I've shifted!

Hello!

Alright, I know it's been a while and I've been a tad bit too late to inform you all, but I've shifted and moved on to a new blog. You can visit me here - fivesilverrings.blogspot.in. 

It would be great to see you there!

Love,

R

The Black Mole

A black mole,

Residing underneath my unshaven armpit

Grows.

Every time I lift my arm,

I find it sinking into the cavity

Of absolute darkness

And it grows

Like Darwin's child.

Every day

As I lift my arm,

My nose smells the stench of my body,

While m long, skinny fingers,

With a cigarette in between the vertex,

Reach out like tweezers

To squeeze out the mole

And it grows.

Like a worm in an apple.

I consider it a part of me.

I think.

Protruding from my skin

Like a pregnant body,

Stomaching zillions of bacteria and microscopic whatevers,

And

It grows.

And when I lie in bed,

Men slide down my underwear

Lift up my shirt

As I lift my arms.

And there it sits

Like my chastity belt.

Men.

They promise to never lift my shirt again.

(c) Radhika Iyengar 2010

The Dhobi Ghat

Dhobi ghat didn’t really sync with my definition of a brilliant film. The directorial debut of Kiran Rao, although promising, doesn’t urge me to stand in a queue to buy a ticket for one of her future projects. Given, it was a good first attempt, given it had misfortunate, almost eccentric characters pulled off the streets of reality, given it tried to intersperse and stitch several psychological layers and even introduce the concept of triangular voyeurism of some kind into the storyline, it still failed to impress me.

 

Take 1 - The film begins with immediately jolting the typical Bollywood masala-expecting movie goer by introducing its documentary, handheld style camerawork within the first frame. The audience is introduced to an unknown voice belonging to a woman, who is probably the one holding the camera. Her narration and simultaneous video images although addressed to her brother, locate the film into the heart of where the story is going to be set—the city of Mumbai. The voice belongs to a newly married Muslim woman, Yasmin who has just shifted to Mumbai with her husband and feels that the best way of interacting with her brother is by sending him short video clips of her ‘happy’ life in the alien land.

 

Take 2 - We are then taken into the life of Arun, the not-so-eloquent (at least verbally), painter. Evidently, he is an introvert who lacks the art of mixing with random strangers, unless there is a plausible option of bedding them. A divorcee, Arun spends most of his time divorcing himself from everything that’s around him and mostly dwells in his own world, coloured by his artistic creations. Until one day, he comes across a set of DV tapes (forgotten belongings of the previous tenant) and decides to play them on his television screen. Incidentally, the tapes belong to Yasmin, whose beauty and autobiographic digital letters Arun seems seemingly besotted by. As the days go by, Arun sits with the audience and watches how Yasmin shares intrinsic details about her life with a smile with her brother—from her trips to monuments with her passive husband, to introducing the friendly neighbourhood kamwali bai and her talented daughter to even a poignant image of her cutting a cake alone in front of the camera. In the lone world, all Yasmin has, is her video camera, her sole confidant, through which she can communicate with her brother. Why the DV tapes have been left abandoned, is a question which is answered only towards the end of the film.

 

Take 3 - After an exhibition-cum-party of his, Arun spends an illustrious night with Shai, a rich, desi NRI, who has recently returned from the United States to pursue her hobby as a photographer. Apart from having an impressive taste in dressing, she also carries an unforgiving annoying accent, which literally made me pull my hair out every time she spoke (especially, in Hindi). Her character seems lost, or rather, misplaced in the film. I am sorry, I am being far too polite: it’s absolutely REDUNDANT! I considered all the pros and cons as to why Kiran Rao would invent a character whose so incorrigibly mindless, and I came to the revelation, that it’s not the fault of the character, it’s the fault of wrong casting. Simply pathetic in acting, Monica Dongra seemed the most unimpressive actor on set. No wait, that was Aamir Khan—but more on that later.

 

Shai’s character, unlike her name, is anything but ‘shy’. Her sexually vocal and bold character seems unrelentingly strange in Monica Dongra’s skin. Shai defines the rich, brattish 1% population of the entire city of Mumbai, who has enough money (and hence, time) to waste. And although many would stop to ponder to say, “hey no, Shai is a caring and considerate character in the film,” you sir, are abysmally wrong. Her character involves photographing ‘reality’—which in the dictionary of most dim-witted idiots is documenting the life of the Indian poor—eg. ratkillers, dhobi ghats, so on and so forth. She does social service by interacting with a poor dhobi boy and uses him as a tool to reach her ulterior motive—to see/stalk the recipient of her recent infatuation, Arun.

 

Take 4- Meet Munna, the misfortunate dhobi ghat boy, whose lifelong dream is to become an actor. Working as a dhobi boy for both Shai and Arun, he serves as the conjugation point between the two of them. After reprimanding Munna for discolouring Shai’s shirt, Shai eventually feels guilty. She accidently meets him at a cinema hall and approaches him in a friendly manner. When she learns that Munna knows where her love, Mr. Arun lives, she decides to befriend him, hoping he will help her meet Arun. She decides to help Munna make his modelling portfolio, if he promises to help her take pictures of him at the dhobi ghat, where he works. Munna, taken aback by a beautiful, gori mem’s sudden interest in his personal life, misreads Shai’s bold overtures and begins to fall in love with her, eventually to realise that Shai is not his to begin with.

 

The concept of voyeurism is artistically implemented in the film. It begins with Yasmin’s recording of herself with the camera, where Arun and the audience are taken deep into her life. Her story is driven by the video letters which Arun watches every day, perhaps as a form of entertainment. As the story unravels, the facade of her ‘happy married life’ begins to crack and with each video letter, Yasmin’s smile seems to smother every word that she speaks. The audience is given an insight into Yasmin’s sense of loneliness as most of her video letters are of her talking alone to the camera. Her smile completely shatters when she confesses to her brother that her husband is having an extra-marital affair, the shock of which she herself cannot hide. In her last letter to her brother, Yasmin indirectly suggests that she is taking her own life, and eventually hangs herself from the dining room fan. Voyuerism as a motif is further extended when Shai quietly visually documents Arun’s movement in his house from an opposite construction building, while he is watching Yasmin’s video.

 

The film plays on the concept of six degrees, accessing and assessing the lives of four diverse individuals who come together in the city of Mumbai, each one falling in love, infatuated by the other and eventually realizing a deep sense of loss: Yasmin’s dejection at her husband’s affection/love, Arun’s loss of his muse (which eventually leads him to paint her in art form, thereby immortalizing her), Shai’s realization that Arun is not hers to have and Munna’s dejection at Shai’s pyaar.

 

On second thought (which occurred to me after I wrote this), the films works on several levels, barring the typical infusion of Bollywood mirch-masala. Although the film aches to be ‘real’, the script seems deranged sometimes—why would a rich, young woman go out for lunch/dinner with her dhobi boy alone, let alone become his chaddi-buddy?—I am aware that it is the 21st century, but transcendence of social circles to such an extreme is trying to really stretch it. Also, has anyone noticed why does Shai talk to Munna sometimes in absolute English and he seems to immediately and almost, efficiently understand it? And I am still not entirely sure as to why Rao popped in the expressionless, eerie old woman into the film. 

 

Weird.

 

*

 

(C) Radhika Iyengar 2011

Ian Curtis. The Eccentric Poet.

Four fingers and a thumb make a palm. The fingers long, bony, bend into perfect arches; almost identical in form and shape. The thumb, short, stubby, flatter, stands alone, at a lower pedestal, almost two inches apart.

The dwarf might appear inefficient, but without it, there would be no mankind.

*

He woke up that morning. His body lay flat on the ground, tired, fleshy and immovable. Wrapped in trousers and a shabby tee, his left knee made an obtuse angle and his right arm reached for the ceiling. A yawn opened his mouth wide and unleashed the foul breath. The toothbrush stood on the first shelf in a glass, in his bathroom; its bristles not used for over a week.

The birds fluttered, twittered, perched and spotted the branches with their beats. The flies buzzed, swirled, meandered, sat and infected. The outside pond rippled, the tadpoles squiggled. Egg yolks cooked in a pan; a hen plopped another egg. A barber cut a woman’s hair, a teenager grew his. The leaves painted the ground yellow. The ground sat quiet, unpretending, keeping secrets. The clouds relayed the sky. Scissors cut moustaches, clothes, cardboard boxes, pages. Clothing lines hang clothes, people.

Somewhere in Macclesfield, a poet hanged himself to death.

*

Inspired from the last scene of Anton Corbijn's film, Control

AUTO-NOMOUS

(A Simple Guide to Handle the Auto-walas of Delhi)

Let’s face it, most of the middle class Indians like to nurture a sense of aristocracy. While the ‘aam-janta’ is forced to travel by the cheap, pan-stained, sweaty DTC busses, there are some of us who prefer to travel alone in chauffeur-driven vehicles. In all likelihood since we can’t afford the fancy, air-conditioned limo, we have to opt for our very own desi-auto.

The problem which most snooty auto-walas have, is that they believe they are the boss. They will argue, they will bargain and they will not shut up. In the yester-years (or rather yester months), before the great-Meter-system was brought back to life from the land of dead, the auto-wala-Dilliwala interaction was always uh, a colourful experience. However, to board an auto, we need to pass a three-step process:

STEP 1-Holler. Get their attention

Requirements: A strong larynx, a long hand which flaps incessantly for attention, and bright colourful clothes.

Process: It’s easy for women, because the auto-walas usually would stop for a damsel in distress. It is important to catch the auto-wala’s attention in the first go, so that he stops, rather than just happily driving past by you with a sadistic grin. Men on the other hand, have it hard. But fikar not, an auto-wala has to make his money, so he will stop anyway. Just practice that larynx.

STEP 2-Let the Bargaining Begin!

Requirements: Knowledge of the word ‘bhaiya’; knowledge of the pronunciation of the word ‘bhaiyaaa’; a handkerchief to wipe your sweat off (this may take a while); extra mascara for fluttering your eyelashes if nothing else works! (Yes, men too can give it a go).

Process: Now unless you are a Baniya, a Gujju or a Sindhi, you haven’t really mastered the art of bargaining, and you’d probably have a tough time convincing the auto-wala why he shouldn’t rip you off. But all this was before the meter-system came along. Yes, gone are the days when the meter box sat redundantly on the ledge, longing to be acknowledged, while the auto-wala randomly quoted an exorbitant fee to take you to a place which was 10 minutes away from where your feet stood. Of course, the ride would include a bumpy drive, a curious ‘checking you out’ glace from the rear view mirror every now and then, and a mind-numbing, anaesthesia-infused yak on politics, the youth of today and city etiquettes—all for free, but still, let’s just not go there. However yes, if the autowala throws his nose in the air and refuses to budge from his price, the archaic yet effective ‘bhaiyaaaa pleaaasseee?’ teamed with a polite smile to melt his heart can be applied. It usually works, not kidding. Or am I?

STEP 3-Get your hiney in, sista!

Requirements: Good music on the I-pod or tune up the FM on your phone and pray to god the RJ is not playing Himesh!

Process: Now don’t make me teach you how to sit in an auto for heaven’s sake, but yes, be sure to turn up the volume on the music—you don’t want the auto-wala chatting you up. I’ve been there, and believe me, it’s no fun.

The Syndrome: Every auto-wala possesses the “chutta nahin hai” syndrome—it’s a classic ‘let me earn some extra bucks off my naive customer... hehehe’ strategy. How to outsmart our man? Simple, carry extra change and pay him the exact amount. He’ll be heartbroken but life alas, is unfair, isn’t it?

Return ticket: Most auto-walas will crib about where they have to take you. Whether your destination is tucked in some god forsaken place or whether he’s just playing bluff, almost every Dilli-wala has come across the phrase: “Vapis savari hi nahin milti, toh kya kareingey phir?” There are two situations that can arise out of this statement—either he is not going to move his butt, or he’s going to charge you extra—and usually, it’s the latter. What to do? Play the bluff back. Tell them you’ll make sure you’ll get them a customer on their return. And once you reach your destination, then what? Well, promises are meant to be broken, aren’t they?

So now that I’ve given you enough gyaan, I suggest you go out on the streets brimming with confidence and tackle those auto-walas!

NOTES FROM A WITCH’S DIARY

So you took your shoes and left...

Riddled streets
Converse with time,
Lusting for that aging night, once more:

The night crouches over the city, tucking her bridal skirt in
As her hungry mouth licks on the silenced statues--
The wolves welcome their kin.

Her eyes search for my moronic lover;
As the moon wanes behind the cloudy sheets
She pants, as her breath embraces the wailing rivers
And wraps her body around the yellow streets

Insects seethe in her underbelly
As the dancing leaves blow back her hair
She lashes her tongue at the vengeful windmills
There, screeches in anger, the bicorn mare.

And the wind mourns in misery
And the raven seeks its prey
Bianca’s nightingales sing in the distant, while
On the riddled streets, the night snakes her way

And though this graveyard will have another visitor,
And our visitor will stay,
"His epitaph will be written in blood", she whispers,
"For his is the soul who betrayed"

*

THE TRAVELLER

I’ve met people
Of different colours—
Blue, green, violet, maroon

I’ve met eyes
Of different shapes—
Cubes, cuboids, circles, triangles

I’ve spoken to tongues
Of different dialects—
Minowoh, Ginowa, Blah blah, Bli na

What are we,
but jaw, fingers, spine and knee?
Swathed in aging flesh

Naked bones spell naked truth

Once dead,
Will the dust on these bones remember:
The colour of flesh that covered them,
The jaw which spoke that particular tongue,
Or the memories which were made while being
what they stood as on ground?

*

The Comma vs. the Full Stop

While commas are dots with curled up tails,
Full stops are dots to end or curtail.
While one encourages you to go on further,
The other stops,
to let you ponder.
If the commas are many a too in one's life:
slash their tails with a knife,
and put a full stop indeed my love,
to your life!

*

A Song for Eliot

Morning winters,

The smell of cigarette on your collar,

I muffle, biting into your skin

As your fingers take a walk

Into the darkness of my hair

The morning groans,

Stretching its arms across the silent city,

Its breath pressing against the dirty windows,

Waking up in its own waking,

To a handful of illicit love-affairs

Promises that crawl against one’s bare back

Scratching against the skin like broken porcelain,

Searching for answers,

Why their lover deserted them?

Like paint peeling off the walls,

Fragmenting from the whole,

Into unknown spaces

Of beautiful misery

They fall…

The streets that linger on,

Swerving, curling, smoking, mulling

Existing, hiding, running, halting,

Speak of sinful nights that walk,

Dressed handsomely under the winter cloak

Emptiness slithers across their wooden floors,

Her black body rubbing against their empty beds

She clicks her tongue mockingly

As she coils around them,

Biting into their skin

And their fingers knead

The darkness of my skin

As I wrap myself around their bodies—

Me, a nameless child of the streets

For their love has deserted them

And I am their emptiness,

To whom they make love

Every night

*

Emotion? Sans.

Lips. Invite.
Red, intoxicating.
Fatal.

Your eyes.
Corner me; shove me against a wall.
Mesmorize. Devour.

Our breath.
Rhythmic. Moist. Inaudible.

Your fingers search for mine,
As your lips tuck themselves into mine,
And the tip of your nose (warm),
Draws invisible (passionate) lines of lust
against my cheeks.

I. surrender. willingly.

Tomorrow is another day.
I'll learn your name then.

*

ODE TO TOMATOES

The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.

*

Poet: Pablo Neruda

Just wanted to share his brilliance.

A Glass of Water, Please?

This is what I had written over a year ago. Came across it today evening. And I'm glad I've moved on.

*

Dignity. Self-respect. What else?--

--important labels we stitch onto our identities, in order to value ourselves more: "There you go baby, I'm branded." Maybe, somewhere down the line, I have forgotten to value my own self, my convictions, my talent--forgotten to value the very notion of being: Me.

Someone told me once:

"R, if you don't love yourself, no one will. It will never happen. If you don't believe in yourself, the world will never believe you."--

--maybe it was me, chanting this to myself. Maybe.

Sometimes I find myself lost, entangled, unable to glue the screaming debris in my head in order to find my peace of mind. Lost: Me.I sit on my bed, hugging my knees, meditating over my blue socks that keep my feet warm, with a mug of coffee in my hand, wondering, just wondering: this was not what I wanted. I loved literature, now I can't even study it.

So what was it you wanted? Don't think I'll even let myself know the secret as to what I really want. Shh.. I'm not coming out with it.

I have been living an existence till now, not life. I had been dreaming, divorced from the strands of reality I now find myself entangled in. Till now, I was unaware of the fact that I was letting myself just... go...

No, perhaps I don't love myself.

I never do anything for Me. It's always, "oh, if I do this, what will s/he think?" What I do, is always governed by what others do or think. Crap, I'll be another anon face walking in the crowd. That is not what I wanted--why am I walking, then?

I'll never turn to myself--My eyes search for friends. Why can't I ask Me for help? I am twenty-ek. This should be easy. It never is though. Never was. Maybe because I was pampered, cuddled, nurtured a bit over the extreme by my mother. Not denying that I loved it. appreciated it. But now that I am coming more to terms with reality, with people, with myself, I realized:

"Honey, there is no one in this space called 'world' for you, except you."

You will have friends, sure, but for how long? You are an individual. Revel in it. Don't search outside the realm of your spirit for strength. Trust yourself, and yourself alone.

I might sound like someone who has just returned from an immensely inspiring sadhu-ed preaching in Dharamshala, I might sound even *blah* to some--honestly darlings, I don't give a damn.

*

WHERE I BECOME MY OWN

Sometimes we sleep open-eyed, thinking of what is to come, or what may have been.Sometimes we listen to words of a poet, and fall in love with him unknowingly--not because of what he is,but what he thinks.Sometimes we fall like torn out pages from the book of an unforgiving author,and we lie crumpled, abandoned, silent..., yet unfinished.Sometimes, we wait for every passing second and by then,we're too old to even love.

FILM REVIEW-MAN BITES DOG

Recently I saw two films: Man bites dog (Dir: Remy Belvaux) and All about my Mother (Dir: Pedro Almodovar). Since the first one is less well-known than Almodovar's creation, and because it's one of the most weirdest, but most unconventional films I've come across so far, I take the discretion of writing on Man Bites Dog.

Man Bites Dog is a crazy, whacked-out, unusual Belgium film, (or rather a documentary), made on a serial-murderer (Benoit Poelvoorde's ) who agrees to take an almost amateur film crew (a small group of 4) along with him, every time he decides to inhumanly kill someone. His favourite victims are the mailmen, but also enjoys killing old people, as well as other age-groups every now and then. His ruthless acts are brilliantly intermingled with classical instrumental music and visuals of old architecture which lend a jarring tone to the entire film. The film works on the lines of a dark comedy. Initially, I was pathetically lost within the first few minutes of the film, trying to untie all the strands of the film from the start. First thought that entered my mind was that it's a grossly sick (!) film. However, once you figure out the actual rhythm of the movie and swallow the idea that there will be gross murders in front of your eyes--you begin to enjoy the film--particularly for it's originality, I suppose (as well as for Benoit Poelvoorde's contribution to the film). Belvaux's team initially stands outside the diameters of Poelvoorde's job (I call it 'job' because this is Poelvoorde's way of earning his livelihood--he murders people and then takes their moolah). Anyway, soon a friendly (and ironically 'human') relationship begins to build between the team and the murderer, so much so that the team actually begins to "help" Poelvoorde with his "accomplishments". One of the interesting scenes in the film is on Poelvoorde's birthday, which is held at his best friend, Valerie's house. Belvaux's team, Valerie, her boyfriend (who apparently treats her badly) and a few others attend the small get together. Belvaux gifts him a gun pouch. Poelvoorde's is extremely thrilled, and he puts his gun in the pouch, hangs it on his shoulder, and tries to see how he'll look while taking the gun out. The mood at the party is jovial, and the camera locks on to Poelvoorde as he practices taking the gun out. Soon we hear a gun shot and we know Poelvoorde has just shot his next victim. The camera pans only to discover that it is Valerie's boyfriend who has been shot right in the head. Valerie sits still, aghast, looking at her supposed best friend, with her boyfriend's blood all over her face and body. It's a crazy moment in the film, trust me!--and you'll come across more of such once you're into the film.

You need a strong stomach to watch the film, of course, but if you like to experiment a bit with your taste, you must watch it! It gives you a different perspective towards many things, as well as almost an insider-look in what goes on in the mind of a psychotic serial-killer.

Enjoy.

Walk in the park

So I was the youngest kid in the family of seven--dad, mum, brother, grand parents and dog.
Grew up with my tying my pig-tails with pink ribbons, wearing pink shirts, and devouring on gems packets. Barbie dolls became my plastic room-mates. Thought make-up was the best way of 'looking good', so tried convincing my ma to purchase a box of cosmetics, along with a new pair of pink high-heels ever year. Of course these demands were conveniently ignored. 

Evidently, I was the child of the commercial age. Mind you, my parents never encouraged any of it, but what did weave my notion of conventional good-looks and cosmetics, was the pure and simple lineage of advertising.

I brought myself up on a strict diet of television entertainment--obsessed with watching Bollywood songs and Khiladi dance numbers. At the age of four, I would sit cross-legged in front of the television, eyes glued on to everything that encapsulated within the four corners of the television screen, showing off my polka-dot panties off to the world with little care, and sucking on two thumbs. I was the zombie-kid.

Modelling became my ultimate goal in life (yes, I was sincerely very naive), since I thought that was all there was to life. Acting was my second option. Or reverse--either which way, you get the point. Of course all these goals soon were deconstructed, underwent a harsh series of experiments, and eventually (and thankfully) changed--but that's for later. 

Television constructed an ambiguous, ill-defined and unreal perception of reality in my mind, and I grew up ignoring and detesting news channels, being completely disengaged with other crucial issues which plagued the world. I was the anonymous product of the dumbed down era.

Up until the age of 20, I lived in my comfortable bubble--where men, music, poetry, literature, weight, clothes and telephones, superseded other issues in life. Pink however, was no longer my colour. My existence was terribly narcissistic in character, where I was happily disconnected from the world. Elections, politics, covert media messages, natural calamities were not of importance to me. I had poverty in information and knowledge.

Though brought up in a family of scholars, and surrounded by a plethora of books on science and history, I gifted no importance to them. I had intellect, but chose not to practice it. There were times when I brought myself to question certain things, but always suppressed them, thinking that even if I did actually think about them, what good could it bring about? I always thought news was passe (as ironic as it may sound), and an element which formed a dominant part in the lives of those who had passed the age of 40.

Reading the newspapers, I believed, was boring, ineffective and 'oldish' in nature. I was young, I wanted to live young, and thought that drooling over Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise was what was 'hip'.

Mistakes. We all make them.

v. al. r. im-perfect.

Life at 21 changed. I decided to move out of the cocoon of my home and create my own nest elsewhere. Mumbai, I thought, was the best place to do that. I wanted to be independent. I was sick of parents literally breathing down my neck and controlling everything I did or say. I was a rebel (evidently inspired by James Dean). I wanted to break-away, thinking it was 'cool'.

What I got, was a kick-in-the-butt.

I reached Mumbai to do a post-graduation course in Mass communications, where pink transformed to black and white. I was forced to open the newspapers (much to my disinterest) and reality, not milkshake, was literally forced down my throat. I was given a different perspective to life. Films, theories, news reports, books dominated my life. I was forced to think. Forced to practice my brain, forced to question and challenge theories, concepts, norms, notions.

It was a good kick-in-the-butt.

Men lost their importance (not that I've changed my sexual orientations or anything, but love-affairs just didn't seem to matter so much anymore), my tastes in television viewing changed, I began taking interest in politics and issues that concerned the world. I became more passionate about films, and my ideologies steered towards the left.

Change is the only constant. Bring it on.

Senselessness in Sensibility

Inkstains creep on the paper:
Blots of imagination,
and wreathes of scribbled emotions,
Speak in curves and motions,
Of fictional characters that chatter in my head.

The windows clatter,
Reality shatters,
Idealism bleeds,
Words become avant-garde.

*

Voices. voice. vice. ice.

Lost. Losing. Letting go.

I sip my wine, unwind on the bed:
Lie on the bed. Lie on you. Lie to you.
Lovers lie. Liars lie.

I am one of them.

*

The Legacy of Malthus and Something Like a War

Man’s vocation, according to the essay, Pedagogy of the Oppressed, has two real alternatives—humanization and dehumanization. However, while humanization is an ‘inescapable concern’, those who are economically and socially powerful, usually take to exploiting, oppressing and debasing those who are in a weaker position. Dehumanization therefore, manifests itself in an oppressor-oppressed equation, where the oppressed seldom speak out or voice against their ruthless abuse.

The relationship of the oppressed-oppressor can be identified between the first-world countries to the third-world countries (America waging a war with Iraq, purely for the greed of oil), master-servant, and employee-employer, of man-woman, student-teacher and landlord-peasant.

Deepa Dhanraj in her film, The Legacy of Malthus depicts how the landlords (rich) victimize the meager-waged farmers of Rajasthan. She draws parallels of their predicament, with the ruthless exploitation of the peasants in Scotland, by the landowners during the 1800s.

The film is woven by narrative voices of women peasants, narrating how through ages, the rich Jats and Thakurs have lived on the grains produced by the farmers, while the farmers themselves, have starved. In the entire village, there are 20 rich houses belonging to the landlords, while 400 huts are below poverty-line—their wells remain dry throughout the year.

  The system of oppression becomes more haunting when Gora Bai (peasant), describes how the landlord pulled out the seeds the government gave her, from the land and forcibly argued that it was his land. When she revolted, he threatened to shove her head into the ground. Two levels of oppression come into being here, first, of the master and servant (due to economical disparity) and the second, of man and woman.

Gora Bai however, introduces a new element to the lineage of oppression: “We live in fear of both the shopkeeper and the government.”  Under Indira Gandhi’s government, India accepted a loan from the International Monetary Fund, which demanded, among other things (like increase in exports), control over population. Shortly thereafter, the United States intervened by trying to ‘help’ India reduce her population. The relationship established between America and India then, become one of the oppressor and the oppressed, where the former’s behaviour showed elements of ‘false generosity’.  

In 1974, America relied a lot on the 3^rd World countries’ resources. For this reason, the United States was interested in the social, political and economic stability of these countries, which was invertly related to population. Population stability of countries like India, then became of important concern for the U.S.—it therefore encouraged the Family Planning Program in India.

Something Like A War, a sequel to The Legacy of Malthus, begins with a group of women villagers talking proudly about menstruation and how giving birth empowers them. In the 1980s, the Family Planning Program was implemented with enthusiastic support from the central government, especially in the rural areas. Indira Gandhi’s government undertook strict methods such as withholding salaries and denying ration to villagers who refused to participate in the program.

Oppression intensified through the game of power, when the jobs of Patwaris and ration-shopkeepers were threatened by the State government if they could not bring ‘cases’ for sterilization. The Patwaris then functioned as ‘government officials’ who promised male farmers money (Rs. 500), loans, land, television sets, if they pressurized their women to get sterilized—none of which, as one woman says, “were incentives which actually benefited the woman”.

 These women became the voiceless, anonymous ‘cases’, identified with numbers pasted on their foreheads during operations, where they were operated in the most unhygienic, fly infested conditions, without anesthesia. Many of them even died after the operation. 

A simple pattern in this legacy of oppression and exploitation can be identified—a I^st world country pressurizes a 3^rd world country—the government of the latter pressurizes/oppress the rich landowners, who in turn oppress the male farmers, who oppress their wives—money here, functions as the underlying catalyst to this inhuman domino effect.

 The disconcerting visual and audio elements in the film, jolt the viewers off their seats, since for the first time they are shown the dark side of the Family Planning Program, which was otherwise celebrated by the Indian government as a mark of ‘progress’.

 In The Legacy of Malthus, the underbelly of the Green Revolution is also exposed. While the government corroborated with the U.S. and decided to incorporate chemical fertilizers in its agricultural methods, the only ones who dangled at one end of the rope were the farmers. Gyarsi Bai, a villager states that earlier they were healthier, and now: “we eat vegetables grown from fertilizers, which has made us weak.” The fertilizers destroyed the land and lowered the nutrition value of the crops, adding to the farmers’ plight, since the landowners already gave them arable land.

            Deepa Dhanraj intersperses the film with a scenes from a play enacted by actors who retell the impediment of farmers in Scotland. The ‘commons’ (which was land for all) was infringed upon by proprietors, and arable land was given to the poor peasants. Poverty ensued; the highlanders were starved to submission and forced to immigrate, in hope to find better lands for survival. She does this for two reasons: First, to justify why the poor immigrate to cities, and second, to show that the behaviour of exploitation and oppression is universal and exceeds time and geographical boundaries.

            Something Like A War, throws light on the shocking forcible atrocities the government inflicted on women in order to control the population. The rural women not only boldly discuss how they were forcibly sterilized, but also share how the government, for its selfish interests, was the least concerned for its citizens, especially the women.

National ‘development’ in its most gruesome form is the subject of Dhanraj’s films. Both the documentaries are therefore, told from the perspective of women—one who are the primary victims. Dhanraj gives the women a platform to speak, to voice how they felt during the program and the dilemma they faced between being answerable to their in-laws, who demanded innumerable sons, or to the government, which demanded not to have more than two children. Their own demands however, were never taken into consideration.

            One of the most haunting scenes in the film is that of a woman held down on a bed, while the doctor (with half-concentration) operates on her, while he speaks to the camera. Her mouth is clamped shut and her face contorts with pain and anger as she tries to beg for mercy. Gyarsi Bai leaves us with the most potent message—the government is mercilessly eradicating the poor, not the poverty.

The Legacy of Malthus ends with a teacher in a municipal school making his students repeat the ‘benefits’ of the Family Planning Program: “The country’s population should be reduced so that people can live comfortably and the daily needs of the people are met.”—illustrating how through education alone, the mind of a child is indoctrinated with false ‘truths’. The scene in interposed with a woman villager confessing that she too has begun to believe and internalize what the landlord taunts her with: the villagers are poor because they are illiterate, idiotic and senseless.

The last shot of this film, is the view of the slums from a moving train—it is Dhanraj’s way of stating, that we have become so immune to poverty, that though we see the sight everyday, we remain unaffected. Through this film, Dhanraj successfully counter-argues Thomas Malthus’ Legacy, proving through the exploration of the rituals of the landlords and the government, that the principle reason for poverty is not overpopulation, but the inequitable sharing of land and the ghastly economic disparity between the rich and the poor.

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Documentaries by: Deepa Dhanraj

FOUR CORNERS

You stand within the four corners, with your head bowed down, naked. And you think. It’s not a new feeling, this nakedness. You squat on the orange tiles, thinking, staring at the empty bucket: wishing, waiting, wanting to be filled, completely. And you wonder why you’re referring to yourself in second person—perhaps because, you’re your story yourself. The tiles turn yellow, to green, to maroon... and you swoon in your own emptiness, in that void of absolute nirvana, where you belong to your own nothingness; you smoke it in, swirl in it and tap your feet against that wet floor overflowing with the water that has filled that once empty bucket. Sufism, of the mind, really. My god? The nothingness I find in blank sheets of paper; on streets lit with lonely street-lights; in moths who find a purpose to their lives in those very lights; in my hands, confused with lines, speaking of nothing but age.

Here. This. This is your world; anything can be your truth. You create your truth, you believe your truth. Question is, do you believe in your own existence?
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I exist in the city of Mumbai, within the boundaries of India, where almost every third girl in my class (as elite an economic bracket my class may belong to) has found her life partner at the age of 21, or has intentions of finding him soon. I, on the other hand, am single, which by Indian standards, is something to be worried about. Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter whether my mum is concerned that I find a boy or not, but for the neighbours, the matter is gravely important.

What they don’t know is that I intend on having lustful, dark, secret affairs with Bergman, Kurusawa, Godard and the likes. Even though they won’t probably look at me, or be interested in having conversations over smokes and coffee. I don’t smoke, so coffee maybe. I wonder what they’d think....

Here. This. This is your world; anything can be your truth. You create your truth, you believe your truth. Question is, do you believe in your own existence?

SUPER-SIZE ME

Written and Directed by Morgan Spurlock
Genre: Documentary/ Non-fiction

The documentary opens with a bunch of children happily chanting, “McDonald’s, McDonald’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken and Pizza Hut! I like food, you like food, Kentucky Fried Chicken and A Pizza Hut!”

No prizes for guessing what this film is all about.

This documentary is a shocker. If you want to know how ‘happy’ you can get with a McDonald’s 'Happy Meal', this film is a must watch! The documentary is a journey of a man, to prove to the world that eating high-cholesterol food products almost every day, is indeed injurious to health. He takes it upon himself to completely detract from his healthy Vegan lifestyle, and take a detour to the big bad world of McDonald’s.

Set in New York, Morgan Spurlock explains how obesity in America, is second to smoking as one of the major causes to preventable death and innumerable illnesses. In 2002, a bunch of Americans sued all the fast-food companies, blaming them for their obesity and related illnesses. This film is Spurlock’s experiment to find out how much role do fast-food joints (like McDonald’s) play in contributing to an individual’s body weight (and size).

Spread over a period of 30 days, the camera tracks Spurlock’s fatalistic plunge into a strictly high-cholesterol diet (eating Mc onald’s products three times a day), with absolutely no amount of exercising. It investigates how this approach to life adversely affects an individual’s work progress, his mental frame of mind, including the physical relationship with his partner.

The documentary functions as a proof to how unhealthy-eating, does (surprisingly!) ruin your body, increasing your chances of diabetes, heart attacks, liver failure, and other fatal diseases. In under a month’s duration, Spurlock had actually put on a horrifying 20 pounds, proving to the world (and to McDonald’s food joints), that their food products are not human friendly at all!

I rate this film 8/10. It is DEFINITELY, one heck of a film to see.

So we all were 'troubled' by what happened in Ahmadabad and Bangalore. We all were extremely disturbed, and we all wished for peace. On the 6th of August, there was a peace gathering that was held by an NGO (Citizens For Peace) in South Mumbai.

Personally, I felt the entire event to be very 'unnecessary', for there were many who just spoke, lamented, cried--but no one really discussed how a change or a solution could be brought about. It was the same old sob story, where people assembled, quoted, dispersed and forgot.

Two weeks after the blasts in Ahmedabad, who talks about it now? Everyone is back to living their own lives. During the blasts, the media covered all the amputated corpses it could find, weeped with infants who were to grow up having no 'saaya' of their pitas (fathers), showed innumerable women crying hysterically beating their chests, and now, two weeks after, the media has moved onto covering other 'important' issues, such as Abhinav Bindra winning one bloody gold medal in rifle shooting. Now, isn't India is really 'shining'?

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Below is an article I had written right after the 'Peace Talk' gathering held on the 6th. It details what all happened at the gathering:

“We can and will triumph if we all stand together, with two powerful weapons: great pride in our rich diversity and unflinching unity at all times.”

--The Declaration for Peace

Prompted by the gruesome bomb blasts in Bangalore and Ahmedabad that have once again disturbed the peace of the nation, the Citizens For Peace, in support with other NGOs, held a gathering on the 6th August 2008, the 63rd anniversary of the Hiroshima bombing. This gathering was held at Churchgate’s Patkar Hall, as a desperate call for peace.

Using Gandhi’s quote, “An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind,” as their slogan, the evening’s compere, Rajni Bakshi, siad that the gathering was a result of the “sadness and fear and also the helplessness we all feel when such bomb blasts happen.” The assembly was attended by several well-known personalities like Javed Akhtar, Shabana Azmi, Nandita Das and Ameen Sayani.

Javed Akhtar spoke of the grim contrast that existed in the country. While on one side, “the IT industry is booming,” he said, “on the other side, India has the most illiterate people and poor labourers...” He said that India had not left a single ‘type’ of terrorism alone. He was sad that before considering the existing problems at hand, the first thought that worried him was, “whether we’ll be able to exist at all.”

While the poet read out a few of his most thought-provoking poems, Shabana Azmi read out their English translations. Overwhelmed by the atrocities, she broke down into tears at the podium, saying how helpless and weak she felt, and how “some serious steps had to be taken, and not only symbolic gestures,” to regain the country’s peace. Anita Deshmukh recited Vasant Bapat’s Marathi poem, ‘Deh Mandir Chitta Mandir’. Ameen Sayani remembered how the current situation reminded him of Gulzar’s line—“Roz subah mere ghar akhbaar khoon mein lath-path aata hai.” Actor Nandita Das quoted Martin Luther King, “In our times, we will repent not for the evil deeds of the bad, but for the silences of the good.”

The event came to a full circle, when the Children of the Happy Home—School for the Blind, moved the crowd by singing some of Mahatma Gandhi’s favourite songs, including, ‘Vaishnav Jan To’ and ‘Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram’. Gerson Da Cunha read out the Declaration, which was required to be signed by all those who were present. The assembly ended on a peaceful note with the lighting of the lamp and the singing of the National Anthem by the people in chorus, giving us a sense of Indian solidarity.

The event was rather hollow, a superficial attempt at highlighting what already exists in our country, for no one discussed the issues or how they could be ‘resolved’. Those who spoke, merely quoted others, sang or recited poetry. At the same time, at least such attempts by the ‘literate and aware’ and their public expression of thoughts increases within each one of us the desire to move towards a peaceful India , contributing in our individual capacities to build a nation of empathy and love.

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