6th September, 2011

After a lovely day at office I returned back home. Since past few days he was keeping ill but today he seemed very weak. In a hushed, fearful voice I whispered in my aunt’s ear, “You think he will survive this night?” She smiled and said, “Yes.”

19^th June, 1987: It was past 10.30 p.m. when he walked inside my room, I was lying next to my sleeping mum. He sat patiently on sofa by our bed and gave me a nervous smile. Mom woke up; he stood up and said, “You rest! No need to get up. I just came to see her.” He started walking out of the room when my mother said, “You don’t want to hold her?” He stopped on his way and nervously opened his arms. My mother placed me in his arms. I don’t remember but I am sure he would have smiled at me. This was the first time I met my grandpa.

Chocolates were our common weakness. I reached my pockets and found one lying there, only one. This time I did not ask for a share and gently slipped it inside his mouth. I sat by his side while rest of them were having their dinner. He was sleeping and I was taking walk down the memory lane. He could drive nothing apart from his cycle. I would be in 3^rd or 4^th STD., when he would make me sit behind his cycle and we would go to buy grocery and vegetables. On our way back he would make me calculate total weight on the cycle. He would buy me a cream roll and chewing gum as a reward for accompanying him.

As days passed the weight on our cycle increased. First I was dropped out, than the vegetable bags and finally he stopped cycling. We reversed our roles. Now I drove my scooty and he was on the pillion seat. This time we went to banks and post office. Every month after he would withdraw his pension, we would have ice cream, actually ice creamsssss. One after the other, we would eat four to five ice creams in one go.

Born and brought up in Farhadi, a small village in Kutch, my grandpa was sent to Dholka for further studies. He could never return back to Kutch. After serving in army during the World War II in Burma, he returned back to Gujarat and settled in Ahmedabad. He served as a post master in various post offices across Ahmedabad and built a small house in Shahpur. When he retired from office, his two younger sons were still studying in school. He became a postal insurance agent and assured that they completed their education. While one became a civil engineer from L. D. Engineering College, the other finished his M.B.B.S from Jamnagar Medical College. His struggles had made him a strong man.

In these last few months his health had deteriorated and confined him inside the house. Still the monthly ice cream treats did not stop. Now we included rest of the family in our party. Due to sodium deficiency he would at times go back in time or visualize things out of his imagination. Someone had to sleep by his side at night. I had been his night watchman since 3 months now but past 3 odd days he had not been keeping well sending me back in my room. When I am sitting by his side now, I realized that he probably was the only person who loved me unconditionally. He never expected anything and gave me all he could.

The jitters were not settling and I decided to sit by his side and read 12^th and 15^th adhyay from Bhagwat Geeta. After chocolate and ice cream, Geeta was our common love. He was still going stable and I retired for the day. After trying to sleep for some time, I gave up the idea and headed towards kitchen. I came out of my room and almost collided in my aunt. She looked at me and said, “Dada”. I knew what she meant. I had known it since the time I walked in house today evening. I knew lots of preparations were to be made for the next morning. I sat by his bed and started reading something. It was around 4.00 am when the void started settled in. The room turned hazy and my cheeks got wet, I could feel somebody’s arms closing down on me. I wanted it to be him. But it was my father.

I never brought ice cream for him with my salary and now he would not be able to attend my wedding. These are the two things that I will regret forever. Some people leave a void in your life which is difficult to fill. He was one of them.

The Great Indian MARD

 I got a chance to read two articles on CNN by two different American women travelling in India on the same study trip of the same university. While one poured her anguish out about how scary Indian men are and how white women (ma'am any women for that matter) are not safe when they are alone in India. The other comes to the rescue of Indian men and pleads to the readers to not stereotype Indian men. Being vocal about my views on gender bias that is so predominant in Indian society, it makes me wonder whether I feel sad or angry while I read these stories.

Thanks to my previous jobs that I got to travel around the urban and rural landscapes of our country which not many of are privileged to visit. I have worked and dealt with all sorts of 'Indian men' coming from all walks of life. From film stars to commoners, from village sarpanchs to high level government officials, from a simple school teacher to professors of Ivy League universities, from young, younger, youngest to the oldest, I have been lucky to meet them all. And my experience as a young women travelling alone across India has been quiet contradictory to both the articles.

While travelling in a bus or an overcrowded shared autos and jeeps, even I have felt fingers brushing and hands slipping. Even I felt violated, but that did not stop me from taking these modes of transport, I learned that a magical sentence, "Uncle your hand is touching my body" while uttered in a clear, determined and audible voice was enough to solve the problem.

While travelling in cities like Mumbai and Delhi I met disgusting stares from random guys, but at the same time I met some of the warmest taxi and rickshaw drivers. They did only drop me safely to my destinations but also shared amazing stories of their life and city. I learnt that starting a conversation does not get you in trouble but most of the times it gets you out.

I have friends and best friends who are men, 'Indian men'. They argue restlessly about how gender bias is a state of mind. They give discourses on troubles of the modern Indian male who wants to dominate and get dominated by the modern Indian women. Yet every time I forget my wallet home and get my petrol tank full they are more than happy to come and pay my bill. When I randomly faint on roads they rush me to the doctor and joke about my great fall, or when I have to crib and complain about some brash members of their spices, they not only provide a listening ear but also join in.

The truth is that there are sides to every coin, while some cross their lines many condemn. Just being a man does not make them tyrants. We women oppose systems and set of mind, we never really oppose our darling male counterparts. :)

The Ugly Duckling

Not that long ago, or may be long long ago, there was a duckling, small and yellow. Her friends made fun of her because she was uglier than them - how come they were friends if they thought this? But anyways it is a story and we do not question trivial details like these. So yes, they made fun of her and called her ugly duckling. As days went by, she got tired of her friends and decided to run away. She walked and walked and swam and walked again. Soon she was on a new land. By the brook she stood and looked, the reflection in the water was nothing like her. She saw she was changed, yet the ugliness remained. She frowned and walked away. In the new land were new fowls. They just looked, which could have even been classified into a stare, but they looked at her. She wondered what it could be, had she grown uglier with the passing time? Then came the old wise swan, he smiled at her and said, “Ask my child, the question that you bear in your heart. I have answers to all your questions.” The ugly duckling blinked her eyes in bewilderment and finally she blurted it out, “Have I grown uglier than ever?” The wise swan laughed and took her back to the brook. He made her reflect back to her image, first in the water and then in her own eyes. “The duckling was ugly, but not the swan. Look at yourself again you are the great white swan. Look and your eyes and look at your lovely large wings. You are meant to be in a different pack.” He flapped his wings and there she could see. A pack of white swans, they welcomed her with a warm smile and took her into their big fat family. The wise swan stood by the brink smiling to himself as he saw her swim by.

We think this is the end. What we are never told is the real end. This was the beginning of her journey. The old wise swan was very wise and kind. He knew that life was a hard winter and if one is foolish enough to bare itself to the cold winds, than they would die even before they could spell it. So every time he met a duckling, who thought it was ugly, he would take them to the brook and tell them that they were different from the world which mocks at them. They are swans and not ducklings. They are much beautiful than they have ever imagined themselves to be. The stream is full of those out castes who now think they are swans, beautiful swans, and ready to take on the world. What he missed out was that though initially they swam and floated with pride but soon they would be landing on to a new land, which has a new brook and no old wise swan. When they called themselves swan, they were mocked louder than before. They were shown the brook and called ugly once again. With broken heart and pride some would move around with a sullen face while others would harden themselves and give it back to the world. They were miserable souls, neither could they enjoy their self nor could they end their friction with the world around.

The ugly duckling who now is an angry swan thought one day as she saw another tiny one being chased and teased away as the ugly duckling. She thought about her journey and the summers and winters, the autumns and springs that she had seen, witnessed, cribbed and enjoyed. She thought about the old wise swan and chuckled. She walked towards the young one and told him, “Yes you are ugly. When I was your age, even I was called ugly. I ran away and came to a new land and thought that I had changed. Changed into someone beautiful and have rightfully come back to my own people. Soon we landed on a new shore and discovered the hard truth. We still were ugly! We are no swans, and that breaks my heart more than being an ugly duckling. Trust me, one day you will grow up and so will they. They won’t tell you on your face, but as you turn around they would share a laugh amongst themselves by calling you the same. Do not run away from your identity. Do not shy away from who you are. You are an ugly duckling and accept it with the head held high. Do not console yourself by donning a new identity as that won’t change anything. Be who you are and be at peace with yourself as rest will fall in place.” She walked away, smiling to herself. She knew that she had shown a new road and it was only a matter of time before this one would be talking to the new ugly duckling and would be suggesting a new way to swim across the brook called life.

Hum – Tum

Tu bole glass aadhaa khali….mein bolu aadha bhara....baat toh vahi hai na....par wohi baat nahi....turutututututruttutuuuuuuutu

So it was around 21 years back that this miracle/accident happened with me. Around four in the morning she checked out of my mother’s womb and landed in our arms. With an excited father and a confused mind I left from my place to visit her. On our way to the hospital, we met with a small accident. God has his own way of giving signs for what the future has in store for us. I still remember our first meeting, she was wrapped in a white sheet, lying next to my mother, eyes closed, looking like a ball of cotton.

We grew up together, in the same house, shared the same room and same set of parents yet we managed being as different as chalk and cheese. She once told me, “I am sure that if we would not have been sisters, we would not even have bothered to talk with each other.”

I think that is the real beauty of this beautiful relation that we share. Having nothing in common and sharing radically different ideologies, yet we are the best of the friends around. During our growing up days, we shared a different equation. I remember hiding and running away from her as she would follow me to my friend’s place and then report everything back to my mother. Then all I wanted was to get rid of her. Now, after almost 15 years, she is my keeper. I confide in her.

While both of us have come to this junction in our life where sooner or later we shall be taking different paths, staying in different house, sharing different rooms and different set of in-laws, I am sure that she would still remain my source of energy – my life! Everyone asks me why am I not able to find a proper suit for myself, the answer is pretty simple. She has set the standard too high. Every night I sleep next to her and wake up with her by my side and something within feels good and secure. She is there to celebrate my sunny days and consoles me through the stormy tides. The pani-puri rendezvous and the long drives make life much more than just perfect. She was born to be my company and she has played her role to the perfection. Now when the time has come to choose a candidate for a similar post, it obviously is a tough competition.

So today when you turn 21, all I have to say is that life has been a beautiful journey because I had a companion like you. Even when we share nothing in common (apart from the bare essentials) you still have been the best company around.

Mein sochu tu hi tu...mera koi aur nahi....tu soche..mein hoon tera….baas tera koi aur nahi…..Koi aur ho ya naa ho….tu hai..mein hu..bass…. Jaane ne tu…. Jaane tu ya jaane naaaaaa….

Happy Birthday

Ek Mein Aur Ek Tu

It was a dull Friday evening and I was feeling sort of restless in my cozy abode. It was about the time that I got some change. With some lazy efforts I stretched my legs and then hands. I heard my mother scream and I think I winked, with a lot of effort and terrific pain; she pushed me into this world. It was about 9 in the night when my mother was toiling in the labor room while rest of my family was watching chitrahar on doordarshan. That episode ended with a brand new song from the movie Mr. India called Hawa Hawaii, the lyrics were, “bijli girane mein hoon aai, kehte hai mujh ko, hawa hawaii”. At that point they were not aware that they were being warned against the future dangers, happily swaying to the song they welcomed me in their world.

I had quiet an adventurous childhood. I was Sinbad the sailor and my granny was my genie. Together we conquered many lands. For a major part of infanthood I could not speak. I started talking not before I turned two. Till then I would mime and she would fulfill all my needs. She was the one who introduced me to the world around. Holding me in her arms, she took me everywhere she would go.

My granny married at a tender age of 18. She was 10 years younger to my grandpa. Post her marriage she shifted to Ahmedabad with my dada. Starting her family from a small room in the walled city, she struggled her way out to the newly developed society near the banks of Sabarmati River in Shahpur. She herself was not very educated, yet she saw to it that all her children made good career in their respective fields. My dad says that she was fond of reading fiction; she was so passionate about reading that while sweeping through the house, if she would come across a novel, she would put the broom by her side and start reading it. Nothing was dearer to her than her books.

Soon after my birth, she was paralyzed. Yet our adventurous went on. We devoured into the devilish pleasures of sheepishly eating yummy junk food without letting anyone know. She was diabetic but loved ice-creams. She would ask my mom to serve her ice-cream in cup and would wait until it would turn into milk. Post that she would just drink the ‘thick-shake’ saying ice-cream is not permitted, but milk is!

She died when I was in 7^th std. A lot of my habits are cultivated by her. Be it reading or slyly eating stuff out of fridge or just plainly making a good story and escaping a nasty scolding or just enjoying the life the way it comes. She was truly my rockstar!

The Sea and Me

The highs and the lows…. The lows and the highs… Like waves in the ocean, life goes up and then down and then up again, the rhythm of life continues until it meets its end. The waves crash on sand and stone by the shore, the life crashes in the arms of death. Another wave is generated somewhere in the mid sea and starts its journey again towards the shore. With each second passing, we see millions of waves dying by the shore and many more raising their heads and rushing towards the beach as if this time they will defeat their destiny. Sigh! They fail, they fail miserably.

Each time I am defeated by the destiny, I rise, I have my highs and lows and with all the might I rush towards the final destination, falling and failing. They told me try and try until you succeed. Morons they were, having luxury of trying at each failed attempt. They were rich as their pockets were loaded with time. I tried and tried, believing in them, but unlike them, I neither was rich nor had luxury of time. Tired and exhausted, I sat by the shore with my head hanging between my knees. All of a sudden I noticed a red ball on the horizon, shining in its glory. I held my head high, and was marveled by the beauty of the sea. Only then did I notice, that waves came, some managed to break their previous record and establish the new ones, some died mid way. But in the end, they all die, neither reaching success.

Singing in chorus they all said, “Try and try until you succeed”. I felt my lips stretching across my face, and before I could realize the faint smile, it had already turned into a laugh, laughter that filled the silence, laughter that silenced the chorus. They all looked at me, initially amused, then with sympathy. A small wave crawled up to my feet and in worried, caring, warm voice, like that of a grand pa, it asked, “What makes you laugh? Do not give up my child, try and TRY until you succeed!”

I stood up, dusted my bum of the sand, with slippers in my hand, my exhausted feet carried me towards the road. In whisper I said, “Look at yourselves, tied and bounded with misery, desire and ambition. The more you try, the more you fail, in the end your hands are empty, there is no sand. It slipped away long time back. Only if you would have seen the larger picture, you would have understood there is no success. You rise and you fall and life goes on. Stop trying. Pick yourself up, accept your defeat. Become more humble, and learn your lessons. Enjoy the process and cherish your experience. Then move on to the next walk of life, where you might fly. Try only until you can try!”

Reviewers vs. Critics – II

In my last post with the same name, I floated a few questions and expressed my doubts over RJs as film critics. After having an interesting debate on the same with a friend, and revisiting my blog again, I felt that the questions/doubts were more like thinking aloud exercise. Be it a chef, dancer, director, artist, sculptor or a writer, they need to garnish and give final touch ups to their creative output. So here is the new blog, where I have tried to refine my thoughts, give them a sequence and rebuilt the entire argument. I am not starting from where I left; rather this is a new page and a fresh start.

Stating in a very technical manner, a critic is: a). One who forms and expresses judgments of the merits, faults, value, or truth of a matter; b). One who specializes especially professionally in the evaluation and appreciation of literary or artistic works, e.g. Film critic, dance critic; c). One who tends to make harsh or carping judgments; a faultfinder. Like many say and as we all know, every human is a born critic, anyone and everyone who has an opinion becomes a critic (definition ‘c)’ to be referred). But in this particular post we are talking about film critics hence, we shall go with the definition ‘b)’.

Film critics are generally divided into two broad categories, namely:

1. Journalistic Critic: They work with newspapers, magazines, broadcasting mediums or online magazines which give film reviews of the new releases. Describing plot summary, performances, direction, music, cinematography, etc. in brief forms a part of such reviews. Due to the space crunch, they are not very elaborate. Generally these reviews are considered to be very important as they impact the box office collections of films. People many a times consider their favorite reviewers opinion while deciding which movie they want watch over the weekend; 

2. Academic Critic: These kinds of critics generally are more theoretical in their approach. They analyze movies and write detailed review about the overall treatment given to the movie, factors that made it work/fail, technical nuances, how it impacts society and forms certain norms and notions. These kinds of reviews generally appear in academic journals or peer group review journals.

We will directly jump to the academic critic as I am more interested in analyzing movies rather than summarizing them. The seemingly trivial act of watching movies is not after all as trivial as it seems. At times when movies like Wanted, Dabang, and Housefull2 become the highest grosser at the BO, it silently comments on the kind of society we are forming or dwelling into. The pleasures that we derive when a well-built hero proudly calls himself Robin hood does corruption but takes care of people around him is not very comforting. So when the so called critics, sing praises of these movies and set the cash registers ringing at the box office, we have a right of questioning their unprecedented command and hold over a large number of audience.

Anything when becomes too technical and talks in heavy jargon loses mass appeal and tends to become aristocratic (read meant for a selected class of intellectuals). The ideas floated by them might be interesting, but the language becomes a jarring note between them and the actual audience, who buys the tickets. In order to reach out, these academic critics can try new mediums like the internet or radio which gives them better access to the actual audience. Mellowing down and using a simpler language might help them share their ideas and criticisms with a new group.

I was asked this question repeatedly about why I have a problem with RJs being film reviewers. The answer is:- like stated above, every human being has opinions. When we talk about critic, we mean someone who is professionally trained for understanding the art and giving his/her ‘judgement’. Most of these RJs are not even exposed to a wide range of cinema, leave alone being trained. They understand the pulse of their audience and hence most of the times, people relate with their reviews. Their language is easy to understand and they have tools that enable them to reach out to larger audience. Hence, when a Dabang is declared super-hit by these RJs, I am worried!

Again the argument that will arise is that, it is neither the critics nor RJs, it is the audience that decides the fate of a movie and they are the true critics. The answer is, just because you have the power of buying, does not mean that you have the power to judge the artistic value of a film. You definitely can seal their fate. The producers might not earn profits, but that does not mean that the movie was bad. Classics like Pakeeza did not make an impact at the BO in the initial weeks of its release that does not make it any less classic. Recent independent film Good Night Good Morning, though was a much better film than most of the commercial crap, did not have impressive figures. So money power or audience power, after a point and time is not a meter to gauge the artistic or aesthetic value of a movie. No art can survive or thrive in seclusion, so I am not being haughty and saying screw the audience, but living under the pretext that it is the buying power that defines good or successful cinema is not agreeable.

So I end this blog hoping that some RJ might read it, get curious and expose himself/herself to wide genres of cinema and see the commercial cinema with a new perspective. Also, I wish that some academic critic might read this and try to mellow down his/her language, get out of the academic journals and try and reach out to the larger/actual audience.

Next: We might just talk about small budget movies and independent film makers.