It’s Winter

Delhi.

Approaching winter.

You are reluctant to wake up from the warmth of your blanket.

You wish you can sleep for some more time.

You believe you are still a schoolboy.

You wish it is summer vacation.

You wonder what to choose today. Comic books or video games or VCR?

Finally, you settle for comics.

Graphic pages of the western. Heroics of the superheroes.

Adventure. Colours. Images.

You flip through the pages with one hand.

A ripe mango in the other.

Occasional bites on the yellow flesh while the sticky juice runs down your hand.

You hear your friends yelling at you from the street.

You charge into the summer socked streets.

You play as if it is breathing.

You sweat.

The games you play are clothed with the smell of fresh grass and fertile soil.

Either there is no tomorrow, or it will just pass like today.

Summer vacation.

Beep. Beeep. Beeeep....

Wake up.

It is not summer now.

This is a different season.

This is winter.

This is a different place.

This is a different time.

This is a different world.

This is a different life.

Or you can say it is a different juncture in life.

Beeeep.... Beeeeepp...

Wake up.

You are no more a school kid.

A late obituary for late Mr. Ledger

Heath Ledger passed away in January this year, due to the reported “accidental overdose of painkillers and sedatives”. He was 28. Ironically, he was named after “Heathcliff” of Wuthering Heights, the classic novel by Emily Bronte.

Though this was not the first time Hollywood had lost one of its sparkling gems at a very young age, the news was indeed a shock for movie fans worldwide. Especially, while everyone was waiting to see the performance of his lifetime, as the Joker in the Dark Knight, his loss came as a big blow. Now, he is not around to hear the applause.

Ledger was nominated for an Academy Award for his remarkable role in the Brokeback Mountain. In the review of Brokeback Mountain, the New York Times hailed:

“Mr Ledger magically and mysteriously disappears beneath the skin of his lean, sinewy character. It is a great screen performance, as good as the best of Marlon Brando and Sean Penn.”

He was the youngest member of elite Aussie Actor’s club including Nicole Kidman, Russell Crow and Naomi Watts. His iconic smile had gone through a metamorphosis from the ink-toothed smile of a teenager in The Patriot to the sarcastic spine chilling grin of the Joker. Critics say that he will be conferred an Oscar posthumously.

Film critics contemplate that he would have gone places.

Many obituaries note that he would have quickly become one of the greatest Actors of all times.

I don’t know.

I just love the Joker, and I will miss him.

Before the bud grew into ripe fruit, it had fallen. Death has its ways.

On Solar eclipse, the tiny Moon eclipses the giant Sun for a few seconds. A chaos of a few seconds for the daylight. Yet, it is an outlandish feast for the eyes. A sight we can never forget. In the Hospital scene (The Dark Knight), Ledger announces proudly, “I am an agent of chaos”. That’s what he really is. He completely blacked out the likes of Christian Bale and Morgan Freeman. Only when we recollect who all acted in the Dark Knight, we know how big they are. Cinephiles will cherish forever the sight of these giants (and also those who weren't there in the Dark Knight) dwarfed by Ledger. If the Joker had to say a clever dialogue, he would have sarcastically exclaimed, “Honey, I shrunk the Giants!”

Though brief, Heath Ledger gave us an experience of a lifetime.

Adieu Heath.

The “Mess” Adventures of a South Indian

Disclaimer:

I mean no disrespect to the North Indian cuisine.

The following words are the initial reactions of a dead tongue.

*****

I never knew at the beginning it would be this difficult. I thought I could adjust with Chapatti and Sabji. Only when you actually live in Delhi, trying the food from the restaurants here, you learn the truth. Especially, when they try to cook South Indian food. (Either there are fine-dining eateries that are world-class or roadside joints that guarantee a food poisoning. There are hardly few middle-class joints like XYZ bhavans and cafes where you can grab a meal on a regular day).

A South Indian adds in a single course, “Arusuvai,” i.e. six tastes of Salt, Hot, Sweet, Sour, Bitter and Uvarpu (I don’t know any English alternative for this word). What you get here is, only two of them-Sweet and Hot. The other four are tastes are considered “bad tastes”. Ye katta hai...

If you want the Sabji to be spicier, the eateries will give you green chillies in a plate.

Bite that.

I wonder if they will give a sugar cane if you want the Kheer to be bit sweeter.

Bite that.

In the ordinary course of living, I am a tame lamb.

Do you want to make me breathe fire? It’s simple.

Invite me for lunch. Cook something with Paneer.

Paneer is the most pathetic food substance man ever introduced to his food culture. Add anything... sweet, salt, chillies... whatever quantities you add, it will still taste the same. It will not react to any combination.

It defies the notion that cooking is the pinnacle of “biochemical reactions”.

It will not react. IT WILL NOT REACT !!!

However, you can find the perseverance of a North Indian Chef, if you try Paneer Butter Masala, Palak Paneer, Paneer Tikka, Mutter Paneer, Paneer Tomatar, Chilli Paneer... It all tastes the same.

I once wrote in the Cafeteria feedback Form, “Are we living in a desert where we don’t get any vegetables at all? Please don’t cook Paneer more than once in a week.”

The next day, they served Mashed Paneer.

So was my “affair” with Paneer. But the sinned tongue of mine was cursed to eat Paneer twice or thrice a week in the office cafeteria. The first week was tiresome.

It was a Friday.

Someone said they serve South Indian food on Fridays.

My eyes tried to run ahead of me to the cafeteria. Controlling the Niagara of Saliva was difficult.

The sight shocked me. There was a “yellow thing” waiting on the tray like a piece of... forget it. They called it “Idli”.

It was offending. I felt as if someone said some abusive words against the woman in the family. The Southies from Tamil Nadu, compare a perfect Idli to Jasmine. It means Idli should be white, shaped, aromatic and fluffy. And the Sambar they served along with that... Wait a minute... I should wipe my tears to look at this monitor clearly.

Where did I leave? Sambar.

Next to that was a tray full of Frisbees.

I wondered what Frisbees are doing in the dining hall.

I have seen people playing table tennis at one corner of the dining hall. But Frisbees?!?!

It was tagged with placard named “Dosa”.

It was the most heart-breaking moment in my life. What will a guy who has never visited the south think of our delicacies, if he eats the fake South Indian food cooked by a North Indian Chef?

The outrage did not stop there. The next item was called “Bada”. Damn.

Why not “Chotta”?

The original delicacy is called “Medhu Vadai” meaning “Soft Vadai”. But this fake "Bada" was harder and chewy like the bloody Paneer.

That evening I went to the market and bought provisions, vegetables and cooking utensils.

How India lost a Mozart?

I was in the 7^th grade by then.

Since my parents are into the Government services, they got transferred to Chennai.

Most of the literate parents in Chennai are (present tense since this fact holds good even today) too ambitious to “mould” their children into something of their unfulfilled ambitions. Of course, the children will have to undergo the “heating, melting and hammering” stages in this moulding process.

There were many moulding factories custom designed to these requirements, in the name of “dance class, swimming class, tennis coaching, music class...” and some strange programs no one had ever heard of before.

My parents were not that “ambitious” in moulding me, and they just let me choose what I do. However, “concerned” neighbours and their half-moulded children started looking at me like an alien species with strange contamination named “liberty”.

After a few concerned pieces of advice and valuable suggestions, my parents had no choice but at least ask if I was interested in any of these “child building factories”.

I am a lazy worm who always prefers to live close to the school, college or office. The music class was the closest to our apartment. Cool.

I decided that ‘I will let them’ mould me into a musician.

It was Vijayadashami, an auspicious day to put the children into the furnace.

Martyr Jagadeesh bravely volunteered to face the occasion. My father accompanied me.

The music class was a traditional type house, with a big garden in front of it. Barbed wires fenced the garden and the house.

There was a bunch of scared little kids, a majority of them younger than me, waiting for their turn to be admitted. It was not that easy. The child or even the parents cannot choose the category music they wish to be trained in. After examining the child’s voice and fingers, the “Guruji” would decide which mould suits best.

It was my turn. I was not asked to sing. I still wonder why. Maybe singers are born with a sacred thread across their torsos. Maybe it was evident from my face that I was not born with one.

My fingers were examined. I was wondering if the Guruji would admit only the children with clean nails. (Only after a few years, I understood that the length and volume of the fingers are very vital for most of the instruments).

The Guruji gazed at me and said “Violin”.

***

The nightmare started from the very first class.

No. You are wrong.

It has nothing to do with music.

It was a dog. Guruji’s dog.

It appeared that the animal had a ‘special consideration’ for me.

It barked at a distance. Snarled and took position while I approached the door.

Luckily for me, since the initial classes had a lot of eager participants, I was able to sneak through the crowd. I could do it better than Jason Bourne.

Over a fortnight, there were few dropouts and for some of us, the class times got shuffled.

The crowd-shield became thin and vulnerable.

The enemy could easily spot me.

I was able to make a successful passage through the “enemy lines” for a day or two since the mongrel was sleeping.

But my instincts warned me that the Armageddon was approaching.

The day came.

I was late for the class that day. I looked around for some allies. None.

The enemy was waiting for me at the gate. Enemy at the Gates.

It was a face-off. One to one.

The spirit of a man was challenged by a four-legged intruder.

I hastily made a few steps forward and froze once the dog snarled.

Its head was stooped and back raised at an angle.

It was ready to plunge.

In a lightning second, I made that brave decision.

“I won't come for the music class ever again.”

And started running back. (Since this historic run was not recorded, sluggish Usain Bolt manages to be on the record books)

This is how India lost its own Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

Thousands of symphonies and sonatas are left unexplored.

New Raagas remain unsung

An irreparable loss for mankind.

The Scent of Betryal: Subramaniyapuram

Stories infused with the scent of betrayal make us so ambivalent that they provoke us to inhale more of that intoxicating scent, yet suffocate. The midnight wind swirling in our dark and empty streets smuggle that scent into our backyards whispering a thousand legends that could make the kiss of Judas, the bloody hands of Lady Macbeth and the coldness of Brutus sound like bedtime stories. Only a master storyteller can infuse the hollowness of the betrayed heart, into us. Producer-Director Sasi Kumar does that with ease.

Discovering skeletons in your closet gives more creeps than reading about a ‘ghost long long ago in a distant place’.  A betrayal story unearthed from one of our very own small towns guarantees a pulsating thriller. The movie opens with Kaasi, a released convict, being stabbed to death. The vendetta originates twenty years back in Subramaniyapuram, a semi-fictitious neighbourhood in Madurai.

The most surprising thing in this movie, at least for the modern day Tamil audience, is that there is no protagonist in the story. As the past unfolds, it is the Judas “Kaasi” who guides us into the streets of Subramaniyapuram. Though an obsolete technique, it quickly draws us into the heat and dust of the streets. The camera takes a long yet brisk walk into the past, into the plot, along with Kaasi who is rushing to meet his friends at their usual joint. From there, the movie slowly introduces the audience to the characters, and their interplay and conflicts.
Subramaniyapuram beautifully captures the 80’s timeline and projects it on the screen. The voice of Saroj Narayanswami on Radio raising and fading away as Kaasi passes a tea shop, fanatic children dancing around a Dhandora Man’s procession as he unveils the poster of a new movie coming soon to town [touring talkies], the advent of television, costumes, hair styling... all crafted to perfection. The efforts go a step further, in paying extensive attention to details like accent and body language of the characters. One can hardly explain in words how different would be the walking style of a present-day young man wearing low waist pencil-fit denim trousers, from that of the way someone in the yesteryears would have walked wearing a bell-bottom trouser. You need to see it. That’s how movies can justify their existence as an independent art form but not an extended adaptation of prose.

Tamil cinema needs to mature in exposing the true colour of blood. The colour of blood on screen has constantly been maturing in Hollywood since the time of Alfred Hitchcock. It started with tomato ketchup and into the more realistic 'dark red' colour used in No Country for Old Men. The gore here is a bloody treat that it reminds us of the slitting of a goat’s throat in an altar during village festivals. The camera is so brilliant as if we are a co-passenger witnessing the brutality.

[Spoilers!!!] The sequence where Paraman gets butchered, Kaasi walks out of the scene while the chopping, stabbing and groaning sounds fade away as he walks. Kaasi guides us into the timeline and leads us out of it. A method originating from the Citizen Kane where the camera crosses the ‘No Entry fence’ into the story, and exits at the same point. In a way, Subramaniyapuram is a complex labyrinth of snakes and ladders. Ironically, it is the snake Kaasi who leads us in and out.
All the technicians, especially the Cinematographer (S.S.Kadhir), the Editor (Raja Mohammad) and the Music Director (James Vasanthan) unleash their best, once the story becomes bloody.

Fresh flowers, incense sticks and sandalwood are used extensively in Tamil funerals. These pleasant fragrances penetrate into the gloomy atmosphere of the funeral and create a “discord effect”. The background score makes exactly the same impact. An old trick from Hollywood, where a classic symphony can create a discord effect in gore scenes. I do not appreciate the standalone quality of the soundtrack of Subramaniyapuram but its amplifying effect to the visuals. 

However ripe the harvest is, there will undoubtedly be some weeds in the paddy field. Cliched song sequences, playing too many 80’s Ilayaraja songs in the background to remind us of the timeline (yes! yes! we know this is the '80s).

Despite the flaws, Subramaniyapuram is a modern day classic in Tamil Cinema.

In the Greek mythology of ‘Pandora’s Box of Troubles’, at the beginning of mankind, there were no evils in the world. God gave a box to Pandora and asked her not to open it as it would unleash the evils (like lust, greed...) into the world. Out of curiosity, she opened the box from which all the evils dawned on mankind. As a provision for survival, as a tool to overcome these evils, God kept a remedy at the bottom of the box of evils. That gift keeps the mankind surviving... it keeps the system running... it is called ‘hope’.

After being plagued by a series of evils (the last one being Dasavatharam), new attempts like Subramaniyapuram, are trying to break these conventions and are installing ‘hope’ in the hearts of Tamil cinema audiences.

Restart the System

This thought struck me out of nowhere.

The idea of its consequences flashes a bundle of emotions at the same time.

What if you could relive the moments you have come across but with the knowledge that you now possess?

The knowledge of consequences. A chance to rewrite a few moments in your life.

Restart.

Will you make your parents cry if you could relive the day you are trying to forget?

Marvellous it will be to walk up to the girl of your adolescent dreams to whom you seldom spoke and ask her if she would like to walk with you to school.

Can you go for a bicycle ride with your boyhood friend gleefully on a rainy day if you know he will turn out to be your Judas in a week?

You could have saved your wallet from the pick-pocket that day.

Win a lottery.

It would be awesome if you knew before all the questions from the Math Exam and also at which step you will make a mistake.

How great will it be to make that one move which could have got you the dream job?

You can go back in time and confess your love if you know that she was waiting for you before marrying that dumb computer guy.

You can ask that friend to stay back on the night he died of an accident within thirty minutes of saying goodbye to you?

Dreams. Hopes for miracles. Grieves and tears for unbearable loss. Nostalgic pain. Deep breath. Chocking throat. Feeble smile.

Though the sanity of the mind knows what is done cannot be undone, the abyss of the heart longs to transport to those past days.

Ingredient X

I wonder how time zaps off these days. I am still grieving for the sudden death of that little boy in me in this new city that I am learning to live in. I am not melancholic or lonely but quite content with this new life. Yet I feel some emptiness. Like my new wenge bookshelf which is empty, waiting in a corner for cartons of books to arrive shortly. In a way, it is luckier than me. At least it will be “full” once the books are here. What will fill this empty space of mine? Certainly, it has nothing to do with love. It is actually a wonderful feeling to wait for your lover (A cliché I could not avoid because of the truth in it).
This emptiness is like my amateur cooking.
Salt, spices, taste and texture… everything is fine. Yet, something vital is missing. One could never actually figure out what is missing unless he tries adding one ingredient every next time he cooks that dish.
It consumes time. Tests my patience. Sometimes, like the food, even the chef needs seasoning. Add that one secret ingredient to my recipe to bring out the aroma of life. I wonder what it is.
It consumes time. Tests my patience. But I will not quit cooking.
I am an amateur chef but not a bad one.
I will keep on stirring this pan and wait for the perfect flavour…

29^th day of August 2008

New Delhi-91.