does not equal sedition. And if users want to discuss political issues on Twitter, then they should be encouraged to (I know I’d rather read that than what Amitabh’s grandkid ate last night, but maybe that’s just me). And blocking hashtags of relevant words amounts to online dictatorship, whichever way you slice it. Not exactly the reputation you want if you’re trying to portray yourself as the next superpower.

Technology is not the enemy (and if you knew me, you’d know that I must feel really strongly about this whole thing to say that). The people who misuse it are. Technology is just the medium to spread ideas, and it is up to us what ideas we choose to spread. I know this is very basic and any 5 year old knows this, but sometimes, I’m not sure about you guys. Instead of blaming technology and restricting its use, why not use it yourselves? To spread facts, dispel rumours, and prevent panic from going viral? Send texts to tell users what’s really going on, and give helpline information in case they witness something unlawful. Set up official social networking accounts that don’t just give image-building trivia like which random school/employment programme/power plant the PM inaugurated today, or whose death he condoled (which is what the official account of PMOIndia on Twitter does), but actually engage with users on issues that matter. If you did that, maybe you wouldn’t have to worry about blocking so many parody accounts, as you’re currently busy doing, because people would respect you without being forced to.

Oh, and while on banning lampoons, please stop using the excuse of “trying to prevent riots” when basically you’re just upset that you’re made fun of in public. Apart from the fact that such childishness doesn’t befit India's 65 years, your excuse is unconvincing and makes us want to make more fun. And really, with all the riots (and rumours thereof), rape, murder, poverty, lack of education, and so much else that’s wrong with this country, do you really want to be that bad cop who takes away a teeny bit of fun from your citizens?

Sincerely,

Swivelchair Critic (since my office doesn't have the nice, big, squishy armchairs).

But the fighter still remains

Born to poor fieldworkers in Manipur, a state in northeastern India that is ridden with insurgency. Married, mother of two. In a country that treats its women like dirt, and whose love of sport really only extends to men’s cricket. Men’s hockey and football come a distant second and third. Everything else can go to hell. And yet, despite ticking off pretty much every minority box (heh) possible, MC Mary Kom has fought and fought, all the way to an Olympic quarterfinal in boxing. This is the first time women’s boxing has been included in the Olympics, and Mary Kom is the only Indian in the ring. That’s a hell of a lot to have achieved already. And a hell of a lot of labels. Ordinarily I would balk at calling someone a woman boxer and not just a boxer. Ordinarily, I would hesitate to mention someone’s personal life or family background when talking about their sporting achievements. But Mary Kom’s achievements are far from ordinary, especially when seen in the context of her circumstances.

This is not a biography of the boxer – for that there’s Wikipedia. This is more about the shackles that bind women and what Mary Kom’s achievements could mean for Manipur, for India, for its sporting culture (or lack thereof), and for its women – should India choose to let it make a difference. Because we are famous for showering our champions with monetary gifts when they return from a tournament – and promptly forgetting they exist. And forgetting that with the right opportunity, encouragement, facilities, and incentive, we could have many more champions, and many of them women. I read somewhere that in terms of the population to gold medal ratio, India is the worst-ranked country in the world. Not exactly a record to be proud of. And given all that Mary Kom has done for her country (despite the fact that many better-educated Indians think her home state is part of China, and the way northeastern Indians are treated elsewhere in the country, it may as well be), it shouldn’t be so hard for her to get help from her government to acquire land for the boxing institute she wants to set up. But darling, yeh hai India. And so she puts her own money into it. And because it’s in Manipur, who cares?

Look, I’m not an athlete of any kind. I know only the barest basics of boxing. Nor am I in a position to step in and fill the government’s shoes in terms of doing what needs to be done. I’m just a layperson who happens to care, with an opinion and the means to air it. And I know that the people who read my blog are the kind of people who already know all this stuff, but maybe, just maybe, some random readers will get interested and tune in this evening (6:30 pm IST) to watch the quarterfinal. And maybe, if more bloggers (with a wider audience) can get more readers to watch, and if the viewership numbers go up, it will make a difference. Naively optimistic, but what else can I do? Meanwhile, Kom on Mary! 

I wrote a Facebook update, now I’m a writer!

Some time ago, I was talking to a friend of mine about writing, and she said “You know, now with Facebook and Twitter and blogs, everyone is sort of a writer”. And as someone who works in publishing, I was not pleased by that. Is it that easy to become a writer now? Don’t you have to at least be published/in the process of being published? By a real publishing house? This is a bit like that Friends episode in which Rachel’s sister calls herself an interior decorator because she decorated their dad’s office! I mean, I’m an editor (and let’s not even go into all the actual writing that comes with that territory), I have a blog, but I don’t call myself a writer, so how dare they?

But then, I started thinking. Isn’t this a good thing? The democratization of a craft that was earlier the preserve of just a few? And well, writing is a mode of communication, after all, which is what the internet is all about. Of course, if we were to count all of this as writing, then we must admit there is a marked drop in the quality thereof, but that is the case with most things that go mass.

Maybe we should have another name for it. We’ve got blogging, which works fine. For the others, how about Social Netwriting? Of course, that implies that these writers only write socially, which brings me to another question: whom does one write for? Is it fair to assume that everyone wants to be heard, liked, and retweeted, and is generally hungry for attention and approval? While that may be true for some, it can’t possibly be the same for everyone, right? I sometimes “write” to spread awareness about something, sometimes to vent steam about something, sometimes to wish someone a happy birthday, and sometimes, just because I heard/read/thought of something interesting or funny and I wanted to share it - and due to the leaps in technology, I can share it with several people at once.

And this question of readership and validation through numbers. Does it matter if the only people reading your writing are your friends? Should it matter? Should it matter how many “likes” you get on an update, how many comments on a blog post, how many retweets? Are you a writer if no one reads you?

Nope, I’m not convinced. Because when people ask what you do, they do mean professionally, not in terms of “hobbies”. So to me, “I’m a writer” means “I’m published or going to be”, not “I tweet 600 times a day”.

On eating out: why some restaurants can have my heart

I love small, independent ideas. I’m the kind of person who’d watch an indie “arty” movie just because it’s been shunted aside at theatres to give more visibility to a blockbuster that’s already made most of its money back. And if I like it, I’ll go watch it again, and will plug it relentlessly to family and friends, just to help it along in my own tiny way. Call it activism, call it joblessness – but I get a kick out of seeing a David top, or at least equal, a Goliath. And no, I’m not against Goliaths at all (I confess, I watch every blockbuster movie too – but only after I’ve seen the arty movie). There’s just something comforting about the fact that a good idea can win even without hype and marketing and loud fanfare. Which is why Delhi’s recent growth in restaurant culture is a source of comfort and joy to me (and yes, okay, the happy tummy isn’t complaining either).

In the last couple of years, Delhi has seen a multitude of new restaurants –  mostly misses, it’s true – but some absolute gems as well. In particular, Yeti (Hauz Khas Village) and Chez Nini (Meherchand Market) top my list of repeat-value places. Yeti, with its Nepali-Tibetan focus, is a lovely, unpretentious establishment that has quietly made a name for itself over the last year. It not only serves the best momos I’ve had in Delhi, but also stars excellent Bhutanese ema dachi, and makes eating goat lungs a very pleasurable experience. All this while making one feel like they’re sitting in the land of mountain kingdoms, what with the thangkas and mandalas on the walls and the strains of Tibetan chants in the background. And the biggest win for me – the quick, cheerful, and efficient service.

Chez Nini, on the other hand, serves up homestyle, hearty Canadian-French food under a gorgeous lit-up tree canopy – which instantly takes me back to the Faraway Tree, and who wouldn’t want that? The food is truly soul-satisfying, from the rich poutine to the bacon-wrapped dates with parmesan, to the tender duck legs. And I could write a poem about the desserts. I’ve never much cared for carrot cake because I’ve found it too dry, but this one made me want to cry for joy. The chocolate caramel tart is another winner, and the red velvet cupcake is, to quote a Friends reference, a little piece of heaven. But even more than the food, it’s the service that has won my heart – super-quick, warm, and always cheerful. The proprietor, Nira Singh, is friendly and honest – she came round to chat with me while my companion was outside smoking, and offered advice about what dishes to avoid because that day’s batch wasn’t up to scratch. Who does that anymore?

And this is the reason I go back to these places. There’s no shortage of good food in Delhi, but to consistently get such good food with so much love and attention to detail – that’s rare. Small restaurants they may be, but they have big hearts. 

Hugo makes me grateful for cinema

It’s finally here. After months of negotiations and delay, Martin Scorsese’s Hugo was finally released in India this past weekend. Despite its outstanding reviews and slew of awards, it hasn’t done too well at the box office, and producers felt that releasing it in India wouldn’t be commercially viable. After incessant online campaigns, petitions, and outraged newspaper articles, India finally got Hugo, albeit with limited show timings (only two or three in all of Delhi). Obviously, I HAD to go watch it before it was pulled out of theatres completely. So I braved the pain from my recent wisdom tooth extractions and went. Was Hugo worth the effort? Absolutely, definitely, totally, completely.

Hugo is, in a word, magic. Set in Paris of the early 1930s, the film takes us into the world of Hugo, a young orphan who lives in the train station and winds the station clocks, occasionally stealing mechanical parts from the toy store there, to fix a broken automaton that his late father had brought home. In his quest to fix the last and only thing he has left of his father, Hugo unknowingly stumbles onto the fact that Georges Méliès, one of the first film-makers – and an ace conjurer, cartoonist, inventor, and mechanic – is still alive despite popular belief that he died during the first World War. A prolific director, producer, and actor, Méliès produced more than 500 films and is credited with developing cinematic techniques such as superimposition and stop motion.

The film now practically turns into a festival of Méliès’ films, shown in the full glory of colour and 3D. In fact, in a real departure from his usual violent dramas and gangster films, Scorsese uses 3D to stunning effect in this enchanting love letter to cinema. The footage of Méliès’ movies is absolutely stunning (and having edited a book on film history, I was only too thrilled to see the entire first chapter of my book shown so beautifully on screen) and the cinematography is truly gorgeous, with every colour, every tiny detail standing out.

The problem with so many movies that feature great visuals is that the film-makers seem to think cinematography and effects can make up for the lack of a good story or good acting (cases in point – War Horse, Avatar). Not so with Hugo. The script is as gripping as the visuals, the dialogue is lovely, and the acting is top-notch. Asa Butterfield as Hugo Cabret is vulnerable and adorable, and uses his eyes and smile to convey so much. Ben Kingsley as Méliès and Sacha Baron Cohen as the terrifyingly strict station master are excellent. And I wanted to adopt Méliès’ “adventure”-seeking bookworm god-daughter Isabelle (played so well by Chloë Grace Moretz) who helps Hugo in his quest, besides educating him on the finer points of literature. 

When I left the theatre, I could only feel utter joy and gratitude that cinema exists, that films like Hugo are made. How many movies can make you feel like that?

Oh and the automaton? He ends up doing exactly what he’s supposed to do. Don’t ask, just go watch.

Where's your courage, Bollywood?

“Have you seen Kahaani? Oh, you must watch it, it’s really good. Bollywood thrillers have really come of age”.

Don’t get me wrong, I liked Kahaani. I thought the plot was gripping, the pace was tight, the acting was excellent. And yet, and yet. Something was missing. It lacked the watertightness that a really awesome spy thriller should have.

By now everyone who wanted to watch it would have done so, and for those who still haven’t been able to, I would hate to be the provider of spoilers, so I’m not going to get into the story here. But I will say there were a few gaping holes in the plot, which have been covered up, but so flimsily that they lead to more confusion. My question is: how come people think it’s so incredible? Because their yardstick is Bollywood. Kahaani is a great spy thriller by Bollywood standards, and that’s about it. And this is my big problem – the fact that we have lower standards for Bollywood.

When and why did this happen? According to my two-bit theory, it all began in the 1980s. We all know that the ’80s was the worst period in Bollywood – with gory, testosterone-filled violence, garish costumes, and regressive treatment of regressive stories. Mansoor Khan’s Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak and Sooraj Barjatya’s Maine Pyaar Kiya tried to bring romance back on the scene, and succeeded to some extent. But then, in 1991, came two diametrically opposite films that released on the same day. Phool Aur Kaante was a true-blue masala potboiler involving gangsters and kidnapping, while Lamhe had a girl in love with a man who once loved her mother. No prizes for guessing which movie came out on top. Lamhe was a box-office disaster, because audiences couldn’t come to terms with its suggestion of incest (even though nothing had actually happened between the man and the mother). Phool Aur Kaante, meanwhile, went on to become a blockbuster, launching the industry’s new action hero, Ajay Devgan (yes, I know it’s now Devgn). This was the last nail in the coffin, and film-makers now seemed to have lost the courage to make truly unconventional films that challenged the audience. What followed was an era of easy, safe films with childishly simple, hastily contrived resolutions that stayed within the bounds of convention. Audiences went home happy and unchallenged.

What changed, and when? Some argue that Shah Rukh, with his unconventional looks and anti-hero beginnings in Bollywood, was the pioneer of change. Certainly, both Baazigar and Darr had audiences rooting for him instead of the actual good guy – something that Sunny Deol, the “hero” of Darr, has been unable to forgive Yash Chopra and Shah Rukh for, even to this day. Some argue that Dil Chahta Hai was the game-changer, while others say the same for Lagaan. I would argue that there is no one film that can be credited with a sea-change, because there has been no sea-change. Yet. All of these are still spoken of as aberrations, and while they have been instrumental in the story of Bollywood, and while we have come very, very far, we still have a long way to go. In the last decade, we’ve had some genuinely great movies. There was Chak De! India, which had one surly, snarling hero (SRK in one of his finest performances) and no lead heroine – in fact, in a pleasantly surprising move, the Screen Award for Best Supporting Actress for that year went to all the “Chak De girls”. We’ve had a Band Baaja Baaraat, in all its Janakpuri chhaap, which made no big deal of the fact that its protagonists shared a bed, and later had sex, with no mention of marriage. We’ve had a Taare Zameen Par, in which the big star makes his appearance only halfway through the movie. These are all departures from the norm, and were all hugely successful, both critically and commercially.

Does this not say something to our film-makers? That Indian audiences have grown up, that we’re hungry for good, content-driven films, whether it’s a hilarious spoof like Dabangg or Om Shanti Om, or a hard-hitting, gut-wrenching Paan Singh Tomar? Ek Main Aur Ekk Tu was widely applauded for NOT ending in happily-ever-after, because audiences knew it wouldn’t make sense. Even Lamhe has acquired the status of a classic now. But then we have a Vicky Donor, which, despite a truly great first half, meanders through a muddled second and ends by neatly tying everything up even though it took away from the overall impact of the film. When will film-makers recognize that we are ready to move beyond easy, safe, happy endings, and that they need to stop using us as an excuse for their lack of courage? We clearly have the talent in terms of acting, direction, and writing – be it Irrfan Khan, Jaideep Sahni, Habib Faisal, Shimit Amin, Maneesh Sharma, Aamir Khan, Tigmanshu Dhulia, and so many others. What is lacking is courage. Film-makers need to display courage in their craft, so regularly that it becomes the norm and not the aberration. Only then will we stop mistaking mediocre for good, and good for great. Only then will we stop saying a film is good “especially for Bollywood”.

On fiction

Tom Wolfe said, “The problem with fiction, it has to be plausible. That’s not true with non-fiction”.

Undeniably true, but easier said than done, as I realized when I recently tried my hand at fiction. After years of expressing my opinions (sometimes too strongly, I’m told) – verbally, on social networking websites, and now on my blog – I decided to experiment. And it was so hard!

I had the basic plot outline, I had the characters, I even had the structure in place before I put finger to keyboard. Then why was it so difficult? The answer, I realized, was in the voice. Whenever I’ve critically analyzed a book (which means whenever I’ve read a book), I’ve always asked myself: Is there even one character in this book whom I love and root for? If not, the book has failed. This question is so much a part of my book-reading that I’m surprised that as a writer, it took me such a long while to realize it.

Writing an article, an opinion piece, or a blog post is so much easier, in some ways, because you’re writing as yourself, so you’re free to just write what you think. You don’t have to worry that you’re imposing your own views on your characters, because the only narrative voice that counts is your own. You’re not worried that you won’t sound authentic – there’s no way you can’t.

The other thing about writing fiction is that you’re always worried someone else got there before you, and your idea that sounded so cool and interesting when you first came up with it suddenly sounds banal and clichéd. I had to constantly remind myself that no story is entirely original now, in this age of instant communication and sharing of ideas. Everything has been written about in some way, everything is based on something that someone has read, seen, or heard. Every story spawns a million more, each with their own twists and takes, but with the same genesis – human nature. That is the great mother of all stories and everything else comes from it.

This brings me to another question – what is the point of fiction, if every story has been told in some form or another? Of late, I’ve had conversations with so many people who claim that they’re done with fiction. They’ve read their fill, they enjoyed it when they were younger, and now have nothing left to gain from it, so now they will only read non-fiction or, at most, historical fiction. As a nut for good fiction of almost any genre, I find this view hard to understand. How can anyone possibly say they’ve learnt whatever there is to learn from other people’s stories? That’s as good as saying they don’t want to meet anyone new or hear anything about anyone they don’t already know about! It’s a narrow, almost arrogant view – to think you’ve read enough. No one can ever have read enough, and this is one of the best and worst things about life.

Fiction is about more than just the plot. It is beyond someone’s telling of someone else’s story. It’s about imagination, the creation of a brand new world, the ability to get into the skin of characters who don’t exist, and to do it so convincingly that the reader believes these places and people and events to be real, even if just for a few hours. It’s about using these worlds and people and events to illustrate a larger point about the world we actually do inhabit and the lives we actually do live. It’s about creating these parallels and ideas for yourself even if the writer hasn’t illustrated them, because when you read fiction, it becomes your own. It’s about the beauty of a well-crafted sentence or passage, the sudden jolt you feel when one stunningly spare bit of prose leaps out at you and you realize this is exactly how you feel and you thought no one got it. These things – imagination, literary craft, beauty, talent, emotional connection – are limitless. And so, therefore, is fiction.

The Artist: A very special film

In all the pre- and post-Oscar hype surrounding Michel Hazanavicius’ The Artist, I never once heard anyone talk about the story. It was spoken about more for being a black-and-white, mostly silent film about films than for any other merit. I’ve read reams about how it didn’t deserve the Best Picture, Best Director, or Best Actor Oscars; how it only won because it’s a silent black-and-white movie by a French director with a French actor or because it’s a movie about movies; and how George Clooney in The Descendants was unfairly done out of an award that should have been his. I haven’t seen all the other Oscar nominated movies, but I have seen The Descendants (twice) and can safely say that in my humble opinion, Clooney was only very good. In The Artist, however, Jean Dujardin delivers a performance that transcends time and sense.

The story revolves around George Valentin (Dujardin), the star of the silent era, who refuses to accept that the talkies are here to stay. Arrogant and unable to envision a future in which just seeing him is not enough for the audience, he leaves Kinograph Studios, the production house that has churned out his hits in the past, and decides to make his own films. Kinograph has signed on a slew of newcomers who have no objection to the talkies. One of these is Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo), who has so far been an extra in some of Valentin’s films, and has always had a bit of a crush on him. Predictably, Valentin’s film bombs while Miller’s is a smash hit, and she herself is the toast of the town. Meanwhile, Valentin is reduced to auctioning off his belongings to make ends meet. His wife, having tried to explain to him how unhappy she is in their marriage, finally leaves him. In his depression and fragile state of mind, the only people Valentin can depend on are Miller and his old assistant (who now works for Miller after Valentin let him go because he couldn’t pay him).

Is The Artist a great, epic story? No. It’s a simple story that follows a fairly predictable path, with even a cute puppy thrown in to take the action forward. Is the torment of silent film actors portrayed in a way that makes you weep for them? No, in fact, the overall tone of the film is light and humorous. Is the movie, then, a worthy winner of all the awards it has scooped in the last few months? I can’t answer that without having seen all the other movies that have been released in the last year, and frankly, I don’t think anyone can. But despite all of this, it is a truly special film that comes along once in a lifetime today. The treatment is so beautiful that every scene, every frame brims over with detail that you’d be hard-pressed to miss, given the lack of distracting speech. The lightness of tone is, in my view, a major winning point for the film because The Artist is, after all, a fond, nostalgic look at a bygone era of typically comic films. The acting is top-notch, with both Dujardin and Bejo inspiring affection, laughter, and a desire to dance in the audience.

Even if critics and juries were a tiny bit partial to it for being a mostly silent black-and-white movie, is that so wrong? Movies and movie-makers win awards for so many different reasons – some for highlighting social issues, some for being humongous hits at the box office, some for daring to do something different. The Artist may not be an amazing story, but it is a work of art that is rare for today’s cinema. And no one can doubt the sheer courage it must have taken to create it. Isn’t that in itself worth awarding?

Book review(s): Empire of the Moghul and Taj Trilogy

I’ve been reading a lot of historical fiction lately – in the last few months, I’ve read six novels about the Mughals, so I thought it would be fun to do a comparative review of all six together.

On the one hand, there are the first three books of the six-part Empire of the Moghul series by Alex Rutherford (though it’s the collective pen name of Michael and Diana Preston, I will treat them as this one entity for my review). Each book tells the story of a Mughal ruler – Babur, Humayun, and Akbar –respectively. From the time young Babur becomes the king of Ferghana to how, through multiple raids and failed attempts, and seemingly endless hardships, he finally establishes the Mughal empire; from Humayun’s obsession with astrology to Jahangir’s attempts to claim the throne even while Akbar rules, Rutherford’s books provide a compelling account of court politics and conquest.

On the other hand, Indu Sundaresan’s Taj Trilogy – consisting of The Twentieth Wife, The Feast of Roses, and Shadow Princess – takes the reader beyond the battlefield and court, straight into the heart of the empire – the zenana. The first two books centre around Mehrunnisa, from her childhood as the daughter of one of Akbar’s courtiers to how she negotiates her position as Empress Nur Jahan, the most powerful woman in Mughal history. Shadow Princess, set in the period just after Mumtaz Mahal’s death, simultaneously tells of the sudden change in Jahanara’s life as she shoulders the responsibility of her father Shah Jahan’s zenana; Aurangzeb’s hunger for power; and the building of the Taj Mahal. 

By writing Mughal history from the perspective of its women, Sundaresan’s books seem to follow a simple, powerful idea: harem politics drive court politics. While the first two are pretty gripping accounts of Mehrunnisa’s rise to power and her equally stunning fall, the third book, somehow, failed to match up to them. To my mind, a story must have at least one character worth loving and supporting, and here, there are none. Jahanara’s inflated sense of self and her constant bemoaning of a fate that she brought on herself are tiresome. Her siblings, too, come across as variations of selfish, weak, bratty, or rigid. Then, the equations, both personal and political, are not explained convincingly enough – for example, why, after Mumtaz’s death, power is transferred, unquestioned, to Jahanara instead of another empress; and the slight hint of an incestuous relationship between Jahanara and her father, which is never fully explored. Also, the constant evocation of “The Luminous Tomb” and repeated descriptions of its construction and architecture are often dry and wearying.

Why Sundaresan’s books still score over Rutherford’s is because, in dealing more with personal relationships, they often provide a clearer understanding of why certain events unfold the way they do (see note). For example, the reason for Akbar’s decision to give Khurram to his wife Ruqayya is clearly outlined – Ruqayya wants to reduce Jagat Gosini’s power by taking away her son and the future heir to the throne. In Rutherford’s series, the episode is skimmed over with no convincing explanation. Another problem with Rutherford’s books is that they are often long-winded, peppered with irrelevant anecdotes – such as the attack on Salim’s entourage to Kabul after the Anarkali episode – that have no bearing on future events.

Both series suffer from over-Anglicization of language, which often results in jerky, stilted, and sometimes incredibly jarring conversation. This is especially true of Rutherford’s books, in which the use of "Moghul" instead of "Mughal", the first-person use of “Mother”, “Father”, “Aunt” etc, and Baburi telling Babur that he has fallen for the Persian Shah’s “pwetty pwetty” words, were just ridiculous and left me thoroughly unimpressed.

Overall, though I’m still looking forward to rest of Empire of the Moghul, it’s Sundaresan’s novels that I’ll go back to for a good story.

Note: One of the challenges of writing historical fiction is deciding what to fictionalize and how factually accurate to be. Of course, both writers have taken their own liberties with history, often ending up with different accounts of the same incident, so my review is based on which is more convincing and fits in better with the rest of the story.

I'm offended you're offended

Dear Boss,

I hope this letter finds you well. I would like to inform you that due to personal and professional reasons, I will be unable to continue in my current job, and would like you to accept my resignation letter. As you have been my boss for so long, I feel I owe you an explanation. While I am honoured that you trot out my example at every given (and sometimes snatched) opportunity, thus giving me so much visibility and so many opportunities to shine, I do feel burdened by the workload. I find it mentally and physically exhausting to keep up this pretence of being offended when I am not. Also, what does offend me is that you tell everyone that I am offended by things such as books, movies, paintings, essays, jokes, and other intellectual and cultural activities. It makes me look foolish and uneducated, and as though I have nothing better to do with my time than look for things to feel offended by, even though these are things that I secretly enjoy. When I started out in this line of work, my job role was very different. However, after the alterations, I feel ethically and morally unable to continue working here and would like to quit this post with immediate effect.

Yours sincerely,

Religious Sentiment.

Speak up! Or at least allow me to.

Panchhi nadiyaan pavan ke jhonke

Koi sarhad na inhe roke

Sarhad insaanon ke liye hain

Socho tumne aur maine

Kya paaya insaan ho ke

This beautiful song written by Javed Akhtar for the film Refugee (2000) asks what we have gained by being humans, when birds, rivers, and the breeze can roam free while we have to live within borders. Sure, it’s a flight (pun intended) of fancy to say we’d be better off as birds, but the essential idea of the song is increasingly, frighteningly, becoming true. It’s no coincidence that I’m writing this on the day that Wikipedia has blacked out its English language web page in protest against the US government-proposed SOPA (thankfully, I remembered that Refugee was released in 2000!); in the wake of the Indian government’s shocking statement of intent to screen content before it goes up on the web – to negate chances of communal tension, of course; and in the week that has seen the Jaipur Lit Fest embroiled in controversy over the attendance of one of its star speakers, Salman Rushdie, due to threats by certain religious groups.

Let’s take a closer look at these incidents. First, the Internet. That gateway to the world, that free and open well of information and ideas that one may or may not agree with. In the real world, how do we deal with views we dislike or find offensive? We might argue, debate, have it out with the people whose views these are, and eventually, if nothing else works, we just dissociate ourselves from those people. We don’t report them to the cops because they’re just verbal views and we can switch off from them if we choose to. In that case, I would assume that the government would see the Internet as a good thing, because it actually has mechanisms in place to report genuinely offensive content. I have, myself, reported two Facebook groups for racist, sexist content, and both groups were removed from the networking website within five minutes. I doubt Mr. Sibal himself could have done a quicker job. 

In its haste to prevent communal tension from flaring up, the government seems to have given in to a quick-fix, kneejerk solution – prevent content from being uploaded online at all. There's a logical, far-thinking solution if I ever heard one. Also, while I’m touched that our government takes its mai-baap role so seriously and wants only to protect us from evil, I wish they would remember that we were brought into this world by parents of our own, and we are mature enough to deal with people who offend our religion, our parents, our country, our food, our anything. Sometimes, we even like to hear views that are different from our own (this shocking idea will be discussed later in the post, while on Rushdie). It’s called education. Look it up on Wikip– oh. Right.

As for the Salman Rushdie controversy, it is just such a crying shame that even literature, that supposed bastion of free expression and thought, ultimately fell victim to political posturing and bullying. What a hollow democracy we live in, when a major literary figure, who happens to be a Person of Indian Origin card-holder and doesn’t even need a visa to come to India, is dragged into a backroom chat with the government and his visit for the country's largest literary event is now in question. All because a certain hardline religious group feels that a book he wrote 24 years ago, one that played a major role in putting India on the literary map, offends their religion. Why? Because it gives a different spin on Islam? And what about the millions of readers who loved the book because it made them think, question, doubt? Did we learn nothing from the tragedy of MF Husain dying without the joy and comfort of being able to return to his homeland?

It’s bad enough that the book was banned and there was a fatwa issued on Rushdie. But really, the man has visited India (even the JLF) since then, and without incident. Why create a fuss now? And for our government to fall for such ridiculous threats is just laughable. I’m not saying that the government should allow riots to happen, but this is tantamount to throwing the baby out with the bathwater! And ultimately, there is only one loser: the hopeful Lit nerd who just wanted to hear a favourite author speak, and maybe get him to autograph a copy of one of his books.

Maybe we would be better off as birds. Maybe it’s not such a flight of fancy after all.

Update: It is now confirmed that Rushdie will not be attending the Lit Fest. Understandably worried for his safety (given that he was not offered any special protection by either the government or the festival organizers), he stated that it would be irresponsible – to his family, to the audience at the festival, and to other writers – of him to attend the festival, in view of alleged Intelligence inputs of underworld assassination attempts. Whether he chose not to attend or was asked not to, the point is that this should not have happened. And our government should not have allowed it to happen.

Movie Review: The Dirty Picture

By now, most of you would have already seen this movie, or would have read reams and reams about it. I will be able to say very little about it that’s new. Still, I think it’s worthy of being my first official (read non-Facebook/Twitter) movie review. Why? Because it emerged as the Hindi film industry’s strongest, most hard-hitting FUN film of 2011. No One Killed Jessica and Shaitan were good but not exactly fun entertainers. The other good films of 2011 – Delhi Belly, Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara – were good in a different way, not gut-wrenching. Stanley Ka Dabba was bittersweet and lovely but lacked punch.

The other reason for bestowing this honour on TDP was Vidya Balan. What a brave, brave move by someone whom the industry and audiences had not exactly loved. Few female actors in Bollywood would have dared to look so unattractive on screen. She has single-handedly raised the bar for giving one’s all to the role and really going for gold in a film that reached for the stars but somehow, fell short. Major overarching flaw – too many concessions to “Bollywood”. For one, there was nothing Tam about it (barring the token gajras in all the women’s hair) so it really could have been set in any other city, or should have been made in Tamil or English, if Madras was so essential to the story. Secondly, I find it difficult to believe that women in Madras could run around on the street wearing next to nothing, and no one said a word. That too, thirty years ago.

But let’s get back to plot. Loosely taking elements from the life of soft-porn star Silk Smitha (though producer Ekta Kapoor claims the film is not based on her and is more about the industry and the times), the film follows Reshma, a village girl with stars in her eyes. She makes it to Madras (though it is unclear what she does for a living while going for auditions). Through sheer perseverance, she manages to get a toe-hold in the film industry and suddenly, a star is born. She is groomed, plucked, styled, faired up, and presented to the world as Silk, a name chosen for her by producer and Reshma’s mentor, Selva Ganesh a.k.a. Keeda Das (Rajesh Sharma, absolutely fantastic). She proceeds to take the industry and audiences by storm, with fans and foes in equal measure. There’s eighties’ cinema in all its gaudy glory and it’s so much fun! Ooh La La is an absolute treat and Vidya revels in the OTTness of it all.

Silk gets involved with married superstar Suryakanth (Naseer, brilliant as always), but soon realizes that for him, as for most other people around, she’s fun to be in bed with, but not appropriate to be seen with. From the object of everyone’s lust on screen, she is reduced to hiding for hours in Suryakanth’s bathroom when his wife returns home unexpectedly. She then embarks on an affair with Surya’s younger brother Ramakanth (Tusshar Kapoor, in the only weak performance in the film) but he is no match for her and the relationship never quite takes off. Watch the scene where she uses an awards ceremony as a platform to lash out at the hypocrisy of a world in which directors, producers, writers, and male actors of “sexy” films are lauded, but the female lead is ridiculed, judged as loose-moralled, a “dirty secret” unfit for polite company. It is an incredible scene and Vidya makes you want to roar your support for her (I confess, I clapped in the movie theatre). And this is just at interval, making the viewer think there’s more awesomeness in store. And there is, but not quite as punchy. The second half loses steam, when Silk’s downfall results in her making a friend of the one person who’s hated her guts all this while – director Abraham (Emraan Hashmi, competent and pleasant) who believes film is an intellectual art and people like Silk make it cheap and tawdry. It’s an interesting equation the two share, but it drags on for too long, even giving Emraan some token hero time with the song Ishq Sufiana (lovely, but completely irrelevant and inappropriate here). Silk, meanwhile, has let fame go to her head and become completely full of herself, resulting an odd, but entirely believable mix of brash arrogance, unprofessional behaviour, and vulnerability. Her smoking and drinking are by now completely out of control and suddenly, producers and directors don’t want her anymore, preferring new and upcoming star, Shakeela (shown as a trim, fit, sleek girl in a minidress and high boots – yet another concession to Bollywood that I have a problem with).

From struggle to success to complete and utter disgrace, the film follows Silk through it all, and gives us a character worth rooting for, despite, or maybe because of, her flaws. She is human, the film reminds us. And she makes us question our views with every thrust of her heaving bosom.

Will this movie be the game-changer for woman-oriented films to really become big in Bollywood? I don’t know. All I know is that for days after I watched it, I could not get it out of my head. That, for me, is a true measure of its worth.

Baby steps

The idea of starting a blog struck me yesterday during lunch break. I've been an editor almost all my professional life, and, well, writing just seemed like a natural extension. I love literature, Hindi cinema, food, the performing arts, and my country. Also, I have a LOT of thoughts and strong opinions on most things, which can't be compressed to 140 characters!

So. Hello world!