Confessions of An Atheist who is Not!

After visiting more than fourteen pilgrimage spots till date, I still don't get the point of it all. If you are a religious minded devotee of any form of God, you would probably find this objectionable and feel affronted. But sadly my friend, that is the truth. I still don't get the point of all the fuss. And please don't think I haven't done my research. Of course I find the sheer multitude of devotees risking their lives and luck every year to attain diving blessings at Vaishnodevi and Badrinath awe-inspiring. I also admire people who can walk barefeet to make their holy offerings to the Siddhi Vinayaka. There is a mystical aura to pandits bathing in freezing cold water at the banks of the river Ganga at the Varanasi Ghat. It's all so intrinsically a part of what we call religion in India that such acts are bestowed with a sense of utmost significance, innate devotion and a path leading to what we deem as salvation. My only question is: Are we deserving of being called God's offsprings on account of this facade we put up to appease his omnipresence? I beg to differ.

Religion as understood by me is a purely manmade entity nurtured out of an inherent need to instill authority, fear, hierarchy and abstinence. Usually, this is manifested more stringently in the case of our womanhood. All the vices that could possibly lead to shame are easily forgiven when it comes to a man but if a woman so much as refuses to use 'purdah' or 'touch her husband's feet', it is condemned as being an act of evil/defiance/rebellion. Religion in this context helps add unimaginable amounts of gravity to ban such acts as being against the will of God. Whoever is caught committing such acts is inadvertently termed as 'sinner' and must undergo punishment to salvage any opportunity of not landing at the gates of hell after death. Such religious obligations are seen across cultures in some form of the other, and eventually boil down to intolerable degrees of subjugation all in the name of true faith and submission to the Almighty. If idol worship, numerous rites and rituals for every occasion, women disempowerment and superstitions are mere offsprings of religion propagated and practised blindly and without question, the even more devastating after effects of religion have led to the birth of fanaticism, bigotry and terrorism. So pervasive are these diabolical tentacles of religious hatred spurred by warring leaders of various clans and communities, that they have inpinged on every nation and shaken political and social infrastructures to its roots. While it is easy to admonish a few extremists for leading such aggressive movements to their ultimate culmination of doom, our hand in unintentionally stoking and perpetrating such atrocities cannot be overlooked. Religious extremism is based on few so called theologists taking the liberty to twist the words of an already manmade entity i.e religion in his or her own way to serve his or her selfish purposes. Our crime is, we have let this happen for too long.

It is not in our hands to quell this Frankenstein we have created as conveniently as we let it grow. But there is much we can do while we still have the power to do it. Last heard, a temple is to be erected in the name of the deceased Shiv Sena supremo Bal Thackeray. Since when did we start deifying political leaders to an extent where we need to justify worshipping them? Are the numerous forms of God that religion gave us falling short of nourishing our faith? Do we then say, this is the neo-religious zeal of 21st century man who feels the need to invest his faith in new avatars rendering the former ones obsolete? Or do you agree that this is  yet again, a mockery of all that religion is/was/will be meant to be. Alas, anything that is manmade has the natural tendency to be revoked, restored, reinvented, rejuvenated and rebuilt. For the good or bad of mankind? Well, I will let the future decide that.

Meanwhile, I will continue to chant the name of God albeit in my own personal, spiritual and discreet manner and continue to believe that good karma and undying belief in the goodness of humanity will lead me to the doors of Heaven one day. Amen!

One Plate Women’s Lib Please!

All the women of the 21^st century, it’s time to take a bow. We have achieved and lived to see the day that zillions of women before us only dreamt of and perhaps even died dreaming of. They would have given anything to be part of the world we live in today, only if for the air of freedom we breathe, the rights we enjoy as a woman and that lethal weapon we so effortlessly wield in the face of a problem- choice. Yes, as women born and living in this day and age, we have what many women before us could only hope for- the weapon of choice. I call it weapon because it is something we can today use in our defence. It has helped us take key decisions to support, nurture and empower us. To opt for higher studies abroad, to push the decision to marry to a later date, to marry as per our preference, to work post marriage, to have a kid or not, to have your own back balance, to buy a house, to remain single, to take care of your parents, to follow your own religion, retain your maiden surname...the list goes on.

However, like any other change, this form of societal change has also brought with it, its fair share of cons. Which is why, along with the sense of pride that accompanies the feeling of achievement women’s lib has brought with it, there is also a deep sense of disillusionment and disappointment towards what we term as ‘progress’ we have made as women of today.

i) We love our skinny jeans and flaunting those shapely legs in our hotpants. What is unnerving though is when women start deliberately using it to prove their androgyny and boldness. So whether it’s a temple or a mehndi ceremony, I find it unsettling when a woman refuses to let go of the hotpants, even if they have to clash badly with her chuda and sindoor in tow for good measure! Since when did the plunge in your neckline or the butt cleavage you revealed start ascertaining the width of women’s lib, I wonder! Wearing a contrasting colour bra with your kurta or t shirt is also a distinct trait exclusive to this trend.

ii) So we all love it when the femme fatale in a film lets out a whiff of smoke before flashing her sexy pout at the camera. The slender cigar stylishly complements her long, winding fingers and bright red nails she flashes, as she gets rid of the accumulated ash at the tip of her cigar with a mere flick of her finger. So much in control...In our not-so-glamorous lives and in stark contrast though, are women who keep smoking to keep up with hectic jobs, domestic upheavals and to prove a point to every man on this planet earth, or just because you feel liberated because you do so. I have only one question for you- Is a stick of nicotine and a stinking mouth all you are left with after fighting the maladies of social evil perpretrated on womankind?

iii) I have often witnessed playful verbal battles between office colleagues about who can drink more given the chance. And several of my female colleagues take pride in being able to match a male whisky enthusiast drink by drink. Irrespective of your ability to stand vertical after that deadly dose of your favourite poison, your irresistible urge to hit the bottle still eggs you on. A woman who lets her instinct for alcohol loose, is giving an open invitation to losing the dignity she has spent more than half her life accomplishing. We all have a right to enjoying life but trust me, a habitual alcoholic is not my idea of a liberated woman, thank you very much. I once had a friend who wanted to be a pilot and show her dad that she could make him proud as a girl child. The only kind of skill she has accomplished till date is crash landing after being eight pegs down at the local bar.

Some other indicators for this millennium that would give you the ‘liberated’ tag are as follows:

iv) If you swear so filthily, it would put a truck driver to shame.

v) If you have been/are/will be dating more than a single man at a time or at different points of your life before finally settling for one. Compulsorily.

vi) If you are not a virgin before marriage

vii) If you are laying down the rules at home after marriage. And threatening your husband with divorce after every domestic squabble where the word ‘compromise’ comes up.

viii) If you regularly indulge in PDA with your current/ex/future lover from time to time.

ix) If you have left your house at 21-25 to live independently.

x) If you refuse to cook even if your 234^th maid just left in a huff.

And the Award goes to…

In the recent past, we have had a spate of filmy award functions that claim to celebrate and honour the best of Hindi cinema. While all of them seem shameless rehashes of each other, with the same winners, victory speeches, spoofs, jokes, idle banter and even dance performances, you can hardly blame them. ORIGINALITY is a redundant word in the Bollywood dictionary. Once you accept that, it is easy to see why our films are not going anywhere when it comes to scaling new heights of creativity. All you have is a rehash of English, regional and when in doubt, old Hindi films themselves. But this post is not meant to be a cynical take on our films. It is an extremely subjective defining of the flawed intricacies of the art of making cinematic drudgery. Does that sound like cynicism to you? Yes? Well then it must be. And I might as well stop being polite in that case.

Considering the trash that is getting thrown up at us, we as a nation are in danger of being declared mentally inane when it comes to our cinematic sensibilities. We don’t seem to understand the difference between good and bad cinema, oh wait- sane and juvenile cinema. And so quite a few filmmakers have taken it on themselves to make the most of it. Their masterpieces are not only raking in the moolah at the box office but also wrapping in all the accolades and awards at every fancy awards night, all based on popular demand.

But wait! Wasn’t popular demand supposed to be all about we, the people? So aren’t we the guys to be applauded for the efforts we take in lapping up the above mentioned genre of insipid films that are coming our way? Pardon me for sounding ungrateful but no one seems to be noticing that we are the ones who actually deserve the awards for declaring such nincompoops our star entertainers. Something tells me though that such a turn of events may not be possible in the distant future. Nevertheless, these are films that would definitely qualify as my pick for the ‘Real People’s Choice Awards’:
 
‘I find solace in a room full of idiots Award’: Housefull 2- In the nature of the current trends, this film also came as a sequel to the very hare brained Housefull. The key to such films is to fill them up with a motley bunch of a few major and many minor stars and starlets so that amidst the cacophony you are anyway not going to miss the absence of a plot, story, characterization and common sense. Remember the backbencher in class who used to laugh at your PJs simply because everyone else was? Yeah, he qualifies!

‘Forgive & Forget Award’: Joker- The people who went for this film are saints, priests, maulvis, sadhus, rishis, munis and the Pope apart from God Almighty Himself. You see, someone has to rise up to the occasion and pardon the otherwise negligible flaw that is Shirish Kunder. Oops, I meant his every attempt at filmmaking. Just for the record, these very selfless souls also watched Tees Maar Khan.

‘The Starry Eyed Fan Award’: Ek Tha Tiger- This was Salman Khan’s take on Agent Vinod. So then why did it do such good business you ask? Because this was Salman Khan’s take on Agent Vinod. This award meanwhile goes to fans who can watch their favourite superstar on screen time and again, doing the same thing and idolize him for exactly that, time after time!

‘Har Friday Meri Marlow Award’: Kya SuperKool Hain Hum- You see this film inspired the perverse nature of this award but nothing could suit this film more aptly so cut me some slack if you find the language a tad offensive. It would do the makers and fans of this film proud, trust me.

‘Mocktail Award’: Cocktail- This film made a mockery out of every Archies concept ever mentioned on a greeting card- love, friendship, understanding, companionship, togetherness and even something they never mentioned on the cards- physical intimacy. It gave a whole new dimension of mockery to the term ‘Awesome Threesome’.

‘The Soft Porn, Bring it On Award’: Jism 2- The Award title is self explanatory. The fans who watched this film were unable to collect this award as they are busy pouring over a list of adult  actors for the next edition of this series so that they can dash it off to the Bhatts before they release Jism 3.

‘Southern Spice is Nice Award’: Rowdy Rathore- This award is dedicated to fans who lick everything in the name of a remake of any superhit film from down south. It’s probably the spicy whiff of sambhar & rasam which does it for such films. There is no other reason why we must take the clumsy Hindi versions of perfectly fine Tamil, Malayalam or Kannada films.

‘The Bolti Band Award’: Bol Bachchan- Well obviously a film like this would have left you speechless right? The comic histrionics of Abhishek Bachchan and company with a dead pan Ajay Devgn making mince pie of the Queen’s language…suddenly I am out of words myself.

A Visiting Resident Indian in Mumbai

I am born and brought up in Mumbai but have recently moved to Delhi. This is the first time I have lived away from Mumbai and I realised how odd it felt to take a holiday to go to the place I called home for a good quarter century of my life. Having never ventured out of the city limits, I guessed having the same city as your janmabhoomi and karmabhoomi forever did that to you.  It was only after I sat in the Rajdhani and overheard a lady from Kolhapur speak in Marathi over the phone that it first struck me, ‘God, it’s been ages since I heard someone talk in my father tongue (my mother tongue being Bengali)!’

On reaching Mumbai Central station, it was nice to get lost in the cacophony of a random crowd, jostling for room, cabs and their relations at the taxi stand. The sheer indifference and anonymity of the person merely 6 inches away from you was something you could get only in this city and I was not complaining right now. All I wanted is to hop into a cab and get home soon.

That’s when the raindrops started falling on my head. Rain! After spending a drought like summer in Delhi with seething temperatures sweating down my back, the gentle pitter patter could not have come at a better time. I welcomed the specks of wetness on my clothes and my hair as I got in to the cab. On the road, the relaxed cabbie kept giving his two bits about the landmarks of the city. He had probably taken me to be an outsider and was happy to entertain me with nuggets about the crore-worth of dahi handi that the local boys had broken for Janmashthami the previous evening. He also confirmed the last minute trimmings of the Ganesh idols to be taken to grace the pandals erected for them all over the city and beyond. He took much pride in elaborating on the extensive arrangements for the Lalbaugcha Raja soon to ascend his throne this Ganesh Chaturthi in the erstwhile mill area of Mumbai city, Lalbaug. For once, I didn’t feel like telling him about my roots and relation to the city. For once, I felt like playing the outsider just to see the city from a newbie’s eyes.

Nothing stops this city, does it? Definitely not filth, floods, festivals or foreign invaders like Kasab who are still rotting in Arthur Road Jail, now famed for his infamous presence within its bastion. Hawkers laying out their business for the day, children trotting in their gumboots on their way to school, wives carrying their shopping baskets out to the market, old men getting together to sip their morning cup of tea at the local chai stall, men clasping their brief cases as they balanced themselves on the edge of a bus entrance, college students giggling past as they shared gossip...it seemed like an endless montage of life passing by. I was lucky. I was on holiday in Mumbai...now it somehow felt nice. No rushing, scrambling, running, skidding, slipping and stressing for me, thank you very much. I reveled in the pure indolence of doing nothing, having no itinerary or agenda, being jobless in this city which has employed me for all the years I have worked till I moved to Delhi. My sanguine state of existence was deemed to last...until the third day of my stay.

The cool breeze, the intermittent showers, home cooked food straight from my Mom’s kitchen, the idyllic greenery around me couldn’t keep me off thinking why wasn’t I out there, doing....something. The electric pace of people around me, the clockwork precision with which they seemed to operate, the functionality that led them to achieve something, the determination that drove them with a purpose...it was infectious. In short, the pulsating energy of the city finally got the better of me and I remembered my old self and urged me to seek her out. So I got stuck in traffic, grumbled about the potholes a bit, smiled when the traffic cops stopped an erring car driver, laughed when someone swore ‘tujhya aaicha gho’ at a careless passerby, bargained at the roadside stalls for everything under the sun from handbags to fancy leggings even while a pesky hawker tried to draw my attention to his new range of Bol Bachchan salwars and engaged in chirpy conversations while catching up with friends at my favourite hangout spots in the city. Finally, the contagious virus of being ‘on the go’ caught up with me and all I could do was bask in the inherent nostalgia it brought on.

Back home, I engaged in idle banter with my maid, reviving words in Marathi spoken ages ago, forgotten only recently. I wondered if it would pour and get flooded on the day I was to leave for Delhi. I sipped ginger tea and enjoyed the cool monsoon breeze on my face. I lay down on my bed and day dreamt without the fan on.  I couldn’t help but recall my hefty electricity bill back in Delhi while my Mom whined that she hadn’t been able to use the AC all of summer because it just wasn’t so hot!

And then, all of a sudden, it was time to pack all the memories- the sights, sounds and smells that were truly, madly and deeply Mumbai.  I took a deep breath and kissed my beloved city goodbye with a heavy heart. After all, I may be a newly nourished Delhiite but at the core, I will always be an intrinsically modelled Mumbaikar!

A JOURNEY OF SELF DISCOVERY IN 35 MM

Over the weekend, I finally took some time off to make my way to Siri Fort to catch a share of the 12^th Osian’s Cinefan Festival screenings of Indian, Asian and Arab Cinema. The event took me back to my days of running around from pillar to post while organizing film festivals of this nature albeit not of such large proportion. Having curated three to five day Film Festivals at NCPA Mumbai, I know how much hard work and research one has to be willing to put in to create such an eclectic bouquet of films. And then the logistics to sustain the hype, energy and seamless flow of events on a ten day bandwidth takes humongous effort. Add to that the scale of the venue. The intimidating Siri Fort while doing justice to a Festival of such scale can also be a mammoth at your disposal given the vast expanse, multiple venues and scope of mishaps on offer.  Add to that organizing panel discussions with national and international film crews, varied music events and discussions with celebrities to mark ‘100 years of Indian cinema’ and you have the task of a lifetime to be effectively realised with a handful of people, stringent budgets and erratic miscellaneous reasons that spell trouble. The success of any festival after so much blood, tears and sweat is finally in the number of footfalls, theatre occupancy and the delegates’ feedback. Thankfully, the buzz so far is that the Festival is doing pretty ok on all these fronts.  Throwing in an interesting mix of journos, film critics, writers, makers, students, experts and simply enthusiasts of all ages above 18, the crowd of delegates belonging to multiple cities, races, nationalities and professions jostle for space and seat to catch the best of films in the Asian panorama.

I have been to several Film Festivals before this one including the much lauded IFFI Goa and MAMI, and the intriguing milieu of people attending such events has always fascinated me as much as the aura that they create around the Festival. The common thread that binds these oddly assembled cognoscenti is the passion for cinema that is out of the box, experimental, fresh and innovative. A lot of my friends have often asked me, so why attend film festivals?  Well, are you a typical ‘movie buff’ who survives on Hollywood and Bollywood junk apart from perhaps, a few scattered gems in your vernacular language? Are you happy to spend a fortune every year watching diluted, convoluted and often ‘inspired’ trash in the name of films at your neighbourhood multiplex in the name of entertainment? And if film viewing for you is just about seeing a handful of your favourite superstars display their stardom in the name of histrionics, then film festivals are not for you.  Because in a film festival, the film is the star! The cast may be great but equal amount of attention is paid to the craft, the language and the plot- things that may not be so important when it comes to commercial cinema.  It is here that a filmmaker has to worry about how well his film will do by exposing it to a cultivated and mature audience which eats, sleeps, worships, talks and breathes cinema without worrying about the box office results. It is a learning ground for both the cineaste and the cinefan, the manufacturer and the customer, the auteur and his audience. I have always been lucky enough to catch some wonderful films at these film festivals that have left an indelible impression on my imagination. These are films that leave a mark on your soul, they touch you somewhere deep inside, providing an everlasting memory to cherish and reminisce about. They offer little nuggets of fiction, morals, values or human nature that are not confined within celluloid but actually manage to spark your intellect.

So for me a film festival has a resonance far beyond just film viewing. On last Sunday for example, I regaled myself in the joy of walking in from one audi to another to catch films from India, Iran and Singapore, back to back. I wondered why Swiss, Italian and French films were part of the schedule. I tried to justify the dominance of freshly grilled Hindi films like Rockstar, Vicky Donor, Paan Singh Tomar, Shanghai and Gangs of Wasseypur. I also tried to look visibly miffed with the undermining of new Bengali cinema that has given us gems like Laptop and Hemlock Society or even the ghostly comic caper Bhooter Bhobhishyat recently.

Make no mistake. I am like most aam junta in many ways. Movies wouldn’t have half their magic without the Ridley Scotts, Christopher Nolans and James Camerons of the world. And how can I deny that I have relished many a Bollywood film, whether from a Dibakar Banerjee or Anurag Kashyap or any of the big banners like Yashraj or UTV Motion Pictures to name a few. I love revisiting the classics whether that is Satyajit Ray, Guru Dutt or Raj Kapoor. And films like Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikander and Andaz Apna Apna are proud additions to my favourite movie list. But imagine this: Where else can I walk in to a theatre to watch a Bengali film called Cosmic Sex on sexual evolution of a man, stroll out to an exhibition area where Victor Banerjee is giving his two piece on 100 years of cinema, wander in to a screening of an Iranian film called The Orange Suit and stay transfixed to my seat for the next screening of a Japanese animation film called Tatsumi tracing the biographic trajectory of a graphic story teller since World War II?

Welcome to a pure, unadulterated and honest cinematic journey that celebrates freedom of expression. These film festivals are an opportunity to satiate the hunger for quality cinema through moving picture postcards of lands and people undiscovered, stories untold and emotions unfelt. Trust me friends, there is so much food for thought to chew on in here you won’t miss the popcorn!

 cinefan.osians.com/

Post Script of a Super Star

First it was the slimy Laila murder story being hyped for the slain lady being Rajesh Khanna’s last co-star and now it is the ‘Love Story’ between him and Anita Advani that is being flogged to death on leading news channels. There is no dignity spared for even the dead in this country. More so if it is none other than India’s first superstar we are talking about. We may hold a candle and mourn his passing away with millions around the country. We might even shed a tear at the evergreen melodies and films he has left behind to cherish. But thanks to some really insipid and distasteful journalistic fervour and our voyeuristic tendencies, we will also lap up the superhero’s dirty linen that the media is determined to wash in public on 'your' news channels.

So get ready for jarring and tacky cut outs of estranged wife Dimple Kapadia and his alleged ‘companion’ Anita Advani  pitted against a rather haggard looking Khanna in his last days. So much for the man whose last wish was to transform his home in to a museum that housed his memoirs, his heroism, his stardom and his fame. Someone who wishes to be remembered as one of the beacons of superstardom he lived up to be, thanks to his talent, charisma and mass appeal. It’s not even a week since the man bid farewell to this world and we are already digging the sleaze up, revelling in his ‘fallen’ ways and enjoying the suspense of who will finally win his property rights.

The characters in the plot could never have been more set to make for spicy ingredients in an otherwise murky tale. A leading heroine in her heydays as a wife, a star son in law who is currently raking it in at the box office married to an ex-heroine turned interior designer and now pregnant elder daughter. It would have been a shame not to pick these characters right out of real time and transfer them to the convoluted confines of a sensational TV script. Round them up, churn them around, add some gossip and fill up with idle banter from ‘sources’ and you have the makings of a commercial  Hindi potboiler. Much like some of the films Khanna starred in when he was alive. Lots of loud melodrama and bitter squabbles. Think background music...a shot of Anita Advani looking pensive and troubled at the same time with the song, ‘Na Koi Umang Hai, Na Koi Tarang Hai, Meri Zindagi Kya, Ek Kati Patang Hai...’ Kaka hated tears when he was alive. I hope he can forgive us for putting him through the shame of being subjected to such malevolent speculation  after his death.

Karan Johar recently opined that the real world is far more dramatic than the one potrayed in films. Our news journalist friends would know, they make a living out of it everyday.

They Will Never Know...

There are times when I weep clairvoyant tears, tears of loss and longing...
For this generation which will sadly, never feel a sense of belonging.
There was a time we spoke a language unique to our own,
It was called our mother’s tongue, largely ethnic and home grown.
But now they all speak, read and write in English Mom,
I guess the reason is they never wanna come back home.
I know the LP, cassette and CD markets have crashed,
Music comes cheap, record prices are slashed...
But no one listens to the oldies anymore,
So who will remember Mukesh, Rafi and Kishore?
We grew old on MJ’s dance moves as he got millions agog,
That magic is laid to rest, clouding the legend in a shroud of fog.
We cheered when Sachin played, we revered his success story,
Now that he is to play no more, who is to experience his glory?
I feel lucky to have witnessed it all, and humbled by the bygone age.
And wish the lost generation could connect with me on the same page.
I am lost at conversation really, they all call me jaded now.
If only I could make them travel back in time, the only question is how!
Time races on, and people come and go,
But there is a legacy that remains to show,
Ah but kids, they don’t halt to hear and see,
Always rushing by in a hurry,
Alas, they will never know...