The Opinionated

That Big Man with the Baritone

2011-12-12T21:42:00.002+05:30

It was exactly 4 o' clock when a boy came up to us and announced that Amitabh Bachchan was ready to meet us now. He had given us an appointment at 4, and he was known to be punctual. I was impressed, but not surprised. My colleague and I -- financial journalists by profession -- had thrown caution to the winds and decided it was time to do that definitive interview with Bachchan and also take advantage of our journalistic access and meet the man we had been waiting to meet for quite a while. We didn't mind driving all the way in peak traffic from Lalbaug in central Mumbai to faraway Goregaon's Film City -- where the Big Man was shooting for his latest film, Aitbaar -- just to meet Vijay Dinanath Chauhan in person.
We rushed to the first floor of the studio, where the set was that of a doctor's chamber (Bachchan was playing a doctor in the movie). There were assorted hangers-on, a few spot boys loitering, and some assorted actors roaming around.
And then he emerged.
The first thing that struck me about Amitabh Bachchan Version Sixty Plus was his rather large frame. He was -- to put it simply -- big. I had met him as a child in Darjeeling where he was shooting for Do Anjaane. He was a close friend of my parents' in his Bird & Co days in Calcutta and my father had taken me to his hotel to introduce me to him. Even at that very young age I was a Bachchan fan, and had watched his movies with awe. He had struck me then as a very tall man (I was puny), but he was much leaner then, and I remember gaping at him open-mouthed at the reception of the Oberoi hotel as he stood there in a red turtle-neck sweater.
This time was different. I was a journalist and he was in his post-KBC phase, doing different roles, donning new looks and generally having the time of his life. "Remember, you are a journalist," my wife had warned me before I left for the interview, all excited about meeting him. "Don't get all overawed, please," she had pleaded as I nodded routinely.

Bachchan shakes hands after the interview.

"Ah, it is you," he announced, in his fabled baritone. Just short of goosebumps, I nodded. "Aaiye, vaataanukulit kamre mein baithtey hain,"(come, let us sit in the air-conditioned room) he said straight-faced, purposely speaking in the flawless Hindi which he and his legendary father Harivanshrai are known for. My colleague, a Tamilian, tapped me on the shoulder: "Boss, what did he say?" After I was done translating, we stepped into his 'chamber'.
Bachchan, noted for his attention to detail, made sure a rival paper kept on the table was removed for the photo session. "You don't want this in the picture, I am sure!" he joked, as our photographer got busy clicking pictures which were enough to last a few years.
And then began the most amazing two hours, during which he spoke freely about his Second Coming, his post-KBC phase, his beard, and the different parts he was playing with new-age directors. He categorised his career in three parts -- the earlier Hrishikesh Mukherjee phase, the action hero phase, and then the current phase where he said he was no longer under the pressure to carry a movie's financial fortunes on his shoulders alone.
It was strange to watch Amitabh Bachchan speak like an ordinary human being. One had always watched him mouthing dialogues -- now part of every moviegoer's lexicon -- on screen, playing larger than life roles. Here he was, within handshaking distance, speaking about his life and times like anyone else.
But he was still Amitabh Bachchan, the Superstar of the Millennium, the man whose wax statue had just been installed at Madame Tussaud's in London. "Oh, that's because there are so many Indian tourists who go to London. So it makes financial sense for them to have that statue there. It's nothing big," he said dismissively. Was he serious, or was this humility part of the well-crafted 'Bachchan package', I wondered during a rare moment when my journalistic cynicism got the better of the Bachchan fan in me.
Armed with loads of stories both for the news and feature pages (Amitabh Bachchan, Now Unlimited), we took some pictures with him. I then decided to fish out a folder and, disregarding my wife's advice, asked him for his autograph. He readily obliged, and asked us to 'drop by anytime'. I politely reminded him that we had got this interview after months of waiting.
Emerging from Film City, I looked at my watch. I was getting late for the next appointment: a very important mutual funds round table I was to moderate. Reaching the venue of the Round Table, I quickly got down to business: the role of mutual funds in bringing the small investor back to the equity markets, the problems being faced by fund houses etc etc.
I pretended to look interested and carried on with the discussion.
At the back of my head, a voice thundered: "Aaiye, vaataanukulit kamre mein baithtey hain."
Much like The Phantom of the Opera, Amitabh Bachchan was inside my mind.

Once Upon A Time in Madras

2011-12-07T12:26:00.000+05:30

If you go to watch Milan Luthria's "The Dirty Picture" either for its title or because you liked Luthria's earlier work "Once Upon a Time in Mumbaai", you may end up disappointed on both counts. There's nothing really 'dirty' about the picture if you know what I mean, and Luthria's storytelling this time is not half as riveting as OUATIM.
However, "The Dirty Picture" is still a cinematic triumph for more reasons than one. The first big reason is that it is a showcasing of the enormous talent -- no pun intended -- of its leading lady, Vidya Balan, who slips into the role of Silk, well, as smoothly as the character's name. The film is entirely Balan's, from the very first scenes where she takes on an entirely male-dominated world with her unabashed sexuality and uses it to her advantage to rise through the ranks of the Madras film world to the time when her loneliness pushes her to the brink of alcoholism and irreversible depression.
Balan has given the film her all, shed her inhibitions and her Parineeta image to get under the skin of the controversial south Indian soft-porn actor Silk Smitha whose character the film's makers say it is not loosely based on. Whether it is the manner in which she woos an ageing, womanising superstar played brilliantly by Naseeruddin Shah, or finds herself coming emotionally close to a director who hates her (Emraan Hashmi in a fantastic performance), Balan is absolutely superb in essaying the part.
Luthria's direction is good in parts, but at times the director tries too hard to recreate the 'retro' feel of the Eighties. The risque dialogues are also a tad too much so, and rather needlessly, in the first half. However, you do tend to forgive these relatively minor lapses for the larger picture: the story of a village girl who seeks to make it big in a male-dominated world, and ends up getting exploited both emotionally and physically, leading her to self-destruct.
In the end, the film is a story of a society which loves to moralise, while indulging in the same sleaze it so loves to hate on the surface. That message does come through in the film, and that itself is a big plus. "The Dirty Picture", particularly in the second half, is a serious film, portraying the rapid destruction of one of the more controversial and yet popular actors south Indian cinema has seen.
Go watch it for Vidya Balan, Naseeruddin Shah and Emraan Hashmi. Bappi Lahiri's rendition of 'Oo-laa-laa' is an added bonus.

Back to the 70s: Why has the Angry Young Man returned?

2011-09-19T14:39:00.001+05:30

When Amitabh Bachchan kicked the chair on which Pran was about to sit in the police station with the now cult line: “Yeh police station hai, tumhaara baap ka ghar nahin” in Zanjeer (1973), it encapsulated the anger and frustration of an entire generation of Indians against the system. Thus was born the Angry Young Man (AYM), storywriter duo Salim-Javed’s gift to Indian cinema.

Since then, hundreds of movies have been made in several languages, and many Indians, including the generally laid-back Bengali, have thronged the theatres to see variations of the AYM on their screens. From Rajinikanth in the South to Ranjit Mullick in Bengal, superstars have played the righteous cop a million times and vanquished the villain in the last reel of a potboiler.

What Bachchan gave to Indian cinema by way of his AYM persona in several movies after Zanjeer – Deewaar, Trishul, Kaala Patthar and others – became the mantra of a generation fed up of the system, the unemployment and the political violence of the time. This phase has been well chronicled, and what followed was a period of eminently forgettable movies. Cheap South Indian remakes with a heavily made up Jeetendra (complete with tight white trousers, white shoes and pencil moustache) in the lead, gyrating to cheap Bappi Lahiri tunes became the norm. In the nineties, Bollywood was characterized by some badly made films with diffused cinematography, the rise of chocolate hero Aamir Khan, Salman Khan and Shah Rukh Khan and, of course, Akshay Kumar.

But the post Y2K Bollywood has turned out to be refreshingly different. Filmmakers like Farhan Akhtar (Dil Chahta Hai), Anurag Kashyap (Dev D), Vishal Bhardwaj (Maqbool, Omkara), Dibakar Banerjee (Khosla Ka Ghosla, Oye Lucky, Lucky Oye!) burst into the firmament with awesome storytelling and filmmaking capabilities which touched a chord with audiences across the spectrum. This coincided with the popularity of the multiplex and you had urban, middle class audiences flocking to watch this new generation of Bollywood directors. No longer was the AYM or the violent films of the seventies and eighties relevant. Audiences, now exposed to global cinema on television and video, were lapping up the fresh storylines and experimental cinema. The success of movies like DCH, Khosla…and Dev D –all of which achieved cult status quickly, proved that Indian cinema had, indeed, come of age.

What, then, explains the return of anger and violence on screen like never before?

Of late, Bollywood has been witnessing a marked trend of a return to the seventies style of filmmaking and storytelling, with plots riddled with violence, corrupt politicians and the mafia with the larger-than-life hero taking on the system almost single handedly. The storytelling style has, once again, begun showing signs of the old masala movies made famous by Bachchan, Dharmendra and others of the time. Even Aamir Khan, who morphed into a sensitive, thinking actor and director as he grew older, could not resist the thud-and-bang formula with Ghajini, the remake of the south potboiler, which went on to become a mega hit across the country.

Here was a ten-pack Aamir, suffering from short-term memory loss thanks to a massive thud on the head, taking on the villain single handedly and bashing the daylights out of him and his mates. The audiences cheered and anger was back in fashion. Almost on cue came the other Khan – Salman – who till then had been making either comedies or romantic romps. Salman Khan’s Dabangg brought back the cop as superhero film into fashion. Right from the posters, the marketing and the texture of the film, it was clear that the movie was aiming to capitalize on the “seventies redux” formula. And it worked again. Dabangg was a mega hit.

Today, violence is well and truly back in fashion in Hindi cinema. Movies like Dum Maaro Dum, once again with the cop as central character, saw the drug mafia being destroyed, while the latest mega hit, Ajay Devgn’s Singham is an extension of the Dabangg formula. A good cop taking on corrupt politicos, single-handedly confronting his entire gang. And winning. Even at the multiplexes, audiences were unable to restrain themselves from whistling and clapping as Devgn’s paws landed on the heads of the villain’s henchmen from ten feet above.

So, why are Indian audiences angry again? Why is seventies-style violence getting a firm thumbs up from them?

The answer, many believe, could lie in the same reasons which made Zanjeer a super-hit and Bachchan the biggest star of his generation. Fed up with the system, rising prices and corruption, Indian audiences may be giving vent to their frustrations by watching larger-than-life heroes doing stuff which they secretly want to do: get the corrupt by the collar and smash the living daylights out of them. Post-slowdown, with job security at a premium and prices threatening to go through the roof, the success of these movies could have much to do with the disappointment of the aam aadmiwith the economic and political system.

So while Anna Hazare attempts to take on the corrupt in his own way, the average Indian cinegoer is also quite happy to see his pet peeve on screen running for his life with the mob hot on his heels.

And like the seventies, this trend will continue. At least for some time. Giving filmmakers a chance to laugh all the way to the bank, cashing in on frustration as a business proposition.

The End of Summer

2011-07-06T22:32:00.002+05:30

I have often wondered why relationships end. How do two people, who have shared joys, sorrows, good times and bad, turn into strangers over time in a way that no memory can ever join them again, no touch ever bring back the warmth they once shared. I have seen relationships crumbling in front of me, and I have been left looking for answers every time.

Two people, who were once inseparable, coming together through the sharing of the most beautiful moments, turn into parallel lines over time -- moving on with time, perhaps even in the same direction, but never to come together again, never to intersect. I have found this to be the saddest thing: some of my closest friends have been victims of such parting of ways and the experience has left many of them scarred for life. Some of them have been able to pick up the pieces of their lives, rebuild it bit by bit, and then manage a feeble smile. But many others are still grappling with the aftermath of falling out of love.

Why do people fall out of love? To me, it is the greatest mystery of human nature. Two people, once inseparable, their names taken as if they were a single person, being unable to look into each other's eyes any more, unable to relate even to the simplest of emotions. Two people, who would only bring smiles to each other's faces, only bringing out the most terrible of emotions in each other. Disgust, hatred, sadness, regret. Nothing could be sadder. I have seen this happen, and have found no answers.

Can it happen that the person you have wanted all your life, without whom life seems inconceivable, turns into someone you cringe at the mention of, run away miles from? What of those memories they created together, in lands near and far, the shared laughter, the stolen kisses, the warmth of each other's hands? Not even the slightest space could come between them once, and now they slip away from each other like sand between the fingers. The tighter you try to close your fist, the more helpless it makes you feel. The most serious of arguments would vanish in a moment with one look, one smile. But then comes a time when happiness seems a dirty word.

Happiness. That one emotion which only those two people could truly understand, is lost forever.What remains is bitterness and the cold touch of feelings that have died quietly. The fingers ache for that knowing touch, the eyes seek that gentle smile which could remove the saddest thoughts in a moment. But all you find is a deafening silence, the sounds of which shatter your innermost depths.

Is it really possible to pick up the pieces and resume the journey? Can another smile ever replace the one you left behind? Can the sunshine on another face ever make your heart leap with joy like it used to? It is the end of summer. And you can hear the rain clouds roar on the horizon.

A Ray of Light

2011-01-30T17:35:00.007+05:30

It was a truly breathtaking sight as I stepped out on to the sprawling terrace of the hotel that chilly winter morning in Jaisalmer, Rajasthan. There it was in the distance, that magical, majestic monument right before my eyes. The Jaisalmer Fort, better known to all Bengalis as the Sonar Kella or the Golden Fortress, made immortal by the cinematic genius Satyajit Ray in his film of the same name. This was yet another time that a Ray story or film had given me a deep sense of deja vu. It was almost like I had been to the Fort earlier, known it, been in its presence. It was like a living thing, its golden limestone glistening in the morning sun.

I remember distinctly when, as a young boy of 12, I had been to Varanasi with my parents, after a terrible bout of jaundice which had me bedridden for close to a month. Our family had a large house on the banks of the Ganga, on the Mansarovar Ghat, and my parents decided it would be a good idea to go there after I recovered. During the days I was ill, I read up quite a few of my favourite Feluda novels, marveling at the manner in which Ray's fictional private investigator managed to unravel the most intricate of mysteries with consummate ease. One of these was the story of a Ganesha statue and how a little boy manages to hide one in the mouth of the lion in the Durga idol during the Durga Puja to prevent it from being stolen by the devilish Maganlal Meghraj, a smuggler. That story was set in Varanasi and later made into a magical film, Joy Baba Felunath. When I went to Varanasi after reading the book, it felt as if I had been there earlier, and known the lanes and bylanes of that wonderfully mysterious city intimately. I will never, ever forget the rides on the cycle rickshaws, the tolling of the temple bells in the distance as dusk descended on the city and the Ganga looked like a painting splashed in saffron.

As I grew older, I realised what Satyajit Ray meant to me and, indeed, to most Bengalis of my generation. Thanks to my parents, I watched all of his works over and over again, understanding many and not understanding the nuances of some. But the images flickering on the screen in black and white -- and occasionally in brilliant colour like in Shatranj Ke Khiladi (The Chess Players) or Kanchenjunga -- never failed to amaze me. So, whether it was the story of the middle class clerk who finds a stone which turns everything to gold in Parash Pathar (The Philosopher's Stone) or the story of a man's struggle with his own value system in films like Seemabaddha (Company Limited) and Jana Aranya (The Middleman), Satyajit Ray, I realised, had become a part of my everyday life, my consciousness.

What was it about Ray which made him an icon, a name to be taken in the same breath as Rabindranath Tagore? To me, it was the universality of his themes, the humanism which he depicted through his cinema, which made him the greatest mind to have lived during my time. And therefore, when those who have hardly understood his thinking or his vision pontificate on how his films had depicted poverty or make some similar uneducated comment, I can only smile and feel how dark their worlds would be for not having been able to understand the thought process which drove his works. Ironically, while those who have not followed Ray closely would label his films arty or 'intellectual' (I am, however, not quite sure what either expression means in the context of any creative exercise), the greatest attribute Ray had was his ability to relate to the reader or the audience. His books captured the imagination of an entire generation of teenagers who grew up on a staple diet of Feluda mystery thrillers or the adventures of scientist Professor Shanku or even his brilliant short stories encased in books like Ek Dozen Golpo, Aro Ek Dozen, Aaro Baro or Ebaro Baro.

Similarly, despite the intricate emotions and storylines of several of his films, the screenplay and dialogues always connected with the audiences. His characters spoke everyday lines, and even when they spoke in verse, like in the masterpiece Hirak Rajar Deshe (The Kingdom of Diamonds) where most of the dialogue is sheer poetry, it was easy to understand and led to many of those lines becoming part of the way Bengalis speak in everyday life. Ray had a brilliant sense of humour displayed in many of his films and characters and was equally at ease across genres, whether it was portraying the angry 70s, or the fantastic world of Goopy and Bagha in his classic Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne, the music of which put Ray firmly on the firmament of the masters. Indeed, Ray's sense of music too was one of the facets which defined the man. Known to be able to whistle Beethoven's symphonies flawlessly, Ray was a keen student of all kinds of music and even had greats like Ravi Shankar and Ustad Vilayat Khan compose for his films. But his own musical ideas took over soon enough and from then on, he began to compose the music himself for his films.

Arguably, though many have their own favourite Ray films, the greatest Ray movie must surely be Charulata (The Lonely Wife), the classic tale of forbidden and unrequited love, though Pather Panchali (The Song of the Little Road) would surely rank right up there among the all-time masterpieces of cinema ever. To me, every single scene of Charulata is poetry -- the music, the screenplay, the dialogues and the richness of texture captured brilliantly by cinematographer Soumendu Roy's keen eye for detail. Charulata was the zenith of Satyajit Ray's creativity and though he did make another major period film in Ghare Baire, it was not quite the same thing. Ray's penchant for period films also gave India a gem of a Hindi film classic in Shatranj Ke Khiladi. The story of two men obsessed with their love of chess even as the world around them changes forever is a captivating story with brilliant portrayals by Sanjeev Kumar, Saeed Jaffrey and in a casting coup only Ray could have pulled off: Richard Attenborough as General Outram and Amjad Khan playing Wajid Ali Shah, the artistically inclined ruler of Lucknow on the verge of losing his throne.

And so, nearly two decades after Ray passed away on April 23, 1992, leaving Bengal and much of the nation numb with shock, he continues to rule in the hearts of everyone who is a lover of good cinema and music anywhere in the world. His movies have had hundreds of re-runs and every time one of them is being aired on television, friends quickly text each other so that no one misses the film. DVDs of his films have been sold in millions and his son Sandip has made several of his Feluda stories into popular films, the quality of which have, at times, failed to live up to the expectations one may have of the Ray name.

But Satyajit Ray, much like Tagore before him, will live forever. The magic of Ray's cinema will continue to be handed down generations of cinema lovers worldwide, and Bengalis in particular. Though few understood Bengali sensibilities better than him, to call Satyajit Ray a Bengali would be failing to recognise the man's genius. Ray was -- and always will be --- a citizen of the world. As universal as the emotions he effortlessly conveyed through each of his films.

Playing with Dreams

2010-07-26T11:34:00.002+05:30

What is it about dreams that is so mysterious, intriguing? It is, perhaps, the fact that this is a part of us which is sometimes unknown to ourselves, a deep, undiscovered part which no one knows. And so, when someone enters that innermost space, that dark, remote corner of our minds, it is the ultimate invasion.

Christopher Nolan’s Inception starts with that premise that the subconscious is the most secret of spaces in the human mind, one where ‘projections’ from our thoughts are real people, and one which, if tampered with, can dictate the very course of action the person will take. Nolan’s film has already become the talking point worldwide and in India, and the reason is not far to seek. The writer-director – creator of such other cult classics like Memento, The Prestige, Batman Begins and The Dark Knight, toys with our minds and plays with the concept of dreams. So whether one is familiar with Nolan’s genre or not, the result is one heady cocktail of dark, mysterious, layered thoughts and some jaw-dropping special effects. And that, going by the looks of it, has hit the message home with Indian audiences as well.

Leonardo DiCaprio as the man who has the prowess to steal dreams or incept thoughts is clearly the fulcrum of the film and carries it with consummate ease, ably aided by other cast members including the mighty Ken Watanabe (Letters from Iwo Jima) and Nolan favourite Michael Caine in a small, but important, cameo.

The plot is layered, just like the world of the subconscious, and unfolds at four levels simultaneously, all of them finally coming together in a mind-blowing climax almost like the final flourish of a symphony. There will be critics questioning the time, space, setting – indeed the very premise – of Inception, but the real triumph of Christopher Nolan lies in telling a complex, deeply multi-layered story in a riveting, thriller-like format with edge-of-the-seat action sequences and special effects.

A film-maker’s ultimate triumph must lie in his ability to tell a story and engage with the audience and Inception succeeds in this like very few films can. Indeed, Inception is cutting-edge Hollywood, and once again reminds us where film-making has moved in today’s times. More than anything else, it is quintessential Nolan, shades of which we have seen in his earlier movies and the Batman films he has made. In Inception, Nolan successfully invades the mind, makes it his playground, and the result is a film that stays with you long after the credits have rolled. Maybe it’s time for me to find my totem and ensure I wasn’t dreaming and really have watched this gem of a movie.

Rain

2010-07-16T10:55:00.001+05:30

It is a cloudy Friday morning. Half-way through my drive to work, the rain comes down like a million dewdrops rushing to reach the first petals.

The rains bring several thoughts flooding to my mind. As a child, I used to love watching the rains from the window of my room in Calcutta, oblivious to the world around me.

There was something about those Calcutta rains.

All of a sudden, the sky would be gobbled up by threatening leaden clouds accompanies by the occasional claps of thunder and the lightening and the bowing of the palm trees to the power of the wind. Kal Boishakhi, we call it in Bengal. The storm which inevitably ends up refreshing parched and weary souls by the time it is over. I have so many memories of those storms – the kind which Amal signified when he came in like one in Charulata’s life in Ray’s epic film from the Tagore novel. I remember partings, celebrations, conversations or simply my own thoughts surrounded by the patter of the raindrops on my window sill from those stormy days and nights.

It would rain every year on my birthday in September, and my parents would tell me about my connection with the rain. Putting my hand out of my window, I would love to see the raindrops quickly fall on my palm and soothe me. And as the intensity of the rains grew, I would see people scurrying for shelter or simply smile and enjoy themselves being drenched by the power of the skies.

It’s raining once again today. Many of those who I would share my joys with are gone. I can no longer muster the courage to put my hand out of the tinted windows of my car to feel the comfort of those drops on my palm. The raindrops have remained the same. I have changed.

Yesterday Once More

2010-05-05T20:09:00.005+05:30

When I was young I'd listen to the radio
Waitin' for my favorite songs
When they played I'd sing along
It made me smile.
Those were such happy times
And not so long ago
How I wondered where they'd gone
But they're back again
Just like a long lost friend
All the songs I loved so well.
Every Sha-la-la-la
Every Wo-o-wo-o
Still shines
Every shing-a-ling-a-ling
That they're startin' to sing's
So fine.

Some of those close to me who I have shared my feelings with have called it a childhood crush. Others have dismissed it as the obsession of a starry-eyed teenager on the verge of understanding what it meant to be enamoured of a girl.

But I always knew what she meant to me.

She was always around, right from when I was a young boy, and gradually I became aware of her. To me, she was the most beautiful girl in the world, someone who I would do anything to just be around. As I grew older, nearing my teens, my fascination for her increased, until I told myself I was clearly in love with her. There was a slight problem, though. She was six years older, and a distant relation. In fact, by some weird permutation and combination of genes, I ended up being a distant uncle to her. But it really did not matter. Not to me and, thankfully, not to her. We often laughed about this and she would tease me about it.

During the years when we lived in Bangalore and I visited Calcutta, my parents and I would stay with her family. That gave me the opportunity of being close to her, just marinating in her sheer presence. Her face, her beautiful bright eyes, her smile: I could just look at her for hours and not be bored or unhappy. She knew I was hopelessly in love with her. I do not know exactly what she felt for me at the time, or what she thought of my obvious and extreme fondness for her, but she did reciprocate my affections in more than ample measure. We were pretty much inseparable at the time: I, all of 13, and she a beautiful young woman of 19, who had all the young and handsome men falling at her feet.

Once we moved back to Calcutta, I got the opportunity of being with her more often. I would beg my mother to allow me to spend the weekends at her place, and my mother, the highly intelligent lady that she was, perhaps sensed something unusual. On one occasion she even asked me why I did not want to play football with the other kids in the building but was more keen to go and spend the weekend with her and her family. I gave a wishy-washy reply, and my mother did not press the matter further. And that was that.

And so we went on. She would play the piano, sing 'Yesterday Once More' and I would just look at her face and be happy. My world was right before me. I did not need much else. Her mother, a close friend of the family, was also aware of how fond I was of her daughter. And a knowing smile was enough indication of that.

I remember being heartbroken when she acquired her first serious boyfriend: a tall, handsome man who was clearly ready to do everything to keep her happy. I was disapproving of him, and she did not mention him to me often. On the few occasions that I agreed to meet the boyfriend, I made it amply clear that she was mine and I was just being nice to him by allowing him to be near her. He looked amused, but was pretty sporting about this little fellow who always hovered around his girlfriend and was clearly older in the head than in age.

And then it happened. She got married. Not to the boyfriend, but to another man she fell truly in love with. I was shattered at first, but by then, I had grown up enough to understand that she would not always be with me. I attended the wedding, heartbroken, but managed to keep a smile going.

Gradually, she and I drifted apart, busy with our own lives. I am sure the connect remained, but there was far too much happening in our lives. I grew up, got a job, got married and though we were in the same city, we lost touch completely. My parents passed away. My wife and I moved to Mumbai and several years elapsed. Until last year, when an urge to reconnect with her overpowered me. I asked around for her number or her mother's. It would be wonderful to reconnect with her, hear her voice. I searched for her frantically on Facebook, where I had found several long lost friends. But she wasn't there.

A few weeks ago, a friend read a note on Facebook and wrote to me. It was from a friend of hers who had written about her passing away. She was the first in her group of friends to go. Forever.

It was disbelief at first, and then it turned to dread. I read the note. It was her. She was gone. Never to return. It was like she had slipped away like sand from the fingers. The tightest grip would not hold her back. A part of my youth had gone away with her.

Was it premonition that prompted me to try and reconnect with her after all these years? And I had missed her by a few days. Perhaps it was meant to be, I thought. I would not have been able to accept her so ill, frail, fighting for her life. She was life for me. She epitomised all that was beautiful, happy, charming, joyous. So I would not have been able to reconcile to her suffering.

She is gone. But what she has left behind will last me a lifetime. Her perfume still lingers. That will be enough for me.

The Monumental Marxist

2010-01-22T20:23:00.005+05:30

For several journalists, the high point in their day would be to rush to him as he took the brisk, firm walk from his room to the lift at Writers' Buildings, the state government headquarters in West Bengal. Clad in spotless white dhoti and kurta, with policemen and his trusted aide by his side, Jyoti Basu would walk decisively towards the elevator before he got into the car and headed home, sirens blaring his departure. During that 30-second walk, journalists covering the Writers' beat would have to muster up the courage to ask whatever they wanted to and get their several doubts on the day's developments clarified, before they went back to their offices to file the day's stories.

As a business journalist stationed in Calcutta during the initial part of my career, I never had to cover the Writers' beat. We often viewed the Writers' beat reporters with sympathy, since they neither met the creme-de-la-creme of the corporate sector, nor would they cover the turbulence of the stockmarkets which brought with it a certain sense of adventure. Yet, they got to see Jyoti Basu every day, and Basu knew many of them by name, certainly by face.

Sometimes, out of sheer curiosity, I would accompany my Bureau chief to Writers' -- typically on Bandh days when Basu the chief minister would brief the media on how successful a Left Front commissioned Bandh had been, or how big a failure an Opposition-sponsored one had turned out to be. Whenever I went into his room, I could not help being overawed by the sheer charisma of the man. Those brooding, dreary eyes, the clenched jaw, the firm demeanour -- all of this had an impact which someone who had not met Basu in person would never, ever know or experience. By the time I had left college and entered journalism, my fascination with Marxism was firmly behind me, and I was no admirer of the communists in Bengal, save the fact that we knew that there was a sense of decency and ethic to the way the top brass of the party lived their lives. Their spartan lifestyle (several of them virtually lived in the party office and smoked cheap cigarettes) fascinated me, as did the manner in which they controlled the masses with a wave of the hand.

But Jyoti Basu was different. He was suave, wore starched clean clothes, and did not appear bedraggled like many others in his party. There were stories about how he loved Scotch whisky, his London trips were part of Calcutta folklore and those who caught a glimpse of him in the back seat of his car on his way to work or home could barely conceal their curiosity or awe as they looked at the man for whom chief ministership of the state almost became a birthright. Journalists would discuss every nuance in his sentences, a hint of a smile would be big news among political reporters for the day. Clearly, Jyoti Basu was no ordinary Communist. I have seen the legend at work. And trust me, this is no exaggeration.

As I left Calcutta -- now Kolkata -- and Jyotibabu retired, making way for Buddhadeb Bhattacharjee, it was clear that his shoes, despite his successor's sincere efforts at changing the perceptions about the Communists in Bengal, would be difficult to fill. Basu was still very much the Patriarch, nationally and certainly so among the state's communists. Having governed the state with an iron fist for 23 years, Basu had become synonymous with power for an entire generation of Bengalis.

During the years he was chief minister, a dishevelled opposition tried every trick in the book to oust his government -- there were allegations of cadre raj, and the Opposition even coined the term 'scientific rigging' to discredit the poll results which brought him back to the state's top job with monotonous regularity. But every effort failed. Jyoti Basu was clearly too big to topple. Ironically, he, much like royalty, could only abdicate his throne. And he did.

Today, after his passing, the debate about the Basu years being the worst period for Bengal have resurfaced. It can, perhaps, be logically argued that Basu did not use his stature to do what he could have done for Bengal. During his years, industry fled from Bengal, militant trade unionism was at its peak, and development took a back seat as communist cadres ruled the streets. The land reform movement was, perhaps, the one bright spot of those years. But why, then, does Basu remain such a towering figure not just in the Indian communist movement but in Indian politics in general? Why have political leaders, cutting across party lines and affiliations, come out in unison to shower encomiums on him after his death? There are no clear answers to these questions, but the fact that in Basu there was one Opposition non-Congress, non-BJP leader of national stature who was respected equally in his own state and outside. He was the one man who could be the rallying point for all Opposition leaders -- from Chandrababu Naidu to Laloo Yadav to Mulayam and VP Singh -- irrespective of what they thought of each other. It is, of course, a different matter that the Third Front too is virtually history now.

To me, Jyoti Basu was -- and always will be -- a Phenomenon. Whether one agreed with his policies or not, he was the symbol of the power a politician could weild in his state. His unchallenged stature within his party and his government and his charisma -- underscored by his surprisingly limited public speaking abilities which, too, the crowds lapped up with delight -- made him much more than just a politician.

Jyoti Basu was a symbol of a time gone by. A symbol which, in many ways, was as important to the Indian communist movement as the hammer and the sickle. You had to see the man to know that.

The Old and the New

2010-01-22T20:02:00.003+05:30

I started this blog talking about the big change in my life -- that of moving away from being a journalist and entering full-fledged corporate life. Like every major transition, this one too had to be undertaken carefully, the pros and cons weighed and the implementation had to be with as much precision as possible.

That was December 2008.

In retrospect, it seems so far away, almost a different day and age. A time when the unknown and the uncertain posed a challenge of its own: new people, new colleagues, a new responsibility at work, and leaving behind the secure, familiar terrains of a life I have been used to for the past 17 years or more. I have written about the initial changes, the unfamiliar new routine and then how I managed to get used to it, and be happy.

Cut to January 2010. A new year, a new horizon. Over a year has passed since I made what a former Editor of mine would perhaps have called a 'tectonic shift'. There is something about that phrase. Something grand, a kind of landmark event. And so it was. But today, over a year on, life has acquired a rhythm of its own. A happy, serene rhythm, almost like the beating of the heart. Predictable? A trifle, maybe. But interesting and, above all, a happy rhythm. I like the sound of this rhythm: the alarm in the morning, the cornflakes and milk for breakfast and then the happy smiles of colleagues in the team and a fulfilling day's work. There is cheer around, there is happiness, and there isn't a lot of complexities and complications. At 42, it is a good situation to be in.

As the new year begins its own countdown, there are new peaks to be climbed, new challenges to be put before oneself. But knowing myself, it will not be long before I put new beats on to the rhythm of my life, add a fresh stanza to the poem. There is beauty in the new, just as there is merit in drawing lessons from the old. I have done the latter part, it is time to explore the what the new has to offer. The future. Once again, the unknown, the uncertain. There is a mystery to it. A certain sensuality in probing the depths of what the future may have to offer. After all, what is life without a few twists and turns? There's always a chance of falling asleep at the wheel if the road is too smooth. A good driver will enjoy the unchartered territory. And I have yet to finish my quota of challenging roads. Hair-pin bends excite me. Is there one waiting around the corner?

Unapologetically me

2009-12-02T23:21:00.005+05:30

It's a dilemma I face sometimes. I am 42, and conventional wisdom says I have reached middle age. That period of my life when I should think and act in a certain way, have a certain demeanour which befits my advancing years. Most of my friends and colleagues who are in my age group are busy deciding on what is the best way to teach math to their children, many of whom are now adolescents and at a crucial stage in their own lives. I have no children, and often find myself unable to identify with the pleasures and pains of parenthood. My close friends and my wife say I am childlike myself, too immature sometimes. Yes, it is true. I don't feel I am eight years away from 50. I am quite oblivious to the fact that most people who don't know me would look at me as this middle-aged gentleman and expect me to conduct myself in a particular manner, and certainly not see me as an overgrown child.

But that is not who I am. Despite the fact that my stubble -- not the moustache -- is quite salt and pepper, and my sparse hair is quite obviously greying, I do not feel old. Or even middle-aged. I can still laugh at the silliest of jokes, something which many often find strange. I still love reading Tintin and Asterix, and after a friend rather unapologetically borrowed both sets of original comics and never returned them, I went right ahead and replaced them in full. In fact, as I was at the bookstore seeking out some Asterix and Tintin titles, the chaps at the store helped me out, obviously thinking I was buying them for my children. Until they realised their mistake by noticing the sheer joy in my face at having found some titles I had been looking for for quite some time now.

C'est la vie, as they say. I relate to my wife's niece, who is all of 19, as a friend. She shares with me her thoughts, her secrets and her jokes like she would with her own college friends. Most of my young colleagues -- past and present -- who are in their late twenties at best, relate to me as if I was their own age, and we often laugh our hearts out at the most inane of jokes or when I am mimicking some actor or other. Generally, I am having fun. Uploading retro videos on Facebook at two in the morning, chatting to friends just like some teenager would. My wife has understood I am beyond repair, and pampers me as she would have pampered a young kid. I have gotten used to her pampering by now. Call it a bad habit if you will, but I demand it. Every day. And have my way. Whether it is buying a DVD, watching a movie, or asking for my favourite chocolate chip mousse icecream from Baskin Robbins after a tiring workout at the gym. I usually get what I want.

Spoilt brat at 42? Not quite. It's just that I am enjoying myself, and those who care for me know that. Why age prematurely when the mind is young? Why project what you are not? If I enjoy a silly movie, I laugh out loud. The full, throaty kind, not an apologetic laugh which I need to hide behind my palm. Not 'lol' (oh I hate that Net lingo). If you laugh out loud, don't be afraid to do so for real. I believe there's one life to live, and it needs to be lived to the full. Age is just a number. You can be 42, or 52, or 72 for that matter, but it is how old you really feel which makes all the difference. Cliche? Maybe. But that's what I believe. And if in an age where stress and sadness dominate daily life I can enjoy a few laughs, share a few jokes, relate to a few wonderful memories and emotions and bring some delightful connections back to life, why should I be apologetic?

After all, the greatest joy is the ability to know that behind every dark cloud there is a silver lining, however thin, however elusive. And that happiness, however momentary, must be shared. No apologies required. I am who I want to be.

Death and dishonour

2009-11-27T00:59:00.007+05:30

Sitting on a sofa on a Sunday afternoon
Going to the candidates debate
Laugh about it, shout about it
When you've got to choose
Ev'ry way you look at it, you lose

-- Mrs Robinson/Paul Simon & Art Garfunkel

In the end, even on that one single day, they could not keep their damned mouths shut. Indian politicians. Abused, mocked, battered, bruised, but still at it. Relentlessly shaming the nation before the world and their own. As if throwing footwear and microphones and hurling invectives, even beating up their colleagues in various Assemblies was not enough, the first anniversary of November 26, that horrific day when terrorists entered our homes and gunned people down mercilessly, also saw politicians playing their favourite game in Parliament: politics. Even over something as tragic, distressing and sombre as 26/11.

The contrast was stark.

Full-page advertisements in the newspapers, mourning the martyrs of 26/11 -- the brave men and women who fell to the terrorists' bullets, many who saved the others and fell themselves, and, of course, the bravehearts, the police, armed forces and commandos who finally liberated Mumbai from the clutches of terror and that horrible, horrible night. Candlelight vigils being organised, people coming out in memory of their loved ones who were snatched away suddenly, brutally, mercilessly from them a year ago, and many others who, though they did not come out on the streets or speak on television channels, just silently mourned the martyrs and thanked them for their freedom.

And on the other hand, India's elected representatives. Some of them, the seniormost names in the world of politics. Bickering and hurling allegations in the House, and forcing it finally to be adjourned. Yes, there is some merit in raising issues about whether the families of the victims of 26/11 have indeed been fully compensated, whether some of the cheques they were supposed to have got actually could get encashed, whether the government did its job. But on this day? Could this not wait a day later? Did the politicians have to behave just the same way they always do even on a day like this? Or did they want to capitalise on this occasion to get some extra visibility and score some more brownie points over their opponents. Whatever the intention, what the nation saw from some of India's seniormost politicians on November 26, 2009 does make one's head hang in shame.

One peripheral politician from the Opposition even went a step further, saying the media was 'hyping' the attack on the Taj Hotel just because it was a place where the upper class were present, while such attacks happen every day in Kashmir, and several other parts of rural India. Who is to explain to him that there is no discrimination in loss? Loss is loss. Period. And by standing in solidarity with those whose lives were snatched away on November 26, 2008 at the Taj, or the Trident, or Nariman House, one does not belittle such events in other parts of India or in Kashmir. In fact, the attack on Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (CST), a landmark of Mumbai and the very heart of the city, is symptomatic of the fact that the terror merchants wanted to strike at the common man as well, not just the elite who visit the luxury hotels targeted that night.

CST is representative of the common Mumbaikar. The man who travels to work everyday, whose 'spirit' is taken for granted by those same politicians everytime there is such an attack, but who has to get back to work, afraid, very afraid, the very next day just because he has to earn a living in a city known to be both kind and ruthless in turn. Not necessarily because he is challenging the terrorist with his indomitable spirit.

The attack on the Taj was highlighted not because it was a luxury hotel. It was the focus of attention that night because, as any right-thinking person not pursuing a narrow political agenda will agree, it has over the decades become the very symbol of what Mumbai stands for. A confluence of heritage and modernity, a melting pot of cultures, a proud monument signifying the several stages of growth and prosperity India has gone through, about which Indians can talk proudly to their global peers. To describe the Taj as just a luxury hotel is therefore to denigrate that very journey of Mumbai and India, a journey which others today are envious of and want to halt on its tracks. Similar is the case of The Oberoi, yet another wonderful landmark at the tip of the iconic Marine Drive. A symbol of the economic growth and prosperity which a billion Indians are carving out for themselves, despite huge odds. The terrorists chose these places because they symbolise the economic independence of a nation which has battled oppressors through the centuries. And won.

The point, obviously, was lost on some of our politicians, whose Z-category protection is too thick to penetrate to drive reason into. I am no great fan of the United States, or the West in general, but the manner in which the US conducted itself after 9/11, coming together despite obvious differences simmering underneath, standing solidly as a nation and recognising the Herculean efforts put in by its forces and firefighters, does make our own reaction to 26/11 seem like a mockery of those who have laid down their lives fighting to preserve our freedoms. Tukaram Ombale, for one. Who, despite being riddled with bullets and armed with only a lathi, managed to capture the lone terrorist who today is a prize catch for the investigators and is providing crucial leads to the terror plot. And there are many, many more. Some known, some unknown. Some honoured, many unsung. Those faceless staffers of the Taj and the Trident and Oberoi, those CST announcers and staffers who rose well above the call of duty and saved lives.

One year after those seemingly never-ending 60 hours of terror, we owe it to these people to honour their deeds in a more civilised manner. Some of these politicians must remember that if they are shorn of that multi-layered security cover, they are as prone to the bullets as those people were whose memory they have tarnished.

The bullet, in a rather perverse way, is sometimes as democratic as the ballot.

The face in the photograph

2009-11-25T20:10:00.004+05:30

"Time it was, and what a time it was, it was...
A time of innocence, a time of confidences;
Long ago it must be, I have a photograph,
Preserve your memories,
They're all that's left of you..."

- 'Bookends'/Paul Simon & Art Garfunkel

I've been on a nostalgia trip over the past few weeks. Traversing the streets of my past, meeting old friends from the days gone by, in my imagination. Back in the eighties, when life was far less complicated, relationships far easy to decipher. Staying over at my best friend's place, talking about that beautiful face one has seen, and how much it means to me. Waking up the next morning, and taking off on the Yamaha RX100, red sweater and all, with a smile on my face and my favourite songs in my head. The winter smog in the streets of Calcutta made the perfect setting for a prolonged bout of day-dreaming.

And the company of close friends. Friends who were there with you, no matter what. Ready to stand by you, entertain you, help you, share your successes and overlook your failures. Parties in the afternoon, with Shakin' Stevens, Michael Learns To Rock, Phil Collins, name it, we were dancing to it. Stolen kisses in stolen moments, without a care in the world.

Twenty years later, the photographs have still not turned yellow. The memories are fresh, and the perfume lingers. Many of those in the photographs have gone their separate ways, to separate continents, and yet, the connection remains. The shared past, the wonderful memories of joyous times.

But there are people I have not seen, or met, who have also been a part of those photographs in their own way. Unseen, invisible. Like a dot from my past I need to join, to complete the picture. Someone, somewhere, a degree separated, but nearly almost always there. A stone's throw from school, a block away from college. Someone whom friends would know, talk of, discuss, and yet someone who never ever appeared before my eyes. Does it happen to people often, that they strike a connection with someone from a common, but unshared past, twenty years later, and feel that those pictures would not have been complete without that person? I think not.

But here it is. She isn't in any of my old photographs, I have no love letters from her which I need to return, no songs which I have shared with her in those wintry Calcutta evenings. No telephone conversations, no stolen moments, no torn wrappers of gifts opened hastily with a smile on my lips. Nothing. Just a connection. Twenty years later. And conversations about the same streets, songs and people we have both known and loved or hated. She is here. A piece of my past. To remind me that the photograph was not complete without her. And now, the time has gone. She cannot be put back in the picture. Is she for real?

When reality has many faces

2009-11-20T22:26:00.004+05:30

I've been meaning to write something on Bigg Boss 3 for quite some time now. Its twists and turns, its dramatic interludes, its quirky characters. And, of course, Amitabh Bachchan. But now I must. Just minutes before I sat down to write this post, cricketer Vinod Kambli has been thrown out of the Bigg Boss house, when the whole world was dead sure it would be the insufferably dramatic, incurably paranoid, and apparently untrustworthy Rohit Verma, the fashion designer. But, as watchers of the show have voted, and Ernst & Young has validated, Verma remains, and the silent, affable Kambli is back to the pavilion.
This sudden, and inexplicable twist to the show which has kept the nation on tenterhooks every day (the last time I was hooked on to a reality show was during Sach Ka Saamna as an earlier post of mine will tell you) for the past few months, has me foxed. Why did the audiences vote out Kambli, who has come on to the show barely a week ago, and has not been involved in any controversy, brawl, or even a mild argument? Wasn't Rohit Verma exposed before all the housemates for plotting behind people's backs, backstabbing and gossiping through the day and even reduced reality show veteran Bakhtiyar Irani to tears? The triumvirate of Verma, small-time actor Vindu Dara Singh (and the man never fails to flaunt his father's name) and the quiet but wily comedian Raju Srivastava had been openly pulled up and punished in a rather humiliating fashion by Bigg Boss for planning nominations openly. And yet, they remain on the show. Verma played perfect television by hysterically confessing just after being exposed on the show that he was wrong, he was ashamed and this was not the real him. And he kept repeating it all week in the countdown to the verdict, apologising to all those who'd care to listen. The strategy has worked. A decent man has been voted out by the nation.
Does it mean decency has few followers? A voyeuristic nation, fed on people competing to have insects on their faces, jump off the highest cliff or bare their most intimate secrets before millions of television viewers, appears keen to keep quibbling, mentally unstable, abusive participants on shows just because they will have a good laugh and feel superior to these men and women, nearly all of whom have shown their innards to a world waiting to see them get back at each others' throats at the slightest opportunity. A friend sms-ed me just a while ago on Kambli's exit, saying "Good he is out. He was no good." Euphemism for the fact that he was not a fighting, bitching, abusive type and therefore did not make good television.
I have watched earlier editions of Bigg Boss, but this one does go down in my book as the most violent, eventful, and at times disgusting of them all, thanks to the dramatis personae. If the highlight of one episode is a raging, but pint-sized, self-proclaimed billionaire (evidence awaited) Kamaal R Khan (who chants his own initials KRK at the slightest pretext) hurling a bottle at another participant, another episode has the same KRK being picked up and pushed out by Vindu -- yes, yes, Vindu Dara Singh, after the former returned rather inexplicably to the show as a wild card entry. Another relatively civilised housemate, music director Ismail Durbar, has also been unsuccessful in seeking audience approval and has had to leave the house earlier.
Bigg Boss 3 is a lesson in what human beings can become. Selfish, scheming, violent, evil. People with varied temperaments and economic backgrounds stuffed into a house and forced to tolerate each other for 84 days in the hope of winning the ultimate prize. And in that 84-day journey, trust turns into betrayal, love to hate, faith to heartbreak.
This is the age of reality TV. An age when we love to watch people falter, expose their worst weaknesses and suffer the ultimate humiliations. Nothing is private anymore. Not even your best-kept secrets. It's time to get naked. TRPs will decide who you really are.

Sorry for the vanishing act

2009-11-20T22:20:00.002+05:30

I am back. Before I resume my posts, this is just to say a big 'sorry' to all my friends who have had the patience to read my blog, and have waited for me to post something new, encouraging me all the way. I have been getting quite a few messages from friends seeking to know why I am not putting up fresh posts. The reason is simple: I had been on vacation and on my return, got very busy with work. It was that time of the season when your mind goes blank, when all you can think of is the endless series of deadlines to meet at work. Facebook has helped me to remain in touch with my friends, but blogging, which is slightly more serious business, had to take a back-seat. So now I am back. And I promise to be more regular. Thank you for your interest in The Opinionated.

Conversations in Silence

2009-09-24T20:37:00.002+05:30

Is that you smiling at me?
Speaking to me without saying a single word,
Those eyes playfully surveying my every movement
Passionate, benign, caring.

What are you saying to me?
Do those words tell me our story?
Memories which faded even before the photographs turned yellow,
That fleeting moment when our fingers touched
As we walked down the crowded platform
In the underground
Headed for separate destinations.
All that remained of you
Was your smile
Like a dash of brilliant snow on the mountain top
Against a clear blue sky,
And your lips
Forming those words
Till this day unsaid.

Is that you I think I see?
In those familiar streets I have left behind
Standing quietly as people rush by
Your eyes transfixed on me
Asking me the question
Which I have asked myself a million times
And yet
Never had the courage to answer.

Life and other trivialities

2009-09-22T21:02:00.004+05:30

You always think it can never touch those dear to you. Until it does. When you see others coping with death, the grief and the circumstances they leave behind, you always have that quiet prayer, that silent fear: hope it does not happen to anyone around me. I used to have the same feeling when I was young. Footloose, fancyfree and in college. Having seen a number of elderly relations passing away, I had always thought death was a distant grief. Something to feel for, offer condolences about, but seldom identify with.

And then it hit me. My closest confidant, my uncle, passed away after a quick, but intense battle with diabetes. Staring at his body, it dawned on me that death was no longer a distant adversary. It was real. Palpable. And in front of me. That one event changed my life and my views on the subject. It was almost as if I had suddenly grown up, grappling with that one single certainty of life. The flip side. And then Death and I sparred often. My father, someone who I had never seen in a hospital for a single day, held my hand in his hospital bed. "Go back home now. Ma will be waiting eagerly," he said as he looked lovingly at me. That night at 2 am we got a call from the hospital. He was gone.

Carrying him to the crematorium, I realised I had lost another battle. Years of love and affection, caring, fond memories -- going to buy the latest Tintin comics holding my father's hand, my first wrist watch, my first independent drive in his grey Ambassador after I got my license -- everything came flooding before me. Reduced to a stream of salty droplets flowing down my cheeks as I saw him being engulfed by the fire. Four years later, he hit me again. This time with renewed vigour, surprising me, shocking me, knocking me down with one fell swoop. This time, it was the one person who was the fulcrum of my life. My mother. The one human being whose singular influence had shaped several of the things I believe in strongly. My habits, my nature, my very existence.

I began to realise that nothing I could do would stop him from winning with monotonous regularity. Every now and again he would come, and he would mock me. Take away someone I deeply love, care for, and vanish. I would never see that person again. His visits had a sense of certainty around them. What I could not tell was when he would strike. So when my father-in-law, one of my dearest friends, was snatched away, I could only watch in helplessness. Fourteen years of knowing him, being loved by him, joking, chatting, teasing him much to the shock of several conformists (you joke with your father-in-law this way?), reduced to one moment of reckoning. That familiar, dreaded feeling of loss. All over again. What does the bastard want? Why is he doing this to me?

I realise he would always win. And this feeling has now been reinforced. My wife's uncle, someone very dear to me, arrives at our house for a vacation. He enters at 7 pm. At 11 pm, I am consigning him to flames, carrying that by-now-familiar unbearable load on my shoulder. Helpless. Resigned.

Years of loving, hating, smiling, crying, feeling hurt, feeling exhilarated: is this how all this will end? That one second between what exists and what is gone? What, then, are the years of feeling, those millions of moments, the thousands of experiences worth? That one certainty, that despicable yet all-powerful adversary will always win. And I can do nothing about it. Just wait for it to strike again. Stealthily, suddenly, surely. I have accepted defeat. I have lost.

Fortyfied

2009-09-15T01:30:00.008+05:30

They say life begins at forty. I have taken this seriously. I have resolved to make some fresh beginnings, be it in relationships or the way I live my life and, in particular, get some discipline back into it. As a journalist I hardly had any free time in the evenings and after endless cups of tea which tasted more like extremely sweet hot water, I would find myself driving back home when most were securely tucked in bed.

Not any longer.

After months of procrastinating and ignoring the pleas of my wife and friends, I went along like an obedient schoolboy with her and some close friends and enrolled in the well-equipped gym in the neighbourhood. Till then, the very thought of puffing and panting on a treadmill in front of complete strangers horrified me. What would the six-pack brigade think of me? Would they not laugh their guts out at this forty year old trying desperately to get into shape? And, more importantly, what about the bevy of beautiful ladies who adorn those forbidding machines? They would surely have a hearty laugh seeing me woefully out of breath and running just to stay in the same place. Terrible thoughts like these had succeeded in keeping me away from the gym for months. But now I had a couple of close friends who had also enrolled and we made a pact that we'd go gymming together, and regularly. I just needed to get back into shape, and the several resolutions to go for those morning walks by the sea just had not materialised. I had also been prodded diligently by a friend who lives in my building and kept texting me every morning, urging me to accompany him to walks on the Carter Road promenade. Eventually, fed up but too polite to say so, he gave up on his ambitious project.

My first day at the gym and my meeting with my personal trainer told me how urgently I needed to step on those machines. The overall assessment conducted by the trainer came up with some horrible results which I would be foolish to disclose on this blog, or anywhere else. But the message was simple: I needed to start a gymming regimen, and fast.

And so my journey began. Every evening, after work, my friends and I would hit the treadmill for the usual cardio routine and three days a week our common trainer, who had trained several celebrities -- from film stars to cricketers -- would begin his ambitious endeavour of attempting to get me into some sort of respectable shape. Upper body one day, lower body the other, I gradually began enjoying the routine. My Facebook updates generated healthy responses from friends, all of whom prodded me on to continue my battle to shed the calories.

It's been just over two months since I have started my gym routine but I must confess that I feel good every time the machines throw up a figure of how many calories I have burnt. I concentrate on setting the machine to the calories setting and as the calories burn, I get motivated to continue the routine further, and even intensify it.

My amiable trainer, who I am sure has got worse bodies into shape in his journey to becoming Head Trainer at the gym in just a year and a half, looks confident about getting me to shed the flab. And that, in turn, gives me the confidence to keep going. Surprisingly, I don't feel drowsy when I return home at night after the workouts. On the contrary, after a quick shower, I feel pretty relaxed and cheerful. The peppy music at the gym, the fit trying to get even fitter, the fittest of them still continuing with their frenetic workout routines, egg me on. I often wonder as I watch some of the stars working out: why would Salman Khan or Sohail Khan -- regulars at the gym -- keep going on despite being so fit? Why would a svelte Urvashi Sharma or Neha Dhupia canter on those treadmills and sweat it out despite having hourglass figures? In the end, it's all about the positivity of being fit, of feeling good, and being disciplined. Of course, their profession demands it more than others, but fitness and positivity aren't profession-specific requirements. Everyone needs to be fit, to be disciplined in his or her daily schedules.

If I don't go to the gym for a few days because I am just feeling lazy, I get a terrible sense of guilt. Would all my earlier efforts go waste? All those hours of sweat and toil on the machines: futile? And these thoughts get me back to the gym double quick. I am now happy with the realisation that I have internalised this routine so much that not going to the gym will make me feel guilty. Terribly guilty. Guilt was never so motivating.

And the new routine brings with it its own set of miracles. Like one weekend, where, just as I entered the gym area, there before me was the Goddess everyone wanted to have a glimpse of: Bipasha Basu. Focused completely on her workout, on the arc trainer, training hard. In between she would acknowledge someone with a smile, her celebrated dimples making a brief but memorable appearance. She already looked very, very fit, and yet here she was sweating it out on the machine. Motivated, dedicated to her fitness routine.

Even as I was admiring the Bengali beauty, my trainer came up to me with a bombshell more deadly than the one I was watching. "Sourav, today you will do push-ups. Come on, start!" he said. Push-ups? He must be joking. As it turned out, he was not. Here was Bipasha Basu, looking straight at us, and I was supposed to do push-ups, that too for the first time. After considering the possibilities and battling with the consequences in my head, I found myself ready to give it a shot. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.......eight.............nine.................and done! I had done it. My trainer was delighted. "Well done!" he exclaimed. I felt like a schoolboy who had just been handed a report card which said he had topped his class.

I didn't bother to see whether Bipasha was looking. What mattered to me was I had completed a set of push-ups without giving up, despite that being the first time. After a few more rounds of excercises, I did another set of push-ups. And cleared that as well.

Inspiration comes in various forms, I thought, as I headed home with a smile. And I was certainly not complaining about the form in which it had come that day.

Timeless beauties

2009-08-31T20:18:00.003+05:30

What is it about watches that attracts me to them so much? I have often wondered why is it that I am not really keen on getting myself a new pair of good shoes, or a very nice shirt or trousers, but go crazy everytime I spot a watch boutique or the watches section of a departmental store or mall.

My wife knows that, and puts on a brave face every time we go to our favourite multiplex with friends for a movie, since the mall in which it is housed stocks some great watches. My friends know that too, though they may be chuckling behind my back every time I fall prey to another TAG Heuer or Tissot beauty. And every time I brag to others about being a teetotaller and how I really don't have expensive habits, I have to check myself from going overboard lest those who know about this watch fetish of mine laugh me out of the room.

But how does one explain to those who do not love watches what it means to have this madness, this craze for timekeeping? A gentleman I greatly respect is a horologist by hobby and is quite the authority on watches. And while he chides me for not wearing automatic watches (which purists claim are the real thing as opposed to the wannabe quartz variety), I find myself drawn irreparably to the quartz ones. Oh, that second-by-second tick of the seconds hand, that slick and certain movement of the minute hand in unison: what can match the joy of watching poetry in motion?

My friend Madhavan from Chennai has been to Basel twice over and has acquired quite an expertise for watches. And Basel-returned Madhavan has accompanied me a few times on such romantic journeys at watch counters. He, too, agrees I am irretrievably in love with them and his warnings and advice to my wife not to spoil me with more has, thankfully, not been heard yet.

The mobile phone, therefore, has made way for the watch as the numero uno in my list of gifts from her on my birthday. And every year, it has become a ritual for her to take me to our favourite watch outlet and leave me gaping at those breathtaking beauties. First it was just birthdays. Then I had to hunt for an occasion to beg her to buy me a beauty I may have spotted. Nowadays, she doesn't bother with days or excuses. She just allows me to bring home one I may have fallen in love with.

I must confess I have built up what some would call a healthy collection. But the hunger remains. And I can feel it will never get satiated. Not as long as they churn out beauty after breathtaking beauty, with black dials, white dials, silver, blue, in leather or metal straps. I love the Eco-Drives Citizen has pioneered, the Tissot beauties including the latest ones I have acquired -- the T Touch Collection -- and, of course, my favourite, the TAGs. I know many will call me a wannabe, and say the ultimate watches are far, far more expensive and intricate than the ones I have mentioned here. But this is what works for me, and this is what my wallet allows. This post, I must add, is not to brag about the watches I have. It is just to share the sheer pleasure of admiring and, hopefully, owning a beautiful piece of craftsmanship.

Anyone in love with watches will know that feeling. That of owning a piece of time, and watching it unfold before you, right on your wrist.

Dateline Kolkata

2009-08-25T21:13:00.007+05:30

KOLKATA: As we were waiting at the airport, the car which had come to fetch us developed a snag. Here we were, all ready to soak in the atmosphere of Kolkata all over again, but forced to wait before we could do so. The driver wrestled with the car, and then announced that he'd have to call a colleague and get a replacement car for us. How long would it take, we asked. Dus minute saab, he declared. My wife, my mother-in-law and I were prepared for the wait: after all, at the end of it was home. And for my wife and I (my mother-in-law who stays in Kolkata was returning with us to her home) four days in a city we grew up in, but left for professional reasons.

I looked at my watch. 10.30 pm. Half an hour had elapsed, and there was no sign of the replacement car. Meanwhile, the crowd of passengers from flights which had just landed around the same time had begun dispersing. Coming from Mumbai, Kolkata's Netaji Subhas airport was quite a leveller. Cars and taxis jostled with each other for space in front of the airport foyer, honking so loudly our eardrums would burst. A worn-out Tata Safari pulled up just in front of us, and as we looked on, the driver started honking continuously, urging the car in front to make way for him. Eardrums bursting again? The driver couldn't care less. Until I had to walk up to him and signal that my ears would not be able to take it any longer. With a wry grin, he stopped honking. Thank heavens, I thought.

And then it started raining. First a few drops, then a steady drizzle before it turned into a rather menacing downpour. I looked at my watch again: one hour and still no sign of the car. By this time the passengers had dispersed and what was left of the airport arrival gate was a few hangers-on smoking their beedis and arguing animatedly among themselves. A few stray dogs carried on their own animated discussion just behind us. Welcome to Kolkata, I thought. My home, where I spent several of my growing-up years. What kind of first impressions would people coming from overseas or other parts of India carry back with them? I decided not to prod my head further with such thoughts.

Finally, our car arrived. The wait had led us to qualify for a swank new Toyota Innova, with a liveried chauffeur complete with spotless white cap. As we drove out of the airport, a sign stared at us: 'Welcome to the City of Joy'. Is Kolkata stuck in a time-warp, I thought. The roads, for one, had surely improved; the Eastern Metropolitan Bypass, which linked the airport to the main city had been widened and was pretty impressive to drive on. The traffic management, I noticed, was better than earlier.

Over the next couple of days, I did the usual routine. Had my fill of biryani from Shiraz, complete with tikia kabab, and also gorged on phuchka and churmur (to hell with swine flu!), home-cooked pabda machher jhol etc. Going to work in the heart of the city's business district, Esplanade, an animated speaker at a small political meeting in the corner of the square provided a constant backdrop. I didn't really care which political party he represented. It really didn't matter. The constant topic of discussion wherever I went was whether the Left would return to power once more at the next Assembly elections, or whether they would be toppled by the Trinamool-Congress combine. And no one had clear answers, though there were enough representing both sides of this yawning political divide.

This is the city of my childhood, I thought. Where I would return from school and rush off to play a game of football and come back tired but happy as the sun set. The city was my cradle. Calm, comforting, chaotic. I looked around. Today, after so many years, it has acquired a fresh coat of make-up, but does the kindness remain hidden somewhere, beneath the pancake? Perhaps you'd have to scratch the surface a bit to feel that familiar warmth, that comforting madness.

As we landed in Mumbai, I felt a strange sense of relief. I was back to the city where I have been living for the past nine years. Its sounds, its awesome skyline brought a smile to my face. Kolkata made me sad, I told my wife. Why can't they get it right?

As I settled down with a cup of tea in my favourite sofa on reaching home, I switched on my stereo system and began listening to a newly acquired Bengali music album. The songs were beautiful, the lyrics tugged at my heart strings. So utterly Bengali, so incurably romantic. I looked at my wife. Tears had welled up in her eyes. And I found my eyes were moist too. Is this what Kolkata is about? I closed my eyes and concentrated on the song, as the sights and sounds of that dusty, chaotic city flashed before my eyes. I did not need an answer.

Masks

2009-08-13T21:07:00.006+05:30

I see people with masks walking the streets. Terrified they will die. Scared of a sneeze. They say it's a terrible fever that's gripped the city and that hundreds will die of the fever which, if detected late, cannot be cured. Little children, scared parents, couples on a romantic outing by the seaside, soon everyone in this city will be wearing masks to save themselves from the Fever.
But when did we not wear masks? Every morning, we wake up, and sleepily grope around on the bedside table for that mask we kept aside when we went to sleep the previous night. We get ready for the day, have our breakfast like zombies, put on the mask and drive away into yet another day of being someone we are not. We smile, we laugh, we talk, we observe. And others observe what we do. Peering from behind our masks, we assess each others' every move, every little gesture, and draw our own conclusions. Half a lifetime spent looking over our shoulders: is someone out there? Is he trying to push us over the edge? Stick that dagger into our backs? Why on earth does he not show himself, come into the light? For God's sake, show yourself! But no one comes out from the darkness, and we are left clutching on to our fears, scared of our invisible ghosts.
We talk to friends on the phone, laugh together at banalities, but the inside of our masks are moist with tears no one can see. They say you cannot wear the same mask day after day: if you do, the Fever will get to you with a force more fierce than usual. But we are scared to throw it away. An old, worn-out mask is infinitely better than no mask at all. It makes us feel secure, safe in our comfortable miseries. And there are no replacements. There is no question of throwing our old masks away unless we are sure the new ones will work better, make us feel safer, protect us from the Fever. The germs breed inside the mask, and one day they will get us. But we don't really care.
We come home, and from behind those worn out exteriors, we smile. Back in the comfort zone, into the cradle of the Known Ones. We tell them of the problems the mask may bring, but no one dares to utter the unspeakable. No one musters the courage to tear off that old, filthy, rotting mask from our faces. The masks are expressionless, robotic, cold. Another day is over. We have dodged the Fever one more day. We close our eyes and think: is there anyone there who has been able to throw away the mask? Take a deep breath of fresh air and fill the lungs? Dare the Fever to strike?
Is there anyone who has not forgotten how to smile, to laugh? When was the last time I saw someone who wasn't afraid to die?

'Oh! Your wife doesn't mind?'

2009-08-13T00:16:00.009+05:30

I often joke that I've been married for as long as I can remember. At 25, neither my parents, nor even my would-be father-in-law believed I was what could be called dependable, stable husband material. But my wife, who's a couple of years younger than me, and I, begged and pleaded with both sets of parents and got married anyway. I grew up studying in boys' schools -- mainly in Calcutta and for a couple of years in Bangalore -- and the company of women was restricted to school fests where we would fight with each other just to be ushers to the girls coming in from other schools. Those were the days, when standing in the dark aisles of the school auditorium, we would look at the pretty girls and decide who we would like to date, fantasies which would vanish quickly once the lights came on and the show was over.

Once I entered college, the prospect of being in a classroom with girls was most exhilarating. And quickly, one grew accustomed to their company, with some of them going on to become close friends and a few, very special ones. I realised that girls were loyal friends -- understanding, caring and mostly accepted you for what you are. And I was a brash, aggressive sort who hung out with some very close friends of similar nature, wearing a cricket cap low over my brow in the manner Imran Khan, the only Pakistani cricketer I admired, wore when he went out to bat or field. But there were some close female friends in the group I made at college, and looking back, I am pretty surprised they tolerated me at all.

But this is not about them. It's about the many other ladies I have met and known since, quite a few of whom continue to be close friends to this day. Like I said, it was almost as if I was born married, since I got into that pretty early in life. My wife and I often joke that we were fools to move to Bombay as a married couple when most other friends in our group were having the time of their lives, blissfully single. But we had our own memorable days -- with friends and fun-filled weekends we reminisce about regularly.

During the course of my adult life, I have come to know quite a few women -- some as acquaintances, and a few others as close friends. And these 'relationships', if I may call them that for want of a more meaningful word less prone to interpretation, have provided me with several valuable insights. One, that some relationships are so strong that everything else gets blurred. Not in an immoral sort of way, but these relationships withstand the test of time and distance, something which I used to think impossible in my younger days. In fact, some lady friends of mine relate to me now just as they used to years ago, when all of us were several years younger. But there's a big difference: today, we are able to understand the nuances of our relationship better, are more accepting of each other's faults, quirks and compulsions.

There have been times when I've had my marital status thrown at me as some kind of accusation by a few ladies: 'Oh, you're married? Doesn't your wife mind that you're friends with other women?' And it has been pretty difficult for me to explain to them that she doesn't, not in the least, because there comes a time in the life of a married couple when a little glance, a twitch of the face can be deciphered down to the last detail by the spouse. And no words need be said. Perhaps it is tough for some people to imagine that a wife would be so secure that she would not mind her husband being friends with, or even going out with, his lady friends. And no, un-dramatic as it may seem, that does not mean there is a problem in the marriage.

So is it me who is strange, or is it the way I look at life? Thankfully, for every lady who may have asked me the question about whether my wife minds, there have been more who have understood the dynamics of relationships: that every relationship is special, unique. They needn't compete, simply because they're not vying for the same slot. And that some people are not insecure where they are. They are happy, contented and understand that human relationships are multi-dimensional and cannot necessarily be straitjacketed in nomenclature. At least I am built that way. And I am immensely grateful that I have lady friends who understand these dynamics and I have been living with someone who has understood them -- and me -- very well for the past 16 years.

What is it that binds these relationships? As I have grown older, I have come to realise it is the breadth of their thinking that holds the key. To understand that life is not just about the black and the white; that there is that very important shade of grey which plays a very critical part in completing the whole picture. To understand that relationships often enrich the entire experience of life, adds to its colours and dimensions, and that is the joy of living. These are relationships which have, and will, stand the test of time. Of distance. Of ups and downs, of the rough and the smooth. These relationships don't demand their space. They are soothing, understanding, benign. Is it attraction which cements such relationships? The answer to that, of course, would depend on what one means by the term. I believe there is attraction in every relationship. We are friends because we are attracted to people, their thinking, the way they are and what they say or do attracts us to them. So yes, there is attraction. That would be the basis of all relationships. How one interprets the term is, of course, another matter.

The essence, to me, is to recognise the 'grey'. And to acknowledge that grey is a beautiful colour. Though few can understand its many hues.

Imtiaz, aaj kal

2009-08-12T21:49:00.012+05:30

As a lover of good cinema, or rather, as a lover of cinema in general, I have often followed the careers of several good to extraordinary filmmakers, watched them climb the heights of excellence and then nosedive from those heights at a quicker pace, sometimes never to get back even remotely close to those levels of creativity again.

Most famous among such filmmakers is Ram Gopal Varma, one of my all-time favourites and creators of such masterpieces as Satya and Company, the latter according to me being one of the defining pieces of Indian filmmaking. Today, Varma tries really hard at getting those creative juices flowing again, but with limited or no success. The best he can do these days is a Sarkar or a Sarkar Raj, both good movies, but hardly in the same league as his earlier works. And in between are the string of unmentionables, notable among them being the narcissistically titled Ram Gopal Varma ki Aag, Nishabd, Darling, Phoonk, and Contract. I have not included his latest Agyaat, since I haven't watched it and am not sure I want to even on DVD, given my wife's enormous reluctance to watch horror films. And then there are those like Subhash Ghai, Ramesh Sippy et al, many of whom simply failed to live up to the huge expectations of excellence which they had built up thanks to their earlier works. Rather reluctantly, I would have to also include another favourite of mine, Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra in that list, since his Delhi-6 left me feeling cheated and bitterly disappointed, coming after a masterly Rang de Basanti, one of the finest Hindi films I have seen in recent times.

Imtiaz Ali, he of the light, believable romantic films genre and director of such lovely gems as Socha Na Tha and the runaway success Jab We Met has just made it to this 'whatever happened to their talent' list I am currently compiling -- a list which, I must add, is getting disappointingly longer -- with his third directorial effort, Love Aaj Kal. I know there will be several Saif and Deepika fans who may have stared starry-eyed at the screens while munching popcorn in those multiplexes, which is why the film has done brisk business. But as a film, it certainly didn't work for me. More so, since Jab We Met did, and brilliantly.

Did Imtiaz Ali fall prey to Illuminati pressure? Did considerations of the box office override his creative talents? No one will know the answers to these questions, but the reality is that the Saif-Deepika romance was too contrived and lacked chemistry and the script was as tight as a pyjama minus the string. The only positive elements of the film: Pritam's music, Rishi Kapoor's cameo and the casting coup where stunning Brazilian model Giselle Monteiro is cast as the demure Sikh girl Harleen Kaur with whom a young Rishi Kapoor is hopelessly in love. The idea of presenting the young Rishi also as Saif works well, but that's about as far as one can go in defence of Ali's latest love story.

Clearly missing is the freshness of Jab We Met, where the super chemistry between the lead couple (Kareena Kapoor and Shahid Kapur) and some sterling performances, particularly by Kareena saw the movie striking a chord among young and old alike. The wonderful script, the identifiable characterisations and some great music added to the lustre of the film. Not surprising, therefore, that it still commands enormous repeat value.

Much like Rakeysh Mehra, whose dark supernatural thriller Aks was riveting in most parts until it lost its way in the second half (a flaw he again demonstrated in the second half of Delhi-6), Imtiaz Ali will need to get back to the drawing board and rediscover himself. With every success, the burden of expectations will get heavier, and good directors must learn to live with that. It is, therefore, imperative that they refuse to compromise on their creativity, no matter how much the pressure from commercial interests. Because as the successes of the recent past have shown, these are times when the audiences have turned discerning. A sub-standard product will be junked forthwith, just as a good one will be embraced despite the surprises it may spring. Anurag Kashyap, maker of the spunky, out-of-the-box Dev D will testify to this.

That's the reality, aaj kal.

The Price of Truth

2009-08-05T00:16:00.009+05:30

Would you sit in front of a couple of hundred people, your closest friends, your spouse and other close relations watching you, and be asked some of the most intimate, personal questions of your life for them to be televised to heaven knows how many million viewers?

I would not. But clearly, there are enough who would, which is what is keeping Sach Ka Saamna, the controversial new TV show at the top of the charts. Some heated debate in Parliament and a quashed public interest litigation later, the programme continues to have a voyeuristic nation riveted to its seat come 10.30 PM every weekday. And yes, before you ask me, that is the only TV programme I watch other than the news bulletins and the film reviews.

Why would a perfectly happy housewife, whose husband apparently dotes on her, want to sit on the 'hot seat' and face the most uncomfortable questions anyone could ever ask her, questions which could jeopardise any marriage or relationship no matter how much explaining one did afterwards. Is it the money on offer, the 23 minutes of fame (most of the times contestants fail to make it to the next episode) or the masochistic pleasure of emotional self-flagellation? I suspect it is none of these. The money, actually, is pretty ordinary given the enormity of the problems that could befall you if you actually spilt all the beans on the show. Rs 1 crore isn't really that much in today's context: it won't even get you a good apartment in Bandra. It was a big amount in those days when Amitabh Bachchan's goatee had just emerged as the latest in cool and his hair was much less grey than it is these days. So money isn't the real motive. And it can't be, since most often, that one false answer forces the contestant to go back empty-handed after he or she has let out quite a few terrible secrets to the whole world. Fame on one episode? Not really it. As Raja Chowdhary will testify even post-Bigg Boss, television shows can keep you in the news only for that long. And I am sure it also isn't the self-flagellation thing.

The real reason, I suspect, is the catharsis the show offers to those who're willing to give it a shot. A public revenge against a drunk husband, an estranged father, an ex-wife who you thought married you for the money or even a friend or spiritual guru who you think is trying to control your life. Sach Ka Saamna offers you that lifetime chance of letting your emotions loose in public and square off your position once and for all. If, in the process, you earn the money, it's bound to be an added bonus. But even catharsis appears to have its limits. Many have failed the lie detector on comparatively less embarrassing questions after making it through the most tricky ones with an emphatic 'Yes!' That's a mystery I am still trying to solve: why would you falter on relatively simpler terrain after sailing through the most hostile ones?

So an ageing small-time actor admits to having had sex with a girl younger than his daughter, but is found out by the lie detector on another less embarrassing question; and a similar fate has befallen some other ladies and gentlemen on the show. Perhaps catharsis is short-lived, and the participant then comes crashing back to reality and quickly grabs the mask which he or she had set aside.

Whichever way one looks at it, Sach Ka Saamna, copy-pasted from a foreign television show, has redefined the way we look at truth and public disclosures in this country. And frankly, more than the contestants who have anyway decided to bare all, I feel sorry for the family members and friends sitting on that sofa and waiting their turn at being compromised or exposed by the contestant. To me, that sofa is a hotter seat than the one facing the host Rajeev Khandelwal. Because, you're not the one participating and yet you may end up losing the most from that show.

There's one more thing which is quite inexplicable about Sach... so far: the willingness of astrologers and sundry tarot card readers -- lip gloss and all -- to submit themselves to the whiplash of intensely personal questions on a very public show. Did they think they could predict the outcome? Or did their misplaced self-confidence push them to try sparring with the lie detector? I have no answers to this. And talking of answers, the world will never know my answers to some of those questions they ask on that show.

Gentle storyteller of dark tales

2009-08-02T12:04:00.012+05:30

I first met Vishal Bhardwaj at a journalists' lunch for the film Godmother, for which he had scored the soundtrack. The first thing that strikes you about the man is his amiable nature, far removed from the airs which the usual film folk exude, irrespective of their rank in the film industry pecking order. Bhardwaj came across as a gentleman, a simple yet passionate human being who liked to have a good conversation about things which interest him.
I asked him about his partnership with Gulzar in Maachis and later in Hu Tu Tu, a powerful political film on the lines of his cult film, Aandhi. The music was, as in most Gulzar films, integral to Hu Tu Tu as well, and Vishal Bhardwaj did complete justice to it. Whether it was the langorous Chhai Chhappa Chhai or the powerful Bandobast Hai, the music was an integral part of the hard-hitting story which Gulzar told in the film. "Were you inspired by Queen's We Will Rock You?" I asked Bhardwaj, since to me the beat of Bandobast Hai, with the sticks beating down on the ground, sounded pretty similar to the Queen song. Bhardwaj replied he hadn't heard the Queen song at all. He then let on that he was trying his hand at film-making and was filming an episode for the television serial Gubbaare, which would have individual short stories in every episode. And the story he was filming was written and directed by him, and would have the title Dhan-ta-nan.
The sound "Dhan-ta-nan" must clearly fascinate Bhardwaj. As must the underworld. Ever since his Gubbaare debut, Bhardwaj has been trying out new concoctions of film-making and succeeding enormously with every fresh attempt. Though he made his debut in feature films with the immensely enjoyable children's film Makdee and also made a small, lovable film called The Blue Umbrella based on a wonderful Ruskin Bond story, the common element of his two most talked about films -- Maqbool and Omkara -- has been the adaptation of Shakespeare into stories relating to the underworld, and yet Bhardwaj has never once looked as if he was repeating himself. If it was Irrfan's intense chemistry with the brooding yet magnificent Tabu in Maqbool, it was the brilliant portrayal of the playful, but destructive, relationship between Omkara (Ajay Devgan) and Dolly (Kareena Kapoor) in Omkara that demonstrated that Bhardwaj was clearly a class apart from the rest.
Whether it was the dark underbelly of Mumbai, viewed through the machinations of the underworld and the police, together with an ensemble cast of some of India's finest actors -- Naseeruddin Shah, Om Puri, Pankaj Kapoor, Piyush Mishra et al -- in Maqbool, or one of the most realistic and hard-hitting portrayals of the badlands of Uttar Pradesh in Omkara, Bhardwaj has shown that a diminutive, gentle human being need not be a misfit when telling violent stories. And to his credit, he has made very few compromises for a box office known to be fickle. Though Beedi Jalai Le was a megahit as a song, it was, indeed integral to the story and the sequence which followed. And getting the uber-cool Saif Ali Khan to play Langda Tyagi in Omkara is now acknowledged as one of the bigger casting coups in recent Indian cinema. Like most directors obsessed with quality and script and the final product, Bhardwaj so far has stuck to composing the music for his films himself, and that has worked. A director knows best what he wants out of his film and it's perhaps in order that a director who is also a music composer should come up with his own soundtrack. After his initial films where he worked with celebrated musicians like Pandit Ravi Shankar and Ustad Vilayat Khan, Satyajit Ray too opted to compose his own music for his films, and later reasoned that he was getting so many musical ideas of his own that this worked best for him.
So now, Bhardwaj-watchers and fans wait for his next film, provocatively titled Kaminey, once again with the underworld as the backdrop. The song "Dhan-ta-nan" from the film has already become a chartbuster, and the promos are being hotly discussed at coffee shops and college canteens. The film has been positioned as a dark, Pulp Fiction-like work, perhaps for the first time such a film is being attempted in Hindi.
Whether Kaminey wows the box-office or not, Vishal Bhardwaj is here to stay. The man who enjoys pushing the envelope with every new effort has become quite a celebrity. But inside, I hope, he remains rooted to reality as he was when I first met him. Only that will ensure that his talent remains unadulterated with fame. As film lovers who have watched some other fine directors come up with shockingly bad films know, fame has a terrible way of getting talent to lose its way.

500 friends and very, very lonely

2009-08-01T00:30:00.005+05:30

An only child, I have always been comfortable with the idea of being by myself. From a very young age, I used to keep myself busy in a number of ways whenever I was not in school or playing with my friends and neighbours. I remember, when I was 11, my parents and I went for a wonderful vacation at our ancestral home in Varanasi; a massive mansion bang on the banks of the Ganga. I was very happy taking out my box camera and pretending to film the huge halls and verandahs of the house in the afternoons when everyone was resting. I would go to the terrace and "film" the river from there, or the setting sun and listen with rapt attention to the tolling of the bells from a distant temple. Those were unbelievable sights and sounds, memories of another day, a very precious chapter I like to open and read when I am by myself. Even now, despite having several friends and being married, I don't mind the occasional afternoon or evening when I am alone, watching television, reading the papers or settling down to watch the latest DVD which I may have bought. My own experiences have taught me that an only child is not necessarily a lonely child. He can be comfortably alone.
Despite having been a journalist for a number of years and meeting a large number of people, I do find it difficult to make close friends easily. Acquaintances, yes, but close friends aren't easy to make. But when I do make such close friends, they are usually for keeps. My close friends know that. And so, I find it very intriguing to see some people I know well, having 400, 500, 'friends' on their social networking pages, because I know that inside they are lonely people. To clarify, I have nothing against people making friends -- even random friends -- on social networking sites and being in touch with them on a regular basis. In fact, some of my closest friends are those I made from the Internet or, more recently, from some Facebook group that I joined. And I love the idea of knowing someone who was, till then, just a thumbnail and a name on a website.
But 400 friends, and lonely: that's a paradox some people I know are living out. They go to parties, dance their hearts out, drink, laugh and sing, but when they are alone, they are lonely. They update their profile pages twenty times a day, informing their 'friends' about every detail of their day -- how it began, what they are feeling just before lunchtime and how they are looking forward to an evening of merrymaking. And their 'friends' dutifully post comments on each one of those status updates, peppering them with a range of emotions. But yet, they are lonely. Not alone. But lonely. I also know of some others whose pages boast of hundreds of friends, those they have met a couple of times and then added on to their page to feel comfortable in make-believe togetherness. They write on everyone's pages, but few write on theirs. The paradox of their lives is inescapable. Brutal. Tragic.
Loneliness is a terrible thing. And in today's emoticon-driven world of realtime updates, it has become very very public.

9.15 am

2009-07-31T00:03:00.007+05:30

What time does one have to report to work, I asked my new employer. 9.15 am, he replied with a smile. 9.15??? For someone who has been used to returning from work just in time to watch the Late Night Edition on CNN-IBN, this was nothing short of a culture shock. What would happen to my late night DVD-watching routine? How would one get up that early in the first place?

The first few days were miserable. Waking up at 7.15 am (when was the last time one saw the street in front of my building at that unearthly hour?), watching my wife stir the corn flakes for me half-asleep, and then sifting through the morning papers and managing to drive out of the house at the dot of 8.30 am to avoid the peak morning rush. Driving through Bandra in the mornings, it was a whole new world. People leaving for work fresh and cheerful, working women, executives with crisp white shirts and natty ties and upwardly mobile types scanning the headlines of the financial papers as their chauffeurs negotiated the murderous morning traffic on the Mahim Causeway. For someone more used to watching executives come out of their workplaces for lunch as I drove to work myself, it was, quite literally, a discovery in itself.

Time, they say, is the best healer. And it sure healed me of my daily morning shock routine pretty fast. Tuesdays were terrible near the Siddhivinayak Temple, Wednesdays near the Mahim Church. More terrible than earlier, when I would drive through those areas well into 11 am. And then 9.15 am wasn't a bad word any longer. I began enjoying the new routine; calling up old journalist colleagues at 9.30 am and waking them up with glee as I announced to them that I was already settled in office for the day. The awe, the amazement in their voices brought a smile to my face.

Seven months into my new routine came that marvellous gift for Bandraites, indeed for many who drive down daily to town from the suburbs: the magnificent Bandra-Worli Sea Link. Awe-inspiring, yes, but above all, enormously convenient. Twenty minutes from home to work. Suddenly, 9.15 am is a breeze. Road rage? Sounds familiar, but distant, as I find myself smiling as I drive on the Sea Link, tapping the steering wheel as my favourite song plays on the FM station. Change, they say, is the only constant. I couldn't agree more.

The Inaugural Post

2009-07-30T23:49:00.002+05:30

So, after much shilly-shallying and consultations, I have finally started my blog. For those who know me, this was something I've been discussing for ages now, ever since I quit active journalism to enter the corporate world. Now that this blog is a reality, it's going to be my window of expressing myself on anything under the sun: the Bandra-Worli Sea Link and how it has changed my life, why the Reserve Bank was right in maintaining status quo on interest rates, why I think Vishal Bhardwaj is one of the finest filmmakers of our times, why there will never, ever be another Rahul Dev Burman or why I identify so much with Jack Nicholson's character in As Good As It Gets. This is going to be my very own news- and viewspaper. Do feel free to join in, correct, argue and, above all, discuss. After all, there's nothing like a good debate, is there?