Notes on Peepli [Live]

There is something incredible that happens as you sit watching Peepli Live (PL), another gem from Aamir Khan productions. You start to feel fat, bloated, ugly, dirty, ummm, .... corpulent. This feeling hits the peak midway into the film when we meet the skeletal figure of Mahto, the farmer who has lost his land & now keeps relentlessly digging mud all day on an empty stomach and under a merciless sun, to sell it for construction work . You have seen such Mahto's in previous films of rural exploitation by mrinal sen, shyam benegal and adoor gopalakrishnan, yet it knocks a hard punch again. Any filmmaker who can present a story or material that we are already familiar with and yet shake us so hard, deserves kudos and that is the least of Rizvi's accomplishments.

PL tells the story of Natha (Omkar Das Manikpuri), the dimwitted, ganja khor, younger brother of Budhiya (Raghuvir Yadav), both impoverished farmers living in one of the many hinterlands of our great nation where farmers' lives are held ransom to the gratuitous wishes of local politicians and their goons and the whims of a capricious monsoon. The family loses its ancestral land, though one look at the other farmers and you know the land wasn't that big a boon for them really; and through a curious mix of circumstances and very shrewed psychological manipulation by Budhiya, Natha announces that he will commit suicide as the government has announced a compensation of Rs 1,00,000 for the family of such suicide victims.  Post such sensational announcement, his suicide is touted as the first 'live suicide' and media channels from all across the nation swoop down on Natha and his family, and probe, poke, punch their way to obnoxious breaking news. As the media circus grows crazier and everyone from bureaucrats, reigning politicians to opposition members get involved, the once sleepy and dead village in Mukhya Pradesh becomes a hotbed of business. Corn stalls, sellers of 'Miss World' bindi , and candy floss carts range around the periphery of Natha's house. No one seems to care that at the heart of this drama is a very real & haunted human being who recedes deeper and deeper into a corner and loses all semblance of a living, breathing, individual. PL is not really about the scumbag that the media is or about political apathy to the nation's problems. It is actually about something that is dying, or already dead in all of us; something that was not supposed to ever die; the loss of which we cloak in an air of nonchalance as we cite our busy schedules and hectic lifestyle as the reasons behind such indifference. We watch wonderful films, read inspiring accounts of whistle blowers who pay with their lives, shed a few tears, write a blog and go get a drink.

PL has been labelled a black comedy, a satire and even been compared to Janey Bhi Do Yaron. The thing that stuck me as odd was that not once in its 2-hrs plus running time was i able to laugh as i do every time i watch JBDY.Thing is, there's too much at stake here; plus JBDY, while very distressing, delves about something that we have all had to accept fairly early on - the loss of integrity. But we haven't killed anyone! PL has at its centre a helpless human being ; one who, albeit an imbecile, is the father to 3 children and a son, a brother and a spouse. Sure his life is no great guns, yet it is all he has. You can't sit back and laugh as that life, the only one he has ever known, is taken away from him. As this theatre of the absurd unravels, you start to feel a strange constriction in your chest, you wish you could weep, but can't. In this, PL impacted me in much the same manner that Revolutionary Road & MDB did. These films leave a hangover that you struggle to shake off in the next few days.

What is really wonderful about the film is that even while outlining all the muck and dirt and corruption we have become so accustomed to, it never exhibits any self-righteous indignation, nor is the media a terrible conniving villain as in Rann or New Delhi Times. Like all of us, journos have their KRAs and KPIs to think of  and when TRPs decide your next pay hike or promotion, it doesn't take much pushing to cover sansanikhes stories like Prince-falls-into-the-well. The journalists in the film are not particularly unscrupulous, they have simply chosen to desensitize themselves in much the same manner a surgeon has to in order to perform his job effectively.  Which is why, when one of these journos does fall, that strange compression swells once again, yet you feel oddly relieved. Had he continued to live, Avinash (Nawazuddin Siddiqui) would have turned into another Mallika, another one of us.

I don't want to talk about the film's music or fantastic actors as much has been written about those things. But there is a particular scene that deserves special mention. Nawazuddin Siddiqui is that rare actor who can produce that slight crack in the voice that men emit when they are struggling to speak without breaking down, that slightly wet-eyed stare as they struggle to maintain their bravado in the face of events that scar them forever. He has done the same in a 5-minute scene in that eminently forgettable film New York where i first noticed him. He embodies all that was once alive within us and which we lose as we grow older. He reminds you of the wisdom of those old words - the good die young. 

Finally, a sense of immense gratitude to aamir khan for backing such films, for ensuring them the promotion that is PL's due, yet would have been impossible had he not been behind it. I'm an unabashed aamir khan fan and i can see many smirk at what i'm going to write next (D, jd, avi). To me, he embodies the life cycle of a successful man, one we must all aspire to be. He is/was a brilliant actor and now that he doesn't exactly have to bother where his next meal will come from, has branched out and lent his expertise to promote subjects close to his heart. It's not simply a TZP or PL that earns him my respect. This was the 1st actor who visited the jawaans in Ladakh before NDTV started carrying out weekly excursions with the likes of actors like urmila matondkar and sunil shetty! This is the very same guy who i have yet to see in a single yawn-worthy, forgettable ad. In an industry rampant with mediocrity, he is the epitome of quality (ok, am sure he signed Ghajini in a moment of amnesia). Salude Sir!

Devdas, the Shakespearean King and their Rights

I'm not a huge fan of SLB but you gotta give it to the dude: when he gets it right, he evokes the tragic grandeur of Guru Dutt. Check the above scene even if you think SRK is worse than H1N1 & the Afghan mujahedeen combined. C'mon, it's less than 2 mins!

When i first read 'King Lear', i was puzzled cause i couldn't appreciate any obvious tragedy in what happens to Lear. He's a cranky, selfish, egotist who doesn't really care about anyone but himself & gets what he deserves. But wait, let's not be hasty. The beauty of this great tragedy is not what befalls him, but what it makes of him. There is something deeply moving and almost spiritual about the way he changes once he has lost it all - daughters, the crown, dignity. Yet, never has Lear stood taller than in those scenes on the heath when he stands challenging the elements. There is something about being stripped of all your dear possessions that must shake the very foundations of who you are.

Devdas refers to something similar in the film above. He has been stripped of his village, his home, his beloved, and wonders when it will be his life. It is shattering if one comprehends that the man is left with no centre to define himself anymore. He has to start from scratch or simply perish. However, like Lear there is a bit of assertion left in him. The world gives and takes away temporal titles and rights. But, there are some unassailable rights which no one can take away from us. It is this right to his mother's affection that he speaks of. These are the rights we arrogate to ourselves to make meaning of our lives & cling to in our darkest moments. Probably what makes them so unique is that there is no expectation that flows from these rights - they are deeply personal & ours alone and you know no one can take them away. 

Tribute: Murli

So Warnie boy thinks no one will be able to beat Murli's record in test cricket. As much as i like Warne or admire Murli, there is something depressing about this statement. When you cap the range of human accomplishments, you are limiting freedom, you're limiting aspiration and all that makes us truly great. Anyway, only time will tell.

While statistics are important and a vital way of proving ones supremacy, they never tell the entire story why guys like Murli, Ganguly, Sampras and yes, even Sachin, stand out. HT did a feature on the number of times Murli was attacked by prominent fellow cricketers, columnists and even ex-stars of the game. From Nasser Hussain to Bishan Singh Bedi to Steve Waugh - they all called him names, ridiculed his 'throw' and all but wrote him off. Even when he was declared innocent of ball throwing charges in an independent inquiry, then Australian PM John Howard declared that Murli had been proven guilty of foul bowling tactics! How does one emerge from such mess and go on to record such feats? What about self doubt? What about the burden of being publicly shamed? Is this simply the magic of indomitable will or something deeper - a spiritual awareness, a deep seated knowledge that one must simply keep doing what one was sent on earth for? I dunno.

There's a wonderful scene in 'Dead Poet's Society'  - that wonderful film about  John Keating, an English teacher at a uptight Brit boys boarding school who encourages the hitherto over-disciplined boys to think for themselves, seize the day and try all the things they ever wanted to, before they finally find their place in the world. There’s a scene in which Keating leads the boys out into the school courtyard and orders them to start walking about. As the boys shuffle out, you can see some of them are unsure, some skeptical, some plain bored. Their strides unmatched, they walk around the school yard and then gradually fall into rhythm and start marching together. Keating asks them to stop. He explains how when they’d first started out, they were all trying to walk about in their own way but the power of conformity is so overwhelming that it seduces us of any iota of individualism and we fall into stride with others. He says, “Now we all have a great need for acceptance, but you must trust that your beliefs are unique, your own, even though others may think them odd or unpopular, even though the herd may go.” 

We spend so much time teaching numbers and letters and days of the week to our children. Hell, we even teach them about BT Brinjal and Swine Flu these days. But what of this? Am i able to make her understand that there is a world within her that is precious, private and no less worthy of consideration for being ordinary? 

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Self doubt is a luxury for the assured, for some it is a curse you live with every minute. Second guessing and pushing to better what was left undone. Sometimes words help:

"You are my angel,

Come from way above,

To bring me love.

Her eyes, she's on the dark side,

Neutralize 

Every man in sight.

To love u, love u, love u"

Freebie Junkies: on SOPs

So we celebrated a bharat bandh today. From the look of it, it’s been a spectacular success. Going by the reasons behind the protest, it seems we are a nation of freebie junkies. We frequent restaurants during happy hours and haggle about the free samples to be given when we buy expensive perfume at duty free shops. Hell, Indians even ask for freebies when they attend garage sales in the U.S.

We think we own the country by paying taxes and are entitled to an endless range of services and commodities in lieu of that. Such things as fiscal deficit, fuel subsidy and price rationalization mean very little to the average Indian. Which is why I wasn’t at all surprised when Khetia aunty mourned the hike in fuel prices and spoke in support of the bandh. They are small-time traders and have been hit bad. Her angst, though misplaced, is understandable. Those I cannot quite fathom are the educated, left leaning liberals. I had the opportunity to lock horns with such a character during my recent visit to Lucknow.

Bhaskar Chaterjee is an IAS officer and a distant relative; one of those hitherto-unknown influential people who you bump into at social gatherings and immediately note everybody paying obeisance to. I was in a spot of trouble with my return tickets and my uncle was kind enough to approach him for assistance which he dutifully offered. I was introduced to him and we kinda took to each other. On my part it was pure desperation as I saw him as a refuge from the endless introductions and hugs I was being subjected to. He had it even worse, poor guy. Also, without really being immodest or a snob about it, I don’t think apart from me and my uncle, there were too many people at the venue there who the poor soul could really talk to. So, anyway, there we were, strangers in a blind, two ships faffing by and all that.

We were chitchatting about this and that when the question of subsidies arose. I don’t recall exactly how but the question of free water to the Punjab farmers arose and predictably enough, I started to rant and rave. This has been a burning issue with me for a while and with media reports about the debilitating ground water levels, the ire has simply increased. He started off by defending the cause of the agriculturists as an exploited minority, but backtracked fast when I jumped at his neck with some Green Revolution facts. Point is, only an imbecile can uphold the Punjab farmer as a prototype of the Indian peasant. Bhaskar had conveniently overlooked the fact that the maximum number of Mercedes and Audis are sold in Punjab.

After arguing for a considerable period of time (we debated things like socialism and welfare state and Marx but that’s another story), the great IAS divulged that as a mark of his professional excellence, he had been given some land near Ambala which he’d leased out to a sugar major. So much for neutral perspective. But the encounter with Bhaskar has stayed on in my mind. If educated, prosperous, privileged Indians think they are entitled to freebies, why blame the poor?

On Love & Writing

One must begin pamuk’s The Museum of Innocence (TMOI) only after reading the marathon speech he delivered on the eve of winning the nobel prize in 2006. A few things jump at you Immediately after you finish the novel – how conducting a love affair is no different from the act of writing – both require enormous reserves of patience, both involve a mad stubbornness to never give up, neither provides any assurance of success, and both require a complete annihilation of the ‘i’. Indeed he defines love as nothing more than ‘deep attention, deep compassion’. Isn’t the writer also one who can bring himself to feel for all of humanity, whose tender heart encompasses the joys and sorrows of all those around him and gives voice to them in his stories? He pays close attention and lends voice to all stories – yours and mine. According to pamuk, “The writer's secret is not inspiration – for it is never clear where it comes from – it is his stubbornness, his patience. That lovely Turkish saying – to dig a well with a needle – seems to me to have been said with writers in mind.” Patience then is the key. I smiled as i read this, me the most impatient of all.

In my class 7 history text book, a section on the Dilwara temples in Mt Abu mentioned that so intricate and relentless were the carvings on the temples that it seemed as if the artisans never tired in their devotion to the task at hand, that they went to sleep carving and took up again when the sun rose. I was reminded of this as i read about kemal’s endless longing for fusun and the indefatigable energy with which he pursues his love, against all odds. He loses peace, friends, social standing and most importantly, is beset by doubts. Surely the writer is no different. No wonder pamuk says, “The angel of inspiration (who pays regular visits to some and rarely calls on others) favours the hopeful and the confident, and it is when a writer feels most lonely, when he feels most doubtful about his efforts, his dreams, and the value of his writing – when he thinks his story is only his story – it is at such moments that the angel chooses to reveal to him stories, images and dreams that will draw out the world he wishes to build."

Perhaps it is the universality of all our stories, all our experiences, that makes a turkish artist one of the best selling authors in the world today, perhaps that is the reason Dostoevsky still has the power to touch the soul of the 26-yr old assamese youth on the run for his naxal activities, or for the avid interest with which scores of readers still devour the dysfunctional ramblings of the jewish portnoy . In his speech pamuk says, “When a writer shuts himself up in a room for years on end to hone his craft – to create a world – if he uses his secret wounds as his starting point, he is, whether he knows it or not, putting a great faith in humanity. My confidence comes from the belief that all human beings resemble each other, that others carry wounds like mine – that they will therefore understand. All true literature rises from this childish, hopeful certainty that all people resemble each other.”

If we accept this simple truth that all our stories resemble each others, then there are no heroes or villians, no great love stories, no great tragedies. It is only the author’s skill, his prowess with words, his supreme powers of observation, his ability to empathise deep and long with his fellow beings that elevates some stories above others. All those who have read TMOI will instinctively know this as we come upon the twist in the end where pamuk mischievously introduces himself. Would kemal’s love story seem so compelling were it not for pamuk’s felicity with words? I don’t know whether to draw consolation from this knowledge or to despair. A world without heroes? Your love as futile as mine?

Cats and CNN-IBN Hero Awards

It was the annual day concert at D’s school today. I don’t much think of the schools in mumbai’s suburbs, having enjoyed some terible teaching experiences in them. Which is why I was pleasantly surprised when D announced one evening over a month ago that she was participating in a concert called 'cats' where their song was called skimbleshanks. As any T.S.Eliot fan will tell you, these simple words are enough to recall one very funny book – Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. The plot is fairly simple:

“Cats expands on the theme of wisdom by depicting Deuteronomy as the leader of the show's Jellicle tribe, providing comfort and guidance to the other characters. Deuteronomy also has the task of making the "Jellicle Choice" and choosing the cat who can ascend to the Heaviside Layer (Also spelled "Heavyside"). Much of Cats' plot is fueled by this; several characters perform and try to convince Deuteronomy to choose them. At the end of the show, Deuteronomy is kidnapped by Macavity and restored by Mr. Mistoffelees. He then persuades the other cats to listen to the outcast Grizabella, selects her to be reborn, and escorts her to the Heaviside Layer.” Wikipedia

Skimbleshanks, Macavity, Rum Tum Tigger, Bustopher Jones and Grizabella are some of the other cats, each vying with the other to be elevated to Heavenside Layer and be reborn.

Classes Jr Kg to Grade 3 put up the spectacular 2.5-hr musical. The sets were splendid, the costumes varied and imaginative, the selections from Andrew Llyod Webber’s music were thoughtful. Again, the whole idea of kindness and charity, even toward those who have once wronged us, is at the core of this musical. Grizabella, who is now old and repenting, wants to be given a chance to be reborn. In her youth, she was the most glamorous amongst the cats and was selfish, vain and proud. Now, realizing fully well, the transience of beauty, youth and earthly glory, all she wants is a chance to be accepted by her feline brethren again. You will not be dry-eyed as she sings:

‘Memory,
All alone in the moonlight
I can smile at the old days
I was beautiful then
I remember the time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again”.

(after the show, i rushed back home to play my personal fav - Streisand's poignant renedition of 'memory'. Listen to it, if you havent.)

I am not the kind of mom who celebrates everything her child does; somehow I marvel at mothers who can summon such degree of enthusiasm. But watching D roll in her railway cats act and again at the end move her tail to such gay abandon, I felt utterly grateful to God for his gift. I’m now searching frantically for Eliot’s book and we have both been poring over Youtube watching acts from the Broadway musical Cats. Much fun.

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I don’t much watch TV in India. The shows are pathetic and there are too many distractions. With D sleeping, the maid away and some free time, I was flipping channels when I caught the CNN-IBN Real Hero Awards in the evening. Truly inspiring, most of their stories. As Smriti Irani aptly put it, “Today, by making her (one of the winners) stand beside Nita Ambani and Sachin Tendulkar, you have given her respect and recognition.” Rahul Bose was his usual sensible self when he spoke of the invisible indian who keeps doing what he does in the hope that it does make a difference (how easily we say that no matter what we do, it won't make any difference.) nita and mukesh ambani were restrained and dignified; rajdeep was grinning like the baboon he resembles and came across as unusually pompous and grating; aamir khan was polite and predictable; jonty Rhodes elucidated on team effort by saying how he always tells the MI team that if every member stops a run each while fielding, they are that much closer to winning; zaheer khan was eloquent and dignified.

I don’t want to dwell on the winners as they all have fantastic stories to tell. You can explore them if you’re really interested. But sruti mahapatra, ramesh babu kushwah, uma preman and T Raja have stayed in my mind. What amazes me about these people is how truly courageous they must be; of what mettle must they be made of that they stand tall despite having suffered so many blows?

Two Bills, Two Stories

A friend and (one of the few martians who traverse the path of this blog) asked me why I hadn’t written/commented on the Women’s Reservation Bill. “What’s to comment”, I asked. Any Tom, Prick or Scary can tell you that Sonia Gandhi is one lucky lady; madam will be credited with ushering in one of the greatest legislative reforms of all times. Good for her. I have been tracking opinions, arguments, counter arguments and almost all of them make some sense. Even if I don’t support the Bill, I certainly cannot abide by those sanctimonious Yadav bastards (Mulayam and Lalloo) who have suddenly woken up to the exploitative measure of quotas.

The one thing – and forget talk of the Bill actually being regressive and manipulative, etc – that does bother me is this: according to the Bill all constituencies would be eligible for reservation on a rotational basis. What happens if a really able, committed male politician has spent the past 3 years securing and working for his constituency only to discover during election year that his constituency falls under the 33% reserved quota? Wouldn’t this ultimately translate into a loss for us, tax-payers and voting citizens who have professed faith in a Ram Naik or a Murli Deora only to have a Rameshwari Kumari or Puja Tripathi thrust at us in their stead?

Also, I think by now there’s lil doubt in anyone’s mind about the actual empowerment quotient of such reservations. One needs only to cast an eye at the tribals and adivasis of Bihar, AP, Kerala, etc too gauge how far SC/OBC reservation has benefited the intended beneficiaries. In this misguided thrust towards ensuring equality, aren’t we actually robbing our democracy of true and meaningful representation based on merit?

There’s something else that has been troubling me deeply. It’s the govt’s efforts to pass the Civil Liability for Nuclear Damage Bill. Understand that the Bill is imperative as foreign companies (American) have refused to supply to India the nuclear equipment that this country needs if it has to meet its nuclear generation targets. However, surely the way ahead is through negotiations, dialogue, and winning support from select groups rather than short-selling the rights of the country’s citizens? What the Bill purports to do is this: it caps the amount of liability that the foreign company will have to bear in case of a nuclear disaster, or accident. It caps the amount at Rs 2800 crore of which the company (foreign or indian, pvt or public) operating the plant would be liable to pay only Rs 500 crore. The foreign company supplying the nuclear machinery or material will be free of all liability even if the accident is a result of some defect or fault in the material or equipment being supplied by the foreign company. Even ex-attorney general Soli Sorabjee has protested against the Bill saying it flouts the fundamental rights of the “victims of accidents” under Article 21 of our Constitution. Earlier last year, novelist and NYT columnist Suketu Mehta wrote a precise and moving editorial arguing about the principle of ‘polluter pays’ and calling for Union Carbide to clean up the site of the Bhopal Gas tragedy and bring its absconding CEO Warren Anderson to justice. What is truly galling about America is the supreme indifference with which it arm twists its way to sail smoothly across the most trying situations and emerge triumphant (look at the way we were told to suck our thumbs in the David Headley extradition request or even the simple request to grant our investigators the opportunity to interrogate him.)

By proposing a cap on the amount to be paid in damages, are we not trying to put a universal price on human lives when it should vary from every situation, circumstance, degree of damage accorded, etc? When will we grant our citizens the empowerment they truly deserve instead of handing out these quota carrots periodically to stem the flow of discontent and simmering anger?

What hurts is not when the U.S. or other foreign nations wants to rip us for their benefits – that always gives rise to righteous indignation and anger. When our own government behaves in ways that are so openly craven, there is a feeling of despair and alienation so complete that one wonders what is left for any of us to continue staying here.