Dhobi Ghat

Movies have always gratified the basic human curiosity to peek into the lives of other people; they are vehicles of visual pleasure, albeit in a voyeuristic way.

The characters in Dhobi Ghat cater to the same standards of voyeurism to which we ourselves as viewers subscribe.

The NRI girl wants a ringside view of the 'real India' and the dhobi is her tool to connect to that space. This is not an outright exploitative relationship but just the way things work out in our class based society. Westerners might like to fancy themselves as classless and liberal but boundaries are drawn at a subconscious level - so while hanging out with the Dhobi is a cool thing to do, a relationship still remains out of bounds.

The reclusive painter peeks into the life of a Mumbai housewife, her private letters. He euphemistically calls her a muse for his art. He stumbles into her joys and also her unbearable sorrow.

All the threads in the movie crisscross and are tied together by strong visuals and visual media (photographs, video tapes, paintings).All the actors have done justice to their roles,though I would have preferred to see a lesser known face in Amir’s place. In the end each of the characters is scarred by their experiences. They are angst ridden- for it is impossible to be a passive observer.

Only the Maximum City can afford the luxury of watching unscathed from a distance and then moving on, or perhaps even the city is transformed a wee bit every day by the joy, banality, sorrow and surge of lives that it witnesses.

Kiran Rao in her first movie is refreshing and bold. Subtlety has never been a trait of Indian Cinema but perhaps it is time to hail the new order now.

The new social butterfly

What is it about the ever-proliferating social networking sites that makes social butterflies of the most unusual suspects amongst us? The virtual world seems to offer a safer haven for socializing without having to worry about the drawbacks that might hold us back in real life situations. In that sense the virtual world is indeed more accepting and forgiving of our flaws. Moreover, it is not limited by any geographical constraints. The whole world is our oyster now. Its a virtually limitless media for sharing our thoughts and voicing our opinion.

However, as might be suspected, there is a downside to it. There is an information overkill. We find ourselves bombarded with information that we do not need or care about. What your ex-batchmates had for lunch...how they take glamorous vacations...how they spend their evenings..the status of their relationships, professional success and so on. And some of these, might be people you have actually tried to lose touch with !
To think of it; its wholly possible to fake things in the virtual world. And I would like to think that some of them are faking it!

On The Road

Shunning materialism and ambition and setting out on the road to self-discovery, to treasure and immerse oneself in life's myriad experiences and the longing for freedom is a fine premise for a book. But unfortunately Jack Kerouac's literary style or lack of it and his rather naive outlook on certain facets of life keeps this book from being a great read. The 'Beat Generation' as Kerouac calls it, is a group of kids from the industrialized or developed world who feel disillusioned with the American Dream and set out to find meaning in life. However their attempts at finding meaning through cheap kicks and risks and trying to get under the skin of other people (namely Mexicans and African Americans) is a sad commentary on how the dominant culture, in its self-importance, patronizes the major world and cultures about which it has little understanding.

His romanticism about the lives of poor people, African Americans or other colored people seems to stem out of incomplete understanding about the ground reality, of seeing things on the surface the way you want to see and refusing to look deeper. This is the point of view of a man, who being born in the right (privileged) part of the world with the right color of skin is gracious enough to appreciate the children of a 'lesser' God. The book is fraught with such oversight. The characters in the book want freedom, but refuse to acknowledge that freedom comes with responsibilities. Women are relegated to the background and are not more that objects for Dean or Sal. They are in a hurry - images of death on their heels haunts them and even before the experiences from one trip can be distilled out they rush off on a second one and this goes on endlessly. Sal's devotion for Dean that borders on infatuation reminds me of the days in school when everyone wanted to follow the so-called 'IT' crowd. Whatever the cool guys did was right and fun and everyone just wanted to be with them. I was under the impression that this was a trait typical to adolescence but Kerouac's Sal has carried it much further into adulthood in a Peter Pan-ish way.

To be honest I might have enjoyed the book much more had I read it as a teenager, when wander-lust and adventurousness of spirit would have covered up for other lacunae and naivete in the narrative. Truman Capote dissmissed Kerouac saying "That's not writing, that's typing." That that might be a little harsh but then probably 20% of the book is filled with sentences like "Hey man dig that" in its different avatars.

This book might be an anthem or an eye-opener for the people of the dominant culture but it surely does not carry a universal appeal.

Do you have a minute...

"Would you care to buy our new Tiger Pack" chimed Mr Salesman. He was sharply dressed had sparking white teeth and a shiny little laptop.

"The full Tiger Pack costs 13400$ and includes:

• A five months old female tiger
  
• The original HELLO TIGER guide
• An IVORY collar (ext. value: $1200)
• Three tiger toys (ext. value: $160)

And for being our 100th customer I can cut you a deal and offer a 15% discount on the price, just for you." He worked the figures on his laptop and flashed a perfect smile.

"So what if you have a boring life, this new unique pet with its jingbang will resurrect all that, it will let you have a second shot. You can walk the park with your little cub. Just imagine the interest you will generate. People will fall over each other to look at you and your new found feline grace. And women....they are sure to swoon....the metrosexual, animal loving tiger owner, now that would be something."

"No, does that not hold your interest? Then perhaps I have the right thing for you."
With a cheeky smile he signaled towards the poster on the back wall. "A 22 year old woman is selling her virginity, auctioning it to the highest online bidder".

"Ah..come on. You cannot afford all this. I know just what you need- A pre-approved loan from a Bank of your choice, or atleast a Credit Card. You cannot let all this pass by. The Sale ends today!"

"Well atleast take home this new phone connection. Make no down payment, just send an obscene number of SMSes. You could be up on the IPL dais giving away prizes, rubbing shoulders with the likes of Dhoni and Warne."

"What! You do not want any of that!? The new age Gods have risen and you refuse to pay obeisance. No wonder your life is such a drag, and you even refuse to take a shot at a Second Life. What will you do when an SMS decides the course of people's lives on a reality show? You can only be a mute spectator. Well I am sorry but I am not sure how long the likes of you can hang on to the old ways." He shook his head grimly, spared a foreboding second glance and then he was gone in the blink of an eye.

"I have deals to sell, targets to meet and miles to go before I sleep."

Chapter 2

The quaint little platform was deserted at this early hour except for Malay, a tea vendor and a wet baby monkey, which had lost its way perhaps. Malay stretched his lanky frame on the bench, his clothes were drenched and the cut on his forehead kept throbbing. He was thankful for the tea vendor, the strongly brewed tea was just what he needed. The great Indian monsoon had ensured that his train would be delayed by another four hours. His rucksack had gotten wet on the way to the station. He opened it to make sure the documents were still dry. The plastic covers had done a good job in keeping the papers safe, everything else was damp. He squirmed at the thought of soggy packs of gajak stuffed between his dirty clothes. Nirmala made sure he never left Ittara without some snacks for his journey back to Kolkata. Her determination veered on stubbornness sometimes.


It was a similar rainy morning in June, a few years back when Malay announced to his parents his resolve to go into the publishing business. 'I want to start a new magazine, the market is just right now' he had declared. His father was the Principal Secretary - Urban Development in their small town and his mother was a professor of Hindi at the Hill University. They had expected Malay to follow in his father's footsteps or at the very least to complete his engineering education and get a comfortable job.

Malay's mother did little to hide her dismay. In fact she had launched into a full blown tirade punctuated with tearful pleas to the Gods. Malay had trouble discerning whether she was more angry at him or at the huge bevy of Hindu deities. He could not help chuckling when she complained about the best quality Kashmiri apples she had them offered them for twenty-five long years and this was all she got in return. His insolence further infuriated her and she warned Malay in an ominous tone that a profession in publishing was not as easy as being the editor of his college newsletter.

The college newsletter was indeed where it had all begun. The biweekly had very little to do with news but had a significant contribution in the mud slinging game going on between different factions in college. As publisher and Editor in Chief, Malay was actively pursued by the leaders of each faction - the north Indians, the locals, the Gujjus, just about everyone. People wanted to be in his good books. Malay basked in the attention and the freebies were an added incentive. He decided that it was time to take it a degree further and get into the real world. Rub shoulders with the who's-who of the country and be sought after by them. At the age of twenty one confidence and self-belief were certainly not in short supply. He had a flair for language and could add his own twists to news to get the reactions he desired. The heady feeling of power was intoxicating, a much better high than the marijuana from Manjunath's shop could ever give.

Malay had grown up watching ministers and other dignitaries at close quarters. He was not tongue tied in front of them, he was not awe stuck by celebrity like most of his friends. But it was not political figures and current issues that Malay sought to pursue. His aspirations lay in reams of glossy pages with stories about the rich and famous, scoops about the glamor world, the possibilities were endless. This, wisely enough, he did not reveal to his parents. He did nothing to dispute the general assumption that his magazine would be of a political nature.

Malay's father - Haridas Bogate, assumed a more tolerant face, encouraging even, he had not forgotten his own frantic attempts at poultry farming in his early days. His initial resolve and enthusiasm had melted in the face of failure. Malay would be no different he supposed.
Besides he was a bureaucrat, frantic breast beating was the bastion of the politicos, his forte lay in having alternate plans ready for execution. He figured that Malay had about five years to dabble in the publishing business. After that hiatus he would surely be able to lure Malay back into the folds of bureaucracy, he would welcome the prodigal son. That would still give Malay another five years of time to crack the IAS.


Malay smiled ruefully as he thought of that day. He pulled out his pocket book and under the lines
"La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos" he scribbled his own version
"The same rain washes the same earth.
We, we who were, are the same no longer."

Chapter 1

Malay clutched the chocolate bar and his ticket tightly in his fist as a group of young girls squeezed past his aisle treading on his toes, as he hurriedly tucked his feet in. He looked around him, yes, his seat had to be the best in the auditorium today. Lakshman kaka would come in an hour to pick him up. Until then he was a grown man, on his own, showing his ticket to the usher, making his way into the semi darkened auditorium and then perching confidently in the big chair. Was he a little scared ? Nah that must just be the thrill, adrenaline rush as they called it. His hands were sweating and the chocolate bar had gone soft. He unwrapped the bar, the chocolate sticking to his fingers, and took a bite.

The minister dressed in flawless white took the stage. Even his shoes were white, offset only by his slicked black hair. Malay chuckled to himself, 'Ermine-man, that sounded fine he thought'. The minister welcomed the performers to their town with all the eloquence that he could muster and after what seemed like an endless speech, the curtain finally rose.
Malay jumped up and clapped, he could hardly wait for the show to begin. In the rush he dropped the half eaten chocolate on his feet smudging his new Nikes. Well it did not matter so much he told himself, the show was finally beginning.
Carefully he folded the counterfoil of his ticket and put it in his pocket. They would check again during the interval, he had to be careful not to lose it. People settled back in their seats while the Joker and the cycling parrot took the stage. This was followed by the tigers following the ring master's whip and whims. Malay checked the program schedule again, yes after another performance it was the turn of the Russian acrobats to take the stage. Today it was Dimitri Illyich who was doing the act of the human top.

Two weeks back it was the image of the human top on a hoarding that that drawn Malay on his way back from school. Traffic blocked his view but he was captivated by that one glimpse. Boys his age wearing bright leotards spinning around inside gigantic hoops, while others leaped high in the air from the trampoline. Yet another balanced on his fingertips. That evening Malay cut out the ad from the day's newspaper and put it inside his Geometry book. For the next few days he and Puran had spent the entire lunch hour trying some of those stunts only to end up with soiled uniforms and some bruises. Puran's mom had not given him permission for today's show. "These human tops will give you vertigo" she said. She had almost succeeded in stopping Malay too, but he was smarter.

And yes now it was the turn of the Russian acrobats. Malay's heartbeat quickened. A young boy about his age took the stage. He started off with what looked like simple tricks and somersaults but soon he started forcing his body into the most unbelievable contortions. Two more boys came onto the stage and started juggling with fire. Malay kept moving his head like following a tennis match making sure not to miss a thing. The music changed tempo now and the acrobats moved back a little making way for the human top. Dimitri was a boy of about eleven. He took the stage with the litheness of an athlete, a dancer. He had a big hoop in his left hand and with a flourish he set it rolling, followed it around and then in the blink on a eye he was in the hoop stretching his limbs like the Vitruvian man, a full stretch. The hoop miraculously kept on rolling around the stage in tune with the music. Malay willed the young him on. Dimitri's face seemed to be flushed from the effort and the concentration. Malay watched with clenched fists and a throbbing heart hoping that the 'human top's' hands were not getting sweaty.
Everyone was sitting up on the edge of their seat now. The tempo of the music quickened as Dimitri executed a perfect jump. Once more, twice, thrice and on the fourth jump something went amiss. His foot slipped out of the hoop and he could not regain his balance. He hit the floor head first. The auditorium went up in a collective 'ohhh'. Malay's throat felt dry, he looked at the Dimitri's face. The boy was looking abashed almost guilty now, he was not badly hurt though. Malay felt embarrassed for him, wanted to reassure him. What might be going on in the young boy's mind ? Would he get up and and start performing again, his hands must be shaky from the exhaustion and the fall. Or would he gather his hoop and take a bow with an embarrassed smile ? For a professional this might not be as big a deal as Malay was making it out to be. Before Malay could contemplate further four more acrobats came onto the stage with a trampoline somersaulting high into the air. The crowd was distracted. The spotlight fell on them now. In the background Malay watched a small figure picking up the hoop and limping into the wings.


Dimitri Illyich with his gigantic hoop and Malay Bogate, they belonged to two different worlds yet hadn't both been cast out of the circle of comfort in front of an expectant audience ?
So what does one do after vouching for non-conformance? Malay knew he did not want to slink into the backdrop, he had to pick up the pieces and try again.

The fine art of dissolving sugar in coffee - Karmic wisdom in a cup

Have you, on long summer afternoons, sitting in the comfort of you air conditioned office felt the ardent need for a cup of coffee? Not that one must be particularly fond of coffee for that to happen. The need arises simply when you have the watchful eyes of your boss on your back just as the biriyani you had for lunch starts having its soporific effects.

Yes I admit I have been assailed by such urges and have rushed cup in hand, to the comfort of the vending machine. But on many occasions after getting my cup of coffee and adding sugar (we use paper for this) I have realized to my horror that there was no spoon around, not even plastic stirrers!

Now that must be the work of some sadistic prankster or is it a health freak who wants to impose his/her health fads on hapless colleagues?
I like my sugar. There is a can full of it standing near the vending machine and I have a heap of it in my coffee. But ironically I must now be deprived of its sweet taste until the last over-sweetened sips of my cuppa!
Metaphorical almost of the long yearnings of life- getting what you want but not what you need. So then is it some philosopher who is stealing spoons to disperse some karmic wisdom ?

Well whoever it might be, I am not one to be outdone by such minor glitches. I have devised a strategy. One that will undo the work of health freaks and philosophers alike.
To begin with get some sugar into your cup (use paper for this or simply pour). Vending machines usually have a steam dispenser. So a get a few initial shots of steam in your cup and then shake the concoction with all your might. The hot steam melts into water and also dissolves the sugar. Now that you have the base ready you can get a shot of your favorite latte or espresso.
Lo and behold your perfect cup of coffee is ready! I know lovers of filter coffee will beg to disagree. But in a world where one is forced to cut down on ones needs and likes and fall in line with the rest, ingenuity is our only weapon and this is the best one can do.

As the wise old Mick Jagger says: "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need"