I am usually reluctant to mix my worlds, and have taken a few pains to keep my blogging world and my poetry worlds a little bit apart. But they've collided often enough now, so what the hell.
Here's something that got published recently.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
A tale of street love/lust/whateveritwas
It has been seven years since. Or eight.
I don’t remember his name. Nor his number. He gave me both. He asked me for mine – name and number. I didn’t give him either. Now it seems quite funny and once it was over, I would laugh my guts out whenever I told this story. Yet, for a while, he had me frightened.
He looked about 16 or 17, not a sign of hair on his face; thin as a reed. That much I do remember, though I wouldn't recognise him if I passed him on the street today. He was from a certain class, that much too I could tell. From his clothes, his voice, his accent, his body language.
The first time he accosted me it was outside the Lower Parel railway station towards which I walked each evening (I worked at Mid-day at the time and the office was a fifteen minute walk from the station). Just outside the station, he stopped me with: “Excuse me, madam… madam, one minute!”
How many times have I heard that phrase from a stranger and how many times have I cursed myself for stopping and listening to whatever he had to say? But, like each time, I was thinking that maybe the guy is lost and wants to ask for directions, or maybe he wants to know the time, or maybe I dropped something and he’s come to return it. And so, like each time, I stopped.
“Yes?”
He was grinning rather stupidly. I noticed there was another guy with him, around the same age, and he was grinning too.
The young man (not his pal) began talking. “Excuse me, madam…actually, madam… I saw you madam and you are very nice… what’s your name?”
I let out a groan and then a sardonic smile. At least, I had meant it to be sardonic, sarcastic, somewhat insulting. It was the sort of expression that ought to have made him back off without any further fuss. But that was not meant to be.
He now started laughing – a half-embarrassed, self-conscious but wholly pleased laugh (and again, his grinny pal kept him company). He fell into step beside me as I walked away, and all the time, he kept talking.
I have forgotten the exact words now. I don't think I was even listening very well for I was concentrating on somehow getting into a train and shaking these two guys off. But he was a determined fellow. I vaguely remember the gist of what he said – (a) he was attracted to me, which amused me a bit because, to me, he was like a child almost (b) he saw me everyday, walking down to the station, which made me very nervous (c) he wanted to 'do friendship' with me, which is a phrase that fills me with a mixture of amusement, mortification and irritation.
When I repeated this story to a friend, she told me I had made a big mistake by laughing. Indian men’s minds still work according to the old adage of “ladki hansi, toh phansi”. Maybe he thought I was gurgling with pleasure at his advances, she said.
I did not think so. Anybody can see when a laugh isn't pleasant. Even a child senses that. Yet, he kept following me, asking for my name.
When I reached the ticket window at the station, I decided that enough was enough. So I turned on him with as much fury as my partial amusement would permit, and spat out the words.
“Look, I don’t know you and don’t want to know you. I am not going to tell you my name, or anything else about me. Go away… leave me alone.”
He started arguing (with his pal with the stupid grin still hovering in the background) with me about 'why not?'
I have to confess that I toyed with the idea of slapping him but slapping doesn’t come naturally to me. Besides, I took a second look at him and realised he was just a young boy who was attracted to me and decided to take his chances. I decided to try gentleness.
“Look, you’re very young. I’m much older than you think. I’m not right for you, that’s why.”
He cocked his head and demanded to know: “Why, how old are you?”
I considered this carefully. He couldn’t be more than eighteen years old. A ten-year gap should suffice as a dampener, I thought, so I lied.
“I’m more than twenty-eight years old, okay? You’re way too young.”
“But it doesn’t matter, madam. My mother is also older than my father,” he said.
Mother? Father? What? What was going on inside the boy's mind? Matters, I thought, were very quickly getting out of hand. So I decided to turn around and run. And that is what I did, except that he began to follow.
“Arre, just listen to me, madam. Just one minute. At least tell me your name.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Why not? Please.”
“Look, I am NOT going to tell you my name.”
“But, madam, please … just your name.”
I stopped once more and looked at that boy, still with his stupid grin pasted in place, and his pleading, stupid-grin-face companion still at his shoulder. I sighed.
“What is the point? If you harass me too much, I’ll just give you a false name. How would that help?”
“Okay then, just give me a false name.”
I was incredulous but since he had asked for it, I decided to give him a name, all the while descending the stairs rapidly with him in hot pursuit.
The name of an old schoolmate popped into my head. “Rashmi,” I muttered.
“Okay, Rashmi… Rashmi ji, your phone number?”
At this point, I was so amused and so incredulous that I burst out laughing. Here I was, telling him I’d give him a false name and there he was, asking for a false number?
He stood there while I continued laughing loudly, shaking my head, hoping the train would arrive quickly so I could escape.
But he wouldn’t give up. “Why are you laughing, Rashmi ji? Okay, at least tell me where you live.”
I laughed some more.
“Come on, just tell me where you live," he persisted. "At least tell me the area, Rashmi, please.”
The train’s headlamp was curving into view. I rushed forward; both boys followed.
“So that’s where you live… Borivali?”
I was amused again at their naïve logic. It was a Borivali local that I was rushing to board and so the boy conveniently assumed that I lived in Borivali. I would be getting off at Andheri, and could have gotten off at any of the half-dozen stations in-between. Boarding a local headed in a certain direction means nothing in this city, but I wasn’t about to correct him. So I just nodded and hopped into the compartment.
He began calling out a series of numbers. It took a few seconds to for it to register that he was calling out his phone number. That made me laugh once again. Did he seriously think I was going to remember his number and call him up?
He repeated the number twice. As the train bega nto move, he called out: “Call me… remember the number, okay? Give me a phone ring… Rashmi!”
The train pulled out of the station.
And you’d have thought that was the end of the matter. I certainly did. But I was wrong.
A few weeks later, I was walking down again to the station when I heard a voice calling out.
“Rashmi… Rashmi!”
I hardly paid any attention. As the voice called out again and again, I walked along briskly, wondering who this Rashmi was and why she didn’t listen to whoever was calling out to her.
Then the voice got closer and caller sounded very loud, just behind me. I stopped and turned out of sheer curiosity. And that's when I saw them: those boys again! Their reedy, teenaged bodies with those stupid, permanent grins. I groaned with annoyance and disbelief.
“Hi, Rashmi.”
I took a deep breath and without answering him, swung back and briskly marched to the railway station. I wasn’t going to talk to him this time.
“Rashmi! Please, one minute, listen. What’s your problem? I really like you… one minute!”
This wasn’t helping. They kept following. And then, suddenly, it occurred to me that this could turn into an unpleasant scenario if I were to walk down every single day and have them at my heels all the way. Once again, I thought it might be better to try and get some sense into him.
“Look, I told you; I’m much older... You’re in college, right?”
“Yes, second year… I’m twenty.”
Liar, I thought. He didn’t look it. But by now, my annoyance was replaced by pity and amusement. I felt the corners of my mouth threatening to curve upwards.
“So why don’t you find a nice girl from college and try to pataofy her. There will be many girls of your own age whom you like.”
“But, Rashmiji, I like you.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t even know me. Besides, I told you, I am not suitable for you.”
“That’s okay. I will tell my sister to talk to you.”
Gasp. Splutter. Sister?
“Yes. I told my sister about you. I want to marry you. I’m going to make my parents meet you.”
And his pal's stupid grin got wider, if that was at all possible. I really wanted to slap this other boy.
Yipes, I thought. Marry me? This boy's imagination was moving ahead in leaps and bounds. This was no time for gentle remonstrance. It was time, once more, to run.
Of course, he followed.
“Rashmi, I will marry you, I promise. What’s the problem?”
I wanted to scream at him by this time. It wouldn't have helped, I knew, to just point out that that was not what I wanted. I had already done that the first time he followed me and he was clearly not listening. So I just kept walking towards the platform.
“You’re going home? Don’t go home right now. Rashmi, stay for a while… Let’s talk.”
I ran towards the train. They followed, still calling out to me. The phone number was called out again. With pleas to call him up.
The train chugged out.
Believe it or not, this still wasn’t the end of the matter. There’s more.
The third time he caught up with me en route to the station, it was almost two months later. Without any calling out of false names, he said ‘Hi’ softly into my ear.
I almost screamed with panic. I saw who it was and began to walk more briskly. He (with his grinning pal in tow) kept pace. As they walked beside me, my anger mounted. Also, there was a new shred of fear. I don’t like being followed, especially by people who seem determined to marry me even before they’ve touched the legal marriageable age.
He said, “Rashmi, listen. You had said I would find another girl in college, someone of my own age.”
“Yes, so what?”
“But I have not found anyone yet.”
The expression on his face and his choice was words was such that I was tempted to double up laughing, but I bit my lips hard.
“So, what should I do?”
“Rashmi.”
I snapped, “My name’s not Rashmi.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m not telling you. I told you that before. I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”
“Why not?”
I sighed. He just would not get it until I packaged my 'no' in layers of a context he could understand. So I decided to tell him one more little lie.
“Because my heart is elsewhere.”
“What?”
“My heart is with someone else. That’s why. Understood?”
“But Rashmi...”
"Oh Jesus Christ! I told you. No."
I started descending the stairs. He tried to move faster than me and block my path but he slipped and took a tumble down the stairs. For a few seconds, I stopped, then started on my way again.
He was already up on his feet, biting his tongue, half-smiling, muttering, “Oh shit! What an insult… and that too in front of a girl!”
I can’t quite describe the way this statement made me feel. At that time, it made me laugh. Now, when I think back, I see it for what it was – an open admission of embarrassment from a relatively uncorrupted boy who hasn’t yet learnt to cheat on feelings and isn’t afraid of plunging headlong into a pursuit, confident with the brashness of youth and unaware of class or other social barriers.
Even so, I turned around and was going to ask if he was alright, if he was hurt, because I did not really want him to get hurt.
But just then, he caught my wrist to make me stop. And that was it. I was at the end of my tether. I jerked my hand away and turned on him with all the fury I could summon.
“Don’t you dare!”
“Okay," he said. "Okay, but you weren’t listening to me, Rashmi.”
“I don’t want to listen to you. Next time you come after me, I am going to yell, collect a crowd and have you beaten up.”
I walked away, not looking back over my shoulder. I don’t know whether he followed or stayed or went back.
Once, much later, I saw him and his friend, grin-faced as ever, walking down to the station. I was walking towards the Mid-day office in the late afternoon. Both boys saw me and saw that I recognized them.
But this time, the boy did not make an attempt to stop me. He just grinned. I looked at the road straight ahead and tried not to laugh. He and his pal kept grinning as I hurried past them. My reaction was: "Phew! Thank god."
And that's the end of the story. Why am I telling this story now? Because Blank Noise is collecting street stories of love and lust, about the way these emotions are negotiated in public spaces in an attempt to undestand harassment better.
Was I feeling harassed by that young college kid? I don't know. I actually wanted to be kind to him. And all these years later, I think of the entire episode with amusement and a little pity and remorse because of how he must have felt. But at the time, I was only a couple of years out of college myself and being followed everyday by two grown-up boys was a frightening thought.
No, let me be honest. It is still a scary thought. A nineteen year old is no more or less dangerous than a fifty year old. Two nineteen year olds stalking me would still make me nervous, especially if they knew where I lived, what route I took, what train I waited for on what platform.
I ask myself questions now. I ask if that boy had really done anything wrong in following me and proposing marriage outright. I ask if I had done right in allowing myself to get sucked into a conversation. I ask what could have been done differently?
I have learnt to harden myself to strangers over the years - to slide on an impenetrable mask of indifference and cold comtempt on my face when accosted by strangers whom I don't want to speak to. I like myself lesser for it. It is a terrible thing to do to a human being - to reduce him to an object not worrthy of acknowledgement even, to make him feel like that. On the inside, I cringe each time I do it.
But what are my options? When accosted by a random stranger who refuses to take 'no' for an answer, whose sense about where and how conversations about romance or marriage should be conducted, whose sense of propriety is so vastly different from my own that he seems scary, what should be done? I still don't know.
I don’t remember his name. Nor his number. He gave me both. He asked me for mine – name and number. I didn’t give him either. Now it seems quite funny and once it was over, I would laugh my guts out whenever I told this story. Yet, for a while, he had me frightened.
He looked about 16 or 17, not a sign of hair on his face; thin as a reed. That much I do remember, though I wouldn't recognise him if I passed him on the street today. He was from a certain class, that much too I could tell. From his clothes, his voice, his accent, his body language.
The first time he accosted me it was outside the Lower Parel railway station towards which I walked each evening (I worked at Mid-day at the time and the office was a fifteen minute walk from the station). Just outside the station, he stopped me with: “Excuse me, madam… madam, one minute!”
How many times have I heard that phrase from a stranger and how many times have I cursed myself for stopping and listening to whatever he had to say? But, like each time, I was thinking that maybe the guy is lost and wants to ask for directions, or maybe he wants to know the time, or maybe I dropped something and he’s come to return it. And so, like each time, I stopped.
“Yes?”
He was grinning rather stupidly. I noticed there was another guy with him, around the same age, and he was grinning too.
The young man (not his pal) began talking. “Excuse me, madam…actually, madam… I saw you madam and you are very nice… what’s your name?”
I let out a groan and then a sardonic smile. At least, I had meant it to be sardonic, sarcastic, somewhat insulting. It was the sort of expression that ought to have made him back off without any further fuss. But that was not meant to be.
He now started laughing – a half-embarrassed, self-conscious but wholly pleased laugh (and again, his grinny pal kept him company). He fell into step beside me as I walked away, and all the time, he kept talking.
I have forgotten the exact words now. I don't think I was even listening very well for I was concentrating on somehow getting into a train and shaking these two guys off. But he was a determined fellow. I vaguely remember the gist of what he said – (a) he was attracted to me, which amused me a bit because, to me, he was like a child almost (b) he saw me everyday, walking down to the station, which made me very nervous (c) he wanted to 'do friendship' with me, which is a phrase that fills me with a mixture of amusement, mortification and irritation.
When I repeated this story to a friend, she told me I had made a big mistake by laughing. Indian men’s minds still work according to the old adage of “ladki hansi, toh phansi”. Maybe he thought I was gurgling with pleasure at his advances, she said.
I did not think so. Anybody can see when a laugh isn't pleasant. Even a child senses that. Yet, he kept following me, asking for my name.
When I reached the ticket window at the station, I decided that enough was enough. So I turned on him with as much fury as my partial amusement would permit, and spat out the words.
“Look, I don’t know you and don’t want to know you. I am not going to tell you my name, or anything else about me. Go away… leave me alone.”
He started arguing (with his pal with the stupid grin still hovering in the background) with me about 'why not?'
I have to confess that I toyed with the idea of slapping him but slapping doesn’t come naturally to me. Besides, I took a second look at him and realised he was just a young boy who was attracted to me and decided to take his chances. I decided to try gentleness.
“Look, you’re very young. I’m much older than you think. I’m not right for you, that’s why.”
He cocked his head and demanded to know: “Why, how old are you?”
I considered this carefully. He couldn’t be more than eighteen years old. A ten-year gap should suffice as a dampener, I thought, so I lied.
“I’m more than twenty-eight years old, okay? You’re way too young.”
“But it doesn’t matter, madam. My mother is also older than my father,” he said.
Mother? Father? What? What was going on inside the boy's mind? Matters, I thought, were very quickly getting out of hand. So I decided to turn around and run. And that is what I did, except that he began to follow.
“Arre, just listen to me, madam. Just one minute. At least tell me your name.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Why not? Please.”
“Look, I am NOT going to tell you my name.”
“But, madam, please … just your name.”
I stopped once more and looked at that boy, still with his stupid grin pasted in place, and his pleading, stupid-grin-face companion still at his shoulder. I sighed.
“What is the point? If you harass me too much, I’ll just give you a false name. How would that help?”
“Okay then, just give me a false name.”
I was incredulous but since he had asked for it, I decided to give him a name, all the while descending the stairs rapidly with him in hot pursuit.
The name of an old schoolmate popped into my head. “Rashmi,” I muttered.
“Okay, Rashmi… Rashmi ji, your phone number?”
At this point, I was so amused and so incredulous that I burst out laughing. Here I was, telling him I’d give him a false name and there he was, asking for a false number?
He stood there while I continued laughing loudly, shaking my head, hoping the train would arrive quickly so I could escape.
But he wouldn’t give up. “Why are you laughing, Rashmi ji? Okay, at least tell me where you live.”
I laughed some more.
“Come on, just tell me where you live," he persisted. "At least tell me the area, Rashmi, please.”
The train’s headlamp was curving into view. I rushed forward; both boys followed.
“So that’s where you live… Borivali?”
I was amused again at their naïve logic. It was a Borivali local that I was rushing to board and so the boy conveniently assumed that I lived in Borivali. I would be getting off at Andheri, and could have gotten off at any of the half-dozen stations in-between. Boarding a local headed in a certain direction means nothing in this city, but I wasn’t about to correct him. So I just nodded and hopped into the compartment.
He began calling out a series of numbers. It took a few seconds to for it to register that he was calling out his phone number. That made me laugh once again. Did he seriously think I was going to remember his number and call him up?
He repeated the number twice. As the train bega nto move, he called out: “Call me… remember the number, okay? Give me a phone ring… Rashmi!”
The train pulled out of the station.
And you’d have thought that was the end of the matter. I certainly did. But I was wrong.
A few weeks later, I was walking down again to the station when I heard a voice calling out.
“Rashmi… Rashmi!”
I hardly paid any attention. As the voice called out again and again, I walked along briskly, wondering who this Rashmi was and why she didn’t listen to whoever was calling out to her.
Then the voice got closer and caller sounded very loud, just behind me. I stopped and turned out of sheer curiosity. And that's when I saw them: those boys again! Their reedy, teenaged bodies with those stupid, permanent grins. I groaned with annoyance and disbelief.
“Hi, Rashmi.”
I took a deep breath and without answering him, swung back and briskly marched to the railway station. I wasn’t going to talk to him this time.
“Rashmi! Please, one minute, listen. What’s your problem? I really like you… one minute!”
This wasn’t helping. They kept following. And then, suddenly, it occurred to me that this could turn into an unpleasant scenario if I were to walk down every single day and have them at my heels all the way. Once again, I thought it might be better to try and get some sense into him.
“Look, I told you; I’m much older... You’re in college, right?”
“Yes, second year… I’m twenty.”
Liar, I thought. He didn’t look it. But by now, my annoyance was replaced by pity and amusement. I felt the corners of my mouth threatening to curve upwards.
“So why don’t you find a nice girl from college and try to pataofy her. There will be many girls of your own age whom you like.”
“But, Rashmiji, I like you.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t even know me. Besides, I told you, I am not suitable for you.”
“That’s okay. I will tell my sister to talk to you.”
Gasp. Splutter. Sister?
“Yes. I told my sister about you. I want to marry you. I’m going to make my parents meet you.”
And his pal's stupid grin got wider, if that was at all possible. I really wanted to slap this other boy.
Yipes, I thought. Marry me? This boy's imagination was moving ahead in leaps and bounds. This was no time for gentle remonstrance. It was time, once more, to run.
Of course, he followed.
“Rashmi, I will marry you, I promise. What’s the problem?”
I wanted to scream at him by this time. It wouldn't have helped, I knew, to just point out that that was not what I wanted. I had already done that the first time he followed me and he was clearly not listening. So I just kept walking towards the platform.
“You’re going home? Don’t go home right now. Rashmi, stay for a while… Let’s talk.”
I ran towards the train. They followed, still calling out to me. The phone number was called out again. With pleas to call him up.
The train chugged out.
Believe it or not, this still wasn’t the end of the matter. There’s more.
The third time he caught up with me en route to the station, it was almost two months later. Without any calling out of false names, he said ‘Hi’ softly into my ear.
I almost screamed with panic. I saw who it was and began to walk more briskly. He (with his grinning pal in tow) kept pace. As they walked beside me, my anger mounted. Also, there was a new shred of fear. I don’t like being followed, especially by people who seem determined to marry me even before they’ve touched the legal marriageable age.
He said, “Rashmi, listen. You had said I would find another girl in college, someone of my own age.”
“Yes, so what?”
“But I have not found anyone yet.”
The expression on his face and his choice was words was such that I was tempted to double up laughing, but I bit my lips hard.
“So, what should I do?”
“Rashmi.”
I snapped, “My name’s not Rashmi.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m not telling you. I told you that before. I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”
“Why not?”
I sighed. He just would not get it until I packaged my 'no' in layers of a context he could understand. So I decided to tell him one more little lie.
“Because my heart is elsewhere.”
“What?”
“My heart is with someone else. That’s why. Understood?”
“But Rashmi...”
"Oh Jesus Christ! I told you. No."
I started descending the stairs. He tried to move faster than me and block my path but he slipped and took a tumble down the stairs. For a few seconds, I stopped, then started on my way again.
He was already up on his feet, biting his tongue, half-smiling, muttering, “Oh shit! What an insult… and that too in front of a girl!”
I can’t quite describe the way this statement made me feel. At that time, it made me laugh. Now, when I think back, I see it for what it was – an open admission of embarrassment from a relatively uncorrupted boy who hasn’t yet learnt to cheat on feelings and isn’t afraid of plunging headlong into a pursuit, confident with the brashness of youth and unaware of class or other social barriers.
Even so, I turned around and was going to ask if he was alright, if he was hurt, because I did not really want him to get hurt.
But just then, he caught my wrist to make me stop. And that was it. I was at the end of my tether. I jerked my hand away and turned on him with all the fury I could summon.
“Don’t you dare!”
“Okay," he said. "Okay, but you weren’t listening to me, Rashmi.”
“I don’t want to listen to you. Next time you come after me, I am going to yell, collect a crowd and have you beaten up.”
I walked away, not looking back over my shoulder. I don’t know whether he followed or stayed or went back.
Once, much later, I saw him and his friend, grin-faced as ever, walking down to the station. I was walking towards the Mid-day office in the late afternoon. Both boys saw me and saw that I recognized them.
But this time, the boy did not make an attempt to stop me. He just grinned. I looked at the road straight ahead and tried not to laugh. He and his pal kept grinning as I hurried past them. My reaction was: "Phew! Thank god."
And that's the end of the story. Why am I telling this story now? Because Blank Noise is collecting street stories of love and lust, about the way these emotions are negotiated in public spaces in an attempt to undestand harassment better.
Was I feeling harassed by that young college kid? I don't know. I actually wanted to be kind to him. And all these years later, I think of the entire episode with amusement and a little pity and remorse because of how he must have felt. But at the time, I was only a couple of years out of college myself and being followed everyday by two grown-up boys was a frightening thought.
No, let me be honest. It is still a scary thought. A nineteen year old is no more or less dangerous than a fifty year old. Two nineteen year olds stalking me would still make me nervous, especially if they knew where I lived, what route I took, what train I waited for on what platform.
I ask myself questions now. I ask if that boy had really done anything wrong in following me and proposing marriage outright. I ask if I had done right in allowing myself to get sucked into a conversation. I ask what could have been done differently?
I have learnt to harden myself to strangers over the years - to slide on an impenetrable mask of indifference and cold comtempt on my face when accosted by strangers whom I don't want to speak to. I like myself lesser for it. It is a terrible thing to do to a human being - to reduce him to an object not worrthy of acknowledgement even, to make him feel like that. On the inside, I cringe each time I do it.
But what are my options? When accosted by a random stranger who refuses to take 'no' for an answer, whose sense about where and how conversations about romance or marriage should be conducted, whose sense of propriety is so vastly different from my own that he seems scary, what should be done? I still don't know.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Envy, back home
When I returned home, the first thing everyone in the family asked was: "So how does it feel to be back?"
I answered with the truth. It feels good. It feels like home. It feels like it felt. And the familiar, while breeding a certain degree of contempt, also guards you and hovers over your like an anxious mama-figure and you cannot help but be relieved to see it.
My uncle laughed a little, disbelieving. "It doesn't shock you each time you return?"
And I laughed and said, no. I'm so familiar with it. 'It' being all the things we should not be. The clogged drains. The smell. The air heavy with smog and dust. The cramped living. The jostling. The noise. The lack. The haggling.
The lack of water in the restroom sinks at the international airport in Mumbai. The lack of quiet smiles. The lack of electronic receipts in the average taxi. The auto guys who will not use meters, or even the pre-set standard prices everyone else has been surviving by thus far. The auto-guys who will just not go, because they are reading a newspaper.
I know it all. And though it is not alright, it is too. I know it enough to call it the motherland.
But I also know that there is very little excuse for no water in bathrooms. Or no bathrooms at all. Of all the things I envy the great western cities, the greatest is this: bathrooms with running water and soap.
Yes, there are other things I envy: Shiny, clean floors and windows. Trash cans everywhere. Mounds of art generously sprinkled around the cityscape for harried, hurried citizens, and for visitors - along the long escalators, at airports, on the underground, on walls, on store shutters. A sense of security and freedom for women, no matter what they wear. The freedom from spitting on the streets. Car-free zones. More and more incentives to bikers (bicyclists), with dedicated lanes everywhere. The relative ease with which people speak to each other across class barriers. Live music on the streets. So much more live music of all genres in so many more eateries and pubs.
I wish we had all of that. But I can live without all that too. What I find absolutely unforgiveable about my own country is the lack of investment in sanitation and public hygiene. There are places to eat, and drink, on every other street. But there are hardly any places to relieve yourself. When, when, when will come to terms with the truth that people need to pee and shit just as much as they need to eat and breathe. They die if they don't. And no, it is not just their own problem. Just like I expect the government to step in sort out an issue of there is a serious hunger problem in my country, I also expect them to step in and sort out this sanitation problem.
The few places we do have are filthy. Not just stinky, I mean, filthy. And it isn't just about the lack of manpower or resources or infrastructure. It is also about terrible, terrible sanitary habits. And these terrible, terrible sanitary habits come from our schools, our homes, our reluctance to even talk about the importance of toilets, and the risks inherent in not keeping them clean.
It comes from our refusal to think beyond the immediate. Yes, you want to pee so you want to find a clean toilet and then leave right away without bothering to stop and think about whether you are leaving the place suitable for the next person. But you will also want to pee an hour later in another location, and then you might find that the person ahead of you has not bothered either.
If there is one thing travel has taught me, it is this: culture is not just about museums or clothes or food or history. It is as much about widely accessible public toilets and running water as it is about sculpture and architecture. It is as much about not stealing the metal bottoms from trash-cans as it is about stained glass in churches.
I answered with the truth. It feels good. It feels like home. It feels like it felt. And the familiar, while breeding a certain degree of contempt, also guards you and hovers over your like an anxious mama-figure and you cannot help but be relieved to see it.
My uncle laughed a little, disbelieving. "It doesn't shock you each time you return?"
And I laughed and said, no. I'm so familiar with it. 'It' being all the things we should not be. The clogged drains. The smell. The air heavy with smog and dust. The cramped living. The jostling. The noise. The lack. The haggling.
The lack of water in the restroom sinks at the international airport in Mumbai. The lack of quiet smiles. The lack of electronic receipts in the average taxi. The auto guys who will not use meters, or even the pre-set standard prices everyone else has been surviving by thus far. The auto-guys who will just not go, because they are reading a newspaper.
I know it all. And though it is not alright, it is too. I know it enough to call it the motherland.
But I also know that there is very little excuse for no water in bathrooms. Or no bathrooms at all. Of all the things I envy the great western cities, the greatest is this: bathrooms with running water and soap.
Yes, there are other things I envy: Shiny, clean floors and windows. Trash cans everywhere. Mounds of art generously sprinkled around the cityscape for harried, hurried citizens, and for visitors - along the long escalators, at airports, on the underground, on walls, on store shutters. A sense of security and freedom for women, no matter what they wear. The freedom from spitting on the streets. Car-free zones. More and more incentives to bikers (bicyclists), with dedicated lanes everywhere. The relative ease with which people speak to each other across class barriers. Live music on the streets. So much more live music of all genres in so many more eateries and pubs.
I wish we had all of that. But I can live without all that too. What I find absolutely unforgiveable about my own country is the lack of investment in sanitation and public hygiene. There are places to eat, and drink, on every other street. But there are hardly any places to relieve yourself. When, when, when will come to terms with the truth that people need to pee and shit just as much as they need to eat and breathe. They die if they don't. And no, it is not just their own problem. Just like I expect the government to step in sort out an issue of there is a serious hunger problem in my country, I also expect them to step in and sort out this sanitation problem.
The few places we do have are filthy. Not just stinky, I mean, filthy. And it isn't just about the lack of manpower or resources or infrastructure. It is also about terrible, terrible sanitary habits. And these terrible, terrible sanitary habits come from our schools, our homes, our reluctance to even talk about the importance of toilets, and the risks inherent in not keeping them clean.
It comes from our refusal to think beyond the immediate. Yes, you want to pee so you want to find a clean toilet and then leave right away without bothering to stop and think about whether you are leaving the place suitable for the next person. But you will also want to pee an hour later in another location, and then you might find that the person ahead of you has not bothered either.
If there is one thing travel has taught me, it is this: culture is not just about museums or clothes or food or history. It is as much about widely accessible public toilets and running water as it is about sculpture and architecture. It is as much about not stealing the metal bottoms from trash-cans as it is about stained glass in churches.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Complain, complain
Dear O'Hare, Chicago, Airport
I have a grouse. Actually, I have many. I visited you recently and found that communications wise, you are rather badly equipped, and badly planned.
Most international airports now have decent telephone and internet services. You must have too, at some point. There were several public pay phones, which is as it should be. However, all of them belonged to the Pacific Telemanagement Services company. Not one of them worked. I tried at least ten. All of them claimed to allow local and international calls, and specified the number of coins that had to be inserted. I followed instructions. A man's voice kept saying "please check the number you have dialled". I tried every local and international number I had. Same response. Twice, the machines swallowed up my coins.
There was a number mentioned on the pay phone, which you were supposed to call if the machine failed to refund your money. I tried that. It did not work. Not even a tone or an agent at the other end.
Finally, I called Pacific Telemanagement. I stayed on hold until an agent came on the line. I described the problem. After explaining three times, the agent drawled out the information that the service no longer exited.
I said, "Excuse me?"
He said, "Yeah. The phones won't take coins any longer."
I said, "But it just did. Twice!"
Then the agent hung up on me.
Do you understand now, dear airport, why people outsource such business-related calls to India? Our agents don't hang up while talking to clients. Sometimes, even when you repeatedly ask them to.
The second thing is the internet. Having unsuccessfully attempted to call my family, I decided to send an email instead. The entire airport was supposed to be wi-fi, thanks to Boingo Internet services. I could not connect through my laptop, for some reason. There was a number mentioned where you could call them for technical assistance. I could not call them because the phones were not working.
Catch 22, dear airport.
I spotted a pay-for-net-time kiosk then, also operated by Boingo. I slipped a currency note into the machine's flickering red mouth. It readily swallowed. I logged in, clicked on the email option. The website opened up, and then the machine would not connect any further. I waited. Tried again. And again. Time ticked on, the internet didn't deliver.
I looked closely. Found a toll-free number to call. Then discovered that the kiosks were no longer functional. That is, they still took your money, but were no longer engineered to deliver any connectivity services. There was no note, no tape against the mouth of the cash slot. And there was a number you could call to complain. Except they kept you on hold for twelve minutes, all the while thanking you for your patience and determinedly avowing appreciation for the same, assuring you than the next available representative would be with me in a moment.
The moments slipped by, and so did my patience, until there was nothing left but rage and frustration.
Dear airport, this is not about losing five or ten or fifteen dollars. This is not about losing my temper and wanting to shatter the machines (I did not). This is about the concept of 'service'.
A friend has said this repeatedly, and I think I am inclined to agree with him now. "There is no real 'seva' in the US. They don't get it," he said.
Think about the idea of 'service'. A service is something you extend to people, based on the notion that they need it. You try to anticipate their needs, you try to mould your facilities to allow them maximum ease.
You ask questions to guage how customers might feel in a given space. Who needs an internet kiosk? Someone who doesn't have a laptop, or for whatever reason, cannot connect to the wi-fi options available. Who needs a pay phone? Obviously, someone who does not have a functional cell phone. People often need to make important phone calls at airports. And not all travellers have, or want to use, credit cards. The idea is to make things easier for people, all people. Why then, dear airport, do you persist in keeping up with these perverse, client-scorning Pacific Telemanagement and Boingo? If they cannot deliver, get rid of them.
And oh, you don't seem to have plug-points in the waiting areas. None that are visible to the naked eye. Why?
I have a grouse. Actually, I have many. I visited you recently and found that communications wise, you are rather badly equipped, and badly planned.
Most international airports now have decent telephone and internet services. You must have too, at some point. There were several public pay phones, which is as it should be. However, all of them belonged to the Pacific Telemanagement Services company. Not one of them worked. I tried at least ten. All of them claimed to allow local and international calls, and specified the number of coins that had to be inserted. I followed instructions. A man's voice kept saying "please check the number you have dialled". I tried every local and international number I had. Same response. Twice, the machines swallowed up my coins.
There was a number mentioned on the pay phone, which you were supposed to call if the machine failed to refund your money. I tried that. It did not work. Not even a tone or an agent at the other end.
Finally, I called Pacific Telemanagement. I stayed on hold until an agent came on the line. I described the problem. After explaining three times, the agent drawled out the information that the service no longer exited.
I said, "Excuse me?"
He said, "Yeah. The phones won't take coins any longer."
I said, "But it just did. Twice!"
Then the agent hung up on me.
Do you understand now, dear airport, why people outsource such business-related calls to India? Our agents don't hang up while talking to clients. Sometimes, even when you repeatedly ask them to.
The second thing is the internet. Having unsuccessfully attempted to call my family, I decided to send an email instead. The entire airport was supposed to be wi-fi, thanks to Boingo Internet services. I could not connect through my laptop, for some reason. There was a number mentioned where you could call them for technical assistance. I could not call them because the phones were not working.
Catch 22, dear airport.
I spotted a pay-for-net-time kiosk then, also operated by Boingo. I slipped a currency note into the machine's flickering red mouth. It readily swallowed. I logged in, clicked on the email option. The website opened up, and then the machine would not connect any further. I waited. Tried again. And again. Time ticked on, the internet didn't deliver.
I looked closely. Found a toll-free number to call. Then discovered that the kiosks were no longer functional. That is, they still took your money, but were no longer engineered to deliver any connectivity services. There was no note, no tape against the mouth of the cash slot. And there was a number you could call to complain. Except they kept you on hold for twelve minutes, all the while thanking you for your patience and determinedly avowing appreciation for the same, assuring you than the next available representative would be with me in a moment.
The moments slipped by, and so did my patience, until there was nothing left but rage and frustration.
Dear airport, this is not about losing five or ten or fifteen dollars. This is not about losing my temper and wanting to shatter the machines (I did not). This is about the concept of 'service'.
A friend has said this repeatedly, and I think I am inclined to agree with him now. "There is no real 'seva' in the US. They don't get it," he said.
Think about the idea of 'service'. A service is something you extend to people, based on the notion that they need it. You try to anticipate their needs, you try to mould your facilities to allow them maximum ease.
You ask questions to guage how customers might feel in a given space. Who needs an internet kiosk? Someone who doesn't have a laptop, or for whatever reason, cannot connect to the wi-fi options available. Who needs a pay phone? Obviously, someone who does not have a functional cell phone. People often need to make important phone calls at airports. And not all travellers have, or want to use, credit cards. The idea is to make things easier for people, all people. Why then, dear airport, do you persist in keeping up with these perverse, client-scorning Pacific Telemanagement and Boingo? If they cannot deliver, get rid of them.
And oh, you don't seem to have plug-points in the waiting areas. None that are visible to the naked eye. Why?
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Help needed at Geeta Nagar
Got this message from here. Please pass the word around and help in any way you can.
"The high tidal waves on 24th July destructed several homes at Geeta Nagar, the largest slum in Navy Nagar and washed away roofs and huts of more than a hundred poor people.Please contribute rice, atta, sugar, tea leaves, pulses and also bedsheets, and clothes for men, women, children. Any help is welcome."
Contact details: +91 22 22876031, +91 98211 48796, shridharnaik@gmail.com
Fresh off the conference tables 1
Several things went on through the day at the BlogHer conference 09.
For me, the single most important event was that my laptop wouldn't connect to the internet. No idea why. But that did allow me to sit back and really look at things, instead of looking at the computer screen and only half-absorbing what was going on. I sat through four different sessions and actually listened to every single word spoken by panelists, avid bloggers, very, very popular bloggers, bloggers who would like to become very popular bloggers, bloggers who had a book in them, bloggers who had books out and multiple book deals lined up, bloggers who photographed incessantly, bloggers who got paid, bloggers who got free stuff in return for reviews, bloggers who wanted free stuff and would be willing to go out and ask whoever was handing them out, lots of mommy-bloggers, lots of mommies, and small babies, one quartet of babies, fourteen hundred women (almost fourteen hundred women and a very few men) in the same room...
It made me think of several things - blogging itself, its larger purpose, personal purpose, its limits, its constituents etcetera. It put me in a quiet mood. It also made me very nervous. I felt compelled to at least open up my laptop and put down a few sentences about what I was feeling.
For now, I just want to say that the communite 'keynote' had me in tears. Much laughter, but much emotion too. Fantastic stories and some very compelling story-telling here. The best part was that there was not just one person saying a whole lot of things about blogging, as might be expected at the keynote session at a blogging conference. These were some of the best of what the blog world has to offer. It is all heart, sprinkled with poetry. And it made me want to keep on blogging.
I will say more about the conference and what it felt like once it is done. For now, go and read updates on the Blogher site.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
"Last year Karla Hoff, an economist at the World Bank who is currently working at Princeton University, and her colleagues reported the results of experiments conducted in villages in the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh (American Economic Review, vol 98, p 494). In these tests, two players started out with 50 rupees each. The first could choose to give his to the second, in which case the experimenters added a further 100 rupees, giving the second player 200 rupees in total. The second player could decide to keep the money for himself, or share it equally with the first player. A third player then entered the game, who could punish the second player - for each 2 rupees he was willing to spend, the second player was docked 10 rupees.
The results were startling. Even when the second player shared the money fairly, two-thirds of the time the newcomer decided to punish him anyway - a spiteful act with seemingly no altruistic payoff. "We asked one guy why," says Hoff. "He said he thought it was fun."
Hoff found that high-caste players were more likely to punish their fellow gamers spitefully than low-caste players, leading her to suggest that context is everything. It is not that people in Uttar Pradesh are nastier than elsewhere, but rather that the structure of their society makes them acutely conscious of status."
From a fascinating article that tries to answer the following:
But why do we inflict pain for no gain? On the face of it, it is rather a perverse way of going about things. Does spitefulness stem from an affronted sense of fairness? Or something altogether darker: envy, lust for revenge - or perhaps even pure sadism?
Do go read the whole thing.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Silly facebook song
Facebook says I is a player's girl.
That cocky so-and-sos and know-it-alls
Just look at me and rise, as if to bait
And I just looks at them, and I falls.
I is wandering, looking for straw to catch
But facebook says I has four hundred friends
They can ping and poke and throw a sheep at me
Even kiss me, if I not taking offends.
Facebook say I don't know my own pals
And they also don't know me much, it seems
What we put to the test, who knows?
Perhaps we just don't burden pals with dreams.
Facebook says I is a goregeous thing
(And now I has to gorgeous someone back)
It says I is a top girl for the girls
I has the looks, the style, the social knack.
There was a boy I used to briefly date
He lied about forever wanting me
He had a girl in another town
On facebook, he a ghost haunting me.
Got friended by someone from long ago
He not a friend, he wasn't even when
There was a chance we would relent in time.
Except I dint; now he's tracking me again.
There's a boy who once knew a boy I loved.
He's on my list and says, keep in touch.
The friend I longed for isn't friending me
Well, I not suppose it matter very much.
Was a boy, I thought wasn't good enough
He brought his heart, I kept saying nonono.
Facebook says he married, has two kids
He certainly don't waste time going slow.
Seventeen facebook boys I want to date
They smart and could make me happy too
But they says 'it's complicated' on their page
And complicated, you knows, is not good news.
Someone wants to know what to see in me
I take a quiz, and that's how I find out
There's scary bits of pain stuck in my eyes
Funny how facebook knows whatall about.
An old man wants to say it with flowers
A young man wants to know my birthday date
A stranger says she from my college gang
Two hundred causes wants me to donate!
Facebook say, I a sweet, girly girl
Who wears a mask of laughter on her face
It say I is a crazy, unconditional type
With heart open, eyes shut to love's disgrace.
The girls, they send me poetry and stuff
They know how tough it is for girls alone
But I ignoring strange pending requests
I is done trying to make facebook my home.
I not a player's girl, I is not stupid
I is not a writer I has never read
And I is not going to die any time soon
Nor signing up on fan groups for the dead.
Facebook, facebook, stop tormenting me
I not the girl you make me out to be
I know already, don't need a quiz to see
The woman I is and what I was born to be.
(C) Annie Zaidi, 2009
That cocky so-and-sos and know-it-alls
Just look at me and rise, as if to bait
And I just looks at them, and I falls.
I is wandering, looking for straw to catch
But facebook says I has four hundred friends
They can ping and poke and throw a sheep at me
Even kiss me, if I not taking offends.
Facebook say I don't know my own pals
And they also don't know me much, it seems
What we put to the test, who knows?
Perhaps we just don't burden pals with dreams.
Facebook says I is a goregeous thing
(And now I has to gorgeous someone back)
It says I is a top girl for the girls
I has the looks, the style, the social knack.
There was a boy I used to briefly date
He lied about forever wanting me
He had a girl in another town
On facebook, he a ghost haunting me.
Got friended by someone from long ago
He not a friend, he wasn't even when
There was a chance we would relent in time.
Except I dint; now he's tracking me again.
There's a boy who once knew a boy I loved.
He's on my list and says, keep in touch.
The friend I longed for isn't friending me
Well, I not suppose it matter very much.
Was a boy, I thought wasn't good enough
He brought his heart, I kept saying nonono.
Facebook says he married, has two kids
He certainly don't waste time going slow.
Seventeen facebook boys I want to date
They smart and could make me happy too
But they says 'it's complicated' on their page
And complicated, you knows, is not good news.
Someone wants to know what to see in me
I take a quiz, and that's how I find out
There's scary bits of pain stuck in my eyes
Funny how facebook knows whatall about.
An old man wants to say it with flowers
A young man wants to know my birthday date
A stranger says she from my college gang
Two hundred causes wants me to donate!
Facebook say, I a sweet, girly girl
Who wears a mask of laughter on her face
It say I is a crazy, unconditional type
With heart open, eyes shut to love's disgrace.
The girls, they send me poetry and stuff
They know how tough it is for girls alone
But I ignoring strange pending requests
I is done trying to make facebook my home.
I not a player's girl, I is not stupid
I is not a writer I has never read
And I is not going to die any time soon
Nor signing up on fan groups for the dead.
Facebook, facebook, stop tormenting me
I not the girl you make me out to be
I know already, don't need a quiz to see
The woman I is and what I was born to be.
(C) Annie Zaidi, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
My god!
Essentials of journalism: Get facts. Get opinions. Get counter-opinions. Question everything.
Now here are (or what appear to be) the facts:
A seven-year-old girl is found dead inside a politician's car.
There are blood stains on her underwear.
Post-mortem report suggests 'smothering' as cause of death.
Police find out the child was also being treated for congenital heart disease.
Cop goes on record to suggest the girl died of a stroke, because of the heart disease. Explains away her presence in the politician's car by saying she must have felt sick and so crawled into the car to sleep.
The reporter reports whatever the cop says. The entire report is based on opinion. One cop's opinion. No doctors are quoted. Further details of the post-mortem report are not revealed. The girl's family is not quoted, not even with reference to the child's history of heart disease.
No questions are raised - not even the obvious one about why a sick, tired child would choose a politician's car to break into (unless the car was routinely left unlocked through the day), and how the child who supposedly went to sleep in the cool comfort of the car, then suffered a stroke while she slept.
Does it make any sense? Is this the obvious conclusion you would jump to when you heard the facts? Why is the investigating officer jumping to such conclusions? More importantly, why is the reporter not questioning those assumptions, or even the speculatory comments by the cop? And why is any news editor not intervening?
One might even allow for the possibility that the reporter was inexperienced and the desk editor somehow unavailable, why is the story still there up on the internet, without any changes or updates? I mean, my god!
Now here are (or what appear to be) the facts:
A seven-year-old girl is found dead inside a politician's car.
There are blood stains on her underwear.
Post-mortem report suggests 'smothering' as cause of death.
Police find out the child was also being treated for congenital heart disease.
Cop goes on record to suggest the girl died of a stroke, because of the heart disease. Explains away her presence in the politician's car by saying she must have felt sick and so crawled into the car to sleep.
The reporter reports whatever the cop says. The entire report is based on opinion. One cop's opinion. No doctors are quoted. Further details of the post-mortem report are not revealed. The girl's family is not quoted, not even with reference to the child's history of heart disease.
No questions are raised - not even the obvious one about why a sick, tired child would choose a politician's car to break into (unless the car was routinely left unlocked through the day), and how the child who supposedly went to sleep in the cool comfort of the car, then suffered a stroke while she slept.
Does it make any sense? Is this the obvious conclusion you would jump to when you heard the facts? Why is the investigating officer jumping to such conclusions? More importantly, why is the reporter not questioning those assumptions, or even the speculatory comments by the cop? And why is any news editor not intervening?
One might even allow for the possibility that the reporter was inexperienced and the desk editor somehow unavailable, why is the story still there up on the internet, without any changes or updates? I mean, my god!
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Thoughts for today
"In old days men had the rack. Now they have the press. That is an improvement certainly. But still it is very bad, and wrong, and demoralizing. Somebody — was it Burke? — called journalism the fourth estate. That was true at the time no doubt. But at the present moment it is the only estate. It has eaten up the other three. The Lords Temporal say nothing, the Lords Spiritual have nothing to say, and the House of Commons has nothing to say and says it. We are dominated by Journalism."
The above words were apparently written by Oscar Wilde, in his long essay, The Soul of Man Under Socialism. (Correct me, somebody, if this is not correct). In the same essay, he also writes:
"It is much more easy to have sympathy with suffering than it is to have sympathy with thought."
Hmm. Hmmm. Much food for thought.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Not quite child's play
A few weeks ago, I offered to volunteer through Karmayog. On the form, I had mentioned that I live in a distant suburb, and that I could not commit to anything long-term or working on a daily basis. But I said I would still like to offer whatever skills I have to help children, preferably teenagers, or young adults. One of the few organisations that got back in touch was LEAD, a small group working with children from underprivileged backgrounds in Airoli. They told me that they worked under several limitations, and I told them of my own constraints of time, distance and reluctance to commit to a schedule. But I offered to do a workshop for the kids at the LEAD center, and they agreed to let me.
When I made the offer, I had no clear agenda in mind. All I had promised was that it would be interactive and creative. But I was not making a sort of 'lesson plan' or workshop outline, and I had good reason for not doing so. One, I have some experience of working with kids and I know that it is almost impossible to follow a teaching 'plan' unless you are familiar with the kids and their understanding of the subjects/topics you bring up. In fact, it becomes difficult to stick to a pre-decided format even when you are dealing with college students or professionals, if you want to make the meeting an interactive one.
The second reason is that, while I am not a professional conductor of workshops, I do have a fair understanding of communication and what short-term workshops can achieve. A workshop like the one I was planning - for kids from different age groups, who may or may not know the alphabet, may or may not have ever attended school - could not be successful if it assumed anything at all about its participants.
I had been warned that there would be several kids, ranging from four to fourteen. As it turned out, the range was even wider. There were at least two babies in attendance, on the hips of older siblings, and some other kids who were barely more than toddlers. Some seemed hungry, some irritable. Some physical powpowing was in progress. So I decided to do something that may not result in any immediate benefit, not on the face of it, but would give them enough to think about, or lead them to newer discoveries, fresh ways of looking at their world.
Besides, I wanted the freedom to switch between communication tracks at the last minute, depending on what the overall workshop mood looked like.
Getting to Airoli was a bit of a task. It involved three trains, an auto and a bike ride. The LEAD center was a single room with durries on the floor, a blackboard, a lot of posters and colourful pin-ups of the kind that belong to the average classroom. I had thought to start with a sort of game or exercise: getting the children to introduce themselves and also say a little more than just their names, something about themselves. I suggested that they say something new, which was not common knowledge in this room. The exercise did not go down too well.
Many of the kids were too shy to even tell me their names. Hardly any of them could say anything about him/herself, although there was a one little gentleman who announced that he was a boy, and also insisted that this fact was not common knowledge. When I arrived, I had wanted to sit and talk with the kids about their lives and their creative ambitions. Maybe get them to write some poetry, or even a play. But it was immediately apparent that I would not be able to do this without getting to know them a little better. There were too many of them. The room was too small and too warm. There were several adult volunteers around who were helping to keep order, but the noise levels were very high and most of the children were too young to be able to come up with poetry, off hand. I'm not sure they were old enough to understand what a poem was. They certainly weren't exposed to enough drama or other related arts for them to be able to jump headlong into a creative enterprise of their own. So I decided to save that for another day and try something else.
I have to confess that it was very hard. When I was younger I had sworn off teaching as a profession because I had seen, first-hand, what chaos little kids create, and how easy it is to turn into an ogre with a foul temper and an itchy palm, if you cannot get them to be quiet and attentive. So yes, it was hard to catch, and keep, the children's attention. The problem was compounded by the fact that I do not speak Marathi or Gujarati. The gaps between the kids' ages and educational backgrounds wasn't helping either. All the children were distracted. Even introductions were hard because some kids sat there in corners, looking like they'd been whacked just because I asked them their names, while other bubbly, super-enthu kids wanted to introduce themselves three or four times.
Some of them wanted to recite the alphabet, as soon as they saw my face. Some wanted to sing. Some wanted to take notes for whatever I said. Anyway, I spent a bit of time just getting each child to stand up and introduce him/herself. Then I introduced myself and asked them who they thought I was, what I did. I asked them what their fathers and mothers did, where they worked. Once they had finished telling me, I told them I was a writer. And then, I explained to them the concept of a writer - somebody who writes books and poems and articles for newspapers.
I borrowed a text-book from one child and opened it to the first lesson - which prompted some of the kids to immediately bring out their books, turn to the same page and start reading out (that should tell us something about the way our schools function). I pointed out that the simplest rhymes, essays, texts have to be created by somebody. Somebody who does this for a living. Then I moved on to newspapers.
I asked them to name newspapers they were familiar with, and their purpose. Some children came up with the right answers (the answers I wanted to hear, anyway) with relative ease. In fact, it was amazing to see them make that leap - from not knowing the connection between the act of writing and the morning newspaper, to a seemingly natural understanding of the function of media and processes surrounding news. I talked them through the whole process of writing for newspapers.
I started backwards - got them to tell me what they thought might be an interesting item of news from the papers. Someone mentioned a train accident. So we worked our way back to the source of this information. And then we moved forward again: from rumour to confirmation from official sources to eye-witness testimony, to the logical and immediate locations one must visit after a violent incident.
I was very pleased to see that I did not have to prompt them much. The kids knew, somehow, what to do. They said they would call up the police and the railways to get confirmation. They said they would go to the site themselves. They said they would next visit hospitals.
It was very interesting to see how early an understanding and instinct for media develops: how kids know about events and collect information, and what they expect from the administration and government. From there, I went on to the editing business. Told them what to do with a given piece of news, if they wanted to put it in a newspaper. Told them about editors, addresses, and how to approach someone with a story.
After that, I had them split into three smaller groups and told each group to come up with a story, the sort that could go into a local newspaper. The really little ones did not participate, of course. But with some encouragement from their regular teachers, many kids came up with stories. Several of these were about instances of theft in their own neighbourhood. One little girl kept insisting that her bindi was stolen off the mirror in her home. A little boy dismssed her report as lies, which led to her bursting into tears. One boy came up with a celebrity story (about Shah Rukh Khan being injured a few years ago). Others came up with tales of people being possessed by spirits/ghosts, and a widow going on a protest fast.
I was taking down all their stories on a blackboard, and they were all very excited, and were already fighting for 'print-space'! They all demanded that their stories be included and some were rather disappointed that their stories had to be wiped off, to make way for the next group. It was their first lesson in the ephemeral nature of success in the media, and the romance of the byline!
(It was amusing, actually, to see how little we change. Adult journalists can be equally petulant when it comes to having their stories on the front page, and they are just as sulky when their stories are dropped in favour of something bigger, or sent into the inner pages).
We also talked a little about front pages, newsiness, what peice of news deserves to be given the most visibility. Except for one little boy who insisted that Shah Rukh Khan deserved to be on the front page, even if the news was eight years old, most of the participating kids felt that 'theft' was the most important item.
It was a very basic lesson in media. I don't know where it will lead, but I am hoping that at the very least, the kids will start looking at news with a better sense of what is going on. I hope that in the future, it will help the kids think about mass communication and what it stands for. They might perhaps take a greater interest in newspapers, or consider the possibility of developing their skills in media.
I ended the workshop by asking their teachers, other volunteers, to see that the kids' engagement with media continues with some way. They could have the kids bring in news, take turns to read it out, or even do weekly exercises of the sort we'd jsut done. It would help the children to think about and discuss the world around them. And it would also help to get each child to speak up more often.
What I liked most about the whole evening was that the girls were more active participants than the boys. They were shy and giggly to begin with. But within a couple of hours, they had begun to speak with confidence and seemed to be really interested in listening. This matters to me because whenever I meet girls from underprivileged backgrounds who are thinking of careers, they seem to have two ideas stuck in their heads - tailoring, and beauty parlours. Neither of these professions brings in that much money, but they know that it is a step up from domestic chores; at least, it involves some sort of training and skill. Ask these girls what they want to be when they grow up, and the really little ones might say 'doctor' or 'teacher' or even 'film star'. But the adolescent girls, those who have had a chance to take a good, hard look at their lives and prospects, will often say they want to work in a beauty parlour. I wanted them to look at their options once again.
I wanted both the boys and the girls to know that it takes so little to be a journalist. Becoming a good writer might be a separate issue, but media work is essentially easy work and getting media training is not that much harder than learning tailoring or car mechanic work (sometimes, I wonder if the latter would not have given me a more stable career :)
[This is a modified, more personal account of the evening. I did another version as a report for the group after the workshop.]
When I made the offer, I had no clear agenda in mind. All I had promised was that it would be interactive and creative. But I was not making a sort of 'lesson plan' or workshop outline, and I had good reason for not doing so. One, I have some experience of working with kids and I know that it is almost impossible to follow a teaching 'plan' unless you are familiar with the kids and their understanding of the subjects/topics you bring up. In fact, it becomes difficult to stick to a pre-decided format even when you are dealing with college students or professionals, if you want to make the meeting an interactive one.
The second reason is that, while I am not a professional conductor of workshops, I do have a fair understanding of communication and what short-term workshops can achieve. A workshop like the one I was planning - for kids from different age groups, who may or may not know the alphabet, may or may not have ever attended school - could not be successful if it assumed anything at all about its participants.
I had been warned that there would be several kids, ranging from four to fourteen. As it turned out, the range was even wider. There were at least two babies in attendance, on the hips of older siblings, and some other kids who were barely more than toddlers. Some seemed hungry, some irritable. Some physical powpowing was in progress. So I decided to do something that may not result in any immediate benefit, not on the face of it, but would give them enough to think about, or lead them to newer discoveries, fresh ways of looking at their world.
Besides, I wanted the freedom to switch between communication tracks at the last minute, depending on what the overall workshop mood looked like.
Getting to Airoli was a bit of a task. It involved three trains, an auto and a bike ride. The LEAD center was a single room with durries on the floor, a blackboard, a lot of posters and colourful pin-ups of the kind that belong to the average classroom. I had thought to start with a sort of game or exercise: getting the children to introduce themselves and also say a little more than just their names, something about themselves. I suggested that they say something new, which was not common knowledge in this room. The exercise did not go down too well.
Many of the kids were too shy to even tell me their names. Hardly any of them could say anything about him/herself, although there was a one little gentleman who announced that he was a boy, and also insisted that this fact was not common knowledge. When I arrived, I had wanted to sit and talk with the kids about their lives and their creative ambitions. Maybe get them to write some poetry, or even a play. But it was immediately apparent that I would not be able to do this without getting to know them a little better. There were too many of them. The room was too small and too warm. There were several adult volunteers around who were helping to keep order, but the noise levels were very high and most of the children were too young to be able to come up with poetry, off hand. I'm not sure they were old enough to understand what a poem was. They certainly weren't exposed to enough drama or other related arts for them to be able to jump headlong into a creative enterprise of their own. So I decided to save that for another day and try something else.
I have to confess that it was very hard. When I was younger I had sworn off teaching as a profession because I had seen, first-hand, what chaos little kids create, and how easy it is to turn into an ogre with a foul temper and an itchy palm, if you cannot get them to be quiet and attentive. So yes, it was hard to catch, and keep, the children's attention. The problem was compounded by the fact that I do not speak Marathi or Gujarati. The gaps between the kids' ages and educational backgrounds wasn't helping either. All the children were distracted. Even introductions were hard because some kids sat there in corners, looking like they'd been whacked just because I asked them their names, while other bubbly, super-enthu kids wanted to introduce themselves three or four times.
Some of them wanted to recite the alphabet, as soon as they saw my face. Some wanted to sing. Some wanted to take notes for whatever I said. Anyway, I spent a bit of time just getting each child to stand up and introduce him/herself. Then I introduced myself and asked them who they thought I was, what I did. I asked them what their fathers and mothers did, where they worked. Once they had finished telling me, I told them I was a writer. And then, I explained to them the concept of a writer - somebody who writes books and poems and articles for newspapers.
I borrowed a text-book from one child and opened it to the first lesson - which prompted some of the kids to immediately bring out their books, turn to the same page and start reading out (that should tell us something about the way our schools function). I pointed out that the simplest rhymes, essays, texts have to be created by somebody. Somebody who does this for a living. Then I moved on to newspapers.
I asked them to name newspapers they were familiar with, and their purpose. Some children came up with the right answers (the answers I wanted to hear, anyway) with relative ease. In fact, it was amazing to see them make that leap - from not knowing the connection between the act of writing and the morning newspaper, to a seemingly natural understanding of the function of media and processes surrounding news. I talked them through the whole process of writing for newspapers.
I started backwards - got them to tell me what they thought might be an interesting item of news from the papers. Someone mentioned a train accident. So we worked our way back to the source of this information. And then we moved forward again: from rumour to confirmation from official sources to eye-witness testimony, to the logical and immediate locations one must visit after a violent incident.
I was very pleased to see that I did not have to prompt them much. The kids knew, somehow, what to do. They said they would call up the police and the railways to get confirmation. They said they would go to the site themselves. They said they would next visit hospitals.
It was very interesting to see how early an understanding and instinct for media develops: how kids know about events and collect information, and what they expect from the administration and government. From there, I went on to the editing business. Told them what to do with a given piece of news, if they wanted to put it in a newspaper. Told them about editors, addresses, and how to approach someone with a story.
After that, I had them split into three smaller groups and told each group to come up with a story, the sort that could go into a local newspaper. The really little ones did not participate, of course. But with some encouragement from their regular teachers, many kids came up with stories. Several of these were about instances of theft in their own neighbourhood. One little girl kept insisting that her bindi was stolen off the mirror in her home. A little boy dismssed her report as lies, which led to her bursting into tears. One boy came up with a celebrity story (about Shah Rukh Khan being injured a few years ago). Others came up with tales of people being possessed by spirits/ghosts, and a widow going on a protest fast.
I was taking down all their stories on a blackboard, and they were all very excited, and were already fighting for 'print-space'! They all demanded that their stories be included and some were rather disappointed that their stories had to be wiped off, to make way for the next group. It was their first lesson in the ephemeral nature of success in the media, and the romance of the byline!
(It was amusing, actually, to see how little we change. Adult journalists can be equally petulant when it comes to having their stories on the front page, and they are just as sulky when their stories are dropped in favour of something bigger, or sent into the inner pages).
We also talked a little about front pages, newsiness, what peice of news deserves to be given the most visibility. Except for one little boy who insisted that Shah Rukh Khan deserved to be on the front page, even if the news was eight years old, most of the participating kids felt that 'theft' was the most important item.
It was a very basic lesson in media. I don't know where it will lead, but I am hoping that at the very least, the kids will start looking at news with a better sense of what is going on. I hope that in the future, it will help the kids think about mass communication and what it stands for. They might perhaps take a greater interest in newspapers, or consider the possibility of developing their skills in media.
I ended the workshop by asking their teachers, other volunteers, to see that the kids' engagement with media continues with some way. They could have the kids bring in news, take turns to read it out, or even do weekly exercises of the sort we'd jsut done. It would help the children to think about and discuss the world around them. And it would also help to get each child to speak up more often.
What I liked most about the whole evening was that the girls were more active participants than the boys. They were shy and giggly to begin with. But within a couple of hours, they had begun to speak with confidence and seemed to be really interested in listening. This matters to me because whenever I meet girls from underprivileged backgrounds who are thinking of careers, they seem to have two ideas stuck in their heads - tailoring, and beauty parlours. Neither of these professions brings in that much money, but they know that it is a step up from domestic chores; at least, it involves some sort of training and skill. Ask these girls what they want to be when they grow up, and the really little ones might say 'doctor' or 'teacher' or even 'film star'. But the adolescent girls, those who have had a chance to take a good, hard look at their lives and prospects, will often say they want to work in a beauty parlour. I wanted them to look at their options once again.
I wanted both the boys and the girls to know that it takes so little to be a journalist. Becoming a good writer might be a separate issue, but media work is essentially easy work and getting media training is not that much harder than learning tailoring or car mechanic work (sometimes, I wonder if the latter would not have given me a more stable career :)
[This is a modified, more personal account of the evening. I did another version as a report for the group after the workshop.]
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Songs of sympathy, 1
Last night I cried in a movie
You cry, if that's all you can do
Last week I stopped reading a book
It hurt too much to see it through
There's bitterness there's misery
Things going wrong in my homeland
I fret but I don't do much more
It is not easy to take a stand
Besides, there are consequences
To building worlds better and free
'Coz somewhere up in Raipur jail,
A man is in for sympathy.
I saw a girl with legs splayed wide
She must have been eight or nine
She had a baby on her hips
She touched my arm then touched her lips
I knew her from everyday touch
She liked my hands, stroked my watch
She says, will you give something today?
Maybe tomorrow? But no, I say
Don't ask again, I will not pay
Don't tell me that you're hungry.
It's been two years in Raipur jail
A man is in for sympathy.
Men sit on streets with cut off arms
They crawl to thrust your shame at you
You toss a coin but not always
They don't even expect you to
There are no rights about these things
Nobody has the right to ask
That you set this country right
To bring people out of the dark
You have a life, so you're afraid.
No reason why you shouldn't be.
'Coz somewhere up in Raipur jail
A man is in for sympathy.
I heard two girls on prime time speak
The newspaper went on all week
About long years of rape at home
We talked about it on the phone
This strange beast they call incest
This man who wasn't just a guest
Where do you go when danger sleeps
In your bed and it's yours for keeps
How does a child escape and where
How to start over when she's free?
And somewhere up in Raipur jail
A man is in for sympathy.
Tonight I'll watch a DVD
A story sweet and sad and blue
I'll cry for people dead and gone
And for the times we fail the truth
But I'll remember not to howl
No screaming, shouting, nothing loud
About rage or incessant pain
Not a word of blood or shroud
There are too many ears around
And not enough eyes that see
That somewhere up in Raipur jail
A man is in for sympathy.
[I wrote it for we all know who. But mostly, to try and figure out the nature of the crime of sympathy]
Saturday, April 25, 2009
in which the producer-multiplex owner battle forces the blogger to protest
(Caution: a bit of a ramble and a rant.)
Was talking to some friends - about films, good and bad, about books and the market, the usual sort of random chatter.
Somebody mentioned walking out of film theatres after having paid for tickets and how much it hurt. I said something about how it isn't so bad when you watch the same film on television or DVD because it costs less. Then later, I chatted to somebody else about people's expectations from those who need and consume entertainment/media. And was relieved to find that I was not the only one who thought that most artistes have unreasonable expectations of their audience, and its tolerance of their art.
I can only illustrate this through a personal example.
Born into this movie-mad nation, I grew up watching predominantly Hindi films. I have lied in order to watch films. Got into a lot of trouble for the sake of films. Drove from one town to another to watch films. Wept real tears if I couldn't watch a film. In short, I did the usual stuff millions of young people in this country do, just to be able to watch films.
By the time I went to college and starting buying movie tickets myself, I spent an average of Rs 28 per movie outing. The ticket (balcony) cost Rs 17, a cold drink or pastry or popcorn or samosa in the interval cost Rs 5-7, and Rs 2 for the tempo ride either way. If we were in an awful hurry and took an auto instead of a tempo, we spent maybe Rs 32.
This was a small town, true. But even when we went to the bigger cities, we never spent more than Rs 50 per head for a movie.
I still remember the first time I went into a PVR complex to watch a film. I was quite impressed with all the glass and the deep colours and carpets and humungous tubs of popcorn which nobody could quite finish. I didn't know how much it cost. My uncle, being a kind, gentlemanly type, did not enlighten me.
A year later, I bought my own PVR ticket for the first time, and almost died. One hundred rupees! Just for one ticket? I tried to confine myself to non-posh, cheaper cinemas. Two years later, the cheaper cinemas started disappearing and ticket prices began skyrocketing.
Within four years, I went from paying Rs 17 for a ticket to Rs 150, on an average. Another two years and I was paying Rs 200. On weekends, this could be Rs 250. Add to that some popcorn, a cup of coffee, and auto/taxi fares. A movie outing could cost Rs 500. Per person.
I couldn't afford that. Not every week. Not twice a week. Not then, and not now. Friends who make thrice as much money as me also agree that Rs 500 per head for a movie outing is outrageous. It means Rs 2000-2500 for the average family outing.
How many students, how many struggling artistes, how many young couples, how many teachers, how many non-corporate professionals in India can afford to spend such money on weekend entertainment? I can tell you, not many writers can.
And the thing is, these are precisely the people who might be interested in a new or different kind of cinema. If there is only one film being released every Friday, then perhaps they will patronise that one film. But if there are two or three, then they will watch only one; that is, if they step out of the house at all.
Recently, I read somewhere that occupancy in multiplexes stands only at around 40 percent, and I am not surprised. I went from watching almost every film I could sneak out for, every film that happened to be playing in the local theatres, to watching maybe one or two films in a month.
If you were a freelance writer, watching one movie a week would mean being able to sell at least two to three extra stories to the newspapers every week. I cannot name a lot of movies that were worth so much time and effort. Can any filmmaker working in this country honestly stand up and say his/her work is good enough to claim one tenth of the average audience-person's income?
The gains that were made through the multiplex culture - allowing for five or six different films to show simultaneously - are lost because of unreasonable pricing. There are enough people here willing to watch almost every kind of cinema you can conceive of. I rememner that we were just a bunch of students at a convent in a small town, yet we went to watch Deepa Mehta's 'Fire' two times, while cinema halls were being attacked in other places. We didn't know what to expect from the film but we were willing to give it a chance. I would like the chance to go on giving all kinds of films a chance. But get real about how much I'm willing in invest in that sort of chance.
Now, I find myself getting more and more intolerant of the few movies I do watch.
When I was spending Rs 17, I could walk into a hall playing 'Daag - the fire' with my mother, just because I couldn't think of anywhere else to go and sit on a hot afternoon. I saw the movie through. It was bad but it didn't hurt. We all sat through some films simply to be able to make fun of them.
In contrast, the last time I took some people out to a big-budget star-studded movie, I spent upwards of Rs 1500, and found myself cringing, wanting to walk out during the interval. It wasn't the worst film I'd ever seen; it just felt like that. It made me want to smack the filmmaker.
It is not like I expect tickets to stay at Rs 17 forever. I understand inflation. I understand infrastructure and maintainence. But reading about the current standoff between producers and multiplex owners, one would imagine that audiences are essentially interested in air-conditioning and the 'get-up' of the place. Or else, in just watching a film no matter what the cost in terms of time or money.
I say, ask me! I am your audience. And I am a good audience, reasonably intelligent and patient and generous when it comes to art.
Yes, I like nice cinema halls. Yes, I would like decent sound and clean toilets with running water. And I would prefer not to have rats and cockroaches underfoot. But that is not the point. The point is that I was anyway going out to watch movies despite the rats, despite the ripped seats, despite the amorphous, declassed 'crowd'. I resent being made to pay for facilities which should be the norm. All public spaces need to be clean. All theatres need to have decent toilets and running water and emergency exits. You need to hire enough staff and make sure that people do their jobs well. And I am willing to pay a little extra to make this happen.
But I resent being charged ridiculous amounts of money for popcorn and bad coffee. I resent people not respecting the little money I have and am willing to spend on their work. I resent the fact that people are paid in double-digit crores and they still cannot come up with anything remarkable, or even original. I resent the fact that those same people still want me to get out there and spend my money anyway, even though they wouldn't spit at amounts so small when it comes to their personal lifestyle or entertainment choices.
A pretty dress or a pair of shoes also give me pleasure. Music or theatre or going dancing gives me pleasure. If I have to pay Rs 40 for a cup of coffee in an airconditioned space, I might as well go to a cafe; why bother with cinema? If you cannot match a certain level of pleasure or offer the goods at better prices, then, well, tough! Make do with 40 percent occupancy. Go on raising ticket prices.
One of these days some cool cat in the media/software worlds will come up with a way to make internet cinema pay for itself. Already, we get most of my cinema from television or DVDs. Soon there will be something else.
In the meantime, sometimes, we pay those crazy prices despite the resentment. But filmmakers need to think about these questions - of the audience's valuation of the worth of cinema, of the common viewing experience, and of infrastructure. They will have to think a little harder than they seem to be thinking right now, especially if they want to make different kinds of films.
I stay away from a certain film not because I want a fixed amount of masala with my art. Nor because I am afraid of experiments. But if you're going to part me from my hard-earned money, then deliver. Deliver what I (which is not me personally, but the average audience member) expect and I will come to see your work again and again. I will come drawn by your name, your sensibility, your history, your passion.
Even if you cannot deliver, I will still come to watch some films. But I will play safe. I will start showing up to watch only when I am at least assured of some eye candy, or my favourite actors. For instance, I'll watch almost anything with Jude Law in it. And if I can watch Jude Law and get a reasonably interesting kind of cinema at the same time, why will I bother with a Hindi film heartthrob? More and more Indians speak and/or understand English. More and more of them have access to dubbed foreign films, or DVDs with sub-titles. Think of that.
I will probably watch Hindi movies anyway, even though I want to smack their creators sometimes, because I belong to this culture, because they're almost in my blood. But my loyalty to Hindi films is linked to their creators' loyalty to me and my expectations.
It is the same way with plays or books. I keep hoping that some storyteller is going to surprise me, enchant me, leave me with a scrap of beauty and truth, or change the way I think, or allow me to look at lives I'm not familiar with. But if he/she cannot do that, the least I expect is a little laughter and love. Which is why humour and romance - or the combination - draw people. Not because that is the only thing people want. But because that is the least they expect. There's a difference beween what people want, what they will settle for and what they expect.
The sooner we work that one out, the better it will be for all of us.
Was talking to some friends - about films, good and bad, about books and the market, the usual sort of random chatter.
Somebody mentioned walking out of film theatres after having paid for tickets and how much it hurt. I said something about how it isn't so bad when you watch the same film on television or DVD because it costs less. Then later, I chatted to somebody else about people's expectations from those who need and consume entertainment/media. And was relieved to find that I was not the only one who thought that most artistes have unreasonable expectations of their audience, and its tolerance of their art.
I can only illustrate this through a personal example.
Born into this movie-mad nation, I grew up watching predominantly Hindi films. I have lied in order to watch films. Got into a lot of trouble for the sake of films. Drove from one town to another to watch films. Wept real tears if I couldn't watch a film. In short, I did the usual stuff millions of young people in this country do, just to be able to watch films.
By the time I went to college and starting buying movie tickets myself, I spent an average of Rs 28 per movie outing. The ticket (balcony) cost Rs 17, a cold drink or pastry or popcorn or samosa in the interval cost Rs 5-7, and Rs 2 for the tempo ride either way. If we were in an awful hurry and took an auto instead of a tempo, we spent maybe Rs 32.
This was a small town, true. But even when we went to the bigger cities, we never spent more than Rs 50 per head for a movie.
I still remember the first time I went into a PVR complex to watch a film. I was quite impressed with all the glass and the deep colours and carpets and humungous tubs of popcorn which nobody could quite finish. I didn't know how much it cost. My uncle, being a kind, gentlemanly type, did not enlighten me.
A year later, I bought my own PVR ticket for the first time, and almost died. One hundred rupees! Just for one ticket? I tried to confine myself to non-posh, cheaper cinemas. Two years later, the cheaper cinemas started disappearing and ticket prices began skyrocketing.
Within four years, I went from paying Rs 17 for a ticket to Rs 150, on an average. Another two years and I was paying Rs 200. On weekends, this could be Rs 250. Add to that some popcorn, a cup of coffee, and auto/taxi fares. A movie outing could cost Rs 500. Per person.
I couldn't afford that. Not every week. Not twice a week. Not then, and not now. Friends who make thrice as much money as me also agree that Rs 500 per head for a movie outing is outrageous. It means Rs 2000-2500 for the average family outing.
How many students, how many struggling artistes, how many young couples, how many teachers, how many non-corporate professionals in India can afford to spend such money on weekend entertainment? I can tell you, not many writers can.
And the thing is, these are precisely the people who might be interested in a new or different kind of cinema. If there is only one film being released every Friday, then perhaps they will patronise that one film. But if there are two or three, then they will watch only one; that is, if they step out of the house at all.
Recently, I read somewhere that occupancy in multiplexes stands only at around 40 percent, and I am not surprised. I went from watching almost every film I could sneak out for, every film that happened to be playing in the local theatres, to watching maybe one or two films in a month.
If you were a freelance writer, watching one movie a week would mean being able to sell at least two to three extra stories to the newspapers every week. I cannot name a lot of movies that were worth so much time and effort. Can any filmmaker working in this country honestly stand up and say his/her work is good enough to claim one tenth of the average audience-person's income?
The gains that were made through the multiplex culture - allowing for five or six different films to show simultaneously - are lost because of unreasonable pricing. There are enough people here willing to watch almost every kind of cinema you can conceive of. I rememner that we were just a bunch of students at a convent in a small town, yet we went to watch Deepa Mehta's 'Fire' two times, while cinema halls were being attacked in other places. We didn't know what to expect from the film but we were willing to give it a chance. I would like the chance to go on giving all kinds of films a chance. But get real about how much I'm willing in invest in that sort of chance.
Now, I find myself getting more and more intolerant of the few movies I do watch.
When I was spending Rs 17, I could walk into a hall playing 'Daag - the fire' with my mother, just because I couldn't think of anywhere else to go and sit on a hot afternoon. I saw the movie through. It was bad but it didn't hurt. We all sat through some films simply to be able to make fun of them.
In contrast, the last time I took some people out to a big-budget star-studded movie, I spent upwards of Rs 1500, and found myself cringing, wanting to walk out during the interval. It wasn't the worst film I'd ever seen; it just felt like that. It made me want to smack the filmmaker.
It is not like I expect tickets to stay at Rs 17 forever. I understand inflation. I understand infrastructure and maintainence. But reading about the current standoff between producers and multiplex owners, one would imagine that audiences are essentially interested in air-conditioning and the 'get-up' of the place. Or else, in just watching a film no matter what the cost in terms of time or money.
I say, ask me! I am your audience. And I am a good audience, reasonably intelligent and patient and generous when it comes to art.
Yes, I like nice cinema halls. Yes, I would like decent sound and clean toilets with running water. And I would prefer not to have rats and cockroaches underfoot. But that is not the point. The point is that I was anyway going out to watch movies despite the rats, despite the ripped seats, despite the amorphous, declassed 'crowd'. I resent being made to pay for facilities which should be the norm. All public spaces need to be clean. All theatres need to have decent toilets and running water and emergency exits. You need to hire enough staff and make sure that people do their jobs well. And I am willing to pay a little extra to make this happen.
But I resent being charged ridiculous amounts of money for popcorn and bad coffee. I resent people not respecting the little money I have and am willing to spend on their work. I resent the fact that people are paid in double-digit crores and they still cannot come up with anything remarkable, or even original. I resent the fact that those same people still want me to get out there and spend my money anyway, even though they wouldn't spit at amounts so small when it comes to their personal lifestyle or entertainment choices.
A pretty dress or a pair of shoes also give me pleasure. Music or theatre or going dancing gives me pleasure. If I have to pay Rs 40 for a cup of coffee in an airconditioned space, I might as well go to a cafe; why bother with cinema? If you cannot match a certain level of pleasure or offer the goods at better prices, then, well, tough! Make do with 40 percent occupancy. Go on raising ticket prices.
One of these days some cool cat in the media/software worlds will come up with a way to make internet cinema pay for itself. Already, we get most of my cinema from television or DVDs. Soon there will be something else.
In the meantime, sometimes, we pay those crazy prices despite the resentment. But filmmakers need to think about these questions - of the audience's valuation of the worth of cinema, of the common viewing experience, and of infrastructure. They will have to think a little harder than they seem to be thinking right now, especially if they want to make different kinds of films.
I stay away from a certain film not because I want a fixed amount of masala with my art. Nor because I am afraid of experiments. But if you're going to part me from my hard-earned money, then deliver. Deliver what I (which is not me personally, but the average audience member) expect and I will come to see your work again and again. I will come drawn by your name, your sensibility, your history, your passion.
Even if you cannot deliver, I will still come to watch some films. But I will play safe. I will start showing up to watch only when I am at least assured of some eye candy, or my favourite actors. For instance, I'll watch almost anything with Jude Law in it. And if I can watch Jude Law and get a reasonably interesting kind of cinema at the same time, why will I bother with a Hindi film heartthrob? More and more Indians speak and/or understand English. More and more of them have access to dubbed foreign films, or DVDs with sub-titles. Think of that.
I will probably watch Hindi movies anyway, even though I want to smack their creators sometimes, because I belong to this culture, because they're almost in my blood. But my loyalty to Hindi films is linked to their creators' loyalty to me and my expectations.
It is the same way with plays or books. I keep hoping that some storyteller is going to surprise me, enchant me, leave me with a scrap of beauty and truth, or change the way I think, or allow me to look at lives I'm not familiar with. But if he/she cannot do that, the least I expect is a little laughter and love. Which is why humour and romance - or the combination - draw people. Not because that is the only thing people want. But because that is the least they expect. There's a difference beween what people want, what they will settle for and what they expect.
The sooner we work that one out, the better it will be for all of us.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Somebody outlaw this
Saw and heard Mahashweta Devi today.
Random question from girl in audience:
"What is your take on the term 'feminism'?"
This was followed by a half statement along the lines of '...actually, I also do not agree with that term...'
Oh dearOh dearOh dear! These children who do not read and then open their mouths in public. I am considering supporting legislation that requires people to have read at least two hundred books (including at least five books by contemporary women writers) before they are allowed to ask questions at literary events.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Facebook, facebook!
A message from the Pink Chaddi campaign:
Dear All,
The hackers have been at our facebook groups for a while (perhaps you noticed *smile*). For now the group seems to be disabled because dear Facebook has disabled my account instead of dealing with our security
issues. Bizarre but such is inscrutable corporate logic.Hang in there. We will be back.
Nisha
And a message for Facebook:
Facebook, facebook! Wake up. Somebody's hacking you! Do something!
Dear All,
The hackers have been at our facebook groups for a while (perhaps you noticed *smile*). For now the group seems to be disabled because dear Facebook has disabled my account instead of dealing with our security
issues. Bizarre but such is inscrutable corporate logic.Hang in there. We will be back.Nisha
And a message for Facebook:
Facebook, facebook! Wake up. Somebody's hacking you! Do something!
Sunday, March 29, 2009
In the Wake of the Wounded Woman
When I was a little girl, I equated rape with death. The movies (and bad pulp fiction and even comics) were to blame, of course. I did not know yet that men - and children - got raped too and I was too young to know what rape meant, yet I was convinced that if a woman was raped, either she got killed, or she had to kill herself. The only other alternative was to die whilst fighting the rapists.
Nobody told me this. It was just an association of ideas (thanks to Hindi movies, I also used to think that if someone saw you naked, you had to get married to him). While I was growing up, there was no concept of life, post-rape. The idea that a rape victim might want to live, and might want relationships and kids and so on at some point in the future - it just didn't occur to us. It wasn't just me. It didn't occur to classmates or cousins either (if it did, they kept it a closely guarded secret). Our films didn't show us. The books we were allowed to read didn't show us. And no adult even mentioned the word 'rape' or 'sex' in our presence.
I did have a vague idea that the police was supposed to do something but rarely did, and that this failure led husbands or brothers or beloveds to take up arms and seek bloody vengeance. I also remember thinking that it had to be the worst thing that could happen to you, because not only could you not do anything about it, you also had to kill yourself. It doesn't get much worse than that, does it?
In my teens, I watched a few movies where an alternate was presented - you could marry your rapist. Or rather, he married you. You even got to sing songs through the whole mucky business. (It is worthwhile noting at this juncture that the Supreme Court of India, even today, is passing orders that specify that an offer to marry a rape victim doesn't translate into bail for the rapist.)
The first time my ideas were shaken off their perch was when I saw Zakhmi Aurat (Wounded Woman). I cannot remember how old I was. I didn't have a clue about what rape meant but with this film, two things came undone. One, the way the rape itself was treated. Until then, rape scenes meant actresses running - usually in sarees or lehenga-cholis, sometimes in slow motion - or attempting to crawl backwards as they lay on the floor or bed, wherever they had been tossed. The villian would be struggling to pull away her pallu. Even when I was little, I used to wonder why the girl spent so much time and energy holding on to the fabric, clutching it to her chest, saying 'Let go!' Why didn't she just drop the saree and run?
I have seen Zakhmi Aurat only once. But one rape scene has never left my memory. Here was a young woman who dressed in pants. A cop. And she was being gang-raped inside her own house. She wasn't just an object being used to satiate a villian's ungovernable lust. She was being deliberately humiliated. In fact, she wasn't just being humiliated. She was being physically hurt. This was the first time I remember thinking: "Oh my god, they are going to break her bones, or crack open her skull."
This was the first time I saw a film that showed the trauma of life after. Because, instead of hanging herself from the ceiling fan, leaving an accusatory note behind, or complaining to her brother about her stolen 'izzat' and how she was no longer fit to show her face, this victim was living in her own house, where different objects and spaces were constant reminders of her pain and humiliation.
Most significantly, this was the only movie I had seen in which a victim takes some action barring murder. She puts together a vigilante gang of women who have been raped themselves, or whose family members have been raped. They start kidnapping rapists and castrating them. Surgically, mind you, with the man being placed under anasthesia.
Much later, I found out that this was supposed to be a controversial film. Some people had objected to the sheer number of rapes and the explicit scenes. I still don't fully understand the controversy and don't want to get into the politics of crime and punishment at the moment. All I want to say is that it was an empowering film for me.
For the first time in my life, I was being offered the idea that rape was brutal but it need not lead to death. For either victim or culprit.
There were other ways in which this film broke away from stereotype. It showed the rape victim being dumped by her fiance, but afterwards - after she is arrested and put on trial - he finally asks her to marry him. She is pleased to be taken back, of course. But even this - a happy ending - seemed like such a novelty in a film about rape. Besides, it got me thinking. I remember thinking that perhaps, the heroine should not be going back to her fiance, not after the way he abandoned her when she needed him most.
The only other Hindi film that helped me break away from stereotypes around the rape of the bhartiya nari was a black-n-white film called Patita (the one with that lovely romantic number 'Yaad kiya dil ne, kahaan ho tum...').
It was the first Hindi film I saw in which a rape victim is not only happily married - not to the rapist, thank god - but her baby is a product of rape, accepted and cared for by her handsome husband. It was the first time I saw a screen rape victim being allowed to sing romantic songs in the moonlight, allowed to be something other than traumatized.
Another scene from Zakhmi Aurat that surprised me was a song. The villain/rapist has just been castrated. He is back home and now his wife is demanding sex. She is attempting to seduce him and he is pretending to have turned spiritual, to have undertaken a 'Brahmachari' fast (which means that he is going to abstain). His wife sings and dances and finally strips him, which is when she discovers the truth.
The song was supposed to be comic, I suppose. I cannot decide whether it is in bad taste or not. But it achieved something important. It showed that rapists might have non-aggressive sex lives too, that their relationships with their wives might be very different, that their wives might actually be happy, and completely clueless about their husbands' brutalization of other women. This idea came as a bit of a shock to me. I still find it a little hard to deal with, but it taught me to think of things that are flattened out of the frame when you allow for only uni-dimensional screen characters. It taught me that just as victims are stereotyped, rapists and their families are stereotyped as well.
Possibly, if I watched Zakhmi Aurat now, I'd find fault with it both from a storytelling perspective and a feminist perspective. Nevertheless, the film is significant.
Just like The Accused was significant. I was made to watch by a friend. In fact, her father made her watch it while she was quite young. Perhaps, he wanted her to know that she should never, ever, blame herself in case something like that happened. That it doesn't matter if you're drunk, or drugged, or promiscuous, or in a bar, or even if you have been kissing the accused. Perhaps, her dad was trying to tell my friend that even if other people are blaming you, or laughing at you, you shouldn't give up. Not when it comes to demanding justice for yourself.
I am grateful to my friend for leading me to the film. Like every other woman, I was brought up on the usual bullshit ideas that seek to shift blame onto the victim. The Accused once again shook up my ideas, forced me to look at rape with new eyes.
What really worries me is that over the last two decades, I have not seen any Hindi movies that take this a step further. I remember the horror of rape scenes in Bandit Queen, and there has been the odd rare film that puts rape in perspective within the context of another narrative (Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi did so), without allowing it to become the dominant feature in the female lead's life. By and large, either filmmakers avoid the subject altogether, or end up churning out rubbish that echoes old justifications for rape, such as how a woman dresses, and where she goes. The rest of the film is about everything else - from the horrors of westernization to the erosion of values among spoilt rich brats - except the rape itself, and the way our society deals with survivors.
Perhaps, the trouble with too many artists is that they forget their own power. The power of media. Films and books are as much a tool for challenging social ideas as they are tools for emotional discovery or just plain storytelling. You can break stereotypes. You can stretch limited imaginations. You can help others become less judgmental human beings. You can save children. But you have to want to.
(Cross-posting now on BlogHer)
Nobody told me this. It was just an association of ideas (thanks to Hindi movies, I also used to think that if someone saw you naked, you had to get married to him). While I was growing up, there was no concept of life, post-rape. The idea that a rape victim might want to live, and might want relationships and kids and so on at some point in the future - it just didn't occur to us. It wasn't just me. It didn't occur to classmates or cousins either (if it did, they kept it a closely guarded secret). Our films didn't show us. The books we were allowed to read didn't show us. And no adult even mentioned the word 'rape' or 'sex' in our presence.
I did have a vague idea that the police was supposed to do something but rarely did, and that this failure led husbands or brothers or beloveds to take up arms and seek bloody vengeance. I also remember thinking that it had to be the worst thing that could happen to you, because not only could you not do anything about it, you also had to kill yourself. It doesn't get much worse than that, does it?
In my teens, I watched a few movies where an alternate was presented - you could marry your rapist. Or rather, he married you. You even got to sing songs through the whole mucky business. (It is worthwhile noting at this juncture that the Supreme Court of India, even today, is passing orders that specify that an offer to marry a rape victim doesn't translate into bail for the rapist.)
The first time my ideas were shaken off their perch was when I saw Zakhmi Aurat (Wounded Woman). I cannot remember how old I was. I didn't have a clue about what rape meant but with this film, two things came undone. One, the way the rape itself was treated. Until then, rape scenes meant actresses running - usually in sarees or lehenga-cholis, sometimes in slow motion - or attempting to crawl backwards as they lay on the floor or bed, wherever they had been tossed. The villian would be struggling to pull away her pallu. Even when I was little, I used to wonder why the girl spent so much time and energy holding on to the fabric, clutching it to her chest, saying 'Let go!' Why didn't she just drop the saree and run?
I have seen Zakhmi Aurat only once. But one rape scene has never left my memory. Here was a young woman who dressed in pants. A cop. And she was being gang-raped inside her own house. She wasn't just an object being used to satiate a villian's ungovernable lust. She was being deliberately humiliated. In fact, she wasn't just being humiliated. She was being physically hurt. This was the first time I remember thinking: "Oh my god, they are going to break her bones, or crack open her skull."
This was the first time I saw a film that showed the trauma of life after. Because, instead of hanging herself from the ceiling fan, leaving an accusatory note behind, or complaining to her brother about her stolen 'izzat' and how she was no longer fit to show her face, this victim was living in her own house, where different objects and spaces were constant reminders of her pain and humiliation.
Most significantly, this was the only movie I had seen in which a victim takes some action barring murder. She puts together a vigilante gang of women who have been raped themselves, or whose family members have been raped. They start kidnapping rapists and castrating them. Surgically, mind you, with the man being placed under anasthesia.
Much later, I found out that this was supposed to be a controversial film. Some people had objected to the sheer number of rapes and the explicit scenes. I still don't fully understand the controversy and don't want to get into the politics of crime and punishment at the moment. All I want to say is that it was an empowering film for me.
For the first time in my life, I was being offered the idea that rape was brutal but it need not lead to death. For either victim or culprit.
There were other ways in which this film broke away from stereotype. It showed the rape victim being dumped by her fiance, but afterwards - after she is arrested and put on trial - he finally asks her to marry him. She is pleased to be taken back, of course. But even this - a happy ending - seemed like such a novelty in a film about rape. Besides, it got me thinking. I remember thinking that perhaps, the heroine should not be going back to her fiance, not after the way he abandoned her when she needed him most.
The only other Hindi film that helped me break away from stereotypes around the rape of the bhartiya nari was a black-n-white film called Patita (the one with that lovely romantic number 'Yaad kiya dil ne, kahaan ho tum...').
It was the first Hindi film I saw in which a rape victim is not only happily married - not to the rapist, thank god - but her baby is a product of rape, accepted and cared for by her handsome husband. It was the first time I saw a screen rape victim being allowed to sing romantic songs in the moonlight, allowed to be something other than traumatized.
Another scene from Zakhmi Aurat that surprised me was a song. The villain/rapist has just been castrated. He is back home and now his wife is demanding sex. She is attempting to seduce him and he is pretending to have turned spiritual, to have undertaken a 'Brahmachari' fast (which means that he is going to abstain). His wife sings and dances and finally strips him, which is when she discovers the truth.
The song was supposed to be comic, I suppose. I cannot decide whether it is in bad taste or not. But it achieved something important. It showed that rapists might have non-aggressive sex lives too, that their relationships with their wives might be very different, that their wives might actually be happy, and completely clueless about their husbands' brutalization of other women. This idea came as a bit of a shock to me. I still find it a little hard to deal with, but it taught me to think of things that are flattened out of the frame when you allow for only uni-dimensional screen characters. It taught me that just as victims are stereotyped, rapists and their families are stereotyped as well.
Possibly, if I watched Zakhmi Aurat now, I'd find fault with it both from a storytelling perspective and a feminist perspective. Nevertheless, the film is significant.
Just like The Accused was significant. I was made to watch by a friend. In fact, her father made her watch it while she was quite young. Perhaps, he wanted her to know that she should never, ever, blame herself in case something like that happened. That it doesn't matter if you're drunk, or drugged, or promiscuous, or in a bar, or even if you have been kissing the accused. Perhaps, her dad was trying to tell my friend that even if other people are blaming you, or laughing at you, you shouldn't give up. Not when it comes to demanding justice for yourself.
I am grateful to my friend for leading me to the film. Like every other woman, I was brought up on the usual bullshit ideas that seek to shift blame onto the victim. The Accused once again shook up my ideas, forced me to look at rape with new eyes.
What really worries me is that over the last two decades, I have not seen any Hindi movies that take this a step further. I remember the horror of rape scenes in Bandit Queen, and there has been the odd rare film that puts rape in perspective within the context of another narrative (Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi did so), without allowing it to become the dominant feature in the female lead's life. By and large, either filmmakers avoid the subject altogether, or end up churning out rubbish that echoes old justifications for rape, such as how a woman dresses, and where she goes. The rest of the film is about everything else - from the horrors of westernization to the erosion of values among spoilt rich brats - except the rape itself, and the way our society deals with survivors.
Perhaps, the trouble with too many artists is that they forget their own power. The power of media. Films and books are as much a tool for challenging social ideas as they are tools for emotional discovery or just plain storytelling. You can break stereotypes. You can stretch limited imaginations. You can help others become less judgmental human beings. You can save children. But you have to want to.
(Cross-posting now on BlogHer)
Friday, March 20, 2009
Shame, shame
When I read that an editor in my country has been arrested, on the grounds of having outraged me, all I could feel was shame, and revulsion. For those who claim to believe in a god I can lay claim to, those who have kidnapped the prophets who were my inheritance. For those who buckled, despite having assumed the responsibility of ensuring that my rights were not violated in my own land. For governments and administrations that choose to arrest editors, instead of those who threaten them.
I am ashamed that we live in a country where someone is not allowed to call religion(s) oppressive. I may or may not agree with that view, but I want the right to say it, to agree with it, to put it into print, and to reprint it as many times as I think fit.
I am ashamed that not one newspaper in this country has seen fit to create some noise about this. That not one newspaper is running a campaign against threats to free speech from every upstart, self-appointed guardian angel of some random group's sense of self-esteem. That editors across the country have not seen fit to republish that so-called outrageous article, as a mark of protest.
And I am ashamed that an artist cannot show nudes at Jehangir Art Gallery any more, the place where I spent so much time hanging out, absorbing art, thinking, interpreting, sniggering, criticising. It galls me to spend time in that gallery now. When I sit in Samovar and order a cup of tea, I cannot forget that this is a place that didn't even bother to wait and find out if it would be targeted by the police, or random goons who are afraid of undressed people. It taped up its own face, willingly, before it could be gagged.
I am ashamed that we are so quick to bend into terrorised little kowtows, that we prefer to walk around with someone else's nauseous rags stuffed into our mouths. Really, this doesn't feel like the country I was promised. A democratic, sovereign, socialist republic that guaranteed free speech and free expression of ideas. I thought.
I am ashamed that we live in a country where someone is not allowed to call religion(s) oppressive. I may or may not agree with that view, but I want the right to say it, to agree with it, to put it into print, and to reprint it as many times as I think fit.
I am ashamed that not one newspaper in this country has seen fit to create some noise about this. That not one newspaper is running a campaign against threats to free speech from every upstart, self-appointed guardian angel of some random group's sense of self-esteem. That editors across the country have not seen fit to republish that so-called outrageous article, as a mark of protest.
And I am ashamed that an artist cannot show nudes at Jehangir Art Gallery any more, the place where I spent so much time hanging out, absorbing art, thinking, interpreting, sniggering, criticising. It galls me to spend time in that gallery now. When I sit in Samovar and order a cup of tea, I cannot forget that this is a place that didn't even bother to wait and find out if it would be targeted by the police, or random goons who are afraid of undressed people. It taped up its own face, willingly, before it could be gagged.
I am ashamed that we are so quick to bend into terrorised little kowtows, that we prefer to walk around with someone else's nauseous rags stuffed into our mouths. Really, this doesn't feel like the country I was promised. A democratic, sovereign, socialist republic that guaranteed free speech and free expression of ideas. I thought.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The the-80s-were-good-for-cinema post
Talking about films - or any art form - can be a draining exercise. I am often overcome with a sense of futility mid-way through such conversations, because you just cannot get the other person to see. For instance, that eternally raging debate about poetry and 'access'. Or that completely abhorrent debate about whether Shakespeare was a plagiarist, and whether there is any such thing as an original idea. Or whether violence in films has a negative impact on society.
I usually just shut up and smile politely when someone picks up one of these fatiguing threads in conversation. But the other day, I got into a bit of a discussion that took off from poetry and modern mediocrities, and ended with an allusion to our 80s cinema. To that era of Hindi cinema that is described as 'the dark ages'.
I didn't like that. It suggests that Hindi cinema during that decade had stooped to lows that it had not seen before, and has not seen since.
I'm not sure I agree. When I was growing up, all I saw was Indian cinema - mostly Hindi, but thanks to Doordarshan, some other languages too (Sound of Music, which I was subjected to six times at least, does not count). But having been only a small child in the 80s, with very few tools of analysis, or indeed any real judgment, I am no longer sure whether my memories of that cinema are true.
So before I said anything further on the subject, I decided to go do a little research. (And having stayed up till 5 am to do this post shows just how strongly I feel about this subject).
What exactly was the 80s cinema?
Was it all about loud, regressive, violent, formula films (another post on this term, another day) where heroines were being raped all the time, and then committing suicide, and where the villians were evil beyond measure and the heroes were from amongst the great unwashed and looked it? Where things were black and white too often, and all characters were unidimensional? Where the song and dance routine was increasingly looking like an aerobics class crossed with, with, I don't know, genetically modified moonwalkers? Where Bharat natyam costumes were being mated with bikinis, and sarees with minis?
Maybe some of it was. But a lot of it wasn't. In the year 1980, we had movies like Aakrosh, Khubsoorat, Karz, Sparsh, Albert Pinto ko Gussa Kyon Aata Hai and other widely acknowledged brilliant films which I have not seen. There were others which weren't bad at all (in my opinion), such as Kala Pani, Shaan, The Burning Train.
In 1981, there was Laawaris, Ek Duje Ke Liye, Love Story, Umarao Jaan, Zamane ko Dikhaana Hai, Kaalia, Dhuaan, Naram Garam, which I liked. And 36 Chowringhee Lane, Chashm-e-Baddoor, and Silsila.
In 1982, there was Angoor, Arth, Bazaar, Gopichand Jasoos, Namak Halal, Namkeen, Bemisaal, Nikaah, Prem Rog, Satte pe Satta and Shakti, many of which I've watched multiple times. (Besides, IMDB tells me there were also titles like Bachche Teen Aur Daaku Chhe, which I must make an attempt to acquire, some day).
In 1983, there were films like Himmatwala and others in that genre, which I didn't care for. All the awful stereotypes apply. But, but, but!
But there was Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron! The year 1983 gave us this awesome film and there's been nothing like it since. And there was the equally awesome Ardhya Satya and Mandi. Other films that I am content to like included Betaab, Disco Dancer, Kalaakaar, Naastik, Sadma (wherein I am told, I howled the movie theatre down, repeating "But mummy, why did she leave?").
The year 1984 gave us Saaransh, Mashaal, Utsav and (though I have not yet seen it, I have heard so much about it that I'm going to put it down as a positive) Mohan Joshi Haazir ho! It also gave us Tohfa (which I'm not a fan of), but that's in the Himmatwala category.
From the 1985 list, I liked Meri Jung, Aitbaar, Jhooti, Khamosh, Pyari Behena, Saheb. (And as a matter of principle, I must try and watch Aurat Per Ki Jooti Nahin Hai). Though I don't remember these too well, I think I didn't mind Aakhir Kyon, Bhavani Junction, Ghulami, Pyaar Jhukta Nahin, Mohabbat, Ram Teri Ganga Maili, and actually, even Bhaago Bhoot Aaya. Not great, but I could live with them.
In 1986, I liked Anubhav, Chameli ki Shaadi, Ek Chadar Maili Si, Naam. There was also Jaanbaaz, Nagina (so sue me. I liked it) and Aakhri Raasta, which I will include on my list of likes simply because of its unashamed self-spoofing in the song "Gori ka Saajan".
The lyrics go something like: Yaad karo tum filmon mein/kya kya scene dikhaate hain/ Leyt ke baatein karte hain/ daud ke gaana gaate hain/ Main peechhe bhaaga/ tu aage daudi/ Lo ji shuru ho gayi love story..." and all the while, the hero and heroine are happily running, lying down, singing. Matching-matching action to word. I love it.
In 1987, there was Mr India, Ijaazat, Kaash, Ye Woh Manzil To Nahin. I vaguely recall having liked Pyaar Ki Jeet and Mohre too.
In 1988, there was Tezaab, QSQT, Hero Hiralal, Malaamaal, Main Zinda Hoon, Pestonjee, Rihaee, Salaam Bombay!, and a film which most of us have not seen but I have heard so many wonderful things - usually in the realm of hyperbole - from those who have seen it that I will include it in this 'the 80s gave us good cinema' list - Om-dar-ba-dar.
There was also Zakhmi Aurat, about which I will do a whole post some day, because it was an important film, even a life-altering one. And there was also a rather sweet children's short film called Angootha Chhaap, which I might never have seen except for the fact that Doordarshan once decided to show two shorter films instead of the regular Sunday evening movie. All these years later, that film is still there in my head!
These I didn't think were so bad: Dayavan, Pyaar Ka Mandir (the title song is still stuck in my head), Hatya, Khoon Bhari Maang.
In 1989, there was Chaalbaaz and Chandni, Maine Pyaar Kiya and Daddy, Parinda and Prem Pratigya, Raakh and Ram Lakhan and Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro - all interesting for very different reasons. And there was also Nigahen (shut up! okay?) and Tridev.
So these were the 80s for me as a film-lover. It is true that I suffered through Loha, and Paap Ko Jalaa ke Raakh Kar Doonga, and Mardon Wali Baat, and a hundred variations on 'khoon' 'insaaf' 'insaan' and 'suhaag'. But so what?
I also suffered through Bal Brahmachari (introducing Puru Rajkumar), in the nineties, and that was the first film I actually walked out of. Since the multiplexes came in, I have become picky about what I watch on the big screen, but I'm sure there are several films made in this decade that you wouldn't wish upon your friends.
Can you think of more than five or six decent-to-good films made in a single year, in this decade? If this is our average count now, and that was the case in the 1980s too, what's the difference?
Somebody is bound to pipe up now with the 'Oh, but you are counting parallel cinema' argument. I don't buy that argument. Hindi cinema is Hindi cinema. You cannot cut films like Arth or Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron out of the '80s Bollywood frame. No more than you would cut Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi out of this decade. The point is not big names or big money. Even now, the biggest names and the biggest money is associated with sub-standard movie-making. Even now, the really different films, the experimental films - a sort of parallel cinematic movement, if you like - are made on smaller budgets, and fresh talent.
So what, then, makes us so tolerant of 'now', while dismissing the 80s as the dark age of Hindi cinema? Is it just that we are tolerant of anything that is ours - our children, our cultures, our cinematic eras, ourselves? And if that is not the case, then please, explain.
I usually just shut up and smile politely when someone picks up one of these fatiguing threads in conversation. But the other day, I got into a bit of a discussion that took off from poetry and modern mediocrities, and ended with an allusion to our 80s cinema. To that era of Hindi cinema that is described as 'the dark ages'.
I didn't like that. It suggests that Hindi cinema during that decade had stooped to lows that it had not seen before, and has not seen since.
I'm not sure I agree. When I was growing up, all I saw was Indian cinema - mostly Hindi, but thanks to Doordarshan, some other languages too (Sound of Music, which I was subjected to six times at least, does not count). But having been only a small child in the 80s, with very few tools of analysis, or indeed any real judgment, I am no longer sure whether my memories of that cinema are true.
So before I said anything further on the subject, I decided to go do a little research. (And having stayed up till 5 am to do this post shows just how strongly I feel about this subject).
What exactly was the 80s cinema?
Was it all about loud, regressive, violent, formula films (another post on this term, another day) where heroines were being raped all the time, and then committing suicide, and where the villians were evil beyond measure and the heroes were from amongst the great unwashed and looked it? Where things were black and white too often, and all characters were unidimensional? Where the song and dance routine was increasingly looking like an aerobics class crossed with, with, I don't know, genetically modified moonwalkers? Where Bharat natyam costumes were being mated with bikinis, and sarees with minis?
Maybe some of it was. But a lot of it wasn't. In the year 1980, we had movies like Aakrosh, Khubsoorat, Karz, Sparsh, Albert Pinto ko Gussa Kyon Aata Hai and other widely acknowledged brilliant films which I have not seen. There were others which weren't bad at all (in my opinion), such as Kala Pani, Shaan, The Burning Train.
In 1981, there was Laawaris, Ek Duje Ke Liye, Love Story, Umarao Jaan, Zamane ko Dikhaana Hai, Kaalia, Dhuaan, Naram Garam, which I liked. And 36 Chowringhee Lane, Chashm-e-Baddoor, and Silsila.
In 1982, there was Angoor, Arth, Bazaar, Gopichand Jasoos, Namak Halal, Namkeen, Bemisaal, Nikaah, Prem Rog, Satte pe Satta and Shakti, many of which I've watched multiple times. (Besides, IMDB tells me there were also titles like Bachche Teen Aur Daaku Chhe, which I must make an attempt to acquire, some day).
In 1983, there were films like Himmatwala and others in that genre, which I didn't care for. All the awful stereotypes apply. But, but, but!
But there was Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron! The year 1983 gave us this awesome film and there's been nothing like it since. And there was the equally awesome Ardhya Satya and Mandi. Other films that I am content to like included Betaab, Disco Dancer, Kalaakaar, Naastik, Sadma (wherein I am told, I howled the movie theatre down, repeating "But mummy, why did she leave?").
The year 1984 gave us Saaransh, Mashaal, Utsav and (though I have not yet seen it, I have heard so much about it that I'm going to put it down as a positive) Mohan Joshi Haazir ho! It also gave us Tohfa (which I'm not a fan of), but that's in the Himmatwala category.
From the 1985 list, I liked Meri Jung, Aitbaar, Jhooti, Khamosh, Pyari Behena, Saheb. (And as a matter of principle, I must try and watch Aurat Per Ki Jooti Nahin Hai). Though I don't remember these too well, I think I didn't mind Aakhir Kyon, Bhavani Junction, Ghulami, Pyaar Jhukta Nahin, Mohabbat, Ram Teri Ganga Maili, and actually, even Bhaago Bhoot Aaya. Not great, but I could live with them.
In 1986, I liked Anubhav, Chameli ki Shaadi, Ek Chadar Maili Si, Naam. There was also Jaanbaaz, Nagina (so sue me. I liked it) and Aakhri Raasta, which I will include on my list of likes simply because of its unashamed self-spoofing in the song "Gori ka Saajan".
The lyrics go something like: Yaad karo tum filmon mein/kya kya scene dikhaate hain/ Leyt ke baatein karte hain/ daud ke gaana gaate hain/ Main peechhe bhaaga/ tu aage daudi/ Lo ji shuru ho gayi love story..." and all the while, the hero and heroine are happily running, lying down, singing. Matching-matching action to word. I love it.
In 1987, there was Mr India, Ijaazat, Kaash, Ye Woh Manzil To Nahin. I vaguely recall having liked Pyaar Ki Jeet and Mohre too.
In 1988, there was Tezaab, QSQT, Hero Hiralal, Malaamaal, Main Zinda Hoon, Pestonjee, Rihaee, Salaam Bombay!, and a film which most of us have not seen but I have heard so many wonderful things - usually in the realm of hyperbole - from those who have seen it that I will include it in this 'the 80s gave us good cinema' list - Om-dar-ba-dar.
There was also Zakhmi Aurat, about which I will do a whole post some day, because it was an important film, even a life-altering one. And there was also a rather sweet children's short film called Angootha Chhaap, which I might never have seen except for the fact that Doordarshan once decided to show two shorter films instead of the regular Sunday evening movie. All these years later, that film is still there in my head!
These I didn't think were so bad: Dayavan, Pyaar Ka Mandir (the title song is still stuck in my head), Hatya, Khoon Bhari Maang.
In 1989, there was Chaalbaaz and Chandni, Maine Pyaar Kiya and Daddy, Parinda and Prem Pratigya, Raakh and Ram Lakhan and Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro - all interesting for very different reasons. And there was also Nigahen (shut up! okay?) and Tridev.
So these were the 80s for me as a film-lover. It is true that I suffered through Loha, and Paap Ko Jalaa ke Raakh Kar Doonga, and Mardon Wali Baat, and a hundred variations on 'khoon' 'insaaf' 'insaan' and 'suhaag'. But so what?
I also suffered through Bal Brahmachari (introducing Puru Rajkumar), in the nineties, and that was the first film I actually walked out of. Since the multiplexes came in, I have become picky about what I watch on the big screen, but I'm sure there are several films made in this decade that you wouldn't wish upon your friends.
Can you think of more than five or six decent-to-good films made in a single year, in this decade? If this is our average count now, and that was the case in the 1980s too, what's the difference?
Somebody is bound to pipe up now with the 'Oh, but you are counting parallel cinema' argument. I don't buy that argument. Hindi cinema is Hindi cinema. You cannot cut films like Arth or Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron out of the '80s Bollywood frame. No more than you would cut Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi out of this decade. The point is not big names or big money. Even now, the biggest names and the biggest money is associated with sub-standard movie-making. Even now, the really different films, the experimental films - a sort of parallel cinematic movement, if you like - are made on smaller budgets, and fresh talent.
So what, then, makes us so tolerant of 'now', while dismissing the 80s as the dark age of Hindi cinema? Is it just that we are tolerant of anything that is ours - our children, our cultures, our cinematic eras, ourselves? And if that is not the case, then please, explain.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Chewy introspects
A few days ago, a friend had handed me a copy of A Grasshopper’s Pilgrimage and asked me whether I’d like to review it on this blog. I was a little surprised because I’ve had very few such requests, and besides, reviewing is something I do very reluctantly, because it feels like too much of a bother having to explain why a book or film worked, or didn’t. But here goes:
I must begin with a disclaimer and a confession. I am totally not into spiritual reading. I shy away from books that come with spiritual/religious tags and over the years, I’ve become suspicious of anything that describes itself as a ‘journey of the soul’ or something along those lines. Which is not to denigrate the genre. It is just that I personally start to get restless and irritable at the mention of the soul.
It was, therefore, with a small measure of trepidation and guilt that I agreed to do this review. It isn’t fair to approach a book with shelf-sized biases. That said, I have to confess that this book was a pleasant surprise. It was smooth reading right through. Author Manjushree Abhinav chose to tell an honest story instead of wrapping up a sermon in a novel’s cloak.
A Grasshopper’s Pilgrimage takes you through confusion and heartbreak, and the romancing of Gopika’s soul. The protagonist is a young, attractive woman from a family of atheists and finds herself inexorably drawn to Gurus, meditation centers, ashrams and the like, much to the consternation of her revolutionary grandparents. Each time she thinks she has found a solution, she is forced to reconsider – questions, answers, solutions, free will, screws, all of that.
Those are big words and big dilemmas, yes. But I think what works in this novel is that the protagonist is very real. Her language feels real. Her family and social context feels real. Her disappointment about love not being such a pat little affair, and her fears about not being good at her job, not knowing what she is good at – these are themes anyone can identify with, regardless of how deeply rooted they are in the spiritual realm. For a spiritual book, this turned out to be surprisingly temporal fare, and I’m glad I read it after all.
My personal take-home from this novel: it forced me to think. Mostly about why I resist spiritual reading (or viewing) so hard. I think I found some answers too. But that’s for me to chew on, alone.
To others, I would recommend the book if you’re looking for reading that isn’t so light that it becomes meaningless, and yet is not so heavy that you’ve got to shake your head every ten pages to make room for more verbiage. Finally, it is a well-written account of a young woman looking for – presumptuous of me to say this, but I’ll say it anyway – herself, and of the people who helped her get there. It is a story well-told and that’s why we read, don’t we?
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