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.

Reviewers vs. Critics

Now a days, there is this hot debate going on twitter and the internet, about whether critics matter or not. Sajid Khan said, "Fuck the critics! They don't matter." Not only he made a sequel of his mindless comedy flick Housefull but the collections of Housefull2 prove that yes, THEY (critics) do not matter. As movies are type of Art, do they form a part of the White Cubical?

In 1917 Duchamp placed a urinal signed R. Mutt in an exhibition as a piece of art. Since then (actually since much before that, this expression just voiced the question aloud) this debate of what can be considered as “ART” has not found any apt answer. Also it is not only about What can be considered as Art, but Who defines or legitimises Art. As movies are a form of art, the - what and who from the above question implies to them as well. Though the question might have been lingering around since quiet some time, it became more vocal in the recent times. Once the movie is produced and is out for masses to consume it, opinions will be generated by its audience. Some might hate it; some might love it while for many it won’t make any difference. In this broader or rather crude sense, anyone and everyone who has an opinion can call himself/herself a critic. But like in every system, we have authorities, who don the hat of ‘critic’ and give verdicts. They bisect, analyse and engrave their introspections post the retrospection of the pleasure their senses derived while their eyes were consuming the poetry running on the celluloid. How much do these critics actually matter in the present times is the main question.

Most of the people argue saying that we go to cinema to get entertained. After a long and loaded week, I would rather pay 200 bucks for a mindless comedy, laugh my lungs out and come home refreshed rather than going for serious cinema, brood over it, and take extra load. But if we read Aristotle and his theory of tragedy, he talks about catharsis. In a very crude way, it means cleansing or purifying. The term is used in drama to describe cleansing of emotions. In the dark theater, when you see misery on screen and cry along with the character, laugh with them and feel their emotions, you feel very light at the end of the movie. It is more like getting rid of your emotional baggage. Sorry, for this small insertion about my inclinations towards a specific kind of cinema. But the point is that, may it be tragedy, drama or comedy, good cinema, is always worth your money. Though at times not easy to understand (Rockstar can be the latest example), but once you follow, you love it. Critics technically should help you understand these movies. Yet, at the end of the day, their reviews are their opinions and how they saw it.

I Enjoyed Ra. One. Many RJs in my city (in places like Ahmedabad, RJs of popular FM channels are the ultimate critics) did not like it. So who is right? Me? Or they? RJs anyday! Because they have a platform, they give verdict. I, on the other hand, express my thoughts on a piece of paper or at the most debate on it when I am allowed. But hold on, are we not discussing that critics are non-effective to the BO collection of any movies? Then how come they gain a higher position?

It is because RJs in principle are not critics, they are reviewers! In today's age and time, RJs hold a higher position than many full time film critics. They have direct excess to a wider range of audience. They have the boy/girl next door image yet are very famous and have a rapport with their audience. Critics, in comparison with these reviewers seem like people with stingy nose. They look down upon the masses and say, "You know nothing, I shall teach you about how to view a film!" They are those strict teachers with glasses on the tip of their nose and a cane in their hand, ready to punish the naughty ones and pat the sincere nerds. While RJs/reviewers are the happy-go-lucky ones (more like Aamir Khan of Tare Zameen Par), fun while you learn types. They tell the audience, that I am one of you, they communicate in the same language and then tell them what to see and what not to. It does not look preachy and thus, their impact is bigger than that of critics.

They say Rockstar sucks, and a large number of audiences, without even watching it, believe that it is not worth their money and time. Result, disaster!! They thus become ‘elites’, the ‘who’ part, deciding what can be termed as ‘Good Cinema’. The masses or majority of the audience, whose money matters at the box office will refer to these RJs.

So even as the debate goes on, and there is no final verdict, on whether the critics are worth their stature or not, film makers, audiences and RJs/reviewers will keep making fun of them. In the process good cinema will keep on getting neglected while they keep on consuming those mindless flicks.

In The Name of Love

All the Yashraj films are to be blamed for this particular post that you have to read. Born in late 1980’s my childhood and adolescence was heavily fed on these romantic films. They not only formed strong image of ideal better half, without whom your life is incomplete but also defined symptoms of falling in love and aftermaths of a break-up. From Chandni (1989) till Veer-Zaara (2004) almost all films contributed heavily in formation of my ideologies of love, life and lust (read as the mushy, lovely-dovey cuddles and hugs, sex was alien to them). So over a period of time, I kept on Falling in Love again and again, in the Yashraj style.

I eagerly waited for my college life to start, as all his love stories normally take place when the lead characters start going to college (or minimum qualification required is 10+2). It gives college a mystic image, as if the moment I set my feet in, guys will go down on their keens, propose me and my love story will kick-start. Unfortunately Som-Lalit College of Commerce did not provide lot of Rahuls around. I did research, calculations and planning, but nothing worked and I started panicking as time slipped out of my hands. I was yet to find my Mr. Right.

All this while, when I felt disheartened, I remembered the evergreen Yashraj mantra, “Someone, somewhere is made for you…” and reviving my spirits I would get back to my ‘Boyfriend’ hunt. And than it happened, winds started blowing, hairs started flowing, violins were playing and I met him. First eyes met, then we and I thought even our hearts met. In typical Yashraj style, three to four love songs played in background and my chiffon dupatta was flowing all over the campus. Normally after the song and dance sequence, guy proposes, but here there were no signs of him proposing me. I waited, one week and then two, finally I gave up and said, I Love You. He looked at me and said,” Sorry Dude, I don’t know you.” Ahhhh… My heart broke into thousand pieces.

I was a bit confused as no Yashraj film ever talks about heart breaks at such an initial stage (read as love story ends before the title credits begin). I thought I will get more chances. On the very next turn, I bumped into a geek. Actually geek will be a wrong term, as he was pathetic in studies; the only thing god gifted him was good looks and a golden heart. During one of the college functions, he was dressed in all white, white shoes, white trousers, white belt and a white shirt. I thought Chopra uncle himself was hinting that this is the one. What if he is not on white horse, he himself has turned into MAN IN WHITE. The violin sequence happened again and I started floating in the air.

I was careful with duets this time and thought one thing at a time. We started exchanging text messages and graduated onto hour long phone calls. With each day passing, I knew he is the one, my Rahul! And one fine day, in another desperate attempt, I proposed. This time the weather was to be blamed. It was raining and the romantic soul within me jumped out at said, “Will you be my date?” It took me 3 days to make him understand what a date meant, on fourth day he understood the concept and rejected my proposal.

With yet another broken heart I pledged this time, no more romantic Yashraj. Though I had started hating Yashrajs by now for floating myth of perfect love stories in our main stream cinema, each time I met ‘eligible’ (anything that remotely resembled MALE species of homo-sapiens) match, Yashrajs took over my sensibilities. One after the other, rejections kept on streaming in. A long distance online relationship came to an abrupt end when he saw my snap (at times I have that kind of effect on people), the college rock-star resurfaced and rejected me three more times, a library crush, a canteen crush, and an office crush, everyone politely but firmly kept on rejecting me.

2000s interestingly started showcasing looser supporting characters in Hindi movies which now got all my sympathies. The guy would be shown heartbroken after he proposes a girl (or ‘N’ number of girls). From the main lead to this supporting character, my life seemed to be on a slide. I never understood why movies never portrayed ‘girls’ who were rejected ‘n’ number of times and celebrated their single status? If not motivational, it could atleast have served as caution sign.

Today I am on the verge of completing my masters, economically I am independent and have a promising career to look forward to and yet the desire to be loved and belonged by a man is not quenching. We are so heavily fed on the notion of ‘perfect love’ that without a partner our life seems incomplete. All the guys by whom I have been rejected, till date are my close friends. Yet an illusionary void of not belonging to someone special can be felt. I hope someday, we will have better cinema to feed on which makes us independent individuals rather than creating unsatisfied longing for ‘perfect life-partner’.

Television - The Intelligent Idiot Box

As a kid, I was always scolded for watching too many television serials. My uncle (Praharsh Mama) always said, “Do a Ph.D. in serials and movies as that is the only thing that holds your interest!” He might not have known then that his words will come true some day in future. Though not a Ph.D., I did my Master’s thesis on Indian Television Soap Operas.

Television has always been seen as an ‘instrument for entertainment’. It is used to amuse and entertain people in their idle time or to kill their boredom. Most of the English teachers in primary schools are obsessed with essays on ‘Television: An Idiot box’. Almost every year students give identical rhetoric speeches on same topic in elocution competitions and debates and keep on proving television as an Idiot Box. Thus, from a very small age, we solidify the notions of watching television as a trivial activity which is used to kill time or for pleasure and very rarely to get information (through 24 hours running news channels or National Geography and Discovery channels).

Is watching television only limited till the above stated notions developed in us from a young age? As a matter of fact, television industry is a highly profitable industry. It not only generates employment in creative sector, like writing, acting, directing but also in technical and financial sectors. Qualified engineers are recruited to develop and circulate new and latest technologies such as Direct to Home (DTH) services, inventing new and better television sets for a better television watching experience, technical assistance in producing television programmes, telecasting them and so on. Thus television also plays an important role in economic development of any country.

Not only economical, but television can also cause major political repercussions. Arvind Rajgopal in his book, ‘Politics After Television’, analysis the emergence of one of the strongest political parties and the development of Hindutva movement in India. He says, “In January 1987, the Indian state-run television began broadcasting a Hindu epic in serial form, The Ramayana, to nationwide audiences, violating a decade-old taboo on religious partisanship. What resulted was the largest political campaign in post-independence times, around the symbol of Lord Ram, led by Hindu nationalists. The complexion of Indian politics was irrevocably changed thereafter.” He further adds, “While audiences may have thought they were harking back to an epic golden age, Hindu nationalist leaders were embracing the prospects of neoliberalism and globalisation. Television was the device that hinged these movements together, symbolising the new possibilities of politics, at once more inclusive and authoritarian.” Studies like these establish that watching television is after all not as trivial an activity as it seems to be. It can influence ideologies of masses which can result into great political moments.

My thesis does not get deeper into the above mentioned aspects of television viewing; rather it concentrates on a different yet very powerful domain which is highly affected by the television viewing patterns of the masses, the ‘Cultural Aspect’. Many theoreticians and academicians in west as well as in our own country have pointed out towards the effects of television programmes on endorsing or creating new cultural paradigms. My thesis will try and explore the cultural connotations derived from the soap operas and how it then adds on to being an important part of our own cultural. It somewhere constantly keeps on redefining the term -‘Indian Culture’.

This thesis is a small attempt to understand this phenomenon by analysing the popular television serial ‘Balika Vadhu- Kachi Umra Ke Pakke Rishte’. The serial is broadcasted on Colors Television in India and abroad. The serial has maintained high TRP ratings from the time it has been launched, not only that, it even changed the blue print of Indian soap operas. Hence, this series has been taken as the case study and will be thematically analysed to understand why it became instantly popular with its audience and how it defines Indian Culture.

Happy Father's Day Papa

6th May, 2010, early morning, I try to open my eyes and gather faint memories of the previous night. Ah… I still am in Chennai. I look around and hear someone taking a bath in Gujarat Bhawan’s small room where we had checked in a few days back. It brings smile on my face as I know he is still there, and I am not alone. We got ready in the usual monotonous way. He followed his daily morning schedule and brought some coffee and breakfast. All this while he kept on repeating list of things that I should be doing when he is not around.
Since yesterday morning he had been instructing me on how to live alone in a new place, a new city, a new state and a new culture. He was not the only one; my cell phone had been beeping since the time I woke up. My two ears were devoted to two different people, one who seemed worried about how I will manage next one month all on my own in an unknown surrounding. The other was also worried up to a certain extent, but about my frantic mood swings and what was held for him in the coming month.
With a bag pack on my back, a big suitcase in one hand and a cell phone in the other, reading and replying to the stream of messages, I followed him. We hired an auto, bargained over the money demanded, finally gave in, and started our journey. Chennai Central was not that far and I knew that all the last minute instructions were being repeated by him. I was more interested in knowing what was in store for the next month and was busy texting.
All of a sudden I heard something and it was not the regular monologue. He snapped, “Constantly over this phone of yours, are you even listening to what I have to say? You keep on talking with people who don’t value your time or your presence. Having friends is nice, but being obsessed about them is not good.” I was still grappling to understand the connotative meaning behind these lines. But anyway, there was a more interesting conversation going on, on the other end. My mind ordered both my ears and eyes to concentrate on messages and continue texting.
We had reached Chennai Central. His train to Ahmedabad was about to leave in half an hour. I bid a hurried good-bye as I was upset with him for scolding me since morning. May be I was just trying to divert my emotions from the fear of being alone to that of anger. I started walking with the crowd, pretending to be lost among hundred others. Did I see him properly for the last time? “Grrrr… ok, muster some courage and turn around, turn before it is too late”, I thought, though had lost all hopes of seeing him there.
I was sure that by this time he would have crossed the sub-way and might have reached on the other side of the road, and yet I turned, and to my surprise or somewhere deep down I knew, that he would be there. Like a child, who is about to lose his precious gift, he was looking at me, walking through the crowd. He made me realize that however hard I will try merging in crowds his caring and protecting eyes will always identify me. He made me feel warm, secure and protected. The feeling of SOON HE WILL BE GONE dawned upon me, and I ran… ran back towards him. All I could manage was, “Papa, have a safe journey, call me once your train departs, do not forget those mendu-vadas at Vijayvada and don’t worry I’ll be good.” He smiled and said bye. Few other silent moments followed, I asked him to leave and he said, “you leave I’ll go once you reach the bus stand”. I said “Bye, papa”, and walked away from him, but it seemed like I was getting more close to him.
Water droplets seemed to be rolling down my face but it was not raining. A stream of tears was flowing from my eyes, “What will I do without him?” was all I could think. I am all alone, without him. Just then my phone beeped, the message said, “Don’t worry Zalak, we are not even near the silence zone. I am always there.”

IT’S ONLY A MIRAGE

Every evening at around 4 pm we would meet. He was a medical student and would talk about how his day went in at the hospital, informing me about all sorts and kinds of patients he treated throughout the day. The passion with which he would narrate each case was amazing, though I was from a non-medical background, he would talk about each case using all the heavy medical terminologies he could, at times just to brag, but he was involved with his cases. I would lend my ears and he would pour in his stories. By the dinner time we would have travelled almost across the globe and discussed everything from patients to food, to current movies to the cockroaches in my bathroom to the new bed sheet that he will soon spread on his bed.
I called him a cribber. He cribbed about anything and everything under the sun. If he would go for a movie, he would crib about too much traffic on the road, if he went to dine out he will crib about the new restaurant not accepting his credit card, there was not one day when he would say, it was a perfect day! Another peculiar habit that he had was -clicking pictures. In his hi-tech cell phone, he will keep on clicking pictures about everything that interested him and show them while he spoke about those things. I was always amused by the level involvement he had during all our conversations. They were not some of those brainy intellectual conversations nor were they simple silly chit-chats. Normally people share a talk over a cup of coffee whereas he shared his life over chats.
I still can’t recall when it all started, I think during the world cup 2011 semi-final match. He went to watch a movie during the second innings and I gave him ball to ball updates. India won the match and since then we were always connected. Distances seemed to get dissolved in that victory. We stay 1858 KM away. One belongs to east and the other to west, literally, and yet we are connected more than we are with any other friend who might just be staying 7 blocks away from our place.
This makes me wonder about the social networks and the way internet transforms our relation and personality. A person whom you have never seen not even heard over phone becomes an inseparable entity of your daily routine. You know exactly how he will behave in what situation, his likes and dislikes; you are connected 24X7 as if you stay together in the same house. Yet, you don’t know the person. They create mirage relations. You can see and live a perfect life, but they are as real as the mist. You can see it, feel it, but can never touch it.
Whatever they are like, the important thing that connects us are our personal needs. I want to have a sense of belongingness and he needs a companion to share his life with. The question here that arises is what is the future of such relations? It is easy to depend on someone when the person exists in form infront of you. Though I see his world through his snaps, I live there, each moment, yet the existence is nothing more than the thin air that he breaths. It is important for survival, you feel it, but you can never touch or see it. Yet I would say it is worth experimenting. It is like going bungee jumping, let yourself loose and fall free, only then will you enjoy it. They are full of adrenal rush, thrill, fun and adventure, and most importantly they cultivate faith in you!

Mona Lisa Smile

“Look beyond the Image”, is the central idea or theme of the movie Mona Lisa Smile. Katherine Watson (Julia Roberts) is the new Arts History teacher at Wellesley College, in Massachusetts USA in the America of 1950s. Wellesley was a very conservative all girls college for the liberal arts. Katherine Watson did not believe that role of a woman in their society was just to be a loyal wife and a caring mother. She was unmarried at 30 in those days. She wanted to live life by her rules and make a good career, before she got married. Once when a student asked her that why she was not married even when she had been in relationships with men in past, she said that “every relation is not meant to end up in marriage.” She was rebellious in nature and in her beliefs, which were more modern than the age in which she lived.

She tried to open up the minds of her young students and make them aware that there is much more to life than just being a just wife or a mother. She wanted to enlighten them about their roles beyond the accepted societal norms and show them the importance of achieving economic stability before marriage. She used Art History to communicate her ideology to her students.

The film Mona Lisa Smile urges it’s viewers to look beyond the conventional image of woman as home maker. The character of Betty asks a question by the end of the movie to her mother, who was a firm believer of the society rules. She shows her a painting of Mona Lisa and asks her, that ‘just because she is smiling in the painting, does it mean that she is really happy’? A question that should be asked is when we push ourselves, beyond our limits, to become that perfect Super-Woman shown in some xyz commercial, whether the lady who with a broad smile says “It Works!” becomes truly happy just because IT WORKS? And all men should ask a question to themselves whether their wife, mother, sister or daughter who struggle everyday to strike a balance between career and home is actually happy when she smiles and says “I managed it…”?

How much so ever we declare and believe ourselves to be a part of a modern society in India, we do not treat men and women equally, and the real picture is quite different. We need more Katherine Watsons in our society to shake the young girls out of the slumber and open their minds to new horizons in life. We need to make the men understand that a house becomes a home not only by the efforts of the female partner but by the joint efforts of husband and wife. Mona Lisa need not just smile but also be happy from within...

We don’t need Super-Women here, like our advertisements tell us, we just need a woman who has equal rights and to work outside her home as well as get support from her spouse in running the house to make it their home, ‘Sweet Home’!

Johnny’s Midnight Goggles

Man has indeed become slave of machines. We seem to ignore the beautiful world around us. We don’t even realize the temporality of time and the growing up that happens in a jiffy. This is how, I would like to summarize, ‘Johnny’s Midnight Goggles.’

Matthew Sharp, the solo performer in the play, enthralled the audience with his performance at Natrani in Darpana Academy Ahmedabad as a part of his British Council supported three city India tours that would culminate in Trivandrum. Despite the strength of the performance, a few questions lingered in my mind. As a live performer, the actor’s dependency on pre-recorded sounds and dialogues and occasional lip sync was a little jarring.

As an audience of a live performance, one always expects to hear the actor’s voice without any artificial amplification .And therein theatre especially intimate theatre (like the space in Darpana) scores over the illusion of cinema. If watching something technologically larger than life would have been the intention, I would have rather gone to 3 idiots in a multiplex. On the whole, the production looked more like a musical treatment with a dash of theatre rather than the published review that said: ‘Witty, nail-biting and entrancing music theater. A One man Operatic Thriller.’

Having said all this, one was still moved by the sharpness of the piece. Mathew turned his cello into his co-actor. Using the instrument among other things as; a train compartment, a horrible machine monster and also a wild beast. What I liked the most about this solo performance was the way he turned a technical error into an independent mini scene. He walked up to the technical guy, narrated his intention and muttered some details (which I hardly followed) and got his microphone device fixed!

The play was a visual delight helped by the lights that filled in for props and a background score which was enchanting and occasionally witty one liners ranging from Arnold’s biceps to Sarah Palin. However, it would have been interesting to see how a vernacular audience especially a Bhavai artist would have reacted to the show. Most likely, it would have failed, because it could not dissolve the barriers of language and turn the gestures into an independent narrative.

Great evening but still could have been better.

href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmnNNX21pUpCby6VTi8u1UzZcBz8_d2FpyeFWgcKlwp8FrJh8eSfAfmyDPk2NO6r7wk3V6qqoSkj0t_cDjQmDLVDnqmfDNsLL6V3CLCLZqbwuKEhzEHx2qRtePrlclUHagyRtdhQnx0Y/s1600-h/DSCI1791.JPG">A trip in gulbai tekra actually made me realize that people living in the area are so beautiful, my fashion photo story is based on these slum girls...

All these pictures have been clicked on my way to Idar (Gujarat) it was a road journey and the shots were clicked from the window of the moving car!!

By Lanes of Gulbai Tekra

The maze-like structures and the by lanes of Gulbai Tekra, famously know as ‘Hollywood’, have many untold stories. One of them is unfolded here by Zalak Trivedi as she gives her first-hand experience of meeting adolescent Mahesh Parmar, a designer-cum-tailor.

Photographs: Zalak Trivedi.

At around 6 in the evening, the whole world seems to be rushing… birds to their nests, Sun to the West and people like me to their homes! The road through Gulbai tekra has always been a comfort route for me as I could reach home without getting stuck at any traffic signals. Every time when I cross that small slum patch, I always wonder about the people living there. Their magnificent and colorful dresses always attract me. During Navratri, this place has been the most sought after destination by most of my friends. The exotic chaniya choli and gharena (jewellery) for the season is ‘imported’ by most of the youngsters from here.

Recently, for one of the garba functions, even I thought of renting some jewellery from the slum women. So while going back home, I mustered my courage and walked up to a group of men standing near Jogni mata’s mandir. A medium-built, dark-complexioned man, with scary eyes, walked up to me and smiled. Kanubhai volunteered to be my guide and took me inside the maze-like streets of the slum. The experience was a thrilling eye-opener.

The by lanes, were hardly enough for one person to pass. Groups of women, decked up with gold and silver accessories were packing chopped chicken. As we went deeper, the lanes got narrower and darker with tin roofs overshadowing them, and the place became gloomier. Then I saw a small bulb hanging at a distance, lighting up our path and my heart. A small boy, about 14 years old was working under the electric bulb. He was sewing something on his machine. It seemed like the sound of the machine was music to his ears. He was enjoying his work so much that he hardly noticed my presence.

“I am Mahesh Chamanbhai Parmar, a local tailor”, was how he introduced himself. On further inquiry I came to know that he was studying in the 9^th STD of a government school in Mithakhali. His mother proudly said, “He always comes first in his class.” Being a first time customer, he showed me his latest creations. His eyes were shining bright as he talked about those dresses. His aunt had taught him the art of sewing this kind of traditional dresses when he was in 5^th STD. Since then he has been making dresses for all the women in the slum.

His popularity increased over the period of time. During Navratri, he is famous with all the young girls for chaniya choli. Kanubhai said, “He makes the dresses as demanded by the girls and they all are very happy with his work as they keep coming here year after year.” I wondered from where he gets to know about the latest fashion trend! To which he revealed his secret. He stitches the dress according to the designs showed by these girls and picks it on. He mixes traditional style with the design showed by the girls. One more reason of his popularity is that he charges only Rs.100 per chaniya choli, making him the most affordable in the area. He is expert in making kalivala ghaghra, katori cut cholies, rabari choli, and special bridal dress of his community.

On asking him about what he wants to do in future, he gave a startling reply. He said, “There is some college in Paldi area, where they teach you how to stitch clothes apart from chaniya choli. I want to go there and learn stitching different types of dresses in that college.” It took me sometime to understand that he was talking about the National Institute of Design! He told me that there are many students from NID who visit him for chaniya cholis and thus he came to know about this college.

After finishing my work he came all the way to Jogini mata’s mandir, to see me off. With a face brightening smile, he said, “I want to study further but my family might not be supportive for it, but in future if I ever learn to make other kinds of dresses, than I will make a nice dress for you.” I kept on thinking about him on my way back home. Dreams are dreams; they fill your eyes irrespective of your social status. This is the power of fashion; a small guy from slum area wants to study in the most reputed fashion institute of the nation just for the sake of enhancing his skills and learning something new. It will be one of the most exciting days of my life when I will see Mahesh from Gulbai Tekra walking inside NID!