Slightly exaggerated,bit overrated and grossly misunderstood,love as an idea can be alluring,dicey and enticing; however the idea of love still remains pretty much banal and bland,to an extent a shimmering bauble of erratic and erotic emotions,which like all its cousins is no more than a state of mind.
A friend asked me recently,what to me is the perfect recipe of love.Trying and eventually failing to find the realistic answer,I chose not to answer it.Wish things were that simple too.love , to me is an acquired taste.Like good old wine, like good old books and like bad old habits,it gets to you.Either you are a game for it, or you chose not to unriddle its countless quirks.Either you feel for it,or you are left groping in the dark.Either it makes you feel wanted,or it finds you wanting.Either you lose yourself to it, or you are too loose to notice it.One can never predict when romance runs its course and recurring rancor,much like din and clamor of hackneyed chores take the sting out of the (love)bite.Its akin to walking a tight rope,some might rightly claim a double edged sword.Its a baffling quandary that has worked up poets and pandemonium alike.William Shakespeare seemingly decoded it long back when he historically claimed that the course of true love never did run smooth and there's never a bigger devil than love.
One wonders why falling of an innocuous apple then became 'the' discovery of mankind when a playwright just as nonchalantly discovers the reason of falling and failing hearts.One wonders why the concoction of love ,despite being blissfully heady is so inscrutable.The idea of love, to some is appealing , to some appalling and to many is somewhere in between.One wonders why the vigor of romance loses out to the rigors of trite tests.One wonders why the dream gets further distant ,eventually disappearing and thoroughly avoidable arguments become unfailingly flabbergasting and perennially exasperating experiences.Sustained differences in opinions,7 year itch,out of sight-out of mind,end of honeymoon period,the reasons are as legendary as the romance itself,for there can never be perfect love between imperfect people.
Frankly, there is no perfect idea of love.Love actually is the idea of making the imperfections appear less ugly and more ordinary.The balance between the contradicting forces of rightful freedom and rightful enforcement often decides the turbulence in the course of love.After years of emotional wear and tear,when hearts and hormones crave for a break,the respect for each others' battle hardened romance keeps the flagship of love sailing.Come high tide or heavy weather,the ship never sinks ,since deep down the hearts know to beat just one way;the souls know no difference.Bliss is one word that comes to mind.Its the same word that clouds the initial euphoria of love; and you know the circle finally is complete.Its all about persevering,the willingness to go the distance,the desire to make an effort,the urge to bring a smile.History might find it hard to fathom but love actually is your 'self ' shredded to brilliant,almost unbelievable precision.
Confused,eccentric,passionate,mercurial,energy,synergy,symphony,cacophony,sadistic,masochistic,
jealous,zealous,bombastic,silent,valiant..........love has many faces; just that we decide to chose the one that matches our soul to perfection.Love can have its peripheries,but its not superficial.Love may be unreasonable,but that doesn't make it unreal.Love may appear improbable,yet its never impossible.Love may be lies,that doesn't make it deceptive either.Love is the biggest irony,and that makes it an engrossing enigma.To quote the famous line from Cecilia Ahren's PS:I Love You ,'Life moves on ,but love lives on'.True,real and rather intelligent.The answer may just be round the corner,the idea of love is to sustain itself; through its sheer weight of willingness and strength of existence.
Love lives on, despite relationships that don't work and dreams that remain just that.
Monday 18 July 2011
THE MORNING AFTER
Surreptitiously appraising the slightest of bulge in my flexed biceps, thanks to my half baked attempts at weight training, I could afford an unabashedly biased grin. The 4”X6” mirror standing proudly in the Executive Locker shouted in its full frontal glory that life is not for the wimpish of the species. I nodded in silent affirmation, my well thought of approval giving credence to my acceptance that a beefed up physique is the need of the hour. The harmony of the poignant and pragmatic moment was broken by the cheerful uproar of the bunch of kids catering to the collective national obsession called cricket.
On the other side of the massive wall separating the playground was the hotel’s swimming pool, still not inundated with aficionados, barring a few heavily built gentlemen who swam unobtrusively on the pleasant Delhi morning. Outside the hotel’s luxury, Delhi had woken up to another frenzied morning. It wasn’t an IPL match that morning, and the famed Anna Hazare’s agitation had subsided too. For some sinister reason, the din was rather disturbing. The weather was extraordinarily pleasant, with unusual cold breeze sweeping the capital landscape.It warranted a leisurely walk, if not a long drive, someone within me spoke. I assumed it was my battered romantic heart and peered on through the glass window from the 8th floor. Matchbox sized cars rolled by, even as hapless cyclists scurried to keep pace with time.
In the meantime, the kids went up again, evidently a batsman was caught at the ropes. For the truculent Brits floating in the pool, life trudged on at a reluctant pace. I forced a wistful smile, for reasons unknown and decided to go down. The long night shift had given way to a busy morning in the hotel, forcing me to skip my breakfast. Hungry and bored, I found myself walking gingerly to the nearby paranthawalla.
Nothing beats a steaming hot parantha with gallons of butter over it. A food for thought, a food for all reasons and seasons. ‘Binge’, someone ordered from within and I decided to have my first morsel of food in 12 hours. Other than ululating urchins undulating to their indigenous rhymes, ‘advisers’ cutting across every possible divide can be found almost everywhere in or country ,generally offering their pearls of wisdom , often unsolicited, always unabashed. I bumped into quite a few of them at that tiny stall.
As the harried cook tried to dole out his expertise to the earnest patrons, one of the advisers, presumably blessed with legendary culinary erudite, suggested the pan be tilted further left from him and flame be intensified “only a wee-bit”, inviting glances of approval and admiration from others sharing the common DNA, in the process drawing a flummoxed, nonplussed expression from the just enlightened cook. Some men of unheralded intellect were discussing how a longer pavement, slightly elevated would have been ideal and how in “Umreeca and Ingland”, they build bridges at a rate similar to which our politicians bolster their fortunes. The league of the extraordinary gentlemen burst out laughing. I could afford a smile of resignation too. The tiny bit of newspaper that served as table cloth had a leggy Deepika Padukone glancing suggestively at the readers. Clad in tiniest of garments one could envisage, Ms Padukone was drawing hurried sheepish glances from everyone around. The uneasy calm was demolished by another imminent adviser, who was ostensibly well informed about the lady’s fiercely guarded secrets. He uttered something too risque to be put here and the clique had a good laugh over it. I sniggered, more at the tenor of blasphemy than its content.
Through with my princely breakfast, I gave a nod of thanks to the superhuman cook who still appeared flabbergasted, probably reeling under some fresh barrage of wisdom. For once, I thought that hearing impairment shouldn’t be a physical infirmity anymore, but a classified prowess.
As I walked back to my lodging, I overheard some stray conversations. Some girl was reasoning out with her snobbish boyfriend, a hapless child was being battered by his horrified mother, a vegetable vendor was convincing hard to please women of neighborhood that his stock was among the freshest the Almighty had ever created, some teenage boys were analyzing the IPL game they had watched last night, some school going, high on hormone girls were giggling frantically over a text message one of them had recently received , drawing instant attention from the passer byes.
Different people, countless worlds, I muttered. There’s such a degree of sameness, a degree of banality so pronounced and predictable, so tedious, and yet there’s a fair degree of uniqueness in the ubiquity. At times one finds it tough to decide which is easier, being inert or being involved. I realized it’s the fine balance that does the trick ,and having found the pearl of wisdom without any expert ‘advice’ ,I decided to rest the case there and instead give some well deserved break to my tiered limbs.
REPORTING LIVE: THE PROCESS OF ENLIGHTMENT
A septuagenarian rises and a nation awakes. Suddenly the big fat Indian Middle Class decides to ascribe to itself the tag of ‘civil society’ and in the process, out comes their fashionable lighters to light up candles and enlighten the cynics that the taxes we pay are accountable. Thanks for reminding us. Claiming solidarity, they soldier to Jantar Mantar in their fashionable shades to fight corruption, even as the scores of news channels, who seemingly outnumber the crusaders, pounce on the every visible creature belonging to human of the species for its latest breaking news. Ah, that thing called breaking news. A boy falls in a pit or a cricketer shaves off his head, everything ought to be reported as if it were to do something with world peace.
Back on the issue, and back in our living rooms, the TV screen is a battle ground to enlighten the masses. “The groundswell is here”, exclaimed an emotionally charged anchor as the screen breaks down into a grid, where reporters, alert and hungry, take us to the celebrations across various cities. One of the lasting shots is that of a group of school kids chanting nationalist slogans in support of one Mr.Hazare. Few days later. A little girl is seen offering water to him as he breaks his fast on national television. An earnest request; can we please keep our kids out of this? How many of them know what they are actually standing for, other than the incentive of being on prime time news? Who is to be blamed for this caricatured childhood, the hyperactive parents or the hyperventilating media? How many of this ‘civil society’ can tell PDS from CCT, or PAC from JPC or NAC from NIA? Standing up for a cause doesn’t require the minimum qualification of knowing the Government policies like the back of your hand, agreed. However it must require the understanding of the cause, to start with.
One wonders what struck their nationalist fervor when the tribes of Chhattisgarh had no one to listen to? “Can Jantar Mantar be India’s Tehrir Square?” shouted another senior journalist on prime time TV, rather nervously. Don’t know about that, but with no-brainers like these, broadcast media will of course lose its last remaining vestige of credibility, its purpose lost long back.
Meanwhile Mr. Hazare, out fasting for a noble cause no doubt, seats himself close to the imposing idol of Bharat Mata with spiritual – religious leaders ,brimming with silent aspirations of their own, in tow declares that that the voters do not know much and that they vote for a saree,a bottle ,even Rs.100.So much for ‘Poribortan’!Try deconstructing that. Where did this reminder-rejoinder come from? If the covert RSS undertone wasn’t loud enough, here comes the most overt of the overtures. A yoga guru, a Deoband cleric and an Archbishop came together in a never before sell-out frame. We are secular, and to the best of my knowledge, are in no dire need of an endorsement so preposterous from the well heeled ‘civil society’.
Meanwhile it’s a revolution, I am told. Yes, yes it is the revolution. You have to believe it if they claim it , unabashedly,24X7.An actor of repute meanwhile puts up the show of his life as he questions the credibility of the Constitution of world’s largest democracy. On the same show, some nondescript tween claims to have started a fresh page on Facebook to fight corruption. So while the government frames policies, the uber cool class can do with a FB page to start with. Cool? Yes. Relevant? Maybe. Will it last? Too obvious a joke to laugh.
At the risk of being tagged the greatest cynic to have ever (dis)graced this planet, I call this ‘civil society’ downright opportunist and the corporate sponsored broadcast media downright mercenary. His ideas are laudable, his ideologies ludicrous. He demands capital punishment for the corrupt. He demands absolute autonomy to indict anyone by the Lokpal.I demand why his demands be considered democratic and not authoritarian. Agreed, desperate situations demand desperate measures, but not the undemocratic ones. Agreed, citizens have the right to demand, just that they need to know what exactly to demand.
It’s easy to grease palms at busy thoroughfares and talk of eradicating corruption in the same breath. It’s easier to evade taxes and demand accountability from the Government, to lounge in the comforts of the cozy penthouses on sunny polling days and despise the people you never cared to elect; and guess the easiest of them all? Yes, light a candle. Bring them on, the weapons of mass enlightenment.
Sunday 17 July 2011
CONFESSIONS OF A SEASONED CYNIC
While his sporadic rants against the nation were always hard to miss, one could pass them off as frustrated outbursts of a ‘foreign returned’ Punjabi; a clique whose only apparent source of survival is the dream to go to the UK and Canada (no offences, Punjus are gregarious, hilarious, hardworking people, make no mistake). However, a night long discussion with my good friend’s brother, a few days back changed my perception forever. No, it wasn’t a frustrated outburst anymore, it was a deep rooted fanatical bundle of ticking bomb that kept imploding and exploding till the dark ran out,.
This nation is of losers, for losers. All the politicians are corrupt and the solitary voice of truth, if ever arises is conveniently crushed in this country. Whatever development you see is because of foreign multinationals, the governments are inept and worthless…The angry young man went on, even as I murmured the classic Rang De Basanti
line that no nation is perfect; it’s upon the people to make it perfect.Needlesss to say, my effete attempts to assert and reassert my patriotism fell flat as the rant ran on.
This one was the runaway classic.
As the discussion veered towards the Annans and the Babas, he suddenly announced with a sarcasm that was hard to let go “What to say of a country where stray terrorists attack its Parliament?” A few unmentionables followed, even as I wondered if the boy knew anything at all about our economy, our democracy and the fact that the nations he claimed offer better standards of living do so because their population is one – fifth of ours and that 50% of their doctors and engineers are from the country he so willfully detested.
I wondered if he knew that 200 years of tyranny by the country he so passionately vouched for has devoured a major chunk of our countless resources and pushed us back by a couple of light years. From that , to be the strongest emerging superpower, to enjoy the position it does in BRICS,to stake its claim to the permanent membership of UNSC,to employ the unique NREGA and striving for a successful PDS,to achieve a consistent growth in literacy rate ,we indeed have come a long way.
Undoubtedly, its still far from perfect, but its good enough to feel good about. Advocating capital punishment for corrupt, like in Middle East, while ignoring its imploding landscape due to government’s heavy handedness isn’t just a case of poor foresight, but of blinkered optimism. For those who flout rule of law as phlegmatically as they curse the lack of living standards, for those whose liking for the West, and for that matter anything foreign assumes the proportions of an obsessive compulsive disorder, it would only be remedial to revisit their History textbooks to overcome their state of blissful ignorance. Probably it would give ‘them’ a chance to be ‘us’.
DOES CINEMA REFLECT THE SOCIETY ?
Even before a certain Inspector Vijay Khanna roared inn his hitherto unknown and unnoticed baritone in 1973 classic ‘Zanjeer’,the pertinent and raging debate of movies being a true reflection of society was unleashed on movie manadarins.Does cinema reflect the society? Yes and No. Being essentially an art form with a fair amount of commercial stake, movie makers face an uncomfortable dilemma to balance their act. Those who fall too far beyond the point refer to the oft repeated refrain of ‘reflection of society’, whereas the lesser mortals go significantly unnoticed and unquestioned.
A case in point is a movie like ‘Agneepath’.Often considered a cult classic that didn’t do commercially too well (much like ‘Mera Naam Joker’), the movie assumes legendary proportions as it was the first major step to showcase the burgeoning underbelly of Bombay underworld. Then considered ahead of its time ,it had the director sticking to the clichéd refrain all along until ‘Bombay
Like any other art form, cinema no doubt derieves its ideas from society ,but its interpretation, execution and presentation is essentially the reflection of the Director’s vision and not as much of the society’s. It might lead to memorable attempts like ‘Saaransh’,’Ardhasatya’ and ‘Fire’ or downright risqué productions like ‘Julie (2005)’ and ‘Dunno Y..(2011)’.
In between we might have cute candy floss genre of college romance typified by a guitar wielding Aamir Khan (QSQT) or a teary eyed Shah Rukh Khan (KKHH), or a marriage most melodramatic (DDLJ).It would be derogatory to suggest that these super successful productions were alienated from the truths of society.
New age cinema like ‘A Wednesday’ and ‘Aamir’ deserve a mention too.Fast,crisp and short, that’s how we want things to be and that’s what these taut thrillers were. Though its not every Wednesday that some gentleman shakes up the state machinery, the success of ‘A Wednesday’ can be safely attributed to its presentation and its no nonsense, no preacher approach. Bereft of some of the most time tested formulae, it’s successfully tapped the social undertone without making much ado about it. Ditto for Aamir.Ditto for ‘Band Baja Barat’
Yes cinema is certainly inspired from the society, but if it really reflects the society is debatable. Yes cinema has the power to inspire the masses (Sarfarosh, RDB) but if it’s a generic representation of the society is questionable. Sure neither is our society all about Slum dog millionaires nor does it possess the incredulous riches of K3G.Its somewhere in between, innocent (Taare Zameen Par), lively (Jab We Met), gritty (Lagaan), angry (Gangajal), painfully real (Raincoat) and blissfully ignorant (Aisha).
Enjoy the show.
The Idea Of India
Out of the many words that unwittingly tumble out of closet when one mentions ‘India
Run out of petrol in your mobike on a highway? Blow some air in the tank and swirl it like you do a brandy balloon and off you go. Got an important college assignment to make when the world is out partying? Shell out those bucks to the shabby little stationer across the subway and lo and behold, the assignment is ready. The TV remote doesn’t work? The mobile signals are weak? The tap leaks? That dress too tight? Your girlfriend fights? Pestering perennial problems with simple perennial solution-Jugaad.
It’s something that has been fostered diligently and intelligently in our feeble-fickle minds since long, so much so that while we may not be equipped to cut short our imploding and exploding issues, we are at the same time, ever equipped to find a short cut to everything that comes at a premium.
It’s a common thread that runs across our deafening dichotomy and painful paradoxes. It binds us, bonds us and also pushes us back, even as the world decides to mock and march on.
My earliest memories of encountering this enigma dates back to my
Standard II days, when like all Convent schools who prefer to keep kids away from sports lest it leaves their academics and hence future of mankind in jeopardy ,mine too didn’t allow us to carry our cricket kits to school(sorry other sports, we are fed on Sachin’s ‘boost’, can’t help it. We are like that only).Suppressed desire and unrequited love finally gave birth to the big ‘J’ , and out came our lunch boxes as cricket bats an handkerchiefs rolled tenaciously into balls. The old banyan tree made for the stumps, the 10 feet long dusty passage was the pitch, the giggling girls the cheerleaders. Every day was perfect for cricket, for pitch and ground conditions ceased to exist ,more so when the hapless bowler didn’t have the option to roll his arm over, since the ‘ball’ won’t bounce anyway. All he could do was to hurl the ball underarm with whatever changes in pace he could an the lunch box wielder would look to hoist him out of sight, with three slips and a gully trying their best to sledge. In hindsight, it was more a Jugaadu baseball than cricket. Whatever it was, it still lingers on, its memory still brimming with vitality, its mention still capable of bringing the odd smile. As if that wasn’t enough, there were challenges thrown at other classes too, to beat us at our game. Gradually it was one more reason to go to school. Oh yes, there would be umpires too, often the outcast studious types who never really wanted to get their hands dirty and meek enough to change their decisions at the slightest of vociferous dissonance would be perfect umpires. The game continued till we moved to our secondary section, when hair and hormones began running wild and cricket bats replaced the lunch boxes, finally. More than a decade later as I sit down to retrospect, I realize the game not only made me a sharp close-in catcher ,but good enough to close in and catch every opportunity to excel with the ersatz.
Try deconstructing this phenomenon and one finds the big ‘J’ is no longer an alternative; it’s our alter-ego. We are to the manner born. From our examinations to marriages, everything comes through at the last moment, and more often than not, it’s the big J that completes the jigsaw. From the Governments we elect to the Games we select, its ‘common wealth’ to all, thanks to the big J.
We are a nation that believes that the only way to move ahead is to push and shove and break the que,that the only way to keep our houses clean is to empty our trash bags on the roads, the only way to get heard is to shout and abuse and the only obvious way to catch a anew movie is to get its pirated copy. We are also a nation where 42% of our people live below the Poverty Line and even as you read this, it would be worthy to know that more than 300 million Indians still can’t read their names. We are a nation where millions die every year for the lack of medical care, even as we pride ourselves as the rightful owners of Yoga and Ayurveda, where reality checks are dismissed as depressing statistics and labeled cynical even as reality shows flourish.
We are indeed a nation of paradoxes, actually a notion of paradoxes. We are not contradictions in terms; we are a term for contradiction. Wish the big J solve this jigsaw too, once for all.
Until that happens ,lets travel ticket less, sleep in our classrooms, bicker in our boardrooms and enjoy are daily diet of ‘reality’ shows that are of course anything but real and enlighten us to the latest ‘breaking news’ that incidentally has nothing path breaking about itself. Time to get the lunch boxes out and set the handkerchief rolling. It happens only in India
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