Saturday is the day I get to flee. And I don’t stop till I get to the place where I hide myself. The joy is as much in the running as it is in the reuniting.
The restlessness enlarges before it explodes:
Like the moment in which longing lovers embrace after a stretched separation, passionately attempting to defeat the reality that they must exist in separate bodies.
Like the moment in which the pressure releases, and the restrained coil unfurls into independence.
And like the moment in which a restored bird rediscovers its wings. And soars…
The unfailing sun is humbled by thin curtains, thick blankets and tired limbs. Clocks don’t dare disturbing dainty, delicate dreams. The transition to consciousness is voluntary: an unhurried, beautiful realisation that what’s coming is just as blissful as what is being left behind.
My rested body throbs with the energy of anticipation. I spare myself the obligatory morning meal and sink myself into the couch with a thick wad of luxury: large sheets of paper that would become redundant in a matter of hours, but not before immortalising the previous day.
Just as the powers of the mind begin to wane, the warm, familiar aroma of Mom’s cooking permeates the air – one of those precious things that transform a house into home. I take my preferred seat before the television, and as the delicacies are laid before me, one after another, I feed first my appetite and then my hungry, hungry soul. Every grain of the devoured meal disintegrates within, to spread the most delightful feeling of well-being and contentment. The satiated spirit liberates the mind, and the simplest moments on screen trigger uninhibited laughter and tears.
The pampering continues with an extended session of hydro therapy. Very few sensations compare to the one which is produced by hot water, when it ever so gradually washes away the weariness from the labour of the week gone by. Every little ritual is repeated in poetic slow motion, permitting the water to percolate to every corner and work its magic charm. The cleansed skin suddenly begins to breathe, exhaling a new found vitality that emanates from a complete healing.
I now find myself alone in my room, brave as I can be with just one piece of clothing on me in the form of a wet towel. The increased volume at which the peppy numbers start blaring from the radio is wildly encouraging. What usually follows is a rowdy demonstration of raw, unadulterated ecstasy: as ridiculous as it is exhilarating. It would never qualify as any form of dancing, but I couldn’t care less. Nothing is as uplifting as playing a complete moron, especially without a costume.
By now, I have attained a heightened state of happiness, with hours and hours of my most favourite thing in the world to look forward to: solitude.
It is best indulged in at certain special places:
Like the terrace of my home in our quiet neighbourhood at dusk. The world seems perfectly peaceful as little boys try to squeeze in another game of cricket before it is too dark to see the ball, and flocks of birds make their way back home before it is too dark to see where they are going. The sky turns a mystical orange as the calm evening air is stirred by an evocative voice delivering the azaan from the mosque down the road.
Like the mind of a great writer. It is the unforgettable smell of old pages that first casts a spell. And then it is the web of words, fashioned from the captivating imagination of a gifted storyteller or the infectious wisdom of an independent thinker, which holds you hostage. The enchantment prevails, as word after word transports, delights and enriches you.
And like the rhythm of a timeless tune. Nothing else can change the flavour of a moment as effortlessly, or enhance the quality of an experience as dramatically, as music can. It violates all physical laws as it stimulates emotions and creates energy out of nothing at all. It nourishes you, and breaks your heart. It gives you hope, and moves you to tears. It gives you a life, and a sense of everything it is not.
At the end of the day, I steal a few moments under the endless, starry sky, and engage in the endearing illusion of eternal companionship. It is a wonderful vision, but revisiting dreams that never come true only leaves you with that agonizing feeling of emptiness. So I quit reminiscing about times that never actually existed, or mourning the loss of my innocence, and quietly retire to a space where I can be myself: still, unperturbed and limitless.
06 July 2009
16 March 2009
Filth, Fate and Fortune
There are films and then there are films. Some are romantic comedies, and some are action thrillers. Certain others are period dramas, musicals or tragedies. And then there are the others: those that are so wildly original and distinctive that they do not belong to the boundaries of any genre. I experienced one such film recently: Slumdog Millionaire.
A modern, magical fairytale finds its setting in the grimmest and darkest spaces of human habitat that you can envisage. Filth, hatred, blood and moral decay form the backdrop of a heart-warming story of love and destiny, told with inimitable panache and confidence. I loved every bit of it!
No one can question the technical brilliance of the film. The cinematography is dazzling and the editing dizzying: perfect for Boyle’s style of restless storytelling. Rarely has a moving camera romanced poverty, heaps of garbage and narrow, crowded lanes so skilfully and stylishly. And then there’s the break-neck tempo of the film, which lends the narrative an unyielding energy and effervescence as it craftily weaves back and forth in time. Add to that the stupendous and rousing score of Rahman, and you have an irresistible cinematic concoction.
The screenplay is a smart adaptation, with a tremendous flair and flavour. There isn’t any great depth in the story or scope for character development and the manner in which everything falls into place so seamlessly is undeniably far fetched, pushing every conceivable limit of probability. But then that is exactly what gives the film the wonderful quality of an enchanted fairytale – the very reason it has become so universally appealing and such a huge crowd-pleaser.
And a large chunk of the credit must go to the person who has put it all together: the film’s remarkable director, Daniel Boyle. A film derives its form and character from the creative vision of its director and Slumdog Millionaire is no exception. Boyle’s uninhibited imagination and incredible conviction shines throughout the length of the film. And to be able to extract such effortless and memorable performances from its young actors is an amazing accomplishment as well (the performances of the three boys playing Jamal of different ages deserve a special mention here). The way in which the protagonist’s forced growth is mirrored by the meteoric development of the city was also a nice touch. Besides, what makes the director’s effort even more noteworthy is the fact that he is so alien to the land that he has embraced on celluloid. Danny, take a bow!
The film’s success has been exactly like that of the protagonist in its story: improbable. Slumdog Millionaire is by no means an unworthy film, but an essential factor that has worked in its favour is the dominant perception (right or wrong) of India among western and European audiences as an exotic land of corruption, crime and catharsis: notions which the story thrives on. But it is only an artistic work after all, and should be celebrated in that very light, instead of construing it as commentary of any form on India itself. It is therefore saddening to hear of criticism on this front from noted persons who are in the very same field. Equally surprising is the claim of the Indian film industry in its success, because Slumdog Millionaire is as much an Indian film as Chandini Chowk to China is a Chinese film.
Above all though, what worked for me was the simple message of the film. The cop questioning the boy learns that he is not interested in the money that he is seemingly chasing. After having won millions on the game show, Jamal returns to the train station, waiting for the love of his life, without a care in the world for the money. She returns to him, and as he draws closer to kiss her, the slumdog becomes a millionaire.
Miles away, the loveless life of his brother comes to an end in a tub full of money, after he whispers, “God is great.” He realises only too late the simple truth that his little brother had known all along. It is a sensational sequence that elevates a superb film to an unforgettable cinematic triumph.
A modern, magical fairytale finds its setting in the grimmest and darkest spaces of human habitat that you can envisage. Filth, hatred, blood and moral decay form the backdrop of a heart-warming story of love and destiny, told with inimitable panache and confidence. I loved every bit of it!
No one can question the technical brilliance of the film. The cinematography is dazzling and the editing dizzying: perfect for Boyle’s style of restless storytelling. Rarely has a moving camera romanced poverty, heaps of garbage and narrow, crowded lanes so skilfully and stylishly. And then there’s the break-neck tempo of the film, which lends the narrative an unyielding energy and effervescence as it craftily weaves back and forth in time. Add to that the stupendous and rousing score of Rahman, and you have an irresistible cinematic concoction.
The screenplay is a smart adaptation, with a tremendous flair and flavour. There isn’t any great depth in the story or scope for character development and the manner in which everything falls into place so seamlessly is undeniably far fetched, pushing every conceivable limit of probability. But then that is exactly what gives the film the wonderful quality of an enchanted fairytale – the very reason it has become so universally appealing and such a huge crowd-pleaser.
And a large chunk of the credit must go to the person who has put it all together: the film’s remarkable director, Daniel Boyle. A film derives its form and character from the creative vision of its director and Slumdog Millionaire is no exception. Boyle’s uninhibited imagination and incredible conviction shines throughout the length of the film. And to be able to extract such effortless and memorable performances from its young actors is an amazing accomplishment as well (the performances of the three boys playing Jamal of different ages deserve a special mention here). The way in which the protagonist’s forced growth is mirrored by the meteoric development of the city was also a nice touch. Besides, what makes the director’s effort even more noteworthy is the fact that he is so alien to the land that he has embraced on celluloid. Danny, take a bow!
The film’s success has been exactly like that of the protagonist in its story: improbable. Slumdog Millionaire is by no means an unworthy film, but an essential factor that has worked in its favour is the dominant perception (right or wrong) of India among western and European audiences as an exotic land of corruption, crime and catharsis: notions which the story thrives on. But it is only an artistic work after all, and should be celebrated in that very light, instead of construing it as commentary of any form on India itself. It is therefore saddening to hear of criticism on this front from noted persons who are in the very same field. Equally surprising is the claim of the Indian film industry in its success, because Slumdog Millionaire is as much an Indian film as Chandini Chowk to China is a Chinese film.
Above all though, what worked for me was the simple message of the film. The cop questioning the boy learns that he is not interested in the money that he is seemingly chasing. After having won millions on the game show, Jamal returns to the train station, waiting for the love of his life, without a care in the world for the money. She returns to him, and as he draws closer to kiss her, the slumdog becomes a millionaire.
Miles away, the loveless life of his brother comes to an end in a tub full of money, after he whispers, “God is great.” He realises only too late the simple truth that his little brother had known all along. It is a sensational sequence that elevates a superb film to an unforgettable cinematic triumph.
16 February 2009
Man is Mental
When an enraged father slaps his full grown son, the son cries not because the impact is physically painful. An ego is shaken. Self-esteem nose-dives. The real impact is felt deep in the proud chest, which becomes heavy with emotion, and then brims over and moistens the eyes.
Likewise, the scorching desire for companionship is hardly bodily. It emanates from the profound want for validation, affection and being needed. The comfort lies not in the touch but the impulse behind it. Intimacy is far more fulfilling and lasting than a hormone-fuelled adventure.
Same is the case with dancing, is it not? Physical attributes do not determine one’s eagerness to sway, bounce or spin to pounding beats. It is confidence, attitude, and mostly, just the indifference towards making a fool of oneself: all of them mere obstacles that exist between one’s ears. There is a good reason why it is said that if you want to envisage how a man is in bed, all you need to do is watch him on the dance floor.
Just as well, the real joy of sports is in the mind games. Get rid of the glares, grunts, guts and glory. Play them without the parleys, pride and passion. Contain the cries and the curses. And what you have left is not even a silhouette of the soap opera. The brain is, after all, the real battlefield: that is where all your strength and stamina resides.
Similarly, the greatest journeys are those that transport the mind. Think of the best books you have read and the best films you have seen. The greatest pain is also that which ails the mind. Think emotional atyachaar. Quite simply then, man is a mental being. Divorce the mind from his body and he is just another animal. His superior intelligence and unique ability to appreciate art, rhythm and beauty is what sets him apart from the others that populate this planet. He is capable of contemplation, comprehension, and above all, compassion. The others are just governed by the most basic of instincts.
We have defeated the deadliest diseases and cracked the most complex conundrums. We have built grand bridges and towering trophies of our talents. We have tempered the forces of nature and challenged all boundaries that have confronted us. We have landed on the moon and scaled space itself.
But alas, we are yet to conquer ourselves.
The most compelling irony is at play here - further evidence that a person’s greatest gift is also his biggest curse. Come to think of it, our ‘superior intelligence’ is also what has made us the stupidest creature on the planet.
Which other animal is as discontent and defeated? Which other animal engages in blind chases that last a lifetime? How many of us have got exactly what we wanted and still not been happy, when that is what we wanted in the first place? Which other animal has complicated his existence to such a degree that he’s all but forgotten this simple truth?
Wouldn’t you then say man is mental?
Likewise, the scorching desire for companionship is hardly bodily. It emanates from the profound want for validation, affection and being needed. The comfort lies not in the touch but the impulse behind it. Intimacy is far more fulfilling and lasting than a hormone-fuelled adventure.
Same is the case with dancing, is it not? Physical attributes do not determine one’s eagerness to sway, bounce or spin to pounding beats. It is confidence, attitude, and mostly, just the indifference towards making a fool of oneself: all of them mere obstacles that exist between one’s ears. There is a good reason why it is said that if you want to envisage how a man is in bed, all you need to do is watch him on the dance floor.
Just as well, the real joy of sports is in the mind games. Get rid of the glares, grunts, guts and glory. Play them without the parleys, pride and passion. Contain the cries and the curses. And what you have left is not even a silhouette of the soap opera. The brain is, after all, the real battlefield: that is where all your strength and stamina resides.
Similarly, the greatest journeys are those that transport the mind. Think of the best books you have read and the best films you have seen. The greatest pain is also that which ails the mind. Think emotional atyachaar. Quite simply then, man is a mental being. Divorce the mind from his body and he is just another animal. His superior intelligence and unique ability to appreciate art, rhythm and beauty is what sets him apart from the others that populate this planet. He is capable of contemplation, comprehension, and above all, compassion. The others are just governed by the most basic of instincts.
We have defeated the deadliest diseases and cracked the most complex conundrums. We have built grand bridges and towering trophies of our talents. We have tempered the forces of nature and challenged all boundaries that have confronted us. We have landed on the moon and scaled space itself.
But alas, we are yet to conquer ourselves.
The most compelling irony is at play here - further evidence that a person’s greatest gift is also his biggest curse. Come to think of it, our ‘superior intelligence’ is also what has made us the stupidest creature on the planet.
Which other animal is as discontent and defeated? Which other animal engages in blind chases that last a lifetime? How many of us have got exactly what we wanted and still not been happy, when that is what we wanted in the first place? Which other animal has complicated his existence to such a degree that he’s all but forgotten this simple truth?
Wouldn’t you then say man is mental?
04 February 2009
Between the Head and the Heart
There are no two ways about consequences that you do not cause. What’s handed out is what you get and what’s taken away is gone: you simply just have to live with it. It may not be preferred but it is, at the very least, a simple, guiltless conclusion. I would favour that every single time over inflicting myself with the torment of settling a dilemma of the cruelest nature – one that necessitates a choice between heeding to the caution of the head and pursuing the will of the heart – and then endlessly appraising its outcome in retrospection.
I greatly envy those who have it in them to relentlessly follow their heart without giving ‘logic’ a chance. And a large part of that envy is because of the way good fortune agrees with them. Equally frustrating is how some people can actually get their hearts to agree with decisions that they made without its vote. And then there is the third breed (to which I belong): people who constantly engage in the battle of the head and the heart. How does one choose between experience and aspiration? Or common sense and desire? Does one go by conditioning or instinct? Be ‘real’ or chase your dreams? It kills me everyday. Is a pessimist an optimist with experience or just a grumpy, failed man?
It happens at the store. Do you buy that shirt because you have always wanted to wear that colour or that other one because that is the kind you are expected to wear at the workplace?
It happens after graduation. Do you take that job that pays seventy thousand rupees a month with weekends off or do you grow a beard and set off to make those documentary films on stories you believe in?
It happens again. Do you marry that incredibly charming small-time singer who still makes you skip a heartbeat or that successful, boring businessman who can afford the best wine and vacations?
And again and again… every single day. There isn’t a dilemma when something pleases your heart as well as makes common sense. You’d do it ninety nine out of hundred times. And regret not doing it that single time you chose to do otherwise. Likewise, you’d lament going ahead with something that you neither desired to do nor could justify as sensible. In both situations, you clearly ought to have done or refrained from doing something. But it is when the strings of your heart and the cords of your brain drag you in opposite directions that you are tested.
On some level though, I do believe that life would possibly lose its charm if it weren’t for these distressing dilemmas. There is something about the agony and anguish that makes you feel alive. A perfectly content man who does not have any creases on his forehead is almost uninteresting. The state of being uneasy and disturbed contributes so much to the beauty of human existence.
And along the way, we slowly realise that it is neither our head nor our heart that has all the answers. They perhaps lie just somewhere in between.
I greatly envy those who have it in them to relentlessly follow their heart without giving ‘logic’ a chance. And a large part of that envy is because of the way good fortune agrees with them. Equally frustrating is how some people can actually get their hearts to agree with decisions that they made without its vote. And then there is the third breed (to which I belong): people who constantly engage in the battle of the head and the heart. How does one choose between experience and aspiration? Or common sense and desire? Does one go by conditioning or instinct? Be ‘real’ or chase your dreams? It kills me everyday. Is a pessimist an optimist with experience or just a grumpy, failed man?
It happens at the store. Do you buy that shirt because you have always wanted to wear that colour or that other one because that is the kind you are expected to wear at the workplace?
It happens after graduation. Do you take that job that pays seventy thousand rupees a month with weekends off or do you grow a beard and set off to make those documentary films on stories you believe in?
It happens again. Do you marry that incredibly charming small-time singer who still makes you skip a heartbeat or that successful, boring businessman who can afford the best wine and vacations?
And again and again… every single day. There isn’t a dilemma when something pleases your heart as well as makes common sense. You’d do it ninety nine out of hundred times. And regret not doing it that single time you chose to do otherwise. Likewise, you’d lament going ahead with something that you neither desired to do nor could justify as sensible. In both situations, you clearly ought to have done or refrained from doing something. But it is when the strings of your heart and the cords of your brain drag you in opposite directions that you are tested.
On some level though, I do believe that life would possibly lose its charm if it weren’t for these distressing dilemmas. There is something about the agony and anguish that makes you feel alive. A perfectly content man who does not have any creases on his forehead is almost uninteresting. The state of being uneasy and disturbed contributes so much to the beauty of human existence.
And along the way, we slowly realise that it is neither our head nor our heart that has all the answers. They perhaps lie just somewhere in between.
27 January 2009
That Wretched Word
From intoxicating exhilaration to piercing pain, and from overwhelming ecstasy to crushing hurt, the journey of experiencing that eruption of intense feelings that that special someone triggered within was simultaneously enriching and devastating. Every single inch of my existence stirred with the pleasure and ache of unifying with another soul. I was consumed in a whirlpool of unrelenting madness, so magical and shattering. The space between the highs and lows could accommodate an eternity.
I spread my arms wide and closed my eyes gently. I inclined toward the heavens and inhaled the elation. And then I danced the dance of joy. I floated above the ground, and walked on air in the companionship of angels. I drowned in the riches of affection and soared to the summit of bliss… glorious places where I felt a nearness of Him.
Surely this was His handiwork? How else does one comprehend the veiled rushes? Or the forces that made the light winds hum our favourite song and the drifting clouds form odes of bittersweet longing? Or the spell that breathed life into the stone I laboured with, through the years of my being before this birth? And the way it melted, only to brim over as tears and manifest a great healing?
Yes, the tears were the most persuading symptom. Everything else studied in isolation could have been somehow attributed to my general quirkiness. But their concurrence, especially in conjunction with the tears signified this was no ordinary happening. The strange episode was validating the words of countless poets and writers through the ages. Words I greatly appreciated but seldom truly understood. My fondness grew for all those songs that spoke of things that were not just imagination, after all.
But often in the same breath, passage or stanza, those very artists and intellectuals have described, just as eloquently, the complementary torment and anguish. And hell, that wasn’t just imagination either.
The subsequent tears bore contrasting characteristics. They first flowed in yearning and then in despair. The arms this time were employed in consolation around my whimpering body. Wrapping it just as tightly as an ardent lover once did. The heavens were, this time, summoned for mercy. But the angels had curiously gone into hiding. And I was reduced to a forlorn figure, staring into nothingness, reminiscing the past and fruitlessly dissecting how it faded into the present darkness.
Ghosts of the union haunt me in my solitude, reminding me of how lonely we truly are. Stumbling inadvertently upon a relic transports me, ever so briefly, to those glorious places again.
A note of that mystical tune.
A shadow of that sensation.
A whiff of the intimacy.
All spoils of an extraordinary unification.
My eyes close gently once more, and shed a wistful tear. Nothing compares to the sheer passion and misery of it… That wretched word.
I spread my arms wide and closed my eyes gently. I inclined toward the heavens and inhaled the elation. And then I danced the dance of joy. I floated above the ground, and walked on air in the companionship of angels. I drowned in the riches of affection and soared to the summit of bliss… glorious places where I felt a nearness of Him.
Surely this was His handiwork? How else does one comprehend the veiled rushes? Or the forces that made the light winds hum our favourite song and the drifting clouds form odes of bittersweet longing? Or the spell that breathed life into the stone I laboured with, through the years of my being before this birth? And the way it melted, only to brim over as tears and manifest a great healing?
Yes, the tears were the most persuading symptom. Everything else studied in isolation could have been somehow attributed to my general quirkiness. But their concurrence, especially in conjunction with the tears signified this was no ordinary happening. The strange episode was validating the words of countless poets and writers through the ages. Words I greatly appreciated but seldom truly understood. My fondness grew for all those songs that spoke of things that were not just imagination, after all.
But often in the same breath, passage or stanza, those very artists and intellectuals have described, just as eloquently, the complementary torment and anguish. And hell, that wasn’t just imagination either.
The subsequent tears bore contrasting characteristics. They first flowed in yearning and then in despair. The arms this time were employed in consolation around my whimpering body. Wrapping it just as tightly as an ardent lover once did. The heavens were, this time, summoned for mercy. But the angels had curiously gone into hiding. And I was reduced to a forlorn figure, staring into nothingness, reminiscing the past and fruitlessly dissecting how it faded into the present darkness.
Ghosts of the union haunt me in my solitude, reminding me of how lonely we truly are. Stumbling inadvertently upon a relic transports me, ever so briefly, to those glorious places again.
A note of that mystical tune.
A shadow of that sensation.
A whiff of the intimacy.
All spoils of an extraordinary unification.
My eyes close gently once more, and shed a wistful tear. Nothing compares to the sheer passion and misery of it… That wretched word.
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