Untitled - Chapter 2: À la carte

[Continued from here.] 

“One special whiskey mix for the lady in-charge,” Shahnawaz Kamil ordered the waiter, winking.

The underground banquet hall of The Taj Hotel in downtown New Delhi had been decked up for the grand luncheon. Chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling bathed the windowless room in pale yellow light which illuminated all its corners. The formally dressed urban gentry of New Delhi occupied the immaculate dining tables, their voices hushed and soft as etiquette commanded.

The entire Board of Directors of Sambhav Solutions was seated along a long rectangular table, of which Ira was also a part. Vertically opposite her sat Shahnawaz Kamil, the Chairman of the Board. The middle aged lobbyist had much bespoken connections with the rich and mighty, a fact that was as fiercely guarded as it was common knowledge.

The three-course meal had been wiped off every plate and the accompanying small talk had been concluded with all propriety. As glasses were refilled for one last time, the conversation had turned to business at last.

"So, Ms Parmar…we are curious to know where you stand on the issue of going public.” He said, addressing her.

“But you already do, Mr. Kamil,” she replied curtly. He smiled broadly, his grey beard not quite thick enough to hide his heavily wrinkled cheeks.

“I – like everyone here – am eager to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth!” His smug grin remained.

Slimy bastard.

She leaned forward and entwined her fingers, resting her jaw in their cross-section.

“I’m not one to repeat myself. However, seeing as everyone hear is not a very retentive lot, I will make an exception.” She looked around the table with a faux smile at the deadpan faces of the men and women seated to her sides, gauging their offence. To her immediate right sat Jo, whose diffident gaze she ignored on purpose. He seemed to be at a certain unease and his eyes kept darting restlessly between her and Kamil.

“You see, sir,” she continued, “to me, my values are paramount. Earlier, when I was new to the industry and the world of online security, I did not know the pressing need of personal privacy in our invasive age. After having read up a considerable amount and getting my own hands dirty, my views changed – for the better.”

She paused, looking from face to face, expecting rebuttal. No one spoke, yet remained inveterately stoic in their empty expressions. Kamil, the only exception to the group, never let his smirk get off his face. He was constantly fiddling with his giant red ruby ring that gleamed resplendently in the indoor light.

“Special house whiskey mix, ma’am,” the waiter announced and served a tall glass of golden liquid to her.

Apple fucking juice would’ve been just as good.

She thanked the waiter and took a swig out of the drink. It tasted warm and exquisite, yet unlike the best whiskey she’d ever drunk.

“You appear amused about something, Mr. Kamil,” she said, looking up, “Care to share?”

He beamed even more broadly.  

“Thing is, I knew exactly what you were going to say.”

“Oh, is that so?” she leaned back, smiling back and seething inwardly in anger.

“Indeed.” He continued to grin.

What the hell does he think of himself?

“Okay, whatever this is about, I don’t want nor care to know. All I know is that I’m done deciding. The Board may be obligated by whatever authority to come to whatever consensus, but I will see to it that my will is the way.”

Another sip and a warm feeling trickled down her chest. 

There was a few moments’ pause when everyone simply looked up from their glasses and into each other’s eyes. Within seconds, however, their surprised looks assumed an unexpected repose; they all laughed. Raucous laughter filled the room as curious occupants from adjacent tables looked in for the source of the outburst. Ira was harshly taken aback. Her head wheeled around towards Jo, who looked back at her with incredulity.

“Did I crack a joke?”

Another furious sip. Things were going from bad to worse: their laughter did not die out and she felt light-headed with each passing moment. She looked at the Board members, her eyes swimming across the room and her neck loosening at the pivots.

Kamil gazed at her as she had another go at the drink. With a sudden flick of his index finger and thumb, he swung his big ruby ring around the middle finger of his left hand. She blinked and saw him magically standing five seats closer to her on her right. In the moment she had blinked, Kamil appeared to have travelled from his seat to a spot at least 10 feet away.

What did they put in the drink?!

She blinked a couple of more times, just to make sure she was seeing correctly.

Dancing shapes, laughing men, smiling Kamil coming closer…her head was throbbing now.

“What…what’d you spike my drink with, you morons?” she said, furiously.

“You won’t believe me,” he spoke with his impish grin, “but we didn’t.”

She saw him gracefully walk up to Jo’s seat on her right, his grin constant but attaining a newfound genuineness. His eyes were now brimming with what she perceived as excitement, akin to an eager student’s when asked a question whose answer he knows. He tapped Jo’s shoulder gently, who shuddered at his touch. There was something definitely amiss between them, some sort of show of overbearing authority and tamed acceptance of subservience. The men exchanged a cursory glance of understanding as Jo vacated his seat for Kamil to occupy. He sat down with an authoritative sweep.

“The drink is fine, your mind is only spinning at my display of…time flexibility.”

She tried to get a hold of herself and steadied her neck, looking away. She blinked a couple of times and ran her fingertips over her eyelids, gently massaging them. She could hear the sounds around her normalize: the loud conversations spilling over from adjoining tables, the tinkling of plates against knives and glasses against glasses, the brushing and shuffling of feet against the carpet and the pleasantries offered by waiters at incoming guest.

“What do you mean?” she enquired in a more controlled tone, looking up at Kamil.

“There’s an awful lot, Ms. Parmar, that you have not been privy to.” His enigmatic smile remained, resilient and undaunted.

Ira was annoyed and out of patience, yet unnerved by Kamil’s optical illusion. He had appeared to jump half the length of the room in one go, within a fraction of a second. Was it some sort of two-bit trickery to fool her into submission of the Board?

“Do I really look like I’d care? I’ve talked enough, it’s over.” She announced with finality and got up. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Kamil. Hope you and the Board are in concurrence with my decisions.” She shot a contemptuous glance around the room and wheeled around.

She turned around to see Kamil standing right in front of her, having inexplicably appeared out of thin air, his lips twirled up in a smug smile.

“What the fuck…how did you…?” she looked at him with confusion, her balance suddenly wavering. She stepped back in amazement and supported herself on the table.

 “Allow me to explain,” Kamil stepped forward, offering her her seat. She flopped back into it and dug her head into her outstretched palms.

Pull yourself together.

“I’m afraid I’ve not been entirely clear about the nature of our abilities,” Kamil spoke, walking around the table to take his original spot.

“If you will look at me, I will give you a preface into what I’m going to talk about right now. I apologise if my…attempts at commanding your attention have been a tad theatrical.”

She looked at Kamil through bleary, unfocussed eyes and waited.

“Thank you,” he beamed at her. He took his seat and adjusted his suit, his manner suddenly sprightly and excited.

“Let me begin with – yes, The War. I will appreciate it if you let me finish without interruption.”

Quite a night.

--

Read Chapter 3

Dumb by Choice: The Problem with Mainstream Bollywood

In the November of last year, I had the good fortune of meeting one of my favourite filmmakers in India, Sriram Raghavan, during a literary festival.

It was quite by accident that I happened to be there at exactly the same time as his talk on adapting works of literary fiction into movies, which I joined in midway and gleefully listened to. Being an out-and-out fan of his short filmography (yes, Agent Vinod included), I could not resist asking him about the inner workings of the industry I saw so conflicted and varied in quality of content.

I worded my question cleverly, in perfect context with what we were talking about. “Sir,” I asked, my limbs shaking with fear, “on the one hand, you give us a jaw-dropping single shot sequence in Agent Vinod that is at par with the works of many cinematic greats, and on the other, you show a spy gyrating in a mujra parlor. Why did you go for such drastic variation in content matter within a span of minutes? Why is it that a dumbing down is always done in a mainstream Bollywood film?”

His answer was straightforward and honest. I will not attempt to reproduce it verbatim, but the essence of what he said was this: when the producer has 40 crores invested in a movie, you have to hand him the reins. It is no longer just the director’s creative call, but also the producer’s. He left it at that with a knowing smile, leaving nothing unsaid.

This problem does not appear to be one-off. Another short example I can think of off the top of my head is the curious case of Karan Johar. His career is populated by exceedingly stupid and sappy soap opera-ic films that hinge largely on star power, songs, glamour and overwrought sentimentality. Be it Kuch Kuch Hota Hai or Student of the Year, his movies are largely unappealing to the intellect and cringe-inducing at times (Alia Bhatt’s histrionics in SOTY, anyone?).

And yet, there is something that clicks with the audience. Always. A film like Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna, which is bad even by Karan Johar standards, manages to pull in crowds of admirers all over. I believe this perplexing approval of his works is largely because he is an exceptional filmmaker behind all that fluff. I think what we need to do is take apart one of his films to the bare bones and see them under the basic parameters of filmmaking, in order to understand the nature of his true prowess.

I will take the penultimate sequence from Kal Ho Na Ho as a case study, embedded here as a video (spoilers ahead). When SRK’s character is escorting the love of his life to her nuptial ceremony, the mood is heavy and tragic. The superficial happiness projected by the ongoing festivities and celebrations strike a stinging contrast with the impending tragedy of SRK’s eminent death, and, his eventual separation from Priety Zinta’s character. The third wheel in this equation is Saif Ali Khan’s character, a good friend in love with Priety and soon to be married to her. While he is not the antagonist, he sure is seen as the undesirable yet necessary end of the love triangle. The whole sequence, punctuated by rapid cuts synced to the beats of the music (3:22), excellent acting, expressionistic lighting (1:16) and fast frame rate recording makes for a visual feast. It is hard not to get flowed away in emotion when SRK breaks down as the groom walks away with the bride and he is left to wallow alone. Alone, not only in his approaching death but also mentally and physically, isolated from the celebrations.

It is easily seen how well-constructed and conceived the scene is. It requires a certain caliber to pull it off, and while Nikhil Advani was formally the director, KJo is said to have been a big creative influence in the making of the film. I see these flashes of brilliance splattered all across his films, finally culminating in his brilliant short segment in Bombay Talkies. In my opinion, his segment was better in theme, tone and tenor than that of noted directors, Zoya Akhtar and Anurag Kashyap.

What is it, then, that compels Johar to chug out trash like SOTY and K3G ever so often? Why does Anurag Kashyap extoll his brother’s disastrous filmography as being a ‘throwback’ to the sort of old-fashioned, macho-hero films made around Bachchan in the 70’s? Is it because to stay in business, one must ensure a profit, and a profit in the Indian market is to give in to the dumbness demanded by the average viewer? Isn’t this true for every society, every country and every cinema industry? Why do we continue to sell dumb shit in the name of financially viable, ‘mainstream’, ‘masala’ cinema? More importantly, till how long will we go with films like Johnny Gaddaar, Black Friday and Shanghai not recovering their production costs? With films like The Lunchbox and Ship of Theseus capturing the public’s imagination, are we edging any closer to the dream of intelligent and meaningful cinema ruling the rooster in mainstream Bollywood?

I believe a full-scale revolution is nigh. 

Story Series: Untitled - Part 1

(Holiday season is back, and I'm coming out with another ambitious story series that will hopefully run throughout this month and the next, culminating before my third semester of college kicks off. 

I will not reveal anything about this story and let you all figure out how it'll pan out in the subsequent chapters. I want to gauge the level of anticipation and interest I can create in a story without letting the reader know the plot outline in advance. 

Since I am bad at nomenclature, I am leaving this story untitled as of now. If and when an apt title comes to me, I shall update this post for all to see.

Needless to say, any comments/suggestions/criticisms are welcome here as well as on my FB page. Read on...)

Chapter 1: Invitation to a Party

“We will be eagerly expecting your graceful presence, Ms. Parmar” the elegantly worded invitation concluded. The initials were not printed or separately inserted, at least to the naked eye, which struck her as odd for a moment.

Fuck this finery.

Another party, another socialite get-together celebrating hollow mirth and pretended fellowship. Richness and fame came with their own baggage, more so for the CEO of one of the most successful organization in the country.

Four years ago, as a disgraced engineering dropout, she couldn’t have imagined her start-up to have scaled such heights. Her patented model of software encryption had not only earned her plaudits from the academic and scientific fraternity, but also presented a huge business opportunity. She could offer instant online privacy to millions of government-wary consumers willing to shell-out a fortune for her services.

She had started at the micro-level, going door-to-door with her software installed on a writeable CD. In the pre-internet era, she had relied on word of mouth and cheap sharing among her locality friends to publicize her idea, earning a trifle for every sale.

“What the hell is she always up to, this girl!” her father would complain to her mother, who’d have little time to look into the daily engagements of her teenage daughter. “Doesn’t have a degree or anything, what the hell is she going to do when she grows up?”

“Aap bhi na, don’t worry too much. Anyway, she has to go off and get married,” she would reply hurriedly. 

Somewhere deep down, her parents had come to terms with the fact that their middle class upbringing had failed to launch her into the fiercely competitive world. Marriage appeared to them to be the last bet, but a good one at that: she wasn’t wanting in the department of looks and appearance. At 15, she had eloped with a classmate and would have succeeded in running away from home, had the plan not been foiled by her spoilsport-of-an-elder brother.

“Dad, Ira is planning to run away with that village idiot of his,” he’d blabbed.

“What?! When?”

“Tonight. I eavesdropped on her when she was on the call with him.”

That had done it for her. She had been severely punished and grounded at home for a full week. Considering this reprimand enough to suppress her ‘undue’ interest in the opposite sex, her family had not anticipated her next move.

After a day of mewling and whining, she had reserved herself to the confines of her bedroom and refused to come out despite repeated calls. Food was sneaked in through the gap in the door by her brother, who felt guilty for having told on her. When she finally did come out on the third day, it was with a homemade transistor in her blackened hands, her face shining through all the muck and her open hair messily falling on her face. She was nothing like her earlier self; all her angst had vanished. One could contend that she looked ungracefully sexy in a very schoolgirl-ish sense.

“Look what I made, Ma!” she ran to her to display her new ‘invention’.

Her parents’ anger had cooled off by now and they greeted her with surprised acceptance.

“What is it, Ira?” her brother asked, an engineer-in-the-making himself.

“A radio transistor, bhaiyya. I saw the design in one of your books, and decided to make one myself!” Her glee was palpable. As months went by and technology progressed at ever-faster rate, her gadgets changed and so did her mastery. From merely possessing a dextrous touch with mechanics, she grew to teach herself to code and write virtual languages which rarely anyone of her age even knew the name of.

It was when she topped the National Science Olympiad in the Delhi state her parents thought it best to leave her to her own devices and not interrupt her natural course of inclination. She had not looked back ever, having precociously finished school at 16 and joined Indian Institute of Technology, Kanpur the next year.

A drop of estrogen in an ocean of testosterone, her natural instincts had taken over as soon as the restrictive home atmosphere gave way to the freedom of the girls’ hostel. She would juggle time between her hobbies of software coding and chess with outings with the most ‘desirable’ men on campus. Her sex-capades were known far and wide and she had promptly became to be known as the ‘slut’ of the college. She was known to consume recreational drugs and her dorm room was looked at with disgust and, to be fair, a detestation born out of envy.

This disrepute was what eventually led to her ignominious eviction from the institute the subsequent year. She would have liked to believe that she had been expelled because she refused to conform to the ancient values of an institute in decadence, but she knew it was more to do with her lapse of judgement that had led to the extremity.

The intercom line on her desk rang, shaking her off her thoughts. She cast the invitation aside with a belittling shove, letting it land in the heap of trash already too full for the waste basket, and picked up the receiver.

“Ma’am, Mr. Almeida is on hold. Want me to route him through?”

She sighed. Joseph ‘Jo’ Almeida, one of her earliest aides cum go-to lawyer was starting to get annoying with his all-too frequent calls of late.

“Go ahead.”

The line dropped momentarily and the familiar low-pitched, inconsistent voice of her lawyer greeted her.

“Hey, Ira! Wassup?”

“Nothing much, Jo. Just being barraged by some unneeded invitations and phone calls.” She hoped he would take the hint.

“Haha, we all have been there. Anyway, what are you doing this Sunday afternoon? Is there a prior engagement?” His voice gave away his anticipation to meet her.

“Um,” she thought rapidly, “I don’t know Jo…” Her eye fell on the crumpled invitation she had strode into the dustbin moments ago.

“…oh yes, I have this lunch invitation! Some fancy get-together. I’d rather call sick and--”

“Oh, no,” he cut in, “that’s what I wanted to talk about!”

She sighed.

“What about it?”

“You must attend, Ira. All the major stakeholders in our company are going to be there. I’ve heard that the Board itself has convened the whole thing.”

‘Our company’ my arse.

“What for, but?” She was genuinely curious.

“To, er…” he hesitated, “to get you to…change your mind about going open source.” His voice had grown softer and dropped down to a whisper.

Ira fumed, warm air flaring up her nostrils. She had announced to make the code of her program public in two days and known that many in the Board of Directors had not taken kindly to the proposal.

Her initial lust to gain financial riches had long since exhausted. After assuring a lifetime of comfort for herself from the money she had already made, she had had an actual change of heart and decided to give it up for free usage all over the online world. While governments were getting increasingly paranoid about private content on the internet, online rights activists had been campaigning against allegations of snooping through private mails and messages by the NSA. She had been in the eye of the storm since she was one of the very few service providers of authentic encryption software that could be updated to work its way around every governmental decrypting device and system in existence. Her allegiance had been a matter of speculations for months, until last week when she had announced to release her code into the open source in the coming few days. Not only would that deal a lethal blow to the National Security Agency and its global counterparts, but would also be a blessing for international militant outfits over the world, who could customize the code and tailor it to their specific needs.

“Listen, Jo,” she started, “how sure are you about this?”

“I’m quite positive, Ira. In my opinion, you must surely reconsider your stance.” He suddenly sounded on the edge of desperation.

“No, I am not going to do that,” she replied firmly. “I know what I’m doing with my creation and no one can arm-twist me out of my resolve.”

“But think of all the wrongdoing you are indirectly encouraging!” His protests were rising in pitch and amplitude with each syllable.

“’Indirectly’ is the important word here, Jo. I am not responsible for the actions of a criminal who avails my cutting edge technology. My job is to give to the world what I know and am capable of! What the world makes of it isn’t my purview.” She smiled inwardly, feeling happy about her eloquence.

“But try to understand, Ira…”

“No,” she snapped, “I won’t. And Jo, why the fuck are you so concerned? Do you have a stake in this decision, too?”

Don’t fuck up, Ira. Don’t let anger get the better of you.

The line was blank for 5 seconds; she couldn’t hear him breathing but knew he was around.

“Jo?” she asked, “listen…I’m sorry.” She added apologetically.

“You…just don’t get it, Ira.” She could hear his voice quivering. “I can’t make you see sense.”

His final words rang in her ears as he cut the call before she could respond. She sighed to herself and slammed the receiver down.

“Fuck you, Jo!” she shouted at the telephone and stretched further back in her recliner in frustration.

Why was he making such a big deal out of it? She had always known him to be a level-headed person who always took her side of the matter and only questioned her in an advisory manner. Was the Board involved in any way?

Why can’t shit be simpler?

The more she looked at the crumpled invitation nestled at the top of the wastepaper basket, the more reasons she found to attend the lunch.

Do I even have a choice?

She clicked her tongue and got up to prepare for the gathering.

(Read Chapter 2)

Hamara Neta Kaisa Ho?

Let me begin by clearing the air about my political inclinations in 2014: BJP.

Why? Because they appear to me to be the least of all evils. Because despite their murky past, their current leader appears forward looking and promising.

However, this piece is not about politics. Okay, maybe it is, but it surely isn’t ONLY about that. When I say ‘neta’, I am not referring to what it is usually taken to mean in English, that is, a politician. Here, I am harking back to the original, politically irrelevant definition of the word which is best translated to ‘leader’ in my limited understanding of the two languages.

The question I’ve raised is to do with our idols, the leaders whom we look to emulate as people. How must our leaders be? How must they dress up, behave and conduct themselves? I shall be addressing these questions, or hoping to do so to my best ability in the coming paragraphs.

I believe a leader is most definitely rich and prosperous. I firmly think that s/he is not starving or wanting in basic needs. If anything, s/he must be someone well-off with their head held high and feet firmly rooted to the ground. Their appearance should not be diminutive but impressive and imposing. They must be dressed in good clothes, commute in the swankiest of vehicles, reside in the poshest of places and have the best luxuries at their command. I am not painting a picture of excess but surely one of industry and prosperity.

 Lest I am accused of possessing traits of a ‘capitalist pig’, I will say that I am indeed pro-capitalism but not anti-poor. And yes, I sincerely believe the two can co-exist not just harmoniously, but complementary to each other. Richness is a quality we must all extoll and promote. The ‘aam aadmi’ does not want to remain ‘aam’; s/he only wants to grow in wealth and affluence. The poor does not wish to remain grovelling in the lowest pits of poverty forever, hence we must NOT idolize images of modest living and austerity. We must advocate a life which is grand and incandescent in every sense, a community of haves without have-nots. There will always be the less fortunate and the more fortunate, but our aim in life must be to attain a state of living which allows us to sustain ourselves without pinching the pocket every time.

One is not a villain simply because one is born rich or has acquired riches as a result of one’s hard work. Social sensitization is totally independent of wealth. Case in point: Bill Gates. One of the richest people in the world is also the greatest philanthropists of our times.

If we must venerate something, it is a life of wealth and hard-earned fortune. Our priorities should be diligent toil and personal hard work which will eventually uplift the society as a whole. And what better way to manifest our greatest ideals than in our leaders?