Looking for inspiration

There are numerous little things all around us that can help our state of mind when we feel stressed, depressed or just plain fed-up with our daily 9 to 5. While feeling grumpy is easy enough, inspiration to dust yourself off and seize the moment is omnipresent. I list but five things that have inspired me recently.

1. Mamata Banerjee. She fought the CPI(M) for over 20 years. She had her skull cracked open, legs broken and teeth smashed. Regardless, she carried on as the lead political opposition to one of the most entrenched electoral machineries anywhere in the world. Armed only with raw courage, immense patience and the fight of a pitbull, she finally overcame after a two-decade struggle. And won. Love her or hate her, she inspires. True grit, if you ever saw it.

2. My son. It's interesting to watch a toddler learn and grow. My naughty little boy goes hard at the simple things - like trying to count from one to ten, or climbing up onto the bed, or eating his lunch himself. If a little fella can put in so much effort into small little things, I'm sure so can we.

3. 2nd April 2011. Where were you? I was right in front of a giant TV screen biting my nails. And then Mahendra Singh Dhoni sized one up from Nuwan Kulasekara and clouted it over long on for six. And then watched is sail into the stands, with a nonchalant twirl of his bat. And a nation erupted in joy and tears. An image for a generation.

4. Rocky Balboa (2006). The man's still got it. Sample this - "Let me tell you something you already know. The world ain't all sunshine and rainbows. It's a very mean and nasty place and I don't care how tough you are it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain't about how hard ya hit. It's about how hard you can get it and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done!". A heck of a 'punch'-line.

5. The Ajmer beggar. A beggar in Ajmer died with a bounty of a few lakhs of rupees in currency notes on his person. He died rich, in my view. A lifetime in poverty had ended in prosperity. While it's a pity he did not live longer to enjoy his wealth, it's a testament to the power of saving, frugality and discipline. It's hard not to get distracted with the latest gazillion-inch HDD 3D panel and the newest I-whatever. But keep at it and in the end, you'll be better off.

Cheers!

Abhishek.

The Last Nizam : Book review

John Zubrzycki, an Australian journalist, has good knowledge of India, her history and the myriad ways in which she works. It is therefore no surprise that he comes up with a convincing, gripping and insightful account of a man and a dynasty that's not written about very much.

The book charts the saga of the fabulously wealthy Nizams of Hyderabad, and initially outlines Indian history from the end of the Mughal period. These sections could appear a bit dry to some, and they delve into the dynamics of the relationship of the British administration of the time with the many princely states. Nonetheless, these pages succeed in involving the reader and in providing a sound base for what is to follow. Things get particularly interesting when the book begins to detail the life and times of the seventh and penultimate Nizam (also the richest man in the world at the time, whose collection of jewels alone could fill a couple of Olympic sized swimming pools), a somewhat eccentric and endearing creature, whose tales of thrift were legendary. He nominated Mukkaram Jah, his grandson as the next (and as it turned out, last) Nizam, bypassing his extravagant and distracted sons. Mukkaram Jah himself is a bit of a recluse, who now lives in anonymity in Turkey, and is the ultimate tragi-comic hero. Jawaharlal Nehru wanted the genteel, well heeled Oxbridge product in government, but he refused. He spent his initial years attempting to unravel his inheritance, which was perhaps at the time the largest going around, worth many hundreds of millions of dollars. It proved too much of a task for him and he succumbed to the hundreds of court cases from numerous relatives who wanted shares in his grandfather's property. Mukkaram then moved to Australia for many years, attempting to remodel himself into a gentleman farmer, purchasing a massive ranch. But a good manager and businessman he was not and the ranch proved financially unviable, running up huge losses and ultimately shutting down in the 90s.

The book, littered with many fascinating and curious characters, serves as reminder that great wealth can sometimes serve up great pain. Much of the Nizam's massive fortune has been squandered by his grandson, lost or sold by corrupt and opportunistic relatives or smuggled out of the country by covetous family retainers. The last Nizam, for all his education, remained an elitist who couldn't be bothered to get his hands dirty himself, and always relied on the advise of others, a sure recipe for disaster. "I know I am the Nizam of Hyderabad", he once told The West Australian, "and that's all that matters". He still has great pride in his roots and in this ancestry. Now alone and reclusive, that's all he seems to have left. The book is also a peek into the grandiose, graceful and glorious world of the once powerful Nizams, and its a world that's escaped mainstream historical attention. 'The Last Nizam' goes some distance in attempting to correct this injustice.

Cheers!
Abhishek.

Ganguly and the art of taking a risk

Mohammed Ali said that the test of a true champion was always finding that extra something in the tank regardless of how beat up you were, to rise for one last time to deliver the knockout punch. Sourav Ganguly had fulfilled Ali's condition of greatness since his return to the test arena in the post Chappell era. He had been dropped from a team he had helped shape, returned on the sheer weight of domestic runs, and delivered the sucker punch by being one of its most consistent batsmen since his return. His saga had therefore seen a fulfilling end. Or so we thought. But with Ganguly there are always epilogues. When fans and opinion makers insisted he hang up his boots, he tossed his (rather expensive) hat into the IPL ring. Strangely he didn't get picked. Among the reasons bandied about regarding his exclusion was the one about him being viewed as a 'difficult' one to deal with in the dressing-room. But one suspects an inability or unwillingness on the part of the franchises to risk harnessing his multiple utilities as leader, destroyer of spin bowlers and useful dibbly-dobbly bowler. Somewhere, one reckons, the snub rankled and the need arose to rise up again to KO the naysayers.

Being a Ganguly fan is like being on a roller coaster ride of raw emotion. He ensures he takes you through every high and low and perhaps through everything in between. Just as you wipe the sweat off your brow and say phew, having reached a level of emotional equilibrium, he's back to disturb the pulse meter. One hoped for a couple of vintage 'dada' performances, destined to shame SRK and KKR into regret. But there was no last hurrah to Ganguly's IPL return. Drafted into a beleaguered and already eliminated Pune outfit, those contributions never came. A scratchy unbeaten 30-odd in a winning cause and a naught in the next game are nothing to write home about. There were no dance-downs to the spinners and no trademark off-side drives. Only a string of match winning turns could have redeemed him. And now he risks never being picked again on the basis of performance. The gamble had been taken and it hadn't paid off.

Does this take anything away from the man's aura? Does it reduce him to league of desperate sportsmen, hanging on to the arc-lights ignorant that both skill and drive have long since been missing? No. While this is certainly not the finale neither he nor his fans were hoping for, there were some valuable reinforcements of all that has made him a man who commanded admiration and respect even from his worst detractors. Foremost of these were his inherent ability to take risks and his enormous self belief, both essential leadership traits. In his playing days, he regularly gambled with fresh talent instead of investing in the tried and tested. Just ask Yuvraj Singh, Harbhajan Singh or Zaheer Khan. He then entered the glitzy world of the fickle arclight with a successful Bengali TV game show. He believed he could still make a difference on the field and that prodded him on to stand by his decision to play even after his auction snub. He believed he belonged in the arena and in the first innings he played in the IPL, he showed he did, carrying his side home to victory. Taking a risk and believing in oneself can sometimes be the same thing, any difference being only an issue of perspective. The franchises seemed to shy away, but Ganguly had gumption to forget about the consequences. His one failure in the tournament will not take anything away from his legend. While Ganguly's return may seem to many as ill-advised, there is no other way that he knows to conduct himself. And that needs to be respected and admired. There is no doubt that risk taking is scary. Success in the IPL would have enhanced Ganguly's standing as the ultimate comeback man, a true champion and a fighter who could never be put down. Failure, he knew, would lead to heaps of 'I said he wasn't good enoughs' and a diminished reputation. It is important to note how he seemed to effortlessly move through it all, energized by the challenge, glaring at self-doubt, risking it all, once again. And there lies the true worth of a champion. We can quibble with the end result, but sometimes there is so much in the journey that we can all learn from.

Cheers!

Abhishek.

Dum Maaro Dum : Movie review

'Dum Maro Dum' is satisfactory cops and robbers fare, held together largely by Goa's visual charm and Junior Bachchan's smoldering cop act. But its difficult to be completely susegaad watching a possible cracker of a thriller degenerate into a predictable chor police tamasha. There are multiple story-lines here, one of a gullible teenager being sucked into the drug trade, one of a musician seeking redemption and one of an ambitious career girl choosing the easy way out to success. And then there is the bad ass cop out to bust Goa's big bad drug mafia, in a final attempt at honor.

The film relies on snazzy editing, edgy music and fast paced set pieces and it starts having the desired effect in only the second half of the film, but the climax drags on for longer than necessary (Sippy should have learned from his previous outing 'Bluffmaster'). Also, the fact that the film is denied a strong antagonist is a constant niggle. Aditya Pancholi's drug baron turn is just not effective enough (did Nana Patekar say no?) to make the bad versus badder battle engaging. The enterprise gets most other things right though, in terms of music (the 'potty' lyrics notwithstanding), casting (with the possible exception of Telugu star Rana Daggubati) and setting.

Prateik Babbar displays his acting chops yet again in the limited scope he gets, though his role is certainly no special appearance as it is credited. Bipasha Basu is passable and Rana Daggubati brings presence but little else. The support cast does a fine job as does Abhishek Bachchan, who should clearly be playing more cops to resurrect his flagging career. Vidya Balan's fleeting cameo as Abhishek's wife is unnecessary, but they do make a fine couple. As mentioned, the bad guy is the biggest let down. Aditya Pancholi tries hard (screams, laughs evil, spits and even catches a rat) but fails to pass muster as our very own desi Alejandro Sosa.

The film is high on style and attitude, and low on depth. But I suppose it didn't intend to be the gold standard in cinematic layering in the first place. So if you're stone dead bored with the constant drone of the IPL on the telly, give this a go and I'm certain it will make a worthy distraction.

3/5

Cheers!
Abhishek.

And we're back...

Image via Wikipedia
...after a longish break from Calcutta. A near perfect trip, complete with consumption of a few quintals of river fish, lazy afternoons, light shopping, usual family brouhahas and India's World Cup win. The cherry on the cake would have been my very own Amit Trivedi soundtrack to go with it. But then, we never can have it all.

A few observations -

- Calcutta is getting increasingly expensive. I often imagine what life would be should we relocate, and amidst that process tend to over-romanticise the place. But just walk into a shopping mall, or any smaller bazaar for that matter, and the reality of a much higher cost of living hits you fresh in the face. Food, home furnishings, property, domestic help, fuel, utilities, schooling etc. Calculating a monthly expenditure list is, err... scary. Nonetheless, you're better off than folks in Mumbai, Bangalore and Delhi, if that's any comfort.

- India won the World Cup 2011. I was too young to remember the 1983 win, and will savor the image of Dhoni clouting that six over long-on for a long time. The celebrations went on long and hard. In some cases too hard. For a sport that is played seriously in only a dozen countries, the tamasha sometimes seemed way over the top. Some TV pundits compared it with Brazil winning the Soccer World Cup, but really... it isn't the same thing! We need to celebrate, but the tendency of making cricket a metaphor for national pride is dangerous and unnecessary.

- I lost the 'book-shop battle', as I call it, yet again. This basically involves entering and exiting a bookshop without making a purchase. I did end up buying a few items, which is a now a constant source of mild guilt. But one purchase I am entirely 'buh-lah-zay' about, is a 21 DVD limited edition set of the complete adventures of TinTin. My one year old enjoys watching them along with us as well.

- Bengal goes to the hustings soon, in what could be a watershed election. Three decades of red rule could finally be coming to an end. Most people have already written the incumbents off for good. While Mamata Banerjee couldn't do much worse than the current lot, I am generally not entirely convinced Bengal will fly with her at the helm (she is currently not much more than a well meaning rabble rouser... governance will test her capabilities to the hilt). Again, the people of Bengal are faced with a serious paucity of political alternatives, but this time it looks like they just might go with the next best thing.

Cheers!

Abhishek.

Balraj Sahni's India

Image via WikipediaConvocation Address delivered by Balraj Sahni at Jawaharlal Nehru University in 1972. Much of what he talks about is perhaps still relevant to India circa 2011, hence I reproduce this here from the JNUTA website.

About 20 years ago, the Calcutta Film Journalists' Association decided to honour the late Bimal Roy, the maker of Do Bigha Zameen, and us, his colleagues. It was a simple but tasteful ceremony. Many good speeches were made, but the listeners were waiting anxiously to hear Bimal Roy. We were all sitting on the floor, and I was next to Bimal Da. I could see that as his turn approached he became increasingly nervous and restless. And when his turn came he got up, folded his hands and said, “Whatever I have to say, I say it in my films. I have nothing more to say,” and sat down.

There is a lot in what Bimal Da did, and at this moment my greatest temptation is to follow his example. The fact that I am not doing so is due solely to the profound regard I have for the name which this august institution bears; and the regard I have for yet another person, Shri P.C. Joshi, who is associated with your university. I owe to him some of the greatest moments of my life, a debt which I can never repay. That is why when I received an invitation to speak on this occasion, I found it impossible to refuse. If you had invited me to sweep your doorstep I would have felt equally happy and honoured. Perhaps that service would have been more equal to my merit.

Please do not misunderstand me. I am not trying to be modest. Whatever I said was from my heart and whatever I shall say further on will also be from my heart, whether you find it agreeable and in accordance with the tradition and spirit of such occasions or otherwise. As you may know, I have been out of touch with the academic world for more than a quarter of a century. I have never addressed a University Convocation before.

It would not be out of place to mention that the severance of my contact with your world has not been voluntary. It has been due to the special conditions of film making in our country. Our little film world either offers the actor too little work, forcing him to eat his heart out in idleness; or gives him too much —so much that he gets cut off from all other currents of life. Not only does he sacrifice the pleasures of normal family life, but he also has to ignore his intellectual and spiritual needs. In the last 25 years I have worked in more than one 125 films. In the same period a contemporary European or American actor would have done 30 or 35. From this you can imagine what a large part of my life lies buried in strips of celluloid. A vast number of books which I should have read, I have not been able to read. So many events I should have taken part in, have passed me by. Sometimes I feel terribly left behind. And the frustration increases when I ask myself: How many of these 125 films had anything significant in them? How many have any claim to be remembered? Perhaps a few. They could be counted on the fingers of one hand. And even they have either been forgotten already or will be, quite soon.

That is why I said I was not being modest. I was only giving a warning, so that in the event of my disappointing you, you should be able to forgive me. Bimal Roy was right. The artist's domain is his work. So, since I must speak, I must confine myself to my own experience to what I have observed and felt, and wish to communicate. To go outside that would be pompous and foolish.

I'd like to tell you about an incident which took place in my college days and which I have never been able to forget. It has left a permanent impression on my mind.

I was going by bus from Rawalpindi to Kashmir with my family to enjoy the summer vacation. Half-way through, we were halted because a big chunk of the road had been swept away by a landslide caused by rain the previous night. We joined the long queues of buses and cars on either side of the landslide. Impatiently, we waited for the road to clear. It was a difficult job for the PWD and it took some days before they could cut a passage through. During all this time, the passengers and the drivers of vehicles made a difficult situation even more difficult by their impatience and constant demonstration. Even the villagers nearby got fed up with the high-handed behavior of the city-walas.One morning, the overseer declared the road open. The green- flag was waved to the drivers. But we saw a strange sight. No driver was willing to be the first to cross. They just stood and stared at each other from either side. No doubt the road was a make-shift one and even dangerous. A mountain on one side, and a deep gorge and the river below. Both were forbidding. The overseer had made a careful inspection and had opened the road with a full sense of responsibility. But nobody was prepared to trust his judgment, although these very people had, till the day before, accused him and his department of laziness and incompetence. Half an hour passed by in dumb silence. Nobody moved. Suddenly, we saw a small green sports car approaching. An Englishman was driving it; sitting all by himself. He was a bit surprised to see so many parked vehicles and the crowd there. I was rather conspicuous, wearing my smart jacket and trousers. "What's happened?" he asked me.

I told him the whole story. He laughed loudly, blew the horn and went straight ahead, crossing the dangerous portion without the least hesitation. And now the pendulum swung the other way. Every body was so eager to cross that they got into each other's way and created a new confusion for some time. The noise of hundreds of engines and hundreds of horns was unbearable.

That day I saw with my own eyes the difference in attitudes between a man brought up in a free country and a man brought up in an enslaved one. A free man has the power to think, decide, and act for himself. But the slave loses that power. He always borrows his thinking from others, wavers in his decisions, and more often than not only takes the trodden path. I learnt a lesson from this incident, which has been valuable to me. I made it a test for my own life. In the course of my life, whenever I have been able to make my own crucial decisions, I have been happy. I have felt the breath of freedom on my face. I have called myself a free man. My spirit has soared high and I have enjoyed life because I have felt there is meaning to life. But, to be frank, such occasions have been too few. More often than not I had lost courage at the crucial moment, and taken shelter under the wisdom of other people. I had taken the safer path. I made decisions which were expected of me by my family, by the bourgeois class to which I belonged, and the set of values upheld by them. I thought one way but acted in another. For this reason, afterwards I have felt rotten. Some decisions have proved ruinous in terms of human happiness. Whenever I lost courage, my life became a meaningless burden. I told you about an Englishman. I think that in itself is symptomatic of the sense of inferiority that I felt at that time. I could have given you the example of Sardar Bhagat Singh who went to the gallows the same year. I could have given you the example of Mahatma Gandhi who always had the courage to decide for himself. I remember how my college professors and the wise respectable people of my home town shook their heads over the folly of Mahatma Gandhi, who thought he could defeat the most powerful empire on earth with his utopian principles of truth and non-violence. I think less than one per cent of the people of my city dreamt that they would see India free in their lifetime. But Mahatma Gandhi had faith in himself, in his country, and his people. Some of you may have seen a painting of Gandhiji done by Nandlal Bose. It is the picture of a man who has the courage to think and act for himself.

During my college days I was not influenced by Bhagat Singh or Mahatma Gandhi. I was doing my MA in English literature from the most magnificent educational institution in the Punjab— the Government College in Lahore. Only the very best students were admitted to that college. After independence my fellow students have achieved the highest positions in India and Pakistan, both in the government and society. But, to gain admission to this college we had to give a written undertaking that we would take no interest in any political movement—which at that time meant the freedom movement.

This year we are celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of our independence. But can we honestly say that we have got rid of our slavish mentality—our inferiority complex?

Can we claim that at the personal, social, or institutional level, our thinking, our decisions, or even our actions are our own and not borrowed? Are we really free in the spiritual sense? Can we dare to think and act for ourselves, or do we merely pretend to do so—merely make a superficial show of independence?

I should like to draw your attention to the film industry to which I belong. I know a great many of our films are such that the very mention of them would raise a laugh among you. In the eyes of educated intelligent people, Hindi films are nothing but a tamasha. Their stories are childish, unreal, and illogical. But their worst fault, you will agree with me, is that their plots, their technique, their songs and dances, betray blind, unimaginative, and unabashed copying of films from the west. There have been Hindi films which have been copied in every detail from some foreign film. No wonder that you young people laugh at us, even though some of you may dream of becoming stars yourselves. It is not easy for me to laugh at Hindi films. I earn my bread from them. They have brought me plenty of fame and wealth. To some extent at least, I owe to Hindi films the high honour which you have given me today.When I was a student like you, our teachers, both English and Non-English, tried to convince us in diverse ways that the fine arts were a prerogative of white people. Great films, great drama, great acting, great painting, etc., were only possible in Europe and America. The Indian people, their language and culture, were as yet too crude and backward for real artistic expression. We used to feel bitter about this and we resented it outwardly: but inwardly we could not help accepting this judgment.

The picture has changed vastly since then. After independence India has made a tremendous recovery in every branch of the arts. In the field of film making, names like Satyajit Ray and Bimal Roy stand out as international personalities. Many of our artistes, cameramen and technicians compare with the best anywhere in the world. Before independence we hardly made ten or fifteen films worth the name. Today we are the biggest film producing country in the world. Not only are our films immensely popular with the masses in our own country, but also in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, the Eastern Republics of the Soviet Union; Egypt, and other Arab countries in the Far East and many African countries. We have broken the monopoly of Hollywood in this field. Even from the aspect of social responsibility, our Indian films have not yet degenerated to the low level to which some of the western countries have descended. The film producer in India has not yet exploited sex and crime for the sake of profit to the extent that his American counterpart has been doing for years and years-thus creating a serious social problem for that country.

But all these assets are negated by our one overwhelming fault—that we are imitators and copyists. This one fault makes us the laughing stock of intelligent people everywhere. We make films according to borrowed, outdated formulas. We do not have the courage to strike out on our own, to get to grips with the reality of our own country, to present it convincingly and according to our own genius. I say this not only in relation to the usual Hindi or Tamil box office films. I make this complaint against our so-called progressive and experimental films also, whether they be in Bengali, Hindi, or Malayalam. I do not lag behind anyone else in admiring the work of Satyajit Ray, Mrinal Sen, Sukhdev, Basu Bhattacharjee, or Rajinder Singh Bedi. I know they are highly and deservingly respected; but even then I cannot help saying that the winds of fashion in Italy, France, Sweden, Poland, or Czechoslovakia have an immediate effect on their work. They do break new ground, but only after someone else has broken it. In the literary world, in which I have considerable interest, I see the same picture. Our novelists, story writers, and poets are carried away with the greatest of ease by the currents of fashion in Europe, although Europe, with the exception of the Soviet Union perhaps, is not yet even aware of Indian writing. For example, in my own province of the Punjab there is a wave of protest among young poets against the existing social order. Their poetry exhorts the people to rebel against it, to shatter it and build a better world free from corruption, injustice, and exploitation. One cannot but endorse that spirit wholeheartedly, because, without question, the present social order needs changing.

The content of this poetry is most admirable, but the form is not indigenous. It is borrowed from the west. The west has discarded meter and rhyme, so our Punjabi poet must also discard it. He must also use involved and ultra-radical imagery. The result is that the sound and fury remains only on paper, confined to small, mutually admiring literary circles. The people, the workers and the peasants who are being exhorted to revolution, cannot make head or tail of this kind of poetry. It just leaves them cold and per The content of this poetry is most admirable, but the form is not indigenous. It is borrowed from the west. The west has discarded meter and rhyme, so our Punjabi poet must also discard it. He must also use involved and ultra-radical imagery. The result is that the sound and fury remains only on paper, confined to small, mutually admiring literary circles. The people, the workers and the peasants who are being exhorted to revolution, cannot make head or tail of this kind of poetry. It just leaves them cold and perplexed. I don't think I am wrong if I say that other Indian languages too are in the grip of "new wave" poetry.

I know next to nothing about painting. I can't judge a good one from a bad one. But I have noticed that in this sphere also our painters conform to current fashions abroad. Very few have the courage to swim against the tide.And what about the academic world? I invite you to I look into the mirror. If you laugh at Hindi films, maybe you are tempted to laugh at yourselves. This year my own province honoured me by nominating me to the senate of Guru Nanak university. When the invitation to attend the first meeting came, I happened to be in the Punjab, wandering around in some villages near Preet Nagar—the cultural centre founded by our great writer S. Gurbakhsh Singh. During the evening's gossip I told my villager friends that I was to go to Amritsar to attend this meeting and if anyone wanted a lift in my car he was welcome. At this one of the company said, "Here among us you go about dressed in tehmat-kurta, peasant fashion; but tomorrow you will put on your suit and become Sahib Bahadur again." "Why," I said laughingly, "if you want I will go dressed just like this." "You will never dare," another one said. "Our sarpanch Sahib here removes his tehmat and puts on a pyjama whenever he has to go to the city on official work. He has to do it, otherwise, he says, he is not respected. How can yon go peasant-fashion to such a big university?" A jawan who had come home on leave for the rice sowing added, "Our sarpanch is a coward. In cities even girls go about wearing lungis these days. Why should he not be respected?"

The gossip went on, and, as if to accept their challenge, I did make my appearance in the Senate meeting in tehmat-kurta. The sensation I created was beyond my expectation. The officer—perhaps, professor—who was handing out the gowns in the vestibule could not recognize me at first. When he did he could not hide his amusement, "Mr Sahni, with the tehmat you should have worn khosas—not shoes," he said, while putting the gown over my shoulders. "I shall be careful next time," I said apologetically and moved on. But a moment later I asked myself, was it not bad manners for the professor to notice or comment on my dress? Why did I not point this out to him? I felt peeved over my slow-wittedness.

After the meeting we went over to meet the students. Their amusement was even greater and more eloquent. Many of them could not help laughing at the fact that I was wearing shoes with a tehmat. That they were wearing chappals with trousers seemed nothing extraordinary to them.

You must wonder why I am wasting your time narrating such trivial incidents. But look at it from the point of view of the Punjabi peasant. We are all full of admiration for his contribution to the green revolution. He is the backbone of our armed forces. How must he feel when his dress or his way of life is treated as a matter of amusement?

It is well-known in the Punjab that as soon as a village lad receives college education, he becomes indifferent to the village. He begins to consider himself superior and different, as if belonging to a separate world altogether. His one ambition is to somehow leave the village and run to a city. Is this not a slur on the academic world?

I agree that all places are not alike. I know perfectly well that no complex against the native dress exists in Tamil Nadu or Bengal. Anyone from a peasant to a professor can go about in a dhoti on any occasion. But I submit that the habit of borrowed and idealized thinking is present over there too. It is present everywhere, in some form or degree. Even 25 years after independence we are blissfully carrying on with the same system of education which was designed by Macaulay and Co. to breed clerks and mental slaves. Slaves who would be incapable of thinking independently of their British masters; slaves who would admire everything about the masters, even while hating them; slaves who would consider it an honour to be standing by the side, of the masters, to speak the language of the masters, to dress like the masters, to sing and dance like the masters; slaves, who would hate their own people and would be available to preach the gospel of hatred among their own people. Can we then be surprised if the large majority of students in universities are losing faith in this system of education?

Let me go back to trivialities again. Ten years ago, if you asked a fashionable student in Delhi to wear a kurta with trousers he would have laughed at you. Today, by the grace of the hippies and the Hare Rama Hare Krishna cult, not only has the kurta-trousers combination become legitimate, but even the word kurta has changed to guru-shirt. The sitar became a star instrument with us only after the Americans gave a big welcome to Ravi Shankar, just as 50 years ago Tagore became Gurudev all over India only after he received the Nobel Prize from Sweden. Can you dare to ask a college student to shave his head, moustache, and beard when the fashion is to put the barbers out of business? But if tomorrow under the influence of Yoga the students of Europe begin to shave their heads arid faces, I can assure you that you will begin to see a crop of shaven skulls all over Connaught Circus the next day. Yoga has to get a certificate from Europe before it can influence the home of its birth. Let me give another example—a less trivial one.

I work in Hindi films, but it is an open secret that the songs and dialogues of these Hindi films are mostly written in Urdu. Eminent Urdu writers and poets-Krishan Chandar, Rajinder Singh Bedi, K. A. Abbas, Gulshan Nanda, Sahir Ludhianwi, Majrooh Sultanpuri, and Kaifi Azmi are associated with this work.Now, if a film written in Urdu can be called a Hindi film, it is logical to conclude that Hindi and Urdu are one and, the same language. But no, our British masters declared them two separate languages in their time. Therefore, even 25 years after independence, our government, our universities, and our intellectuals insist on treating them as two separate and independent languages. Pakistan radio goes on ruining the beauty of this language by thrusting into it as many Persian and Arabic words as possible; and All India Radio knocks it out of all shape by pouring the entire Sanskrit dictionary into it. In this way they carry out the wish of the Master, to separate the inseparable. Can anything be more absurd than that? If the British told us that white was black, would we go on calling white black for ever and ever? My film colleague Johnny Walker remarked the other day, "They should not announce 'Ab Hindi mein samachar suniye' [Now listen to the news in Hindi] they should say, 'Ab Samachar mein Hindi suniye' [Now listen to Hindi in the News]

I have discussed this funny situation with many Hindi and Urdu writers—the so-called progressive as well as non progressive; I have tried to convince them of the urgency to do some fresh thinking on the subject. But so far it has been like striking one's head against a stone wall. We film people call it the "ignorance of the learned". Are we wrong?

Lastly, I would like to tell you about a hunch I have, even at the risk of boring you. A hunch is something you can't help having. It just comes. Ultimately it may prove right or wrong. May be mine is wrong. But there it is. It may even prove right—who knows?

Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru has admitted in his autobiography that our freedom movement, led by the Indian National Congress, was always dominated by the propertied classes—the capitalists and landlords. It was logical, therefore, that these very classes should hold the reigns of power even after independence. Today it is obvious to everyone that in the last 25 years the rich have been growing 'richer' and the poor have been growing poorer. Pandit Nehru wanted to change this state of affairs, but he couldn't. I don't blame him, because he had to face very heavy odds all along. Today our Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi, pledges herself to take the country towards the goal of socialism. How far she will be successful, I can't say. Politics is not my line. For our present purposes it is enough if you agree with me that in today's India the propertied classes dominate the government as well as society.

I think you will also agree that the British used the English language with remarkable success for strengthening their imperial hold on our country.

Now, which language in your opinion would their successors, the present rulers of India, choose to strengthen their own domination? Rashtrabhasha Hindi? By heavens, no. My hunch is that their interests too are served by English and English alone. But since they have to keep up a show of patriotism they make a lot of noise about Rashtrabhasha Hindi so that the mind of the public remains diverted.

Men of property may believe in a thousand different gods, but they worship only one—the God of profit. From the point of view of profit the advantages of retaining English to the capitalist class in this period of rapid industrialization and technological revolution are obvious. But the social advantages are even greater. From that point of view English is a God-sent gift to our ruling classes.

Why? For the simple reason that the English language is beyond the reach of the toiling millions of our country. In olden times Sanskrit and Persian were beyond the reach of the toiling masses. That is why the rulers of those times had given them the status of state language. Through Sanskrit and Persian the masses were made to feel ignorant, inferior, uncivilized, and unfit to rule themselves. Sanskrit and Persian helped to enslave their minds, and when the mind is enslaved bondage is eternal.It suits our present ruling classes to preserve and maintain the social order that they have inherited from the British. They have a privileged position; but they cannot admit it openly. That is why a lot of hoo-haw is made about Hindi as the Rashtrabhasha. They know very well that this Sanskrit-laden, artificial language, deprived of all modern scientific and technical terms, is too weak and insipid to challenge the supremacy of English. It will always remain a show piece, and what is more, a convenient tool to keep the masses fighting among themselves. We film people get a regular flow of fan mail from young people studying in schools and colleges. I get my share of it and these letters reveal quite clearly what a storehouse of torture the English language is to the vast majority of Indian students. How abysmally low the levels of teaching and learning have reached! That is why, I am told preferential treatment is being given to boys and girls who come from public schools i.e. schools to which only the children of privileged classes can go.

It is not necessary for me to comment on the efforts being made to strengthen English in every sphere of life, despite assurances to the contrary. They are all too obvious. It is admitted that English is too alien and hence too difficult to learn for the average Indian. And yet, it helps the capitalists and industrialists to consolidate their position on an all-India scale. That one consideration is more important than any other. According to them whatever serves their interest automatically serves national interest too. They are hopeful that in the not too distant future the people themselves will endorse their stand—that English should retain its present status for ever.

This was my hunch and I confided it one day to a friend of mine who is a labour leader. I told him that if we are serious about doing away with capitalism and bringing in socialism, we have to help the working class to consolidate itself on an all-India scale with the same energy as the capitalist class is doing. We have to help the working class achieve a leading role in society. And that can only be done by breaking the domination of English and replacing it with a people's language.

My friend listened to me carefully and largely agreed with me.

"You have analyzed the situation very well," he said, "but what is the remedy?"

"The remedy is to retain the English script and kick out the English language," I replied.

"But how?"

"A rough and ready type of Hindustani is used by the working masses all over India. They make practical use of it by discarding all academic and grammatical flourishes. In this type of Hindustani, "Larka bhi jata hei" and "Larki bhi jata hei". There is an atmosphere of rare freedom in this patois and even the intellectuals indulge in it when they want to relax. And actually this is in the best tradition of Hindustani. This is how it was born, made progress, and acquired currency all over India. In the old days it was contemptuously called Urdu—or the language of the camps or bazaars.

Today in this bazaari Hindustani the word 'university' becomes univrasti—a much better word than vishwa vidyalaya, 'lantern' becomes laltain, the 'chasis' of a car becomes chesi, 'spanner' becomes pana, i.e. anything and everything is possible. The string with which the soldier cleans his rifle is called 'pullthrough' in English. In Roman Hindustani it becomes fultroo—a beautiful word. 'Barn-door' is the term the Hollywood lights man uses for a particular type of two blade cover. The Bombay film worker has changed it to bandar, an excellent transformation. This Hindustani has untold and unlimited possibilities. It can absorb the international scientific and technological vocabulary with the greatest of ease. It can take words from every source and enrich itself. One has no need to run only to the Sanskrit dictionary."

"But why the Roman script?" my friend asked.

"Because no one has any prejudice against it," I said. "It is the only script which has already gained all-India currency. In north, south, east and west, you can see shop signs and film poster in this script. We use this script for writing addresses on envelopes and post cards. The army has been using it for the last thirty years at least."

My friend, the labour leader, kept silent for some time. Then he smiled indulgently and said, "Comrade, Europe also experimented with Esperanto. A great intellectual like Bernard Shaw tried his best to popularize the Basic English. But all these schemes failed miserably, for the simple reason that languages cannot be evolved mechanically; they grow spontaneously."

I was deeply shocked. I said, "Comrade, Esperanto is just that Rashtrabhasha which the Hindi Pandits are manufacturing in their studies, from the pages of some Sanskrit dictionary. I am talking of the language which is growing all round you, through the action of the people."

But I couldn't convince him. I gave more arguments, including the one that Netaji Subhash Bose and Jawaharlal Nehru were both strong advocates of Roman Hindustani, but that too failed to convince him. The question is not whether the comrade or I was right. Perhaps, I was wrong. Perhaps, my thinking was utopian, or "mechanical" —as he called it. As I said before, you can never say whether a hunch is going to be right or wrong. But the fun lies in having it, because to have a hunch is a sign of independent thinking. The comrade should have been able to appreciate that, but he couldn't, because it was difficult for him to get out of the grooves of orthodox thinking.

No country can progress unless it becomes conscious of its being—its mind and body. It has to learn to exercise its own muscles. It has to learn to find out and solve its own problems in its own way. But whichever way I turn I find that even after twenty-five years of independence, we are like a bird which has been let out of its cage after a prolonged imprisonment-unable to know what to do with its freedom. It has wings, but is afraid to fly into the open air. It longs to remain within defined limits, as in the cage.

Individually and collectively, we resemble Walter Mitty. Our inner lives are different from our outer lives. Our thoughts and actions are poles apart. We want to change this state of affairs, but we lack the courage to do anything different from what we have been doing all along, or different from what others expect us to do.I am sure there must be some police officers in this country who in their hearts want to be regarded as friends rather than enemies of the public. They must be aware that in England the behaviour of the police towards the public is polite and helpful. But the tradition in which they have been trained is not the one which the British set for their own country but the one which they set for their colonies. So, the policeman is helpless. According to this colonial tradition, it is his duty to strike terror into anyone who enters his office, to be as obstructive and unhelpful as possible. This is the tradition which pervades every government office, from the chaparasi to the minister.

One of our young and enterprising producers made an experimental film and approached the government for tax exemption. The minister concerned was being sworn into office the next day. He invited the producer to attend the ceremony, after which he would meet him and discuss the matter. The producer went, impressed by the informality with which the minister had treated him. As the minister was being sworn in, promising to serve the people truly, faithfully, and honestly, his secretary started explaining to the young producer how much he would have to pay in black money to the minister and how much to the others if he wanted the tax exemption. The producer got so shocked and angry that he wanted to put this scene in his next film. But his financiers had already suffered a loss with the first one. They told him categorically not to make an ass of himself. In any case, if he had insisted in making an ass of himself the censors would never have passed the film, because it is an unwritten law that no policeman or minister is corrupt in our country.

But there is something which strikes me as being even funnier. Those same people who scream against ministers every day cannot themselves hold a single function without some minister inaugurating it, or presiding over it, or being the chief guest. Sometimes the minister is the chief guest and a film star is the president, or else the film star is the chief guest and the minister is the president. Some big personality has to be there, because it is the age old colonial tradition.

During the last war, I spent four years in England as a Hindustani announcer at the BBC. During those four years of extreme crisis I never even once set my eyes on a member of the British cabinet, including Prime Minister Churchill. But since independence I have seen nothing else but ministers in India, all over the place.When Gandhiji went to the Round Table Conference in 1930, he remarked to British journalists that the Indian people regarded the guns and bullets of their empire in the same way as their children regarded the crackers andphataakaas on Diwali day. He could make that claim because he had driven the fear of the British out of Indian minds. He had taught them to ignore and boycott the British officers instead of kowtowing to them. Similarly, if we want socialism in our country, we have firstly to drive out the fear of money, position, and power from the minds of our people. Are we doing anything in that direction? In our society today, who is respected most — the man with talent or the man with money? Who is admired most—the man with talent or the man with power? Can we ever hope to usher in socialism under such conditions? Before socialism can come, we have to create an atmosphere in which possession of wealth and riches should invite disrespect rather than respect. We have to create an atmosphere in which the highest respect is given to labour whether it be physical or mental; to talent, to skill, to art, and to inventiveness. This requires new thinking, and the courage to discard old ways of thinking. Are we anywhere near this revolution of the mind?

Perhaps, today we need a messiah to give us the courage to abandon our slavishness and to create values befitting the human beings of a free and independent country so that we may have the courage to link our destinies to the ones being ruled, and not the rulers — to the exploited and not to the exploiters.

A great saint of the Punjab, Guru Arjun Dev, said,

jan ki tehl sanbhakhan jan sio uuthan baithan jan kai sanga
jan char raj mukh mathai laagi aasa puuran anant tharanga

[I serve His humble servants, and speak with them, and abide with them.
I apply the dust of the feet of His humble servants to my face and forehead;
my hopes, and the many waves of desire, are fulfilled]

It is my earnest hope and prayer that you, graduates of Jawaharlal Nehru University, may succeed where I and so many others of my generation have failed.

Cheers!

Abhishek.

Dil Toh Baccha Hai Ji : Movie review

Madhur Bhandarkar should have stuck to what he knows best. Here he gives up on issue-based cinema and dives headlong into a masala rom-com...and drowns. A story of three men learning and re-learning lessons in love is pregnant with possibility, but the film is massacred wholesale by bad writing, inane dialogue and the the worst collection of support actors assembled a long time (barring the competent Tisca Chopra). Even the music, while pleasant, has hardly any recall value.

The lead trio of Omi Vaidya, Ajay Devgn and Emraan Hashmi are eminently watchable and bravely try to salvage the film, but this ship's so full of holes that even they can't save it. Save yourself the ticket money and rent the DVD sometime. Umm, actually, on second thoughts, don't bother with that either.

1.5/5

Cheers!

Abhishek.

Dhobi Ghat (Mumbai diaries): Movie review

Kiran Rao's sensitive debut film engages not so much with plot and pacing, as it does with cityscapes and moments. The film achingly reflects on urban angst, alienation, loss, inspiration and hope. It is also, obviously, as the title suggests, a paean to Mumbai. The film doesn't spoon-feed solutions or nudge the viewer towards a preferred point of view, rather, it leaves the viewer to ponder over the proceedings, a watermark of intelligent film-making.
Investment banker, Shai, comes to Mumbai on a sabbatical and explores the city through her camera, and it is through her lens that the film truly comes alive. Black and white photographs still have that certain 'je ne se qua' and can capture subtleties that colour tends to blur out. She meets a laundryman, Munna, a migrant, who, apart from his day job washing clothes at Mumbai's famous 'Dhobi Ghat', moonlights as wannabe actor and night time rat-killer (I didn't know such a profession existed. The rat-killers have nothing else to get their prey with, except for large and unwieldily sticks). It is through their interactions that we see most of this fascinating city, shown here with all its treasures and pockmarks, its many landmarks and its dingy bylanes. Munna is hopelessly in love with Shai, but gives up the chase in the final frames of the film, when he realizes that the religious and class divides between them are just too wide to bridge. Shai also has a one night stand with Arun, a celebrated and introverted painter, who is perhaps lonely and searching for inspiration after his divorce. He finds his muse in the video diaries of his previous tenant, a bubbly newly wed Yasmin, only to later discover, to his horror, that she might have ended her lonesome and troubled life in that very apartment.
Performance wise the film clearly belongs to debutant Monica Dingra and the brilliant Prateik Babbar, whose performances ring so true you that you needn't have them speak at all. They come across as complete naturals against Aamir Khan's studied and understated Arun. Kriti Malhotra completes the fine acting effort from this largely inexperienced cast with her doe-eyed, heartbreaking portrayal of Yasmin. Also kudos to Tushar Kanti Ray's for his camera work and Gustavo Santaolalla for his haunting guitar work.
The film is sensitive, layered, nuanced and easy on your time. Those looking for a solid plotline will be disappointed with this ninety minute feature (though it could have been shorter by 5 -10 minutes...the whole 'Munna's brother/underworld' track being an unnecessary distraction). The city has millions of stories to tell and Rao chooses to tell but four of them... all representative of the modern urban malaise, so to speak, as well as serving as an exploration of fleeting but deep relationships. Not to say that Mumbai is portrayed on the whole, as a miserable and harsh place. The city's omnipresent character is best embodied in Arun's (and Yasmin's) aged, semi-paralytic neighbor, who in her continual presence, can witness all that happens around her, but can offer neither encouragement nor admonishment, comfort nor solace, advice nor reproach, as she watches those around her live, love, yearn, suffer and die.


4/5

Cheers!
Abhishek.

A call to alms

First, a very happy 2011 to the three people who actually read this blog. Have a great new year ahead! :-)

***

I donated a sum of exactly $210.10 to charity in the whole of last year. Of that, $210 comprised of automated deductions by my employer from the monthly paycheck to a charity I know next to nothing about. The remaining 10 cents went into the X-mas donation box at a Subway outlet. By most accounts, this record of giving is quite simply, pathetic. And no, this post is not inspired by Mr Premji's $2 billion largesse. It's been at the back of my mind for a while now. And perhaps no action was taken on the 'giving money away' bit was because I saw this to be in direct conflict with the 'save as much cash and retire early' goal. But one can do both. The importance of giving cannot be over-emphasised in a world entrenched in pitiful inequality. There are many right-minded people out there running charities and organizations that make a difference everyday, against the hardest odds, assisting in places that the state has long forsaken, in areas where funding is dearer than onions. I remember looking out of my window in Kolkata at the 9 year old who sweeps the building floor and wondering if he went to school. And then glancing at the shriveled old lady at a Singapore food court and thinking if she could afford food, clothing and shelter. Helping the boy get to school and the lady the basics of urban existence requires money. And if you have some to spare, why not pitch in? If you do, in a way you're also helping yourself. The kid will get an education, perhaps excel in chemistry or math, and contribute to the next big medical breakthrough which helps save your near and dear ones, or, less dramatically, will grow up to be an honest teacher and spread his knowledge to generations of students. The old lady will lead a life of dignity, feel happy about her existence and do a great job at work, so when you head to her food court for a cup of coffee, you will get not only a wonderfully clean table, but a cheerful smile to go with your coffee and your day will be brighter for it. Giving has both very tangible and intangible benefits, both to the beneficiary and the donor.
There is a general belief that to give substantially prerequisites great wealth. A facetious argument, if there ever was one. Give what you can. Financial security has nothing to do with helping in small proportions. Every cent and every paisa makes a difference. So chose a cause that you are passionate about and give what you can to see a change, however small that may be. You'll feel good. Remember, you can't take it all with you when you go.

Cheers!

Abhishek.

Cutting the fat

I first started looking at my spending habits when our son came along in 2009. With my wife deciding to take time off from work for a while, we went from dual to single income. Plus we had heard the general horror stories of the increased monthly expenditures involved with an infant around. The need to put more funds away for the future (to cater to the child's future needs) could also not be overemphasized. Clearly the savings ratio needed to be cranked up. But I was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to cut out some of the fat without trying too hard at all. Here's three minor behavioral changes I made in 2010, which have helped save me a neat pile of cash.

1. Re-negotiating the phone contract : This one's cute. My employer has an agreement with my phone service provider for staff rates. And I was oblivious to this all the while. Our average monthly mobile phone bill in 2009 was approximately $200 (including mobile internet usage on a pay-per-use basis). After the re-negotiation, our combined monthly phone bill is now $97 and is inclusive of a data plan, which allows me more mobile internet use than I need. Money for nothing? You bet.
Annual savings: $1,236

2. Cutting out Starbucks : The route I took to work required me to walk past a Starbucks outlet. Thrice a week on average, I'd give into temptation and pick up a latte on my way to work. Soon this became routine. And I don't even dig coffee that much. It was all about the routine and not the coffee. I would be just as happy with a 3-in-1 Nescafe concoction as with a caramel macchiato. So I changed my route to work this year; a route which required me to walk a minute extra, but helped avoid the the coffee shop. And that was it. It was difficult at first and I struggled with it but slowly and surely my Starbucks morning coffee purchase was a thing of the past. I still do buy coffee at Starbucks once in while. But only when I really want to.
Annual savings: $936

3. Taxi, taxi, taxi : Again, a habit that carried on from my early working years. I'd take a cab to work twice a week, mostly on Mondays (because I felt I needed to get to work quickly on the first day of the week) and on Fridays (because I thought I was too knackered by end-week to bother with trains and buses). Financially not very smart at $35 a pop, but who was really thinking about cost control? And given that I ran into peak hour traffic most times, I didn't even save a huge amount of time taking the cab, which sort of defeated the purpose. It wasn't much fun sitting in a taxi stuck in traffic watching trains whizz by! So 2010 has been mostly cab-free, work wise. I still manage to get to work on time on Monday!
Annual savings: $3,640

These small steps have helped us put more away for the proverbial rainy day (read emergency fund) as well as invest for the little one's future. And it hasn't been particularly tough at all. I see lots more fat in our monthly budget and I look forward to getting rid of it in the coming year. Lets see how that goes.

Cheers!

Abhishek.

Action Replay

Image via WikipediaPerhaps the only redeeming aspect of this shambolic remake of 1985's thoroughly enjoyable 'Back to the Future', is Pritam's peppy music. Budding film-makers can maybe learn how not rip-off a Hollywood film.
A young lad goes back in time to ensure his parents have a love marriage, for, in the present, presumably thanks to their being hastily manacled together by their families, they behave like a couple of snappy hyenas, constantly at each other's throats. He hijacks a time machine, which lands him smack bang onto the sets of 'Om Shanti Om', or 1970s Bombay, and he does the needful with a minimal of fuss. Its all too easy for our time travelling hero and for the viewer, all too boring.
The lead pair of Akshay Kumar and Aishwarya Rai Bacchan try hard, but fail to ignite any interest. Kumar repeats himself yet again as the lovable buffoon and Aishwarya doesn't manage much apart from looking stunning in a few frames. The support cast of Rajpal Yadav, Randhir Kapoor, Neha Dhupia and Rannvijay Singh are largely inept and make no impact whatsoever. Quite obviously, veterans like Om Puri and Kirron Kher have been offered sack loads of cash for their walk on parts in this monstrosity - there can be no other explanation to their appearance. Newbie Aditya Roy Kapur sports a cool Afro, but nothing much else. The film is a glossy black hole. No content, no laughs and no joy. Steer very clear of the 'Replay' button.

1.5/5

Cheers!
Abhishek.

Third time lucky, Mr. Khan?

Image by Getty Images via @daylife

There’s something about Aamir Khan, isn’t there? Whatever he’s touched in the last few years has turned to gold. And given where gold prices are at these days, that’s a rich haul, at least metaphorically. Be it ‘Lagaan’s’ dream run at the Oscars in 2001, the massive critical and commercial successes of ‘Taare Zameen Par’, ‘Ghajini’ and ‘3 Idiots’, or the backing of first time director Anusha Razvi’s indie vehicle ‘Peepli Live’. Most observers are convinced he’s mastered the balance between content and commerce. It is perhaps no coincidence that his latest production, the dark yet enjoyable ‘Peepli Live’ is India’s official entry to the 83rd Academy Awards to be held in 2011, the fourth Aamir Khan film to represent India in the last nine years (including ‘Rang De Basanti’ where his contribution was only in the capacity of actor. Speaking of actors, this is Raghubir Yadav’s sixth film to be sent to the Oscars, second only to Kamal Hassan’s seven. Yadav, however has had two of his films ‘Lagaan’ and ‘Water’, make the final five). But is it a convenient choice? Or one simply made given Khan’s prior Oscar experience? India’s entry to the Oscars cannot be about pandering to certain egos or Bollywood cliques and cabals. The best film must represent the country and all other criteria must be cast aside. But given India’s failure to bag a single statuette thus far might prompt a thinking based not entirely on merit alone.

With these questions being raised, the film’s selection as India’s entry in the Best Foreign Film category has not been beyond controversy. This has once again been seen by some quarters as an attempt to play the poverty card, to showcase the worst of India to a gloating western audience. BJP’s LK Advani, no less, has expressed regret at this tendency of filmmakers to repeatedly serve up the worst kind of poverty porn for commercial and critical benefit. As if ‘Slumdog Millionaire’s insensitive dignity-denying portrayals of the poor weren’t enough, we now have a homegrown version to pander to the same exploitative and voyeuristic urban nouveau riche, who have no connect whatsoever with the devastatingly deprived and unfortunate heartlands. Perhaps a mockery was being made of the farmers’ genuine plight. Cinema is a powerful representative of country’s image and questions are being asked if a resurgent and growing India needs to continue to be represented by films such as these. Other allegations include favoritism shown to the film’s powerful and savvy producers and the consistent overlooking of regional cinema, come Oscar time.

While it is indeed true that the three Indian films that ever made the final nominations in the Best Foreign Film category (‘Mother India’, ‘Salaam Bombay!’ and ‘Lagaan’) were films that were decidedly set amongst poverty (rural and urban) and deprivation, but pronouncing judgment that similarly themed films have the best bet at getting noticed at the Oscars is perhaps too simplistic a conclusion. One must understand that the Oscars are an embodiment of an essentially a western perspective on cinema. To win there, you have to play it by their rules. One has to present cinema with universal appeal, with real stories – make believe is one thing, but singing and dancing, melodramatic monstrosities such as ‘Henna’, ‘Saagar’, ‘Jeans’ and ‘Devdas’ as entries have been a waste of time and energy. A western audience finds no connect whatsoever with this particular brand of cinema and our collective rancour at a trophy-less cabinet only finds likeness to the forlorn countenance of the sourpuss at the birthday party, stubbornly spoiling it for everyone.

‘Peepli’ is in this regard a smart and confident film, a story succinctly and poignantly told to devastating impact. It has an appeal which transcends boundaries and lack of typical Bollywood treatment will only enhance its chances. ‘Lagaan’ probably lost out due to it being at its core, a big Bollywood musical. Rizvi’s film has no such trappings. Many point to ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ as an example of the westerner’s love for all things poor in India. Indeed, while the film reaped a huge haul of statuettes, it was more because of the quirky and gimmicky screenplay and the freshness of the story rather than the supposed interest it generated on account of it laying bare Mumbai’s dark and deprived underbelly. The film also offered hope in a difficult time, and with the world reeling from the aftershocks of a depressing economic crisis, this small film’s roaring success mirroring its rags-to riches plot captured the popular imagination. It all came together nicely. As far as Mr. Advani is concerned, it is perhaps pertinent to remind him that ‘Peepli Live’ does nothing to mock the farmers' pitiable conditions; it mocks our indifferent and voyeuristic response to it. Perhaps the purpose of satire is a concept lost on him. Cinema and other forms of art, as a medium of comment, are possibly at their most penetrating when the reality is so pitiable that it defies belief. Years ago, Satyajit Ray's ‘Apu’ trilogy was widely criticised in several quarters for exploiting poverty. Nonetheless posterity has shown why his films have outlived him. They are timeless because of a certain enduring and rich human quality which is beyond an immediate setting of destitution and paucity. For if impecunity and deprivation were the only criteria then ‘Bandit Queen’ had no business losing out in 1994.

Sure there will always be talk of other contenders. Makers of the edgy ‘LSD’, the inspiring ‘Udaan’ and the heart wrenching ‘Angadi Theru’ might feel shortchanged. But in the end it is the incredibly smart ‘Peepli Live’ that will perhaps connect best with a universal audience for its intelligence and incisiveness, for it being simultaneously entertaining and serving as a powerful human document. Poverty has nothing to do with it. India is country where extremes of wealth and deprivation coexist. Our cinema has reflected both these realities. And both kinds of films have been sent to the Oscars. For those of you who are overly sensitive about India’s image, the film does not reinforce the ‘poverty’ stereotype. It just tells a novel story well. So let’s wish Mr. Khan well; one never knows, it could well be a case of being third time lucky.

Cheers!

Abhishek.

This article first appeared in the November issue of 'KINDLE'

Grappling with hope

Image via Wikipedia

You would be hard pressed to point out Baraut on the map of India. Chances are you've never been there. Or even heard of it. Regardless, the residents of this small town in Uttar Pradesh, around 60 km askew of New Delhi, would have forgiven you your ignorance till a few weeks ago, as their favorite son, wrestler Rajiv Tomar, was well on track to realizing his medal dreams at the upcoming Commonwealth Games (CWG). But that dream has since turned spectacularly sour, thanks largely to the combined incompetence and general apathy of the Sports Authority of India (SAI) and the country’s Wrestling Federation (WFI), both set up to nurture sporting talent, but whose general carelessness and lack of any foresight have put paid to many a sporting dream, a result sharply in contrast to their purpose.

Tomar’s story is not only a shocking indictment of the state of general disrepair of our sports governance, but also one of hopelessness that comes from being associated with a sport other than cricket in this country. The incident was widely covered by the media, and this sporadic

coverage will eventually do irreparable damage to Tomar. Where tomes are written about our underachieving and often bratty cricketers and where Yuvraj Singh’s many romantic dalliances generate as much front page copy as food inflation or political machinations, what hope can there be for a poor wrestler? He finds mention only when he fails a dope test in the wake of a much publicized (for all the wrong reasons) international event. Tomar’s only error appears to have been to consult a doctor when he came down with flu. The medication he took for his ailment turned up a banned substance, and as per the prevailing guidelines, he stands suspended. Here is an ‘Arjuna’ awardee wrestler who is perhaps the country’s best medal hope in the 120-kg freestyle category, and what fate befalls him? He falls victim to complete negligence from a wretched administrative body set up precisely to nurture and develop him. The WFI claims innocence as does the SAI. Neither perhaps found a break from the constant bickering and internal politics that seem to run deep in any sort of administration in India, to actually have the time and inclination to guide and monitor the athlete. It is quite possible that the unfortunate wrestler did not even have an updated list of banned substances as issued by WADA, and was quite possibly met with ignorance from the sports authorities as well. The doping malaise is easily avoidable if the athlete wishes to stay clean and country’s foremost athletes have been failed by their very own. Fellow wrestlers Sumit and Mausam Khatri, also banned, are distraught as well. It is not always that they get to compete in international events of the scale of the CWG, and now they will watch from the sidelines. Worse still, history might end up remembering them for this alleged misdemeanor.

Does the name Monika Devi ring a bell? This weightlifter was declared to have failed a doping test just before departing for the Beijing Olympics in 2008, only to be cleared a few days later, but not before her dream of participating in the Olympics was scuttled. She almost gave up

the sport as a result. The media went to town with her dope test failure, but weren’t as vocal in following up with the story of her innocence. These are sportspersons who are time and time again expected only to participate and not win. These are sportspersons who walk miles to any sort of sporting infrastructure to practice, on a daily basis. These are sportspersons who brave a complete lack of opportunity during their growth phases and still win medals for the country. These are sportspersons who take up athletics and persevere, knowing full well, that the best that they can hope for is a passing mention in the back pages of a newspaper, should they win anything on an international level. These are sportspersons who have achieved success in their chosen spheres in spite of the system and not because of it. These are sportspersons who know they will disappear into thankless history, and these are also men and women who also deal with complete ignorance and indifference from the general sport enthusiast in the country. But they

continue to find the immense strength to carry on regardless. This needs to be respected. This needs to be celebrated. This exemplary courage must resonate with the rest of the country. But India seems to have moved on. The values of the post ‘91 generation seem to have been irrevocably altered. As long as we remain besotted with IPL parties, inconsequential ODIs and more burnout-inducing T20 tourneys with all their trappings of glamour, we will never stop to

notice how Monika Devi has fought her way back from the abyss of despair and depression to rise again to be regarded as India’s best bet for a medal in the upcoming CWG. The fact that no one pays any attention is the root cause of this pathetic situation our athletes find themselves in. And for the sake of sport in India, the media must also start to care more. It is time to stop

remembering Rajiv Tomar for failing a dope test; rather it is time for him to be remembered for being the holder of a record 35 Bharat and Hind Kesari titles.

It is perhaps encouraging that athletes such as Saina Nehwal and Vijender Kumar have seen some mainstream recognition in the wake of their successes. But they are exceptions to the rule. The track and field and ‘akhara’ types continue to be mainstream pariahs, forgotten and ignored by most. It is time this changed and we cleaned up our act, not only in terms of administration and governance of sports in this country, but also in terms of more positive media coverage. Talent, blood, guts, and courage are aplenty, but it needs to be given a chance. One need not reiterate that there are indeed many Indias. Indias divided by rupees in the wallet, Indias divided by language, caste, creed and community. Indias divided by religion. We don’t need an India divided by sport.

Cheers!

Abhishek.

This article first appeared in the October issue of 'KINDLE'.