Saturday, June 03, 2006
THE WOMAN IN WHITE…
By Kavita Kane
Norma Jean. Marilyn Monroe. I don’t remember her as the voluptuous beauty with her swirling dress billowing behind a rapturous face, holding that tilted, sultry smile, but as that ‘woman’ who made my father’s eyes flare up passionately every time her name was mentioned. Or rather, whenever he got to glimpse her - be it tiny, black and white pix besides a yellowed newspaper clipping or a glossy blow-up off a raucous, heaving street or the beauteous lady herself - gloriously, magnificently, surely blistering the 70 mm silver screen. He watches her these days through thick glasses on a miniaturized 29” which doesn’t moderate her throbbing flamboyance - a restricting small screen cannot confine or contain her palpable sensuousness, her most dedicated devotee insists.
As a child who loved Robert Redford, Cary Grant, James Stewart and Ryan O’Neal, strictly in that order, and who later jostled comfortably with Kevin Costner, Alec Baldwin,Liam Neeson and George Clooney, I used to openly wonder why my constant companion and movie partner, Pater dear, adored the blonde bombshell so unabashedly, so unrestrainedly. I didn’t mind the Grace Kellys, the Hepburns (both Katharine and Audrey!), the Lauren Bacals or Ingrid Bergmans in his fervent cinematic experiences, but as a ten-year old, frankly doubted what he saw in “that fat woman”, as an annoyed me once angrily expostulated. Visibly fighting an inner apoplexy, he purred, breathing out a long, satiated sigh, “Grow up and you’ll find out one day!”
I did – through a fascinating journey. And every time I fell in love with her, over and over again. Be it, at her tinkling, seductive best in The Seven year Itch or deliciously devious in Niagra, or plain adorable and fun unmitigated in How To Marry a Millionaire. The Tom Ewells, Joseph Cottens didn’t distract my romantic senses – this lady did. A child-woman blossoming wondrously, a star blazing in full glory, an enigmatic legend draped in brutal mystery…
And then I hear her name again…my little girls are squealing out the twin magic Ms as they enact out a How To Marry a Millionaire in a noisy round of dumb charade, and I realize, like me once, they are growing up too, in the shadow of that everlasting enchantment called Marilyn Monroe…
Norma Jean. Marilyn Monroe. I don’t remember her as the voluptuous beauty with her swirling dress billowing behind a rapturous face, holding that tilted, sultry smile, but as that ‘woman’ who made my father’s eyes flare up passionately every time her name was mentioned. Or rather, whenever he got to glimpse her - be it tiny, black and white pix besides a yellowed newspaper clipping or a glossy blow-up off a raucous, heaving street or the beauteous lady herself - gloriously, magnificently, surely blistering the 70 mm silver screen. He watches her these days through thick glasses on a miniaturized 29” which doesn’t moderate her throbbing flamboyance - a restricting small screen cannot confine or contain her palpable sensuousness, her most dedicated devotee insists.
As a child who loved Robert Redford, Cary Grant, James Stewart and Ryan O’Neal, strictly in that order, and who later jostled comfortably with Kevin Costner, Alec Baldwin,Liam Neeson and George Clooney, I used to openly wonder why my constant companion and movie partner, Pater dear, adored the blonde bombshell so unabashedly, so unrestrainedly. I didn’t mind the Grace Kellys, the Hepburns (both Katharine and Audrey!), the Lauren Bacals or Ingrid Bergmans in his fervent cinematic experiences, but as a ten-year old, frankly doubted what he saw in “that fat woman”, as an annoyed me once angrily expostulated. Visibly fighting an inner apoplexy, he purred, breathing out a long, satiated sigh, “Grow up and you’ll find out one day!”
I did – through a fascinating journey. And every time I fell in love with her, over and over again. Be it, at her tinkling, seductive best in The Seven year Itch or deliciously devious in Niagra, or plain adorable and fun unmitigated in How To Marry a Millionaire. The Tom Ewells, Joseph Cottens didn’t distract my romantic senses – this lady did. A child-woman blossoming wondrously, a star blazing in full glory, an enigmatic legend draped in brutal mystery…
And then I hear her name again…my little girls are squealing out the twin magic Ms as they enact out a How To Marry a Millionaire in a noisy round of dumb charade, and I realize, like me once, they are growing up too, in the shadow of that everlasting enchantment called Marilyn Monroe…
Sunday, April 16, 2006
WHY IS ARUNDHATI ROY FUMING?
BY KAVITA KANE
The past few days has made us, mere mortals, suitably daunted by the absolute power – call it star charisma - of the celebrity brigade. These non-terrestrial stars on terra firma shine, sparkle, glitter, glimmer, kill hapless black bucks and sleeping pavement dwellers – and we are dazzled enough to consistently forgive them their trespasses (“oh, that poor boy (of forty???) is being set up!”/ “he’s being judged too harshly!”) in the collective sigh of adulation, adoration and applause! Not that these overgrown babies are always insolent ingrates – watch how magnificently the Shirtless Khan (with his shirt and brave face on!) waved and kissed the roaring crowds? Warrior’s return that may be not, but a return to his world of sham-glam glory, it certainly was.
Another Khan is starring in another real-life drama, seasoned with more masala than your spicy potboiler and impressing an increasing audience. That Aamir Khan has thrown in his lot to support the 20-year old Narmada Andolan Bachao is creditable enough, never mind the more than many cynical eyebrows raised. One shapely eyebrow belongs to the singularly articulate Arundhati Roy who has wondered aloud how an MNC-endorser like Khan can turn a social crusader. Interestingly, a few years ago, this Booker-winning author of The God of Small Things decided to become one of the children of a lesser God herself, when she backed the fermenting farmers demanding rehabilitation. The good author left no listening ear indifferent to her fiery and elegantly eloquent call for her full support to the same movement, triggered off by the indomitable Medha Patkar two decades ago, much before the above-mentioned celebs basked in their respective glories.
Now it’s the turn of star Khan to twinkle. It is his turn to spout those fine lines, wonderful words and earnest pleas. The spotlight has been turned away from the crusading author to the crusading actor …and abruptly the star author finds herself paling in ignominious insignificance. Her truculent remark wondering aloud, how Khan as Coke’s long-time ambassador can fight for a people’s issue speaks volumes. Sounds almost sullen! Heartening is the fact is that a neglected crisis like the Narmada Bachao Andolan has, at last, got a star presence to gather mass appeal, and no one should appreciate this better than Ms Roy herself who is battling on the same grounds, fighting the same war. But she prefers to worry her pretty head about the potable water Coke is using (which is, anyway, a largely different issue!) instead. Or is it that she’s nervous about the Khan charm working otherwise?
Besides pampering enormous ego clashes our country has a generous host of heaving problems the fussy stars can pick and choose from. How about switching over to the farmers’ mass suicide?
The past few days has made us, mere mortals, suitably daunted by the absolute power – call it star charisma - of the celebrity brigade. These non-terrestrial stars on terra firma shine, sparkle, glitter, glimmer, kill hapless black bucks and sleeping pavement dwellers – and we are dazzled enough to consistently forgive them their trespasses (“oh, that poor boy (of forty???) is being set up!”/ “he’s being judged too harshly!”) in the collective sigh of adulation, adoration and applause! Not that these overgrown babies are always insolent ingrates – watch how magnificently the Shirtless Khan (with his shirt and brave face on!) waved and kissed the roaring crowds? Warrior’s return that may be not, but a return to his world of sham-glam glory, it certainly was.
Another Khan is starring in another real-life drama, seasoned with more masala than your spicy potboiler and impressing an increasing audience. That Aamir Khan has thrown in his lot to support the 20-year old Narmada Andolan Bachao is creditable enough, never mind the more than many cynical eyebrows raised. One shapely eyebrow belongs to the singularly articulate Arundhati Roy who has wondered aloud how an MNC-endorser like Khan can turn a social crusader. Interestingly, a few years ago, this Booker-winning author of The God of Small Things decided to become one of the children of a lesser God herself, when she backed the fermenting farmers demanding rehabilitation. The good author left no listening ear indifferent to her fiery and elegantly eloquent call for her full support to the same movement, triggered off by the indomitable Medha Patkar two decades ago, much before the above-mentioned celebs basked in their respective glories.
Now it’s the turn of star Khan to twinkle. It is his turn to spout those fine lines, wonderful words and earnest pleas. The spotlight has been turned away from the crusading author to the crusading actor …and abruptly the star author finds herself paling in ignominious insignificance. Her truculent remark wondering aloud, how Khan as Coke’s long-time ambassador can fight for a people’s issue speaks volumes. Sounds almost sullen! Heartening is the fact is that a neglected crisis like the Narmada Bachao Andolan has, at last, got a star presence to gather mass appeal, and no one should appreciate this better than Ms Roy herself who is battling on the same grounds, fighting the same war. But she prefers to worry her pretty head about the potable water Coke is using (which is, anyway, a largely different issue!) instead. Or is it that she’s nervous about the Khan charm working otherwise?
Besides pampering enormous ego clashes our country has a generous host of heaving problems the fussy stars can pick and choose from. How about switching over to the farmers’ mass suicide?
Monday, March 13, 2006
WISH MUM WERE HERE
BY KALINDI KOKAL
The stain confounded me. What was it all about? That afternoon I waited till my dad left the room following which I dragged my mom into the bathroom. I showed her what I had noticed and asked her what it meant. She stared in utter disbelief and, as she scrubbed me with soap and water, she muttered “Aaee ga, my daughter has grown up.…”
I was quite glad, you know. Mom had actually admitted that I had grown up. In fact, I always felt that even if she had realized it, she wouldn’t admit it. Definitely not in front of me. But this was like a public admission! Yet, she sounded a little apprehensive and spoke to my grandmother after this episode. That night, she held me close to her bosom, whispering lightly in my ears, “Babu, it’s only a question of a few days.” It was confusing. It was as if she was consoling herself, as if she was making a serious effort to come to terms with the change. How would I have understood what was going through her mind? I was only ten, you see.
The following year, the whole family went to the U.S.A. Unlike the other family getaways, this time the holiday was planned with my mom’s best friend’s family – Parul Maasi, her husband and their two pesky sons. The two were rather irritating; more because they were especially fond of their Sanju Maasi (my mother). Ram, the younger sibling, never went to bed without having aai narrate him a story. Shyam, the older son, discussed books that I didn’t understand and people whom I didn’t know. They comfortably occupied my mother’s lap to rest their heads on and engaged her in conversation or games of ‘challenge’ and UNO, without feeling the least bit guilty as I snuggled up on the last seat of the SUV.
I used to get insecure. My ego shielded my disappointment and I turned towards my dad, his early morning walks and his healthy but adventurous meals in this foreign country. On one such occasion, when I was perched on a rock, aai sneaked from behind and gave me a huge hug. I basked in its warmth for a few minutes before I slunk out of her hold. She smiled as her eyes wandered into the depths of the valley. “I haven’t had to bear even a single tantrum from you during this trip. You are turning into a lady, my baby. Just don’t become very mature for the hug that my arms yearn to give you!”
Today, my mother looks after me from the skies above. Often, when I am all alone, I try to make sense of this one thought. What would have happened had I not grown up so fast? Would situations have reversed? Would time have paused?
The stain confounded me. What was it all about? That afternoon I waited till my dad left the room following which I dragged my mom into the bathroom. I showed her what I had noticed and asked her what it meant. She stared in utter disbelief and, as she scrubbed me with soap and water, she muttered “Aaee ga, my daughter has grown up.…”
I was quite glad, you know. Mom had actually admitted that I had grown up. In fact, I always felt that even if she had realized it, she wouldn’t admit it. Definitely not in front of me. But this was like a public admission! Yet, she sounded a little apprehensive and spoke to my grandmother after this episode. That night, she held me close to her bosom, whispering lightly in my ears, “Babu, it’s only a question of a few days.” It was confusing. It was as if she was consoling herself, as if she was making a serious effort to come to terms with the change. How would I have understood what was going through her mind? I was only ten, you see.
The following year, the whole family went to the U.S.A. Unlike the other family getaways, this time the holiday was planned with my mom’s best friend’s family – Parul Maasi, her husband and their two pesky sons. The two were rather irritating; more because they were especially fond of their Sanju Maasi (my mother). Ram, the younger sibling, never went to bed without having aai narrate him a story. Shyam, the older son, discussed books that I didn’t understand and people whom I didn’t know. They comfortably occupied my mother’s lap to rest their heads on and engaged her in conversation or games of ‘challenge’ and UNO, without feeling the least bit guilty as I snuggled up on the last seat of the SUV.
I used to get insecure. My ego shielded my disappointment and I turned towards my dad, his early morning walks and his healthy but adventurous meals in this foreign country. On one such occasion, when I was perched on a rock, aai sneaked from behind and gave me a huge hug. I basked in its warmth for a few minutes before I slunk out of her hold. She smiled as her eyes wandered into the depths of the valley. “I haven’t had to bear even a single tantrum from you during this trip. You are turning into a lady, my baby. Just don’t become very mature for the hug that my arms yearn to give you!”
Today, my mother looks after me from the skies above. Often, when I am all alone, I try to make sense of this one thought. What would have happened had I not grown up so fast? Would situations have reversed? Would time have paused?
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
VISIT TO NARNIA? NO!
BY KAVITA KANE
The other day I mentioned that as a kid one of my scariest moments was when I actually got down to finish reading The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. My open sentiment elicited hoots of raucous giggles from my daughters. “Ninny!’ they teased, amusement glittering bright in their laughing eyes. “How can anyone be scared of Narnia?” The older one shook her head unbelievingly; a small contemptuous smirk pinned on her face. For her, the C S Lewis novel is not a book but a supplement to the magnificent movie she wants to go for over and over again, to relive bravura moments. My trepidations linger – I still haven’t gone to watch the film.
Why was I scared? Enid Blytons were gobbled up within hours of rapt fascination but this slim novel took me over a month to get over, much to the chagrin of my classmates, who were queued up, awaiting their turn. “How’s it?” the next-in-line had excitedly asked me. “Nice,” I had mumbled vaguely and placed the book softly in her hands. That was one book I refused to buy to add to my much-envied personal library.
I was the proverbial bookworm, devouring two ‘books’ per day – that was my weekend pastime and a vacation habit. At eleven, I was fonder of the Five Find-outers than Famous Five whose series I was one of the first one to finish. My little, limited world was busily populated with Galliano’s circus animals, Mallory Towers, St Clare’s, Jack and Kiki, the parrot (from the Secret series) and even Chalet school, the wonder-brat William, Treasure Island, Huck Finn with Tom Sawyer, Uncle Tom, Tom and Maggie and the heart-stirring Philip Wakem (from Mill on the Floss), the Swiss family Robinson, those escaping Children of the New Forest and my everlasting favourites – Jo and Beth March and Laurie (from Little Women) and Elizabeth Bennet with the deliciously haughty Darcy (Pride and Prejudice) who remains my hero till date! And in this midst came a slender, mustard-yellow book - The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - which soon became such a huge rage at school that if you hadn’t read that one, you were cruelly certified an idiot! I did - thrilled and curious - but unlike the other books I devoured greedily, there was no repeat read.
But why was I so scared? Almost twenty five years later, I have the answer. This was one book that was pure, unadulterated, unmitigated fantasy – a world of magnificent make-believe which was overwhelming and awesome but where my eleven-year old logic hated Edmund more than the White Witch, for turning treacherous and sly and betraying his siblings. Yes, Uncle Tom was grim, The Mill of the Floss tragic, The Five Find-outers happy and adventurous – but they were all real-life characters who lived in a fictitious, but realistic, rational, pragmatic world. I was ready to live in their world of fun and frolic, quest and escapade, pain and suffering but Aslan, however majestic, was too tremendous and breath-taking for my poor, impecunious imagination! The wardrobe was a symbol of my utter fright – that looming piece of stolid furniture through which one could slip dangerously into another, indefinite, strange world I did not want to be a part of…
although my 11-year old daughter might take me back to Narnia again.
The other day I mentioned that as a kid one of my scariest moments was when I actually got down to finish reading The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. My open sentiment elicited hoots of raucous giggles from my daughters. “Ninny!’ they teased, amusement glittering bright in their laughing eyes. “How can anyone be scared of Narnia?” The older one shook her head unbelievingly; a small contemptuous smirk pinned on her face. For her, the C S Lewis novel is not a book but a supplement to the magnificent movie she wants to go for over and over again, to relive bravura moments. My trepidations linger – I still haven’t gone to watch the film.
Why was I scared? Enid Blytons were gobbled up within hours of rapt fascination but this slim novel took me over a month to get over, much to the chagrin of my classmates, who were queued up, awaiting their turn. “How’s it?” the next-in-line had excitedly asked me. “Nice,” I had mumbled vaguely and placed the book softly in her hands. That was one book I refused to buy to add to my much-envied personal library.
I was the proverbial bookworm, devouring two ‘books’ per day – that was my weekend pastime and a vacation habit. At eleven, I was fonder of the Five Find-outers than Famous Five whose series I was one of the first one to finish. My little, limited world was busily populated with Galliano’s circus animals, Mallory Towers, St Clare’s, Jack and Kiki, the parrot (from the Secret series) and even Chalet school, the wonder-brat William, Treasure Island, Huck Finn with Tom Sawyer, Uncle Tom, Tom and Maggie and the heart-stirring Philip Wakem (from Mill on the Floss), the Swiss family Robinson, those escaping Children of the New Forest and my everlasting favourites – Jo and Beth March and Laurie (from Little Women) and Elizabeth Bennet with the deliciously haughty Darcy (Pride and Prejudice) who remains my hero till date! And in this midst came a slender, mustard-yellow book - The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - which soon became such a huge rage at school that if you hadn’t read that one, you were cruelly certified an idiot! I did - thrilled and curious - but unlike the other books I devoured greedily, there was no repeat read.
But why was I so scared? Almost twenty five years later, I have the answer. This was one book that was pure, unadulterated, unmitigated fantasy – a world of magnificent make-believe which was overwhelming and awesome but where my eleven-year old logic hated Edmund more than the White Witch, for turning treacherous and sly and betraying his siblings. Yes, Uncle Tom was grim, The Mill of the Floss tragic, The Five Find-outers happy and adventurous – but they were all real-life characters who lived in a fictitious, but realistic, rational, pragmatic world. I was ready to live in their world of fun and frolic, quest and escapade, pain and suffering but Aslan, however majestic, was too tremendous and breath-taking for my poor, impecunious imagination! The wardrobe was a symbol of my utter fright – that looming piece of stolid furniture through which one could slip dangerously into another, indefinite, strange world I did not want to be a part of…
although my 11-year old daughter might take me back to Narnia again.
GOOD TASTE OR PLAIN WASTE
BY KAVITA KANE
Versace –pronounced any way your tongue would like it to roll – would not have realized that he has been causing unnecessary grief for many; and me in particular. That buying a pair of shades could become a performance of sorts , sparkling with dramatic histrionics was an experience I wish never to live through again.
I flippantly meandered into a shades shoppe with an honest, straightforward, uncomplicated intention to window shop. Different ‘shades’ of pinks, violets, greens peered down at me sneeringly through the glossy glass towers and I looked up at them, a little confused but completely fascinated. Primly assuming that glares could be either dark or light in blacks, browns or at the most a daring blue, I was getting swiftly educated by the noisy young man with the sugary grin.
“There’s a whole range of colours, I promise you – pick any!” he wheedled winsomely, strewing the counter with a distracting display of the tiny temptations. I preferred checking out the price tags instead.
“Rs 3,500!” I shrieked aloud, watching the young man jump back to almost crash into the very row of shades he was intending to put to elaborate view.
“But they’re Chanel’s and that’s just the starting price!” his syrupy smile turning suspiciously sour now. I firmly removed them from sight.
“How about these?” the impertinent young man whipped up an Armani purple. I looked through them, deliberately ignoring the triangular tag dangling daintily but screaming for attention.
“Or these?” he persisted, thrusting a huge pair of Guess ebony blacks, right below my astonished eye. “Too boring!” I dismissed, hoping that I seemed assertively stuck-up.
“You would like a soothing brown?” he just about barked.
“No!!!” I flashed defiantly.
“Here’s another!” he fiercely brandished a slim RayBans, dangerously close to smashing them in his furious fist.
“Too small for my face,” I waved them off airily to turn and bravely continued my aimless search through the roomy room. I thought I heard a gnashing sound of clenched teeth behind me.
“How about this…?” I asked myself, picking a shimmering pair of Gucci. He suddenly seemed weak, feeble and defeated. “They are for Rs 7,700,” he whined imploringly and slowly put them away.
“And what about these?” I trilled at a glitzy Versace, glittering invitingly, each dazzling white stone at the slender stem, twinkling mischievously.
“Rs 10,500!” he croaked, staring down at the haute eye wear, scattered like the wounded in a battlefield.
“You accept credit cards?” I sang merrily, thumping one in his frozen, incredulous fingers, and snatching the gleaming black leather case and the encashed card, sailed out of the stunned room.
The next day I returned to refresh my shopping skills with an eager friend. The noisy young man was nowhere to be seen.
Versace –pronounced any way your tongue would like it to roll – would not have realized that he has been causing unnecessary grief for many; and me in particular. That buying a pair of shades could become a performance of sorts , sparkling with dramatic histrionics was an experience I wish never to live through again.
I flippantly meandered into a shades shoppe with an honest, straightforward, uncomplicated intention to window shop. Different ‘shades’ of pinks, violets, greens peered down at me sneeringly through the glossy glass towers and I looked up at them, a little confused but completely fascinated. Primly assuming that glares could be either dark or light in blacks, browns or at the most a daring blue, I was getting swiftly educated by the noisy young man with the sugary grin.
“There’s a whole range of colours, I promise you – pick any!” he wheedled winsomely, strewing the counter with a distracting display of the tiny temptations. I preferred checking out the price tags instead.
“Rs 3,500!” I shrieked aloud, watching the young man jump back to almost crash into the very row of shades he was intending to put to elaborate view.
“But they’re Chanel’s and that’s just the starting price!” his syrupy smile turning suspiciously sour now. I firmly removed them from sight.
“How about these?” the impertinent young man whipped up an Armani purple. I looked through them, deliberately ignoring the triangular tag dangling daintily but screaming for attention.
“Or these?” he persisted, thrusting a huge pair of Guess ebony blacks, right below my astonished eye. “Too boring!” I dismissed, hoping that I seemed assertively stuck-up.
“You would like a soothing brown?” he just about barked.
“No!!!” I flashed defiantly.
“Here’s another!” he fiercely brandished a slim RayBans, dangerously close to smashing them in his furious fist.
“Too small for my face,” I waved them off airily to turn and bravely continued my aimless search through the roomy room. I thought I heard a gnashing sound of clenched teeth behind me.
“How about this…?” I asked myself, picking a shimmering pair of Gucci. He suddenly seemed weak, feeble and defeated. “They are for Rs 7,700,” he whined imploringly and slowly put them away.
“And what about these?” I trilled at a glitzy Versace, glittering invitingly, each dazzling white stone at the slender stem, twinkling mischievously.
“Rs 10,500!” he croaked, staring down at the haute eye wear, scattered like the wounded in a battlefield.
“You accept credit cards?” I sang merrily, thumping one in his frozen, incredulous fingers, and snatching the gleaming black leather case and the encashed card, sailed out of the stunned room.
The next day I returned to refresh my shopping skills with an eager friend. The noisy young man was nowhere to be seen.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
I'M OKAY, NOT YOU
BY ARUN CHITNIS
My valued friend, I am complete
Don't add to me, or take away
You, who sit in judgment's seat
On behalf of the moral elite
And think you know a better way.
There've been a thousand instances
I've faced the Critic's Crew
I've heard each kind of remonstrance
And faced each disapproving glance
Now show me something new…
Don't ask me what I think of you
I'd only spoil your day
It's sad, of course - your hot wind blew
When I was trying to stay cool
But hot wind finally blows away.
Hell is full of folks like you
Each one has cursed and died
Go on and curse - there're blessings too
Maybe you should learn a few
Invest a bit on Heaven's side……
Let's thank God for each point of view
This world would be a bore
If we resolved our differences
And united in our nothingness
To agree for evermore…
My valued friend, I am complete
Don't add to me, or take away
You, who sit in judgment's seat
On behalf of the moral elite
And think you know a better way.
There've been a thousand instances
I've faced the Critic's Crew
I've heard each kind of remonstrance
And faced each disapproving glance
Now show me something new…
Don't ask me what I think of you
I'd only spoil your day
It's sad, of course - your hot wind blew
When I was trying to stay cool
But hot wind finally blows away.
Hell is full of folks like you
Each one has cursed and died
Go on and curse - there're blessings too
Maybe you should learn a few
Invest a bit on Heaven's side……
Let's thank God for each point of view
This world would be a bore
If we resolved our differences
And united in our nothingness
To agree for evermore…
FASHION IS IN FASHION
BY KAVITA KANE
Fashion shows are getting to be fashion statements. Very ‘fashionable’ to throw a fashion show whether it’s New Year’s, a sit-down dinner for fifty, a gala launch of a restaurant, a hair salon or even your six-year-old’s birthday party! “Rea simply insisted that she wanted one!” Rea’s mom simpers beautifully,“just like the ones on FTV! And for three whole days, I have been going crazy buying all those teeniest outfits for the dear girls! Please do send your kids for the practice session, daily from five to six till the 12th of Feb - the Big Day!”
Having seen fashion shows suitably at close quarters, I was all too aware of how incredibly punishing the ‘practice sessions’ could be and I wilted at the thought of those little kids suffering that one-hour agony for another ten days to come. That I was wrong would be an understatement. They did return home tired - but very happy - eagerly waiting for school to get over the next day to dash across to Rea’s house for a repeat of the strutting round! Wanting badly to ban this event, or better, veto the girls from attending the ‘fashion-show’ birthday party altogether, I, instead, had to curl my fingers into angry fists which I would have loved to flail furiously on the silly head of Rea’s mom!
A fitness club was celebrating its fifth year of healthy existence. Paying a perfunctory visit as the most irregular member of the venerated ‘gym’, I agonised through three long, self-congratulatory speeches, a winding prize-giving ceremony (for Best Physique and Flat Abs!) and last, and by far, the worst – a shuddering-awful fashion show!! “Wouldn’t like to find our daughters wearing such clothes, would you?” fiercely whispered the proprietress of the health club-in-celebration, a genteel German lady who could not help grimacing each time she saw the young girls flash the soaring hemlines and plunging necklines. I wore a similar, slightly more exaggerated, expression the remainder of the evening.
How hot the haute happening is, is decided by the wannabes and the will-bes. Procuring an invitation for such a soirée is an art now finely masterminded by many, if not most. From beseeching to blunt to blasé, as the gracious host, you have an ample choice to refuse all – but for the inveterate show-crashers, kissing-so touchingly in-the-air the same faces they brushed cheeks with, four times last week!
A collective hysteria, meanwhile, echoes loudly through the schmoozing pecking order where the Lakme Fashion week becomes a national phenomenon, more celebrated and talked about than the Republic Day parade!
Fashion shows are getting to be fashion statements. Very ‘fashionable’ to throw a fashion show whether it’s New Year’s, a sit-down dinner for fifty, a gala launch of a restaurant, a hair salon or even your six-year-old’s birthday party! “Rea simply insisted that she wanted one!” Rea’s mom simpers beautifully,“just like the ones on FTV! And for three whole days, I have been going crazy buying all those teeniest outfits for the dear girls! Please do send your kids for the practice session, daily from five to six till the 12th of Feb - the Big Day!”
Having seen fashion shows suitably at close quarters, I was all too aware of how incredibly punishing the ‘practice sessions’ could be and I wilted at the thought of those little kids suffering that one-hour agony for another ten days to come. That I was wrong would be an understatement. They did return home tired - but very happy - eagerly waiting for school to get over the next day to dash across to Rea’s house for a repeat of the strutting round! Wanting badly to ban this event, or better, veto the girls from attending the ‘fashion-show’ birthday party altogether, I, instead, had to curl my fingers into angry fists which I would have loved to flail furiously on the silly head of Rea’s mom!
A fitness club was celebrating its fifth year of healthy existence. Paying a perfunctory visit as the most irregular member of the venerated ‘gym’, I agonised through three long, self-congratulatory speeches, a winding prize-giving ceremony (for Best Physique and Flat Abs!) and last, and by far, the worst – a shuddering-awful fashion show!! “Wouldn’t like to find our daughters wearing such clothes, would you?” fiercely whispered the proprietress of the health club-in-celebration, a genteel German lady who could not help grimacing each time she saw the young girls flash the soaring hemlines and plunging necklines. I wore a similar, slightly more exaggerated, expression the remainder of the evening.
How hot the haute happening is, is decided by the wannabes and the will-bes. Procuring an invitation for such a soirée is an art now finely masterminded by many, if not most. From beseeching to blunt to blasé, as the gracious host, you have an ample choice to refuse all – but for the inveterate show-crashers, kissing-so touchingly in-the-air the same faces they brushed cheeks with, four times last week!
A collective hysteria, meanwhile, echoes loudly through the schmoozing pecking order where the Lakme Fashion week becomes a national phenomenon, more celebrated and talked about than the Republic Day parade!
Monday, January 30, 2006
RANG DE: A LESSON ABOUT LIFE
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Rang De Basanti takes the viewer by complete surprise. For, here is a story of five young men who are completely disillusioned with the nation itself. They see no hope, no present. As DJ (Aamir Khan) says in the film, one leg of every Indian is on the past, the other on the future. And, the person is happily peeing on the present!
Have you read Hanif Kureishi's Black Album, a novel in which the writer says there was nothing the people could seek inspiration from? There were no politicians, no statesman, nothing at all except The Beatles. In Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra's Rang De..., even The Beatles are missing. All you have are a bunch of students who hang around in the university, having chai while watching a television which needs the occasional slap to work properly.
Not that Mehra has got everything right. Atul Kulkarni's character of Laxman Pandey, a right wing activist, is marred by a grave foible. Kulkarni does a fine job, but where the script goes wrong is when he comes forward to play the role of the patriot Ram Prasad Bismil for a documentary on Indian revolutionaries being made by Sue (Alice Patten). One would have understood if he had reacted to the death of the fighter pilot Ajay (R Madhavan) and joined hands with the five young men in a plot to eliminate the defence minister (Mohan Agashe). But Laxman Pandey as an actor? Wrong choice.
Where Rang De really scores is firstly because of the wit. Although the bit about Aamir Khan and his method acting has been stretched too far, the fact remains that Aamir plays the role of DJ brilliantly. Right after the debacle called Mangal Pandey, and despite the fact that he plays a guy who is supposed to be 15 years younger than him, he successfully manages to finish off any cynicism that people might have had due to the age factor. He speaks in a rustic Punjabi accent all through, making an unexpected shift to regular Hindi just once when his friend's mother (Waheeda Rehman) is rushed to the hospital. But when he cracks a joke, the entire auditorium laughs with him.
Among the others, Sharman Joshi who plays the joker of the gang (Sukhi) is superb. Not many thought that Sharman was any great shakes as an actor, not surprising because his body of work had nothing to write home about. But here, he comes up with a first-rate performance, matching Aamir frame for frame in a scene when he wants to avoid doing the seemingly impossible. Siddharth who plays Karan is wonderful when he expresses his anguish through silences. But when he turns into an announcer to describe a huge bit of news to listeners, his voice lets him down.
Kunal Kapoor has the gravity required for the character of Aslam, while Madhavan does a great job with the small role of the fighter pilot whose death catalyses an act that stirs the entire nation. A few words about the two ladies, Alice Patten and Soha Ali Khan. Although this film is dominated by the guys, Alice as Sue and Soha as Sonia have performed most commendably.
The emotional exchanges between Sue and DJ are as subtle as possible, while Ajay and Sonia share an equally beautiful relationship. Mehra hasn't gone overboard while depicting either, thereby making it clear that he did not intend to make a romance but a film that deals with the harsh truths of life. These truths are camouflaged by humour and light moments, but we all know that the director isn't seeking an escape route. Only, he is trying to make the experience of watching it as comfortable as possible.
By now, the climax of the film is well-known. The young men kill the defence minister in a reaction to the death of the fighter pilot because the minister has been guilty of buying cheap parts, thereby endangering the lives of pilots. Such transactions are just one of the problems crippling the nation, and that one needs to deal with them is the message that resonates all through the plot. Is killing the ministers a solution? Certainly not, since it seems like radical Syndicalism that no modern social system can accept.
What it means is that the youth of the country need to come forward and act if the ailments are to be eradicated. Significant message, very well told and, hopefully, a handful will respond to the need for acting. For, sadly, the nation has been chug-chugging towards complete anarchy, and we have been guilty of accepting the state of affairs because we have been sleeping all through. When we have acted, it is as if we have practising somnambulism.
We have suffered far too much, and for far too long. Seriously.
(This posting originally appeared in smallbigworld.blogspot.com)
Rang De Basanti takes the viewer by complete surprise. For, here is a story of five young men who are completely disillusioned with the nation itself. They see no hope, no present. As DJ (Aamir Khan) says in the film, one leg of every Indian is on the past, the other on the future. And, the person is happily peeing on the present!
Have you read Hanif Kureishi's Black Album, a novel in which the writer says there was nothing the people could seek inspiration from? There were no politicians, no statesman, nothing at all except The Beatles. In Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra's Rang De..., even The Beatles are missing. All you have are a bunch of students who hang around in the university, having chai while watching a television which needs the occasional slap to work properly.
Not that Mehra has got everything right. Atul Kulkarni's character of Laxman Pandey, a right wing activist, is marred by a grave foible. Kulkarni does a fine job, but where the script goes wrong is when he comes forward to play the role of the patriot Ram Prasad Bismil for a documentary on Indian revolutionaries being made by Sue (Alice Patten). One would have understood if he had reacted to the death of the fighter pilot Ajay (R Madhavan) and joined hands with the five young men in a plot to eliminate the defence minister (Mohan Agashe). But Laxman Pandey as an actor? Wrong choice.
Where Rang De really scores is firstly because of the wit. Although the bit about Aamir Khan and his method acting has been stretched too far, the fact remains that Aamir plays the role of DJ brilliantly. Right after the debacle called Mangal Pandey, and despite the fact that he plays a guy who is supposed to be 15 years younger than him, he successfully manages to finish off any cynicism that people might have had due to the age factor. He speaks in a rustic Punjabi accent all through, making an unexpected shift to regular Hindi just once when his friend's mother (Waheeda Rehman) is rushed to the hospital. But when he cracks a joke, the entire auditorium laughs with him.
Among the others, Sharman Joshi who plays the joker of the gang (Sukhi) is superb. Not many thought that Sharman was any great shakes as an actor, not surprising because his body of work had nothing to write home about. But here, he comes up with a first-rate performance, matching Aamir frame for frame in a scene when he wants to avoid doing the seemingly impossible. Siddharth who plays Karan is wonderful when he expresses his anguish through silences. But when he turns into an announcer to describe a huge bit of news to listeners, his voice lets him down.
Kunal Kapoor has the gravity required for the character of Aslam, while Madhavan does a great job with the small role of the fighter pilot whose death catalyses an act that stirs the entire nation. A few words about the two ladies, Alice Patten and Soha Ali Khan. Although this film is dominated by the guys, Alice as Sue and Soha as Sonia have performed most commendably.
The emotional exchanges between Sue and DJ are as subtle as possible, while Ajay and Sonia share an equally beautiful relationship. Mehra hasn't gone overboard while depicting either, thereby making it clear that he did not intend to make a romance but a film that deals with the harsh truths of life. These truths are camouflaged by humour and light moments, but we all know that the director isn't seeking an escape route. Only, he is trying to make the experience of watching it as comfortable as possible.
By now, the climax of the film is well-known. The young men kill the defence minister in a reaction to the death of the fighter pilot because the minister has been guilty of buying cheap parts, thereby endangering the lives of pilots. Such transactions are just one of the problems crippling the nation, and that one needs to deal with them is the message that resonates all through the plot. Is killing the ministers a solution? Certainly not, since it seems like radical Syndicalism that no modern social system can accept.
What it means is that the youth of the country need to come forward and act if the ailments are to be eradicated. Significant message, very well told and, hopefully, a handful will respond to the need for acting. For, sadly, the nation has been chug-chugging towards complete anarchy, and we have been guilty of accepting the state of affairs because we have been sleeping all through. When we have acted, it is as if we have practising somnambulism.
We have suffered far too much, and for far too long. Seriously.
(This posting originally appeared in smallbigworld.blogspot.com)
AAMHI ASU LADKE: CHILDREN OF A GREATER GOD
BY KAVITA KANE
While the much-debated Dombivli Fast will be another Shwaas in terms of critical acclaim and the needed 'international feel', it's Aamhi Asu Ladke, (We Are The Loved Ones) which is drawing mass curiosity and a grudging appreciation at director Abhiram Bhadamkar's effort – that of clashing 'superior' intelligence to ordinariness; often ridiculed as plain stupidity by social mores.
The film opens with the pivotal scene where Shalini Buddhisagar (Neena Kulkarni), an exceptionally respected principal of an educational institute is being Enthusiastically congratulated for taking the college to greater heights, courtesy the more impressive number of heaving merit holders massed out that year. Like most of us, she has an unconcealed respect for the 'achievers'; the average can lead their dull, dreary lives. Why the equal treatment when Nature itself has not been fair in endowing intelligence to its creatures? This argument runs through the entire 145 minutes of the movie – long enough, but surprisingly not allowing the audience to shift restlessly in their seats!
Amidst a happy deluge of congratulatory phone calls, she receives one piece of news -that her son, Abhijit (Subodh Bhave) has attempted suicide – for having 'failed' yet again. The son's introduction as a lost, agonised soul is an extended suggestion that this is the one person who has forced the arrogant, self-righteous woman to forfeit 'failure' in her world of achievements and accomplishments. But she has her faltering moments. The childhood poverty that drove her to claw out her slice of success; or the insecurity of a morbid fear which goads her into being the hardnosed mom, petrified that her son will have to face the hardships, lest he does not excel. She is genuinely bewildered how a 'merit holder' like herself and her brilliant husband can have a son who can 'fail' in his studies?
The boy's more sympathetic mama, an antithesis of his worldly-wise sister and a music lover (who believes life is not a competition but a music concert to be appreciated and enjoyed!), meanwhile, takes the depressed boy to Kolhapur, hoping to wean him away from his mother's ambitious requests. The story goes on to tenderly tell how the completely devastated boy finds a purpose in his otherwise worthless, wasted life through one small, obscure school for the mentally challenged. He enters a new world of pain, suffering, understanding, sacrifice, dedication and most importantly, self-conviction.
His journey of self-discovery is the progression of Aamhi Asu Ladke, sans the heavy social sermons but the hope that we can be better persons if we have that little warmth, that kindliness towards the not-so-privileged. The poor little rich boy finds a startling similarity between himself and the mentally handicapped kids where parental apathy is as much a painful fact as societal contempt.
Neena Kulkarni as the ruthless mother is, as usual, sparkling and has saved the character from being stunted to a convenient caricature of the hard, pushy striver. Her gnawing fear - that her son might attempt to kill himself again - is a constant reminder that she has gone wrong somewhere as a 'good mother'. Subodh Bhave as the fraught, frantic son, in the throes of despair and self-flagellation, who eventually exorcises his anxieties, his insecurities and horrors in his brave, new world is the great surprise. But the ones to steal the show - and your heart away - are the special kids - all the eight of them, simply brilliant - all Children of not a lesser, but a Greater God.
While the much-debated Dombivli Fast will be another Shwaas in terms of critical acclaim and the needed 'international feel', it's Aamhi Asu Ladke, (We Are The Loved Ones) which is drawing mass curiosity and a grudging appreciation at director Abhiram Bhadamkar's effort – that of clashing 'superior' intelligence to ordinariness; often ridiculed as plain stupidity by social mores.
The film opens with the pivotal scene where Shalini Buddhisagar (Neena Kulkarni), an exceptionally respected principal of an educational institute is being Enthusiastically congratulated for taking the college to greater heights, courtesy the more impressive number of heaving merit holders massed out that year. Like most of us, she has an unconcealed respect for the 'achievers'; the average can lead their dull, dreary lives. Why the equal treatment when Nature itself has not been fair in endowing intelligence to its creatures? This argument runs through the entire 145 minutes of the movie – long enough, but surprisingly not allowing the audience to shift restlessly in their seats!
Amidst a happy deluge of congratulatory phone calls, she receives one piece of news -that her son, Abhijit (Subodh Bhave) has attempted suicide – for having 'failed' yet again. The son's introduction as a lost, agonised soul is an extended suggestion that this is the one person who has forced the arrogant, self-righteous woman to forfeit 'failure' in her world of achievements and accomplishments. But she has her faltering moments. The childhood poverty that drove her to claw out her slice of success; or the insecurity of a morbid fear which goads her into being the hardnosed mom, petrified that her son will have to face the hardships, lest he does not excel. She is genuinely bewildered how a 'merit holder' like herself and her brilliant husband can have a son who can 'fail' in his studies?
The boy's more sympathetic mama, an antithesis of his worldly-wise sister and a music lover (who believes life is not a competition but a music concert to be appreciated and enjoyed!), meanwhile, takes the depressed boy to Kolhapur, hoping to wean him away from his mother's ambitious requests. The story goes on to tenderly tell how the completely devastated boy finds a purpose in his otherwise worthless, wasted life through one small, obscure school for the mentally challenged. He enters a new world of pain, suffering, understanding, sacrifice, dedication and most importantly, self-conviction.
His journey of self-discovery is the progression of Aamhi Asu Ladke, sans the heavy social sermons but the hope that we can be better persons if we have that little warmth, that kindliness towards the not-so-privileged. The poor little rich boy finds a startling similarity between himself and the mentally handicapped kids where parental apathy is as much a painful fact as societal contempt.
Neena Kulkarni as the ruthless mother is, as usual, sparkling and has saved the character from being stunted to a convenient caricature of the hard, pushy striver. Her gnawing fear - that her son might attempt to kill himself again - is a constant reminder that she has gone wrong somewhere as a 'good mother'. Subodh Bhave as the fraught, frantic son, in the throes of despair and self-flagellation, who eventually exorcises his anxieties, his insecurities and horrors in his brave, new world is the great surprise. But the ones to steal the show - and your heart away - are the special kids - all the eight of them, simply brilliant - all Children of not a lesser, but a Greater God.
Monday, January 23, 2006
HELLO PUNE, BIHAR IS RIGHT HERE!
The worried, almost paranoid observation that Pune is going the Bihar way, makes me wince. Not because these two otherwise unlikely places are being so unfavourably compared. They are. But sadly, because these are my two preferred places. If the first decade of my childhood saw Bihar in happier times, the later, long growing years were spent blissfully in Pune. Yet, as this city grows, it's getting an unpardonable tag to it - not the Peshwa city, not Oxford of the East, not the next IT destination but 'Bihar'; 'Bihar' as in a bad word, a curse or simply, an unfortunate state.
Bihar, for me, was not an entire state with its towns, villages and cities but one huge place where Patna was no different from Chaibasa! Jamshedpur, though, was different - so CLEAN, to my sharp, five-year-old eyes. Friends, besides schoolmates, invariably, were dai’s brood of grinning kids. The dais, too, were consistent – warm, kind, gourmets, smiling, cheerful and – poor. The tattered sari which my mother used to forbid her to wear was the giveaway. We were thankfully untouched by sly materialism as today’s kids so thoroughly are. And it was in this world that I learnt to speak both Hindi and Bhojpuri together, with a sprinkling of Bengali.
That Pune gets compared to Bihar is a silent anguish. Just as we were helpless to watch Bihar go to the goons, will Pune get to be another conurbation of crime? Thirty years ago, as I played with Bina, Rani and Bunty in the wilderness of the Dehri-on-Sone woods, my mother used to peacefully knit my baby sister’s booties. Today when I hear a seven-year-old being kidnapped by three construction workers, I refuse to allow my ten-year old daughter to walk down the lane to her friend’s place. Or when I read the gory details of how a 20-year old was kidnapped and killed by his own friends (from Bihar!), I pray for his parents and wonder if my girls are mixing with the right sorts.
And that is when I realise that Pune is getting to be another Bihar; a very different Bihar where I once lived and which I loved and which is lost.
Bihar, for me, was not an entire state with its towns, villages and cities but one huge place where Patna was no different from Chaibasa! Jamshedpur, though, was different - so CLEAN, to my sharp, five-year-old eyes. Friends, besides schoolmates, invariably, were dai’s brood of grinning kids. The dais, too, were consistent – warm, kind, gourmets, smiling, cheerful and – poor. The tattered sari which my mother used to forbid her to wear was the giveaway. We were thankfully untouched by sly materialism as today’s kids so thoroughly are. And it was in this world that I learnt to speak both Hindi and Bhojpuri together, with a sprinkling of Bengali.
That Pune gets compared to Bihar is a silent anguish. Just as we were helpless to watch Bihar go to the goons, will Pune get to be another conurbation of crime? Thirty years ago, as I played with Bina, Rani and Bunty in the wilderness of the Dehri-on-Sone woods, my mother used to peacefully knit my baby sister’s booties. Today when I hear a seven-year-old being kidnapped by three construction workers, I refuse to allow my ten-year old daughter to walk down the lane to her friend’s place. Or when I read the gory details of how a 20-year old was kidnapped and killed by his own friends (from Bihar!), I pray for his parents and wonder if my girls are mixing with the right sorts.
And that is when I realise that Pune is getting to be another Bihar; a very different Bihar where I once lived and which I loved and which is lost.
