Diary of jasmeet singh

Re_locate

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 09:49:45 +0530

Dream, reality...nightmare?

The grime under his chipped fingernail is inky black as he points in the direction he wants me to take. "Sirji aap gol chakar se dahiney haath mud jao, phir ring road se outer ring road ko ho lena...bas." He has a belly that I can rest my breakfast tray on, a handlebar moustache that coils funnily at the tips and a dark brown mole in the middle of his left cheek that looks like a juicy jelly bean. The sweat under his khakhi poice uniform smells like stale mustard oil that has been recycled several times to deep fry samosas. He starts laughing and suddenly I can see multiple heads emerging from his ears till the count reaches ten. His laughter is loud enough to scatter the pigeons at India Gate who are peacefully pecking away at grains scattered by some bored tourists. I follow the path of the pigeons, floating behind them, mouthing something incoherent. As if by following them I can somehow convince them to return back to their erstwhile spot. Suddenly I am falling out of the sky, succumbing to the lure of gravity. As I brake cloud cover I see this gigantic signboard staring back at me. It has the word 'Gurgaon' written in big bold letters in white against a deep red background. I feel reassured and glad like someone who has come back to a place not visited in many years to find that one unique landmark still standing in its place without giving in to the vagaries of time. I free fall towards the red insignia...'thud'.

I am spread eagled face down...the same deep red color fills my one open eye. Is it blood? shit...am I dead? I slowly stand up and find myself in my Massi's drawing room who has a deep red Kashmiri carpet of the same shade with an intricately woven pattern depicting a naked village belle pouring water into the cupped hands of a traveller, quenching his thirst on a hot summer day. What's more the image is animated and I can hear the haggard traveller thanking the woman while staring at her naked breasts, as she smiles coyly in return. Is this animation developed in Adobe flash? I wonder.

I look up from the carpet...my uncle is standing there in extreme close up like he has walked out of a Ram Gopal Varma movie frame. He has this KFC chicken wings bucket in his hands which he is thrusting in my face. "Eat this beta you have had a long flight...I have ordered this specially for you from KFC" as he runs his fingers across the bucket to emphasise the brand. "Specially for you...only Rs. 250. Limited offer for the weekend you see." My Maasi pulls my hand and drags me towards a door. "See we have a special room made only for you," as she turns the knob and opens the door.

The door swings on its hinges to reveal a grey carpeted room with a work station in the corner and my laptop. A Nokia logo in neon lights is splashed across the wall facing the work station. My new boss is standing there with a wide smile and extended right hand waiting to greet me. What is he doing in my Maasi's house?
Before I can ponder any further on this momentous discovery the earth begins to shake accompanied with a sound like that of thundering hooves of a herd of wild buffaloes stampeding across the open fields of Africa. It's coming from the door behind me...I turn in slow motion as I hear the word "Mamaaajiiiii" and find my nephew Vicky fly through the door hurtling towards me like an American footballer ready to tackle the quarter back during a super bowl final. As I fall I can see that he is not alone, Rinku, Chinku and Monty are following in the same manner. They pile up on me as I lie crushed under their 100 pound each frame gasping for air. "We are so glad you have come to Delhi" they cry in unison and smother me like I have scored a goal from a 50 yard free kick.
I frantically look to the left to catch some air and I see my uncle holding a chicken leg with a stern look that tells me he is not liking me spurning his hostpitality. "Eat this chicken before it goes cold and worthless...I have paid Rs. 250 for this." I turn right and my boss is squatting there with his extended hand still smiling. "Welcome to Gurgaon, welcome to Nokia" he says as he grasps my hand and gives it a vigorous shake.

I feel like Neo in the Matrix surrounded by the agent clones and in a moment of sheer desperation I muster up enough power in my lungs, collecting all the air I can. I feel the air finding it way from the trachea coming out as a massive roar from my mouth as I fling both my hands warding off my piled up nephews. I see them scattering away from me in a perfect geometrical circle formation. They look like diving parachutists in a Discovery channel program on skydiving as they are momnetarily suspended in the air. As soon as the weight is off I push myself up with a heaving chest and gulping air like I have just surfaced after being dragged down by the sinking Titanic.
Suddenly I feel a cloth being dabbed across my face like someone is trying to wipe me free of sweat. "What's with you tonite?" It's my wife looking at me in disbelief. "You have never screamed like this in your sleep. And what is this you are mumbling about Rs. 250 KFC chicken in Gurgaon? We still have three weeks to go before we shift there and you are already dreaming about chicken in Gurgaon? I warned you about eating gassy stuff like Rajma and Chole for dinner...no wonder you are dreaming about chicken and belching like a road roller." With that she promptly flops on her pillow and resumes her snoring.

I sit there with my head in my hands. All this and I have not even reached the relative infested shores of Delhi for my new job at Nokia. Is this my sub concsious playing back my stereo typed perception, or is it just a dismissive harmless dream which for now feels more like a nightmare...

The Hand behind...

Thu, 05 Oct 2006 11:29:42 +0530

I must have been three when I first sat on the handle bar of my dad's Hero cycle. He had installed a small seat so that my derriere would be cushioned against the unavoidable bumps on the road. I would sit wide eyed holding the front bar feeling the breeze hit my face as we would ride to Juhu beach every Sunday. This was our weekly ritual; a treat I looked forward to Monday onwards.

I have a treasure trove of memories from those days when he would hike me up to the handle bar, skip and jump on to the cycle, his assuring shoulders behind me manouvering the cycle with dexterity and the familiar yet unique sweet scent of his body. He would indulgently allow me to ring the cycle bell to shoo away errant jaywalkers and handcart pullers who would stray into our path. This was when Mumbai was not invaded by the maraudering hordes from Bihar and UP plying their flying coffins that pass for auto rickshaws today.

One week before my birthday he would ask me what I wanted and tried his best to get it for me. By my sixth birthday he had sold the cycle. I had anyway outgrown the small seat on the bar and missed our weekly rides and the treats on the beach. So when my birthday was round the corner I expressed my grand desire to have a cycle of my own. For the first time I saw his face contract with a hint of dejection but his eyes did not betray the emotion. He smiled with the familiar radiance that never failed to light up my world. The next few days were observantly muted in our house with a palpable sense of austerity in the air. My strained effort to grasp words in the whispered discussions between my parents was to no avail.
Meanwhile I was already riding the bike in my mind, its gleaming red color streaking past trees and my friends looking at it longingly.

Three days before my birthday my mother came and sat next to me as I was just about about to have my post lunch siesta after returning from school. She is a typical boisterous punjabi woman but that day she sat gingerly and was looking into my eyes nervously. I was quite confused 'cause as far as I knew I had not fought with anybody in the neighborhood, had no remarks in my school handbook, passed my exams with decent marks and had not pestered my sisters lately.

"Do you really want that cycle for your birthday this year?" she asked suddenly her welled up eyes threatening to overflow. And then everything fell into place - the gloom in the air and the whispers late into the night, my dad's studied silence at the dining table.
"Not if it is going to be a problem I said. I can wait." My reply was braver than the inherent strife a child feels when denied what his heart desires most. My mother cried.

She woke me gently on the day of my b'day and wished me. My dad and sisters followed. We had a big Sunday breakfast and the happiness had returned to our house. After some time my dad took me aside and said "Why don't we go for a walk." He held my hand and we started walking the main road, he with purpose and I in awkward silence. He treated me to my favorite ice cream and we bought a chocolate cake for the b'day party in the evening with my name written in pink icing. After a few minutes he stopped in front of a shop where there were many cycles. My heart was thumping now; and I caught hold of his shirt in excitement. He bent gently and smiled, "Listen, I have an idea. Why would you want to have only one cycle to ride everyday? This shop has so many cycles and they rent it out for 50p per hour. I will give you Rs. 10 every week and you can rent which ever cycle you want." He said with sincere affection.

We rented a red cycle right away. He sat me on the seat and held it from behind to gently push and balance the cycle at the same time. From that day onwards I would take him to the shop everyday and he would patiently hold the seat and push the bike. After about ten days without a warning he let go of the seat after pushing the bike some distance. I glided for some time before the cycle started wobbling and I looked behind frantically only to see him standing at a distance looking at me assuringly. And before I knew it I was on the ground with a scraped knee. Four days from then I was riding on my own. I can still taste the sense of freedom I felt when I saw my shadow on the ground riding the bike without my father behind me, like a fledgeling bird who spreads his wings for the first time.

I have never owned a cycle since then. I have owned a mobike, three cars and even a pair of roller skates but never a cycle. I don't know why.

My ten year old daughter's b'day went by last week. "What do you want for your b'day?" I asked her a day before the event. "I want a cycle papa." she answered, bringing back a flood of memories. "What are you thinking about?" she jolted me out of my stupor after I did not respond for a long time. "Will you buy it for me?".
I called her over and gave her a tight hug surprising both of us.

There is a shining new red bike in our garage now. I rode it in our building compound the day it arrived and I saw my shadow on the ground. I looked to the heavens hoping dad would be watching, I missed his steadying hand, his assuring and patient voice goading me on, teaching me the thrill of being carefree and happy. I smiled as I came to a halt next to my daughter. I knew I would do the same for her. I would help her feel the wind in her face...It was my turn to be the guiding hand behind.

The Open Roots III

Thu, 28 Sep 2006 15:10:01 +0530

The anticipation was not without reason. Surrounding the main building are series of plaques that explain the rich history of the shrine, the people, the construction and the sacrifices entailed to make it a reality. Surprisingly it stirred a feeling of awe, respect and a hint of pride.
Was I experiencing my first sense of belonging?
The thought ran through my mind as I stood at the main door; a few steps separating me and the haloed shrine that housed the holy book. In any other place, the sheen and the tapestry of the sequined cloth that covered the Granth and the huge overhead canopy would have looked loud and gaudy. But it seemed befitting here, adding that required touch of old world mystique you stepped into the moment you crossed the threshold.

The praying area was surprisingly small compared to what I expected. Two spiral staircases on each side leading to the terrace; deliberately open on all four sides to signal openness to all faiths (Hindu temples in those days were strict about who they let into their premises). The first level had the original Granth written by the gurus more than five centuries ago. The pages that held the learnings of the great sages were fragile and yellow with age but held together by the wonder chemicals of the modern era, much like the fabric of the society we live in.
Surprisingly my trigger happy fingers were content to be joined in prayer rather than give in to the urge of capturing the historic manuscript in my lens, lest such an act defile the sanctity of the moment. I was surprised to find myself thinking like this, these were voluntary feelings of restrain and respect that I had not experienced in a long time.
Outwardly I was feeling peaceful and calm. Maybe it was the soothing voice of the 'shabads' the 'raagis' were singing or the sheer joy of time travel that allowed me to touch and feel the centuries of the yore as I ran my fingers over the carvings on the wall while ascending the spiral staircase. But internally I felt the familiar void whenever I tried reaching for what my father called the 'Vaheguru' within us. Why was I not able to just close my eyes and give myself up completely like the rest of the people sitting there with that sincere and serenelook you see on the faces of those in complete surrender?

At the entrance to the the clock tower building that houses a museum on the Sikh religion. I chanced upon it while taking photographs from entrance of the clock tower which provides perhaps the best frontal view of the temple and its surroundings. As soon as I saw the board I knew it was the place that would perhaps provide me some of the answers I was looking for.
Seating my mother near the clock tower building I decided to visit the museum. A narrow dark stairway led me to a dimly lit entrance that had a placard nailed on the top
It was not as grand as I had imagined it to be, but maybe visits to museums in some European countries had pre conditioned me. Deciding to put all my biased opinions aside I pushed the swinging doors and stepped into a large room with a high ceiling. The room had large windows letting in angular rays of the sun that bounced off the paintings and artifacts that lined the walls on either side. There was no particular chronological order to the paintings that would help the visitors understand the evolution of the religion and no guides, so I started randomly on my own.
Slowly but surely a pattern of history started emerging, detailing the deeds of a breed of brave and fearless men and how they resisted the onslaught of the maraudering Mughal armies. Paintings depicting feats of impossible valor were brought to life by local artists, one of them being that of a warrior chief jumping from the ramparts of a fort while saddled on his horse escaping from the clutches of his enemy. These were followed by the paintings of the saints like Guru Nanak and their teachings, saints who taught the language of love and the way to the right path.
Down the ages the Sikh faith came across a tolerant and lenient system that absorbed anyone who wanted to find spiritual realization through the path of knowledge, awareness and hard work with a deep-rooted belief in the equality of all. It came across as a loosely defined, not a formalized recognized community that lost its spiritual leaders regularly to some very gory tortures at the hands of the Mughals. The saints led by example that were by and large sacrificial and selfless in nature. That led me to wonder why and how we acquired the aggressive, brave and fearless tag that others perceive us to wear with pride.
The answer came in the form of guru Gobind, the tenth guru of the Sikhs. In the first painting of Gobind was a scene where his father's head was placed on a tray and sent to him from the battlefield. How's that for starters? At the tender age of ten he was appointed guru with the burden of leading the community placed on his young albeit determined shoulders. Young Gobind's initiation into life was triggered by a rather violent episode that perhaps laid the foundation of a leader who was to be the first poet warrior.
The script writer in me started imagining this scene as a great opening to a movie on his life. Visions of a sparkling marquee danced before my eyes with the poster of 'Gobind - the great poet warrior'. Gobind was scholarly and well versed with the work of the gurus and his contribution to the holy Granth is considerable. After that moment I started viewing the paintings as scenes from the movie...and what dramatic scenes they turned out to be - the formation of the religion to protect the Hindus from the Mughals, people carrying heads of murdered Sikhs on the tips of their spears to claim the gold coins promised by the Mughal emperor for each head, mothers being forced to wear bones of their dead children around their necks, Sikhs being boiled alive in cauldrons because they refused to convert, the guru sacrificing all his four young sons in battle, fighting hundreds and thousands with a handful of battle weary faithful.phew this was a sure-shot Hollywood scale production.a winner all the way. Now only if I could rope in Spielberg
By the time I reached the last room I had touched and felt the handguns and muskets used in the battlefield, seen bows and arrows exhibited in glass showcases, read about the significance of the five symbols of the religion we wear everyday and understood why we worship the holy book instead of deities. I saw gurus being appointed and murdered, soldiers fighting against all odds fully aware of their fate before going into the battle. I saw their resilience, their hopes and above all I felt their unshakable faith
As I walked down the stairway I could not shake away the images. It was as if I could feel the collective pain of the thousands of people who had endured extreme hardships and paid the ultimate price for placing their convictions above everything else. Convictions that ultimately delivered a religion which is the youngest in history, a religion that believed in including others than excluding, preached and practiced equality for all. It felt like coming out of a cinema hall after a good movie that stays with you long after the credits have rolled by.
I had witnessed a violent and gory journey through the times that defined the raison d'�tre of the religion I was born into. I knew what I had seen and felt was just the surface. True understanding would come only by exploring the vast depths of the ocean that I may come back to explore some other day, maybe another lifetime.
It was like someone had dug the ground and the roots, the source that I had been seeking all along lay open in front of me; without any pretensions of being accepted or rejected and without any prejudice of human interpretations.

The Open roots - II

Sun, 24 Sep 2006 17:28:10 +0530

Our first stop was Delhi. I am surprised they have not put up an 'under construction' banner that can be seen from the plane while you circle in to land. Delhi a city caught in the throes of a persistent dust storm thanks to the mass digging of its roads in the wake of the metro and flyover frenzy that promises to deliver a world class capital city. Wish they had a similar program to transform the power punch drunk attitude of its denizens as well.

My visit coincided with my sister's twenty fifth wedding anniversary. The only thing I dread more than the Delhi weather is a formal social do there. Unlike Mumbai where a social gathering is an opportunity to get together with people you like having around you, in Delhi it comes down to three things food, food and food.
After participating in discussions pertaining to the menu at least forty times from the moment I landed till the party started, I was completely turned off from the prospect of facing the much vaunted line up on the buffet table.

I was designated official photographer for the evening (thanks to my new Nikon SLR). A special room was allotted in the rented bunglow for 'drinks', away from the other rooms where the hundred odd guests were supposed to be seated. By about one a.m. after a horde of drunken sardars had wiggled their ample booties to the bhangra mix, I had run through five rolls of film. Exhausted and tired I was standing outside the gate for some quiet and peace when two inebriated guests came tottering out. Before I could get a close look at them one of them pulled out a gun and fired two rounds in the air. For a moment I thought I was in

Afghanistan

. My nephew who was standing next to me was totally unmoved by this spectacle.
"What was that?" I asked in horror. "Oh, that was Pammi bhaiya showing off as usual." He replied with absolutely no emotion in his voice.
"I hope those were not live cartridges." I sounded more hopeful than convinced.
"Of course they were real. His dad is a big shot builder and he presented this gun to him last year. Normally he fires at least 8-10 rounds." He replied sounding like someone who had been let down.
This was a first for me, leaving me gasping and excited like a college student who had lost his virginity on a prom night, prompting a flurry of SMS' to my wife and friends in Mumbai informing them of the incident. Now I was totally convinced that I was born into this creed by accident.

The next evening we arrived at Amritsar station where I was half expecting to be confronted by gun totting, sword wielding men on horsebacks. Thankfully we were only accosted by overenthusiastic cycle rickshaw and auto drivers jostling the crowd to get a piece of the tourist action.

A quick shower and a change of clothes later we were ready to venture out. It was close to midnight and the 'Harminder Sahib' was only a couple of minutes walk from the hotel we had checked into. My Nikon and I were raring to capture it in all its resplendent glory.

I had seen the monument many a times on TV and in pictures and had imagined myself countless times standing at its grand entrance. But nothing had prepared me for the first glimpse of the magnificently lit golden edifice and its shimmering, dancing reflection in the waters of the pond surrounding it.
The silence of the night, the cold marble under our naked feet, the shining full moon with millions of stars in the stillness of the warm summer night accentuated the magnificence of the glowing monument. I knew I was looking at a sight I would never forget for the rest of my life.

After some frenzied clicking from myriad angles, I set the camera down; to see, to stare, to admire with unabashed awe. Standing ankle deep in the pond it was as if I could feel divinity touch me with each ripple that emanated from the temple and terminated at my feet.
It was now past midnight and we were informed that the doors to the shrine would open at three in the morning, time enough for us to catch forty winks and come back.

We promptly overslept and returned at eight only to be confronted by a long winded line of devotees. It was Sankranti, a very auspicious day that witnesses huge turnout from far and wide. But unlike some temples that I have visited elsewhere in the country where you queue up for hours for a fleeting glimpse of the deity lasting a precious few seconds, there was no pushing or jostling nor any overzealous guardian at the gate of the deity rushing you through the darshan, and thankfully no separate lines for 'special darshan' for the 'connected' devotees. As we made our way, the sweet melody of the 'gurubani' flowing from overhead speakers and the whiff of the 'khada prasad' enveloped us in its entirety, soothing the soul at the same time heightening our senses, preparing us for the highly anticipated tryst with 'The One'.

continued...

The open roots

Thu, 21 Sep 2006 17:14:55 +0530

Hi friends this is a longish post so I will publish it in parts. It describes a journey, an attempt at discovering my own religious roots which left a mark on me. Hope you enjoy reading it.
========================================================
Part ONE

What you meet in life is destiny, how you meet it is free will. I have come to this conclusion after pouring over all the decisions that have shaped my life over the years.

Born into a Sikh family, I had always found it difficult to understand the need to follow certain 'customs' and 'rituals' that had obviously outlived their original utility. Ask any young Sikh boy living anywhere below Delhi on the map, who has to stay indoors on Sunday after washing his long tresses, the strapping young 'munda' who cannot do away with his facial growth especially when it comes in the way of scoring with the fairer sex. I found my own remedies to these seemingly unusual issues. I washed my hair in the night, stylized my facial hair (prohibited by the religion) to avoid the unkempt look - free will at work you see. I found a middle path to come to terms with the dichotomy of following the religion I was born into and what I felt was my right as an individual. I was too meek to rebel and too arrogant to placidly accept things I could not fully comprehend. My choices of course caused a lot of distress to my parents, especially my deeply religious mother who had undertaken a long and arduous journey all the way to the sanctum sanctorum of the Sikh faith the Harminder Sahib in Amritsar (also known as the Golden Temple) for my naming ceremony. She had promised the lord that she would visit the temple if she was 'blessed' with a male child. I was preceded by two sisters and was born after a lot of prayer and age gap between me and my siblings. My parents had lost their first born son at age two. So when I finally arrived on the scene I was treated like the 'chosen one' and raised with the knowledge that being a male is not only a privilege it is also your license to freedom; the freedom to choose, the freedom to explore and the freedom to be let off the hook if you strayed a freedom that was not always necessarily available to my sisters.

But something went wrong with the script my parents were trying to write for my life. I was supposed to turn out to be this hot blooded and aggressive Punjabi 'gabru jawan' who would love his sarson da saag and aaloo parathas, be on a back slapping, bear hugging terms with his brethren, have a long beard, wear a regal magenta turban, kill a long glass of lassi in three gulps and wipe the malai from his moustache, break into a bhangra at every excuse, take up a government job (like my father did), go to the Gurudwara every Sunday morning and ultimately settle down with a 'sohni kuddi' from Chandigarh who would bear his children and give company to his parents.
There was nothing wrong in these expectations; most of the heroes in Hindi movies did this, all my cousins did it, our neighbor's son did the same.after all it was the norm. Only in my case I guess the template went horribly wrong; I was born and raised in the heart of the most cosmopolitan city in the country - Mumbai. For some time I did try doing all of the above, but something always went awry. I preferred the gujarati dal bhaath and theplas to daal makhani and parathas, I went to a convent surrounded by Christians at school and Gujaratis and Sindhis at home. I was too influenced by the heady and liberal ways of working in an advertising agency to accept a plum government job that came my way, and finally I performed the ultimate sacrilege by rejecting a 'sohni kudi' to marry a 'south Indian madrasi' girl of my choice and that was the final straw, the last nail in the coffin.

"Where did we go wrong in your upbringing?" is the lament that I have heard ever so often since then. In short I screwed up on my 'Punjabiat' (the Punjabi way of life)

As is evident, the first twenty odd years of my life were truly chaotic and confusing where I faltered often while walking the thin line dividing the life led by norms of my religion and the life I wanted to live. What's worse I did not understand the fuss when I would choose to walk with a foot on either side.
'Am I different?' I used to wonder often. All my cousins had long flowing beards and wore their six meter turbans apparently without being troubled by existential questions. But then most of them lived up north where they defined the culture. Me, I felt like an expatriate trying to blend in like a chameleon.
My lack of affinity to my own loud, often aggressive and at times pompous brethren often raised questions in my mind that bordered on the ridiculous; "Was I adopted?" or "Was I found wandering and crying in a mela?".
This was when the Daler Mehndis, Juggi Ds and Karan Johars of the world had not arrived on the scene to define the new wave of Punjabi cool.

Now that I am apparently all grown up, a father of two daughters, supposedly out of the woods, the restlessness has been replaced by an adequate quietitude. But is that because I have found my identity or have I reluctantly compromised with the state of my existence?
Frankly, I don't have an answer to that.
Like all pseudo intellectuals I too like to think that I am a seeker who wants to get in touch with his spiritual self, without knowing where to look and what to seek. Like a novice swimmer thrashing my limbs believing that I am swimming while actually I may be in the same spot or worse even going under. I have read books, attended discourses, including dabbling into 'new age' alternatives.

Not surprisingly with every effort I come back more confused than enlightened and I end up hanging the blame on my lack of exposure to the roots and history of my own culture, something that would have acted as an anchor to which I could moor the boat of my faith. My convent education only afforded me a fleeting glimpse of the state's version of the Sikh religion through text books, the Amar Chitra Katha comics packaged five hundred years of tradition into twenty pages of pictures and blurbs.

The only other possible source - my parents; were perhaps too immersed in bringing up the family and I didn't actually nudge them enough to translate the rich heritage into a language that I could understand. To make matters worse there was no Internet.
As a result my participation was restricted to going to the Gurudwara on the birth and death anniversaries of the gurus and lining up to bow before the holy Granth and then head straight for the yummy langar (community lunch) which I suspect was a motivator for a majority of those present.

As I grew my visits became directly proportional to my urge to eat a simple and tasty Punjabi meal. I had ultimately simplified my relationship with religion to a very basic level and had given up any pretension of understanding it. That was till one day my mom asked me "Will you take me to the Golden Temple?"
It came out of the blue catching me off guard. It was like my life had come a full circle, giving me a chance to do for my mother what she had done for me when I was ten months old. Not to deny her an opportunity to indulge in her spiritual desires, I saw this as a chance to make an acquaintance with my 'roots', the origins of a religion whose rituals I had been following, whose symbols I have worn all my life.

I could not possibly let an opportunity like this pass me. After all we were going to the veritable fountainhead, the source.

Continued...

Dekhte Raho Munnabhai

Mon, 11 Sep 2006 11:36:47 +0530

"Lets book tickets for next week again..." said my daughter as we were filing out after watching Lage Raho Munnabhai. Under normal circumstances I would have chided her for a request like this, but these were not normal circumstances.
We were transfixed souls being delivered from the dark womb of the theatre. Some were laughing, some like the lady to my right - sobbing, but most were like me...quiet. It was like someone had tickled your funny bone and while you laughted your head off deliveres a stinging slap that leaves you bewildered and introspecting at the same time.

I remembered the quote used by the director of the film in an interview on
rediff.com "You will laugh through the film with moist eyes." Given the penchant for loud and over the top execution of what passes for comedy in our country I was skeptical of his ability to transform such a complex mix of sentiments on celluloid. But he proved me wrong and I am really glad about it.

The sound of the standing ovation, as the titles came up, was still ringing in my ears. The applause was both thunderous and spontaneous. Like all human beings we had stood up as one and reacted to the stirring of a very basic sentiment - humanity. And who better to deliver that sentiment but the saint of Sabarmati himself. What a brilliant ploy of using an icon so symbolic and pervasive that the creidibility of the message being delivered can never be questioned.

In times where producers and stars tend to outdo each other to promote the USP of their movies here is a great example of how to pleasantly surprise viewers. By not showing the character of Gandhi who embodies the 'voice of God' or the 'sutradhaar' of the movie in any promos or interviews, the makers of this film have pulled off a sucker punch that has created a very strong word of mouth buzz.

While the story last time focused on the apathy of the medical system it tackles a wider theme this time - that of finding the courage within us to walk the path of truth against all adversities. Using Gandhi and his methods of satyagrah and non violence as a medium creates a familiar backdrop which touches some corners of the mind that we have long forgotten to visit. Bapu's ideals clear the accumulated dust on the good side within us. We eagerly identify ourselves with the travails of Munna and participate in his fight prodding him and ultimately ourselves to win the battle at hand.

Sanjay Dutt and Arshad Warsi have fully capitalised on the lifeline Munna and Circuit have provided to their careers. Both have amazing on screen chemistry and effrotless comic timing. Its like they were born to play these roles. Boman Irani with his colored turbans plays the unscruplous builder with aplomb. Vidya Balan is very charming and looks fresh on screen. But the surprising package is Dilip Prabhavalkar who plays the role of the Mahatma. He has played the role well within himself, focusing on the message without trying to get too close to the mannerisms of the personlaity.

Munna will add more cult words to the dictionary of our daily lives. Last time he gave us 'Maamu' and 'Jaadu ki jhappi'. This time it is 'Gandhigiri' and 'Chemical Locha'. I guess it will also (though temporarily) give us a feeling of compassion. I realised it when on the way back home an autorickshaw driver, in his typical way, cut lanes forcing me to brake suddenly. In the normal course I would have made a dash for the errant driver, overtaken him and rolled down my window to let out my favorite explitives that are specially reserved for auto drivers. But this time I surprised myself by keeping calm and thought about the futility of the act since it would not change the way auto drivers plied the roads and continued driving as if nothing had happened. Mind you this lasted precisely for one day, and now I am back to my abusive best.

This movie can be truly termed as India's first successful franchise. I call it a franchise because it is not a sequel as there is no continuation of the story from the previous film. The writers have created two characters who can be placed in any situation and come out trumps, leave you charmed and get the box office registers ringing.

"Three bullets cannot stop my ideals from being followed" says the Mahatma in the movie. Similarly you cannot stop the Munna juggernaut that has been unleashed on the Indian movie audiences.

Lage Raho Munnabhai, Dekhte Raho Munnabhai.

Living in the real world

Sat, 05 Aug 2006 15:48:47 +0530

Ok, so I succumbed to the mixed bag reviews and conflicting feedabck from friends and went to see Omkara.

Friends were divided between 'rocking movie, hits you in the b***s, kya dhaansu picture hai boss, must watch it...' to 'chi chi...kya gandh bhara hai, how did the censors let this pass?, hindi picture mein aisi language...'.

Now that I have seen the movie let me tell you I am firmly on the side of my friends who recommended I watch the movie. To all those who cringed I say 'grow up guys'

I mean, c'mon, what the heck...we've been living in a city like Mumbai, where cuss words are a part of the lexicon. They can be heard almost anywhere unless you travel in you own AC car, work in a place where the colleagues do not have brown pigments in their skin, you only eat in 5 star hotels and you spent your college life in an exclusive room in the hostel.

Mind you these are same guys who would come out of a multiplex after watching 'Bad Boys' and would be absolutely cool with Will Smith going muthaf**ka this and muthaf**ka that...why? 'cause it's Hollywood yaar...they are like this only. Besides this is how Niggers speak don't they?

Yeah...do they? And how do you think the heartland of India speaks? And that's where the writer of this story grew up. He has had the guts to come up with a script that is true to the characters of people who live in that place. Vishal Bhardwaj has created a gritty and palpable adaptation of one of the most celebrated pieces of litrature, and that in itself is an accomplishment.

The dialogues have the earthy feel that brings to mind the musty sweet scent of the soil after the first rain. The cinematography has the reality of a grimy western that makes you feel the dust kicked up by the tyres of a truck passing by.

The story is strewn with gems of one liners that come out of nowhere and charm you with the honesty they are spoken with.
Some of my favorites:
- Bewakoof aur Chutiye mein dhaage bhar ke farak howey hai
- Meri dadi kaha karti thi ke aadmi ke dil ka rasta uske pet ke neeche se hokar jaave hai
- Arrey katthor sharat ghodon pe lagaate hain sheron par nahin
- Agar pichhwaadey mein gooda hai to kood madarc**d
- Lagta hai hum dono ki kismat gadhey ke ling se lihki gayi hai
- Hassi bahut mehengi ho rakhi hai duniya mein

Of course most of these line belong to Saif Ali Khan who walks away or rather limps away with the lions share of great lines. In fact the movie is all about his character based on the viliest of villians - Iago. Its heartening to see that someone who is labled as a westernised city bred chocolate hero can get completely into the skin of a rustic character who has no remorse or guilt when it comes to acheiveing his ambitions.
This Khan has finally arrived...and thank God for it.

Violence in the movie is used as a backdrop. The director uses the presence of violence than violent acts to give us a sense of the way the characters think and behave. Some of the scenes like the first fight between Omkara and the 'Kaptaan' is shown to depict the mindset of Omkara than to show his physical prowess. Set to the title track this number leaves an indelible impression on your mind.

I agree that some of the women will cringe at the language - even the educated and 'broadminded' ones who work and endure the rough edged platitudes that flow with the same ease as the fountain of crimson colored paan laden pichkari from the pallette of chauvinist Indian males. But I am sure a majority of them will enjoy the unabated and unhindered range of explitives in the dark cocooned environs of the movie hall no matter what they say when the lights come up during the intermission. And I think that is what the director is depending on...the undeniable presence of enjoying the forbidden that lies deep in our hearts which is unleashed as soon as the burden of prying eyes and social conformity is lifted.

The fact that the story deals with the basic human traits of love, jealousy and betrayal makes it timeless. The choice of its placement, its characters and the texture makes it contemporary and hence the adaptation delivers. People who believe that movie watching is an effort in escapism should stay away. Vishal has the gift of borrowing from history and placing it in the present while retaining the essence of the original script, making no aplogies of showing us the mirror and making all of us realise that after all we live in a real world.