soap box

Whenever I turn on the TV, I am appalled by the state of the general entertainment channels in India. Particularly the daily soaps and the manner in which they are presented. The mind boggles at this horrible assault on my sense of aesthetics and sensibility. The shallow plot lines, the over the top melodrama, the portrayal of domestic discord in an unreal manner and the less said about the presentation of women the better. I could go on but suffice to say that out there, there is a mad race to the bottom. These shows are tailor made to cater to the lowest common denominator and all those folks who are quite content to a dog in the manger existence and do not want to broaden their horizon. Mind you the housewives in countless small towns as well as big just lap it all up what with their garish make up and kitschy settings kind of engender faux aspiration in them. They are hardly bothered about such things as intellectual depth and a nuanced approach.

Normally I would say to each his own, had it been just that. What nobody seems to have cottoned on to, is what sort of value system the makers of these shows are promoting in a society where the idea of modernity and individual liberty especially women’s right to choose is always in a constant battle with the might of feudalism and patriarchy. I know that those marketing whiz in their cubicles will say it is all about entertainment and numbers and revenue. That not too great a burden should be placed at their doorstep in terms of societal reformation. But how can it be otherwise. The medium of cinema and television is a powerful medium and the world over it is not just about mindless purveying of so called ‘’entertainment’’. It is also a tool to communicate your vision for change. A slice of life projection told in a matter of fact way. But the way things stand in the general entertainment television in this country, is only perpetuating the worst stereotype about gender, family, religion and society. This is only going to encourage the reactionary forces among ourselves.   

meditation

I am staring out of the window and the world is rushing by. This inexorable march of time and people accentuating even more the rootedness of mine to a place where the more things change, the more they remain the same. You tend to wonder are you the only one who is looking back in order to look forward, but the effort is futile. What is this restlessness? What is the shape of this dread. I am consumed by this thought that all those men and women who were good and worthy are long dead and gone and there is something to be said about crossing to the other side, but then, who knows and who can tell. Even as I can scan the horizon, I cannot span it. The most pretty rhyme can lose the reason and the silence in your head can be the silence of the graveyard. Maybe the dream you dreamt was not the right kind of dream; you were always chasing the chimera and now you must pay the price. This mortal combat with the devil, how long can it last. Something’s got to give. There is always a dark pit of the past from  where a great hurt can rise and you can only thank your stars that you yourself have not ended up in that pit. What do you do? You can’t say that you are a victim you are only a survivor from even more drudgery. And something clarifies in your head about pain and suffering; the former is external and you get rid of it like you get rid of the blood sucking leech from your flesh. But the latter is internal and deeply personal and you internalize it. It becomes you and you get sucked into its vortex, but ironically, you don’t feel the pain but only confusion. You can’t strike a bargain with the God, but in that whirlwind of emotions, you regret your choice but in reality there is no choice. You can’t have a transactional relationship with your God, if there is such a thing called God. Whether you do good or evil, suffering is your only reward and lot. Your whole being is filled with the poison of guilt and regret and you latch on to whatever that diffuses this powerful force which is hollowing you from inside out.

rape of a city

To suggest that I am filled with a deep sense of shame with rising crime of sexual violence against women in Delhi and NCR doesn’t even begin to capture my impotent rage. Over the past five years, crime against women have seen a twenty five per cent jump. The national capital is becoming increasingly unsafe place for half its population and this sorry state of affairs is making a mockery of our claim of being a civilized and humane society. Granted that crime takes place everywhere, but what is it about Delhi that makes you cringe at the thought of being a woman and claiming its public places and negotiating its alleys? Maybe something to do with the power dynamics in a rigidly patriarchal set up? Or maybe the expression of brute power is the only currency that is needed to make your way up the greasy pole no matter what form it manifests itself? I am not sure, but the purpose of this piece is not to indulge in any kind of Freudian analysis of the anatomy of rape, rather the issue is more mundane. And that has to do with basic law and order and the caliber and the quality of the police force.

In the short term, they must divert a vast section of the forces from VIP security and deploy on the ground for basic policing, get hundreds of more PCR vans to do rigorous patrolling round the clock especially in the seedy parts of the city and community policing must be the order of the day. In the long run, we must make our police gender sensitive, the lodging of the FIR--- the first step in our brush with law--- for rape victims must be made less cumbersome where women are secure in the knowledge that they are not being judged by any moral yardstick. A rape is a rape is a rape. No matter what the character or the circumstances of the victims and we have no right to pass moral judgments. The very definition of rape as it stands today under IPC, gives a lot of room to maneuver for the accused to slip away if he’s got a canny lawyer for when Lord Macaulay, that great imperialist, devised the definition of rape under IPC more than 200 years ago; it was a vastly different time and age and it would be sheer folly to apply same standards in this day and age. So we need a massive overhaul in this area.

And last but by no means least, we must instill the kind of value system in society especially among the men that women have complete autonomy over their bodies and we have no right to violate it. She must be allowed to conduct herself the way she wants whether in terms of dressing or any lifestyle choice and that the law will be on their side in times of need.

In the end, I would also call upon the women to not cower in fear and retreat into a shell for the criminals to have a field day. Boldly venture out and do your stuff, claim your share of public space be it night or day, rain hail or high water. This fight shall go or at both attitudinal and practical level. Indian women must prevail, they have no choice in this matter.        

The write stuff

As I am reading ‘Jane Eyre’, a novel by Charlotte Bronte, I am amazed by the fact that even though the novel came out in 1855, how far ahead it was of its time. It defied every cannon of Victorian morality of the time. By which I mean that the main protagonist was not a lily livered miss goody to shoes but a plain looking young girl of substance who does not beat around the bush but speaks her mind and is not beyond giving vent to her frustration against the prevailing mores of society and is also at time given to sudden outburst of temper. Even as I write this, I have not yet finished the novel so I would desist from saying a lot more about it. My aim here is to make a larger point whether writers can really afford to completely dissociate themselves from the place they are living in, the people they are writing about or the society they operate in. Can they detach their work from any context which would inform our behavior as human beings.

What got me thinking along those lines was couple of classics that I have managed to read over a period of time. When you analyze Jane Austen, you would find it remarkable what a sequestered and cocooned world she has created for her stories and her characters. You would be forgiven for thinking that they inhabit a different planet considering the fact that when she was productive as a writer, her continent was going through the bloody Napoleonic wars where millions had perished. But her work would not have a whiff of any of that. In her world, everything was honky dory where gallant gentlemen were wooing coy ladies and taking them to balls, quite oblivious to the convulsions around them. Where as when you go through ‘Anna Karenina’, the author Leo Tolstoy makes a lot of reference to the Crimean war and how it influenced his characters. Even Dostoevsky has set his novels firmly against the backdrop of a fast modernizing Russian society. And as to ‘Jane Eyre’, this work is also firmly rooted in realism and gives a  penetrating insight into human psychology and is not divorced from the reality of its time. It just begs the question what is a writers responsibility towards his craft. 

cinema

I have heard it so often, particularly from some of our moronic Indian film makers that cinema is only about entertainment and nothing else. I agree in so far as it is important to tell a good story in an entertaining fashion, to suggest that it is only about entertainment would not be doing justice to cinema’s potential in being the agent of change. We also tend to forget that the world over, cinema is also one of the many forms of art.

Even if we accept that the language of cinema will always be couched in terms of mass entertainers, the grammar of it has to reflect the reality and zeitgeist of our times. No matter how much we pat ourselves on the back, Indian films have a long way to go before they find a place in the consciousness of mainstream western audience. We will be able to do that if we tell engaging stories that are rooted in our soil and reflect the reality of our society, told in a matter of fact way without descending into the mire of excessive melodrama. As long as we keep churning out arriviste, rootless and living in a kind of cuckoo land kind of mindless drivel, the wider world will not take Indian cinema seriously and we will be happy with odd praises in some third world markets and delude ourselves that we have truly arrived. The visual medium is a powerful medium and we must use it to communicate our vision for change and progress in society. At the moment barring a few honorable exceptions, most of Indian film makers are content to wallow in the cesspool of mediocrity and therefore sinking to a new level of ignorance.  

Acid is their blood

Acid is in their blood and it is corroding their humanity from within. Just imagine a scenario and it could be as real as anything. There is a girl in her early teen and she is constantly teased and harassed by a few of the boys in the neighborhood whenever she is on her way to a coaching classes or school or marketplace, it doesn’t matter where or what time of the day or night it is. She is forced to endure this because if she makes too much noise about it, she will be branded ‘’loose’’ and said to have invited it upon herself somehow. This mental agony is distorting her personality even as the harassment on the part of those ruffians keeps getting worse. One fine day as the usual situation of brazenness and helplessness unfolds, something snaps. The young girl gives the stalkers a piece of her mind and the normal order of things is disturbed, that is of power and submission, hunter and prey. Hurt ego perceives the big ego and decides to set the record straight. And how does he do it? He calmly walks into your local hardware store and buys a bottle of acid for Rs. 20 and lies in wait. At the appointed hour, the target is on her way and he suddenly emerges from the back alley and starts following her. The opportune moment arrives and he has her cornered, before she realizes, there is a splash on her face. The moment freezes, and then there is blackout and searing pain and then, only all encompassing numbness born out of hopelessness.

The above mentioned is not my lousy attempt at pulp fiction but a dark fact of life being enacted in many cities and towns of India,  big and small. Even the law is not your best ally in times like these because acid attack is a non cognizable offence in India, that is, it is easily bailable with maximum punishment of three months for ruining somebody’s life. And I don’t even want to go into the attitude of the Police for it would take another full piece altogether. But I would like to make a larger point about what does it tell us about a society and as people. The easy availability of acid is only one part of the menace, the deeper issue concerns about the kind of value system we are imparting to our male children and young boys for make no mistake, these same young boys today will be tomorrows adults. This streak of misogyny has to be nipped in the bud. This misogyny implies that it is all right to assert your power and masculinity over women and young girls. The conspiracy of silence and warped notions of shame cannot be given as a tools in the hands of these sick minds to get away with scaring young women for life both figuratively and metaphorically. To every growing up man, it has to be instilled in their mind, not only respect and non judgmental attitude but also the fact that as a person, you can only woo, acceptance is entirely in her hands. Her autonomy on her person and her body is inviolate. When will we be able to pull this acid out of our vein?          

politics & country

After a lot of heartburn and white noise, the parliament is going to debate on the advisability or otherwise of allowing foreign direct investment in multi brand retail. In a vibrant democracy, debates like these should be a matter of course for it is imperative that every public policy is thrashed out by our elected representative in an informed discussion and a modicum of consensus reached to reflect the will of the people. But to anyone who has observed the trajectory of Indian politics, it would be apparent that this is far from the case. Just to oppose everything for the sake of opposing, evoking so called national interest at the drop of a hat even when they know that they are being less than honest in their dealings and only trying to score cheap political points, have been the hallmark of our politics in recent times.

To say that politics in India has over the years, become dysfunctional would be a gross understatement. Politics at its heart is a battle of ideas, a way to bring your opponent around with the conviction of your argument. But what it has come down to is constant noise, filibuster and rabblerousing. What I also find curious is that the politicians never tire of reminding us the virtues of democracy, as if we the humble masses should be grateful about their benediction. Yet at the same time they themselves are defying every tenet of it. As far as they are concerned, democracy means we should keep voting for them in a herd after periodic intervals and once elected, they can go back to their merry ways of cutting deals, lining their pockets and mouthing platitudes, not to mention seeking rent. The irony of it all is that everybody knows what is needed to be done but the inertia and indifference have paralyzed them to the point that their phony concern about national interest is becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy! The question to be asked not only to the ruling classes but also by us is that, do our politicians or we the people have any serious stake in the future of India or will this absurd pantomime will keep getting enacted over and over again.      

nothing special about SHOLAY

I know this will sound blasphemous to the film buffs considering ‘Sholay ’ enjoys cult status among the list of memorable hindi movies. But for the life of me I have never been able to get what all this fuss is about. What is so remarkable about a movie, a kind of curry western the likes of which Hollywood has been producing for ages. Some experts also talk about how ‘Sholay’ redefined the technique of film making in India which was not great in any case up until the arrival of this movie on the scene with its sweeping camera work , good sound track and sharp editing combined with some good melodramatic acting. But that is about it.

When it comes to the actual plotting and script, it did not break any new ground, it was still a story based on vigilante justice in a back of the beyond kind of village where the writ of the law did not run, where bumbling cops are in awe of a comically menacing bandit, where a moronic jailor does not know how to mind his prisoners and two out of luck small time criminals see a shot at redemption by helping a victim of the terror unleashed by the bandit, to bring him to justice wild west style.

It also perpetuates some of the worst stereotype about the issue of gender and what it means to be a widow in a feudal society when we see the character played by Jaya Bhaduri where she is widowed at a young age falling victim at the hands of Gabbar Singh but can’t give voice even once to her feelings for the new arrival of a compassionate man in her village who also has a feeling for her and both are forced to suffer in silence right till the very end when the man dies without having ever spoken to each other. The underlying implication being that it is just not right for an Indian woman to have any tender feeling for another man once your husband is no more. I am willing to concede that ‘Sholay’ is a watchable and entertaining cinema but it is far from the kind of film that it is made out to be.

'Feelin kinda blue'

Music is food for the soul. But for me it has always been much more than that. It has the power to touch at the very core of who I am as a person, as a human being. Anything would catch my fancy depending on the mood that has taken over me. It could be film music, western music life country music or jazz, also ghazals, so you can say it is hard to know what will float my boat. Once I listened to ‘Pink Floyd’ and it just grabbed me by the throat I was mesmerized and transported  into a different zone. It was like you shut your eyes and there is a huge reddish ball of fire, something deep within you is stirring   , I don’t know kind of been there done that kind of thing. The thing about great work of art or music is that they guide you on well charted territory and yet you get the feeling that you are mining your own emotion and you are discovering yourself for the first time. Same thing with Sinatra and Dylan. I feel this is me, an outsider looking in like a character from Sartre’s novel. Cruising on a highway to hell with breakneck speed and then the mind plays another trick and it is hot and sticky and I am standing by my window on an upper floor and smoking and looking down on the march of humanity below. Oh what a beauty, it is so bloody unfair and I am in awe of her, what confidence and sangfroid, and then there is Miles Davis playing in the background and residue shaving foam on my face. What could have been, would have been, should have been, might have been, all these and more stream of consciousness sucking me in a whirlpool where I am mapping the terrain of desire and having a glimpse of my Camelot and Shangri la.