this is not a movie review

For better or for worse, India has long been the centre of attention for the rest of the world’s fascination with the ‘exotic other’. From the Persian rulers to European sailors, Arabian traders to hippie travellers, imperialist mercenaries to beat poets, India seems to have played host to an innumerable range of enthusiasts, tyrants, and money-makers, amongst others. Now, it seems, is the turn of western moviemakers. And why shouldn’t it be so? Combine a history of the west’s fascination with India, the ‘booming’ economy of the country, a society as complex as (if not more than) any in the world, and you can tap into an audience and subjects, the likes of which have never been seen before.
So what’s all the fuss over Slumdog Millionaire taking home top honours at the Academy Awards? Why all the talk of a skewed perspective of life in India – voices speaking from within and without? It has everything going for it: a universally appealing rags-to-riches story, a gritty portrayal of a rising nation, elements of that vastly entertaining (and mystifying) entity known as Bollywood, a great cast and near-perfect cinematography and post-production. In fact the film has even proven to be a real-life rags-to-riches story for its young slum-dwelling actors, who now have access to fully-funded education, a monetary return that is (relatively) pretty big and a one-way ticket out of slum housing.
Could it be that India is ashamed of its poverty? Yes (and it should be), but it’s a little too naïve to imagine that over a quarter of a billion people living below the poverty line hasn’t been noticed by the world. Was the portrayal of poverty over the top? Probably not, since the movie was shot on location and is backed up by years of proof about living conditions for the poorest in India.
What is true, however, is that Slumdog Millionaire will provide widespread entertainment, food for thought, cringe-inducing emotions, Bollywood-tinted elation, and ‘cultural insight’ in coffee shops around the world; and it’ll just as easily whisk through the imaginations of millions of viewers without creating a positive impact.
The film unintentionally desensitises the audience to the plight of the poor in India and around the world. It brings to life the vivid colours and the melodious cacophony of the Indian slum but can’t possibly bring the audience the feeling of walking on rotting garbage or the stench that surrounds you constantly. Neither you nor I can know what it is to be in a Mumbai slum for more than a few minutes. Yet, we walk away from the film empathising with its characters. Neither you nor I can imagine the kinds of things that occur to the children of the slums. Yet we can’t stop talking about their lovability and indefatigable spirit. This, then, is the failure of the film. This is how it manages to negate all the wonderful characteristics about itself. It creeps up on us with its Bollywood charm and Hollywood panache and makes us forget that slumdogs can’t become millionaires. It makes us believe that things are getting better or somehow will because humans are resilient. Resilience is all one has when all else is lost. Things are getting better for a small minority but the rest continue to watch from the outside. But it’s okay, right? Eventually they’ll get lucky and things will turn out fine. In the mean time, why don’t we discuss how slick the movie looks?

a year full of mamata?

With each passing year new year's day seems a little older than in the past. I don't know whether it's because I keep trying to hold on to the way I've always celebrated new year's eve/day but it's slightly disconcerting either which way.

The only new thing to report from new year's day was being woken up by a singing loudspeaker installed by the Trinamool Congress on the street outside my friend's house. I don't know what was being sung but none other than God could have been listening without a grimace.

Today's been better though. I spent a bit of time with my parents at City Centre and two young guys (younger than me that is) ran up to me and enquired about my t-shirt. I had on my Waters concert shirt and told them it was from the concert itself. What was nice was that they thanked me and wished me a happy new year. Even Mom had something nice to say about it. I hope they have a good year too.

And then at PC the CR Park crew came equipped with musical instruments to set up a singing-jamming session. It was quite fabulous. Imagine being transported to a riverside cafe on a cool evening with an appreciative and enthusiastic crowd. It's something I haven't really seen in Calcutta. The room was smoky and dimly lit, shadows playing off the walls, dancing with each other. It was like a scene out of a documentary about a band's roots.

A nice second day if not the best first I'd say.

A Hummer near New Market

A Hummer near New Market!

A Hummer near New Market?

Calcutta continues to throw up elements of a completely surreal nature. While riding an auto up Rafi Ahmad Kidwai Street I saw a goddamned Hummer jostling for space amongst the usual mix of autos, rickshaws, taxis and other cars. Why would anyone want to drive a Hummer in Calcutta.

Anyway, our auto overtook it soon enough.

after a few pegs

I spent a day or so in Delhi before making it to Calcutta and it was as crazy as always. Much of Saturday night was spent at f-bar because my friends found a way to get everyone inside for nothing. Over the course of the night I found myself sitting alone in the parking lot, smoking and looking at everyone leaving the place through some serious beer goggles.

Somehow I managed to strike a conversation with a certain parking attendant by the name of Jal Singh. It was obvious that he was really busy but maybe I was a welcome distraction from the hundreds starting to make their way out of the hotel. We discussed the fact that most people around there were in their teens or early twenties and were blowing up some serious amounts of money. Jal Singh didn't mind though. He thought if people have money it should be spent. Never at the expense of one's honour and respect though. And never to let down the family's name.

"What's wrong with a few drinks?" he asked.
"I like a couple of pegs before work too."

I didn't quite know what to make of this burly man with a moustache like a genuine Rajput but we parted with a hug and the night left with a little more to think about than usual.

evolution of self-centredness

For the longest time I meant to hold on to this space for posting bits of writing that I had worked on with some care, with some patience and always with an eye on my environment. Discipline is one mountain high enough for me. And so this space is evolving/mutating into a place for echoing thoughts.

Plus, I've given up on trying to be profound with the written word. It's not quite my cup of tea.

The fantasy of a traveller trapping himself

The lure of the world emerges in office cubicles, in college libraries, in dorm rooms full of monotony; it wakens from restless sleep and prevents the writing of final papers, steals joy from weekend binge-drinking and turns familiar faces into strange speakers. The urge to wander takes hold quickly but manifests itself slowly. The window at your library carrel becomes smaller each day, the world outside shrinks to the size of a postcard and you can’t focus on the next point that you should include in your exam paper.

Library research moves from class-work to a quest for tales of ancient travellers, many who travelled to where you were born and where you grew up, many from so long ago that their quaint ideals are often laughable. But these words etched into the moth-eaten pages, yellowed by the breath of time, still swirl before your eyes. To go where all have been yet to see what none have set eyes upon, hear ephemeral sounds and smell whiffs lost seconds after they emerged from hidden corners of the ground.

To dream, dream of walking forever, looking to infinity, waking to new things and remembering it all, letting the imagination twist into reality for once.

typewriter blues

Wake up, slam your palm on the electrical clock with its laser-like digits and curse the beeping sound that created a homicidal robot dog in your dream. Promise yourself that you’ll get a new old-fashioned alarm clock, the kind that puts you to sleep with its gentle ticking to replace this glaring, gleaming plastic monster.
Get ready and check your e-mail. Read the newspaper; maybe get into the habit of just calling it the news. Look away from the screen and remember the times when you would hold those large sheets of paper that rustled in your hands as you read about the world. Feel nostalgic and imagine how you’ll be explaining the concept of a newspaper to children, twenty years from now.
Finish up with classes and get almost magnetically drawn to your computer screen. Check your e-mail again and then Facebook. Think about deactivating your Facebook account. Shy away from doing it. Then, one day, take a deep breath, click on the Deactivate Account link and go through the confirmations and be Facebook-less. Two, maybe three weeks later return from the edge of suicide because of boredom and reactivate your account. Look heaven-wards and thank the gods of technology for saving all your account information and realise that you are but a slave to this machine that stares at you, unblinking.
Stumble upon your small collection of letters and browse through them. Relive the feeling of receiving a letter from your friend, who lives across the world, over summer and realise how much longer you’ll remember the two letters you got even though you got an e-mail almost every other day. Re-read the only letter your father ever sent you, the only time, you think, he actually spoke to you and how he wrote that he wished that telephones and the internet weren’t invented so that people still wrote. Make a mental note, promising yourself that you’ll write to him tomorrow and then forget about it because you sent an e-mail later that night.
Let your mind wander back to the day you were leaving home to travel across the world to receive an education and remember the odd, blue bag that lay on your bed and the surprise as you opened it to reveal a small, portable typewriter. Fish the bag out from the abyss under your bed and set it up on your table, pushing aside the sleek laptop from its place, place a sheet of paper in the typewriter and punch, punch, punch, let the words flow out of you, lend the words a part of yourself, sculpt, chisel, imagine yourself as Michelangelo, invest your entire being to create a piece of art to reflect your passion for writing, punch the wrong letter, grab the whitener and try to undo the mistake, muse on how the typewriter teaches you that mistakes can never just be deleted by tapping a key, breather, put the paper back in and punch, punch, punch, stop thinking, stop breathing, block out the music that your roommate’s iPod is churning out, punch, punch…and look up as your friend walks in and asks you why you can’t be normal and use Microsoft Word like everyone else.