RDB - Thoughts

**SPOILER ALERT**

Disclaimer: This post is not meant to be one of those controversial reviews of 'Rang De Basanti' that abound in blogosphere. These are merely my thoughts, as a member of the generation that supposedly 'awakens' in the movie. Oh, and it won't make much sense if you haven't seen the movie.

1. I wonder if the director wanted to create a youth movie or an idealistic movie. Perhaps he wanted to merge the two, in which case, the merging was not done very well. The first half is the youth part, with the sort of music that the youth likes, (though I must admit, the music is good - even a person as out of touch with Bollywood music as I am had heard most of the songs, albeit out-of-tune and badly sung by my unmusical friends) and the second half is the unrealistic, idealistic, stupid part.

2. Unrealistic, idealistic, stupid? Certainly. Noone but the stupidest would do what the protagonists in the movie did. There are people I know - Delhi University students just like the people in the movie - who feel as strongly about corruption and female foeticide and all the other issues plaguing our country, but they take out processions and marches. Yes, perhaps the processions have little effect, but then what effect did what the characters in the movie did have? Sure, at the end, they show interviews with college students, in which the tagline of a generation awakening supposedly comes true - but does anyone think that all these people are going to do anything? I feel strongly about India's vote against Iran. I don't think that we should vote with the US, never mind "enlightened national interest". But that does not mean that I'm going to shoot the External Affairs Minister. (Not that we have one at the moment.) Sure, the shooting of the Defence Minister makes for a good scene, but come on - it's unrealistic.

3. I really liked the camaraderie between the members of the gang in the first half of the movie. But I thought the parallels between the members of the Independence movement and these youngsters were too heavily drawn. Especially the Aslam-Lakshman bit at the end, when they die together.

4. And why oh why oh why was India Habitat Centre made out to be Delhi University? Isn't the DU North Campus beautiful enough for them? Did they have to go the rarified intellectual-snob air of the Habitat Centre to get enough privacy to shoot? It's an insult to the brilliant campus that we have that they chose to go elsewhere.

Other than that, though, the locales were spectacular. Where ever it was that they shot, the places were brilliant. In fact, I believe one of the places was Jodhpur.

And what did other people think of the India Gate scene? That a bunch of insensitive young drunks would find India Gate arousing their latent patriotism is something I find hard to believe. Perhaps it was meant to portray their insensitivity? The loud music, the exaggerated salutes, the drunkenness?

5. What was Om Puri doing in the movie, anyway? He was brilliant as usual, of course, but wasted, with about one and a half scenes to his name.

6. The acting was brillaint. And it's not even Aamir Khan - one of the few mainstream Bollywood heroes who, IMO, can act - who walks away with the glory. Every actor plays his part well; every character is brought to life - from the good-natured Aslam to the playful Sukhi to the sensible Sonia to the brooding Karan Singhania with his secret heartache, not to mention the Hindutva proponent turned actor Lakshman Pandey.

7. I was rather thrilled to spot a guy from my college in the movie. He appears in one of the early scenes, in which auditions are being held for the roles of the freedom fighters in the movie, and does a rather funny Shah Rukh Khan imitation. I guess belonging to one of the best dramatics societies in DU does have its advantages.

8. I probably ought to write this post again, with a bit more venom thrown in. Why do people feel that, just because they're young students watching a movie in a group, they have to behave like total clowns? The actor on screen says, "Mein apko kuch bataoon?" and there are shouts of "Haan ji, please, boliye." This happens in every scene.

9. I also had glimpses of the insensitivity of today's youth that the movie portrays. There is this sequence in which Rajguru and Bhagat Singh are holding a hunger strike in order to get paper and pens for writing. Rajguru puts their demand forward and is clouted mid-sentence by one of the British officers. The scene earns laughs from some of the audience. And that too not the sort of quickly stifled laugh that is a reflex response to something that the brain initially processes as slapstick, but is not; a proper belly laugh with no embarrassment, telling me that these people find it amusing that Indian freedom fighters got slapped around (and worse) by the Britishers.

10. This movie has been hailed by a lot of people as a watershed in Bollywood movies. I'm not sure I agree, but perhaps there is a need for such a movie in the context of India today. We do need to be reminded of what people sacrificed for us to enjoy the freedom that we are enjoying today. More than that, we need to know what it was that drove those people - patriotism of a kind that none of us shall ever know.

Ode to a Winter Past

It's starting to get light earlier. The light rays seeping into my room make my brain all confused and it's waking me up earlier and earlier. It's rather amusing to wake up a couple of minutes earlier every day.

Anyway, it's official now - I like Delhi winters better than Delhi summers. Especially when they're like the last one was - cold, but sunny. I love it when it's cold and sunny. You can do all the things that make winter fun - open the windows wide and sleep in the sunshine, sit on a green lawn and bathe in the sunshine, hug yourself against the chilly wind and still see the trees sparkling in the sunshine. I like that.

But I like fog too. Not that we saw much of it this year, thankfully. But fog reminds of chilly shivery mornings waiting for the school bus, with desultory conversation about how freaking cold it is and the knowledge that it will be even colder in the bus with its broken windows.

Considering the way the Delhi summer behaves, it's a wonder anyone could possibly have a debate over whether winter's better than summer. But I don't like the darkness that winter brings. I guess I'm a morning person. Wait, no, I'm not - I hate getting up in the morning. So I guess I'm a late morning-early afternoon sort of person. As it gets later and later, my energy levels go down more and more. So I prefer it when it's properly light by six and when it's still light at seven in the evening. But that is the only thing I like about summer. Plus being able to wear light cotton instead of heavy wool, of course.

So I'm slightly sad that the winter is ending. Delhi breached the thirty degree celsius mark this week and I guess the temperature is only going to keep climbing. And it's only February as yet, for God's sake! It's maddening to watch the summer coming closer and closer and imagine with a shudder the travelling in the heat and the sweat and the over-brightness. I wish the current weather would go on all year around.

In Which I Prove That I'm Loony

It's wierd how things that happened a long while back and which you hadn't even thought of for ages can have an effect on you.

Today, on my way home after a truly horrible exam, I boarded bus no. 604, going to Vasant Kunj. It was a DTC bus and there were plenty of seats.

So I was sitting in the bus, minding my business as usual. An old man was snoozing on my left, clutching a black bag tightly to his chest. His head drooped down periodically. A window with a broken pane in the front part of the bus allowed in the chilly wind. The bus was unusually quiet, possibly because everyone was busy shivering.

A red and black Adidas bag lay next to my feet. I was thankful for its presence, because it ensured that anyone walking to the front of the bus wouldn't pass too closely to me, if you know what I mean. I assumed that it must belong to my snoozing copassenger.

A young guy sitting on the seat on the opposite side of the aisle took it into his head to stare at me. I looked away to avoid his eyes and the Adidas bag caught my eye again.

It was a nice bag, good-sized and well-filled. I wondered what Sleepyhead had in it.

Soon, Sleepyhead got off. He didn't take the bag with him, though.

That was when I started to get worried. The bus was half empty and Young Guy and I were the only people for about three rows. There was nobody else that the bag could possibly belong to. Young Guy seemed quite unconcerned about the bag; he was whistling cheerfully to himself and anyway, if it had been his bag, wouldn't it have been on his side of the aisle?

At the next stop, a couple of Army men boarded the bus and sat in the seat in front of me. They didn't even look at the ownerless bag. I suddenly realized that, to other people, the bag must look like mine, since I was sitting right next to it.

I stared at the letters painted onto the seat in front of me:Aapke seat ke neeche dekhiye. Lawaris vastu bam ho sakti hai. Turant shor machayiye. Inaam payiye. I remembered how I'd made fun of these words a couple of times and how I'd promised myself that I'd never do so again.

Should I raise the alarm, I wondered. But how foolish I would look if it turned out that the bag belonged to some guy sitting at the back of the bus. I didn't have the guts to do that, I decided. And anyway, the bag was probably absolutely harmless.

I wished the bus would go faster, so that I could get off the bus and stop obsessing over the bag.

But suppose I was right? Suppose the bag contained a bomb and it was even now ticking down to an explosion? I tried to imagine the explosion and all I could summon up in my mind was some yellow-orange colour. It suddenly came to me that, if I was right, I would never get to know. Because I would have ceased to exist.

It's an unsettling thing, you know - imagining one's sudden erasure from the world. We all survey the world from our own viewpoint and that viewpoint has certain parameters, things that you take for granted. The existence of self is one such. And to imagine the non-existence of self - why, that's contradictory, because how can you imagine, if you don't exist?

Like I said, it's unsettling. Which is not to say that it doesn't have its good points. Everything seems clearer suddenly, better defined. You suddenly notice the man sitting in the front seat with trousers so short that the tops his socks are showing. His raucous laughter isn't background music anymore, it's right there inside your head, mocking you.

I imagined him ceasing to exist and it was rather pleasing. At least his laughter wouldn't hammer its way into my head. But I suddenly realized that he probably wouldn't cease to exist if the bomb went off, because he was sitting at the front of the bus and would probably escape with extensive burns. And with that realization, it hit me that I would much prefer to live - even with burns - than to die and that it would be better for me to shift to the front of the bus so that I would be away from the blast. This also had the added advantage that the conductor would realize that it wasn't my bag and then it would be labelled lawaris vastu.

So, feeling very pleased with myself, I shifted to a seat right in the front of the bus, almost next to the door. So what if it brought me closer to the man and his laughter? I would be away from the bomb. After a while, I chanced to look down and - Aargh! - the bag was right there, next to my feet!

"It's determined to kill me," I thought fatalistically, staring at the bag in horrified fascination (the cliche is very apt here). I wondered why no one else had noticed that the bag had followed me all the way to the front of the bus. I wondered if I was going crazy.

Suddenly, the bag shifted. A hand had come out of nowhere to grasp it. After the initial mental recoil, my eyes followed the hand up to the shoulder and from there to the eyes of Young Guy, who gave me a winning smile. I didn't smile back.

Young Guy got off the bus at the next stop with his bag.

HP4

(Read on only if you're a Harry Potter fan. Possible spoilers, but what the hell, you'll know the story anyway.)

Ever since the first movie released, I've been wondering about the fourth one. The fourth book is the first of the long ones and I was rather curious to see how they would manage to fit in everything. Well, I got my answer yesterday.

The 1550 show at PVR Priya, and the people milling around are mostly kids; a couple of grownups hover around, clearly uncomfortable among the chattering teenage crowd.

The beginning of the movie brings a huge reaction from the audience. Whoops, whistles and very obviously feminine screams, as if it's a red carpet show, and not a movie screening. More whoops when the title is shown, and you know that it's a movie they've been waiting a long time to see.

The plot, of course, we all know: Harry is in his fourth year at Hogwarts and must compete in the Triwizard Tournament, a highly dangerous tournament between the schools of magic. As for the execution of the plot, the script isn't different from the book at all; to bring in changes, would, of course, have been considered sacrilige by the millions of Harry Potter fans the world over, but having read the book more times than I would care to admit, I did find myself wishing that the scenes weren't so predictable.

The movie mostly does live up to expectations. The special effects are truly spectacular; the dragon, the lake scene, last task - everything is as it should be. Though the Quidditch match, after a brilliant beginning that had me wanting to shout and scream alongside the Quidditch fans in the stadium, is a huge letdown, if I may use that word for something that - well, you'll see. I don't want to spoil it.

However, if you ask me whether I liked the movie - well, no, I didn't. Where this movie lacks is in the atmosphere. They've obviously made a conscious effort to keep it dark, but somehow they can't quite capture that Hogwarts atmosphere that the third one portrayed so well, so that you feel like you're being led through all the important scenes, but there is no connectivity.

Also, of course, they've had to cut out some scenes. Which is justifiable, but they've left out such brilliant pieces of Rowling imagination as Winky, Ludo Bagman and Loony Luna Lovegood. And several of the old characters are missing - Dobby, Mrs Weasley, Sirius Black, and of course, our old friends - the Dementors. Hagrid hardly makes an appearance, and the Dursleys are not even mentioned. I would so love to have watched that Ton Tongue Toffee scene.

Other peeves: the graveyard scene wasn't scary at all - Voldemort is supposed to be sinister and snake-like, not loud and so - well - underwhelmingly evil. Also, whatever happened to the Parting of the Ways? Isn't that almost the most important part of the book? And Dumbledore, as usual, disappoints: there's one scene in which he literally shakes Harry in his anger - and that is NOT in accordance with Dumbledore's character, dammit.

What I love most about the Potter books is the history - Harry's parents, the family connections, Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. It's this stuff that makes the books appealing to me. And the movies can never capture that. Even the third movie, which remains my favourite, couldn't quite capture what I consider the most important thing in the third book - the bond of friendship between Harry's father and his friends. This movie, like the previous ones, does make an effort to give us an account of the past, but again, like the previous ones, it doesn't quite succeed.

So, yes, do go and watch it. Even if you don't like it, you'll definitely be mesmerized by the special effects. In fact, I think I'll be watching it again soon.

***

P.S. - Which country is that Krum guy from? Cuz, dude, if they make 'em all like that, I for one am moving to that country, he-he.

Aftermath

I heard of the bomb blasts the day before yesterday, an hour after they had happened. MS, TK and I were sitting in a CCD outlet about two minutes from my house, catching up on a year and a half's worth of gossip, when the TV suddenly showed images of bomb blasts and BREAKING NEWS started flashing on it. At first, only the Paharganj and Govindpuri blasts were reported. And then I saw that Sarojini Nagar had been hit as well. My parents called in quick succession, asking me where I was. It was only when they realized that I was within walking distance of home that they calmed down.

The TV presenter said that Delhi had been put on Red Alert. I looked around me, at the people calmly sipping coffee and chatting, at TK telling MS about the grand reunions our class has had recently, at the cyclists and pedestrians strolling by in the darkness outside and wondered what the hell Red Alert meant.

Sarojini Nagar market is sort of our neighbourhood market. It's the nearest of the major markets, and it's the place we go vegetable shopping every Saturday night. "Let's go to SN" is what my friends and I say when we're at a loss on where to spend a lazy afternoon. In fact, that had been my suggestion to MS earlier in the afternoon, when we were debating where to go.

Later, I thanked God for a lot of things. Thank God my parents didn't go to Sarojini that particular Saturday night, because they felt that the market would be crowded because of Diwali. Thank God MS didn't want to go shopping and we ended up going for a stroll. Thank God nobody I know is in that death list published in the HT today morning.

But still, my blood boils every time I think of what happened.

Sarojini Nagar is a wonderful market. It has none of the pretensions of upscale markets like South Ex or GK. It's the common man's market. Stores with branded stuff are rare; most of the goods are within most people's reach. What makes Sarojini the market it is are the hawkers and the encroachers. In fact, earlier this year, when the police evicted the encroachers, the market wore an uncharacteristically deserted look - what was the point of shopping when the only people you could buy from were the non-bargaining shopkeepers?

During Diwali - in fact, any major Hindu festival - the market is so crowded, you can hardly find space to move. All the shops put up pavilions outside, displaying their wares and adding to the chaos by taking up walking space. No doubt, this was ideal for the terrorists - high people density, lots of combustible goods, what else do you need for a good bomb blast?

But what makes me really angry is where the bomb was placed - near Babu Market, a part of SN that well-off people rarely go to. Did those terrorists know that this section would contain the happiest of the people, the people who were finally allowing themselves to spend the money that they must have saved for months so that they could celebrate this festival well? Is that why they picked it - to create as much shock as they possibly could?

I know that my theory is improbable - that poorer people can't have been deliberately chosen for death. But then why weren't the bombs placed in South Ex or GK or even Lajpat Nagar? Those places, surely, would be as crowded as SN.

***

Aapke seat ke neeche dekhiye. Lawaris vastu bam ho sakti hai. Turant shor machayiye. Inaam payiye.

(Look under your seat. Ownerless bags could be bombs. Raise alarm Earn reward.)

This is what is written on the backs of all the seats of DTC buses. I've made fun of this message at least a couple of times. In the light of what happened in that DTC bus near Okhla, what I did seems so ignorant and so insensitive. I swear I'll never ignore warnings ever again.

Random Thoughts on Reading

Has anyone ever heard of a phenomenon known as Reader's Block?

Yes, I know, lots of people suffer from Writer's Block. In fact, I suffer from it myself at times, though with me, it's more laziness than Writer's Block.

What I'm referring to is the inability to read. I haven't read a book in ages. All books look equally unappealing, and whenever I do steel myself up to start a book, I fall asleep before the end of the first page. It's very very scary.

On the other hand, I have started reading newspapers, which is a good thing, though I think that will stop once my vacations end. Also, I only read the editorials and the articles that come under the 'opinion' section. Not a good thing, because I ought to know the facts before reading the opinions that other, more learned people have formed from those facts.

I've tried everything to counter my Reader's Block, from trying books that have "Absolutely Unputdownable!" printed in bold on their front covers to actually sitting up when reading books. Which I really hate. I like lying down and reading. Years of being scolded by parents and hearing dire warnings that the power of my eyes would go down even further have not changed me one bit. Which is probably why my lenses and my specs have such unmentionably high powers. Actually, I like mentioning the power of my lenses, because I like to watch the astonishment on people's faces on hearing it.

I've digressed.

I've finally figured out, on recognizing the fact that I could read articles, but not novels, that I was suffering from a short attention span. Obviously, the solution was to read short stories. Which is why I'm reading Tales of Mystery and Imagination by Edgar Allen Poe. My copy has a rather beautiful cover. It's bound in dark brown, with raised golden letters. However, that's as far as it goes. I've already spotted a couple of spelling errors.

Hopefully, my Short Attention Span Syndrome is short term. Because I've got my hands on a copy of Captain Corelli's Mandolin. It seems to be a very readable book, from the couple of pages I managed to read before I falling asleep. It starts off with an ear surgery - a doctor removing a pea that has lain in the ear of a man for many decades - and what could be more promising and more - satisfactory - than an ear surgery? I haven't watched the movie, chiefly because I was under the impression that it was a purely romantic thing. The book seems to be quite funny, though.

Suggestions on antidote to Short Term Short Attention Span Syndrome are welcome.

Expectations

Last Sunday, I visited a couple of temples, after a gap of more than a year.

It was in the month of May last year that I'd last visited a temple, and that too because a friend of mine had suddenly found religion, thanks to the Boards. Not only did she drag me off to a neighbourhood temple the day before the exams began, the stress-busting walk that we took the day before the results were to come out also somehow had a temple pitstop.

Neither of the visits was particularly enjoyable. Why on earth do these North Indian temples have so much marble? That particular stone strikes me as very artificial and worldly, probably because of its overuse in rich people's homes these days. Also, marble gets damnably slippery when it's wet. It gets rather hard to concentrate on peaceful Godly thoughts when one is trying not to land up on the floor butt first. Or when its much more fun to watch the people nearby as they flail about, trying to keep their balance.

Not that I'm an authority on temples, mind you. I'm not a very religious person, probably because neither of my parents is. It's been ages since we carried out the mallu tradition of lighting a lamp at dusk and praying by it. My brother and I know no bhajans and no keertans. In fact, when I was watching that bus scene in 'Mr. and Mrs. Iyer' last year, I was wondering what I would do if somebody asked me to prove that I was a Hindu.

However, despite not being religious, or perhaps because of it, I expect certain things from temples. None of the crowd and bustle of famous temples for me, thank you. I don't see any point in standing in queue just to be able to file past the deity and catch a glimpse of a stone idol smothered in colourful silks. Nor do I see any point in praying to any particular version of God, out of the thousands that we have in Hinduism. Vishnu, Lakshmi, Parvathi, Ganesh, Shivji, Brahma - what differance does it make?

I have a fixed idea about what a temple should be like. Unfortunately, my expectations are rather high. You see, I had the misfortune of living in Thrissur at an early age. I say misfortune, because Thrissur is choke-full of beautiful temples. Which is, of course, a good thing, except that my parents, displaying an enthusiasm I've never seen in them since, insisted on visiting them all one by one. And they dragged me along.

Now, in case you don't know, Thrissur's temples are so many and so varied, that there's something for everyone. You just have to fall in love with at least one of them. My favourite was the exquisite Vadakkunnathan. I have memories of walking barefoot inside the temple compound, the wet stone beneath my feet, breathing in air moisture-laden from the previous night's rain. Even then, aged eight or nine, knowing nothing of the temple's history or even which deity was which, I felt at peace.

Since then, no temple has come close to fulfilling that need in me. I need a temple that offers me sanctuary and allows me to think, to reflect. I need quiet. I need temples made of rough stone, with simple stone idols that are not revered as Gods, that are present only to act as points to focus on. I need temples with plenty of space to walk about in and maybe a couple of banyan trees to sit under and think.

I need temples that give me peace. Isn't that what they are supposed to be for, after all?