Some poetry videos

 I have been experimenting a bit with poetry videos in recent months. Here's the channel link: 

https://www.youtube.com/@AnnieZaidi-writer/videos

Here's a five part poem to start with. If you're into poetry and things, listen, watch, and share etc: 

Five conversations I can no longer bear to have in person: 1

Five conversations I can no longer bear to have in person: 2

Five conversations I can no longer bear to have in person: 3

Five conversations I can no longer bear to have in person: 4

Five conversations I can no longer bear to have in person: 5

An Ordinary Woman and Twelve Ordinary Men

CAN A WOMAN tell the unvarnished truth about what happened to her? This is the central question at the heart of Anand Ekarshi’s Aattam (The Play), the 2023 Malayalam film that was recently adjudged the best film at the 47th edition of the Kerala Film Critics Awards.

The film takes its structure from the iconic Twelve Angry Men (1954), a teleplay that has inspired multiple films since, including the Hindi film Ek Ruka Hua Faisla (1986). A bunch of men weigh in on what appears at first to be a matter of outright criminality, and must decide the fate of the accused.

However, what makes the creative twist in Aattam particularly successful is that it has freed the “judgement” from legal institutional frameworks and moved it into a creative workplace. The “case” in question is sexual harassment. Anjali (Zarin Shihab), the lone female member of a small drama company, has been molested and the other members must decide whether or not her alleged abuser should continue working with them.

I wrote this short essay about Aattam, Indian movies and representation of sexual harassment, especially at  the workplace. My own headline for it was: 'An Ordinary Woman and Twelve Ordinary Men'. 

Read it the rest of it here: https://indianexpress.com/article/opinion/columns/aattam-frames-woman-loneliness-sexual-harassment-9343881/lite/ 

Look out for 'Two Way Street'

Very pleased to hear that 'Two Way Street,' a short film I wrote has been named by Platform magazine as one of the shorts to look out for in 2024. Do look out for it at festivals, screenings or wherever it might be available to watch. 

Here's what they say about the film: 

As a versatile artist encompassing roles as a screenwriter, filmmaker, actor, and stage lighting designer, Asmit has made a significant mark in the film industry. His films have been featured at prestigious festivals such as MAMI, IFFLA, IDSFFK, SASFF, and many others. His recent short film, Two Way Street, garnered acclaim by winning the V Shantaram Golden Award for Direction at the South Asian Short Film Fest. Following its success as a winner at the Best of India Short Film Festival, the film qualified for the Academy Awards 2024. In this compelling narrative, an ordinary taxi ride transforms into a battleground when the Taxi Driver refuses to enter a particular lane. The passenger, in response, decides not to disembark until reaching his destination. The story unfolds as a poignant projection of the taxi driver's inherent bias against a specific community and the passenger's determination not to become a victim of discrimination.

Here's a link to the article: https://www.platform-mag.com/film/short-films-to-watch-in-2024.html

Eaten by a look

In Western fairy tales, a witch is a scary woman who might ‘eat’ you, cooked or uncooked. In South Asian fairy tales and folklore, she might eat you simply through gazing at you. Worse, she might marry you and then eat you at leisure. I have been researching witches in contemporary South Asian fiction for my doctoral thesis (a work in progress) but in the meantime, I've published this blog post for the Durham University Edible Histories project. It looks at witch appetites in folklore, mainly from India. Do read if you're interested in the subject. Link below: https://staffblog.webspace.durham.ac.uk/eaten-by-a-gaze-witches-in-south-asian-folklore/

The heart of the republic

Freedom is not simply a matter of being fed. The technical lack of a cage also does not define freedom. She may be trained to perform on stage through a judicious mix of fear, pain and food, but a lioness balancing on a chair and being ridden by a clown cannot be called free.

Hunting and killing also do not necessarily translate to freedom. A lioness must also be free to not hunt and not kill when she chooses. One who is expected to tear into a gladiator, or an unarmed Christian convert, is no freer than the human she will kill.

Freedom, then, is a form of self-determination. Being able to make one’s own choices is vital to the process of achieving it, and inhabiting it. And what is the republic if not a human attempt towards self-determination?

Some thoughts on the republic, freedom and Born Free today in the Indian Express: 

https://indianexpress.com/article/opinion/columns/freedom-is-the-heart-of-a-republic-7741660/

 

On English, elitism and writing in India

A short passage from an essay I wrote about Indian writing in English, and the insinuation that it was an elitist club:

Occasionally, I also heard charges of elitism levelled at this club and, in the beginning, these made me nervous. I knew Hindi well enough but English was the language I could touch with no gloves on. I was aware that it was accessible to a smaller fraction of the population but if we were going to do fractions, what language didn’t have its elites, its tell-tale dialects that gave away the country cousin, the migrant, the unlettered worker? Even so, a tail of suspicion attached itself to cultural production in English. The baggage associated with its colonial antecedents has shifted so that, instead of examining the inheritors of actual power – politicians, priests and businesspeople – a certain outsider-hood was invented for those who had a special relationship with English.

These suspicions confused me. Growing up, much of my reading was English ‘classics’, which is to say, mainly British novels and plays, some American short stories and translated works from Russian, German or French. Later, travelling and working as a journalist, I saw that the concerns of people remain the same, no matter what language they spoke: how to survive, how to secure your present so the future appears a little less uncertain, how to gain freedom, how to protect a reputation, how to find and keep love, how to transgress without being destroyed by the hegemony of the day. Such were the struggles and conflicts described in the stories I read, whether they were set in nineteenth century pastoral England or twenty-first century India. Was it possible to measure the democratic quotient of a book based on how many people could potentially read it? And what happens to nations where the majority is unlettered? Are all literatures elitist if most people cannot afford to read for pleasure?

Full article in Outlook; link here: https://magazine.outlookindia.com/story/books-way-through-an-old-sieve/304029 

Being profiled

In other news, Facebook has finally successfully figured me out. It has my profile down pat:interested in literature (writing), films, culture broadly. It shows me ads for masterclasses in screenwriting by Mira Nair and Judd Apatow. One even by Margaret Atwood and if I was who I was fifteen years ago, I may even have jumped at that offer.

Another time, FB showed me some ad related to writing - merchandise, perhaps? It does not yet show me books per se, because the books' business is small and publishers (and writers themselves) rarely advertise their wares.

Once in a while, it will show me some quaint piece of furniture, or mulmul and silk sarees. If I wasn't so determined not to shop for objects that I have not physically gone looking for, not touched and seen at close quarters, it would have been my undoing.

Still. Congratulations, Facebook. You nailed who I am. Give my love to all the AI programs that track my every move.

Amazon, on the other hand, is wringing its hands at my habits. I do not usually purchase anything except books there but it keeps trying to offer me gadgets, phones, home accessories. As if to say: Come on! Oh, come on!

I kind of prefer that approach, to be honest. It sees and it resists your own idea of who you are.

Samman nahin, samaanta

Women's day, so I'm linking to the first documentary I made in 2015. It's online and free to watch now. I'll also say a bit about struggling against censorship of an indirect kind, because I feel like that is linked to the overall deterioration in our polity and our self-definition as Indians.

This film was the result of a PSBT grant but this particular grant came from the Public Diplomacy division of the Ministry of External Affairs, which means that they wanted to fund a film that would 'showcase' India. It also meant that, in addition to a filmmakers' committee that gave feedback, I would also have to show the film to another committee put together by the government. The response to an early cut was iffy. I was told the film was depressing. I edited to make the film more positive overall. However, there was still a lot of pressure to get rid of a few aspects.

First, a reference to (child) widows and their treatment in eighteenth/nineteenth century India, and how that led to a movement for reform. Secondly, they wanted me to remove the word 'Harrafa'. It was initially argued that there was no such word. I sent dictionary references. Then, it was argued that the word shouldn't be used anyway. To deny that word was to deny a big chunk of women's history - their relationship with the written word and disapproval of those who could and did attain learning and literature. There were some discomfort also about some background visuals or the artwork (any sign of an actual body).

I argued back but (with all respect to PSBT, for they did try to argue on my behalf too) PD prevailed. I finally did a shorter version of the film and handed it over to them. However, I also insisted on doing a cut for myself, and to screen whenever I was invited to do so. Both versions (and trailer) have censor certificates. 

I am hoping we - women, men and all other genders - will find a way to keep pushing towards equity. The fight for women's rights is tied into the fight for human rights. One cannot have one without the other. May we succeed. I also hope we have the courage to remember our history, the way it actually was, or else we are doomed to repeat it. 

My gratitude to all who helped me along the way, to PSBT, my colleagues and the crew, people who agreed to be interviewed (including those interviews where the footage did not make it into the final cut), singers, musicians, friends who agreed to be filmed peripherally, friends who sat through the early versions and gave feedback, others who have hosted screenings and discussions. 

Ertugrul in the age of Erdogan

As a child, I had thrilled to the story of a powerful, warrior woman on the throne of Delhi but had never wondered about who her ancestors were. I had not thought of medieval Turks as nomads, casting about in whirlpools of contested nationalities. In the modern Indian imagination—especially the Hindutva narrative—Turks are seen as usurpers of power, lumped with Persians, Chagtais and Mongols like Changez Khan who was the Oguz Turks’ biggest foe. Through watching Resurrection: Ertugrul, I began to see them as landless tribes whose only chance at life was a strong sword arm.

The world these characters inhabit is an intensely cosmopolitan one. The bazaars, inns, port towns are melting pots of race and civilisation. The actors come in all shades of brown, reflective of the mixed Greek, Roman, Armenian, Arab, Assyrian and Moroccan ancestry in the region. Watching them I felt something shifting but it took me about a hundred episodes to understand what it was. It was the stone of cultural imperialism and it weighed a few centuries... our awareness of the greater world was minimal—everything between Bombay and Britain was an indistinct blob in our minds. Millions of South Asians worked in the Gulf but we didn’t know its history. We read about Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait in 1990; the newspapers mentioned the decade long Iran-Iraq war before that. But we didn’t know how Iraq and Kuwait came to be on the map.

All I knew about Turkey was a couple of lines in my history textbook: The Indian struggle for independence was entwined with the Khilafat movement, which opposed British attempts to strip the Caliph of all power. Mustafa Kemal Ataturk defeated colonisers and made it a secular nation.

In fiction, I read about King Arthur, Joan of Arc, Papal politics. I read about the Crusades and knew that these were wars fought between Christian knights and Muslim hordes. The knights, I thought of as vaguely noble: knight in shining armour; knight to the rescue of damsel in distress; knight on a white horse; people “knighted” after great achievements. The Muslim hordes, I thought of as... The truth is, I did not think about the Muslims at all.

Read the full text of my essay on cultural politics, Netflix, and the shaping of minds via storytelling and media exposure in Fountain Ink magazine : 

Ertugrul in the age of Erdogan

Naught Naught Narrative Justice

For a moment there, the prospect hovered on the horizon: a female 007. Fans need not worry. It hasn’t happened yet. However, a less Bond-like Bond is on the anvil. In the wake of #MeToo and a string of feminist critiques, the world’s most famous spy is set to get a makeover and a woman is helping write him as less of a “seedy, sexist dinosaur”, as Danny Boyle reportedly described the character.

Other famous screen characters, however, have already seen female reprisals. Spymaster ‘M’, Bond’s handler, was a woman for a while. The show Elementary, based on Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes series, has a female Watson. Ghostbusters was rebooted with an all-woman lead cast. Even Dr. Who has found a female incarnation.

One can argue that these reprisals were inevitable, particularly for characters who are now firmly embedded in pop culture. With actors and show creators pushing back, demanding to place women in compelling, powerful roles, it was only a matter of time. In 2010, The Guardian had published a story headlined: “Will we ever see a female-led franchise?” By 2017, bookies were reportedly taking bets on who the next Dr. Who would be, and there were at least two women in the reckoning as serious contenders.

Arguments have also unfolded about whether such changes amount to tokenism. In the case of Bond, for instance, the films work as a predictable cocktail of sex, danger and machismo. Some critics have argued that, given its genre, female antagonists are already powerful — ruthless, clever, using their looks and sex to their advantage, as Bond himself does. The more interesting question, in my view, is not who writes or plays a particular character but how our view of the world changes as a result of the story being re-imagined, cast anew in a new socio-political framework.

An obvious example is the retelling of fairy tales. In the cultural zine, Toast, writer Anne Thériault argued that fairy tales were probably women’s narratives to start with. They spell out fantasies — “a prince, a castle, a happy ending” — and fears, such as being taken advantage of by a man or losing one’s children. It wasn’t until the Grimm brothers gained control of fairy tales that “beautiful and reasonably spirited young women” morphed into obedient and hard-working ones.

Then, there is the question of medium and money. Storytelling forms have changed dramatically over the last 200 years. Women were rarely in control of the popular narrative because they did not control printing presses, newspapers, or film studios. With the tide turning in recent decades, we are seeing fairy tales being re-interpreted again. Newer versions, particularly animated films, tend to portray princesses as headstrong and quite capable of looking after themselves.

In literature, women have often trained a feminist lens on society. Jane Austen’s sardonic novels discussed property inheritance and marriage laws that placed women’s money at the disposal of their husbands. The Brontë sisters too wrote of the trials and hopes of young women who don’t always have parents looking out for them. Charlotte Brontë gave us a memorable character in Jane Eyre: she does not allow anyone to ride roughshod on her dignity, not even her boss, and she dares to dream of love. However, there is a darkness embedded in the novel in the form of a mentally unstable Bertha, Rochester’s wife, who is imprisoned in her own home and whose existence is not acknowledged by her husband.

This dark corner of the novel captured the interest of another writer, Jean Rhys. In Jane Eyre, Bertha is a beautiful Creole woman from a wealthy family in Jamaica. By Rochester’s own admission, his father encouraged him to marry her for her wealth. But once he sees that she is mentally unstable, why does he not leave her in Jamaica and return to England? Why does he bring her to a new country where she is friendless, and lock her away for ten long years?

Rhys, who grew up in the Caribbean herself, brought a fresh interpretation to the story in the form of Wide Sargasso Sea, taking the story back to Bertha’s mother, a Creole woman and a single mother of two. Bertha, whose name here is Antoinette, grows up beautiful and is left vulnerable after her mother’s death. She is wealthy and in marrying her, Rochester gains control of her fate, even of her name.

Both stories are about women’s relationships in the context of wealth and personal freedom. Rhys' version is not unsympathetic to the governess. However, she chooses to shine a light over the character who was, literally, hidden out of sight and not allowed her say. Several other women have examined the classics, looking for gaps, silences, shadowy figures.

Margaret Atwood wrote The Penelopiad based on Homer’s The Odyssey. Penelope, married to Odysseus, is seen in Western literature as a symbol of fidelity: she waited for her husband for 20 years, holding fort for him and refusing to accept offers of remarriage. She must be clever, careful not to hurt too many egos. In her slender novella, Atwood tells the story from Penelope’s perspective, also giving a voice to the twelve maids who served her honestly, only to be killed by Odysseus when he returns. Penelope reflects on the events of her own childhood, her brief marriage to a husband taken away by a war driven by vanity and ego, even as a bevy of suitors mill around, eager to seize control of her estate.

With The Other Boleyn Girl, Phillipa Gregory brought back into public consciousness Mary, the sister who was also the king’s mistress and who, unlike the ill-fated Anne, survived. The novel also highlights the powerlessness of daughters of the time: even those born into noble families had very little control over their lives and were often used as sexual pawns by their fathers.

Another famous retelling is The Mists of Avalon. Author Marion Zimmer Bradley picked up the myth of King Arthur, wizards, knights and all, and wrote it from the point of view of his half-sister, Morgan. Arthur’s reign coincided with the rise of Christianity, and the decline of pagan beliefs. In older narratives, Morgan or Morgana was sometimes cast as a sorceress who plotted against Arthur. In Zimmer’s version, Morgan is rooted in Celtic culture, trained as a sort of oracle-healer with magical powers. In her world, a goddess spirit is worshipped. The contest of power is configured in the novel as not just between kings or siblings but also between the feminine divine and the masculine divine.

Retelling the classics, however, is not a new trend. Across cultures, we have been telling the same stories, layering myth upon myth. The Ramayana and the Mahabharata have been told dozens of times and with each retelling, certain characters get a bigger platform, or they begin to speak in new languages, bringing a degree of cultural agency to the speakers of that language.

Women have also retold India’s epic narratives. In recent years, Telugu writer Volga lends fresh voice to women from the Ramayana, Sita and Surpanakha. Karthika Nair’s Until the Lions retells the Mahabharata from the perspective of dozens of near-invisible minor characters, and with an exhausted Satyavati as narrator. Odia writer Pratibha Ray retells the epic in Draupadi’s voice in her celebrated novel, Yajnaseni.

Underpinning these retellings is the idea of narrative justice. Female characters have rarely been centre-stage in the great epics or screen fantasies of the last century. Sometimes they occupied the margins. Where they did have a major share in the story, it was either to enable, support, or thwart the male protagonists, or to be the prize that must be won. Now, with women occupying more and more public and creative roles and with some semblance of a share in media resources, they have begun to seek out stories that allow us to collectively rethink gender and power.

A lot has changed since Ian Fleming first wrote his spy thrillers and perhaps it is only a matter of time before we see a female Bond. We do already have Salt occupying the high-voltage female spy thriller zone. In contemporary times, particularly for those of us who live in nations other than the U.S. or the U.K., a better question to ask might be: why do people keep making (and watching) Bond films?

Will the politics of the film change merely through the display of Bond as a more vulnerable man, or perhaps a tough-as-nails woman, as long as bombs keep going off in the background with no account of collateral damage? What new balance of power will the retold story serve? Your guess is as good as mine.

This essay was first published in The Hindu

All that art

I stopped to stare at another of Tiepolo's paintings, “The Finding of Moses”. The story is that Moses was a foundling. He was rescued and adopted by an Egyptian princess. The Pharoah’s daughter would have been a brown woman and if Moses was of the Hebrew people, it is likely that he was brown too. Tiepolo paints them as white. The other women too are generously bosomed white ladies. There are two slightly darker faces in the painting. One, a figure in red, hangs a little to the back, holding a spear and is possibly a guard. Another is a dwarf with moustaches, possibly also a servant or guard. 

Things change over time. As geopolitics shifts, art and representation changes. There is another painting called “The Finding of Moses by Lawrence Alma-Tadema”, dated 1904. Here, many of the people in the painting are brown and black haired. Does it matter?

The question has found fresh currency with the release of Beyonce and Jay Z’s new release, “Apes**t”.

This is an extract from a longer column published in GQ magazine. Link here (behind a paywall): 
https://www.gqindia.com/content/beyonce-jay-z-carters-apeshit-music-video/

Movies: a lost mania?

India went to the movies though, despite the rats, the torn seats and the hazards. We went because it was a now-or-never situation. If you didn’t watch the film in the hall, you’d likely never watch it. Television networks rarely bought films for broadcast. Besides, most people didn’t have television.

In the new millennium, things changed. Thousand seaters were knocked down and small multiplexes were built. TV networks began to show a lot of mainstream films, sooner and sooner after a theatrical release. Then came the Internet – YouTube, illegal torrent downloads, Netflix – and things have come to such a pass, movie-goers shrug off a new film thinking: Well, it will be out somewhere, sometime.

So, what does it mean, going to the movies? Timepass on the weekend? Overpriced popcorn? What does it mean to really want a film?

For film-goers like me, the magic of the movies unfolds just one week of the year. We attend a festival like MAMI in Mumbai and we transform into the desperate, passive-aggressive, sneaky audience of filmmakers’ dreams.

Read the rest of the article here: https://www.firstpost.com/entertainment/mami-mumbai-film-festival-brings-back-the-charm-of-going-to-the-movies-in-the-time-of-netflix-5490721.html

Why novels and printed books exist in the age of Netflix

Consider the difference between watching a film in a foreign language and trying to read a book in that language. The film will still give away a lot, but the book will give you nothing unless you’re willing to work hard to interpret the words. It is you who bring words to life.

A book is an extraordinary intellectual and emotional pact between writer and reader. Cinema can seek a response, but watching is a more passive exercise. Once you sit down to watch, images and words unfold. You can leave the hall or turn off a gadget, but the creation is what it is. When you return to the same film, the actors will still be wearing what they were wearing. If the girl wears a yellow hat in a book, it may be a bonnet or a fedora or a wide-brimmed floppy hat. It could be canary yellow or the colour of daffodils, and it might be edged with white lace. And if you don’t know the meaning of “hat”, you may imagine the girl wearing a yellow scarf.

Read the whole essay in GQ India mag: https://www.gqindia.com/content/novels-books-print-endures/

The making of a river goddess

Somewhere in the Haryanvi village of Mughwali, there is a little acquifer. That is to say, there is a hole in the earth, bricked around, and a circlet of still water. There's a frog paddling in it.

Nothing about this image suggests “river”. As farmer Jarnail Singh points out, a river is that which flows; this is groundwater. Others disagree. This water, they insist, is the same river Saraswati, the one mentioned in the Rig Ved. Built around contestations of what it is, what it can achieve and what's at stake, is a 20 minute documentary film, “Searching for Saraswati”, showing tomorrow (July 10) on the New York Times website.


Read the full article on The Quint

On literary loans and Bollywood

When does a borrowing turn into a theft?

The answer is obvious – ask before borrowing, and do not go about saying that the goods are your own property. There’s no way of returning borrowed words. The most we can do to avoid insinuations of robbery or mal-intent is to publicly credit the source.

With creative artists, credit is not a straight business. We respond to poems with fresh verses, and build upon foundational myths; we wrench a new politics, a deeper insight out of old tales. With film songs, crediting is especially tricky since much of popular Bollywood music borrows heavily from folk songs and the great Hindi/Urdu classics.

Recently, a very hummable song from Baaghi 2 was being discussed on social media. ‘Allah mujhe dard ke qaabil bana diya’ borrows in two ways. The first is a clean “lift” of one couplet:

“Betaabiyaan samet ke saare jahaan ki
jab kuchh naa ban sakaa to mera dil banaa diya”

This couplet is credited to Najmi Naginvi on Rekhta.org, though it is also often credited to Jigar Moradabadi. The latter is a more famous poet and one of his famous ghazals certainly uses the same meter, rhyme and refrain. Sample this:

“Laakhon mein intiḳhaab ke qaabil banaa diyaa
jis dil ko tum ne dekh liyaa dil banaa diyaa”

The second way in which the Baaghi 2 song borrows is by taking the structure and similar ideas from Jigar. In the tradition of Urdu poetry, this may not be considered outright theft. There’s a phrase for it: ‘zameen udaana’. Translated loosely, it means, to take the ground in which a poem is rooted. Another poet may take the same rhyme and refrain, and create something new. However, the full verse borrowed is nothing but theft.

The lyric credit for this song on the official T Series channel on Youtube is listed as ‘Arko’. Neither Najmi Naginvi nor Jigar Moradabadi are mentioned anywhere. Interestingly, ‘additional vocals’ are credited but there is no room for the original source of the song’s theme, words, or its lyrical structure.

This is not unusual for Bollywood. The famous song Dillagi ne di hawa, thoda sa dhuaan utha, in the film Dostana, includes a line “Ankhon ka tha qusoor churi dil pe chal gayi”, which is from a ghazal by Jaleel Manikpuri, also sung by Mehndi Hassan.

The question of originality is tricky. In Urdu poetry, there is a longstanding tradition of paying tribute or treating a great master's work as the starting point from where you push off your own lyrical boat. There are even ‘tarhi’ mushairas where a new generation of poets is given an existing line of verse and asked to create a new poem around it.

Gulzar, one of the greatest contemporary lyricists, is rooted in this tradition. He often builds upon a single phrase by an old giant, such as ‘Zeehal-e-miskeen, makun taghaful' by Amir Khusrau, and ‘Jee dhoondta hai phir vahi fursat ke raat din’ by Mirza Ghalib, or changes a ‘Thaiyya thaiyya’ by Bulleh Shah into ‘Chaiyya Chaiyya’. However, these verses are centuries old and there’s no dispute about their authorship. 

He did run into rough weather when he modified the first two lines of a poem by a near contemporary, Hindi poet, Sarveshwar Dayal Saxena who died in 1983. Gulzar had changed ‘Ibn Batuta/ Pehen ke joota’ to ‘Ibn Batuta/ Bagal mein joota’ for the film Ishqiya. True, the rest of the poem was totally different but it can’t hurt to list Saxena’s poem as a source of inspiration, since he is not as well known as Gulzar.

There is a long tradition of poets being called out by other poets if their borrowings become apparent. I was speaking with one of the young, upcoming voices in Urdu poetry, Abhishek Shukla, who tells me that even Ghalib was accused of borrowing ideas from Persian writers; a scholar called Yagana Changezi has pointed them out in a text called Ghalib-shikan. There are several such anecdotes about similarity of verses, and there may well be an authentic ‘khayaal ki takkar’, an accidental collision of ideas. Shukla says it has happened to him too and he is happy to acknowledge the similarity of the couplets in print as well as on social media. But some poets hide behind ‘takkar’ when caught shoplifting.

There’s a story about Firaq Gorakhpuri at a mushaira, where he heard a younger man recite his (Firaq’s) couplets. Firaq asked if those verses were indeed his own work, and the young man said, yes. But, starting to realize that he had blundered, or belatedly recognizing Firaq, he took refuge behind ‘takkar’. Firaq reportedly said that it is possible that a bicycle collides with another bicycle, or with a horse-carriage, or even a car. But what are the chances that a bicycle will collide with an aeroplane?

In another instance, Khumar Barabankvi was hearing his own ghazal being recited at a mushaira by a younger poet. When he stopped, Barabankvi said aloud: Young man, you may as well read out the last two couplets too.

If a poem is going in print, it doesn't hurt to add a footnote or use quote marks or italics for a borrowed verse. For film songs, however, it is incumbent upon the lyricist to mention it in the credits. If it is a tribute, it is evident only to the well-read who are familiar with the original. In a cultural context where most people do not read poetry but do listen to film songs, to not credit the line is very problematic.

However, within the film writers’ community, nobody wants to confront unpleasant questions such as the nature of creative pursuit, and who deserves how much? Finally, it all comes down to a writer’s personal work ethic. Varun Grover wrote a song based on Dushyant Kumar’s Tu kisi rail si guzarti hai and has acknowledged it. The official Zee Music Company channel on Youtube mentions it. Grover also did the hard work of running about to get permissions from the late poet’s descendants to use two lines, and he reached out to the publishers too. Many others don't want to do the work.

The other problem is that producers are parsimonious when it comes to writers. Even if the sums of money required are small, they are reluctant to pay it. I would not be exaggerating if I said that major production houses hesitate before paying writers even ten thousand rupees, but don’t bat an eye before coughing up two crores for filming the song.

In the internet age, due credit is a peculiar nightmare. One lyric website lists the very famous poem, “Ye daag daag ujala, ye shabgazida seher' as written by Gulzar for the film Firaq, while the actual poet Faiz Ahmed Faiz is listed as 'singer' (http://www.glamsham.com/music/lyrics/firaaq/yeh-daag-daag-ujaala-yeh-sabkajida-sehar/949/2312.htm).

Film writers would do well to stand up not only for their own rights, but also for establishing base rules and norms for writing credits. The merit (and income) of a lyricist is directly linked to an ability to generate fresh words and images, binding them into a succinct verse. If he (or she) chooses to give credit where it is due, he will only gain the respect of his contemporaries. Unless, of course, he is unable to write songs without the help of borrowed lines. In that case, what can other writers offer him except compassion?

First published here: https://www.dailyo.in/arts/bollywood-songs-entertainment-lyrics-plagiarism-ghalib-gulzar/story/1/25207.html

Love, loneliness and the female form

December 2012. India woke up to the shock of sexual assault that was so violent, it turned our collective stomach. For a while, our outrage spilled out into the streets. There was talk of changing laws. Not long after, the BMC (Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation) decided that lingerie was part of the problem. They decided to ban the display of lingerie-clad mannequins.

"On May 16, all 227 members of the BMC’s general body put aside their party differences and passed a resolution put forward by Ritu Tawade, a Bharatiya Janata Party corporator from Ghatkopar’s ward number 121, to ban mannequins wearing lingerie because it provokes men to commit ‘wrong acts’" 

I did not know what to make of that. Do we agree that a female-shaped body makes perverts out of men? And what of the men who dress and undress mannequins? Did they want to rape real women?

It was a laughable idea. I once lived near one of the biggest garment markets in India and would often walk past shops that had just raised their shutters. I watched female-shaped mannequins being dressed. Most shopkeepers were men. They would strip a mannequin, then drape it with sarees, suit fabrics, lacy lingerie. Those men didn't look excited in the least. They looked either grumpy or preoccupied.

I was thinking of the shopkeepers and their un-sexy chores when I wrote this short film.

Some more thoughts on mannequins and the idea that the female form needs to be kept under wraps in this article: http://www.dailyo.in/arts/butnama-women-body-men-perverts-sexism-good-indian-culture-mannequins/story/1/10291.html

                       
UPDATE: A REVIEW!!

This short film was reviewed by Rahul Desai on film companion:
http://www.filmcompanion.in/article/butnama-short-film-review-rahul-desai

A film about Indian women's literary history

I made a documentary film last year. Here's a link to the trailer:

Here's a piece about it in The Hindu:

“This film is not about identity or self-definition as ‘writers,’” Zaidi says. “It is trying to look at women’s rights, concerns and freedoms, as reflected in literature. Identity is a very fluid and contextual construct. Caste may be most important outside the household, for instance, but within a household, womanhood may be her primary identity. And sometimes, the opposite might be true. However, all the women in the film have written about the feminine and female experience of life.”

If you're an institution, university, festival or a film club that wants to organize a screening, please get in touch with me. DVDs are also available through the producer, PSBT. 

A deliberation on song, sexiness, and the filmy mahila

It could be that I'm blinded and deafened by the deliberate sexiness of the new Bollywood. But I often feel like feminine desire as depicted in film songs these days has all the charm of the high headlights on a speeding truck. Which makes me wonder how far we come in our representation of women. 

I keep watching old Hindi film songs and what I come away with is a gentler view of women's desire. Take the lovely innocence of 'mausam mausam, lovely mausam'. This song, perfect for rainy afternoons, stars a very young Padmini Kolhapure. The way the song has been directed and choreographed leaves me feeling content – as if this is how a song of adolescent love ought to be. There is a sense of gentleness and safety, an implicit trust. (It also strikes me that I cannot tell whether the director was a man or a woman, and this is a wonderful thing.)

Or, take a song like 'O phirki-wali'. It has royalty (he is dressed like a prince) chasing after a girl who sells phirkis. Obviously, the power balance is tilted against the girl, and yet, in the video, it is the girl who has power. This power does not come from physical strength, or class or caste. It is rooted in her ability to say 'yes' or 'no', and more significantly, in the man's ability to take 'no', or to negotiate towards a playful 'maybe'.

The man is pursuing the woman, but not stalking her. She is fully aware of his presence. She is smiling. As a viewer, you get the impression that if the on-screen woman expressed fear, the man would leave. Even though he is a prince, he will not assume that she is flattered by his attention. That is what makes him a 'hero'.

Another reason I love the video is that it features a working class girl, who has all but vanished from popular culture. A few decades ago, we saw songs attached to women who did all kinds of work: 
the phirki-wali (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R9J8aXqiesI&feature=kp) 
the flower-seller who can row her own boat (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHCf8FUwkJE) 
the maalin (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ObKhSldrhnw) 
the chaku-churi-sharpening girl (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=flmj_t5fgGM) 
the nariyal-paani vendor (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IdyD_jaRXm0) 
the farm hand (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-u5UaxHDl3E) 
the chai-wali (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=crzo7x07GTs) 
and even the thief (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6TiNABGkMvM)

In these songs, the women's profession – an aspect of their lives which does not involve a man – is in the forefront. That they work, and that work means stepping out into public spaces, partaking of the social economy, engaging with strangers –  all this was reinforced.

This applies to working class male protagonists too. The factory worker, farmer, even the army jawaan are no longer at the heart of Hindi cinema. Now we have the industrialist, the pilot, the gangster, the middle class student, and sometimes the unemployed (or unemployable) youth. But for now, let us keep our sights trained on women and songs.

It is also true that more women professionals are part of Hindi film stories now: wedding planners, scholars, academics, bank executives. But in songs, they're usually depicted in a romantic or familial context. If film songs are intended as an expression of the inner life of a character, then what does the new Bollywood song tell us?

From the lyrics, we get the impression that characters are looking to be loved, or are upset at not being loved. The video often focuses on the woman's clothes, vibrant colours, interesting landscapes. But the visual contours of love, or lust, are cautiously defined. The woman is often depicted running (in front of the man or away from him), holding up substantial skirts. Or she stands about, waiting coyly, while the man approaches and makes a romantic or sensual overture. This is particularly true of lip-synced songs.

Watching them, I realize what I miss most is the 'forward' woman, and I am not alone. I went to a women's only college and I remember that the songs we girls enjoyed most were the ones where a female protagonist is flirting, seducing, wooing, complaining.

They allow the character to be a person, and not just a pretty object of desire. And the male protagonists were also allowed to sulk, or have a coy personality that required women to woo them. Look at Tanuja propositioning Dev Anand directly in 'Raat akeli hai'; or trying to get closer to a somewhat scared, Jitendra. 

Jaya Bhaduri is demanding some physical loving from a hands-off Sanjeev Kumar in 'Baahon mein chale aao'; Asha Parekh is teasing Shammi Kapoor under the guiseof seeking forgiveness; Asha Parekh is teasing Rajesh Khanna under no guise whatsoever, and is suitably punished for her pranks; Madhubala is manaao-ing a sullen Dev Anand; Jaya Bhaduri is manaao-ing a sulky husband; Mumtaz is asserting her intentions; a child-like Saira Banu is teasing the crochety Shammi Kapoor. 

The women have a greater degree of control in these songs, and the men seem to be decent human beings with minds of their own – they can be tempted, or not; they are sulky, upset, nervous, laidback. They were not eternally lustful, nor scornful of women who pursue them. The woman here is not a tease; she's doing the teasing. 

In the 1990s, there were a few instances of videos where female protagonists expressed desire towards 'tough' guys who seemed not very interested: Mamta Kulkarni doing a fine matka-jhatka job of wooing Salman Khan in 'Ek munda meri umr da'; and Raveena Tandon, sinuous in yellow, seducing Akshay Kumar in the rain. In recent years, the only song that struck me as allowing a full expression of female desire was 'DreamumWakeupum'; it is not only overtly sexy but the director also takes kitsch and the filmy-panaa of the fantasy to an extreme so that you see it for the fun it is. But since the 1990s, there were very few shy or bewildered 'heroes on screen.

Even when the song is romantic, my impression is that the women (or girls) appear more 'whole' in songs from the 1960s and 70s. 

There is something very significant about the choreography of love songs. We draw our ideas about love scripts from what we watch, or read, and we also feed our own ideas into the pool of popular art. The songs I like best show great 'engagement' between lovers. They look at each other longer – Raj Kapoor and Nargis in'pyaar hua iqraar hua' is the first example that comes to mind. They hold out their arms, hold hands, hug as Sanjeev Kumar and Suchitra Sen in 'tum aa gaye ho'. There is no doubt in the audience's mind that this is mutual desire. It is not one person reaching out, and the other person being reluctant or indifferent.

This business of depicting a woman's reluctance or indifference correctly is crucial, especially when we are struggling with a street culture that romanticizes feminine reluctance and worships male aggression.

In this regard, older film songs are more balanced. There are songs where romance is in the air, but the woman is not yet responsive, like 'Maana janaab ne pukaara nahin', 'Bekaraar karke humein yoon na jaaiye', or even 'O phirki wali'. Note that in the videos, the man follows the woman but his gestures never turn threatening. He does not touch the woman, until she does begin to respond. He might be playful but he is not aggressive. And he does not 'gang up' on the woman, ever.

Since the 1980s, there have been more songs and more where the camera follows the woman's body, focussing on curves and clothes, rather than feelings. One of the most annoying and boring examples of this was a song I stumbled upon. The director forces the poor actress into a white saree, places her in water, making her touch herself for a very long five and a half minutes. Yet, the director is not even brave enough to show her body through a wet white saree.

This poses an interesting contrast to Raj Kapoor, who found the courage to film the wet saree-no blouse song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QqVJJym959U) and the white-saree-under-waterfall songs (here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SvuFicZH3Jw ; and here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3AtYcr_6Hw). That the latter video has millions of views and that viewers have noticed nothing but breasts is another matter. How people respond to a visual sequence cannot be controlled by the filmmaker. But his view of society, and of women, is communicated through the camera. I get the feeling that Raj Kapoor was not afraid of showing off his own liking of women's breasts.

I don't know how women in the 1970s and 80s responded to Raj Kapoor's wet saree songs (I'd be interested to know) but I personally don't mind them. Kapoor did not fail these characters by giving them nothing except breasts. To his credit, he made stories about men's conflicted relationship with women, and sexual desire, and society's exploitation of women's bodies. He even included a brief nude scene as part of the schoolboy's fantasy in Mera Naam Joker. In his time, he must have raised hackles but he have had the courage to deal with how people received his work.

Now just look at this song from the Sanjay Khan directed 'Abdullah'. It is an example of what can go wrong when the director is not careful about how women's sexuality is portrayed. Although the perspective is that of a bunch of villainous-looking Peeping Toms, the actress is depicted singing, frolicking in the water with girl friends. But the frolic is choreographed as if it were a performance, as if it were intended for consumption.

This is bad film direction. It suggests that the filmmaker was not thinking of the female character as a person whose voice the audience would hear. She was a distraction, a beautiful object. Contrast the 'Abdullah' song with the sexiness of Zeenat Aman in this beautiful rain-dance number. There is coyness and joyous sexiness, but there is also fun, and a definite engagement between the protagonists.

Viewers who complain about 'vulgarity' in songs are unable to articulate why they are uncomfortable with the imagery. Some of it may stem from a sexually conservative upbringing. But many of us are also complaining about 'objectification' and one of the things we instinctively sense is a lack of empathy.

The camera and the choreography tell us something that the video's creators will not – the song puts women at the centre of focus so they may serve a certain kind of fantasy. In this fantasy, the woman (or multiple women) have little agency, no special skills, no warmth, no hopes for her own heart. She's there, at best, seeking to draw attention to her beauty, and, at worst, drawn by the scent of a man's money or power.

We usually tolerate the kind of fantasy described above. But when repeated too often, it gets exhausting. And some days, when real world people talk or behave in ways that mirror that warped fantasy world – when I remember that some men would rather kill a woman than see her take charge of her life, her heart, her body – a film song can infuriate me. And on those days, I turn to youtube and begin to google old Hindi film songs for comfort.

In gratitude, and regret

I cannot fully express the nature of my regret at not having done this post before. I had meant to, as soon as I walked out of the hall after watching Club 60. But it was late, and over the last month, I was always either too sleepy, or too distracted by my own struggles to stay afloat, to stay hopeful. Next thing I hear, Farooque Shaikh is gone. And though I never met him, I would have liked to say 'Thank you', especially for playing Dr Tarique Shaikh. This post is not about the actor. It is about the film.

I cannot, with any sincerity, say that it is a flawless film. It is not. I was half-afraid actually, that I might be bored. It gave off 'sincere' vibes and such is the Hindi film industry's track record of sincerity in recent years, it is often accompanied by boredom and predictability. Still, I had little choice.

I have decided not to pay cinema halls for encouraging bad cinema. I especially stay away from 'big' films with 'stars' when they seem to offer nothing except a thick account of expenses. I stay away from stereotype and misogyny and re-makes. But I had not taken my mother out for a movie for a long time and Club 60 seemed to be the only film I could watch without compromising my newfound principles.

So we went out. One multiplex theatre had pulled the film off the screen, although a show was still being advertised in the papers. We went to another multiplex.

The film started. I was surprised at the outset - there was a very brief, fast-paced treatment of the events that led to the tragic death of Dr Saira and Dr Tarique Shaikh's son. No zabardasti ka melodrama. The drama of grief, after all, lies in the way people struggle to live, despite their losses. And the film allows this struggle to be a dignified one.

But what surprised me what that the film turned out to be actually quite entertaining. I was laughing, my mother was laughing, and none of the jokes were derogatory even if there was a hint of naughtiness in the scene. The music was lovely. We actually enjoyed all three ghazals.

But the real reason I am writing this post is that after a long, long, long time we saw characters who had 'Muslim' names, but who were allowed to be just human. They were doctors. They were allowed to live in a normal upper class home with a dining table, at which they eat parathas.

The couple is allowed to enjoy the sea breeze without an azaan somewhere in the background. The lady is allowed to wear silk sarees or salwars with no fuss. She is allowed to be who she is - a highly skilled professional - instead of being reduced to a bundle of token symbols or rituals that add up to a visual and aural portrait that screams 'Muslim'. She is allowed to love her man and demand love from her man.

And their problems are human problems. A dead child. Depression. Work. Friends. Leisure. Club memberships. They don't sit and 'pray' in times of trouble. They roll up their sleeves and try to act. And when they make friends with people from other cultural backgrounds, they don't feel like a misfit. They can go to parties and ask for a soft drink instead of alcohol, and that's that.

How hard is it to write and make films where people of a particular community are people and not slaves to communal identities? It must be very hard, indeed, for this one film has come after such a long time. But it came, and I am glad I saw it. And that's about all I want to say.

Low drama, low conflict

For a while now, I have been thinking about the need for 'drama' in stories, especially scripts. It is taken for granted that for a film or play to work, there needs to be a steady escalation of drama. That conflict must be established early on, that we (or rather, the audience) must be worried about the fate of the principal characters, and that the level of 'difficulty' in these characters' lives must rise, reaching a 'climax', after which there is a resolution.

Of course, it is taken for granted that we are talking about a particular moment in time, or rather, a phase in someone's life. It could be 24 hours or one night (eg - Gateway of India, starring Madhubala), or a few months (most films we watch), or over twenty years (eg - Amar Akbar Anthony). Very occasionally, the story may span two or three generations (eg - Jasmine Women, or Gangs of Wasseypur) wherein it is understood that the protagonists change, and our investment in their future might shift at any point.

Which means, we pick out a slice of someone's life, a slice that is full of difficulty, and further dramatize it for the purposes of... well, for the purpose of drama. Because what else do people want from storytelling, right?

That is what we're taught by books, by theatre and film practitioners, and in most of the entertainment options we've had. This is not wisdom I wanted to challenge. Until recently.

I read a short story a few months ago (I'm forgetting the story title and the author's name) and was left a bit unsettled at the way it ended. It was the story of a man and a woman who are in bed and perhaps trying to figure out what they will do with each other. They are not a married couple. I'd assumed that some form of marriage or a commitment angle would work itself into the story. There must be conflict, because one of them will not agree to the other's terms. There would be tears or resentment, and eventually, they'd make up or part ways forever.

But the story never left the bedroom. There was a vague discussion, skirting the edges of disagreement. No major drama though. There was an assumption of desire, and a call for truth. And then what? Well, nothing. That was it. The writer allowed the characters to stay untroubled. There was no violence, not even of the emotional kind.

And it left me stumped. Because I'm conditioned to expect 'high' drama. In stories, there's a lot at stake: life, limb, sanity, social security. My reading and watching life has prepared me for troubled situations escalating to fever pitch, usually ending in violence. If not blood and gore, then at least a kidnapping-rescue situation, a gentle-slide-into-fatal-disease situation. At the very minimum, an I'm-going-to-die-without-you situation.

I still remember the face of my little niece as I was trying to tell her a story. I'd created some animal characters and set up a chase. My niece was about four years old then, and she was not liking the dangerous direction my narrative had taken. She interrupted me twice, and each time, added bits to the story to 'save' the protagonist. She wanted things to be 'alright'. The problem was, I did not know how to tell a story in which things were just alright for everybody.

I realize now that this is not because I am so aware of the wrongness, the tragedy and danger in people's lives. 'Real' life is fairly dull. People are bored, but not bloodthirsty. Many of them accomplish things without coming to grief. Are those stories not worth telling?

I clearly remember being bewildered by this film Happy Go Lucky . It is the story of a school teacher who is very optimistic. From the first scene on, I was expecting that character to come to grief. Why else would you make someone so cheerful, right? I was so sure that her cheerful, trusting outlook would be destroyed (or at least, severely tested) that I got really tense, biting my knuckles in the dark theatre. But although she is walking about at night, alone, she comes to no harm. 

Then she meets a nice-looking man. I thought "Ah! Now comes the conflict!" But no. The man likes her back. They get together. All is well. So then?

So then, I felt a bit annoyed. I thought, 'What kind of film is this? Nothing really happens.' But then I calmed down and thought some more. It is not that 'nothing happens'. There's a lot happening in every scene.; I wasn't bored at all. I was actually very involved with this character and her life. The thing was, nothing bad happened. Sure, some people were mean to her. But I felt pity for them, not for the protagonist. She was fine, handling everyone's stress quite well.

The best part is, three years later, I remember every other scene. That actress, her smile, her eyes, her ability to trust, to not be overwhelmed by sadness, to wait for happiness. So now, I must admit that it's a good film. A memorable film! 

What was the script doing? It was not escalating the drama quotient. It was negating the need for a drama quotient. Not every story needs drama, and not all dramas need to end in either tragedy or comedy.

These days, I am more and more convinced that 'high drama' does not lie at the heart of entertainment. Most people are actually looking for happy sights and sounds. We fear death and destruction - ours as well as other people's. That's why so many people prefer watching 'hulka-phulka' cinema. When we watch 'action' films, we prefer violence that has no resemblance to real physical violence. It is not messy. We do not feel the pain or guilt that is inevitable in real life. When we watch thrillers, we want to walk away with something at the end - a sense of justice, at least, and restored normalcy. When we watch romance, we want to melt and have faith that people actually want - and get! - each other.

In a story, things must happen. In life too, things happen. But must those things be violent? Does every sadness or disappointment have to lead to depression? Why are we so very reluctant to tell stories of normalcy, of dull aches and quick recoveries? Why are we not more vigilant, more resistant, more open to what a good story is, and how it must be told?