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.
Friday, January 13, 2006
CHILD, THE MOTHER OF MOTHER!
I dreamt I heard a noise. But I wasn’t dreaming. In the still, cold night, I listened to the noise close to me. I forced my sleepy eyes open – a diaphanous figure was emerging, very close, a few inches away from my now-petrified face. Wild hair, white and …WET! The last realization made me react instinctively. My younger nine-month-old daughter had wet the bed, and the blankets. My maternal instinct quickly swamped the paralyzing fear of the previous few seconds and I could feel it ebbing away to leave behind a brisk mom, battling another night ….
Five years later….
Over my lazy Sunday morning cuppa, I vaguely heard my daughters arguing. “Why do boys have such a funny center point?” demanded the Little One, looking at the newspaper I was glancing over.
“Center point?’” I asked stupidly.
“Yes! The one here! Her pudgy finger pointed at a place little below the waistband of her knickers. “That’s what we call it at school!” she giggled, nudging the Older One.
“What’s it called? It is sort of cute!” “Where did you see it?’ I squeaked in alarm.
“Rhea’s baby brother's, of course! But what’s it called?” the Older One sounded impatient.
The moment had arrived. I managed to croak the word somehow. “Hmm…” she repeated, almost savoring the word! “Like peanut?” she asked, clearly referring to its pronunciation.
The Little One answered sagely, “Yes, yes!! All the boys and men have it. Papa has it, Azoba has it, Vikram Uncle has it, Ravi Uncle has it…” The Older One nodded on solemnly. I fled.
Two years later….
“Aai, today was the worst day at school!” The Little One proclaimed with a huge grin.
I immediately adopted the ‘oh, my poor little baby’ expression but she remained unimpressed.
“Oh, what happened?” I asked politely.
“Rahul said ‘I love you’ to me today,” she replied. “Oh! You’ve found yourself a good friend now,” I sounded weak and stunned, yet, trying desperately to sound wise and confident.
“That he is! In fact, I like him too! He’s the best of the lot!” “Oh?” I said weakly. “But he’s not romantic enough!” the Little One scowled.
‘Oh?” I echoed weakly. “Varun actually wrote ‘I love you ‘ to Sia in her home work book,” the Little One sounded highly indignant, and a trifle miffed. I almost blurted out that it requires more courage to confess one’s love to the face than furtively scribbling it on paper, but I quickly realized that the daughter facing me now was not a seventeen year old but had just turned seven!
“Oh,” I said weakly. “Could be that Rahul doesn’t know how to spell ‘love’ or my name, “ muttered the Little One, reassuring herself. “He’s very weak with his spellings, you see.”
“Oh?” But she had scampered off, looking considerably relieved, a happy smile starting on her freckled face. Now… Waiting for more to come!
Five years later….
Over my lazy Sunday morning cuppa, I vaguely heard my daughters arguing. “Why do boys have such a funny center point?” demanded the Little One, looking at the newspaper I was glancing over.
“Center point?’” I asked stupidly.
“Yes! The one here! Her pudgy finger pointed at a place little below the waistband of her knickers. “That’s what we call it at school!” she giggled, nudging the Older One.
“What’s it called? It is sort of cute!” “Where did you see it?’ I squeaked in alarm.
“Rhea’s baby brother's, of course! But what’s it called?” the Older One sounded impatient.
The moment had arrived. I managed to croak the word somehow. “Hmm…” she repeated, almost savoring the word! “Like peanut?” she asked, clearly referring to its pronunciation.
The Little One answered sagely, “Yes, yes!! All the boys and men have it. Papa has it, Azoba has it, Vikram Uncle has it, Ravi Uncle has it…” The Older One nodded on solemnly. I fled.
Two years later….
“Aai, today was the worst day at school!” The Little One proclaimed with a huge grin.
I immediately adopted the ‘oh, my poor little baby’ expression but she remained unimpressed.
“Oh, what happened?” I asked politely.
“Rahul said ‘I love you’ to me today,” she replied. “Oh! You’ve found yourself a good friend now,” I sounded weak and stunned, yet, trying desperately to sound wise and confident.
“That he is! In fact, I like him too! He’s the best of the lot!” “Oh?” I said weakly. “But he’s not romantic enough!” the Little One scowled.
‘Oh?” I echoed weakly. “Varun actually wrote ‘I love you ‘ to Sia in her home work book,” the Little One sounded highly indignant, and a trifle miffed. I almost blurted out that it requires more courage to confess one’s love to the face than furtively scribbling it on paper, but I quickly realized that the daughter facing me now was not a seventeen year old but had just turned seven!
“Oh,” I said weakly. “Could be that Rahul doesn’t know how to spell ‘love’ or my name, “ muttered the Little One, reassuring herself. “He’s very weak with his spellings, you see.”
“Oh?” But she had scampered off, looking considerably relieved, a happy smile starting on her freckled face. Now… Waiting for more to come!
Monday, January 09, 2006
VATATA VADA AT SINDH COLONY
There can be nothing to beat the vatata vada that I had in Pune's Sindh Colony today.
It was so yummy that I hogged, just hogged. Polished off four of them, and came back home happy, contented.
Now, my tummy has turned into a rebel and I have only my own self to blame.
But, how could I have resisted that anyway? I have been told on countless occasions that food-poisoning is an ailment most Indians aspire for. If not, why should I have headed for that wicked vatata vada? But I did, am ill, and looking forward to having more once I recover.
Such is life!
It was so yummy that I hogged, just hogged. Polished off four of them, and came back home happy, contented.
Now, my tummy has turned into a rebel and I have only my own self to blame.
But, how could I have resisted that anyway? I have been told on countless occasions that food-poisoning is an ailment most Indians aspire for. If not, why should I have headed for that wicked vatata vada? But I did, am ill, and looking forward to having more once I recover.
Such is life!
GOOD MORNING!
A typist is at work...on a computer.
She is writing...for a blog.
She has many stories to tell.
Since she has, she might as well.
Welcome aboard jokertalk, the first cyberspatial experiment of my life.
She is writing...for a blog.
She has many stories to tell.
Since she has, she might as well.
Welcome aboard jokertalk, the first cyberspatial experiment of my life.
