Movie Review - Thank You!!!

Yes, I did it. I boldly ventured where no man has gone before - the cinema hall near my house showing 'Thank You'. No, I am not asinine, I don't need any help.(It's another fact that I needed some major counselling for post-traumatic stress disorder AFTER watching the movie.)I allude this mainly to the dearth of decent movies being released in the last few weeks on account of cricket and exams...in the same order. Movie buffs like me will surely understand where I am coming from.

The characters (Strictly in order of acting skills):
- Irrfan Khan: A raving megalomaniac who thinks he understands women.(I wonder how, since Freud himself admitted that his biggest regret was not being able to understand the workings of the fairer sex.)
- Suniel Shetty: A friend of mine recently admiited to the fact that she thought his expression was like that of an aluminium sheet. Go figure. For this movie, I feel he has got his comic timing just right.
- Bobby Deol: "Grunt! Grunt!...Ahem...Lopsided Grin...Grunt!Grunt.." That pretty much sums up his acting skills I guess!
- Rimi Sen - As Irrfan's wife, she has played the part of the obliging but cunning wife to the hilt.
- Sonam Kapoor - Resembling to and with the equivalent acting prowess of a dried Bombay Duck (sukka bombil) on a crash diet[As per Encyclopaedia Brittannica - Harpadon nehereus), fish of the family Synodontidae, found in estuaries of northern India, where it is widely used as a food fish and, when dried, as a condiment.The Bombay duck grows to a length of about 41 cm (16 inches) and is a dull, translucent gray or brown in colour with small, dark speckles. It has a large mouth, a forked tail, and large pectoral fins.]
Celina Jaitley - Can someone please change her makeup artist? With a deathly pallor, and ruby red lips, she looked as though she had strayed from the sets of the Adams Family where she was playing the part of Morticia.

Oh I forgot...Akshay Kumar as the Pied Piper with a flock of adulterous husbands in his wake.

The Plot:
3 philandering husbands. 3 distressed wives. 1 Private Detective (who plays a flute everytime he solves a case)Wives call detective to check on decieving husbands. Detective catches husbands red handed in the most corny situations. Sonam as Ms. Mushy gets suicidal. Detective decides to teach three roving eyes a lesson and bring them back to the path of decency and fidelity...and from then it goes on and on and on and on, with Akshay Kumar in every second frame, there is not much left for me to say.And yes....MAJOR SPOILERS (PEOPLE WHO STILL WANT TO WATCH THIS FLICK INSPITE OF DIRE WARNINGS OF NAUSEA, HEADACHE AND WHAT NOT, PLEASE DO NOT READ AHEAD.) Bobby divorces Sonam. Bobby gets married again to Sonam. Rimi takes husband's properties through some good scheming. Rimi returns husband's properties like a dutiful 'pativrata nari'. Akshay delivers a speech on the greatness of women with the emphasis on how we change our surnames post marriage (gag gag). Any they all live happily ever after. Movie finally ends. You reach for the rope in your handbag and hunt for a sturdy hook to make a noose.

WARNING:
Do not watch it if you have an iota of thinking cell in your brain.
BRAINS TO BE LEFT AT HOME BEFORE WATCHING IT. BRAINS TO BE KEPT IN THE CUPBOARD AND DOOR OF THE CUPBOARD TO BE DOUBLE LOCKED FOR SAFE MEASURE.







The Plot:

And thereby hangs a tale (of shame...)

Today as I stepped out of my office I gazed at the overcast skies. Its going to rain soon, I thought, time to hail the monstrous, yellow-n-black three wheeler and head home.Hiked fares or not, these rumbling monstrosities are still in demand. Impatiently I tapped my foot, waiting for the never ending trail of cars to halt so that I could quickly cross the road.
Yippee! after a few dirty snarls, frantic waving of my hands, and finally risking my life i finally managed to cross the road, and am still intact..yes I can still move my limbs..no nothing hurts. Great. Now challenge number 2. Finding an auto. Clutching my customary jhola and trademark umbrella, I geared up to fight for an auto. As I waited I scanned my fellow-competitors. Hmmm...A spectacled guy...obviously too timid to fight for an auto...whoa! did I just see him get into an auto...well clearly a case of luck taking over looks, deceptive as the latter are! Competitor 2 - A woman who kept giving me dirty looks. i could imagine the wheels of her brain turning thinking "well well, do we have another contender now". Our eyes locked. She gave a quite snarl, I twisted my lips in disgust a la balaji teleproductions' vamp. Well it was battle time. The lines were drawn. Competitor no 3 - A man with boxes of grapes (in this season???) clearly he would not run for an auto so I had to rule him out. Yes...competitor 4 - an aggressive bearded chap, who I felt will stop an auto even if it means falling in front of the hurtling beast. 'Rickshhhhhhaaaaaaawwwww' we all yelled, only to be snubbed royally.
As I fought and clawed, my gaze fell upon an old man. Frail, clutching a walking stick, there was a pleading look in his eyes. I went down the memory lane and recalled a scene wherein an old lady wanted to cross the road. Too hesitant to ask she pleaded silently with her eyes. I did not say anything and quietly held out my hand. She took it gratefully, and together we croseed the road. A horn broke me out of my reverie and suddenly my attention was back to the old man. "kahan jaana hai aapko uncle?" I was bound by duty. I had to get this man into an auto. "Khar danda" he replied in a wisp of a voice. I jumped to the rescue. As I saw the others scrambling for an auto, I could not help but feel gross disdain for all of them...especially competitor no 4. How mean! How rude! I fumed as they fought and ignored the old man. I tried once, twice, the meanies just sped by.
i was getting tensed. what if it rained? What would happen to uncle? Finally I managed to stop one auto. I told him firmly"Uncle ko khar danda leke jaao." I felt somebody nudging me. I turned around to see competitor no 4. trying to jostle his way into the auto. I blocked his entrance with my arm and lashed out at him, "sharam nahi aati aapko. Itne jawan ho phir bhi ek buzurg ko auto mein jaane se rok rahe ho.kabse wait kar rahe hain. Jaane do unko." (Aren't you ashamed of yourself? You are a young man and still you are not allowing the old man to take an auto? let him go. Shame on you! To which he calmy replied, "madam, main aur uncle saath mein hai. main unke liye auto dhoondh raha tha" (Madam, the old man and i are together. i was hunting for an auto for him. With a quiet chuckle he stepped inside the auto and sped away. It took two seconds for it to sink in. My immediate reaction was to stick my tongue out and mumble an apology. I felt the halo above my head pop!
My husband always says that I have the makings of a social activist....provided I find a right cause!!!! Clearly this was a case of wasted zeal and rebellion without a cause. With this I formally hang my picture in the not-so-coveted "Hall of Shame!"

Senior Citizens or Secondary Citizens?

"Those were the days my friends...we thought they'd never end...we'd sing and dance forever and a day...we'd live the life we choose...we'd fight and never lose...for we were young and sure to have our ways..." As I heard Mary Hopkins, a popular pop singer of the swinging 60's croon to the chart buster, I thought about all the times when I was too trapped into my present to see what awaits me and what awaits each one of us.When we are young, the world is at our feet. We are invincible - our main issues revolve around which movies will release this weekend? Where will we get the best bargain on a pair of Levis jeans? The vigour and energy of youth more than compensate for the minor upheavals we face in our day to day lives. We get up in the mornings - RUSH! Rush to our offices, rush back home, rush to our children/ spouses / parents and then rush to go off to sleep. Life seems one gigantic blur. And then you see your first grey hair and you are taken aback. But well, that happens to everyone you think. Nothing a dash of hair colour cannot take care of? And a few years go by. And then one day as you rush up the stairs your knee creaks like an unoiled piece of machinery and you suddenly have to pause for breath. The wrinkles appear soon after. The miracle age defying creams just don't work. The face gets craggier. The lines harden. The temples grey and the chin droops. The bags and the crowfeet under your eyes continue their descent till you look at your bony, wrinkled hands and wonder are these really yours? Life zooms ahead for your children and their children but for you it has come to a stand still. Suddenly there is nowhere to rush, suddenly life is about aching bones, rising blood pressure, rising sugar, doctor's appointments and God forbid if you are unlucky there is a pronounced feeling of being unwanted.You repeat things for the umpteenth number of times and then repeat it again a minute later to bored grandchildren who soon disappear. Your bladder becomes weak and your spirit weaker.
You have just contracted the worse disease that often accompanies OLD AGE - Loneliness.

Roughly 15 years ago I visited a home for the aged in Bandra. It was a social service endeavour organized by my school. The memory of that trip is still fresh in my mind. I can vividly recall the immaculate lawns, the clean hall (mainly used for socializing), the nuns in their crisp, starched hoods and the deep, sad eyes. Every time I walked into a room I was hit by a sense of despondency. The smell of medicines, half-eaten food and bedpans assailed my nostrils. Ironically everytime I walked into a room I was met by a pair of hopeful eyes. One lady got up with a start as she thought her children had come to visit her. Only to sink back disappointed. While distributing some snacks I distinctly recollect an old woman who beckoned me with a nod and said-
"I did not get the green plant."
Confused I asked "I beg your pardon Aunty."
"I did not get the green plant that you are giving everyone" and she pointed at a girl distributing those mysterious 'green plants.'
I took a 'green plant' and handed it to the woman. She smiled and said thanks as she held a big, green banana in her hands, cherishing it as though it was her most treasured possession. The innocence and vulnerability hit me like a strong force.
Yesterday I visited a quaint restaurant in South Mumbai. A small screen had been put up for the IPL fans. The crowd was young, feisty and could not get enough of the excitement. A lone, aged waiter rushed around trying to man an entire section on his own. He fumbled while speaking, he dropped cutlery , he confused orders,and repeated orders constantly so as to not forget it. He repeated orders cause he was no longer sure that the order he had written was correct or not. There was sheer frustration on his face as he tried to manage irate customers. I requested for a Sprite. He confirmed 4 times if I wanted Sprite or 7 Up. As the crowd grew, he started perspiring, the tension evident beneath the facade of a welcoming smile. A group of young, 'supposedly' well educated boys,constantly harassed and mocked at the old man. The finicky one confused him further by stating how he wanted his steak to be cooked.When the waiter walked away hassled they all had a hearty laugh at his expense and continued to mock at him. A group of youngsters walked away enraged as he had not served them soon enough. Watching a match, guzzling down pitchers of beer is serious business you see. Nobody can sit around waiting for an old man who takes a bit too long to serve that plate of fries. We got a game to watch. We got a girl to impress. Right.
The above is one of the many humiliating experiences that senior citizens are subjected to day in and day after, the details of which are all over our tabloids. The question is that do we realize that one day we too will not be able to hold a glass of water steadily in our hands? If we are unlucky, we will be sick, lonely and depressed. If we are lucky we wont live to see 70.

Movie Review - Schindler's List

A small girl in a red, velvet coat, soft, blonde curls falling over her cherubic face, her pudgy hands clinging on to a ragged doll, a red hat shadowing her caramel eyes full of trust and innocence, skipping down the streets of Krakow, Poland, not a care in the world, maybe besides what mother had made for supper or whether daddy would gift her a fat teddy on her birthday next Saturday as promised…

A small girl in a stained, red velvet coat, unkempt curls falling over her blood-smeared face, hands bereft of her favourite toy, eyes wide open – unblinking, accusing, scared, crying as though all her trust has been betrayed, her angelic form crudely piled into a barrow, lost somewhere in the mound of the rotting corpses, being wheeled away to nothingness. And Oskar Schindler (Liam Neeson) watched…watched this carnage before his unwavering eyes and something inside him snapped. This scene denoted the death of Oskar the womanizer, the war-profiteer, the arrogant and the frivolous. It gave birth to Oskar the sympathetic, the resilient, and the epitome of all that is good in mankind.

The above scene from the movie Schindler’s List, directed by Steven Spielberg, starring Liam Neeson and Ben Kingsley, describes a scene from World War II, wherein the German Nazis were purging the province of Krakow in Poland of all the Jews, to set up one of their infamous, hideous concentration camps. The site was cleared ruthlessly. No one was spared.

Based on a true story, Oskar Schindler, a German Nazi himself, was known as a war-profiteer who bribed his way into the SS party, who in turn sponsored him a factory manufacturing army mess kits. However, after witnessing the bloody carnage, Oskar decides to save as many Jews as possible by labeling them as ‘essential workers’ for his factory. Itzhak Stern (Ben Kingsley) his accountant as well as administrator is a Jew himself. With the help of Stern, Schindler ‘buys’ his ‘Jewish slaves’ to work in his factory, but in truth he is protecting them from meeting their untimely demise in the gas chambers.

Shot completely in black and white (except for a few scenes like the girl in the red coat), the film has a certain kind of timelessness about it. When I think of this movie, I see a six feet four inches tall, burly Oskar sitting in a dark corner of a bar, a Cuban cigar falling halfway from his lips, a brandy balloon in the other, the sly eyes watching every woman strolling into the bar, missing nothing. The soft, sensuous tune of Por Una Cabeza adding on to the scene of old-world charm recreated in 1993. I see Schindler promising his wife that she is the only woman in his life only to be met by a look of disapproval and hurt. I see Oskar going back to his old philandering ways. I see the blood, the death, the destruction, caused by man in the name of racial purity and then I see Stern jotting down the names of the 450 odd Jews they have managed to buy so far and Schindler shouting ‘More More’! I see Schindler ‘winning’ the Jewish maid Helen Hirsch in a game of cards, freeing her from the sadistic clutches of Amon Goth, a psychopath in the guise of a Nazi officer, I see him spending his lifetime’s fortune in saving every Jew he could and still being mortified, distraught towards the end. Moreover, I see the disturbing, blurred images of women being stripped down to nothing and being pushed into the gas chambers. I see their quivering hands turn on the taps, expecting the deathly cyanide filled smoke to fill their lungs and choke them to a terrible death. I FEEL the relief when the tap is turned on and water gushes out instead.

The climax shows that the war will come to an end at midnight, and Oskar being a certified Nazi will have to flee from the factory at five past twelve. The rescued Jews come forward and present him with a gold ring (made from the dental braces of one of the workers!) On the ring are inscribed the words from the Talmudic text, “He who saves the life of one man, saves the world entire.” Oskar is distraught, for he feels that he could have saved many more lives. He points frantically at his car…worth the lives of 10 men…the gold tie-pin…worth one life, and finally breaks down and sobs inconsolably. The movie ends with the survivors and descendants of the 1100 Jews, called the ‘Schindler Jews’, who gather at the grave of Oskar Schindler in Jerusalem and pay his respects. As Schindler quoted in the beginning of the movie, “They wont forget the name Oskar Schindler around here…He did what no one else did…He came with nothing and left with a steamer trunk, two steamer trunks of money, all the riches of the world…” Oskar Schindler indeed left with the best riches mankind could ever afford. He left with the riches that accompany a man who has given his everything to buy someone his life back. To conclude in Stern’s words, “The list is life.”

Breaking Free - A short non-fictional piece I wrote for my creative writing workshop

* This piece is one of my favourites as it is based on a true story.

They stand with their gaudy, flared skirts in bold floral prints, hiked up to the knees, red-lipped mouths and turquoise eyes, violently clashing with their dusky skins, a short sari blouse not quite meeting the purpose, the pallu conspicuous by its absence. With oiled plaits, chewing betel leaves, the constant chewing accentuating the strategically placed mole on the corner of the upper lip, their hawk like eyes scanning the crowd. A suggestive action here, a lewd call there, an eye contact and they rush to meet their prospective clients. These mannequins line the dark, back alleys and infamous footpaths of Kamathipura.

Rupa saunters up to a pot-bellied man. His breath reeks of whiskey. His bloated guts a testimony to over indulgence in beer.

“How much?”he asks crudely in Hindi.
“Fifty rupees” says Rupa.
“Twenty?”
“Forty.”
“Twenty-five?”
“Thirty. Final”. Rupa hurries forward.

The man strides behind her quite at ease in familiar territory. They glide through the narrow, winding lanes, flanked on either sides with dilapidated chawls. Crotch – scratching men with checkered lungis and torn vests exchanged expletives with drunkards. Oblivious to her surroundings Rupa walks ahead, twisting through the bylanes. She halts before a musty, old house with a door that has been hammered with broken chips of wood at several places. Jumping over a filthy puddle infested with slimy mice, she carefully opens the door and climbs the narrow, wooden staircase. Every creak of the stairs resonates with the sound of despondency that the atmosphere reeks of. It is bright and sunny outside, inside the gloom is palpable. Morphed pictures of Bollywood femme fatales adorn the garish pink walls. Two curtains divide the room into three small cubby holes.

“Amma, you are home! You know in school we made a huge…” rambled Rupa’s seven year old daughter in delight in Hindi.
“Keep quiet Sunita! Come with me.” Rupa drags her inside the room, draws a curtain, “Sit here. Read your books and do no not step out till I tell you to. Is that clear?”
“Yes mummy”, whispers Sunita. She knew the drill well by now. She had to crouch inside the tiny space and pretend to read her school books while some horrible man on the other side of the curtain did some very horrible things to her mother. She did not quite understand what was happening, but she surely knew it made her feel strange. Like she was witnessing something she was not quite supposed to see. On some occasions she would hear her mother cry or muffle a scream and it would make her cringe from inside. At times she would feel the tiny space closing in on her, with every mute cry in the adjacent cubby hole she would feel claustrophobic, she would shove her fist inside her mouth to prevent herself from crying out aloud. At times, late in the night, when all the cubby holes were occupied by dirty uncles and women like her mother, she had to duck in under the bed and act like she was sleeping.

“Come here, beta”, called Rupa.
Finally it was over, thought Sunita relieved. She ambled over to her mother, a notebook clutched in one hand and a rag doll in the other. Mother and daughter sobbed uncontrollably, holding each other and rocking back and forth. Rupa wept for depriving her only child of a childhood, Sunita for not being able to comprehend why her mother was crying?

The next day, Rupa sat before the mirror, plaiting her long, raven hair.
“Some people here to see you Rupa” bellowed the ‘Madame’-an old crone who ensured that half of Rupa’s earnings were duly pocketed by her.
Two ladies walked in, one quite older than the other. The older one in a crisp white starched sari, salt-n-pepper bun and large horn-rimmed spectacles introduced herself as Bella. Rupa promptly recognized her as she was a social worker who had devoted her life to the shanty towns of the red light areas of Mumbai. The younger girl, lean, clad in jeans, a simple t-shirt and sneakers, was no more than 19 or 20. She twirled her hair and chewed on the top of her pencil, eyes darting back and forth , taking in everything – the flies, the half-filled bottles of local liquor and the rickety old bed, with an obscenely stained bed sheet.

“Meet Ritu, she is a student and would like to ask you some questions for her college project. I hope that is ok with you Rupa” asked Bella softly.
Rupa smiled with a sigh. Turning back to the mirror, she placed a bindi in between her thick, shapely eyebrows. So many have come and gone she thought to herself. These fresh faced youths with stars in their eyes, a notepad clutched to their chests. As much as she detested these visits, a tiny part of her actually looked forward to them.

“What do you want to know?” hollered Rupa. Her voice had a sharp edge to it. “How did I end up in this damned place? Why do I do this? Do you really want to know? Do you really feel you will be able to digest a reality far removed from your own? Then listen. In Dhaka, my hometown, I fell in love with a 30 year old man. In my naiveté I believed his promises of marriage and a glorious future in Mumbai. He brought me to Mumbai. Said I will work as a maid in a rich household. The day I arrived he handed me over to a pimp who brought me here. I bore the man I loved a child out of wedlock right here in this brothel. I was fifteen then. ” Rupa smirked but Ritu noticed that her hands shook as she tried to light a beedi. In fact she had an eerie, lop-sided grin plastered on her face that made Ritu realize that the years of pain and torture had numbed her to a point wherein her own pain possessed a sense of dark humor.

Clutching a notebook in one hand, Ritu walked over and sat next to Rupa. For a fraction of a second, Rupa saw an image of her daughter walking across the room, a book in one hand and a doll in the other. “It’s ok”, said Ritu pressing her hand over Rupa’s, “I understand it is painful for you. You don’t have to tell me if it means you have to relive the horror you have undergone.”

Rupa’s brows softened and suddenly she was crying, “The only thing that keeps me going is my daughter. The day I was dragged into this wretched hellhole I swore that my child will not live the life I did.. That she will be an educated memsahib like you, just as I aspired to be. That one day she would want to leave her amma and flee into the world wherein life will offer her more opportunities rather than merely selling her body. That is why I sell my self, I earn, I scrounge, I bear the insults, I sleep with a tormented conscience so that I can give her a decent education. Before the rancidity of this environment catches up with her, before she grows up too soon I want her to escape – escape from this dungeon. This brothel, according to her is life. I want her to realize that this is the lowest form of life imaginable for a girl. I know, with these pimps and madams roaming around the chances of her escape are slim, but I have hope, and this hope is what makes me yearn for a better future for my child. One day she will escape…that’s all I can dare to hope.”

A deep silence ensued. Ritu visibly shaken clutched her notepad and stared as Rupa went about dolling herself up for the evening routine. Her eyes fell on a bottle of pills lying on the table.
“What are these pills for Rupa?” asked Ritu.
“I am having a raging fever since last few days..”
“Then you should stay at home and rest. You simply cannot go out in a state like this!”
“My daughter’s fees are due tomorrow”. There was no anger, no pain, no resentment in her voice realized Ritu. Just plain, unadulterated HOPE.

Stepping out of the brothel, Ritu gazed up to see the dilapidated structure that belied the strength of its occupants. If there can be hope in a place like this, a place full of filth, squalor, degradation and disease, surely there could be hope for this world, mused Ritu. Hope persists where destiny and fate resists.

The real 'Veer' - the audience! - A Review

You must be wondering why I chose to trash this movie now, when so many trashy ones have released (Teen Patti you are next on my hit list) since Salman Khan made a public spectacle in this debacle...wow it rhymes! Well, I was dying to vent out and since all my friends suddenly vanished into thin air even before I could 'VEER', I decided to write a blog! Well, the movie revolves around some kingdom that belongs to some barbaric tribe (the name of which I cannot recall...not that it matters anyway). This kingdom is snatched by Mr. Golden Hand (Jackie Shroff who wears a forearm made of pure gold...not that this information matters anyway). Long hair, droopy eyes - a testimony to the fact that Mr. Khan had a peg too much last night , Salman Khan sleepwalks to London in a steamer, kills Zarine Khan's brother (She is the heroine by the way...not that it matters anyway) and casually sleepwalks back to India. There are some gory fights, blood curdling screams and every time Salman raises his sword to say 'Mere dadda ki talwar...something something..' you shut your ears and eyes and wait for the nausea to pass. Soon more fights, galloping horses, and gallons of blood later, Salman Khan finally dies. (I know this is a spoiler....but you are not going to watch the movie anyway!)Baby Salman arrives on the screen with 'dadda' Mithun and granny Neena Gupta. Mommie dearest Zarine Khan is conspicuous by her absence. Thankfully, mercifully, as a testimony to the fact that there exists a God, the movie finally ENDS!

Prescriptions from Dr. MovieManiac:
Salman Khan -
Get Botox treatment for your under eye puffiness ASAP
Epic dramas are not your forte - mindless flicks are. So steer clear of the former.

Zarine Khan-
Get the permanent grin / grimace off your face. Try varied expressions, e.g. a smile to show you are happy, a scorn to show anger, tears to show sadness..I hope you get the drift.
Better still, quit films.

At the end of the movie I gave an accusing stare to my husband, who returned the gesture. "You suggested the movie!" he quoted. "Well you said the promos look promising", I retorted back with disdain. Now, after reading this review you surely don't blame us for bickering, do you?

You Are Nowhere!!!

Picked up this book recently called 'You Are Here' by a self proclaimed 'compulsive confessor' Meenakshi Madhavan Reddy. Tried to pull through 105 pages with the hope that maybe..just maybe the story will start from the next page...with every flip of the page my ray of hope became fainter. Alas! dramatic as I may sound the book has absolutely no story. The story is about a hapless girl Arshi who is urban, chic, with just the hint of sophistication but actually comes across as crude and a desperate wannabe. I just have one question. Is being an independent working girl all about the number of cigarettes one smokes in a day? or the number of boyfriends one has? or about the number of vodkas you wolf down every evening? There is no plot absolutely. The ramblings of her mind have been penned down and they boil down to more or less the same thing in every page. For those who would really like to listen to some funny ramblings of a single woman then Bridget Jones' Diary is my recommendation. Please do not waste you 200 bucks on this trash. Please.