Random Ruminations

As the year comes to an end, most of us go into a rewind mode, thinking over, analysing and compartmentalising the pluses/minuses, the highs, and the lows, of the year that was.

Well, introspection never did anyone any harm, and as I sit contemplating over the year gone by, I see a few hits, stray misses, but most importantly, I see a sense of wellbeing at this stage of life where contentment isn't a lone ranger; it has anxiety, expectations and disappointments for dubious company. I see people around me in a flurry; older generation bewildered by the spiralling times and trying hard to catch up, the middle-aged lot maturing like ripe wine yet fizzing and bursting at the seams, and the younger generation gung-ho, upbeat and sparkling. Life being viewed diametrically by each generation, eying the other suspiciously and sticking rigidly to its own perspective and ethos. The culture was never so seamless and inclusive yet paradoxically the thought processes border on inflexibility and closedown. 

One thing that I've been wanting to do for long is to thank all my friends, family, kin and everyone else who takes the time to read my sporadic posts and blog links. Your words of encouragement and effusive praise is highly motivating and acts as a catalyst to continue treading on this path. Quite a few aren't vocal publicly but appreciative in person and respecting it as a personal choice, I'll consider the number of views on my blog links as a correct representation of readership. I don't write to seek accolades but a pat on the back or a thumbs-up definitely causes an upsurge in the feel-good department. So, there!

Wishing everyone a happy, hearty and sanguine stride into the next year. May it offer the chance one needs to 'own it' and make it a watershed year.

Life has always been a great leveller; every joy and every pain is ephemeral. It is time to cut our losses, count the blessings and march into 2017 with hope, positivity and universal bonhomie.
Cheerio!

Zindagi decoded

Dear Zindagi,

It was nice meeting you on celluloid. You were undoubtedly a fine piece of art presenting a slice of life with its accompanying zits and zests. Your protagonist, a young professional girl Kaira -- Alia Bhatt in a stellar performance -- who has umpteen number of issues in her life was winsome and real. Behind her facade of a confident, modern and talented cinematographer laid a scared little girl with abandonment issues. It was her movie and she owned it beautifully, her fragile frame belying the tenacity and resoluteness in her personality.

SRK had lesser screen space but left a thumping impact with minimal words, the kind of role where his energy levels were contained and he hypnotised with his eyes. The doc-patient relationship was apparently easy-going and effortless although there were stray moments of underlying tension and vague anxiety.

The 5 major lessons we could glean from watching you are:

1. Visiting a psychiatrist doesn't make you a "psycho."
It's perfectly alright to have a plethora of issues in personal & professional life. Seeking an expert's help no longer has a stigma attached to it. (On a lighter note, maybe handsome shrinks help drive the blues away. Deep intense stares and pearls of wisdom spouted by them make life's complications seem as easy as solving nursery grade puzzles.)

2. Make peace with your past.
There is a line by SRK in the movie: 'Don't let your past blackmail your present to ruin a beautiful present.' Now don't we all know that, understand and agree with it. But, we rarely ever practice it. Some of us remain consumed by past grievances, letting it overpower our present. Acceptance of one's past, slaying the demons therein, and burying the emotional hatchets is what nudges us towards equanimity. And rightly so!

3. It's ok to have a failed relationship or two.
It's no big deal if things don't work out between you and your partner. The 'kursi' example given by SRK to prove his point isn't really to sanction promiscuity but to stop a girl from labelling herself according to society's double standards. Everyone deserves a second chance (or a third or fourth), to scour for that one person who walks the same path as him/her.

4.Our parents are earthly beings and not Santa Claus
They are real people with tangible fears and failures and are doing the best they can. Let's not judge them or crucify them for their failings. Holding grudges against parents is a recipe guaranteed for a lifetime of despair and misery.

5. Carpe-diem
Seize the moments! Live life as it comes, quirky and unexpected; put your best foot forward, falling isn't a big deal, it's not recouping after the fall to get up again and be ready for another bout which is our undoing. Our fears are our Achilles heel.

That's a lot of food for thought in 150 minutes to mull over. It was great meeting you Zindagi from another person's perspective.

Yours truly,
Mr. Imperfect & Ms. High Hopes.

CHISELED MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD

Chiseled memories. ...

Of laughter and merry making,

Of family bonding and discussions,

Of eating together and gorging,

Of devouring delicacies and burping,

Of playing cards, ludo and carom, 

Of reading comics and amar chitra katha,

Of being glued to radio and singing loud,

Of festival gaiety n elaborate ceremonies,

Of fun with friends and neighbourhood shenanigans.

Chiseled memories of childhood; 

Of enjoying the simplicity of life,

Of being shielded from the hardships,

Of sibling affection and bonding,

Of parental love and cocoon,

Of pampering without being spoilt,

Of indulgence without arrogance, 

Of loving life and dreaming big,

Of self confidence and starry eyes,

Of academic high and accompanying accolades,

Of optimism and reverie.

Chiseled memories of childhood ;

Of crazy antics and wierd dress sense....

Of occasional tempers and frequent tantrums,

Of bantering, arguing and sulking,

Of making up, forgiving, and moving on,

Chiseled memories of childhood;.

Stick to the mind and warm the heart,

Glow the vacant corners and illuminate the soul,

Create harmony and tune your senses,

Chiseled memories of childhood;

Remain forever etched and eternally craved,

When you were little but your dreams were big,

When hope was your best buddy and skepticism still a stranger.

Chiseled memories of childhood;

Are locked inside and ingrained deeply, 

Completing you and blooming you, 

And keeping you forever young !

ADHM- Ae relationship hai complicated!

Ae relationship hai complicated! 

Not your regular love triangle as anticipated by eager fans, ADHM is a roller coaster ride of emotions: deep, profound, complicated and intense. 

The flimsy, slick gloss we see on screen in the overtly breezy, bindaas friendship cum budding romance between the lead pair Ranbir and Anushka, is pixie and cuteness overloaded. You start watching the movie with a goofy grin relishing the foot tapping numbers, funny one-liners, liberal sprinkling of hit dialogues and songs from cult romantic movies. There's a reference to throwback 80's kind kitschy music- peppy, popular but pedestrian. Nostalgia and novelty shake hands. The audience is hooked with the tender, classic familiarity, and the neoteric, badass brazenness which has typically become the alter ego of youngsters.

An hour into the movie, the easy-cheesy banters vanish and the 'mushkil' part unfolds elaborately. One starts feeling sorry for people who love the ones who aren't on the same wavelength as them. The second half is precariously handled with the director eager to stretch beyond his cushion zone and venture into the unchartered territory of knotty, tangled web of emotional turbulence. The conflict between love and friendship and whether they are mutually exclusive or prone to overlapping is depicted well enough but quite laboriously. The sense of déjà vu strikes one throughout the 150 odd minutes of the movie. So what's so different about it, what's the twist, you keep asking and the latter when it does arrive, fizzles out with a whimper. The ending lacks spontaneity and conviction and appears conveniently contrived, a negative for a melodrama. The high notes should be struck right at the end.

Ranbir and Anushka outshine each other performance wise. They rise spectacularly above the script and impart a pathos desperately needed for a movie which is otherwise an expression of celebration of love in its multifaceted forms.

Ranbir is the finest actor of this generation and has a barrage of emoting techniques in his repertoire. For those drawing parallels with his other flicks on unrequited love, I see this one on a totally different tangent. He isn't his regular confused guy unsure about his feelings for his lady love. In ADHM, his character is pretty certain about his 'dil' and where it goes, ie. to Anushka. The ensuing 'mushkilein' ( Fawad as Anushka's chosen one and Aish as Ranbir's consolation prize) which arise due to this are what lead the story forward.

Anushka has to be the bravest female actor to let go of her crowning glory and shoot uninhibited in scenes which made the audience gasp out loud due to shock, sympathy, and an embarrassed applause later on.

Aishwarya Rai's gorgeous appearance lends no value addition to the movie. She with her pancaked beauty, and fabricated, studied expressions, falls flat in front of natural born lead actors. Oozing glamour and good looks, Aish does break the cougar taboo (younger man and older woman) in India without batting an eyelid (heavily eyelined as it may be).

The 'fassad ki jad', Fawad khan is eye candy in a grizzly kind of way. Apart from him, there is a spate of guest appearances by the director's good friends and wannabee good friends.

An assorted Diwali hamper, ADHM has some exotic sweets, some desi savouries, a few firecrackers and a customised greeting card bellowing "It's complicated!"
But hey, where's my coffee, Karan?

Verdict- Watch it for Ranbir and the songs! Both outstanding.

Well-played, Captain Cool!

M.S.Dhoni- An Untold Story, tells as much about India's most successful cricket captain as it does about the triumph of talent and grit against all odds. I read that it's a fanboy account and hence expected a gushing anthem, saccharine sweet and superficial. What I got served was a smooth concoction of sweet, savoury and bitter, blended to perfection and served well in a custom-made glass . The director Neeraj Pandey lives upto his reputation of a deft story teller. Anything less, and the audience would have felt short-changed.

Sushant singh Rajput gives a sterling performance as Dhoni. He internalises Dhoni's mannerisms and body language yet lends his individuality to the persona.

We usually expect to watch and laud biopics of legends or stalwarts gone by but Dhoni is a contemporary celebrity and yet lends well to have a celluloid tribute devoted to him. The fact that he had a credible lifestory, of an archetypal small town boy making it big in life after a series of ordeals, will always find ample takers amongst the audience.

The power of ensemble cast is immensely underrated in Indian cinema. There's an extremely competent second line of actors performing as supporting cast who are carving a niche for themselves. Kumud misra, Rajesh Sharma, and the guys who played Dhoni's friends in the movie are all top notch and pitch in perfectly. Even the love interests, with miniscule screen time, blend in well enough.
Indian parents' fixation with kids' studies and landing a white-collar job is highlighted well as also their disdain for prefering sports over studies and/or the pursuance of a career in it.

The only lacuna is the length which at over 3 hours tests your perseverance at times. But nitpicking apart, we need similar ones on other living legends like Amitabh and Sachin etc, men who enjoy cult status despite being lessons in humility.

Humble beginners who propel into the stratosphere of superstardom are often revered as demi-Gods, possibly because the common man sees his reflection in them. And feels the connection.

Establishing that connection is the key to success in all forms of art and Dhoni, the man and the movie, strike the requisite score.

Well-played, Captain Cool!

Need of the hour

 Disappointed with Newshour's flawed debate (not really an avid watcher of this 'who shouts the loudest' program) yesterday night. Why does a leading news channel feel the compulsion to call a bunch of non entities on primetime to debate the reasons why the Pakistani artists working in India have not criticised the terrorist attacks at Pathankot and Uri army bases ?

Why do we expect them to? Why do we need them to? Why do we crave support from them for upholding our national honour? Unlike Orlando shootings, Paris attacks or Peshawar blasts (where civilian lives were lost and Pak artists vocally lent their support and sympathy), the Uri attacks involved the loss of Indian soldiers. Are we so naive that we expect Pakistani citizens to express any sympathy for Indian soldiers or army at any level, forget on a public platform??

Flawed debates and fallacious arguments mark this raging non-issue. Ban them, boycott them, unfriend them, do whatever it takes to appease your fired up patriotism but do it as a measure of solidarity with the country's current positioning vis-a-vis its perennial 'pain in the neck' of a neighbour. Certainly not as a matter of self pride or the country's pride which is too precious and sacred to hinge on the petty matter of testing the loyalty or the lack of it, of a bunch of artists (nationality notwithstanding) partaking in our pluralistic and accomodating entertainment industry.

Graver issues and more relevant matters need our concern. The upbeat mood in the country is comprehensible but there's a lot more at stake here than merely the euphoria felt at defeating Pak in a world cup cricket match. Time to stop equating art and cricket and the frivolity attached therein, with the pertinent, larger scheme of things and the imminent dangers looming large.

Let the Men in Control (army and government) take the call. Let's not expect a potboiler out of them. We are not inside a 70 mm theatre waiting for a blockbuster to unfold. This is real and the stakes are higher too.

Being realistic, and not theatrical, is therefore the need of the hour.

Arnab Goswami, that should rightly be the 'news of the hour'.

PINK-- Colour Me Not!

I got splashed with a potent colour spray, watching the spectrum of 'Pink' because belying its name, there was nothing soft, sweet or tender about it. It infact made me see red at the obvious gender prejudices and prevalent stereotypes which brand women into labels and categories.

For 2 hours I got infused with the myriad hues of our kaleidoscopic society; a society in which women are either portrayed as red harlots or as symbols of pristine white virtuosity. Where the jaundiced yellow perspective of masses eclipse the lush green vivacity of young women. Where the skewed brown heads cast dubious grey shadows over a woman's character.

There's no fiery feminism in Pink, just a solid, bold splash of No-nonsense. No wimpish or cowed-down, muted exposition of the anamolies in gender biases existing in society.Only a clear mirror reflecting the ugliness marking the false celebration of Feminism.

The message that comes out pronounced and perfectly pitched is loud and clear,

COLOUR ME NOT,

For Am no shrinking violet, or a wilting rose,

Pretty as Pink,Or,

Strong as Steely grey,

Dewy Daisy or Crazy Crimson;

No epithet does me justice,

No labels do me credit,

Will not defend myself to a Purplish hoarse,

For my life isn't yours to rule.
I'm the artist of my life's canvas,

And I paint what i wish it to be!

GLORIFY, not Gloat.

How briskly has India erupted with unmitigated Joi de Vivre, bursting pride, and a palpable sigh of relief due to the 2 Olympic medals won by 2 gritty girls, Sakshi Malik and P.V. Sindhu; powerhouses of talent and excellence! Kudos to them. No accolades can do justice to their achievements and no praise is high enough.

Sakshi and Sindhu have become the harbinger of change in Indian sports, a double badge of honour for a medal-starved nation, an adept answer to trolls, a slap on the face of a socialite mouthing nasty comments; in all S&S are the newly anointed symbols of new age women power and empowerment.

There has been a deluge of eulogies for these 2 girls in print and social media. Several touching poems doing rounds, too many jokes ridiculing that no Indian male was capable of winning an Olympic medal while the girls won two! Ahem! Chin up, collars high, smug smile intact, we GLOAT...It's ladies' day out!

Did I say GLOATING?

Now, that's one emotion that's singularly off-putting. How quickly we jump to own up the moments of glory of those who struggled and toiled for years! How insanely hooked up we are about the achievements of women as opposed to men! Giving credit to them as dedicated, brilliant sportspersons (gender immaterial) is something our skewed mindsets and injured egos can never fathom or accept. Every victory has to be dissected on the flawed parameters of gender, caste or region. It is such a grave disservice to those who spend years fighting the crippling, unfavourable sports environment in India. How well do we really follow their journey? How tuned are we to their twists and turns, highs and lows? We only acknowledge them in their moments of glory, (as in Sakshi and Sindhu's case) or in their moments of ignominy  (Narsingh Yadav).The rest of the time, we are busy following cricket or football.

Crazy times are these - when a simple, sweet win metamorphoses into a complex, giant phenomenon, open to public dissection and scrutiny.

How about just clapping and bowing, in silence, respect and awe?

Because some glories are only meant to be savoured...not brandished as a weapon.

SULTAN--A STORY OF HEART FROM THE HINTERLAND

SULTAN or Haryana ki Shaan, is about a brawny, purehearted simpleton turned 'man on a mission' guy when he falls for a fiesty female wrestler, Anushka Sharma.
Even if the story is predictable and you can kind of anticipate the next move, it doesn't bore or embarrass your grey cells. The heady mix of love for sports and sporting your love churns a cocktail of emotions that overpowers your senses. You cheer for Sultan, you feel for him and the punches are more on your heart than on the opponent. Especially as you go with grave misgivings about the protagonist and his recent verbal faux pas. Anushka Sharma as a fierce 'jatni' provides a perfect foil to Salman's trademark vulnerable guy portrayal.

It's not a standout cinema; just an authentically contrived potpourri offering something to everyone. In times of niche cinemas, massy potboilers are perfect sweepstakes as proved by Sultan which boxes and wrestles its way to multimillion business even as critics lay bewildered by Salman's knockout punch.

Sonny Boys Are Precious too!

As a mother of 2 sons and no daughter, I become an object of envy for some and also an object of commiseration for others. Right from the time that my second son was born, I have had well-meaning, considerate well-wishers offering me their congratulations, ending with an 'ek beti hoti to family complete ho jaati' kind of sympathetic balm. It made sense because I was personally looking forward to having a little replica of myself and reliving my childhood through her. My disappointment lasted for exactly 5 minutes because no sooner than i saw my second born; a cute, angelic baby that my maternal instincts rushed to the fore and the sex of the baby became irrelevant, as it usually does for any mother.

Born into a family of 3 sisters and a broadminded, loving atmosphere where daughters were bestowed with immense love and priveleges, I never grew up with any hangups people usually have about sons being preferred over daughters for some archaic and parochial reasoning. Accepting the sex of my children as a non-issue I adopted to the role of motherhood instinctively.
Bringing up 2 boys has been a roller coaster ride with their 6 year age gap becoming a boon as well a bane. The elder one bullies, the one younger nags, both accusing me of favouritism, a charge i can't defend in all sincerity. I try my best to be neutral but depending upon the situation, i am forced to take sides, the little one getting a lot of leverage due to his age. There are times when I become Mother Fury, launching a full-on tirade for the ruckus they create so effortlessly. Quite surprisingly, they get amused when they see me all agitated at their shenanigans because as per them they are only 'playing', so what if it entails bringing the entire house down.
Honestly speaking i have my hands full as a full time mum and no matter how exasperating things get, I don't wish it to be any other way. What does bother me is the unsolicited advice doled out to me right from the day I became a mum a second time. A well enlightened elderly female relative jibed that 'budhape mein dukh dard baatnein wala koi nahin rahega'...presuming that sons are not as loving as daughters. Her words sent a chill down my spine then. I am well aware of the saying that 'a son is a son till he gets a wife while a daughter remains a daughter whole her life'.
The advent of interactive social media has launched a full throttle pitch for daughters being special and superior ! Hashtags of 'proud to have a daughter' and sharing of loving poems about daughters being precious are ruling the chart. It seems to reflect a positive change in society's mindset considering that India has the highest no. of female infanticide. There are still parents with regressive thinking who treat daughters as a burden or a load. This pathetic viewpoint isn't prominent just in rural areas or uneducated class as I've seen multiple abortions being conducted by women from affluent business families in the hopes of giving birth to a son, a scion, a 'waaris'.

However, I must confess to feeling a tad left out and 'outcast' from the wonderful parenting fraternity having a daughter in their family. I try hard to come across poems/ odes to sons but have yet to see one. I dutifully like and appreciate 'beti-bachao' kind of messages while secretly pining for some on boys too. It's as if having 2 sons is in a way, a pervert superior position which has to be downgraded to give justice to the daughters of the country.
Well my sense and sensibility and my motherly instincts wants to rejoice my children be it sons or daughters.

I hope and pray for the times when a child is celebrated as an individual, precious offspring and no stigma or label is attached to his/her sex. That would be true liberation for mankind and its weird, wicked ways !

Yours Apologetically, Arijit Singh.

Talent beckons Talent. Celebrity complements Celebrity. Genius attracts Genius. Artist respects Artist. And that is the hallmark of an evolved social order.

Indian cinema has music as its backbone. We rely on songs and dances to cure our boredom, take our worries away and provide entertainment in its multifaceted form. We seldom treat movies and music as separate entities. Many superstars have had great music spurt their careers - many blockbuster movies were deemed so because of the chartbusters in them. 

This is not a fulsome piece on the nexus of movies and music in Indian cinema, rather a focus on the unsavoury controversy involving the reigning superstar of Hindi cinema,Salman Khan and an immensely talented and popular singer Arijit Singh. The latter's very public and heartful apology to the movie star, on a highly speculated incident, is doing the rounds of gossip galleries. Public reactions are varied and divided, as they usually are in high profile cases involving celebrities.

Apparently, the incident took place years ago when Arijit Singh arrived sleepy and dishevelled on the stage of an award show and told the host Salman that his hosting is soporific. Salman took extreme offence to the dig; he is still smarting from the insult that never was. No big deal - he is only 'being human'. Superegos are the natural by-product of superstardom, considering the Demi-God status accorded by the hysterical fans. What is pathological is carrying an innocuous perceived insult inside your heart for that long - and letting it affect you so much that you dictate professional relations to appease your injured pride. 

I wonder how satisfied Salman is by the apologies galore from Arijit. Does the public spectacle amuse him or enrage him? Is he indifferent considering the newbie singer is no way in the same league as him... in seniority or clout? Clearly not, as according to reports Salman has officially banned the singer from singing for him. Or, could it be that he does not know how to backtrack? This macho hulk-of-a-man, must maintain his tough-guy image to keep future insult hopefuls in check? Notice all the nauseating Sirs and Ma'ms on stage at the award functions.  Absolutely must pay your obeisance or else.... "Not only sing but dance to my tunes" is how it works in Bollywood. Poor Vivek Oberoi learned this lesson a little too late.

Talent Arijit has in abundance but not enough spine or else why would he bother grovelling and repeatedly begging for forgiveness? Is it real guilt for having done something wrong, inherent humility or plain pragmatism to be in the good books of a powerful banner? 
What we are witnessing is the moral degeneration of creative people, caught in the crossfire of bloated ego, overt pampering, undercutting, one-upmanship, and sycophancy. The sole loser here is the voice of sanity in the cacophony of petty sounds and a fragile & frivolous face-off between David and the Goliath.

CLIPPED WINGS

He's kinda cute and angelic. Cherubic, cuddly, with an endearing smile and warm eyes which tear right through your heart ingratiating him immediately. You swear to love him all your life and protect him from the big bad world. He needs your care, guidance and support. You resolve not to fail him ever. You are his mother after all and he is your flesh n blood. 

From the feeding and burping days to nappy changing and lullaby rituals, he is the centre of your universe as you are his. You adore him and he idolises you. Every one else takes a backseat.You see him through his toddling stage, adolescence, the rebellious teenage years and the excruciating slog years when he is at the threshold of starting a career. He blooms into a fine young man in no time. From Noddy to Friends, from Gajar Halwa to Panacotas, from Shaan to Justin Bieber, his tastes evolve, mature and diversify. You come to terms with this gruelling phenomenon rather reluctantly. You are unwilling to untie the apron strings but let him loose just a little so that he learns to stand on his own feet. He makes your heart swell with unbridled pride and love. You want to make choices for him; he indulges you occasionally. You relish the power of love and control.

If you are enormously lucky you even get to select a wife for him. You sift, scan and finalise a demure simpleton for him. But behold! In just a few weeks and she transforms into a femme fatale, twisting your dear boy around her delicate finger. You abhor this intruder but are helpless. You are infact asked to grin and welcome this interpolar. You do so grudgingly with a plastic smile. You put up a charade of warmth while secretly resenting her. You are determined not to let a 'stranger' usurp your dearest and most precious possession.

You swear to stamp your authority in their lives in the most aggressive manner possible.
Thus starts your interference and control of your son's life. You are the Mommy and Mommy always know best, or so it is claimed. Hence your conception of 'best' imposes and infringes upon the personal life and space of your son. You never learn to take a back seat. Privacy and independence are alien terms to you. So you continue with your controlling act and the tussle for 'power base' - with you holding it back and the children pulling it with all their might - continues unabated lifelong. That unfortunately is the sorry state of affairs in many a household in India.

This dominance of the Queen Mother is nowhere more defined and established as it's in India. From Shravan Kumar who carried his blind parents on his shoulders to Ramji who abdicated his rightful inheritance to do his stepmother's unjustified bidding, the mum-son equation is paramount in the scheme of things that make the family-structure function seamlessly.
The birth of a son is a major achievement in a woman's life, across all classes of indian society. It is a trophy or a distinction which accords a superior status to women automatically. Naturally enough, they are most reluctant to hand over this trophy to the next generation. Fortunately for Generation X, the influx of globalisation and the emergence of nuclear families as a natural corollary of the same, is facilitating a less acrimonious change of guard. The most pious relationship in the world is getting redefined and realigned in sync with the shift in new age thinking and philosophy of "Love me? Let me loose!!"
You mommy dearest are learning to accept the flight of your baby bird from the nest. Well, as long as he remembers to fly back home once in a while and doesn't forget the route, you can make an effort to unclip his wings. Umbilical cord has to be cut finally and you'll find that there's a little pain but much greater joy of delivering.

THY NAME IS MOTHER

Warm meal for everyone,

Cold one for yourself,

Ironed clothes for all,

While the wrinkled ones will do for you,

SELFLESSNESS, thy name is MOTHER.

Running around the house whole day,

Having no time to stop and breathe,

Rushing to and from office,

Not pausing a minute to ease..

DILIGENCE, thy name is MOTHER.

Cooking,cleaning, washing, driving,

Endless chores and everlasting duties,

Done with a smile and a kind heart,

Seldom complaining, never regretting,

SERVITUDE, thy name is MOTHER.

Absorbing troubles and problems,

Reflecting joy and hope,

Holding the family together,

And binding it into a whole,

STRENGTH, thy name is MOTHER.

You are the Agony Aunt and

You are the Angel Mary,

You are the preacher- teacher, and,

You are the support,

FAITH, thy name is MOTHER.

You are the essence of a family,

You are the soul,

You are the spirit,

And you are the prayer,

DIVINITY, thy name is MOTHER.

FAN-TASTIC DOUBLE DELIGHT BY SRK

No one can do deranged better than SRK and he smacks it hard in his latest flick Fan, a self-indulgent, self-obssessed saga of superstardom laced with a self-depricating tone to offset the halo built around the Badshah of Bollywood.

SRK plays himself on screen, albeit adopting a tame Aryan Khanna nametag to deflect any pointers at himself. Real life shots of his stupendous fame and humungous fan-following are interspersed throughout the movie, lending credibility to the aura of his onscreen persona.

Primarily, the film focuses on Aryan Khanna's biggest 'fan' Gaurav, SRK again in a prosthetics-aided, younger, smoother and a tad artificial look. He is gawky but endearing with a single minded devotion towards his hero. Upon being rebuffed by his idol for his foolhardiness, Gaurav turns his reverence into revulsion. This transformation forms the crux of the plot where the crazed love of a fan for his hero turns into hatred causing turbulence in the latter's life.

Shahrukh is impeccable in both the roles. He is suave, controlled, dynamic and supremely arrogant as the reigning superstar of the country. To his credit, he has taken enough potshots at himself to negate his cockiness. The fragile public image, the dancing at weddings for a 'bomb'(the moolah kind) and the deference to a sour Mr. Moneybag are snippets of the chinks in the armour of any aging superstar.

SRK as his own fan is even better. His energy is contagious and you don't mind going overboard with him in his passionate zeal to meet his idol and indulge his crazy antics. You even condone the unbelievable limits he goes to impress Aryan, his hero. He is after-all a lovable rogue which was SRK's forte in his initial movies. There has been no other universally accepted anti-hero like SRK in the Indian celluloid history and the credit must go to his ability to strike a chord with his audience who take the merry-go-round ride of incredulity and absurdity with him, cheering him loudly along the way. The long drawn chase sequences do get tedious after a while and one wishes for crisper and tauter editing to avoid the yawns which creep in surreptitiously at times.

Can too much of good things be bad? If you take 2 SRks , both antithesis of each other, do you get a via media? Pertinent point is, is it needed? Probably yes, to give a decent ending to the moot point the movie raises but fails to answer. Can a celebrity, no matter how self-assured and detached to the feelings of his fans, be in any way held responsible for the disillusionment and the consequent mental depravity of a fan? Just short of glorifying the gory end, the movie never really addresses the key issue it unwittingly highlights. Perhaps the intent was only to showcase the histrionics of an actor who was losing his sheen in his recent movies. Predictably, the double dose of sheer talent shines luminously in 'fan', enthralling us to the core.

What it does spell out is a relevant statement and not just in cinematic context; Be a fan, not a fanatic!

Today ought to be special too !

March 8th.
It began as an ordinary day....till I got roses and bed tea served to me. A few minutes later, my phone started beeping with sweet, powerful, prophetic and inspiring messages. All my gal pals were jubilant and excited.

It was "International Women's Day" after all. The excitement was tangible and the euphoria palpable. I couldn't help but be blown away by the positivity and good vibes floating in the 'virtual' world. Everyone that I met or talked to, wished me profusely and I returned the favours with equal gusto. The talk shows, the discussions and articles, news, all heralded the coming of age of women empowerment and 'nari-shakti'. I nodded mentally in tandem with every chant of "nari-zindabad".
Suddenly feeling invincible, I charged up to tackle my domestic problems, and the world issues too. I was on TOP of the world!!!

Unfortunately, my maid got an inkling of the special day and started acting hoity-toity. Giving her a temporary leverage, I granted her a few tantrums. It was her day too, afterall. A glance at my mobile revealed a dozen odd offers from apparel companies who wanted me to dress well on women's day, a leading salon which tempted me for a complete makeover on 'my special day', eateries and restaurants offering discounts on this day. Boy, was I blessed!!! I wished that my mother was here to see how far women have travelled from the days they were taken for granted and their wishes ignored. Now there was a whole machinery in place, geared to tackle her sundry feminine cares and concerns. The world cared for its women to look and act beautiful. Or so it seemed.  

That my kids' exams prevented me from availing the generous offers all around is something I hope won't be held against womankind. After all, there's no dearth of women craving good looks and good food,and those equipped to provide both.

Sadly, I also saw a few cynics being spiteful and disdainful about this great 'women's rights day' and brushing it off as a one-day affair not to be taken seriously at all! It's cruelty of the first order to deny a woman the joy and thrill of celebrating one full day/24 hours/ 1,440 minutes/ 86,400 seconds of unadulterated bliss when no one dares to offend her, ridicule her, or worse, ignore her. Her 'acche din' were about to begin; the ball had been set rolling.
Or so it appeared.

March 9.

The morning after, I woke up to a shrill alarm bell. Waking up to meet the demands of the morning tea and tiffins, I felt a hollowness inside and a vague, weird feeling. Working through the mundane as an automaton, I sat down to rummage through the newspaper and flick on the TV hoping to find one big difference in the world's perception of the fairer sex. None too wiser, I muttered 'not fair' under my breath. Life had gone back to being 'normal', where normal implied tending to the abnormal expectations of the people in your life.

It seemed like a daydream had shattered. That 'special' day ended yesterday.  
Today is just another (ordinary) day. 

DEDICATED To all the extraordinary women who make the ordinary seem so special.

NEERJA- story of India's Braveheart

The much-acclaimed and much-appreciated movie, 'Neerja', based on the true story of the courageous 23 year old air hostess Neerja Bhanot, who died on duty trying to save the lives of hundreds of her passengers during a hijack - is simply beyond any critique or review.

Stories like these when retold and re-enacted for cinematic viewing, cannot be judged using the usual parameters employed for movie reviews. Yet any story has to be well told to leave a worthwhile impact. And this one succeeds to the hilt. The direction, cinematography, acting, and other departments have excelled in bringing alive an otherwise forgotten story of a real-life heroine making it a compelling viewing. Sonam and Shabana Azmi do ample justice to their roles and give restrained performances which stop the movie from degenerating into a shallow melodrama. Sonam's father's angst and pain are so understated yet so tangible! The in-flight ordeal of the passengers and crew at the hands of four hyper and agitated terrorists transports you back into those tortuous hours of uncertainty and impending gloom. The ending wasn't really a surprise but still brought tears to the eyes. 

One can only salute the young lady who displayed such a remarkable presence of mind, an exemplary agility, quick thinking, selflessness and spirited valor in those crucial, trying hours. In this age where the media focus is more on silver screen stars' shenanigans and politicians' tug-of-war, not much attention is paid to real life heroes who mostly go unsung except for a sporadic loud applause which dies down soon after the gallantry award felicitation. 

It is in this context that 'Neerja' comes like a much-needed shot-in-the-arm to revive the jaded and cynical public mindset and infuse a hearty respect for those who in their, unfortunately, short mortal lives, lived a lifetime. Always hoping that the youth of the nation emulate worthy role-models like Neerja who went down stoically while saving human lives (irrespective of their religion and nationality), rather than perennially attack the nation guns blazing and sully the spirits of all those who lost their lives in their line of duty, at the borders and beyond.

Blusters And Blisters

There is a marked difference between expressing general dissent on state policies and deliberate and pre-meditated efforts towards disgracing the nation publicly. As also between being anti-establishment and being anti-national. You can espouse anti-government slogans, lambast corruption, slow economic growth, regressive social policies, even go ballistic on intolerance charge but for heaven's sake how can these 'youth' (most in their late 20's and 30's ) be allowed to chant 'India murdabad' and similar diatribe with media in full attendance and not expect some sort of backlash. If this doesn't call for universal condemnation in the strongest terms I wonder what provocation is required to awaken one's dormant patriotic instincts. I say dormant because most of the educated middle-class and upper-class populace tread on caution and neutral grounds in such matters. We leave the dramatics to the other half which occupies the political centre stage either by holding offices of power or the huge number of wannabes and no-gooders jostling all their lives for five minutes of fame translating into a 5-year stint in politics if they are lucky. They are the ones calling the shots in our democracy by being its visible face. Generally, the sensible reaction is to mostly ignore or generously condone unsavoury public demonstrations which make us uncomfortable. However at times, diplomacy and complacency ought to give way to a more serious and systematic approach to tackling distastefully provocative actions by youthful minds which should ideally be brimming with positive outlook and hopes for the nation. 

Even if the JNU students are given a benefit of the doubt that they do not actually mean or stand by all of their dramatic outbursts that fateful day. Then that in itself is a grievous pathetic commentary on student politics in India; sloganeering for cheap titillation and not any genuine passion for the cause in hand. And is India's pride so cheap and marketable that it can be prostituted by a bunch of buffoons? Did the government overreact by arresting and pressing sedition charges on them? Maybe. Did the students cross the line of tolerance (that dreaded word again)? Most definitely YES! Freedom of speech and expression ( misused blatantly and ever-so-often) is a salient feature of a democracy. But every freedom brings an equal amount of responsibility along with it. Both go in tandem and can only then create a peaceful symphony of a civilised society and a responsible state.  

"Sedition charges are ridiculous", "hot-headed youths treated like terrorists" etc are the baffling responses by the self-anointed saints of India. Equally uncalled for is the right wing's demands to crucify the 'traitors' publicly. Extremely polarised views are being expressed with equal intensity. Quite clearly, the hardliners and liberals are walking a tight-rope in India, battling out the rights and wrongs based on their subjective interpretations and individual preferences. The moot point is that no matter who wins the battle, the idea of India and the spirit enveloping it cannot be compromised. That, my dear friends, is utterly non-negotiable. 

AIRLIFT....lifts your spirits up

A gripping, taut and realistic recreation of a true event makes Airlift a cut above in the thriller genre. The massive air evacuation undertaken by the Indian government in 1990 to bring back approximately 1,70,000 of its citizens stranded in Kuwait after the Iraqi invasion was a story waiting to be told. The director, Raja Menon has done it quite capably through Akshay Kumar, our new age Manoj Kumar (minus his jingoism), vis-a-vis his recent spate of patriotic movies told stylishly in a mainstream cinematic context. 

Akshay is spot on as Ranjit Katiyal, the hard core businessman who is forced to remember his roots in times of crisis. Initially planning to flee Kuwait with his family, he is compelled to rise above his self-centeredness and help his fellow citizens after witnessing how helpless ordinary people are in the face of the tyranny unleashed upon them by Saddam Hussein.
His persistence, doggedness and resources help him set up a temporary camp and give shelter to a motley group of Indians, carrying along their distinctive problems and idiosyncrasies. Nimrat Kaur as Akshay's trophy wife complements his strength of character with her own when the occasion demands. She is a welcome change from the usual bimbettes routinely seen in Akshay's movies.

The narrative has a dark, sinister feel to it; the havoc created by war and a rogue nation creates palpable terror and an innate sympathy for the victims regardless of their nationality. The waiflike Kuwaiti lady hidden in the camp by her Indian maid is symbolic of this. Notable performances are by Kumud Misra as the dedicated Indian bureaucrat who facilitates the evacuation process by cutting through red tapes and dithering politicians. The talented Inaamulhaq portraying the shrewd, crafty Iraqi major evokes more guffaws than fear, majorly due to his quaint accent. A minor flaw in an otherwise riveting tale of a man's perseverance against all odds.

The movie does stray towards repetitive sequences at times and is low on entertainment quotient but then stark reality is seldom entertaining. However, after all the hard work that goes towards building it up, the climax in itself is a tad underwhelming. The accelerated homecoming process makes one feel relieved that the long drawn ordeal is over for the fellow Indians, but a bit shortchanged that the actual 'airlift' manoeuvres are swept in the air. 

Minor irritants apart, the movie is an ideal republic day flavour meant to be savoured by those looking for soaring stories of patriotism in times when the word 'Indian' and all that it encompasses is being redefined. 

SOCIAL MEDIA ADDICTION

This is the age of trolls, memes, controversies and parodies. 
As I sit reminiscing and reflecting upon the past few years, what strikes instantly is the gross invasion of an individual's privacy by digital gadgets. My life isn't mine anymore, free to live as I wish. It's bombarded by messages, beeps and notifications at ungodly hours and unmentionable places and time. The urge to check every single source of digital enlightenment belies common sense and borders on insanity and derangement.

 Facebook is fast becoming our alter ego and intent on making even strangers shake each other's hands. What started on an initial premise of reconnecting and sustaining social relationships has far bigger implications now on an individual's life. Its steadily attempting to become our guide, astrologer, clairvoyant, messiah etc.. Telling us the meanings of our name, our personal relationships' success meter, our future, our hidden desires, fears, even our death dates. Now seriously!! Even if most of us undertake such frivolity at face value, it takes the cake at the absurdity.
 The casual check-ins have become the norm, full-fledged family albums weighing down under the scores of likes and automated applauding responses from the viewing audience has become mandatory for some. Personal gratification no longer seems to be the primary motive behind any activity. Public display of one's lifestyle has become the order of the day. Even people who prefer to live their lives privately and quietly can't resist peeping into the badass and bindaas lifestyle of the other half. 

Over-the-top selfie craze is the 21st century's biggest affliction ; self destructive, insidious, and incurable. The preeners pout gloatingly, the fawning viewers clap gushingly while the cynics snort disparagingly. But none can match the intense indulgence of the ever spiralling selfie addiction. That you might well be posing for the last time given the risks sometimes undertaken for that perfect shot, is a question that never poses itself well enough to be answered. Therein lies the tragic pit of human vanity.

Twitter consists of belligerent folks with overactive oestrogen levels and dormant grey cells because they shoot their mouth at the slightest pretext, more to catch eyeballs and elicit aggressive reactions than for any genuine feel for the topic in hand. Instagram and photo editors produce picture perfect portraits; glossy, unreal and fake but still garnering record breaking likes. Whatsapp is the little devil solely responsible for bringing long lost acquaintances and forgotten friends together but driving immediate families apart as they are too busy with online chatting to have any spare time for heart to heart talks with family members at home. Personal intimacies are being destroyed systematically by the social media, claim the detractors. Sensationalism rules the roost while sensitivity sleeps like a log. 

This digital onslaught on an individual's life is complete and absolute. Any personal preference to be a passive spectator and watch the circus from afar is scoffed at and one is pulled deep into the vortex of silliness and superficiality.
Hopefully in future, the novelty will wane off and the good old virtues of privacy and containment will come into action to balance this blatant in-your-face style of living. Till then the only choice left is to grin and bear and enjoy the show. Spectacular as it is, at times.

Review of novel...'The bestseller she wrote' by Ravi Subramanian

Romance is arguably the most popular genre to write a book in. Add a second potent angle, betrayal and/or revenge and you have a sureshot recipe for success.

The novel,' The bestseller she wrote',  taps the romance in a hip, contemporary setting between a married, successful banker who is also a popular author and his young, stunning and cunning protégé. Their relationship graph is developed on predictable lines. The protagonist Aditya is projected as a hotshot professional and a devoted family man who falls for the guiles of a young ambitious female Shreya without much ado. For an apparently smart man, Aditya appears dumb in his dealings with Shreya who always gets the last word. 

The author also fails to focus on any real conflict in Aditya's mind about going ahead in an adulterous relationship with a much younger woman despite happily married. He is too eager to form an extra-marital alliance with an overtly shrewd girl. Well, pretty is what pretty does. She betrays him without batting an eye. Feeling guilty and remorseful, Aditya begs for forgiveness from his wife who after a little dilly-dally takes him back like an 'Adarsh bhartiya nari'. Infact, stereotypical characters abound this novel which makes for a candyfloss timepass read but does little in uplifting it towards an engaging thriller. The twists and turns are conviniently contrived to push the story forward. 

 What if Shreya was a genuinely sweet girl really in love with Aditya? What would Aditya have done; who would he have chosen ultimately? Making the other woman appear scheming and manipulative is such an obviously easy way to chicken out of developing a complex emotional interplay between the 3 protagonists. Aditya's wife, Maya and best friend, Sanjay are mere caricatures with foreseeable actions and reactions. Even the backstabbing angle given to Sanjay seems forced as an afterthought. 

In the end, this novel maynot go down in the literary circles as the bestseller that Ravi Subramaniam wrote but definitely as a likeable, caramel-coated popcorn romance providing instant gratification. But does it leave a lingering taste? Read and decide.