Jab Harry Met Sejal movie review

Worst film ever made.

Jagga Jasoos' references

Hidden somewhere in the spit-fire lyrics of a song montage from Jagga Jasoos is what I think is a clever self-reference. 

Jagga's adoptive father encases a full year's memories in a single VHS tape he sends him annually. Sometimes he sends him life lessons, other times he is busy explaining the difference between an off-spin from an on-spin ball. In one such message, we hear him drop the following words of wisdom: 'chor ki chori jab tak pakdi na jaaye, tab tak wo artist.' ('as long as a thief's thievery isn't caught, they are an artist'.)

I think Basu is subtly referencing the controversy around the originality of his own work here. His previous film, 'Barfi', had entire sequences lifted exactly from their source materials, which range from the 2004 Hollywood drama 'The Notebook', to some of the most iconic stunts of Charles Chaplin and Buster Keaton. Of course, Basu vehemently defended himself by choosing to call it an 'homage' more than anything else. 

Once again, with Jagga Jasoos, many similarities have been drawn with the comic book adventures of Herge's young Belgian 'whippersnapper', Tintin - all of which Basu has roundly rejected. After having seen the film twice, I do feel it bears a great resemblance to the Tintin comic books, both in tone and plot. The beats and gags are also greatly similar at times. In fact, the emotional bedrock of the characters of both Jagga and Tintin is the same: finding a long-lost relative. 

Herge's personal favorite Tintin adventure was 'Tintin in Tibet', in which the young investigative reporter appears to have lost an old friend in a plane crash. He embarks on a deeply personal journey to rescue him from the snowy peaks of Tibet, the crash-site, based on a dream that convinces him he is alive. Jagga has similar motivations and beliefs as Tintin in the comic book. 

Moreover, both their globe-trotting adventures bear a great degree of sameness. Both rely on a hell of a lot of luck. Both work with fumbling, faltering side-kicks. Both take place in faraway lands with made-up names. Both have the same fucking haircut. There's a scene in Jagga Jasoos where he steals an airplane and learns to fly it on the fly (pun intended!); this is the same trick Tintin applies in The Black Island. I am sure I can pick out at least half a dozen more similarities, but that is not the point here.

The point I am making is that Anurag Basu takes a much greater inspiration from a completely different source altogether. This is neither a stylistic nor a tonal inspiration, but an even greater, spiritual one. The film keeps talking about 'the red circle', one in which people who are destined to meet must end up together at one point or the other. This quote is attributed to Gautam Buddha by Jagga as he explains the theory to an unimpressed Katrina. 

In reality, there exists no such quote by Buddha. The saying was instead coined by Jean-Pierre Melville, one of my favorite filmmakers of all time. For the benefit of those who do not know, Melville re-defined the Gangster film, the Heist film and the Neo-noir genre in the 70s, making just over a dozen films in his short career. He is considered a major influence on the stalwarts of the French New Wave. Look him up if you have not. 

In the year 1970, he made one of his three major masterpieces, a film titled, 'Le Cercle Rouge'. This translates to 'The Red Circle'. It opens with the following quote, attributed to the Buddha:

A still from 'Le Cerle Rouge' (1970)

"When men, even unknowingly, are to meet one day, whatever may befall each, whatever the diverging paths, on the said day, they will inevitably come together in the red circle."

The thing with Melville was that he liked fucking with form. He made an almost-silent gangster film when the genre was known to be loquacious. He almost single-handedly defined the concept of a 'code' among gangsters and between criminals and cops, wherein both respect each other for their respective jobs. They live and die by these rules as honorable men (rarely women, unfortunately). This would go on to inspire Tarantino in some of his best films: Kill Bill, Resevoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, Jackie Brown, etc. Melville even fucking gave himself the suffix 'Melville' because Melville was his favorite author. Also because he could, that's why. 

Anurag Basu borrows the concept of the red circle from Melville, something I don't see a lot of critics talking about, let alone the audience. In fact, I find it hard to believe that Basu did not know the line was not spoken actually by Buddha at all. I think he really meant it as an homage to Melville, by keeping the fiction around the quotation alive.

Which brings me back to the line that started it all:

'As long as a thief's thievery isn't caught, they are an artist'.

With this single line from the film, I have a feeling Basu is being that cheeky kid who thumbs her nose at the substitute teacher in school. He is challenging critics to find all the references in his films. Or maybe he is mocking himself. Or maybe he is passing a secret note to the Melville fans in the audience. 

That, or maybe I'm overthinking. 

PS: I absolutely love the film, which is why I saw it twice. I feel it is a fiercely original piece of work despite its very many influences, because of the way it weaves them into a tapestry that is unique from all of its parts. Please go invest time and watch it! 

From dust till dust: a love poem

We see the same lights,

The same sun, the same stars.

A million shadows from the ancient past,

The reflection of everything, alive or dead.

Stardust are we, and to stars we will return,

After suffering together on this pale blue dot.

A spec of a spec of a spec in time,

Two minuscule drops in an ocean, sublime.

We float around and swim about

Without will, without tact

Attracted by ethereal bonds,

Until we come to die.

In this dying light of day,

I long for the touch of your lips.

Tired, paining, suffering bodies,

Yearn to unite for once.

While searching for meaning in faraway lands,

We forget that death does not end life.

It took us a lifetime to realize,

Non-existence is what bookends life.

As they take away your mortal shell,

Away from me, forever to be;

My very being shatters and breaks,

For one glimpse of you among the stars.

I know you’re now a cosmic entity,

Unconscious, un-living particulate matter.

I still remember looking up at the stars with you,

Until you became one and I can only wait.

Maybe a million years hence will an atom of me,

meet one of yours in the blankness of space.

Maybe a flash of recognition, or maybe not,

Will come upon what is left of the two of us. 

Anvi's protraits

Went on an overnight trip with my friend from college. Took a few experimental photos of her on my mobile phone (Moto G4). 

[Update: All photo editing has been done on my phone. No photoshop, simple CC.]

Here are a few, in pretentious monochrome: 

For a change

Corporal shell

A minor annoyance

Battle hardened

Don't look now

Hmm?

Every time I said I love you

[Writing prompt given by my friend, Aditi:

Every time you said 'I love you', and what you meant when you said it - in chronological order.]

The first time I said I love you was out of convention. It was cool to seal it with a kiss and those three magical words. Magical, not so much; but they got you in my pants, so to hell all else.

The second, third, fourth and fifth time I repeated those words, it was fashionable. It was to show we were ‘it’. I spoke it just loud enough so your friends could hear, and just low enough so my parents wouldn’t.

The next hundred thousand times I repeated those words was out of habit. Out of the fear of breaking routine. Out of competition, to defeat you at the game of saying ‘I love you’, as if to say my love is greater than yours. Almost a matter of correct punctuation.

I didn’t know it then, but the hundred thousand and sixth time I said ‘I love you’, I meant it. On a lonely night when you were shattered and I held you in my arms, alone, not out of lust but support; not out of habit, but want; not out of convention, but desire. I said it because I absolutely, balls-out, from the bottom of my fucking heart, lungs and kidneys loved you to hell and beyond, more than any other living being in the world. 

The last time I said I love you was a whisper into void. I hoped you were listening, but knew you were not. And that was the end of it. 

My idea of appreciating art by criminals - in 3 points

1. If a criminal makes good art, their talent is in now way lessened. The art-piece should be appreciated nonetheless (as in the case of Chinatown, The Triumph of the Will, Annie Hall, Last Tango in Paris and Bajrangi Bhaijaan).

2. The piece of art must not earn benefits for the artist, a criminal, unless they have served their punishment in full. Go ahead and download Annie Hall illegally if you are convinced by the allegation leveled against its creator. Don't watch Bajrangi Bhaijaan in theaters if you are convinced of its lead actor's guilt. Watch Chinatown on fmovies. 

3. The greatness of the work of art should not lessen the punishment meted out to the artist, a criminal.

In the words of Arnold Schwarzenegger, "I think that (Polanski) is a very respected person and I am a big admirer of his work. But, nevertheless, I think he should be treated like everyone else."

कल

डर कब लगता है?
जब कुछ खोने को हो।

कल मैं उससे एक साल बाद मिल रहा हूँ .
हम पिछले साल मिले थे।
सुनने में अच्छा लगता है, परी-कथा जैसी.
काश आम-कथा होती।

आज और कल के अंतराल में
ऐसा लगता है एक अर्सा झूल रहा है।
कल मैं कोई और होऊंगा, आज कुछ और।
अंत समीप आते देख, डर लग रहा है।

मुझे मृत्यु का भय है।
शायद भय से ज़्यादा शर्म।
मेरे मन में मौत सबसे बड़ी विडम्बना है:
एक पल आप पूर्ण रूपेण जीवित हो, और अगले ही पल पूर्ण रूपेण मृत।

इसलिए मैं कभी तैयारी के बिना नहीं मारना पसंद करूँगा।
मतलब महाशय घर से निकले थे ज़िन्दगी भर के ख्वाब ले कर,
पर बीच रास्ते अचानक मौत हो गयी।
आम तौर पर मैं अपनी मौत स्वीकार कर हर दिन जीता हूँ।

पर कल अपनी मौत के लिए मैं तैयार नहीं हूँ।
सोचते हुए शर्म आती है कि यदि अगले क्षण मैं मर गया, तो लोग अख़बार में headline पढ़ के कहेंगे,
'बेचारे ने मौत के ऊपर blog लिखा और मर गया'.

कल जैसे दिनों के लिए मैं जीता हूँ।

मेरी बाई मुझसे क्या कहना चाहती होगी

NOTE: This is fictional.

पिछले कई दिनों से मेरे घर में काम करने वाली बाई नहीं आई।
काफी दिन उसकी राह ताकी, अंततः सोचा कुछ मुश्किल decisions लेने ही पड़ेंगे।
अगली बार जब वह आई, तो मैंने उसको नौकरी से निकाल दिया।

रविवार का दिन था, मैं ठीक से नींद से उठा भी न था।

पिछली रात से सोई मेरी गर्लफ्रेंड भी मेरे सिरहाने हलके खर्राटे ले रही थी।
मेरी बाई की आँखों में आंसू थे, काम से निकाले जाने का खूब सारा उमड़ता दर्द, और शायद थोड़ी शर्मिंदगी...
पर क्या उसकी आँखों में मैंने कुछ और देखा? हाँ शायद...

वह कोस रही थी मुझे, और हर उस चीज़ को जिसका मैं प्रतीक हूँ।

'अविवाहिक ही किसी बाप की बेटी को घर ले आए?'
'आज तक जितनी गन्दगी तेरे नर्म बिस्तर के नीचे झुक के घुटनो के बल निकाली, उसका हिसाब भूल गए?'
'बिना 30 day notice के काम से कौन निकालता है'?

'साले तुम सो कैसे सकते हो सुबह साढ़े ग्यारह बजे तक'?

'खुद से निचलों के चेहरे पे यह एक तमाचा नहीं?
अम्बानी-बिर्ला की उत्श्रंखलताओं पर तो खूब विरोध व्यक्त करते रहते हो,
खुद का दोगलापन दिखता नहीं?

तुम गांजा-सिगरेट का कचड़ा ज़मीन पर ऐसी अदब से फैलाते हो, मानो मैं तुम्हारी बाई नहीं, दासी हूँ!

पैसे की मेरी मजबूरी का फायदा उठा के मेरी एक-एक दिन की छुट्टी का हिसाब रखते हो!
साले गरीबों की बस्ती में आ के ही क्यों तुम्हारे अंदर का तर्राट bargainer जाग उठता है?
सुपरमार्केट में जा के क्यों नहीं पाई-पाई का हिसाब मांगते?

कमीने, तुझे पता भी है मेरे घर में क्या चल रहा है?
एक पति है, नालायक, जिस से न दिन रहते काम होता है ना रात।
माँ बाप हैं जो अपना पराया धन बेच आए किसी अंजान मर्द को।
और एक है तू, जो हमेशा अपने आलिशान महल में इस सब से अंजान सोता रहता है।

अब तुम कहोगे कि तुम बहुत मेहनती हो, काम के पक्के पाबन्द हो।
दिन भर अपनी कुर्सी पर बैठ के अंग्रेजी के बड़े-बड़े शब्द type करते हो।
नौ से पांच पूरी लगन से काम करके तुम यह अपेक्षा करते हो कि सब तुम्हारे जैसे ही कर्मठ हों।
और कभी कभार कविता की भावनाओं में बह कर कुछ पंक्तियाँ समाज के दबे कुचलों पर भी समर्पित करते हो।

बहुत बहुत धन्यवाद कि तुमने मेरे बारे में इतना सोचा।
पर थोड़ा और सोचते तो पाते कि मुझमें और तुम मे फर्क सिर्फ तबके और अमीरीयत का है।
गौर करने की बात है कि यदि मेरा जन्म तुम्हारे घर और तुम्हारा मेरे घर में होता,
तो क्या आज मैं यह कविता लिख रही होती और क्या तुम रो रहे होते?'

इतना कुछ अपनी आँखों से कहकर वह घर से और मेरे सुस्त Sunday से चली गई।
मैंने आँखे मलीं, मुह धोया और वापस अपनी गर्लफ्रेंड की बाहों में लिपट के सो गया,
Sunday morning वाले खूबसूरत सपने देखने।
सपने सच्चाई को सहनीय बना देते हैं, मैंने खर्राटे लेते हुए सोचा और नींद में मुस्कुराया।

right wing wankers just crossed a line

I'm a very politically inflamed guy but choose to keep it in my pants unless there's something REALLY extreme said or done. Indian politics, as most of us who don't live under a rock would know, has never been anything BUT extreme. This compels me to call out bullshit from time to time, mostly on my facebook profile. 

Now, let me tell you- I'm no activist or political know-all; in fact I'm closer to being complicit in all the stupid shit that happens in the political arena these days than anything else. So, for the most part, I aim to make no real difference to the status-quo. A figure like me can be likened to the trope of the Gangster Wife, or for want of a better analogy, the humble Nazi footsoldier who was 'only following orders'. I turn a deaf ear to handicapped beggars and charity-appealers, but still rant about wealth inequality on heated facebook comment threads, thus riding the Hypocrisy Express on a first class ticket.

But every once a while something so ridiculous comes along that shit hits the fucking sky. To not call it out for its stupidity tilts the needle of my moral compass to 'criminal offence'. 

Asaram Bapu, accused multiple times of being a child rapist and a murderer, is arguably the father of dick moves across the spectrum of right-wing wackos. Him and his pro-Hindutva pals have led rancid and lethal hate campaigns over the years about 'Love Jihad', boycotting Pakistani artists, the politics over beef ban, national anthem and many other minor to major issues. 

Their muscle flexing has grown in rabidness after the ascension of the BJP at the central government in 2014. I had privately predicted the rise of these dastardly elements in an argument with my father when the Modi sarkar was elected. Modi himself may not be at the forefront of this fuckall socio-religious thuggery. But his proximity to the Sangh Parivar, documented to have played a role in the Babri masjid demolition - among many other controversial incidents - cast serious doubts in my mind about his integrity to bring these misguided miscreants to books.

Sadly, there exist no better political opponents to Modi as of now, which is dangerous for a diverse democracy. All other regional leaders are either too weak, divisive or corrupt. They have made careers out of politics and filled their personal coffers while at it. 

But more on all this some other day; let me go back to Asaram Bapu and the point of this post.

Bapu and his minions run close to fucking 400+ ashrams all across India, but mostly in the 'pak sarzameen' of Gujarat. Kuch din toh guzariye pls.  

Still not convinced? Read some personal testimonies!

Bapu Ji also runs about 40 'gurukuls', or boarding schools which have been mired in controversies related to mysterious deaths of its students. Some parents have accused the staff of practicing black magic, only to later retract their statements in court, under no pressure from anyone at all. 

Sounds a lot like Hogwarts, eh?

	Hogwarts	Asaram’s gurukul
Secretly teaches magic	✓	✓
Students die under mysterious circumstances	✓	✓
Occasionally hounded by official authorities	✓	✓
Sometimes muggles get a whiff of what’s happening but eventually lose their memory	✓	✓
Led by a bearded old man whose sexuality is dubious	✓	✓

Apart from being a part-time court liar, prison inmate and clown, Bapu ji also excels in single handedly keeping the venom of Western cultural influence at bay from the gullible Bharatiya masses. His campaigns to shun the allure of culture-eroding vices like Valentine's Day and Christmas celebrations have manifested in parallel festivals of his own. 

He announced 14th February to be marked Matri Pitri Poojan Divas ("mother-father worship day") and 25th December to be celebrated as Tulsi Pujan Divas (Basil Worship Day). Surely, these six-sigma certified, ISI-pramaanit Indian festivals could not be observed on any other two days on the Kaalnirnay calendar.

The most cringeworthy effort to publicly promote the latter is in the form of a recent straight-to-DVD, barely feature length film, '25 December: Ek nayi pahal'. Here's the trailer:

Ouch. The cringe was high with this, right? Picture abhi baaki hai. Turns out they have simultaneously released the full movie on youtube. 

Unless you have assimilated the entire experience in 1.5x speed like I did, stop reading here if you care for spoilers. Actually no, just read on; this is truly a spoiler proof film, the only one after the Ebert-certified Inception. My spoilers will only add to your anticipation to witness this unique movie first hand.

In the opening scene, we are introduced to textbook baddie Rocky, who is always chucking around strategically-placed cardboard cartons for some reason. His teenage angst has led him away from the path of goodness and godliness, and the heathen spawn has taken upon himself to stop the pious folk of his housing society from worshiping the Holy Basil ('Tulsi'). While the other angelic kids are busy prepping for the Tulsi worship gig, villainous Rocky reports the public nuisance to the cops. The cops come knocking at the right place and time (for once!) and are just about to cancel the shenanigans for totally legit reasons when...flashback happens.

Turns out everyone in this moronic society is an Asaram supporter and has pimped out their unassuming kids to his gurukul. The young-uns (all suspiciously males) have been brainwashed to sabotage the livelihoods of anyone who deals in cow-flesh ('gau mata hatya'). The story of their twisted efforts to stop cow-flesh trade and other equally worthless pursuits melts the heart of the policemen in charge and they let the show go on. The District Magistrate makes a special appearance and leads the chanting of 'Hari om!' for the enthralled crowd.

One of the kids then goes on to enlist the benefits of tulsi - from being a cure to cancer to an ozone-releasing miracle herb. Poor Rocky takes to the stage and accepts that he had been led astray from the noble path of goodness and...Hinduism. Yes, he does not openly say it, but he confesses that he also 'used to be a Rohan once', and that it was now time to go back to being one. Ghar wapsi, anyone? 

No one, at any point, openly targets Christmas or Christianity, but the words 'sharaab aur kabaab' are repeatedly used with disgust and revulsion. The word 'party' is detested; 'utsav' is suggested as an acceptable replacement. Everyone is repeatedly told to observe the 25th of December as Tulsi Pujan Divas alone. It's not like any other major festival falls on the same day, right?

Asaram Bapu demonstrating the number of fucks he gives

And yet, my major problem is not with any of what I just mentioned. I don't really give a shit about misguided, brainwashed masses as long as they are adults. They're already fucked. The chuck-chuck train has long passed for them. 

But it is when children are taken away their childhood by adults with an agenda that I lose my shit. Don't drag the fucking kids into your hateful, sexist, xenophobic campaign. Leave them home with better role models. Let them truly make up their minds. Ensure they get the unbiased, neutral account of the world they deserve during their formative years. Don't pass on your fucked up legacy to them.

This goes for everyone who brings along their young ones to political and ideological rallies. Don't. Let them stay home for a day instead, with their Barbie dolls or Hot Wheels, Hardy Boys or Nancy Drews, or whatever it is that sells these days. Don't snatch away their sense of wonder and exploration for your selfish motives.

I am not a parent so I am in no position to say whether I can guarantee the same for my kids (if and when I have any), but I will try. In any case, it's not like we are leaving this place for them in any good shape - this is the least the future generations deserve.

I write this with the biggest FU to everyone who uses kids for their agenda. Fuck you for messing with the children.

We failed you.

Insulin shot: a short story

Ma calls out for dinner.

That’s my cue. I open the refrigerator and reach for the tiny insulin glass bottle on the door panel. I grope through baba’s medicine box for a fresh syringe. It’s such a habit that I can literally do it without taking my eyes off the mobile screen.

I load the syringe with the exact quantity of the transparent medicine, with some help of the markings. Carefully, so as not to form bubbles. I give the needle a shake to let the extra drops fall. This I can’t do without looking for sure, so I restrain myself from checking the Instagram feed.

I walk to where baba is sitting, like every day, on his special reclining chair, enjoying the angry debate on TV…

But something’s wrong today. The TV is silent; the suited news anchor is speaking over everyone and the supers are spitting fire, but it’s all on mute. The look on my grandfather’s face is one of abject loss. His eyes are looking away, as if following some wayward thought. The TV seems on only on account of a habit half observed.

There are about ten of us in the same house but no one notices him because, well, old people.

“What’s up, baba?”

He looks up at me but it’s not like when someone is jolted from their thoughts and brought back to reality. He turns to look at me very gradually, and I see something frightening in his eyes. It’s hard to put down in words but the fuzzy warmth about him is gone. His eyes are vacant, drained and tired. I haven’t seen him in this shape in the seven years of our insulin-shot ritual.

*

My grandfather has been diabetic for more than 35 years now: a little more than twice my time in the world. As a kid I would watch mortified as he would fearlessly apply the injection on his bare stomach, ten minutes before the day’s last meal. I would run and hide in my room every time dinner was announced.

As I grew older, my fear turned to fascination. When I was about 10, I remember him calling out to me as he was about to take the shot. Nervously, I walked up to him and sat on his lap.

“Do you want to puncture my tummy today?” he asked me in his genial dada ji voice.

I whimpered at the idea but quickly recovered. Curiosity dictated that I nod. He handed me the syringe, showing me how to correctly hold it. He bared his fat belly and wiped the spot of the injection with a piece of cotton. Then he signaled me to go ahead.

I nervously brought the syringe closer to his belly; I think my hands trembled. He held my arm and guided it towards him. Slowly, the needle pierced his skin and I discharged the insulin. I looked up at him to gauge his pain but his beaming smile did not wane even a bit. I was awed.

This became a part of our routine. No sooner would ma, chachi or dadima call for dinner than I’d run to baba to ‘puncture his tummy’. It became our bonding session: those ten or so minutes between the injection and the dinner being served.

Baba generally had been a very self-motivated individual. He’d retired as a star journalist when no one else in the family saw any merit in the jhola-chhaap profession. All my uncles and aunts and distant cousins had gotten themselves involved in our family business, which functioned more like a clan now.

“Truth be told,” baba said during one of our insulin moments, “I’m sure they all hate my guts.” He looked over to where my dad and younger brother were, enjoying a cricket game on TV. “Can’t say the feeling isn’t mutual!”

We had a laugh about things that would have seemed so revolting outside of context. And I won’t say we always talked progressive and intellectual all the time; oh, we trash-talked a lot. Sometimes he would comment on the shortness of bua’s pants or ma’s closeness to chacha, which created doubts in his mind regarding her fidelity. “But that’s none of your business, and I am sure you are seeing things.”

“They called me the sharpest eye in the newsroom…”

He would often hold on rigidly to his opinions, like when we passionately debated on the subject of the existence of god. I’m a militant atheist and he considers himself a high-caste Brahmin, so a clash was imminent. We continued to debate all through dinner and up till bedtime, but he did not budge an inch from his standpoint.

But at the end of the day, we agreed that we had had a damn good argument. No one else would give us much notice. Only occasionally would someone look up from their TV screens or food plates and give an impervious glance. Nobody got us. And it’s been like this till date.

*

“Tell me?” I crouch down and pull up his shirt. He wipes his face with the back of his palms and looks at me, now with a restive manner. He appears like a man who has just about made a momentous decision.

“I want to tell you something really important.”

I let go of his shirt and let it fall. His voice is clear, stern and very serious; the kind that demands immediate and absolute attention.

“I am only telling you this because,” he pauses as he glances to the sides, then continues, “you’re the only one who will understand me and not freak out.”

“What’s up?” I ask.

“As you know, I was in and out of hospital all of last week due to my breathing problems…”

He had been briefly hospitalized after a nasty asthma attack triggered by dust and pollution. For about 5 days, he had been under observation and I could not meet him for that duration. I had been busy with work and had not thought much about it. It had not been a particularly serious illness, so it was not a cause of any considerable distress.

“In those few days lying on my bed, with an oxygen mask plastered to my face and intravenous drips pierced under my skin, I had a spiritual revelation. I realized the frailty of my body. I haven’t felt any weaker and helpless before. For the first time in my life, I could feel myself getting older and sicker. I think a big part of my spirit died on the hospital bed when I was finally discharged.”

Another call for dinner from the kitchen interrupts him. My younger brother is engrossed in his mobile phone. Papa is nowhere to be seen, probably confabulating with a business buddy in a room inside. There is commotion and activity all around, but we are alone.

“You don’t need to feel so down, baba,” I console. “All these things come with age.”

“That’s what I am afraid of. I am afraid of turning into this incapacitated vegetable that will be as good as dead. I do not want to die slowly and painfully in some hospital room away from family, away from friends…away from you. Everything I’ve done in life has been on my own terms. I was once a young hopeful man like you, ready to make a dent on the world. And over the years, I have made quite a dent by doing what I always wanted. I have bravely faced thugs and exposed the wrongdoings of the rich and influential. I’ve fought fights with gusto and stood up for what I know to be right and fair. I have loved, I have failed and I have succeeded. I have lived all facets of my life and I have played all my roles as a man of God. My life’s targets have been achieved and I can now die with no regrets.”

I cannot bear to look at him anymore. He is no longer the listless wreck he was just moments ago. In the course of his speaking, his demeanor has changed and his face has gained color. His speech is clear, articulate and impassioned. He speaks like a man possessed, a hawkish debater who has found the flaw in the opposing argument. He is speaking with an intent that is scary for me as his granddaughter, which makes me look away and contemplate.

The news anchor barks soundlessly on primetime. My brother aggressively pokes the touchscreen of his smartphone, perhaps caught in a tense moment in a video game. The plates are being laid out on the dining table.

Baba holds me gently by the chin and lifts my head towards him. His face is serene and his eyes sparkle with a youthful charm; he’s made up his mind.

“I have lived every moment of my life on my term. I want to end it on my terms too. And I want your help with it.” He smiles enigmatically. Then he looks at the syringe in my hand, filled with the right dosage of insulin.

“I’ve already taken two extra doses of insulin before this, but only a third can make it potentially lethal. I want you to go ahead and give me what I want.”

The syringe drops from my hand and falls on the ground. I cannot believe this is happening. I pick it up; luckily, the needle is still intact and the liquid has not dripped.

“You are an intelligent young girl, uncorrupted by the cynicism and reasonability of adulthood. I know I can trust you to make the right choice. In case I die, I already have a suicide note saved and ready in the drafts folder of my email ID.”

I know the ID and password of his email account because I am the one who set it up for him.

“I leave the rest to you. If you’re logically convinced by my argument, you should go ahead and puncture your baba's belly, one last time.”

His argument is airtight, and I know the stubborn old man cannot be talked out of it. The weight of the decision trembles me. Dinner is served. Papa appears from an inside room, still on the phone. Chacha and chachi take their places at the dining table, oblivious of me and baba. The news anchor is out of breath.

The syringe with the lethal dose beckons me.

THE END

The genius of Kammatipaadam

A few months ago, a Malayalam language film called 'Kammatti Paadam' had released. Directed by Anurag Kashyap's long time DoP, Rajeev Ravi, it's a story spanning a generation of gangsters in the shifting landscape of semi-urban Kerala.

I doubt if the film saw a respectable theater release beyond some urban pockets in Kerala. It got a grand total of one screen in Mumbai. No one I mentioned the movie to had even heard the name, apart from three college friends who worked on it as part of the crew. In fact, I'd only heard of the film and its release through them.

I also remember reading Kashyap's praise of Kammattipaadam, because that's what compelled me to watch it. He called it a 'slow burning', old school gangster film in the tradition of Once Upon a Time In America. I was instantly sold.

Of course, I couldn't catch it in the solitary theater in Mumbai, so I waited until the torrent was out. But after having waited for months and finding only bad quality screener rips, I decided to be a good samaritan and settled for a DVD. Priced modestly and affordably at Rs. 130, I got the beauty office delivered from Amazon. I waited till EOD (professional email jargon is rubbing off) to rip open the plastic wrapping and reveal the unassuming DVD. Then, Movie Magic happened.

No, I don't want to speak about the film in its entirety, even though it's an enticing prospect. It's one of those rare films which benefit from being viewed with as little foreknowledge as possible. So I'm not going to talk to you about the plot and its numerous merits - there are many. I will instead focus on the first images the film throws your way: the title credits.

A little bit of a rewind here before I proceed.

Satyajit Ray is unarguably India's most influential international filmmaker. In media school, we've studied his painstaking dedication to every frame he composed. He fought to retain as much creative control of the film as a single person could. He would often score for them. Sometimes he would handle the camera himself. Another thing that he did invariably was closely overseeing the opening and closing titles. He would initially design them on his own. The confluence of sight, text and sound was thus dictated by him to a t.

He would construct the title & credit slates such that they would not appear out of place for the setting of the film. For example, the opening credits of Pather Panchali, his debut film, were handwritten on crumpled sheets of paper. The father of the protagonist, Harihar Rai, is a writer struggling to make ends meet for himself and his family. They live in a derelict house which has buckled under the effects of the elements. The credit sequence resembles Harihar’s carelessly stored manuscripts and thereby becomes a part of this universe.

That’s just one way to use credit sequences: to acquaint the audience – even if subconsciously – to the environment of the film. There are innumerable more. Hitchcock gets his audience into the psyche of the characters or the tone of the film through innovative use of music and text. Daniel Craig’s Bond films start with elegantly animated sequences that run us through the many locations Agent Double-O Seven will visit through the course of his adventures.

Closer home, Imtiaz Ali stands out as someone who lays emphasis on his credit sequences and injects them with some meaning. Here, too, as in James Bond, we are shown distinctive moments from the story that will be pivotal to the growth of the characters and development of the plot. Sudhir Mishra’s Yeh Saali Zindagi attempts to do the same with animation.

Kammati Paadam plays out in at least three interwoven timelines, from the time when the three protagonists were kids, till they are middle aged people. Fittingly, it opens with an energetic music video which sets the stage for the epic scale of things.

Through the music video cum credit sequence, we are led into the world of Kammaati Paadam through the protagonist’s eyes when he is a pre-teen. His Brahmin family is shifting to the village, which is also home to a sizeable tribal settlement. We see him befriending Ganga, an impressionable young boy of his age but from the tribal community. He attracts the attention of Anitha, who is also the same age and almost instantly falls in love with her. So does she. We see his father’s muted disapproval of his lower-caste company.

In a crescendo aided by rising musical tempo and frantic shot transitions, the tension between the three friends is underscored. Ganga and Anitha’s ceremonial child ‘wedding’ is implied when Krishnan’s family passes by the marriage procession. In another meaningful shot, Krishnan is helped up on a tricky branch of a tree. He has eyes only for Anitha, who is swinging from a branch and has her gaze fixed on him.

We see the boys bonding over a game of marbles. They are exposed to the violence of a village hunting party together. They run amok in the green fields, chasing butterflies and breaking age old caste barriers by simply sticking together.

All this while, the music and lyrics add an additional layer to the narrative. It’s a percussion heavy score that rumbles like a bad omen at first, then breaks open into an energetic beat to the hypnotic chants of ‘para, para’ (‘tell, O tell…’). These seem to be lines from a folk song, a paean addressed to the Pulayas, a well-known Dalit sub-sect. There are pantheistic verses that go well with the natural setting of these opening visuals:

‘Why was the sun-god, so late in coming up today?

The sun-god has come, it has steadily risen.’

The traditional way of beginning any story in Indian mythology is to first pay obeisance to the Gods. In the conventions of nature worship Hinduism has evolved from, praying to the elements was a common ritual (and to an extent, still is). The storyteller harks to an older era, a simpler time through these hauntingly beautiful sights and sounds.

These vital opening moments take you on the character’s journey back in time and space; as he travels, so do you. What it also does is wordlessly establish the dynamics between the three primary characters: whether they know it or not, the undercurrents of tension in their childhood will have much greater consequences than they can imagine.

In less than five minutes, Rajeev Ravi gives you a holistic sense of the scale, scope and character dynamics of Kammaati Paadam. To the astute viewer (or a second time viewer), this opening sequence has carefully embedded clues to the events to follow. It establishes a village landscape that will drastically change, a close friendship that is tinged with jealousy, and a love story that is doomed from literally the first meeting. In doing so, he reveals the biggest character in the movie: 

Destiny.

dem biches b cray: a short story

(NOTE: This is fit for 16+ readers. As in, people over 16 years in age, not 16 people in total. It's sad and funny because that is most likely the size of my readership lol.)

1.

I define myself as 'sapiosexual', which means someone who is sexually attracted to intelligence.

At some point in adolescence, many youngsters simultaneously discover a pseudo-intellectual fondness for things that sound deep but really are not. Words like 'petrichor' and 'wanderlust' and 'schadenfreude' catch our collective imaginations like 'le me' memes and pinterest feeds. These short lived trends come and go out of fashion before you can complete this sentence in your head. Nvm.

But sapiosexual has stuck to me. It feels like it was included in the English language just for me. The hot girls in school - the ones with bouncy assets, supple waists and simple minds - held me in no thrall. Or perhaps I resisted my carnal urges to appear holier than thou in my own eyes - holier than myself, lol.

I have been in the best of romantic relationships with my long time girlfriend, Sonal. She's hardworking and sincere but a little fragile emotionally. She isn't the bearer of a very pleasant face and is more or less shapeless, especially at the seams, but guess what, she is not lacking in the grey matter department. When I fuck her, the grunts of intelligence and wisdom fall like music to my ears. We are both clumsy in bed, we are both hairy and flabby, and we are fucking perfect for each other. Like totes.

I cannot say the same for my best friend, Abhishek and his girlfriend Maya. See, Maya is the kind of made-for-instagram girl who poses in all her top-angle, cleavage-showing, pout face-flaunting glory in every photo. She's sexy and she knows it, and shoves it down everyone's timeline like the dicks down her throat. Wordplay ftw.

So she's what many call 'plastic bitch', but I know better because I call myself a feminist and must live up to the tag. As a practicing online feminist, I cannot use a derogatory term for women that likens them to mongrels or objects. But I know she is very much a bitch and a plastic one at that, because she's about as smart as a cockroach and as emotionally present as a lump of dry ice. Her friends on facebook like to be tagged in the same photos as her only so they can kid themselves that the enormous number of 'likes' are because they are in it. Many boys use her regularly updated online party albums for excellent fap material.

How do I know, you ask? Because I'm one of them. I justify fantasizing about women like Maya by thinking about Sonal at the moment before ejaculation. That way I continue to tell myself that I am indeed sapiosexual.

But hey, at least I don't take these urges beyond an inch of my dick and left hand. So there's my moral high ground right there. I am attracted to my girlfriend who is intelligent af. I mean look at her grades. JUST LOOK AT THOSE STRAIGHT As! I even love her imperfections, those occasional A minuses that make her more human.

The phone rings: it's...Maya. I stick my hand out of my pants to take her call on the second ring.

"Hello".
"Hey Sankalp. Are you busy?"
"Um, no, not really...tell me?"
"I needed your help."
"Ya, tell me?"
I hear her take deep breaths through the receiver.
"I had a fight with Abhishek. He is not taking any of my calls. He left all his other stuff at my place and stormed off for I don't know where and now it's raining-"

I look out of the window: it's drizzling. Funny I didn't smell the petrichor.

"-and I hope he's fine, by god!"

She trails off and starts sobbing.

"Um, listen Maya, don't worry. I know Abhi very well, he'll be somewhere having a drink alone. I'll just give him a call and knock some sense."

I swear under my breath. This has happened so many times already that I am not even alarmed or worried. They have a fight every fortnight on an average and more often than not, I'm the one who ends up as the interlocutor. I track either him or her down and become their punching bag so they can let off some steam. Then they post a couple of cozy selfies from their bed and pretend to be the most in-love couple 5eva. Drives me absolutely cray-cray.

"I'll be really grateful if you could do that, Sankalp. You've always been a great help."

She hangs up after some half baked reassurances. I am tempted to call Abhishek right away but decide to take care of unfinished business before. I stare into Maya's stone eyes on my laptop screen, then slide down to her tight cleavage and exposed thighs, all the way down to her ankles, how they arch and taper, how her face betrays any emotion but her navel seems to express volumes, and AHHH how her underarms show no traces of hair and OHMYGOD her waist is so perfectly curved - BUT REMEMBER STRAIGHT As UHHHHHHH-

I call Abhishek. It rings for a while before he picks up.

"Hey man-"
He cuts me across. "O fuck, did she call you too, again? What a bitch."
"What happened now?"
"Nothing really. She was just PMSing so I walked out on her face. She might have gone on a guilt trip after her anger died out and she thinks talking to you might help."
"Yeah, well...just go back and pacify her dude. Don't want to get involved all over again."
"There's no chance I'll go back tonight. That's that. You don't worry, she'll be back to normal tomorrow."
"I'm cool as long as you are."
"Okay then. See you."

He takes a gulp of whatever he's having and cuts the call. I pick my phone up to call Maya exactly when she calls me.

"Hey Maya-"
"Sankalp," she says in a heavy voice, "can you come home for a bit?" She sounds harrowed from crying.
"Yes but what happened?"
"I feel all alone, even my roommate has stepped out for some work...I want to talk things over with someone."
Ya sure, she wants to talk things over! I bet she wants someone to fuck her wet pussy for the night because her boyfriend cockblocked her (or is it called something else when a guy does that to-)

"Sankalp-? Are you coming?"
NO, you unattractive airhead! First of all, I'll never fall to your unintelligent advances and second, he's my best friend-
"Yes. I'll see you in 10."

lolmax. roflcopter. fml.

2.

See, I'm a considerate person at heart, so I can't rest easy unless everything is more or less sorted out. Even if it means meddling into someone's private matters. But this is Abhishek we're talking about, so that's alright, right? RIGHT? Right.

Despite his flippancy about Maya's obvious distress, I decided to career on and give her a friendly shoulder to cry on. Just to be there for her, you know, just to give her some warm, old-fashioned company. There was no question of infidelity or stepping out of my limits. The bro code is strong with me, bro. 

I press the bell on Maya's door when I notice my little one down there getting all stiff. I hear the opening of an internal door, probably the toilet door. I think I hear a muffled 'coming!' in Maya's voice. She's coming...

So there are hacks to get your erect dick to calm down in little time. I saw it on some fb post once. The idea is to stiffen your thighs to divert the blood flow away from the johnson, in essence deflating it off all the out-of-turn excitement. I have never tried doing this before, but now is the time. 

Her footsteps come closer and I'm still struggling to squat. It's not really helping the erection. She opens the door and I hastily straighten up.

"Hey," I offer, covering my crotch gentlemanly with both hands. Her eyes are reddish and cheeks drawn up, which strikes me as unusual. In one single swift motion-

SHE HUGS ME.

I'm barely able to pull my hands from the receding space between her body and mine when she wraps me in an encompassing hug. Her breasts press against mine my chest and the lil one down there can't fucking contain himself. 

Her thin black hair rub against my cheek, smelling like rainbow flavored farts of a unicorn in a wet dream. I slowly creep my arms around her back, the back of her neck tantalizingly close to where my pinkie lands. She sobs in my right shoulder, her head almost the perfect size and shape for the space between my shoulder blades. I am hoping to touch some more skin without being creepy, trying to smoothly work my hand up. But the audacity fails me and I'm content with the bird in hand. Her head moves gently as she sobs softly in my arms. The moment gets imprinted in my memory, and I never want it to end...

But all good things do. She awkwardly pulls herself out of the hug, perhaps, nay surely not understanding its monumental significance to me.

Her dress is a few inches too deep to be deemed appropriate (by me and me alone, might I add for my feminist readers). Her yoga pants - THE BEST PIECE OF CLOTHING AFTER THE BIKINI - outline her hips down to each curve. It takes some will to keep standing.

On her face's journey out of the hug, I catch a fleeting whiff of rum and red bull. She's definitely tipsy.

"Are you ok?"

She raises her head to me, as if the question is a physical entity she can answer better when she has a look at it. Her eyes are droopy and cheeks flush. She leaves my question unanswered and totters to a side to allow me to enter. I walk in on tip toe, like a burglar after bedtime. She slaps my bum softly and close the door on us. I jump up and let out a sharp squeal in surprise. My penis reacts in a more favorable way. It's getting harder to not get carried away.

"Um, Maya..."

And then she swoons in my arms. Her body collapses on me as I scramble to support her. Like they show in the movies. 

She's gone, done for, knocked out cold. I don't even try to revive her, I don't think I want to. My heart is suddenly pumping a lot of blood to my genitals; it feels like her whole body is propped up on the support of...

Her eyes are half open but distant, not human anymore. Her mouth, half open and already drooling, shows the only sign of slumber and life: a constant heavy pitched snoring. 

I hold her tenderly, like an object of frailty and not the crafty vixen that she is. Of course she planned all this to happen! She got drunk just the right amount to knock her out and called me after her boyfriend would not entertain her. She wants me to take the first step. She wants to feel needed, to be desired, and be done things to rather than having to. What a masterstroke!

I slyly put my entire hand on her bare back now and a shiver runs down my neck. Her entire back has no trace of hair at all, unlike - whats her name again - yes, Sonal. She does not care for outward beauty, just like I don't, and I completely approve-

My hand edges further down...

Think about Abhishek. Bro code! Sonal and her A-minuses and B cups! But she just slapped my ass. She wants it and she asked for it and now my dick is also hard as steel, just don't think so much you fucking klutz!!!

I stop in my tracks and hold my breath. I am getting carried away. This is not how a sapiosexual person should behave. 

I hold Maya's lithe body from just above the waist, as dispassionately as possible, and deliver her dutifully to her bed. All this I do without exhaling, and finally when I've put her to bed, I let go. I feel relaxed. I open my eyes and adjust her body into a more comfortable repose. I tuck her arms gracefully to the side, untie her shoes and stretch her legs gently. I reposition her crooked head to a neutral stargazing pose. 

I pull the blanket over her legs and cover her till her chin. In doing all this, I respectably restrain from making physical contact with her skin as much as possible.

I calmly walk to the tiny, damp washroom, pull down my pants to the ankles, pull down my underwear to the thighs, and put my left hand to my dick.

I close my eyes and relive the last five minutes in my head. How her voluptuous body surrendered to my waiting arms, and AAHHH how her boobs bounced on impact and OHMYGOD her open back was so silky smooth and velvety - BUT REMEMBER STRAIGHT As UHHHHHHH---

THE END