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Now getting set for Diwali....
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To see or not to see.... that's the question. I saw!!!
Haider : Boycott bigotry…
not movie….
The tragic hero of the desi Hamlet is
Kashmir, not Shahid Kapoor.
Admission : I did not love the movie
(Bhardwaj’s weakest in the trilogy). But
I still will not advocate a boycott of the film. Nor subscribe to the vicious
hate campaign let loose on the actors over assorted social media platforms.
“Hum hai, ki hum nahin?” sounded a bit too twee… even arrogant, as a take- off on the immortal ‘To be or not
to be…” line. And that did it for me! Mind
you, this wasn’t even the worst line in
the most talked about film of the year. But that’s not what the protests are
about. Those who are urging audiences to stay away, have made their point.
Their point is this : Bhardwaj has made
a lop-sided film that projects the Indian Army in the worst possible light,
seems sympathetic towards militants, glorifies terrorists, and ignores the
‘other’ picture ( the pathetic plight and flight of Kashmiri pundits). Their
strident views have found several takers who believe Bhardwaj pushed his luck
by projecting the Indian Army in such a sadistic light. He has. There, I said it. That’s his prerogative
as a film maker - it is his perspective.
His decision. Hamlet / Haider does not
matter. Kashmir does. It is an unambiguously political film. A position has
been taken. Political cinema has never been known for its ‘neutrality’ ( that
defeats the purpose of making a political film) Perhaps, it is time for us to
grow up and take it on the chin – however uncomfortable that makes us.
Crtics have raved about the visual poetry
of the movie. But at the end of the film, it is the prose that stays. Tabu,
playing the wily Ghazala ( oooof!
Imagine denying the audience the chance to dive into her dark ,
expressive eyes by getting her to wear hideous, tiger brown coloured lenses –
Bhardwaj’s biggest sin), asks her noble surgeon husband, “ Kis taraf hai aap?”
when he decides to operate on a militant. Dr.Hilal Meer ( soberly played by
Narendra Jha – but I wish Bhardwaj had not blow dried his hair as fussily)
relies steadily, “ Zindagi ke…” In a way, that single exchange sums up the
movie and its message… and redeems the film from being what its accusers are calling
it – propagandist and anti-India. Though, I have to say, it’s hard to overlook
the obvious bias that drives the rest of the narrative.
In a bid to soften the bludgeoning of the
Indian Army ( for some reason, most of the tough talking officers are South
Indians – Ramamurthy being the harshest),
Bhardwaj has added a line or two after the film ends, about the great,
humanitarian service performed by the Indian Armed Forces during the recent
devastating floods in J and K. Disingenuous… an after thought ? By then
audiences have pretty much made up their minds and come to a few nasty
conclusions. So what? We can handle nasty! We can, right?
Yes, the film has polarized viewers,
generated controversy, and is likely to be banned in Pakistan. It’s fine. Powerful
cinema does that to people. Unless , of course, you believe in going to the
movies in order to numb your senses. If that is so, forget ‘Haider’. It isn’t for the weak hearted. As narratives
go, it is flawed and self -indulgent to an annoying degree . While Shahid
Kapoor gives it his best shot ( too much hair spray ruined it for me) , more
seasoned actors like Kay Kay Menon ( superlative ), and Irrfan Khan (
effortlessly menacing), steal the show. Watch it, if only to learn a favourite
Hebrew word I use a lot and love–
Chutzpah. Roughly translated, it means a certain audacity to get away with
outrageous conduct. If only Bhardwaj and Co. had taken the trouble to find out
how it is pronounced (‘ Hoots-pah’ – NOT
‘ Choots-pa’ as Haider keeps repeating ), perhaps the movie itself would
have felt more authentic.
Next time, guys – get the details right!
And that extends to more than just the correct way to say and demonstrate asli
‘Chutzpah’.
**************
Asian Age....
Bharatwaasis – Pick up that broom and start sweeping!
Trust me, I am feeling really guilty, sheepish
vaghera today. I haven’t picked up a jhadoo this morning, and got to work. Not
even in my own home, forget the filthy streets of Mumbai. No wonder, I didn’t
make it to Narendra Modi’s elite Dirt Squad of eminent citizens who have taken
the Jhadoo Pledge. To be fair, I didn’t participate in that other nonsensical
pledge either ( Ice Bucket ), so I am feeling a little better. Nine seems to be
the magic number these days. The nation
is going to be galvanized by nine inspiring citizens (who just happen to be be
popular movie stars, industrialists and sports people). The 9x9 story of
Swachch Bharat reminds me of those wretched chain letters we used to get in the
mail (when mail existed). Each time I received one, I would bin it, and hold my
breath for the next 12 hours. All of them came with dire warnings. If someone
was reckless enough to break that chain, awful things were in store for the
irresponsible person. But - aha – if you
kept the chain going, you would receive a gift within three days. My friends
hated me for breaking the chain and depriving them of the promised gifts. Soon,
I was taken off all lists. I have to confess I felt a little left out. This was
a form of social exclusion, that made me feel unworthy. Well, that’s how I am
feeling right now. The thing is, my low
self worth is still not pushing me into picking up that broom and
hitting the roads. I think I need therapy. Not just for the broom lapse,
though. I need therapy because I seem to be in a tiny majority that is not
quite getting it , nor going gaga over the initiative! But why? The message is strong and
unambiguous. What is there not to get, you ask? Ummm. A lot.
Driving down the hazardous slopes of
Mussoorie on Gandhi Jayanti, hurtling towards Dehra Dun to catch my flight home,
the car I was in, was halted by a long procession clogging a narrow street. I
thought it was Mussoorie’s version of
Hong Kong’s Umbrella Protests. There was a slight drizzle, and the
slogan raising jhuloos wallas, were sauntering along at a leisurely pace,
protected by umbrellas. I rolled down the window and asked what was going on.
The person replied brightly that they were all on a massive clean up
drive. The irony of it all, was that
this exchange took place right in front of a gigantic garbage dump overflowing
with mounds of rotting garbage. I suggested mildly that they should start right
there, with the dump, instead of raising slogans and blocking traffic. I
noticed nobody was carrying a jhadoo. But everybody was quoting the Prime
Minister. I pleaded with the placard
bearing marchers to let the car pass. When I looked back, one of the protestors
had just thrown a paan masala sachet on the road.
Swachch Bharat is a loaded term. We need to
be ‘swachch’ on several fronts. Cleaning up our neighbourhoods is a great start…
but hello! why should we be doing the municipality’s work ? We pay taxes to
keep our cities garbage free. Happy to help and all that, but is this really
the job of citizens? Mumbai is one gigantic garbage dump. Visitors to Mumbai
recognize the metropolis from its unmistakable stench – a combination of rotting fish and the usual muck that
accumulates when waste management is a low priority. Those of us who live in
this kachra, have forced ourselves to ignore it. Or, we tackle the problem by
paying private garbage collectors to do what the local government is obliged to
do – take care of the city’s sanitation -
but doesn’t. It is a bit unfair
to send India on a guilt trip and keep invoking the name of Mahatma
Gandhi. Unless we implement stricter
laws for and impose fines ( like it happens in the rest of the world) on those
who blatantly ignore civic responsibilities. The Prime Minister may be shown sweeping India
Gate and other places, on a daily basis, but we will not take the hint and
follow his example. You know why? The change he seeks and the awareness he
hopes to generate ( both, very positive programmes, I hasten to add), may not
progress beyond tokenism. It may turn
out to be yet another , short lived ‘movement’, no deeper than the Ice Bucket
trend, which died a swift death once the craze was over. Even so, let’s face
it, in terms of powerful symbolism, it has worked brilliantly.
Agreed, India needs to be toilet trained.
We can’t go on soiling our nappies forever.
A smallish start has been made .
Abhi nahi, toh kabhi nahi! For decades we have merrily ignored that
catchy slogan, “ Cleanliness is next to Godliness.” Most of our temple
courtyards remain revoltingly filthy. If
we cannot keep places of worship clean, how can we possibly transform neighbourhoods?
Poor Arvind Kejriwal must be feeling really
short changed right now. He no longer has the monopoly over the jhadoo - the
one thing he was clinging on to, when all else had been snatched away. This is
India’s Sauchalaya Moment. In more ways than one. If we get this one thing
right, the rest of the crap we are dealing with, will also follow. Keep the
faith, Bharatwaasis. A solemn promise to
clean the country has been made by the Prime Minister. We will hold him to it. As
for me, I will take my time to give a ‘Jhadoo ki Jhappi’ to the municipal janitor. That is, if the
person shows up at all!!
Just checking - Is it true there are plans to rename All
India Radio to All India Modi?
*************
Mumbai Mirror...
Mimlu Sen : “ Born to be
wild…”
The annual Lit Fest madness is upon us! Not
that I am complaining. But the recently concluded Apeejay Fest in Mussoorie stands out for more than one
reason. For one, it is intended for a specific audience – strictly no
outsiders, no press. And what an audience! Hosted by India’s premier training
ground for all those scarily brilliant men and women who keep the wheels of bureaucracy
moving ( or not!) across the country, the LBSNAA (Lal Bahadur Shastri National
Academy of Administration) saw a terrific mix of writers, thinkers in dynamic
sessions with young India’s best and brightest brains – the Probationers! Three
intense days packed with interactive seminars, interspersed with chai /coffee
breaks, and ahem… disco/ dandiya raas evenings, made it a memorable experience
all the way. But for me, the most fascinating participant by far was Mimlu Sen
– musician-author and life partner of legendary Baul performer Paban Das Baul.
Mimlu’s life is worthy of a bio pic ! Yes, it’s that riveting. Take a look :
Born into a very ‘bhadralok’ ( educated, sophisticated, ‘respectable’) family
in Shillong, Mimlu, who said she was ‘born a wild child’, ran away from home at
age 11. Okay, she didn’t get too far and was dragged back by concerned
neighbours. Not that it stopped Mimlu from exploring her wild side at a later
date. Product of the mad and wonderful 60s and 70s, studying in Kolkata and participating in
street protests demanding an end to a distant war in Viet Nam, Mimlu got drawn
into radical politics and revolutionary movements that led to her being jailed
for what were described as Naxalite activities ( she has written a book, aptly
titled ‘Black Maria’ about that period ). Sick and tired of a bourgeois
existence, she fled to Paris (where else?) where she was living happily in a
ménage a trios, with two children - Duniya and Krishna – when a powerful voice
altered the course of her life forever. By chance, she happened to hear someone
singing songs like no other… drawn to the music, she met nomadic Baul singer
Paban… and instinctively decided to become his life partner. Today, so many
years later, they are very much together, though she hastily clarifies, “ He
belongs to everybody, not just to me.”
In
Mussoorie, I got the chance to meet Paban and hear him sing. I recalled
listening to him more than a decade ago. He was a different Baul then. I guess,
living in Paris and doing gigs across the world, from Mexico to Africa, has
changed the nomad. He still prefers to speak exclusively in Bengali, his Hindi
is charmingly kuchcha, and he leaves English to Mimlu, who plays the cymbals
and translates his songs for international audiences. It is quite a story. Apart
from being a most remarkable partnership.
I
read an earlier interview of Mimlu, where she said she was attracted to Paban,
because he (like all the Bauls ) practiced Prem Sadhna ( Tantric love ). It is
a profound , philosophical way of life that is deeply rooted in being in sync
with the elements.Watching both of them together, was an education. Mimlu’s
husky accent goes from French to Bengali, as she fluidly interprets Paban’s
passionate lyrics. Along with her key role in Paban’s performances, Mimlu
remains deeply political (she participated in a volatile debate “Naxalism, Then
and Now - A Continuum?’ With the likes
of Sumanta Banerjee and Gautam Navlakha). But, over and above any of this, her
involvement and concern remain focused on Paban – making sure he gets his
sleep, eats on time and has the necessary back up on stage. Someone asked her
about Paban’s habit of chewing tobacco, and she answered naturally and lightly, “ You have to understand, Paban is a
villager – he cannot do without chewing tobacco.”
The original wild child is now a subdued ,
wise middle aged woman. It made me think of how loosely and foolishly we throw
that term ( wild child ) around to describe starlets, rock stars, painters
who take
slightly unconventional paths – perhaps colour their hair purple or
shave their heads. But here’s Mimlu – a woman who had the guts to follow her
own path… to listen to her heart…. to pay the price… and never look back. Mimlu
can well afford to say about Paban, her frail, wooly haired ‘Boshtomi’ ( life
partner), who sings about life as only a Baul can , “ Paban lives on a Planet
called Mimlu.”
It is not a boast. It is fulfillment.
